FOUR DAYS A WEEK. At Our Fingertips. An Unexpected Place.

On March 11, 2011
a tsunami devastated Japan but not its resolve and spirit.
Remembering together we can make a difference.
Wrapping our arms around hope.

Thank you Naoko for sharing with us
your lovely artwork above, THINKING OF HOME.
Thank you, Ken (as pictured above),
for receiving our wishes and cranes for Japan.


OUR WISHES FOR ALL
WHO HAVE BEEN THROUGH DISASTERS and TRAUMA:
LOVE, LIGHT, and H๏Pモ.

May you always know you are in our prayers.
May your courage and strength be the light
in the night that brings you a new day
when all that has been destroyed be remade.
May the uncertainties, the losses, and the hardships
never hold you down.
May you always remember you are not alone.

-Mia-

VIDEO ABOVE: Japanese children singing and dancing at Fukushima OperationSAFE, a day camp for children who have been through disasters to help them recover from trauma.

PHOTO BELOW: Our treasure box of wishes and cranes—love, light, and hope for Japan. A special thanks to Ken Crane for coordinating the delivery of our treasure box to Mr. Kumagaya of Sunflower NPO who volunteered to deliver it to the shelters of Kesenuma in Japan in May 2011.

ACROSS THE SEAS a daughter, Mia T. Starr, returns to the village of Mong Phu, her father's birthplace in Viet Nam. The true story you read below takes you back to that day, a journey that is now woven into Mia's MORNING SUN, a historical fiction about an ordinary Vietnamese boy who must survive a time beset by famine, sacrifices, doubts, and two wars, if he is to honor his father's last wish and save their family.


A FAMILY PASSAGE
MONG PHU, VIET NAM
by Mia T. Starr


In February 2001 our Vietnamese driver and translator, Tuan, said in English, "We are almost there."

I was quiet, sitting in the back seat of the car and looking out the window at the peaceful countryside. A foreign landscape of tranquil rice paddies, farmers at work, mountains, and rivers rich with history unfolded before me.

My friend, Tom, who had hired the translator and made the trip possible, turned around in the front seat. He said, "Are you okay?"

I gave him a smile for reassurance. I said, "Yes."

"I'm happy we're here," Tom said and leaned back to give me space. He didn't want to be in the way of my journey home.

The car moved forward. The rocks beneath the wheels crumbled, and I thought about my father walking barefoot on this same dirt road sixty-three years ago. That was 1936. He was six years old and in search of work, food, and wood to keep his family alive. [read more to continue the story]

__A NOTE ABOUT THE WRITER: Mia T. Starr was born in Vietnam and raised in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her writing credits include published poems, an Honorable Mention for ASPIRING AUTHOR in the New York Stories 2005 Short Fiction Contest, and a Finalist placing for CLOUDS in the 2006 Glimmer Train Fiction Open Contest. Mia is currently working on completing revisions to her historical fiction, MORNING SUN.

A NOTE ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Each was taken from Mia's trip to Vietnam on that day in 2001 when she returned to the village of Mong Phu, her father's birthplace. For more photographs and the story behind them, continue here.

JOURNEY INTO WRITING: Read about Mia's writing moments through her blog posts at Four Days A Week. She shares excerpts from her works in progress, sharing her experiences as she moves toward her dreams of publishing MORNING SUN and other works in multiple formats. Popular posts include:

• A Prelude to MORNING SUN
  
• If You Fold A Thousand Cranes
  
• Roots of Mong Phu, Viet Nam 
  
• Am Writing MORNING SUN, Chapter Five 
• Embracing The Sun, In Tuscany
  
• In The Secret Garden 
  
• Gems Along The Way
  

_✶A top story in Anita's Finding Inspiration Daily and
The Becoming Daily. January 2012.✶

Thank you, Steve Jobs,
for your boundless vision and inspiration.
Your spirit lives on.

ƒ๏ℓℓ๏ωing our ❤ and intuition

ƒ๏ℓℓ๏ωing my dreams with Morning Sun
-Mia-

Connect the dots.

     .      .     .  . .          .        . . .. . .      . . . . . . .
     .      .     .             .   .      .         .           .
     .  ..  .     . .. .      .  ..  .     . . . . . .          .
     .      .     .          .        .    .         .           .
     .      .     . .. .    .          .   .          .          .               ... ... ... ...

... Trust that it will all work out. One of the best decisions I ever made. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on.

Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something—your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.

Find what you love.

Steve Jobs
1955-2011

A Sister's Eulogy for Steve Jobs
by novelist Mona Simpson
delivered on October 16, 2011

Steve's final words:
OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW.

 iPHONE PHOTOS ABOVE: Life, vision, dreams, and gratitude. Remembering Steve. Apple. Michigan Avenue, Chicago, IL. October 7, 2011. 

✶ A top story in The Becoming Daily. November 2011. ✶

Last week Sunday I visited HG at his home. I stood before him with the treasure box (as shown above) in my hands.

"Do you want to see what's inside?" I said.

HG came closer, drawn to the silver and gold, the glitter that twinkled on top.

I opened the box. HG's face brightened with a smile. Nestled inside were four colorful, paper cranes. A rainbow of blue, yellow, pink, orange, red, and green.

He caressed the beak of the crane closest to him.

"Do you know where we are sending this treasure box?"

He shook his head.

"To Japan."

"Japan?" he said, excited about going to a new place and telling his friends at pre-K.

"We're also putting wishes inside the box."

HG raised his eyes in a wonder.

"And you will get to pick four names, who will each receive a special print created by Naoko Stoop. She's a Japanese artist. Would you like to pick four names later?"

HG nodded. He touched another crane, careful not to crush the wings.

I searched for the right words to explain the recent tragic events. Words that would not lie but also not leave a mark of helplessness. I bent down, meeting him face-to-face. I said, "There was a big earthquake in Japan and many things were lost, even children's homes like the one you have here. We are sending wishes to show them that we care and are praying for them."

That evening at the dining table, after dinner had been eaten, I spread a small confetti of yellow rectangles in front of HG. His parents smiled.

"Are you ready?" I said.

HG's face bloomed with joy. He reached over and picked a rectangle, then another until four were placed in my palm: Michael Douglas Jones, Dr. Pooja Tripathi, Anita Bondi, and Katie_9999.

"Can I pick more?" HG said.

"Sure," I said. "That's a good idea. In case the first four are unable to accept the gift."

When all the names had been selected, I asked HG if he had a wish for Japan.

"That I love them," HG said. "Yes."

❤ Thank you, readers, for all your wishes of light, love, and hope for Japan. For joining us here and wrapping your arms around hope. So many ways to help:

American Red Cross ๏ Doctors Without Borders ๏ Global Giving ๏ Japan Earthquake Relief Fund ๏ Naoko Stoop's Help Japan Project ๏ OperationSafe ๏ Faith and Courage.

Thank you for making the Journey of Hope a possible one. For the donations, large and small. It all helps as we move forward. Together.

A special thanks goes out to Ken Crane for receiving our treasure box of wishes
and cranes for the children of Japan, and to Naoko Stoop for
donating portions of her proceeds to the American Red Cross. Thank you
for showing the way with H๏Pモ.

May Japan's strength and courage be the light in the night that brings her a new day when all that has been destroyed be remade.

In this moment for Japan, SUMMER by Joe Hisaishi. Let's play it live, lift our hearts together with a song. To the grace and courage of Japan ❤

-Mia

✶ A top story in Anita's Finding Inspiration Daily and other online papers. Featured at Keithpp's Blog. April 2011. ✶

IF YOU FOLD A THOUSAND CRANES,
what would be the wish of your heart?
The whisper that stirs you awake in the morning,
in the evening,
and makes your spirit soar?

If we fold a thousand cranes,
together
you and I ...
imagine the colors of the light in the skies.

If we fold a thousand cranes,
it has been written and said:
a wish is coming true.

❤ by Mia and inspired by Hammock's Breathturn and H๏Pモ ❤


As translated by Ken Crane:
千羽鶴を折る

その時の君の心の願いは？
それは朝夕に君に語りかけ、
魂を目覚めさせる囁きなのだろうか？

共に
千羽の鶴を折れば
君と私で・・・・
共に空の色を思い描いてみよう

共に千羽の鶴を折れば
それは既に書かれている
願いは叶う


Thank you Ken @Ken_Crane, Naoko @NaokosStoop, Katie @Katie_9999, Jennifer @SacredCake, Esta @SheConsulting, Henry @HF, and Terri @terrinakamura for the tweets you sent to me and the DMs and RTs that helped bring life to this post. Thank you, Tet, for your email.

ƒ๏ℓℓ๏ω hope with friends and families of Japan: American Red Cross ๏ Doctors Without Borders ๏ Global Giving ๏ Japan Benefit Concert (Yoko Ono, Sean Lennon, Sonic Youth ...) ๏ Japan Earthquake Relief Fund ๏ Naoko Stoop's Help Japan Project ๏ Faith and Courage.

PHOTOS ABOVE: Sun rising over a lake and Naoko Stoop's Kingyo and Thinking of Home.

✶ A top story in 10dier's Journal on Japan, Anita's Finding Inspiration Daily, Japan Daily, The Wonderful-Women Weekly, Y. Narita, and other online papers. March 2011. ✶

Sunday. Yesterday. My grandmother, Ngu Thi Giang, would have been 103 years old. She was born on January 30, 1908 in the small village of Mong Phu, Viet Nam. She passed away on October 28, 2003 in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She was 95.

She's here today (shown above in the photo). Behind her is the renovated house, where her home once stood in a time of poverty, famine, and war in Viet Nam. It was the home I visited in 2001 when I returned to the village of Mong Phu and traced my family's roots.

I think of my grandmother today, remembering her strength and courage, her unwavering faith through turbulent times. I think how she was only thirty when her husband passed away. She had four sons, raised them with the quiet force of love and determination. She is the woman I see when I am writing scenes of a mother trying to find her way in life and MORNING SUN.

-Mia

It is January, 1945. Mong Phu, Viet Nam.

     I hear my parents shuffle in their bed, an arm's length away from me. They rise and tiptoe to our depleted garden, thinking I am asleep. I wait a few minutes, then walk up to the door of our home. I hide behind the wall and lie on my stomach. I take a peek and see my parents sitting under the full moon, a soft glow caressing the night. A light mist hangs in the air.

     Father rubs his hands together. He coughs from a sudden cold, a chill blowing in from the North. Mother brings her hands to his, forms a shelter with all ten fingers wrapped around Father's own. Her long black hair slips from behind her large, soft ears and falls on them as extra warmth in the night.

     They are speaking, but I cannot hear their words. Father's skin sags over his eyes and mouth, making him appear fifty when he is thirty-eight years old. I search for a hint of the twinkle I had seen this morning, a smile that magically shaves off the years my father carries. His head is down. I wonder what's wrong. I have knots in my stomach.

     Mother lifts Father's face. She touches his right cheek and whispers something to him. She fans her right arm, as if presenting to him a forgotten treasure. She is asking Father to see what she sees. Father nods, and a smile returns. Mother presses her lips to his forehead. She places her head on the center of his collarbone.

     They lean on each other, Mother's rosary beads gracing them from around her neck. In the moonlight, under the stars.

     Father traces his fingers along Mother's wrists to the upper crest of her palms. He admires and reads the lines on her skin.

     Together we whisper the words I have heard and known to be true. These roots are full of strength. They have survived clouds, rain, and a hidden sun. Father holds his breath and rests his hands in Mother's palms. These roots are full of strength.

Continue the journey to Mong Phu, Viet Nam.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading.

✶A top story in Anita's Finding Inspiration Daily and other online papers. 2011.✶

Father's Day is six days away, and I reflect on what my father means to me.

Years ago at my sister's wedding reception, a cousin came to me and said she heard a conversation between our fathers, uncle, and friends. She said, "Someone asked your father to pick one word to describe each of his children. Guess what he said about you?

I didn't know the answer and was surprised to learn my father said, "Brave." I wondered what experience had shaped my father's impression of me.

Then I remembered the time when I was four years old and sick in the hospital in Saigon, Vietnam from some kind of mysterious blood clot. The doctors did not believe I would live past a few days. The country was at war and life was full of uncertainties and fears. My father took me out to the hospital balcony for some fresh air, possibly thinking it might help me fight harder to live. I felt the soft wind on my face, and when I returned to bed for rest, I saw a room of sick, dying children as small as me. I remembered thinking I was not going to die and be among the children of the dead. I asked my father to stay with me. And he did. 

Thank you, Father, for showing me that no matter how dark the night, there is always hope. If I am brave, it is because of you.

-Mia

THIS WEEK'S TREASURE
*Looking at photos of my father (two shown directly below, with one of me as a child). Having conversations with my father, reminiscing, and smiling on Father's Day, June 20, 2010.*

In the early 1990s I graduated from the University of Michigan and drove to New York City with a cousin and friend. We were following our dreams of living in the big city, pursuing our interests that ranged from teaching to exploring the world of fashion and graphic design to earning a Master's Degree in Economics. Another cousin and friend were on their way from Ann Arbor, Michigan in a Penske truck with all our belongings. Only one of us had a job lined up. The rest of us, including me, took on waitressing jobs, non-paying internships, and temporary positions to make ends meet in order to survive and not to lose sight of our dreams. 

After waitressing at Noho Star in the village (somehow finding myself serving coffee early in the morning to Lauren Hutton), completing a non-paying internship with Haute Couture designer, Mary McFadden, dressing supermodels for a fashion show, and taking night classes at Parsons School of Design, I found a full-time job as an Advertising Production Assistant at Cosmopolitan magazine. 

I set out thinking I was going to be a fashion designer, only to hear a forgotten voice from childhood. I remembered when writing words to tell a story brought me to a place of lightness and understanding, and also freedom.  

Listening and starting slowly, I began to write poetry. Soon I had a small collection in my hands. Young and feeling uncertain about the unexpected change and direction of my life, I sought out advice. Not knowing any better, I wrote a letter to Helen Gurley Brown, then Editor-in-Chief of Cosmopolitan magazine. I introduced myself by name and as the Advertising Production Assistant (in case she didn't know who I was). I asked if she had any suggestions on publishing works of poetry. I sent the letter via inter-office mail, knowing Mrs. Brown was a busy woman, thinking it was completely understandable if she did not respond. At least I tried, I thought. 

I continued to write more poems. Sometimes at work I wondered if I had it in me to write novels. One day while wondering and leaning towards a definitive No at my desk, I received an inter-office envelope. Inside and to my complete surprise, was a personal note from Mrs. Brown, encouraging me on my writing. She offered a few names of literary agents. I sat still, holding the note, full of gratitude. Mrs. Brown, in her own way, was telling me to keep going.

In 1996 I entered the Annual National Poetry Book Contest sponsored by Salmon Run Press in Anchorage, Alaska. Although I did not place in the poetry contest, I received an encouraging note from one of the judges, John E. Smelcer. He wrote:

Mia, impressive for only two years experience as a poet. It almost was one of the very few Honorable Mentions! -J

Today I reflect on the kindness of Mrs. Brown, how at a moment of uncertainty in my life, she took time to answer my letter and gave me advice. Although I have since lost Mrs. Brown's note, I remember her encouragement and how it gave me, as a young woman, the support to keep going ... keep trying ... I continue to hear the beat of those words, feel the touch of Mrs. Brown's personal note and memory she had given me.

-Mia

THIS WEEK'S TREASURE
* RETHINKING HELEN GURLEY BROWN. At her most radical, Brown was a subversive rather than a revolutionary; a sexual libertarian rather than a liberator; and an unapologetic partisan of free enterprise. (She once called Margaret Thatcher a "Cosmo Girl.") "How could any woman not be a feminist?" she wondered, in 1985, in an interview on her twentieth anniversary at Cosmopolitan. "The girl I'm editing for wants to be known for herself. If that's not a feminist message, I don't know what is." -HELENISM, The birth of the Cosmo Girl, by Judith Thurman, THE NEW YORKER.*