Just Write

Tuesday, May 8th will be my birthday. I will be 25 years old.

The story about my conflicted perspective on my own birthday is the subject for another day (although I will say that it’s been 2 years since my emotional breakdown, and I’m doing fine). It’s hard to believe that I will be 25 so soon. I remember when I was in high school and saw the young adults around me. I thought about how awesome it would be to become a young adult and have a more complete sense of direction, to be better at life. Now that I’ve reached that age, I realized that it’s not as effortless as it might have seemed. My room is still a mess, I have so many emails to go through, I am unemployed, and I’m still trying to figure out a direction in my life.

But I have grown. Even in this past year, I’ve become more confident and self-assured. I’ve embraced myself for who I am made to be in a deeper way. Even if I may not know fully what I want to do in life, I know more what is important to me (community, connection, understanding).

I wonder what I’ll be like when I’m fifty.

I would rather be able to lift my child up into the air in my middle age than have recurring shoulder injuries from too much bench pressing.

I would rather have a strong back to lift heavy boxes when I’m moving than have bulging biceps that serve little useful purpose.

I would rather have a sharp mind in my retirement than suffer the ill effects of concussions while playing heavy contact sports now.

I would rather foster strong relationships with friends and family than spends hours training to run marathons.

I would rather be able to walk in the park with my wife in the twilight of our years than be stricken with knee pains from too much leg training.

I would rather be able to enjoy good sleep than wake up at an ungodly hour to train endlessly.

I would rather enjoy the richness and complexity of food than be obsessive over nutrient profiles, caloric intake, and other archane components of gastronomy.

I mean no disrespect to weightlifters, marathon runners, or any other athletes, professional or amateur. However, in a society that measures fitness according to incredibly stringent standards and bills the incredible physique of elite athletes as the rule rather than the exception, a degree of sanity is important.

I would rather live life healthy, well, and satisfied, than be constantly driven by a gnawing urge to reach some mass-marketed potential form.

Last week my family went to a Korean cultural show in Irvine. Tae Kwon Do demonstrations, traditional Korean drumming, hip hop dance. Last Sunday I saw a friend perform in a concert for his a cappella group.

In watching these performances, I started to wonder - Why do we have shows like this? All of the dancers, artists, and musicians in these shows were students. What practical value do these organizations provide? Would their time be better spent studying to boost their GPA? Learning coding languages to build useful job skills? Doing good works for the betterment of others? What good is it?

I started to think about all the benefits of involvement in performance arts (community development, fostering of creativity, strengthening of discipline), but realized that these approach the question from the same pragmatist angle. The real question that came to mind was:

What does it matter?

Yes, the time that my friend puts into practicing his songs could be spent on serving the poor. Yes, the hours that Sammy the dancer invests into choreography could be focused on studying. Other activities may confer a greater utility.

But life is more complex than a pragmatic perspective. All of these things are a celebration of life. We dance because we can. We sing because we can. There’s nothing practical about joy, exuberance, or happiness, but those are the things that people crave.

Practical works satisfy the body. Celebration satisfies the soul.

Earlier tonight, I was looking over a few photos my friend put on Facebook. She had quite a few pictures of her mother. She had recently lost her mother to disease.

Looking through these pictures, I spotted one with my friend and her mom. Her mom looked so young then, so full of life. She looked kind of like my mom.

I had never lost anyone really important in my life. I’ve never been to a funeral fora family member or a close friend. My parents and grandparents are all doing pretty well, but I still can’t help but wonder what that will be like. 

The loss of a loved one is like heartbreak. You can describe it with words as much as you can, but nothing prepares you for the real thing. Reading or hearing about it is one thing; actually experiencing loss is another thing altogether. In that regard, it’s actually a lot like love (another area I know very little about).

My dad’s younger brother and his wife came to visit us from Korea. During dinner last night, they broke into spontaneous song. My aunt carries a tune wonderfully; her singing voice has all the vigor and life of her ordinary happy chatter. My uncle’s voice is softer, yet filled with a steady courage. Soon, an impromptu karaoke session broke out around the table. My dad’s robust baritone (honed by years of church choir practice) sang out Japanese songs he learned from my grandfather (“hallelujahs” to “yokohamas”), while my aunt and uncle chirped away happily on old Korean pop ballads.

Then my mother brought out an old Korean music book, made her selection, and began to sing. My mother doesn’t have a strong voice, but she has a pleasant, demure tone. Her eyes never left the page; she remained focus. By the time I excused myself from the table, she and my aunt began singing duets together.

It’s like my parents tell me. It’s easy to take life too seriously. Sometimes, you just need to be silly and have fun.

~Edelweiss, edelweiss…every morning you greet me…~

In my dream last night, a morbidly obese Samoan Satanist was adrift in the middle of the ocean, blathering obscenities to his adult love-child daughter. That movie ends by the daughter disemboweling him with a bladed implement.

What’s odd about this (as if it isn’t odd at all?!) is that specific words in that scene (Samoan, Satanist, disemboweling) were not things I saw, but words I remembered retaining in my mind as the scene was unfolding. These were dream specific characterizations.

There was a house where I used to live. Live? No, trapped really. The house had no walls, yet blocked me in. No doors, yet shut me inside. No windows, and no light. The house’s name was Sorrow, and I made my home there for a very long time.

I’m not sure when I moved in, when I arranged my things on the mantlepiece and put up my clothes and made a place for myself there. I just remember that I was there for the longest time. It was a strangely comforting place. Even in the midst of the terrible aching that was the constant theme, there was a disturbingly easy sense of familiarity. As much as the walls fenced me in, they were my walls. As much as the doors shut others out, those were my doors.

I had come to believe that the underlying theme of my life is constant melancholy and sorrow, and that any experience of happiness, joy, or fulfillment was but a fleeting illusory moment that will quickly pass away, leaving only the sadness that is my ultimate destiny, and that to believe otherwise is a naive attempt to escape from reality.

I used to live in a house called Sorrow. But I don’t live there anymore. I’m in the Lord’s house now. And it is a good thing indeed.

Last night I had a dream.

In my dream, I was chatting with a dear friend (I won’t say who, but I already told him this story). We were sharing stories from years past, when he gave a long, defeated sigh.

“You know, there’s something that I’ve never told you. Never told anyone.” He had a pained expression, and it was clear that he was speaking from a place of deep regret.

“Years ago, I was in a really bad place in my life. I felt so lonely and distant from everyone. So I went out, and spent money on…Well, I didn’t want to feel so lonely, so…I spent money on a prostitute. I spent money on sex.”

He hung his head low. I didn’t know what to say. I had never heard him speak about this, and was honestly at a loss for words. Then he raised his head and continued.

“And now, I found out that I had a son through her. He’s here, actually. Would you like to meet him?”

He turned around and gestured behind him, and around the corner came…a baby kangaroo.

I said “Ah, I can see the resemblance. At least, as much resemblance as there can be with a kangaroo.” Then I woke up.

So did I just dream that a friend had a child with a kangaroo? Seems like it.

Sometimes, I see the stream of different conversations and connections among people on Facebook, and get a bit jealous. It’s almost as if all these people are in on some fabulous social orbit, a higher level of connectivity that is just outside my grasp. It seems as if I am once again left out, disconnected from everyone else (is that just me or is it the paranoia?)

Then I realize, no, people’s lives are actually pretty dull, and there’s not much going on, and get somewhat spooked out by that.

But the reality is that life is beautiful, love is true, and that trying to make social observations at 1:00 AM off a social networking website is just silly.