An Interconnected Web.

Captured on my early morning run.

I haven’t had many words to share here because life has been heavy and my journal pages have been a safer landing place for the myriad of thoughts I’ve been having. As an Asian-American, the past few weeks have left most of us riding a rollercoaster of emotions surrounding our identity, our nation, our belonging (or lack thereof), as we navigate the current seas of racism, hate crimes, and violence.

I was one of the few Asian Americans in my elementary school. In high school, there were very few Asians on the swim team (most played tennis and badminton), so I prided myself on belonging within a circle of Caucasians. I went out of my way to prove I was just like them. I blasted country music from my car while sitting at stoplights. I chose to eat Starbursts over rice crackers. In retrospect, I wanted to change the narrative surrounding Asians from people who smell like mothballs and eat pig’s feet to someone just like us who hates early morning swim practice and makes corny jokes and eats Poptarts and likes Shania Twain. I wanted them to like me, and in turn, accept and approve of Asians in general.

I’ve spent this past month taking a writing class on poetry and observational studies in nature. We studied line, color, form, and plant morphology in nature and transferred them to our writing. It is by intimately knowing something that we can respect it and reciprocate love. By identifying plant species and learning their specific names, I developed a kinship and an appreciation for them. Now when I’m on the trail I can properly identify Miner’s Lettuce, Dandelion, Stinging Nettle, and Marrow.

For some, these plants are classified as ‘weeds’ growing on the side of the road. But through my deeper studies and education surrounding the plant world and plant medicine, I recognize that each has deep, medicinal and healing qualities that can treat skin infections, acne, eczema, hair loss, anxiety, and liver disorders.

To some, Asian Americans are weeds. A nuisance. Threatening the American dream. Growing recklessly on the side of the road, a menace to the well-manicured landscaped garden of white America.

Am I a Jap?

Or an American?

Is it a weed?

Or an herb that can heal your ailments?

When you take the time to get to really know something- whether it’s a plant or a human being- you begin to recognize that everything and everyone has inherent value and beauty and something to contribute to this planet.

To my AAPI friends and colleagues, keep growing. Some will see you as a weed, while others will know you and appreciate you as kin. It’s not your job to convince them. Those who truly matter understand we are all interconnected. We are all one.

The Magic of Physical Togetherness.

When I walked back inside, I was smiling ear to ear. I felt lighter and energized and joyful. Texting is a great way to stay connected on the surface, but it doesn’t replace the depth that one feels when sitting in a circle with other human beings. We evolved from tribal communities where we’d sit around campfires, singing and sharing food while looking each other in the eyes.

Would this moment have happened without the pandemic? Not likely. We were all craving this part of life that had been stripped away. Honoring the truth that has stood the test of time- we need connection. We long to be in relationship. Seen. Heard. To belong to something or someone, without a screen between us.

February Highlights.

Two weeks ago after a disappointing and difficult interaction, I could feel bitterness and resentment boiling up inside of me. I teach this concept that emotions need motion- a simple and effective way to process and release negative or tense emotions is through movement. So I laced up my shoes and forced myself outside to take a walk in the sunshine. The fastest way to pull myself out of a self-pitying, depressive slump is to overhaul my brain to focus on gratitude. It sounds so trite. But it works. I made my way through the neighborhood, noticing the new cherry blossoms and magenta magnolias announcing spring. The tiny daffodils and rose bushes blooming. My scowl softened. I continued to walk and remembered. Remembered when I wanted all the things I currently have. A job that is so extremely fulfilling and collaborative and creative and helps people. A place to live that is quiet and has amazing light for my plants. Inner peace! Mentors and teachers who inspire me in my art, meditation, and writing practice.

“Excuse me!”

My thoughts were interrupted by an older woman with salt and pepper hair walking her labradoodle across the street. I looked up.

“I just wanted to tell you that you are so beautiful!”

I was caught off guard and placed my hand on my heart. “Thank you!”

Gratitude had transformed my entire being. Today’s art stemmed from an overflow of gratitude as I recalled all the big and small delights from this month. It’s a great practice. A practice- meaning something we intentionally choose to do. A practice- meaning it’s something that doesn’t necessarily come naturally. A practice that over time, changes everything we see into a generous and beautiful gift.

My Teacher, My Trail.

“Do not believe that he who seeks to comfort you lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good. His life has much difficulty and sadness and remains far behind yours. Were it otherwise he would never have been able to find those words.””

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

It came at 6:03am Friday morning. My eyes were sleepy when I opened up my email and read the news. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of shock, numbness, grief, and anger at the unfairness of it all- is there one word that encapsulates those feelings?

“This is not a death sentence and I am not dying,” he wrote. Bullshit, I thought. We are all dying. Our bodies are mortal. They break down. We heal and break down and heal and break down until one day we breathe our last breath.

I cringed at the thought that he was physically and mentally suffering from his recent diagnosis, yet hid it so well each week to sit with me for an hour as my teacher, my mentor- catering to my needs and my concerns. Rilke’s words rang true when the truth of his diagnosis emerged in that email.

And yet. The gifts he often spoke to me about- the gifts layered in the pain, the grief, the upheaval - how else could he speak so poignantly about acceptance and suffering without knowing it firsthand himself?

The meditation cushion was our common ground. Our sanctuary. A rejuvenating, clarifying torture that cracked me open and slowed me down enough to come back into my body. Feel my breath. Observe all the manic thoughts that danced around- my to-do list, who I needed to call back, that illustration I wanted to finish, remembering I needed to schedule my eye appointment. To watch those thoughts jostle inside my monkey mind, and lovingly come back to the breath. Without self-judgement. Without drama.

He asked for us to not reply to the email. To respect his need for solitude and rest.

Today I went to the trail to immerse myself in the healing sanctuary of nature. To send him loving intentions with each step, with each breath. To honor what he’s taught me.

And it was there on the trail that I met him.

I sighed a long exhale when I reached this signpost. Yes. This is what he has taught me. How to access that sacred, quiet place where thoughts cease to exist- the Void body.

This practice will guide us through the grief of losing him, and others we love, when that time comes. This practice has nurtured my own growth and self-awareness, guided me through working with difficult patients, introduced me to new friendships, and continues to rescue me from falling into old unhealthy patterns.

And it will guide me through to my own last breath.

“I am not dying.”

Yes.

You are teaching us how to live.

How Are You, Really?

I found myself texting, “How are you?” to a friend I haven’t talked to in awhile. Immediately, I tapped my cursor and held the delete button down long enough to erase that oversimplified, broad, and generic question. Usually we get the response, “Good, but busy,” only to have them throw the ball back to us and ask, “How are you doing?”

In his article “The Disease of Being Busy,” Omid Safi writes,

In many Muslim cultures, when you want to ask them how they’re doing, you ask: in Arabic, Kayf haal-ik? or, in Persian, Haal-e shomaa chetoreh? How is your haal?

What is this haal that you inquire about? It is the transient state of one’s heart. In reality, we ask, “How is your heart doing at this very moment, at this breath?” When I ask, “How are you?” that is really what I want to know.

I am not asking how many items are on your to-do list, nor asking how many items are in your inbox. I want to know how your heart is doing, at this very moment. Tell me. Tell me your heart is joyous, tell me your heart is aching, tell me your heart is sad, tell me your heart craves a human touch. Examine your own heart, explore your soul, and then tell me something about your heart and your soul.

2020 taught us to not take anything for granted. Hugs, travel, dining inside restaurants, concerts, carpooling, visiting loved ones in the hospital. Time is finite. So let’s not waste this opportunity talking about the weather. I want to hear about how it felt to say goodbye to your mother who lives in Bali over WhatsApp and the heartbreak you felt watching her funeral on Zoom. I want to know what it’s like to homeschool two kids while going through a divorce, and how you find the strength to wake up every morning in the midst of such emotional and physical fatigue. I want to hear about how magical it was to birth a baby in the middle of pandemic and hold her in your arms after two heart-wrenching miscarriages, or what it means to be the primary caregiver for your father with pancreatic cancer, or what it feels like to be in your body in your life at this exact moment.

If we can pierce through the minutiae and superficial, we can finally begin to touch down on all that is real, all that is pure, and all that it means to be human.

How is your haal?

An Open Letter To the Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Chapstick.

Frankly, I’m a bit embarrassed. I didn’t realize I had so many tampons stored in my glove compartment. I admit, you threw me for a loop, having just sent my friend an enthusiastic “Leaving now!” text and excitedly rolling out my suitcase to my car, sleeping bag and pillow in my other arm, only to find out that you’d been there before me. All doors left slightly ajar with the contents of my center console and glove compartment scattered on the ground and passenger’s seat. I felt discombobulated and violated- my car had been turned inside out without my permission. Maps of California and Oregon that my mom insisted I carry, despite me telling her I’d never use them because I had google maps. The $2.99 yellow rain poncho gifted to me from a friend after a rainy forest hike where I got drenched. My annual San Mateo county parks pass I’d received in the mail just the day before. Old swimming workouts written on lined paper in Ziploc bags that made me miss the pool.

I carefully placed the contents of my car strewn about the cold concrete back into their place- the Ceravie lotion, my Advil container, a stick of concealer and eyeliner for emergency touch-ups after late nights. After scanning everything, I realized you needed my car charger, phone mount, and the Ann Taylor sunglasses my sister had gifted me the Christmas of 2018- the ones that made me feel so chic and stylish, and also…my chapstick.

Driving to my friend’s house, I played Jahnavi Harrison’s song “Hari Om: May All Be Blessed.” On repeat. Until my breath slowed and my nerves calmed down and I could think straight. I sang along with it, again and again, reveling in the calm piano sequence and praying that prayer. I sent you blessings, too. May you be blessed, in whatever difficult situation you’re in.

I thought of you as we hitched up the brand new Airstream to the SUV, hooking the heavy metal chains in an ‘X’ and connected the metal swaybars and attached the pins, plugging in the lights and attaching the trailer mirrors. How this was something that maybe you’d never get to experience if you were struggling to meet your basic needs. You came to mind later that evening when we set up camp and arranged wood and kindling and leaves into our fire pit. Have you ever sat in front of a campfire and watched the kindling and oak leaves burn and turn a fiery orange as they disappear into the night sky? Or looked up into the dark sky long enough for your eyes to adjust, revealing a thousand more stars?

I thought of you as I felt the damp and dark coolness climbing inside of rock formations and the heat and elevation while propelling myself up steep stairs etched into the mountain. While cresting the ridgeline and admiring condors circle gracefully above. How this was a delight you hadn’t experienced if you needed to creep around at 4:35 am to gather the random contents from a stranger’s car. You came to mind as I was enjoying the sound system inside the Airstream, in between Taylor Swift and Phoebe Bridgers songs, and in the middle of the night when the heater kicked on while I was inside of my toasty sleeping bag. Were you warm too?

Thank you for reminding me of my privilege and how much I have in comparison to certain individuals. For showing me that items are easily replaceable, and that experiences and memories are what matter the most to me. Thank you for leaving my lined notebook unharmed and unscathed- it had some poems and ideas that are meaningful to me that I would’ve missed.

I wish you well. Hari Om- may all be blessed, including you. And last but not least, I hope you enjoy and use my chapstick. The peppermint tingle is delightful, isn’t it?

Reciprocity.

““Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond.””

— Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

In some Native languages the term for plants translates to “those who take care of us.”

When we begin to redefine our relationship to the land, to the earth, to nature from one that collects and extracts and commodifies to one that reciprocates and gives back and respects the intelligence of living plants and their consciousness, this is when true reformation and healing occurs.

No-Bake Adaptogen Energy Bites.

Adaptogens are remarkable nontoxic herbs that help the body restore balance and adapt to stress. They work essentially by shielding us against acute and chronic stress and help normalize the endocrine and immune system. They have a balancing capacity that is bidirectional- meaning the plants’ medicinal qualities will help the body regain homeostasis. For example, someone who is experiencing physical exhaustion might report ashwagandha root as energizing, where someone who is in adrenal overdrive might experience a calming effect from it. Adaptogens help balance the body in the areas it needs.

Enjoy these easy no-bake energy bites that contain medicinal and healing adaptogens as a snack or mid-day treat.

INGREDIENTS:

• 3/4 cup raw and shelled pistachios

• 3/4 cup raw cashews

• 15-20 pitted medjool dates

• 2 tsp vanilla extract

• 1/8 tsp sea salt

• 1 tsp maca powder

• 1 tsp ashwagandha powder

• 1 tsp reishi powder

DIRECTIONS:

1. Pulse the nuts in a food processor.

2. Add the medjool dates, vanilla extract, sea salt and adaptogens.

3. Blend together until everything is well-mixed into a dough-like consistency.

4. Form into balls.

5. Store in a covered container in the fridge for up to 4 days, or place in the freezer (my favorite!)

6. Enjoy!

Friendship As Told With Rocks.

I was reflecting on this particular question yesterday- “How is my life better this year than it was on January 1, 2020?” Immediately, my relationships came to mind. 2020 was the great filter for helping me identify the unnecessary, largely superficial interactions that seemingly took up so much energy and time and left me feeling more drained than filled. Remember elementary school? We had to be ‘friends’ with everyone- we were contained in a small microcosm of 30 kids where one wrong move could cost you an invitation to Sarah’s birthday party. The party that always had a piñata and party bags with laffy taffy and plastic slinkies. You couldn’t escape certain people because there was a chance you’d be paired up with them for a reading exercise, or you’d have to stand next to them in the lunch line. But the rules are different in adulthood. You get to choose who you spend time with. You determine who you clear your calendar for and who you decide not to text back.

In 2020, the relationships that mattered were solidified and prioritized. Conversations were deeper and more meaningful. Even though we physically saw each other much less, we could reach out when either of us was struggling. It was reciprocal and built on trust and integrity. In my most challenging moments, my friends consistently supported me with words of encouragement, cards, texts, care packages, and phone calls.

When we are in pain, it’s natural to isolate. But nothing ever heals from a place of hatred. It’s only when we begin to love ourselves and accept our circumstances with self-compassion when the healing can truly begin.

We don’t need more likes or comments. We need real friends. The ones who care for us will stay until we soften. They are unwavering and gentle. In our vulnerability, healing takes place when we are met with compassion, tenderness, and unconditional love.

Who in your life can you support? Who can you love better so they can begin to see themselves through your lens of unconditional love?

Sacred Nature.

Purisma Creek Redwoods Preserve

“The world is not a problem to be solved; it is a living being to which we belong. The world is part of our own self and we are a part of its suffering wholeness. Until we go to the root of our image of separateness, there can be no healing. And the deepest part of our separateness from creation lies in our forgetfulness of its sacred nature, which is also our own sacred nature.”

— Thích Nhất Hạnh, Spiritual Ecology: The Cry of the Earth

What We Can Learn From Elephants.

Today’s art is brought to you by my newly harvested oyster mushrooms.

Elephants show us how there’s so MUSHROOM for improvement in how we function as a society. Elephants teach us that you can be big and powerful and also be gentle, empathic, and compassionate. By communicating through infrasonic vibrations, the wise matriarch keeps the herd cohesive and focused on working towards a common goal. They are loyal to each other, and because of this trust and love, they cooperate well as a team. The matriarch leads in a way that is protective, nurturing, and inclusive. Elephants are the strongest land mammal on earth. And they only eat plants. The matriarch elephant exemplifies what solid leadership looks like in how they serve, uphold, unite, and protect their entire community.

Day 1, after soaking the substrate overnight in water.

Day 7. Spraying them with water twice a day (and playing them classical music to support their growth!)

Day 10. Harvest time!

Tending to these mushrooms twice a day despite the chaos of everything happening in the world was also a way to check in with myself:
-Am I breathing deeply?
-Am I well hydrated?
-Feeding my body nutrient-rich foods?
-Balancing light with darkness (deep sleep)?
-Grounding and connecting with nature?

I never expected that growing mushrooms would also serve as a mode of self-care. Watching these double in size daily was a tangible reminder that what we feed, grows.

Hope you’re tending and taking care of yourself in deep, nourishing ways. Take an epsom salt bath. Walk barefoot and co-regulate your nervous system with the earth’s. Sing. Spend time in nature. Self-massage. Diffuse essential oils. Dance. Cold plunges/showers. Deeply nourish your body vessel with nutrient-dense food, herbs, nervines and adaptogens. Deep abdominal breathing. Play and laugh. Write in a journal. Make art.

Sending you all light and love.