Foreword In my debut memoir, Accidental Blooms , I described inventing--perhaps it was more a process of discovering--a kind of 'rebirth' for myself, following a sudden crisis that left me paralyzed from the chest down. I was immersed in a process of transformation through encounters with new people and experiences. In that narrative, my emerging identity, my work, and my role as a mother all revolved around my newborn daughter, Maya. It resembled a dance in which I was following an invisible partner, until I began to learn to choreograph my own steps. This new memoir starts where the first one ended, when I was guiding Maya through the process of applying to university, and fearing the day I would lose her. This new work explores uncharted territory, probing the complexities of navigating intergenerational cultural challenges, nurturing a new romantic relationship that is both passionate and platonic, and forging a new legacy through the act of creation. The title, Hidden Flowers , is an aesthetic metaphor that encapsulates the essence of Zeami Motoyoshi's book Fushikaden . It is rooted in Zeami's teachings on the power of indirection and subtlety in creating a deep artistic experience at precisely the ripest moment.

As I write in the chapter "Reflection in Action," I hope that readers will find some value in my--sometimes chaotic--journey and discover the transformative power of this metaphor in both art and life. Prologue The sinking crimson sun inflamed the water, firing deep-gold shafts that played across the surface of the sea. They swam against the deep blue of the reflected sky; then, they flickered out, one by one, into the water. The sun was suddenly underwater, and the sea transformed in an instant, into a dark blue fabric, as if the sun had been an illusion. My daughter was leaving home - leaving me. Or maybe my role as a mother and guide was leaving me, and she was just following the natural forces that govern the human condition, the forces that I also followed. I comforted myself by watching the changing light of the sea. One evening, a harvest moon appeared.

It lightly roused its own reflection from the dark surface of the water. The light swelled and danced, but then it would hide behind clouds for a moment and, like smoke, would disappear. Many stars, perhaps my ancestors, seemed pregnant with stories to tell. If they were trying to tell me something, how should I listen? My daughter's leaving was a completely unprecedented and unnerving experience for me. Each night, after sunset, I would try to make sense of that day's thoughts, emotions, and events. Those nights formed a year of searching through what initially felt mostly like darkness. Yet, surprisingly, the nights were not tedious. And I began to feel that my daughter was illuminating me in ways I had never imagined.