Searching for Home in a Foreign Land

Because of visa issues, it has been nearly four years since I last returned home. I had never been away from my hometown for so long, never faced a world so utterly unfamiliar, alone. These past few days, with spring break in full swing, the campus stands empty and silent. Yet within me, there is no place to return to.

This afternoon, a strange restlessness came over me—no desire to work, yet unable to rest, like a boat adrift without anchor. On impulse, I set out on a solitary journey. No destination in mind—only the rhythm of songs shuffled at random, and my footsteps flowing freely, like the breeze.

The car drifted northward. At some point, I veered off the dull highway to meander through ordinary streets. Unlike the monotonous scenes flanking the freeway, these local roads revealed quaint, unexpected sights. Some were shaded with trees and blooming flowers; others nestled against hills, their silhouettes rolling in the distance. For the first time, I felt truly away from the familiar. It was as if I had stepped into many new lives, many new worlds. My heart lightened.

Then, from the radio, came Mozart’s Symphony No. 25—one of my most cherished pieces. It was the first symphony I ever heard live in college. Unlike Mozart’s more familiar grace, this one was intense, fiery, like an epic unfurling before the soul. It stirred my spirit.

At that moment, I thought of home. No matter how far I roam, the shadow of home follows. Taiyuan. Taiyuan. I have seen many places these past years, but none as beautiful as my hometown. It is a land steeped in history, where all my childhood memories dwell. In those carefree days, I roamed Taiyuan’s streets alone on my bike. The avenues, parks, buildings, and trees are etched in my memory—they shaped my very first sense of beauty.

The sunlight of home is as gentle as a mother’s embrace. The air shimmers with youth and warmth. The glinting waters of the Fen River speak in philosophical verse. In the spring wind, the budding willows and forsythias pulse with life. The ancient and modern faces of the Loess Plateau hide secrets about humanity and time.

The ancients once said, “Yan and Zhao produced men of valor and sorrowful song.” Taiyuan, once part of the state of Zhao, bears that legacy. If home were a song, it would surely be a bold, stirring melody. It is a sound that comforts and rouses. Maybe, deep within me, there is a northern wolf.

Since leaving home, I have been chasing its reflection. Perhaps that is why I seek out landscapes, environments, and geomantic rhythms—because sometimes they echo home. The resemblance may not be visual, but in some deeper, aesthetic way, there is an uncanny resonance. My high school art teacher once said, “The law of beauty lies in the unity of opposites.” That principle has become my spiritual nourishment. Whenever my soul feels hollow, I instinctively search for that harmony in my surroundings.

Just as the urge to create cannot be suppressed, neither can the desire to find beauty. And this beauty was conceived and defined by my homeland. I cannot stop. I will forever pursue beauty; I will forever search for home.

The City of Taiyuan

The road crested a small hill, opening suddenly into a vast view: the wide plains of Southern California spread before me. I thought of The Jade Gate, and the ancient Chinese poem: “The Yellow River flows far beyond the white clouds, a lone fortress towers among ten-thousand-foot peaks.” I thought of the Rainbow Chamber Choir’s adaptation of that poem: “My homeland lies far, far away; O foreigner, what moonlight do you yearn for?”… “The flute’s distant song lulls me to sleep; fresh willow branches guide me home.”

Could it be that what I feel now mirrors the hearts of Tang dynasty soldiers stationed at the far reaches of the Western frontiers? That empire—originating in Taiyuan, on the Loess Plateau—perhaps bore the same traits: loyalty, heroism, and a mission to build a flourishing, open civilization.

O stranger in a foreign land! When you begin to perceive your unique place within human history and society, when you start to sense a profound calling upon your shoulders—can you still confine your heart to one land, one town, one country?

My homeland, the Loess Plateau, is profound with meaning. Yet just as profound are the labors and lives of people across the ocean—of every race, over years and decades. The sweat and tears shed by my ancestors also flow through people in different lands, different cultures. The aesthetic revelation my home gave me shimmers, too, in the eyes of others raised in distant worlds. Each person is an embodiment of their culture, and our lives are intertwined—not just with those who share our tongue and customs, but with all people. We are all siblings.

Just now, a Mexican shop clerk smiled at me—patiently and warmly—even though she barely understood my English.

From the radio now swells Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9. It is one of my favorites—a portrait of my soul. It holds the deep, serene beauty of old continent Czech forests and the towering majesty of New York’s skyline in the new continent. The second movement, especially—its classic “Going Home” melody—traces its roots to African-American spirituals. It’s been sung on both shores of the Atlantic; it appears in 19th-century Japanese songs and in the Chinese classic:

“Outside the long pavilion, beside the ancient road,

Grasses stretch endlessly into the sky.

The evening breeze brushes the willow, flute music chills the air,

Sunset paints mountain upon mountain.”

When people at the ends of the earth think of home, the emotions are the same. The melody hums the same tune.

When I hear the first movement’s intro, evoking Czech’s wooded hills, I feel how the aesthetic gifts of that land are kin to those of my own. This shared sense arises not only from human artistry, but from nature’s rational and emotional resonance. If not for Earth—its very soil and sky—our languages, cultures, sciences, and arts would be different.

The final movement of Dvořák’s Ninth is perhaps the most famous. Its stirring, thunderous melody leaves me stunned and speechless —like standing before a sublime wonder. That central theme binds together motifs from the earlier movements. In that climactic instant, all the beautiful, poignant moments connect—what could be more wondrous?

It is the moment the cocoon breaks and the butterfly emerges. All past sorrows dissolve. What remains is only warmth, and tears of joy.

So why listen to classical music? Because it strings together the moments of life—those fleeting instances of emotion, of discovery—and lets people pay tribute to time, to life. It allows people to dance, like heroes in stories at their climactic release.

What sets classical music apart is its voice across ages—reaching from the deep past. When I listen, I commune with people from other times and places. I feel the heartbeat of history.

Some works were born in the youth—even the childhood—of human civilization. They bear a vibrancy, a spirited innocence, a distinctive aura of an era. Perhaps that spirit is what our age now hungers for—at least, Romain Rolland thought so.

I, too, am touched by that youthful vigor—or rather, it has always breathed within me.

Recent experiences have brought emotional turbulence. At times, I feel like I’m astride a wild, untamed horse—on the brink of falling. But in that instability, something emerges—something I call masculine energy—an urge to master my emotions, to stand proud through peaks and troughs, to take the reins of my life, to lead, to build.

In the past, I often led with feminine energy—introspective, gentle, empathetic. But now, faced with growing challenges, I feel the need for a different power, more assertive and firm. Like the Riders of Rohan in The Lord of the Rings when the horn of charge sounds.

Note: these energies are not bound to gender. Both live within everyone. Growth may lie in the balance between them—or a deeper, aesthetic unity of opposites.

This thought takes me to a recent congregational meeting. We gathered to decide whether to purchase real estate beside our neighborhood. Over a hundred people attended, engaging with care and order. Those familiar with the issue spoke from both sides, and in the end, we voted. I cried at the end, because I saw a lot of hope from the people's spirit of democracy, the respect and humility, amidst the polarization and chaos the country is going through. Everything we cherish and hold dear demands our daily hard work to protect. As Goethe wrote in Faust, in his final lines: "He only earns his freedom and existence, who daily conquers them anew."

My friend Kirk told me, “The key is to remember to state your thoughts and accept the outcome of the vote. Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. Our public politicians tend to think it is only about winning at all costs. That is not democracy.”

Then he added:

“When they asked Benjamin Franklin what type of government the USA would have, he said: 'a democratic republic, if we can keep it.'

Democracy is not always simple, fast, or easy. It is not guaranteed to last if you don't protect it.”

This article is dedicated to my peers—all the wanderers alone in foreign lands, searching for a sense of home. The tides of emotion, the physical and spiritual discomforts of homesickness—these are natural.

Home lives in your heart. You are its living vessel.

Perhaps this is our profound calling: to transform longing into strength, to share the beauty and light of our homeland with others—especially with those who miss home, too.

We are inheritors. We are creators.

One day, the unfamiliar will bloom into the familiar, and peace long lost will return.