.... and I Will Be Flying On a Broomstick

“I wish this moment would last forever.” We tend to say that sometimes, don’t we? Especially when we are feeling happy or content. These days, I think it often. Usually in the most mundane moments, like when I’m walking to the supermarket or brushing my teeth in the morning. Not because my life is going great. It’s not particularly good or bad. It could be worse. It could be better. It’s just okay. In this day and age, I understand that “okay” is a privilege, something to be grateful for. So, with the year coming to an end soon, I am having these wishful thoughts of preserving “okay” moments. I may not be feeling too excited about the new year because new year means new changes – changes I will bring about by my own choice and action, changes that I have no control over but learn to accept. And even though we learn to embrace change as we grow up, there are just times in our lives when change can be a little bit scary, don't you think so? If you are feeling excited about the change...

  Breathe in. When the trees and the stones start to look the same, remember that it is an illusion. And listen, the wind never carries the same message twice. Breathe out. Breathe in. Time moves slowly in the woods. I forget why I was in a hurry to get somewhere and to be someone. Breathe out. Breathe in. The woods are less scary than the world outside. Here, I can stop and think and feel. Here, I can accept that change and death are a natural part of life. Breathe out. Breathe in. Sometimes, the best way to climb a mountain is 50 steps at a time. Sometimes, the best way to see the forest is to stop often and look at the trees. Sometimes, the best way to feel alive is to notice the moment your breath becomes air. Breathe out. @ Mt. Nijyo, Nara

There was a restaurant near a busy train station. A boy and a girl sat at a corner table, facing each other. Out of the corner of her eye, the girl noticed the waiter standing by the counter. She was almost certain he was trying his best not to stare but her vision was getting blurry. She blinked quickly and took a sip of the smoothie in front of her. The lights were too bright and other people’s laughter sounded too loud inside the restaurant. The smoothie tasted too sweet and the boy felt too far away from her. She could have ordered a cup of coffee but she didn’t because she knew she would have trouble falling asleep. She would find out later that she didn’t need caffeine to keep her awake through that night and many other nights that followed. The boy looked at his watch and said, “It’s getting late. I need to go back soon.” The girl didn’t need Google Translate to know that he actually meant, “It’s time for me to leave you.” The words “Don’t go” bubbled up in her throat li...

I heard about the soup made of clouds one fine afternoon over Zoom. I imagined myself drinking it And floating out of my room. Tell me how this soup is made; What kind and how many clouds will I need? Do I look for small wispy clouds or large fluffy ones that look like sheep? Let me just step out to my balcony And pluck the clouds from the sky. Oh dear, I hope I don’t need onions. When the weather is so nice, I don’t want to cry. You said it’s your favorite soup And I would love to make it for you If only we didn’t have to social distance But hopefully, things get better in June. *** AN: A while ago, a friend of mine shared that she was making a simple dish made of eggs for dinner and she called it “Cloud Soup”. I loved the name and it reminded me of a poem from my high school English text book called “Cloud Zoo” written by Norma Gillet. So, I wrote a poem similar in style to "Cloud Zoo" just for fun. 😅😁

I am not fluent in the language of flowers. When I write about them, I borrow from another language and even then, my vocabulary is extremely limited. The neighborhood explodes into colors overnight; there are yellows, pinks, blues and reds everywhere. Spring is finally here. Yes, I am a lazy writer when it comes to flowers. Just like my friends who do not know the Burmese language sees only circles, I see only colors and shapes when I look at flowers. Their meaning and symbolism are lost on me. But recently, there is a flower that has been on my mind a lot. It comes in two shades of pink and it outnumbers other flowers in the neighborhood. These pink flowers seem to be at every street corner I turn and I got curious. What secret messages do they carry? A page on the World Wide Web tells me that I am in the company of azaleas. Did you know that the azalea flower can symbolize remembering your home with fondness or wishing to return to it? To me, home is not a place but a fe...

Strip away the crowded trains, the office chatter, the red and green of traffic lights at dusk and the day begins to lose its edges. Like an ice-cream that had been left too long under the sun, the day melts away into shapeless solitude, made of sunlight filtered through a curtain, a 6-tatami bedroom, an empty coffee cup, laughter and voices traveling through the ether, the sizzle of onions in a frying pan, a phone screen lighting up in the dark. A story needs a beginning, middle and end; I’m sorry but today, there is no story to tell.

The nights are colder these days. The air is crisp and the trees have more edges. I see yellow leaves everywhere – some crinkle under my feet and others cling to branches but every single one of them glow in the dark. Just a few more steps and I will reach the spot where the tree uprooted in the typhoon lies in silence. It has been in that state for two months now, unmoving like a dead insect turned on its back with legs in the air. A woman plays violin on one of the benches. Her music falls somewhere between lively and sad, making me wonder why she picked this particular one to play in a deserted corner of the park. The silver moon shines alongside the lights that adorn the castle. A few stars hang around awkwardly near groups of clouds like loners at a party. I read somewhere that some of the stars we see from earth are already dead. It makes me sad to think of them dying of loneliness. The park is mostly quiet but I can hear low murmurs of passers-by punctuated with ...

Photo by Syd Wachs on Unsplash *** “I am haunted by a recurring nightmare,” says the pumpkin. “Oh? What happens in your nightmare?” I ask. “Someone scoops out my insides and leaves me alone in the dark.” “That’s horrible.” “Yes, and what’s more horrible is this: In my dream, even though I am terrified, I can’t stop smiling.” *** “Why do bad things always happen to me? Everything sucks. I hate everything,” says the bitter melon. I hand over the salt and say, “Here. Let it soak in for some time. Then let’s wash it away and you’ll feel better. Trust me, we all need some time to get rid of some of the bitterness.” *** “I am too soft. And weak,” says the tofu with a sigh. “I want to be tough like the carrot or broccoli.” “You may be soft but you are not weak,” I reply. “You sustain life just as they do. Recognize your power and own it.” **** “I see things all the time. Things that other people don’t see.” whispers the potato. I want to lighten up the mood by asking, “...

“What’s your favorite color?” the little girl asked her father. “I like all colors equally,” he replied, as he watched the yellow ball slip from her hands. She squealed and ran after the ball, oblivious to his answer. He followed in her footsteps as she tried to stop the ball from bouncing away. The leaves were  turning golden in the park. The sun cast a warm glow, offering reprieve from the cold. Late afternoons were the best for a walk in the park during winter. There was light and warmth and laughter. The little girl called out to her father to hurry up. He quickened his footsteps and scooped her up in his arms, making her giggle in delight. “Daddy, you still haven’t answered my question.” “Which one?” he asked, since she’s at that age of asking questions every few minutes and he couldn’t keep up with them. “Your favorite color.” He smiled and was on the verge of repeating his answer from before. But then he saw his daughter looking up at him with her wide ey...

Photo by Enrico Mantegazza on Unsplash Dealing with the absence of your presence is like getting a paper cut. The wound is not large enough to warrant the use of a band-aid, like that one time I cut my finger accidentally with the kitchen knife. There is no substantial blood loss to show to other people as evidence of my pain. I might forget that it hurts for the most part of the day but whenever I wash my hands, it stings. I know I shouldn’t complain because it’s a small cut but sometimes, I have the urge to show it to someone just to hear them say, “Oh you poor thing!”. It may just be a tiny scratch on my skin but it still hurts and I need someone to acknowledge my pain. The absence of your presence has thrown a surprise party for me with my character flaws as guests of honor. So here I am, hosting all these unwanted guests in my tiny apartment. Mr. Anxiety likes to whisper to himself and no one wants to sit with him. Ms. Emotional is always making a scene, throwing temper tantrum...

"I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order."  - John Burroughs *** It was the most aesthetically pleasing hike I had been on up until now. The trail passed through a valley, over man-made bridges, up and down several steep inclines, all the while accompanied by a river with crystal clear water. The water was so clear that if I wanted to, I could have counted the fish swimming in it and the stones on the river bed. The leaves were starting to change into different shades of red, yellow and brown. They glided down onto the ground silently, urged on by the cool autumn breeze.  They crackled under my footsteps like small fireworks.   They floated in the crystal clear water like droplets of gold.  There were 25 waterfalls of different sizes; some gentle, some a force of nature to reckon with. All of them had names and a story behind each name. I would have loved to learn about all the stories the waterfa...

Photo by  Alex Rainer  on  Unsplash I emerge from the underground only to be thrust into a rapid current of swarming people. Immediately, I am swept away by the crowd along a kaleidoscopic street filled with colors and bright lights. Like sirens calling out to sailors at sea, salespeople cry out for my attention, waving signs in big red letters – “50% OFF!!” “BUY 3, GET 1 FREE!!”. They warn me that time is running out. They promise me that I will find everything I need and want inside their shops. Resistance is futile. All around me, people drop out of the group and wander off into the shops with a glazed look in their eyes, seduced by the sirens’ promises. I keep my eyes fixed on the person ahead of me and try not to listen to the sweet voices that beckon me into their stores. I need to stay alert. Even the most seasoned sailors can get lost in these treacherous waters. Occasionally, the downstream people stray from their tracks, colliding with the upstrea...

Photo by Niklas Garnholz on Unsplash I. You will find the truth in an empty car parking lot. The tears will go away as quickly as they come. You will dig your hands into an old wound, ready for the mess and the pain. Instead, you will come up empty-handed and you will feel nothing. You will wish you were drunk so you don’t have to remember. But you will be sober and you will remember how he looked you in the eyes when he lied. That ought to make you feel something but all you will feel is numb. This numbness will take over your body for days to come until you accidentally spill boiling water on your finger one day. It will hurt like hell but in the first few seconds, you will stare at your trembling finger and think, finally you can feel again. But please remember. You do not need the pain to realize you are capable of feeling. II. You will look for the right moment to admit you are not okay. But you will realize there will never be a moment when you do not feel vu...

I see him on Monday mornings and every other odd day of the week. He would lean against the railings with a smile on his face and call out good morning to the regulars who use the bicycle parking lot. He always wishes me a good morning as I ride past him on my way to park the bicycle. Then, as I head towards the train station, he would send me off cheerily, “Itteirasshai!”, to which I would always reply, “Ittekimasu!” Some days, he’s busy with other customers who want to park their bicycles. Some days, when it’s raining, he’ll stay inside the small office building. But even on those days, he would smile or nod at me and send me off silently. He reminds me of my father, who always tells me to take care when I go out and who I would sometimes catch looking out from the window after I left home. She works at the bakery inside the station. I am not sure which days she usually works. All I can say is that she sometimes have shifts on Friday nights. I restock my bread supply for the wee...

I love reading books and listening to podcasts about how writers come up with ideas for their writing and what their creative process is like. Even though I have shared pieces of my writing over the years, I realized I have never written a post about my own writing process. So for this week’s blog post, I thought it would be interesting and fun (at least for me!) to share with you about where I get my ideas from and how I shape those ideas into a piece of writing. I will be talking about the times when I write for myself, not when I write for school or work assignments. For this post, I dug up some old pieces of writing to use as examples. It turned out to be a good opportunity for me to reflect on my own writing process and how it has evolved through the years. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did while writing this. If any of my readers share the same interest and hobby in creative writing, I look forward to hearing from you about your creative process as well! Where do...

The hike was not planned well in advance. It called for an urgent midnight search on the internet for “easy hikes around Osaka” and a last minute cancellation of a dentist’s appointment. Three of us had the same day-off on a Thursday and because we have not yet grown tired of seeing each other almost every day at work, we decided to spend our day-off together. The hike we picked was called “The 48 Waterfalls of Takihita”. The place seemed easily accessible. We would need to take the train to Kawachinagano station, which was about 45 minutes from Osaka station and take the bus for another 50 minutes to reach the starting point of the hike. The article we found on the internet informed us we can “Take a tour around the waterfalls and be refreshed by clean air and negative ions.” We were not very knowledgeable about negative ions and their health benefits but we were excited at the prospect of seeing so many waterfalls on a single hike. Even the fact that we had to go to work the nex...

“How did I get here?” I am standing on a tangled mess of roots sticking out of a narrow dirt path. The ground is uneven and I feel off-balance. I have spent the last hour hiking up a steep mountain trail and now find myself surrounded by tall trees, their sinewy bodies closing in from all sides. I catch glimpses of blue sky and sunshine through the narrow empty spaces between the trees. I long to feel the sun’s warmth on my skin but it is dark and cold among the trees. The sun is setting soon. I am overcome with anxiety that time is running out. “Is this a dream?” I am calling out a name but there is no answer. My voice sounds small and weak as it echoes through the forest. I clear my throat and tries again. It does not work. It just starts to sound more desperate. But I cannot stop because I am more scared of the silence than the vulnerability in my voice. It is a futile attempt to look for someone when you are not sure if you are in the right place. This feeling is all too...

I like to build castles in the air. It’s mostly a silent affair without any fanfare. I don’t need anyone telling me it’s a waste of energy or staring at me with their eyes full of pity. Maybe it’s an act of folly and they can call me crazy but I like to think that it could also be a case of jealousy because they don’t know how to build castles in the air like me. These castles I build, they are made from the ruins of the walls you tore down. Like a knife, you sliced through my defense mechanisms, laying bare my insecurities and fears. I waited with bated breath for you to walk away because who would want to get their hands dirty and deal with this wreckage anyway? But you stayed. And showed me that what I thought was damaged can be salvaged. So I started to build castles in the air with these broken pieces of mine. They may not be the most beautiful out there but they are strong. They can hold the promise of forever long enough to make me smile when things go wrong. They can ...

People look at you and see something that needs to be fixed. You are a broken radio, never in tune with the emotional wavelengths of others. You swing like a pendulum between two states of being - incomprehensible static and awkward silence. Some nights, you think of dismantling your own heart under the moonlight. You want to find out what is broken just so that you might have an answer to questions that are left unspoken. “Don’t you feel anything?” “Why are you like this?” “Do you even have a heart?” Sometimes you just want to fit in. You are sick of standing at the sidelines, watching other people cry. You imagine their hearts full of emotion, spilling out into the world and making a statement, “Look at us, we are human”. To have the courage to be vulnerable and to be able to find comfort in other people who share your feelings. If their tears don’t drown you, you think your jealousy might. Once or twice, you try to fake it. You pinch yourself hard enough to bruise. You t...

You can play a game of “Guess Which Side of the Doors Will Open” before the train’s PA system announces the answer. You can count the stitches on salary men and women’s business suits during the morning rush hour. You can dance your own version of the Macarena when you forget where you put your tickets or IC card. You can listen to announcements on the train. On rare occasions, you might hear the train drivers stumbling across their words or saying the name of a station wrong. You can expect profuse apologies immediately afterwards. You can marvel at a world turned pink when it’s sakura season. As the train stops at different stations, you can look out for signs of seasonal change in the menus of udon shops on the platforms. You can close your eyes and eavesdrop on other people’s conversations if your Japanese is good enough. If not, it’s more exciting because you can try to catch familiar words and construct context and meaning out of guesswork. You can throw disapproving look...