...Wendiva...

LOVE

2009-02-14T04:31:00.000-08:00

A middle-eastern man walks in with his wife in hand, refuses the frozen beef and mashed potatoes in my section for religious reasons. The warehouse is as chilly as the TV dinners stacked in front of me. They nestle for body warmth, the wife’s head resting devotedly on his copious shoulders. Next in line, a Chinese mother receives chocolate biscuits from the volunteer next to me. Then turns and asks me in Mandarin if she can take more because this is her children’s favorite snack. A transvestite who visits us regularly, eyes for her favorite volunteer: a rugged French in his thirties who broke the law and now paying dues with community service. The following week, she will wonder about his absence when he completes his hours. Even in a French soup kitchen, love beams. In every still frame of my experience there, love remains traditional, crosses barriers, and momentarily overcasts practical misery, brewing sweetness.

Sometimes when I leave the warehouse, emotions run high. Sometimes, I sink in conflicted thoughts. Most of the time, I drown in gratitude. I’ve recently come to realize that, gratitude could possibly be a form of self-love. Appreciation for the things we possess, people around us, and even for this earth, leads to treasury of oneself. To love ourselves requires forgiveness of past mistakes, seize the most terrible faults we own yet heighten the most wonderful traits. Love, emits from within. Love, after all, is what keeps me smiling, walking, regardless of how nomadic my life can be.

Maya Angelou once wrote, “…Love arrives and in its train comes ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls. We are weaned from our timidity. In the flush of love’s light we dare be brave. And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.”

If Love truly is such a train which arrives at my feet…such a ride, I embrace.

* I dedicate this post to my good friend, Audrey, who inspired me by reminding what I had almost forgotten.

THE GOOP SCOOP

2009-02-02T03:08:00.000-08:00

Last September, Gwyneth Paltrow launched her lifestyle website: GOOP – Nourish the Inner Aspect. The actress offers constructive tips contingent to particular components in her life. The goal seems to be focusing on ways women can better able to: Make, Go, Get, Do, Be, and See, by truly focusing on their spirits of souls and minds. Some of my personal favorite posts are: detox (Make) and New York (Go). I’m a true believer that, in today’s industrialized world of hustle-bustle, it’s vital for each of us to take few minutes of silence and truly own them. Possess these moments and nurture our internal spirits.

During one of my hospital volunteering experiences last summer, I encountered a young woman who has remained in my memory. I recall standing at the door of ER, watching a taxi stop at a few feet in front of me. The door was open for several minutes but no one exited. My eyes were curiously glued to the car. I couldn’t see the backseat passenger, but after a long few minutes, I noticed the driver turn down money, then hurried his customer out of the taxi. Another dreaded long minutes later, a young woman, hair completely disheveled and covering her face, struggled to come out. She wore a black tank top, long blue jeans and broken sandals. I was unable to see her face, but rushed over to help as she seemed to be crippling. At closer proximity, I noticed numerous bruises; whip marks covering her back and neck. When I finally caught several glances of her face, it was covered with countless dark irritation marks. She didn’t want to be touched. Every attempt I made to hold her, she rapidly pulled away.

While she registered, people in the hospital stared and whispered. She couldn’t move much so I slowly led her to the waiting area, this was when I noticed how beautiful her facial features were. Underneath purple scars, she had a coveted nose with thin yet pouty lips. Her hair disarrayed, but long and jet black. It wasn’t my job to ask her any questions, so I repeated to her: take your time, it’s ok, watch your step…She was grimly quiet, until I sat her down then she whispered a “thank you” to me. Other volunteers and nurses speculated that she was involved in an abusive relationship, but I never saw her after that, I think she left after my shift was over.

So whether we like Gwyneth or not, I think GOOP is a strong statement of how modern age women should live our lives. Life isn’t a short sprint, but a prolonged marathon. So it is up to us to foster healthy facets for our bodies, attend to the voices inside our spirits and cultivate integrated aspects that are productive to our minds. Only when we cherish ourselves, can we greatly influence those around us. So this, is my scoop on GOOP.

BASIC INSTINCTS

2008-12-22T14:51:00.000-08:00

As a blogger of fashion, I astound myself by the lack of dedication thus far to one of my all-time favorites - Audrey Hepburn. An iconic figure who single-handedly popularized the infamous style of “little black dress (LBD.)” A look not only exists as a stable in every modern woman’s closet, but also a fashionable security blanket for days of faltering insecurities. What essentially comprises of a piece of basic black fabric can certainly boost our confidence at moments when we need it most.

Life as a Parisian has been unsurprisingly colorful yet remarkably peaceful. Prior to packing up my bags and eventually moving to the city of lights, I predicted a journey of vibrant experiences. The serenity I have felt since residing here, nonetheless, has transpired serendipitously. I’m grateful for a charming quarter of Paris, exceedingly caring yet unknowingly carefree new friends, beautiful changes of seasons…Basic elements of life in Paris extend to a fundamental gratitude which thankfully leads to fulfillment of the spirit. The spirit, however, was yearning to fulfill the need to act. A local friend of mine introduced me to Restos du Coeur, a well-known organization in Paris founded by the French actor, Coluche. Each week, I, along with other French elders, distribute food to people of poverty and/or the homeless. Basic nutritional items such as: oranges, potatoes, carrots, sugar, yogurt, canned ravioli, cheese, fruit bars are donated. Sights of long lines of people standing in the cold, in addition to gestures of them receiving food from my hands, all startled me with a combustion of feeling sadness as well as happiness. Hours at Restos du Coeur are now spent with a perpetual smile on my face. This is what happens when one participates in providing someone else the essentials in life.

Just as putting on a basic LBD that grants any woman to instantly feel elegant and content while exuding confidence about herself at any moment, I’ve come to recognize that my volunteering experiences at Restos du Coeur accomplishes the same for my inner spirit. Indeed, Audrey Hepburn changed the wave of women’s fashion with Holly Golightly’s iconic wardrobe. Hepburn, though, also inheres in history as a humanitarian. One has to wonder, whether following her basic instincts of compassion has brought her peace within her spirit. Now, there’s one question wouldn’t I like an answer to.

BFTP: SILENCE IS GOLDEN

2008-10-18T13:31:00.000-07:00

*originally written & posted on January 17, 2007. Third post for BFTP (Blast From the Past) series.

The absolute worst moment of volunteering in a hospital is, walking into your patient’s room and suddenly, he’s gone. The bed is empty, messy blanket dispersed, TV isn’t on and your heart sinks. The ultimate horrible thought comes to mind: Is he…?

I frantically ran to my supervisor, pretended to be apathetic and asked, “where is he?” Aware that I was the only person this patient truly connected with, she took me to PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.) I took a deep breath before stepping in. Following entryway was a sea of beds. Patients’ sizes and illnesses varied, bodies laid down with tubes sticking in and out. Some were babies; the sight triggered tears, which I relentlessly fought to hold back.

I was led to an individual room with glass doorways, where my patient was located. His brother sat close to him, in praying position. I quietly said hi to him, while he replied with a “thank you,” my patient opened his eyes, wearily. Trying to maintain my usual spark, I asked softly, “hey, do you remember me?” He nodded and went back to sleep. Again, my heart sank.

His brother kept thanking me, I soon walked out with my supervisor. Outside of PICU, she kindly reminded me of how much it must’ve helped the patient and his family to have my presence there. “Even for a few minutes?” I asked. She responded, “oh yes. As humans, we feel like we need to say something in times like these. But truthfully, just being there. Even if you’re silent, you’re providing comfort, you’re making a difference.” I rode up the elevator; quietly prayed, hoped for him to pull through.

If silence is golden, then why did my heart fall once more?
photos of Versailles, France

LEE COOPER, 100 YEARS AND JUST GETTING STARTED

2008-10-01T12:26:00.000-07:00

Monday night, Lee Cooper celebrated its 100th anniversary with an exhibit and auction held in the beloved city of Paris. I was kindly invited by Ninette, founder of Designers Against AIDS (what is now one of my favorite organizations that was also part of Lee Cooper and Red Cross’ auction.) Lee Cooper began 100 years ago, mutated workmen’s jeans into panoply of denim variance. Women in 40’s era wore Lee Cooper for added glamour, while flower power in the 60’s allowed the brand to decorate denim for entire generations. Today, Lee Cooper is launching collections of designs with house of JCDC, expanding its brand on global platform.

This summer in McKay’s ER, I met two sweet college girls who were drowning in giggles, a rare scene in any hospital. One girl was a chatterbox friend, and the other was on the bed, injured from a broken foot (she apparently tripped while walking, a story they both thought was quite idiotic therefore, hilarious.) I was assigned to push her bed for x-ray, and at one point, we were all laughing so loud that it was, honestly, a little inappropriate. The girls then began to ask why I volunteered, and that I had somehow made volunteering look cool, so they wondered how they could join the program as well. I tried to answer all their questions and hopefully provided them with positive encouragement. Towards the end of my shift, I caught the girls leaving the hospital. Since the injured girl was truly crippling, I hurried over to offer a hand. They ended up giving me a Taiwanese soft drink as a gift of thank you. I refused at first, but they insisted, repeating that they were happy to meet me and hoped to return as volunteers next time.

Looking over ER, I noticed that all the other volunteers were older adults in their 50’s and 60’s. Like Lee Cooper, which transcended workmen’s denim overalls into an array of quality designs to be coveted by the mass. I hope to do the same with the act of “giving.” Like Designers Against AIDS, which delivers education on HIV/AIDS in a hip, fun and fashionable manner. I also hope to do the same with the concept of volunteering. Even if it takes 100 years to do so, every sense of gratitude on the journey thus far has left me ravenous, famished…leaving me to push only for more.

photo of Ninette Murk, founder of Designers Against AIDS, with Bring Safe Sexy Back Flag.
Middle photo: me at the auction party in Paris

CARTIER - MYSTERIOUS INDIA

2008-09-25T13:29:00.000-07:00

Earlier this year, I found myself getting ready for a Cartier day in Taipei. It all began with a private VIP showing of the luxury brand’s latest collection: Mysterious India. We tried on various opulent jewelries, indulged in admiration. Quickly came home to transform ourselves in evening attires for the cocktail party, dinner, fashion show then after-party. I made sure to wear nothing over-the-top but simply Topshop, all purchased from my favorite shopping district in the world – Harajuku.

More than a year ago, I visited the incredible India. Prior to the trip, I was at Grammy’s in Los Angeles, unstirred by what laid ahead. India, indeed a mystery at the time, completely altered my views on poverty, corruption, starvation, most importantly, education. From witnessing miles and miles of beggars alongside the Ganges River, to recognizing the nation’s spiritual devotion or way of life entrenched in Ganges. All unfolded the mystery of its culture to me, whilst further mystified India. From encountering unfeigned innocence in Khajuraho, to waving at scenes of proper schooling in New Delhi. From telling beggars that I have nothing to give at the moment, to realizing how much more I still have in me to give in this lifetime. Such episodes de-mystified India, thereby raised the level of my comprehension of social issues around the globe.

As I sat by the Cartier runway, what inspired me weren’t the spectacles of the show nor its dazzling jewels. Ultimately, dynamical inspirations derive from personal experiences. For me, India voyage would only remain a mystery if I decided to do absolutely nothing about what I learned.
photo of me at the Cartier event in Taipei

TWO STRANGERS

2008-09-19T04:14:00.000-07:00

I had dreamed of living in Tokyo and Paris since I was 22 years old. I made a goal for myself then, that I would make these dreams come true before turning 30. It was important to me that I learn a new language (Japanese) and polish my French. 6-months in Tokyo last year was a surprising sphere of experiences that brought me back to my roots, morals, beliefs, and most importantly, my cultural identity (or in my case, identities.) The rest of this year will be about Paris. I gave up parties and fashion shows of Celine, Gucci and Chanel for what I hope to be another experience of a lifetime. I’m uncertain of what Paris will provide for me, however, traveling has always brought out the best in me.

As soon as arriving in Paris, I met the nicest taxi driver - a Cambodian living in Paris for 20 years, so we conversed in Mandarin. Who knew I would be speaking Chinese in France, of all places. Throughout the ride, he warned me about various safety issues, where to go, where not to go in Paris. I got so scared from his stories that my entire body was literally hovering over my YSL Downtown. When we reached to my apartment, Monsieur Landlord immediately recognized me through the cab window. First impression: the kindest and friendliest grandfather! Standing by the trunk of the cab, my Cambodian driver didn’t even charge me extra for luggage fares, and handed me two Chinese guidebooks as presents. I was almost sad to part with him, but I knew I was still in good hands. Monsieur Landlord took my bigger luggage, later even helped me with making the bed, and showing me that water in Paris is completely drinkable. Voila! He kept saying how friendly I was, and I as well to him. The best part of traveling is discovering human interaction at its best, full of generosity, untainted kindness.

I remember the first night of 2-hour sleep in Tokyo, but I did 10 in Paris. Thanks to these two strangers, my experience in France so far, is definitely a 10/10.
photo of me in an old Parisian apartment complex

TWENTY-EIGHT CANDLES

2008-09-15T07:39:00.000-07:00

When I turned 24, there was an intimate sophisticated party with few girlfriends. Turning a quarter of a century, I hosted a lavish theme party of the 1920’s era glamour. 26th birthday was the infamous “Purple Rain/Purple Reign” event heard all over San Francisco. 27th was celebrated in Tokyo with new and true friends. I turn 28 today, and I celebrate it alone in Paris. Sounds somewhat bleak with trace of forlorn. I, however, have never felt more at peace. What a quiet yet lovely way to spend a special day.

Through my twenties roadmap, it appears to be nothing less than colorful. Amazing job, check. Lush parties, check. Hollywood extravagance, check. Bonafide city girl, check. Boy drama, check. Fashionable travels, check. Fabulous girlfriends, check. Yet by mid-twenties, still plenty left unchecked. Fulfillment, blank. Inner solidity, blank. Defining ideal beauty, blank. Self-discovery, a definite blank.

With much gratitude, twenty-eight candles will be blown out without blanks this year. They will be blown with prayers and wishes for orphans, sick children, elders who are ill, everyone else in need, whom I’ve met either on the road in various countries or in my own. All have touched my heart and allowed me to truly form into my own woman. Indeed, I am alone this year. Oh but how far away “lonely” is, from my list of sentiments at the moment. Cheers, to the happiest birthday I’ve come to know.

photo 1) Orphans in Siam Reap, photo 2) Visiting HIV shelter in Taiwan, photo 3) Volunteering in Taipei hospital's ER.

BFTP: VINTAGE ROCKS

2008-09-12T04:02:00.000-07:00

*originally written & posted on January 30, 2007. Second post for BFTP (Blast From the Past) series, enjoy.

Those who hear about San Francisco, besides the Golden Gate Bridge, would picture cultural districts such as the Haight. But those who actually live in San Francisco; have either a loving or “haightful” relationship with this district of 60’s bohemia. I personally love Haight, especially its occasional, inexpensive vintage fashion, which formulates approximately 60% of my wardrobe. One of my favorite prized possessions - a red Spanish style dress (something I usually like to couple with a pair of Christian Louboutin sandals.)

Since the rule for child life volunteering is: no uniforms (for the sake of being personable with sick children,) I typically show up in appropriate yet stylish outfits. On a previous warm evening in the city, I wore my vintage red dress to the hospital. Coincidentally, I was assigned to a beautiful Latina. She was a 21-year-old who stayed in pediatrics because we provided added comfort. She began admiring my dress as soon as I walked in. It hit me for the first time, that my fashion was actually being used as a tool to break ice. Here was an amicable girl who needed company, so we talked about boys, school, traveling. Tears came down when she revealed her devastation in having a chronic disease, prohibiting her from being active with her friends. That night, I walked away with a vocabulary of Spanish words and a heart renewed.

Of all the cheap and expensive things displayed in my closets, I greatly cherish a collection of vintage dresses, which I’ve purchased all from Haight since high school. Some I bought with holes in them, some I’ve put extra work to tailor. Each carry a piece of history, stories that I bear when I strut in them. Let your volunteering experiences be your vintage dresses. Good things always better with age. So in this case, vintage totally rocks.
photo of me in ivory vintage (couldn't find one of me in the red, sorry!)

TAGGED & AN AWARD!

2008-09-12T03:46:00.000-07:00

So I've been given an award by Issa and tagged by The Seeker. Here are the tagged rules:
1. Link the person who tagged you. 
2. Mention the rules in your blog. 
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours. 
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them. 
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged bloggers’ blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.

Wendiva's 6 quirks:
* Insipid insomniac
* Thought of the moment: leukemia patient I met in San Francisco…just wondering how he’s doing
* Undying optimist
* Desire: my sister’s wisdom
* Trait: my father’s loyalty
* Dying wish: to give as much as, if not more than, my mother has.

6 bloggers I’m tagging:
*Bella
*Sophia
*Maeva
*Lydia
*S
*Issa

CAMBODIA

2008-09-06T08:26:00.001-07:00

I’m saturated in blood
Wounds from flags of hatred, injustice
I bear shreds of clothing
Patches corrupting uniform gash
The earth beats underneath motionless corpses
Until they too become the earth
I fight and struggle for liberty
Though culmination incomplete
You may see me repulse
But I stand in fearless veracity

Like a drying river
I lack the strength to detonate
I accept each lotus with the once unthinkable
Hope - for another dive into the water
As I attempt to stand once more
Innocence commence anew
You may fret that I fall
But I inhale then smile, unsullied

You may see me in despair
But I stand still in solid dignity
If you bluntly dispatch pity with tears
Then you have forgotten what I haven’t lost
Like a crawling enfant
I longingly obtain contented virtue
So do not shed a drop of that fretful tear
For I, with scars
Unearth to carry on
In the name of sheer nobility.

photo of children from a Cambodian orphanage we visited

MADEMOISELLE'S STORIES

2008-09-03T08:04:00.001-07:00

Few months ago, along with my mother and sister, we were invited to Chanel’s ultra fabulous jewelry show in Taipei. The event was star-studded without the stars, but rather every high-end dealer’s dream clienteles. The theme was: Coco Chanel – Mademoiselle’s Stories. Pre-dinner cocktail party was set-up to appear as if we had stepped into Coco’s 1950’s gracefully refined Parisian apartment. A magnificent mixture of jewels sporadically glinted across her look-alike lady armoire, powder table, even birdcage. We were free to try on any diamond earrings, sapphire rings, ruby bangles. I believed this is what heaven would look like: a dollhouse of Chanel sparkles free for all to play with. During dinner, we were served with Coco’s favorite champagne, wines, foods, desserts and more - an elegant show of this season’s luxurious accessories and a splendid opera performance that left every socialite screaming, “encore!”

Every Mademoiselle has her stories; I often look back on mine to nourish a deliberate plateau of appreciation. Few weeks ago, I received an email from a famous musician friend. We updated on each other’s current events and rehashed some old, crazy stories from the road. Living in Asia now, glamour is defined vastly different than those days of indulgent glitz filtered within music industry. Glamour used to be walking each red carpet, shaking hands with the hottest music artist, producing quality albums. Few years passed by, I now see glamour not necessarily as the amount of social events one can attend, but as a light that beams from within. It surpasses contentment, possibly utmost happiness when time is spent with those in need.

Coco Chanel ultimately changed the wave of fashion history in the most polished manner. But the core of this Mademoiselle’s stories is no different than any of ours, allowing the fundaments of striving for what we believe in becoming our own personal styles, signatures that mark the ends of our stories.
photo of me at the Chanel event

HARMONY HOME

2008-08-27T00:16:00.000-07:00

photo of me and a little girl, who was found abandoned in alley as a baby, hands tied with ropes.

For anybody to support an issue close to one’s heart, education is a must. I support breast cancer research due to emotional personal stories. I care for extreme poverty and hunger issues because of what I saw in India. I grow sensitive to all children thanks my encounters with orphans in Cambodia. When I see designers fight against AIDS, I want to learn and find out why.

Before leaving Taipei to embark on a clairvoyant European journey, I yearned to see more. I had heard of Harmony Home, an AIDS shelter in Taipei, from my mother who sponsors one of its children. Along with three of my gal pals, we spent a day learning about HIV/AIDS, playing with children and understanding what we can do to help. Most of these children were born with HIV, contracted from their mothers who are either in jail or current drug users. A high percentage of these children are no longer HIV positive, thanks to modern medicine, heavy dosages of “cocktails” consumed 5 times a day. Unfortunately, we also met some children who will need to learn, to cope and to live with AIDS for the rest of their lives. By playing with them and hugging them, one child is no different than the other. But our society’s savagery will undoubtedly stab them with judgments and unkindness later in their lives, I don’t believe modern medicine has yet to come up with a cure that fixes emotional or internal wounds.

One of the kids I played with loves saying: I love you. So I rocked him back and forth, repeating: I love you. I love you. I love you. I repeated…still not enough.

A TOUCH OF GOLD

2008-08-19T06:26:00.000-07:00

Just when we thought there has been enough metallics in fashion, gusts of gold has swept across runways of numerous Fall 2008 collections: Nicole Miller, Monique Lhuillier, Phillip Lim…etc. In fashion, gold represents indulgent glamour, vibrant disco-era, classical reminiscence. For me, gold is something of a personal touch.

The other day, I was called to the observation room during volunteering, a room where patients suffering from fevers are examined. I was assigned to help a grandmother receive urine tests. In my experiences, patients come and go in ER. Some patients, though, make lasting impressions in mere seconds, immediate bonds are then created. Since I no longer have any living grandparents, I sometimes find myself paying more attention to elderly patients. With this particular grandmother, as I helped her get on and off hospital bed, she held on to my hand. A soft, but good grip. My heart mildly melted. She was a foot shorter than me, and wore a big hat. She spoke softly, but her hand on mine, was warm and steady. I was suddenly reminded of why I volunteer at McKay Hospital. This particular hospital has a strong tie with my family. My grandmother passed away here, my uncle has had surgery here, so did my cousins, my nephew…This hospital is located far from my home, but something about it pulls me back whenever I reside in Taipei. Now I know why.

Mida’s touch turned everything to gold, a grandmother’s touch reminded me of reasons for my actions. Why I do what I do, those things that keep me going. For me, gold is a personal touch of compassionate imprints, empathetic glamour. Rare…so to be treasured.
photo of me ready for an event at Taiwan resort: Lalu

WEBLOG AWARD!!!

2008-08-10T09:31:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Style Addict for my Weblog Award!!! I love every fashionable blogger who visits my site and drops her sweet notes :) I thank my awesome friends who don't necessarily leave comments but tell me, in person, the extent of emotions my blog has made them feel. Some cry, some laugh, some even tell me they can't read it at work because of how sentimental they become. These are definitive reasons why I share my journey; to trigger, not necessarily tears, but thoughts. Of course, doing so fashionably :) I LOVE YOU STYLE ADDICT!!! Please visit her site here!!!

BFTP: SWEET ANGEL - ODE TO MY MOTHER

2008-08-07T07:50:00.000-07:00

*Originally written & posted on January, 17, 2007

When it came to my sister and I, my mother always said she wanted to raise two angels. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m no angel. I got no wings, my wardrobe consists of various colors besides white, and I certainly don’t’ prance around with a glowing halo. In fact, like most of you, I’ve done things that I’d prefer to let slip through fingers of reminiscence and never look back on them.

As I continually mark entries of community service experiences, I search back on any certain moment I had in determining a devoted course to volunteer. As a result, there wasn’t an “aha” moment, I simply grew up with the concept of giving. For decades, a village in my homeland never has to worry about malnutrition nor lack of money to purchase rice. For decades, this village wanted to meet the providers who got them through the toughest times. Even the day a plaque was presented to my parents, true to their humble nature, they chose my aunt to receive it in their name.

In Chinese, two characters comprise the word “angel”: sky, and calling. Calling from the sky, I suppose, would be the translated definition. Throughout life, I’ve always deemed my mother as my sky. To raise an angel, she needs to absorb from one. I’ve learned from the best, I’ve always learned from my calling from the sky.
photo of me in white sequence dress, a color I'm slowing growing into.

**Last week, my mother was busy, I missed her dearly. This week, she's back to being my best friend, my playmate. It urged me to re-post this entry, as well as starting a new series called: Blast From The Past/BFTP, in which I'll post several entries from the past that are particularly worthwhile reads but did not generate enough notice. Now that I have few adoring fans of the blog, I invite you to peek at my blast from the past :)

THE RIDE

2008-08-03T05:38:00.000-07:00

As a loyal fan of Coco Mademoiselle, I didn’t think this was possible, but life is indeed unpredictable. I’ve actually discovered a new favorite fragrance! Still far from replacement, but I confess…it’s pretty darn close. Since my trip to Dubai, I’ve fallen in love with Hermes’ Eau des Merveilles. In contrast to Mademoiselle’s rich solidity, Merveilles has a formidable dry wooden scent with a combination of citrus sweetness and a layer of exclusivity stemming from hints of hyacinth. Being a new fan, I learned that Hermes was first created to thrive in the carriage industry. Products were targeted toward European noblemen, which included: harnesses, bridles and other riding accessories.

Noblemen in ancient times rode on horses. In modern days, our vehicles range from cars to bikes, Harleys to Vespas... In many countries, a person’s “ride” represents much more than her favorite color. It symbolizes how much money she makes, her caste system. One of the most popular forms of transportation in Taipei is: mopeds. They’re convenient yet especially dangerous on rainy days. On stormy volunteering days, I encounter too many riders covered in blood due to accidents. Some have broken body parts, while others suffer from massive head injuries. I see them and I wish I could do more, but under such unfortunate circumstances, the only “ride” I can provide for them is from ER to intensive care on wheels of hospital beds.

I guess life is a different ride for everyone. I can be thankful that I’m the one pushing, rather than the one being pushed. To make the best of our rides is not hard science, yet so hard to achieve at times. I constantly gallop along and wonder what life would be like if I chose a different ride. photo of me horseback riding in California

DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH

2008-07-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

This April, I was fortunate enough to have attended the last event held on top of the tallest building in the world: Taipei 101. It was part of a yearlong celebration for the House of Boucheron’s 150th Anniversary. The event included speeches from the French management group, a runway show of this season’s high-end jewels, plus an upbeat performance by a popular local artist. “Legend has it that Frederic Boucheron chose 26 Place Vendome, because it was the sunniest corner of the square. He believed that the diamonds in the windows would sparkle all the more brilliantly.”

So after my Dubai trip this summer, I charismatically slipped into my volunteering converses and skipped right back to MacKay hospital’s ER. Most people react to my choice of community service as wildly shocking, but I choose to believe ER as the “sunniest corner” of the hospital. Okay, maybe not “sunny” but, graphically raw? It’s mostly anticipatory, highly chaotic, sometimes emotional, always real. I’m in mask and rubber gloves, pushing patients on hospital beds for x-rays, CT scans, blood and urine tests. Unassumingly glamorous, not materialistically speaking, for the female soul. I firmly believe the act of handing Kleenex to weeping family members, and covering warm blankets over sick patients are true foundations of creating diamonds that “sparkle all the more brilliantly.”

I agree that hospital is a rough place to be. ER, particularly, can be uneasy. But there’s something to be said that, after each volunteering experience, I feel the most alive…sparkling.
photo of me displaying Boucheron jewelry

DIOR'S FLOWER WOMEN

2008-07-17T07:49:00.000-07:00

Fashion industry would be completely different if Christian Dior never existed. He once said that he designed flower women. Back in WWII, his designs became staples. Today, all of us have at least one of his classic saddle handbags, if not more.

Dubai - a sudden city of luxurious glamour, booming industrialization, inquisitive fascination towards Western modernism. A society which ¾ of its population consists of foreign labor, and the rest are locals who live comfortably off of property ownerships as well as adequate government benefits. I try to imagine what this unique Emirate will become in merely three to five years, and the possibilities are unfathomable. One can easily be drunken with joy, living off of sweet scent of opulence.

Walking into the world’s first 7-star hotel (Burj al Arab,) I felt overwhelmingly blessed. Staying in the two-floor suit, I felt undeservingly pampered. Dressing up for dinner each night, I had fun!!! In striving for enlightened balance, I often sat in my “thinking spot” located beside the suit’s living room. Burj al Arab (Tower of Arab) is nicknamed the “sailboat hotel” for reasons other than its exterior shape. Looking out the window, ocean water glistened at dawn then sparkled at dusk. Movements of tiny ripples seemed to whisk our “sailboat” mildly across the sea. “Thinking spot” was my zen several times throughout each day. In midst of material extravagance, I yearned not for anything other than the act of giving back. Yes, I am very conscious of how lucky I am to be living this life. My will is to help relieve pain for as many as I can, so they too, can someday see as many beautiful places in the world as I have. How strange it was to realize where sweet opulence had led my thoughts to. Like a flower woman Dior had designed, I blossomed in Dubai.
photo of my "thinking spot" inside the suit of Burj al Arab

photo of Dubai at dusk

AND THE BEAT GOES ON...

2008-07-12T08:46:00.000-07:00

Warmest apologies are sent to those who have emailed me to kindly remind that I have yet to update the Wendiva blog. A Wendiva not only has to travel in style but also completely soak herself in foreign lands, opposite cultures. Luckily, I have been doing just that, thereby return with candid thoughts in abundance. I promise, promise, PROMISE to quickly deliver juicy updates in coming weeks. Meanwhile, here’s a peek at my latest thrill…

photo taken in Dubai, United Arab of Emirates

HELLO, MISS DOWNTOWN!

2008-03-19T10:28:00.000-07:00

Oh yes, I’m baaaack! After months of globetrekking, gathering inspirations for my blog (inspirations for fashion and service, of course,) I’ve now finally returned to scribble down fortuitous thoughts (in sophistication and empathy…of course.) After departing Tokyo for Christmas in Taipei, I’ve trotted through home in sunny California, winter freeze in Boston, wild nights in Manhattan, drunken with zen in Napa, flirtation in San Francisco, tenderness in Monterey, eventually back to my roots in Taipei.

February swept us to Spain, where it glazed us with gothic Barcelona, ancient Granada, dusk in Malaga, quaint Ronda, buoyant Seville, idle Castilla, dawn in Toledo, and last but not least, hustling Madrid. It seems that in the span of colored frames becoming this season’s white sunglasses, I’ve traveled to more places than the Dalai Lama. More importantly, I’ve gained new friendships while enhancing grander perspectives to hopefully be at least 0.0000…1% of the benevolent individual Dalai Lama is.

So a girl’s gotta travel in style. (Personally, I cannot wait to share new fashion items collected from my trips with all of you, my beloved blogger buddies.) As they’ll each be featured on future posts throughout the next few weeks, I will begin with a highlight on my Miss Downtown. Yves Saint Laurent’s, that is. My “Miss Downtown” was a birthday present from last year, she’s my best gal pal who totes my laptop, snuggles with me on the plane, hangs on me patiently as there’s always lots of waiting in life of a traveler. In what is now one of my favorite reads, “Eat, Pray, Love,” a Brazilian woman says, “ Well, I always tried to look nice and be feminine even in the war zones and refugee camps of Central America. Even in the worst tragedies and crisis, there’s no reason to add to everyone’s misery by looking miserable yourself. That’s my philosophy. This is why I always wore makeup and jewelry into the jungle-nothing too extravagant, but maybe just a nice gold bracelet and some earrings, little lipstick, good perfume. Just enough o show that I still had my self-respect.” (p. 265.)

Of course we didn’t encounter any refugee camps or war zones in Spain, let alone back home in the States. But war zones or not, encountering misery occurs in the most industrialized locations as well. Thus, having Miss Downtown around, I feel that I, no, we, gave “no reason to add to everyone’s misery by looking miserable ourselves.” I guess that too, is my philosophy.
photo taken in Kyoto, Japan

WHAT BECOMES OF YOU

2007-12-21T23:47:00.000-08:00

photo of Japanese superstar Namie Amuro who innovated the Ganguro fashion trend now often seen in Shibuya, Tokyo

I have to honestly confess, the thought of one more day as a Tokyoite sends my emotions on a rocket trip. Like listening to the bridge of your favorite song, you know its entirety is about to end, but yearning for the sweet coda to last forever lingers. Few weeks ago, I began to make a list of things I’d miss about Tokyo. What tops the list besides new friendships is precisely the fashion. From Shibuya ganguro girls to Harajuku cosplay costumes to traditional kimonos in Asakusa. Japanese fashion – always unapologetic, never dull, personal statements boldly plastered.
photo of Japanese magazine featuring Ganguro fashion

I recall the first time I assisted a sick grandma going to the bathroom, this particular hospital experience was so new thus nerve wrecking for me. She was quiet, in pain. I tightly held her, maneuvering from her wheelchair onto the toilet. I was incredibly fearful of accidentally letting go, or holding onto her too tight that I was in reality hurting her. Thankfully, she seemed composed. Then whispered a “thank you” in Chinese next to my ear, as we meticulously shifted her back onto the wheelchair.

When I share my volunteering experiences with others, some are always surprised at the situations “I put myself in.” Good surprise? Bad surprise? I’m unsure, but frankly don’t care. After all, similar poignant experiences have become consequential parts of me. I simply cannot fathom a life not creating more akin stories to tell.

Monday night, I said a final teary goodbye to one of my best friends in Tokyo. Dauntlessly and dashingly, she sported leggings with dark grey tights and cowboy boots. What sounds like a fashion disaster incidentally hung flawlessly on her. I guess it had to look great if one allows the fashion to become oneself. Similar to anything we do in life; when acting upon what truly feels right, be unapologetic, never dull, thus your truth becomes a personal statement, boldly plastered.
photo of Gwen Stefani introducing Harajuku girls in cosplay on red carpet
photo of J-pop star Ayumi Hamasaki in traditional Japanese kimono

FROM GLAM TO GIVIN' A DAMN (my blog anniversary)

2007-12-17T17:46:00.000-08:00

photo taken at my very first red carpet in 2005, MTV's VMA (I was in Patricia Field)

In music, transition = modulation, a passing from one key to another. In sports, transition = change, from defense to offense or offense to defense. In human, transition = growth, from adolescence to adulthood. In life, transition is constant. It's to be expected.

I'm not a celebrity; but walked the "white carpet" at MTV's VMA at 24 years of age, and attended the Grammy's at 25. Life was about working hard, playing hard. Always staying on top of my game, always...glittered in glamour.

Revelation followed, a deep yearn for fulfillment needed to be urgently addressed. There was something more to my life, looking pretty and corporate politics left a huge void within me. I decided to volunteer and commit a small part of my chaotic life to children who are ill. I never expected this "small part" to expand into an enormous impact in my young journey. These little angels became inspirations, they were the golden keys to my growth - my transition.

From glam to givin' a damn, I'm making a difference. People in the hospital initially looked at me funny as I arrived each week with my Chanel purses and Jimmy Choo shoes. But it's the action that surpasses judgment. My action shows that I care, that I give a crap about kids who can be lit up with my champagne bubbly personality. Ultimately, it's not about me anymore, it's about kids whose spirits need to be lifted.

Give a damn. Trust me, in the end, it's so much more worth it than being glam.

photo taken in India while traveling between villages, I played with Indian children in a remote town

*This time last year, I became a blogger. Also this time last year, I stopped managing a music label in San Francisco and turned to global issues. In 2007, despite sporadic blog posts, I traveled to third world countries to learn further about the other side of life. From Grammy's to India, Vietnam, Cambodia...etc. Now whilest leaving Tokyo, I think to myself: what a colorful year it has been. Nonetheless, this was my very first blog post, indicating my emotions during an extremely transitional point in life. Happy Anniversary!!!

DENIM PHANTOM

2007-12-11T05:22:00.000-08:00

Back in college, I was always the token Asian girl, all 5’7.5” of me with big hoop earrings and a denim mini. Yup, that’s how this sorority girl used to roll. When I began working, the only times I felt like wearing jeans were on days when we hosted clients to games at the ballpark. Although I’ve never been defined as the “jeans girl,” just like every other woman, I have more pairs than I need. At $200 a pop, we’re forever yearning for more denim to accentuate different parts of us. “Oh, these make my legs look longer,” “I have better assets in those,” “wait, these give me amazing proportions.” Denimlicous, we can’t seem to resist.

Volunteering at Mckay’s ER, I became that “jeans girl.” Levis and Uggs, to be exact. In fortunate rarity, when ER wasn’t as busy, I would have no patients to interact with. Like a quiet ghost, I created random tasks for myself: neatly arrange hospital beds so they would be easily accessible in case of an ambulance’s arrival, tidily fold then heat up leftover blankets, walking around with stacks of them and layer them on patients who aren’t kept warm. I felt that in Levis, I moved most freely, deciphered most compassionately, unquestionably achieved more considerably.

The myth surrounding which denim brand does the best job for a woman’s figure will always be one left unresolved. I love my 7s (Seven for All Mankind) for the “assets” they give me. My Citizens (of Humanity) truly do wonders for my legs, but I have most adulation for my Levis. They not only make me look 2 pounds lighter, I especially love what I do when I’m in them.

WHERE ARE THE SINGLETONS?

2007-12-09T05:17:00.000-08:00

photo taken in Taipei, Taiwan

So where exactly are they in this continent called Asia? It actually took me a prolonged while to realize, but here in Tokyo, I am indeed the only person (including both male and female friends) who is completely, totally and utterly S.I.N.G.L.E. Now that I think about it, in my Taipei social circle, I’m ALSO the only person of all my friends who isn’t tied down by any means of a romantic relationship. Perhaps it’s the cultural disparities, or let’s blame it on the different types of jeans we prefer. But in my American social network, the singles outweigh the” in-a-relationships” by 10-1. At first, I figured this must be relative to a society’s modernistic advancements. But this theory was immediately proven wrong after I moved to the most cutting-edge Asian city and noticed that every one of my new friends either had a plus-one or a plus-four.

Oddly enough, there was never a moment I pitied myself or felt any ounce of loneliness. Perhaps I’m at last stagnant in a mental placid state, or maybe I’m fully aware of invigorating reasons behind my choice to be one – singular. In comparison, I’ve also noticed the miseries few of my friends are enduring for their loved ones. Some unhealthy, some self-deprecating, some thoroughly unaware. So I imagine to walk in their double-wedged heels, and I still undoubtedly prefer to sway in my single-strap slingbacks. Ultimately at this stage, there’s something entirely beloved in the experience of exploring new aspects of me, instead of another man. In truth, I’m a firm believer of time spent in helping others as far more valuable than energy lost in search for eternal companionship. I stand tall, when I stride into a cousin’s wedding and a snoopy aunt asks if my wedding will be next. I guess that time will come, for double-wedged heels to be fashionable enough for me, to give it one more try.
photo of Manolo Blahnik slingbacks

I HEART SAMANTHA…THAVASA, THAT IS

2007-12-07T07:53:00.000-08:00

photo of Victoria Beckham for Samantha Thavasa, Fall 2007

Before moving to Tokyo, I promised myself to splurge on a Samantha Thavasa - a Japanese brand with Hollywood celebrities promoting its accessories, such as: Sarah Jessica Parker, the Hilton Sisters, Beyonce…etc. So months ago, I spent on Samantha, oh how she made me feel! I smile when she’s near me. My orange tote, speaks autumn. My pet, who does such a great job of sitting there, looking pretty.

It’s quite often that I wait for my subway train (the JR Chuo Line - aka, orange train) to arrive and encounter delay due to “jinshinjigo”, a traffic accident resulting in personal injury or death. It shocked me at first how often I was experiencing train delays, then I became more shocked at total lack of reaction in people all around me. Suicides committed by running into train tracks have become so mundane that people were numb to the loss of a human being’s life. Furthermore, such banal accidents are no longer covered by news reports. Stats show that in 2006, approximately 32,155 people killed themselves in Japan with jumping in front of trains as one of the most common methods. Despites numbers that decreased little by little, when I ask my Japanese friends of this “jinshinjigo” pattern, they beat around the bush with answers like: I don’t know, or there are a lot of drunk people at night. The best answer had to be a myth surrounding the color of JR Chuo train; apparently orange stimulates brain activity with aggressive internal thoughts. Whatever the suicidal reasons may be, their fundamental common ground is that, people are unhappy. And so, “jinshinjigo” carries on.

Before moving to Tokyo, I promised myself to splurge intellectually. That is, to absorb this culture deeply while continually reflect upon this nation’s way of life. I accept “jinshinjigo” as a morose surprise, the kind of new information that arrived to my knowledge as an unfortunate wonder. Last week, I was running late for a dinner date, sprinting up the stairs of a subway station with my new Samantha. Then, the “jinshinjigo” sign flashed, I let out a weak sigh while two women next to me flamboyantly chatted away. I then fumbled through my orange tote, without any trigger of aggressive thoughts and said to myself: there goes another person’s life, just like that.
photo taken inside a Tokyo subway station

BRACE YOURSELF...WITH CARTIER

2007-12-04T06:38:00.000-08:00

photo of our straw bracelets taken in Cambodia

Being glamorous is always fun, although tiring at times, a girl can’t complain if you’ve just been invited to the hottest party in town. Each spring, Cartier throws one of the biggest parties in Taipei, which I was fortunate enough to attend. I wore a silk leopard print bubble dress, and slipped on a pair of gold crazy strappy Jimmy Choos. I felt fabulous, ready to strut.

Later this spring, we collected other unforgettable experiences in Cambodia (noted in previous posts.) One of which was a group of young Cambodian boys, selling inexpensive souvenirs to laid-back tourists. These boys adoringly approached my sister and I, but just as we were about to pay for these hand-made straw bracelets, they didn’t want to take the money. “It’s for you,” one said. And the other shouted, “souvenir!” Despite how much we insisted on paying for the gifts, they persistently refused. Our guide indicated, with their egos and dignity in mind, it’d be best to kindly accept the gifts. We finally walked away feeling overcompensated, then waved good-bye to them across yellow dirt and unpaved cement roads.

It’s always nice to find out when a brand such as Cartier decides to be charitably involved. Purchase a red bracelet from its Love collection ($475) and $100 funds HIV/AIDS (see sidebar Where Wendiva Browses.) Fabulous parties are never dull, sipping on colored cocktails, stepping in fashionably decorated spaces, posing for random photographers…it all becomes quite a blur the day after. So brace yourself, your mind is undoubtedly much better at remembering moments that have made more powerful impacts in your life.

ADDICTION

2007-12-03T03:12:00.000-08:00

So white is in again this season, celebrities gallop around in frosted getups, Tokyo sparkling with women in tall white boots, while I prance around the city with my favorite Chanel powdery white classic bag. Fashion is my addiction; I succumb to it willingly and surrender unconditionally.

There was an instance during my volunteering service in ER this year, a patient arrived unconscious with his grandmother. The man appeared to be in late 20’s or early 30’s. He had shoulder-length black hair mixed with dyed red streaks. Dressed in an 80’s black suit, he also had nail polish on. They were long and glittered in gold. While doctors tried to save his life, we listened to stories from his weeping grandmother. As it turned out, he was an addict and had OD-ed on heroine. His mother was also an addict, who never stopped using drugs while pregnant with her child. Now the mother is nowhere to be found, and her son bathes in his own blood while getting high. I looked at the patient, and couldn’t even attempt to understand I knew where he had been or what his life must’ve been like.

White, the color of innocent purity, a baby’s untainted entity. The color of snow in bristling wind, stoic shadows of shattered spirits disappear. The color of dangerous powder, set out to immortal then mortalize us. Thank goodness, my addiction during this unkempt Japanese winter is one that makes me feel high without losing grounds of my soul.

DO YOU SPEAK MY LINGO?

2007-12-02T08:03:00.000-08:00

photo taken in Ginza, Tokyo

Tonight, I had dinner with my closest Japanese friends: a pair of sisters, one who speaks a little English and the other is a college student majoring in Chinese. Our dinners together always seem like a linguistic tossed salad, a mixture of Mandarin, Japanese and English. We all thrive on it. It makes us feel less guilty about meaningless girl talk, as if our conversations served a higher purpose of rhetoric cultivation. Dinner was special tonight, because I met one of their boyfriends who attentively wondered various aspects of my travels. Questions I’ve encountered before, thankfully such pensive tales I love to retell.

When I was in Cambodia earlier this year, we visited a school called: Artisan Angkor (please see sidebar "Where Wendiva Browses.") A training ground for young Cambodians to learn arts and crafts, eventually make a living off of it while preserving the historically influential Cambodian artistry. The group of young women we met that day were all mutes, so we communicated in sign language. Illuminated with glowing smiles, they asked common questions that my sister and I always encounter throughout Asia, such as: why are you so tall? We giggled away, even through sign language, we’re summoned with the most popular inquisition. Watching them sketch, cut, carve away, this became one of my favorite moments of globetrotting.

“The boyfriend” asked me which was my favorite of all the countries I’ve visited. Not to sound trite, but speaking only from the heart, my answer was: India. In English, Mandarin and my very broken Japanese, I began to describe sights of poverty, homelessness and ways its people have shaped my individuality. One of the girls suddenly had tears in her eyes. When I leave Tokyo, I will miss these dear friends of mine, and our tossed salad conversations. As human beings, we may share different skin colors or cultural backgrounds, but we truly are at one with each other. We may possibly share similar goals, be moved by the same stories, even like the same movies. Even in mute, we’re truly speaking the same lingo, but only if we speak from the heart.

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

2007-12-01T08:43:00.000-08:00

photo taken by Shomei Tomatsu

So the countdown officially begins, I have one more month left in Japan. A month from now, I will no longer be a Tokyoite. Japan has been a dynamic ride, one that has marked new heights for my limitations. I never peeked but sank myself into this culture seemingly so outwardly familiar yet consistently shocked me with cultural bewilderment.

Alone, I visited the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography in Ebisu today. With no prior research of their latest exhibition, I was fittingly dressed in a completely black ensemble, layered with a white winter coat and accessorized with my new noir fedora hat. At the museum, I was immediately drawn to Shomei Tomatasu’s series of “Tokyo Mandala.” Tomatsu - a renowned Japanese photographer, famous for his delicate work during Japan’s post-war period. Every black and white photo consisted further extreme emotional contrasts of pain, destruction, innocence, sexuality, Americanization… While acutely studying each picture, I was stifled in a world so vintage yet so new to me. Sights of Tokyo in survival mode: what is now glittering Ginza in muddy turmoil, immoderately rapid Shinjuku naked with dark alleys. Black or white, live or die. After WWII, there wasn’t a choice for many.

Tokyo, a beautiful nation wrapped with legions of rules. For a free spirit like me, there were times I felt as if I were drowning in a pool of regulations. But it is the respect for their cultural customs that have led to their fast growing success and ultimately leader of technology and other international advancements. As the countdown starts, I’m ready to congratulate myself for surviving in the foreign. Kanpai!
photo taken by Shomei Tomatsu

TWENTY-SEVEN CANDLES

2007-09-20T17:41:00.000-07:00

photo taken inside Shinjuku Station, Tokyo

When I was eight, 27 sounded…old. On Saturday, I actually blew out 27 candles. As “old” as I may have imagined, 27 feels anything but. Wiser? Yes. Older? No. Definitely not.

26 was transitional, life altering, ultimately eye opening. I experienced new pains; pains of others that I had forgotten existed in this world. I read, to educate myself, rekindling compassion. I acted, to feel. To make a difference, acknowledging that each sorrow I lifted evidently transcended to someone else's relief.

I think about “the one” moment that has changed me perpetually. It has to be that one particular volunteering afternoon at Mckay’s ER, changing an adult’s diaper for the first time. This one nurse really needed help, so I closed the curtains around a female patient’s bed. Together, we were challenged to change this 200 pound woman, who was muffling words I couldn’t understand while her pupils fluttered from side to side. The nurse said a quick “thanks” to me, then lifted a leg, undressing the patient. Through the mask, I suddenly got a strong whiff of unfathomable odor. Holding my breath for the next 5 minutes, we wiped the patient while she shrieked to pain. She would kick her legs in air, making it more difficult for us to clean her. Still holding breath, I had to somehow find strength to lift her entire lower body so the nurse could tuck underneath a clean diaper. We quickly put finishing touches to our job, I walked away from her bed thinking, I had hit my limit. Finally, I breathed.

Blowing 27 candles, I don't’ wish for a husband, a great job, or new jewelries. I hope for a healthy body, and for others to encounter similar “adult diaper” episodes, to gain further compassion running through their bloodstreams. And the last wish, that’s for me to keep.

“WHOEVER SAID ‘GREEN’ WAS THE NEW PINK, WAS SERIOUSLY DISTURBED!”

2007-09-19T03:53:00.000-07:00

photo taken near Lake Ashi, Tokyo

This was just one of those days in which, even an optimist like myself was feeling the weight of the world suddenly crashing on me. I was on edge. The tiniest bug could’ve ticked me off. I was pouting at the sight of a smile, let alone the shriek of the uber irritating Tuesday Japanese language schoolteacher. On this day, I glared at her while my mind bellowed: Bleh. Eeh. Argh. And my favorite…boooooo!!!! (Japanese style, where the “oo” sounds more like “uu”)

Tokyo was waiting on a storm this day, clouds seemed to overcast my thoughts with envy. Life would be so much better if I were on a beach in southern France. I’d be much happier trotting and dancing on streets of Jamaica. Better, how about home with my beloved family? Or simply hanging out with my gal pals in Cali? I was struck with homesickness, and green with envy of everyone else but myself. Looking out the window during class, I only saw leaves on trees being blown haphazardly in ten directions at once.

As a 27-year-old, I know I needed to somehow find a way to “smart-cookie” myself out of this one. So I’m having a bad day, who used to make me feel better on any random day? And there it was. I was no longer envious of those vacationing in Europe or anywhere else. As my thoughts shifted toward those I met at hospitals in different parts of the world, I became calm. I guess, just when you think it was better to be someone else for even one moment, someone else is wishing they were living your life. But again, what truly is the point of envy? They’re merely thoughts distracting us from our own realities. Green…it’s sooo last season!

The perfect end to a day like this was, good ol’ sorority style: a facial exfoliation followed by a hydrating cooling mask as I soaked my body in an “exhale” bubble bath. Zen! One more skin mask then completed the night with an immaculate self-manicure. Tucked underneath the sheets while falling asleep to an Audrey Hepburn DVD.

Really, life in Tokyo is all that’s cracked up to be.

WORDS TO MY NOCTURNE

2007-07-17T12:30:00.000-07:00

As a classically trained pianist for 22 years, host of a radio show in college who eventually managed a music label, I, have yet to live without music. Songs do not resonate to places, merely moments. The sudden memory frequently moves me to a person, of whom I’ve shared warm but raw moments with. Secrets unraveled, emotions flood, tears transpire while I try to hold on.

When such moments I cherish chime into my mind with a song, its melody pulls me back to that hospital room again. Where I routinely visited the patient for 2 hours each week in San Francisco. 8 months later, I wonder if he’s survived leukemia. Moments occur also when I stand in the rain waiting at the stoplight, the mind flashes to images of a Cambodian orphanage. Is the straw rooftop capable of keeping kids dry in the same storm hurrying me home? At restaurants where plates of food are left barely touched by people who had just finished their meals, I think of Indian children following me with their hands wide open, searching for what seems most practical to them – food.

Since then, my life has peacefully blossomed, I wish each pained individual too, progressed for the better. Now sitting on my bed in Tokyo, I desperately hope the leukemia patient is playing video games in his living room with his brother. I wish I were in Cambodia playing in the rain with the orphans. I hope the Indian children I met have enough food to support their physical growth.

I hear it now, another tune carrying me back to ER in the Taipei hospital. The hands I held, the blood I saw, the words I delivered, the caress I hoped to provide…how are they all? I wonder at daybreak, ballad after ballad. So another nocturne tranquilly begins.

WHEN EAST MEETS WEST

2007-06-14T23:25:00.000-07:00

Photo of Taipei 101, Taiwan
At Mackay Hospital in Taipei, I devote 6 hours a week in ER. Each hour that I'm on my feet, I'm thrown in highly intense situations, each to smoothen former sharp edges of my soul. Just when I think I've seen all, I'm shocked by more. As I push hospital beds around in mask and rubber gloves, I'm faced with heroin addicts, missing toes, car crashes, daibetics, kidney stones...etc. I now have new found respect not so much for doctors, but nurses, who may judge me from my Uggs, but do not generate enough respect for the immense multitasks they perform.

Volunteering in a Taiwan hospital is a fabulous channel for me, especially to perfect my native language skills. Being 100% fluent in Mandarin isn't enough in Taiwan, exercising skills in Taiwanese is key. Particularly when I encounter elderly patients, Taiwanese is the first language that comes out. I adore the chance to review since it takes me back to childhood memories with grandpa and grandma.

The other day, there was an American who needed a surgery performed immediately. One nurse came to me and asked how my English skills were (which I took as a compliment since I hardly verbalize in English in the hospital. My rule is, I'm in Taiwan now, Chinese only for me.) I replied that I grew up in the US, she was elated and told me a Caucasian patient needed help filling out hospitalization forms. When I approached the patient's bed, a female doctor was already present, explaining in English. I stood aside, aware that caste systems are significant in any hospital enviornment, I waited until my help was truly needed. This lasted until the guy said he was from San Jose, California. I couldn't help but scream out: Oh My gosh, I AM from San Jose, California! "No Way!" "I know, that's crazy!" "Where d'you go to high school?" "College?" We went back and forth. The doctor seemed relieved to have me around, so I began my process of helping him fill out hospital forms. While he spoke in English, I wrote everything down in Chinese.

This is the epitome of east meets west, I thought. Familiarity with both cultures feels super convenient. And the ability to write in both, I gotta admit, it's as cool as it gets.

CAMBODIA, THE BEAUTIFUL

2007-06-14T02:27:00.000-07:00

Photo taken in Siem Reap, Cambodia

In March this year, I looked at the world map and thought, I'd like to travel again. India left me hungry for more as mundane opulence began to activate the button of restlessness within. So a month later, we traveled to Siem Reap, Cambodia.

What initially resided in Siem Reap for me was an abundance of archeological sites now called: Angkor Wat. As a devout Buddhist, I had imagined being overwhelmed by hundreds of temples made out of carved stones in faces of the Great Buddha himself. While such temples inspired the spiritual part of me, I was more so moved by discovering what I had thought were missing parts of myself in requesting the idea of this voyage.

In Cambodia, I unearthed its gems - the children, the beautiful. Some were without shoes, some wore messy hair, and some couldn't hear nor speak. Yet, all were stout with dignity. How is it possible that back in my hometowns, millioniares who appear to possess all but are truly vulnerable, lacking dignity? Dignity speaks in the actions of these children, who offered my sister and I straw bracelets but did not want to take any money for them. They earnestly repeated, "it's for you to keep, for souvenir." Our guide told us, giving them money for such gesture would be offensive. But seeing dirt roads without cement, roofs constructed from tree leaves, and floors made of skinny branches; I, facing extreme poverty, felt helpless.

Dignity converse in smiles. Everyone I met, from young children to teens to adults, all beamed with smiles. They were adorably confused of why we spoke American English but looked Asian. When we told them we were from California, they shouted, "Sacramento!" Obviously having been studying cities and capitals. "We now live in Taiwan though." "They yelled, "Taipei!" They watched while sis and I giggled away, then we all giggled together.

I couldn't imagine living a life of confinement, never traveling outside of the United States. As I looked at the world map once again, it expands far beyond America, the Beautiful. And this was me, at 8 years old.

THE DATING O.D.D.

2007-06-06T03:39:00.001-07:00

As a 26-year-old, not only have I yet to master the game of dating, I'm now convinced that I should be diagnosed for having: the dating O.D.D.. I often become...bored. So the cycle begins, I look for a guy who gives me the butterflies in my tummy. Is he intriguing? Hopefully. Funny? Hopefully. A Gentleman? Hopefully...no, he better be.

Like dating, you have to look for the right volunteering gig for yourself. A few weeks ago, I made a phone call to Mr. Mackay, the Taipei hospital, that is. They had one of the most complete volunteering programs in the city. But on our first date, not only wasn't I assigned to interact with any patients; I was on the computer, copying and pasting excel worksheets. Just when I was about to carp, just when I was planning my speech to the supervisor about how I'm much better off in pediatrics since that's what I did in America, something caught my eye. I noticed that on each excel sheet, it indicated a patient's name, address, phone #...time of death. These names were patients who were presently staying at the hospital, so TOB was still left blank. I, however, suddenly put things in perspective. There is ultimately an end to this road. We all die. I had forgotten about that.

At the end of the three-hour session, my supervisor said she wanted me in ER. I was overjoyed! I had never volunteered in ER before, but like dating someone you know you wouldn't go to a second dinner with, I just knew copying and pasting wasn't my cup of tea. Who knows what ER could be like, intense? Hopefully. Gratifying? Hopefully. Educational? It should be. But just like going on any first dates, I sink in antipation and hope, for the kind of experience that keeps me on my toes.

FREAKONOMICS

2007-06-06T03:19:00.000-07:00

Written in mid-March, 2007

Last week at a Chanel fashion show, we got to check out the latest collection for Fall 2007. We were front row, dead center. Attending events like these are always fun. Nevertheless, I can't help myself but discretely monitor the strikingly fine-looking crowd. There were those elegant older ladies, kindly escorted by their personal shoppers. There were the thirty-somethings, who must've took the afternoon off from work to spend mad cash at the show. There were the female celebrities, who dazzled in with frenzied entourage of Chanel saleswomen. My sister and I must've been the only twenty-somethings who unwilly attracted stares with our freakishly anomalous height. Every woman covered in "CC" logo, all of us had dark hair, dark eyes. But there was definite judging going on, silient evaluations of each other's outfits and style. These stares got so ridiculous at one point, I thought I must've unknowingly grew a wart on my face to deserve them.
I recently finished reading Stephen Levitt's book, Freakonomics, "an economist explores the hidden side of everything." Levitt makes connection of the most irrelevant subjects: What do schoolteachers and sumo wrestlers have in common? How is the Ku Klux Klan like a group of real-estates agents? How does decline in crime rate correlate with the infamous Supreme Court case, Roe vs. Wade? This book isn't about charity or volunteering, but it ultimately focuses on seeing things from different perspectives and the most opposite kinds of people sometimes have more in common than we perceive in the modern world.
Just last week, I received the good news that another great friend of mine has decided to volunteer in a hospital. I began to think about these amazing young women in my life who've been inspired to do the same. We all come from such different backgrounds, we all look so physically unalike, we all carry different colors of skin. Yet, I feel so at one with them, much more so than the women I saw and looked like at the fashion show. On the day of the show, I attended sans make up. Some girls may find that shocking, some could never do the same. If Freakonomics is about seeing the hidden side of everything, well then ... I've got nothing to hide.

SKIN DEEP

2007-06-06T03:00:00.000-07:00

Only on this beautiful island of Taiwan am I to be regularly, bluntly instigated about the color of my skin: why are you so dark? Did you go to a tanning salon in America? These questions may dart quite condescendingly; sometimes I still can't come to terms with how often I am interrogated. Of course they used to bother me, this culture has worshipped the fair-colored type, porcelain-like skin for dynasties. An acknowledged beauty trait passed down from thousands of years ago by emperors and all its subordinates. I alone can't fight against that, so I accept each question wtih a smile: no, my mother did not drink too much soy sauce when she had me. I was just born this way.

Physical beauty is subjective while inner beauty isn't. I finally figured out that it all works in cyclical ways resulting in resilient confidence. Confidence derives from truly knowing who you are and feeling comfortable in your own skin, which then comes from a deeper sense of gratefulness. In order to be appreciative rather than drowning in self-pity, one needs to be independent and force him or herself not only see but FEEL the pain of others. Because when you think you know what pain is, you truly have no idea. So I encourage every reader to help those who are in need, if not, then peek into other pockets around the globe and recognize the value of our own lives.

Questions regarding my skin color never rose during the formative sixteen years I lived in America. In France, women tan themselves purposely to symbolize robust financial status. Different folks, different strokes, as they say. I'd like to think that "my people" aren't inquiring with ill will, that they carry only innocent curiosity. Even if I'm proven to be incorrect, then I carry only nonchalance. Simply then, have they chosen to see me above the surface, barely skin deep.

"THEIR EYES WERE WATCHING GOD"

2007-04-23T09:24:00.000-07:00

In Zora Neale Hurston's celebrated 1930's novel, "Their Eyes Were Watching God," her eloquent diction follows...The familiar people and things had failed her so she hung over the gate and looked up the road towards way off. She knew now that marriage did not make love. Janie's first dream was dead, so she became a woman.

My mission was clear from the start, this blog hopefully serves as a muse for those who still in angst. The awareness of free choice ought not to be an existential self-torment but an expansion of blessings to aid all who are in severe pain caused by anything but their own freedom of choice. Thousands of blessings...1, 2 and still counting.

I recently discovered my blessing #3, a friend who was so moved from reading these entries then decided to volunteer at a nearby hospital. Her first session was last week, where she met a woman hospitalized due to liquid in her lungs. This woman didn't want to be alone while waiting for her daughter, so my friend stayed and chatted with her. She gratefuly exclaimed that my friend was sent from heaven because her biggest fear was to be alone.

After reading this blog, I've encountered numerous women who declared they had been inspired to give. But it takes a real woman to complete her words. My friend, a phenomenal woman currently experiencing a painful personal experinece, is truly phenomenal. For she twirled her pain into someone else's happiness. On one hand, her personal dream may be dead, but like Janie (Hurston's ultimate heroine,) she became a woman. Phenomenally, a blessed one.

NEW DELHI, INDIA

2007-03-08T23:21:00.000-08:00

Traveling in India, I wore a pair of silver strappy sandals with aqua rhinestones. My sister and I took pictures of our feet, symbolizing where we’ve been and where we’re going. I typically don’t wear flats, but I knew this trip would require much walking so I had to step out from the norm.

Going from Jaipur to New Delhi took another 5 hours of bus ride. This was the last one, so I savored every minute. Moving from one city to another this time was a ying-yang experience. From camels to BMWs, dirt roads to expressways, dehumanizing shacks to Hyatt Regency. One thing does not change: the amount of street beggars.

We visited several monuments, among them was Gandi’s memorial. Children here were no longer in stench but beautifully patterned uniforms. Obviously on field trips, huge groups of students would walk by me and stare. As I said “hi,” they giggled loudly shouting “hi” back. They all wanted to shake my hands, snap photos then run away. I smiled at the sight of children in education, learning as others do and should in every society.

After New Delhi, we would inevitably head back home. At the airport, I was still in my silver flats. Physically moving forward, but mentally stuck on where I had been. Someone once told me to never look back. But I always do. I would never want to forget what has brought me here. Without tracing past journeys, I would overlook gratitude. India will always be one to look back on; she inescapably encouraged me to step outside of my norm.

JAIPUR, INDIA (The Pink City)

2007-03-08T22:16:00.000-08:00

In Anderson Cooper’s “Dispatches From The Edge,” he poignantly writes, “So many times in Africa I wanted people to know the suffering of others, but I long ago gave up believing that it would really change anything. Now that people are watching, and I feel that maybe I can be of some help.”

After Agra, we embarked on another 4-hour bus ride advancing to Jaipur. More bus rides, more reflections on my life and of this world. More exposures, more desires to search for ultimate solutions.

We visited more palaces, Rajasthan, temples. I lost interest in them, yet remained conscientious of kids on the streets. One of them approached me, asking for money and food. I couldn’t understand his words, but looked into his eyes. I didn’t have anything on me, no cash, food, pens, nothing but a camera. When he saw me taking photos of a few cows sitting next to our bus, he eagerly asked me to photograph him instead. So I did. What he needed were opportunities, but what he was asking for was food. For survival.

Anderson wrote a great book. I, too, feel like I can be of help. More depressed young women are hung up on certain issues. They’re in dire need of being exposed to true and adverse suffering. The world is much smaller than we think; we’re far more alike than different. To begin with, all children deserve to live a life of choices, above means to survive alone.

AGRA - Part 2

2007-03-08T21:50:00.000-08:00

Year ago, Princess Diana came to see Taj Mahal alone. She sat on the bench with the palace as backdrop, photographers snapped away. Media had a field day, with Taj’s love story juxtaposing the Princess’ independent trip, many speculated on the demise of her marriage to Prince Charles.

I wonder what her thoughts were entering the palace? I’ve fortunately witnessed most Wonders in the world, so it’s safe to declare Taj Mahal as one of the most beautiful architectures I’ve ever experienced. As we walked toward the palace, not yet seeing its edifice, anticipation already skyrocketed. The first faraway view we captured instantly brought us to life; its stature would ignite something within any person. Walking towards the palace, it takes over us, with each breath.

The story behind this architectural wonder is of love – a king’s devotion to his dying queen. Taj Mahal, a crowned palace entailing 22 years to intricately build. After it was completed, this king was overthrown by his son. He was kept in a jail cell across the river where his only view of the palace was from the reflection of a glass ceiling.

There are love poems written on the outer wrap of the palace, each person entering the palace is to carry oneself with serenity and peace. My father’s words reappear in my mind, “there’s a reason for everything, there’s a reason why we’re in India now.” I do not think I would have appreciated or understood this experience any time prior to the present. I calmly stepped inside, letting it all inhale.

At Taj, a young woman asking for a photo with me approached. I gladly obliged, then her entire family also wanted the same. I wasn’t sure what it all meant, but I have found Indians to be extremely friendly. Then again, we’re at the Taj Mahal, the wonder that speaks universal language. Life truly doesn’t get any better than this.

AGRA - Part 1

2007-03-08T20:58:00.000-08:00

Last night, we took a train ride and arrived in Agra. As we struggled to get on our bus, we were habitually approached by groups of child beggars. Their hand gestures motion back and forth near their lips, specifying they wanted food. Some kids incessantly poked at our arms while speaking their native language, I presumed they were also asking for food or money. All of them under ages of 10, covered in dust, revealing melancholic desperation.

We gave an apple to one boy, who began to eat it while we grapple to enter our bus. I tried so hard suppressing emotions watching him scoff down the apple as quickly as he could. He left nothing behind, even consumed its seeds. After he finished, he stood still with a proud smile. He waved at us then we gave him a liter of bottled water, a prized item in India he downed in one sip. As if it was candy, he drank and drank, no stopping, did not come up for air. We thought he would choke any minute. Just when he was about to completely finish the bottle his gesture showed he was ready to regurgitate, so I kept motioning him to stop that. He understood, then gave me a thumbs-up.

He waved us goodbye as the bus drove away. I watched his tiny body fade away in the dark. I never thought the act of giving would cause immense bittersweet moments, causing my heart to throb wretchedly.

KHAJURAHO, INDIA - Part 2

2007-03-08T20:35:00.000-08:00

We drove from Khajuraho today to Orcha, a 4-hour bus ride with stops at plenty of local villages. My favorite part of the trip has been these bus rides. I hardly nap but only listen to my iPod while sitting up straight and quietly examine indigenous sights flash by outside the window.

Most local villages are filled with children, unlike ones we’ve encountered before, these children are not as likely to ask for food or money from visitors. In one village, we were greeted as soon as we stepped out of the bus. I was busy saying “hi” to all, and they adorably mimicked me, “hiiiii!” The children were so excited, inviting me to their temple but told me I had to take off my shoes. I was asking them all sorts of questions, they cheerfully responded but with very poor English. We finally pointed at the cow, and said, “Cow. Yes, cow!” I found myself suddenly being surrounded by more than 20 locals, all enthusiastically following me around.

I met a boy named, Azul. He’s in 7th grade and goes to school. But I had to wonder why he wasn’t in school that day. As it turned out, these children attend local public schools where it does not make a difference whether students showed up or not. There’s lack of emphasis on the value of education, without enforcements from parents, kids would never choose to go to school. So they were home that day, telling me who was in 1st or 8th grade.

I didn’t want to leave these children who gave me more to take in. While Taj Mahal awaits in Agra, such raw experiences with natives are what I unconditionally treasure most. Back on the bus, I put on my iPod again and continued to stare at more unrefined local sights outside the window.

KHAJURAHO, INDIA - Part 1

2007-03-08T20:26:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning at 5am, my mind is combusted with images of reality. Neither CNN nor any media outlet can boldly or effectively illustrate all I’ve personally experienced on this trip. We’re staying at one of the newest, most luxurious hotels in Khajuraho. Countless are suffering, nonetheless, on the other side of the gates. I feel incredibly feeble. Like watching a baby fall on the ground with my hands tied, I close my eyes but the pictures replay over and over again.

Needing to get some air, I put on my flip-flops and wondered around the hotel. I told the clerks that I wanted a quiet place to jot in my journal. They led me to the poolside and brought me coffee then lit the entire pool lights for me to write. What an enormous dichotomy it is between the rich and poor.

The boy who brought over my coffee is a 20-year-old first-year college student, studying science. He attends school in the daytime while working at the hotel at night. I asked him if poverty in Khajuraho is as prevalent as it is in other cities in India. “Yes,” he replied. “There’s no work here for the people. There are no jobs.” We chatted more about other things. He is also a musician, who particularly likes pop music. He then offered to take me on a bike ride to show me the town. I told him this was a family trip, and kindly refused.

Two hours sweeps by, it’s already been a morning more worthwhile than any casual Friday night at a bar back home. I watched the sky turn from purple to grey. Gazing over at a nearby Hindu temple, I silently prayed.

VARANASI, INDIA (City of Light)

2007-03-08T20:10:00.000-08:00

Years ago, my mother brought back crystal bracelets from Prague. She gave them to each my sister and I, indicating that they are one of the best - Moser crystals, and she hoped they would bring us good luck. As my bracelet becomes my uniform, I believe they have not only brought me luck but are beautiful reminders of living with compassion. After all, that’s the kind of woman I want to be.

The famous river in Varanasi is called, Ganga. it’s a religious and cultural symbol also acting as a holy ritual for its residents. A place to welcome new lives and send away the dead. The cycle of reincarnation. Its water carries ashes of those who have passed away, but cleanses those who are still grateful and alive. We woke up at 5am to see sunrise at Ganga River, witnessing Hindus bathe in their sacred stream.

Walking away from Ganga River, I was unprepared to crash into panorama of extreme poverty. Leaning against the stairway railing of perhaps 100 steps, a line of beggars hazily sit with muddy bowls placed before them. The worst part is, you can’t just give to one. The rest would rise and beg overwhelmingly. Giving this way is merely a temporary fix. This problem is grander with its roots deriving from a much deeper place.

I asked our guide later, why are there so many homeless people in India? He quickly snaps back, “aren’t there homeless people everywhere in other cities and countries too?” Already, I don’t like him. I went to college in Berkeley and lived in San Francisco. Yes, I’m very well aware homelessness ubiquitously exists. But such colossal volume of them in India certainly makes the issue close to extreme.

The sun rose in Varanasi, my bracelet tranquilly sparkles under sunlight. I glance at it then cover it underneath my sleeve. Some may see this pleading line of humans and not be affected nor moved. Some may be immune. But I’m simply not built that way. I sigh aloud inadvertently and find a hard time moving on from it.

DELHI, INDIA

2007-03-08T20:01:00.000-08:00

In the span of 3 days, I had been in 5 international airports: 2 in US, 3 in Asia. My last event in America was the Grammys in which my project – my baby for the past year, received two honors. That week, I left America for new personal adventures. This seems to be the story of my life, always restless, always on-the-go.

The first glimpse of India was near midnight, where I was immediately sunken in astonishment. After days of long travels, in addition to dealing with lost luggage, all we wanted was a nice hotel with an actual bed to finally sleep on. Yet, adrenaline suddenly kicked in soon after we exited Delhi Airport.

Like stepping in a time machine, I fathom India now is akin to how Taiwan appeared 70 years ago. Old brick buildings with erratic cracked windows. Dusty cement roads lacking structured sidewalks. Sound of horns repeat more than I can count the cows stopping traffic. Herds of residents sleeping underneath tents of plastic garbage bags. Under its dim city lights, I felt continents of desolation casting over me. I blinked and noticed Logitech and Hewlett-Packard banners alluringly hung above a shattered bus stop.

3 days ago, I was relishing in the most glamorous event in music industry. 3 days later, I’m witnessing total austere fate of unfortunate souls. I’m overwhelmed with questions, but too tired to search for answers this night. When we reached our hotel, it ain’t the Grammy’s but it’s far more glamorous compared to the mass sleeping on sides of streets. My mind remains restless, but my body is no longer on-the-go.

INDIA

2007-03-08T19:40:00.000-08:00

My father likes to tell us, “there’s a reason for everything.” There’s a reason why we came to India at this point in all of our lives. Raised as travelers to absorb worlds outside of ourselves; we, as a family, have witnessed a great deal since long ago, but none has affected me more than the land of India.

Its historical religious conflicts, the well being of its present social state, invasion of modernism, absence of literacy, unripe initiatives on family planning, massive dichotomy between the rich and poor, excessive degree of homelessness. All aspects intrigued me; all saddened me.

Most devastating of all, were the children. Many are bred to beg. In a society populated of 1 billion people, children I saw knows nothing better. I gave, but from whom will they ask again tomorrow? They’re so unaware of a world offering options and choices. I constantly found myself forced to hold back tears.

There’s a reason why I came here at this age and time. India taught me, welcomed me, pained me, unfastened me, exposed me, preached me, tickled me, pacified me, amended me, revitalized me, provoked me. India…the beautiful.

I Left My Heart In San Francisco

2007-03-01T01:57:00.000-08:00

As the great Tony Bennett sings, I also left m heart in San Francisco. But it was time. When the time comes, you just know. There’s not a word anyone else can say, you’re ready to move on, onto bigger and better things.

The last patient I attended before leaving the city was a 14-year-old. I walked in with my usual “Hi!!” asked if she wanted company. She seemed busy eating dinner while watching TV, but didn’t mind the company. So I sat down, asked her what she was in the hospital for. She had symptoms similar to gull bladder, stomach problems that women generally have after giving birth. Suddenly in shock, I asked, “did you just give birth?” She replied with a yes, a month ago.

When I was a fourteen, I remember traveling with the school choir to Toronto. I remember wanting to try out for the cheerleading squad. I remember having crushes on boys in class but far too timid to have someone be called: my boyfriend. Holding hands would define that. Innocence was written all over me.

The girl I met this night doesn’t appear to have lost hers either. We chatted about all sorts of things: MTV, cliques in school, music, and her decision to keep the baby. She’s restricted from after school activities because she needs to pick up her daughter from daycare, which closes at 4:30pm. In deciding to have her baby, she waved goodbye to a life focusing on her self. Putting it nicely, she will now always have a plus one.

She was the last patient I saw in this hospital, where I engrossed the most gratifying lessons on life, death and living. Life in San Francisco as I had it defined perfection in minds of most young women. From having a fabulous job to building significant friendships to insignificant dinner dates to an awesome apartment with THE view of the bay. What I saw in this hospital, however, gave me the gift of courage. I left. India awaits; where more sights of pain and suffering will further unfold me. And I simply can’t wait.

Butterfly Town U.S.A.

2007-02-05T15:09:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in a young woman’s life when she feels so sure, absolute confidence in herself and pure excitement anticipating the journey she’s all set to embark upon. Though the decision to embark, to change, to make a significant turn takes tremendous courage; its agony involves more tears to fill up a youthful well. But how empowering is it to make such a decision solely for the positive growth of no one else, but you.

In my book, everybody should live to inspire or be inspired. Inspiration comes effortlessly from within, poignantly from the heart. Whether it’d be music, poetry, people, career, literature, religion, family…etc. Mine has been those young souls hospitalized, they’ve inspired me to rid self doubt thus discover purpose. It’s how I know that I can now look in the mirror and be fully confident. This unearthing of inner purpose is so empowering, such self-assurance cannot possibly be supplied by anyone else but you, certainly not by any man.

Life will throw curveballs; it will leave me with numerous wounds. There will be more pain, more agony. One thing for sure, however, is the empowered strength to survive, to breathe the wounds then obtain wisdom to decipher and move on strategically. Metamorphosis occurs several times in every woman’s roadmap. What a wonderful time to be a woman of this era. I’ve dried my tears and still I rise. Yes, pure excitement, now I fly.

Scent Of A Woman

2007-02-01T00:35:00.000-08:00

Every woman possesses a scent. It all varies. From hint of amber signifying a trendsetter, to fougere aroma implying the traditional women, to orchid and vanilla representing the sexy/glamorous. Every woman owns her smell, that’s how we bond. More importantly, it’s the secret message we choose to tell others without ever saying too much.

Babies have smells too! They certainly don’t need any designer-celebrity-brand-name-eau-de-toilette. Newborns carry scents of purity, innocence, hope and an infinite list of positive adjectives. I personally love smells of babies; after all, that’s how I bond with newborn patients. Experts typically advise mothers to snuggle with newborns, holding them close. Babies need to constantly spend time with their mothers, skin-to-skin. The smell of human contact is what newborns need to fulfill the essence of bonding.

Statistics, however, show that 1 in 13 children (meaning 143 million children in the developing world,) are in fact, orphans. Never mind that 15 million children have also been orphaned by AIDS. Imagine that most of these children have yet to be held closely by their natural parent, or their concept of parental bonding is severely nonexistent. I sometimes wonder, what kind of scents do they carry. Is it also an infinite list of positive adjectives?

I, too, have a selected scent. I’m often asked with the question, what are you wearing? It's Coco Mademoiselle, launched by Chanel (what else?) in 2001. Some say, “sparkling lively top notes of orange and bergamot are followed by…accords of jasmine petals and morning rose…a discreet sensuality.” If you’re reading this, you’ve found my discretion. I yearn to do something about tragedies children face in the world. And I hope, with this blog, there lies a hint of discreet sensuality.

Vintage Rocks

2007-01-30T02:17:00.000-08:00

Those who hear about a city like San Francisco, besides the Golden Gate Bridge, would automatically picture cultural districts such as The Haight. But those who live in a city like San Francisco; have either a loving or “haightful” relationship with the area of 60’s bohemia. I personally love Haight, especially its occasional inexpensive vintage fashion, which formulates approximately 60% of my wardrobe. One of my favorite prized possession, is a red Spanish style dress, (something I usually like to couple with a pair of Christian Louboutin sandals.)

Since the rule for child life volunteers is not wearing uniforms (for the sake of being personable with sick children,) I typically show up in appropriately stylish outfits. On a previous warm evening in the city, I wore my vintage red dress to the hospital. Coincidentally, I was assigned to a beautiful Latina. She was a 21-year-old who stayed in pediatrics because we provided added comfort. She began admiring my dress as soon as I walked in. It hit me for the first time, that my fashion was actually being used as a tool to break ice. Here was an amicable girl who needed company, so we talked about boys, school, traveling. Tears came down when she revealed her devastation in having a chronic disease, prohibiting her from being active with her friends. That night, I walked away with a vocabulary of Spanish words and a heart renewed.

Of all the cheap and expensive things displayed in my closets, I greatly cherish a collection of vintage dresses, which I’ve purchased all from Haight since high school. Some I bought with holes in them, some I’ve put extra work to have tailored. They span from eras of 20’s, 40’s, 70’s…and so on. Each carry a piece of history, stories that I bear when I strut in them. Let your volunteering experiences be your vintage dresses. Good things always better with age. Therefore, vintage totally rocks.

When Destiny Calls

2007-01-24T16:03:00.000-08:00

Destiny, is the predetermined and inevitable series of events that happen to somebody. I believe in destiny. I believe that we all possess different ones where some find true love in high school while others live to be single until 40. I believe that some are destined to live a fortunate life while some may suffer more than most.

Last night, I held a six-week old baby in my arms for two hours in PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.) He’s destined with a rare form of disease which if he’s fortunate, he would live until six months old. Babies, in general, love being held, obtain human contact. He was exquisite, and stared right at me for two hours. I couldn’t help but chatted with him, told him how gorgeous he was. In some moments, he looked like an old man who understood every compliment. He was extremely alert with me, the most he had been in the hospital.

In other moments, he looked like a newborn again with my fingers seeming gigantic next to his teeny face. He was encountering problematic sucking coordination, so we practiced with a pacifier. By the end of our session, it soon became his second nature. He had seizures where his neck would shift from side to side in small but quick movements. I rocked him in the chair; he enjoyed it immensely with deep, inquisitive gaze. It’s difficult to fathom a baby like him didn’t have many visitors.

Destiny, is also the inner purpose of a life that can be discovered and realized. I know what my destiny is. It’s about holding a six-week old baby, who is suffering from a deadly disease. My arms semi gave out after two hours, yet I could never ignore when destiny has come calling.

A Walk To Remember

2007-01-22T12:29:00.000-08:00

When I was nineteen, we spent a summer in Italy as a family. One of my favorite memories of those European summer nights was walking on cobblestone-covered streets in Siena. As warm breeze swept through, we strolled up and down small hills each night after dinner. My mother and father would walk in front of us, while sis and I trailed behind. The four of us would stop at a high point and overlook sparse city lights. Conversations poured, random giggles, the touch of old stone walls. We soaked up captivating local history, and comprised it as part of our own storybook of family voyage.

The act of walking - its mundane and natural convenience has led us to forget how much of an “experience” it can be. A patient I visit in the hospital had recently recovered from numerous risky surgeries. Every time a nurse came into his room, he was reminded to get out of bed and walk. Patients typically need simple exercises for better recuperation. But he didn’t listen to the nurse, so I chimed in. “C’mon, you can do it. It’s getting late, I’ll walk with you before I take off.”

So his mother put on his socks and hat, we slowly got him up and he was walking! I was elated then whispered to the nurse, “oh my gosh, he’s walking!” She smiled and mouthed the words, “it’s because you’re here.” Out of excitement, I exclaimed to the patient, “hey, you know what I just realized? I don’t think we’ve ever walked side-by-side before. Now I get to see how tall you actually are!” He started laughing, putting his hand over his stomach since it hurt due to several incisions. But leaning against the hospital wall, despite pain, he still couldn’t stop laughing. And neither could his mother.

Thinking back, I’m unsure why I loved those Italian night walks. When I decided to write an entry on “A Walk To Remember,” the memory of strolling in Siena surfaced repetitively. Such recollection denotes how auspicious my life has been, I truly believe that one couldn’t possibly experience pure joy without giving someone else happiness. So maybe, just maybe, that one key to life is to always create in your own way, many walks to remember.

What You See Is What You Get

2007-01-20T17:28:00.000-08:00

When it comes to dating, some people should receive Academy awards for portrayals of whom they pretend or desire to be. I often wonder why is it necessary that we feel the need to do so. Are we that uncomfortable in our own skin? Are we truly so desperate for companionship? What is so horrible about the theory of “what you see is what you get?”

Once, I volunteered in child life support while there weren’t patients who needed company. As my shift would’ve only lasted for 10 minutes, on my way to sign out, I made a pit stop in its transport area (a department where mostly men work 24/7 shifts to transfer hospital patients from one room to another.) I spontaneously asked if they needed help or if I could simply tag along on some job assignments. To my luck, they agreed.

We made several trips to ER, MRI, mostly moving patients from one bed to another. I smiled and chatted with all. They’re aching, they hurt, they’re tired, or they twinge. I wanted to see this, because seeing pain and helping the suffering is a personally enlightening experience. Didactic in a way that I result in appreciation; that I end up looking at glamour in my life as a bonus because many live without it. I figure - the more pain I see, the less I am to be a unilateral, myopic individual.

When it comes to dating, I’ll never win an Academy award. I don’t try to be bogus and expect my date to act just as real. I’m confident that I’ve seen more than most my age, I’ve also acquired better perspective and knowledge than most twenty-somethings. With me, what you see is what you get. If you don’t like it…well, it’s been nice knowing ya.

Transparency

2007-01-20T12:46:00.001-08:00

In February 2007’s issue of Haper’s Bazaar, it announces Clear Bags as the next “it” trend of fashion accessories. “It’s now chic to let the contents of your bag peek through with a plastic carryall.” Women obsess over handbags because they’re evident symbols of who we are without revealing anything verbally. A classic Chanel leather bag potentially implies that you prefer to be referred to as the stylishly elegant - an everlasting woman. Conversely, a Dior lady tote may indicate one who appears to be feminine with an inner rocker quietly lingering to burst unexpectedly.

As we grow older, we learn not to trust. The world becomes incessantly convoluted while human relationships build on jaded false walls, lacking faith. Months ago, I met a 5-year-old Indian boy who was suffering from cancer. He read so well, and believed every word I read to him as I endeavored sound effects with each storyline. With his mother watching over us, he revealed in his adorable accent, “did you know I have cows in India?” By the end of the session, I learned that he had a family of cousins and relatives back home. He also owned a farm with a well in the middle. That’s what kids do, they trust. They permit contents of their hearts and minds exhibited.

I’m also obsessed about handbags. For the next season, I’ve got my eye on a Chanel clear bag. I may be judged for gullible naiveté, but I refuse to let the lackluster in me triumph. The best part about life is enjoying human interaction, learning how to build better relationships with people. With some, you learn to protect from after few tumbles. But each individual deserves initial chances where no prior judgments are made about their characters, beliefs or personalities. For me, a clear Chanel bag may say something about me that I feel absolutely comfortable being branded with.

Silence Is Golden

2007-01-17T15:36:00.000-08:00

The absolute worst moment of working in a hospital, is when you walk into your patient’s room and suddenly, he’s gone. The beds are empty, messy blanket dispersed, TV isn’t on and your heart sinks. The ultimate horrible thought comes to mind: oh my god, where is he? Is he…?

I frantically run into my supervisor, pretending to be apathetic and ask, “where is he?” Aware that I’m the only person this patient truly connects with, she takes me to PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.) Before stepping in, I take a deep breath for preparation. Following entryway is a sea of beds. Patients’ sizes and illnesses vary. Most are lying down with tubes sticking in and out of their bodies. Some are babies; the sight triggers tears, which I relentlessly fight to hold back.

I was led to an individual room with glass doorways, where my patient painfully lay. His brother sat close to him, in a praying position. I quietly said hi to him, while he replied with a “thank you,” my patient wearily opened his eyes. Trying to maintain my usual sparkle, I asked softly, “hey, do you remember me?” He nodded and went back to sleep. Again, my heart sank.

His brother kept thanking me, I soon walked out with my supervisor. Outside of PICU, she reminded me of how much it must’ve helped the patient and his family to have my presence there. “Even for a few minutes?” I asked. She responded, “oh yes. As humans, we feel like we need to say something in times like these. But truthfully, just being there. Even if you’re silent, you’re providing comfort, you’re making a difference.” I rode up the elevator; inaudibly reflecting, praying, hoping he’ll pull through.

If silence is golden, then why did my heart fall once more?

Sweet Angel - Ode to My Mother

2007-01-17T14:57:00.000-08:00

When it came to my sister and I, my mother always said she wanted to raise two angels. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m no angel. I got no wings, my wardrobe consists of various colors besides white, and I certainly don’t’ prance around with a glowing halo. In fact, like most of you, I’ve done things that I’d prefer to let slip through fingers of reminiscence and never look back on them.

As I continually mark entries of community service experiences, I search back on any certain moment I had in determining a devoted course to volunteer. As a result, there wasn’t an “aha” moment, I simply grew up with the concept of giving. For decades, a village in my homeland never has to worry about malnutrition nor lack of money to purchase rice. For decades, this village wanted to meet the providers who got them through the toughest times. Even the day a plaque was presented to my parents, true to their humble nature, they chose my aunt to receive it in their name.

In Chinese, two characters comprise the word “angel”: sky, and calling. Calling from the sky, I suppose, would be the translated definition. Throughout life, I’ve always deemed my mother as my sky. To raise an angel, she needs to absorb from one. I’ve learned from the best, I’ve always learned from my calling from the sky.

Almost Famous

2007-01-17T14:12:00.000-08:00

Few weeks ago, I randomly saw a picture of myself online taken from a music event. It always feels a bit strange seeing a picture of myself via web, especially when I’m nowhere near being famous. At a party with 3 Doors Down last week, Vegas Magazine photographers wanted pictures of me with the band. After two years in the business, I’m still getting used to being photographed. I was never groomed to play this part, and never really wanted to. At the same time, I hardly ask for favors from my music friends. I’ve always thought of it as an exceptionally tacky gesture.

In the hospital, one particular patient fanatically adores hip-hop music; she earnestly memorizes lyrics to every song on the Billboard chart. One of her favorite things to do with me is hearing about different celebrities I’ve encountered. She jumps up each time as I call out certain artists’ names. “Wait, so can you get me an autograph?” “Can you please just tell him that I’m really, really sick?” “Wait, tell him that I’m one of his biggest fans?” “Oh my gosh, that’s soooo awesome!”

Fame is a funny thing. I’ve refused numerous times and never followed such a path. Imagine, however, being the reason patients in the hospital smile or soar when simply your name is shouted about. I guess fame isn’t so bad, if it were utilized for charitable reasons. Several strong, iconic women in the public eye have beautifully done just so. Audrey Hepburn spent her life making celebrated films in Hollywood, yet devoted latter part of her years working tirelessly with UNICEF. Princess Diana did the same, so are Angelina Jolie and Oprah.

After this hospital trip, I made a phone call to a music friend of mine. It wasn’t tacky; it was for a smile, for another exciting session of jumping up and down. I’ve chosen to never being famous myself, but I’ll pull some famous strings for the cause of utter glee in any child’s already tainted actuality.

**Check out sidebar for ways to help.

Common Grounds

2007-01-15T00:13:00.002-08:00

On my birthday this year, my best friend gave me a pink New York Yankee’s hat. As I often strike a pose in it, my guy buddies constantly mock and eagerly assume that my adoration for the Yanks derive from beloved eye candies: Jeter & A-Rod. Sorry to disappoint, boys. But this amity I have for the Yanks is strictly personal, for my country’s pride and joy: #40…WANG! Not only is he currently the world’s #1 Taiwanese pitcher, if we ever got married (yes, I know he’s already married) we’d never undergo any cultural difference mishaps. We would immediately share common loves for night markets, KTV, Tainan delicacies…really, the list goes on! In an interview once, my Yankee expressed how much he loved playing for a legendary team, yet how much he truly missed home.

On the other hand, I never anticipated my fluency in Chinese to be so handy in a hospital environment. I believe it is accurate to indicate, every other patient I’ve encountered has been Chinese (or able to speak Mandarin.) This common language has led me to build better relationships with the children’s parents, play further creative games with the kids, tell imaginative stories, discuss Asian pop culture and gossip about Chinese pop stars. One time, a sixteen year old patients told me he had seen a movie starring Jay Chou (a Taiwanese hip-hop artist) and Gong Li (a decorated Chinese actress.) Thinking that he lied, we made a bet and my job was to research online whether this movie truly exists. Not only did I lose big time, when I saw him again, he chuckled, “how is it that I’m more informed about this when I’m the one stuck in the hospital?” Wait, was he mocking me? Whatever to make him laugh a little.

Oftentimes, I’ve utilized Chinese skills to assist doctors translate and facilitate patients’ families for better comprehension. I doubtlessly know that something about hearing difficult English words spoken in Mandarin provide ample sense of comfort for them. After all, we share a common ground. These families are just like my Yankee and I, we all know what it feels like to have home be so darn far away.

My First Date

2007-01-13T16:38:00.001-08:00

As humans, we all experience numerous firsts throughout life. What we hear most are: first crush, first date, first kiss, first heartbreak. Love is inevitable. Stumble or glide, we surrender or survive. I don’t necessarily remember all my firsts dates, especially when you’re sixteen, a trip from Geometry to English class is weighed just as heavily as a mini-first date.

But one particular “first” has engraved permanently in the journey of my existence. The very first time I volunteered in the hospital, I experienced no nervousness, carried no expectations. Something about being around those in pain eased me; something about its air was an automatic reminder that I was in a better place, that I was doing the right thing.

My supervisor led me to a room, and I shook hands with a girl who wore a mask. She immediately wanted me to sit on her bed, asked if I wanted to play cards with her. We actually never even got to the cards; we clicked right away and chatted about Knight Rider, about her family, the challenges of being in middle school (which doesn’t seem to have changed since I attended middle school stone ages ago.) The demands of being hospitalized, being gossiped about in school, being judged, the populars vs. her. I listened, gave advice while hours flew by. I walked away that night, couldn’t wipe off the smile on my face. This is it, I’ve found my calling: to subsidize my presence and personality, to consume myself in helping the greater good.

This first date is the most important footprint of my odyssey. For it involved other firsts: true compassion and deep empathy. Like many other firsts I’ve experienced, I’ll always look back on this one with the fondest memories and a smile of sheer purity.

Reality Bites

2007-01-11T17:24:00.000-08:00

During the training program for this hospital volunteering gig, my supervisors heavily emphasized that we should not become emotionally attached to pediatric patients. During the interview process, they asked various questions regarding life and death, how well I deal with them, how confident was I at being emotionally detached. Their message was loud and clear: it’s not all about toys, crayons, rainbows and colored skies. Reality is an array of diagnosis: tummy aches, infections, broken bones, cystic fibrosis, all kinds of cancer, and well, potential death.

So I try. Try to remember their names, but forget them once I exit the hospital. Try to play a game of tea party, and not let it guide me to my own childhood memories. Try listening to their stories of illnesses, but not let it impact my soul. This is all enormously trying, because reality is that they unfold me. As they layer me with tales of pain, my heart expands a little more time after time.

To be an emotionally detached volunteer is simply impossible. I always remember their names, each visit somehow always takes me on a trail of remembering, and I always hold back a tear of two hearing their perspective on living with unfortunate diseases. Reality in this realm is a loss of innocence, for me, for the kids and their families. My mother always tells me, with pain comes growth. This is life, in which reality truly bites.

The Right Shoe

2007-01-02T21:49:00.000-08:00

One of my ultimate favorite pieces of fashion accessory is a pair of Stuart Weitzmans - classic white leather pumps. It's distinctive due to a uniquely off-white, ivory shade. Yet, absolutely timeless being its kind - the pumpin' kind. During a business tradeshow one year, its sole began to tear. I couldn't believe Stuart was giving up on me merely after two years, he's always been my favorite, beyond Manolo or Choo! So I was a traitor, I stopped strutting in the Weitzmans and traded for a pair of black velvet Manolos.

As I wore my Manolos to the hospital tonight, it was starting to get lose on me after merely two outings! Frustrated as I was, it became obsolete after seeing one of my favorite patients who is suffering from cancer. He began to tell me about another patient, one he related to. This other little guy had a different kind of cancer with a tumor on his feet, keeping him from walking. Both patients received news of their traumatic illnesses few months prior, both were diagnosed unexpectedly. Coincidentally, they were the same age.

Fortunately, my patient has been miraculously healing. After telling me the story, he then realizes that he was actually the lucky one, since his disease never kept him from being on his feet. Especially when he dreams about hanging out with his friends, playing basketball. I hugged him good night and wobbled my way out of the hospital. At home, I tried on my Weitzmans again and realized how much I like being in my own shoes.

God Bless The Child

2006-12-30T17:23:00.000-08:00

When I worked on Al Jarreau/George Benson’s “Givin’ It Up” SuperDisc (now a two-time Grammy awardeded album!!!!), there was one track which I heard repetitively and never grew sick of. It was Al’s duet with Jill Scott, God Bless the Child. Jill came in the studio, not knowing the song yet impressed the heck out of Al. He always said: what a great voice for such a young lady!

I remember arriving at Ninoy Aquino Intl Airport in Manila with my family at 8 years old, my first step into the Philippines was welcomed by a group of child beggars. Not in Taiwan, Thailand nor Japan had I seen this before. I remember recognizing that these kids were my age, if not, only several years younger. I remember realizing I wasn’t in their shoes, I was in a better one, off to see the beach of white sands, off to be fed with exotic fruits and feasts of food.

Later on in life, I’ve stepped on other foreign soils and more unfortunate truths around the globe were unveiled. 2.8 million people live on less than $2 a day. More than 16,000 children die from hunger-related causes everyday, that’s ONE child every FIVE seconds. On this New Year’s Eve, there’s a reason to think that we’re all children which God has blessed. Although we’re not the ones living on $2 a day, we can give back and help those who are.

One of my favorite characters on ABC’s Grey’s Anatomy, Dr. Bailey, sang “God Bless The Child” at the end of one episode. It still moves me. “Mama may have, papa may have. But God bless the child that’s got his own.
That’s got his own.”

Easy Knight Rider

2006-12-27T17:30:00.000-08:00

I never thought watching David Hasselhoff’s pants rip on a tiny little portable DVD player would be so much fun! The hospital room was exploding with laughter; we must’ve replayed that scene 10,000 times. It was still cracking her up, we were literally shrieking.

When the show Knight Rider first appeared on TV, she wasn’t even born yet. But if you ever wondered who KITT’s evil twin was, or how many seasons the show ran for, which guest star appeared in what episode…she has answers for all.

My hospital experiences become radiant every time I see her name on the white board, we always end up having a ball. I remember when I first met her (which was my very first hospital volunteering experience,) I could only focus on the mask she wore, there were multiple tubes going inside her body in various places. But as soon as we began to girl talk, it was all over. I now know a girl who is obsessed with Knight Rider, who despite her illness, still has a crush in school. She deals with the same problems in her grade: popular girls versus well…her. She gets excited whenever Bow Wow’s song “Shortie Like Mine” comes on radio, because she identifies with being a “shortie” due to malnutrition of her illness.

Everything about Knight Rider makes her so happy, the action and excitement of each episode gives her such thrill. I’ve never met anyone else who can recite dialogues so clearly after only seeing it once. I’ve sat through several episodes with her, I’d do anything to make her forget about why she’s hospitalized in the first place. I asked her once, don’t you think more young people should do this? Her answer was a firm: definitely.

It’s so easy. It’s so easy to sit through an outdated 80’s TV show, when you see how much joy it provides a sick little girl. It’s so easy to sit with the sick and help them take their minds off of their pain. It’s so easy to give a few hours of your time. It’s so easy to do this, so why don’t you?

Thousands of Blessings

2006-12-12T22:16:00.000-08:00

On my fifth entry, I wanted to write simply yet significantly. The goal here is to capture the meaning of my Chinese name, “thousands of blessings.”
This blog is meant to inspire, to trigger. To make that thing in your brain “click” so that you DO and GIVE wholeheartedly to those who are in need.

Months ago, my thought to volunteer in a local program triggered my best friend to do the same in her residing city. There we were, working for the same cause of helping sick children in opposite ends of the country. There was my blessing #1.

Soon after I completed writing “From Glam to Givin’ A Damn,” I sent it to several close family and friends. I was told that one of their co-workers had a print out of my entry, asked if it was okay she carried it in her purse as a daily inspiration. There it was, blessing #2.

Thousands of blessings…I have a long way to go. But two ain’t too shabby for now. 1, 2…1,000.

The Art of Missing

2006-12-11T23:31:00.001-08:00

One of the best and worst parts about being a twenty-something is this palpable feeling of loneliness, which typically approaches late at night. What’s awful about it, is that it feeds off of a seemingly gigantic internal void and regenerates itself on bottomless self-pity. Yet, what’s so great about it is that we can get away with it. I haven’t found myself! Where’s “the one”? I miss my ex! We’re allowed to have excuses, because most of today’s societies tolerate twenty-somethings to feel somewhat lost, that we have yet to be...complete. Some parts of us are still yet to be defined, still missing.

I have to wonder, why is it that our society tolerates even younger ones to feel like some parts of their lives are missing. I meet a boy every week at the hospital, who has impacted my life more than he can ever imagine. I cannot announce his diagnosis, but he misses his health. He’s a young boy whose life was turned upside down only few months ago; all he wants now is returning home and be healthy enough to play video games. Missing being healthy, imagine that.

When divorce rates continue to rise not only in our country but also around the world, there is an astonishing amount of children who experience a feeling of incompletion earlier than generations before. Therefore programs such as “big brother/big sister” exist, and mentoring programs are needed to provide kids academic or personal guidance. 7 out of 10 children live in non-traditional families in this country, including living with stepfamilies, foster families, living with non-relatives or grandparents. As a result, an overwhelming number of kids experience some emotional form of missing. And we wonder why this world has become so convoluted with prejudice, full of judgments and stereotypes.

So, next time when the clock strikes twelve and you start to experience some sort of loneliness. When you start to miss somebody or some parts of yourself, you should start thinking. Imagine being a kid who misses a healthy body, missing a mother, or simply a comforting home. Imagine all of this, and you’d start feeling better about yourself. I guess this could possibly be, the art of missing.

Chanel J12 - Watch Your Time

2006-12-09T23:26:00.000-08:00

In 2000, Jacques Helieu designed Chanel's first incursion into sports watches - the J12. Today, this watch has become an iconic fashion accessory for the wrists. A statement of fabulousness with an all-in-one: water-resistant, uni-sex and high-tech ceramic. Classic to Chanel's roots of timelessness, J12 comes in only two colors: Black and White.

This is how I choose to view the world, in two opposite dynamics with no greys. I live on ends of extremity simply because, time is the true essence in life. I detest ambiguity, I hate wasting time on people who yo-yo upon decision after decision. I have a goal, I go for it. I see a problem, I seek for resolution. In the presence of lost souls, I constantly check my time. To ensure that I use it wisely, and not combust in unproductivity or discontent. For me, "time" can ultimately be segregated into two substances: black or white. At this very moment, Is what you're doing worth your time...or not?

I'm used to a life of being wary of time. Meetings, conference calls, flight delays, PR events, parties, studio sessions...the list goes on. When life is so consumed by work and personal time is sacrificed, one may start to experience more greys than either black or white. Not until I spent more time in the hopsital, I regained to view "time" in complete black and white - life or death.

Did you know that kids in hospital playrooms never fight? Because they all share a common ground. They have an understanding of how vulnerable life is and how precious time can be. They individually deal with issues of sickness but see the world with layers of colors. My professional world used to look so grey, so blurred with fatigue. Yet the hours I spent in the hospital allowed me to gaze life in black and white once again. Thrive on helping others and shift away from those who harm. Beam with laughter and minimize arguments. Life's too short, we all will soon run out of time.

Christmas came fashionably early this year, my sister and I received our matching J12s before Thanksgiving. I got the White one. It's very well suited, since I always choose to look at the world on the brighter side.

No, I'm No Model

2006-12-08T00:16:00.000-08:00

Last week during my volunteering gig, there was a little girl who did not talk. She had beautiful black hair, jealous-worthy long lashes, yet she was silent. I attempted English, I attempted Mandarin but no verbal response. There it was, I was encountering an obstacle! Nonetheless, we sat in front of a drawing board with five coloring pens. That, was how we communicated.

We drew snowmen, Christmas trees, hearts, birthday cakes...still, no voice. Every time any nurse walked by, she freaked out: NO SHOTS, NO SHOTS! Those were the only times I heard what she sounded like. An hour later, I was able to calm her. We played house, she was hostess while I played guest. Two hours later, she was still not talking...but laughing! Her mother got off the phone then spoke to me in Chinese, "I just told my husband that I've never seen our daughter so happy in the hospital! Who are you? Are you a model in Hong Kong? What are you doing here?"

I had to laugh. "No, I'm no model. I'm a volunteer." As I explained, I asked myself: why aren't more people doing this? We modelize after the rich and powerful. We modelize after those who are physically beautiful. We modelize after those who drown in fame. Why is it that we don't modelize after devout social workers? Why don't we modelize after goals of community services? Why don't we modelize after the courage of these tiny souls whose gigantic spirits overcome if not deadly but painful diseases?

I was indeed trained to be a runway model long ago. Again, I escaped due to its lack of self gratification. At the hospital this week, the little girl (who didn't talk but laughed) had checked out. So I attended another girl who was much more energetic and garrulous. As I played with her, something on the wall caught my eye. It was a drawing which had my name on it. I looked closely, it said in a childish handwriting: WENDY I MISS YOU. Signed by my little girl who didn't talk but laughed. I was struck by this moment for a few minutes. The drawing was of a tall girl holding hands with a much smaller one.

No, I'm no model. I'm a volunteer. And this is...THE exact reason why I do it.

From Glam to Givin' A Damn

2006-12-06T15:32:00.000-08:00

In music, transition = modulation, a passing from one key to another. In sports, transition = change, from defense to offense or offense to defense. In human, transition = growth, from adolescence to adulthood. In life, transition is constant. It's to be expected.

I'm not a celebrity; but walked the "white carpet" at MTV's VMA at 24 years of age, and attended the Grammy's at 25. Life was about working hard, playing hard. Always staying on top of my game, always...glittered in glamour.

Revelation followed, a deep yearn for fulfillment needed to be urgently addressed. There was something more to my life, looking pretty and corporate politics left a huge void within me. I decided to volunteer and commit a small part of my chaotic life to children who are ill. I never expected this "small part" to expand into an enormous impact in my young journey. These little angels became inspirations, they were the golden keys to my growth - my transition.

From glam to givin' a damn, I'm making a difference. People in the hospital initially looked at me funny as I arrived each week with my Chanel purses and Jimmy Choo shoes. But it's the action that surpasses judgement. My action shows that I care, that I give a crap about kids who can be lit up with my champagne bubbly personality. Ultimately, it's not about me anymore, it's about kids whose spirits need to be lifted.

Give a damn. Trust me, in the end, it's so much more worth it than being glam.