i. Interiority: Where do emotions live (according to Tang and Elizabethan poetry p1)-- ii. Corporality: are these lady parts mine or yours? IVF in China p1--iii. Teatime: Marcus Aurelius and parenting
i. whereas we examine that ephemeral thing called emotions-- where do they live? ii. a series on the intersection of life, science, and the state in Chinese IVF clinics; iii. meditations over tea
i. Interiority: part 1
How do I know the way of all things at the Beginning? By what is within me.
—Dao de Jin
Let’s simply start.
with poetry. Language is a curious thing when we look at it closely— it is an complex structure built on shared realities of a people based in a particular geospatial time, yet it is ever evolving as those realities change. As a carrier of information it tends to complexity— from where might the next mammoth be all the way to the complex algorithms— yet as carriers of our interior worlds of emotions and feelings, it tends simplicity, a primordial “language” that ultimately fades to silence. It’s a dual faced Janus, or a tao tie— each side facing the opposite, and simultaneously together constructs a whole. Poetry, whose power at once relies on pinprick precision of selected words, form, meaning and cadence of a specific language, and in the universality of its shared human experience is the ultimate embodiment of this duality. This is how the poetry of Basho, Li Bai, or Rumi may touch us as much as those of Keats, Shakespeare, or Dante.
Yet language created as a carrier for our interior worlds, it is itself a vessel that shapes our reality. If we consider for a second that all conscious human beings have the capacity to be a poet because consciousness requires an interior life (of which emotions are a part), then expressed or not, our corporal bodies are the ultimate vessel. For poets, the body is a vessel and a physical boundary through which what is known as poetry moves from the wordless interior through the medium of conscious language to the external world. The specific “face” of language, rooted as they are in particular geo-temporal places, come to define our reality. And how different that reality can be!
The Tang dynasty (618-917 CE) and the Elizabethan period are wholly separate spheres of reality in the temporal, geographical and cultural sense. Yet the poetry, and the artistic traditions inspired by such poems, continue to reverberate in collective imagination and consciousness of poets and ordinary folk to this day. Speak to any literate Chinese person today, and chances are good he/she will be able to recite at least one from memory. Poetry recitation themed game shows are featured on prime time. In the West, the poetry of Shakespeare and his forbearers continues to color our cultural imagination. We may have forgotten the verses to the Le Morte D’Arthur and few of us can recite Shakespeare’s sonnets from memory, but the emotions portrayed in these poems continue to shape our collective imagined selves. If poetry be the realm of emotions and interior self, then let us visit the landscape of these worlds.
Prince, since you journeyed from my hometown 君自故鄉來
surely you know of its news 應知故鄉事
In front of my old latticed window 來日綺窗前
has the winter plum bloomed yet? 寒梅著花未
— Wang Wei (Tang poet) ; my translation
In this elegant poem by Wang Wei, one of the great Tang dynasty poets, we are immediately drawn into the interior world of the author, a question— spoken or unspoken that expresses a deep, unnamed longing— the specifics of which (for a home, for a love, or a person) is nearly irrelevant. This voice is genderless and universal, and calls to that aching place of longing we all have as humans. Yet the closeness of the author’s voice is expressed through impersonal and aloof objects. Between the second to third lines, the specific “self” addressing the visitor fades to an image of an ordinary window, and by the fourth line, to the plum blossom tree, common to Chinese households gardens, and by extension the broader natural world. Plum blossom trees often bloom in the depth of winter and as such are greatly admired in China for its sparse beauty, and as symbol of a noble, elegant yet courageous soul.
At first read, Wang is simply asking after a beloved tree from his hometown— a homesick soul. Yet the imagery seems to also hid; who is behind the latticed window? Most likely a loved one— a lover, a mother, or even a child? Will they open the window to inhale the fragrance of the blossoms? Or will the window remain closed forever? The noble plum, is it the reader him/herself? or is it simply a tree, yielding it blooms to the beloved within? There is memory, and there is also a feeling, wistful loss that is tied to it.
In the first two lines Wang addresses a visiting “prince” (or gentlemen), but it is not clear from stanza where spatially this prince is. Is he a third person? or is Wang addressing us directly, the “visitor” literally from afar across time and space. The reader is transported from the simple dialectical opening lines that are as mundane as asking “where are you from”? to an sharp scene of a window and a tree that exists only in the internal emotional landscape of the author, a snapshot of the author’s mind’s eye and his heart. By the end of the stanza, the distance between the author’s self and our sense of self is blurred, we are seeing and feeling through his eyes in a way that transcends the limitations of language.
In this poem and indeed many other classical Tang poems, emotions are carried in objects, often fleeting, and in the natural landscape. The modern reader, whose experienced reality is vastly different from 6th century poets, experiences these same emotions because these emotions are posited in landscapes or experiences that are in some ways eternal, or at least far longer lasting than our lifetimes— plum blossoms will always bloom, and often against windows, somewhere even now.
Tang poet Li Bai (Li Po) is also prolific in use of nature and natural elements as a path to the interiors emotions of that moment.
The most heartbreaking place under heaven 天下伤心处
Is the pavilion of anguished farewells. 劳劳送客亭
Even the spring breeze knows well of that bitterness 春风知别苦
and did not harry the willow branches to tender green. 不遣柳条青
— Li Bai (Tang poet); my translation
While it is clear the poet is speaking to the universal suffering of separations, the first two lines locates the pain not in the “I”, but in a point of geography— thus not— “saying farewell my heart breaks or farewells are the most heartbreaking”— but the place of such farewells (which in ancient times are often government pavilions that line imperial roads) that are the most heartbreaking. As a reader, we are immediately immersed in a place where we can witness the pain of separation and resonate with it internally, but not with an identified “I” of the author.
The second two stanzas takes even a further step back into nature, away from man-made geography. The spring wind takes pity on those saying farewell and did not blow warmth to hasten the greening of willows. Here the spring wind is one of us, the invisible visitor to this scene— it too knows the aguish of goodbyes, thus grants a little act of mercy in delaying a marker of passage of time. Like the plum blossom tree in Wang’s poem, nature, whether a spring breeze and willow trees function as carriers of poet’s emotion, the boundary between man and nature is blurry. Stones, trees, rivers, and wind exist not just in the physical world but are reflected in the mirror of the soul. In this world view, humans are a small part of the natural world, and the natural world is a large part of the human inner world.
Our metaphor reflect our reality. In classical Chinese paintings we frequently see poetry directly inscribed or appended to the painting itself, almost like poetic fan mail across time. We can see the permeability of the natural external world with the inner human self directly through Chinese paintings. Without going into the whole oeuvre of Chinese art history, which like all complex civilizations have genres, periods, and conventions developed over time, we can observe that the position of human figures are typically diminutive within the overall composition, that the natural landscape often are dramatically larger than the figures inside it. Yet like Tang poetry, the the human is there—eclipsed and tiny in the landscape. One gets a strange sense of vertigo- a spatial shift- when we gaze at these poetry of the eye. Is the poet/artist is in the painting gazing at the scene, or are we in the poet’s inner world, gazing at an landscape, an universe, animated by the silent, human, heart.
These observations on Tang poetry are by no means comprehensive, and surely a reader will find a poem that will not follow my examples. Nor does it even begin to cover Song lyric form poetry (Ci) and later Yuan, Ming, Qing poetry—the whole anthology of Chinese classical literature. These are simply my musings on an deep currents that flow through Chinese art, poetry, and metaphysics.
Next issue: we will look at Elizabethan poetry and take a look at how English poets treat the place of emotion.
ii. Interiority- Are these lady parts mine or yours (1)
where we dive into the world of the Chinese IVF experience
The best-laid schemes of mice and men
Go oft awry— Robert Burns, 1785
My daughter decided she wanted to be born in the year of the tumultuous Rat, rather than that of the steady Ox, six weeks ahead of the due date. Somewhere in the rush as my husband and I threw our clothes haphazardly into a suitcase while trying to explain to our four year old son why we needed to drive in the dead of the night to leave him my parents as we fly off across the country to receive “meimei”, a thought flashed “it is finally over”.
Back track. We were newly weds and I read in some woman’s magazine that newly weds should wait one year before having children, so that the couple really get to know each other, before I suppose, babies come to muck things up. Later we learned this is bulls* since actually you don’t know the other person until things happen to muck your reality up. But I was ignorant as any young professional with a advance degree and a well respected job would be, and entirely confident. Confident not just in the perfectly achievable vision of successful career and successful family, but as one who will do it with style and carefree nonchalance, with the adventures of living abroad thrown in.
We had moved to Shanghai from Singapore by the time we decided to get down to business. After dutifully waiting for nature to take its course with no results, we were advised to speak to a doctor. Although we had already been living in China for over a year, I have had no need to use the medical infrastructure in the country. But one thing I do know that in a country that is built on human “connection”— the invisible “guanxi”. The first people to check with is not a clinic or Googling but with my parents, who given their station in life would have access to the doctors in their guanxi network. The types of doctors who could give me access to the right specialists at the right hospitals.
I met Dr. Lu (names changed for privacy) at Ren Ai hospital. A diminutive lady with short Suzy Wong-styled hair, square glasses, and a quick smile, she was clearly someone who got alone with all the hospital staff high and low. We had met previously at a lunch arranged by my parents to make my “troubles” known and help sought. This is the thing with guanxi, one simply does not just make requests, it’s a complex dance that assess the depth of friendship, the size of the request, with a balanced weighing of respective rolodexes, or in today’s terms, WeChat lists. Access and introductions depend on these meals.
Dr. Lu assumed I had some understanding of the basic procedures necessary in a Chinese hospital but really I had no clue. With the exception of the ER, your average Western hospital would be fairly quiet- busy, but having a sense of order with army of nurses directing you. In contrast, a Chinese hospital is chaotic with hundreds, and often thousands of people, waiting outside the various medical departments, or crowded around mysterious registration windows. There is a constant sense of “hurry” to beat mysterious lines that may suddenly appear at say bloodwork, or urology, or radiology. Coming from the US where private medical practices dominate, and doctor and nurses come to the patient, this was a shock.
The hospital’s typically grand lobby (sometimes with soaring atriums and grand pianos), is filled with people. A center kiosk directed the constant stream of patients to the various corners of the hospital. Hospitality volunteers wearing vests or sashes help direct traffic by stairs, elevators. A piano is often seen and occasionally played, it’s tunes layered above human voices. A large electronic billboard flashed with pictures of doctors, their specialty, and their “rank”. For instance, Dr. Huang xyz, internal medicine, oncology with specialty in male colon, vice director of oncology department or Dr. Liu, Obgyn, Surgical specialist, Head of Department. I later learned this rank determined their “registration” fee as well. I didn’t see a billing for fertility, but since Dr. Lu clearly knew her away around this hospital, I didn’t have time to peruse the whole menu of doctors.
Taking me by the elbow Dr. Lu hustled me up to what looks like the women’s wing- where many ladies line the hard rows of plastic chairs outside of examination rooms. Large numbers flashed outside of each door, and a constant announcement of numbers and so and so’s name to examination rooms was blaring. Ikea blue was the color of the chairs and when called, the woman sitting would dart up, and hurry to the room before the flashing number would stop. No one with capable legs walked, and old ladies supported by a relation hustled best they could.
“Wait here.” Dr. Lu instructed me to sit outside one such room as she disappear off to the adjacent room. A few minutes later, she poked her head out the door nearest and told me to come in. The examination rooms were connected in the back and she had popped in and out to avoid angering patients who had been waiting patiently for their number to be called probably since noon. I was cutting the queue.
Part 1 concluded. Part 2 of many continues in following newsletters.
A note on queues in China. I have vague recollection from my childhood that queues were a fact of life from buying meat and vegetables to hospitals. Since market reforms, these have been greatly reduced but state controlled spaces like hospitals and banks are still holdouts where queuing is the norm. Furthermore, except for the very wealthy who can afford the few private clinics, outpatient services happen at hospitals (at a more reasonable fee, by western standards). That means people go to the hospital for emergencies as well as mundane colds, resulting in constant crowds.
iii: Tea time with: Marcus Aurelius and parenting in the 21st century
In Asia, a guest is received with a tea as a sign of respect and welcome. So it is this section is dedicated to a conversation with whichever guests show up, be they from past, the present, inside myself, or outside in that wide wild world.
Why tea? well because it is a ritual I carve out everyday- a daily practice of “leaving emptiness”; that white space one so often sees in Zen paintings so mysteriously full of energy despite depicting nothing. Tea is a conduit for that emptiness; and one needs empty space so that unexpected visitors may arrive.
These days I’ve been visiting Marcus Aurelius. To be honest I sought him out rather than the other way around. Of course I’ve met him before, but its a bit like running into someone one thought rather boring and dour in college but who now takes on a more juicy persona at the 10 year reunion.
The opening section of Aurelius’ Meditations reads like a laundry list of thanks. He gives thanks to his parents , brothers, sisters, teachers, friends, the Gods. Gratitude is trait the young rarely have, natural exuberance wisely does not allow it, least we be too cautious in life. I remember finding this Oscar acceptance speech annoying and rather rich, it was easy to be grateful when one is on top of the Roman empire.
Rereading these lines today, I am struck by their simple humility; their direct voice calls to mine and the constant struggle most of us have, to live a good and moral life. Having children makes you ponder these questions of what constitutes a “good” life in depth. As a mother I prime target for feeds on Facebook and social media that dispense parental advice, and parental angst.
Most parenting advice in the US seem to fall into two camps— practical advice on say diaper rashes or reviews of car seats and supporting your children through confidence building, with social markers of success as guideposts, and with the ultimate goal of giving our children a “happy life”. There is a focus on providing joy and having educational toys that teach skills (e.g. STEM toys). Outside of a religious context, there is virtually no discussion of values, morals, or virtues in the parenting context, and life goals in general. It appears we have abdicated that responsibility to religion, and it is nearly taboo, or at least a cultural third rail to discuss such intangible values in a secular manner. In the never ending discussions over nature vs nurture, the idea of “shaping” as a part of nurture is emphasized less. Middle class parents are urged to “support” development of satisfied (presumably happy) and socially adjusted children; letting the child take the lead is often an underling assumption. Virtues, in particular, is word we rarely hear in our current cultural context. It carries a whiff of judgement and old fashioned conservatism that’s counter to our now, more seemingly enlightened social attitudes.
Parental styles is a touchy subject where judgement (or feelings of judgement) are met out regularly, especially in the form of “friendly advice”. So I’m not here to critique any particular parental style, but simply to present some reflections on the place of “virtues” presented in Aurelius’ Meditations in parenting.
The interesting thing is that although virtues and ethics are rarely words we read about in your average middle-class parental advice columns, this is not the case in the rest of the world, and Asia in particular. In a culture that’s heavily invested in education, both as a means to move ahead in the world (status and money) and as way of shaping of the character to become a “good and upstanding” person. One frequently used metaphor is that of a gardener— regardless of the type of tree, it’s the gardener’s duty to carefully trim, bend, straighten, correct all misshaped and wayward branches so that this tree can grow to its full potential. A good gardener would allow for the natural inclination of the a tree (say pine or plum), provide essential ingredients for growth, and be active in shaping the direction of the tree; known as “training” in bonsai terminology. So it is with parents and their children. Ideal parents provides more than food and water and nurture, he/she provides training of character and habits, through example and conscious action. Virtue is a word frequently used in that context, layered with Confucian concepts of virtue of the parents reflected on virtue of child and vice versa. In the documentary “First Position”, a talented young ballerina’s Japanese mother said “all her achievements are from her efforts, while all her failings are my failings.”— a typical sentiments among Asian parents. I have personally heard this same sentiment many times.
The list of “virtues” that Marcus Aurelius gives thanks to runs 17 stanzas. A few stand out to me and I’ve taken the liberty of summarizing. (source: Gutenberg)
Humility in realizing that we are all not above reproach- we all have areas that required correction and “cure”, and thus to not be condemn the other. (Book one: IV, VII)
Anger slowly and reconcile easily- Not be led around by nose by unbridled emotions (i.e. or lizard brains) but when rupture has happened, to reconcile easily and willingly. (I, IV)
To avoid ostentation and vanity - even if faced with idiots and those whose opinions you find loathsome and you are tempted to put them down with arguments that show your superiority. But not shy away from voicing your opinions in an civil and clear way. (Book one: III, IV, VI)
To think and act with deliberation and thought- not to accept things simply because they are commonly thought so, to reason and question deeply others but also about our own understanding. (Book one: III, IV)
To suffer the slings and arrows of misfortune, as well as of fortune with equanimity and trust of oneself- Know that good events as well as events that cause suffering come and go, and thus to not lose ones sense of self when they does. To be grounded in moderation and courageous in face of adversity; to be aware of our mortal nature and let that ground us in ups and downs. (Book one: V, XII, XVI)
To make time for one’s family and friends- Not use the excuse of being too busy to not give attention to those you care about or who cares about you. (Book one: IX)
As a modern parent I find these virtues worth pondering? What do you think? I invite you (parents and non-parents) to share your thoughts, ideally over tea.
A disclaimer. I’m not a literature or art professor nor do I profess expertise in philosophy, linguistics or Asian studies. I’m simply a humble reader, writer, and artist who through the course of time have had the privilege to have lived near to the literary and artistic traditions of East Asia and West. I follow the tradition of those itinerate thinkers and explorers of the past, wanderers all, at the edges of the wild. Please forgive any transgressions, they are unintentional.