Climbing up to the White Pagoda high above Lanzhou stirred something within me, or maybe released something, and similar to the way a good movie will stay with you for days, so did the climb stay with me. I replayed it over and over again, remembering new details each time I replayed it. So when I looked around for some way to celebrate my dead mother’s birthday, the unknown Lama sprang to mind. China has taught me a lot about venerating your ancestors. There is a national holiday called ‘Tomb Sweeping Day’ when families travel to their ancestor’s burial sites to do some tidying up and remembering. In the spring and fall, they burn incense, paper clothes and fake money on the street around makeshift shrines, adorned with plates of fruit, snacks and bottles of beer. Then there is the Hungry Ghost Festival in which it is believed the dead pay a visit to the living. Extravagant meals are prepared and served to empty seats at the table. Lotus lantern boats are set adrift on water to give directions to lost spirits. Families pay homage to wandering ghosts so that they don’t interfere with their lives. The afterlife is very active in China and it is all taken very seriously. I respect this and so I wanted to honor my mother, not on the anniversary of her death, but on the anniversary of her birth. My mother was something of a maverick. Went to Yale Music School when co-eds weren’t in vogue. Gave up riches when she married for love. Worked hard, yet gave and gave and then gave some more. I remember her on the porch in the cold, playing a polka on a baby grand piano, one of the legs missing and propped up on a stool. Schooled in the classics, pop tunes and polkas rang her bell, and her hands flew up the out of tune keyboard and I remember being shocked, staring through the window at the sheer joy she was experiencing. So many parts of our parents we never get to know. Some of her favorite things that I remember were her bike, Sebago Lake, her piano, the beach, swimming, her camping trailer, and the open road. I probably inherited my love of wandering from her. The first time I went camping I was only ten-months old. To this day, the smell of a tent always makes me happy. So, I owe her and wanted to pay something back. I bought some incense, packed up a picnic, walked across the Zhongshan Bridge and approached the gates of the White Pagoda Park as they were closing. The woman manning the gate let me in, and when I asked her, mimicking how would I be able to get out, she offered a detailed explanation in rapid Chinese. I stared at her so intently she took a step back, but then I reassured her with a smile. I was elated because I understood exactly what she said. For the first time, I understood a complete conversation. It was a stuporous victory I hope I can soon duplicate. The way up is a long series of steps, broken up every once in a while with ramped pathways, but it is mostly steps that I took two-by-two. There is almost always a Chinese person who takes this as a challenge and tries to beat me to the top. I habitually surrender, stopping and pretending to catch my breath, inwardly taking pleasure at the look of triumph on their faces. The only competition worth having is competing against your own self. I learned that somewhere long ago when I stopped trying to beat everybody at everything. And what a relief that was. At the top of the hill, I sought out a quiet glen in the shadow of another wooden pagoda, laid out my rollup bamboo placemats, spread out the food, lit clusters of incense in groups of three so that I was surrounded by fragrance and sat down on the cool earth. While I ate, swallows performed aerial acrobatics, the white rose incense coaxed out joy, the trees bowed gratefully in the wind, disinterested clouds turned a blush rose, and high above the river, I introduced the unknown Lama to my mother and to the breeze and my heart, suspended now in a place where everything collides, absorbs, and continues, leaping outward, reconnecting. All around it was so quiet I could actually hear the sound of an out of tune polka. Feel the breath of the past. Smell my surrender. Touch the world beating like a heart. Tune in to unwritten music. I lingered till the sun set in the west then left the food for a liú làng zhě (vagabond or hobo). All the way down I indulged my photographic obsession with the Zhongshan Bridge. It arched in roller coaster excitement for the never-ending steaming masses who sought it out and crossed it as if saying a prayer. As usual, I took many photos. Near the bridge, I began to photograph the effect of the light on the Yellow River instead of training my camera on the bridge alone. Soon, I attracted a group of onlookers who began to shoot over my shoulder with their SmartPhones, grasping what I was aiming for. Everywhere I moved to line up a shot, they followed. I wanted to feel what my mother felt playing polkas on her baby grand piano, so I took off my belt and strapped myself to the bridge, leaned back into the nothingness, and snapped away. No one followed. For just a moment I was suspended in time, my worn belt between me and disaster, as free as a keyboard, part of the bridge, part of its song, part of its magic, vibrating, trusting, ringing like a Bakelite phone in an empty office, trying just to capture the soul of this bridge, and its attraction, my affection, and the summoning of it all. The photo below is as close as I’ll ever come to it. Be joyful . . . be proud . . . be.
4 Comments
Loreta
6/19/2013 12:07:36 am
I love reading your blog
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Mary
6/20/2013 06:49:14 am
Hi EE, what a wonderful tribute to "Mom's" birth it made me cry with shear joy!!! What a spectacular view from the top it is breathtaking. I know she was playing the polka for you in Heaven. She was such a Saint and I love the way you listed her favorite things we all have some of that in us. She was so adventurous especially in her day and age. Oh how I love the piano playing!!! Your adventurous side is definetly from her. Hanging from you belt is so ingenius and dangerous at the same time but you got that spectacular picture as a result otherwise we could not get that angle. Great job and I didn't think you would have any followers on that one!!! Have a great day and rest of the month. Love ya Sis
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Anne
6/20/2013 08:43:32 pm
Brought tears to my eyes as well EE!!! Mom definitely gave us a love for the outdoors. Walking in the forest or sitting by a lake awakens my soul. You are an excellent writer. I was there with you ; I heard the music, watched the swallows until the belt incident! I do not blame the onlookers. But you always needed to enjoy life to the fullest and never shrinked back from anything. Good for you. looking forward to your next posting. Love Anne
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Erika MarĂa
6/28/2013 01:29:04 pm
The sent of love in every one of your words my dear... Your mother is being introduced to me trhu the sweetest memories... polka,piano,beach & camping... it is a pleasure to meet you free spirit, you beautiful woman has a son who became my very best friend, Thank you so much señora! Mike amigo you also made me think of my daddy Vicente, If can get another chance, it will be a momento, just one tiny momento of picking up wild flowers with him... their smell is one of the sensory elements that takes me right next to him!! like when you smell a tent. Aww Aromas & the ones we love the most... siempre! Lovely tribute dear brujito Elvis.
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