Rainy days in San Francisco.
After an intimate gathering of friends before the holiday begins, I find myself standing in the soft, lingering quiet of a beautiful, empty apartment. The traces of the evening—laughter, chatter, the scent of good food—hang in the air like ghosts, yet there is peace in their absence.
I clean, moving through the space with purpose, but also with a deep sense of tranquility around and within me. There’s something special about these quiet moments, the expansive silence, and a sensitive feeling of "space"—physical and emotional—after a gathering.
There is always a little bit of “something” during the holiday season. There’s something so intimate about it, like a ritual that invites us to pause, reflect, and reconnect. The table becomes more than just a place for food; it’s a canvas for shared stories, laughter, and small gestures of care. It’s not just the meal we prepare, but the atmosphere we create: the flicker of candles, the delicate arrangement of flowers, and the spaces left open for a deep conversation. Maybe there’s even a little awkwardness in the crowds—because deep down, we want these moments to mean something. We want them to remind us of our belonging, as well as our own agency, and also to bridge the distance—whether with those we already love or those we wish to love better.
This might seem strange-I think back to my childhood, when, amidst all the warmth and coziness of the holidays, there was a deep, lingering sense of sadness that would surface in my psyche. I never could explain it, but it felt like a small, quiet isolation. Quite often, I’d go out and take a walk alone, just before dinner, to embrace what I could only describe as an “inappropriate” sense of "the holiday blues". It’s something I’ve carried with me-it’s not a sadness in the conventional sense—it’s more like a cocktail of nostalgia, hope, and meaning, stirred together with the wisdom of time.
Erich Fromm once wrote, “One cannot be deeply responsive to the world without being saddened very often.” And strangely, the feeling of "sadness" has become a feeling I embrace very often and eventually enjoy over the years. It's evolved with me, always lingering at the "in-between" of change, loss, and transformation. Life rearranges itself in subtle ways and sometimes compensates itself in wonderful ways afterward.
Never say never :)
It’s not that I prefer sadness over joy, but if I must choose a feeling, I’ll take sadness over anger, disgust, or anxiety any day. It carries a unique kind of tranquility—an attunement to my inner world, and a heightened sensitivity to the outer world, both of which I don't have as much access to when in other states of feeling.
It's not that I don't like company but more that I like the real thing so much. It is a feeling that reminds me of my own humanity and empathy towards others.