In the fold of time, we move forward

𓆚 𓇒 𓀙 𓇒 𓆙

Happy Lunar New Year 𓆙

The past month has been a tangle of movement—deadlines, plans and todos, holidays. Spain, then Taiwan, a return to somewhere familiar yet always slightly different, always making me nervous. Things shift. The familiar and unfamiliar press up against each other, leaving me both nostalgic and estranged.

This time, I went back to my great-grandmother’s and grandmother’s house. It has long been falling into disrepair. Sometimes I check Google Maps street view, watching weeds creep in and cover the house over time. But when I actually stood there this time, the long weeds were gone; perhaps an unknown relative who also holds this place in mind had cleared them away.

It was a Sanheyuan, a traditional courtyard house with three houses arranged in a ㄇ shape. The right wing had collapsed in my childhood; the middle one now shelters only fallen beams, roof tiles, ferns, and Giant Taros. On the left, the heart of it—the place where my grandmothers lived—still stands, but in a way that buildings can stand while also falling. The front door looks exactly the same but is locked. At the back, where bricks have crumbled away, I peeked inside—fallen beams, roof tiles, ferns, and Giant Taros.

As I explored, what unfolded before me stirred a sense of sentimentality, yet there was no sadness. This place was my childhood. While my mother balanced being both breadwinner and homemaker, my grandmothers looked after me and my siblings here; after we started schooling, we still visited almost every weekend.

This house was the sound of chopsticks against porcelain, the smell of steamed rice, the hum of summer insects, the din of penned livestock, and the rustling and clattering of bamboo swings in the wind.

Then, over time, everything creases—my grandmothers, their memories, their house—gently, quietly enfolded within the long fabric of time. Nature then returns their existence to the world in another form, giant taros stand vibrantly among the wreckage.

Thanks to my friend Hsin Chen who explored my childhood with me 🤍

One thing, at least, remains stubborn and constant—Bidens alba, unbothered by all the shifts over time. Their tiny white flowers still blossom almost everywhere in Taiwan. They hooked onto my clothes, tiny barbed seeds clinging like gentle hands reaching out and whispered, you are still part of this.

January passed by too quickly for me to write, but I still want to capture this moment. Later this month, I'll share some new works with you. Talk soon!

　

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新年快樂 𓆙

過去的一個月充滿了忙碌——工作、待辦事項、假期。先是西班牙，接著台灣，回到一個熟悉卻稍微不一樣的地方，總讓我覺得有點緊張。推進、變化，熟悉的和陌生的碰撞在一起，許多時刻讓我既懷念又有些疏離。

這次回台也趁機探訪了曾祖母和祖母的家。這個房子早已年久失修。過去幾年，想念的時候我會用 Google Maps 的街景看看這裡。雜草不斷蔓延叢生，最後已高到遮擋了房子。不過這次回去，親自站在那裡時，已不見街景上看到的長長雜草了。也許，是某個同樣掛念這裡的親戚清理了它們。

祖母們的家是座三合院，傳統的院落房子。很小的時候，其中一邊的房子已經倒塌；而中間的現在只剩下坍塌的樑木、瓦片、蕨類植物、海芋。而左手邊的便曾是我祖母們常住的地方，還在，站著，卻也在慢慢倒塌。正門和記憶裡的一模一樣，只是上了鎖緊閉著。屋子後方的磚牆掉了幾塊，往裡看去——倒塌的梁木、瓦片、蕨類植物、海芋。

一一走過這些熟悉的地方讓我有些傷感，但並不悲傷。這裡是我的童年。當我的母親忙碌於同時擔任父與母的角色時，我的祖母們就在這裡照顧我和兄弟姐妹；即使我們開始上學後依舊幾乎每個週末都會回來。

這個家是筷子碰撞碗盤的聲音，是米飯蒸熟的香氣，是夏天昆蟲的嗡鳴，是圈養家畜的喧嘩，是竹林隨風搖曳的沙沙聲和清脆的碰撞聲。

然而一切都會隨著時間堆進而皺起所有平坦的紋理。我的祖母們，她們的記憶，她們的家，都輕輕悄悄地，包裹進時間深厚的褶皺之中。大自然以另一種方式把她們的存在還給這個世界，巨大的海芋一棵棵在廢墟中旺盛生長。

謝謝陳炘陪我回憶我的小時候🤍

有樣東西固執不變——大花咸豐草無視所有的變遷，它們的小白花依舊無處不在。細小的倒鉤種子勾在我的衣襬，像小小的手拉住我並細聲地說：「你仍然是其中的一部分。」

一月過去得太快，但我仍然想好好地寫下這一天。月底再來分享新畫的圖。初五結束後就要開工了吧，祝你新年一切順利！Talk soon！