I remember a night, many lives ago, somewhere in Cambodia. I pushed the wedged lime into the bottle and watched the fizzy sparkle of Corona beer rise, catching the dim orange bar light.
The stranger-turned-friend for the evening sat across from me, his deep-set eyes twinkling, his faint stubble moving slightly on his sun-warmed skin as he raised his Corona to his lips.
The evening stretched into the night, full of conversations ranging from life’s anecdotes to the secrets of the universe.
The time to leave came unannounced, and he graciously walked me back to my hostel. I remember his silhouette under the flickering orange lamp, giving me a wave as I looked back one last time before entering the building.
The Chinese have a term called 缘分 (jyun fan).
Jyun is the predestined affinity between people—the invisible thread that ties two lives at the right time and the right place. It’s the uncanny event where two people come together at the same time and place, with the same wavelength to connect.
Fan is the share of destiny—the thread that binds—the measure of how long and how deeply it will hold.
Jyun can bring connections during a cramped five-hour plane ride, under dim bar lights, or in a few whirlwind adventure days. However it starts, they carry the same urgency—to reach across and connect as deeply as possible before it’s over.
They are brief, yet meaningful—leaving one changed permanently in the subtlest way. They add patterns to the tapestry of life.
But jyun is also the force that brought you to whom and where you were born—the cosmic connective tissue of relationships.
It’s the familiar voice at the wake-up morning call. The knowing glance as we come up to no good. The surrendering smile at our hundredth mischief. The hug that carries the warmth of a thousand hugs.
And fan is the force that made them lifelong connections—some given, some chosen. They are the original patterns in the tapestry of birth, and those we have chosen to weave in continuously through life.
They give you a sense of self. They are the proof that you are you; you are here, you are something to someone, and you are a melody in someone’s life’s music.
I remember the light filtering through the grilled window, gliding over the marble tiles, where stones of different shapes and sizes—black, pink, and gold—were lodged within each large slab. I marveled at their uniqueness as I lay on the cool marble, letting it draw the day’s heat from my body.
Despite their individuality, they were all connected within the larger marbles that came together to form the floor of my tiny house.
I remember the rustle of willow leaves in the wind, bending over, caressing the shimmering lake under the relentless sun. The heat burned my skin, the damp clung to it, unsoothing. I remember the smell of the asphalt after a brief rainstorm, and the fog hanging low in the surrounding mountain range, like a blanket fort in bed.
The wind carried the clouds; they fell as rain, filling the lake, and the heat lifted it all back into the sky. Everything was connected. And the little girl could only marvel at each turn of nature’s wonder.
I remember the rumble of the train and the hard wooden bench beneath me, rocking gently left and right like a cradle. The train chugged through the countryside, the engine roaring past paddy fields and coconut trees. The wind whistled through the half-open windows, which slid neither up nor down. I remember two French men sitting across the aisle from us, looking as out of place as we were.
Why were we seated here together among the locals in this long train, rolling through Myanmar? Did the ticket seller plan it? Was it a coincidence? We would never know. But for that time in that contained carriage, we were connected—plunging toward the same destination.
I remember zipping down my tiny tent perched on the precipice of Drakensberg, and being greeted in awe by a stretch of purple, pink, blue, and gold swirls splashed across the black sky—the Milky Way. I remember dragging my sleeping bag out into the open—the same one that had gone up to the highest pass in Nepal and back with me—searching for a flat rock to lay it on. I remember lying in there, snug, the rocks pinching my back, my heart held warm with the wonder above me.
I was propelled across time and space, back to before existence and far forward beyond it. We are but one pulse in this vast universe. We are part of this fabric of what we call reality. We are connected to this network of life, of energy—the cosmos.
“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” - Carl Sagan.
I remember my son flailing his slender newborn arms, his mouth pecking blindly against my breasts, searching for the source of milk. The warmth of his skin on mine, the slow rise and fall of his breath, the sudden twitch of his legs. I remember his face after feeding, eyes barely open, the lips curved faintly in imitation of a smile.
I held him close and wondered, have I been here before? Was I the mother or the child? We are connected.
I remember my father lying on the bed, looking frailer than I have ever known him; the COVID year had not been easy on him. His cheeks were sunken, his neck unnaturally long, his eyebrows casting shadows over his dark, hollow eyes. I held his arm, the green and purple veins visible through his thin skin, branching like roots. Words piled up like a derailed train in my throat. None came.
After the long struggle to bring him home, the time for him to leave had come. I remember his body lying there, softly visible in the dim orange light of the room, giving no more sign of life, as I checked on him one last time before leaving the room to tell everyone.
Connected Essays
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What a beautiful concept, jyun fan, I don't think there's on word in English or in my native language that describes connection so beautifully. Thanks for sharing that with us!
So beautiful, Rachel. Your words are so calming ❤️