In Darjeeling, the landscape and my familyscape seemed to be living, breathing beings, the paths like veins and the stories like the flow of blood.
When my grandmother died, lamas stayed for five days next to her body, guiding her through bardo by reading from The Tibetan Book of the Dead.
After a youth spent trying to ignore my Asian heritage, I came looking for it. My journey turned out to be the beginning of an excavation that continues to this day.
The bento lunches the hoikuen expected mothers to produce were an exercise in artistry. But I didn’t care about making the perfect bento.
Above all, the teahouse was a room of my own, the first I’d ever had.
One reason I fell in love with Japan is the way each season is embraced and celebrated. Living here has changed my view of them—and of myself.