Strange Weather

The weather has been strange lately. The other day, the morning was sunny and bright, and then a few hours later, it started pouring down rain. And then the afternoon was overcast and I actually liked the freshness and moistness in the air. The light was muted, diffuse, and everything looked clearer.

Yesterday, I woke up with a pain in my heart. I didn't know exactly what it was about, but I couldn't mind it much. As usual, I needed to get ready, hurriedly, for my eight-o'clock class.

The pain is still there as I take a quick shower and then eat a tangerine for breakfast that I bought at one of the fruit stands on Bao Yi Street in Muzha. I steep some wulong tea and get dressed. I will be down the steps to the bus stop in a few moments.

Despite the feeling, which I realize is a little sadness, I feel some excitement. It's a special day. My friend Michael, also an acupuncturist who has lived in Taiwan (now based in Seattle, though), is visiting, and we have plans to eat lunch and go to a teahouse. It feels like I'll be taking a little vacation, if only for an afternoon.

At noon, I walk out to the school's main gate, and Michael is there waiting on his scooter. We take a walk on campus and end up at a secret pond. No one is around, only a few fish, who jump when they hear us approaching the pond. We find a small stone bench, and catch up. I could share with you what similar magic we have discovered living in Taiwan, but words wouldn't be enough, so now only the dragonflies know.

We have some lunch and then Michael takes me up to Maokong, which is famous for its tea plantations, about ten minutes up the mountain from my school, for an afternoon of sublime tea drinking. He has a friend who is a famous tea master, the laoban at the Iron Crow (Wu Tie) Teahouse.

We walk down the steps into the garden, where Zhou Xiansheng and his wife greet us. They invite us to sit a small, low wooden table facing out to his garden, and Zhou Xiansheng brings out the tools of his trade: a hot water pot, some clay pots, teacups, a bamboo scoop. And of course, he takes out the varieties of tea he wants to steep for us today.

Last year, Michael brought some of this tea back to the States and his friends have begged him to go back and get some more. He also needs some for himself and his patients. He often shares a cup of tea with them while taking their pulse. I'll bet you they are probably already getting better by the time they've had their first sip.

As Zhou Xiansheng pours us tea, I look out at the wide expanse of green. It is quite beautiful. If you live in Taiwan and you haven't been up here, well, you're missing a lot.

There is still something rough lodged in my heart, but my time hanging out with Michael and this warm welcome at the teahouse have softened its edges.

As we let the tea work its wonders on us, the afternoon seems to pass quickly, as if I am in a dream. We share insights, mostly about the differences between Western and Eastern thinking. Zhou Xiansheng knows how much we love his tea, and his culture as well, and as we share this time together, I can feel how these moments, which turn into fine memories, are the jewels which adorn the chain of our lives.

Zhou Xiansheng surprises us. He tells us that he and his wife were just married last week! Out come the wedding albums and even more warmth radiates from the loving couple. Zhou informs us he is 48. His wife is probably around 40, and she is six months pregnant!

It is clear how much in love they both are, and there is an air of contentedness about them. I think about what each of them must have gone through before they found each other, and how happy they are to have found each other, and how they share what looks to me like incredible joy.

Zhou Xiansheng, standing on the wooden deck where we are sitting, pulls out a flute and starts to play to the birds and the trees, his audience. He rejoins us with a bag of twelve year-old Jing Xuan Alishan Wulong tea. We drink the last few rounds of tea. The afternoon sun goes down, and it's starting to get chilly.

I don't want to leave, but I have aikido class soon. We say our goodbyes and Michael and I hop back onto his scooter and head back to the university.

After aikido, I head home, back up the mountain, and discover I'm not tired at all. Or rather, I'm tired, but I can't go to sleep. All that tea has gotten me a little wired. If I were a true Chinese boy, I would be sleeping like a baby now, but I didn't start drinking tea as a toddler like they do here, and I know I'm not going to get to sleep for a while. So, instead of fighting it, I pull out a pad of paper and start writing a composition that is due on Friday.

The composition is done. The roosters that live in back of my taofong are crowing and I look at my watch--it's approaching five. It's a landmark, my first time this year in Taiwan, as they say in Chinese, "driving the night car" (or as we say, "burning the midnight oil").

There is something incredibly peaceful about it. In these early morning hours, the chaos of life fades, our personal stories get blurry, and for me at least, a certain peace descends.

I get to sleep finally and wake up this morning at eight. My class starts in ten minutes and I have a test. I am definitely going to be late for it, but in the larger scheme of things, that's just fine. I suppose the peace of the early morning is still prominent.

In the afternoon, I have a plan with another friend, near the Taipei 101 Building, and after lunch, I get on a bus that will take me there. I am listening to Coldplay on my MP3 player:

Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And all the things that you do.

I get off the bus and look up at the tallest building in the world. Some people don't like it, but I think it is quite beautiful. Taipei's convention center is nearby, and if you want to see foreigners, this is the place to be. Computer salesmen from Sydney and Hamburg walk around with plastic nametags around their necks. I doubt any of them speak Chinese.

I still have some time, and so I find a stone slab bench, removed from the street at an isolated corner of the immense building. Facing me is a display for some designer boutique. I look up at the sky and realize that it's been a while since I've looked up at that wide blue emptiness that is always there. It's good to lie down. Coldplay is still playing:

And we live in a beautiful world,
yeah we do yeah we do,
We live in a beautiful world.

I lie there, looking up at the sky. Suddenly, something in my heart breaks open, and tears start streaming down my face.

I listen to another song, and get up, walking down the street toward city hall. Taiwanese businesspeople walk by me and try not to make eye contact, but I smile and sometimes they smile back.