She awoke to the gentle clatter of the bowls and the faint smell of the steam drifting through the cottage. The night had passed like a single blink, and for the first time she could remember, her dreams were not of branches or cold winds, but of warmth. Blinking her round, human eyes against the morning light, she lifted her head from the unfamiliar wooden bed. Across the room, the old man was stirring a small pot, humming softly as though the world had always been this peaceful.

The old man was cooking some sort of weird substance that she didn’t know about - it looked gooey, silky and sticky. She slowly stood up from her bed, and slowly and shyly went to the stove beside the table. As she looked at the weird substance, suddenly it didn’t seem as unfamiliar to her as before - it was rice, but not the grain of rice that she was used to stealing from time to time from humans; it was rice, slowly cooked in water, made to a sticky goo. She never saw rice in such a state: ‘Why would humans do this?’ she thought to herself. 

“Oh, curious? Don’t worry, it’s just rice porridge. It will warm your body, and prepare you for the day.” said the old man to the curious girl. 

The girl then moved away from the stove, and sat back on the bed, with a confused face targeted at the old man. The old man then looked at her, saw the conflicted face and said:

“Right, alright then. Look, you can try it. You can eat it like this.” he said, while putting the porridge into a small wooden bowl, grabbed the chopsticks that he had been using to cook the porridge, and took a small bite, trying to show her that there is nothing to be feared about the porridge. Trying to invite her to breakfast, he pushed the bowl on the other side of the table.

The girl then stood up from the keng bed, curiously then came back to the table, and sat down. However, she sat down quite differently than the old man. The old man, now having prepared himself a bowl of porridge too, sat with his legs crossed under the table, while she, remembering her bird instincts, squatted on the floor and held her feet in a grip, as if the floor was a perch. The old man noticed this, but didn’t judge. It was her that was rather embarrassed about it, noticing how the old man sat, trying to copy his way of sitting - legs under the table, crossed. Alas, it was a bit more comfortable, as now, having no legs in her sight, she could see her bowl of warm porridge much more easily. 

The old man however, having a bad conscience about her want to conform, about her tense body trying to mimic human behaviour, let one knee fall loose, leaning sideways up in ease.

“There’s no single right way to sit,” he said “the body finds its own comfort. What matters is not how you appear, but that you are at ease with yourself. Watch - see? Even I do not sit the same way twice.”

He saw that she felt uncomfortable giving in to her old bird ways and continuing to act on them when she was now human, but at the same time that forcing her to be something that she’s not would also not be the way. She is a human now, of course, there was no question about that, but nobody should tell her how to sit, nobody should force her how to behave, and nobody should force her to not be herself. If she wants to sit in a birdly way, or if she wants to sit in a human way - it should not be a matter of others, and she should not sit as a human for others’ human comfort - she should sit as a human for that is what makes her feel at peace. She should sit as she wants, for the comfort of hers and not others - that is the only way to truly be oneself. 

To mitigate his bad conscience, that’s why he changed his sitting to lift one of his legs up; to show her that there is no one way of sitting, to show her that being a human is not about being what others want her to be, but rather what she wants to be and see in herself. After he lifted his leg up, her tension eased up, her eyes widened, and she repeated him. After making herself sit comfortably, she could not do anything else but smile. It was a smile resembling freedom, ease and peace. 

Having themselves in a comfortable position, they were ready to eat, and eat they did. She bent low, trying to dip her mouth into the bowl as if pecking grain, but the porridge smeared clumsily across her chin. Flustered, she tried to copy the old man’s chopstick movements, only to fumble and drop the rice back with a splatter.

He laughed warmly, not unkindly, and set his chopsticks aside. Scooping a bit of porridge with the side of the bowl itself, he slurped without ceremony.

“Food is meant to be eaten, not performed… There are many paths to the same nourishment. If your way brings the porridge to your mouth, then it is already the right way.” he proclaimed.

And they ate. The girl no longer felt animosity to the porridge, bringing a warmth into her stomach - both because of the food, and because of the warm company. 

As they ate, she still had her wrist fixed to her chest. After they ate, the old man, having noticed the broken wrist, proclaimed in shock: “Oh, sorry about that, little one. I only tried to push you out of the tree to help you, so that you could get the full force of qi.”

The girl, understandably in her non-understanding, once again just tilted her head on the side - as if asking: ‘Why would pushing me out of the tree… help me?’

The old man, in quite a discomfort , then proclaimed: “You see, I used to be a monk. I used to be a member of that temple, engaging in their prayers and rituals. I still go and pray beneath the pagoda tree, but it is out of my own comfort and volition rather than official temple membership…”

The girl, vaguely understanding the human language because of her listening for years, even if not understanding every single word, widened her eyes and nodded in agreement - as if saying: ‘So that is why I saw you so many times on your own.’

The old man continued: “Humans are meant to be tied to nature, tied to their environments, and tied to the windy flow of the universe - that is qi…”

“Many people misunderstand, however - the point of cultivation of qi is not just finding immortality or special powers, it is finding inner peace within yourself, and on top of that, finding your inner self. When you sat on that branch, and you said your vow, you already new about your inner self, you already found yourself, you found your inner human; and so the tree that was sunk in centuries of prayers, filled with qi, made with a Heavenly miracle your wish come true…” he revealed.

The girl just sat there, in shock, with her mouth wide open and gasping. She understood, even if vaguely: if people strongly believe, if people try to change, nature will listen. She was happy and grateful for such a gift from nature, from the Heaven that gave her this miracle, and for this old man to be so wise to try and show her the way to her path, to be right there in the moment and shake the tree... She could only look down and smile, with her teary happy eyes.

But as she looked down, she couldn’t help but notice her broken wrist, and her face changed into a face filled with uncertainty, not really knowing what to do. The old man, noticing this, quickly stood up and tried to find anything that could help her. In a quick step, he moved to the other side of the room where his corner filled with all sorts of stuff were arranged. From the pile in the corner, suddenly as if emerging out of thin air, he found a cloth and some herbs. 

The old man then came to her and tried to slowly take her hand. Understandably, the girl flinched, and took the wrist back into her chest. 

“Don’t you worry, I want to help you.”

The girl then looked at him, with a bit of a concerned face, but easing more steadily. 

“I want to repair what I have broken… Will you allow me?”

The girl looked at the wrist, and then at him. She then eased her left hand into his, her gesture a quiet sign of forgiveness. He then took the herbs onto the broken and swollen side of her wrist, and wrapped them with the cloth.

Suddenly, a flock of birds could be heard outside the window - most likely coming back from their winter trips, for spring was slowly awaking. The girl, very well aware and knowing of the flies and cries of birds, had to quickly look outside the window. But she is a bird no more, she does not have to care about them, and so she looked away, but into the old man’s eyes. She wanted to speak, she wanted to express herself, opening her mouth.

The old man, noticing this, proclaimed: “Speaking is but an expression of yourself - don’t be afraid to be yourself, and you’ll be able to speak.”   

So now proudly, not scared of anything, she opened her mouth, but not words came out, but a voice, more resembling the sound of a caw. Embarrassed and ashamed, she let go of her proud stand, sat down in despair, and tears started flowing on her cheeks. 

The old man sat beside her, wiped her cheeks and said: “Huh, don’t you worry, little bird; words are like feathers. Alone, they drift anywhere. Together, they take shape and fly. Speak as yourself, and they’ll gather naturally.”

But she could not stop. Those words, ‘little bird’, just did not sit with her right, for she was a bird no more.  

The old man, understanding of his mistake, quickly corrected himself: “Then perhaps not a bird. A flower, waiting to bloom."

“T-thank you”, she suddenly said with a shy voice.

To not make the girl uncomfortable, the old man took it for normal, and did not make a big fuss about it. 

“W-what, you, call?” she asked, in stutter. 

“They call me Li Desheng,” he answered.

“W-what, I, call?” she asked, now with less flow of tears.

“Names aren’t chains, they’re seeds. Plant one, and watch who you become.”

But she didn’t want to hear that. Instead, she once again lowered her head. 

“Alright alright, since you asked, I will offer you one to carry with pride. How about Chunhua? For you are like a flower blossomed.”

“Ch-chun-hua” she repeated, with her head down no more.