Mingmei Yip - Petals from the Sky

Copyright © 2010 by Mingmei Yip

In writing a novel, between the first word and the last one, there is a long, head-scratching, and pencil-biting process of filling in the hundreds of pages in between.

This daunting task, seemingly solitary, could not have been completed without the help and support of many others.

First and foremost, I owe each of these 338 pages of Petals from the Sky to my husband, Geoffrey Redmond, an endocrinologist specializing in women’s hormones, himself an excellent writer with six books to his credit. Geoffrey is always my first reader, friendly critic, and trusted adviser, literary and otherwise.

I owe my ability to cheerfully complete my work to the great support and contagious enthusiasm of my agent, Susan Crawford, and my editor, Audrey LaFehr, whose appreciation and kindness would be any writer’s elixir.

I also want to give special thanks to my other Kensington supporters: Karen Auerbach, Maureen Cuddy, and Martin Biro, whose hard work and generosity contributed to the success of my first novel, Peach Blossom Pavilion.

I must mention some of the many other writers and writing instructors who helped me along a writer’s arduous, yet wonderful, path:

Neal Chandler, director of Cleveland State University ’s Imagination Workshop, and a writing teacher par excellence.

Lewis Frumkes, director of Marymount Manhattan College’s Writing Center, who graciously invited me to many of Marymount’s literary events, where I was privileged to meet some of the great authors of our time.

Max Byrd, author of historical novels and workshop director of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers.

Karen Joy Fowler, New York Times best-selling author of The Jane Austin Book Club, and instructor at the Imagination Workshop.

Andre Dubus III, author of House of Sand and Fog, an Oprah’s Book Club selection, and instructor at the Imagination Workshop.

Ray Strait, instructor, Palm Springs Writers’ Conference.

Kitty Griffin, my German “sister,” fellow children’s book writer, and coauthor of The Foot-Stomping Adventures of Clementine Sweet, whose generosity and kindness are rarely matched.

Lee Kochenderfer, author of young adult fiction-though our encounter was brief, her support for me has been more than generous.

Ellen Scordato, instructor and virtuoso grammarian, New School University, who patiently and generously answered my questions and solved my many puzzles of grammar that have no equivalent in my native Chinese.

Victor Turks, gracious host during my event at the City College of San Francisco.

My writer friends Sheila Weinstein, Esta Fischer, Chun Yu, Kathleen Spiveck, Baixi Su, and Shobhan Bantwal, for their generous help and delightful friendship.

Hannelore Hahn, founder and executive director-and her daughter Elizabeth Julia Stoumen-of the International Women’s Writing Guild (IWWG), for their untiring efforts to help make many women writers’ dreams come true.

And others to whom I am connected through happy karma in this Thousand-Miles-Rest Dust:

Teryle Ciaccia, close friend of two decades and fellow Tai Chi instructor, who never ceases to send me good qi, whether by phone or in person.

Elsbeth Reimann, fellow IWWG participant, who always keeps me cheerful at the IWWG’s annual conference at Skidmore.

Eugenia Oi Yan Yau, my one-time student, now distinguished professor of music and vocalist, upon whom I have always been able to rely. And, of course, her husband, Jose Santos.

In Chinese fashion, I must also acknowledge the overwhelming debt of a daughter to her parents. Without my parents’ vision and selfless support, I would not be who I am today: a happy woman whose dreams have come true.

For my other friends and readers, wherever in this world or another, the same moon shines over us all.

Mother choked and spilled her tea. “Ai-ya, what evil person has planted this crazy idea into your head?”

I was twenty and had just told her my wish to become a Buddhist nun.

She stooped to wipe the stain from the floor, her waist disappearing into the fold of flesh around her middle. “Remember the daughter of your great-great-grandfather, who entered the nunnery because she was jilted by her fiancé? She had no face left; she had no name, no friends, no hair.

“She just sat the whole day like a statue; the only difference was she had a cushion to sit on. And she called that meditation.” Mother looked me in the eye. “Is that the life you want? No freedom, no love, no meat?”

Before I could respond, she plunged on: “Meng Ning, there are only three reasons a girl wants to become a nun: before she meets the right man, after she has met the wrong one, or worse, after the right one has turned out to be the wrong one.” Mother clicked her tongue and added, “Not until after you’ve tasted love, real love, then tell me again you want to be a nun.”

That had been ten years ago, but my wish to be a nun had not faltered.

Not until 1987, on a hot summer day in a Buddhist retreat in Hong Kong.

I hopped off the bus on Lantau Island and walked toward the Fragrant Spirit Temple -the oldest in the colony. The path led up a hill beside a maze of crumbling monastery walls over which trees spilled out as if to taste the forbidden world outside.

As I joined the crowd hastening to get under the cool shade of the foliage, a plump, middle-aged woman caught up with me, panting and grinning.

“Miss, is this the route to the Fragrant Spirit Temple for the Seven-Day-Temporary-Leave-Home-Buddhist-Retreat?”

I nodded and gestured toward the throng. Two thick, round pillars flanked the temple’s crimson gate. Above its lintel hung a wooden sign with four large, yellow, Chinese characters in ancient seal script: MARVELOUS SCENERY OF GREAT COMPASSION.

My heart raced. Within this gate for the next seven days, I would be tested for my karma to be, or not be, a Buddhist nun. At twenty, I had made up my mind to avoid the harassment of marriage. Now at thirty, I still couldn’t decide whether to remain in the dusty world as a single career woman, or to enter the empty world as a career nun.

Why should I feel so nervous? After all, in the absolute sense, is there a difference between a shaved head and one with three-thousand-threads-of-trouble?

Gingerly, I stepped through the crowd into the temple’s expansive lobby and a soothing aroma of jasmine incense. Activities were in full swing, with people assembling for the opening ceremony of the retreat. Electronic Buddhist music boomed from different corners of the two-hundred-year-old temple. I listened intently, seeking the music through layers of noise arising from gray-robed monks and nuns, black-robed workers, volunteers, and retreat participants. It was a synthesized version of the traditional Buddhist chant “Precious Incense Offered for Discipline and Meditation.” My heart instantly warmed to the familiar tune that I’d heard so many times. However, I still preferred the human voice, even when sung from the wrinkled lips of old monks and nuns. I hurried to the end of a long, slowly moving queue.

A little ahead of me stood a thirtyish man with a robust frame and light hair-a foreigner. Surely a devout Buddhist to have come all the way here to join the retreat.