wooddragon

[wooddragon]

On the move again

Hi friends, 

This may not come as a surprise to you. I’m thinking (again) of going home to G. I used to write in my journals how this thought resurfaced every year. This time, however, feels more for real than past times. 

I could talk about the push factors. But I want to talk about the pulls, the attraction, the draw -- because that, far and away, is cause for excitement as opposed to the emotions of fear and sadness which I’ve sat in and waded through for more than a year. 

I’m excited to be in warm weather again, to know that I won’t catch a cold stepping outside my front door to greet the morning sun and the birds. 

I’m excited to report on stories that I’ve long wanted to pursue. I’m excited to learn more and more about the place where I was born, at an intellectual level but also to feel what it’s like to be on the island again, and to let that feeling drive the care with which I handle my reporting. 

I’m excited to eat my favorite fruits and vegetables -- all fresh. 

I’m excited to go to the beach and back float in the waters of the Pacific Ocean. 

I’m excited to start that little food forest that I’ve been dreaming of. To grow something bigger and heftier than a basil plant and to eat it months later.

I’m excited to be a short plane ride from the P, where my ancestral roots are, and to eat the food fresh from the land and waters there. 

I’m excited to be a short plane ride from J, where H was born, to plan a visit to his birthplace and to revisit some of the sites we visited together during our 2019 trip. To go to the shrine in I again. 

I’m excited for all the rest I’ll get.

I feel things opening up for us. 

[wooddragon]

What I really wanted to say

The eye of the typhoon was wide. Two hours passed with very little rain and low winds. But Ruthie and Mama May stepped outside unsure. The forecast had been wrong. TV station KGMA had said the day before the typhoon would miss the island completely. By night, sirens from a police car blared through the neighborhood, alerting everyone to “high winds coming.” 

“Shutter up!” the voice, presumably of the cop, said.

The latest forecast gave no indication of how long the calm would last before the eye rim would rain down hard. 

The neighbors watched from their glass sliding door, standing guard for Ruthie and Mama May while they crossed their front lawn, the one-lane road, then the gate to the Felix compound. People removed their faces from the glass, leaving behind greasy outlines of cheeks and chins. All but one girl, the youngest Felix, who was Ruthie’s age. The girls were just days apart and every year celebrated their birthdays together. But at 16 they weren’t close, at least not like they used to be. Tonya went to the all private school, while Ruthie stayed in their district’s public schools. They tried to play volleyball after school but one of them, Ruthie couldn’t remember who, got sick one week and they never resumed their dates. So why then was she watching? Didn’t she know that Ruthie could see her?

Mama May saw Tonya too and mouthed something that made her come out, running toward them. She was so near now Ruthie could smell her characteristic perfume, sweet like bubblegum, girly. Maybe that’s what the girls at St. Peter’s wore. But in a middle of a typhoon, who had the time? She Tonya waking up with a pretty sheen, seeing the gray outside, hearing the TV announce the storm and deciding she would keep her routine. Ruthie was always impressed by Tonya, intimidated sometimes. But today she admired her imagined integrity, to keep to the little things even amid a potential disaster. Ruthie needed to believe that someone besides her grandmother could keep a healthy perspective on things. Two people’s healthy beliefs made it feel like there was still good air Ruthie could breathe, right there if she simply opened her mouth and sucked.

Together, they huddled under the umbrella Ruthie held up, more as a talisman against the rain, to keep it from coming. Together they entered the sliding door, neighbors, safe from the storm.

* * *

The small spotlights in the alcove shone brightly over the statue of Mother Mary. The Felix kept that part of the house spotless if undisturbed. Once Ruthie saw Tonya’s grandfather whom everyone called Paps kneel before the statue on her way to the bathroom during a sleepover. She couldn’t remember if it was night or early morning. The sun wasn’t out and his body spooked her until her eyes adjusted enough to catch the silver chain he always wore. She said nothing then and she said nothing now. Mama May, Ruthie and Tonya quietly entered the kitchen instead. 

“Ruthie, the umbrella.” 

She forgot she was holding it. But her body automatically drew it in some, though she never snapped it shut like she should have now that they were indoors. 

“You’re safe here,” Tonya said, smiling. 

Was that a joke? Was she mocking her?

She laughed, feeling dumb and awkward. Then she was sad realizing she didn’t know Tonya’s mannerisms anymore. 

Then Tonya took the umbrella from her and handed her a cup of dark coffee, like it was a sign.

[wooddragon]

Vision: Money, abundance, time

I am so happy and grateful now that I am in a job that allows me to travel to see my friends for birthdays, to be with my parents during the holidays and summer. This time with loved ones is rejuvenating. I love taking care of them by cooking and planning get-togethers. And I get to do so with so much ease thanks to my very flexible job.

My work is also energizing physically and mentally. And it nourishes my spirit. I love that it is my job to support people in telling their stories. I help people write short but powerful memoirs and collections of personal essays that incorporate reporting and reflection.

My job is creative. And baked into my work is rest and recuperation. And this arrangement comes with a feeling of abundance. I feel abundant in time and money. Whenever I need a vacation, I can take it. Whenever I want to take my parents on vacation, I can do that. 

I have a tea shop, a gallery/studio and writing workshop. My space has become a communal gathering space for young people to discover poets they never would have heard of otherwise, to meet inspiring visual artists, documentarians, illustrators. And where they can come, feel safe to explore the arts. We stage performances, poetry readings and put up people’s artworks and chapbooks for purchase.

[wooddragon]

Gosh, what’s next?

I sat down ready to complain about my day, how I hate my job, how I’m ready to leave the industry. But that’s too easy. For me, it’s long been hard to identify what’s gone well. 

Today, I answered an emerging journalist’s questions about what it’s like to work at my company and how the program I’m in has helped. 

Today, I slept nine hours and feel ‘with it.’ 

Today, I had the luxury of staying home at a good time: I’m on Day 2 of my period cycle, which tends to be the most intense in terms of fatigue and pain. But in light of that...

Today, my period is a lot less disruptive than past cycles. A huge yay. Maybe it’s all the walks or the bone broth soup I had been eating.

Today, I also want to celebrate the awareness I have about my mom and seeing how our ailments have something in common. In her I see my own tendency to get tunnel-visioned at work, to be so dedicated you feel that there is no way out, no alternative, and it must be you -- and only you -- to get the job done. I understand her probably more than  my dad or brother might. And that gives some basis to provide support.

Today, I am grateful for my cats who were cute as always. And lately I’ve made a breakthrough in calling them to me, calmly. 

Today, I feel I have the capacity to support and help. 

Today, two friends reached out to me, within minutes of each other. And I’m reminded that I am connected here in this city that I moved to less than a year ago.

Today, I am celebrating my breath and the frozen pizza that made lunch so accessible -- and the tortilla chips that I had the foresight to buy last night and which held me over as I waited for said pizza to bake in the oven.

Life is life. It’s strange to not know what tomorrow brings. To know that I could be gone from this city, out of this job. 

It’s strange, this whole thing about aspirations. I have aspirations to be great. Once, I wanted to be a great journalist. And today, while I did research, I found I still harbor feelings of wanting to produce a standout story. But what about a story that serves, more than it documents. A story that serves more than it demonstrates my ability to write well. What is a story that serves? A story that’s bigger than me? Can I recognize it when I see it?

You see, my ambitious still feel like grand abstractions. Is this how every story starts out? 

Take for example this story I’m working on about first generation college students preparing their FAFSA application. What’s unique about this year? Well, this could be the year that the number of first-gen and/or low-income students submitting their financial aid applications rebound to what they were pre-pandemic; the pandemic had led to a worrisome dip. Ok, so assuming they’re back to where they were pre-pandemic, then I would like to know whether college counselors/college readiness programs changed attitudes or a drastically aid/admission landscape than before the pandemic? For example are fewer students interested in going to college in the first place? Or are first-gen students just as interested? What are the new challenges? People talk about the trauma of the pandemic -- family members getting sick, falling behind in school -- and that has to be affecting the students who are now seniors. And assuming it is the case that high school seniors are impacted somehow, how are college readiness programs responding? How have they changed their messaging if at all?

[wooddragon]

New Storms

The girl must leave. Right quick. A storm is coming and she’s left all her clothes unfolded and scattered across the house. A panty hung on the staircase banister. A sock had been found by the dog in a cookie jar. Her friends promised to help, but after they had shuttered up their windows and the doors. Everyone would congregate in the school gymnasium at the center of town. 

She knew it was just a matter of time before the next Big One would come. She had heard stories of those that swept through years ago, decades ago, from aunts, uncles and Mama May who sat the edge of the couch unfazed by the morning’s forecast. Calmly, my child. The storm can hear you. Grandmama told Ruthie. And she lit a candle at the end table beside the couch, reached in the tucked away drawer for an incense stick. Grandmama only ever did that on birthdays and Christmas, when gratitude needed extra attention and care. What was there to be grateful about when a storm threatened to blow down their home?

Ruthie stood by the living room doorway, transfixed. The mess of the house disappeared and all she saw was the smoke from the incense curling at odd angles, sometimes moving more sideways than up. The dance called to her, invited her to stay flat, sink, not rush to some extreme height. It was the weightiest kind of air she ever breathe. She could smell the sandalwood. And her insides warmed.

When was the last time she smoked a joint? Took a shot? She had been clean clean clean for years. Ever since she came home to live with Grandma. That was her own before times, though Grandmama always warned against labeling life the way the islanders’ labeled storms. It was a careless kind of borrowing. The two of them belonged to a small group of people not really from Ploris. When exactly their ancestors arrived is disputed and resulted in a nasty yearlong fight that both exhausted Grandmama and left her sad. That was the year Ruthie first tasted wine, cheap and plentiful at one of the grandsons of a neighbor who was also on the losing side of the query. Together they got drunk but alone their returned to their elders, hoping they could appear more buoyant as a service to the family. That’s what motivated them every Tuesday and Thursday. The other days quickly became painfully empty and flat. The other days, there was church, and that was mandatory for Ruthie. Sammi could have gone on without her but he didn’t. The thought made him sick. The world was already too lonely. To drink alone would have invited signaled some sort of wish. Best not to give the winds any ideas, he told Ruthie the first time she suggested it. 

Of course she wouldn’t have wanted him to make it habit, doing things without her. But she felt his fear in his refusal. So that too scared her out of considering ever doing the deed without him. 

The storm the local people were calling Kayan was expected on a Tuesday and threatened to interfere tradition. It was half an hour before their usual meeting time at the beach park that was a short walk from both their houses. It was usually at this time that Ruthie’s stomach cramped, ached. The craving never bothered her before because she knew its end would come. The inconvenience of the storm brought her to knees just as the incense stick had burned into nothing more than a few specks of dust. Grandmama watched, sure that she had finally brought about the calm her granddaughter needed. For her to see the sense in moving slowly during this dangerous time, when the winds promised to be their loudest, throwing wide open their mouths to suck suck suck whatever desperation, fear or gratitude appeared in its wake. 

Grandmama raised her palms high then low, high then low. She continued the motion, minimizing the range then lowering it as she walked toward Ruthie. She then kneeled beside her granddaughter and told her it was time.

Ruthie looked up, eyes red. Slowly, she looked inside the cookie jar and caressed the length of the staircase. Ten minutes passed, then twenty then thirty. She clutched the articles she had gathered the way she had at this exact hour in the Before Times.

[wooddragon]

The place where it began

I don’t know why I remember the couch. I was reading The Thirteenth Tale. I was reading a lot those days — at least trying to. The split-open book felt sticky against my sweaty chest. Naps came easily during school breaks. But arguably the best thing beside sleeping was getting to experience the house in the middle of the day, alone. These were magical times.

Afternoon cast a calming brightness to the whole place. And by place I’m talking about the house, yes, but also the screen door that looked out into the empty lot which had grown wild. Time had transformed it into a jungle. Something that I could look into but I felt pulsated with its own life, it must have been watching me. Watching me doze from the afternoon heat, not accustomed to life at that hour. Watching me awake, dazed and pleased by the light breeze. 

I wish I could go back to those times, just as I wish I could conjure the words that allowed me to write stories back then. 

You see, I’ve died some. Maybe I read to hard, wanted too hard, too much, too often, too loud, too big so big I exploded into bits of dust that settled on other people’s floors for them to do what they would — leave me for months untouched or sweep me up as they do every week. 

I’m lost, you see. 

And it’s a wonder I’ve gone this long smiling and doing. I’ve come very far, which goes to show zombies do exist. 

But the life is coming back to me. At least it is beckoning. And I hate it. Because it is arriving with no answers, just itches. Yearnings that I can’t articulate, like a child that has not yet learned to form words. I fear someone asking me, point blank, What do you want? Because then I would grunt and groan from frustration. Is that an acceptable answer. I worry mentors will push me, telling me I already know, that there is always an answer. If that is the case, then why can’t I know it and speak it. It must be hiding. 

How do you listen?

You see I’m tired. So maybe listening comes more easily with rest. But sleeping seems like a delay tactic. 

Oh God. I’ve lost track of the question. Did I ever pose one to begin with?

Maybe it’s the obvious question. What do I want to do after the fellowship? Whom do I want to be with? Where do I want to be? In whose company would I find rest and recovery and clarity? How would I love to spend my time?

Here’s a stab: I want to nurture my creativity and my imagination. I want to kiss my partner every morning and every night. I want to drink wine and eat cheese and meat with my brother in his apartment looking over Seattle. I want to write stories and teach dance. I want to listen to music and move and walk under a sun that kisses me unconditionally when I choose to lay down a blanket. I want to laugh with friends over a pot of stew I made. I want to feel my body upright and well with a calm energy. 

Maybe I don’t want to be a journalist after all. Or maybe I do but I need to break. Maybe I need to be a poet first. I need to be an artist. I need crayons and water colors. I need my cats to roam on a patio.

I want to have writing teachers and meditation teachers and gongfu teachers.

I heard this story once about a girl who grew teeth like a dragon’s. She developed the ability to breathe fire through her nose but never did that because she was too busy walking the earth and using her mouth to talk. She indeed was a dragon but ate plants. In the fall she munched on kabocha and hubbard squashes and sweet potatoes — her favorite. And in the winter, she often slept for 10 hours a day on a bed that could hold her whole body. It was a trundle that stretched along the river. The weather was warm and she was happy. Then one day, an opportunity to eat squash in New England brought her to Boston. She sampled what she could but realized very quickly that the squashes tasted similar to what she had on the other side of the country. And a big realization was that she could only eat so many squash. Her belly full, she sat at the edge of the Charles River. She had promised her hosts that she would stay until the end of the year but she was tired. Too tired to make a decision so she just stayed and stayed so more. Days went by, then weeks. And before she knew it she had stayed months. Still tired, she wondered whether she ought to stay. She had a room to sleep in and some of her favorite items. But something didn’t quite sit right with her. The idea of staying another year seemed nice if she had the means to buy more clothes, take more classes, go to more museums, more more more. It was a nice idea but she needed to retreat to a place that also took care of her. Not a place that only asked her to give and in exchange gave her nice things to look at. Boston didn’t take care of her; it entertained her.

The idea of leaving caused a fear — fear of missing out — to immediately descend. Well, what exactly did she have yet to do in this place? Winter was coming so leaving the house would be difficult and uncomfortable. What is there left to do, Dragon? 

Not much, she said, now that I really think about it. I really like the poetry book store so I suppose I’ll go there as much as I can. And there are a couple of poetry readings. Oh, and the Public Garden has become one of the nicest places to walk. So has the Harvard Arboretum, if it wasn’t so far. Oh and the zen meditation center in Cambridge. Going there would be nice, but not necessary.