Taqing is not an act: A Vow to the Earth
Honolulu, HI
2025, Senior, Poetry & Spoken Word
We ascend
the winding trails,
boots brushing up the breath of the soil,
on paths
shaped by the lapsing of time,
by the rhythm of ancient feet.
It is Qingming, the season of remembrance,
when I return to the earth
that cradles my history,
the soil where voices lie
still, yet alive.
We climb,
as our ancestors did,
to honor names carved into stone,
stories etched in the pulse of the land.
The air carries a solemn grace,
alive,
with the murmurs of the mountains,
as if the terrain holds the echoes of every step before ours.
So we tread gently,
gray and gold staining our hands,
marked by the paper cuts of folded joss.
The roots beneath the soil are bridges,
and the rustling leaves speak in whispers—
the tales the wind has carried for generations.
The mountains seem to know
our purpose,
their peaks nodding in understanding,
their silence a sanctuary.
Here, time folds in
on itself,
and the present feels no different from the past.
My grandpa and grandma’s hands guiding mine,
my left hand placing incense sticks upright in the ground.
There, I learned the art of speaking without words
to those who no longer speak back.
They are here, I tell myself,
in the roots that drink from the earth,
in the breeze that brushes my cheek,
in the mountains that shelter us all.
Their voices are in the rustle of leaves,
their laughter in the song of a distant bird.
The land remembers them,
as it will one day remember me.
Descending,
we leave behind the graves
but not the connection.
The path back feels different,
lighter,
as if the land itself has offered a small piece of its wisdom,
its endless patience.
Each step forward is a step into
continuity,
a reminder that the living and the departed are bound
by this shared earth.
The scent of damp earth clings to my boots,
roots curl around stones like fingers holding memory,
this eternal cycle of growth and decay,
Of memory and renewal.
When I walk these trails now,
the city’s grit of exhaust fills my lungs,
clinging to my every breath
its haze blurring the once-crisp scent of trees I once knew.
The same soil
still presses beneath my feet,
but I think of the calloused hands
that once guided me to honor not just my ancestors,
but the stones that bore their weight,
their surfaces worn smooth
with time,
And I understand:
Taqing is not just an act,
it is a vow—
to walk softly through the green,
to hold the past and present as one,
so that future footsteps might find
their own way to remember.
Reflection
I drew inspiration for my poem from Qingming, the season of remembrance, when my family visits the graves of our ancestors. Some rituals—climbing steep trails, cleaning gravestones, and burning joss paper—are inseparable from the land. I intended to capture the emotions I feel during these visits: grief for those my family have lost, reverence for the traditions we uphold, and a sense of belonging. I wanted to explore how nature is not just a backdrop but an active participant in this cycle of remembrance and honor. Writing this poem felt like retracing the steps of my childhood, when my grandparents guided me through the traditions of Qingming. I focused on vivid details: the paper cuts from folding joss, the scent of damp soil clinging to me after a light drizzle, and the mountains “nodding in understanding.” These images are more than memories; they hold the weight of the rituals and the connections created between multiple generations. Nature is not separate from us—it carries our history, grounding us in the lives of those who came before. The roots, stones, and wind are not passive; they are keepers of memory, silent witnesses to our stories. Reflecting on the subtheme of “generational knowledge,” I saw how the calloused hands that taught me to place incense sticks belong to the same earth that will one day hold my story. My message to readers is this: our connection to nature is also a connection to those we love and have lost. By caring for the land, we preserve the stories it holds and ensure they endure—not just for ourselves, but for those who come after.