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Flowers at the Farmer’s Market, circa May 2012

Sometimes, the sun shows up in San Francisco.

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I write copiously and tirelessly about where I’ve been and where I dream of going; but all too often, home falls to the wayside. What is it about the familiar that goes so easily ignored? 

As a proclamation of sorts against ignorance, here are some things that will always signify home:

• 80-degree weather in early November
• the swish-swish of my father’s indoor slippers
• daily doses of bumper-to-bumper traffic
• my self-painted lime-green-and-baby-pink bedroom walls, which regrettably seemed like a good idea at age 15
• an uncanny urge to bake devilishly sugary concoctions (these matcha green tea cupcakes emerged from my oven yesterday!)

Home, home—how sweet it is!

O, Chicago

A few Sundays ago, I arrived in Chicago, wide-eyed, stirring with anticipation, and running on about four hours of sleep. As the cab driver rolled the windows down and made his descent into downtown, the city greeted me with sunny skies and a skyline stunning enough to stir me from my half-conscious, groggy stupor. A mild, chilly breeze whipped my hair from side to side, and I let out a sigh, because I knew before even stepping foot onto the pavement that it was love at first sight, once again. 

What is it about my fascination with towering buildings, crowded sidewalks, and the clank-clank-whoosh of trains and subways passing underground and overhead?

I must have a bad case of city lust, because it seems like every city I visit nowadays manages to steal a piece of my heart. 

Humans of New York →

Call it obsession; call it voyeurism; call it art: I am sickeningly in love with this blog.

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Williamsburg, Brooklyn

peace to the east

About six weeks ago, I skipped town and flew cross-country to the other coast, giggling and squealing the entire way with the excitement of a pubescent at her first Justin Bieber concert. After months of living on overdrive—recovering from a drawn-out lull of unemployment, moving entire continents away and back, snagging three internships, meeting new faces, adapting to the idiosyncracies of San Francisco, maintaining a long distance relationship, and enduring a handful of self-induced meltdowns in between—my one-week hiatus from life was just what I needed to recuperate from Where I’ve Come and reevaluate Where I’ve Yet to Go. 

As a twenty-something, I think it’s an unspoken truth that none of us really have it together: some are just better at faking the latter than others. Conversations with college friends-turned-east coast transplants were bittersweet reminders that I don’t have my five-year plan solidified and mapped out in neat grids on a spreadsheet. (Heck, do I even know what I’ll be doing in five days?)

At age 24, my life doesn’t look so much like the movies told me it would; and yet, there is immense freedom in the knowledge that each day is an opportunity to break conventions, brainstorm outloud, and harness new approaches. And that’s exactly what the sweet, sweet east coast did—teach me a thing or two about living with balance and a clear perspective.

In the tumult and noise of Washington, D.C. and New York City, I rested; and fresh life was breathed into me. And isn’t that exactly how it goes? We find what we need in the most unexpected places and realize, at last, that all our desperate searching, crying, clawing, planning, budgeting, prioritizing, doing, only leads us further and further away from the crux of what really matters—a life fulfilled by a purpose worth fighting for.

where the city meets the ocean

Several weeks ago, my parents made the drive up to the Bay Area to help my brother move into a new apartment. I protested the endeavor, suggesting that they take a flight and rent a truck at the airport to avoid the seven-hour car ride, but my parents are far too modest to follow my money-squandering ways. At age twenty-four, I’m proud to say that my mother and father have taught me a thing or two about spending prudently, living with integrity, working hard, and reaping my well-earned rewards with levelheadedness and discernment. 

After a tough, long day of driving and moving (while I was away at my friend’s Bachelorette Party, getting my nails done and eating extravagantly), my parents deserved a day off before journeying another seven hours back home. So I took them to one of the lesser-known, picturesque parts of the city, Lands End, for a stroll along the water. 

1 & the same

One of the many facets I love about San Francisco is its diverseness. The entire city stretches on for a mere seven miles—a fun fact that many of my local friends like to painstakingly insert into our conversations from time to time to 1.) remind me that we share these seven miles of home sweet home with 200,000 other inhabitants, and 2.) annoy me (“Oh, it takes you 45 minutes to commute to work? But did you know San Francisco is only seven miles long?”)—yet each neighborhood carries its own unique, distinct character. It’s as if the city planners drew imaginary territorial lines to divide the city up into demographical segments and its citizens instinctively, collectively agreed to abide by them. 

San Francisco has helped me understand what people mean when they say that a city is a microcosm in and of itself. Only in densely populated, free-spirited cities such as this do the homeless dwell on the doorsteps of the well-to-do and the gay and lesbian, black and white, rich and poor sit elbow-to-elbow on the public transit. When push comes to shove, we are really all one in the same.

in celebration of my mother

My mother is a simple woman who gives copiously but never seeks much in return. It’s a marvel that we share the same genes, because I’m often unreasonably demanding and perpetually struggle with an inflated sense of self-importance.

Notice how I just inserted that unnecessary tidbit about myself when this post is really supposed to be about my mom? I rest my case.

Sometimes I photograph people who belong in front of the lens: they’re well-acquainted with all the angles that best flatter their figures and exude a maniacal aura of entitlement that screams, photograph me! I’m fabulous! (If you’re wondering whether you fall under this category, then yes, you very likely do.)

But it’s always a joy to photograph my mother because she’s a natural, no-frills kind of woman—no makeup, comfortable clothing, and an easy, broad smile. I also suspect that she’s not one to warrant such unsolicited attention, which is why it’s so rewarding to hear the camera shutter click at just the right moment and capture her in her natural state. 

And because my mother is far too kindhearted to get on my case for being all the way in New York on Mother’s Day and continuing my tradition of neglecting to send her a card or flowers, I feel compelled today to celebrate her as a woman, mother, and budding supermodel.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom—four days late. (Because some traditions will never change.)

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After a painstaking eight-and-a-half-hour drive (!) from home sweet Orange County back to California’s northern half, I picked up this greeting card from Trader Joe’s on a whim at the check-out counter for no sensible reason other than the sheer fact that it made me immensely happy.

My huge take-away? Warm, fuzzy feelings coupled with post-rush hour traffic delirium are the perfect recipe for impulse purchases. 

This morning, though, I’m grateful for tedious, drawn-out car rides and hurried trips to the grocery store. I’ve tucked my greeting card in a nook of my closet where I can always see it and stored my feel-good sentiments for some future rainy day.

(Source: reminderstoself)