甲子 (jiǎzǐ)

In the English language, years can be grouped into decades, scores, centuries, etc. In Chinese culture, years are marked by sixty-year cycles. Traditionally, each year is identified by two characters. The first will be one of the ten characters from 天干 (tiāngān, Heavenly Stem): 甲乙丙丁戊己庚辛壬癸; the second, one of the twelve characters from 地支 (zhī, Earthly Branch): 子丑寅卯辰巳午未申酉戌亥. The cycle beings with 甲子 and continues with 乙丑, 丙寅, so on and so forth. Since sixty is the least common multiple of ten and twelve, every sixty years, after reaching the combination of 癸亥, the cycle will reset to 甲子.

Although this system is no longer used in modern calendar, the term 甲子 and the sexagenary cycle still weigh heavily on the Chinese psyche. The phrase 花甲之年 (huā jiǎ zhī nián), meaning “sixty years of age,” commonly refers to sexagenarians. The character 花 (flower/flowery) implies the intricacy of the system. However, when I was little, I associated it with the salt-and-pepper hair (花白) of OLD people.

The twelve-year cycle of Earthly Branch runs concurrently with the twelve Chinese Zodiac signs: rat, ox, tiger, rabbit, dragon, snake, horse, goat, monkey, rooster, dog, and pig. So, it is not difficult to be aware of the turn-around of the cycle. I was born the year of pig. On New Year’s Eve, I started getting greetings with symbols of pig from my Asian friends. Suddenly, I was reminded that I would be turning sixty this year.

Confucius said: “I aspired to learning at fifteen; established myself at thirty; was no longer doubtful at forty; understood my destiny at fifty; was able to discern the truth in what I heard at sixty; and could follow my wishes without crossing the boundary at seventy.”[1] In my case, I did aspire to learn early in my life. I was full of hope and ambition when turning thirty. At forty, I was fighting hard to find my place in this world, professionally and personally. When I turned fifty, the world was struggling to get out of an economic downturn. Having earned the freedom to follow my dream, I found myself in a big city, loving what I do but unsure of my directions.

Another decade has gone by. I finally realize that life is a continuous journey that does not need any milestones. I continue to find myself ignorant of many things: Every day is a new learning experience. I continue to find wonders in my surrounding: The world is a playground full of surprises. I continue to face challenges: There is always a “next step” to take or a problem to be solved.

Nevertheless, I like to mark this year by remembering many people that made my life possible and influenced me.


[1]子曰:“吾十有五而志於學,三十而立,四十而不惑,五十而知天命,六十而耳順,七十而從心所欲不踰矩”。——《論語•為政》The original text is taken from Lúnyǔ (The Analects of Confucius), Wei Zheng Chapter. The translation is my own.

Gourds

I love going to farm stands or greenmarkets in the fall, looking for decorative gourds. Small or large, smooth or lumpy, symmetrical or twisted, colorful or pale, collectively, they showcase the infinite possibilities that nature offers us. Individually, they perk one’s imagination in various ways.

The only gourds that I knew before coming to the States were calabash gourds. (Not to be confused with the fruits of calabash trees.) Imagine butternut squashes in the color of Granny Smith apples. Some of them would have larger and rounder bottoms. Some of them would have two evenly shaped globes. The young fruits are edible. When allowed to mature and dried, their skin turn golden.  The hardened shells make them perfect carriers for water or liquor, and hence the name of “bottle gourds.”

The pronunciation of their Chinese name “hulu” (葫蘆) is similar to luck (福) and prosperity (祿).  “Hu” also sounds similar to “protection” (護).  Therefore, it is believed to have protective power.  Bottle-gourd-shape charms are common gifts for newborns and children.

Taoism, which centers around the existence of the universe and the transmutation of space and time, holds bottle gourds in high regards.  The two globes of the gourd, representing the heaven and the earth (or, in some interpretation, the sun and the moon), linked by the hollow neck, intermingling with each other—resembling the creation of the universe.  In paintings, Taoist immortals often carry a gourd around their waists.

In addition to being carriers of elixirs, bottle gourds are believed to contain healing energy.  The idiom 懸壺濟世, meaning “hanging the bottle to bring relief to the world,” is used to describe the charitable actions of medical doctors and appears in acclamatory messages.

Being a symbol of blessing and benevolence, bottle gourds play an important role in Chinese feng shui.  Supposedly, hanging them at the right location can bring harmony and good fortune to the household.  Nevertheless, my parents probably never thought much about feng shui when they planted gourds near our front windows.  They were easy going and fast growing.  Their large leaves, covering the pergola, created a green canopy to the front room.  The white flowers were simple but pleasant.  Gradually, the blossoms transformed into little jade pendant like fruits.  We watched these little toys balloon into sizeable squashes.  Since we didn’t grow them for food, they would be left to dry on the viens.  For years, mom kept the better shaped ones around the house.

I don’t know any symbolism attached to the Western decorative gourds.  But, to me, they herald the arrival of a harvest season.