Sundays with Stella

A Quiet Devotion

Stella Kalaw — Mon, 20 Apr 2026 17:40:59 GMT

The Archivist from the Literature and Library Collection. Marica Notecards. Collage by Stella Kalaw

Storytelling is as old as time, embedded in our DNA. Author Lisa Cron, in her book Wired for Story, argues that the science is there — that telling stories goes beyond pleasure. It is a matter of survival, of passing on practical information and knowledge. Stories also tell us what we want to hold on to.

In 2010, researchers at Princeton University discovered a phenomenon called neural coupling — where stories alter brain chemistry and enhance our sense of empathy.

Books were invented to carry forward information, knowledge and stories, and those privileged to amass a collection have always felt the desire to share them with others. Although Benjamin Franklin is famously known as one of the founding fathers of the US and as an inventor, he was also the first to introduce the concept of the public library. The seed of his idea came from pooling together books from merchants who belonged to the Junto, a philosophical group Franklin was part of — and from that, The Library Company of Philadelphia was born in 1731.

In researching for this essay, I was surprised to learn that the first major public library supported by taxes and opened to the public was the Boston Public Library, in 1854. What a coincidence then that it was there where Ate Marica was the first in our family to sign up for a library card when we arrived in Boston as immigrants from the Philippines.

Part of celebrating what would have been Ate Marica’s 58th birthday, we traveled from New York to Boston this past weekend. We walked along Boylston Street and stopped in front of the Boston Public Library. It was a stone’s throw from the building where she worked. I like to think she visited often, perhaps during lunch breaks or after her shift ended. For her, the access to knowledge, information and stories was what she believed in. That’s why she had a quiet devotion to them.

In the public library’s early history, women were the unsung heroes. By the 1930s, 75 percent of public libraries in the country owed their origins to women’s clubs. Nationwide, women’s organizations fundraised, donated books, lobbied local governments, and simply started libraries themselves when no one else would.

There was also The Pack Horse Library Project (1935–1943), part of the Works Progress Administration under President Franklin Roosevelt. Mostly women, they rode 100 to 120 miles a week through all types of weather — sun, snow, rain and storms — on their own horses or mules, delivering novels, newspapers, magazines, homemade scrapbooks of recipes and quilting patterns, and hand-lettered Bible verses for families who couldn’t read. In the most remote locations, they left their horses and continued on foot. They slept outdoors or sheltered in barns, going from farm to farm.

Across the South, however, Black readers were excluded from public libraries — the very institutions built on the principle that knowledge belongs to everyone. Not to be deterred, in 1905 the first free public library staffed and operated entirely by and for African American readers opened in Louisville, Kentucky. Atlanta, Georgia opened its first branch for African Americans in 1921.

Public libraries have grown and expanded in the 21st century, providing vital services that most of us tend to overlook — and worth mentioning now, as this current administration has supported banning books and cutting the funding that allows them to continue to operate.

For children and families: story time and read-alouds, summer reading programs, after-school homework help, children’s author visits and book clubs, literacy programs for early readers.

For adults: book clubs, author talks and lectures, language and ESL classes, citizenship and naturalization prep, GED and adult literacy programs, job search assistance and resume workshops, financial literacy workshops, and free tax preparation assistance during tax season.

For everyone: free internet and computer access, printing and scanning, notary services, museum and theater passes, seed libraries, tool lending — here in the Bay Area, the Berkeley Tool Lending Library has been lending gardening and home repair tools to residents since 1979. Some branches offer 3D printing, free meeting rooms for community groups, social services referrals, and increasingly, social workers on staff to help patrons navigating housing, mental health, or food insecurity.

Digital access: e-books and audiobooks through apps like Libby, streaming films and music, genealogy research tools, language learning apps like Rosetta Stone — all free with a library card.

Public libraries are, in many communities, the last truly free public space — no purchase required, no membership, no proof of anything. Just a card confirming you live in the community or nearby county.

This week, April 19–25, is National Library Week — the American Library Association’s annual celebration of libraries and the people who make them possible.

The thread that connects us — from Benjamin Franklin, to the unsung women who took action and built their own clubs and libraries, to the pack horse librarians riding through Kentucky storms, to the library card Ate Marica signed for on Boylston Street — is the belief that knowledge, story, and connection belong to everyone.

That thread is fragile right now.

It needs tending.

Support your local library.

Donate if you can.

National

American Library Association advocacy hub: ala.org/showup
EveryLibrary: everylibrary.org
Unite Against Book Bans: uniteagainstbookbans.org

Find Your Local Library

Library finder tool: libraryfinder.imls.gov

The Libraries Closest to Ate Marica’s Heart

New York Public Library

Donate: nypl.org/donate
Become a member: nypl.org/support

Boston Public Library

Donate: https://www.bpl.org/about-the-bpl/support-the-bpl/
Become a member: https://www.bpl.org/get-a-library-card/

And if you feel moved to reach out to someone you love or care about, to say something that deserves to outlast a text message — there’s always the Marica Notecard for that.

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Marica Notecards

Jane Austen. From the Literature and Library Collection. Marica Notecards. Collage by Stella Kalaw

Inspired by my sister Marica's love of literature and libraries, this collection layers vintage imagery with library ephemera—date stamps, catalog cards, and handwritten script. Through circulation and return, libraries connect us across time and generations, making timeless stories accessible to all.

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With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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By request, I’ve created a support page where you can contribute in any amount—via credit card, PayPal, or Venmo. Your generosity helps keep this space open and accessible to all. Thank you, always, for reading.

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What the Pigeon Carried

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 12 Apr 2026 07:01:37 GMT

I don’t know how to call it exactly. I can only describe it as a film clip that flashed through my mind then disappeared. It came to me while I kept watch over Ate Marica in the hospital. She was asleep, an IV line in her neck delivering fluids and pain medication while I sat on a blue-cushioned couch, still grappling with her diagnosis. The room was quiet except for the ticking of the second hand on the wall clock and the beeps from the infusion pump next to her bed. A flock of homing pigeons flew across the sky. Tied to their legs were capsules containing handwritten notes on rolled paper. I didn’t know what to make of it at that time but I remembered it after she passed. I don’t know the timeline either. Grief does that to the mind.

Instinctively, I knew it as divine instruction but its brevity made it feel like a clue. Similar to the way I think about creating a collage, I tried to piece together each fragment from that visual clip. The question that emerged: If I’m supposed to deliver messages, no matter what they are, what would that vessel be?

There was no doubt in my mind I wanted to name the notecards after Ate Marica. I also wanted to use her handwriting for the logo. But where in the world would I find one when every correspondence these days is through text? I called to her in my mind, asking for assistance.

One morning I woke up knowing exactly where to look. There was a postcard from Scotland stored in a black box just below my desk. I went downstairs to open it. There it was on top of the pile — her handwritten signature among a collective memento of a special trip, one she joyfully shared photos and stories about when she arrived in Manila. I can still hear the excitement in her voice, see the smile on her face as she recounted the drive through the Scottish Highlands. She even convinced me to share a shot of whiskey from her collection. I don't usually drink, but that window of time between her return from Europe and my departure for San Francisco had rekindled something between us — and that called for a toast.

Once the notecards were made, I handwrote gratitude messages to family, friends, and to some of you, my readers, for your kindness, care, compassion, and support. The act of sitting down, pen in hand, and remembering as I wrote each note was comforting. I modeled it after the way Ate Marica expressed gratitude to those around her even after she received her diagnosis. What struck me most was that she thanked her caregivers every day for taking care of her — at the end of each shift, without fail, until she could no longer speak.

I also wrote Ann Patchett a thank you note for her Harper’s Bazaar essay “These Precious Days” and her novel Truth and Beauty. I poured into it the sentiment from a piece I shared with you last year called Threadbare Connection:

I honestly don’t know how I would have stayed grounded without having read Ann’s stories. They taught me how to bear witness to suffering, and that presence was enough when there was little else I could give.

Ten days later, a letter from Ann arrived.

She receives a lot of mail at the bookstore and tucks some of it into her purse, pulling pieces out when she has a minute. My notecard came out last night. After she made dinner for her mother, she read it aloud and they ended up crying together. “It is an impossible loss,” she wrote. She expressed gratitude for being allowed to be a small part of my story.

I wept too.

I was not only moved by her words acknowledging my loss and how the note had affected her, but that a writer of her stature took the time to handwrite a response and mail it. Just like the homing pigeons that carried messages across impossible distances in ancient and medieval times, it found its way home. Perhaps it was a nod from the divine — what I call God, or what others might call the universe — that I had gotten at least part of the instruction right.

After introducing the Marica Notecards last November, the image of the flock of pigeons kept lingering in my mind. I sat with it, deciphering the reasons for its insistence. What emerged was a nudge to continue the notecards — but this time to pivot the collages toward universal themes while still honoring my sister.

In January, after fully resting from the trip to Manila over the Christmas holidays, I sat down and got to work.

Ate Marica loved the world with open curiosity. A voracious reader since childhood, she immersed herself in a wide range of topics — ancient civilizations, Greek mythology, and art movements from the 17th to the 20th century. She studied English Literature at the University of the Philippines and later took courses in Creative Writing and Literature at Harvard University Extension School. She loved public libraries so much that she was the first in our family to sign up for a card at the Boston Public Library once we had settled into our home in Somerville. She was also a proud card holder of the New York Public Library. I wanted to celebrate her love for the written word through these four collages from the Literature and Library Collection: Jane Austen, The Reader, The Archivist, and Virginia Woolf.

In celebration of her birthday this month, these notecards are available for purchase in my online shop.

Marica Notecards: Literature and Library Collection

EXPLORE LITERATURE & LIBRARY NOTECARDS

Thank you to those who felt a tug in their hearts to support my humble request — to carry forward my sister Ate Marica’s life of kindness, gratitude, and small acts of care through the Marica Notecards project. Like those homing pigeons, may your heartfelt messages cross impossible distances and find their way home.

With every card you've sent, she lives on.

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From the Archives: Istanbul & More Paris

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 29 Mar 2026 07:02:33 GMT

ISTANBUL

Last year, my brother GT took us on our first trip to Istanbul. It was a three-day stay in Sultanahmet, the historic heart of the city, where four of its main attractions are within walking distance of one another: Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace, and the Basilica Cistern.

We were overly ambitious and managed to fit three of the four sites into a single day. We took in all the beauty they had to offer— soaring domes, towering minarets, intricate mosaics, richly colored patterns, and tilework.

The photographs say the rest.

PARIS

Some more photographs in color. These are just random images that caught my eye while walking in the city.

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Marica Notecards

Bleu de Joie is part of The Marica Notecards project created in honor of my sister. This Picasso-inspired abstract collage celebrates all things French and Marica’s love for travel.

Begin this month with intention—share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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When Words Fail Us

If you are in the San Francisco Bay Area, stop by and see our group exhibition. The show runs until Sunday, July 19, 2025.

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The Plants of the Ruins

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 22 Mar 2026 07:01:37 GMT

We are in the middle of March, and it’s day three of a week-long heatwave in the Bay Area. Before I stepped out onto our patio a little before nine in the morning, the temperature, according to the weather app, was 65 degrees but feels like 70—a bit cool but comfortable enough to stand outside in shorts and a cotton t-shirt. The average high this time of year is supposed to be in the mid-60s. Fortunately, we live near the bay, so the expected high today is 79. Inland is a different story—mid-80s to low 90s.

I took deep breaths to greet the day—blue skies, warm light across the building to my left. With eyes closed, I stretched my neck to one side and paused to feel its pull and the gentle breeze across my body. Then I did the same on the other side. Then I rolled my shoulders, the cracking sounds at every rotation a reminder that I was middle-aged. Then I twisted at the waist, letting my arms swing from side to side. A noncommercial plane flew overhead. Distracted, I stopped and looked up to follow its trail.

At the center of the patio sits a handful of large, heavy earthen pots, clustered and stacked together, undisturbed for several years. Some are empty; others contain a bit of soil. Plants have taken root inside them. I’d seen this greenery sprouting before—from a distance, through the sliding glass door, while opening the curtains in morning to let light into the nook. I hardly paid attention until today.

I knelt down and looked closely. They were thriving in spite of our neglect. How did this happen? We never planted them so where could they have come from? I didn’t even know what they were called, so I looked them up online between mouthfuls of my breakfast chia bowl.

Wood sorrels. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

I learned that the clover-shaped plants are called oxalis, or wood sorrel. Their reproductive strategy is twofold: dormant bulblets clone the plant underground, while ripe seed capsules explode and scatter nearby. That could explain how they found their way into these pots. A third possibility: the soil already contained them, simply waiting for the right conditions.

California Fern (Polypodium glycyrrhiza). Photograph by Stella Kalaw

I learned that these ferns are a California native. Its taxonomic name is Polypodium glycyrrhiza. Unlike most plants, ferns do not reproduce through seeds. Their life begins as spores drifting through the air. Once settled in a moist, shaded environment, a spore transforms into a prothallus—a tiny intermediate structure. The first frond can emerge only after the prothallus mates, completing the transformation into a fern.

Sowthistle. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

I learned that the white, fluffy globes are called pappus—the seed-dispersal structures of a plant known as sowthistle. Once dried, they break apart and become airborne, traveling long distances on the wind. Again, it seems plausible that these, too, drifted in from nearby urban gardens or patios like ours.

The most fascinating thing I discovered is that these three plants thriving in those pots are what ecologists call ruderal plants—from the Latin rudus, meaning rubble. Plants that thrive precisely in the places that have been disrupted or left behind.

By then, I had finished my chia bowl and walked it over to the sink. I sat down on the sofa, and David Kessler’s words came to me once again:

Our grief does not get smaller.
We grow bigger around it.

Perhaps today’s discovery was a vivid illustration of what he meant. These urban ruderals thrive precisely because ruins are their habitat. They take root in the very thing that was broken. Grief, like those earthen pots, remains—but life, uninvited, grows in its own time. You don’t always see it coming. One day it simply arrives.

I’m not there yet.

But this morning on the patio gave me something I hadn’t expected—a quiet hope, the same way the plants themselves had appeared. Now I only have to draw the curtains to remember. The pots are still there, and so is what’s growing in them.

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Marica Notecards

Inspired by my sister Marica's love of coffee, the Clover and Tendril notecards features delicate whimsical flowers blooming from vintage coffee cups—tender, hopeful, and full of quiet possibility.

Share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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Brewing

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 15 Mar 2026 07:01:56 GMT

Three weeks ago, inspiration came unexpectedly through a tag by on Notes. The instruction was simple: write a haiku using the closing line of her composition.

in the space between
my stars and yours, we invent
new constellations

I don’t remember the last time I wrote a haiku. A year, maybe longer? It’s one of those things I’d like to do more but somehow gets lost in the busyness of life. I don’t say it as an excuse. What I do believe instead is that creating something has its own time and space. Ann’s haiku felt like a gentle nudge so I took a moment at the end of the day to sit still and compose one.

New constellations
a star illuminating
oh, whispering soul

Two days before Ann’s tag, I met with Sandi, who gave me a tour of two exhibition spaces at the university. We had worked together on a show there a decade ago. “This is such a moving project and your art is inspiring,” she had written in November, after I shared the Marica Notecards. “Maybe you could develop this into an exhibition. Please let me know if you are interested.”

The idea hadn’t even crossed my mind.

On the drive home in the pouring rain, I began to think about it more seriously. I could resurrect prints from images that had been sitting dormant for years — photographs with a certain emotional resonance but no clear theme, no finished shape.

Somehow, my gut told me it was time.

Toning the prints with coffee felt like the right place to start — and not only for aesthetic reasons. Ate Marica always made coffee in the mornings when we gathered. To work with it, to dip my hands into the brew, was a way of inviting her into the making. A way of processing grief through the hands.

An excitement I hadn’t felt for a long time with my photographs was beginning to emerge.

Back in August, another wonderful artist, had sent over some watercolor paper along with a handful of word prompts printed on delicately thin slips. I tucked it all under my desk, knowing I’d want to use it someday.

That someday had arrived.

With Ann's haiku prompt, Marta's gift, and Sandi's seed, I had the raw materials to breathe new life into these images. This is only the beginning. I know the work will evolve over time, but for now I am marveling at them.

Photo assemblage with text and photographs. digital coffee-toned prints. Handwritten original haiku and photograph by Stella Kalaw

3.25 x 4.25 inches, coffee-toned digital print. Handwritten original haiku and photograph by Stella Kalaw

My sources of photography inspiration:

Dawn Surratt
Raymond Meeks
Masao Yamamoto
Deborah Turbeville

On Substack:

Anne Silver Mondinot
Manuela Thames
Marta Blum
Al Adlard

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Marica Notecards

These notecards honor my sister Marica’s gift for small, thoughtful gestures. Each one transforms collage pieces into meaningful connections, carrying both art and intention.

The collage “Cords and Chords” is a wordplay that captures both her love of gadgets and our memories of learning and playing guitar together in high school.

Begin the year with intention— share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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How Loitering Made Me a Photographer

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 08 Mar 2026 08:00:24 GMT

Sue Monk Kidd’s new book, Writing Creativity and Soul, caught me eye at the SFMoMA bookstore yesterday afternoon. I randomly opened to a page and the chapter header read: Creative Loitering.

I laughed out loud in my head.

I haven’t come across that word in such a long time. It brought up memories of my days at St. Paul Pasig, a girls’ catholic school in the Philippines. Before I tell you the story, let me pull up the definition of the word.

loiter (intransitive verb)

the act of lingering aimlessly or as if aimlessly in or about a place.
—Dictionary.com
to linger in an aimless way; spend time idly [often with about] —Collins
to move slowly around or stand in a public place without an obvious reason –Cambridge Dictionary

Sister Miriam, our well-loved principal, began each morning with reminders to students over the wooden box speakers mounted just above the blackboard in every classroom. In her soft, melodic tone, she went over the rules — from how to properly wear our uniforms to avoiding junk food. Loitering was prohibited, and so was running in the hallways and laughing boisterously. Despite the rules, I did my fair share of walking the school grounds during recess and lunch, always under the radar.

In sixth grade, I discovered a series of books on paintings at the library and fell in love with light. I spent months studying the way these artists saw and captured it. It brought joy to my day, a welcome distraction from my usual routine of the classroom, library and the chapel. So I loitered — not only in search of light but to satisfy my natural curiosity for anything, really.

I was careful not to get caught, for fear that a nun or teacher would summon my mother and me to the principal’s office, where I would have to explain my odd behavior. I dodged them in the hallways, varied my routes, or sometimes hid behind classroom doors and snuck into bathrooms to avoid detection. Thankfully, I never got into trouble — though had surveillance cameras existed, I wouldn't have stood a chance.

By the end of the year, the rubber on the heels of my leather shoes had worn down to the wood. The nails were jutting out, and I could feel their dull edges digging into my heels. My slightly bowed legs only made things worse. My mother was perplexed: how had I managed to destroy my shoes while Ate Marica's remained pristine? There were even years she had to buy me two pairs within a single year — an unexpected expense that was decidedly not in the budget. I remember her raised voice and saying nothing.

That laugh in my head at the bookstore was for my mother — her bewildered face over a pair of worn-out shoes — and for Sister Miriam, whose wide-eyed horror I can only imagine had she known that loitering would one day lead me to years of photographing the streets of San Francisco on my lunch breaks.

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Marica Notecards

Bleu de Joie is part of The Marica Notecards project created in honor of my sister. This Picasso-inspired abstract collage celebrates all things French and Marica’s love for travel.

Begin this month with intention—share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

BUY BLEU DE JOIE NOTECARDS

To learn more, visit: MARICA NOTECARDS

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That's a Wrap!

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 01 Mar 2026 08:02:34 GMT

Thank you, dear readers and followers, for the kind and warm reception to the whimsical pieces I created for Februllage 2026. I’m equally grateful to the for featuring my work in their newsletter early in the month, which introduced it to a wider audience.

This marks three years in a row completing all 28 days. I love having prompts — planning my days, mulling over ideas and possibilities, and then finally sitting down at my desk to make them real. I love the surprises, the angst, the doubts, and everything in between. The joy of the making is so complete that I finished the challenge a full week ahead of schedule.

To be honest, I was apprehensive about how these digital collages would be received. They’re not traditionally made of paper, cut or pasted. They’re not illustrations either. They live somewhere undefined — but I trusted my gut and committed to simple assemblages: a few carefully chosen pieces, rich color combinations, and a clever idea. These are small light-hearted art offerings, an antidote to the dreary 24/7 news cycle. It truly warms my heart that you’ve enjoyed them.

It’s certainly tempting to ride the algorithm and continue past the challenge. But I recognize that as a formula for burnout. I’d rather honor what this is — and wait until next year. The integrity lies in knowing when it ends.

Similar to last year, I’ll be putting together a zine. I’ll be offering some prints as well. More details to come. In the meantime, kindly enjoy the video compilation.

See you all next Sunday!

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Marica Notecards

Bleu de Joie is part of The Marica Notecards project created in honor of my sister. This Picasso-inspired abstract collage celebrates all things French and Marica’s love for travel.

Begin this month with intention—share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

BUY BLEU DE JOIE NOTECARDS

To learn more, visit: MARICA NOTECARDS

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The Beauty of Limitations

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 22 Feb 2026 08:01:59 GMT

Three years ago, this video and essay appeared on Sundays with Stella. The stormy Bay Area weather this week put me in the mood to dig it back up — it remains one of my favorite personal projects. Enjoy!

It’s been raining all week in the Bay Area. In our neck of the woods, it’s called an atmospheric river. I love it when it rains and I am a self-professed pluviophile. The caveat though is that commuting in the rain annoyed me.

In 2016, the rain returned after a long period of drought in the Bay Area. So, I thought to myself, why not do a creative project out of it to confront this feeling? If I focused on something other than my attitude, it might do the trick. Saul Leiter’s workin the 1950s was the kernel that got this project started. I had been a fan ever since I encountered his photographs in 2003.

One day, Tina sent me a link from the New York Times Instagram feed.

We’re looking for your photos of a place you’ve suddenly seen through fresh eyes. Maybe it’s your hometown, or perhaps it’s somewhere you lived for a while. Photograph something — a striking street name, a strange storefront, an oddly-shaped building — you once overlooked but now treasure.

At first, I hesitated but she nudged me to submit one photo. After giving it some thought, I agreed. The process was painless –all I had to do was post a picture and add a hashtag. To my surprise, I heard back from the Times and they ran this photo on their opinion page a week later. The nod encouraged me to continue in this direction.

(Since the article is behind a paywall, I recreated the page for this post.)

I’ve been experimenting with ways to capture the feeling of rain. My paltry 8-megapixel iPod Touch camera, it turned out, was the right creative tool for this series. Using its limitations to my advantage and with some degree of luck, the results kept surprising me. My attitude began to shift from annoyance to excitement every time it rained.

Having a purpose changed my perspective.

I continued working on this series until the battery malfunctioned. I tried to use it together with a mini power bank but it only gave me at most 20 minutes to photograph. I used my iPhone SE as a substitute but the images came out sharper than I wanted. So, as all projects go, it reached its end.

I heard this inspiring backstory on NPR’s Hidden Brain, It’s about jazz pianist Keith Jarrett’s most famous concert in Cologne, Germany. A 17-year-old named Vera Brandes invited Mr. Jarrett to play at the Cologne Opera House in January 1975. On the day of the rehearsal, the staff wheeled in the wrong piano. This particular one was a rehearsal model— dilapidated and out of tune.

The organizers did their best to bring the instrument in decent shape. Still, Mr. Jarrett refused to do the concert. Without any other options left, Ms. Brandes stood in the rain and begged. Seeing her drenched from outside of his car, he relented.

That evening, Mr. Jarrett played one of the most magical performances of his life. The live recording of the Köln Concertbecame one of the best-selling solo albums and the best-selling piano albums in jazz history.

I hope this post will encourage you to face any limitations you may have in your life right now. By thinking outside the box and learning to work with the resources you have, who knows what might come out of it?

Take a breath and have the courage to try.

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Marica Notecards

Bleu de Joie is part of The Marica Notecards project created in honor of my sister. This Picasso-inspired abstract collage celebrates all things French and Marica’s love for travel.

Begin the year with intention—share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

BUY BLEU DE JOIE NOTECARDS

To learn more, visit: MARICA NOTECARDS

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Why I Show Up Every Sunday

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 15 Feb 2026 08:01:11 GMT

Last Saturday morning, my iPhone notifications were busier than usual. Come to find out, featured two of my collages I’d shared through Notes in their weekly newsletter.

It brought plenty of newcomers in a span of two days, and a few more have trickled in since. I thought this would be a good moment to reintroduce myself and perhaps, for my longtime readers, you might learn something you didn’t know about me.

If you’ve just joined this creative journey, a big warm welcome to you! There are so many things that call for our attention every single moment of the day, and with a slew of choices out there, I’m grateful you’re here. I also value your time and want to let you know what you can expect each week.

Sundays with Stella explores this creative journey as it unfolds in real time. For those of you who just arrived, my practice is expansive. These days, I'm gravitating toward collage—I'm currently doing the Februllage challenge, making a collage each day based on a word prompt throughout the month. I'm also equally versed in photography (my first love), and I share stories—both personal and creative experiences—to bring joy, hope, and encouragement.

In other words, there's no regular cadence on any one topic. There's no niche. There's no brand. I'm just someone faithful to a creative practice who shows up every Sunday to share collages, photographs, and stories, offering a little bit of light in these difficult times. My hope is that you come away with your spirits lifted, or that some words or images linger afterward.

Februllage Day 14: HEART. Digital collage by Stella Kalaw

Why This Newsletter Exists

Let me tell you about my good friend and mentor, Gail. She worked at the Brooks Institute library and hired me as one of her TAs in my first year. The reason I applied was that I’d fallen in love with photography through the monographs I discovered at the library connected to the US Embassy in Manila ten years prior. I wanted to be surrounded by inspiration. Shelving books and working the desk fueled that insatiable curiosity. I was like a sponge, absorbing everything I saw and read.

Gail and Me. Lunch at Mesa Verde. Santa Barbara, CA. Photograph by Doreen.

There’s a small room behind the library desk where Gail and I used to chat during downtime, usually the evening shift from 6–9 pm. It was a safe space where I poured out my early successes, failures, frustrations, and heartbreak to her. She was my sounding board, confidant, and cheerleader.

Gail at home in the living room with Murphy. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

Whether I was celebrating successes or navigating failures, I continued to share them with Gail after I graduated from Brooks. I'd visit her at home in Santa Barbara, and we'd sit in her living room or on the back patio for hours—sometimes in deep conversation, sometimes just laughing together.

“Are you writing this down?” she’d always ask, or “When are you writing a book?”

She knew, early on, that I had something meaningful to share with others, that my stories needed to be preserved, not just lived and forgotten.

Gail with her morning coffee at the back patio. Santa Barbara, CA. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

I started Sundays with Stella because of Gail’s encouragement. She planted that seed in me. The book seemed such a tall order that I thought starting a newsletter where I could share these stories, one Sunday at a time, felt less intimidating.

The through line or thread is this: an honest and humble documentation of a creative life, about planting many seeds, doing the quiet work when no one's watching, and whatever harvest arrives. Alongside are the personal stories of joy, hope, and grief that make up a meaningful life.

Gail has dementia now, but I am still showing up as if I am telling these stories to her. When I write, I think of her.

If you’re here for the creative journey in all its forms—messy, reflective, joyful, experimental, sometimes heavy, sometimes light—welcome!

Stay if you're curious about the work of sustaining a creative practice.

Stay if you’re someone who believes in planting seeds and quiet tending.

Stay if you welcome and hold space for stories of both grief and joy.

Stay if any of this resonates with you.

I’m grateful you’re here, whether you’ve been reading for years or have just arrived. Thank you so much for being part of this journey.

See you all next Sunday!

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From the essay Mambo Italiana written by Susie Kaufmann for A Considerable Age. Digital Collage art by Stella Kalaw

If you’d like to see more of my collages paired with personal essays, I’ ve been collaborating with through her weekly newsletter called A Considerable Age.

In Alice’s words:

“Each Sunday morning I share people’s wildly authentic, heart-stoppingly real, or funny stories for you to read while you enjoy a morning coffee. Occasionally, I send out something I have written myself. I’m a slow writer, so it takes me a while. All of us of a considerable age have something to say.”

Check it out if you are curious!

Marica Notecards

Golden Hour Wildflowers (Set of 10 notecards)

Inspired by my sister Marica’s love of coffee, the Golden Hour Wildflowers notecards features delicate whimsical flowers blooming from vintage coffee cups—tender, hopeful, and full of quiet possibility.

Begin the year with intention— share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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The Seeds We Plant

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 08 Feb 2026 08:01:09 GMT

Finally, I’ve got some good news to share!

Yesterday, was the opening of a five-person all Asian women group show called Where Words Fail Us, curated by

Friday night, I stood in front of my photographs, marveling at the incredible journey from beginning this personal project to finally seeing them as large-scale prints on the gallery wall. They were being shown publicly for the first time—they hadn’t seen the light of day for over 20 years except when shared with my family and on a blog I used to have on my website but have since retired.

How the Exhibit Came to Be

Going through my past text conversations with Jessica, I found that she first called me in October 2024 to share her seed of an idea for this show. She was hoping to submit a proposal.

Jessica and I had worked together on another group exhibition two years earlier. She called out of the blue and invited me to her first curatorial debut—a group show titled “The Stories We Tell” for the East Bay Photo Collective (EBPCO). She said she loved my work, particularly the Cubao series, and thought it would fit with the theme.

She also mentioned that EBPCO would take care of all the printing and framing for the show. "Wow," I thought. That was rare. Usually, artists pay for their own printing and framing—an expense I couldn't justify with my financial realities over the years. But this one was different—it felt like a gift handed to me on a gold platter.

This strongly felt like a YES from God.

I also had a good feeling about Jessica. She was genuine, warm, had a light spirit about her, and—might I say—persistent.

I paused for a moment before replying, “I'm going with my gut here, Jessica, so I'm saying yes.”

The exhibition was well received, even garnering a write-up at Oakland Murmur.

So, back to this current show.

When Jessica reached out in October 2024, I showed her some black and white images about my family that would fit the theme. Two weeks later, she texted again, this time requesting whether I had any color work. I submitted some family portraits.

I didn’t hear anything until 14 months later, in December 2025, when she shared the good news: the exhibition proposal was approved! Not only were they providing the venue, but they were also covering the printing costs for the exhibition.

The timeline was tight. I was in Manila until the first week of January. The show was scheduled to open a month later, on February 6th. I asked if it was possible to obtain high-resolution scans for my negatives since these personal projects were all shot on film. A few days later, she emailed back and said that Brian Brooks, owner of Underdog Film Lab, would take care of them for me at no cost.

I was floored!

Gratitude poured out of me. On the day I scheduled to pick up my negatives, I wrote a thank-you note to Brian on one of my Marica notecards and bought a few empanadas from the cafe around the corner. I picked the chorizo flavor—it was Ate Marica's favorite when she last visited.

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” Brian said sheepishly.

“You don’t know how much this means to me. Thank you,” I said, resting my hand on my heart.

About the Images

Dad’s 70th Birthday. Somerville, MA, 2002

The photographs featured in the show belong to two personal projects. The first one began in 2000, three weeks after the birth of my only niece, Marina.

Boston Children’s Hospital. Boston, MA, 2003

Resting at the dorm. Skidmore College. Saratoga Springs, NY, 2018

With every visit, I documented brief moments of intimacy between my family and their interactions with her until she was nine years old. The project halted once my younger sister, Malyn, decided to move her to Manila to attend high school. Nonetheless, I continued to photograph my family, on and off, over the years—with the same rigor regardless of the camera gear.

Left: Ate Marica, Emeryville, CA, 2004. Right: Ate Marica during a barbecue at Justine’s place. Orange, NJ, 2008

Gening Balanaa. Manila, Philippines, December 2004.

The portraits were done sporadically from 2003 until 2012. These sittings, which extended beyond my immediate family, were a way of remembering and marking the passage of time since all of us are scattered across continents and we only saw each other briefly once or twice a year.

FULL CIRCLE

“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant,” wrote Scottish novelist, poet, and travel writer Robert Louis Stevenson.

I believe this wholeheartedly.

I pair that with this knowing from my life experience: what's meant to be finds its way when I'm in alignment with God or the universe. It arrives in its own time—no forcing or striving required.

Yes, it took over 20 years to arrive at this point, but trees don’t sprout overnight—the ones built to last take years for strong roots to take hold. And there’s a careful, quiet, and steady tending that happens when no one else is watching. That’s where the essence of this creative journey lies. It requires faithful attention along with trust and patience.

And, I’m filled with joy in celebrating this with all of you! Grace brought the harvest after a difficult two years.

I also believe this was another gift from Ate Marica. Her portrait hangs in this exhibition, right there alongside my name—a full-circle moment honoring my biggest cheerleader and supporter, the one who believed in me before I believed in myself. And, she’s still here from across the veil.

So, I invite you my dear readers, What seeds are you planting right now that you can’t yet see the harvest of? What might bloom if you let time do its work?

Opening night: Where Words Fail Us Exhibition. Feb 6, 2026

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Marica Notecards

These notecards honor my sister Marica’s gift for small, thoughtful gestures. Each one transforms collage pieces into meaningful connections, carrying both art and intention.

The collage “Cords and Chords” is a wordplay that captures both her love of gadgets and our memories of learning and playing guitar together in high school.

Begin the year with intention— share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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The Lunch Plate

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 01 Feb 2026 08:02:23 GMT

(Another early post from when I started my newsletter three years ago. The wisdom still holds true today.)

Lunch plate with orange peels. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

I stood up to clear the dining table when I noticed my lunch plate. There was a picture here. I loved how the orange peels had fallen into place next to the mismatched utensils. Even the tiny nick on the rim added to its imperfection. I brought everything to a window, recreated the scene, and photographed it.

Just like this image, my life has been a hodgepodge of experiences. Sometimes I can’t make sense of them or where I’m headed next.

In an interview with Maria Shriver, Anne Lamott recounted advice from a professor who once told her that writing is like driving at night with the headlights on. You can only see a little way in front of you, but you can make the whole journey that way. That resonated with me.

I have this vague theory that if I string together these meaningful endeavors—collage art, writing, and photography—they’ll eventually lead somewhere.

We’ll see how it pans out.

If you’re in the same boat, maybe in this messy middle where you don’t know what to do next, I invite you to take a few pauses in your day and appreciate something beautiful right in front of you—something as ordinary as clearing a plate after lunch.

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Marica Notecards

Cords and Chords. Notecard set (10 cards, 1 design)

These notecards honor my sister Marica’s gift for small, thoughtful gestures. Each one transforms collage pieces into meaningful connections, carrying both art and intention.

The collage “Cords and Chords” is a wordplay that captures both her love of gadgets and our memories of learning and playing guitar together in high school.

Begin the year with intention— share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

BUY CORDS AND CHORDS NOTECARDS

To learn more, visit: MARICA NOTECARDS

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Remembering with more Love than Pain

Stella Kalaw — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 00:50:58 GMT

Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

Last Saturday was Ate Marica's first anniversary since she crossed over. I intentionally skipped writing a post last Sunday for two reasons: I had two major deadlines I needed to meet (I'll fill you in on the details next week), and it mattered to me to carve out a good part of a day to be fully present in remembering her.

I lit a tea light in the mint-colored votive my friend Leigh gave me. Behind it, I propped the acrylic block with her photo on her phone holder.

A week before, my younger sister Malyn spotted the Carpenters album in a bin full of vinyls at the local antique store she frequented in upstate New York. She pulled out her wallet, but the shop keeper insisted she take it as a gift. We both felt it as a sign that Ate Marica wanted us to listen to it again—it was the soundtrack of our childhood that very much reminded us of her.

In Manila last month, I paged through old albums of photographs from our time in Boston. Nostalgia swept through me. I smiled.

Hanging out in Mariza’s backyard in the summer. Arlington, MA. 1994-1995

"…remember with more love than pain, at our own time, in our own way, and at our own pace," writes David Kessler. This quote has been on my mind since I stumbled upon it, and I have taken it to heart. It grounds me in the truth that her life was more than the two months in the hospital—she was here with us for 56 years.

Summer weekend during Bill and Susan’s wedding. Martha’s Vineyard, MA, 1995

Whenever sadness washes over me, I scroll through her phone with a curious eye. Ate wasn't a picture taker—she had fewer than 10,000 photos, mostly screenshots of receipts and everyday details from her life in Manila. Occasionally, she took group selfies with friends and family. She saved pictures that meant something to her. Her few travel photos were precious, revealing what moved her enough to pull out her phone and preserve the moment.

Kessler offers another truth I hold close: "Our grief does not get smaller. We grow bigger around it." It's a message of hope, even as the tears still come.

I continue stuffing tissues in my pockets or keeping a box nearby. I still leave crumpled balls at my desk or at my bedside that Tina, every now and then, reminds me to throw away. The ugly cries still come, snot and all, but less often now.

I've accepted that the pain of losing Ate will remain forever, but with gentle and constant tending of my heart and mind, the weight has lightened ever so slightly. I still have a long way to go.

One thing I know for sure: my love for her remains forever. I don’t believe in letting go but in strengthening our connection, learning a different kind of relationship that I carry forward with me.

Love is the thread, and will be for the rest of my life.

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MARICA NOTECARDS

These notecards honor my sister Marica’s gift for small, thoughtful gestures. Each one transforms collage pieces into meaningful connections, carrying both art and intention.

The collage “Cords and Chords” is a wordplay that captures both her love of gadgets and our memories of learning and playing guitar together in high school.

Begin the year with intention— share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

BUY CORDS AND CHORDS NOTECARDS

To learn more, visit: MARICA NOTECARDS

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The Weight of Gratitude

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 18 Jan 2026 08:02:37 GMT

I wrote this essay when I first started this newsletter three years ago—my third post, shared with a handful of subscribers. After losing Ate Marica last January, I deeply understood what Chris meant—the devastating difference between having time and having none.

Chris G. Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

Chris wasn’t returning my emails.

My impatience grew, so I marched up to his office to nudge him for a reply. I stood in the doorway, about to blurt out my thoughts, when I saw his face was inches from the computer monitor. I walked closer. He was scrolling with the mouse as he read each word—the font was enlarged to the maximum size of the 24-inch screen.

I knew Chris was legally blind, but I had no idea what it was like behind the scenes. He always projected a sense of effortlessness in his interactions with people.

Sometimes I forgot he had a visual loss.

At fifteen, Chris Giuntoli was diagnosed with a rare eye condition. Within three years, he was legally blind. Determined to live fully, he trained himself to move around without a cane, wanting people to treat him like everyone else. He harnessed the power of memory and his other senses to navigate the world.

After finishing his Hotel Business Management degree at Penn State University, Chris took a job as a steward. He memorized the entire event floor plan at the hotel—roughly the size of a football field—to get his bearings and perform his job well.

Management took notice.

Eventually, he rose through the ranks and became the Director of Event Planning. He excelled throughout his 25-year career using assistive technology: an audio calculator, a talking Blackberry, a high-intensity magnifying projector, and a supportive team behind him. What was even more impressive: days before pre-con meetings with clients and hotel staff, he'd memorize the entire event résumé and made it seem so natural.

Beyond work, he also built a family— he’s married and has two grown children.

I changed the way I collaborated with Chris after that day in his office.

Paper trails were crucial in my line of work. “Always get something in writing and remember, CYA—cover your ass!” was valuable advice from colleagues when I started in the industry.

With Chris, I trusted his word and replaced emails with phone conversations. This small change allowed him to make swift decisions. I scribbled notes after every call for my records. His memory for minor details was so razor-sharp that I hardly referred to them.

Then things began to shift. He ran into equipment, bumped into guests, fumbled in the stairwells. He had close calls that endangered his life—both in the street and inside the hotel. When he went for a checkup, the results were far worse than expected: he was advancing toward complete blindness. The doctor's prognosis was five to ten years.

He broke the news to me during one of our conversations on a busy day, in between helping a meeting planner. What he said afterward I’ve never forgotten.

“I’m grateful I didn’t get a death sentence.”

His words replayed in my mind during my commute home. The depth of his gratitude, resilience, and persevering spirit profoundly moved me. I’d kept a gratitude journal for a few years, jotting down the smallest things I was thankful for. Sometimes I questioned whether this practice even made a difference.

Life is full of transitions and challenges. What happens when it throws a curveball or two? Chris's story reminds me to keep going.

Meister Eckhart, a Catholic theologian, philosopher, and mystic, said, “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.”

Top: Lunch at Mixed Grain, December 2023. Bottom: At his home, May 2025.

Chris and I kept in touch after he retired. I’d take him to nearby restaurants and we’d catch up. We both switched to a whole-foods, plant-based diet around the same time and shared tips and recipes. He uses a cane now and occasionally takes the bus downtown when needed. He’s a voracious learner and eagerly imparts his latest discoveries on health, animals, and the environment.

I bet he’d be a great TED Talk speaker someday.

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ps. Here’s an article in the San Francisco Chronicle featuring Chris, his good friend, John Babcock, and Claudia Coleman’s experience during the 1989 Loma Prieta Earthquake:

Shaky Opening 25 Years Ago for SF’s ‘Jukebox Marriott’ Hotel

Marica Notecards

Clover and Tendril Notecard set (10 cards, single design)

Inspired by my sister Marica’s love of coffee, the Clover and Tendril notecards features delicate whimsical flowers blooming from vintage coffee cups—tender, hopeful, and full of quiet possibility.

Begin the year with intention— share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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Settling In

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 11 Jan 2026 08:02:30 GMT

I just returned from Manila.

I had Claude AI calculate the total travel time, from the moment I woke up to go to the airport until the Lyft driver dropped me off at our front door:

22 hours and 38 minutes.

This included flight delays, a stopover in Tokyo, and traffic.

No wonder I was exhausted!

I took a two-hour nap in the afternoon, ate a light dinner, then slept for seven hours straight.

I actually unpacked both suitcases before the weekend started. I think it has something to do with the packing cubes we purchased last year. Ever since we bought them, it’s been easier to carry all my clothes up the stairwell, separating the whites and darks into the hampers next to the washer and dryer. The other items were mostly dry goods leftover from the holidays and some pasalubong, which all went to the kitchen a few steps away.

I made these three collages before I left Manila for the holidays. As I settle in, I hope you enjoy these little moments of creative bursts.

I’ll also leave you with this quote from Ruth Asawa, which I love:

You can’t force a plant to bloom. It has a cycle. You have to tend it and care for it and wait for the bloom to happen. If you don’t take care of it, it dies. The more experiences you have like this, the more you begin to understand your own cycle.

—Ruth Asawa, Asian American sculptor

Untitled, Analog collage by Stella Kalaw

Untitled, Analog Collage by Stella Kalaw

See you all next Sunday!

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Marica Notecards

Fonts of Knowledge notecards. (set of 10, single design)

An educator at heart, the Fonts of Knowledge notecards honor my sister Marica’s love for teaching, from tutoring in math and English to guiding older students through the college application process. She had a rare gift for inspiring students, instilling confidence and a love of learning in all she touched.

Begin the year with intention—share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

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The Orange Hours

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 04 Jan 2026 08:02:33 GMT

These collages were made while I was waiting for a decision on a contract job last year. On the first day, I created and shared The Red Hour collages, which garnered some wonderful comments. Thank you for your warm responses and reshares—I truly appreciate them.

On day two of waiting, I chose orange paper as a theme, and these pieces emerged from that session.

The color orange seems fitting for the new year. It feels optimistic and hopeful, energetic and playful–qualities I want to carry forward.

I’m not big on resolutions.

I’ve learned that setting them is equivalent to setting expectations—a recipe for disappointment. Instead, I focus on intentions, which feel more gentle, less pressure. They’re broad, not specific: be kind, grateful, create, eat to live, move. They’re not boxes to check off on a list; they’re constant and sustainable. Each day brings another chance to begin with intention. I’m less likely to feel disappointed with myself this way.

And so, I'm starting the year with whimsy told through these collages—playful, unresolved, full of possibility. May your year be expansive with ideas and filled with wonder!

Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

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Marica Notecards

Golden Hour Wildflowers -Notecard Set (10 cards, single design)

Inspired by my sister Marica’s love of coffee, the Golden Hour Wildflower notecards features delicate whimsical flowers blooming from vintage coffee cups—tender, hopeful, and full of quiet possibility.

Begin the year with intention— share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

Buy Golden Hour Wildflowers Notecards

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Light, Shadow and Shades of Gray

Stella Kalaw — Thu, 01 Jan 2026 16:21:18 GMT

I had something else in mind to write earlier—something more structured. But my mental bandwidth is at capacity. Instead, I thought I’d take a looser, more fluid approach to this week’s post.

2025 has been the toughest year of my life.

Losing my sister Ate Marica at the beginning of the year ripped me apart and cracked me open. The ground broke loose from under me, and I went into free fall. Like a shattered bowl broken into pieces on the floor, I am slowly picking myself up and piecing myself back together—knowing I will never be whole in the way I was before. The Japanese repair art form known as Kintsugi comes to mind. The skilled artisan carefully applies lacquer and precious metals through the cracks until what was broken becomes whole again.

It’s been exhausting, but the inner work is important. It will take time, maybe a lifetime. Viktor Frankl writes, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” I am slowly learning to live differently—to hold space for both joy and sadness, love and grief.

Photography, collage, and writing have been my steady companions. I’ve said this many times before. The making is oxygen—my life preserver. These are the anchors that keep me from the thresholds of despair, grounding me one day at a time.

Thank you, dear readers and supporters, for sticking with me. I am grateful you're still here, traveling with me on this creative journey as life threw a curveball toward grief. It's never easy to talk about it, and I am aware it makes people uncomfortable. But I want to be honest with myself and with you.

As 2025 wraps up, I thought of sharing a year in review through pictures—the underlying stories of my experiences throughout the year told through light, shadow, and shades of gray.

January/February

March/April

May/June

July/August

September/October

November/December

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Marica Notecards

Moonlit Meadow Mix Notecards— set of 10. Front and back shown here in this photograph.

Inspired by my sister Marica’s love of coffee, the Moonlit Meadow Mix notecards features delicate whimsical flowers blooming from vintage coffee cups—tender, hopeful, and full of quiet possibility.

Share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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With Joy and Meaning

Stella Kalaw — Fri, 26 Dec 2025 11:06:49 GMT

Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

Hello my dear readers,

Wishing you peace and a meaningful holiday season!

I’m here in Manila to be with Mom and my brother for the holidays—our first without my sister Ate Marica, who passed earlier this year. On Christmas Eve, we celebrated noche buena with our household and caregivers—the people who have carried us through this difficult year since her passing. Sitting together at one table, sharing a meal, was both joyful and deeply meaningful. I felt Ate Marica there with us. My brother and I wanted to honor her by extending that spirit of kindness and gratitude to those who take care of our home and Mom. We wanted them to know: what they do every day matters.

Thank you for holding space for both the sadness and the joy. I’m grateful you’re here.

See you all next Sunday.

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Marica Notecards

Golden Hour Wildflowers -Notecard Set (10 cards, single design)

This holiday season, share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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The Stand Alones: Paris Edition

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 21 Dec 2025 13:02:57 GMT

I'm looking through my Paris images and realized it was time for another stand-alone edition—single images that don't quite belong to a category or collection. I shared a post last year and enjoyed going through my archives to resurrect some gems that have been buried.

It raises the question: why does any of this matter?

Photography, at least for me, is often about the impulse we have to capture something that catches our attention, something that might otherwise go unnoticed. When we share these images, they become small gifts to the world: a momentary pause, a smile, an emotion. Nothing earth-shattering or seismically impactful. They won't feed the hungry or shelter the homeless. But they're artifacts that provide inner sustenance—reminders that while so much around us is uncertain, tragic, chaotic, the everyday can still be beautiful and arresting.

These are some humble offerings of wonder and curiosity.

Batignolles, 17th Arrondissement. Paris, FR.

Curtain. Batignolles. 17th Arrondissement. Paris, FR.

Open Lockers at Bourse de Commerce. Paris, FR.

Glass Cleaners at La Samaritaine. Paris, FR.

Carousel. Square de Batignolles, 17th Arrondissement. Pars, FR.

Rainy Day. Bloom Sushi Batignolles. Paris, FR.

Les Halles-Châtelet. Paris, FR.

Hat and Bag. 4th Arrondissement. Paris, FR.

Patio at Musée de la Vie Romantique. Paris, FR.

Behind the Lattice. Gardens of Versailles. Versailles, FR.

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Marica Notecards

Golden Hour Wildflowers -Notecard Set (10 cards, single design)

Inspired by my sister Marica's love of coffee, the Golden Hour Wildflower notecards features delicate whimsical flowers blooming from vintage coffee cups—tender, hopeful, and full of quiet possibility.

This holiday season, share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

Buy Golden Hour Wildflowers Notecards

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ANOTHER WAY TO SUPPORT SUNDAYS WITH STELLA

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The Red Hours

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 14 Dec 2025 08:02:52 GMT

My mind was beginning to spiral, waiting to hear back for a possible contract job next year. The waiting in the moments in between is excruciating, especially when I let myself be idle.

And so I sat down, just as I’ve done since the lockdowns, and made collages this afternoon. I stared at the blank page and had no idea what to do.

Red paper was the first thing that popped into my head, so I searched for unusual but graphic shapes, movements, or textures. In another tab, I opened my collection of public-domain images on Flickr.

I dove in, got lost in the possibilities for several hours, and ended up going to bed calm, with joy in my heart.

Tomorrow, I will do the same.

Golf, anyone? Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

Vroom! Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

I Got This! Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

Waiting is inevitable. We all go through it, no exceptions. That space is restless and uncomfortable. And most of the time, what we’re waiting for is out of our hands—yes or no, pass or fail, good or bad news—it runs the whole gamut.

The act of doing, creating, or making gives us some agency. It pulls us back to something we have control over. When our focus shifts, the mind and heart follow. Others may have the capacity to be still and stay with the discomfort through meditation.

Either way, it matters what we do while we wait.

Torero and Red Airplane. Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

Kiss. Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

“Who you become while you’re waiting is as important as what you are waiting for,” writes John Ortberg Jr.

Maybe it’ll make us grow a sense of fortitude. Maybe it’ll open our minds and stretch our hearts. Maybe it’ll make us learn to live better through the inevitable pauses in our life’s journey.

Red Architectural Drawing Headdress. Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

Let’s Dance. Digital Collage by Stella Kalaw

I always return to Rainn Wilson’s quote: “The act of making art is no different than prayer.” When we pour ourselves into the work, there’s an unspoken conversation that happens from our hands to our hearts, that whispers to God’s ears or the universe.

Our hopes and fears, our doubts and confusion, anger, sadness, disappointment—all of it—inscribed in the symphony of paper, glue, pixel, pencil, pen or paint that acts as vessels, offerings of surrender so they do not linger within us.

Will tomorrow be another day of waiting and making? I have no idea. But that’s all I know to do.

Tomorrow, I will do the same.

(Update: After four days of waiting, I heard back from the recruiter and they decided to move forward with another candidate for the contract job.)

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With every note sent, her presence lives on.

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The Ship of Glass

Stella Kalaw — Sun, 07 Dec 2025 08:02:32 GMT

The news of Frank Gehry’s passing this week brought to mind images I captured last year of the Fondation Louis Vuitton, a contemporary art museum in western Paris, just beyond the Arc de Triomphe.

The structure is considered one of his most ambitious projects, ranking alongside the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao and the Walt Disney Concert Hall. In 2010, Bernard Arnault, LVMH’s C.E.O., was so captivated by the Guggenheim in Bilbao that he commissioned Mr. Gehry to create a cultural landmark for the foundation in Paris. It opened four years later, after a protracted design and construction process that far exceeded its original budget and timeline.

Inspired by nineteenth-century Parisian glasshouses and winter gardens, Mr. Gehry conceived the “ship of glass” as a vessel for art—one that offers visitors a singular experience of interior space, natural light, and landscape.

Love it or hate it: that has been the polarizing reaction to Mr. Gehry’s life’s work. For some, he was a genius and a bold innovator, pushing the boundaries of architecture and engineering. Others saw his work as egotistical, prioritizing form over function in designs that were expensive and impractical.

I find truth in both perspectives. But this much is clear: Mr. Gehry’s legacy has left its mark, and the conversation about his work will continue for decades to come.

What are your thoughts?

Have you visited any of Mr. Gehry’s buildings? Let’s meet each other at the comments section below.

See you all next Sunday!

Leave a comment

Marica Notecards

Bleu de Joie is part of The Marica Notecards project created in honor of my sister. This Picasso-inspired abstract collage celebrates all things French and Marica’s love for travel.

Share words of encouragement or gratitude, or offer a simple reminder that someone is loved.

With every note sent, her presence lives on.

Buy Bleu de Joie Notecards

Subscribe now

ANOTHER WAY TO SUPPORT SUNDAYS WITH STELLA

GIVE A GIFT

If this post inspired you, would you be so kind as to share it with others?