The expressions I can remember of you, mom, when I was very young, were anger, impatience, annoyance at being disturbed, unhappiness, a sense of being burdened with obligation – not of your own choosing.  Silently the message was – life should have been better…  Most of the time you seemed to be in your own thoughts, far away.  Smiling only when you had to, when you needed to.  It did not happen often.

Another image deeply printed in my memory was you squatting next to a suitcase, packing, with your back to me.  I remember those were the times when you came back from the labor camp, just for a short day or two.

When you came back, time flew so fast! I was happy.  

Then all of a sudden, you had to pack, to leave again.  Time seemed to have frozen.  It was so difficult to pass those few hours. I can not remember your face, because you hid away from us.  Sadness, emotions, tears had to be guarded and controlled.  Otherwise, the dam could break…

Those were the years during the height of the Cultural Revolution.

As I grew older, we moved to Hong Kong.  Your expression often times was laughter in front of other family members – my grandparents, aunts and uncles.  In private, it was solitude; studying the bible with the diligence of a devoted student, answering and writing letters to your college friends with such focus. They were important to you – the bright and warm light in your life.

When I came home from school, you were usually sitting at your desk, reading or writing.  A short greeting and then back to what you were doing.  It felt as if there was another world you were in and that world was a much happier place for your heart.  It kept you there.

When you interacted with the extended family, it often felt as though you put on a mask. There were expectations to fulfill—familial, social, cultural. You behaved the way you were supposed to behave, not the way you would in your other world. I felt that I belonged mostly to this world.

We went to church together every Sunday.  Sitting beside you, I watched Sunday after Sunday you cried while singing hymns.  At that time, I did not understand why. I only felt that you held on to the belief, the faith with all that you had.  

Looking back, I can see that every Sunday you poured your sorrow into God, believing He understood, believing He was listening. For a few hours, you found peace.

But peace was always short-lived.

Reality waited outside the sanctuary doors. As soon as the service ended and you faced fellow church members, the weight of social and religious expectations returned. All of our family members attended the same church. There was no escaping the roles you were expected to play.

I left home at seventeen.  

You wrote me letter after letter. I loved receiving them. I read each one carefully and always wrote back. For that period of time, I felt as though I had entered your other world—the world where you communicated through writing, where thoughts and feelings traveled across distance. It was a world deeper than daily routines and household obligations.

I stayed in the United States while you and dad moved to Canada together with Phil and Joe’s families. Whenever I visited, you were happy.  

You always made a fish dish for me – spicy, rich in sauce, served whole.  Often times I would eat half of it by myself.  It felt good to be home, to be with you and dad.  

With dad, conversation usually began with my life and quickly turned into history. He loved telling stories—Chinese history, European history, biblical history. Many stories were repeated, but I never minded. He had a remarkable memory, and we often talked past midnight before I finally went to bed.

With you, we walked together.  Most of the time you talked about your boarding school years (since middle school) and college life.  Those were the happiest times in your life.  

We hardly ever touched upon the Cultural Revolution years.  

You graduated with a biology degree from one of China’s top universities. Yet political forces allowed you only a few brief years working in a laboratory before you were pushed into teaching high school. Later, when our family moved to Nanjing, where I was born later, you could only work as a staff member in the university’s print shop.

Unlived life, unmet ambition – a life lived without experiencing the richness of the field you loved, without the opportunity to explore the animal kingdom that fascinated you so deeply.

Then, when we were in Hong Kong, my grandfather preferred you not work outside the home.  So you stayed home and managed the household instead. It was not what you wanted – freedom, independence, havinh your own world.

After dad passed away, you became quieter.  

You missed him deeply and often regretted not having been kinder to him.  Tears would spill over when we talked about his final years.

For me, the wound left from childhood—the way I felt seen by you—never fully disappeared. Because of that, I was not as kind to you as I could have been. Over the years, you tried to reach me, but I kept part of myself closed.

You often said to me – you have a beautiful relationship with your son and daughter.  Then you would say how different your generation was – difficult for parents and children to be friends.  

I did not understand what you were trying to tell me.

I did not recognize the invitation hidden inside those words. I did not give enough attention to what you were saying or consider what I might have done differently.

Towards the last few months in your life, I tried to connect with you in my own meditation, to reduce your anxiety, to show you how beautiful some of the scenery I was seeing in my hiking trips.  

I felt connected with you in the depth of my soul.

Then you were gone.

After your departure, I felt as though I had entered the third state of my life – childhood, adulthood with parents, and adulthood without parents.

As I continued living without you and dad, I began to understand you more. I started to see why you had been the way you were. I wished I had been more supportive during your final years, especially after dad’s passing away. But in the physical world, there is no returning to the past.

In meditation, I reach back, all the way back to the events you shared with me.

I see you during World War II, narrowly escaping gunfire from Japanese soldiers across the river while running for your life; I see how your grandmother received news of her son’s assassination while on his way home with remarkable stoicism; I see how one of your tenants took you and grandma away from a grain storehouse in your home village into his own home, and overnight that storehouse became a death trap for all the villagers hidden there from the Japanese soldiers; I see the anxious child you once were, frightened each time your mother disappeared for too long.

I reached back to reach you in those moments, hoping that by sending loving and comforting energy to you, it may sooth some of the anxiety you had within you in your living years.

Because as your daughter, that anxiety lived in me too.  

Today I am sitting beside a flowing river as I write this.

The river says, let it go.

And now I can.

I understand why I became so skilled at reading a person’s energy from a photograph. I understand why I instinctively assess situations and form judgments so quickly. I understand why it has always been difficult for me to simply live in the moment, why I have felt such pressure to always be doing something, contributing something.

You often told us, “Don’t waste time. Either work on something or play wholeheartedly, but don’t idle your life away.”

Sitting beside this river, I feel that my connection with you is finally complete.

I can sense both you and dad within me—not burdened, not sorrowful, but smiling, happy, and at peace.

I miss you both. Yet I know I can always find you in my heart.

And so I will let go.

I will live the life that is mine to live.

Because no matter what expressions I saw on your face during my childhood, I know now that you always loved me.

I was safe.

I have always been safe.

And I always will be.