Goodbye, sky!

At left: The sun asserts itself through the haze over the Lanzhou skyline.

A patch of blue (now and then). This year we enjoyed a prolonged mild autumn in Lanzhou. The coal-fired central heat here is truly central; it goes on and the radiators begin to steam on November 1, and it goes off on April 1 (whether we still need it or not), at the behest of the local government. Daily peaks and troughs in room temperature are somewhat predictable, but uncontrollable. This year, we didn’t need room heat until the end of November (although we had it abundantly); the days were delightfully mild and the pall of smog crept up from the horizon at a slower rate than it did last year, or so it seemed. We savored every glimpse of the blue sky until it finally disappeared completely in December.

Something I never considered until I came here to live: there are no time zones in China. The entire country operates on Beijing time, aka CST, China Standard Time. It is, like so many things here, just simple and practical, albeit a little weird around the winter solstice. Here in the northwest, the sun rises well after eight in the morning, so I leave for work in the morning in the pre-dawn dead of night. It’s comical to follow the primary school kids with their colorful backpacks up the lane in complete gloom (no streetlights until we reach the main thoroughfare). The morning air is brisk (temps have been in the 20's F lately) but toxic. My cotton face mask is also a welcome nose-warmer, but it muffles friendly words to the neighbors. All the same, as the Irish knew all along, eyes can smile. On the plus side, we have afternoon light that would be the envy of New Yorkers, since our total allotment of daylight is about equal. Last night I dreamed that strawberries had come into season and the berries were piled in mounds in our street market!

From my journal, December 21, 2006:
101 Metaphors for Discernment: 1) a river; 2) riding the bumper cars in an amusement park; 3) dreams remembered; 4) dreams forgotten; 5) studying for the big exam; 6) listening to Handel’s Messiah on CD; 7) shopping for shoes that really fit; 8) seeing the Milky Way on a clear summer’s night; 9) the collect for Proper 28 in the Book of Common Prayer; 10) perpetual adolescence; 11) . . .

Well, I’ll keep working on the list. It’s time for me to decide whether to stay in China, at Lian Da, for the third year. #1 is on the list because it’s the stock metaphor for everything. #2 comes closest to my immediate experience. I liken my homesickness to a bad knee. It hurts a little all the time, but it’s easy to grow accustomed to it. Limp along, even sprint when necessary. Bump. A freshman student tells me she hasn’t seen her mother in four months, and I’m like her mother right now. Bump. My dean insists that I attend a government-sponsored reception instead of the countryside wedding of two beloved former students. Bump. My best Chinese friend gets married, and I hold hands companionably with her mother after the wedding, sharing a world of feeling without and beyond words. Bump. Bump. Bump.

Yesterday the afternoon was mild (above freezing for a change) and I took my first good walk in days. I looped around past the big open air food market, along the sewer canal. Bad call! The modern-sewer excavation has crossed the canal to the near side, and construction has caused incredible street congestion. At one point, a multi-directional snarl of big cargo trucks, cars, vans, bicycles, pedi-carts and foot traffic had simply halted in a clump about a hundred meters wide. Try to wrap your mind around congestion so thick that no one can even walk through it. I did observe one nimble guy vaulting over vehicles; it should be an Olympic event. My luck, I got stuck standing beside densely-packed crates of half-grown dogs awaiting slaughter. Many were curled up in silent resignation; others whined; still others yipped and wagged their tails in naive optimism. The street drains were clogged with the fur of their fallen comrades. I searched impatiently for the chink in the traffic that would let me hurry away. And I begged God to let this be the "sign," the message that I don’t belong here, that it’s time for me to go home to a cleaner, saner world. Then I saw my opening, stepped with care over a heap of leeks, and trudged on. And another metaphor was born: 11) a narrow path toward an unspecified destination. I know that I belong here, even if I don’t know why.