I Am Here

I remember it was in the four grade of elementary school when I fell ill and couldn't attend classes. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, gazing at the silent green hills outside the window during the lingering days of spring, an overwhelming sorrow enveloped me—a desolation I still cannot forget. At that young age, I couldn't articulate the reason for this pain, but the feeling itself was unmistakable.​

Why did it hurt? Only now do I understand—it was because I knew all my good friends were there, and I was not.​

So, I would wonder: Are they playing tag on the playground right now? Are they being scolded in the classroom? What exactly are they doing? Regardless of whether it's good or bad, I just want to be with them! Even being scolded or punished together would be fine! ​

Thus, I began to cherish roll calls. Early in the morning, everyone would sit properly; their little faces still clean, their small hands not yet sweaty. The teacher would call out, "So-and-so." The response, "I Am Here," would be earnest and clear, as if not just answering the teacher, but responding to the universe, declaring to the heavens and history that a child is here! Saying "I Am Here" was, to me, a profound happiness.​

As I grew up, roll calls were no longer necessary, but I became enamored with traveling. Whenever I ventured deep into mountains and rivers, I always wanted to raise my hand like that curious child and respond, "I am here." ​

In truth, whether it's familial love, friendship, or romantic affection, isn't every intimate relationship based on the premise that I am here, and so are you? Isn't all love rooted in the fate of being together? ​

One year, while performing in the United States and Europe, I insisted on selecting Cui Hao's "Song of Changgan" as the opening piece. In unfamiliar cities, performance after performance, green silk on stage shimmered like rippling water, and the ancient Tang melody gently unfolded:​

​"Where is your home? I live by Heng Pond.

Stopping your boat, I ask, could we be from the same town? "​

In the vast misty waves, just because we passed by each other, just because you were in the breeze and I in the moonlight, just because we both exist on this Earth, and the Earth floats in the void, we inevitably stop our boats to ask a question—to inquire about each other's origin, to ask about the hometowns where we were born and will one day be laid to rest.​

In the Book of Genesis, after the fall, Adam hid himself in the Garden of Eden as the cool breeze arrived. God asked, "Adam, where are you?" But he remained silent.​

If it were me, I would step forward and say, "God, I am here. Please look at me. I am here—not better than any mortal, nor worse. I have my peace and harmony, as well as my rebellion and ferocity. I exist in my endless pursuit of truth and beauty, and also in my fragile, vulnerable humanity. "​

"I am here" signifies my presence in the grand classroom of life.​

A few years ago, I said something in the mountains; allow me to repeat it as a conclusion:​

​The trees are here.

The mountains are here.

The Earth is here.

Time is here.

I am here.

What more could you ask for in a better world? ​