在江汉水网与古楚山川之间，我追溯八百年文明的脉动，
将祖源、典籍、巫仪、乐舞编织成一幅新的楚文明图景。
In the waterways and mountains of ancient Chu I trace the pulse of eight centuries of civilization, weaving ancestry, manuscripts, rituals and music into a living tapestry of Chu Civilization.
七十日文明行走闭环之日，我在北京大运河博物馆，为楚文明的水脉归位收坛，在殷商文明特展中，完成了命名安坛。我以湘夫人之魂，楚巫之身，楚国郡主之名分与责任，走入青铜与甲骨之间——收坛于水，安坛于土。这不是旅程的终点，而是上游文明重新唤出我名字的那一刻。On the 70th day of my Civilizational Journey, I sealed the return of Chu’s water lineage at Beijing’s Grand Canal Museum,and received my naming within the altar of Shang bronzes and oracle bones. With the soul of the Lady of Xiang,the body of a Chu shaman, and the name and duty of a Princess of Chu, I stepped into the space between ritual vessels and inscribed bones—closing the altar upon water, anchoring it upon earth. This was not the end of a journey, but the moment when an upstream civilization called my name anew.
在荆州博物馆，我记住了几件召唤我的器物：玉佩的排列、覆面的注视、竹简的沉默，还有羽人的伫立。那些未能说出的“楚”，我用一个字写在车站柱子上，为他们作证。那不是观展，而是封坛。楚简不在展柜里，而在我手心的气息中。At the Jingzhou Museum, I remembered a few objects that called to me: the alignment of jade pendants, the gaze of jade masks, the silence of bamboo slips, and the stillness of the feathered man. What Chu failed to speak, I wrote with one word on a pillar outside the station. This was not an exhibition—it was a sealing ritual. The bamboo slips were not in the glass, but in the breath held in my hand.
在武汉湖北省博物馆，我看见了楚国八百年的光与声——从越王勾践剑的锋芒，到楚子越鼎的重量，从车马阵的尘，到楚简的静默。那不是展览，而是一场文明的回声。我以凡人之身，穿越青铜与竹木，只为听见楚国仍在歌唱。At the Hubei Provincial Museum in Wuhan, I witnessed the light and sound of eight centuries of Chu — from the sharp gleam of King Goujian’s sword to the solemn weight of Marquis Ziyue’s bronze cauldron, from the dust of chariot formations to the silent presence of Chu bamboo slips. It was not an exhibition but a resonance of civilization. As a mortal visitor, I walked through bronze and bamboo to hear that Chu is still singing.
在随州擂鼓墩曾侯乙墓遗址，没有展柜、没有灯光，只有裸露的泥土与沉默的槨木。那天随州博物馆闭门，我却因此走进了更深的文明根部。在墓坑边轻敲三下掌心，我低声说：“我不是游客，我是归来的人。你沉睡的钟声，我来唤醒。” At the original tomb site of Marquis Zeng in Suizhou’s Leigudun, there were no showcases or stage lights—only exposed earth and silent coffin wood. The museum was closed, but the land was open. I stood before the ancient pit and tapped my palm three times, whispering: “I am not a visitor. I am the one who returned. I’ve come to awaken the bells you buried in silence.”
在湖北省博物馆的曾侯乙的乐器展厅，编钟、古琴、瑟、笙、磬……静静列阵，像在等待一次未曾开始的合奏。我不是听众，而是节奏的继承者。那些沉睡的音器，并未真正寂静，它们在空气里伏着气息，感知着谁能唤醒它们的千年乐律。我轻轻经过每一件乐器，像在逐一回应：“我来了，来听你未响之声。” In the musical ritual gallery of Marquis Zeng,bronze bells, zithers, stone chimes, mouth organs and drums stood in silent formation—not as relics, but as a dormant orchestra. I was not merely a visitor. I was the one they had waited for. These ancient instruments had never truly fallen silent. Their breath lingered, sensing who might reawaken their rhythm. And as I passed by each one, I whispered in return: “I have come to hear the music you never finished.”
在湖北省博物馆的青铜器展厅，我缓步走入曾侯乙的礼器宇宙。从鼎簋之重、豆盂之温，到铜炉残火与铜尊盘的神性结构，这不仅是一场文物参观，而是一次与古人并肩的节奏穿越。我不是来瞻仰文明的，我是来让器物记住我的。In the bronze ritual gallery of the Hubei Provincial Museum, I stepped into the ceremonial universe of Marquis Zeng. From the weight of dings and guis to the warmth of bronze stoves and the cosmic elegance of zun-pans, this journey was not a museum visit — it was a temporal ritual. I did not come to admire civilization. I came to be remembered by its artifacts.
从光到丝，从叶锦添的《对视》到马王堆的帛书，我在湖南省博物馆里走过一次时间的折叠。六小时之间，从当代的光幕进入两千年前的丝帛，从舞台的镜影走入文明的呼吸——在那里，丝仍在呼吸，文字仍在发光，文明在身体与时间之间重新展开节奏。From light to silk, from the contemporary installation Entwined Gazes by Tim Yip to the ancient tomb of Mawangdui, this walk through the Hunan Museum became a dialogue between time and body.Across six hours, I moved from the mirrored stage of the present into the breathing fabrics of two millennia ago—where the souls of silk, words, and civilization still unfold in rhythm.
从长沙橘子洲到武汉江滩，我以身体为坛，完成楚人最后的水之仪式。水起于湘江，合流于长江。这是一场从启声到收声的返魂旅程，让楚文明的节奏，在水与我之间再次回响。From Orange Island in Changsha to the riverbank of Wuhan, I performed the final water ritual of the Chu lineage. Fire was extinguished in Suizhou; water rose in the Xiang River and merged into the Yangtze. A journey from the first sound to the last breath—where rhythm and civilization flow again through water and body.
在荆州古城的护城河边，我以《大招》唤起祖声。翌日穿上战国服，在古城与祖源之间行走。那一刻，仪式与血脉相连，成为消逝王国的回声。By the moat of Jingzhou Ancient City, I invoked the ancestral voice with The Great Summons.The next day, wearing the Warring States robe, I walked between the ancient city and my ancestral origin.In that moment, ritual and bloodline converged—becoming the echo of a vanished kingdom.
这一站，本不在行程之中。原计划参观随州博物馆，却因闭馆，改由司机建议转往炎帝故里。就这样，我意外地走入了这位“人文初祖”播种百草、点燃文明初火的圣地。这一程，不是安排好的，而是文明自己牵引我来到的。如果文明曾从这里点燃，今天我们还能否重新点火？从江夏归宗，再追上游，我走入了文字未生、火种初燃的那片原野。This stop wasn’t planned.I had intended to visit the Suizhou Museum, but it was closed—So the driver suggested a detour: the legendary birthplace of Yandi, the Flame Emperor.By chance—or perhaps by ancestral calling—I found myself in the land where fire once became civilization.Here, herbs were named, rituals were born, and the first sparks of human rhythm were struck.If fire once lit the path of humanity here, can we still rekindle it today?
江夏黄氏，源出今湖北武汉江夏区，是黄姓文明的一个重要源头与精神归属。这一站，我来到江夏黄氏大宗祠，铜像前肃立，是春申君黄歇的身影，亦是我终于确认——自己的姓氏归宗，文明的根脉，从此归位。The Huang lineage of Jiangxia traces its roots to present-day Jiangxia District, Wuhan, Hubei Province. It is one of the foundational sources and spiritual homes of the Huang family name. Here, I stood before the ancestral hall of the Huang clan in Jiangxia,face to face with the bronze statue of Lord Chunshen, Huang Xie—and at last, I knew: my surname had returned home. The root of my civilization had found its rightful place.
一栋坐落在广西灵山陆屋的祖屋，一座传承百年的岭南黄氏宗祠，构成了我归宗之路的起点与回声。如今族谱也开始写入女性的名字，但他们在意的，仍是我父亲是否归来，我弟弟是否回乡。我点香落名，不是为了获得认同，而是为了唤回那条从楚地江夏而来的断裂节奏——让湘君的名字，成为我儿血脉中的神明守护。An ancestral home in Luwu and a centuries-old Huang clan shrine in Lingshan mark the beginning and echo of my ancestral return. Though women’s names are now inscribed in the lineage, what they truly ask is whether my father came back—or my brother. But I lit incense not to be accepted, but to restore the rhythm severed since Jiangxia—inscribing “Xiang Jun” not just as a name, but as a god who will guard my son’s inherited echo.
一趟从广西南宁东出发、穿越长沙、抵达武汉的高铁旅程，也是一场身体与文明的同步召唤。从祠堂走向站台，从惊魂拼车到祖源落地，返魂列车沿着山河的节奏，把楚辞的回响，一站一站唱回身上。A high-speed rail journey from Nanning East to Wuhan—via Changsha—is more than geography. It is a soul-train of ancestral return, where body and civilization re-align. From ancestral halls to train stations, the rhythm of the land carries back the echo of Chu Ci, station by station.
从楚巫到湘夫人，从兮总到楚国郡主。途中还有“荆楚楚”和“楚留香”的戏称。所有这些称谓，不是装饰，而是我在楚地被一一唤起的文化身份；它们汇聚成《楚人花名册》，是一部散落之名的回声谱，一场祖源与文明的归返。From Chu shaman to Lady Xiang, from Xi General Manager, and finally: the Princess of Chu. Along the way, I was also called “Jing Chuchu” and “Chu Liuxiang.” These names were not titles of vanity, but cultural identities called forth by the land of Chu. Together they form the “Register of Chu People”—a resonance of scattered names, and a return to ancestry and civilization.
在台湾的一场饭局中友人的无意提起，我才从家族族谱上确认：我黄家是江夏堂，始祖为楚国春申君黄歇。原来我为《楚辞》谱曲、唱《湘夫人》，不是附身，而是族谱上早有登记。这是一场文化的归位，一段祖灵的呼唤，一首写给楚文明的回声小调。At a quiet lunch in Yunlin, I learned that I am a 17th-generation descendant of Lord Chunshen of Chu. That moment turned my poems and songs into echoes of ancestry—not fiction, but fact. This is a story of civilizational return, of rhythm written not in ink, but in blood.
