“I’m an I-person,” I said by way of introduction the first time I met them. I meant it in the MBTI sense: an introvert.
For the past week I had been busy and tired. My new workplace had organized a week-long summer camp for students moving from primary school into middle school, and I was one of eight group leaders. Since July 1, I had gone back to a routine of leaving early and returning late.
I had often imagined and looked forward to a nine-to-five job—no early rising, and at least some time after work that belonged to me. This temporary assignment, from eight to six with dinner not provided, did not exactly make me happy on that front.
The first five days were transition courses. There were slides from the previous year I could have used, but I thought they were too packed, and some parts a little too complicated, so I made my own.
When I reached the lesson on poetry, I borrowed a line from Dead Poets Society to explain what I understood by “why we read and write poetry.”
We read and write poetry not because it is fun, but because we are members of the human race, and the human race is full of passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering—these are noble pursuits, enough to sustain a life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.
Many things keep us alive, but they do not necessarily give us inner satisfaction. A person cannot merely live; a person is a thinking reed.
My claim to being an I-person was not baseless. From high school to college, from college to work, each stage changed me gradually, but those changes often felt unreal. At a lecture, the speaker asked a question, and one child raised his hand many times without being called on. At one point I stood up, faced the speaker, gestured toward the child, and heard myself say, “Teacher, here!” Before the child stood up, he asked me three times, unable to believe it: “Are you really an I-person?”
I think I am still that sensitive person who does not much like expressing himself in real life, and who is even a little resistant to dealing with people he does not know. If colleagues from my group were having dinner together, I might find an excuse not to go. On the way home after work, if I saw a colleague I had met only a few times, I would silently follow behind and force myself to slow down, because if the other person noticed me, I would have to greet them or make small talk. I am not very good at having more contact with unfamiliar people, let alone heart-to-heart conversation.
The last two days of the camp were at a local study base. Once the children were handed over to the coaches, and with chaperones accompanying them along the way—taking photos, recording highlights, and sending them to me—I should have been relaxed. But for some reason I did not idle. Maybe I was worried about their safety; maybe I also wanted to see the kind of youth I had never had. When I sat to one side, Shankai pulled up his sleeve to show me his sunburned arm. I looked at my own: I had not escaped that mark either.
During the day, the children went with the coaches to take part in various activities. As night approached, our starry-sky evening party began. The teacher who organized it was impressive: on the very day the performers were reported, she settled the program, and in just five days she put together a wonderful evening. Beyond the performances, she got everyone dancing around the bonfire. She must be a creative and expressive E-person—and perhaps at certain moments I am one too. While the children were doing activities, a little girl asked whether I had a hair tie in my bag. Jokingly, I said, “For you, I’ll be an E for once.” Then I actually asked another team’s chaperone for a hair tie, without blushing or feeling nervous at all.
Yesterday’s party had a very good atmosphere, and the children were all cheerful. The plan included a short speech from each leader and one child from each team, with a few words about stories and wishes. I had not prepared anything deliberately; only at a certain moment did I suddenly wonder what I should say if I were asked to speak.
I had no story—that would sound like a brush-off. My story was not exciting enough to go on about. My wish—should I pretend that I had once wanted to be a poet or a writer? Would that make them urge me to read some so-called poem I had written? After turning it over in my mind, I decided to make it a little more idealistic:
“My wish is not grand. I only hope that one day our study or work will not be so busy. I hope that when the sun rises, when the sunset stains the sky red, or when the stars are bright, we can stop and appreciate it without feeling guilty, because life is not only study or work. I hope what falls on our faces is not just light, but also a little bit of poetry.”
I do not know when my life began to lose its poetry. During winter break I once worked in a factory for a while. On the night shift, staring at the light overhead, I suddenly came up with the line “The brightest light is daylight.” A friend praised me: “That is a poet’s temperament.” But later I saw mountains as mountains and water as water. During the May Day holiday, Brother Bin’s travelogue was as beautiful as Dai Wangshu’s “Rain Alley,” while I felt ashamed of my own running account.
A busy life is probably not very good at making room for poetry. At midnight, the stars in the sky were clearly visible, but no lines came to me. On the return trip, sitting by the window of the bus, I looked at the dark green mountains across the way, with white buildings scattered on the slopes, so similar to the scenery of my hometown. At that moment I wondered: if I were to write an essay or a travelogue, how would I describe the mountains before me? How could I, like Brother Bin, “see heaven and earth, see all beings, see myself”?
I cannot see my true self, so my life is unlikely to have true poetry.