Remembering our roots — 1. 人不可忘本。 One should not forget one’s roots. My father, Bàba 爸爸, is an electrical engineer by training, a precise man who wore neatly pressed suits and silk ties to work for thirty years at a phone company. He taught me, an only child, to be careful and methodical. Read manuals…

I look at my reflection in the mirror and repeat a mantra: “I am not my mother. I am not my mother.” — 1. 媽 mā — mother. If you pronounce mother in a slightly different tone in Chinese, the word becomes 罵 mà, which means to scold or to curse. To me, they represent the same thing. “Why don’t you like your mother?” …

How my father’s love of kites followed him from China to America. When I was a kid growing up in a small town in New Jersey, my dad, a Chinese immigrant and engineer, used to call me from work and say, “Let’s go fly a kite!” “O-kayyyy,” I’d say, mostly…

I am America. As the daughter of Chinese immigrants, I was raised in suburban New Jersey, amidst manicured lawns and shopping malls, to be polite, not ‘rock the boat’ and speak only when spoken to. …

A trip down memory lane triggered by notes from my childhood bestie.

territorial squawks warnings, perhaps jet-black raven clutching a juicy fruit wrapper in his beak. washed up pufferfish inches from the water thin blue-gray horizon stretching out her arms life hanging in the balance. one shell collector hunting for rare specimens thousands of grains of sand leave nothing behind but footprints, says the sign. bubblegum pink tube floating lost, then found tiny mermaid in a navy suit with white polka dots shivering with happiness.

Dream big. Or in this case, dream tiny. Sometimes the biggest dreams start small. Or in this case, tiny. I’ve been fascinated with the tiny house movement and recently started exploring building a tiny house that could be part getaway, part artist studio. Started mentioning it to a few people…

Making friends, stepping out of your comfort zone and connecting again. — Growing up, I was a shy kid with a pair of coke-bottle glasses and my head usually buried in books. I had the same circle of friends from elementary through junior high. …

Sometimes when you’re trying to carve out alone time, you find room for unexpected encounters. — For one week, I rented a room (thanks, Airbnb) in Savannah for what I dubbed a creative retreat. People asked, “Who are you doing this with?” Me, just me. A solo sabbatical. To daydream. To ponder. To plot. I brought with me a hefty stack of books for company. The…