When the Turtle City Breathed Again.

When the Turtle City Breathed Again

A Reflection on Rebirth, Release, and the Soft Undoing of the Heart Part 1.

By Kateb Shunnar

Pingyao in 1425 had a way of moving that made time feel slow, deliberate, and just a touch smug, like it knew something you didn’t yet. Lanterns swayed in the streets, heavy with stories, and cobblestones carried the memory of everyone who had ever walked them gossips, lovers, merchants, the occasional thief, and probably one or two overzealous philosophers. The city walls, thick and patient, earned the nickname “龟城” (Turtle City), wrapping around the town like a slow, deliberate creature refusing to rush through life. The walls had no need to hurry. They were ancient, wise, and probably tired of listening to people carrying grudges as if they were treasures. Within those walls, hearts carried burdens heavier than the cargo barges floating down the Fen River, and the air hummed with unsaid words, small resentments, and a general sense that people were really, really bad at letting go.

It was during the Lantern Festival that Hàoyú Mei Cheng and Fen Zhōu Liú became entangled in the city’s ongoing drama of human stubbornness. Lanterns reflected in the river like the water itself wanted applause, fireworks snapped above like exclamation points, and everywhere, the scent of sweet dumplings and tea mingled in a chaotic perfume of joy and chaos. Hàoyú Mei Cheng, known for his sharp mind and even sharper temper, carried his grudges like a samurai might carry a sword polished, ready, and highly unnecessary. Fen Zhōu Liú, in contrast, glided through life with a calm that irritated anyone who thought life deserved their full, dramatic effort. She could drink boiling tea without a flinch, as if daring the universe to try and burn her. Both had mastered the art of appearing serene while privately drowning in private storms a skill highly respected in Pingyao.

The Lantern Festival should have been a night of brilliance, laughter, and sticky rice cakes. Instead, it became the stage for Hàoyú Mei Cheng and Fen Zhōu Liú’s verbal fencing match under a lantern shaped like a blossoming peony (牡丹 Mdān), the king of flowers, symbolizing prosperity, honor, and all the things money couldn’t buy if your heart was cluttered. Words flew sharp and quick, some so cutting they could slice noodles mid-air. Finally, Fen Zhōu Liú sighed in exasperation, eyes rolling just enough to be poetic, and muttered, “放下吧…心太重，路就窄” (Let it go… when the heart is too heavy, the road becomes narrow). Even the lantern flickered, as if embarrassed to be a witness.

“Your stubbornness,” she added, smirking, “could give the Turtle City walls a run for their money. At least the walls were built for protection. What’s your excuse?”

And just like that, rebirth began not with incense or chanting, but with a sarcastic, impossible-to-ignore truth shoved into the chest like a forgotten dumpling.

Before revisiting our stubborn duo, a folktale slides in because wisdom usually arrives wearing ridiculous shoes, and occasionally, a sarcastic smile.

The Folktale of Wǔlín Village

Long before Pingyao’s walls were fully fortified, not far from the Fen River, there was a small, noisy, and perpetually disorganized village called Wǔlín. Its people were experts at three things: arguing passionately, forgetting why they argued, and starting over again with renewed enthusiasm. Their unofficial motto: “算了，喝茶吧” (Forget it, let’s drink tea). Among them lived Shé Tuān, a farmer whose back curved like a question mark and whose temper could make chili peppers weep. He polished grudges every morning, aired them every afternoon, and complained about them every evening. One day, after yet another argument about something existentially critical like whether soup stirred clockwise was better than counterclockwise he stomped down to the river muttering, “Everyone here is wrong except me. Naturally.”

The river, ancient, patient, and unimpressed, murmured, “抱怨像石头，会沉” (Complaints are like stones they sink). Shé Tuān stared at his reflection, which gave him the sort of sarcastic side-eye only rivers can deliver. The river whispered again, “放下石头，你才会浮” (Release the stones, and only then can you float). Naturally, he flailed. “Float? Me? I haven’t floated since childhood, and that was by accident!” The river, unimpressed, simply flowed. Slowly, reluctantly, theatrically, Shé Tuān began tossing his metaphorical and literal stones into the water: resentment, petty grievances, years of bitterness, a few unpaid debts, and that one neighbor who always borrowed his hoe and never returned it. With every stone, his chest lightened. Decades of weight evaporated in the river’s steady patience. He smiled. Perhaps. A twitch? A minor miracle? The village agreed it was both, though arguments over the exact nature of his smile persisted for years. Wǔlín became quieter, not perfect, but gentler, because letting go is contagious if you dare to try it.

Back in Pingyao, Hàoyú Mei Cheng felt the weight in his chest ease as Fen Zhōu Liú’s words lingered, soft but stubborn. Lanterns swayed, drums rolled, and fireworks crackled like tiny spiritual nudges. Bitterness, sticky and heavy as forgotten rice cakes, began to loosen. Light crept in. Humor followed closely behind, because real rebirth rarely comes without laughing at your own ridiculous insistence on clinging to past nonsense. Lanterns, dumplings, steam-filled bamboo baskets of noodles, and tea scented with jasmine, oolong, and chrysanthemum whispered the same lesson: letting go isn’t just good for your heart it’s sacred.

Rebirth is subtle. It is the unglamorous act of releasing one stone after another, unclenching fists that were never meant to grip, and noticing that the heart, like a river, can flow freely once weight is removed. Hàoyú Mei Cheng and Fen Zhōu Liú didn’t perform grand gestures; they simply walked side by side beneath the lantern-lit sky. The Turtle City walls leaned closer, listening, reminding anyone within earshot: “心若不死，万物皆可重生” (When the heart refuses to stay dead, all things can be reborn).

By night’s end, the Fen River carried away old grievances, the city inhaled new hope, and the festival swirled around them like a gentle, persistent reminder that rising to a higher realm isn’t flashy. It is patient, quiet, humorous, and stubbornly ordinary. Bitterness sinks, forgiveness floats, and every heart willing to unclench can breathe again. The Turtle City had told another story, one that smelled faintly of tea, peonies, and redemption: release, rise, and begin again.

要重生，就得放下 (To be reborn, one must release).

To be Continued..

Make A Donation