sweet memories

cherry memories

when i was a child, my mom loved feeding us kids fruit. she’d slice up oranges, taught us to eat pineapples, showed that some fruit had seeds, some needed skins peeled. she gave us cherries in the summer. it was so delicious. i am so grateful for it all. the sweetness, the taste itself. it’s summer again. and i’m enjoying the deliciousness mother earth provides us. each new day there are little pieces of things to be grateful for. pieces of fruit to remind us of our childhood, gratitude for seeds of nutrition, health and nature. the beauty of all our senses.

Thank you

Thank you

I seem to have made some loyal blogging friends. Thank you for coming to visit this site and reading what I’ve posted. I am often surprised to wake up with notifications of feedback from posts I’ve written long ago or just a day ago. Please know that I value your support and time. My heart expands with so much warmth. Writing to me has always given me comfort in some shape or form. I’m grateful that if in some way the writing resonates with you, too, somehow. I love reading blogs, as well, and I’m so happy I’ve come across some wonderful ones through blogging here. Happy blogging to you all and best wishes to you on this day and rest of the week :)



those rainy days

those rainy days

Sweet refreshing rain swept across the restless state.
Falling onto city rooftops cement floors and musical gutters of suburbia.
Purely natural mists engulf the exhausting polluted air,
Clearing away like steam off mirrors after a morning shower.
Little pearls from cloudy treasure chests above in swirling skies,
Painting the world in grayness as we walk in black & white.

Tears’ Task

Tears’ Task

“there’s beauty in the breakdown” said the band Frou Frou. Below are words from fellow blogger Julia of Life Matters. I read this poem a few days ago and can’t seem to forget the meaning of it. I wanted to share this in hopes that it gives meaning to some of you, too. Crying never used to be something I did often, but now that I’m older, it’s much more than ever. The older we get, the more we see and the more we understand. I think crying for me is a form of therapy, expression and as Julia said, courage.

Life Matters

I cry more than I used to,
……..about those hungry and destitute,
……..driven into torturous perils,
……..risking all for scant hope of survival

children alone, afraid of
war, neglect, poverty, loss of home,
still unable to frame the words,
yet choked by invisible strangleholds.

I weep more than ever for people hated
……..simply for the color of their skin,
……..the conviction of their heart,
……..the level of their competencies

for all caught, vice-grip-like,
in social disparity, mere pawns –
chess pieces – subject to
unbridled narcissism and greed.

I shed more tears than I used to
…….about dogs – cooped up – caged alone,
…….worse still, used for cruel sport,
…….or confined by metal chain

about marine life perishing in polluted seas
forests at risk, resources exploited,
water tainted, oil spilled, nighttime’s splendor
erased by light from torrid flame.

I’m grieved…

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love for maru the cat

love for maru the cat


(I drew this sketch of him in one of those diet boxes he runs into)

For as long as I remember, Maru the cat videos on YouTube has always made me smile. They are simple and short clips of him playing and being active. He has a friend now, too, named Hana. Maru is kind of a super cat with abilities and confidence rarely seen in most of his peers. This smart Japanese feline is also super cute and funny. If you’re having a bad day, I’d suggest checking him out. I joke, but seriously, suggest that one day I’ll have a cat and hope it’ll be as smart and whimsical as Maru. And this is coming from someone who feared dogs and cats more than half her life. So that says a lot..


home // feb 29, 2016

home // feb 29, 2016

(not my home, but the pink/orange/blue sky give me the nostalgic home feeling)

Last year, I wrote the post below and saved it in my drafts. I wanted to ask fellow bloggers what made their home home. Since we all come from different backgrounds, I wanted to hear what others had to say about the feeling of home and what it means to them. In addition to the words below, I’d say that each of the places I lived in and considered home were not all the same. They had their distinguished comforts and unique characteristics. Maybe I’m biased, but the childhood room seems to be the room I felt most home in. Perhaps that’ll change one day, maybe not.

If you feel inspired to, may you answer this two-part question? How do you define home and how does it make you feel?

on this special day, i wanted to celebrate by writing about something close to my heart, home. i’ve lived in many places, as many of you have, and they’ve all been ones i called home. for me, my childhood room. the room i grew up in and watched a million sunrises from my window and heard a million buses drive by. it’s the room where birds would sing to me and where the cold winter air would freeze me and i’d snuggle under my warm blankets watching late-night tv and re-runs of the best of the best. it’s the room where i dreamed the most. no longer is this room the same as it was, but the feeling of it will live on.

maybe home is an idea, maybe it is a feeling, a thing we create and something we need to feel comfort, familiarity and ease.

dear theatre

dear theatre

…And the performances hold onto me even now when the day has passed far beyond a few hundred hours. I knew then that I wanted to profess my love to the theatre because there is something rare with this art. I had my first taste of it, being on stage, when I was just 8 or 9; however, not a performer. Due to irrational shyness and lack of self-confidence, I refused the request of my teacher to dance on stage with the other girls, so instead, she asked that I handle the curtains. For such an easy job, I took it very seriously. My hands holding onto the rope tightly, waiting for the cues in the music to lift the curtain. I got to bow with her at the end and hear the applause.

Since then, I’ve had a few “acting” (if one can even call it that) and theatre experiences in career and small projects; even in dance which I never would’ve thought. It’s interesting to play a role and have someone ask if the situation I acted was real because it was believable. Fortunately, it wasn’t, but I was appreciative for the words.

On the other side, I really enjoy being the audience member more. I am an observer at heart, I think. The art of performance in theatre is so beautiful and authentic (as authentic as acting can be). For the ones that never get recorded, there isn’t another chance to see it. Even if they’re playing for months, each matinee and nightly show is different. Having worked in a theatre before, I’ve heard performers complain that they felt their performance for a specific show sucked, but for the audience members, they didn’t seem to notice because I heard them speak sweet praises as they left. For them, it is the first and last time to see that show at that time. There is no rewind button or streaming option online. They can’t watch re-runs of it. It’s live. There is a show and then it’s over.

I suspect this is why I love concerts, too. The energy and atmosphere just cannot be replicated; even in memories. The actors on stage, if they’re good, can really pull people in. They only have one chance. Messing up means we all see it without the option to edit themselves later. With the help of sound, lighting and props, I am so impressed with how well the story can be conveyed and how the simplest movement or silence can mean so much. A shadow on the wall can signify a window. A table can become a bed or a bench at the park. All these mechanics take part in creating this imaginary, yet real space. There is also an odd dynamic with seeing a performance live because it teaches the audience to practice structured empathy and compassion because there is someone literally in front of us showing emotion, but there is also a boundary. We cannot be fully involved. If there is laughter, sure, we can laugh with them. But if there are tears of sadness, we cannot console them or tell them it’ll be okay. So being an audience member means we can sometimes participate and sometimes we cannot. However, we all share this specific space and time.

The art of live performances and all that comes with it is kind of old-fashioned if you think about it. Living in the digital age, it makes this kind of entertainment and medium even more valuable to me.

Maybe I’ve romanticized this, but in thinking of the life of the performer/surgeon/teacher/artist and the work they put in means it is an art of passion. I admire those who really put a lot into their craft and skill because I know a lot of the time it is internal. There are so many important moments of practice, diligence and care that no one sees. With the final lesson, product or art piece, there is a sense of love and belonging, too; even if it’s something with one person, someone somewhere will appreciate it. And they will share it. They will remember how it felt. Ironically, the art of passion is beautiful because it cannot be saved or physically held or fully seen. But it can be felt. Like how my mom used to scold me when I pulled beautiful flowers off of trees or bushes, she’d say that I should leave it because it is beautiful as is. Taking it would destroy the beauty. So having only one chance or opportunity to experience something is really powerful and meaningful in itself.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances” – William Shakespeare
writer’s block

writer’s block

Yearning for words that make sense,
My mind wanders from one thought onto another.
Loss for words and inspiration leaves me empty;
Frustrated by fragmented pieces of ideas and feelings.
Fully immersed into the craft, yet, betrayed by the process.
Until the next moment when the connections meet,
Will the creations become their identities.

I couldn’t figure out what exactly I wanted to say, so I decided to write about that.

the other perspective

the other perspective

(my dad took this photograph)

It’s interesting. I had a discussion recently with someone who questioned the decision of a person we knew. There were a lot of questions, concerns, but harsh judgements as well. It’s a blessing and a curse being in our minds without a collective thought. Anyone who watches Star Trek may, like me, think of mind melding and the collective consciousness. (I never thought I’d reference Star Trek, but there you go.) We don’t ever really know how someone’s doing, what they’re thinking and how they perceive things. Even if they tried to explain or show us, there’s no way in proving that what they see is how we see. I guess we try anyway.

It’s a blessing to have our own thoughts and identities. It’s what makes us all unique. It’s also the cause of the many paths and experiences that occur. If I go to one museum and a friend goes to the same one at another day or even the same day, their experience will be different from mine. Maybe they’ll be some things that are the same, but not exact. Their ideas and thoughts will not be the ones in my head necessarily.

However, it’s hard to really understand someone completely. This causes conflicts and divides. But maybe we don’t have to fully understand. Maybe the things that are similar are what keeps us connected. Like pain for me hurts as pain for you hurts. We can all relate in the human level. We all came from someone’s womb. We all feel things.

Not all judgements are bad. It’s how we decipher between good and bad, safety and violence, how we show care.. but, making needless, hurtful judgements on someone else’s life is sort of pointless. Is there a direct impact to your life? We all live our own lives. There’s too much difference in history and biology. What one may see as an advantage, another may see as a disadvantage. And yet there is judgement everywhere: faceless trolls on the internet, professional critics and the quiet voice in our heads. Maybe this is a defense mechanism or reflection of insecurities. Maybe it’s just out of entertainment. Maybe it’s just because it’s a habit and it’s acceptable. But maybe it doesn’t have to be any of those things.



Summer is revving up and the sun has lit up much of the land most of the day; spreading good vibes all around. I’ve been waiting for this time all year. But oddly and quite annoyingly, as I sit here typing this, I am yearning for the chilly mornings of winter hiking in which the air is so crisp and so fresh. I don’t want the cold. I don’t want the snow. But there’s just something about that kind of air. There’s a peaceful feeling about it.

drawing animated characters

drawing animated characters

I’m currently trying to practice being present. So I decided to draw a bit for a diy gift I’m giving for a birthday. It helps a whole lot in being focused and it’s therapeutic. We’ve been watching lots of Hayao Miyazaki films lately and they’re addicting. Philosophy, beautiful imagery and compelling stories is quite the combination. Admittedly, I wasn’t too fond of all the stories, but I truly admire all the work it takes to create films in this medium. If you’re not familiar with Miyazaki films, they are Japanese animation films or anime, (but according to Wikipedia, Miyazaki despises the word, so let’s stick with animation instead). I especially like My Neighbor Totoro and one blogger friend Beth suggested, The Red Turtle. Such beautiful, cute and thoughtful films. I drew some film characters below. I’m not the best at it, but I think I’ll get better with practice. I drew with pencil, pen and colored pencils.

The camera or lighting caused the pieces to look lighter than they are.

You may recognize this from the Disney film Bambi. Bambi and Thumper talking with each other.

Mei Kusakabe is a character from My Neighbor Totoro. Very sweet, curious, cute and innocent.

My take on the character Snow White.

Mulan from the Disney movie Mulan.

Totoro and friends!

Did you like any of these?