Japan Impression, second round

After six years, I am back to Japan.

Six years ago, in the summer of 2010, I visited Japan the first time, spending most time in Kyoto learning Japanese, and a couple of weeks traveling around—Hiroshma, Kōyasan, Nikkō, Tokyo.

This time, I am back to Kyoto again, in fact to the same university (Doshisha University) where I studied Japanese before, and this time for a conference. It feels like a full circle coming complete.

I am always fond of Kyoto, one of my favorite cities in the world. Above all, it offers many old temples and palaces that always excite a historian like me. Since I've visited most of them in my last trip, I skipped them this time, and went to see a really old temple—actually the oldest in Japan—Horyu-ji (法隆寺) near Nara, which was founded in early seventh century (Sui Dynasty in China). The temple was sponsored by Prince Shotoku (聖德) to worship Yakushi Nyorai (藥師如來), a healing Buddha, to help the recovery of his sick father.

      

It was a cloudy day. Under the overcast sky, the pagoda (the left picture above) looked imposing. Old architecture like this, precisely because they are old, are plain, empty, and vast, as if history had stripped down all their ornaments and only left the most basic there. The awe they elicit lies not in magnificence, but in simplicity, bare-bones simplicity. 

At the time of its construction, the temple could be tremendous. How this type of building travelled from India to China, to Korea, and finally to Japan is beyond my knowledge. But one episode from Xuan Zang's Datang xiyu ji (大唐西域記) is interesting. The famous monk, during his travel in India in the early 7th century (not long after Horyu-ji was built), encountered a stupa that was fifteen meters high, commissioned by a foreign merchant. It was covered by the paste of saffron, a plant with colorful flowers and fragment smell. Already then, ornamentation figured more prominently in India than in Japan.

What was Japan like in the 7th century? I don't know much. This is the period of Asuka (飛鳥, 538-710), when Buddhism started to penetrate into Japan, and cultural exchange between China, Korea, and Japan flourished. This vibrant exchange continued in the following centuries, first in the Nara period (奈良, 710-794), then peaked in the Heian period (平安, 794-1185). One piece of material evidence is the many items preserved in Shōsō-in (正倉院) of Tōdai-ji (東大寺) in Nara, many of which are medicinal substances from China and further west. I tried to take a look at this important site when I was in Nara, only to find that I was too late to enter. So I only caught a sight from afar.




After I visited a few temples in the Nara area, visual fatigue arose—in the end they all look similar. Better to get some change: Kanazawa (金沢).

Kanazawa is two-hour train northeast of Kyoto. Often called "Little Kyoto," it has some interesting historical sites, though not as old. A fairly small city that literally you can walk around to cover all the places. It has a famous castle dating back to the 15th century when a so-called "Peasants' Kingdom" was established. Here we are at a different moment of Japanese history—the Sengoku period (戦国, 1467-1603). Not unlike the Warring States period in ancient China, the period witnessed the waning of the central power in Kyoto and the rise of feudal lords in local regions. The Peasants' Kingdom was one of them. It didn't last long. In late 16th century, it was defeated by Toyotomi Hideyoshi (豊臣秀吉). Several decades later, Japan was united again by Tokugawa Ieyasu (徳川家康), and enter the Edo period (江戸, 1603-1861).

Another famous site in Kanazawa is Chaya (茶屋), tea houses or geisha houses developed in the early 19th century. I suppose this is why the city is called "Little Kyoto," as that is what Kyoto is famous for. In Kyoto, there is a street at the center of the city called Hanamikoji (花見小路) where if you are lucky, you may see a "flower," an euphemism for geisha. Similar idea for the Chaya districts in Kanazawa, where a century ago customers (mainly male) sought rest and pleasure. These days the districts have become popular commercial sites to sell the quintessential Kanazawa product—things made of or covered by golden foil. The city was the major site of gold production in the 19th century. Hence the name 金沢, "marsh of gold." They even have a golden ice cream. Walking around the districts, I had sort of conflicted feeling. The architecture is certainly impressive. Yet underneath them hides a history that entwined money, greed, and distress of women.

Leaving the Edo history behind, I am entering a new domain, both temporarily and spatially, Hokkaido (北海道). Why Hokkaido? Well, the answer seems obvious: Hokkaido has a special appeal to foreigners because of its natural beauty. As the last piece of territory incorporated into Japan in the 19th century, it is like the American West, a wild, mysterious land that allures and invigorates. Not to mention its romantic portrayal in many movies, from Yamada Yoji's superb 遙かなる山の呼び声 (Chinese title: 遠山的呼喚) to Hou Hsiao-Hsien's Millennium Mambo (千禧曼波), and even to the popular movie 非誠勿擾.

So here I am, in Hakodate (函館), a southern city in Hokkaido. It feels fresh. No more heavy historical burdens; no more stifling heat in Honshu region; no more hordes of tourists. Here you see empty streets, quiet neighborhood, vast ocean, and still-active volcanos. There are some interesting historical sites, though, chiefly in the 19th and 20th centuries. Say, a Catholic church, an Orthodox church, and a Buddhist temple sit right next to each other, betraying the history of Western proselytization in the past century. But coming to Hokkaido is chiefly to enjoy its natural beauty and pleasant weather, not to forget its abundant seafood.

  

Something funny happened when I was in Hokkaido. Some places there reminded me of other places faraway that I visited before—a strange sense of déjà vu. When I was standing on the top of the Hokkaido Mount where I had a nice bird-view of the city, and the ocean beyond, I thought about Grenoble, a city in southern France I visited a few years ago. It also has a mount where you can climb up and have a magnificent view of the city, and the Alps beyond.

   

Here is another example. I spent a day exploring Toya Lake (洞爺湖) near Hakodate. Sitting near the lake and looking over, I discerned some mountains afar, which, perhaps because of the dense mist, were reduced to sheer geographical shapes. Are they not the mountains in Lauren Harris's paintings? The Canadian artist is famous for his depiction of natural sceneries as abstract, geographical, and hence highly spiritual objects. Harris went to Lake Superior in the early 20th century to produce many of his paintings. And I am now sitting along Lake Toya in Hokkaido, experiencing the same.

   

Is this a coincidence, or not? I have been traveling to quite a few places in the past years, mainly between 2012-13 (see my earlier posts). If my first visit of Japan six years ago provoked more of an excitement of initial encounter, this second visit, by contrast, offers something different because it is already built upon layers of my earlier travel experiences. As a result, some kind of connection emerges. For a historian, naturally enough, I cannot help pondering these questions: What is time? What is place?

Toronto, in transition

Here I am, Toronto.

This is the third city I live in North America, after Ann Arbor and Cambridge. Although the stay will be brief (10 months), it is long enough to get a real taste of the city, with all the commotion of re-settling. I am a guy who is slow to adjust to a new environment. The initial excitement is often followed by a period of melancholy and withdrawal. This is how I feel now. The transition has duel meanings: physically I am moving to a new place, and professionally I have left my student life behind and become a scholar. Hence the need for double-adjustment. For the former, it is a matter of finding my favorite spots in this new environment and re-establishing my daily routine: the café to read and think, the grocery to shop, the gym to swim, etc. I am sure it is just a matter of time, though I am a bit under time pressure. The latter is more challenging. Most important, I am on my own now to pursue a career that I find both interesting and meaningful. Although I often think of my former mentors as role models, now it is time to develop my own ideas and guide my own students. 

It is almost winter here in Toronto, nippy and crisp. Leaves are changing colors, so is the politics of the country (the national election just finished with the change of power from the conservative to the liberal). What is my impression of Toronto? It is a fairly large city with lots of interesting activities. My territory is pretty much restricted to the downtown area, close to the UT campus. Life is convenient. I live close to the Korean Town and the China Town, so I have no difficulties to get decent Asian foods. I see more 24-hour shops here. Toronto probably resembles Boston more than Cambridge; although the university is large, it is engulfed in city life. In general, Torontonians are more patient and laid-back than Bostonians, easy to talk to. Making friends is the first step, and perhaps the key step to get immersed in a new place. I am still navigating to find the right people—I don't need a lot; just a few would make my life different. My cultural adventure has just started: several cool museums to visit, a fantastic independent movie theater (TIFF), and some enjoyable biking trails along the lake. Have I ever mentioned that there is a lake nearly—Lake Ontarian. A déja vu of my Ann Arborian life. Indeed some people here say that Toronto is a mid-Western city, not really Canada's New York City, as often portrayed in popular imagination. In that sense, my life has circled back. 

Although the downtown area is populated, it is easy to go to somewhere that is quiet and pretty. Last weekend I visited the Toronto Island, which is just off the lakeshore. From there you can have an open view of the Lake Ontario. It was a cold and windy day, so the island felt vacant and vast. Maybe that is our impression of Canada, a huge country with sparse population. Cold weather too. What would be like standing on this island two hundred years ago? I have little knowledge of the history of Canada. Considering it is a politically more liberal country, I cannot help musing upon the historical roots of that political consciousness. Something I am yet to explore.

Time goes fast. If this whole year in Toronto is a transition to my next stage in Buffalo, I am at the transitional stage of this transitional year. Looking backward, or nostalgia, is futile; I must look forward. Transition is not always easy, but if my current uneasiness prepares for a better transition in Buffalo, it is all worth it. This prospective attitude is all I need now.

Toronto, looking forward to knowing you more.

Post-graduation thoughts

All of a sudden, I graduated.

The whole process feels incredibly fast: the defense, the Hooding Ceremony, the Commencement. Although they span the whole month of May, they seem to happen over the snapping of fingers. Surely it was a happy and memorable moment as I had the chance to celebrate it with my family and friends, including some special ones from far away. I wish I could hold that moment longer so I can enjoy it more fully; after all, it took me six years to reach this point. But it disappears as quickly as it comes, like the dissipation of the mist by the morning sun—the campus becomes quiet again, family and friends have left, and life goes on.

I already feel nostalgic, not just for that fleeting moment of happiness, but for a way of living I am too familiar with and too used to. Now I must leave that comfortable student life behind, and start the new career as a scholar and professor. Although I try to make this transition slow and smooth, it is a change nonetheless, which creates both excitement and anxiety.

To alleviate the anxiety, I initially planned to travel to Europe to take a break. This plan didn't work out because of an unexpected logistic issue (my passport is not with me). This is rather frustrating because I do want to travel after two years of staying in Cambridge, and this is a rare opportunity to enjoy myself. But bureaucracy presents a formidable barrier, and I have to learn to live with it. At every turn of the rosy moment of life, reality strikes back.

I should not complain too much considering what is ahead of me in the following years. It is a fortunate year after all. But sometimes I feel that underneath my docile and gentle facade lies an independent and rebellious soul, a free spirit. I like to explore both the physical world and the world of books, to learn more and experience more. But as I enter the next stage of my life, I wonder how long I can sustain this way of living, to live life the fullest. On this matter, I often think of Frank Capra's movie "It is a wonderful life." In one scene, the protagonist George is waiting at the train station for his brother, who just graduates from college, and, as George expects, will come home to take over their father's bank so George can be free. George has big plans; he shows a bunch of brochures to his friends and tells them that he will travel to many beautiful cities in Europe and fulfill his dream. George didn't go because later he realizes that his brother has a job in the factory of his fiancée's father. Neither does George go anywhere for the rest of his life. He stays in his hometown, and enjoys a wonderful life there.

I love this movie, and cry every time at the end. It reminds me that freedom always comes with restraints, without which freedom becomes purposeless and disorienting. Opposite to freedom is sacrifice and responsibility, string to stability and source of happiness. It is a fine balance between the fulfilling of self and the caring of others—too much of the former makes one detached and too much of the latter becomes a burden. It is a balance I will continue to learn and test out in the following years. Between soaring to the sky and sticking to the ground, where is me?

Birthday thoughts

Today I turn 38.

This birthday feels special as it heralds a new stage of my life. Looking back to almost four decades of my life, the path is straightforward but with twists: first six years, pre-school life. Not much memory; from six to now, more than thirty years of school life. Ridiculous long but also extraordinarily rich; from now to the following years, probably decades, post-school life. Challenging yet with lots of hopes.

Age is an interesting thing precisely because we all know that life does not last forever. So the central question is: what truly matters? I spent quite a while to contemplate that question. More than a decade ago, while I was studying biology at the University of Michigan, I read Ray Huang’s autobiography, Yellow River, Blue Mountain. Ray received his PhD in history at UM at the age of 46. That inspired me. A concrete role model was a driving force for me.

Making decisions, especially unconventional ones, requires strong inner power. In the fall of 2005, I went to a small state park along the Lake Michigan, walking along the lakeshore, drawing on the sand, thinking hard, interrogating my soul. In the epic movie Lawrence in Arabia, there is a scene that Lawrence sat on the edge of a vast desert, his eyes intensely gazing into the horizon. He was thinking hard to make a decision, an extremely dangerous one to cross the deadly dessert for a military action. Finally he made up his mind to do the impossible. So did I.

It has been a long journey from that critical moment to where I am now. Making a decision is a highly personal act, but to implement that decision requires lots of support from others. In that respect, I am blessed. Many memorable moments well up.

On a quiet Saturday morning in December 2005, I had a heart-to-heart conversation with my boss Ken about my change of career. Impressively, he never asked why I wanted to make this change, but rather eagerly offered all justifications for such a transition. The script I prepared was not of much use. He understood well the importance of respecting others’ decisions.

Later when I was pursuing a Master in China Studies at UM, I attended a lecture by a renowned historian Timothy Brook. After his talk, Christian, my MA advisor, introduced me to him. “He has a biology PhD,” Christian whispered. Hearing that, Tim looked into my eyes deeply, “Now you are doing something you really like.” Sometimes a few words encompasses the whole universe.

During that period, I also met a junior scholar Yiching, who spent many years at U. Chicago to find a project he found driving and meaningful. Naturally, he understood my decision well. “You don’t have a choice,” he opined. It is interesting to think about the decision-making process: we exercise our power of free will, only to find something we are destined for. The process is powerful, and transformative: to find a path for our life, with great confidence, is an integral part of our growth.

Another moment with my dearest friend Margo, my colleague at Harvard: We all become accustomed to our ways of living, making redirecting of a set trajectory hard. But once a change is initiated, no matter what the outcome would be, people rarely regret. Change is a positive action. My own experience is a good testimony: Before I changed my career, the most intimidating thought was whether I would regret later. A decade has passed, and I never regretted.

There are many more friends, and moments that touched my heart and motivated me to move forward. If my career has changed drastically, one idea has become more affirmative and sturdy: my dependence on others; my positive, even innocent, belief in the goodness of people.

Now I am about to close up my long life of a student and move on to be an adult and a scholar. The future is full of challenges and possibilities. Right now, I can just enjoy this moment of quiet happiness, with a sense of accomplishment and closure. I always think that true happiness is a temporary feeling, and it often happens when I anticipate something rather than actually doing it. I tend to believe that for a good life, happiness is like small islands floating in the ocean of contentness. Sitting on one of these islands now on my 38^th birthday, with the waves in the past flapping on my back, I look ahead to an exciting new sail to an adventurous and promising future.

Never Let Me Go

Life comes with surprises, and that is the beauty of it. One kind of surprise that occurs to me, occasionally, is from watching movies. I am a movie buff, but I barely have time these days indulging myself in movies - too luxurious an act. So after a crazy week of work, I randomly picked a film to watch. And it is surprisingly good. How do I define a good movie? Here are some of my criteria: 

• Interesting plot that provokes plenty of afterthoughts 
• excellent performance
• somewhat depressing
• great ending
• great soundtrack

The movie, called “Never Let Me Go,” appears to fit all of them. It tells an unconventional sic-fi story that images history unfolded differently in the past fifty years. In the 1950s, medical science made a breakthrough that was able to to “cure the incurable” and markedly increased life expectancy. This came with a condition: Fresh organs were needed. As a result, the society decided to clone a special type of “creatures” whose only purpose of living was to give their organs to save humans’ lives. Of course in the movie these “creatures" are played by human actors - you cannot tell from their appearance, and only at a certain point of the movie you realize that they are, or supposed to be, different (in this sense, forgive me that I am spoiling the suspense). These creatures, when still young, were sent to a special school. And when they grew up, they started to give their organs. After three or four givings, they “complete.” The movie traces the lives of three of these “creatures” from childhood to their ultimate “completion,” telling a touching story of love, friendship, and redemption. These are terms we reserve for humans, but they seem to have them too. That is the point of the movie.

Well, sounds pretty depressing, doesn’t it? And it is. The first response we may have is that this is one of those dystopia movies that do not paint a rosy picture of our future, with a highly suspicious attitude toward modern science (think about another good movie “Children of Men”). It asks a familiar ethical question: At what price shall we pay to benefit ourselves? Here “ourselves” could mean a subgroup of us or the entire humanity. There are many tragic examples of this in history, unfortunately. A famous example is the notorious Tuskegee Test done in Alabama in early twentieth century, where US physicians deliberately untreated the African-American community contracted by syphilis to acquire information about the disease. Obviously they considered the community as sub-human, which justified their action. To go broader, we can also think about the arguments of animal rights movement, their critiques on the cruel use of animals in scientific research. We are nowhere near the end of debates on the ethics of doing science. Perhaps that is a good thing.

Although its plot directs audience to ask many provocative, if not polemic, questions, this is a movie that reflects rather than attacks. And it delves deeper to ask a philosophical question: How do we define ourselves as humans? Evolutionary theory teaches us that we came from animals, and at a certain historical point, a critical point, we broke from them and became unique. What is this uniqueness about us? Is it language, capacity of using tools, morality, special way of thinking, free will, or ability to love? The answers could go on and on, offered by our ancestors ever since the dawn of civilizations, but we still haven’t found the answer definitively. Maybe we never will. One of the most fundamental puzzles that challenge science today is the rise of our consciousness. Philosophers, at least in the Western tradition, phrase it in a different way: Where did our soul come from? In one moment of the movie, one of the “creatures,” Tommy, has a conversation with the principal of the school where he was sent to as a young child. Children in the school were asked to draw pictures from time to time that were inspected by a lady from an art gallery. The purpose was never explained to the children. Tommy suspects that this is an exercise to look into their souls. The principal, played by the superb Charlotte Rampling, retorted matter-of-factly: “We didn’t use them to look into your soul; we used them to see whether you have a soul at all.” 

How do we know we have a soul? The psychiatrist Rollo May, in his Freedom and Destiny, suggested a fascinating response: We anticipate our own death. Animals do not seem to have this consciousness, unless they are in duress (admittedly, children don’t have this as well.) Soul and mortality are intwined - all religions in our world address this fundamental relationship in various ways. In essence, humans live in paradox: we are endowed by free will on the one hand, and the knowledge of the inevitability of our demise, on the other. We are torn between freedom and destiny. And I think this is the most profound dimension of the movie - it is a sobering reflection on mortality. The ending, in this sense, is poetically beautiful. One of the “creatures,” Cathy, stands in front of a fence overlooking a wild, open field. She will have her first organ-giving soon. She ponders, with eyes brimmed with tears: “What I am not sure about, is if our lives have been so different from the lives of the people we save, we all complete. Maybe none of us really understand what we’ve lived through, or feel we’ve had enough time.”

Before death, we all become equal (“we” could be quite expansive here). Sounds familiar? That is what Jane Eyre says to Mr. Rochester in Charlotte Brontë’s acclaimed novel Jane Eyre: 

Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! - I have as much soul as you - and full as much heart! ... I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, not even of mortal flesh: it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal - as we are! 

And we can find the similar sentiment in China a thousand years ago. Here is the wisdom from the renowned poet Tao Yuanming (陶淵明): 

I lament the change from light at dawn to sunset, and mourn the long labor of life. Since we all complete in a hundred years, why do we have so few joys and so many sorrows!   

悲晨曦之易夕，感人生之長勤；同一盡於百年，何歡寡而愁殷！

Death not just demands equality; it also compels us to cherish life more (and I believe this is Rollo May’s point).

But this thought, to many minds in our modern world, sounds too passive, if not fatalistic. A film critic from the New York Times - I suppose a typical response from a liberal-minded newspaper - accused the movie of being too dull, with too many tears that deprive the feeling of life. Life here means action, and perhaps rebellion. These poor creatures dutifully comply with their fate and sacrifice their lives without fighting back. Too docile and obedient an attitude that counteracts the spirit of this nation, which was founded on rebellion and fighting for a better life. For this critic, these creatures probably should take actions, like the animals in the movie "Chicken Run,” fighting with the evil owner of the farm to seek a life of freedom (George Orwell’s Animal Farm looms large here.) The political undertone of these actions are patent.

Yet as I said before, "Never Let Me Go" is more philosophical than political, so it will never appeal to a political-conscious reviewer such as the one from the New York Times. To understand this point more, perhaps it is necessary to bring the novel upon which this film is based into the picture. Not surprisingly, the novel, with the namesake title, was written by a Japanese-British writer Kazuo Ishiguro (石黑一雄). Born in Japan, Ishiguro spent most of his life in the UK, and his novels do not have a strong connection, at least on the surface, to Japanese culture, as he admitted that he was rather unfamiliar with that culture. But I think the East Asian thoughts have a subtle influence on his writings. The meditative, plaintive, and even somewhat fatalistic tone in his Never Let Me Go is a good example. Life is not just to confront, but also to comply with. There is beauty in such thinking - the so-called “mono no aware” (sorrow on things, 物の哀れ) in traditional Japan. Things like the blossom of sakura are beautiful, but also ephemeral. So is our life, and death that ensues. Instead of striving to improve life or trying to avoid death, the simple observation of them, and the reflection upon them, are truly beautiful. 

With that thought, let me finish by citing a line from the Greek stoic philosopher Epictetus:

Do not seek to have everything that happens happen as you wish, but wish for everything to happen as it actually does happen, and your life will be serene.

     

      

So long, my friends!

I haven't updated my blog for a while. Of course I have all kinds of reasons, which I will save here. Now the summer is moving fast, and I don't want to let it go without leaving a few traces here. My first entry after the hiatus, however, is about sending my friends off, sadly.


The two persons in this photograph, besides myself, are my colleagues and friends. The guy in the middle is Hung Kuang-chi, three years above me; the girl on the right is Bian He, one year above me. We are all from the same department - History of Science at Harvard. And if Kuang-chi is right, we are the only three Asian graduate students in the entire history of this department.


That fact has made us a special species, and nucleated us tightly. The first time I came to Harvard - in the spring of 2009, I met them for the first time during my campus visit. They have different personalities: Kuang-chi is laid-back, expressive, and passionate; He is modest, reserved, and attentive. We became quick friends.


More than five years have passed, and we have together shared many memorable moments during our fun and arduous PhD study. Kuang-chi liked to work in the basement of the Science Center, where he finished his magnum opus - his over-600-page dissertation - within half a year. Often before I left the building, I would drop by and say hello to him. He then would pull himself out of the piles of books, and get out so he could light a cigarette and talk with me about his favorite subject - Asa Grey, the great American botanist in the 19th century. Yes, that is where his passion stays - how Grey gathered species all over the world, how he communicated with his collectors, how he supported or disagreed with Darwin, etc. After ten minutes, he would go back to his place, continuing transcribing Grey's letters. And I would bike home, still immersed in Grey's expeditions.


I met He more often, because we worked on similar subjects - materia medica in China, and with the same mentor - Prof. K. He is a quiet person, but underneath her serene face lie a perspicacious mind and a warm heart. Her words are always precise and incisive, compassionate and caring. Most impressively, she understands well the potentials and limits of her capacity, and executes her plan with ambition, but rarely impractical, with creativity, but never loose-ended. Many times I went to her place, chatting with her about our research, and, of course, playing with her lovely cats - Little Black and Little White. Years later I may forget the content of those conversations, but one thing I won't forget is the way she cuts cookies. Once she and her husband came to my place to borrow my car. It was deep fall, right before the Thanksgiving. I just finished baking some cookies and took them out of the oven. Seeing that they all solidified into one big chunk, He carefully cut them into pieces, quietly, precisely, full of enjoyment. And I think that said a lot about He as a person: her enjoyment of life may not be easily discerned, but always real.


Sometimes I think that at the fundamental level, what connects us three is less of our Asian identity than of our shared background - we all studied biology before, and later defected. Although we are now historians, the science part never left us - it has made us humble, honest, and most importantly, tough. With passion, we entered the new field; with the toughness, we have persevered - at least so far.


Now my good comrades have both graduated and continued their illustrious career: Kuang-chi will teach at the NTU in Taipei and He will teach at Princeton. Early today, we had the last dinner in Boston. It was good that we didn't dwell much on the past memories - as what I did here because I am a hopeless sentimentalist - and spent more time on the future: what kind of scholars we want to be, how to produce the first book, etc. Yes, the friendship in the past is cherishable, yet what is coming is even better. One day, as Kuang-chi suggested, we may offer a course together on the history of Chinese natural history. That is the spirit!

So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight. I hate to go and leave this pretty sight.

So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, adieu. Adieu, adieu, to you and you...






                        

Janus

Another academic year just passed, so quickly. Compared to my year of traveling and exploring, this was a year of staying and producing. What have I done? Writing two chapters of my dissertation, teaching two courses, submitting a short article, attending a conference, and surviving a harsh winter. Not bad. Of course I can always do more, a sentiment, for better or for worse, readily cultivated at a place like Harvard. But that is often a view in retrospect, not in prospect. It is also a year I clearly felt becoming a senior student, or starting the transition from a student to a scholar - I have become more comfortable calling professors by their first names, I realized that I could offer good comments for my cohort's writings, I started to engage in my dissertation research more deeply. Becoming senior also means an increased awareness of what is coming ahead - to graduate and to find a job. Those are not easy thoughts.

In fact, they are not. Since six and a half years old, I have been in school - non-stop, that is, 31 years (82% of my life). I have enjoyed most part, especially the past five years when I was doing what I like. Now I am about to enter the transitional stage of my life - from a permanent student to a scholar/teacher. It wouldn't be much different since I still want to stay in academia. But it will be a change nonetheless, and I need to prepare for it. Most importantly, I think this transition entails two developments. First, a strong view or justification of the way I do my research. I could be sympathetic to other people's approach and appreciative of the value of their works, but I cannot be an absolute relativist. I must develop my own professional voice. Professors tend to be opinionated. I think that is true. Second, the confidence or comfort of engaging in scholarly activities. I often get nervous when I participate in scholarly conversation - seminar participation, conference talk, teaching, etc. - as if every activity was an exam to be passed. No more exams. They are opportunities to learn and improve. It takes both knowledge and experience, together with a healthy dose of self-awareness, to be more relaxed and spontaneous. The fun part should be always there.

The summer is coming. Nice weather aside, it is also a good season to get things done. This means more chapters to be written, more preparation to be done for job-hunting. But most importantly, I need to keep a good rhythm of life and get comfortable with the upcoming transitional stage, no matter how it unfolds. Anxious but hopeful, humble but assertive, prepared but not to the frozen degree that kills joy. That is my goal. 

Janus is the Roman god with double faces looking to the past and to the future. It generally means beginning and transition (hence January as the first month of the year). For me, it is the beginning of the end - the end of my current PhD, and the end of my long student life. It is also a transition to a new stage of my life, with uncertainties and possibilities. But I am generally hopeful, for something new and exciting coming up soon. Janus, be my guide!