Bright is the Moon over My Home Village
Ji Xianlin

Everyone has his hometown, every hometown has a moon, and everyoneloves the moon over his hometown. Presumably, that's how things are.

However, the moon would look lonely if it hung in the sky all byitself. In classic Chinese poems or essays, therefore, the moon is alwaysaccompanied by something, most likely by a mountain or a river. Hence,"High is the mountain, and small is the moon," and "Three towersreflected on the lake on a moonlight night," etc. There are simply toomany such scenes to count.

My home village is located on a major plain in northwesternShandong. I never saw a mountain when I was small; as a result, I didn't knowwhat a mountain was like. In my imagination, a mountain was probably a thickand round column, so tall that it pierced the sky and looked awesome. When Igrew up, I went to Jinan, where I saw some mountains for the first time.Suddenly I became aware of what a mountain was. The moon that I saw in myvillage when I was young, therefore, was never associated with any mountains.It was beyond my wildest dream to understand what the poet Su Dongpo said inhis poem: "The moon rises above the Eastern Mountain and lingers betweenthe Southern Dipper and Altair."

As for water, there was plenty of it in my small village. Several reed-filledponds made up most of the village. In the eyes of a kid such as me, those pondswere not as magnificent as Lake Dongting whose "waters in August areplacid," but they did seem to extend far and wide. On a summer evening, Iwould lie on the ground near a pond and try to count the stars in the sky.Occasionally a bonfire would be set under an old willow. Someone would climbonto the tree and shake it. And lo and behold, many cicadas would drop down.That was a much easier way of catching cicada than trying to get them glued tochewed wheat grains. Every evening I took great pleasure in doing that, andeverybody I looked forward to the early arrival of dusk.

Later in the evening, I would walk to a pond, where I looked up atthe moon in the sky, bright and clear, and down at the moon reflected, just asbright and clear, on the surface of the pond. Too young to know what a poemwas, I was nonetheless so impressed by what I had seen that there seemed to besomething stirring in my heart. On some days, I would play by the pond lateinto the night. Not until midnight did I go home to sleep. And in my dream, Iwould see two moons, one on the top of the other, their light shining all themore brightly and splendidly. The next day, early in the morning, I would go tothe pond to look for duck eggs in the reeds. Glistening, they were there for meto pick. I was happy beyond words.

I lived in my home village for only six years. Then I left it andbegan to live the life of an itinerant, roaming freely all over the world.First I spent a dozen or so years in Jinan, then I spent four years in Pekingand then I returned to Jinan for one more year. Following that, I lived inEurope nearly eleven years, only to return to Peking again. Altogether, it wasover forty years, during which I visited nearly 30 countries and saw the mooneverywhere I went. I saw it in Lake Leman in Switzerland, on the great desertin Africa, in the vast sea, and over huge mountains.

The moon was undisputedly beautiful wherever I saw it, and I likedit every time I saw it. But the sight of the moon in foreign lands wouldinvariably remind me of the small moon I had seen over my own village,reflected on the water of a pond. I always felt that, however big and beautifulthe foreign moon was, it could not be as bright and beautiful as the lovelymoon I saw over my small village. However distant I might be from my homevillage, the thought of that lovely moon would make my heart fly back. My dearlovely small moon, I'll never forget you!

Now almost 70 years old, I live at Peking University in its LangrunGarden, which is itself a scenic attraction. To brag a bit, I would describe itas having lush bushes and slender bamboo with streams running merrily aroundseveral tiny hills. The scene is exquisitely beautiful. A couple of years ago,I had the pleasure of spending a summer vacation in Mt. Lushan, one of the bestsummer resorts in China. Back in Peking together with one of my old friends, heexclaimed at the sight of Langrun Garden, "Oh, with such a beautiful placeto live in, why should you have gone to Mt. Lushan for vacation?"

His words testified to the beauty of the Garden, which boasts ofhills, streams, trees, bamboo, flowers, and birds. On a night with the fullmoon in the sky, the Garden is certainly an ideal place to appreciate thepoetic beauty seen in the vast sky where the moon hangs, the lush trees wheresleepy birds sing, and the tranquil ponds where lotuses send out a delicatefragrance. The much-coveted sight of "moonlight over a lotus-coveredpond" is right next to my room window. Whoever comes to my home will bedelighted to see it.

On such beautiful nights, however, I will think of the ordinary moonover the pond in my home village. Indeed, seeing the moon never fails to makeme think of my home village. It is hard to say if nostalgia—a malady, isn'tit?—brings one sweetness or bitterness. As it is, nostalgia is filled with fondmemories, anxieties, regrets, or even pain. Time, once gone, is gone forever.Ultimately, nostalgia is sweet with a touch of bitterness.

Bright is the moon over my home village. When can I see that moonagain? As I look southward, my heart flies there.