The new year ends a year of sorrows, which we wear like pearls and finger like rosaries. There is no sadness without laughter, and we string the smiles beside the tears. Time, beginningless, still somehow comes and goes, and we stand in the gate, where now is a liminal designation, a word like a needleless compass, like a flower with no stem, no root. What woman but a dancer would stand so, straddling the non-existent, stamping on the past and the future, with a necklace of sorrow and laughter? We are our own adornments.
With some apologies to Milan Kundera, who doesn’t seem to know about dakinis but knows a lot about laughter and sorrow.
For the Chinese and English, see pp. 52-53, here.