Inner Child

It seems fitting that my 96 year old aunt waited until the day I finished my final novel edit to pass away. She was that kind of person, always thinking of others. Some time after we got the news, I found myself reminiscing about her. While I hadn’t seen her in a long time, my memories of her were very clear and full of gratitude.

My aunt was that rare woman who could make you feel like you were the most important person in the room. The picture above is from my fourth birthday. That joy in her face was just who she was. When she spent time with me and my cousin that day, she wasn’t one of those adults who was “too adult” to play with us. If we were using the dining room table as our fort, she would climb right under it to be there with us. To say that her inner child guided her life was an understatement. She understood that innocent joy that children seem to know. She also knew what was important in life. She laughed with abandon. She cried easily. And she was honest in a way a child is. She could look at your shirt and tell you that your boobs were not the same size. I kid you not.

I am super grateful that I was loved by her and that she taught me what love looked like. She was never someone who asked, “What’s in it for me?” She gave with her whole heart. She never did anything halfway. Over the last few days, I’ve come to realize that even in death, she was still trying to teach me things.

I say that I’ve been on this journey with my inner child for the last year, but I think I’ve been trying to get back to that place of joy and innocence for a long long time. And I can’t say that I’ve been successful. The adult part of me often wants to meet a deadline, work, work, work, get it done. But she always understood the present and the beauty of it. When she talked with you, she was 100% there with you. She wasn’t thinking about what she had to do later or the myriad of errands that were still waiting for her. No, she was there, listening to you talk about whatever. She really lived the now. And because she lived the now, now has become forever.

Final Drafts

At the ending of last month, I think a part of me had given up on writing. I have been holding space for my novel for the last ten years. And a part of me was just done already. Yes, I put a lot of work into it. Yes, it was a journey, but maybe I didn’t need to publish it. I was feeling this way because I was starting out on that agent and publisher search again. By March, I had already gotten a few rejections. And that was really making me think about just burning the manuscript. Did I really want to go through the thirty something rejections again? Honestly, by the ending of April, I wasn’t sure. I was truly leaning toward just pushing ahead with my art career.

But like so many things in my life, the universe sends a messenger. This time it was a very good writer friend of mine. She is very wise and honest and kind. And when I told her that I was going to move on, she said to me, “Don’t you want closure?” Closure. That was the magic word. There are things in my life that I will never get closure on. I know what it is like to live with that open-ended feeling on a daily basis.

Now, the promise of closure was too tantalizing. The idea is that your body holds space for your projects whether it be a baby or a creative work. My body has been majorly constipated with this novel for the last ten years. While Nami, the main character, is not me, her story is representative of the kinds of things that have been a part of my life journey. What if I publish it on my own just to get it out of my system? What if after I publish it and let it go, all of that energy that had been invested in that book slowly returns back to me? What if I suddenly begin to create more art? Or even another book?

Three days after that phone call, I was doing a final edit of my novel. I was painting some preliminary cover ideas and I was looking into how I could self publish it. I don’t know when I’ll be done and the book will be out in the world, but the thought and promise of some sort of closure, is what is keeping me going.

The Girl Who Survived

It was only supposed to be catching up, shooting the breeze, chit chatting. Under no circumstances was I going to do soul retrieval AGAIN! No way, no how. It was too hard. But by the end of that phone call with my shaman, I was in soul retrieval. . .AGAIN. If I had listened real closely, I probably would have heard my inner child laughing. For the last couple months, she had fully manifested in my heart and in my life. Since January, I felt like she had been guiding the whole show. That’s right. My higher self was a three-year-old.

Before the live session began, I was setting intentions for the next month. I told my shaman that I really wanted to connect and honor this three-year-old part of me—the one who had her own mind, her own way of doing things. Instead of agreeing with me, he said, “It’s important to also honor the girl who survived. She’s the hero of your story.” I bristled a bit. Well, maybe not just a bit. It was hard to honor her. If I did, then I’d have to accept all the bad things that had happened to me as part of my herstory. I didn’t say anything, but a part of me knew that he was right.

During the live session, I saw a little girl who was about three years old. She was living with people who I knew were not her parents. I understood immediately what her situation in life was and that she was me in a past life. Her parents had clearly passed on, and her current guardians did not care about her well being. She was being beaten for sure. After the live session when my shaman and I talked about what I saw, he said, “Yes, no one cried for her.”

That day was the birth of this idea. I think the hashtag #MeToo was such a comfort for a lot of us. It was a way to feel not alone in that struggle. It was also a way to shine a light on things that no one talked about enough. But the thing is, after you’ve told your story, it doesn’t make everything better. You may still have pelvic pain. You may still be in therapy. You may still have problems in relationships. You may still ignore parts of your body. I realized that we, the survivors, needed to start honoring our own girl who survived. The four-year-old who endured abuse to survive. The teenager who couldn’t speak up for herself. The young woman who was people pleasing. All these selves survived so that you and I could heal now. Like my shaman said, they are the heroes of our collective stories.

Maybe we need new hashtags for the new ground we’re treading. I’m thinking #thegirlwhosurvived and #noonecriedforher. Only now, we’re not talking about someone else. We’re not talking about another person whom we should cry for, but instead, the parts of ourselves that need comfort, tears, kindness, acknowledgement. We’re talking about the parts of you that no one cried for. We’re talking about all the selves that survived so that you could be here now to heal. I don’t know if anyone will really understand this. All I know is, that I want us to start honoring these parts of our selves. I want us to embrace the girl who survived. I want us to cry for those parts of us that we have shut out. That’s the journey that I think we’re all on now.

COSMIC NOTE TO SELF: Stop Chasing Friendships, Dreams, and Boys

Stop chasing friendships, dreams, and boys—instead, shine so bright from within your own halo of joy, your own truth, that what is meant for you knows where to find you. I really needed to hear this this week. So many things are changing around me and sometimes it’s just so hard to keep moving forward, to keep GROWING.

I want to cling onto the things that had brought me comfort. But I’m realizing that those things just keep me stuck. Life is embracing and letting go. And the most important thing is to keep nourishing you. The brighter you shine, the easier it is for what is meant for you to find you.

COSMIC NOTE TO SELF: He Does Too Exist

When I was a teacher, I used to tell my friends about the kind of guy I wanted to spend my life with, the one whom I would pray for at marriage shrines all across Japan. My friends were all married. Maybe that’s what made them say to me, “What you want doesn’t exist.” I felt naive, like I couldn’t even hope for what I wanted. It wasn’t like I was asking the universe for superficial things like must be this tall, must be this good-looking, must earn this amount of money. God, can’t a girl ask for a man with a good heart? One who makes her feel safe? Do those things not exist anymore?

So years passed and when nothing happened in my love life, the married people became smug married people. Even I began thinking that they were right. I began to believe that what I wanted didn’t exist. Then one day, I was watching Document 72 Hours on NHK World. It’s a documentary program where they film in one place for 72 hours and interview the people who frequent there. I didn’t realize it at first but as the show went on, I realized that they were filming in Ito-ya. For those of you who love stationery, it’s a 12-story stationery dream in Ginza with a cafe on the top floor that uses the lettuce that they grow on the eleventh floor.

At one point, the interviewer approached a man who was looking for special stationery for his girlfriend of three years. He was going to propose to her and wanted to find just the right one that she would like. We later learn that ten months into dating, this man’s girlfriend got seriously ill and had to be hospitalized for six months. During that time, she was unsure if they should continue as a couple. After all, what kind of future could they have in her condition? But it didn’t matter to him. Regardless, he really cared about her and wanted to marry her. He wrote her many letters during that time. And he told her that he loved her no matter what. Luckily, she had an operation and eventually recovered. He said that she still has all his letters and will take them out every once in a while to read them.

HIs story gave me hope. Here was a man who had the chance to bolt, to choose an easier path with someone else, but didn’t. He chose to stay with her and he chose her. That loyalty and sincerity was inspiring. So yes, good men are out there in the world. They exist, people! And are willing and ready to love women like me. It definitely renewed my resolve that I can have what I want. Happy Valentine’s Day to all the people who believe.

Momochan Conquers the World

Sometimes, you don’t even realize what you need until you’re given it, and then, you wonder how you ever got along without it. At least, that’s how I felt. I didn’t realize how much I needed to know what I was like at the age of three—before all of life’s challenges blew me off course. For the great majority of my life, I was a bona fide people pleaser. It was my way of coping, fitting in, feeling safe. Let me tell you, you do that for too long and you begin to forget what your essence is. Yes, we are many things. We have many facets to who we are. But all of us, have an essence, that part of us our soul recognizes and says, “Ah! That’s me.”

I don’t know what made me ask my parents that day, but something in me needed to know. “Who you were at age three?” my mother asked. “Well, you definitely had a mind of your own.” “That’s for sure!” my father agreed. “You were very strong-willed,” she said. If people were going left, I wanted to go right. It wasn’t so much a matter of getting my way, but of moving to the beat of my own drum. My parents reminisced about how imaginative I was, how I told stories from a young age, how daring I was, and for me, it was like I was meeting a part of myself for the first time.

Over the next couple days, I couldn’t stop thinking about that girl, me as a three-year-old. How brave she was! How original! That simple act of being reacquainted with that part of myself really sparked something within me.

From that one conversation, I realized that I wasn’t showing up as me, the real me. Even as I scrolled through my Instagram accounts, I didn’t see any of that three-year-old reflected back at me. I had been trying too hard to be someone else, someone more acceptable, softer, and everybody’s friend. I realized that I was totally playing small in my life so that other people would like me. To be a strong woman, to have the courage to live my own creative life, felt too lonely. But that three-year-old gave me a lot of courage. And looking over some of the drawings I did in the past three years, I realized that she had been there all along.

The drawing you see here, I created in August of 2019. And it’s called Momochan Conquers the World. I feel like she’s my inner child manifested on paper. I’ve had a blog and a website in the past with that name, but I always changed it to make it more marketable or more who I thought I needed to be. But now, I feel like she’s finally arrived, and she’s not going anywhere.

Momochan Conquers the World reflects my essence. She’s a girl who is going to forge her own path, a girl who is going to create her own destiny. I feel like I’m finally settling into my own skin after years of trying to escape it. I realized that the three-year-old I was had been waiting for me all this time. And now, I finally see her.

The Girl and the Tiger

I had a dream the other night. I was a little girl again, and I was in a cage with a huge tiger. How I got there in the first place, I don’t remember. But I was crying. What else can you do when a ferocious beast is stalking its way toward you? As the tiger got closer, I huddled into a ball and covered my eyes. Eventually, I fell asleep. By the time I woke up, the tiger was sleeping right next to me. He had transformed

from a scary beast to my protector. I remember not feeling scared and I went back to sleep. I don’t know what it means but maybe it was from not eating carbs for a few days. My body was free to dream again. And my humble little picture makes me smile so much. Everyone should have a sleeping tiger. Don’t you think?

COSMIC NOTE TO SELF: Put On Your Own Oxygen Mask First

This is the first drawing I’ve been able to do, not just in 2022, but after what feels like a really long time. It wasn’t that I was out of ideas. I had this idea in my head for weeks. But I wasn’t listening to my own advice. Just like the girl in the drawing, I wasn’t putting on my own oxygen mask first.

Since the beginning of the year, I feel like this message has gotten louder, to the point where I can’t ignore it anymore. And I know that I’m not the only one. I think as women, we’re often taught that our roles are more important than caring for ourselves. A lot of us are taught to “think of others.” In Asian culture, it’s often seen as selfish to think of yourself. I think it’s good to think about other people, but I feel like we all need to do that—not just women. By understanding where others are at and who they are, we have a chance of building a more compassionate society.

But as women, myself included, putting ourselves first needs to be required rather than optional. I’m definitely a slow learner when it comes to caring for myself. I think it’s a challenge for creatives like me. When things are flowing, I just want to go, go, go. To hell with self care. But my body, my heart, and my mind know that this is not sustainable. I think the other issue women may have to deal with is guilt. I have parents who are in their eighties. Top that with a worldwide pandemic and I feel guilt every single time I have to say no. I can literally hear that voice inside my head that says, “a good daughter would do that for them.”

But I’m learning that if I don’t take care of me, I can’t do anything for anyone else. I hope you are learning that too. Cosmic Notes to Self. It’s like the universe’s version of a Post-It Note. Believe me, I need them.

Happy Endings

I recently had a conversation with a friend of mine about the ending of my novel manuscript. She said to me that while she liked it, until the very very last scene, she was still holding out hope that it would end happily. Full disclosure. I don’t know if I’d call the ending of my novel happy as in romantic comedy happy. It’s much more, what is the word—bittersweet? Redemptive? As a writer, I feel a deep sense of responsibility to follow my characters and their storylines to an ending that feels true, whether it ends happily or not. But as a person, I was jumping for joy. I knew that when she said that, I had found a kindred spirit.

Fast forward a few weeks and I’m in the middle of a Korean drama on Netflix called Hometown Cha Cha Cha. I don’t know what exactly made me want to watch it. I mean, the last Korean drama I watched was My Lovely Sam-Soon, and that was like ages ago. I’m not naive. I know how it is with Korean dramas. A few minutes here and I am going to be stuck in front of that dang tv screen for the rest of the season. Still, I thought I could do it. After all, it’s only 16 episodes, right? But here’s the kicker—they only release like two a week. What that means is that I can’t watch the ending beforehand.

Yes, if you must know, I am one of those people. I try very hard to read a book from the first page all the way through. And there are books where I have actually succeeded. But more often than not, I’m going to skip ahead to the end. At first, I thought it was my short attention span. You know,

that need to move things along. I’m a busy person. But I’m beginning to see that it’s more than that.

As I’ve been watching Hometown Cha Cha Cha, I’m starting to realize that I don’t like the middle. It’s lovely to watch a series start up. You get introduced to all these interesting characters and in this series, they are all laugh out loud funny, especially the old women. I aspire to have the kind of honesty that makes people cringe when I’m eighty. But after all that feel good introduction wears off, we’re in the middle. I don’t like the middle. It’s where things go wrong, where there are love triangles that can leave you in perpetual anxiety until the next episode. And if it doesn’t end happily after all that turmoil? Can I just say that I hate the middle!

But the thing is, the middle is actually where all the good stuff happens. And I think maybe that’s true for life too. Think about the hardest things you’ve gone through, like this pandemic. We’ve been in the middle for a long, long time, people. I hope that after some time has passed, we’ll be able to look back and see that these hard experiences are really what have shaped us into the people we are today and will be in the future.

So, I’m going to make friends with the middle, not just with this Korean drama but also in my life. I’m going to sit with that discomfort, that uncertainty. In the end, I hope it’ll make the next phase of my life that much sweeter. But that Korean drama better end happily. Just saying.

Midnight Diner

When it comes to food, I have, in the words of my mother, a scary, almost encyclopedic knowledge of random facts as well as a photographic memory so sharp it seems like I can literally transport myself back in time to the place I had a particular meal. So, when some friends of mine asked me if I had seen the show Midnight Diner, they were surprised when I replied, “What’s that?”

For those of you who haven’t seen it, Midnight Diner is a Japanese show on Netflix about a small izakaya in Shinjuku that’s open from midnight to seven in the morning. The chef, known as “Master” has only one dish on his menu, pork tonjiru, but as long as he has the ingredients, he’ll make whatever you want. The diner has a host of regulars, but each episode is focused on one character, and how his or her story relates to a particular dish.

I binge watched a lot of the episodes initially just to see the food. But fast forward a couple years and Midnight Diner has become that warm place in the pandemic for my family. As a food person, yes, I really like the focus on a particular dish for each episode. But as this year has worn on, what I have loved more is the idea of a place where everyone belongs.

While the people who frequent this diner aren’t necessarily in the mainstream, Master welcomes

everyone, including the yakuza boss who loves to eat red hot dogs cut into octopuses, the girl with the abusive boyfriend who sleeps while waiting for her karaage chicken, the Ochazuke sisters who gossip and judge others over their bowls or rice, all while still hoping to find Mr. Right. It doesn’t matter what each character’s lot in life is or the choices that they’ve made, Master seems to feel a kind of compassion for everyone.

I was thinking as we were watching it this time, wouldn’t it be nice to know a place like Midnight Diner? Where everyone was welcome? Where there was warmth and acceptance waiting for you? At first, I thought to myself, maybe it’s a sign that I need to open a diner! But I think it’s actually this desire to create this space in myself. I think we all need a Midnight Diner, a place where we feel like we belong, where we’re accepted for exactly who we are in this moment. I know after this year, I do.

But maybe the trick is to treat ourselves with the same compassion and warmth that Master offers to all his customers. Then, we don’t have to wait for a Midnight Diner to open. Instead, it’ll always be right there inside of us. In the meantime, I hope my new blog can bring some of that warmth and feelings of home to anyone who reads it.

Delight in the Little Things

I woke up this morning thinking about an old friend of mine. It was the last time I saw her, but it felt like she was here again, right there in my room. She was telling me about a new literary journal and how she had just been made its editor. In that moment, she handed me something. I held her business card in my hands and listened to her talk about it as if she had created a novel. It seemed like such a small part of the bigger journey, but she truly delighted in its design in a way that I couldn’t understand yet. She was so much wiser than I was at the time. Whereas I was someone who only thought about the destination, she didn’t mind the detours, the one-way streets, the delays. She already knew what was important.

She’s been gone now for over a decade, but I feel like she came to visit me this morning to remind me of something. You see, I’m about the begin some new projects and take on some new journeys.

She knows that the old me would gladly sprint to the finish line. But I feel like she’s here again to help me remember what is truly important, to remind me to stop and smell the roses, talk to a friend, savor that cake, kiss that baby’s head. She wants me to keep dreaming, but to never forget to delight in the little things, the ordinary, the everyday. She knew better than anyone that life is unpredictable and as you get older, those little things begin to mean everything.

In her last email to me, she encouraged me to keep writing. She told me how talented I was. “One day,” she said, “I’m going to see your name in lights.”

And when that day comes, I hope that wherever she is, she’ll see it and smile. I hope that she’ll know how I’m delighting in the journey, that it’s my way of honoring her path as well as my own.

The Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore

“Do you know that you look like a famous actress,” Penelope Fletcher, owner of the Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore said to me. I couldn’t possibly imagine who she meant. It was a cold, rainy spring day in Paris. My clothes were damp, my hair wind-blown. All I wanted to do was curl up in the stacks like a happy cat and browse through books. Nothing about me screamed, I look like a famous Asian actress!

“Really?” I said to her, playing along. I mean, in the right light, I could resemble Gong Li, Lucy Liu or Tamlyn Tomita.

But before I could get my hopes up, Penelope replied, “That gal from the movie, Sideways.”

“Sandra Oh,” the blond next to me said.

Sandra Oh? Okay, I guess with my wild hair, I could look like her character, Christina, on Grey’s Anatomy. And I am pretty headstrong and free-spirited.

“Are you sure?” I asked. Everybody in the store looked at me.

“Yes. Yes. Sandra Oh,” Penelope laughed.

It was a short exchange, but what I remember from that trip years ago was how warm that bookstore was. Talking with Penelope and her staff felt like that comforting cup of tea on a rainy day. I still have the two books I bought from her, The Three Evangelists by Fred Vargas (an incredible mystery writer if you ever get the chance to read her) and Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. I’ll treasure those books for life; especially, since the Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore is no longer there.