why the writing, all of a sudden?

© amy pang

I'm terribly undisciplined when it comes to my personal writing. I get excited by an idea, fall into a pattern of diligently authoring carefully crafted pieces and posts, and abandon the enterprise altogether when my time and energy are needed elsewhere.

Writing something every day is daunting. There are days when I don't have much to say, or I struggle with the words. Sometimes I read something that I've dashed off, and I think, "Ugh. How banal."

Then there are times, like this season, when I'm feeling restless and need to create. And I'm approaching this literary fecundity with the idea that I should stop worrying about the 'carefully crafted' part. Good grammar and spelling are still important, of course. But I don't need to mess around with finding the most artful way to say something; it will keep me from breaking out of my self-imposed hamster ball. I'm trapped within my own relentless need for perfection.

As my boss is fond of saying, "Perfect is the enemy of good."

I had lunch with a friend, who also writes and is a photographer, the other day, and I mentioned that I blog for myself and have one hosted on HuffPo that I've sadly neglected for nearly a year. I had plenty of excuses: no time, no ideas, no recurring themes.

To paraphrase his response: be yourself. Write. You don't need themes; those become stale.

You can't run a marathon well without training. My scratchings here are my boot camp.

colorblind?

 Trust me...there's a reason why I'm showing a photo of
sushi in a post about race. © Toshihiro Gamo

Given all of the news of late where atrocities based on racial prejudice have been committed, it's a natural step to examine your own biases on race and ethnicity and confirming or denying where you fall in the spectrum of popular opinion.

My kids are multi-racial, which brings up obvious questions around identity. When I in college and working toward a minor in Asian American studies. there were plenty of discussions surrounding the 'melting pot' concept - forever immortalized in a Schoolhouse Rock short - and how it's really more of a stew: each ingredient a distinct shape, texture, and flavor all thrown together and retaining their integrity, more or less. We can remain true to our cultural identities while co-mingling with others.

Can we?

Kids are colorblind; they are born without bias. And because I believe that the acceptance of people not in your ethnic cohort means that you don't use stereotypes as markers, I've done my conscientious best to not call someone black or Asian or whatever unnecessarily. I love that my daughter has a bona fide rainbow coalition of friends. I wish that she acknowledged her Chinese heritage more frequently and proudly, but that will come in time. I love that my son is interested in learning Chinese and different languages when the opportunity is presented to him.

People are, frankly, weird about race. I've gotten into heated discussions on whether a non-Japanese server or chef working at a sushi bar makes the experience less authentic and therefore not as good as one staffed with folks of Japanese descent. My answer: it's irrelevant. The food and the experience, the end product, is what matters. Is the fish fresh? Is it cut and portioned well? Does it taste good? And are you enjoying what you're eating?

I'd carry this through to people: do you like hanging out with them? Can you share a laugh and a joke? Are they quality peeps? If all of the answers are yes, then does it really matter what their ancestry is? Nope.

keeping it real

© amy pang

Right now, my daughter is enjoying some solo time with the Disney Infinity video game. I'm upstairs, writing and winding down from work. I am trying not to feel guilty about not spending time with her. Because we had a quiet dinner together and did an errand earlier. That counts. And now we're being introverted and recharging.

One of the challenges about parenting is dealing with the mindset that you're supposed to be all-nurturing and all-knowing. You are expected to spend quality time, aka your free waking hours, with your spawn. How many articles have we read about the fallout when we don't read with them every day, when we don't have a family dinner every day, when we are not micromanaging everything from homework checklists to whether they're wearing the right socks for soccer?

Being a mindful parent can drive even the most zen-like of souls to fretful self-doubt. It is far, far easier to slack off. How many times can we tell kids to feed the cat, or throw away the snack wrapper, or remember what can be composted and what can be recycled, and not feel like a broken record? It's tedious. Exasperating. I don't like being a nag. I don't like being nagged. Does anyone?

And then when you need to mentally check out just to regroup, there's that sensation that you're neglecting them. You can't win.

I've been working on getting over my guilt. I'm a single parent; by necessity, I need to chill out regularly, or everything goes sideways. Both of these guys are old enough to be functional and independent without me hovering 24/7, and they are learning to make good decisions.

So, here's what we're doing. I keep an open door at all times, literally and figuratively. I may be upstairs and the kids are downstairs, but they know that they can come talk with me about anything and at any time. No question is too trivial, and certainly all questions get answers, even if it's a "seriously???" There are agreed-upon household guidelines that everyone follows, and there is freedom within that framework. Everyone in the household has a valid opinion; I don't believe in an authoritative structure that prevents children from sharing their thoughts honestly. I still am the final arbiter, of course - otherwise we'd be awash with too many video games and endless craft supplies - but decisions are made by consensus and compromise.

I'm hoping that my openness and acceptance will continue through their teenaged years, when the communication lines and our connection will be severely tested. I'll know very soon if my philosophy sticks.

In honor of my father on this day.

on FB but I'd like to repost here for journaling's sake.

My impossibly chic, mod parents in Hong Kong, 1967. My dad is no longer with us, and I wish I had photos of him and me, but suffice to say that he was a compassionate, wise, and hardworking man who got me and accepted without question how much of a pain in the ass I was (and in some ways still am). He watched out for me and tried to guide me as best he knew how.

He had great insight into people and situations but wasn't bombastic or didactic about sharing his opinion.

He had a much harder life than he deserved.

I miss him. I regret that he isn't physically here to see all of his grandchildren grow up. But, a bit of him lives in me, in my daughter, and in my son. And, I still ask for his advice every so often.

Happy Father's Day, daddy. I hope you're still checking up on us when you can, in between rooting for the Giants and listening to 33s on your record player.

back to the core

© amy pang

I took some wrong turns over the past twenty years. bad decisions. while, yes, everything that has happened has been for a purpose - I get that - I wish I could've been a little wiser. small ways. such as:

being content with the present. I spent too much time mired in the what could've been and the what could happen. and because I was wrapped up in regret and speculation, I was unable to take in what surrounds me daily, currently, all the time.

not settling at my expense. I'm a peacemaker. I don't like conflict. I cared too much about what people thought of me; I could not bear the thought of anyone thinking ill of me for being myself. so I hid myself for years. it was further reinforced when I offered an opinion and was dismissed. and I went along with the tide even though I wanted to be anchored elsewhere.

accepting myself. this goes hand in hand with the former two. I was unable to be at peace with myself. I didn't like living with myself. I tried to find purpose in helping others, but that was because I found myself unworthy of help.

I'm working on all three. I can be happy with where I am and not apologize for not needing or wanting more. I can be a compassionate, thoughtful person without hurting myself. I'm letting myself be okay with being vulnerable.

and I have to say, I am happy.

taking stock

the setting: it’s an early Saturday morning. the fan is on. the cat is sleeping with his head tucked into the duvet, his pose relaxed. streaming Leon Bridges, whose throwback style is appropriate for unwinding, reconnecting with emotions, feeling good. I heard birds chirping their business outside. 

I have been itching to write and express again. I’ve been lacking the energy and discipline to do so. and here I am trying to jumpstart my motivation yet another time. 

I know better than to make this a goal. I fail at goals because I get distracted from the path when something different and interesting makes me wander to the side. this is the pattern of my life: let the path be the sure and steady, explore the parallels and tangents, then go back to steady ground.

this time, I’ll meander.

I won’t set expectations.

just go.

wonder

© danny howard

 I was able to chaperone a field trip to the San Francisco Symphony this past week for Zoe's third grade class. We endured a broken MUNI light rail train and rainy weather and managed to arrive a few minutes into the program. We heard Beethoven's intro to Symphony No. 5 as we filed into the rows in the upper balcony. Dim lighting and warmth relaxed everyone. When the program ended, the kids were complaining that it was too short. And it brought back memories of similar field trips from my elementary school years.

Growing up as a child of working-class immigrants, culture generally was the last priority on the list of enriching childhood experiences, which was very short to begin with. My parents' focus was on food, shelter, and education. I looked forward to field trips, any field trips, because they took me outside of my immediate circumstances. I remember the coziness of the War Memorial Opera House, the pre-Loma Prieta earthquake deYoung museum and Academy of Sciences, the Exploratorium at the Palace of Fine Arts. They were mysterious places, full of history and stories. We saw the King Tutankhamen exhibit - the 1970s version - and watched planetarium shows. Cow eyes were dissected back then, too. Dates and details are vague after 35 years; impressions are as sharp as they were when I was eight.

On the way back to school, we boarded a nearly empty train. As we traveled westward, past Castro Street station, one of the kids said, "Look at that! That's so cool."

I looked out the front window of the train and saw a seemingly endless stretch of track illuminated by closely spaced lights on either end. Forest Hill station was too far away to be an end point. Some of us gazed at the void while the train moved at a steady clip, the wheels providing a soothing rhythm, the car slightly swaying. It was easy to imagine that West Portal, our destination and transfer point, was not just another station but a portal through time, through physical space, through dimensions, a wormhole to a separate reality.

Wonder still reigns.

my Mary Tyler Moore moment

I'm staring down the cobbled and meandering pathway of single parenthood with a slight feeling of trepidation and an expanding feeling of exhilaration. This was not one of the milestones that I had charted for my life. I was to be married for life, partnered for life, and due to a number of circumstances and ironies, that life was not meant to be.

Being a mother has taught me what unconditional love is, and that awakening starkly demonstrated what I did not have. I yearned for it. Wondered why I didn't have it. Wistfully observed couples of all genders and orientations who were attuned to each other's needs and desires, wanting to be part of that club. Love had to be real, right? Not in the pop music sense of the word, but something deeply entwined and bare. It's the ability to be vulnerable and knowing your other as well as you know yourself. It's a feeling of quiet contentment and the appreciation of simplicity.

I made two mistakes in my early years. One: I became the person the other wanted me to be, rather than being myself. Two: my definition of love isn't universal, but until I was able to assert my true self, it wasn't possible to realize love.

I'm happier being on my own, and more content, and more accepting of the person I am. I had spent far too many years pushing down my true self, believing that my flaws and foibles made me inherently unlovable and undesirable.

I will no longer apologize for being myself. Those who can't accept me, well, they can keep moving.

just uncomfortable enough

I signed up for an online creative writing workshop which kicked off last week. I turned in my first assignment today. I also posted a bio a couple of days ago. Both of these activities were a little terrifying.

To back up a bit, I decided to take this class because I felt the need to start writing in a structured environment again. Past attempts at online classes have failed miserably because I was undisciplined and impatient. Taking online classes is a solitary activity as well; there are fewer ways to be held accountable by your classmates if you don't have to physically face them. Now that I've stabilized my life - and learned how to comfortably schedule time for myself without feeling pounds of guilt on my shoulders - I feel better equipped to get through the next six weeks without flaming out.

The next hurdle is putting my work out for public consumption. I haven't been in a writers' workshop for nearly 20 years. I'm not super confident that my writing assignments are going to be any good by my own measure. The point, though, is to just get started in a non-threatening environment. I keep telling myself that.

I submitted my first piece with surprisingly minimal angst. My bio was another matter. Not only did I have to write, I had to explain myself. The first version had a defensive tone. The second version delved into residual issues from my teen years. The third, fourth, fifth...all had flaws. Then I finally got stern with myself and stopped belaboring style and tone. I uploaded three short paragraphs and didn't look back.

I've mentioned before that I like pushing myself. The unchallenged life is a dull one. I'm just uncomfortable enough to make the most of this opportunity.

sick

I don't do well when I'm sick. I don't like being sick, for one thing. I don't often get sick, so I'm not experienced in throwing the pity party for sympathy either. I go into wounded animal status, where I crawl into a quiet place and growl at anyone and anything that comes near.

I have a cold that is finally on the wane. Today was the worst of it: low grade fever, headache, coughing, congestion. I nearly rallied myself to go into the office and then thought, am I an idiot? I'm doing the same thing I tell other people not to do. I don't need to be branded as a petri dish nor blamed for spreading this plague throughout the workplace.

I stayed home. I read. I checked emails. I did a couple of low energy tasks. I napped. Napped! I never nap. I took some ibuprofen for the headache. I don't typically do that either. I drank many, many cups of water. I had orange juice. I had tea. I had udon soup delivered for lunch. I put on my downtempo Pandora station. I read Facebook posts. I did nothing.

I was tempted to do something. I wasn't that sick. 100.4 fever, I laugh in your face. I wanted to go grocery shopping, do some laundry, pay bills, be a grownup with grownup responsibilities.

And, the grownup said, 'Take care of yourself. You're sick, for God's sake!'

So, I did.

Taking care of yourself is one of the most difficult things to do if you're a giver. I would gladly sacrifice time, sanity, and well-being to make others happy and functional. That left very little time to attend to myself, and when I did, I felt nothing but guilt.

Today, I took care of myself, and I didn't feel that guilty.

being human

School has started for the minis. I typically feel a sense of gravitas with the new school year. It's not just a fresh start for the kids, with their new backpacks (my kingdom for a backpack that can withstand multiple forms of abuse for more than a year), backpack bling, squeaky clean lunch bags, and various items of freshly laundered clothing that may be a tad large right now but that they'll outgrown by May; it's a reset for me as well. I marvel that they are racing through their childhood, a generally happy, multi-faceted one at that. I then turn the reflective lens upon myself and think about what I've been able to accomplish, where I've had setbacks, what I want - really want - for myself.

I want a life filled with joy and love and incandescent moments that propel me to reach beyond my comfort zone. I want to be the best mother, the most appropriate and responsive mother, to my two spirited children. I want to be a partner to someone who can and wants to be my best friend. I want to immerse myself in fulfilling, satisfying work. I want to make a positive difference in small ways; I'm not one to insist on being in the limelight.

This has been a year of significant, ground shaking change. I have plenty to worry about. I can choose to let that worry consume me, or I can choose to look it straight in the eye and refuse to go down. Guess which way I'm going?

nearly two years of ruminations to be unleashed to the unsuspecting public

sick penguin, circa 2011. styled and photographed by Zoe Neumyer.

I've had quite a time over the last two years. I've divested, downsized, delved deep into myself to ask the hard questions. Who am I, really? Where was the self with which I was most comfortable? Who and what should surround me to get me to that best self?

My conclusions put me on an unpaved path. I'm still hacking my way through the wilderness. But, I'm at peace with myself and my decisions. I'm happy. I no longer indulge in wishful thinking over the life I should be living, because I'm living it now.

Writing, which has been blocked for me for too long, is coming back. Even creating checklists of work tasks and home duties provides a great deal of satisfaction.

Nesting in my new home that I share with my rapidly growing up children is another pleasure. I made dinner for myself for the first time in ages last night. Pappardelle egg pasta and organic marinara sauce from Trader Joe's laced with my own concoction of ground turkey, garlic, caramelized onions, fresh basil, and a liberal sprinkle of parmigiano-reggiano on top...divine.

I'm loving the simple, smaller details. And, I'm glad to be back.

fall, glorious fall

September 23rd is 2010's first day of fall. It's my favorite season hands down. Why? Well, I'm glad you asked. Because now I can present the list of good better best things about fall.

1. Food: thick pureed hot soups, slow cooker goodness, stews, hot apple cider, leftover Thanksgiving turkey, roasted root vegetables, pears cooked in butter and brown sugar, and pumpkin rocks
2. Clothes: sweaters and boots. jeans tucked into boots. long sleeves. layers. scarfs.
3. Flannel sheets
4. More opportunities to swathe oneself in blankets
5. And while swathed in blankets, reading 
6. Kids getting all excited about Halloween
7. Eating the kids' Halloween candy. (don't judge. you do it too)
8. How good cold air smells and feels
9. Hot chocolate, which technically goes under food but really deserves a special spot on the list
10. Leaves changing colors

 Fall is romantic and welcomes change. Bring it on.

off kilter

I'd been out of sorts today and couldn't pinpoint what threw me off. It may very well be the confluence of random things that are generally mild irritants but have reached critical mass. And it feels as though the best method to deal with this...blah-ness...is to empty my mind. Too much clutter, too much overthinking, too much.

One way I cleared the detritus was by cooking. I roasted a chicken and sauteed some green beans for dinner, with carrot fennel soup to start and some good bread. Fennel is becoming a favorite soup additive. Its raw flavor is too intense for me; it mellows out considerably in a soup context, and adds a little bulk to a puree.

Tomorrow we'll have a warm chicken salad with tomatoes and greens from the csa box. I've used up the last of the frozen chicken stock so the carcass from this particular bird comes at an opportune time. Maybe I'll make a chicken salad sandwich for lunch tomorrow. I've got some avocados that need eating, and they'd be swell in said sandwich.

Even writing about cooking is having a cleansing effect. I'm starting to feel better already. Not to mention a little peckish.

dear iPod

you and I have been friends for many years. you have provided me endless comfort and meditative moments, and I have provided an eclectic, varied musical palette for your hard drive. your case has seen the scratches and scars of heavy, nearly daily use. you have traveled with me across the country and back. in the past year, you have been a stalwart companion in my car as we went on road trips.

lately, I've noticed a slowing down in your performance. the battery gauge isn't providing an accurate read on the actual life left. you suddenly shut down in a huff for no reason and grudgingly reboot. I fear that our relationship is nearing an end, my dear.

I have treated you with nothing but loving kindness, save the odd drop onto hardwood or sidewalk. (I swear those were pure accidents) But you are a fragile fleur, aren't you?

When the time comes for your demise - the prevailing opinion of your life expectancy is four years, and you've got one to go - I will observe a moment of silence. I'll responsibly recycle you. And then I'll head over to the Apple Store and get myself a Touch. Love you too.

father's day without the father

Father's Day is inevitably bittersweet because my dad is no longer with us. My kids have no memory of him. He would've really enjoyed them. Gently teasing Z and irritating her on purpose. Joking with O. Showing them his birds. Telling them stories. Watching Giants' games on tv with them. And World Cup.

As much as I'm a logical, thoughtful person, this continues to haunt me.

When O was born in early October 2005, my dad went into his final coma, never really waking up again save for a few feeble gestures. I found out the second day I was in the hospital, recuperating after the birth. My sister called; my mother did not want to tell me. I was such a morass of emotions and hormones at that point that it didn't register. I don't remember feeling anything save for a hollowness that was soon filled with brain-obliterating exhaustion.

He died over Thanksgiving weekend that same year. He knew of O, I was told, and the few photos I had brought to him of O were taped on his last bed in the hospital.

As O is growing up - and turns five this year - I can see my dad in him. The love of life and small pleasures. The genuine care he shows to people in distress. The flashes of temper. Without sounding too new age-y, I'd like to think that the best parts of my dad's spirit have come to reside in O during the birth and death cycle. And maybe that's how we perpetuate our legacies.

still mucking around with templates

and will be seeing how long I can tolerate this one. the dandelion theme was not rocking my world.

decompressing

by doing laundry, listening to Jack Johnson's live album, wondering if I should clean up the piles of paper on my desk, centering myself in the here and now.

Most people fantasize about traveling or doing exciting, adventuresome activities. I dream about being alone in a quiet house and puttering around. A lot of mending would get done. I still have boxes to unpack; we moved in April, for crying out loud. I need to spend a couple of hours sorting out the kitchen without interruption, really loud music blaring in the background. Something along the lines of LCD Soundsystem or early Green Day or The Clash. And the continual process of purging unneeded items, like the broken crib and the Graco travel system (for those of you unschooled in the parenting arts, that's the infant car seat/strolller/carseat base combo. and I'm sure you still don't know what that means).

Tending to the house is a reflection of my desire to have an orderly life. I've been moving so fast that I haven't caught my breath for days. It's time to stop and observe. Listen.

I realized my need to slow down on a walk back to work after a very good lunch. My body was literally refusing to move at typical city pace. It was a sunny, warm, beautiful day, and I was happy on top of it. Everything was magnified: the sky was bluer, the trees a deeper emerald green, the sun and breeze pushing past skin to get to my core.

Lots of random thoughts today. All part of the decompression process.

what's for dinner?

I've been a little slack in the cooking arena over the past few weeks. Lots of takeout and lunches out were all I could manage while work life was ramped up. Now that I've moved toward the eye of the hurricane, I had the inspiration to make dinner.

It was unseasonably warm. I thought a salad would be appropriate, but a salad with warm components. I had taken out chicken parts to defrost in the morning, including wings for Z so I could make her absolute favorite, soyaki* chicken wings.

I started the other chicken parts in the skillet with a bit of olive oil and salt and pepper, browning them enough so that the fat from the skin was rendered. A fried chicken salad started forming in my mind. Ideally, the fried chicken should be the good stuff: buttermilk marinade and deep frying. It was too late, though, so I kept the heat on medium and continued browning until everything was brown and crispy. Lemon juice was added to the pan for flavor depth. I shook some Old Bay over the adult share; I knew better than to season O's share. Meanwhile, Z's wings were baking in the oven at 400 degrees, 425 degrees during the last few minutes to add some color.

The salad was a mix of red leaf lettuce, baby heirloom tomatoes (not dissimilar to cherry tomatoes and with the same squirtability factor), and avocado. I had some Trader Joe's goddess dressing - avocado is best with a creamy dressing. I am too lazy to make creamy dressings. The chicken was sliced on top. We ate. And all was well in the world.


*Trader Joe's Soyaki sauce. It works miracles on chicken. Seek it out.

a day to play

My previous 'time for mom' plans for today fell by the wayside when O spent the better part of last night crying from pain because his hip was hurting him. Off to the doctor's we went first thing. We came away with an order for bloodwork and an xray of said hip.

I am not a fan of bloodwork. I'm not a fan of needles anywhere in close proximity to my body. O put me to shame with his fascination as the needle went in and the tube filled with blood. "That's cool," he said. I was looking pointedly in the other direction.

Next stop was the xray. He actually giggled as the tech moved him into position; he is unbelievably ticklish. My whirling dervish son was remarkably still for the whole procedure. Again, very impressive.

We thought about eating at UCSF. In the end, blueberry muffins in the comfort of home won out. We played Wii games. We hugged. We watched old school Scooby Doo (there can be no other) off On Demand. I managed a conference call in between. It was beautiful out, and I opened windows to let the late spring air filter in. We laughed a lot, especially while playing a port of Super Mario Bros. 3. Clearly the reflexes have diminished greatly since 1988.

On the face of it, there was nothing memorable about today. No epoch-making moments. No revelations. But I'd like to think that our slower pace aggregates into a single memory of what our relationship was at this specific time.

footnote: all is well. a mild inflammation of the joint from a leftover viral infection that will go away in about a week. motrin at night and rest will cure. I am grateful. health is something we do not take for granted.