Rhythm: a recurring pattern organizing music, dance, and life.
Playing piano growing up made me aware of different rhythms early on. I practiced pages and pages of the driving rhythms of the Baroque period, the regular rhythms of Classical music, the tempo rubato of Chopin. Life imitated art, and my childhood moved along like an ambling but certain rhythm of a classical waltz, carefree yet controlled, as I leisurely skipped to the routine beat of doing homework, playing with my friends, and going to Sunday school. Then came the confusing, polyrhythmic teenage years. I guess teenage angst could be explained as playing triplets over duplets, trying to reconcile two different rhythms and identities--the uncompromising idealism of youth and the steady beat of family and tradition. These days, I aspire to live to a jazz rhythm, swinging along and exploring life outside of the conventional beat, but still evolving along a backbone of my fundamental values.
Life moves forward with rhythm, but rhythm can ultimately be restrictive. A poet once said that music "is spirit, but spirit subject to the measurement of time." Our lives--be it beautiful, bittersweet, or tragic--are lived subject to mortality, time, culture, environment, upbringing, habits...with so many constraints, are we as free and flexible as we think? It's frighteningly easy to be completely attuned to and controlled by the same repetitive rhythm. Our actions, thoughts and even heartbeats become in sync with the world we live in, and gradually we find our lives dictated by the flow of the environment. Maybe this is how people drift apart; as their lifestyles and values change, they become out of sync, joining different schools of fish and swimming with their respective groups towards different directions in the infinite stretch of sea.
When I moved to Hong Kong, I learned to adapt to the frenzied, fast-paced rhythm of the city. My breath and footsteps began to speed up. Working in finance, I started to think in terms of headlines and bullet points, becoming impatient whenever anyone rambled on without a main point. Soon I was just another note in a never-ending symphony, marching hurriedly with my head down, checking my phone(s) every two minutes, making a living amid the roars and alarms of buses and cars, the ominous drones of construction cranes, the manic shouts of angry merchants and drunken revellers. Like myself, most Hong Kong residents are products of their frenetic environment, souls trapped in shoebox apartments and tight schedules, seeking transcendence from the loud and relentless pulse of the city.
And thank goodness that transcendence can be found. I encountered a surprising new rhythm when I visited Peng Chau on a whim last year. Peng Chau--the oft-forgotten, mostly residential island, a 40 minute ferry ride away from HK island. Barely any tourists roamed the island, because there were barely any tourist sights. For the first time in a while, I meandered--along the narrow streets of its traditional market, along the rolling paths bordering Finger Hill (Peng Chau's highest peak), along the spacious seaside promenade dotted with relaxed, cycling residents. I strolled into a gallery of a local artist, a store selling various gemstones (the owner's husband was a geologist), another store selling vintage-looking furniture. Serendipitously, I bumped into a friend who happened to live on the island, and was invited to afternoon tea on her sea-view balcony (which was bigger than my bedroom). Time was slow on this island, but the space between each beat was rich and meaningful, like the reverberating hum of a Tibetan singing bowl. Instead of car horns and loud voices, Peng Chau's rhythm was dictated by rustling leaves, creaking bicycle wheels, barking dogs and chirping birds. I was transfixed and refreshed by this foreign rhythm, a fish happy to be out of the water.
As the day neared its end, I was called back to the city cacophony. On my way to the ferry pier, I passed by a candlelit banquet for ghosts--the older residents of the island were celebrating Hungry Ghosts Festival. It was quite a sight, and a reminder of disappearing generations and traditions. Customs come and go, but I hope that the tiny island of Peng Chau will always preserve its peaceful, hypnotic heartbeat, welcoming city dwellers in need of a break from routine.
Playing piano growing up made me aware of different rhythms early on. I practiced pages and pages of the driving rhythms of the Baroque period, the regular rhythms of Classical music, the tempo rubato of Chopin. Life imitated art, and my childhood moved along like an ambling but certain rhythm of a classical waltz, carefree yet controlled, as I leisurely skipped to the routine beat of doing homework, playing with my friends, and going to Sunday school. Then came the confusing, polyrhythmic teenage years. I guess teenage angst could be explained as playing triplets over duplets, trying to reconcile two different rhythms and identities--the uncompromising idealism of youth and the steady beat of family and tradition. These days, I aspire to live to a jazz rhythm, swinging along and exploring life outside of the conventional beat, but still evolving along a backbone of my fundamental values.
Life moves forward with rhythm, but rhythm can ultimately be restrictive. A poet once said that music "is spirit, but spirit subject to the measurement of time." Our lives--be it beautiful, bittersweet, or tragic--are lived subject to mortality, time, culture, environment, upbringing, habits...with so many constraints, are we as free and flexible as we think? It's frighteningly easy to be completely attuned to and controlled by the same repetitive rhythm. Our actions, thoughts and even heartbeats become in sync with the world we live in, and gradually we find our lives dictated by the flow of the environment. Maybe this is how people drift apart; as their lifestyles and values change, they become out of sync, joining different schools of fish and swimming with their respective groups towards different directions in the infinite stretch of sea.
When I moved to Hong Kong, I learned to adapt to the frenzied, fast-paced rhythm of the city. My breath and footsteps began to speed up. Working in finance, I started to think in terms of headlines and bullet points, becoming impatient whenever anyone rambled on without a main point. Soon I was just another note in a never-ending symphony, marching hurriedly with my head down, checking my phone(s) every two minutes, making a living amid the roars and alarms of buses and cars, the ominous drones of construction cranes, the manic shouts of angry merchants and drunken revellers. Like myself, most Hong Kong residents are products of their frenetic environment, souls trapped in shoebox apartments and tight schedules, seeking transcendence from the loud and relentless pulse of the city.
And thank goodness that transcendence can be found. I encountered a surprising new rhythm when I visited Peng Chau on a whim last year. Peng Chau--the oft-forgotten, mostly residential island, a 40 minute ferry ride away from HK island. Barely any tourists roamed the island, because there were barely any tourist sights. For the first time in a while, I meandered--along the narrow streets of its traditional market, along the rolling paths bordering Finger Hill (Peng Chau's highest peak), along the spacious seaside promenade dotted with relaxed, cycling residents. I strolled into a gallery of a local artist, a store selling various gemstones (the owner's husband was a geologist), another store selling vintage-looking furniture. Serendipitously, I bumped into a friend who happened to live on the island, and was invited to afternoon tea on her sea-view balcony (which was bigger than my bedroom). Time was slow on this island, but the space between each beat was rich and meaningful, like the reverberating hum of a Tibetan singing bowl. Instead of car horns and loud voices, Peng Chau's rhythm was dictated by rustling leaves, creaking bicycle wheels, barking dogs and chirping birds. I was transfixed and refreshed by this foreign rhythm, a fish happy to be out of the water.
As the day neared its end, I was called back to the city cacophony. On my way to the ferry pier, I passed by a candlelit banquet for ghosts--the older residents of the island were celebrating Hungry Ghosts Festival. It was quite a sight, and a reminder of disappearing generations and traditions. Customs come and go, but I hope that the tiny island of Peng Chau will always preserve its peaceful, hypnotic heartbeat, welcoming city dwellers in need of a break from routine.
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| View from Finger Hill (highest peak), with Lantau in the background |
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| Houses melting into trees |
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| the French are everywhere |
