I am searching for a form to carry me — not quite commonplace book, not quite morning pages, though perhaps somewhere in-between. Through hopscotch, I’ve come across zuihitsu: what is fragmented and interconnected, descriptive and evasive, understood and unknown, all at once.

He woke on the day he died. It was a Thursday.

One day, Halmuni walked into a temple. She chose Buddhism from that day on. The people at church say they’re good Christians, but not really. Their actions said otherwise. This is a running streak in our family, a bristle at inauthenticity.

To be continued —