Without these texts, we might have little understanding of why a petite, middle-aged Chinese doctor from the foothills of the Sierra Nevada (with an unseen and unheard older husband who, in her words, would likely never see the home completed) would buy an address on the coastal highway whose size is better described in vertical feet of drop than square feet of land—or how and why she found us.

One day early on, a story arrived in our inbox from Qing with no explanation. She shared the legend of “Mr. Fool Moves the Mountains,” a Chinese parable from the fourth century BC. It is an oft-repeated tale of perseverance in the face of unimagined odds.

As the story goes, north of the Taihang and Wangwu mountains, a ninety-year-old man named Yu Gong was frustrated that the two mountains isolated his family from the rest of the world, and one day he decided to level the obstacles by opening a road past them directly to Yuzhou. The old man’s family all enthusiastically agreed, except for Yu Gong’s wife: “You don’t even have strength to move a little hill; how can you possibly level mountains?”

Even so, Yu Gong, along with his children and grandchildren, dug away—slowly dragging the stones once a year to the Bohai Sea. A wise old man living by the Yellow River mocked Yu Gong: “You foolish old man, even with all your strength, you can’t move a single corner of the mountain!” Yu Gong sighed: “You will never understand. Even if I die trying, I have my sons, my grandsons, and my great-grandsons; they and theirs will continue the lineage of diggers!”

The guardian spirits of the mountains—awed by the foolish old man’s perseverance—reported the matter to the Heavenly Emperor, who, praising Yu Gong’s spirit, ordered the gods to just carry the two mountains away.

With this parable in mind, we began to understand Qing—and became believers in her quixotic quest. Over the years, more parables and poems would arrive, always unsolicited and unexplained. Slowly, we began to piece together the story of Qing and how she came to us. Her writing inspired and buoyed us. It also somehow expresses everything about why we do what we do.

Qing reflects on the suitcase to the left of this image by the tea ceremony “kang” in her new cottage:

The old suitcase belonged to my grandfather William. He had it when he was studying at the University of Michigan. He was born Hsu Wenliang in 1895 in Shanhaikwan, where the Great Wall meets the sea.

He went to the village school, then to the Methodist missionary school, graduated from Yenching University in Peking where he taught history for four years. Then he came to America for his Masters at the University of Michigan, with advanced work in rural economics and sociology.

Later, it was passed down to my mother, a physician and scientist, who used it during medical school in the 1940s.

After that, my father used it for many years for work and travel, and his name is the one written on it. Now the suitcase is with me, here in my home by the bay.

My grandfather also had a house by the sea. My mother was born and raised by that sea, and in the end, she was laid to rest in its waters. I spent wonderful, happy summers there with my grandfather.

Eventually, the house and the land were taken by the government. My mother did not have enough money to buy anything near her beloved sea. Today, the area is filled with multimillion‑dollar mansions hidden behind high walls.

I now have my own cottage by the sea.