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This year is a year of waiting and wandering.
I've caught the travel bug so bad that I couldn't even tear myself away from downtown Bellingham.
But something about being away makes me want to plant my roots even deeper when I come back.

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Hawaii 2014 from Rebekah Ho on Vimeo.

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A stranger (who is now no longer a stranger) once told me this:

"It's very important for you to walk down alleyways. If you want to fall in love with your city all over again, walk down alleyways." 

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1. The last few times I told you that I loved you, they sounded like apologies. It frustrates me that sometimes I still believe in a lie that tells me love is something to apologize for.

2. Sometimes I intentionally choose not to tell stories about my mom, because I am a writer and writers are told to be careful about the tenses in our stories. I can never decide whether to say "she was" or "she is" or "she would" or "she used to." But even I know that writers are allowed to bend the rules once we have learned them. Nobody really cares about consistent grammar when there is a story worth telling.

3. It makes me angry that somebody thinks they can tell you that the way you feel is not important. It makes me proud that you do not need their validation to choose to live a better life.

4. If I were a plant, I would thrive the best in hot and humid conditions.

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"The way you love is nothing to be embarrassed by."

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Things that make me angry/sad:

- We are studying in your apartment, and you look up at me and say, "Bekah, I'm really fucked up." While you are in the shower, I write you a letter with all the reasons why you are good, leave it on your pillow, and tell you to read it every night before you go to sleep. You thank me, but I know that you do not believe me.

- I wake up in the morning to 2 am texts that you are having another rough night. I call you to tell you that I love you and ask if you want me to come over. "It doesn't matter," you say. "You matter," I reply, and you laugh.

- We are out for dinner, and I tell you that I think your heart is heavy. You say that you don't want to talk about it, and I wonder if it's because you're afraid that I will get angry with you again. I'm sorry that sometimes my blood boils hotter than I mean to. 

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