Under the Banyan Tree

When I craft a story, I often labor over the beginning only to change it completely, revert to the original idea, then labor over it some more before removing a few words, scrapping a few things, and determining it's good enough for now. Because I can always create another beginning when the time feels right. Or maybe I'll keep that one. Or make additional changes later. Or not. The idea of creating a beginning, this sometimes complicated and tedious process, is something I've been thinking about lately. I find beginnings almost confounding, certainly noteworthy, and even cosmically mysterious. All of the stories we tell have a beginning chosen by the storyteller -- that's how stories work -- but I'm not certain even the protagonist of her own story knows exactly where the tale begins or if defined beginnings even exist. So here's my story. . . The last few weeks have felt like a summer hailstorm in the Bahamas, filled with a sense of 'how is this poss...

The tea shop looked more like a permanent pop up than an actual establishment. At 8 x 8, half the size of most American living rooms and 1/4 the size of American tea shops, it was easily overlooked by passersby after they had dodged cars and scooters to cross the four lane boulevard to the pedestrian (mostly) street that housed small boutiques -- predominately beauty or bon marche clothing -- and led to the entrance of Feng Chia University. The block catered to students:  four feet from the shop, directly on the corner, a thin, thirty-something man stocked a sushi cart each afternoon after classes adjourned, and ten feet down, eggs and Taiwanese pancakes were cooked for breakfast by a cheery, diminutive matriarch in a green apron. I don't remember how I found the shop -- accident, probably -- or how I chose the flavor I would end up drinking nearly every day: pomegranate. The fruit was far from my favorite at home, I actually hadn't eaten an entire one since Michelle Bordenav...