This past March, a cohort from the English department at Salem State University gathered with writers, editors, journalists, podcasters, students, and professors from around the country for the annual “Power of Narrative” conference at Boston University. Across two days we had the privilege of hearing from high profile speakers including documentary film maker Ken Burns, New Yorker staff writer Sarah Stillman, author Patrick Radden Keefe, and BBC host Asma Khalid, among many others.

The panel discussions and lectures covered a wide range of topics relevant to the creative and professional writers in attendance including podcasting, journalism, creative nonfiction, character-driven narrative writing, and pitching editors. The choose-your-own-adventure format meant that each attendee had a different — though, it seems, equally gratifying — experience. Below are some reflections from this year’s SSU attendees…

Will Murray

Maybe it was because I started taking (prescribed) Adderall that weekend, but I was dialed into the Power of Narrative conference. Every panel had something enlightening to offer. The speaker that stood out to me the most was Keith O’Brien, author of Heartland: A Forgotten Place, an Impossible Dream, and the Miracle of Larry Bird. He did the impossible: writing a biography about someone but not successfully getting a hold of them. Instead, O’Brien interviewed basically everyone in Larry Bird’s small town in rural Indiana. In fact, he probably learned more about his subject than he would if he talked to Bird. This panel taught me that even if you are unsuccessful in the original plan for your piece, you can take your failure and craft something larger than life itself.

Ash Muzzillo

The Power of Narrative conference at Boston University was an eye-opening experience that provided a lot of perspective... Ken Burns’ opening keynote was an entertaining and touching start to the event, and each panel/presentation I attended was unique while focusing on the importance of narrative as a compelling mode of communication. Two of the panels in particular highlighted how journalists and writers are evading censorship and performing independent investigations into larger-than-life political schemes, so I know the people I was listening to were in touch and confronting the true weight of our current reality head-on. Even as a Creative Writing concentrator, my respect for narrative prose and the practice of writing was strengthened. I was also exposed to some of the potential dangers that come as a result of writing powerful narratives, which just goes to show how much propaganda is directed at preventing connection and communication and really underscores the true power of narrative.

Jourdan Novoa

Going to the Power of Narrative conference was pretty interesting, both as someone who hadn’t been to a conference before and as a writing major interested in narrative. Of everything there, the panel that was my favorite, as well as the one I found most striking, was “Journalism After Disinformation.” I found all of the speakers’ candor, camaraderie with each other, and use of humor while discussing a depressing topic like disinformation highly engaging. Attending many of the panels and speaking with a few different figures at the conference altogether gave me insight into what the professional worlds of news writing and specifically narrative journalism are like, and has helped me better figure out the sort of work I’m interested in pursuing in the future.

Professor Alexandria Peary

The Power of Narrative Conference was easily one of the best professional writing conferences I’ve attended in my career. The keynotes were über-experienced writers and filmmakers—Ken Burns, no less! Ken Burns’ advice about the long-term work of his documentaries: “If you do it, step by step, it happens, like a Boston Marathon runner”: great stuff. It was fascinating hearing how Patrick Redden Keefe found his concept for his most recent nonfiction book—a chance encounter. As PRK said, “My best ideas find me.” I especially appreciated the Pitching Aces panel and watching three magazine editors provide on-the-spot feedback to four article concepts.

The Disappearing Sweetness

It has green and yellow streaks that glint in the sunlight,
some brown spots like tiny maps of history,
imprints where it has been touched or squished.
The skin feels slightly greasy, like a pan rinsed but not fully clean.
I imagine it hanging on a Tuscan vineyard,
the sun warming the grapes, small ants crawling along the stems,
bees buzzing nearby, landing lightly on the fruit.
A farmer lifts the cluster toward the light,
examining each grape for ripeness,
deciding which need more days in the sun.
Baskets creak as they are loaded onto trucks,
workers’ hands sticky with juice, careful not to bruise the fruit.
Shoppers in the market glance at the fruit,
not noticing its subtle textures, the tiny history pressed into each grape.

Chewing the bitter skin reminds me of erasers,
dry but slightly sticky, a pause before the sweetness appears.
Juice bursts in tiny floods, faintly earthy, mixed with subtle sugar,
like the smell of soil after rain or morning dew on leaves.
Warm in my hands, the fruit feels soft, almost alive,
holding sun-warmed energy even after its long journey.
Everything carries a story—fruit, people, places—
shaped by time, touch, and travel.
When will the sweetness never disappear?
Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it just shifts, hiding,
waiting to be discovered again in another form.

The Fragile But Addictive

The snack has been tested by hands and machines,
ensuring the crunch is perfect, addictive, precise.
It is slapped with bright red dust, spicy, almost glowing,
like neon light against a dark wall, or sunset trapped in sugar.
The coating is thin, rough, and fragile,
falling off if you touch it too hard.
Its shape is twisted, swirled like broken rubber,
like a stick, like a tiny, delicate bone.
Under the bright kitchen light, the surface gleams—red and orange,
rough, dry, clinging like crayon wax covered in powder.
The snack is lightweight but would snap under too much pressure.
Dust sticks to my fingers, leaving streaks of color.

The smell is strange: raw chicken mixed with chili,
or like the dusty bag of an old vacuum, pungent yet curious.
The powder tingles on my lips, dry at first, then burning,
making my mouth water, craving the next bite.
The crunch lasts a few seconds, then collapses into tiny shards,
messy, intense, satisfying in a sharp, fleeting way.
The aftertaste lingers, red, smoky, spicy,
already pulling me toward another piece.
I eat it at the fair, sunlight filtering through canvas tents,
kids running past, laughter colliding with the scent of spices,
dusting my fingers with flavor and memory.
I want another, reaching, tasting, feeling,
held in this small moment of sharp, fragile pleasure.

It is common knowledge that driving in Massachusetts is no walk in the park. As a resident student at Salem State, I drive back home to Carver, located on the South Shore, at least once a month to stay connected to my family. While I enjoy visiting my family, it feels as though I am being tested by God during those brutal drives. Every time, I am dangerously close to experiencing extreme road-rage. Back in December, my ETA shot up from 8:00 to 9:00 once I entered a flooded Ted Williams Tunnel.

A 2025 AAA study reported that 96% of drivers have experienced road rage at least once. Since my freshman year, there has not been one drive without an ounce of traffic. So, over the years, I have tried to stop complaining about it, because that will not help me in any way.

I have tried to admire the juxtaposition of natural terrains mixed with the gritty industrialism of New England. Instead of punching my steering wheel after sitting in the same spot on I-93 for fifteen minutes, I illegally, yet quickly, snap a picture of whatever landscape that I was looking at. I genuinely believe that people could benefit from this. This series of photos highlight how we can find beauty during the aggravating treks through Boston. There is a sense of mindfulness in stopping to smell the roses – or in this case, fumes coming from cars.

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perspective / going back

in my mind,

the clouds outside the airplane window are canonized as beautiful,

their rising and falling shapes

like the breath of a loved one.

they’re a warm lavender pink,

rapidly tinting my favorite yellow from the giving sun,

telling me

“welcome back,

you’re safe above our arms”

however,

i could see the argument

that their encroaching valleys

appear more like the tumultuous mess of belonging nowhere, being nobody.

the way the mist is so barely visible, even through itself,

that it seems only to exist at the mercy of the unforgiving sun,

disappearing at whim

to give way to the stares of icy cold patchwork

that barks me out of its presence

as quickly as i can recognize i am in it.

now,

i wouldn’t say i agreed,

but i would be lying if i said that

the scattered dips into nothingness, into open air,

don’t have me tempted to categorize the vaporwaves

as an irredeemable evil,

terrorizing a world above our usual understanding,

making the sky so full of horror

that i wonder why the birds i blow kisses to

don’t coo andin beg for me to never let them come back up in the air

i choose to ignore the creeping feeling of that perspective.

in my mind,

the clouds outside the airplane window are canonized as beautiful,

and there does not need to be more to the story.

no matter how many sinister dimples mark the blue, yellowing landscape,

there does not need to be more to this story.

above the clouds part 2: i cut myself off from the sky

i cut myself off from the sky

because it felt too much like i was looking at my life.

i closed the airplane window

and let the light run itself away

because its presence in my row

made me feel like i was looking at some sort of fucked up mirror

that only showed the parts of me that most make me want to throw up,

including

and especially

everything internal.

i could see the patterns of my organs

spilled and splattered and splayed

out in cirrocumulus chunks,

and i did not like it.

i could never look at myself as long and intently as i stared at those clouds,

and yet i refused to break eye contact with the vaporous water,

even when it made me sick to my stomach

and my brain.

though the patterns and specks of never seen colors

did indeed entertain me,

i cut myself off from the sky

because i had to in order to survive

the trilogy completes: greeting massachusetts / sky chamber

i’ve now gotten my first glimpse of massachusetts in a week,

peeking out from particularly weak clouds.

it was there for just a minute or so

before the clouds thickened to cover the commonwealth,

both our head and toe fenced in

by white nothingness

in a space like these clouds,

it’s hard to believe i am somewhere real,

genuinely inhabiting the world i know

rather than floating through a dreamscape sequence

in a fantastical alien home.

how could somewhere above my house

feel so like a chamber of the weather,

top and bottom and left and right

imprisoned by an endless sea of light blue, of white, of a vaguely yellow sun?

as the wing dips again,

right then left

(the other side then mine),

i find myself hoping to glimpse a reflective lake again,

or finally the boston skyline.

i guess i like the meditative nature of being up here,

but it’s been so long without being reminded that there’s a land to go back to

that i’ve started to become

uneasy

that perhaps that land has disappeared out from under us

and there will be nowhere to land,

perpetually circling water vapor and air

until we run out of fuel

and,

instead of crashing,

for there is no land to crash into,

we simply blip out of existence.

i would like that not to happen.

i want to land again,

in beautiful boston

My mother firmly believes that her ex-husband cheated on her with her best friend.

She is still best friends with that same woman. Says she’ll never bring the suspicion up, leave it for a deathbed “I know” at most. They talk frequently, probably mention him once in a while, just like any other significant event of the past more than 30 years of friendship.

It’s not my place to tell her how to feel or what to do or anything of the like. Older equals wiser and all that. Plus, I guess I’ve never been in a similar situation to judge what I would do against my mother’s actions.

But…

I guess this is a safe enough place to say that I firmly do not get it.

Forgiveness, yeah, but what about trust? What about burns? It’s hard to see beauty in friendship that I think would hurt me.

Maybe I have too much of my father in me to weigh in on such gossipping manners, his transferred cleft chin trading off for the part of the brain that “just gets” things like this. That went to my sisters, though they got the chin too. So I wonder what they missed out on as a tradeoff that I get to keep. The easy answer would be autism, but I think the real answer is probably some sort of related-yet-separate generational scar/understanding that has yet to carve itself into them and probably never will.

Gender, maybe?

But, no, because I write like a girl because I grew up like a girl and because I am more than close enough with my female mother to hear the way she talks about her female mother and her male brother. To hear the slight bitterness when she talks about how he sold arrowhead crawlspace tours and tricked her into eating rocks. To hear the muted sorrow in her voice when she tells of the way her mother–my grandmother–cooked and cleaned and “did the right thing for the time,” but not what was right for her.

And, no, scrap that again–I write like a girl because I grew up like a girl and maybe still am kind of a girl because of the way I carry these stories inside me, in tandem with my own. How could I ever be told to take the gummies out of my “inappropriate” breast pocket and not end up at least a little bit a woman? No matter how I try to morally wiggle my way out of it or posit constructed discomfort as a shield, there is a burned womanhood in me that no amount of testosterone could beat out. Through memories I try to pretend aren’t there and through “is it bald?” and through trying to make thin thinner, I have earned a twisted claim to a gender that I fought passionately to justify myself away from. So even though I do not understand why my mother’s best friend is not forgone by “girl code” and my mustache shines bright and “she” in any real way makes me cringe, there is a lot of womanhood in my blood and bones and family history. There is enough that if I were to extract and concentrate it, I could make a glass of juice, thickly clotted and gutting my stomach like that first day in seventh grade. And after my grandmother denounced the institution of christianity for its blight on women, rising the tension in that scolding, one-floor home like the Arizona heat it sits in, because only my grandfather still goes to church, how could I not accept a piece of being female? When Pop Pop dies first and Namee finally moves to the city she’s always dreamed of, any city at all outside of the country he loved, that hardened tile that she built her gender from will shatter dramatically, years of cracks finally intolerable.

At this moment, I will pat her on the back. Gentle.

Then I will sweep up the pieces of tile, noting the tree-like layers of grout from decades of home upkeep. I will throw most of the pieces away, but one will be saved to be fastened into my heart, sewn atop it like the last group project of an ill-intentioned home economics class.

There will be a next time that I hear someone ask: “are you a boy or a girl?,” because for visually identifiable freaks like me, that question is as ceaseless as the Saturdays of my hormone shots.

That next time will be difficult because I will have to answer “a boy” to protect my carefully molded identity, and because I never really could run away from explaining myself and telling the truth more than was ever needed. But that next time, no response of “so why are you wearing makeup?,” or the immediate “girllll” will hurt as bad as the decaying stitches in my chest, a dully aching reminder of the women who came before me.

I will not forget them, never never never, but I can’t say the insistence away from their identity does not give a creeping worry that I am betraying the collective traumas of my sex. I know it isn’t quite rational, but it clings to me like a friend who misses the sexual gag of my old voice a bit too much. Sometimes it overwhelms me, the idea that I have given away something precious, and quickly that overwhelm is replaced by a new type of guilt for building and equating womanhood by suffering and oversexualized body parts. And then that guilt takes over, snapping at my fingers like the itchy cold while I write out metaphors some overactive part of my brain has decided are as evil as the way I slashed my breasts.

At the moment, I don’t have a cure for any of it–the guilt of transition, the guilt of morality, the guilt of poetry. Oh, so much guilt. And for what? To have a vagina I don’t even desire to use as anything more than a joke, a fun fact? A piss poor consolation prize, if you ask me.

But I have a proposed solution.

My mother firmly believes that her ex-husband cheated on her with her best friend, and yet the two are still best friends, neither having ever spoken of the incident(s) nor planned to. There is a forgiveness there that, though I do not understand it fully, I wish to give to myself. I trace over the bare patch on my thigh, hairless evidence of how much I hated what I had been given, and I put that forgiveness into the way my finger rubs the wrinkling scar. We don’t have to talk about it, me and my body and my boyhood and my womanhood and all the baggage that comes with all of that. But we will be friends despite the way we all backstab each other, chasing after husbands through sulci lines in cerebral cornfields.

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Say not to me, “goodbye”, rather say only “see you next time”
For as God as my witness, there is no such thing as “departing“
For all there is, is “returning“.  
 
Surely you will see me again
Though your eyes may not recognize me
Your soul will know it
And your nose will smell it 
As if I were a scent of twenty colors. 
 
Know my true likeness, surely you will again, my love
Though your grace cannot touch my bottom
Laugh will I, with you, and also with you, I will cry
In all your patient errands, love you I do so sweetly
As cold winds ever blow you by, your monument I testify.

May you scatter my ashes to the sea
And smile upon knowing that I am free
Free from the white stars that long held me down
Hung by the opioid dream of achieving them
But now it is I who wears the crown.
 
It was fate who wrote me as those bound to sleep
In which no such dazzling manifesto can wake
Me up, from mine slumber deep.
So shall you find, every lighted star in the night sky
Speaks to you all the wonder that I once said
And every such singing breeze
Does equivalent unto you as I once did.
For as there is no such a real thing as being gone
There is no such a real thing as being here, if you
Loathe the place that lies beyond
And detest the ground you walk on,
For you must walk the rest of the road without me.

We have indeed together journeyed many foothills
But no longer do I possess the feet to move
Nor the eyes to see the dawn erupt into steadfast momentum
Nor the heart to cradle the moon back unto its cosmic hearth
And now you have to pick up the slack of my lost momentum: not really lost at all!
Though you cry tears wishing I was there by your side
I have alas never spent a day in your pocket when you were holding me.

Surely you will come running to me again
On a sunny green pasture by a river, like when we first met
The sky will be clear, and we will have all the time
In the world to talk about the things we held dear.
See that you do not need to see me
For it to be like I am standing right there next to you
Nor do you need to touch my face so gently
As to turn me into your eyes
Nor need you to hold me fast
To grasp my likeness.

Keep me as a secret in your heart when I go, and I will forever be a part of you
Aye, for I shall be building ice-caverns in your backyard when it starts to snow
And even if hail falls down from the sky, still will I not take refuge inside your abode
May you have hot cocoa and marshmallows and a roaring fireplace
I don't need those things anymore
To be complete
Upon the eternal air.

I will hear you humming when the autumn wind blows
Though I thought the storm would pass, now I walk the path alone

And I don’t have anywhere else to go except the ground below
Where I stammer about the rubble of my broken boat: I flew too close
To the sun that paints my dreams with rose.
So till the world parries your will with a grave you cannot explore
Gaze in reflection of what nearly missed washing upon the shore.

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As if holding a pencil,
Words take me home through time travel.
Can I compare thee to the bright sun?
Oh, my sincere and dear friend.
That day you wore an orange sweater,
That night stars shone in the dark blue sky.
 
I want to fly freely in the sky,
Opening arms with a magical pencil.
I like my special and bright sweater.
The world is an amusement park to travel.
Good to be with my friend.
Always bring my sun.
 
As you look up, you can see the sun,
As well as the clouds in the sky.
Maybe you can join me, my friend,
To pause and put down the pencil,
To seek, to explore, to feel and to travel.
When in Iceland, don’t forget your sweater.
 
The snow gently falls on my sweater,
It melts as the bright sun
Goes up, just like an amazing travel,
Starting from the vast sky,
Ending in my warm hands. Grab the pencil,
Trying to treasure the beautiful memories with my friend.
 
I try to picture the scene when I see you again, my friend,
Maybe in a coffee shop wearing the same sweater,
The library or classroom with a purple pencil,
Or the playing field with bright sun.
We shall throw out our cloaks and our daggers to travel.
 
One of my life goals is to travel
Around the world, with family and friends.
We look at the moon and stars in the same sky,
Joking about the colorful sweater.
It’s morning now and the sun
Shines bright, lighting the soul of the pencil.
 
Time to travel light with our sweater.
My friend brings me daylight like the sun.
Feelings flow in the sky with or without a pencil.

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When I think about writing, I don’t just see the paper, the keyboard, or the blinking cursor on the screen. I see something else sitting with me in the room. Sometimes it’s behind me, sometimes hovering just above my shoulder, and sometimes I imagine it staring right through me. I call it the “audience demon.” It isn’t really a demon in the supernatural sense, but it feels just as real when I’m in the middle of a long assignment. The audience demon is the voice that keeps telling me I can’t write well enough, that someone is going to judge me the moment I put words down, and that my sentences are already wrong before I even finish them. It thrives off my stress, my procrastination, my fear of not being good enough.

But if I back up far enough, I see that the demon is not a newcomer. It’s stitched together from my whole disastrous archive of academic experiences: the time I stayed up until 3 a.m. writing a five-page paper that came back with a “D” scrawled in red ink; the tenth grade essay where my teacher wrote “awkward” in the margins so many times it looked like a chant; the oral presentation where I froze mid-sentence and my classmates stared at me like I had forgotten how English worked; the freshman-year research paper that required twelve sources, each formatted differently, and I lost points because my commas weren’t italicized “correctly”; the endless worksheets of sentence diagramming that made language feel like math punishment; the standardized test essay where I had to write about “a time I solved a problem creatively” and blanked so hard I wrote about reorganizing the dishwasher. All these memories sit like moth-eaten coats in the back of my closet.

And then there was the worst: junior year of high school, when Mrs. B assigned us to write an essay on Moby-Dick that was “at least 20 pages, double-spaced, with careful attention to how whales represent multiple layers of cultural, religious, and psychological symbolism.” I spent weeks trying to start that paper, surrounded by sticky notes, coffee cups, half-erased outlines. The day she handed back my draft, she announced in front of the class, “Some of you will never be able to write at the college level if this is the best you can do.” My paper had a “C-” on it. That moment the shame, the heat rushing to my ears, the laugh from the kid two rows back was the exact instant the demon took shape. And now, when I fixate on the absurdity of new assignments like the forty-page poetry essay, half in Portuguese, half in French the demon grows out of that memory. It emerges. It’s her voice, distorted, whispering that I’ve already failed before I’ve even opened the document.

The assignment itself is always absurd, cartoonishly so. Not just forty pages, but with strict formatting: every footnote in Times New Roman, 11.5, not 12, with citations alternating between MLA and Chicago “to demonstrate flexibility.” There’s a requirement that one paragraph must be written in the style of Homeric epic poetry and another in the voice of a cynical YouTube commentator. Students must submit a watercolor painting of their thesis statement. The rubric has thirty-seven categories, including “emotional resonance” and “aura of intellectual authority.” The professor warns that lateness will result in not just a grade penalty but a “public reckoning.” It’s academic theater, a circus of impossibility.

I sit at my desk, rereading the professor’s handout, my eyes snagged on the first line: This assignment will be the most important piece of writing you complete in your undergraduate career. I can’t look away. My chest tightens. The words warp. That’s when the demon appears uninvited but inevitable sliding out of the margins like ink coming to life.

Slow motion: I reach for my coffee cup. My arm rises like it’s moving through wet cement. My fingers extend, curling one by one, each joint clicking open with painful precision. The cup tilts toward my lips. Steam curls in the air, lingering far too long, every molecule visible. My eyes flicker, too slowly, toward the blinking cursor. The cursor doesn’t blink anymore it pulses, like a heartbeat. The demon is watching.

Zoom: On my desk, next to the keyboard, sits a small succulent in a chipped ceramic pot. Its green spikes radiate outward, thick and waxy, gathering light in ways my body cannot. I lean closer. A faint thread of spiderweb clings to one leaf. The soil is dry, cracked into little continents. Somehow, the plant keeps living, reaching upward without complaint. It is the opposite of the demon it does not whisper, it does not demand. It just is. For a moment, I let the plant’s patience ground me, a reminder of what Bhante Gunaratana calls “bare attention”: noticing without judgment.1

But the demon hates stillness. It manifests not just as a voice, but as a caricature of my old teacher. Her head balloons into an enormous bobblehead, veiny and pale, with lips permanently pursed in disapproval. Her body shrinks until it looks like a child’s toy body, dressed in a blazer three sizes too small, buttons straining like they might pop. Her nose grows longer with each word, bending at strange angles, while her eyes become magnified saucers of scrutiny. “This writing,” she croaks, “is beneath the standards of academia.” But the words stretch strangely at the edges, melting into nonsense: This wr-wr-wrrriting is beneath the sandbars of Alpaca-demia.

She grows frustrated, her oversized teeth gnashing like typewriter keys. She slams her tiny fists on the desk, which produces the sound of rubber squeaky toys. From her right shoulder, another figure stirs a shadow of her own teacher, a furious nun with ruler-thin arms who whispers, “You must never split infinitives.” I realize: my demon has her own demon. Peter Elbow would probably nod knowingly here, because the “audience” in my head is really just a chain of voices, each haunted by their own critics.2

The caricature keeps talking, words sloshing out of her mouth like marbles. “You will never nevahhhh get beyond mediocrity. You are only a dishwasher reorganizer, a comma-splicer, a stut-stut-stutterer of words.” Her face collapses inward, cheeks sagging, chin wobbling like gelatin. I stuff her into a glass jar with a rusty lid. She pounds against the glass, distorted by refraction. At the bottom of the jar lies a thick sludge of ink and chewed-up erasers, sticky and gray. That’s where she belongs, swimming in the residue of failed drafts.

And yet, the container isn’t enough. The demon escapes when I start writing for the wrong audience. That’s when I summon my trickiest reader-in-the-head: the faceless evaluator of my SAT essay, or maybe the professor who warned me, “This will define your career.” I picture them with a giant, bloated head and a pinched little body, wearing a too-tight bowtie. Their forehead has the word judgment engraved on it. They leer at me and say, “Your writing is… adequate.” Adequate! That’s their cruelest weapon: faint praise. Their ulterior motive is not just to grade me but to keep me small, to keep me writing timidly so I never threaten their authority.

But mindfulness gives me counter-moves. When I slow down and actually notice the physical sensations the sweaty palms, the shallow breath I remember what Pema Chödrön says about leaning into discomfort rather than fleeing from it.3 The demon feeds on avoidance, not on attention. And when I imagine myself as a teacher, as I sometimes do, I step outside of the demon’s control. I treat my own draft like a student’s: messy but promising, full of potential instead of failure. That’s Anne Lamott’s “shitty first draft” in action, a reminder that progress, not perfection, is the goal.4

So, can the demon be tamed? Not destroyed, not exorcised, but tamed. Sometimes it shrinks into a ghost, drifting lazily, powerless, as long as I keep naming it. Sometimes it swells into a demon again, pounding on the glass jar of my imagination, demanding release. I’ve learned that audiences-in-the-head aren’t static: they mutate, destabilize, blur. Writing is the practice of noticing them without obeying them, of grounding myself in small rituals (stress ball, figurine, plant), of returning to the page anyway.

By the end of this essay, I can see my tricky audience’s caricature banging its oversized head against the jar. Its tiny body is exhausted. It yells distorted nonsense. It no longer terrifies me, it looks ridiculous. And maybe that’s the whole point: mindfulness lets me laugh at the demon, instead of bowing to it.5

I feel the shadow slowly moving toward me the moment I sit down to write. She’s already there, sitting in the corner of my room like she never left. Her hair is black and long, almost stringy, dangling down like wet noodles, and her eyes—huge, analytic, unblinking—follow every move I make on the keyboard. Those eyes look like they’ve been open for years. She never needs to blink. She never needs to rest. I know what she’s here for. She’s not going to leave until I finish the assignment, and even then, she’ll only disappear for a little while.

The paper itself feels impossible. My professor wants not just fifty pages, but fifty good pages: polished, cited, academic. And it’s not just any paper—it’s a research project on The Molecular Impact of Climate Change on Microbial Life in Outer Space Environments. Seriously. As if I have a NASA lab in my basement. I’m supposed to combine biology, chemistry, and astrophysics, make graphs in some program I can’t even pronounce, and apparently invent a whole new “theoretical framework” to tie it all together. Then there’s a section about calculating energy consumption of hypothetical microbes on Mars while factoring in interstellar carbon cycles. I swear, the devil designed this assignment to make students lose their sanity. I can feel myself slowly slipping into madness with every clumsy sentence.

Every time I type a sentence, she whispers, “That doesn’t sound scientific enough. Where’s your evidence? Did you forget the algae experiment again?” I haven’t even done an algae experiment. I don’t even know where I’d get algae. Still, I grab a sticky note and scribble: DON’T FORGET THE ALGAE EXPERIMENT. My desk is covered in these notes, neon squares screaming impossible reminders of requirements: Invent new theory of microbial climate resistance, run calculations using quantum models, ask NASA for soil samples. She leans in to make sure I notice every note, every impossible expectation, and grins like she invented them.

I close my eyes for a second and try to breathe. In… out… In… out… But even my breaths feel monitored. The demon counts them with me, making sure each one is too shallow, too fast, or too tight. I feel the tension in my shoulders, my jaw, my chest. I know she’s feeding on it, growing stronger with every broken inhale. But I remind myself: I’m still here. I can breathe1.

Slowly, I let my fingers hover above the keys. The cursor blinks. One… two… three… I move a finger down, then another, like syrup dripping off a spoon. Each tap feels exaggerated, like I’m performing a ritual. The demon whispers insults syllable by syllable: “U–n–p–h–y–s–i–c–a–l… evidence… missing…” Her words are slowed too, as if she’s trapped in my mindfulness. I place a hand on my chest and feel the rise and fall of my ribs. The space between her words and my reaction grows, just an inch at first, but it’s mine2.

The tiny figure on her shoulder leans in and whispers, “Your writing is worse than theirs. You’ll never be enough.” Suddenly, it all clicks. She’s not attacking me out of truth; she’s passing along the same wound she got years ago. She’s haunted, too3.

She tries to throw another insult, but it comes out muted. Lips move, air empty. She claws at her face. Hair falls apart. Her outfit is even more pathetic now: tiny tattered NASA jumpsuit, patched with duct tape, one boot missing. I notice it all without fear. The more ridiculous she looks, the weaker she seems.

I grab a jar. She shrinks as I force her inside. Bugs—worms, flies, cockroaches—fall to the bottom. She chokes silently, gagging, legs thrashing. My stomach knots, but I place a hand on my chest, reminding myself it’s her, not me. I breathe. I’m still in control.

The jar is heavy, and the river outside feels like freedom. I throw it in. It sinks. I imagine the current dragging her far away, the shoulder-figure shrinking with her. The room is quiet.

The assignment still waits: twenty pages about Mars microbes and interstellar carbon cycles. But for the first time, it doesn’t terrify me. I write two messy sentences. Then two more. I let them be bad. Ugly, even. Lamott says the first draft doesn’t have to be good; it just has to exist4. The words start moving.

I pause. I think about my ghost audience—the teachers, the red pens, the invisible stares. I ignore them, I write for myself. The demon doesn’t disappear forever, but she’s smaller, quieter. The sticky notes still yell, but now I notice them without panic. I’ve learned something important: the task can be impossible, absurd, even ridiculous—but I can still breathe, still write, still move. The absurdity is mine, but so is the choice5.

I’ve come to possess this idea, or as some might call it, a dreadful belief that I am never to know everything. As a man of facts and reason, I can only believe things that I’ve come to see firsthand, shown with a proper stance on the matter, with the belief that it’s true and certain. An absolute certainty, if you will. But before I found myself wrapped in the sciences, I never found myself pondering the things that caused me confusion. It was merely a discomfort I’d chosen to ignore, but I’d found my ideologies ruptured after what was a mere fishing trip with my uncle.

My uncle was a scientist. Well, to be more specific, he was a biologist, interested in how the laws of life worked and writhed to an end. He was certainly an odd character to grow up around, leaving me wondering how he viewed the world around him. Even at age seven, I couldn’t understand why others perceived reality as they did.

The air grew cold over the spanning water that day, so calm for it being open ocean and the middle of the night. Our small Gig drifted and parted the waters just enough to engrave our place here. A jury-rigged spotlight stood at the bow, held upright by wire and epoxy, and aimed at the water just off the port side of the vessel. With how dark and shadowed the waters it was vital to use the narrow light to see anything, but all the light did was create a finite beam down. Instead of relying upon the basic techniques a fisherman might amass, my Uncle would tell me that he was a “visual fisherman.” So when I found myself looking into the beam that leered into the deep waters, I found it odd that he would often prefer the starboard side of the boat. There, I’d see him staring at a reflection of something in the water. However, whenever I looked down at what he saw, clouds overhead would rid me of a chance to spot the enthralling image. Because of his silent, pondering approach to fishing, I’d find myself somewhat alone out on the waters. In order to prevent myself from becoming solitary, I’d use small talk to garner his attention, or at least, the best small talk a seven-year-old could muster up.

So there I was, tugging on his sleeve, saying, “Mori, can you come look here?”

“You catch something?” My uncle asked, shifting his gaze from the dark water to me.

“No,” I started, a little embarrassed that I’d been neglecting the entire reason we were out on the water. “I just wanted to ask something about your light.”

“Shoot”

“Well, I wanted to know why the light ends.”

“What do you mean?”

I dragged him over to port and pointed to the light. “There. Why can’t the light hit the bottom?”

His face scrunched in confusion, then he got a slight smile on his face. “Well, it’s simply just too deep.”

“Too deep?”

“Water reflects, refracts, and bends oncoming light. It almost acts as a shield for the bottom.”

I stood there, a little confused.“So how deep is it?”

He nearly chuckled. “Oh, just past twelve thousand feet deep.”

And while I couldn’t exactly understand why, I began to shudder. Twelve thousand feet? To my seven-year-old mind, he might as well have told me it was infinite.

“Right here?”

“Exactly here. There are even some parts where the currents might grab you and pull you further down until the icy waters consume you whole.” He finished with an emphasis you’d give when telling a campfire story.

My legs felt leaden and threatened to buckle beneath me as I stumbled back towards the middle of the boat. My small talk had done nothing but lead to my discomfort. I think at that moment, he knew I was scared. As my mind raced on about how conceivably far the ocean reached, my uncle changed his demeanor.

“Hey, what’s with that face? I’m only messing. If it makes you feel better, it’s actually rather warm the deeper you get.”

I looked back with obvious doubt.

“Really, I’m not lying,” he continued, aware of my unfaltering body language. “I’ll explain: the deeper you go, the closer you get to the core of the earth. The mantle and outer core have magma, which helps warm the water from below. Think of it as a kettle except it never boils, they heat the water just enough where the warm and cold balance out into equilibrium.”

I continued staring back, still believing he was only trying to comfort me.

“Here, let me show you something,” He began again, waving me over. I hesitantly moved back towards the edge. “It’s fine, the water’s not gonna bite. See, before making it to equilibrium, there’s a point where the water stops getting colder, and your perception changes. It’s miles down where you’ll find tropical fish swimming in the dark.”

Tropical fish up north?

“Miles?” I asked in disbelief. He took his rod and cast it back into the halogen-lit water until eventually I couldn’t see the hook, and oddly, I began to see his reel letting down much more line than I thought it ever could.

“You’ll be amazed by what I know,” he responded, allowing the line to fall for an extra minute until it pulled taut. I pressed my chest against the edge of the boat, looking intently, trying to see beyond where the light ended.

After a moment of entranced gaze, the rod pulled against my uncle’s strength, and he fought back violently. He reeled whatever it was in so fast that I began to worry that he might just break the reel handle clean off. With a final yank from my uncle, the hook came back into view, dragging something that splashed out of the water into the air. The sudden surprise sent me falling backward into the spotlight, causing it to fall into the boat and aim straight up. The light now shone on my uncle’s fishing rod, and at the end, a small, rose-red fish with dresslike fins wiggled in the open air. My uncle stood there with a deep vindication lining his face.

I was mesmerized.

I never forgot that night, for it ended up shaping how I perceived my world for the coming future, even if only temporarily. As the years moved on, my uncle stood valiantly and kept speaking of warm waters, chasing tropical fish, and fishing in the dark.

So when the news came that he’d been pulled overboard, I found myself stunned… cold. What had happened? Was the catch too big? Maybe an accident on the starboard side?

No matter, I found myself wondering if he was as warm as he claimed.

So in his honor, and to help me with my grief, I took a sunset boat into the middle of the ocean to catch myself a tropical fish. Disaster wouldn’t stray far, as I soon realized that I’d forgotten my uncle’s spotlight. How stupid of me to forget such an important piece of hardware. I’d have to fish in the dark.

Alone in the night, I was uneasy, casting and waiting for fish I couldn’t see. Though it was odd to think that even now, with a light, my uncle never actually used it for the fish he’d catch. He’d only show it off after hooking it, before throwing it back.

Now, without light or certainty in my uncle’s methods, I found myself on the starboard side of the boat, looking into the dark water to pass the time. Even now, I couldn’t see anything that caught my eye. I kept thinking back as to why my uncle fancied such darkness, even though he typically brought along a light. Unlike him, I couldn’t catch a fish in the dark.

I grew angry and sad; it became a discomfort. Soon after, my mind grew tired. A flood of static dreams washed over my visions, and a ripple began to form in the water. I looked towards what appeared to be a hole opening as water splashed around it. It was bizarre to see this pitch-black anomaly appear right in front of me, enveloping the water around it. My balance gave as my legs and eyes grew heavy, and I too slipped overboard, pitching forward into the darkness, eaten whole by the void.

Despite my best efforts, the vortex kept dragging me down until every inch of my being was surrounded by water. Each paddle and stroke rewarded me with exhaustion. How very cold the water became. The heavy pressure of a million pounds of water began to press against my chest, soon taking my breath away. I had gotten so deep that eventually I couldn’t see anything at all, and the icy water thieved me of my movement. I was forsaken to drift to the floor cold

I wheeled around in a panic, only for a small blur to catch my attention. A fish with red chiffon fins swam past, and I eyed it until it passed my peripheral. Then another, blue this time. Then another. Soon, I was surrounded by a school of Betta fish. Here?

In my shock and confusion, a figure drifted by unmoving. My eyes were able to catch just a glimpse, so I fought hard against the cold to turn and see why I thought that I recognized the figure. With a snap, my head turned, and I looked at the body of my uncle floating by. It was so surreal that I didn’t even notice another school begin to circle. Here I was, in the heart of my uncle’s ichthyology.

But in an instant, my body went numb, and the image of my uncle shattered into pieces like a rock through glass. The fish around me simultaneously seized and began to float lifelessly up. I could feel my perception change. I’d made it to the bottom.

I sat bolt upright as if awakening from a nightmare. The sun had just barely begun breaking over the horizon. My fishing rod was shaking in its rail clamp as if something was fighting against it. I shot up to reel whatever it was in. During the ensuing battle of strength, I struggled to spot the anomalous hole in the water where it once was. Now I wondered what on earth that was.

After the war had concluded, I yanked the fish out with an infectious exuberance. I’d done it. At long last, I caught a fish in the dark. However, when I finally drew my eyes upon it, my excitement vanished and was replaced with a wave of disappointment. The sea creature I’d caught wasn’t a fighting fish like those Betta. I’d only caught a mackerel, the fare of the standard fisherman.

As the dull colors of the fish exhausted my mind, that familiar discomfort set in. The sunlight began to crack further and cast a spotlight upon the fish. I came to spot a subtle green on its back, once hidden by darkness. It was then that I was struck with a revelation: My uncle never did catch a tropical fish. Of course, he didn’t. It was the light he brought along with him that caused such an effect. The artificial light from a structure he made allowed the fish to look tropical.

The dark clouds above drew back, and the departing stars revealed themselves to me at last. Only now, I looked back at the water to realize that my uncle was never looking into it; he was only seeing its reflection, that of the light caused by the stars above. For the first time, I understood that my Uncle was lying to me about the water’s temperature. While I was drawn to the spotlight like a moth, he peered down at the reflections of what was above.

If I were to view parted seas, I might have forever believed the floor to be warm, but alas, I haven’t. And based on my newfound perceptions, I now believe that the deep can be nothing other than cold. How could I, if it would only make logical sense to me and my worldview?

However, I can never truly know its temperature because I’ve yet to visit the ocean floor, but neither had he.

At last, the sun rose high into the sky and surrounded me in a warm glow. I’d been caught by the morning.

So when I, too, gave up fishing, I kept my uncle’s spotlight even when it no longer worked. For me, it remained a memento—a “memento mori,” as he would call it, just as he would his warm fish.

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The most impressive word I heard from Su Tungpo was “Better than a saddle, I like sandals and cane. I’d fain, in a straw cloak, spend my life in mist and rain.” I believed it best described his character as an incorrigible optimist. As a poet, calligrapher, painter, educator, statesman and gastronome, he’d often say, “Life is like a journey. I am in my way too,” as a reminder to enjoy different scenery in life. As a way to encourage us to catch the moment, he loved to say, “Taste the newly dressed tea, freshly new. While young, try your verse and brew.”

One day I was on a trip to Lijiang Old Town. I stepped into a bookstore where the books were all made by hand from natural plants and woods. I could even see the stems and smell the leaves. Suddenly, it began to rain heavily. The store was semi-open-air with a large area in the middle of the yard that was completely outdoors. Books were wet with rain, and so was I. Crowds started to complain about the rain that wetted and trapped them here. Cold and worried, I wondered, “When will the rain stop?”

I felt disappointed by the sudden rain that ruined my trip. Lanterns with leaves became brighter under the rain. Waiting aimlessly in the store, I recollected my memories. When I was little, my parents took me to watch colorful lighting lanterns and fireworks at the Lantern Festival. I liked guessing lantern riddles and getting rewarded. The beautiful scene came with the wind and engraved in my mind, with the poetic line “One night’s east wind adorns a thousand trees with flowers and blows down stars in showers”. Growing up, I was busy with my studies and missed lots of lanterns and flowers. I was depressed during the pandemic, for fear of isolation, separation of family and disconnection with friends. I found myself spending most of my time in a hurry with my journey and missed different scenery in life. When I got older, I might sigh, “Even if I can buy laurel wine for you and get afloat. Could our youth renew?” As I looked up, the moon was in the mist, reminding me of what Su Tungpo said, “Men have sorrow and joy, they part and meet again. The moon may be bright or dim, she may wax or wane. There has been nothing perfect since olden days.” Imperfection was part of life, and what mattered was how we perceived our lives.

Kids’ laughter became a melody in the rain. They enjoyed the rain and had great fun. It seemed like the rainy weather revealed a different beauty of the town, peaceful, gentle and tranquil. I recalled the words from Su Tungpo, “Listen not to the rain beating against the trees, I had better walk slowly while chanting at ease.” It couldn’t be sunny every day. There were times when we had to stand the cold and wet, the rain and snow. Such was life.

I saw a graceful and carefree figure walking from the rain, with sandals and a cane, in a straw cloak. His face was wet with rain, but he laughed and chanted at ease, “Turning my head, I see the dreary beaten track. Let me go back! Impervious to rain or shine, I’ll have my own will.”

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A Butterfly-Dream in Moonlight

Shadow, layer by layer,

Moonlight, layer by layer,

Wonderstruck by surprises,

Like a deer in the headlights,

I drastically let the blinding lights take me.

Blurring the boundaries of dream and reality,

I see a butterfly in the moonlight.

Unclear if it is my butterfly dream,

Or it is a butterfly dreaming of me.

I close my eyes,

Listen to the flow of moonlight.

The lights take me to the bridge,

A bridge that connects the living and the dead.

Moments turn into memories,

The experience I will never forget.

In my wildest dream,

Moonlight beholds me,

Gentle, tranquil, soft and bittersweet.

Thousands of people are looking at

The same moon, under the same moonlight,

Just like you are by my side.

No matter how far we are,

We are sharing the same moonlight,

Together as long as the moon shines.

A big beating heart, connected to the surroundings by red vines.

It beats, the vines shake with every ba-dum.

The shadow it casts is of a tree.

A baby blanket hangs on the heart.

Run down nature covered buildings,

reclaimed by the environment around them.

I see my dad, sitting at a pristine table with a cup of coffee.

“Have you changed?” I ask,

The heart’s home is humid, disgustingly so.

The heart ever so slightly—

The Romanian people had enough — their standard of living was plunging and they were under constant surveillance by the Securitate, a secret police agency. Between December 16 and December 25, 1989, the oppressive Communist government led by Nicolae Ceaușescu was overthrown. After a trial that only lasted one hour, he and his wife, Elena, were executed on Christmas Day on counts of genocide and other crimes. These are the events of the Romanian Revolution, which inspired the 1990 play, Mad Forest, by English playwright Caryl Churchill. Much of Churchill’s dramatic works focus on themes of sociopolitical strife, sexuality, and oppression (mainly of women). These are evident in plays she has written, including Light Shining in Buckinghamshire (1978) and Mad Forest (1990).

Salem State University’s theater department recently held its opening night performance of Mad Forest on Friday, November 21st on the mainstage of the Sophia Gordon Center for Creative and Performing Arts. Directed by Kaela Mei-Shing Garvin, the department put on a powerful rendition of the play.

Mad Forest delivers a candid look at the events before, during, and after the Romanian Revolution. It focuses on the Vladu and Antonescu families in Acts I and III and how they navigate the sociopolitical disorder left by a collapsed regime. The production also explores the stories of ordinary citizens in Act II. These are based on interviews conducted by Caryl Churchill, along with colleagues and students from the London Central School of Drama, who traveled to Romania after the revolution. The documentary-style drama features surreal moments scattered throughout the play, reflecting the peculiar nature of sociopolitical strife. Characters appearing in these surreal scenes include angels, vampires, dogs, kings, and others. Mad Forest does require some prior reading to follow smoothly. This can be an obstacle in fully appreciating the play’s social commentary, and may not appeal to every viewer. Nonetheless, any amount of preliminary research will pay off. In the lobby, helpful infographics with key historical information are available for audiences to peruse before the doors open.

As I walked into the venue and found my seat, I took in the gorgeous set design. The stage was bathed in a violet-blue, with warm light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, like rays of hope amid the cold. There were chain-link fences with a layer of fabric, acting as partitions. Actors used these set pieces to cast their silhouettes, responding in tandem with the scenes taking place in the foreground. This use of shadows added to the play’s mesmerizing aesthetic of obscurity. The implementation of colored lights was striking, heightening emotional beats throughout the production. A standout moment that had the audience roaring was clever lighting that simulated slow motion during a wedding brawl. Overall, the dance and fight choreography in Mad Forest was solid, with only occasional instances where stage combat appeared slightly disjointed.

The superb cast had stand-out performances from the Angel (Pandora Benedito), Mihai Antonescu (Chris Raney), and Florina Vladu (Lauren Ambramson). Pandora Benedito, as the Angel, presents a juxtaposition between a seemingly benevolent divine entity and an unsettling level of malice. Chris Raney’s performance as Mihai Antonescu brought to life an emotionally unavailable, embarrassingly awkward, and out-of-touch father figure. Lauren Ambramson as Florina Vladu had the audience on the edge of their seats as she conveyed powerful emotions through gestures and precise shifts in tone. Although the production’s effort toward authentic representation deserves recognition, the Romanian accent work for certain characters could be further refined. However, when accent work was present it did little to diminish the core impact of scenes, or the overall experience of Mad Forest.

Each character had their own perspective on the revolution. What side are we on? Who is responsible for the violence and death in the streets? Was everything that happened between December 16th and the 25th just? These are questions that they must grapple with as they navigate the debris. At times during the show, cries from citizens formed a cacophony that drowned out all sense of order and conventional understanding. But the disarray subsided, and as the cast began to sing Romania’s National Anthem, “Deșteaptă-te, române!” (”Wake up, Romanian!”) I felt tears well in my eyes. The chorus rallied unity in spite of adversity, gathering people from every echelon, profession, and background. They joined under one banner—the Romanian flag with a hole where the communist emblem once stood—embodying enduring hope. In the realm between chaos and clarity, hope and tragedy, Romanians marched into an uncertain future.

In the Director’s Note, included in the program, Kaela Mei-Shing Garvin writes the “play’s refusal to simplify its ideas” solidified its ability to express “beauty in confusion.” The stage play was a moving performance that showed how revolution is never quite black or white. If you are looking for a nuanced and gripping production, then I cannot recommend Salem State University’s Mad Forest enough.

The World Heritage Committee has appraised it as a model of “recreations of the universe in miniature”. We all have a longing for beauty and our inherent pursuit has created the art of it. It is Suzhou Classic Garden.

According to Tong Jun, author of the book A Record of Gardens of Southern Yangtze River Delta, Suzhou Classic Gardens, which has an infinite layout in a limited space, “its simplest needs are all contained in the construction of the word “Yuan”. So, what is Yuan? “Yuan” means garden, and is represented by the Chinese character “園” . We can divide the character — and the garden — into four parts, each representing one key element of the Suzhou Classic Gardens. The first part represents Rockery, because it literally means wall and it splits the outside, just as the rocks and stones of the Suzhou Classic Garden split up the layout of the garden. The second represents Architecture, because it looks like the main structure of the building. The third is similar in shape with the first one but smaller and represents Water, because it means the pool and there’s water in it. The fourth represents Plants because they look like trees.

I was born and raised in Suzhou. I have deep affection for Suzhou Classic Gardens and I was a member of the World Heritage Club. Immersing in the diversity of cultures and the beauty of heritage sites, I decided to research more on this topic.

Rockery, as one of the four key elements, is famous for decoration and separation. Ye Shengtao, author of Preface to Suzhou Gardens, claims that “The Rockery can be said to be an art rather than a technology... It’s all about the designers’ and craftsmen’s life experience.” For instance, the idea of the Rockery in Suzhou Museum, created by famous architect Bei Yuming, is extracted from ancient Chinese poetry and landscape paintings. This idea is also employed in Suzhou Classic Gardens, as the Rockery fits well in the landscape. In gardens, Taihu stones are mainly used as decoration. They come in various shapes and reflect the beauty of “wrinkle, leak, thin and transparent”, with graceful and gentle aesthetics. You can explore the beauty in Lingering Garden, with the Cloud Capped Peak. Yellow stones are sometimes used as walls to separate gardens from the outside noise. The rockery includes Lion Grove and Mountain Villa with Embracing Beauty. Such separation can even allow people to play hide and seek and have fun.

Water is famous for fluidity and diversity. Most water in Suzhou Classic Gardens is flowing water. Just as the famous poet and philosopher Zhu Xi once said, “How can it be so clear and cool? For water fresh comes from its source”, it reflects the characteristics of flowing water. Suzhou is the land of fish and rice, with abundant water resources. For example, more than 60% of the Humble Administrator’s Garden is water. The reflection of water also shows great diversity. Surrounding the water are plants carefully chosen according to the way their seasonal colours reflect off the sparkling water below. In autumn, it’s very colourful with red and yellow leaves. In summer, it is vibrant green, while in winter it’s tranquil white. The reflection in the water can also extend the vision and imagination. The lotus-filled pond, for instance, looks like a landscape painting that excites the imagination. You can walk among the water, enjoy the moment and everyone can find their unique experience depending on their mood that day.

Architecture is famous for construction and connection. Ji Cheng, author of the book The Craft of Gardens, believes that gardens are skillful in “cause” and “borrow”. “Cause” requires the designers to take the law of nature. In The Master-Of-Nets Garden, we can see the landscape of significance, a perfect combination of Rockery, Water, Architecture and Plants. In the Humble Administrator’s Garden, the With Whom Shall I Sit Pavilion is inspired from the classical poem by Su Tungpo “”With whom shall I sit? Bright Moon, gentle Breeze and myself”. “Borrow” means to enrich the landscape and transcend nature. Through the lattice window, we can enjoy the different scenery behind it. We can also embrace the magical charm of light and shadow, with the change of time in a day, and the season in a year.

Plants are famous for their poetic symbols and harmonious pursuit. As is mentioned in the book Classical Gardens of Suzhou, “The garden owners were not just interested in having a pleasant arrangement of plants and flowers: they used history, philosophy, art and architecture in their designs.” These plants often include plum blossom, orchid, bamboo, and chrysanthemum. They are poetic symbols of Gentleman’s Virtue. For instance, the orchid symbolizes nobleness and elegance. Bamboo symbolizes modesty and tenacity. Furthermore, these elements are not just to be enjoyed, but are expected to stimulate intellectual growth and make better people. What they represent advocates the ceaseless pursuit of self-improvement and embracing the world with virtue. Plants also represent human’s pursuit of living in harmony with nature. In Suzhou Classic Gardens, different plants are often arranged by seasons and blossom naturally without much human intervention. For example, in spring, we can enjoy Chinese Flowering Crabapple in full blossom.

We have appreciated the beauty of Chinese Gardens from one of its most time-honored representatives, Suzhou Classic Gardens. We’ve seen the four key elements of Suzhou Classic Gardens and how to appreciate them. But the beauty of gardens is far beyond what I mentioned in the essay, it needs to be explored personally. Just like the French sinologist Wei Ranfang says, “Whether as an academic perspective to understand civilization, or a public perspective to experience life, gardens are silent stories that we can slowly read.” Now, we can pay a bit more attention to Rockery, Water, Architecture and Plants, and then read our own page of Suzhou Classic Gardens.

Inside me is a vast landscape.
An old woman smelling of rain
casts the shadow of a cloud.

Inside the cloud rests my childhood dress—
pink, with white lace, and stains
that will not wash away.

Behind me, my old house stretches into memory,
and the library where I hid in pages
to escape the beating.

Between the buildings stands younger me,
scared, broken, trembling.

“Just ask for help,” I whisper.

Cold and damp clings to my insides,
Weighing every step.

That’s when I see it beginning to change…