Today is the Lantern Festival in Taiwan. This day, the fifteenth day of the first month in the Chinese lunar calendar, marks the final day of Chinese New Year celebrations. Tonight in Pingxi, a quaint little town outside of Taipei, thousands of red lanterns will be released into the night sky. I’m sure it will be spectacular, and look something like this:
(Photo courtesy of Jirka Matousek)
I was invited out to see this moving sight with some friends whom I may not see again for a long time, if at all. I’m leaving Taiwan for good in a few days, and it would have been amazing for this to be one of the last things I see. But my friends and I had a miscommunication and they left for Pingxi earlier in the day. Ultimately with the lack of phone data to communicate with them and find them in the crowd, I decided to turn back. So here I am, at home in my now almost-empty apartment room, working. And I actually think I might be okay with it.
A few years ago, after a different international move, I talked with a psychologist who said that every move brings with it a period of mourning and grief. It sounds somewhat melodramatic – no one has died to cause this feeling of loss, after all – but her reasoning has become more clear to me with every subsequent relocation. There is a bittersweet tinge to leaving your home, no matter where you have made it. No matter the circumstances of your leaving, you are still leaving something behind. A life, friends, family, partners, home. Everything you know remains – it is only you who will be out of reach. So you grieve, whether you realise it or not. Regardless of whether you were displaced, or whether you couldn’t wait to go.
This grief definitely changes how you end up carrying yourself in the days leading up to and following a move, especially if, like me, you are an introvert who has trouble spending lots of time around people. The farewells are exhausting but necessary for closure, and if you are leaving under relaxed circumstances and not displaced, you need to tie up all your loose ends with your living situation before leaving as well. That is not even going into the need that I now realise exists to make peace with the country itself. To have your “last tea egg”, to take your “last walk along Shida Road”, to sit in your favourite cafe one last time. There is a delicate balance between going out with a bang and getting your closure from the mundane, everyday things which will cease to exist for you the moment you step on that plane. I’m not sure I have that balance down yet, but I think I’m getting better at it. I think I made the right decision tonight.
Chinese New Year is such a special time for so many in Taiwan. As a visitor, every spectacle is worth the trip to take in the customs of local people. I guess I fit the definition of a visitor, too; I have only been here for a year. Taiwan is part of my life story now, though. I can always come back to Taiwan for another New Year and take the full package, but I will not be able to go through this grieving process again, to get closure from my time here. Nobody mourns in the same way, and I doubt everyone will need the same degree of time alone that I feel I do. But for me, I think what I need to do tonight is to stay at home. To quietly reflect upon and revere this beautiful country that welcomed me in and sang to me for twelve months.
You don’t always have to experience everything accessible to you. It’s not necessary to always “live life to the fullest”. Maybe I’m just justifying to myself why I missed out on what would have inevitably been an amazing sight on an auspicious day. There’s a good chance I’ll regret turning around and going back home today. At the same time, there’s a chance I’ll look within myself and understand that in this moment, I needed to mourn to make the separation easier. I needed the bitter so I could taste the sweet.
I’ll be back, Taiwan. I’ll see those lanterns one day. That’s a promise.
