Around the World in Lantern Light: A Night in Hội An

The little paper boat glowed on the dark water. A tiny candle flame flickered inside. It looked like a floating star. This is a very different kind of light than the bright, dancing colors we saw at the festival in the mountains of Peru. Here, the light is soft. It whispers. All around us, hundreds of lanterns drift down the river, a silent, glittering parade. Welcome to Hội An, in Vietnam. The air smells of smoky incense and a sweet, gingery soup called chè. Old, golden-yellow buildings lean over the narrow streets, their wooden balconies strung with silk lanterns.

Red, yellow, blue, green. A rainbow hanging in the night. We need one of our own. A special one. We walk past bubbling pots of noodle soup called phở, the steam smelling of star anise and cinnamon. We pass vendors with carts piled high with crusty bread for delicious sandwiches called bánh mì. But we are on a mission. We are looking for a story. And then, we see her. An old woman with a kind, wrinkled face, sitting on a tiny stool. She is surrounded by lanterns of every shape imaginable.

There are fish with shimmering scales. Dragons with fierce paper teeth. And there, tucked in the back, is a beautiful lotus flower, its paper petals still closed like a bud. She sees you looking at it. She smiles, a gentle, knowing smile. "That one holds a good wish," she says, her voice like rustling leaves. She tells us that tonight, every lantern carries a wish up to the heavens. She points a finger toward the bright, full moon hanging above us like a giant pearl. "Do you know who lives up there?" she asks, her eyes twinkling.

She tells us the story of a boy named Chú Cuội. He found a magical banyan tree whose leaves could heal any sickness. But he was a bit careless, and one day, the tree began to pull its roots from the ground, ready to float away into the sky. Chú Cuội grabbed the roots, trying to hold the tree down. But the tree was TOO strong. It pulled him up, up, up… all the way to the moon. And he’s still there, sitting under his magical banyan tree, looking down at us. Waiting. We look back at the lotus lantern.

The old woman gently takes it and unfolds its paper petals, one by one. Inside is a small, unlit candle. "The lotus grows from the dark mud at the bottom of the river," she says softly. "But it pushes its way up, toward the sun, to become something beautiful." She hands it to you. It feels as delicate as a butterfly's wing. She strikes a match, and a small, brave flame appears, lighting your face with a warm glow. "Now," she says. "Make your wish. Send your light to Chú Cuội, so he isn't lonely." We carry our glowing flower to the river's edge.

You kneel down, your hands cupping the lantern, protecting its precious flame from the breeze. You place it carefully on the water. It joins the river of floating stars, a constellation of wishes drifting slowly toward the sea. Your light bobs and dances in the darkness. It was just a piece of paper and a tiny flame. But now, it's something MORE. It's a story. It's a hope. Remember the bright woven blankets of the alpacas in Peru? The flash of brilliant color in the festival dance?

This is Vietnam's light. It's quieter. Softer. A single flicker of hope in the dark. Some lights in the world are for celebrating loud and proud. And some… some are for finding your way home. As our little lotus drifts away, we know its light is now a part of us, too. A tiny star we can carry in our hearts, wherever we go. Always.