Tonight, I’m in my gazebo that sits on a spit of land, narrow as a writing brush, that juts into the pond. No typing on screens tonight. My wine cup of white celadon sits on its matching saucer. The red wine resembles veins following along the cracks in the cup. Lotus blossoms, anchored in silt, float by. From the bedroom window across the pond, in words that skip across the water, my wife says they smell like children. 

Tonight’s lesson is painting Chinese characters. A lovely ritual to dive into, to find balance in. First, dip your inkbrush into water until the brush is full. Then, dab the inkstone with the brush to release the water. Rub the black ink stick into the water in circular motions, softly, until it’s like butter. The guide says this is the time to meditate. I’m all in—it’s just me, making circles with my inkstick, thickening the ink. Don’t want to let my mind wander to house and family. 

Then, writing brush between thumb and forefinger, I hold it over the stacked sheets of paper. Following the order of the brushstrokes is vital to maintain the balance of the character. Plus, if you don’t, the ink won’t fall right on the paper. Ain’t like typing out English. First, horizontal strokes before vertical; then top to bottom, then left to right. I am still learning, and it is difficult. 

Chinese houses had high doorsills (up to a foot high) to keep out snakes, rats, and evil spirits. My house has a flush sill that lets in my evil spirit. In my house, my parents, grandparents, and wife dream of children floating over the doorsill. My writing brush is right-angled to the paper, and right-angled to family duty. I am not proud of this, just afraid afraid afraid to be a father. 

I start with the character mén, meaning door. It looks like two swinging doors. Should I paint the character fēng next? Fēng means custom, and when following mén, it means family principles. I hold the brush gently as a child’s hand, poised above the paper. In the other hand, I lift the wine cup. Perfect balance.