Every year, I came back to my grandfather hometown and visited my uncle once a year in the 1st day of the Lunar New Year. Every visit lasted about 10 minutes. No more. It’s more a resting stop on the road when I and my parents stopped to see him and got the incense sticks to pay respect to passed-away relatives in nearby cemetery. Conversations are superficial exchange of words. I see him but scarcely know him. And he’s now nearly 60 years old.
Uncle was named Ai (Love), but his life was misunderstood and the center of gossip of the town and relatives. He led a solitary life and was ridiculed for rebellion against the imposed traditions of the villages. I mostly knew about him through gossip stories people told me about him since I was a child. People including my parents get annoyed at his different way of living. The way he designs his house is different from the rest. The way he constructs his life, the beliefs and values he holds onto. He’s like a stranger in this community. And now when I saw his hair turning white, I have to admit I don’t think I know my uncle.
This year was different.
I and my sister made time to stay longer and talk. He was eager to show the landscape design he did for the school where he taught. It was very meticulously and thoughtfully designed. He shared with us how he arranged the trees, how he picked the slogans in the school and how he integrated spirituality in his teaching subjects. I didn’t know uncle has so many talents. He knew about the gossip behind his back but he said he didn’t care. Looking at the mini bonsai trees intentionally arranged around his house, I recalled the time when he planted and designed hundreds of bonsai trees around 20 years ago. At that time, people called him crazy, they laughed at him. And no-one knows about his landscape design passion and talents.
And I, only knows him through the tails of eccentricity people keep sharing about him.
When I came home, my mom insisted on that same stories.
It seems he’s so lonely and misunderstood.
People are locked in their own mental stories.
We have rarely seen the closest people to us.
We see them through a distorted lens of prejudice of right and wrong, good and bad.
We grow old together yet so far away from each other. We may look at that face year after year, and know not about their hearts, their passions, fears, and sorrow.
‘We flatter those we scarcely know,
We please the fleeting guest;
And deal full many a thoughtless blow,
To those who love us best.’
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Nobody is at fault. We are enslaved by thoughts, emotions and egoistic prejudices to protect ourselves from being hurt.
We live on our own islands, desperately reaching out to touch the heart of each other.
Which lens am I under when seeing people around me?
