By Pearl Lu 10/13/2024
My mother once told me her favorite tree was the willow tree. I didn’t understand why, I’ve never asked. But every time I visit Beijing and Shandong and sit under a willow tree, I think I get it.
The Weeping willow is called (柳树 liǔ shù), and 柳 (liǔ) is a homophone of the Chinese character 留 (liú), which means to ask a person to stay.
Unable to stay in her hometown,
The willow trees seem to always be saying to my mother
“Stay,”
Whenever she leaves.
And with her back turned, ready to hop on the bus to once again leave her hometown, The swaying of her hair suddenly seems to mimic the willow branches.
Beijing may seem unwelcoming to some,
But with each step on the road,
The willow trees seem to communicate otherwise.
At least to my mother, maybe that’s why she pursued her art career here at the People’s Liberation Army Academy of Art in Haidian District, Beijing, following the willow trees from Shandong to Beijing, where she also eventually fell in love and had me. And the rest becomes history.
Sometimes I wonder if my father, an author and native Beijinger, ever wrote about my parents’ love story. I wonder if he ever wrote stories about me. I often find myself painting, writing, and taking photos, like my parents. When artists love someone or something, that someone or something becomes immortalized.
The Weeping willow tree originated from the dry areas of northern China, where my family is from, and was since traded along the Silk Road to the West.
I grew up in Queens, New York, and rarely see willow trees here, as they aren’t native to North America. Upon noticing this, I have felt immense sadness.
Cherishing the days in Beijing and Shandong where I am surrounded by weeping willow trees on a daily basis, I spend my days outdoors in the China heat and capture bits and moments of hutong alleyways, ancient photography studios, homemade dinner, museum galleries, and willow
trees with my handy Canon Powershot G7 X Mark II camera, all while carrying my mother’s painting carrier filled with her painting scrolls, on my sweaty back.
On August 6, 2024, I took a trip to the National Library of China, where I read a short excerpt from a poem by one of the greatest poets in the Tang Dynasty, Li Bai (701-762), who expressed his parting sorrows and grief when hearing an ancient bamboo flute music named “Breaking Willow Branches.”
He writes, “From whose house comes the song of the jade flute unseen? It fills the town of Luoyang, spread by the wind of spring. Tonight I hear the farewell song of Willow Green. To whom the tune will not nostalgic feeling bring?”
Upon looking at a willow tree, one may develop feelings of homesickness. The long, elongated branches resemble that of crying, weeping, tears.
If I could, sometime in the future,
I will plant a whole garden of roses and willow trees for my mother,
I think to myself.