Generally, when I hear people talk 'variety' they're not very far from adding, "is the spice of life!" Indeed, it is, but just how many spices are there?
To my discredit, I just began dabbling in the arts of the kitchen, not always very well, but I have made a few tasty things, I think, although, note to self: never make family pumpkin-flavored things because they do not like pumpkin.
It's just that lately life keeps surprising me with its variety.
The other day I asked one of my students if she remembered my name, and she answered, "Of course not!" as if I needed a more definite way of saying 'no'. Then this weather- could the clouds dump any more on my icebox-where-my-heart-used-to-be-oh-OH! And this is the variety in my life, not even the variety of the lives I am privileged to interact with and I have been trying to be a part of a few more lives than I'm used to.
This isn't going to be about a post about how to get more empathy, or how to stop being boring, or five easy steps to do something in a more awesome way. No, right now, all I'm talking about is the very beginning: notice, watch, observe because that's all it takes to see variety. Even in 'cookie cutter' homes, like townhouses, maybe right down your street, have you ever really looked in those homes? Now, don't, like, you know, creep on the families, but think of it this way: it's hard to tell apart one bear from another, but it's pretty easy to tell apart one person from another, even with twins, Doppelgangers, and wannabes, everyone is different. And all those differences live in, generally, the same communities, or at least on the same planet.
Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really merely commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the planning, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chain of events, working through generations and leading to the most outer results, it would make fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable. -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes: A Case of Identity
How many spices are there? I don't know, but let me tell you, apparently salt is not one of them and if salt is not one of them, goodGod, I haven't even grazed the surface of the variety of Life- these lives I am privileged to interact with.
there are faces i see that i truly admire.
the mouth, the eyes,
but what is behind them?
i'm not sure i know what's behind my own.
oh, i feel as though i'm soaring-
i'm riding the wind.
but as a bird
or a paper plane?
birds can die.
they eat worms,
build nests- they live outdoors;
some shriek more than sing.
paper planes can't die,
which means
they can't
live.
birds and paper planes.
which one sees the faces that i truly admire?
the mouth, the eyes?
which one sees behind them?
now i see behind my own
and no longer see flight,
but only a flimsy sheet of directionless chance-
living, but refusing life.
i have loved your face,
but i have not loved you.
paper planes cannot love.
birds might feel pity.
paper planes cannot live.
birds might feel pity.
birds might feel.
i have seen my face-
i sometimes like it.
i do not pretend to wear or read it well,
but
my mouth, my eyes
are not yours for the taking.
Sometimes it is exhausting, all this caring business. Sometimes I wish I didn't care for anything at all. Sometimes I wish that I could be content as a lonely, griping old miser. When I say 'sometimes', I might mean 'all the time'. In the hardest parts of my heart I want nothing to do with problems because I, frankly, just don't like them, and want them to go away.
I also wish, to a certain extent, that I could be the one that makes those problems go away. Sometimes, I think, that by acknowledging the problem and attempting to solve the problem actually makes the problem worse. Godforbid I make anyone's problems worse- that would be unbearable.
And yet, I am no prophetess. Just as we cannot estimate the strength, and therefore damage, of a typhoon, so we cannot estimate the sort and amount of help that will come to those in greatest need.
I have no immediate family that was affected by the typhoon, and I've been a first-world citizen since birth. You know, I shouldn't care...but, I do.
Sometimes it is exhausting, all this caring business. Sometimes I wish I didn't care for anything at all. Sometimes I wish that I could be content as a lonely, griping old miser. But if I am to learn anything from trite hollers of "YOLO" and "Love life" and "Just do it"- just because we trivialize the profound does not make the profound any less profound- obviously the profound is accessible to any person: first-world, second-world, third-world, 3/4-world; Mars.
So, I will care as much as I can, and then attempt to care more.
Don't mind me if I burst.
That's what supposed to happen when you care.
"To
love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and
possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it
to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little
luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of
your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will
change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable,
irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."- from C.S. Lewis'The Four Loves (I'm pretty
sure I quote this all the time.)
“So if there is any
encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the
Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind,
havingthesame love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from
selfish ambition of conceit, but in humilitycountothersmore significant than
yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his interests, but also to theinterestsofothers. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ
Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not countequality with God a
thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant,
being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled
himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, evendeathonacross.
Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above
every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and
on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.” –Philippians 2.1-11
And, how to help? Well, this link is a great list of NGOs, compliments of the Huffington Post, or seriously, just Google it :P Maybe even start your own fundraiser, yeah?
The other night a friend of mine asked me for tips on how to go about rewriting things.
I was honored that he even asked me. So, you know, I gave my advice, which wasn't a whole lot, but enough to get him started; although it was difficult to come up with advice because I'd never thought about how I rewrite- I just rewrite. Then I read his work which he graciously passed onto me. I'd read the first half, which I thoroughly enjoyed, so I was excited to read the second half. After reading it, I came up with much more advice and encouragement.
At first I simply hoped I was giving encouraging advice; he confirmed this hope by gladly and appreciatively accepting them. Yay. I can officially give good writing advice.
I took my third belly dance class tonight. I enjoy it a lot. More than I thought I would, but every time before class: I can't tell you how much I try to convince myself not to take the class; just to focus on something else. But then I take the class, anyway, because I'm like, "What the hell! It's free for me anyway, and besides, I don't want to disappoint the teacher."
During these classes, I am constantly told to "Smile!" or "Stop thinking!"
Smiling is not foreign to me. Hardly. I smile all the time.
No, not thinking is foreign to me. I don't know how not to think. In fact, when I'm told "Stop thinking!" I immediately consider, "What exactly does not thinking entail? Wait, I have to keep my pelvis in neutral position. Oh, -swear words- I'm thinking! I have to stop thinking."
I cannot stop thinking. Especially tonight when we had to freestyle.
BAH!
When I was younger I used to dance all the time. All. The. Time. To put it in perspective: I danced then as much as I think now. Dancing was my form of release- I switched it out for writing in middle school after moving to a new school. I used to love dance. I used to freestyle all the time. I don't know if I was very good at it, but my younger self didn't care.
I informed my teacher of this, and she responded: "Well, you just have to remember your love for dance!"
Too true.
Now, I don't exactly expect to be Shakira if I ever get better at this belly dance-thing, but dancing is my instructor's form of release, as much as writing is my form of release. The way she doesn't think about dancing is the very same I don't think about writing--she just dances; I just write.
So, how do I regain, or at this point, transfer my "Stop thinking!" habits of writing to dance?
Well, for one thing, I ought to be less self-conscious. How many times have you heard that, right? But honestly, of all the worries that my appearance causes me, no one else thinks a quarter of those worries: I freak myself, and no one cares, and rightly so! They either respect me enough, or ignore me enough to think I look all right.
"Oh! I'll look like a fool."
"Shut up, Justine. Kick of your Sunday shoes and go wild."
I mean, I am the person that randomly breaks out into the Macarena on a busy street in Manhattan. I already don't care when dancing the Macarena (although, that also requires absolutely no skill, only a good, steady memory of 90's music), so I need to apply that attitude to the dance studio class. Somehow.
On the surface, writing and dancing don't really have anything in common. But if I enjoy exercising my brain, ought I not also enjoy exercising my body?
And for the record, not thinking in dance class is just another way of saying, "Hey! Be who you are. Stop freaking out that you're doing it wrong, besides you're supposed to make mistakes anyway. We'll help you along."
And, if I can remember my love for dance, I'll be able to better empathize with potential students who are, or want to be, dancers. Win-win!
First things first: Yesterday, I was suddenly in China Town, which, I suppose, shouldn't be all that surprising- I only live fifteen-to-twenty minutes out of the city, but I just thought I was going to walk with my grandparents around the local mall. Nope. They have to go to China Town. Then Brooklyn to drop off their friend. Of course I chauffeured! I can drive through and in the city, but I don't enjoy it. I- I greatly dislike driving through the city. I can't stand it, but I had to do it.
I bought my grandpa some bubble tea-creamy taro :D He was pretty pleased, to say the least.
Yesterday, when I got home from work I wrestled into my pajamas and plopped onto the couch with my mom who was watching television. PBS, actually, a show called 'Making Things-'; this episode was called 'Making Things Faster'. Yay. I was totally geeking-out the entire time, so much so, I wonder why I don't watch this channel more often. Well, anyway, I'm watching this and secretly hoping they'll talk about teleportation, but they never even touched upon it; now, though, I have a new-found respect for delivery persons: travelling salesman problem? Oh, my gosh. Who knew?! I will never again complain if I get a late package- I am more appreciative of your efforts.
Anyway, all that to say this: I've been working on a story pretty consistently for the past six months, and it's pretty exciting (not roller coaster exciting...well, sometimes it's roller coaster exciting) because this story is getting somewhere- it keeps evolving like a real story should.
And as real stories are written, advice is given. Some advice is good. Other advice is horrid. Of all the advice given to me, one is most given: write what you know.
Yay.
Great.
Good idea, good start.
But I only know so much. After a while I have to do research or, well, give up the writing project entirely.
But for this story I've found that everything I do or encounter becomes a part of my research for this story: my spontaneous trip to China Town, and watching PBS' NOVA.
At this point, I can't tell if this is so because either I'm so obsessed with my story that everything relates to it, or that research for writing really does fully inhabit the writer when he or she is, if you will allow, 'in the zone'.
Is that how great writing happens? Everything just becomes a part of the story? Cool.
I hope that if you are a writer, or even if you are not, everything you do and encounter will inspire you. Are not some of the greatest inventions inspired by accidents or by something that had seemed completely irrelevant?
No, I don't believe the question I've placed in the title of this blog can be answered, nor do I intend to answer it. I only intend to bring up more questions.
This is going to sound fairly typical of me, but I am always amazed when I discover things I didn't know that I really should know about, and I've only read the little snippets, and watched 2-3 minute commercials about these things. What surprises me even more is that now that I know, I have the desire to be willfully ignorant; I know that's wrong, and I can't tell you how many times I've fought the urge; I can't tell you how many times awareness has overcome ignorance, but not without a few well-earned battle scars.
Now, that coming from a Christian like me, is a particularly difficult question, but only because if I act upon my awareness I may not be seen as a Christian anymore.
You might ask, "Is that really such a bad thing?"
Well, yes, it's about as bad as someone no longer seeing me as Asian. It's about as bad someone mistaking the stranger next to me for me. A case of mistaken identity is always a bad thing. I have related to Christianity my entire life, and I am not ready to give that up so easily; but how can that mean I remain willfully ignorant of the things that go on around me? That have gone on, and that will go on around me? That's unfair.
People cannot ask me to pick between Christianity and awareness.
When were the two ever separate?
I have reasoned that this is just my personality. I have reasoned that because I like people I like to be aware of what's going on in their lives, and have a growing desire to help them, but I find that the more I desire this the more 'liberal' I become. The more 'worldly'. All the more 'secular'. Oh, if I ever learned to hate something, it is labels--how was I to know that my curiosity and hunger would merit detriment? How was I to know that my interests bordered on heathenism? (I'm not even sure I know what 'heathenism' means, I do believe I just made that up.)
But how can helping people ever be considered heathenism? How can helping people ever merit detriment?
Frankly, if I may, when God became man incarnate...if that's not the most secular thing a deity can do, I don't know what is. So then, if the God I worship became something he detested, perhaps there is some truth to "Faith without deeds is dead", but you could just as easily say "Deeds without faith is dead"!
I'd learned John 3.16 in Sunday school. It read...it still reads, 'For God so loved the world that he gave his only son so that whoever believes in him should not perish but have everlasting life.' You know, I do believe that we emphasize the latter portion of that verse without acknowledging the former. Who does God love? The world. Who's the world? What a perfectly vague and, yet specific answer that is: 'the world'. The world is everyone who's ever lived, who lives, and who will live. How can it mean anything else? Have Christians ever read what happens after John 3.16?
John 3.17, "For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him." Did you read that? He came not to condemn, but to save."
John 3.18, 19, "Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe is condemned already, because he has not believed in the name of the only Son of God. (19) And this is the judgement: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil." What bothers me most about this passage are its interpreters. No, I've not read many interpretations, of course, I haven't, but I have observed that Christians, often unknowingly, separate themselves from the 'dark' world because they have accepted the 'Light of the world'. If Christians are so separate from the 'dark' world then we sing 'This Little Light of Mine' in vain. We read the Bible in vain. We forget that having a light does not make us better than those who have none. In fact, those who have a light are better at seeing their own personal terribleness. I believe the willfully ignoring things that go on around the world also means willfully ignoring the things that go on within yourself. John 3.20, 21, "For everyone who does wicked things hates the light," (surely you've heard of Christians leaving their faith behind, and sometimes I question if it's not The Light they hate, but those who profess to carry that light.) "and does not come to light, lest his works should be exposed. (21) But whoever does that is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out by God." Who carries out the work? God. Always, always God. If to be willfully ignorant of the things in the world is also to be willfully ignorant of the things within yourself, then it is also to be willfully ignorant of the work God wishes to carry through you because in James 2.14-26:
What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? (15) If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, (16)and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? (17)So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead. (18) But someone will say, “You have faith and I have works.” Show me your faith apart from your works, and I will show you my faith by my works. (19) You believe that God is one; you do well. Even the demons believe—and shudder! (20)Do you want to be shown, you foolish person, that faith apart from works is useless? (21) Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered up his son Isaac on the altar?(22) You see that faith was active along with his works, and faith was completed by his works;(23)and the Scripture was fulfilled that says, “Abraham believed God, and it was counted to him as righteousness”—and he was called a friend of God. (24) You see that a person is justified by works and not by faith alone.(25)And in the same way was not also Rahab the prostitute justified by works when she received the messengers and sent them out by another way? (26) For as the body apart from the spirit is dead, so also faith apart from works is dead.
Written in James 4, the only worldliness James ever writes about are mistreating people. "You desire and do not have, so you murder." Yes, murder might the epitome of mistreating people; James never even suggests torture...
I cannot help but think... God became man incarnate to help people. I have heard time and time again in sermons and lectures, and biblical commentaries that God came to help people who do not deserve it, who still don't deserve it, and who never will earn the right to deserve it. I can't remember a time when I was not a part of this undeserving people.
If God asks me to be like his Son, Christ, who went around helping people, why am I deterred by so many who thoroughly believe I am enabling or, worse, conspiring with the world. I still live in this world, what else am I supposed to do?
Even monks who live solitary lives will give aid to any stranger who walks into their sanctuary. If Christ, who never asked for his patients' history (but already knew of it anyway) helped so many, how much more should we (Christian, non-Christian, anti-Christian) help whichever patient comes our way?
Of course this will bring about debate. Hello! This is an imperfect world here, how many dystopias do you need to read and watch before you understand that life this side of death is not going to be perfected, nor is it ever going to be understood. We'll always have age-old questions, dilemmas, and misconceptions.
Then on I shall struggle.
Oh, I'm insane. I know, don't remind me.
^^ if you need a song to remember our duty to the world.
i'm pulling together the threads
that'd seemed to accidental, mismatched.
it couldn't be right.
this isn't the picture i saw on the front of the box.
you want me to sew this together?
what am i even sewing?
what is this?
this piece is too rough.
this piece is too blue.
this piece is not long enough and i've no needle!
no. this can't be right. i saw the picture on the front of box.
this doesn't match.
how am i supposed to bring this altogether?
it couldn't be right
because this isn't right!
but i'm pulling together the threads,
instead of asking how to do it,
and i see now how these threads hold together
woven intricately and entirely meant to be.
oh, this isn't the picture.
it's a part of the picture;
but a corner unseen-
a corner i'd left unnoticed.
i didn't know that corner existed.
what a very important part.
i'll look at the picture again,
just to see what else i've missed.
What's the difference between me as creation and what I create? That is to say, what's the difference between me as created by God, and the things created by me? How is it that I as the creation am, cannot, be greater than the creator, God; but that I must create something greater than myself in order to achieve timelessness? Why are my creations greater than me? Why can God do what he wants with me--no, wait. Let me reword that.
...did God, in some way, make his creation greater than him? And I don't mean to say that having the option to choose evil makes us greater; nor do I mean to say that choosing good makes us greater. What is 'choosing good' compared to 'being good'? There's no Amber Spyglass here.
Perhaps my creations are greater than me because they reflect (or ought to reflect) the eternal things. Like...like love, joy, contentment; peace. God is all these things, which is why L'Engle 'sees God' in every piece, not because it is godly, or because it has missionary intentions to share the gospel, but because every immortal thing will point to the Immortal. Just as every mortal thing will never be remembered--mortal things point to nothing because they've not the strength to point. Besides, God will use any manner to reveal himself to his creation.
We will use any manner to reveal ourselves to others: words or actions; ethical or unethical.
He creates through us, in the same way we might be inspired by heroes who we hope to invoke (either literally or metaphorically) because I am never the one who truly does the work for I always have someone to thank; someone to whom I owe my allegiance, and in effect, my respect--any artist in any field will tell you that. Whatever work we think is 'as great as us' stays within our time, never to ascend with proceeding generations. But at the same time, any art that we know is beyond ourselves may not last (such is the consequence of critics or lack of funds); so, when we diminish art as cheesy, obnoxious, poor, stale...ugly, even, we have no idea what will truly last. I'm sure that there are many artists who wanted certain pieces to achieve fame only to have other pieces they think inconsequential become immortal. Mona Lisa, anyone?
Hmm. We create, hoping our creations will outlive us, not even knowing whether or not our creations want to be immortal.
God creates knowing that each of us want to be immortal, not always physically, no, but to leave enough of a mark to affect at least one person. Positively affect one person--we don't like evil, no matter how much we glamorize it.
Perhaps God allows our creations to extend beyond us to give us a taste of what he tastes when he creates. Our creations, however, when they outrun us, aren't always Frankenstein's monster: God at least named the first man and even allowed the first man, Adam, to name the rest of creation. ...hell, we are not all Dr. Frankenstein's!- we sometimes love our creations to the point of protective insanity.
But if we as impotent artists (who do very badly want to give, or add life, but cannot do so without giving a little of ourselves) can cause the world's heart to palpitate with our voices, our discoveries, how much more should God affect the world with his potency? With his son's resurrected life?
The mortal creates immortality.
The Immortal wants us to conceive immortality, even only a slice of it, not to take immortality, but to know that it can be given.
We make things greater than ourselves to recognize the greatness that surrounds us, if only we would recognize that greatness as God. We won't be 'better' for it, if that's what you're looking for, but I guarantee you will certainly fuller.
Any religious, irreligious, or non-religious person will tell you that from whomever or wherever our morality and desires sprout we want to be affected by the immortal.
We want to touch the stars or topple them.
But science doesn't pick sides. Math doesn't pick sides. Philosophy doesn't pick sides. Language doesn't pick sides. History doesn't pick sides. Music doesn't pick sides. Nature doesn't pick sides. Great, immortal things don't pick sides; though they allow themselves to be twisted into 'picking' by tiny, mortal arms.
The one who speaks on his own authority seeks his own glory; but the one who seeks the glory of him who sent him is true, and in him there is no falsehood. John 7.18 (ESV)
It is easy to admit that I can be impatient with others, which is wrong, but I hardly acknowledge that I am impatient with myself. Whoever willingly notices self-inflicted injuries? Those are embarrassing.
"What happened to your arm?!"
"I, uh...nothing."
"But it's bleeding! Why are you bleeding?"
"Blood means life. It's a good thing I'm alive."
"Are- are those puncture wounds?"
"Vampire."
"On your arm? And there are four holes right next to each other! What happened? Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"No. No hospital."
"What happened?!"
"My fork couldn't find my mouth."
"Why are we still friends?"
But in all seriousness, if it's wrong or rude to be impatient with others, why should I allow myself to be impatient with myself? Why can't I wait? I don't even know where I'm heading, so why rush? I've never liked travelling quickly anyway. I like taking my time, and learning from anything, everything and from anyone I can.
(Which would explain why I can never walk slow or fast enough; talk about walking to the beat of my own drum!)
If my twenties are my prime years, then I should live them well. Sure, I'm always told to 'live while I'm young'; never to take for granted my youth and all the opportunities presented to me, but success isn't reserved for a certain age. Besides, all of my heroes weren't 'famous' or 'successful' until they were much older than my age now. I have my whole life ahead of me. I've had my whole life ahead of me.
You have your whole life ahead of you!
Worry never got anyone anywhere--just a bad case of heart palpitations.
So, I'll live my life well: starting with reading vintage Peanuts comic strips [;
Hey! Snoopy can teach me a lot, and I don't have to pay tuition!
because a few thrown pebbles
might annoy you more than one thrown giant stone.
a pebble can poke your eye,
cause it to bleed,
and you can't get to a sink quickly enough
to wash out the pebble
so,
potentially, you're blind in one eye for the rest of your life,
and everyone you know will call you Pirate Frankie behind your back.
to your face they'll call you by your name.
but behind your back it's Pirate Frankie.
even your tombstone will read Pirate Frankie,
what with your request to be buried with your silkworm silk eye patch
which you made yourself.
you're so proud of that eye patch.
a giant stone
will just completely obliterate you:
break all your bones and
your consciousness.
there's no potential eye-poking,
which means your eye won't bleed
which means you never needed the chance to wash out your eye
to wash out the pebble,
so now
there's no potential to be called Pirate Frankie behind your back.
you won't have ever made your own eye patch!
or its matching accessories!
and your tombstone will just have your name.
your real name.
but your DOB and DOD will be much closer together.
