劳動光荣 Mark black Chinese characters above a small wooden door of a shaggy old house where my father lived as a child,  And where his parents lived when they were young,  Back when the couplets along the door were not so faded and decayed,  The walls not so stained and cracked,  The weeds in front not so overgrown,  The trees behind not so bare.  My young father stood straight in front of the front door,  Hands tucked in his new Mizuno winter coat He had bought with money he ha

Death is a fleeting concept. Perhaps we were born crying because we knew that we would die someday in this unpleasant world. But during...

The bonfire, a pep rally before The Game, occurs every year, a tradition of Woodberry Forest. Like the last two years I have...

One summer, I served as a mentor for children at a Buddhist summer camp. On many afternoons we took the children, who were mostly eight...

I sat in front of the piano and began my performance. I played Winter Wind Etude—one of Chopin’s grandest and most technical pieces. I...

One Saturday, at around seven or eight in the evening, I had been writing and playing piano in the art building of my high school when I...