Love, Actually
“I cannot believe that anyone can deserve you…”
“I could not have parted with you, my Lizzie, to anyone less worthy.”
The Father’s heart is so tender and so kind towards me. I do not know quite how to react.
It’s so strange—the feeling of being held by my flesh-and-bones father. Just as I had finished watching “Pride and Prejudice” and had been left reflecting on the Father’s heart towards me, I was interrupted by my brother’s announcement that he was ready to give our parents their gifts.
After all the tearing and crinkling of the papers and the discovery of the treasures they had hidden so well, I followed Richard’s lead and approached each parent to give a hug and say “Merry Christmas.” My mom was still busy uncovering her gift from the bag she held in her left hand; she paused to give me a cheerful but not-quite-hearty hug with her free arm and returned my sentiments.
As I went in to hug my father, I postured myself for what I knew would be a more substantial hug. There always seems to be a part of me that longs to just be held by my father. And secretly I know that if he could, he would hold me forever. It hasn’t always been so (at least not apparently so), but it’s been for long enough for me to take notice. It’s a revelation that I feel should warm my heart but somehow ends up sparking a subtle yet effectual fear instead. I am allowed perhaps a moment of feeling, and then my heart quickly withdraws back into its chamber, as if on cue. Needless to say, I’m always the first one to pull away. There is a dull ache that I feel, knowing that I am not just pulling myself but pushing him away at the same time.
We embraced, and this time around, I managed to say “I love you” because I knew that, even if he wouldn’t show it, those words mean so much to him. Just to know that, in spite of everything we’ve been through and all the ways he feels that he doesn’t measure up perhaps, I still love him. In these moments, my mostly-silent father (the one I used to think could only use his vocal cords to yell at me) speaks volumes without any words.
I remember many times when, after a weekend visit home, he and my mom would send me off with more fruit than I could consume in several lifetimes. It would usually be dark out—and cold, thanks to our beautiful seaside hometown. My mom, my dad, and I would make several trips out to my car to pack up my trunk. I would often be frustrated because I was in a hurry to get back and had bickered with my mom about what to bring and was mad at myself for not being a better daughter.
But then, after everything was packed, my mom would go back in and stand at the doorway and I would either wave or go in to hug her before I left. My dad would always come out onto the driveway in the cold, even if he was in just his pajamas and a bathrobe. And he would stand there and wait for me to come to him and give him a hug before I left. And after I pulled away, I would quickly get into my car and drive off as my parents watched and waved. Sometimes my dad wouldn’t let me leave until he wiped my windshield or cleaned my car for me somehow. I would often get annoyed because I was late to get to something else, but I learned to acquiesce.
There were times when, after I drove off, I would begin to weep in the car because I was so touched by how much he loved me and wished I knew how to love him back. And mixed in with all that would be a sense of connectedness to this proud, stubborn man showing himself in a rare moment of vulnerability—a moment when I imagine that a small opening in his heart discloses just a piece of his life’s history. When all the pain and suffering that has shaped him into the man that he is today—the weakness and brokenness that he has bottled up for so long—makes an impactful appearance as though they were scenes being projected from the opening onto a small movie screen.
Why is it that when I feel his love, I also feel such sadness for him? He’s trying so hard, but he hardly knows how. Whereas I have been given so much, yet I am afraid to give it. Even though it—love—is the only thing that can change us all—for good.
It scares me to write about this because it makes it more real.
Reflections on “home”
What is it about the onset of cold weather that always seems to evoke romantic feelings? Not necessarily romantic in the need-to-find-a-man sense, though that could also be true, but romantic in the settling-in-on-a-comfy-recliner-next-to-your-bedroom-window-overlooking-a-harbor and-reading-a-good-book-or-pondering-life sense. Something about the whistling of the wind and the dampness of the ground makes you that much more certain that you are alive. And somehow you can’t erase the smile that creeps across your face when you finally come in off the cold street into the warmth of your home. It didn’t feel this warm before, but being in the cold made you see how warm it truly was.
The warmth of home is something that cannot be bought or imitated. As much as we rebel and we complain and we look for replacements, Dorothy was right—there is no place like home. How cliché, huh? This must be followed by some sappy reflections on how fine and dandy family is—but no. Truth be told, we fight, we hurt each other, we struggle to understand, sometimes it takes every ounce of patience in our bodies to keep ourselves in check, it’s hard to tell each other the truth, the list could go on and on. And for twenty-some-odd years of my life, I thought that meant that we didn’t really love each other. How silly of me…love? Easy? Hah!
What exactly is this warmth we speak of? Shades of acceptance, a measure of solidness…reaching but not quite there. Perhaps it would be better left undefined for now. What about home? And what does it mean to find one in the midst of a world of homeless people? You’d be surprised. That guy sitting in the cubicle next to you? He looks like an accountant, but he’s actually a homeless man wearing an accountant’s mask. He’s been wandering aimlessly for 40 years of his life, waiting for someone to come and bring him home. That woman who lives down the street? The one with the shiny car and the beautiful kids? She’s actually a prostitute who sold her body (and her soul) to a rich man who told her they could make a home together. It’s been twenty years, and she’s still searching.
Is that why the holiday season is such a commercial success? Because something about wool coats/Christmas trees/tinsel/eggnog/Christmas carols/turkey eases a bit of that ache in the gut? The nostalgic longing for a home that perhaps we never had…and yet, a remembrance of it…
Note to self:
Let yourself stew a bit in that in-between place, that uncertain space where the pieces haven’t really come together yet, where the thesis statement hasn’t been written yet. Allow yourself to write from that place—be willing to go wherever it takes you—and there you will find your most honest voice. Because such is life. Try to refrain from being didactic (ironic, I know). Or too self-aware. That always ruins everything. Resist the urge to tie everything together into a nice package with a bow on top. But always tell the truth. Dig deep and wait til’ it comes to you.
Details in the Fabric
On a whim, I decided to stop by Anthropologie during my lunch break today to check out the sale section. I half-expected to find something really special and half-expected to find nothing at all. I grabbed a few things to try on and ultimately fell in love with a pair of darkish (could’ve sworn they were black but the tag said blue) belted twill pants.
They were cute, fit me perfectly, and were super comfy to boot! I quickly paid and rushed out the door to make it back to work in time. It wasn’t until later that I discovered this:
And this:
No wonder they fit so well! 
I think these pants will be a perfect complement to my warrior shoes…
“shoes fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace”
I never seem to know what I’m getting myself into haha…
I apologize that this entry must seem very cryptic to all but a few.
P.S. Since it’s late and I can’t seem to figure out how to embed audio in this blog, you’ll just have to imagine that the song by Jason Mraz which is the namesake of this entry is playing in the background.
Jekyll/Hyde ;)
The assembly line must have missed me.
When they threw out the ones whose eyes were too small
Whose chests bore a striking resemblance to a wall
Those whose thighs were just a little too wide
And had flab plumping up their sides
Who had too many red dots on their face
Too many scars that could be traced
“Just air out your dirty laundry over here.”
We’ve all heard it said before
That beauty comes from within
But what does it really mean?
The blemish itself cannot be called beautiful
The definition of a blemish is “a noticeable imperfection”
Noticeable is the key word
Noticeable is not good, right?
So we squeeze and we buff and we conceal
Hoping that if the former part of the definition cannot be changed
At least the latter may be wiped from our collective memory.
***
Topics to read about (recommendations welcome):
Socialism
Communism
Hitler
Chinese cultural history
Asian American history
Biographies of various women
Health/nutrition/detox
New media
***
It’s funny. I was at Starbucks during my lunch break today.
When I walked in I saw two slightly dorky-looking guys in blue polo shirts chatting over some coffee at a table to the right of the cashier’s counter. As I removed my sunglasses and approached the counter, I noticed at least one of the guys checking me out. And I thought to myself, why is he checking me out when I’m not even wearing any makeup today?
After I placed my order, I rushed off to the bathroom to (1) pee and (2) check myself out and see what all the fuss was about. Hah. After I did my business in the toilet area, I found myself staring (but not too intently, mind you) at my face and thought, “Not bad, I’ve had worse days.”
But then I noticed the funny thing. The small but determined angry-pimple-army that had broken out on my face during the toxic cruise was concentrated only on my left cheek. And even the once-massive, now-scarring bump on my chin was skewed to the left side. So essentially if you were on my right side, my face would look pretty darn clear. And if the lighting was right, you might even call it smooth.
Though I have no idea whether that was a factor in this guy’s interest, I found it a funny possibility to ponder—my own two-facedness. I made sure to pass him on my left side on the way back (not that hard considering he was still in relatively the same place) and wished I could look back to see what his reaction was.
***Disclaimer: The army is angrier and the bump bumpier than it looks in the photo. Still working on my photography skills hehe.***
Detox
Chronicle of my September:
-Move home, check
-Survive the greatest physical feat of my life thus far, check
-Spend a week eating, sleeping, and sightseeing my way through the Mexican Riviera with my family and a bunch of overweight people (no offense if that’s possible), check
Now I mention the fat folks not to belittle them but because it was such a noticeable phenomenon that it set off a whole series of reflections upon the American mentality, of which I have been a willing partaker for 24.5 years of my life.
To give you a little background…I’ve always been relatively skinny and have never concerned myself with weight much until recent months, when I began to spy a suspiciously donut-like ring developing around my midsection. I blame sitting in a cubicle for eight hours a day.
However, even though I’ve never been truly fat, I have suffered through a variety of other maladies throughout my life, including allergies, chronic fatigue, chronic cough, headaches, chronic tension in my shoulders/neck/back, indigestion, cramps, and bloating to name a few. For allergies, the doc gave me some nasal spray and told me I could try allergy shots once or twice a week for at least a year—but it might not even work. For fatigue, no one really told me anything useful except to exercise and drink more water. So I started exercising (and even hiked Half Dome), but it just made me more tired. For headaches and cramps, I had my pick between Tylenol, Advil, Motrin, and Midol. For muscle tension, I made Anita or some other loyal friend give me massages. For acne, I started by trying a bunch of different cleansers and topical creams from the drugstore. Then I started getting facials from a Chinese lady who would extract my blemishes with sharp metal tools from the comfort of her home. Did that on and off for the past six or so years until it got too expensive. When I couldn’t get rid of the nasty little guys, I’d resort to makeup to cover them up, but no product seemed to work to my satisfaction.
Okay, that was more than “a little” background, but I just want y’all to understand where I’m coming from and the pattern I fell into of just trying to manage the symptoms of my physical maladies. I sort of bounced back and forth between not even noticing how bad I felt constantly because I was just used to it and trying to get help/fix it but finding no viable solution. I’m also very stubborn and hate things that are painful or hard or take more than five minutes. (Note that I dragged my feet through Half Dome prep and didn’t really do much except run a bit beforehand.)
But I’ve finally reached the point in my life where I’ve determined that my body feeling miserable and fighting against me all the time is just not okay. There were a lot of little things that led up to this point, but ironically the turning point was on the cruise, when I attended a seminar about detoxing your body.
Basically the trainer was talking about how the first step to getting your body healthy (before nutrition and before exercise) is getting rid of all the toxins that have built up over the years from eating processed foods, using unfiltered water, being stressed, overmedicating, using deodorants and cosmetics loaded with chemicals, and the like. That without that foundation, nutrition wouldn’t be enough and exercise would just plateau and make you feel lethargic. It shocked me to hear that it takes the liver something like three weeks to break down one packet of Splenda and that the pH of diet soda is not far from that of battery acid. No wonder I’m always tired—I drink a couple cups of coffee with Splenda every day, not to mention all the other toxins I’ve eaten without a care.
I also remember watching a documentary called “America, the Beautiful” that talked about how women in America are using tons of cosmetics composed of hazardous chemicals. UGH.
Typical of the American mentality I mentioned earlier. It’s all about living in the now, doing what feels good now or makes you look good now with no concern for how we are poisoning ourselves, not to mention our environment.
If you have a problem, there’s a medication for that. Depression? No worries. Just take this pill (which by the way may cause headaches, nausea, backaches, and sometimes suicidal thoughts) to numb the pain without ever dealing with the deeper issues. Don’t get me wrong—I believe in medicine and know people close to me who take depression medication.
But my concern is with our tendency to depend solely on medication and avoid the painful process of digging deep and allowing ourselves to deal with the deep, dark crap that lies beneath the surface. I liken it to using topical treatment every time you get a pimple but never detoxing your body and avoiding the greasy foods that cause you to break out in the first place. Then slathering pore-clogging makeup all over it so no one can see.
We’re all so busy trying to fix ourselves… “if I just lose a couple pounds maybe that guy will notice me” or “if I sleep with him maybe he won’t leave me”…”I know this makeup will cover up my huge pores”… “if I work a little harder I’ll get that promotion”… “if I do some charity work I won’t have to feel guilty about being well off”… “maybe this baby will save our marriage” … or if you’re churched, “maybe if I pray for some more people or have this person pray for me or lead this worship team or lead this many people to Christ or get rid of this vice” while trying convince everyone else through botox-injected smiles that we’re doing great—just fine, thank you very much. When how many of us are secretly dying inside because that thing we thought would fix us just wasn’t enough?
Heck, I’ve been in the midst of a personal detox process myself, and let me tell you, it hasn’t been pretty at all. I feel like I’m shitting in my pants all the time, to put it crudely. Alllll my issues that I’ve tried to repress in some way or another for years are being exposed, all the toxins coming to the surface…the insecurities, the fears, the doubts, the loneliness, the bitterness, the confusion, the hatred, the lust, the depression, the hopelessness, etc etc. If it were up to me, I’d probably be slitting my wrists or jumping off the Vincent Thomas Bridge by now.
But thankfully, it’s not on me—not at all. Sure, I have to want it and surrender to it—the cleansing/detoxing process—in order to find myself healed and whole. But you know what? Jesus is shining his light into these darkest of places, loving me when I can only hate myself; he’s cleansing and healing me. I don’t know quite how to explain it except that I feel like a schizophrenic person, as He reaches down deep and reveals a forgotten pain but then washes over me with His words, leaving me alternately in tears and laughter. And then it happens again.
But I feel so vulnerable to temptations as well; but every time I fall, He welcomes me back with arms of mercy. I don’t know quite what to do with myself except to just let Him love me. The hardest thing for me to grasp is that He’s not cleansing and healing me so that I can be perfect and somehow more loveable. But that somehow He already sees me as perfect and beautiful and loveable, with all the crap hanging out and all. What?? This one always gets me:
“You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” -Jesus in the Bible
Time to get out of the freakin rat race. Whatever that means to you. And time to just LET HIM LOVE YOU (I say to myself).
On the possibility of resurrecting this blog or starting a new one…
Why do I have such a love-hate relationship with blogs? Haha I feel as though I’m bursting at the seams with things I would like to write about. Met up with an old friend this week…had me hearkening back to the good ol’ days of high school newspaper, when writing articles was for me (hold your breath if you value journalistic integrity) essentially a personal soapbox. Give me a topic and I could tell you exactly what was wrong with it and why I thought so. Haha, the days of Holden-Caufield-inspired cynicism were kinda fun, though rather bleak as well.
If I were to be completely honest with you, I could do the same thing today…take anything and rip it to shreds. But what would be the point of that? Sigh, the last thing I want to do is be a Debbie Downer, always complaining about everything from behind he comfort of my personal (or in this case work) computer screen. Or an Arrogant Arnold (just made that up), thinking that I know better than everyone else out there. However, I really need some sort of outlet for all these thoughts and ideas and responses that come up from living in this world, observing things, reading articles (thanks, Jane), etc. I’m gonna call it an “exploration” of the mysteries of this world….shared musings that all are free to comment on.
Part of me feels an urge…well, not an urge so much as an inclination to limit myself to certain topics or even keep separate blogs for separate topics. It’s part of this larger issue of feeling discomfort at living in the tension that exists at the nexus of opposing worlds. Does that even make sense? I know these parts of me are not meant to be disparate and that somehow they are all meant to work in harmony. That God is not a topic that can only be discussed in church. That art, intellectual musings, politics, pop culture, and the like are not somehow unholy topics. But what if my nonchristian friends discover that I really love Jesus a lot and think about Him all the time? Or what if my Christian friends find out that I’m really not praying all day but I love to watch So You Think You Can Dance and read random tech blogs or discuss the issues facing Asian Americans and women? It’s kind of ridiculous because it’s impossible to separate these elements of myself, and I really don’t want to. And the truth is, I know my friends love me for me. So why not just lay it all out there?
I think I may be going public hah. Whatever that means. Get ready for me to lay the smackdown! No topic left untouched. (I’ll be nice to your mother.) Muahahahah
All joking aside, I want to try and be consistent with this. (You can do it, INFP!) Does anyone have suggestions? Is wordpress the best or is blogger or something else better?
***EDIT: I just realized that in HS I actually wrote for the Opinion and Entertainment sections, so maybe the soapbox was called for. Haha, just to save my good journalistic name for anyone who cares. But, all the same, thank God for the advent of blogs, where we can say how we really feel. “But what will happen to “objective” reporting?” lament the fallen journalistic giants. Your guess is as good as mine. What is NEW media, anyways?***
how appropriate
In my place, in my place
Were lines that I couldn’t change
I was lost, oh yeah
I was lost, I was lost
Crossed lines I shouldn’t have crossed
I was lost, oh yeah
Yeah, how long must you wait for him?
Yeah, how long must you pay for him?
Yeah, how long must you wait for him?
I was scared, I was scared
Tired and underprepared
But I wait for you
If you go, if you go
Leaving me here on my own
Well I wait for you
Yeah, how long must you wait for him?
Yeah, how long must you pay for him?
Yeah, how long must you wait for him?
Please, please, please
Come on and sing to me
To me, me
Come on and sing it out, out, out
Come on and sing it now, now, now
Come on and sing it
In my place, in my place
Were lines that I couldn’t change
I was lost, oh yeah
Oh yeah
-Coldplay
angst
Shall I attempt to describe
The details of the mess I feel inside?
Lengthy job descriptions full of experiences I don’t have
And expectations I can’t meet
Lofty ambitions composed of unfulfilled longings,
Screaming broken cisterns
A dream of beauty that seems out of reach
Freaking a, when will you come and satiate this ACHE?
Ache ache ache is what I feel
Please don’t break break break my heart
Like the others
You’re different
I know it
I can’t feel it right now
But you say so
And words carry weight
Sometimes I wish I could shut it off
The incoherent, inexpressible scream radiating from my soul
I feel like standing on a ledge and just letting it out
But that won’t be nearly enough
How long must I wait wait wait?
I sound like a child
But that’s what I am
She looked inside her soul and pulled out a measuring tape plastered with thousands of words. “Not good enough…Not pretty enough…Not worthy of love…Only good for sex…Lesser than a man…Always alone…Weird…Too much…Not enough…” She pulled and pulled and pulled until it all came out. And she was free. Finally.
“You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” -God
woke up to this
I don’t mind spending everyday
Out on your corner in the pouring rain
Look for the girl with the broken smile
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile
And she will be loved
She will be loved
Tap on my window knock on my door
I want to make you feel beautiful
sighhh…yes, yes, yes. i will. i believe it, or at least i want to…
crazycrazycrazy
Get out of the game, she thought to herself. Before it’s too late. EEK. Strange noises do not suffice, but they do complement…releases of different feelings that cannot be expressed through words. Haha I guess that’s what tongues kind of do too. God is very smart. (I sound like Yao. ) Why do I feel as though I could write for days on end? I never thought of myself as a “writer” before really. The kind that had to write, like Jane said.
Constantly exploring new expressions of all the craziness that I feel inside, of all that threatens to burst my body apart into a million pieces, leaving words and pictures and emotions and dances and songs and noises and impressions and doodles and longings and dreams and fantasies and screams and…what else?…prayers, of course! (maybe that’s what ive been missing)…suspended in midair. Meh. Can’t let ‘em see all that quite yet. Better restrain myself or find ways to release it bit by bit? Who am I to control anything anyways? Freeeedoooommmmmm! Releaaaaaaaase!
I feel like I’m getting crazier by the minute. Is writing supposed to make me more crazy or less? Or none of the above? Lol, I’m so postmodern. Is that a bad thing?
