3/31/26
It’s 10:15 a.m. I’m making my way from the kitchen to the living room after setting down Louie’s bowl. He’s there now, eating, while I carry my laptop, the last surviving MUJI pen in this house, and my leather notebook to the couch.
I can’t believe I’ve had this notebook for over ten years—and to think I once bought it for school. For a couple of years now, it has quietly taken on a new life. It’s filled with Substack ideas, reminders, random word definitions, astrological notes about my sign, small anecdotes, song titles, and feelings… things I never imagined it would hold back then.
Isn’t it funny how life works that way? We often begin with one purpose, only to discover something richer unfolding along the way.
I like flipping through it from time to time. I often find inspiration there:
Wabi-sabi.
Wabi, which translates to less is more, and sabi, which suggests an attentive melancholy. Together, they describe an awareness of the transient nature of things—and a quiet appreciation for what carries the marks of time. A way of living that finds beauty in imperfection and accepts the natural cycle of growth and decay.
In its cracks, its worn edges, and the randomness of what I’ve filled it with, my notebook feels quietly wabi-sabi—a little imperfect, ever-changing, and full of unexpected beauty.
Just like the handmade teacup I bought on Etsy from this seller a couple months ago.
Its uneven rim reflects the hands that made it. The small irregularities are what make it beautiful.
Much like the wrinkled bedsheets on my bed, still waiting to be made this morning. Soft, creased from a night of deep rest.
I grab my phone and check on my Amazon order. Great news—the new Bialetti Moka pot arrives tomorrow. I can’t wait to make coffee in it.
I think of the Gemini espresso maker that’s been part of our kitchen for the past six years, and how we tragically lost one of its ceramic cups. I have no plans of getting rid of it, though. Brewing two cups at once has been tricky.
Lately, I’ve only been drinking Lavazza Inblu ground coffee. I found it at Eataly earlier this year.
Breakfast won’t be skipped in this house, and we like to eat in season.
This morning: Roma tomatoes on seeded sourdough, a light layer of cream cheese, drizzled with olive oil, finished with sea salt and black pepper.
I add to my to-do list: Hunt for a nice pepper mill.
As I flip through my notebook, I come across a quote:
“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
Note to self: Cultivate lasting joy.
My mind drifts back to this idea of finding beauty in imperfection, so I write:
- A worn leather bag that’s carried a life well lived.
- The wildflower growing between the cracks of the pavement I stepped on this morning reminds me that I, too, can grow in the most unexpected places.
-The wrinkles forming around mine and Ryan’s eyes, each one a small record of years of joy and laughter.
The list goes on.
The wine bottle sitting on my entryway table, next to the mail, catches my eye. It reminds me of our meal at Baby Bistro last week—the Koshihikari rice with uni was the highlight. In last week’s letter, I wrote about a wine that stayed on my mind. I’d been searching for it ever since, so you can imagine my delight when I saw it on the menu, right there in plain sight.
Before I know it, the day is almost done. Too tired to make dinner so I order takeout and put on one of my all-time favorites, Someone Like You (2001).
Hmm what do you know? Ashley Judd is also eating takeout. We’re both eating Chinese, except I’m on the floor and she’s sitting next to Hugh Jackman. Her “outfit” is perfect. The place I ordered from (Genghis Cohen) isn’t half bad either. Almost makes the puffy face tomorrow worth it.
But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
X, LPR
really enjoyed this :)