你我有缘: There is a ~little fate~ between us
Meandering thoughts on 缘 (yuan).
In English, we have a few words that can be used to translate 缘. There is Destiny, but Destiny is too big and intangible. More often than not, it seems to be used as a foil for others’ expectations, and it carries the notion that one has no control over that which occurs in their life, that all is prewritten.
That’s not 缘. Neither is Fate, a string held by the three sisters of Greek Mythology, the Moirai; snipped at their will, apportioned by their decrees. It is immutable — nothing, not even the will of Zeus, can overrule a decision made. 缘 can be of our own making and must be sought after.
I think of 缘 is as a “little fate,” lower case f; it’s something small that encourages a second look, a further exploration, a spot of luck. We can find this little fate between people in all kinds of relationships — friendship, work, romance, — and we can find this little fate in life endeavors — events, career, school.
I’d say “你我有缘”(ni wo you yuan) when I see something between the two of us that could carry us into future. I’d say “我在求缘”（wo zai qiu yuan) when I share with others what I seek, a little fate in all things. I’d say “希望我们来日有缘” （xi wang wo men lai ri you yuan) when I know that this little fate is not with us right now, but may it align us in the future.
In Beijing, China, I called into the void of Wechat: “Does anyone want to be a part of a humanities group?” Emilia Serna came thirty minutes late to the canteen; we sat at opposite tables, twenty people apart. 缘 found us the Friday after. Me, dancing on top of a table in a crowded club in Sanlitun. Her, walking in, locking eyes with me, and getting pulled up onto that table. 你我有缘.
But, 缘 is a starting point not an ending point. That spring, she reserved the dinner table for my birthday, occupying a seat for many hours, as I shepherded people back from the Great Wall. We traipsed across Yunnan together, biking through Erhai and hiking the Tiger Leaping Gorge. I’ve held up her IV bag at a hospital in Dali when she got food poisoning, and she’s seen me in her apartment in Paris, three years later, ugly crying over her homemade shakshuka.
In San Francisco, surrounded by so many people I love and know, with so much ahead, 我在求缘. In some ways, 缘 is a way of discerning potential. Do you feel that the situation you are in holds a sense of correctness, of luck? In an abundance of time, do things that carry the joy and lightness of 缘.
缘 must be sought. That’s the epitome of the phrase “求缘” （qiu yuan) — to ask, to seek, to endeavor. I think 缘 favors those who look for it with grace, accepting that it may or may not appear in life, and that when it does appear, it may be fickle nonetheless.
Last December, at the Gare du Nord right before border control, I kissed a boy goodbye, and I said, “May you be both Good and Great,” and I thought, 希望我们来日有缘. And I will say, while fickle 缘 appeared at first, she certainly did not stay — if you know me well, you probably know the eventual (very French) ending of the story above. If you don’t, it’s a good story, and you should ask me about it.
Thinking also that my perception of 缘 as an input has changed significantly in the last few months, and that shift has inspired my hesitation in posting this piece. I wrote it in March, when I felt an abundance of possibility, but actually not that much 缘. I think 缘 is not necessary for a solid relationship to form. I have plenty of excellent friendships that didn’t start with luck, and instead with circumstance and time. Certainly, circumstance and time are the forces that build 缘 from a fleeting feeling to a magical connection.
Recognizing that, this exercise in identifying a little fate feels somewhat plastic and almost inexcusably self-obsessed.
And maybe it is. But at the same time, what a feeling. Have you felt similarly? Next time you see me, share a story of 缘.
Starting August with such joy and lightness, palms open to the ever-present uncertainty, inevitable pain, and impending pleasure ahead, excited to explore and learn.