Lucky Stars

Estimated reading time: 3 minutes

As a teen, I went through a phase where I folded hundreds of lucky stars. Like many other Asian American teens of the era, I was drawn to the translucent pink cylinder that housed the paper strips, lured by its promise of being filled in the not-so-distant future with a rainbow of beautiful stars, each lovingly made by my own hand. I could be a creator of art almost instantly—no long hours of piano practice, no suffering through drawings that never matched up to my imagination, no struggles with articulating my thoughts and feelings in writing.

After stumbling through the steps to make my first few lucky stars, I got into a rhythm of tearing off each strip of paper, folding it onto itself over and over until its end, tucking in the tail, and pinching the sides to puff it out into a tiny work of art. Tear, fold, tuck, pinch—over and over again, in the small pockets of free time I could claim for my obsession. I didn’t need each star to be perfect. I didn’t even need each star to look good. I just had to stay in my soothing rhythm, for however long it took to fill that pink container. After however many hours cobbled together from those scraps of free time, I got to the top of the cylinder, proud to see the countless tiny fruits of my labor.

Then I bought another cylinder. And I did it all over again. Tear, fold, tuck, pinch—easy little mindless tasks for my restless fingers. Soothing, repetitive motions that calmed my racing brain, until I ran out of room for any more functionless pink cylinders and eventually left the childhood home that housed them.

Years later, during the pandemic lockdown, I felt a strong urge to fold those lucky stars again. Several Etsy deliveries later, I was well on my way to exceeding however many lucky stars I’d created in adolescence. I made over a thousand lucky stars, this time purchasing fish-shaped bottles and hexagonal terrariums to house my little paper marvels. Each time I filled a bottle or terrarium, I was able to step back and admire my handiwork, satisfied that I had created something beautiful.

I have never once been able to admire my own artwork the way that I see my lucky stars. I cringe when reading the words I have written, recoil from recordings of my music performances, and shrink away from my attempts at visual art. Every time I step back and look at my creations, all I see are the imperfections. I nitpick every detail even as I work, focusing only on the flaws and hating the final product.

My lucky stars never received the same scrutiny. I took pride in the fact that I made them, that I persisted in their creation, and what’s more, that I enjoyed the process along the way. I settled into the rhythm of the origami—tear, fold, tuck, pinch—allowing my anxious mind to rest while my fingers worked. Star by soothing star, I simply accepted each one as it formed, imperfect and uneven though it may have been. I gathered them all together, these tiny manifestations of my worries, fears, and insecurities, and saw the beauty in their wholeness.

I would like to see my other artwork with the same eyes that view my lucky stars. I would like to slow down and enjoy the process of creation, getting into the rhythm and ease that settled over my star-making. I would like to see the beauty of their wholeness. I want to love each piece for what it becomes, flaws and all.

And if I can see my artwork with those eyes, maybe one day I’ll be able to see myself with them too.