Ingrid ZH | Fangruo’s Cereal — Writing, Food, Travel & Coaching

I’ve been enjoying barley tea lately. Every morning before I start work, I will get myself a cup. Yesterday I was thinking about how I’d drink tea when I’m on the road. I tried something — put the tea bag in cold water in the morning, and by afternoon it was ready.

Yesterday afternoon I slipped a little into my feelings, so I went out for a walk. I walked all the way to the community garden where I volunteered last month. I stood looking at the spent blossoms of the black chokeberry, imagining them becoming round little berries. Toward the back of the garden there are a few Asian pear trees. I remember exactly what Asian pears look like — from before they were called Asian pears. Back then I only knew them as pears, growing in my grandfather’s garden. He planted a pear tree in the center of a flower bed, with a ring of sweet osmanthus around it. He would pick the pears and set them on the coffee table at home, always with their leaves still attached. Pear tree leaves are serrated at the edges, and I used to run my fingers carefully along those tiny teeth. That small, jagged memory has stayed with me.

I’ve been practicing “permission” lately — permission to do things. I’ve realized that a lot of the time, when I’m doing something, I assume someone is watching me.

This morning I went to the gym to work on my upper body. When I finished, I wanted to go for a run outside — the weather in May is beautiful. The moment that thought appeared, I heard the voices clearly in my head:

“You barely touched the equipment and you’re leaving?”

I listened to them, and thought: who cares, I’m going for a run.

I gave myself permission to go outside and run.

I went home and pulled Kevin out the door with me. We ran back to the pear trees. It had rained heavily last night, and many of the little fruits had been knocked to the ground. I picked one up — barely bigger than a pea — and put it in my mouth. Unripe pear has no sweetness; it tastes something like water chestnut or jicama. Then, after a moment, a faint bitterness came through.

What’s the fastest, most efficient method for growth?

I think about this sometimes.

How should I spend today, this month, this year — or my whole life? Is there a better way?

This morning, driving home from the gym, I suddenly realized: sometimes, I look down on myself.

When I think about that now, I can’t help but laugh.

Is there a faster way? What if I deleted social media? What if I stopped playing games? Though, honestly, those things have genuinely helped me grow too.

Yesterday I picked a handful of honeysuckle — probably the last few clusters in this neighborhood. I made them into tea and drank it down.

That’s the fastest, most efficient method.

Which is: no method.

Just slowly doing what you’re doing.

Drinking honeysuckle tea.

Letting many small pears grow. Standing in the rain for a while.

By the time I drive back down from the north, the pears should be ripe.

Still learning

to be kind to myself.