Probably best to start with the most obvious— bald head. Compared to most people my age, the top definitely reflects more light. Not exactly something you can hide, so it often becomes the opening line. It works surprisingly well as an icebreaker.
Not particularly fit, but reasonably balanced. A bit of regular movement, a few stairs, nothing too ambitious— maybe just trying to make up for the baldness, in some small way. 😅
The voice? Softer side. Speech tends to be slow, with pauses. Not from hesitation, but to leave space— for others to respond, reflect, or simply breathe.
Used to rely on examples to explain things. Then came a collaboration with a visually impaired friend last year, and it became clear: the metaphors and visuals that make sense to sighted people don’t always land the same way. So now, more care. Less rush to be “clear,” more time to make sure things actually connect.
That shift in perspective came while developing a product with the team. We had invited a blind friend into the early-stage discussions. For the first time, the question really hit: how would someone get to know you—without ever seeing you?
Turns out, not everything needs to be seen. Some things can be heard. Felt. Understood in quieter ways.
Offerings for ancestors, deities, and occasionally, a “just in case” visit to the local earth god.
Honestly, I’m not against these traditions.
But more and more, I find that even when we want to keep them, it’s not always easy to do it right,
or even just to get it done.
I remember once, one of my elders was gently corrected by a relative—
not because we forgot to offer food, but because we got the order wrong, or the colors of the offerings were off.
After that, they got anxious and started watching traditional ritual programs and reading books to get everything “correct.”
But most of those books assume you live in a spacious countryside home with a big yard,
plenty of space for tables and incense burners.
They don’t exactly account for cramped urban apartments, time constraints, or environmental limits.
Take burning joss paper, for example.
In the past, it was about arranging offerings properly—left side for deities, right side for ancestors.
Now we’ve simplified things a bit: we use low-smoke “eco” paper, and no longer stress over exact positions.
Still, one of the rules my elders insist on is that we must burn it at the front entrance on the ground floor.
The problem? That area is usually crammed with parked scooters.
To clear enough space for a small fire takes serious effort every single time.
We’ve considered using the balcony instead, but that risks damaging the plants.
It’s not that it’s impossible, but every time we go through it, the question remains: is it really worth this much stress?
We’ve Tried Changing Things — Some Worked, Some Didn’t
One year, I suggested we try skipping the paper burning entirely.
“Let’s just light incense,” I said, “and offer our intention sincerely. That should count, right?”
To my surprise, my elders agreed.
That year, we didn’t burn anything—just a quiet, respectful offering.
But afterward, they admitted something felt… missing.
“It just didn’t feel complete,” they said.
Not because of superstition, but because the act itself—the sound, the smoke, the rhythm—had been with them for so long, it became part of what “felt right.”
So Where Do We Go From Here?
We’re still figuring it out, together.
Sometimes we find new ways that feel good. Other times, we fall back into what’s familiar.
And that’s okay. We’ve learned not to push too hard or expect overnight change.
Instead:
We keep looking for practical alternatives, and share what we find with each other
We try to help one another adjust—not by forcing, but by gently understanding where each person is coming from
We focus on staying in conversation, rather than chasing perfection
Every family is different, and so is every solution.
We may not get everything right, and we don’t have to.
What matters most is that we keep showing up for the ritual—not just for tradition’s sake, but for one another.
If the way we adapt still brings us closer, still carries meaning—
then maybe that is the kind of tradition worth keeping.
A family is a family, as long as we find our way through, together.
Honestly, the chance to sit down and have a proper conversation with a complete stranger doesn’t come up that often for me.
Except maybe when I’m camping, I rarely have opportunities to spend time face-to-face with new people.
When I first meet someone, I don’t rush to talk about myself. I usually prefer to listen first, see how the other person opens up. Some people are talkative, some take their time — I’m fine adjusting to different paces.
But if they ask, I usually start by mentioning my work. After all, aside from sleeping, most of my waking hours are spent there.
I work in IT, doing a bit of everything: developing apps, managing systems, fixing bugs, building internal tools, and sometimes even giving training sessions. It’s a bit of a mixed bag, but that means every day is a little different, and I’ve gotten used to it.
Lately, AI has become a hot topic and often comes up in conversation.
If the other person is interested, I’ll talk about voice controls, AI-assisted applications, or projects I’ve worked on. Sometimes the conversation gets technical, sometimes it stays practical — it depends on the situation.
But honestly, more than AI, what I’m really looking forward to right now is an upcoming trip to Japan.
I’m planning the itinerary and have heard a lot of tips from friends. Taiwanese people really share a kind of collective travel memory of Japan — things like buying cosmetics, enjoying yakiniku, visiting shrines, riding the Shinkansen… everyone has their favorite go-to spots.
Talking about travel tends to be more relaxed than talking tech, and people’s faces usually light up much faster.
As for politics — a topic often stirred up here in Taiwan — I generally avoid discussing it and have no desire to convince anyone.
Sometimes, it’s enough just to listen. Differences in opinion aren’t a big deal; what matters more is keeping the conversation comfortable.
If you won two free plane tickets, where would you go?
Honestly, I already have a trip to Japan planned next month. Travel isn’t something I’m lacking at the moment.
But if I suddenly got two extra round-trip tickets to anywhere in the world?
The first place that comes to mind is Neuschwanstein Castle — because I remember my partner once said they’d love to see it in person. That fairy-tale-like castle tucked away in the hills of southern Germany feels like a scene from a dream, and I’d love to be there together.
Still… once the idea takes root, wanderlust kicks in hard.
What about Antarctica, with its endless white landscapes and penguins waddling by?
Or the sacred monasteries of Tibet, high up in the mountains where the air is thin and the mind feels quiet?
Maybe even the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, the Pyramids and Sphinx in Egypt, or the vast, awe-inspiring Grand Canyon in the U.S.?
So many places, each calling out in a different voice.
In the end, it might not matter exactly where.
As long as we’re going there together, that’s enough.
It wasn’t given to me by my parents, but by my grandfather.
When I was little, I was constantly moving—running around, full of energy and laughter. My grandfather used to chuckle and say I was “really mischievous,” or in Chinese, very pi. Eventually, he just started calling me “Xiao Pi.” It stuck.
I still remember how he’d sit in his rattan chair, sipping tea and calling out, “Pi Pi, come here!”
And like clockwork, I’d run over and cling to his arm.
One of my most vivid memories is a toy he gave me—something that looked like a futuristic space transport truck. It had six wheels and a hidden wind-up mechanism on top. When I turned it, the toy would slowly roll forward on its own. I thought it was the coolest thing ever—like a space vehicle that could move by itself. I’ve kept it all these years. Every time I see it, it feels like he’s right there again, smiling at me.
A few years ago, my grandfather passed away.
The day before he left us, he was still in the hospital, but remarkably full of spirit. He smiled, chatted with us, and felt just like the grandfather I had always known—strong, warm, and steady.
So now, whenever someone calls me “Xiao Pi,” I smile a little.
Brassai Kao’s Tech Weave 