The Day I Fell in Love—With Poetry (and Maybe Myself)

There’s a small tea shop in my old Beijing neighborhood, shrouded in wisteria and mystery. Inside, its walls are papered with poems scribbled on napkins, receipts, whatever the patrons had at hand. Some were works of brilliance (or heartbreak), others the kind of drunken ramblings you wish to forget by sunrise. But the moment I walked in there as a teenager, those fluttering verses whispering from the walls, I felt something stir in me—a sense that words could hold joy.

Fast forward to my university years. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I had been tasked with translating a Li Bai poem for an assignment. The poem itself was simple but haunting: a traveler gazing up at the moon, caught between longing for home and marveling at its beauty. I had read it a dozen times before, but this time, something odd happened. As I worked on finding the perfect phrase in English, searching for a way to balance its poignancy and playfulness, I felt giddy. Like dance-around-the-room-in-pajamas-to-a-Mandy-Moore-ballad giddy. For the first time, it wasn’t just about getting a grade or impressing my professor—it was pure, unfiltered joy.

Here’s what struck me: the joy wasn’t so much in the final translation but in the act of doing it. It felt creative. Liberating. Beautiful. And oddly enough, kind of like romance.

Section One: Finding Joy in the Messy Middle

In love and life, we tend to hyperfocus on the outcome. Did the date end with a kiss? Is this relationship “going somewhere”? Did I land my career-defining promotion? This kind of results-driven thinking isn't just exhausting; it can sneakily rob us of all the smaller moments where happiness is actually hiding.

That Sunday afternoon with Li Bai wasn’t groundbreaking in the traditional sense. No one handed me a medal for my translation (though I did reward myself with a suspiciously overpriced bubble tea). Still, it reminded me that it’s okay to love the messy middle—the process. In relationships, that could mean savoring the awkward silences on a first date or laughing at your inability to assemble IKEA furniture together. In life, it’s allowing yourself to feel the spark of something—even if the destination isn’t fully clear yet.

Let me break it down:

  • You don’t have to be good at something to find joy in it. My early attempts at translating poetry were, shall we say, inventive. Much like trying to flirt in a second language, the results weren’t always elegant, but they were mine.

  • Joy rarely arrives with fireworks. Instead, it sneaks in quietly through productivity playlists, flecks of sunlight in your favorite café, or a casual conversation when you’re not expecting magic.

  • Uncertainty doesn’t kill joy. In fact, it sometimes makes it sweeter. Translating poetry, like love, is fraught with ambiguity, and finding happiness doesn’t always mean you’ve “solved” it. More often than not, it’s realizing you don’t have to.

Section Two: The Romance of Rediscovery

Later, when I lived in New York, that joy snuck up on me again in an entirely new context. Surrounded by skyscrapers and subway delays, I started drafting the first chapters of a romance novel. It was set in Tang Dynasty China, but the main character’s clumsy flirting and overthinking bore an uncanny resemblance to, well, me. (Art imitates life and all that.)

It was during that phase—juggling essays and chapters, eating questionable bodega sandwiches between deadlines—that I came to another epiphany. Joy isn’t linear. You don’t find it, bottle it up, and hoard it for eternity. You rediscover it again and again, each time a little differently. Translating Li Bai didn’t replace my love for writing fiction—it layered onto it, like a rich tapestry of experiences. I wonder if that’s also how relationships evolve, with passions coexisting rather than competing.

Take this as your permission slip to fall in love with something (or someone) more than once, in big ways and small. Here’s how:

  • Switch things up. If you're overthinking a problem, try approaching it sideways. Sometimes writing a haiku about love is easier than dissecting it directly. Sometimes switching from coffee to tea does the trick.

  • Let contradictions coexist. Who says you can’t draft a historical romance while binging “Love is Blind”? Or be introverted yet crave connection? The best things (and people) in life are deliciously complex.

  • Rewrite your narrative. If at first you don’t succeed, write another draft. Translations, after all, rarely get it right on the first attempt.

Section Three: Practical Joy for the Pragmatic Romantic

Although writing and translating brought me joy, not every day was a Hallmark card. There were missteps—accidentally translating a flower metaphor into something vaguely risqué, falling headfirst into a literary rabbit hole (too much Wikipedia is a thing), or burning my dumplings while trying to multitask. But through these blunders, I discovered something practical about joy: it’s just as much about perspective as it is about experiences. Maybe even more so.

Here are a few bite-sized takeaways for anyone chasing joy in their relationships—or even just in themselves:

  1. Give yourself permission to be bad at something. Love, creativity, cooking—it doesn’t matter. The only real failure is not letting yourself try.

  2. Seek inspiration, not competition. Comparing my early translations to professional works was an exercise in despair. Instead, I treated them as sources of inspiration—just like how I’d admire a friend’s relationship without using it as a measuring stick for my own.

  3. Celebrate small wins. You defined a challenging word, navigated office politics, or survived a third date without stammering uncontrollably—win. Life isn’t an Oscars reel; it’s the napkin sketches in between.

Conclusion: An Invitation to Choose Joy

The first time I felt joy while translating Li Bai’s poem wasn’t just a moment; it was a reminder. Too often, we condition happiness: “I’ll be happy if...” or “I’ll find joy when...” But joy doesn’t demand conditions—it thrives in the cracks of uncertainty, as long as you’re willing to notice it.

In love, joy shows itself when you’re cracking up over an inside joke, lighting up at a smile, or even savoring the weird comfort of post-argument silence. In life, it’s in every tiny moment where you step back, take a breath, and say, “Ah, so this is it.”

So maybe the question isn’t, “When will I feel joy?” Maybe it’s, “Am I allowing room for it, right here, right now?”

Whether you’re translating a love letter into actions or just trying to figure out why your dumplings are soggy (seriously, send help), buckle up and enjoy the process. You’re doing just fine.

After all, the messy middle is where all the poetry happens.