I know well that my thatched hut is very low and small,
Because of that, the swallows on the river often come.
The bits of mud they bring in their mouths get into my zither and books,
And trying to catch the flying insects, they drive them into me.
--Tu Fu, almost unanimously agreed upon to be China's best ancient poet.
Happened to have lived for a while in Chengdu, where we will now take a turn living for the next few weeks.
As we make lists, fill bags, and contemplate what we are about to do, we feel both a shortness of breath and an unstoppable smile. It's really happening.
And though we have plans for and a general idea of what "it" is, we all know we're really getting on that plane and that's about all we know for sure. The rest is still something yet undone and unknown. Music unwritten, friends unmade, spicy noodles uneaten.
All of it's out there. Over there. And we are coming.