Rhythms of home
A glimpse into an ordinary day of an Asian Creative
Words by Chau Tran | Edited by Tacha Manomaiphan
Chau Tran
Rhythms of home, 2025, fineliner and marker on paper.
I STIR IN BED. With eyes still closed, I catch the familiar soft clatter of pots and the gentle hum of the kitchen. Mum’s already cooking, always up at 6:45am sharp every morning. I snooze for another 15 minutes before dragging myself out of bed and pulling back the curtains, squinting as the light hits my eyes.
I grab my journal and favourite purple fountain pen from my desk before settling onto my seat cushion to do my morning pages—something I learned from The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. Not only has it helped me declutter my brain, it’s also brought clarity and calm to my monkey mind.
After brushing my teeth, I head to the kitchen and am greeted by my mum: ‘Good morning, my baby. ‘Ngủ ngon không? (Did you sleep well?)’. Though I was forced to go to Vietnamese school when I was young, I thank the universe that I persisted because my relationship with my mother wouldn’t be nearly as close without it.
I answer, ‘Morning, Mummy. Con có ác mộng (I had a nightmare),’ as I rub my eyes and sit down on the kitchen chair. I turn the chair around and rest my chin on my arms across the backrest, watching as my mum works her magic.
On the stovetop, a huge pot simmers. I can smell the star anise, cinnamon, and cloves rising from the beef stock—yum, she’s making phở today. I proceed to tell her my entire nightmare in detail and she chuckles while listening, her hands expertly slicing the beef. When she moves on to cutting the onions, I’m always amazed that she never sheds a single tear.
