When life gets heavy, where do you go to breathe? We answer this question in a zine
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S . . . . . . . . . . . 1
A U T H O R ’ S N O T E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
P I E C E 1 : R E C L A I M I N G
S I L E N C E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
P I E C E 2 : A B R E A T H E B E T W E E N
B R A N C H E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
P I E C E 3 : T H E A R T O F E I G H T
L I M B S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 - 6
P I E C E 4 : H O P E W H I C H
A D I A T E S
P I E C E 5 : A I S L E S O F
F A M I L I A R I T Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
P I E C E 6 : I N S T E P W I T H M Y
S T O R Y
R E A D I N G , D R E A M I N G ,
W R I T I N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0
AUTHORS’ NOTE
We invited family and friends to submit any form of art responding to the following prompt:
In a world full of demands, it's easy to forget how to be present how to trace our steps back to the small things that bring us joy. We retreat, hold our breath, and step into a corner. This project invites you to take a break.
A break is composing a haiku under the trees, a memoir about your hometown, and analyzing the meticulous patches of the Asian American identity. A break is tinikling, or stringing earrings by hand
A break is practicing calligraphy, smelling the seafood at H-mart, or reminiscing through black and white photos of your grandparents in Seoul.
Where do you return when you need a break? Which practices, peoples, or traditions bring you back to yourself? Why? We invite works that celebrate the everyday rituals, creative expressions, and cultural practices that help you pause, breathe, and remember who you are.
In 1952, concertgoers sat in shock and confusion at the Maverick Concert Hall as the orchestra musicians refused to play their instruments for an entire four minutes and 33 seconds, engulfing the audience in absolute silence But that was precisely composer John Cage's intention by cultivating a prolonged period of quietness, Cage provided a space for the listener to explore themselves and their surroundings in an absence of noise.
There is a pervasive silence among the Asian American immigrant community Throughout my life, I have witnessed this phenomenon in my parents, relatives, and community, often stemming from difficulty speaking English, desire to bury past trauma, or keeping a low profile to stay out of danger Even within my amicable family, there is a mutual understanding that there are certain things we just don’t talk about.
My mother is a Vietnamese refugee who faced many challenges throughout her adolescence, including poverty, family mental issues, and being one of the only Asians in her town Even today, she is reluctant to speak about her past experiences, condemning those turbulent memories to silence. Much of our family history will be lost to time as one generation gives way to the next, while unease and resentment are bred from the silence that persists
After the passing of my grandfather in 2017, my mother began practicing Buddhism more seriously, which meant frequent trips to the temple, the strong aroma of incense burning on the altar, and most importantly the introduction of meditation to our household.
Meditation offered us a safe space amidst all the chaos imbued in and around ourselves, a haven of quietude in a world of ever-increasing “noise” . By closing my eyes, focusing on breathing deeply, and tuning out my surroundings, I transformed silence from a vice into a tool, a conduit for peace. Decades of silent suffering acknowledged and untethered, blown away gently by waves of steady breaths with every inhale and exhale slowly, calmly.
I have come to realize that silence is more than just a presence of nothing it is an absence of something And in that absence I reclaim my silence. I am reborn.
Alison Oak
A Breath Between Branches
When I need a break from the world, I turn to art: the quiet ritual of pencil on paper. In this piece, I explore the intersection between nature and human anatomy, reflecting on how both systems mirror and rely on each other. Observations of the world like this one help me pause and reconnect with the world and with myself.
The Art of Eight Limbs Vijendra Ashok Garikapati
Between rounds, I return to my corner of the ring
Not to surrender but to breathe
To let silence press its hand to my chest and remind me: you are still here ความเคารพ I bow
To what came before me
To the ground that softened failure
To the hands that steadied me
Respect lives in small, practiced gestures a ritual of remembering
วน ย
I rise early, not for victory, but for rhythm
To do one thing well before the world begins again
Repetition becomes refuge. In it, I find return ความกลาหาญ
Fear stays.
I stay too
We sit together, and I do not flinch Courage does not shout here. It simply refuses to leave.
สต
I slow down enough to notice Each strike, each breath the mind no longer outruns the moment Mindfulness is the quiet beneath every motion
เมตตา
I pull back, not out of weakness, but care Even force can hold tenderness. Even strength can choose restraint
สมดล
I do not push I place
Balance is found in knowing when to move, and when to wait
ความอดทน I remain. Even when it aches, even when I’m tired Perseverance is not charging forward it is not leaving. เกย รต
No one watches Still, I stand with care
Honor is how I hold myself when no one else is looking. It is the shape I leave behind
Between rounds, I return to my corner of the ring not to step away, but to remember why I step back in
About “The Art of Eight Limbs”
This free verse poem draws inspiration from the ritualistic and deeply spiritual elements of Muay Thai, the traditional martial art of Thailand. It centers on the quiet, often overlooked moment when a fighter returns to their corner between rounds a pause filled not with defeat, but with reflection, care, and quiet resilience. Through this metaphor, the poem explores how even in the midst of combat, there is space for ritual, community, and self-connection. The act of stepping back is framed not as weakness or retreat, but as a vital gesture of renewal and remembering—of reconnecting with purpose, breath, and identity before stepping forward again. I hope this piece reminds readers that true strength includes knowing when to pause and return
H O P E W H I C H R A D I A T E S
Graces me, constant and unchanging.
In moments of sorrow, In hours of struggle, Even as tears linger on my face,
It murmurs softly, “Persevere hope will find its way, Light will break through the shadows.”
It bids me endure. Though the world may stumble, Its loveliness still lingers.
The tender hush of nature
Gently mends my spirit: The rustle of pine boughs, The twilight chorus of birds,
Each sound a quiet remedy, Filling me with resolve. That light your compassion,
The warm breath of kin and companions,
The steadfast presence of those who remain because of you, I gather fortitude.
I am grateful
To still tread this path. With reverence for all that remains, I move onward mindful, uplifted.
Even in sorrow, There is solace
In the silent prayers of those who cherish me.
AISLES OF FAMILIARITY
BRANDON KIM
The raggedy shopping carts at the Hannam Chain on Maple Avenue have watched me grow up, from when I was small enough to sit in the cart, to now when I push the cart for her. Trips to the Korean market used to be a chore, from the long wait for my mother to pick the best box of pears, to the constant comments from strangers about my pale skin. However, my outlook on the Korean market has drastically changed, representing a return to normalcy, a brief but necessary break
The Hannam Chain is a symbol of continuity for a period of time that has been anything but continuous. The vibrant shades of greens and reds shimmering from the fruit racks. The mazes of narrowly spaced shelves, just wide enough for a shopping cart to fit through. The pungent aroma of fresh fish as you approach the back. The hushed mutterings between cashiers and customers as the early morning grogginess slowly fades And of course, the old raggedy shopping carts
All of these are reminders of my childhood and my culture.
While the carts haven’t changed much, I have. The little boy impatiently waiting in the cart is now the one pushing the cart, eagerly scanning the aisles, drawing personal connections and
memories with each item. The little boy may not have realized it, but this place would later become the place where he could remember who he is and where he came from. Despite moving physically farther from the Hannam Chain, and my trips becoming less and less frequent, I am closer to it than ever.
IN STEP WITH MY STORY
IN STEP WITH MY STORY Kristen Aguado
Samahang Pilipino Culture Night (SPCN) is a large-scale production that celebrates Filipino heritage through traditional dance, music, and storytelling. I had the honor of performing in the Mindanao suite (representing Muslim-influenced ethnolinguistic groups) and having a part in the Singkil dance (of the Maranao people, inspired by the epic Darangen). Being part of SPCN offered me a chance to connect with my roots and my identity, taking pride in the traditions and shared values of the Philippines. But, what makes my experience more special is the community. I am happy to be surrounded by such warriors of kindness and justice.Dancing alone has helped me develop self-confidence and a growth mindset. Each move is intentional and empowering. I found comfort in making errors and learning from them. Dance is an outlet where I could express myself freely and creatively.
Reading, Dreaming, Writing
Candice Au-Yeung
Reading came first.
The weight of books, crushing me, hugging me, a blanket so heavy I couldn’t move if I wanted to. But I don’t. Time does not pass when you read Only the world continues to move around you
At arm’s length, a foot away. Spine cracked open, pages flying, blood flow lost in the hands and the fingers, your joints and your knuckles, locked and frozen but free Free to read, to think, to imagine, to gasp, to despair, to grumble, to smile, to laugh, to disagree, to nod your head, to pause and set down the book and to pick it back up and to read and to think and to imagine and
The End is a surprise You can connect the dots and predict and foresee the foreshadows but you do not know until you read The End. You do not know The End. You stay unknowing until you reach The End.
Daydreaming came later
When your eyes close, scenes come alight. Tune out the world around you and dream a daydream where you are not here. Or you are here, but your mind is elsewhere, and you wish for that elsewhere but you are stuck in the here You brave rocky mountains, survive torrential rain, lie like a lazy cat in the meadows, curl up amongst the clouds, swipe your hands through stars. You are anywhere but here.
You are researching cures and therapies for diseases known and disorders unknown You are combing through piles and piles and towers and towers of books collected from arts and histories and cultures everywhere, absorbing, entranced, whelmed by the human experience. You are standing in the middle of a stadium, in the middle of deafening cheers and screams You are sitting at the dinner table with your friends and family, laughing and crying and eating and listening and watching You are always watching, and listening, and thinking, and daydreaming.
Daydreaming at the dinner table.
Writing will come in the future
When you run out of words to read, when you sicken yourself on the words you’ve gorged yourself with, you will write. You will write about the sciences you imagined You will write about the humanities you read You will write about personal fantasies, and forgotten memories, and new stories. You will write for yourself. You will escape into your head and fester and soothe and come out of hibernation. In The End, you will etch yourself onto the blank piece of paper that sits in front of you Reading, daydreaming, writing
