Beautiful writing

From Thought Catalog, on How You Know:

You want to travel with them. You want to see what they’re like going
through airport security, on planes, in strange countries. You want to
meet their families and charm them to pieces. You want to nestle into
their childhood beds and look around in the dark at all their old
posters. You want to see all the embarrassing photos of them with braces
and socks pulled up mid-calf. You want to hear all the stories about
their drunken nights under the bleachers and their best friend’s jokes.
You want to read all their journals, see how they took notes in high
school. Did they use pen or pencil? What color highlighter? You want to
work with them, just to see them work. You want to go out with them. You
want to make out with them in the bathroom. You always want to touch
them; you want them to always want to touch you.

You find reasons to disentangle yourself from them; it’s only going
to hurt later, you can tell already. You stay up way past your bedtime
for them. You look at the clock and know their schedule. You neglect
other people and other things, and beat yourself up about it. But it’s
like they have a hold of your hands and your voice, and you don’t mind.
It’s like you’re trapped in an hourglass; you know your lungs might fill
with sand, but there’s something sensual and comforting about the
grains sliding down glass walls and pooling around your ankles, your
knees, your waist.

You like things about their appearance that the rest of the world may
cringe at and call strange, less than perfect. Their broken, reshaped
noses; their little teeth or the gaps in between them; the way they pull
their hair; their narrow hips; their wide shoulders; the depth of their
pores. You can laugh when funny things happen in bed. You usually want
to be in bed with them.

You think they’re smarter, better, friendlier, fitter, happier, more
productive than you are. You strive to be as much as they are, as good
as they are. You try to cheat and figure out what it is they’re going to
teach you, if they’re going to fall from grace, if you’re going to play
a part for them that you never thought you’d play before. You try and
pull patterns and threads of meaning from the conversation or the way
they looked at you the first time you met; what they did, what they
offered. An apple stolen from the bar. Notes from a guitar. Pitchers of
free beer. Pieces of bark with writing on them.

You cherish snippets of them; paste them up in your memories like old
faded scrapbooks clutched to chests for generations. Their skin glows
black and white in your head. They star in the little short films of
your life that sneak up on you when you’re not looking. Like the walk to
the South End for dinner on a quiet corner. The feel of the sun beating
down on you both at an outdoor concert. The way they ordered wine on
your first date. The slow swing of a hammock near a lake. The back seat
of their car.

You can see yourself with them in the future you can’t quite see. You
build apartments outfitted with all the right kitchen supplies and the
perfect bed with two nightstands, each piled with books and magazines.
You wait for them patiently while they chase their dreams; they wait for
you patiently as you chase yours. You sit in bed eating dinner late at
night, drinking tea and wine and whiskey as you tell each other all
about the chasing. You create adopted dogs and cats; you have awkward
conversations about money; you put up with each other’s crap. You see
what they look like standing at the end of a candle-lit aisle in your
grassy front yard and wonder if you’ll make it to the other end to meet
them or if they’ll just end up in the scrapbook clutched to your chest
or flickering on the screen in your brain.

Detachment

Just screened an incredibly gritty film "Detachment," with Adrien Brody and Christina Hendricks, for a piece I'm writing for the Daily News. A few quotes jumped out and struck a chord with me.

"To deliberately believe in lies while knowing they're false - that's doublespeak." This is also why we read, to cultivate our own beliefs.

"It is easy to be callous. It takes courage and character to care."

"Do you see me?"

"Some days, we have limited space for others."

"No one wants to think about the struggle it takes to be somebody."

"We guide our young so they don't become insignificant."

Run run run

Every time I attempt to sit down and properly write a post about the why's and the what's and the how's of running, I get stumped.

But the other day, following an especially exhilarating nighttime tromp through my neighborhood park, the glow of distant streetlights and the moon's reflection off the lake guiding my way, I swore I could have kept running for miles.

There's something completely freeing about feeling the pavement under my feet, bounding and reconnecting and supporting and pushing as I gain momentum and almost free-fall into the darkness in front of me.

I feel like I'm cutting through the enveloping darkness, a cold wall of obstacle and fear and what if's as I push past the dull pain in my thighs, the gasping breaths in my chest, the blur of the broken lines on the road as I press on.

Beat.

Running is like a kind of therapy for the soul, and sometimes I will myself to run at a high speed so that I might break through the sound barrier into another realm, one of complete stillness and meditation.

It's a kind of mental separation, trying to pull apart the pain of the external from the calm of the internal. The faster I go, the more blindly I hurtle into the darkness, the quieter my mind becomes and the clearer I can think.

I distract my mind with a full awareness of my body, of my joints, of each muscle as I move forward, onward, forward, onward, right foot, left foot, right foot, left.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

Out.

Catch my breath and bob my head to the beat of my own being learning its rhythm for the first time. In the darkness of a night run, there's no such thing as stopping, of stagnation, of rest.

At night, my mind comes alive so the body does also.

Running is not an escape. Running is an embrace. In the undeniably unique boom boom swish boom beat of each runner's pace, breath, pace, there is a release, an embrace, a release.

Pushing off the ground and touching down just to try again so that I might become a part of the night.

Running.

Beat.

Global soul

I've been reading this book "The Global Soul" by Pico Iyer, and it's causing me to really pause and ponder a bit in a way I haven't had the opportunity to in a while - most especially its remarks on the concept of "belonging" and "community."

"... the fact remains that humans have never lived with quite this kind of mobility and uprootedness before (indeed, the questions themselves may be the closest thing we have to home: we live in the uncertainties we carry round with us). A lack of affiliation may mean a lack of accountability, and forming a sense of commitment can be hard without a sense of community.

Displacement can encourage the wrong kinds of distance, and if the nationalism we see sparking up around the globe arises from too narrow and fixed a sense of loyalty, the internationalism that's coming to birth may reflect too roaming and undefined a sense of belonging.

The Global Soul may see so many sides of every question that he never settles on a firm conviction; he may grow so used to giving back a different self according to his environment that he loses sight of who he is when nobody's around. Even the most basic questions have to be answered by him alone, and when, on the planes where he may make his home, the cabin attendant passes down the aisle with disembarkation forms, it may be difficult for him to fill in any of the boxes: "Home address," "Citizenship," "Purpose of Visit," even "Marital Status."

What is it like to find community? The term has come to mean a kind of literal suburban white picket fence and PTA-filled society, or a decidedly alternative, tightly knit group of exclusive insiders. See: The fashion community. See also: The running community.

Everyone's constantly in search of finding their place of belonging, of hitting upon a kind of assembly of kindred spirits who will act as an external reassurance that there are others out there who think, breathe, act, look, just. Like. Them.

And there's nothing inherently wrong with seeking community, of trying to build a family from the hodgepodge of acquaintances, errant family members and coworkers that inevitably becomes your "in crowd" upon graduating from college and moving across the country to begin a new career and a new life away from your old "community."

The problem that arises, however, is that by wanting a community, we are wishing for exclusivity. We are by definition excluding people who don't fit the criteria of our given "group." Because without exclusivity, there is no community. If you don't define your community clearly, and leave it open to everyone - which is the PC way of looking at things - then you are not creating a community, nay, not even a global community - you are creating a space.

I got to thinking a lot about the concept of community recently after an hours-long conversation with a friend about the idea of religion. Not religion itself, per se, but the idea of it.

The principles that Christianity teaches - and let's hope I don't overgeneralize or get this wrong here - revolve around the idea that there are the Chosen Ones (those who subscribe to Christian views) and there are, by default, the non-Chosen Ones. You are in, or you are out. It's pretty straightforward in that sense.

But, I asked, why is it not enough to have a personal relationship with God, with a higher being, and be a good person? Why is the community aspect, the organized religion aspect of it, necessary? It sounds blasphemous to even question this, but I don't mean it in a disrespectful way. I mean it in a human, questioning, wondering kind of way.

He responded that by creating a community, a church, there is a physical divide between those who are saved and those who are not. And then it becomes very clear that those who ARE saved are tasked with saving those who are not. Being on the ship, in the actual physical ship, means that you have the resources to reach out and pull someone to safety.

Fair. But, what of the politics that come with organized religion? The human aspects of deciding who is a good pastor and who isn't, of who to hang out with while at church, of the dramas that taint the message of God that is delivered every Sunday? That is a community, to be sure - as communities are not always peaceful - but it is also just community for the sake of community without deeper examination, and I'm not sure I'm okay with that.

When church or any community becomes more about the individuals - what she was wearing that Sunday, or who likes whom, or which mother cooked the best dish - than the greater cause, that community is lost.

So maybe the answer is to strive for a more solid sense of self first. Settle the internal before striving for external affirmation.

I guess the only problem with that, though, is that so much of your self develops as a result of outward influences, and to try to wait until one is completely rooted in his or her self would mean - never interacting, never living.

Thus is the dilemma of the Global Soul, of journeying, of belonging.

The Ego of Journalism

Are true artists those who forgo ego altogether and just seek to inspire and influence other people's ways of thinking or is that just too idealistic, as art is at its essence tied to that person's self? The beauty of art and writing and any form of creative expression is not just that it exists, but that its creation is so intricately tied up with its creator's point of view.

What do you lose by giving up claims on your own work?

Being a journalist in this day and age is a constant uphill battle, and I don't say this in a "woe is me" sort of way, though I know it can come off as such. Rather, it's a time when ego and aggregate and production are all amorphous terms trying to describe this network formerly known as the news.

Part of creativity, admittedly, is ego, the ability to claim your work as your own without being too proud or pretentious, to demand a byline while still understanding that that's not the point at the end of the day.

But isn't this the debate that's raging on in corner offices all throughout the city? How do you keep up with the business-side demands of an industry that runs on timeliness, competition and "winning" while still producing quality content that people are willing to pay for? What's obvious, and what's annoying to said executives, is that quality takes time. Taste takes time.

If you want instant, quick-fixes, you have Twitter. You have typos. You have news feeds. You have questionable sources and shoddy reporting. You get email interviews, not in-person, shoe-leather investigations.

The ease with which everyone is able to find information and regurgitate it for all to see these days makes journalism a lesser-regarded form of art, and I think this is just so unfortunate. When people make off-handed comments about how "anyone" with a computer, an Internet connection and two thoughts in their head can become a journalist, I'm pretty insulted.

The truth is, the days when journalists only knew how to write and report and edit are over. Storytelling isn't so much the focus any more so much as it is a certain kind of afterthought, or so it feels like sometimes. Nowadays, being a journalist is more about competition, hits and clicks, the number of papers sold each morning. It's about "winning" but not in the classical way - it's not so much who's the best, who has the most depth, as it is just the most mentions, retweets, page views - numbers that are the driving force behind the industry, but also, really arbitrary.

What is quality journalism? And can the craft survive in a world that is quickly rendering it a trade?

Keep It Loose, Keep It Tight

Thoughts on a rainy Thursday

Just a few thoughts, freeflowing, something to come back to:

I am 23. Things are starting to gain a strange type of momentum now, the kind that I wish I could control, but which -- inevitably -- I can't. That's what real momentum is, though. So maybe what I was experiencing before was but a wayward tug. This is true release, I think, what I've needed to have all this time but couldn't. I scramble about so much in my daily life, trying to balance a set of priorities and people that just ask for too much of my attention and responsibility. And not to say that I don't genuinely care about each and every one of these pieces of my life -- but Mom knows best (and somehow she always gets the timing just right) -- in saying that I can't have everything.

Grab for too much and you risk losing what you already have.

And maybe that's a generational thing -- I'm not sure. But I've been raised to expect the world, to reach for the stars, to -- any number of trite sayings to fill in the blank, phrases that tell of pushing limits, expanding, growing, breathing. And I've always believed that the only person standing in the way of your success (however you might define that) -- is you. Just. You.

What most everyone wants and needs in life is not material. This much I know. The pursuit of happiness, that's something more tangible to me than chasing money. Money -- it's a concept. It's paper. It's the luxury and the status and the illusion of exclusion that's appealing. All because, really, those ideas are so tied up in the concept of happiness. It's become assumed that money will act as a catalyst for better things. A push in the right direction.

And so when I sat in a cab, homeward-bound, at 5:30 in the morning earlier today (yikes), heading home from work as the rest of the city shook itself awake, I had an epiphany. I need to once again embrace this feeling of trust that I can't control my circumstances, but I CAN control what I make of it. In a world of stumbled-into, accidentally-met happenstance, I want to know that after an initial push, I have to let things be. Steer, but only when I need to.

The one area of my life that I am wholly in control of is my mind, my mentality, my hyper-awareness of my own thoughts. I think I need this jolt of irregularity, strange schedule, a weird kind of isolation, in order to really see what I value and where I put in my time and effort.

My days are so much longer now. I wake up on my own accord, spend time with myself, my body (hello, gym and yoga) and my mind (hey now, NYTimes) because I know that this entire experience will make me that much mentally stronger. So much of society today is cast in a glow of interactions, outside reinforcements, chasing signs that we're okay, and I want to look deeper into that.

We bump into people, update our status feeds and blog about our days because it means that we're alive, that someone out there will think of us, talk about us, remember us.

I was once told that humans are born with one fear -- a fear of falling. This was meant in the literal sense, about the kind of falling that endangers our lives and develops into a fear of heights and vertigo. But in a broader sense, fear of falling means fear of failing, of tumbling from the social consciousness.

We blog because we want to stay relevant. We tweet because we want to reach out -- listen to me, see me, hear me. This is what I want to share with the world.

But what happens when the world stops listening? Radio silence.

What happens then?

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear or see it fall, has anything really happened?

We focus externally, look outward because sometimes (most of the time) that's so much easier. I want so much out of life, but I really want, more than that, to know why. Why am I constantly filling my days answering emails, meeting up with aquaintances, blogging (HA) about my thoughts to an anonymous audience?

Solitude will be my best learning tool.

It's easy to get lost in New York City. But last night/this morning, as I glanced over my shoulder at bedroom lights flickering on in high rises as I crossed the bridge, people starting the day just as I was about to end it, I felt found. Their dawn is my dusk. My reality is only, really, in my head. And I was very much aware that I was coming home -- on my own terms.

Inside. Out.

There's this very big concept that you learn to navigate as you grow up, known as "inside vs. outside." I mean this in the sense of not just "indoor voices" vs. "outdoor voices" -- though, also an important thing to know when you're older -- but also in the sense of who is in your inner circle and who is in your outer.

Complete strangers: outer.

Family: inner.

Friends: this is where it gets tricky. Your closest childhood friends you pretty much regard as family, and therefore, it's pretty safe to say that they're inner. But friends of friends, former friends of friends, exes, frenemies -- the list of layered friendships goes on and on. And determining whose side to take in an argument or whose relationship takes "priority" over another is just a bad situation to be in. But it happens.

And sometimes in the process of trying to sort that out, you start to wonder about everyone else's onion-like relationship layers. Where do you fall and how does that match up with where they fall into your own set of layers? It's a strange thing to think about, but then again, if life's riches lie in relationships, isn't it important to figure out which ones are false gold and which ones are real?

Hustle and Flow

It's only been a brief two weeks since I've been back in the flow of, vibe of, feel of the work pace of life in NYC and it's a pretty stark contrast to the relatively lackadaisical days I've been having for the last three months. This isn't to say, of course, that the change hasn't been welcome, just that there is such a distinct difference between residing in New York and really living here.

Summer was filled with sun-lit afternoons pounding the pavement, lounging in parks, being drawn into the beat and pulse of living in a -- pardon the trite phrase -- urban jungle. Given the number of tourists who flock to the city, cameras and maps in tow, trying to haphazardly match their footsteps to those of the stiletto-heeled women around them, it's no wonder that the buzz of the city was particularly pronounced in the summertime. But more than that, the crowds that positively melted into place in parks, at cafes and on subways were somehow more vibrant than the standard monochromatic workweek fare.

The only responsibilities I had during the week were to myself; my appointments were my own. I operated on my own daily schedule, and any deadlines I set and met (or didn't) would be of my own volition. Study for the GREs, search for jobs, work on freelance assignments, develop my knowledge and skills by reading everything I could lay my hands (fingertips?) on and by writing constantly. There may never be a time again in my life where I have the luxury of only worrying about, well, myself.

Now the weather is cooling down, summer "lasts" are plentiful, and the reality of bracing for another go at the NYC work life is rearing its daunting head. But though I will miss summer and all the mental acumen it provided, I'm equally excited by the prospects of a new season and its consequent shift of energy.

Autumn is soothing because it marks the do-over, restart phase of the year, a grounding calmness with a running stream of conversation underneath. It's the perfect kind of weather for a little hustle, a little flow. So it begins again.

Artistic streak

I've been thinking a lot lately about the written word as an art form -- and so it was only fitting that I came across this passage today while reading "Linchpin":

Art isn't only a painting. Art is anything that's creative, passionate, and personal. And great art resonates with the viewer, not only with the creator.

What makes someone an artist? I don't think it has anything to do with a paintbrush. There are painters who follow the numbers, or paint billboards, or work in a small village in China, painting reproductions. These folks, while swell people, aren't artists. On the other hand, Charlie Chaplin was an artist, beyond a doubt. So is Jonathan Ive, who designed the iPod. You can be an artist who works with oil paints of marble, sure. But there are artists who work with numbers, business models, and customer conversations. Art is about intent and communication, not substances.

An artist is someone who uses bravery, insight, creativity, and boldness to challenge the status quo. And an artist takes it personally.

...

Art is not related to craft, except to the extent that the craft helps deliver the change. Technical skill might be a helpful component in making art, but it's certainly not required. Art doesn't have to be decorative; it can be useful as long as the use causes change.

...

By definition, art is human. A machine can't create art, because the intent matters. It's much more likely to be art if you do it on purpose.

A cook is not an artist. A cook follows a recipe, and he's a good cook if he follows the recipe correctly. A chef is an artist. She's an artist when she invents a new way of cooking or a new type of dish that creates surprise or joy or pleasure for the person she created it for.

On wealth

Original posting found here.

Wealth is what happens when luck meets opportunity. Or is that success? Or was it that luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity? The infinite combinations and equations that make up these cross-concept building blocks ultimately all point to the same thing: in our society, wealth, or something like it, is attainable by anybody. Hard labor, combined with the right dose of perceptiveness, charisma and yes, luck, have proven to be enough to promote any citizen from one tax bracket to the next. This is, at least, the promise of America, a land where opportunities are here for the taking.

Having grown up with parents who immigrated to the States in their mid-20s, I am always acutely aware of this perception, and the consequent implications. The idea of social mobility is something that isn’t as encouraged in Taiwan — whatever “class” you are born into tends to be where you stay, even in the advancements of your career. And hence, the draw of a country like the U.S. where “anything is possible” is pretty hefty. If it is true that wealth springs from luck and opportunity, and luck itself is composed of preparation and opportunity, then, in the immigrant generation’s mind, hard work (preparation) is the only part they’ll need to contribute, now that the other controllable variable (opportunity) is present.

And hence the immigrant mentality stands: work hard, and you can succeed. And by success, I mean of course in monetary and materialistic terms. I’ve always looked to this model as part of the reason why children of immigrant parents tend to place a different emphasis on the value of wealth (read: money) than either their parents or their American counterparts. To second generation Americans (those born in the States, but whose parents immigrated from another country), there is a balance to be made.

Their immigrant parents insist that attaining wealth — working hard and forfeiting enjoyment in many cases — is the justifiable ends to a life of just getting by. Because the opportunities are here, it is unwise to throw them away — and for immigrants, all opportunities point toward monetary stability and development.

American society itself is filled with contradictions, but the overarching theme at present seems to be that money can’t buy you happiness, and it is therefore almost insulting to the Constitution to “sell out” and do things just for the money. (At the same time, of course, we observe the lives of the rich and famous and aspire to reach that level of social acceptance and wealth. Oh, the irony).

Somehow consolidating the two viewpoints into one coherent view on wealth is near-impossible, but it’s somewhere in the struggle that the third piece of the equation falls into place. Luck. Because even with a rigid mindset regarding the value and definition of wealth, we always find success (however we define it) at just the right time, don’t we? And if that can’t be attributed to luck, then what can?

Inception

Yes, still. And yes, dreams. (:

On success

My post for this week's Avocado Jungle. Thoughts?

Success is one of those topics that can spark a countless number of debates, conversations and discussions — with others, but more importantly, within ourselves. Trying to define this amorphous concept is the root of both ambition and manipulation, the reason why some of us are able to be content without external reinforcement and why others who are superficially successful will never have peace of mind.

The truth about success, in my view, is that it is more about personal goals and drive than it is about finding a place in the human rat race. We’re taught at an early age that there is such a thing as winners and losers — labels that are ultimately arbitrary, since the process is more valuable than the end result. This black-and-white rationale can act as blinders for how we view personal achievement, and it takes some unlearning to even begin to define success.

Take something as simple as a marathon, for instance. I recently ran a 10K race through Central Park as part of my preparation for the full New York City marathon. Without a doubt there was a runner who finished the race first, and by definition, he or she was the “winner” of the run. Likewise, there had to be a person who finished last, and by definition, was the “loser” of the race. But you would be hard-pressed to find somebody who wouldn’t agree that each person who crossed that finish line was still successful in his or her own right. The mental endurance and emotional poignancy that is associated with training for a marathon is blatant proof that success is an individual experience.

How is it that this very literal example, however, often fails to translate into other areas of life? If the workforce really is the rat race we believe it to be, then why worry about finishing ahead of other people, about making more money than, owning more things than, having more power than others? It should matter more the lessons we learn, the skills we acquire, the positive changes we see in ourselves in our quest toward a finish line. Having a goal and working toward it and actually embracing all the experiences along the way — that is success.

Blindly reaching for institutions and social levels that we’re told are benchmarks of success is the surest way to ensure personal frustration and failure. It is only when we learn to let go of external expectations and begin to enjoy the process of life itself that we can truly grasp what we personally define as success, be it raising a family, giving back to the community, or even just learning a foreign language.

It’s not so much what we do that makes us successful. It’s how we go about striving toward our goals and why we choose to do them. Everything else is just details.

Wordplay

Heard something yesterday that kind of tickled my fancy (HA) and made me stop and think.

We should stop asking how we can get out of a challenging situation and instead ask what we can get out of the experience.

So concisely put but so true -- I think, regardless of whether the medium is religion, psychology or a blurry mix of the two, this truth, when delivered, has such a sobering effect. This is taking a given set of circumstances and understanding that nothing that has taken place is positive or negative; only our minds make it so. The concept of a person with "bad luck" versus someone who seems to have been born into good fortune -- that's all perception.

In navigating my way (both literally and figuratively) through New York City, I see that part of the reason why people can burn out here so quickly is that they fail to see the big picture, the impermanence of their situations. Stressful though a project at work may be, it too shall pass. Time waits for no one, and therefore, it's silly to assume that a bad situation will continue to be bad. The truth is, a bad situation stops being bad the instant you decide it's not. It's really that simple, and really that complicated.

Having a constructive attitude is something that I'm working on. The most valuable resource we have is (perhaps second to time) our psychic energy, and where we focus that really does determine how our days, weeks, years, and eventually, lives, turn out. Expanding focus is something like growing a plant, though. Leave it untouched and untended, and it becomes just a pile of dirt and rubble concealing a few kernels of potential.

Pretty unfortunate, ya know what I mean?

Mind over matter, matter over mind

The last two weeks have been a little bit chaotic, to say the least. In the span of less than a month, I've learned so much about myself, what makes me tick and perhaps most importantly, that the sludge that had built up to prevent said ticking was a congealed result of...me. I had let my thoughts, and my perception of how others might interpret my thoughts, take over. Rather than being confident in my abilities and constructive about my shortcomings, I was slowly filling with doubt and unease, two things I have worked so hard to avoid.

But avoid no more. Doubt and unease are two things that make us all human, and by trying to suppress them, I was essentially trying to fill an always-bottomless cup. Denying the existence of the two is, basically, going against nature and really only fooling myself. As such, I've figured out, life is more about embracing those thoughts briefly and letting them go rather than ignoring them altogether.

Two weekends ago, I ran my first half marathon. Thirteen point one miles. I'd been training for it for a month and a half, and lo and behold, it couldn't have come at a better time. Riding the subway deeper into Queens early that Saturday was such a heartening experience, with other racers casting sideway grins at each other with their telltale orange tags flashing from their shoes. It was like a secret sign, a kind of signal we were all giving each other, an acknowledgment that we were all bracing for impact. Thirteen point one miles. I think, had I been in a different mindset, I would have been more doubtful of my ability to pull it off.

But in the end, it was mind over matter. My one goal (aside from finishing, of course) was to never stop running. And this was all fine until mile 10, when everyone around me started to slow down to a jog and then a walk. I felt a fleeting moment of discouragement. Well, if everyone else is giving themselves a break, why push myself so hard?

But as luck would have it, there came a sign. A young-ish guy, maybe around 30, jogged past me, clearly exhausted and panting, but with his feet bounding off the pavement. What energy! I was encouraged. Then I looked down and noticed that he was hitting the ground at an uneven rhythm. He had a prosthetic leg. Really? Really. How was I thinking of slowing down when this guy was just picking up speed? I sped up.

And I finished all 13.1 miles, no stopping, no walking, just pure adrenaline. And it felt so good, to know that my mind had overcome my body's weaknesses, that I had succeeded in my own race, at my own pace.

Then last week, I embarked on a very different personal journey, to upstate New York for a three day silent meditation retreat. No reading, writing, email, phones or talking. And it was glorious. One would think that a retreat like this would be all about the mind, but in fact, it was more about the body. Matter over mind. The focus was on the body, on being aware of breath and footsteps and small subtle movements that we take for granted. And by focusing in on the tangible, the intangible, the mind, started to clear.

In the silence of the retreat, I heard my own thoughts louder than I had ever imagined them to be. There was so much noise, so many stray thoughts, no focus. And no distractions. So I sat and I meditated and I learned about connecting my breath with my mind and stilling my thoughts not with force and suppression but with gentleness and calm. And I was soothed.

These past few weeks have been a little chaotic. But I wouldn't have had it any other way, else I wouldn't have learned to feel so deeply, hurt so openly, or think so freely. The thing about lessons, though, is that they should always be followed by change. So I'm working to change the patterns of my life to make way for an existence that fuses matter and mind, taking care to pay attention to both. It's the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end.

Proof vs. faith

Seeing is believing. Believing is seeing.

You know the idea of proof? The concept that in order to fully buy into a thing, a person or a feeling, you'd have to find some way to substantiate its very existence? These past few weeks have shown me that, in fact, needing proof -- alongside being realistic -- are perhaps the two biggest roadblocks to creativity and self-contentment. I know it sounds a little far-fetched, naive even, but two very important concepts came to my attention recently that made this revelation clear: the balance between knowledge and creativity and the balance between inner and outer validation.

Seeing is believing.

The saying refers to the idea that one must be doubtful of a claim until there is some form of tangible, visual, or audio validation that it is, in fact, true. We can't trust that it's raining until we step outside and feel it on our eyelids or hear the pitter patter on our rooftops; the weatherman never knows what he's talking about. She can't possibly be pregnant unless we see it with our own two eyes; anything otherwise is heresay. And we can't know that we're making the right decisions unless we are reassured enough or have seen people succeed traveling down the same path.

But even that's not a guarantee.

That's the past. That's history. Doing things in a conventional way won't bring us new, innovative results; that's just illogical. Doing things in a conventional way does, however, serve as a way to reaffirm what we already knew would happen; that's knowledge. When we speak of someone who is very knowledgeable, we're usually referring to his or her stash of facts, his or her ability to recite proven facts. And while knowledge is something undeniably necessary in becoming a better (insert noun here), it shouldn't be the only thing. It's a foundation, not the whole creation.

That's where creativity steps in. When we have a solid grasp of the past (knowledge), only then are we able to reinvent and push boundaries and really learn. We learn by mistakes, by chances and by blind faith. Seeing shouldn't be necessary to believe.

Believing is seeing.

Rearrange the phrase and you would, upon initial glance, just get an alternate reading of the same concept. But look again. Believing is seeing. Once we begin to trust our own creativity and believe in our visions, sans precursors or safety nets, we start to really open up and see. Having faith in our own abilities is what makes for the best results. Were we to constantly worry about what other people thought of our progress or, heaven forbid, us, then we would be too afraid to try different things.

Inner validation is about trust. It's about having a solid basis of knowledge and from that, constructing a creation that hasn't been attempted before despite whether or not it garners others' approval. That's what sets those who love life and carve their own paths apart from those who mildly enjoy the pre-trodden roads -- neither is a bad place to be, but wouldn't it be better to be in a great place?

Faith > Fear

Olympic fervor

I love love love watching the Olympics. There is so much passion and so many narratives packed into each sporting event, and the stakes are always high. The underachieving kid who opened up through skiing, the skater whose win will justify her coach's losses, the athlete who will champion on just two days after her mother's death -- there is something so human and relatable about the people who compete. Nations band together to support their athletes, but even if the competition is fierce, the general sense of goodwill is ever-present.

Watching the Games also makes me a little bit wistful, though. The reason why kids love athletes and look up to them so much, George Clooney's character said once upon a time, is because they went after their dreams.

The reason why athletes are so revered in society is because they're doing what most college grads working in cubicles can only dream of doing -- they made their hobby the main event. They train for 48-hours weeks. Stretching, sprinting, skating -- that's their job. How incredible does that sound?

In running into people from all different backgrounds in New York, working in a myriad of fields, I feel so fortunate to be able to respond immediately when people ask "Do you like what you do?"

I do.

I think being surrounded by journalists and writers all the time can blur my concept of what it means to do what you love. Journalists may have chosen their profession for a number of reasons, but money wasn't likely one of them. This automatically means that the vast majority of journalists aren't at their job just to "pay the bills" -- they must (and usually do) get a great deal of joy from their work.

It sure isn't on par with Olympic athletes, but working in the journalism field is a little bit like making it into that small demographic of dream-catchers. You put up with the instability, the long hours and the insane projects because you love every minute of it, and realize that living your dream is a most indescribable rush. Then you spend the rest of your life trying to tell others (by means of stories, written or told) how amazing and exhausting your job is.

It's a pretty great narrative.

Plans, A-Zed

Having a Plan B is more harmful than helpful in the long run. True or false? I've been thinking a bit about this, and about whether my conclusions to this query are even valid given that I'm coming from a (largely) unrealistic mindset, one wherein I have the privilege of having a "rich man's troubles."

By this, I mean that having the option to pursue something I want to do in life is a luxury. I realize this all too well. Not everyone is blessed with the opportunity of choice. For most of the world, it's sink or swim. If you don't like what you're doing, tough noogies because someone has to make money to support the household, and your happiness comes secondary after security.

But in the grand scope of things, does having a back-up plan actually harm you, regardless of whether or not it's practical? Having a back-up to anything is like subconsciously telling yourself that the first option won't work out. Why would you need a second choice if the first one is the right one?

Choice, I think, can seriously hinder our ability to adapt (and I can't tell yet if this is a good or bad thing...am currently trying to think through it). Our Plan A is always going to be that dream, that almost-out-of-reach goal that we strive to attain. It's our Plan A because it's what we would want in a perfect world, be it a career, a relationship, or a life path, and moreover, it's that thrill of the chase that makes it a Plan A. Our Plan B is always something that we're willing to settle for, that we agree upon with a "Well, that wouldn't be so bad."

And not to say that this is necessarily a bad thing, but realistically speaking (ha!), this is like saying that you didn't have the persistence, the passion or the patience to see Plan A all the way through. You opted to take an easier path and will likely spend your energy justifying it to yourself. Having options means never having to change and adapt, and if life isn't about changing or adapting, then what is it about?

Learning is never supposed to happen in comfort. Plan B represents stability, safety and sometimes...stagnation. Growing up and being in your 20s is about pursuing Plan A. I remember that line from "Up in the Air," when Clooney's Ryan Bingham told his firee (guy he was firing, I'm sure that's a word somehow...) that the reason why kids admire athletes so much is because they followed their dreams. There's a dignity and a drama to that.

When people tell me to be "realistic" or ask about whether or not my job is "real," I never know how to respond. I am being realistic. So were and are all the people who have been able to create their own definitions of reality. If you don't like something, change it. And to me, having a "real" job is not tied to the definition of clocking in and clocking out as per "standard." A "real" job doesn't have to be one that you're miserable at -- I think the idea that someone would actually like going into work is counterintuitive to most; it was also considered abnormal to "like" homework, wasn't it?

But in moving to New York, I meet people who love their work just as often as I meet those who detest it. And to me, I know which group I want to fall into. The goal was never to settle into something comfortable. The goal was always to learn and live fully every day. Maybe this is naive, but that's my Plan A.

And I don't know or really care to have a Plan B past that.

Corrective vision

One of the simplest, but most poignant questions I've ever had posed to me was this:

"How do you SEE the world?"

At the time, I was sitting in an auditorium full of admitted students in SGM at USC, all 17 and 18-year-old seniors looking to leave the constraints of high school and eagerly tromping ahead into the next big chapter of their lives.

"How do you SEE the world?"

At that point in our (still-young) maturation, sight had everything to do with what you saw and not how you interpreted it. I remember thinking, when the professor at the front of the room planted this kernel of thought in my brain, that I didn't understand. I SAW what was set before me. Isn't that what sight is all about? From a young age, you learn to see and appreciate the details of the things you come across -- ask any high school graduate to describe for you a wintry scene, write a paragraph about the intricacies of the human heart, or dissect the strokes of a Monet painting, and (with much grumbling) it can be done.

But ask that same student to tell you HOW they see the world, whether it be in pockets of patterns, numbers and figures, or abstract concepts, and he wouldn't be able to tell you. Until I heard that question thrust so casually into the air, I hadn't ever stopped to think about my own frame of vision.

"HOW do you see the world?"

The significance of this question was, of course, many-fold, but perhaps the most important reason she posed the question was for direction. In answering, or attempting to answer, that question, we would each gain insight into our talents, our expectations, our future; what made us tick.

Those who see the world in terms of numbers and figures -- measuring days in minutes, achievements in points -- would be well-suited for careers in engineering, accounting, finance, something wherein their measure of success can be determined by a given point system.

Those who see the world in patterns, series of events, would probably fare best in history or literature, a profession wherein their contributions would come from a big-picture mentality.

And those who think in abstract concepts, pinpointing various elements of their everyday lives as significant and looping in philosophy and sociology -- those are the crazies, the revolutionaries.

So many paths, all beginning with a renewed definition of sight. I think about that question a lot these days, about how I SEE the world, because I know with each new experience I take one step closer to an as-yet fuzzy definition of sight. How I see the world will determine how I can contribute to it, though I can't truly see the world until I've become a part of it.

It's a paradox, that.

"How do you SEE the world?"

"HOW do you see the world?"

Fireflies