Category: Uncategorized

2025 = 9 Ending the past. 2026 = 10 New beginnings

Like this website, empty beginnings. I thought we must start from scratch.

Wisdom borrowed from buddhism.

Without emptiness, there is no space. There is no echo. There is no shadow. There is no light. Free of clutter. Air flows. Is this what we call breeze?

In this emptiness I created. Nothing worth mentioning happened. I kept to myself, trying to be happier, letting go of imagined fears. While letting past pain bodies fighting to survive cycle through me. Digging into the depression devoid of light. Feeling jolts of joy in the pit of my stomach when I’m on my way out.

Learning that depression is not something I can snap out of. It is not a choice, It is a place suspended in time. How long, it varies depending on what I need to see and deal with.

Why do I despise being imposed upon? Because I thought I was a burden even before birth. In utero, feeling like a parasite, having to take from someone who does not have enough. But I did to survive. A living organism whose sole purpose is to survive before being able to thrive and branch out. Despite the creation in the world of scarcity. But was I? A world that felt scary and small to the mother, and her feeling passing to her fetus. The first impression of fear. Imprinted in the darkness. In truth, the world was abundant. But you know what they say. Perception is reality. How many of you live in true reality? I do not count myself. Today, I do. Everyday, not so much.

Seeing myself reflected through the world of my creation.

Believing in the narrative of my hostess, doing her best. Now seeing that somene’s best is not enough for me. Learn to walk away. A story similar from my Siamese who used to hire unqualified people out of pity.

Talks all the time. To fill the space. Having someone to listen to you, in your small world of too few people. Like the Little Prince’s planets he visited. Too small for one person. Wondering, wandering, wishing about ideas and people that has nothing to do with him. Not knowing how to let the quietness fill the air. With nothing to say. Nothing to listen to. Just be out with nature, without any pressure or expressions.

To seek peace and silence. To let our voice boxes rest.

To stop having to explain away yourself. To not caring about the imagined. No, I am not advocating for nihilism.

Instead, reminder to care about the things and people we can touch and share meals with. Living in the now and present. Look into the horizon. See the light green branches sway up and down to the wind. Hum of motor traffic behind me without being annoyed. Replying “thank you” to stranger who ‘blesses’ me after a sneeze.

Remembering hikes where I struggled because I was too hot and tired. And it’s only during these times people stopped to check in on me. Complete strangers taking time to take interest in me visibly distressed. Fi and her friends sang me a song as they passed, smiling with gentility.

I went to Spar thinking I was getting one small thing. In line, I have too many things in my two hands, and at the end, two popcorn individually wrapped in plastic slides across. I have no hands to pick them up. A man helps and I say thanks. I laugh out loud.

Giving all my keys away, not having a way back in. Locking my phone which the coordinator had to get.

Not relying. Not expecting. Yet having complete strangers come to my aid. Unasked.

Space demanding to be served by those in abundance.

And so, I see I was wrong. I was right. Learning to hold two opposites. It’s not about emptying myself. It’s about letting things in. Creating space. We don’t need to start from scratch.

It’s about taking a good look at yourself and where you live.

Take out the trash. Don’t be a hoarder.

Let it go. Hold onto things you are willing to pay for.

“The usually accepted judgmental contrast between self-love and object-love, and their portrayal as opposites, springs from naive and uncritical usage in our everyday language. Yet, a little reflection soon shows how inconceivable it is really to love others (not merely to need them), if one cannot love oneself as one really is. And how could a person do that if, from the very beginning, he has had no chance to experience his true feelings and to learn to know himself?

For the majority of sensitive people, the true self remains deeply and thoroughly hidden. But how can you love something you do not know, something that has never been loved? So it is that many a gifted person lives without any notion of his or her true self. Such people are enamored of an idealized, comforming, false self. They will shun their hidden and lost true self, unless depression makes them aware of its loss or psychosis confronts them harshly with that true self, whom they now have to face and to whom they are delivered up, helpless, as to a threatening stranger.” The Drama of the Gifted Child by Alice Miller.

What is depression? Web search lists symptoms, diseases, origins and treatments. How can you treat something you don’t understand?

Words we use define our worlds.

According to Dictionary.com, depression is a noun.

1. a depressed or sunken place or part;

2. an area lower than the surrounding surface.

Depress is a verb (used with object)

1. to make sad or gloomy; lower in spirits; deject; dispirit.Synonyms: sadden, discourage, dishearten

2. to lower in force, vigor, activity, etc.; weaken; make dull.

3. to lower in amount or value.Synonyms: cheapen, devalue

4. to put into a lower position.to depress the muzzle of a gun.Antonyms: elevate, raise

5. to press down.

Antonym: Elevate. Promote. Lift up.

What is wrong with sadness? Feeling discouraged and disheartened? Why is that seen with negative light? What if depression is a way of life that we all go through. The other side of happiness and euphoria. The yin to the yang?

Until I heard Tim Ferris talked about his depression, I didn’t know I suffered through something similar.

When I enter the state of depression, my front door doesn’t open for days and weeks. Trying to fill the void, unwilling to feel. Running out of fresh produce. Ransacking the cupboard for sustenance, consuming cans and dry food. Living as if I am surviving a nuclear fall out. Hiding behind my bunker, I grow myself getting heavier, duller and disconnected.

Yet I am very much connected to the work. Showing up and delivering, with no visible degredation. Smiles and jokes all around, I show up and earn my pay. You’d never ‘say’ I’m depressed.

Because state of depression is relative and personal.

I was in a state of depression the majority of my life until I started therapy.

This is a sketch of the past. A large canvas with no clear structures.

Once, I was prescribed yaz, birth control to smooth my cycle. The same nurse practioner who asked me to fill out a questionnaire to test for depression. One month on the medication, I lost my will to live and contemplated suicide. Finding myself in my room, wondering why I crouch so low. A spontaneous thought entered my mind. Stop taking Yaz. Is it possible to say this state of depression saved my life? The life of oppression and lack of will to experience the world?

As soon as I stopped, I felt better and full of life. I suspect she was sold the drug by the industrious drug sales reps, with playful ads of energetic women bouncing around. The effect on me, the opposite. The medical system that was supposed to support me put me in harm’s way. Pursuing profits and number of sales instead of the wellness of the clients they serve.

There are different ranges and circumferences of depression. Knowing what I know now, I had been in the depressed state all my life. Even before I was born.

In utero, I could feel the host not having enough. So, I took little. Shortest of my family. The most sensitive. The most celebrated for my academic talents and pursuits.

In still frames, a little girl in scowl, looking up distrustingly into the world. Always wearing pants with bowl haircut. Older sister is wearing skirts and dresses. Only to find out later that they wished I had been a boy, so they dressed me like one since birth.

Even now, until recently through self-awareness, I crouch in all my photos. Trying to make myself small. Afraid to take up space. Subconsciously feeling guilty for my very own existence. Feeling responsible for people feeling inadequate around me. Threatened my intelligence, creativity and unabashed courage to be me.

Failing to do a good job of a fetus, infant and child.

In the Myth of Normal, Gabor Mate helps to explain the two options of a child.

1. My caregiver is lacking. He or she or they cannot take care of me. I am in danger. I am unsafe.

2. The world is a safe place. I am well taken care of. There must be something wrong with me. I must be better. I must do better. I must not be a nuisance. I don’t want to attract attention on to myself. Let me hide and be out of everyone’s way.

With option 2, we survive. With option 1, we die. How can a child remove himself from the unsafe place? How can we blame a child for fighting to survive, an animal instinct to preserve himself?

What choice did I have, but to take less than I needed. To keep the host alive. Without the hostess, the fetus dies. A symbiosis of survival. The hostess, in constant stress of an unavailable husband. Tyrant mother-in-law. Living a life opposed by her family. Nevermind her own trauma and gaps she did not have the tools to deal with.

I was told to believe that the world around me is unsafe. Instead of becoming combative and vigilant, I did the opposite. It was too much to bear, and I numbed myself to see no harm. Ignore it. Pretend it away. Entering the wild imaginations of my creations.

Getting hit. Getting pummeled. Washed away by the waves. Because I refused to take off my blinders. Used to the shiny veneers I created for myself. But that is not the only reason why. My mother used to dress us up like princesses. It’s not just her. The symptom of the country oppressed. To not be Korean. To not speak Korean. To not wear Korean. Lands taken away. Treated less than. Grinning and bearing to survive, with no dignity.

And so, how you look and how you are perceived is not a luxury. A necessity.

Therefore, is it any surprise that I don’t go outside until I am dressed and look a certain way. Looking perfect for no one. Denying myself the joy of being outdoors, feeling the wind on my face because I am not dressed nicely enough.

Where was I? These rambling memories of recollection, which now I can make sense of.

I used to need to sleep more than 11 hours daily. Until I started therapy and the tiredness started to lift. My left arm shook.

I was in a state of depression – a permafrost that thawed and froze with the rising sun and coming of night.

Until I could apply a simile to my personal experience.

There are four rail lights on the ceiling of the rented apartment’s kitchen. It was never bright and I got used to its darkness. One light went out, and another. Until I was left with two lights out of four. I got used to not seeing, not knowing where the blunt end of the kitchen knife bisecting carrots, sweet potatoes and cucumbers.

Then the bathroom light went, and I thought it would be poetic to have candle lights.

Until one day, I decided to replace the kitchen lights. Shocked with the end results. Is this how it’s supposed to be?

Then the bathroom light was replaced. Out the candle, in the person who could use the bathroom.

This is how the frog boils to death. Feeling the temperature rise little by little. Getting comfortable with the familiar, even finding comfort in the discomfort that it’s gotten familiar with. Until it is too hot, too lethargic, and too comfortable. Forgetting that it is never too late. To leap out of that pot, onto a steady and solid surface.

Like the light. We turn them off. Someone turns them off. We forget that we have the power to turn on the light. Replace the bulb. Open up the curtains. Open the blinds. Get out of bed. Open my eyes.

Get dressed. Open the front door. Walk down the street. It’s not just bliss. There is trash everywhere. Homeless man walks across, baring his bottom as he crosses the road. Uneven surface. Loud construction noise nearby.

It is still better out here than inside. With people. Together, we go far. Alone, I go fast. Nowhere really, spinning in circles.

Depression is not an illness. Depression is a state of being.

Being depressed means you are trying to depress the urge to let your true self out. Let the light in. The more you depress, the more resistance you’ll feel. Have you ever tried to depress a beach ball onto water? It will bounce and fly away out of reach.

The state of depression is a phase of reckoning of our truest selves. Until we become friends with ourselves, the self that tries to emerge is unfamiliar and pudgy. Like an infant that looks like a mashed potato until shape takes hold of its face. Its body.

We have to let ourselves out. Into the light. That is what depression means. Open the door. Let go of the shackles on our ankles. Sit up. Get up. Walk out the prison of our own creation that once kept us safe, but now it is nothing but a prison where we are the warden, visitor and prisoner.

We do not need prisons in dungeons to stay safe. We do not need castles high up in the sky.

What if depression is a state of inertness wanting to awaken? What if I told you that someone like me. Someone you would never imagine to be depressed suffers from depression more often than I’d like to admit. That I have been depressed my entire life. Repressing the true self?

What if I told you that someone trying to commit suicide was not trying to end his life? What if it was an effort to let go of the past, the false self that has been living a lie of our creations? What if I told you it is an effort to get better? To end the pain? The suffering that seems to have no end? An attempt to feel better? To escape the body when we should be doing the exact opposite?

Maybe people are not trying to kill themselves and throwing away their precious lives. Maybe people are trying to quiten their mind.

Go into the body. Feel what we refuse to feel. To connect with the body. The heart. The gut. To let the wild monkey of our minds rest. Rest, monkey mind. You’ve been kept busy creating stories to make sense of the world that never did when we were children. To keep us safe. To stop us from going mad. To keep our minds intact instead of losing it completely.Think what you want. Create lies and safety nets of your imaginations. I won’t ask you to rest. Because you won’t listen. How can I fault you for doing your job? To think. To make sense of the unfathomable worlds. To have barrage of self-loathing and self-judgmentatl thoughts you’ve become an expert processing. There is no resistance. Just radical acceptance and appreciation of what you do.

Come back to reality of your existence. Feel it in your heart. Feel it in your guts. Hold my hand. Until the body says yes. Until you can feel your own hands connect with your heart. Moving without the mind’s commands. Because body functions without the mind. We breathe without thought. We digest without thought. We love without thought.

Gabor Mate writes, “Jesus and Hitler, they were both humans”.

Who we become. No, that’s not it. It makes it sound static. As if once we become a thing, an identity, a student. Employee, parent, or whatever. That is all we are. This is how others see us, and how we see ourselves. Static with no moment. No room to grow into, and move away from.

Who we are becoming and unbecoming is always in flux, with regulation within our bodies continuing until the last exhale.

The reason we fall and lose my ground is because I lose the connection with myself. To be grounded is to connected with myself. To stand, with my hands opposing another’s, the contant push and pull, but staying on my own two feet.

We say: Accept me as I am.

When we cannot accept ourselves.

So how can you accept me, when I do not accept myself?

How can you love me, when I do not love myself?

How do you grow, if you are already made?

Starting again, observing respirations. I can feel my breath in between my nostrils and my upper lip.

Packing list for women’s vipassana at Worcester. Even in summer (November to January), temperature varies between morning and evening. I now prefer to go when it’s cold because I burn hotter than most.

I am a light packer, and I bring the bare minimum.

For Sleeping:

Set of light pajamas to sleep in – long sleeves
Pair of loose socks to sleep in
Fitted sheet for twin be
Loose sheet
Pillow and pillowcase
Comforter or sleeping bag

For Sittings

One long and comfy skirt
Three loose tops
One sweater or sweat shirt
One pair of loose and light pants – for summer and for those like me that burn hot
One pair of loose sweat pants for winter for cold mornings and evenings
Two pairs of socks
Easy to slip and off shoes – open toed sandals work well
Water bottle

For regular Living:

Bring enough underwear to last you
Sun hat for walking
Boots for walking
Rain jacket in case of rain
Rain boots for walking and in case of rain
Yoga mat for those wanting to stretch

For Hygiene

Two towels
Sanitary products
Shampoo & Conditioner
Face soap
Body soap – I use this when washing clothes
Body cloth for washing
Body lotion
Face lotion and creams
Tweezer, nail clipper, nail files (there’s not a whole lot you can do aside from sitting and walking)

For those who are gluten intolerant
I would bring a loaf of gluten free bread – I will next time

I don’t bring a torch or flashlight, as there are sensor activated lights. Most days are clear, with sun and the stars illuminating dark skies.

It’s been over seven months since I started, the start of the confession, without the divider between me and Priest. Wide open confessions to the world that is open to read, but no one is around. Because no one knows about this blog, and does it matter?

What started out as a way to stay connected with someone who is not available to the world, because he is not available to himself. Over the months, seeing too, that I have not been available to the world because I am not available to myself.

Because I have been afraid my entire life, and the shadows continued to linger. Mistaking absence for love. Longing for what is not there. Grateful for life, and being stuck.

Green Lights by Matthew McConaughey telling me what I knew, but told in ways that resonated with me. The purpose of this life is to live. Livin’, he says is a verb. He converts everything to verbs. No nouns exist.

Even sitting down here, after two weeks being back from my third Vipassana. Over feeding once again (but I have a feeling this tactic is about to come to an end with fewer recurrences in between.)

Last night, I broke the perfect furniture configuration. Moving the table in front of the tree, in line with the warming weather. To sit in front of the tree that scares me in the evenings. With open patio, with wind tickling my face and bare feet.

Birds chirping, winds a breeze. it is heritage day, and the world has slowed down just a little. A perfect Sunday nestled in between two days. Here I go again, romanticizing.

I used to live in fear. Seeking familiarity. Seeking comforts of a safe cocoon, with perfect temperature. No one can get in. I cannot get out. Safe and sound, sleeping for days. Crawling and grounded. Nothing to see. Nothing to do. Suspended inside.

I just learned from this cool website that when it’s born, it keeps eating, getting bigger and shedding skin just like snakes. Just before it forms a cocoon, it stops eating and forms a cocoon by hanging upside down.

Thereafter, it digests itself. At this point, if you were to cut open the cocoon, it’ll just ooze liquid. The butterfly/caterpillar consumes itself, attacking dics designed to make antennas, wings and all new hardware, eventually the attack stops and enzymes kick in. To complete the cycle before the butterfly forms.

While researching how this transformation takes place, I came across three pieces which I thought were pretty cool. Intentionally staying away from the summary page on top, digging and seeing what humans wrote, before the emergence of AI.

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/caterpillar-butterfly-metamorphosis-explainer

https://www.wormspit.com/pernyi.htm

https://liminalliety.substack.com/p/imaginal-discs

This love letter, which started out as something else. Appreciating and thanking everyone else. Trying to fit in where there was no space for me.

It has become something else. And it will change into something else again.

The love letter has been to myself all along. Not knowing how to take care of myself because I have been too busy looking out. Trying to fill the gaps and sadness that is impossible for a small child to pour into.

I have decided not to pour into anyone or anything else. The phrase, cannot pour from an empty cup, angers me. Why would you ever try to pour, when you should only be drinking from your own cup? There is nothing to pour, because the love emanates from within, radiating outwards, to those we invite and appreciate. Shielding ourselves blind from those who are not invited. Becoming the environment, camouflaged and blinding those who intend to harm. Because they don’t want to harm. They are nourished and catalyzed with positivity, well, at least while they are in our company.

Stop worrying about how I am perceived. I am not a model student. I am not a model worker. I am not a model leader or an employee. I am not a model for anyone but for myself.

I wrote and cooked a lot on my mind during the last Vipassana.

Seeing things as they are. Starting over and over again. The lack of a Mother mistaken for love. How she ignored the signs. On the day of her marriage, her parents rice crops failed when everyone else’s thrived. Her mother in law was against her. Her husband left her. Yet, she kept looking for him. Longing, crying. Filling gaps with those who are not committed to her. Therefore, becoming a shell of a mother, and not always all there, despite her best efforts. Snippets of memories flash in front of my eyes. More sad and overwhelming. Too much for a sensitive child to bear. Too much. Too soon. Too much. Is it a wonder that I hate being burdened and being told what to do and how to do it?

Only scolding me when fighting sister, when I should have been scolded for so much more.

I am not blaming her. As I always say, she did the best she could. But it wasn’t enough. It certainly wasn’t enough for me. The love of a mother was received from her mother, my grandmother. More so from a father who lived longest of anyone I know in my life.

Yet, she gave me the most important gift. The breath of life. The heart that continues to beat. The body that now feels. The busy mind that is demanding to rest.

So on day 8, I realized I need to live. Thrive. Stop the hiding. Start living. Yet, I come back over feeding myself, becoming sluggish and uncomfortable. Yet, I don’t berate myself. A likely outcome. Another push towards the known and familiar before the cocoon breaks finally, with self becoming muck, into something else.

Seeing that as a leader of a team, my fear that was activated by recent restructure fed them unintentionally. Everything flows from top to bottom. Giving my power away. Trying to be nice and not having necessary conversations. Waiting, thinking if ain’t broke, let it be. Surviving despite saying otherwise. Not thriving. Not living. Still hiding.

This melody. The same old chorus. I am done.

I want a new song. A new melody. I want a chorus that changes all the time. No, no. I am not looking for distractions. I am looking for life’s real dances designed for me. Somewhere deep and not so deep anymore, as I’ve shed layers, there are few butterflies and dragons waiting to emerge. Gently, we step out. Mightily, we fire.

I see that I have been busy bodying on things that don’t matter to me or my well being. Not choosing wisely. Not choosing at all. Putting myself into comas. Not building. Just cleaning inside everyone else’s. No wonder people asked me to take over their lives if they pass. Pimping their husbands to me. This outrages me. Take care of their children, if anything were to happen. This less so, but the same old story.

So I choose to live my life in my own terms. That makes sense to me. That serves me. Selfish. Completely and totally. Because if we were all to take care of ourselves, we would all become happy and full (but not dull with too much). We would not pour into anything, except pour into ourselves. Radiate loving kindness and joy. Sharing our goodwill and fortune. Smiling and inviting others to join with open arms. No leading horse to the water that doesn’t want to drink. Creating ponds of peace and harmony so the horse can come and go as it pleases. No one likes to be forced into doing anything. Myself included.

Saying no to things and people that don’t feed me. Saying goodbye to comforts that has no future in my life. Being intentional about how I dress, and how I address those that I invite. Being kind but firm to those that do not. Only opening myself up to myself first before serving those that have been invited and paid for their dues. Only those that reciprocate.

Because I see that not only do I have a child that is me. I am also the Mother that feeds and Father that protects. I am my own responsibility. I am the greatest love. I am the greatest achievement of my life. And through me, and by me, can I shape greatness with my own hands, feet and heart and mind.

There are more words that want to pour out of me. Not pour into you. But I have a birthday celebration to get ready to. For a friend and with a friend who loves me. Who I love. Who has been there through thick and thin. Who deserves my love and attention. Through her, I have become a better and compassionate person. Through her, I’ve met another wonderful friend.

I create my own reality and happiness. I used to create my own illusions and misery. I choose the former. Right here and right now.

What do you choose? I choose myself. I hope you do too.

Who do you love? I love myself, and I want to live my life to love myself more.

I hope you love yourself. I hope you take care of yourself. I hope you take that vacation you said you’ve wanted to take. I hope you take a break from the person, place, or work.

Me? I took a sabbatical last year, thinking I was done with the country, work and people. Only to come back to where I left with only gratitude and appreciation for the country that not only welcomed me and healed me with its love. The country that gave me a career of increasing responsibility and growth. The country that gave me a community that is both local and international to open my world to a bigger and better place full of love, joy and compassion.

I am only back here because I had the courage to leave. The biggest and first decision I have ever made in my life. To go after what has been in my heart. The desire that’s been parked for over 15 years. And when I fed that desire, the real me started to emerge. Less afraid. More courageous. More open and free.

I wish this to continue for myself. I share my merits, love and joy with nothing but kindness and goodwill.

Because I love me. I love you. I hope you love yourself too.

The end.

“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it“

The entrance to my apartment. The front door is left wide open. Is this me?
I close it. Is it that easy?
Only to find it was a dream. Are you sure?
Vivid and clear, with no time lag in between. How strange.

A deep desire to go out to the promenade. To come across a person who did me a favor from a year ago. The only reason I had to speak to him was because of a burning need. To borrow laptop charger. Answering the tug of instinct to go outside. We exchange numbers and smiles too. I’ve been looking for friends to go for evening walks and day hikes.

“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it” I hear you, Paulo Coehlo!

Sitting on the mat, wrestling the busy mind shouting too much to do and too little time. I rise.
Open the patio door.
Open bedroom windows.
Open bathroom window.

Letting the cross breeze clear out the old. Invite the new energy before the world awakens, the ground shakes and dust sprinkles.

Before the noise consumes silence. The light casting shadows, away from the darkness.

I get dressed. Shielding myself away from the tree. Mindful of the blinds. Mindful of myself.

What is important? I do. Conversations, connections and conduits of fill in the blank.

What is important requires lots of time. Instead of chasing the urgent, focus on the important. And urgency will fade away. White noise of distractions.

Open the door. Close it. Get in the car. Feel the wind blow me awake. Equanimity of constant change in Cape Town.

Where are you going? It says far away.
I’m not going far. I won’t be contactable at all during the eleven days.

As I peer out east, the pink and blue shade replaces the dark blue. Familiar voices ring pleasant, and I remind myself to do what I need to.

Which is this. Finding myself on the blank screen. Not delaying. Listening to the message. Sending one to set up an important meeting.

I kick off the day with gratitude for my abled body, mind and spirit. Grateful for the space and time to continue to choose.
Choose movement.
Choose adventures.
Choose myself.

Because I am clearer and closer. This is progress.

To seeing things as they are. The lies we made up along the way, scaffolds along the way to get away from it all. To find ways to survive. To looking out, when we should embrace the silence and stillness within.

I hosted four dinners for 14 people in the past six weeks. I wanted to create a sense of community and feed people. Spending days thinking about the menu, getting groceries, washing, cutting, baking, stirring, setting, and waiting. Over catering. Over extending. Not unlike my hyper mobility.

After the dishes are packed away, and noise dies down, I do not feel fulfilled. If not more hungry and parched. Eating left overs in large quantities, needing time to recharge.

Because I tried to serve others in ways I needed to be fed. I was born from mother and father who grew up in scarcity. The hyperaware and hypervigilant. Genes passed down, in an improved environment, but still the worry of not having enough. I remember not wanting to take more than she had to give in utero. Only now, am I seeing my father’s insatiable greed for food reflected in how I consume. Like a black hole and desert. The wildness of the wildflower that holds on too much and waits for the drought to end. But the drought has passed, and so has the torrential downpour. This seed of my origin story having traveled far and wide. Mixing and transforming with the environments around them, and me, the little seedling flew away. Thinking it displacement and uprooting. Longing and wishing for the soil from which I was born.

Instead of staying put, alongside other trees and plants that look like me, I flew far and wide. Planting myself in between cracks of boulders, not competing for the same resources. Not having to conform. Sticking out and becoming free, celebrating the diversity of nature. The flower blooms and another set of seeds fly to another land, and then to another. To land myself where I am. Where it feels right. This is where I belong. I belong where I let my heart grow.

I could have only gotten here by going back to where I came from. The place and people I used to hold so dear to my heart. Defining love based on sacrifice and deep love I felt. A month later, visiting my second home, and coming back here to compare and contrast the three places and their effects on my heart. My overall well-being.

My theory of love was an unproven null hypothesis, created with a child’s imagination to make sense of what was not happening. Mother and Father. All the relatives. Everyone did their best. Yet, that was not enough. Having grown up tending to household chores. Finding an empty lunchbox where banchan should have been. Running to fill a lunch box with hot water to heat noodles one hour too early. Wanting to stand out yet wanting to hide. Wanting to take care of a mother who was always sad. Tearing escaping her eyes whenever she laid down to rest, as our little hands massaged her body from head to toe. Not knowing what else to do. Not believing her white lies. “Why are you crying?” “I’m not crying. I’m just tired.”

Later, I would learn that she would go out in the middle of rice paddies to cry to herself. Returning home to her children whose father she cannot get in touch with.

Later, I would learn that the day of her wedding, her parents rice harvest failed when it was a very good season for the country. Grains that should curve with its weight fell to one side.

Later, I would learn that her parents didn’t want her to marry.

Later, I would learn that her body was so weak that she wasn’t supposed to have children.

Later, I would learn of the crimes committed against one of my dear beloved. And I would not cry. I would be healed and strong to embrace her in my arms. Understanding her. Her story explaining everything about her own sufferings.

And so, I would learn that the place that I came from would not have sustained me. It would have chained me into the life I would not have chosen. It would have kept me from thriving in ways that would have been impossible.

And so, I would come to terms with the blessings of so-imagined displacement. A welcome departure indeed.

A mother’s love I so sought would not come from mothers by birth or marriage. Instead, they would soar from parents family and kind strangers who would extend their kindness to propel me forward. I am not saying my family didn’t love me. They did. They do. They would die for me and go out to the ends of the worlds to help. But their love hurts. It feels too heavy to carry. Their hurts too deep that touches a nerve inside of me, because we have too much in common. Learning that love should not hurt. Not like that. They say the beginning of grief of love. I get it. But pain isn’t love. We do not hurt others with our love.

Because of the burden I carried as a child, I hate being told what to do. I don’t like expectations placed upon me. I dislike the loss of freedom to choose. Yet I default to caring for others. Carrying too much. Giving too much of myself away, leaving myself with a negative balance that I have to work extra hard to fill back up.

and so, I over cater. I overfeed others. Thereafter me. What I want to do is feed myself. To nurture and care for myself. To take care of my human. My responsibility. My body. My heart. My mind. To be selfish. To be me. To feed me.

The truth comes out, fire burning the scaffold of lies. I didn’t want a partner. I didn’t want the additional burden of someone to take care of. To be responsible for. I didn’t know how to have a partner, because I could barely take care of myself. Leaking gut. Leaking energy. Another life force near me, a parasitic response I invite. Not knowing how to drive symbiosis.

And on the cushion, I sit today. After yesterday of disconnecting with the world. Not answering phone calls. Not checking messages that came through. Completely off. Watching movies, searching for answers I know inside.

Breath alone without purpose and feeling is no different from time ticking away. Tick. In breath. Tock. Out breath.

Defy logic. Feel your emotions.

You are not alone. Yet, you have the power to get yourself out of situations you found yourself in.

I am not afraid anymore.

To failed attempt on Friday and Saturday to write the love letter. Still, coming back here early to write, after three attempts at getting back to meditations, sleeping with two tiger’s eyes next to my body, feeling the strong heart beat beneath my palms as I lay there, deciding where to place my hands. Side by side, they don’t belong. They belong on the body. But where? Usually next to the thighs, but that time has passed. They belong across the chest.

I rise to sit, not quite finishing the full hour. 41 minutes and body cramps up.

Catching up with a dear friend, seeing the divergence, but also alignment of doing what we are good at. No more looking at others and judging the other’s choices. Instead, honoring ourselves, focusing on utilizing our talents.

I recount the last two months of rewiring outdated and incorrect belief system. Why I love to feed people. My preferred love language. Because I have been hungry since in utero. Not wanting to take from the mother who doesn’t have enough. Not wanting to take up space and fill my bowl before the rest. Why the addiction, Gabor Mate asks. What is the pain? What is the addiction trying to soothe? Feeling hungry and unsatisfied. Unsatiated, I dreamed of getting access to a closet full of food that I could tap into. How is this different from my father’s obsession with food? Having to have three square meals daily. Wanting steak for breakfast. Origin story is different. Was his starting in utero too? Feeling hungry, while having to take care of others first. So when we feed, it’s indulgent and damaging. Not sure how to modulate. Never been taught that you have to feed yourself first. Always. Take that sip. Chew on that morsel.

Do I love others, in the way I wish I was loved? Do I try to feel the gap, the gap that I let define my life?

And so, as I pack my lunch, I place the mixed rice, kimchi without garlic and lettuce with olive oil. Warm from the microwave, filling the quarter of the white bowl. In silence. In stillness, I eat. Not hurrying or thinking of anything else. I sit and slowly allot some rice into the spoon before putting it inside my mouth. Feeling for every grain and smell filling my nostrils. Looking at bakers ingredients and recipes online. Gluten free flour for baking I think of buying. It’s got chickpea, legume my other friend is allergic too.

How we have to look under the hood to see what is underneath. It looks like something else, but there could be other things inside. Looks can be deceiving. Yet, looks are everything. The balancing act.

Laundry spins to expel water. Surprising me with the decibel it creates, and I hope I don’t wake anyone. I don’t want to be inconsiderate. I hang out the laundry in patio to dry. Clean the sides of hiking shoes from yesterday using the old toothbrush head I just took off the electric handle. And I am surprised to find the brown dirt marks become white against the bristle’s brush.

I turn on my laptop, to check work laptop. What am I doing, I ask myself. I must write, the song beckons inside. Now that I have cracked opened a book, and read one chapter. The blade that is my writing utensil is sharpened just a little. To enable these words to fill the page. Not perfect. Not even good enough. But better than before, with the knife’s edge. Dropping the tablet. Learning the lesson of what happens when you are not focusing on the urgent and important.

And so, I sit here. Next to the window, sitting on the seat not reserved for me, but I chose to take up space in. Claiming the spot. Ownership often belongs not to the claimant but the one occupying the space.

This is a love letter for sharpening the blade of your instrument. Mine is reading books. Being outside with nature, and creating the space to see myself reflected in those around me.

Learning that I must feed myself. Nourish. Prioritize. Do what is right and left for me. Serve all of me.

To nourishing self. I set the place mat for one, with pretty bowl for the mixed veggies and another one for soup. This morning, I wake up early to stop at the Flour cafe downstairs to enjoy a milk bun and black honey filter coffee with almond milk. “This one is more suble and espresso is an aggressive way of extracting more flavor”. I laugh and say I need more subleness in my life.

I went to sleep at 11pm, after sending necessary emails and buying a birthday present for my niece on Amazon. To qualify to free delivery, I scroll to see what I can buy for myself. I settle on a clear Nalgene water bottle whose lid is attached to the bottle with wide opening.

I wake up tired, feeling sleep deprived and overworked. I find myself ravenous. This is a good thing, after working my brains and mouth all day.

Then I take stock of my last two weeks as the nearly hot washes away the soap. Where there was a lull, I find ways to help others. The lullaby to let the creative in me to sleep. Extinguishing the space needed to let the song play out, gentle notes escaping into the screen through these finger tips.

What serves me? Who serves me? Me. The habit of looking for and filling the gap – I have seen myself do this at work during the past two weeks. It is now time to step back and focus on my work, with the team size growing to 10. I am measured based on my house’s output, not other’s. I’m happy to have seen this after two weeks, and not months.

Open sesame. Open the door to unlock the song in me.

To three days of meditations. Remembering to take accountability for what happened. I have the power to choose the movie I want to play. This is my life. “my” life. Life is there with or without consciousness. To make it mine, I would like to take ownership of being an active participant, to not only flow with the passing of time. To ride it, wrestle and dance with it, with the tides that come and go. Like the waning moon.

With that in mind, I make my bed neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles. The night before, neatening the closet, I saw how much clothes I do not wear. Short of people to see and places to go. And so, I fold the black and grey stripedd top I got for R200 to return alongside the boots I’ve worn out in the past 10 months. Proof of my being out there, scaling mountains over and over again. Feeling confident and out of breath in a good way. Passing people along the way, reminded of how much I appreciate silence, yet when it’s desolate, how much I miss having people around. The tug of war.

The black and basic hiking bag was on sale for R299. 99 Rands more than the top that I’m returning. I tested it out by walking to the shops and filling with groceries. Beautiful design. Simple straps somehow place the bag perfectly on the back, center of gravy feeling core to my body, without buckling in waist straps. I wish there were pockets instead of closed zippers on side pockets, but this fits the simple bag I’ve been looking for. I was seeing a waist fanny pack that will fit: phone, car keys, wind breaker, beanie, gloves, sunscreen, tissues and snack. Bum bags Salomon were too big while the Kway one was too small. This is the Goldilocks bag I was searching for.

I pack permanent residents: multi-tool, dust bag, plastic bag, pair of Korean gloves with red grippy material, hiking gloves, muffler, face cover and beanie. Hook a whistle and small flashlight (need to buy small bettery). I blow the tiny blue whistle and it’s loud.

What did Sisi say? All I have to do is decide. To decide, I need to know what I am looking for. When I do, it comes to me. I can see it. I am able to discern it.

Listening to the song inside, the rhythm of the blues and beats it wants me to dance to me. I light the red candle and place it in front of me, with a white cup full of hot water and a morsel of honey. All from friends. Like the universe that has and will always provide. Wearing a gift of time on my lef wrist.
It’s easy to write this morning. Remembering. This is my song. Only I can sing and give life to it. Through the vessel that is me, that will carry me ashore, and while I am on water, I have to dance, like leaves that blow, waves that ride and fall. The reflections of the moon’s phases, boiling at the surface during the hottest of days. Freezing when winter comes, but only at the surface, as the current flows beneath, carrying icy water to where, only current will decide. Becoming unfrozen, the water trickling open the solid, creating babbles not unlike babies, crying to be heard, life breathes into the stream. Carrying what’s been frozen, now released. Ready to go, ready to flow. Getting unstuck. Harnessing power, just like the wind. Knowing which sails to raise, and when to bring them down. Knowing when to flow, vs. bracing for the storm. Knowing how to power up and down. Sometimes, turning off all together.

But remember. Do not give your power away. It was given to you as gift from god, some may say. Your power was entrusted in your head, heart and hands for you to mold the clay of your life. Do not deflate. Do not inflate. Pump just enough. Let go sometimes.

Embrace the love and gifts of life. Embrace yourself. “Take your time”, you say to hikers coming your way, navigating the narrow passage for one. “Take your time”, tell yourself. Do not hurry. Do not stress. Create space for you to flow, not freeze, flight or fight. It’s not going to be okay. It is okay. It is more than okay.

Five more days to go.