I am obsessed. I am mesmerised, enlightened and awed by a recently-discovered Chinese historical drama, the Legend of Miyue (芈月传).

It tells the story of a remarkable woman, who used her smarts and kindness to overcome obstacles and evil plots and rise up to become… someone remarkable. I am still in the middle of the show, and love that this series has 80 glorious episodes for me to savour.

I love that the main character, Miyue, relies on her brains and I love that she is kind and brave and would not stay content with the cards she was dealt. But what leaves me in awe is the setting – the grand stories of the warring states era, which started around 475BC and did not end until 221BC when the Qin dynasty successfully unified the region to become the first Chinese empire.

It is a period that I am relatively less familiar with, as I grew up with stories and dramas set in the later Song/Ming/Qing dynasties. I was surprised to learn about the sophisticated military and diplomatic strategies that were deployed, and gaped in awe as I realised how intricate and advanced the societies were at that time; scholars vied for glory with their policy arguments; craftsmen pushed boundaries by improving product design; traders criss-crossed the land exchanging intricate goods and chase profit; mere foot soldiers rose to become generals with their military achievements.

The aspects of meritocracy and capitalism were startlingly familiar, and perhaps it is only proof of my own ignorance that I am surprised to see this from more than 2000 years ago. Inequality aside, the Chinese civilisation was actually pretty advanced.

As an ethnic Chinese, I feel kind of proud of that. Yet it also felt like it is a legacy that I have no claim to.

I am probably a forth or fifth generation Chinese from Malaysia. My ancestors, the ones who came to Malaya (as it was known then), likely came around 100 years ago to escape political strife in China. I do not know for sure, and I never asked, because I feel like I know that story. Stories of poverty and hardship and survival are, for the lack of a better word, pretty standard. They probably toiled daily to survive, and did not have the luxury to ponder and think about the future. My grandparents’ generation were mostly illiterate. My parents were among a small group of university-educated workers in their time, and they worked hard to build a middle-class lifestyle. I was blessed enough to live off that and build a life for myself in Singapore, enjoying the amenities that modern life offers.

The cultural traditions I grew up with were more or less behaviour-based: how to behave around elders, how to celebrate the various festivals and their origins. Teachers in my primary school loved mentioning that ‘the Chinese has 5000 years of grand culture’ in their bid to instill pride in our heritage.

Yet, growing up amid household chatter of happenings in the local market, some random office politics talk and an endless stream of TV (including many Chinese period dramas), the 5000 years of grand culture was perhaps tangible only via the TV. Even popular Chinese New Year songs that sang about spring added only distance – in my childhood there were no four seasons, only long hot afternoons that were either humid or wet with rain.

Who knew what it meant that trade and craftsmanship flourished in China back then? Who knew what a pity it was that such a powerful civilisation could fall into such disarray that her people escaped seeking a better life elsewhere? What did it mean that I could trace my ancestry back to a civilisation that was once so advanced? Should I be proud as my teachers would like me to be, or should I be sad?

I did not study classic Chinese texts or philosophies when I was growing up. Pragmatism generally rules among the Chinese diaspora – do what is needed to survive and thrive. Besides, we were busy enough trying to learn three languages – which brings me to the cultural heritage that I do have.

I am drawn to the grandeur of Chinese history and can be wistful about it, but it does not mean that I have no heritage to be proud of.

I lay claim to a different type of heritage – one of open-mindedness and adaptation, of staying attuned to opportunities and working hard for a better life. I grew up learning about not just Chinese anecdotes but also quirky Malay folktales and quaint English ones. I grew up watching not just Chinese period dramas but also Japanese animes, which I watched in not just Japanese with subtitles, but also versions dubbed English, Mandarin, Cantonese and Malay. Reading Harry Potter opened up my horizons to a whole new galaxy of stories from places far away. I also cannot imagine going without roti prata, kuih or pasta.

But I digress. I am not naive enough to wish that I had been born in an earlier time or a different place, I do love where I am right now and count my blessings every day. Sometimes it just feels like this quirky mix of heritage unique to this small corner of the world lacks some sort of grand historical narrative; that there are no shoulders of giants like 5000 years of history to stand on.

Only sometimes, though. Most of the time, I count myself lucky to grow up among such diversity; to know from young that there are people who look and act and talk differently but that we can live together regardless; to know that it is silly to stick to a suboptimal method just because it is ‘ours’, and to be open enough to adapt the better things for our own use.

My heritage is a legacy of open-mindedness and adaptation, and I’m sure more and more people across the world will share this as globalisation continues to shape this era. I have already met many wonderful people from across the world with whom I share this in common, and I am hopeful that this means we could all learn from each other.

This may sound naive in the light of rising nationalism, the threat of fake news and social media bubble, impact of automation, climate change, and a whole slew of other alarming developments. But threats like these have always been around, and we humans have never been more well-equipped to deal with them. I have faith that if we put our hearts and minds to it we will thrive regardless.

In the meantime, yes, there is occasional nostalgia for a simple, grand narrative. It is helpful to remember that closed-mindedness was a big factor in the downfall of such empires. The legacy of being insular is one that we should all do well to remember.

***

Either way, the show is amazing. Its opening soundtrack is heartbreakingly beautiful and poetic:

For my non-Mandarin speaking friends, I made a clumsy attempt at translation below – each line corresponds to a line on the screen. I’m not sure if it is accurate, but I hope I got the gist at least.

It is titled ‘Full moon’ (满月) and it’s poetic and sad and depicted the sacrifices that Miyue had to make to become who she was.

Looking back on a life

of solitude

Feeling lucky that the gods left a silver of human warmth to savor

It was how I faced

Miles of yellow desert

More than an ocean’s worth that gushed into my heart

 

The sadness in the world

Does not stop or yield

Goodbyes and farewells made me start over again and again

I hope the gods

Will allow, after me,

For people who love each other to stay together

 

My heart goes

To a pavilion of jade

Finding peace only when love and hate return to the earth

 

My heart goes

To the light of the candle

A full moon

Only makes it more desolate

 

Two weeks ago, I had a week-long vacation. Having since returned to office and fielded numerous versions of the ‘How was you trip?’ question, I can’t help but notice how uncommon my choice of vacation must have been, given the reactions I’ve gotten.

I didn’t go anywhere for vacation, and it was surprisingly hard to explain.

I stayed home and indulged myself in my favourite stories and new adventures; I reread some old journal entries and wrote new ones, discovered old blog posts from my university years that I had completely forgotten about, and asked myself if I would be content if I were to die soon.

Cliché as that trick is, it was enlightening to go through the exercise. As I retraced the steps of my younger self, rereading stories that I had loved and the words that I had written, it felt as if I had traveled to some ethereal space in between my younger and current self – painfully familiar with both selves and yet not recognising either.

It was an odd yet enlightening place to be. While I have always known that I love stories, upon reflection and thinking of the years ahead, I realised with sudden clarity that I would regret it deeply if I don’t create stories of my own. I want to not just be a reader or observer of stories, I yearn to create them, to bring people on amazing journeys that leave them breathless and different from who they were before – much like how I felt when I put down a good book or walk out of the cinema after a good movie.

In recent years I have focused on my career, wanting to learn every trick in the book and cramming my reading lists with an endless stream of business articles and books. I oscillate between seasons of diligently going through online courses and seasons of resenting the relentless need to keep up-skilling, fearing that any moment of contentment and pride in my achievements would mean the start of being left behind.

It was not all bad – I’ve been to places that I never thought I would, learned from people who I feel privileged to meet, and certainly the financial rewards are great; I especially enjoy the thrill of being able to buy any books that I fancy, and am humbled by the fact that I can afford to donate to charities at a higher level than I used to.

But the hustle of daily life pushed many things to the background. My last two vacations – ‘proper’ ones to Taiwan and Japan – left me in awe of different cultures and nature’s beauty, but they were also exhausting trips that left me looking forward to another break the day I got back to work.

I’ve found solace in art & paintings, and Picasso put it best when he said,

Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.

It feels great to lose myself in colours and paintings, but they provide brief respite at best. It was only with the recent week of staying at home that I found the mental space to really confront where I am and where I want to go.

I want to write stories and leave my mark on the world.

The clarity is startling – I know now that I would not be content if, decades hence, I die a high-powered executive with a happy family but no creative output to show for.

I know I need to start making more time for this, and am considering a NaNoWriMo project in one of my busiest quarters at work. Considering, because if this is a long-term endeavour I do not need to drive myself crazy with a 30-day deadline for 50,000 words of fiction. On the other hand, if now is not a good time perhaps there never will be a good time.

Meanwhile, yes, I did not go anywhere in my week-long vacation. Physically, at least, it was hard to say if I have accomplished anything at all. But mentally, I have traveled back in time and forward into the future, and I feel very different from where I started.

So if you have a vacation coming up and you’re thinking about where to go, consider taking a tour of your own mind, and travel with your past and future selves as companions.

You may be surprised at what you find.