Author: K C

  • Rainy Days

    Rainy Days

    Daily writing prompt
    What is your favorite type of weather?

    Personally, I’ve always enjoyed a rainy day. There’s just something about the sound and ambiance of rain that I prefer over a bright and sunny day, although those can be just as nice. When I lived in Washington State, I’d go for regular neighborhood walks in the light rain, and in Stockholm, Sweden, I even appreciated the rainy days in the city. The sidewalks always seemed clean and refreshed after a good rain shower.

    This brings to mind how some people I know feel depressed when it rains, while I feel more relaxed, so I typed the following into Google. “Why do some people prefer rainy weather?” and it gave me some thought provoking reasons for why this might be.

    Soothing Sounds and Sights: The rhythmic sound of rain falling on rooftops or windows can be calming and even conducive to sleep. The way rain makes the world look clean and fresh, with everything appearing bright and clear after a storm, is also appealing to some.

    Relaxation and Cozy Activities: Rainy days offer a perfect excuse to stay inside, relax, and engage in activities like reading, listening to music, or spending time with loved ones.

    Cooling Effect: Rain can help cool down an area on a hot day, providing welcome relief from the heat.

    Nature’s Cleanliness: Rain helps to wash away dirt and pollutants, contributing to a sense of cleanliness and renewal.

    Psychological Benefits: Some studies suggest that exposure to negative ions, which are abundant during rain, can lift mood and reduce stress

    After reading some of those reasons, it makes sense why I’m more content than others on a rainy day. After my parents separated, my Mom moved to Mexico and eventually built a new life in a small village north of Zihuatanejo called Troncones. I didn’t see her for over a year because I had stayed in Northern California with my Dad. Once I finally flew to Mexico to spend some time with her, it was the rainy season because it was June, and I was on summer break from school.

    My Mom’s “residence” didn’t have electricity then, nor was it connected to a community water source. There was no air conditioning, and we had water for the house delivered by truck. We bought all our drinkable water. We also used a generator to power things like my laptop or her washing machine. It was all very bare bones. She simplified her life, going from being a successful small business owner in the San Francisco Bay Area to living in a rustic palapa on a Mexican beach and reevaluating her needs in life.

    In the kitchen, my Mom used a propane refrigerator and range. She had a little concrete structure poured near her driveway, which she could lock up and secure her valuables inside. On the roof were a bunch of massive water tanks. Attached to that was an outdoor shower area, and then on the opposite side of the driveway from that building was an outhouse dug into the ground. It had a privacy door made of bamboo, and when you went inside, you had to squat over a hole. I hated going there after dark because I was terrified of my flashlight falling in.

    This is how my Mom chose to live then, and she was content there. She was always kind of a hippie anyway. Trust her to use an outhouse while our friends down the beach had real toilets and electricity (it took a lot of money and effort to connect to the grid).

    My Mom’s living room had a few hammocks and original air chairs. She used to refer to her new way of life as “Deluxe camping,” but I never really saw it that way because I was always hot and uncomfortable, and if I’m candid, I was annoyed to be there. The rain offered me a welcome break from the stifling heat and a reason to sit in an air chair and read a book in the misty breeze. I was in a bad teenage mood most of the time at my Mom’s, so the rain was a blessing that naturally cooled down the temperatures of both the outside world and my internal displeasure with the whole situation.

    I must have developed a sincere fondness for the rain because as a teenager I relied on it to quiet my mind and reduce stress. My Mom and I wouldn’t argue much when it was raining. We would sit together in the hammocks or air chairs and watch it fall, and sometimes, if the risk of lightning was slim, we would even swim in the nearby tidepools. I loved sitting in the warm tropical water while the cool rain drops fell on my face and into the ocean around me. Our black labrador, Walker, would sit there with me, too. He loved going to the tidepools because he enjoyed watching all the fish.

    Lately things have been overwhelming, between my Dad, not having a solid income, and owing taxes. I really need to remind myself to relax, so I’ve been making videos using Descript, and their collection of stock video and audio. Simply creating each video seems to be a form of therapy for me, so even if nobody else enjoys my work, at least I have. I made this “Rainy Day” Relax for 5 minutes compilation today, and figured I’d share it now, because maybe all I truly need right now is a good rainy day.

  • I Wish to Paint

    I Wish to Paint

    Daily writing prompt
    What do you wish you could do more every day?

    My Dad taught me how to paint when I was a child. After his tours in Vietnam, he used the GI Bill to study Fine Art at Berkeley. He felt strongly about art and always wanted to encourage others to pursue it, if not as a career—which is a difficult path—then as a hobby.

    Fortunately, I could blend the creative process with my chosen career path as a Software Engineer. Before moving into Systems Engineering and Management roles, I focused heavily on User Interface design. Knowing how the user uses a given system is as essential as the system being developed and maintained. A software engineer is focused on writing beautifully structured and scalable code and is not nearly as cognizant of whether or not the end-user truly needs a certain feature or if they’ll even understand how to use something that is delivered.

    I found a way to incorporate my experiences with art and design while using another part of my mind to recognize and peer-review high-quality code. The thing is, I still found a gap between the kind of freeing creativity that I sought and the limit of my creativity when building software. I wanted to make stuff that nobody is going to use and complain about, and its existence is meant to be seen aesthetically and serve no other purpose.

    That’s where my painting comes into the equation. I paint for fun, and I paint whatever I feel like painting without input from a customer or other developers. My art exists to allow me to create something out of nothing and distract myself from requirements and rules. My art is stress relief, and the process of creating it offers me unparalleled peace and contentment.

    These are the days when I really wish I could paint more frequently, but everything keeps getting in the way.


  • The Recipe

    The Recipe

    Daily writing prompt.

    What aspects of your cultural heritage are you most proud of or interested in?

    Cultural heritage is an interesting topic now because I’m not biologically related to my elderly Dad, who moved in with us recently. My American parents adopted me in the Philippines while they were there for my Dad’s job as the general manager of a rattan furniture factory. I was an infant when I joined this family as their one and only beloved child.

    After I was adopted, we moved to Thailand, where we were fortunate enough to have household staff who taught me how to count to ten in Thai once I started to speak. I was three or four when my parents finally returned to the United States and settled in the San Francisco Bay Area, where I grew up.

    Being an adopted Filipino has been a unique experience. I don’t look like my parents, and my Dad used to say that’s for the best because I’d probably have his ears. But I always knew I wasn’t their biological child, and even worse, I grew up feeling like I had to explain that to people. When we went on family vacations to Mexico, people would think I was Mexican, and I’d speak up and be like, “Actually, I’m from the Philippines.”

    Back in California, I once got lost at an event. I found my way to the Lost and Found booth and tried to describe my parents. The people in that booth gave me a weird look as if they didn’t believe I could have a tall, Caucasian, bearded Dad. “I’m adopted!” I tried to explain. My Dad found me standing there before I grew more upset.

    The only time in my life when my cultural identification was generally ambiguous was when I lived overseas in Stockholm, Sweden, in my mid-twenties. Nobody made any assumptions that I spoke Tagalog, Spanish, or even English. Everyone would talk to me in Swedish, and then they’d realize I had no idea what they said, nor could I respond appropriately. I tried to speak Swedish, but everyone would change over to English.

    So, to answer the question about what aspects of my cultural heritage I’m most proud of or interested in, I’m pleased to be such a cultural mix that people have difficulty recognizing my culture at first impression. It’s kind of difficult to label me, and I’ve realized with time that it’s a good thing. I’m interested in all the parts that make up my cultural heritage. With the blessing of my adoptive parents, I even traveled back to the Philippines in 2014 to meet my biological Mom and younger siblings there.

    While I’ll always be a proud American, I also feel indebted to a sweet, impoverished woman in the Philippines who knew that she couldn’t take care of me. My future was rooted in her culture and her love for me. She helped stir together a recipe, even though she could never see the final creation. I now know how important family is to Filipinos, and that really gives me something to consider today as I try to help my Dad.

  • Always Curious

    Always Curious

    Daily writing prompt
    What is one word that describes you?

    If I had to choose just one word to describe myself, that word would be curious. I’ve been curious since I first had the innate conscious ability to be curious, and of course, it has evolved and been influenced through my experiences over time. My curiosity has certainly led me to travel and explore, and never stop learning, and so I’m pretty grateful to be curious.

    This brings to mind how some people just aren’t naturally very curious, so I typed the following into Google. “Why are some people not curious?” and it gave me some thought provoking reasons for why this might be.

    Curiosity as a Personality Trait: Curiosity is a psychological trait that varies within human populations, similar to other personality dimensions like extroversion/introversion. 

    Openness to Experience: In the context of personality psychology, this trait is often referred to as “Openness,” which is one of the five fundamental facets of human personality. 

    Factors that Diminish Curiosity: Factors like fear, assumptions, technology, and environment can sometimes stifle curiosity. 

    Curiosity and Well-being: Research has shown curiosity to be associated with higher levels of positive emotions, lower levels of anxiety, more satisfaction with life, and greater psychological well-being. 

    After reading these descriptions, how would you rank yourself on the scale of curiosity? Do you think you’re a very curious person or about average when it comes to being curious about things? Please comment! I’m curious.

  • Living in a Foreign Country

    Living in a Foreign Country

    Daily writing prompt.

    What experiences in life helped you grow the most?

    I would say that the experience of living in Stockholm, Sweden, helped me grow the most as a human. I was there from 2007 until 2009, and lived in a quiet city neighborhood called Gärdet. I had a Swedish personnummer and bank account, and attended the Swedish For Immigrants course. It was a very unique time in my life, and though there were good and bad moments, it helped shape my understanding of the world, and even gave me a broader insight to American culture when I returned home.

    I was adopted as an infant while my parents were living in the Philippines, and I have had a passport ever since then. After my adoption, we moved to Bangkok, Thailand, and then a few years later, we moved again to the San Francisco Bay Area, which is where I grew up. My Mom lives in Mexico half the year, and I always wanted to experience life in a different country too, but I felt more drawn to Europe than anywhere else.

    I gained a lot of confidence during my time in Sweden. I showed up not really knowing what to expect, and then immediately suffered from information overload. It was difficult to find new friends, and my first winter there was dark and depressing. Eventually though, I managed to build a social network through the game development community, and my days were a lot brighter and less overwhelming. Living and working in Sweden helped teach me how to persevere and adapt better with change.

    When I came home to the United States, I was determined to go back to college and pursue a degree. The work that I did in Stockholm as a Quality Assurance Games Tester certainly helped prepare me for the Software Development industry, which I have been active in since 2013, although I am on a career break at the moment to help care for my Dad.

    Living in a foreign country helped me grow the most by exposing me to a different culture and allowing me to gain a lot of perspective on my own mix of influences and personal observations. It has also made me feel more appreciation and gratitude towards my parents, both biological and adoptive. My biological parents were so poor that they didn’t have names or birthdays. When my biological Mom surrendered me, she could not have known what my fate would be, but she knew that I would have more opportunities in life without her influence. My adoptive parents were simply in the right place and going through the challenges of infertility, and were so overjoyed when their social workers matched them with a baby girl.

    Today I am a proud naturalized American citizen, I graduated from college, and I worked as a Software Engineer and Software Engineering Manager for one of the largest Defense contractors in the world. I am very glad to have added the “Live in Sweden” chapter to my life story, and look forward to returning there very soon to see what has changed.

  • The Airport Bar

    The Airport Bar

    The airport bar is always worth a stop, even if you don’t drink alcohol. I’ll often show up for a flight extra early to enjoy the ambiance of a bar in an airport terminal, and the people-watching is usually amazing. Sometimes, you meet the most interesting people sitting at an airport bar at eight on a Thursday morning.

    A few weeks ago, I had a connecting flight through Washington Dulles and found myself in a crowded bar across from my departure gate. Noticing that the bar was populated primarily by couples who seemed to be leaving for relaxing alcoholic vacations, I grabbed a stool in the corner, with room on both sides, where I was hoping to keep to myself.

    I ordered a mimosa, since my conscience believes it is more socially acceptable to drink a mimosa at eight in the morning than an Old Fashioned or a Jägerbomb. However, it started to look like the couples across the bar were already on that track. I wondered where they were going in such lively tropical attire on a wintery December day. Did they work 4/10s and only have to take one day off from work? Cabo? Miami? Maldives? Lucky, happy people!

    Speaking of luck though, I had good fortune too, because an old gentleman approached the bar stool to my right just then. He grinned brightly and said something like, “Good morning, darling!” in an upbeat and confident tone, and I knew for sure at that moment it would be a unique hour before my flight. This gentleman didn’t disappoint my introverted intuition whatsoever.

    He and his adult daughter, probably in her 50s, were going to Florida to hop on a luxurious cruise to the tropics. As I suspected, everyone but me was on their way somewhere that required a Hawaiian shirt, a sundress, or a floppy hat. I gathered that these two traveled together often and learned from him that his wife had passed away recently. They had been married 58 years, and one of their favorite things to do together was take a cruise. His daughter had also lost her husband, so this was their way of coping with their loss and enjoying their time together now.

    When the bartender came to take their order, the daughter said, “Dad, what do you want to drink?”

    “Anything with alcohol!” the old man chirped.

    He ended up ordering a beer, which he happily sipped as he continued to share with me the unabridged story of his life. He started his career as an attendant in a petrol station and retired as a multi-millionaire with several mines in his name. He sold a car to buy the engagement ring he gave his beloved wife, and when she agreed to marry him, he only had $60 to his credit. He was the epitome of a mid-west American success story.

    Then he spilled his beer on me. It went everywhere. Beer covered our area of the bar top, my purse, my sweatshirt, and his jacket, and flowed into his lap like a lazy Hefeweizen river. It looked like someone had emptied an entire pint glass on us.

    The old millionaire gentleman apologized profusely, and I commented that I would probably smell like a brewery when I boarded my next flight to Minneapolis. A guy across the bar, sitting with his wife, raised his glass and said proudly, “I always smell like that when I fly!” “I salute you, good Sir,” I replied as we acknowledged this confession.

    While we dried off, my barstool companion paid for another mimosa and covered my bill as an apology. He paid in cash from an overstuffed wallet that resembled an extra-large sausage roll. Reflecting on our generational differences, I would feel nervous carrying a wad of hundred-dollar bills around like that. Then everyone hopes you spill your beer on them. People start taking positions and trying to trip you.

    The gentleman’s daughter reminded him they had to hurry up, drink faster, and catch their flight to Florida. Before they hurried away, though, my new old friend told me more about his wife, whom he missed more than anything, and that he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish half the things he did without her love and support. It was so sweet, and he even looked like he might cry. He didn’t, though.

    My airport bar friend said there is nothing more important than spending time with loved ones, and now he wouldn’t know what to do without his daughter. I told him about my Dad, who has dementia, and how I’m considering taking a career break to become a caregiver for him. It’s been weighing on my soul lately, so I asked him for any advice.

    “God will bless you,” he confidently assured me. “You know what to do, and it will work out.” Then, they left for their departure gate.

    You do meet the most interesting people in an airport bar. Sometimes, they’re just drunk and obnoxious but thoroughly entertaining, like the overly self-important guy in the United Club who I met a few hours later and who forgot his open MacBook on the bar. The bartender had to go chase him down in the terminal. Missing something, buddy?

    Other times, these interactions leave you feeling destined to meet each other and that they served some purpose to help you understand something from the bigger picture of life itself. I will never see that old millionaire gentleman again, but I will remember him and his story of family and love. I hope they had a wonderful cruise and didn’t lose too many of those hundred-dollar bills paying for spilled beers.