My foray into rural life began when I was scrolling through Instagram. A Bright Place offered a window into an unhurried world, brimming with heartfelt reflections and dreamy photographs of life in a small mountain village in Yunnan, China. “...Surrounded by gentle mountains that shift with the seasons, I wish for you to unload what burdens your heart, even just for a while,” Ting Wang, author and owner of the account, wrote. “If you prefer quietness over crowds, enjoy peaceful company and genuine conversations, and if you love unrushed, intuitive activities, welcome to my humble space.” 

Wang, a Shenzhen native, had lived in Singapore for over 20 years. Like many children in the city, she spent her childhood at school, shopping malls, restaurants and theme parks. As she grew older, new possibilities shimmered tantalisingly; to learn pottery in Taiwan or to move to Portugal. Mirages, all. By the time she was in her 30s, Wang had found love, marriage, a mortgage, a wedding photography business—a stable life; predictable and quotidian. Then came the Covid-19 pandemic. Work dried up, allowing Wang to explore other artistic pursuits. A chance encounter with a Chinese dyer opened a new path; he agreed to share his craft in exchange for photographs of his journey and the dyeing process. 

In 2021, Wang bought a one-way ticket to Shaxi, a town located between Yunnan’s more famous cities of Dali and Lijiang. Surrounded by picturesque landscapes, she was soon captivated by the vibrant colours and textures of natural dyeing. Three months passed but she felt a calling to stay, finally making the hardest decision of her life: to trade her comfortable existence in Singapore for a life more deeply connected to nature but filled with uncertainty and challenges. At 38, her website says, she left behind “a comfortable life, a sustainable photography business, a stable 6-year marriage, a peaceful house of our own; last but not least, everything I was familiar with and in-love with.” With her life savings, she built a two-storey home on a rented plot of land in the village. In contrast to Singapore, life there lacked modern conveniences, technology, work opportunities and entertainment options.

I learnt of Wang’s journey during a period when the constant pressure of rent and the uncertainty of freelancing forced me to take on as many as 10 gigs at a time. I raced to answer messages and e-mails, coordinate meetings, busy myself with finding new leads—always striving to do more, to stay productive. My Google Calendar was a Tetris block of colour-coded deadlines and to-do lists, stacked on a packed social agenda. Life in the digital world moved at a frantic pace. It was a difficult time for me, taking on more work to distract myself from mental health struggles, but then feeling hemmed in by the pressure of juggling assignments. 

Wang’s space seemed restorative and healing.

After corresponding for nearly a year, I found myself outside Wang’s home in late October 2023, her first guest from Singapore. She had started hosting slow living retreats, and it became my first experience with one. To fly to a new destination and remain in one place seemed contrary to my idea of travel. But here I was. Wang’s youthful appearance was striking, although she seemed to carry a weight that hinted at having withstood tough experiences. Her gentle energy was calming, and everything she did—slow, careful, and precise—reflected her thoughtful approach to life. Stepping into her house, I was surprised by the mix of modern and traditional features. It had a courtyard with a wild pine tree sourced from the mountains, pine wood interiors, and full-length glass panels that reflected the sky. The second floor included a cosy bedroom, an outdoor deck, and a spacious tearoom with a long table made from walnut wood, fronted with windows that opened to face the surrounding mountains.

If the town Shaxi sounds familiar, that’s because it’s featured in the hit Chinese television drama series 去有风的地方 (“Meet Yourself”). After her best friend’s tragic death, career-oriented Xu Hongdou (played by Liu Yifei) leaves her hotel job in the city to live in a village, where she discovers a meaningful life. Unlike its chic Shanghai cousin, big brother Beijing, and powerhouse relatives in industrial Guangdong, Yunnan feels like the family maverick who rejects convention and does their own thing. The southwestern province exists in a separate time and space, distinct from the rest of China. It draws wanderers, non-conformists, Chinese creatives and foreign backpackers in search of utopia. Nestled within rolling green mountains, the Shaxi valley is filled with bucolic farms and pastoral villages. People move at a laidback pace, content with the wildflowers, fruits, mushrooms and tea forests that the hills provide in abundance. 

Halfway through my 10-day stay, I woke later than usual, feeling an unusual chill. Outside, the sky was cloudy and misty, so I snuggled in bed a little longer. Wang told me that October 23rd marks the beginning of 霜降 (frost’s descent). “In winter, you naturally want to sleep more and become reserved. Don’t blame yourself for not being very active,” she assured. By observing Wang, I saw how each activity done with full awareness became a form of meditation. I understood what it was like to slow down and be present; to appreciate the ordinary moments, without the rush, shopping malls and mindless scrolling of social media. I awoke to crisp mountain air, was nourished by healthy, home-cooked meals, and engaged in leisurely conversations and reflection. I spent my days taking early morning walks with Wang’s dogs—奇奇 (“Kiki”) and 黑小猪 (“Black Piglet”), writing in the tearoom, and listening to the river and birdsong while skipping stones. I even started my first fire, and was aglow with ineffable satisfaction when it crackled to life. What would life be like in Singapore if people embraced slowing down and hibernating?

Wang has a dyeing studio and an online shop selling one-of-a-kind wearable pieces and home décor items awash with nature’s colours. She uses indigo from fermented indigo plants, deep amber from unripe persimmons, and materials like bark and leaves from eucalyptus, Chinese rhubarb, black bean, pomegranate shells, walnut shells, sappanwood, and black tea. The pieces are primarily dyed on handwoven cotton, grass linen (ramie), wool and silk.