Tag: Reflection

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Winterization

I spent hours mulching the front garden. (One gets bagged mulch in Manhattan since there is no place to store shredded wood chips in bulk.) I moved the bags to the flower beds and, carefully, applied mulch around the base of plants. Some of them were showing signs of dormancy; others were fighting to stay active as long as possible. The moist, slightly fermenting smell of chips quickly filled the air.

As I worked around the yard, I also cleared away end-of-the-cycle annuals and fatigue perennials that were no longer productive. In their places, I put down a few new bulbs—just the standard daffodils and tulips. I fed flowering plants for the last time before next year. Fellow gardeners on neighboring property were also busy preparing for upcoming seasons. We took a break exchanging greetings and discussing our plans for next year.

Every autumn, when I pile mulch up around the shrubs and trees, I do so with faith. I trust that blanketed under a few extra inches of protection, in the darkness, roots dormant comfortably. In their dreams, they quietly accumulate strength. So, when the east wind kisses the earth again, they will reach out for new territory like children rushing to the playgrounds.

Every autumn, when I cover the newly planted bulbs with soil, I do so with hope. I hope that, with good appetite, they feast on the food that I offered. I hope that the darkness does not frighten them. I hope that they are ready to put on colorful garments when snow melts.

And, the worms—my little friends who I rarely see. . . I pray that, with mulch and new soil, I have brought them a little more wiggle room. I know that their gentle massages bring comforts to my plants, letting them know that they are not alone in the darkness.

I ask myself if I tend to my life with same kind of care. Do I do so with the same kind of faith and hope? When uncertainty comes, am I strong enough to survive the darkness and the icy surroundings? Thankfully, I never stop finding inspiring things that enrich my soul. Thankfully, there are always people who care for me, who push me forward with exuberant cries of “coraggio.” I trust that there are always brighter days ahead.

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Scorso

I love the Italian word “scorso.” It is often associated with time, e.g., “l’anno scorso” (last year), “il mese scorso” (last month), “l’estate scorsa” (last summer). It is the past participle of the verb “scorrere”—to run, to flow, to fly. . .. As a noun, it denotes an unintended mistake, most often a typo, made while one rushes through things. I love the word because its sense of fluidity, which is often lost in translation. I am thinking of the word as goldfish odyssey turns one.

My sister’s passing in spring of 2018 brought back lots of memories of my childhood. The images of yesteryears seemed livelier than ever; the colors more vibrant and the sounds sweeter. Dementia haunted my father decades ago. Now, it is gradually stealing away mom’s vivacious spirit. I wanted to preserve my memories of treasurable moments, of people that loved me, and of those who I held dearly while it was still possible.

During the summer months, while friends and colleagues left the city to escape heat and humidity, I began writing. I heard my own voice narrating in English, a language in which I had been thinking and dreaming for decades. I saw images from another place and time, through the eyes and mind of a tiny me—full of curiosity and hope. Gradually, I realized that those beautiful years were only the beginning of my cross-cultural journey. I felt obligated to link the culture that shaped me as a young person and the culture that fulfilled my dreams.

Since my graduate school days, I have kept up with technology sufficiently for my work. On the other hand, social media had (and, for the most part, still has) little to do with my life. The idea of setting up a blog made me uneasy at first. As I continued writing, I consulted with close friends before taking the final steps. I clicked the “publish” button for the first time on August 4, 2018 and never looked back.

Turning my thoughts into words has a calming effect on me. It feels very much like talking to a trusted friend. I am not concerned of who my readers might be. I write about things that are meaningful to me, hoping that it might have some effect on others. Sometimes, I had so much to say and didn’t know how best to start. Sometimes, my fingers moved on the keyboard effortlessly. Those were the moments that mistakes were made—scorsi!

I am very thankful to friends who continue to encourage me, give me advices and gently point out my mistakes. One year ago, I wrote in my introductory page: “. . . the journey has just begun.” Now I should say that the journey continues.