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Was Es Ist, Erich Fried.

Mori Point, Sunday, 3 Jan.

24 September

Where did delight go?

There is sunshine and bright blue skies, hummingbirds amidst the lavender which is thriving along the stone pathways. My first tomato plant, weary and yellowed, bears its last two green tomatoes. The burbling of a rock fountain, now covered with assorted forms of algae and moss, camouflages amidst the browns and greens of California oaks and olive trees.

Everything feels heavy.

A love for autumn is an appreciation of death; it is a respect for the process of dying, of the cyclical need to disintegrate and be buried in order for life to exist again. This year, fire sweeps along tree tops, choking the California air with blankets of ash. Each year before, my heart swells with the fire-red and burnt-orange along tree tops and the crisp, biting air of the New Hampshire White Mountains.

Take me home.

I am home.

But take me home.

3 May.

In China, I was terribly homesick. I missed my family and friends, a community of like-minded people, a common language, with which I could express complex thoughts and nuanced ideas, an internet that was not behind an unpredictably impenetrable firewall. But mostly, I missed silence, and I missed the ocean.

When I moved to China, I bought a desk from IKEA for my apartment, and placed it in the sunniest, best-lit corner of my otherwise dark apartment. Glass sliding doors were to the right, and if I turned my head, I could look out my small balcony and see the tapestry of greens from the small patch of trees by my apartment. It was spring when I moved in, and I watched the new growth of leafing branches become bushy and verdant over just a few days.

Soon after I moved into my apartment in Chengdu, the apartment directly next to me began construction. A persistent hammering and drilling on our shared wall, which I faced, while trying to write. Plagued already with headaches, the banging compounded the pulsating at my temples, and no matter the earplugs or noise canceling headphones, the sound (and the worker who produced the sounds) was indefatigable. When the banging would stop for brief seconds, I would bang my fists on our shared wall in a completely pointless protest. I doubt they registered what the diminutive echo was, and my self-inflicted injuries seemed to be evidence of a quick descent into madness.

I had chosen that apartment for the peaceful patch of green trees outside my window, a little oasis in an unfamiliar urban landscape. One week into moving in, I realized trying to write at my desk was never going to be possible during the daylight hours, when construction occurred. It was not going to be possible at night, either. As soon as the sun went down, the little plaza beneath the patch of trees became a dance floor for the aunties, who learned their plaza-dances to the same techno-mixed folk tunes which blared form bass-heavy speakers pointed, it seemed, directly at my window.

A few months after I returned to California, at the beginning of another round of shelter-in-place, I cleared off a small desk, which previously housed snacks by our family’s altar. I moved it to a different corner of the living room, facing a bookshelved wall, with a large picture window to my right. I had previously refused to use the large monitor my father insisted I needed, because placing it on my desk in my bedroom would block the window which I so loved to stare out of. I perched the monitor on the corner of my new tiny (really, two square feet, at most) desk, it blocked no windows, and I could stare out onto the leafing-landscape of our backyard in peace.

A line of pittosporum lines the back corner of our yard -- once just a few feet tall, they have grown, tall and wispy, twenty feet, thirty feet high, such that from here, I can’t see the tips of their terminal growth. The wisteria, which was trimmed back, gnarled branches when I returned in February has put out layers and layers of symmetrical leaves and waving tendrils and unruly vines. Only one of the five wisteria trees flowered this year, but by May, none of this matters, as only the leaves dance in the wind. The wind is playful today, aggressive at times and teasing at others, and in combination with the bright Californian sun, the shifting shadows and light make every plant glisten. I cannot hear the wind through the thick glass planes, but I can see the sound with the movement of the trees and the grasses and I can see the silence that comes when stillness returns.

When I was a child, I read a poem from the Tang Dynasty, which describes the falling osmanthus flowers at sundown on an empty mountain. I told my mother that the poet must be content, to have so quiet a mind to see an osmanthus flower fall. I do not remember saying this, of course - it has just become one of the stories in an arsenal that depict me as a precocious and sensitive child.

But today it makes me think of the safety of my own home, and the incredible privilege of writing in this space, which is, at times, peaceful enough that I can hear my thoughts. There is no banging construction and no blaring techno, unless I choose to play techno while I write. It makes me tearful to think of homesickness as missing this dance, which I am watching outside my window, a pas de deux between wind and light, a visual symphony of home.

27 Apr.

The twenty-month old child woke up from his nap today and said to his mother, “more turtle!” so she texted me and asked if they could come by to see Happy, our tortoise (too complex a distinction to make for a twenty month old child, or really for the general population at large). I said of course, and a few minutes later, the three of them were in my driveway, again.

They told me that all gatherings, in private or public places, are now considered a misdemeanor subject to a four hundred dollar fine, and yet, there they were, wandering through my yard again, to see my tortoise, and ostensibly me. In the twenty months since he was born, I’ve seen this baby only a handful of times, though I only live a ten-minute drive away, but now that we are all sheltering-in-place we know where we are, at all times, and we are almost always available, disruptable, able to take a break, and I’ve seen him twice in three days.

I make a lot of phone calls while gardening, catching up with friends over hour long conversations while slowly watering the plants I’m really trying to keep alive. Every time I see a plant I’m convinced it is not growing at all, but eventually they do. I’ve tutored high school biology so many times, and I am still so tickled that photosynthesis turns sunlight and water into carbon-based life forms which sprout up in my yard.

I wonder if I woke up from a nap and said “more [___]” what would it be?

25 Apr

On my last day of being in my twenties, my friends and their twenty-month year old son came over to deliver gifts and to wander around the backyard. The baby/toddler/child (what is a twenty-month old, really?) slowly warmed up to being in a completely new space, and I delighted in his delight at the smallest scale of the universe - ants, caterpillars, rabbit poop -- things both so ordinary and so small I would never see them on my own.

It makes me think, now, that a year around the sun, or even ten years around the sun, or even an entire lifetime, can mean as little or as much as perspective allows.

Today I delighted in the bright expanses of blue sky, and hills painted by Seurat in gold and purples and greens.

14 Apr.

My aunt sent my mother and me birthday gifts in the mail, perfectly made functional sewn things, and the cutest of cards. Mine is a watercolor card of frolicking elephants, of course, and she said it was so hard to part with it, because she loved it so much. I know the feeling. It is hard to send something away that you cherish and find beauty in. Partly because it is no longer in your possession, and partly because you worry that it will not be appreciated in turn.

I sent a Marimekko postcard to a friend last weekend, and though it traveled just thirty miles north of me, it took almost ten days for it to arrive. I delight in this exchange of beautiful things, in well wishes, in reconnections.

13 Apr.

Yesterday, I came home from the farmers market with a ten stems of ranunculus flowers. Today, I brought them outside, with a little flower frog placed in the bottom of a clay yoghurt pot that we saved after eating a hazelnut yoghurt in Marseille, in spring of 2014. I carried the pot with me to Oxford, and then from Oxford back to California, and six years later, it is housing a flower arrangement as if that was what it was born to do.

Flower arranging is not a mindless task. I always begin by feeling frustrated that I am not doing justice to these beautiful ephemeral blooms. I feel guilty taking a branch from the cherry trees, with the last of the cherry blossoms. As I place the wisteria, with its heavy buds and hopelessly fragile stems, half of the blossoms detach immediately. The height of one ranunculus blocks the cherry blossoms; the bright purple flowers of the oval-leaf mint bush seem to overwhelm the delicate pastels of the other blooms. Everything collapses before it all comes together again. It’s never perfect, but it is almost always beautiful - a celebration of spring.

For me, every arrangement I put together contains the memories of each arrangement I’ve done before. Each time working with a certain bloom reminds me of the first time I learned its name. Wisteria, from the sunken garden of my high school. Wax flowers, when I learned to make boutonnieres. The frilly petticoat of the ranunculus, in Petali, the floral shop that enabled this ongoing love affair.

11 Apr.

Kouign amanns are pastries from breton, croissant dough drenched in butter and caramelized slowly until delicious flaky shards of crisp, fatty, sweet pastry form. I discovered them a few years ago, on recommendation from David Lebovitz, who declared the Kouign amanns at b patisserie perfect. And so I went to b patisserie and had a kouign amann, and it was indeed buttery, sugary, heaven. In the next few years they started popping up at Phils’ Coffee or Peet’s Coffee and occasionally I’d try one to satiate my craving, and inevitably in disappointment, find time to make the trek to pacific heights in San Francisco to seek out my favorite pastry.

Today I delighted in a box of pastries from b patisserie delivered to my home, including two kouign amanns and two passionfruit bostocks, which became the dark horse pastry which stole my heart. My mother, upon tasting a croissant, reminisced about the croissants of a dear pastry-chef friend, and I was delighted to receive an immediate response from him, with a sheet tray of kouign amanns just out of the oven, several states away. I delight in the friendships that have surprisingly stood the test of time, hardy transplants in some metaphorical friendship garden that despite minimal watering, find a way to take permanent root and bloom, unpredictably throughout the years.

I delighted in a package of stationery and washi tape and most importantly, a perfectly packaged calligraphy nib and walnut ink with which to begin my calligraphy practice. I delighted in sitting in my backyard to avoid the repetitive banging from the yard work by my window, with the sun at my back, and a glass of san pellegrino with a splash of st germaine, which tasted strangely medicinal. I delighted in finally finding a way in into a chapter that has stubbornly refused to be written, delighted in patiently trying to decode state policy documents about medical health reform.

Today, my tortoise was released from his indoor hibernation world. The door from our utility room cannot open all the way (blocked by the washer and dryer in an awkwardly angled corner). Though he was a mere two inches in diameter when we first brought him home twenty-four years ago, a tiny tortoise that could fit in the palm of my chubby palm, he has grown so large, he barely fits through the tight doorway, and lifting him up is a test of strength. I placed him gently down on the concrete outside, and watched him slowly stretch his neck into the sun, and I delighted in him experiencing the warmth of sunshine for the first time in several months. I hoped that it wasn’t too much of a shock, and that the sunshine brought him happiness as well.

To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

SPRING, by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

10 Apr.

Today, I delighted in planting scallions in soil. We had chopped off their greens and kept the whites in a glass of water and they sprouted greens seemingly overnight, with an inch of crisp new growth over the next day. Filling a clay pot with soil, poking a finger vertically down and inserting a scallion into that perfectly sized hole, and watering it to secure it in its new home. I am not delighted that it takes a global pandemic for us to be more thoughtful about food waste and food scraps, but I find such joy in the ways alliums seem to delight in resurrection. In the back garden, the winter branches are beginning to leaf and bud, the dogwood tree is beginning to unfurl its petals, and each day the fig tree puts out a new leaf. The world seems on hold, but the trees, basking in the longer hours of sunlight and in the occasional deluge of rain, say that this is only a moment in the grand scope of time. Spring is undoubtedly here, and I delight in each attestation of its arrival.

9 Apr.

Inspired by Ross Gay’s Book of Delight.

I have always found such comfort in conversations which happen while walking. My earliest memory of a real conversation, where I am an individual with my own thoughts, holding a conversation with another person with their own thoughts, is from sixth grade. A conversation, not playing make believe or answering a question from an adult, but just a conversation. No direction, no prompt, no story, no reason.

After ten years of lonely existence, I had found a best friend. We had found each other the day before orientation at a new school, both of us starting sixth graders, to be anointed with our golden yellow ties, both of us with older sisters already enrolled, both of us, therefore, in the know. Every day we would walk around a green grass circle, around which the campus centered, and talk, endlessly. I have no idea what we talked about, but I know we talked endlessly. We were inseparable, and we had opinions about everything, that had to be shared, instantaneously -- phone calls, passed notes, and emails facilitated this before text messages and gchat became vehicles for our shared universe of thoughts and words.

Walks around the circle became walks along the Charles River -- a loop down from campus, across Weeks bridge, by the business school, and back across towards the Kennedy School. Walks by the Charles River became walks through University Park and Port Meadow, and around the deer park in Magdalen, the comfort of walking in a circle, of repeating the same steps as conversation happens. The view was never the intention, but it never hurt to stop and admire a particularly curious pair of deer or to pet a particularly friendly pony.

I write this because today I delighted in walking around our garden while on the phone with a friend -- we had caught up as a small group of friends over video-chat a few days prior, and I had reached out, wanting to have an individual discussion, not about anything in particular, but to share the space of our minds for whatever time we could afford. I made loops around my house, through gates and up hills, pausing to sit on a bench, and then to lie on a bench and stare at the slowly shifting rain clouds as I listened to his ideas for his future and he listened to my insecurities. It briefly felt like college again, checking in after a long day, no purpose, no direction, just wandering feet and a wandering mind. It started to drizzle at the end of our conversation, and we both needed to eat dinner, but it reminded me of my love for walking and talking, briefly in-step, in-hand with another mind.

Once, in conversation with a friend, we shared stories of our favorite meals. I think the original question had been what were the best restaurants we had been to, but my relationship with food and eating has shifted in the past ten years, and I’ve found myself often caring more about the company and the memories around food than the perfection of culinary technique. As years go on, I’m surprised sometimes what food memories stand out in my mind, as so many other memories blur.

Best meals I’ve had:

Del Posto in NYC -- always their lunch prix fixe, a secretly reasonably priced menu at an incredible establishment, and always accompanied by a walk on the High Line, before or after. First with N, who marveled with me at the champagne they sent and the box of truffles; and later, with my family -- it was my mother’s first time having a prix fixe menu and forever seared in my mind is the happiness on her face when tasting the vegetarian broth, with its depth of flavor and clean, crisp vegetables.

Olo, on Victoria Island, the most perfect late night cozy dinner, the best duck breast I’ve ever had, and just the most perfect memory of a vacation with family.

Chez Panisse, for my sister’s birthday and my high school graduation. Late spring menus are always perfect. Their kitchen will forever remind me of why I fell in love with food.

Acquerello, for the most decadent pasta I’ve ever had, with sparkling company and one of the best glasses of wine. Monsieur Benjamin, with the same company, a pack of cards, some late night oysters, a slice of cake, and a very bemused bartender. Persimmons, lightly dressed in tamari soy, at State Bird Provisions.

Verjus in Paris with M (also Clamato, in Paris, with M) -- the most perfect roasted celeriac I’ve ever had. Also varieties of seafood and conches and fish that probably don’t exist in the English language.

A few other favorites:

Eating fresh-from-the-oven suckling pig from a styrofoam box in a basement take-out window of a famous Hong Kong restaurant with my father, who had snuck me away from a shopping spree to get a snack -- the perfect bite of fatty, crispy skin and tender pork, just barely seasoned, licking the juices from my fat oily fingers.

Tartine Manufactory, every single time I’ve been. Mushrooms on bread, steak tartare on bread, soupy beans, decadent desserts. Where I discovered a love for shrubs.

Paloma-esque cocktails made when you walk through the front door; crisp gingerbread snaps offered to you as you sit in the branches of an old magnolia tree. Venison tartare and pine tips at Speceriet in Stockholm. Driving 2.5 hours on whim to Portland for dinner at Central Provisions.

Kingjoy, in the company of my professor and his wife, and delighting in them discovering new ingredients, new preparations, and creating positive associations with a country which is sometimes hard to love.

One Harbor Road, sitting by the window and looking at the Hong Kong Harbor, eating dimsum made more delicately than is necessary, often with my mother, often in quiet appreciation of our shared love of nice things (#taurus).

Brunch at ABC Kitchen with E, somehow what I remember most is their preparation of carrots. Also soy and black sesame desserts, somewhere.

Corn at Toro. Lobster gnocchi at Sportello. Breakfast at Sofra. Asta tasting with J, and the most perfect wine pairing I’ve ever had. Watching the chefs at L’Espalier (RIP) prep through the gallery window in the Pru.

Strangely, seaweed salad and fruit delivered to me between classes on days when I didn’t have time or didn’t want to eat. A cup of oatmeal with cinnamon and blueberries, half a grapefruit, a toasted english muffin with sliced hardboiled egg, by the window, staring into the Quincy courtyard. So many incredible things from the Spee kitchen, and somehow the memory that stays is that first bite of a cold vegetarian sandwich -- never believing before that a sandwich could be that good.

Eating Flour Bakery sandwiches off the dashboard while watching the rain come down and painting watercolors in a a rental car after driving 4.5 hours to Storm King from Boston with my sister. Hot tea from a thermos.

Lobster rolls at Red’s in Wiscasset en route up to Acadia with my sister, always waiting in line for hours, never caring that we’re waiting in line for hours. Oysters at The Shop by Island Creek Oysters on the drive down.

糖水面 across from Wenshu Monastery, first with L over ten years ago, and many years later, with S.

Kouign Amanns at B Patisserie, after exhausting three hour seminars at laurel heights. Shatteringly crisp caramelized bottoms. J’s croissants, perfectly flaky, a million buttery layers.

Mazi in Nottinghill with S and his whole family. Those eggplant jars. I still dream about them.

Fried chicken at hopscotch followed and preceded by visiting a whiskey bar with B.

Ugh this random restaurant in Chengdu that does dry-hotpot with chicken and mini taro and I’m salivating just thinking about it. This side of the road place in an old town near Chengdu with the sweetest daikon and spicy soft tofu.

Portuguese egg tarts in Macau from Lord Stowes. Piping hot.

It’s a tension intrinsic to the surgeon-patient relationship: it’s more invasive than anything but not intimate at all.

The Empathy Exams, Leslie Jamison

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