PERSONAL REFLECTION

The Cabin

A meditation on duty, heritage, and the walls we build to stay safe

Photo by Maria Ilves on Unsplash

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I live in a cabin. This cabin is built with my thoughts and powered by a Worry Hearth in the middle of its one-room building. This is not a cabin where people retire for pleasure or rest and relaxation. This is a cabin entirely made to imprison, because I am confined by my circumstances — my illness, my filial piety, and my sense of duty to my partner, children, and the home and household we have built together.

The foundation of this cabin is built on the way I was brought up. The teachings of Confucius and Daoism form the fabric of how my family took care of their own — 2,500-year-old traditions ingrained into the fibres of our identities, including the importance of ancestral veneration and respecting our elders. This brings a sense of obligation, a paralyzing guilt that will follow if I were to walk away. I told my partner when we married that my parents could come live with us; that was my condition for our marriage.

The floors of this cabin are laid with my resilience. I came to this country located halfway around the world from the only home I knew. I was just a kid with one suitcase, armed with my parents’ money and blessings. The smooth floors under my bare feet are reminders of where I came from and the lovely life that I have built with my partner. These floors used to be rough, even sharp; shaped by racism, discrimination, and humiliation. These floors were worn smooth by our sacrifices and determination.

The walls of this cabin are built from my sense of obligation to my family. Can I do right by them? Every day, we wash these walls down with rituals — this is the business of living. My health, my caregiving responsibilities to everyone else, whatever leftover time I have, this is mine. Some days I am exhausted mentally by just the completion of this washing. I shouldn’t complain because these are the moments that remind me of my existence — that I still have a heartbeat and that I am healthy enough to care for everyone.

Then we move to the Hearth. This Worry Hearth is powered by my anxieties. Every day, there are new things to feed it. I gravitated to a career that allowed for control and organization, so the twigs and logs we throw into this fire are not just about my health, my family, or my career. It is also the worry of how to structure, plan, and organize our lives. I can generate a roaring fire some days from just planning something mundane and inconsequential. The glow from this fire is reflected back on my family as I gaze proudly at them.

The roof of this cabin is made from my protective tendencies — the bear parent. If you mess with my family, it’s personal. I don’t like starting a fight, but I will sure help you end it. These protective tendencies, unfortunately, block the stars, preventing my family from growing wings and soaring high. It does, however, keep them safe and takes fuel away from my Worry Hearth.

Lastly, the windows. Everyone tells me to have a bucket list. I don’t want one. Instead, I see everyone else’s bucket list through my windows. I am content inside my privileged life, having this little cabin where I can observe vicariously and risk-free. As I watch through these windows, I weave. Using my creativity, I craft tapestries for my walls. I now have more tapestries than can fit on my walls, but I still go on — the process of weaving gives me joy, not the display. So, these tapestries occupy a large box in this cabin, a hidden archive of my imagination.

I live in a cabin. This cabin shelters me and provides me with the comfort I need. The warmth I get from my Worry Hearth is not just a source of stress, but a source of energy to keep going. This cabin, completely built by my own thoughts, is not just my prison — it liberates me from the cruel outside world.

Photo by Matt Seymour on Unsplash