“candy colored
happiness sunset
bye bye, good luck, be good”
One of the last poems my teacher ever shared with me. Prophetic and profound.
Accountabillabuddies.
I would consider myself to be highly internally motivated when it comes to fitness since I recognize the benefits it has for my mood, energy levels, creativity, and mental health. What I didn’t expect from this April challenge was the added motivation and drive I’ve have on the days when I was tired or emotionally drained because I knew someone else was counting on me to show up and close my rings.
Whether it involves fitness, a creative project, writing a book, or completing a professional endeavor, it’s true- we are better together.
Discernment.
Find a quiet space.
Breathe.
Listen.
Underneath the scared voice is the sacred voice.
Illuminated.
When all eyes are on you, you move and speak and work in a certain way. You conduct yourself with intention, pay attention to details, and behave in a manner that supports the type of person you want to be perceived as. In reality, you are always being watched and noticed. The way you answer the phone or sign emails. How you walk across the room. Your smile. Your handwriting. The tone of your voice. The books you read and the insights you share. How you dress. The art you make or the projects you work on. Everything you do illuminates your heart. Everything is a glimpse inside of who you are. Everything is a diary. You just weren’t aware that everyone was openly reading it.
Rainbow.
Dried calendula petals inspired today’s art.
Usually when you win a goldfish at a carnival, it lasts four, maybe five days. Being jostled around in a plastic bag sealed with a tiny rubber band doesn’t set the stage for a long and healthy life. I won one of these goldfish when I was six. I named her Rainbow. She was the first pet who was all mine. I fed her fish flakes, regularly cleaned her bowl, bought her fresh aquarium plants with sea snails, and talked to her.
On the night of the huge October 1989 earthquake, I returned home from piano lessons, pushed past my dad and raced upstairs screaming, “How is Rainbow? Is she still alive?” My dad called after me, “What about your old man? Aren’t you concerned if I’m ok?” He still jokes about this today.
Rainbow lived for eight years. I loved her, knowing she beat the odds. Some friendships are similar. The ones formed randomly at a Meet Up, while cycling, or sitting next to at a coffee shop. The chances of making a lasting connection were as slim as a ping pong ball finding its way into a glass bowl. But those friendships miraculously beat the odds. They are tender and timeless. Which makes me love and cherish them even more.
The Invitation.
“It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and
shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.”
The Beauty of a Blank Canvas.
A spectacular sunset at Mori Point.
“My perfect day is an empty schedule. I can’t paint what I want if my canvas already has marks on it.”
We used to give points to individuals who ‘did it all’- waking up at 5am to train, running from meeting to meeting, shuffling kids back and forth between baseball practice and piano lessons, logging back on to finish work at 10pm and collapsing into bed past midnight. Returning emails and scheduling meetings and creating google docs for the team and frantically moving from one task to the next without pausing to catch their breath or check in with themselves or their bodies or their breath.
The rules have changed. We now realize a bigger truth. Just because we’re busy doesn’t mean that we’re productive or doing meaningful work.
A common and safe hiding place: being busy.
But without the jam-packed schedule and distractions of pings and notifications, we’re forced to confront everything we’ve been accustomed to ignore. This requires an attentiveness and an awareness to what’s really going on underneath the surface. And most are terrified at the thought of peering underneath that rug and examining the dusty dreams and fears that have accumulated over the years. Most will do anything to avoid spending time with themselves. In solitude.
“In one telling experiment, each of 55 participants was seated alone in a quiet, empty room with nothing to do—except they had access to a button that would deliver an electric shock to their ankle which they had previously described as “unpleasant.” In their 15 minutes of solitude, 67 percent of the men and 25 percent of the women chose to shock themselves instead of simply sitting quietly. Lead author Timothy Wilson, a University of Virginia psychologist, says that with smartphones, tablets and TVs within reach anytime, many of us may not know what to do when we have time to ponder without distraction—but the electric shock results were still surprising. He suggests we could make our downtime—even traffic jams and waiting rooms—more relaxing and interesting by learning how to be alone with our thoughts.”
Points should instead be given to those who create carve out deliberate space for themselves. Who create sacred containers of solitude so they can be still enough to listen to the quiet yet truthful voice inside of them. Points should be given to those that create boundaries that protect their time and energy. Who choose to focus on work that matters, that makes a difference, and that serves other people.
This starts with having a blank canvas. A single idea. And lots of uninterrupted time to drop into flow and create something meaningful.
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.””
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.