[from nov. of 2007]
i guess i never really thought about what it would be like after graduation. at the time i was so wrapped up in a billion things that thinking beyond the 'now' was nearly impossible.
i thought i'd be in seminary school for another three years. my future was all laid out in a series of neat piles. and for a while it made sense.
then one night it didn't make sense anymore.
at the risk of sounding depressed i'd like to say that the key word for 2006 was 'failure.' for 2007 i'd say it was 'reset.'
reset. like the kind you find on those old ninetendo systems.
can't get past the last boss in mario 2? reset. the screen goes all wacky. sometimes it turns green. and then, right on quo, the little 'ninetendo' logo appears and you know you've got another chance.
reset and try again.
sometimes when i played, i'd get so frustrated that i'd just keep pressing reset, reset, reset. as if i was trying to irritate the machine for irritating me.
at 24 thats kinda where i feel like i've taken my life. seminary wasn't going to work. reset. living in st. louis was driving me crazy. reset. new job doesn't feel so new. reset. i'm getting tired of having nothing to do. reset. reset. reset.
i'm done with video games.
i don't think i've ever wanted a year to end so badly. perhaps 2008 will be 'change.' or 'opportunity.' or maybe even 'success.'
don't get me wrong. i believe you've got to taste the bitter before you taste the sweet. i know whatever the frustrations of these last two year my amount to, i'm experiencing it all for a reason. in fact, i'm glad i'm going through all this.
i'm learning. slowly.
i think it would be lame to have a vanilla life. i've never asked for anything to be simple. mainly because i've realized everything worth having is worth struggling to gain. isn't that life?
isn't that how it goes. some days you're king, the next you're the whipping boy. but even the whipping boy gets to work inside a castle.
so, here's to 24, 2008 and learning the hard way.
reset.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
110209
Yesterday I had lunch with an artist in a small, noisy Indonesian restaurant in LA. I sat with my back to the wall trying my hardest to not be distracted by an overwhelming flock of underwhelming, scantily clad females that walked through the single pane glass door. Not watching them made listening near impossible. If it hadn't been for a cup of coffee, I would have been a goner. Turns out, I have the attention span of a house fly. I digress.
As the artist spoke it was evident we weren't meeting to talk. Her voice rose above the haze of mindless cackling, rounded my ridged posture and sank heavily into my ears. She was beautiful and she wanted to dance. Unfortunately, it took me the majority of our conversation to realize this.
Once I caught on, however, it became rhythmic. As her words fused with angst, drive and honesty, I pushed back from the table I cleared the air for her grace. It was like feeding a bonfire that drizzled rain instead of smoke. All I had to do was stoke the flames and enjoy the shower. And so it went, our little dance in that little restaurant, me tossing inquisitive twigs to be consumed, rejoicing in the cooling mist it produced.
In my car on the way home my hands felt light against the steering wheel. I could breath deeply, assuredly and confidently. In this, I found peace.
As the artist spoke it was evident we weren't meeting to talk. Her voice rose above the haze of mindless cackling, rounded my ridged posture and sank heavily into my ears. She was beautiful and she wanted to dance. Unfortunately, it took me the majority of our conversation to realize this.
Once I caught on, however, it became rhythmic. As her words fused with angst, drive and honesty, I pushed back from the table I cleared the air for her grace. It was like feeding a bonfire that drizzled rain instead of smoke. All I had to do was stoke the flames and enjoy the shower. And so it went, our little dance in that little restaurant, me tossing inquisitive twigs to be consumed, rejoicing in the cooling mist it produced.
In my car on the way home my hands felt light against the steering wheel. I could breath deeply, assuredly and confidently. In this, I found peace.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Sarah
I was five years old when I told my mom that I had found my future wife. Her name was Sarah Freeman and she had shiny forehead that extended back to the top of her head. During preschool nap time I'd lay awake thinking of all the ways I could get her attention. But no matter how hard I tried, its seemed there was nothing I could do to satisfy my blossoming romantic inclinations. She, with her button face and disheveled brown hair, was way out of my league. She never spoke to me. In fact, she never spoke to anyone. Its hard, I learned, to have a crush on someone who would rather eat grass alone in the corner of the playground than watch me act out the closing scenes of the latest Ninja Turtles episode. Sarah's silence and grass habit should have been clear indications that a marriage would simply not work. Crushed, I refused to listen as my mom explained that a marriage is for people who are in love. It occurs between adults. When you're older. Much, much older. It was then I declared that I hated love.
That night in the dark while kicking the sheets off my bed, I imagined Sarah and I wondered when she'd notice me. People liked me. My mom liked me, my dad liked me and even Ellie, our bovine dog liked me. Unable to sleep, I slide down to my feet and tip toed to the door. A burst of light turned my world white. Everyone was still awake, except for me! I peered down the hallway. I could hear the mumble of the evening news from downstairs. Someone was listening to Billy Joel behind a closed door holding a sign that read "2 legit 2 quit." Suddenly, the bright lights became heavy against my eyes and had an urge to lay down. So I did. Right there in the middle of the hallway.
It wasn't the first time I woke up in my big brother's arms. In the past year I developed a habit of crawling into his bed when I couldn't sleep in mine and he was still downstairs doing homework. His room was bigger and the floor was cleaner. His pillows were softer, his sheets crispier. I never had a problem drifting away when nestled in the grand expanse of his bedroom. His fifteen year old arms picked me up from the hallway floor, carried me into my room and laid me down with ease. As he clicked the door shut, I dreamily thought of Sarah and her forehead and my mom's words. I hate love, I mumbled. Maybe Sarah did, too. And for a moment, I was at peace.
That night in the dark while kicking the sheets off my bed, I imagined Sarah and I wondered when she'd notice me. People liked me. My mom liked me, my dad liked me and even Ellie, our bovine dog liked me. Unable to sleep, I slide down to my feet and tip toed to the door. A burst of light turned my world white. Everyone was still awake, except for me! I peered down the hallway. I could hear the mumble of the evening news from downstairs. Someone was listening to Billy Joel behind a closed door holding a sign that read "2 legit 2 quit." Suddenly, the bright lights became heavy against my eyes and had an urge to lay down. So I did. Right there in the middle of the hallway.
It wasn't the first time I woke up in my big brother's arms. In the past year I developed a habit of crawling into his bed when I couldn't sleep in mine and he was still downstairs doing homework. His room was bigger and the floor was cleaner. His pillows were softer, his sheets crispier. I never had a problem drifting away when nestled in the grand expanse of his bedroom. His fifteen year old arms picked me up from the hallway floor, carried me into my room and laid me down with ease. As he clicked the door shut, I dreamily thought of Sarah and her forehead and my mom's words. I hate love, I mumbled. Maybe Sarah did, too. And for a moment, I was at peace.
Compost
Q: What are your thoughts on religion?
A: From as young as I could remember until I was 12, my parents took me to church. Concordia Lutheran Church is in my memories a house of boredom. Many times I'd fain some sort of ailment and my Dad would have to carry me out to the bathroom. These breaks often lead to father-son mini-adventures. Once freed some our prison pews, my Dad would look down at me with an unmentioned sense of relief saying, "want to explore?" Turns out my Dad disliked the house of boredom almost as much as I did. For a long time that was religion: adventures with Dad.
When I was 15 I agreed to go to Colorado with a next door neighbor on a "hiking trip." I'd never been to Colorado, much less hiking, so I was ecstatic. The trip sounded awesome; 6 days, 5 nights in the wilderness, stars so bright they'd wake you up in the night, and a chance to get away from Kirkwood during the summer. I was sold. Over the course of the trip I alongside 8 other high school students and three Christian ministers hiked through some of the most majestic, remote parts of Colorado. Sometimes I'd stop in the middle of the trail to discover an unforced tear streaming down my face. It was that beautiful. In that setting anyone can be convinced of anything. They could have told me they were all aliens and I was their political prisoner and I would have just wiped the tears from my eyes and nodded my head. When I returned home I promptly sat my parents down at the kitchen table and declared that I had "accept Jesus into my life."
When we got back to Kirkwood I started attending the hiker's church. All was fine for about a year. I loved my youth group leader, he made me laugh and we ate burgers together and talked about girls. I couldn't sing, but I like that the services had music that was sung by real people in a real band and not some dude in a bathrobe--as was the case at Concordia. The hiker's church seemed hip, exciting and refreshing. All was fine and dandy until I realized I was brown.
The summer following my Colorado Christian conversion, I attended a leadership conference held by NCCJ (the National Conference for Community and Justice). It was called Anytown. At this conference each day was devoted to a different "ism." Monday was racism, Tuesday sexism, Wednesday classism etc. For a week I sat through workshops that spelled out systems of oppression, internalized racism and the ways in which dominant groups of people maintain their dominance over other groups of people. I was shocked. It was as if the blanket had been pulled back from atop my head and I could not only see, but I could breath. It was frighteningly amazing. I finally felt like I had the words to describe my experiences. The world became a different shade of color. Gray spots appeared all over my life and for the first time I started to wonder why I was adopted. And once those gates opened I lost all control over the way I saw my life. The bubbled had burst and I was standing in a pool of self denial. Thats when I noticed something interesting; I noticed Whiteness. It was everywhere! Everyone was white! Even Jesus (I'm pretty sure Jesus was Arab)! My shoes? White shoes. My bleached hair? White hair. My parents, family and everyone I had ever loved? White.
I felt trapped. I felt like I was lying to myself. Like my life was costume. I felt so detached from anything Filipino that I didn't even know I was Filipino. That was the saddest thought of all. There was a part of me that was dying. It was then I discovered that if God exists, He/She/It is bigger than Kirkwood, white people or even my sadness. This has always given me a sense of comfort. God is separate from what people make of God.
I've always sensed that there was a God, or something larger than myself. And more importantly, that God, Goddess, Being, Buddha, Muhammad or Spirit is in control. There is a balance. There is order. But there is also chaos. But not because the Spirit in control is demonic or like pain, but because pain and suffering make people human. At the end of the day God is there but more often than not, I'm too lazy to say hello. I should work on that.
I like Christianity because I understand it historically. I like the Bible as a teachable work of art--not some sort of brick to be thrown at strangers, aka "evangelism." And as odd as it seems, Christianity is familiar. Familiar like a compost heap. I understand compost. I know how it works. I think its a beautiful symbol of humanity. But I don't go around making compost everywhere, nor do I want to see compost everywhere. And I certainly refuse to take composting too seriously. Know what I mean? And honestly, I find it hard to not laugh at anyone who takes God too seriously (if indeed God/Goddes is the creater of the universe, people and all the things people do, I'd be willing to wager that God has the best sense of humor).
A lot of people go to church and they get all serious (or they pretend to be serious) about God and life and religion that they forget to listen. I don't go to church because of this. I can't tell you how many times I've gone to a new church and the first thing someone asks me is if I'm Christian. Most of the time I smile and quickly assure them that my soul is A-Ok. But one of these days I'm gonna lose it and pretend like I didn't hear them. What? Can you speak up? I didn't hear you the first forty seven times you asked about my relationship with Jesus.
I guess I look like I need to be saved. I'm saving material. People scan the pews, spot me and squeeze their Bibles till their fingers turn pink.
So, my thoughts on religion? I'm as religious as compost heap.
A: From as young as I could remember until I was 12, my parents took me to church. Concordia Lutheran Church is in my memories a house of boredom. Many times I'd fain some sort of ailment and my Dad would have to carry me out to the bathroom. These breaks often lead to father-son mini-adventures. Once freed some our prison pews, my Dad would look down at me with an unmentioned sense of relief saying, "want to explore?" Turns out my Dad disliked the house of boredom almost as much as I did. For a long time that was religion: adventures with Dad.
When I was 15 I agreed to go to Colorado with a next door neighbor on a "hiking trip." I'd never been to Colorado, much less hiking, so I was ecstatic. The trip sounded awesome; 6 days, 5 nights in the wilderness, stars so bright they'd wake you up in the night, and a chance to get away from Kirkwood during the summer. I was sold. Over the course of the trip I alongside 8 other high school students and three Christian ministers hiked through some of the most majestic, remote parts of Colorado. Sometimes I'd stop in the middle of the trail to discover an unforced tear streaming down my face. It was that beautiful. In that setting anyone can be convinced of anything. They could have told me they were all aliens and I was their political prisoner and I would have just wiped the tears from my eyes and nodded my head. When I returned home I promptly sat my parents down at the kitchen table and declared that I had "accept Jesus into my life."
When we got back to Kirkwood I started attending the hiker's church. All was fine for about a year. I loved my youth group leader, he made me laugh and we ate burgers together and talked about girls. I couldn't sing, but I like that the services had music that was sung by real people in a real band and not some dude in a bathrobe--as was the case at Concordia. The hiker's church seemed hip, exciting and refreshing. All was fine and dandy until I realized I was brown.
The summer following my Colorado Christian conversion, I attended a leadership conference held by NCCJ (the National Conference for Community and Justice). It was called Anytown. At this conference each day was devoted to a different "ism." Monday was racism, Tuesday sexism, Wednesday classism etc. For a week I sat through workshops that spelled out systems of oppression, internalized racism and the ways in which dominant groups of people maintain their dominance over other groups of people. I was shocked. It was as if the blanket had been pulled back from atop my head and I could not only see, but I could breath. It was frighteningly amazing. I finally felt like I had the words to describe my experiences. The world became a different shade of color. Gray spots appeared all over my life and for the first time I started to wonder why I was adopted. And once those gates opened I lost all control over the way I saw my life. The bubbled had burst and I was standing in a pool of self denial. Thats when I noticed something interesting; I noticed Whiteness. It was everywhere! Everyone was white! Even Jesus (I'm pretty sure Jesus was Arab)! My shoes? White shoes. My bleached hair? White hair. My parents, family and everyone I had ever loved? White.
I felt trapped. I felt like I was lying to myself. Like my life was costume. I felt so detached from anything Filipino that I didn't even know I was Filipino. That was the saddest thought of all. There was a part of me that was dying. It was then I discovered that if God exists, He/She/It is bigger than Kirkwood, white people or even my sadness. This has always given me a sense of comfort. God is separate from what people make of God.
I've always sensed that there was a God, or something larger than myself. And more importantly, that God, Goddess, Being, Buddha, Muhammad or Spirit is in control. There is a balance. There is order. But there is also chaos. But not because the Spirit in control is demonic or like pain, but because pain and suffering make people human. At the end of the day God is there but more often than not, I'm too lazy to say hello. I should work on that.
I like Christianity because I understand it historically. I like the Bible as a teachable work of art--not some sort of brick to be thrown at strangers, aka "evangelism." And as odd as it seems, Christianity is familiar. Familiar like a compost heap. I understand compost. I know how it works. I think its a beautiful symbol of humanity. But I don't go around making compost everywhere, nor do I want to see compost everywhere. And I certainly refuse to take composting too seriously. Know what I mean? And honestly, I find it hard to not laugh at anyone who takes God too seriously (if indeed God/Goddes is the creater of the universe, people and all the things people do, I'd be willing to wager that God has the best sense of humor).
A lot of people go to church and they get all serious (or they pretend to be serious) about God and life and religion that they forget to listen. I don't go to church because of this. I can't tell you how many times I've gone to a new church and the first thing someone asks me is if I'm Christian. Most of the time I smile and quickly assure them that my soul is A-Ok. But one of these days I'm gonna lose it and pretend like I didn't hear them. What? Can you speak up? I didn't hear you the first forty seven times you asked about my relationship with Jesus.
I guess I look like I need to be saved. I'm saving material. People scan the pews, spot me and squeeze their Bibles till their fingers turn pink.
So, my thoughts on religion? I'm as religious as compost heap.
Moses
In any honest pursuit of love, one must begin with parents. It is through them that we learn the ways of our hearts.
My parents died when I was three and half. But, to be honest, saying they're died isn't completely true. It wasn't a car accident, they weren't lost hiking. They just both happened to disappear from my life at the exact same time. They could be alive and I just don't know. But how alive can anyone truly feel when you don't have any memories of them? But beyond memories, there is the unquestionable truth of a child's bond to his or her parents. They may both be gone, but I am flesh of their flesh. I lived, heart to heart, with one of them for nine months. For this reason and many more, I will always bear their sorrow. I know I am incomplete and if either one of them has even a fraction of a human heart, they too are incomplete.
Romance subsists on the notion that we all--each and everyone of us--has a soul mate; someone who completely, unquestionably satisfies our most obscure needs. The hope and faith that this individual 1. exists and 2. has hope and faith in us is central to the romantic heart. This enabling force guides us through the dark. And as we, time after time, crash into a constant barrage of our own let down and betrayal, our only immediate consolation is the ability to share our scars, tracing them with our fingers as we foolishly navigate our blindness, until one day we find ourselves motionless at the feet of our longing.
My biggest challenge is not finding someone to love, rather it is waiting for the right love to emerge on it's own time. I want to be like Moses before the burning bush; so dedicate to truth he'd wait for wisdom from the absurd.
My parents died when I was three and half. But, to be honest, saying they're died isn't completely true. It wasn't a car accident, they weren't lost hiking. They just both happened to disappear from my life at the exact same time. They could be alive and I just don't know. But how alive can anyone truly feel when you don't have any memories of them? But beyond memories, there is the unquestionable truth of a child's bond to his or her parents. They may both be gone, but I am flesh of their flesh. I lived, heart to heart, with one of them for nine months. For this reason and many more, I will always bear their sorrow. I know I am incomplete and if either one of them has even a fraction of a human heart, they too are incomplete.
Romance subsists on the notion that we all--each and everyone of us--has a soul mate; someone who completely, unquestionably satisfies our most obscure needs. The hope and faith that this individual 1. exists and 2. has hope and faith in us is central to the romantic heart. This enabling force guides us through the dark. And as we, time after time, crash into a constant barrage of our own let down and betrayal, our only immediate consolation is the ability to share our scars, tracing them with our fingers as we foolishly navigate our blindness, until one day we find ourselves motionless at the feet of our longing.
My biggest challenge is not finding someone to love, rather it is waiting for the right love to emerge on it's own time. I want to be like Moses before the burning bush; so dedicate to truth he'd wait for wisdom from the absurd.
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