Publisher's Synopsis
As a first generation of immigrants, we were like trees pulled out of the ground, moved to a remote place with completely different atmospheres. We could not fully understand the others' conversation at Christmas parties. We did not enjoy turkey, we had trouble to digest their milk. or to find one from whom we can borrow money for an emergency. The worst, we were home sick. In the quite sunny but cold winter, all I remember was the wind chime. it jingled in my ear. It penetrated my heart, it brought my tears. So I started writing, I talked to myself. Writing is like prayer. it is a response to nature; it purifies my mind, it turns the noisy world into peaceful joy. it reminds me that it is this language which forged my value, my spirit, and I will never forget it.
