What if the gates to heaven were really a simple opening,
Like the ones found in mud huts
and the requirements to enter were simple.
No judgment pronounced.
No heavy hand.
Just a whisper asking:
How much have you done your best?
Maybe you don’t even need a 90th percentile score to gain admission.
Maybe a soft-spoken, honest, sometimes, is all it takes.
The Journal
It's always an interesting experience coming back and visiting my family home.
Even though I have moved around my whole life, there's something about coming back to the space that holds many memories and objects of your past.
If you come to my family home, now in Maryland, you'll see tables from the British flea market, plates from Carrefour in France, chairs from a California Goodwill, big vases from China, bed frames from Texas, and upholstery from Washington DC.
Somehow, it works.
I don't fully realize how much I've changed until I come back here. Like a compass, my growth traces in widening circles. It's like the pencil completes a circumference with every return. So much happens at point zero.
Some precious things that helped me see the arc of my journey:
My scented diary from ten years old, which made me laugh, cringe, and feel awe for its wisdom.
A red envelope for Chinese New Year, with the only handwriting I have from my grandfather, shaky but full of love.
My out-of-tune piano, passed onto me by a Swiss Jazz pianist, where I spent countless hours sitting on its creaking bench and practicing.
A bamboo tea strainer given to me by a hermit I ran into in the Korean forest.
Yet, like the furniture in my family home, they all somehow connected to form who I am today.
A Poem Tucked Away: Heaven's Gate
Left: My journal from 10 years old. Inscribed in pencil on the front is a message: “PRIVATE. Whoever will open this will die.” I'm sure the smiling bees conveyed the intimidation factor.
My journal from 10 years old. Inscribed in pencil on the front is a message: “PRIVATE. Whoever will open this will die.” I'm sure the smiling bees conveyed the intimidation factor.
I found this poem tucked away in a drawer. Usually, I write just for myself. Sometimes, certain pieces ask to be shared.
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