“The little fuzzy ends of threads that I feel the warmth from.
Maybe that is a piece of home to me at this moment.
Not a place, not a name, just a bit of solace when my heart shivers.”


Where is the place called ‘home’ to me? Where has it been?
If you say ‘I’m your home’, I’ll fly a thousand miles and land on your shoulder, singing all night, all morning.
The night is dark. No sound. Ghosts are living in this town, but they’ll leave soon. The empty house with the old memories would ring the chime on the door whenever the wind visits. The tongue out long to touch the air, striving the scent of life on the tiny wet buds… only the dust settles on that desperation.

Once the place called home was a hell to me. I took as much time as I could to delay my return to that place every night. I hit the gym with my tired eyes barely opening on the exercise bike.

I’ve been striving to create my home at this moment of my life. There is a thirteen-year-old girl who comes to the martial art class. I often paired up with her for the partner work. She is a bit taller than me and has trained longer than me. I don’t feel much different from her about the stage of life that I’m at. Sometimes, my life seems like a stranger to me knocking on my door without notice. I don’t know what to do at the doorstep, but I know that I’ll be open to all possibilities. That much I know.

Here… upstate New York… a small town. I don’t know why I’m here.
I could be anywhere on earth if I decide. Perhaps I want to hold onto something that drapes over my being. The little fuzzy ends of threads that I feel the warmth from. Maybe that is a piece of home to me at this moment. Not a place, not a name, just a bit of solace that I can get when my heart shivers. Maybe it is a delusion, but that seems the reason that my stubborn will stays here.

Long night. No sound. The moon is about to full.

I wish I could be a  warm thread to someone also. Someone who feels homeless, someone who feels groundless, someone who feels no place to put the head down. The night will be long and the winter is coming. The moon will wane leaving the sole darkness of night. But I know that I’m home to my fuzzy dog wherever I go. I’ve been building a place that can be called a home to my adult children to return to at any time from anywhere. I’ve been trying to return the unrewarded kindness that I’ve received over the course of my life when I felt like a homeless person on the cold street inside.

One day I want to find a place that I can really say as my home without any hesitation, gathering all threads to weave a warm blanket that can cover the whole place. I’ll bring some firewood inside and build a fire in the woodstove. The kettle on the stove will steam the air, making it very huggable. A bird will land on my shoulder and sing the song that I’ve always wanted but never been able to hear. ‘You have finally arrived. Arrived at home, my dear.’

<October 9th, 2019>


What for?
Conditioned in hiding, not to be seen, not to be heard, not to be discovered… even though there is nothing wrong in her actions, feelings, or thoughts… and it has been like that for a long time. She feels like a groundhog, peeking out her head to check the surroundings, to find out the sign of danger, disturbance, conflict, ready to disappear under the surface.

Groundhogs hide first, under the earth, to the burrows they have made… but… when their territory is invaded, they fight fiercely… they are strong animal, just don’t want any conflict in life unless it is necessary… they are herbivores, they sleep all winter, they clean their faces after eating. Let them be them… she wishes that they don’t have to hide, wishes that they walk around the field like a lazy cat under the summer days, munching the plants they like, picking up some wildflowers and tasting them, and napping on the grass with their belly up stretching out the four limbs wide. But, they’ll hide with little hint of the observer around, into the underworld. That makes her very sad. Because she knows the feeling, the hiding… without doing anything wrong… just not to be caught, not to be eaten, not to get into trouble.

Her burrows are not in underground, but they were dug deep in her being… invisible to the others. It has been like that for a long time. The first thing she has learned when she had lost the innocence of child’s mind, she hid her thoughts and feelings not to disturb her family. And she thought that she could somehow contribute in lessening the pain and the sorrow of them, but she was wrong. As she hid under the holes more, her pain and sorrow have grown bigger and the earth over her head got heavier, and heavier, until she felt that no light came into her safe space where she buried her true feelings and thoughts. Then, she knew that she would die soon without a single ray around her. She had to learn to peek out, look around, and find a way out somehow, not to die under the weight of the dirt she has been putting over her body to hide.

Cautiously, she put her head out to see, and sometimes, to be seen. In and out of her burrow to smell the flowers and pick up the odd stones on her way around. The breeze, the sun, the sound of leaves under her feet… the clouds gathered and scattered… the scent of wet grass after a summer rain… the tiny black beetles and a ladybug.. something inside and something outside… open wide and held close… the things under the sunlight or the beam of the bright moon… sometimes she walks far from her burrows and looks back the holes that she has dug for a long time… and she thinks… maybe she is not even a groundhog after all. Then, what is she? She doesn’t know. She has hidden so long that she couldn’t recognize herself under the new light. She would find out as time passes by when her habitual hiding wears out and finds the way out to show herself to people, the people who’ll appreciate and cherish her presence under any light that would illuminate her being, as she is and as she should be.

<October 2nd, 2019>

Icarus also flew.

The doorbell hasn’t been rung once since I moved to this place a few weeks ago. I knew that it was broken, or one of my rare visitors told me that it was broken. And it doesn’t matter.

I don’t want people to come to my house, or know where I live, putting their nosy curiosity into every drawer of my space, except a very very few people. For those very very few people, the doorbell wouldn’t matter anyway.

My cyclamen flowers are growing again. I really have no idea what my life will be like from here. No blueprint, no picture in my mind… am I afraid? I’d say yes. I’m afraid. Uncertainty, insecurity, having no one around to lean on or discuss with, no intimate relationship… but didn’t I want this? The complete blank page to start, to learn to fly, to fall, to soar… one day up to the blue, blue sky, too blue for my eyes that would make me almost cry. Here I’m on the start line, the white thick solid line… like a runner lunging deep ready to take off with the sound of a starting whistle… still my feet behind the line…. trembling with the heartful possibilities sprinkled with a little fear of the unknown waiting for me… ah, life.

A New Morning

The moon waned hugging the farside tightly under its ribs.

Is it painful to do that? She asked.

It hurts to change but exhilarating. I defy staying in the old. The moon answered in its serene pale composure.

She nodded. The white half of the moon landed on the top of her hair, glistening, caressing, whispering… the new moon, a new day… and a new morning for you. She blinked once, looked up, and grinned wide.

The sunlight scattered the moon among the clouds. A new morning… she whispered to herself. A new morning.


“I live in the past. I take everything that has happened to me and arrange it.
From a distance like that, it doesn’t do any harm,
you’d almost let yourself be caught in it.
Our whole story is fairly beautiful.
I give it a few prods and it makes a whole string of perfect moments.
Then I close my eyes and try to imagine that
I’m still living inside it.”

– Jean-Paul Sartre –

Let the past be a series of things for now, like a stone. She can pick up one and toss it over her shoulder… or she might throw it into a river, watching it sinking deep down, under the water, unrelated, having no power over her.