When a newborn arrives, there is so much paperwork. On form after form, we watched Yuanyuan's age go from two hours, to two days, to about seven days, when we finally brought her home. The neonatal ward was completely sealed off, with a few windows—the baby was sent in through one, and a few pieces of paper were handed back. When it was time to pick her up, we returned those papers. Above the window were detailed instructions. After paying the fees and verifying our identities, they told us to wait while they "wrapped the baby." We offered up the clothes and swaddling blankets like presenting a khata, and the nurse wrapped the baby into a little caterpillar and handed her out.
Back at the postpartum care center, we received the baby with fumbling hands. Slowly watching her settle in the bassinet felt like a kind of incubation—not unlike raising silkworms as a child. The swaddling covered everything below the head, like a mulberry leaf laid over her. Sunlight came through the window, printing bright patterns on the cloth, and you could almost hear the rustling sound of silkworms eating.
It wasn't until nighttime that I had a chance to think. Thinking in fits and starts. The first thing that came to mind was the grandeur and the smallness of being human—that after enduring grief, one can still feel joy, can still delight. That after whatever suffering, one still goes on living, still carries on as usual. How truly strange.
I once heard that a reporter interviewed Mr. Tiger, and Mr. Tiger said: "Humans, you know—they don't taste good. Too bitter." He was absolutely right. What's even more pitiable is that from within this bitterness, one still manages to savor a hint of sweetness, willingly rejoicing, willingly embracing the life that lies ahead—like a solitary silkworm that, amid the rustling sound, spins itself entirely into a cocoon of radiant light. It brings you to tears.
After my mother passed away, I often dreamed she was still alive. Her vivid, lifelike presence in those dreams made me believe, even after waking, that she still existed somewhere. Death felt like a fact I could never quite catch up with. Yet I also came to understand, just as I understood becoming a father, that these things which felt somehow unreal—which felt fake to me—were, in their own way, facts.
Am I happy? I can't say I'm not. The joy comes from instinct. But there's always something not quite happy enough. Within all the happiness, it's as if I were a child at home when guests came over, running off to hide in another room. Sunlight filtered through the glass roof tiles to form a column of light, and dust motes drifted through it like life itself, slowly wandering. In there it was quiet and safe, while outside lay the world's joy. I am happy, genuinely joyful, genuinely stirred. And yet, behind it all, another river rushes on.
There is nothing wrong with any of this. I finally understood what so many works of literature describe about the land and birth—amid the blood and the screaming, no matter how agonizing the blood and the screaming, a bright, piercing cry rings out. That is the ever-renewing life of this land.