‎A good relationship has a pattern like a dance and is built on some of the same rules. The partners do not need to hold on tightly, because they move confidently in the same pattern, intricate but gay and swift and free, like a country dance of Mozart’s. To touch heavily would be to arrest the pattern and freeze the movement, to check the endlessly changing beauty of its unfolding. There is no place here for the possessive clutch, the clinging arm, the heavy hand; only the barest touch in passing. Now arm in arm, now face to face, now back to back — it does not matter which. Because they know they are partners moving to the same rhythm, creating a pattern together, and being invisibly nourished by it.

said Anne Morrow Lindbergh

It’s rare to see my family together in one place. I see my dad’s side more—they are in the states, mostly in the midwest. I used to joke that there was a significant disparity between my cousins vs. my sister and me.

But what astounds me the most is how my cousins—usually a pair (brother and sister, brother and brother or sister and sister)—are so different from each other. There is the ones that married early and had kids in their twenties. Then there is the pair that exhibit filial pity and friendliness to everyone. Then the pair who were born in the “old country” and were the first ones to marry non-Asians. Then there is my sister and me—the free-wheeling females living big on the coasts in large metropolitan cities.

Did our parents have the biggest influences? Perhaps. I can’t help but to draw comparisons and similarities. Would we have been the same if we had different parental guidance?

I hesitated slightly before I told a colleague what I currently was doing, but then I let it out.

I started off with the story of my tempered creativity. I always wanted to create, I say. And design wasn’t enough. This year is my outlet to let out that energy. So we’ll see what happens.

Then I describe the gist: I am combining three passions. Writing. Travel.

Then I pause here for the dramatic flourish.

Ice cream, I say.

There’s always a laughter of glee. Because it’s an innocent indulgence recalling simpler times. I do have the luxury of working in a happiness business and finding a business that exudes more happiness.

There is no right or wrong answer. Nor is there a right or wrong choice. It’s the consequences that we have to be ok with. If choose to hurt or make someone happy, it’s our choice and that’s ok. As long as we are ok with it. And as long as we are true to ourselves.

Can I be a partner with someone who wasn’t my biggest fan? I am not sure.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked right before departing.

“Look!” I exclaimed and gestured to my blog post on my screen. “It’s you! There and there”

He glanced over my shoulder to the photo on my screen where he was laughing at the camera.

“I seemed more happier back then.”

Then he turned away as the sorrow descended over his face.

In face of disrespect, I complained.

He listened and responded, “You just get used to it.”

Of course, my complaint was about something minor—my misplaced things and disruption of my usual household routine. What infuriated me and still infuriates me months later was the complacency to an imbalance. The complacency is born out of one’s own personal priorities—the perspective of values.

Will I get value of the action that I perform? If not, it’s easier to do nothing.

Ideas like:

I worry sometimes that I will suffer from the pedestrian effect and instead of giving a helping hand, I keep walking and walking back home.

Several years ago as he dropped me off at my door, I hesitated. Others would find a clumsy excuse: “Want to see my painting?” “Want to see my TV?” “Want to listen to a record?”

Instead, I asked, “Want to have orange juice?”

“YAH!” he pulled his car into a spot and clamored up the stairs like a little kid.

I stared out of the bus, trapped. Knowingly trapped around fellow passengers—these other Asian immigrants…these other people who chose to take public transit rather than drive a car.

Once the automatic voice announced “North Fraser Way”, I pulled down to flag my stop. As I climbed down the stairs, I asked the driver, “How do I get back to the station?”

Nonplussed by all my questions, he said, “On the other side of the street.”

Intimidated, I nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.”

I hesitated at the corner of the intersection, watching the bus take a right turn and rush into the distance. This is it. I have to run. I checked traffic on the road and ran across the road…into dirt path with a sign that said “Dead end.” I had looked at my map multiple times and this was the only path. The dairy farm was on North Fraser Road.

The pain from stumbling off the sidewalk already had faded. The embarrassment was gone. Nobody was around me. I made it there. Walking fast. Chatted with a customer. Quizzed the employees. Then I took my cone and went back to the bus stop. Where to my surprise, I found wi-fi and to my surprise, the bus arrived in a few minutes. In less than an hour later, I was on the train. On time. Not late, not lost. On my way to Vancouver.

The bus finally moved away from its corner to the appointed stop area. I followed other passengers, slowing down my pace so that I would be the last to get on the bus. I acted like I didn’t fall and nobody showed any response.

“Is this the way to North Fraser [Way]?” I asked as I put in my all-day pass into the reader.

The driver, an Indian…Canadian…, spoke without an accent, “This bus takes the long way to North Fraser. You should take the 106.”

“Thanks.”

I hurried off the bus and headed to the adjacent bus. This one had been arriving every 10 minutes rather than the 30 minutes it took for the 116. I got on and asked the driver (an Asian this time), “Does this go to North Fraser?”

“No, you should take the 116,” he pointed back to the bus that I had just clambered off.

I went back to the 116 and said with an expression of I am just following instructions, “I was told to take this bus.”

“Well, ok,” he said and started the bus.

I sat down in the middle…and realized…that I had about 2 hours left. I could easily just stay on the bus and head back to skytrain. And yet? Would I make it back to my train? Would I get to the dairy farm, quiz some of the customers, eat an ice cream scoop, and walk back in time to catch the next bus? It was unclear. What I knew that was that my ankle wasn’t smarting as much as I anticipated. Maybe I could still walk…or run. Maybe I could hitchhike. I look very innocent, right?

I hope so, I thought…as I stared out the window passing strip malls, empty sidewalks, cars all reminiscent of a suburb that did not use public transit.