I have a romantic notion of writing in notebooks, the perfect time, the perfect moment, gorgeous ink flowing from a beautiful fountain pen, creamy paper taking it all down. But the actual moment is a bit more daunting. The pen needs to be changed and the cartridge runs a sickly green somewhere between green and black. Cleaning it and getting it going are a task in themselves. I want the words to elegantly deposit on the page, I want the experience of writing in the notebook to be a splendid thing. Thoughts run through my head, sentences, superb and neat. But when I start, they are inconsequential. The experience of the blank page runs before me and the moment takes over. The pen; a little small for my hand, the ink; a little murky, but the new thoughts flow and I'm enjoying it.

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Last year I had a rare opportunity to accompany my mother to Japan for a week. In Fukuoka, I saw a delicate rich blue ceramic with an ephemeral gauzy pattern that looks like white clouds. Nestling in one saucer, held inside another, a tiny paper-thin teacup fit inside of my hand. In Japan I felt I could care for such a delicate object. Back in America, my tiny cup seems so fragile and I fear for it. My friends wonder why I bought it. It stays wrapped in its box and I take it out occasionally. When I look at my cup I see Japan. The bride held up in traditional kimono, the elderly woman assisted by her family, my lost taxi driver giving me candy, my postcards received as though made of gold. I want to understand the attention that I glimpsed.

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The woman at the store asks if I want a bag as she presents me with a package. The package is small, it fits in the palm of my hand. The joy I feel seems to surprise, as I exclaim ÒOhÓ and it's understood that I don't need another bag. Transparent cellophane, with a snowflake pattern of leaves and characters, encases two carefully wrapped and elegantly colored packages containing confections. The first confection is in the shape of a ball. Wrapped in white tissue paper that fades to grass green, it bursts over the confection like a tiny flower. A note is laced under the soft twist of a burgundy and copper wire. The second package is in the shape of a box. Peach swirls turn solid and spring to green, meeting a top the box to knot. Slid beneath lies a lavender wrapper holding a tiny wooden scoop. Back in my hotel room, unpeeling the confection's sticker will release its pleats, so that the package will unfold into a long slender shape. But now I cradle my package, feeling cared for, special, nourished and cherished.