Late last night we all
took a walk. The moon was full and it
was lovely. Somehow, the stars still
managed to shine out despite the bright lunar glow. My little one was staring up. “Which one is the north star?” She asked in
Chinese. That one I said, pointing
upwards. Do you know how to say it in
English? “North . . . “ We say “North pole” I said. Everyone paused. Then they laughed. “Sorry, north star, that is.” My English is slipping. Then, staring at the stars, she walked off
the path and fell. It happens when everyone is looking upward.
We continued around the compound, turned a corner and all of
a sudden we came upon a number of trees that were blooming. Off to the side you could smell the
magnolias. On the other side of the road
was a cherry blossom tree and then another just beginning to go.
I thought of Tokyo. I thought of
their ritual of going out under the moon light and hanging out beneath a
blooming cherry trees drinking sake. A 花好月圆[1] evening.
This compound of ours gets one thing right. Somebody is in charge of horticulture and
there are a magnificent array of things planted. The usual fare in Beijing communities are a
tired line of poplar trees and another row of willows, dusty, misshapen with
their tops lopped off every few years. Here, conversely, they've planted a remarkable array of things that keep
blooming till the dreaded winter returns.
Yesterday was St. Pat’s and my friend called me from the
Irish embassy where there was apparently, a traditional band and quite a bit of good
craic. But we were all in to bed
early. And the day after St. Patrick’s
Day is always my anniversary. We let my
mother in law choose the day for our wedding day years ago, as she was unable to attend
from China, and I think she chose something that was numerologically sound,
“one” and “eight” being homophones for “I want” and “develop, get rich”,
etc.
And on the way back from the gym in the morning light I
retraced our moonlight flower walk from last night and plucked a few twigs from
the cherry tree and the magnolia. Up on
the walk way overhead were springs of some vine with yellow flowers that were
drooping over. I was determined to get a
few of these as well and made my way up.
You may well ask: “which yellow flowers are your referring to John? There are many.” In anticipation of this question I look on
line at lists of yellow flowers, such as this one on Pintrest: http://www.pinterest.com/michd01/yellow-flowers-by-name/
However none of those are my yellow-fellas. They have a name though. And I've seen them back home, as well.
What are the ethics of sprig plucking in a compound like
ours? Clearly if everyone did it,
there’d be little of any flowers left. I
can’t pretend I’m out picking wildflowers.
When I was young, younger than my youngest daughter, we had a neighbor
who finally, after years of trying, got his lemon tree to sprout a fledgling lemon. I was out walking around in his yard and
picked it for my mom. The gent was
heartbroken and it was explained to me in no uncertain terms that this was bad
form. So why am I still uncertain?
By the time I had a few strands of the yellow vines added to my wispy bouquet and was on
my way home I knew I was running late to wake up the rest of the family. I passed a little girl on her way to school
and smiled, but inside I wondered if she was evaluating my ethics. At home, I searched for a vase. Should I dump out the tired old dry bits in
that one? There must be another one
somewhere. You can’t put them in wine
bottle or the orange juice vessel. Right, over
there on the mantle piece. That will do.
Just in time for as I added the water and returned from the
kitchen, my wife was already downstairs.
“Happy Anniversary.” Our
seventeenth. “Oh. Thank you.
I want to go out and photograph some of those today.” “Yes.
They’re lovely.”
Brahms Quartets on in the other room. Completed in Bavaria in 1873, I remember I
had a tape of these quartets from the first year my wife and I met, some twenty
years ago, back in Shanghai. I’d found
an old cutout cassette in the back market.
It, along with a few other things I stumbled on that way took on so much
more significance because new music was so rare that year.
Now online music is largely ubiquitous in one’s life. And it still sounds lovely and it slows down
the day somehow, bringing to mind something hopeful, intelligent, and
rejuvenative. The next few weeks around here will
be some of the most beautiful of all.
[1] huāhǎoyuèyuán: lit. lovely flowers, round moon (idiom); fig.
everything is wonderful / perfect happiness / conjugal bliss
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