This year, I am thankful for (in no particular order):
1. waking up to the sound of rain in the morning
2. late night Denny's runs
3. tabasco
4. people who wipe off the bathroom sink
5. neatly folded or rolled-up workout t-shirts
6. the Great American Music Exchange
7. finding money (and lots of it) in the pockets of old jeans
8. pepper
9. people who say "whatevs" and "cool beans"
10. random texts in the middle of the day
11. paddling in the San Francisco rain and wind
12. post-its
13. fat puppies
14. actually laughing out loud in the middle of an online conversation
15. honest people
16. milk green tea with boba from Cup o' Joy
17. the sound of my keyboard when I'm typing at a rapid rate
18. people who reply to emails on a timely basis (bc I need to learn how)
19. reverse smileys (:
20. comfortable silences
21. big, genuine heartfelt hugs (no awkward side-hugs please)
22. pizza bagels and the conversations that come with them
23. people who take risks
24. perfectly fluffed pillows
25. gchat
26. chatty people at the checkout counter at Ralphs
27. dried mangos
28. pedestrians who trot across the street and give you an awkward smile because they know you're waiting for them
29. a full tank of gas
30. voicemails that start with "hey, it's me"
31. brunch
32. the smell of sunscreen
33. grape tomatoes and brownie bites (but not together)
34. people who hold doors open
35. homeless people who are not picky about the food I give them
36. parking structures that make sense and do not spiral for 6 stories
37. quiet movie-watchers
38. captions
39. pinky rings
40. ANTM and Top Chef marathons
41. people who enjoy using the word "epic"
42. old artists reemerging to try and restart their careers (see: brandy, hanson, spice girls)
43. mints at the end of a meal
44. facebook albums that consist of old OLD photos from elementary school and high school
45. airports
46. Def Poetry Jam
47. people who are humble and inspire me to be a better person
48. dental floss
49. friends
50. family
27 November 2008
Beauty in the Breakdown
Things haven’t been the same ever since my car was broken into nearly three weeks ago. It took someone breaking in for me to break down and slowly build myself back up. In the last few weeks, I’ve gone from desperation to reflection to hope to pure bliss. It’s been a roller-coaster of events and emotions, but I’m so grateful for having circumstances be what they have been – in a weird way, losing so much really made me open my eyes to see not only what I already had, but also what I had already been lacking even before my material things were stolen.
And there was so much I hadn’t even noticed.
So much of this semester has been a test – of my patience, of my time-management abilities, of my own solid sense of self in the midst of so many moving, shifting pieces. If the Nike 10K was any indication, I jumped into this semester with all the hope and ambition in the world – I thought myself prepared for the long road ahead of me; stretched, prepped and charged. I had trained vigorously over the summer for what I saw as a warm-up for the main event: the LA Marathon in March (now moved to May!), and approached the night run as just another practice, an extended version of a familiar route.
“Don’t keel over, please,” I remember saying to my friend as we jumped up and down in the crowd prior to the official start of the race. He gave me a look, a silent “Child, please” before continuing to jump to keep warm. We joked about who would finish first, and how, if one of us did end up collapsing, it would selfishly cost the other his or her final time on account of having to step over the fallen runner.
Ominous words.
I was going into the race with hardly any sleep in the last week, having been on deadline for both my newsmagazine publication and my internship, moving out of my brother’s apartment and into my own, and acting as host to a friend from out of state. Looking back, a marathon – even a 6-mile marathon – was probably the last thing I should’ve been doing given my situation.
But still, I fought on.
Even when, during the middle of the race, I felt myself growing tired and my vision beginning to blur, I pushed on because I was convinced my fatigue was just a momentary phase for me to power through. My only real goal for the race was to never stop running – it became clear, though, that if I continued on at the rate I was going, I wouldn’t even get to the finish line.
So I walked.
But the power and the surge of the people around me motivated me to keep on – so after several steps of power walking, I would increase my pace to a trot and then a jog. There was conviction in my gait, or so I’d like to think. Then, as I rounded the corner for the final stretch down Figueroa toward the entrance of the Coliseum, I felt something click within me. I sprinted. The finish line was so close I could see the ribbon stretched taut across the street, the crowds of volunteers leaning from the sidewalk to congratulate runners, the lights from beyond the gate glaring into the faces of exhausted participants. I could feel the beat of the music from the Coliseum, moving in and out of sync with the rapid thumping in my chest. I felt a burst of energy.
And then everything went black.
Waking up sprawled on the ground with paramedics surrounding you is a pretty dang horrifying feeling. I couldn’t wrap my head around the situation for the longest time, and the words that kept spewing from my mouth weren’t mine. I couldn’t control the way my hands kept gesturing, or how I would wince and twist away from human touch. I didn’t know how to get the paramedics to understand that, and I didn’t have any feeling in my legs. Those moments – and I had no real idea how long I had been drifting in and out of consciousness – were some of the most terrifying of my life.
I was convinced I was going to die.
My logic was shot to pieces and I felt what can most closely be described as an out-of-body experience. It was as though I were already drifting away from the physical world and I was helpless to do anything to stop my mind from escaping from the situation completely. I just remember wishing I could wake up from the horrendous dream, and I squeezed my eyes tightly to make sure my wish came true. My mind began to drift.
But then something grounded me.
One of the paramedics began to ask me questions. Who are you? What’s your name? Where are you from? What did you eat today? What are you studying? Anything and everything to keep me awake, to keep my mind functioning as they lifted me onto a gurney and then into the ambulance. I caught blips of his questions and began to respond in half-hearted jest, trying to make light of the situation.
The sirens only registered half the time.
After spending the night at the hospital and seeing my parents wander timidly through the curtains into the room (separately, only one visitor at a time), I felt myself grow impatient. Not with the situation, the fact that I had to be bed-ridden for another 24 hours and constantly drink fluids (they claimed I had collapsed from extreme dehydration and exhaustion), but with myself, at having let myself get into such a situation as to make my parents worry after my health and well-being. In the dark, I lay awake and chided myself for putting myself in a position of helplessness and causing others worry. This isn’t how I had expected to start off my senior year.
Flash forward to three weeks ago, when I first opened my drivers’ side door to discover what I first assumed to be hail strewn across my seat, and it makes more sense why that break-in led to a mental breakdown later on that week. My first reaction when I glanced up to see my entire passenger-side window smashed in wasn’t panic, but a slowly creeping feeling of déjà vu. It was around 5 p.m., just after the awards ceremony for the dragon boat tournament at Lake Merced up in San Francisco. I had put the speeding ticket I got on the drive up out of my mind, and this just minimized the incident that much more.
In the moment, I felt helpless. It was as though a string of rather unpleasant (to put it lightly) events were following me. Throughout the course of the semester, I felt as though I had been working hard but had lost sight of the reasons why.
I had been focusing so much on establishing something with Bamboo Offshoot, but felt as though I were the only one putting in any effort. Apathy was eating away at my staff, and production had been going poorly despite my efforts to save it.
I hadn’t been able to maintain relationships and keep up with those near and dear to me because I’d been so busy with extracurriculars and school.
I was stuck in the middle of family drama that involved a close cousin being disowned from the family.
I hadn’t been starting up the blogs or freelancing I had aimed to do at the beginning of the semester.
I didn’t have a job secured.
I was behind in all of my class work, and was literally failing a course.
I’d let my parents down by getting myself into this situation and would have to find a way to pay them back for these damages. They would worry.
I had been lacking the purpose I initially began the semester with, and as much as I wanted to trivialize the fact that my window had been smashed and my things stolen, I just couldn’t. It was the last straw in a string of unfortunate events, and I wanted to just curl up in a ball and give up. All I saw were the negatives and the lack-ofs. It was hard to see the situation any other way.
But then I saw how everyone else was responding to the situation, and I knew I could only let myself be down and out for those few brief minutes. A friend’s wallet, phone, purse, ID, credit cards – had all been stolen from my backseat. I felt guilty, whether or not I had reason to feel that way, and I shifted my attention to that rather than focus on my own issues. What I had stolen was replaceable. Take a step back. No one was hurt, no reason to stress. Everything would work itself out. It might not seem like it in the moment, but the situation really wasn’t as bad as it seemed, in the grand scheme of things. I decided not to let myself get to emotionally invested. Everything would be okay.
Everything will be okay.
And everything was fine for those first few days after driving back from San Francisco. I was overwhelmed with the outpouring of concern from my teammates, friends and family, and I truly felt like I had needed something like this to happen to help ground me and put me back on the right track. I had been looking too much at the negatives to see their counterpart positives. The only problem was, I hadn’t let myself get all those emotions out of my head. There hadn’t been any catharsis, and my frustrations had simply been compartmentalized.
The Tuesday night following the Sunday break-in marked my first real emotional breakdown in a long time. In talking to a friend about the incident, I began to tear up, and my emotions and fears began to pour forth. I don’t think I ever expelled all those pent-up feelings, a whole semester’s worth, and it felt like such a huge relief to say everything that had been on my mind for far too long. I’ve always credited myself as being capable of taking on situations and being the comforter in times of distress – I shy away from being vulnerable, and that has translated into a lack of outward emotional reaction to anything big that had happened in the past semester, good or bad. It took a lot for me to admit that I wasn’t okay.
Everything’s a big deal, he said. Everything is a huge freaking deal.
Someone breaking into your car? Huge deal. React to it.
Getting accepted into Teach For America? Huge deal. React to it.
People not meeting deadlines and not respecting the publication? Huge deal. React to it.
Worried about how you’re failing one of your classes? Huge deal. React to it.
Having your parents tell you that your actions are selfish? Huge deal. React to it.
Too much of the semester had been spent convincing myself that things were fine, when really they probably could have been better. I had been running on empty for so long but had had too much pride or had been too buried under layers of denial to see it. I don’t cry enough. Or get angry enough. I downplay successes and gloss over disappointments. It’s not a healthy way to live.
But now, post-reflection and post-breakdown, things have started looking up in a very big way. I’ve taken on the editor-in-chief position for the Daily Trojan next semester, and I’m at once terrified and excited about the opportunity. It took a lot of thinking and reassessing to finally conclude that this was and is the right choice, but now that I’ve committed, there’s no turning back.
I heard back from Teach For America. My final interview is in just two weeks’ time and I’m anxiously preparing for the day-long process.
I met and spoke with Jeannie Kim, the executive editor over at Time Inc. just last Friday. I think I may have an internship for the summer.
So many things, so many circumstances. It’s been quite a trip and this is just the tip of the iceberg, really. I’ve never felt so blessed to have so many amazing people in my life – were it not for them, I doubt these past three weeks would have turned out quite the way they have.
Sometimes, you need to see the pieces of your life for what they are before you can fit a new window in their place. Break in, break down. Fill out, fill up.
It’s looking a lot clearer today.
And there was so much I hadn’t even noticed.
So much of this semester has been a test – of my patience, of my time-management abilities, of my own solid sense of self in the midst of so many moving, shifting pieces. If the Nike 10K was any indication, I jumped into this semester with all the hope and ambition in the world – I thought myself prepared for the long road ahead of me; stretched, prepped and charged. I had trained vigorously over the summer for what I saw as a warm-up for the main event: the LA Marathon in March (now moved to May!), and approached the night run as just another practice, an extended version of a familiar route.
“Don’t keel over, please,” I remember saying to my friend as we jumped up and down in the crowd prior to the official start of the race. He gave me a look, a silent “Child, please” before continuing to jump to keep warm. We joked about who would finish first, and how, if one of us did end up collapsing, it would selfishly cost the other his or her final time on account of having to step over the fallen runner.
Ominous words.
I was going into the race with hardly any sleep in the last week, having been on deadline for both my newsmagazine publication and my internship, moving out of my brother’s apartment and into my own, and acting as host to a friend from out of state. Looking back, a marathon – even a 6-mile marathon – was probably the last thing I should’ve been doing given my situation.
But still, I fought on.
Even when, during the middle of the race, I felt myself growing tired and my vision beginning to blur, I pushed on because I was convinced my fatigue was just a momentary phase for me to power through. My only real goal for the race was to never stop running – it became clear, though, that if I continued on at the rate I was going, I wouldn’t even get to the finish line.
So I walked.
But the power and the surge of the people around me motivated me to keep on – so after several steps of power walking, I would increase my pace to a trot and then a jog. There was conviction in my gait, or so I’d like to think. Then, as I rounded the corner for the final stretch down Figueroa toward the entrance of the Coliseum, I felt something click within me. I sprinted. The finish line was so close I could see the ribbon stretched taut across the street, the crowds of volunteers leaning from the sidewalk to congratulate runners, the lights from beyond the gate glaring into the faces of exhausted participants. I could feel the beat of the music from the Coliseum, moving in and out of sync with the rapid thumping in my chest. I felt a burst of energy.
And then everything went black.
Waking up sprawled on the ground with paramedics surrounding you is a pretty dang horrifying feeling. I couldn’t wrap my head around the situation for the longest time, and the words that kept spewing from my mouth weren’t mine. I couldn’t control the way my hands kept gesturing, or how I would wince and twist away from human touch. I didn’t know how to get the paramedics to understand that, and I didn’t have any feeling in my legs. Those moments – and I had no real idea how long I had been drifting in and out of consciousness – were some of the most terrifying of my life.
I was convinced I was going to die.
My logic was shot to pieces and I felt what can most closely be described as an out-of-body experience. It was as though I were already drifting away from the physical world and I was helpless to do anything to stop my mind from escaping from the situation completely. I just remember wishing I could wake up from the horrendous dream, and I squeezed my eyes tightly to make sure my wish came true. My mind began to drift.
But then something grounded me.
One of the paramedics began to ask me questions. Who are you? What’s your name? Where are you from? What did you eat today? What are you studying? Anything and everything to keep me awake, to keep my mind functioning as they lifted me onto a gurney and then into the ambulance. I caught blips of his questions and began to respond in half-hearted jest, trying to make light of the situation.
The sirens only registered half the time.
After spending the night at the hospital and seeing my parents wander timidly through the curtains into the room (separately, only one visitor at a time), I felt myself grow impatient. Not with the situation, the fact that I had to be bed-ridden for another 24 hours and constantly drink fluids (they claimed I had collapsed from extreme dehydration and exhaustion), but with myself, at having let myself get into such a situation as to make my parents worry after my health and well-being. In the dark, I lay awake and chided myself for putting myself in a position of helplessness and causing others worry. This isn’t how I had expected to start off my senior year.
Flash forward to three weeks ago, when I first opened my drivers’ side door to discover what I first assumed to be hail strewn across my seat, and it makes more sense why that break-in led to a mental breakdown later on that week. My first reaction when I glanced up to see my entire passenger-side window smashed in wasn’t panic, but a slowly creeping feeling of déjà vu. It was around 5 p.m., just after the awards ceremony for the dragon boat tournament at Lake Merced up in San Francisco. I had put the speeding ticket I got on the drive up out of my mind, and this just minimized the incident that much more.
In the moment, I felt helpless. It was as though a string of rather unpleasant (to put it lightly) events were following me. Throughout the course of the semester, I felt as though I had been working hard but had lost sight of the reasons why.
I had been focusing so much on establishing something with Bamboo Offshoot, but felt as though I were the only one putting in any effort. Apathy was eating away at my staff, and production had been going poorly despite my efforts to save it.
I hadn’t been able to maintain relationships and keep up with those near and dear to me because I’d been so busy with extracurriculars and school.
I was stuck in the middle of family drama that involved a close cousin being disowned from the family.
I hadn’t been starting up the blogs or freelancing I had aimed to do at the beginning of the semester.
I didn’t have a job secured.
I was behind in all of my class work, and was literally failing a course.
I’d let my parents down by getting myself into this situation and would have to find a way to pay them back for these damages. They would worry.
I had been lacking the purpose I initially began the semester with, and as much as I wanted to trivialize the fact that my window had been smashed and my things stolen, I just couldn’t. It was the last straw in a string of unfortunate events, and I wanted to just curl up in a ball and give up. All I saw were the negatives and the lack-ofs. It was hard to see the situation any other way.
But then I saw how everyone else was responding to the situation, and I knew I could only let myself be down and out for those few brief minutes. A friend’s wallet, phone, purse, ID, credit cards – had all been stolen from my backseat. I felt guilty, whether or not I had reason to feel that way, and I shifted my attention to that rather than focus on my own issues. What I had stolen was replaceable. Take a step back. No one was hurt, no reason to stress. Everything would work itself out. It might not seem like it in the moment, but the situation really wasn’t as bad as it seemed, in the grand scheme of things. I decided not to let myself get to emotionally invested. Everything would be okay.
Everything will be okay.
And everything was fine for those first few days after driving back from San Francisco. I was overwhelmed with the outpouring of concern from my teammates, friends and family, and I truly felt like I had needed something like this to happen to help ground me and put me back on the right track. I had been looking too much at the negatives to see their counterpart positives. The only problem was, I hadn’t let myself get all those emotions out of my head. There hadn’t been any catharsis, and my frustrations had simply been compartmentalized.
The Tuesday night following the Sunday break-in marked my first real emotional breakdown in a long time. In talking to a friend about the incident, I began to tear up, and my emotions and fears began to pour forth. I don’t think I ever expelled all those pent-up feelings, a whole semester’s worth, and it felt like such a huge relief to say everything that had been on my mind for far too long. I’ve always credited myself as being capable of taking on situations and being the comforter in times of distress – I shy away from being vulnerable, and that has translated into a lack of outward emotional reaction to anything big that had happened in the past semester, good or bad. It took a lot for me to admit that I wasn’t okay.
Everything’s a big deal, he said. Everything is a huge freaking deal.
Someone breaking into your car? Huge deal. React to it.
Getting accepted into Teach For America? Huge deal. React to it.
People not meeting deadlines and not respecting the publication? Huge deal. React to it.
Worried about how you’re failing one of your classes? Huge deal. React to it.
Having your parents tell you that your actions are selfish? Huge deal. React to it.
Too much of the semester had been spent convincing myself that things were fine, when really they probably could have been better. I had been running on empty for so long but had had too much pride or had been too buried under layers of denial to see it. I don’t cry enough. Or get angry enough. I downplay successes and gloss over disappointments. It’s not a healthy way to live.
But now, post-reflection and post-breakdown, things have started looking up in a very big way. I’ve taken on the editor-in-chief position for the Daily Trojan next semester, and I’m at once terrified and excited about the opportunity. It took a lot of thinking and reassessing to finally conclude that this was and is the right choice, but now that I’ve committed, there’s no turning back.
I heard back from Teach For America. My final interview is in just two weeks’ time and I’m anxiously preparing for the day-long process.
I met and spoke with Jeannie Kim, the executive editor over at Time Inc. just last Friday. I think I may have an internship for the summer.
So many things, so many circumstances. It’s been quite a trip and this is just the tip of the iceberg, really. I’ve never felt so blessed to have so many amazing people in my life – were it not for them, I doubt these past three weeks would have turned out quite the way they have.
Sometimes, you need to see the pieces of your life for what they are before you can fit a new window in their place. Break in, break down. Fill out, fill up.
It’s looking a lot clearer today.
28 October 2008
The Perfect Time of Day
I write best when I really shouldn't be. At present, I'm mulling over what to write about for the light feature I have due in my journalism feature writing class tomorrow afternoon. With all the things that have been going on in life, you'd think that I'd be able to pull something together to write a semi-decent piece, but I can't focus because of the nagging deadlines inching toward the forefront of my thoughts.
There's the Bamboo Offshoot issue that needs to go to print within the next few hours, but which likely won't be put to bed until later on this week. Procrastination is a bizzle and I find myself really frustrated at my own inability to finish the task at hand. The problem was a breakdown in communication, the failure on my part to keep my writers, photographers and editors in check. I have a problem with delegating work, this much I admit, but this is ridiculous - our first issue of the school year, late to print. The quality of the product might be better, but at the cost of timeliness - eeps.
It's frustrating because I know that the publication has so much potential - the momentum of getting the ball rolling just keeps getting stopped with one road block after another and it worries me that the same issues keep coming up for each...issue. I told myself at the beginning of the year that this would be one of my priorities for the upcoming school year, but as it stands, I think I've put so much effort into this venture that it's affected everything else.
We're in a transitioning phase wherein we're moving out from under the protection of the Asian Pacific American Student Services and into becoming our own student organization. As a result, we need to fund ourselves through ad sales and grants and USG funding. Our funding proposal was rejected about a month ago on the grounds that the board didn't see how Bamboo would "contribute to the betterment of the USC campus."
They didn't see how USC's ONLY Asian Pacific American publication would benefit the campus.
They didn't understand that, with 25% of the campus being APA, it might be necessary to have a sounding board and resource for students who have no voice otherwise.
They didn't feel that issues unique to APAs are worth funding, but parties and concerts that have little real benefit to the campus are.
Seriously?
One of my friends told me to write about passion. What it means to be truly passionate about something and sacrifice sleep, time and money for something that might not initially seem worth it. This just might be it, because - not gonna lie - at this time of day, with deadline encroaching upon my other schoolwork and job applications, it's hard to be focused on that end goal of spreading APA awareness.
Right now, all I want to do is sleep. Is that so much to ask?
...sooooo emo. haha.
There's the Bamboo Offshoot issue that needs to go to print within the next few hours, but which likely won't be put to bed until later on this week. Procrastination is a bizzle and I find myself really frustrated at my own inability to finish the task at hand. The problem was a breakdown in communication, the failure on my part to keep my writers, photographers and editors in check. I have a problem with delegating work, this much I admit, but this is ridiculous - our first issue of the school year, late to print. The quality of the product might be better, but at the cost of timeliness - eeps.
It's frustrating because I know that the publication has so much potential - the momentum of getting the ball rolling just keeps getting stopped with one road block after another and it worries me that the same issues keep coming up for each...issue. I told myself at the beginning of the year that this would be one of my priorities for the upcoming school year, but as it stands, I think I've put so much effort into this venture that it's affected everything else.
We're in a transitioning phase wherein we're moving out from under the protection of the Asian Pacific American Student Services and into becoming our own student organization. As a result, we need to fund ourselves through ad sales and grants and USG funding. Our funding proposal was rejected about a month ago on the grounds that the board didn't see how Bamboo would "contribute to the betterment of the USC campus."
They didn't see how USC's ONLY Asian Pacific American publication would benefit the campus.
They didn't understand that, with 25% of the campus being APA, it might be necessary to have a sounding board and resource for students who have no voice otherwise.
They didn't feel that issues unique to APAs are worth funding, but parties and concerts that have little real benefit to the campus are.
Seriously?
One of my friends told me to write about passion. What it means to be truly passionate about something and sacrifice sleep, time and money for something that might not initially seem worth it. This just might be it, because - not gonna lie - at this time of day, with deadline encroaching upon my other schoolwork and job applications, it's hard to be focused on that end goal of spreading APA awareness.
Right now, all I want to do is sleep. Is that so much to ask?
...sooooo emo. haha.
18 October 2008
Old Peace
Running through my old writings and I came across this, from over a year ago. I miss this, whatever "this" is.
The waves beckon, the moon almost apologetic as it edges into the surrounding darkness. On a night like this, even the stars are shy.
I feel the sand beneath my feet, the way the grains sink away from me with each gurgling wave, the way they pour over my toes anew with each onslaught of water. My feet sink deeper into the fine sand. The ground I stand on is giving way. When my feet have finally disappeared underneath layers of rock, I turn in the darkness and stare intently at the vacuous void where I assume his face might be.
"You know, last summer I was on a beach around this time of year. It wasn't at night though. It was during a typhoon."
I wait for him to respond, look at his silhouette for a hint of a nod. I think he turns to look at me.
"What was it like?" he asks, a voice forming from an invisible mouth. Even in the darkness, I know he's keeping himself in check, careful to sound disinterested though he wants to know more. I know this because as he says it, he draws his right foot through the water, allowing the edge of the waves to brush his toes three times before taking a step backward on the sand. He's curious.
"It was amazing, something that's hard to describe. There were just a few of us out there, right against the water, and the waves meshed with the rain. You couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. I wish you could've been there."
I notice that as I recount the adventures of last year, I have to almost shout to be heard above the sound of water. I've never told anyone much about that day nearly one year ago, and how much the sheer power of those crashing waves had meant to me. And yet, in the pitch black night, I say these things aloud.
It's freeing.
I can almost feel him grin in the darkness.
"And this? How does this compare to that day?"
I blink back tears and a choking sensation in my throat as I quickly glance at the faded lights to my right. I turn my head away from where he stands, just a few feet from my left, lest he see me cry.
And I smile.
For an hour we shout to one another, pretending that we are calling out back and forth across a gorge rather than the few feet of sand we have between us. We bring up pointless things, a stream of consciousness conversation. Under the cloak of night, we learn more about one another than we ever could sitting down to dinner under offensive yellow lights, though we've known each other for a lifetime. A small family of three treads softly behind us, their feet sinking down quickly into the cool sand, their voices a background murmur. Time to go.
We stand in the darkness, in the water, ankle deep in memories and understanding.
The water continues to pulse against the sand, reuniting and departing all in one motion.
But we're already gone."
"Pulse.
The water laps at our feet, rushing over and between our toes, retreating slowly. Wistfully. It's night, and save for the glow of the shops behind us, the only glimmer of light flickers several hundred yards away to our right, lampposts lining a winding road. In the darkness, a kind of muted calm envelops us both and we face the roar of the blackened ocean.The waves beckon, the moon almost apologetic as it edges into the surrounding darkness. On a night like this, even the stars are shy.
I feel the sand beneath my feet, the way the grains sink away from me with each gurgling wave, the way they pour over my toes anew with each onslaught of water. My feet sink deeper into the fine sand. The ground I stand on is giving way. When my feet have finally disappeared underneath layers of rock, I turn in the darkness and stare intently at the vacuous void where I assume his face might be.
"You know, last summer I was on a beach around this time of year. It wasn't at night though. It was during a typhoon."
I wait for him to respond, look at his silhouette for a hint of a nod. I think he turns to look at me.
"What was it like?" he asks, a voice forming from an invisible mouth. Even in the darkness, I know he's keeping himself in check, careful to sound disinterested though he wants to know more. I know this because as he says it, he draws his right foot through the water, allowing the edge of the waves to brush his toes three times before taking a step backward on the sand. He's curious.
"It was amazing, something that's hard to describe. There were just a few of us out there, right against the water, and the waves meshed with the rain. You couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. I wish you could've been there."
I notice that as I recount the adventures of last year, I have to almost shout to be heard above the sound of water. I've never told anyone much about that day nearly one year ago, and how much the sheer power of those crashing waves had meant to me. And yet, in the pitch black night, I say these things aloud.
It's freeing.
I can almost feel him grin in the darkness.
"And this? How does this compare to that day?"
I blink back tears and a choking sensation in my throat as I quickly glance at the faded lights to my right. I turn my head away from where he stands, just a few feet from my left, lest he see me cry.
And I smile.
For an hour we shout to one another, pretending that we are calling out back and forth across a gorge rather than the few feet of sand we have between us. We bring up pointless things, a stream of consciousness conversation. Under the cloak of night, we learn more about one another than we ever could sitting down to dinner under offensive yellow lights, though we've known each other for a lifetime. A small family of three treads softly behind us, their feet sinking down quickly into the cool sand, their voices a background murmur. Time to go.
We stand in the darkness, in the water, ankle deep in memories and understanding.
The water continues to pulse against the sand, reuniting and departing all in one motion.
But we're already gone."
Price Check
I wish I were taller. Not in a literal sense, really, but just in the context of my newfound metaphor for goals and ambitions. And grocery stores.
But let me back up for a moment and explain that last bit, because I realize it’s pretty dang random. It’s just that I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking (more like overthinking, as per usual, har har), and it didn’t really hit me until recently why it is that I’ve been so perturbed and unable to focus so much of this year. It’s not because I lack motivation. It’s not that I have too much on my plate. It’s because I just really haven’t sat down and thought about the concrete possibilities of my future until now – avoiding stress has become my new favourite pastime, and as a result, I’ve also put off some serious self-reflection and writing that might just bring me back on track.
I've spent the last four years of my life shopping. Shopping for purpose, direction, inspiration, knowledge. Brain food and stimulating conversations in aisle two. Wasted afternoons, aisle eight. Relationships and hurt feelings, aisle five.
My fellow shoppers peruse row upon row of goods, canned emotions and life-altering bags of fluff. Prepackaged boxes of collegiate life - sororities, fraternities, culture clubs, team sports - line the most popular aisles, and everyone wrestles to get the cleanest, least beat-up of the bunch. Name brands are pretty key here - you get what you pay for, after all.
In the quieter aisles are the ingredients, the put-me-together pieces of the college experience. It’ll take more effort to create a dish from scratch, and though there’s no guarantee that the final concoction will be anything worth devouring, venturing into these aisles at least means that the shopper is taking some form of risk. It takes confidence and a little bit of naivety to believe that what he or she can come up with will be worth the effort.
Cooking is love, and love is cooking.
And to cook without passion is worse than not cooking at all.
We pick up pieces of familiarity and pair it with something daring and new. Pasta and chili. Chicken and homemade pesto. Eggs and vegetables and salsa so hot your mouth will burn. New recipes and spontaneous creations. We hope that one of the strange concoctions we come up with will stick, will be a success that we can recreate and tweak and foster into something greater later on down the line.
But what about those hard-to-reach items at the tops of the shelves? The ingredients and the pieces that just might be what our recipes need for that extra pop of flavor?
What if we just don’t know they’re there?
I wish I were taller because sometimes I feel as though what I’m looking for is hidden in the back of the very top shelf – behind the stale box of donuts and the dust-ridden can of soup. What I’m hoping will make or break my latest venture is tucked away on a wayward shelf, but it’s just not visible to me because I don’t know to look there.
So I settle for less, making the best I know how from what items I see available to me. I can improvise and make something truly unique, a signature dish that’ll stand on its own delicious merit at potlucks. But eventually, even that becomes safe.
It’s just that now, I’m curious.
I want to see what’s at the top and how I can use those forgotten items in my ultimate recipe for success. The reason why these pieces are at the top is because they’ve been there the longest; they’ve had the longest shelf life. How can I tap into those resources and use them to create something better? Bolder?
All my interests from days long gone are starting to reappear the closer I get to graduation, to that checkout line. I want to write. I want to listen. I want to learn. I want to see what I’ve tossed out of my life that just might have been the one thing that makes the entire mixture work.
What am I missing?
Somewhere in my four years of shopping I’ve come up with a grocery list of items that work for me, but now it’s time to try something new.
I’m peering back into my past to see how I can create a better future. I need a ladder.
But let me back up for a moment and explain that last bit, because I realize it’s pretty dang random. It’s just that I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking (more like overthinking, as per usual, har har), and it didn’t really hit me until recently why it is that I’ve been so perturbed and unable to focus so much of this year. It’s not because I lack motivation. It’s not that I have too much on my plate. It’s because I just really haven’t sat down and thought about the concrete possibilities of my future until now – avoiding stress has become my new favourite pastime, and as a result, I’ve also put off some serious self-reflection and writing that might just bring me back on track.
I've spent the last four years of my life shopping. Shopping for purpose, direction, inspiration, knowledge. Brain food and stimulating conversations in aisle two. Wasted afternoons, aisle eight. Relationships and hurt feelings, aisle five.
My fellow shoppers peruse row upon row of goods, canned emotions and life-altering bags of fluff. Prepackaged boxes of collegiate life - sororities, fraternities, culture clubs, team sports - line the most popular aisles, and everyone wrestles to get the cleanest, least beat-up of the bunch. Name brands are pretty key here - you get what you pay for, after all.
In the quieter aisles are the ingredients, the put-me-together pieces of the college experience. It’ll take more effort to create a dish from scratch, and though there’s no guarantee that the final concoction will be anything worth devouring, venturing into these aisles at least means that the shopper is taking some form of risk. It takes confidence and a little bit of naivety to believe that what he or she can come up with will be worth the effort.
Cooking is love, and love is cooking.
And to cook without passion is worse than not cooking at all.
We pick up pieces of familiarity and pair it with something daring and new. Pasta and chili. Chicken and homemade pesto. Eggs and vegetables and salsa so hot your mouth will burn. New recipes and spontaneous creations. We hope that one of the strange concoctions we come up with will stick, will be a success that we can recreate and tweak and foster into something greater later on down the line.
But what about those hard-to-reach items at the tops of the shelves? The ingredients and the pieces that just might be what our recipes need for that extra pop of flavor?
What if we just don’t know they’re there?
I wish I were taller because sometimes I feel as though what I’m looking for is hidden in the back of the very top shelf – behind the stale box of donuts and the dust-ridden can of soup. What I’m hoping will make or break my latest venture is tucked away on a wayward shelf, but it’s just not visible to me because I don’t know to look there.
So I settle for less, making the best I know how from what items I see available to me. I can improvise and make something truly unique, a signature dish that’ll stand on its own delicious merit at potlucks. But eventually, even that becomes safe.
It’s just that now, I’m curious.
I want to see what’s at the top and how I can use those forgotten items in my ultimate recipe for success. The reason why these pieces are at the top is because they’ve been there the longest; they’ve had the longest shelf life. How can I tap into those resources and use them to create something better? Bolder?
All my interests from days long gone are starting to reappear the closer I get to graduation, to that checkout line. I want to write. I want to listen. I want to learn. I want to see what I’ve tossed out of my life that just might have been the one thing that makes the entire mixture work.
What am I missing?
Somewhere in my four years of shopping I’ve come up with a grocery list of items that work for me, but now it’s time to try something new.
I’m peering back into my past to see how I can create a better future. I need a ladder.
14 September 2008
Circle of Life
It's amazing how so many things have really come full circle in these first few weeks of senior year. I just got back from a Jason Mraz concert out in Cabazon, and as I was standing there in the crowd, swaying and sifting to the addictive rhythm and flow of the Dynamo of Volition, I thought back to my first Mraz concert at the beginning of senior year in high school, and how much things and life and circumstances have changed since then.
More than that, though, I thought about what hasn't changed, what parts of me are still intact after four grueling, eye-opening years of college.
Four years ago, I was sprinting through my last leg of high school, nervous about college applications and the prospect of leaving the bubble of comfort I had grown up in. I remember having a whole jumble of emotions as I started the year - excited about being top-dog (assuming power over yearbook and Chinese Club seemed to be such a big deal back then), hesitant about figuring out my plans post-graduation, reflective about friendships made within the cardboard walls of Whitney. There was a sense of urgency to the whole year, trying to cram in as much as possible before ending that ever-so-significant phase of life.
It took a lot of introspection and reevaluation to strike a happy balance between work and play, holding on and letting go, and I had to flounder a bit at the beginning of the year before I could upright myself and structure my life in such a way that I wasn’t burning out or always running to catch up.
Now, four years later, I find myself in the same situation. These past three weeks have been hellishly busy, but I really have no one but myself to blame for making it so. I was overextending myself and living from day to day, doing everything just in the nick of time, not really planning ahead or really even taking the time to breathe. Even after my stint in the hospital following the marathon, my mind refused to rest, racing forward to what I had to do the next day following my release. I told everyone that physically collapsing was a wake-up call for me to really slow down in life, but in my head I told myself that I just needed to make myself stronger and even scolded myself for letting myself falter.
I’ve grown up with a need to be busy, to make every moment of my day count. As a consequence, I’ve been filling any empty spaces in my schedule with lunch dates, office hours, catch-up coffees, dinners, meetings…saying “yes” to everyone because I’d rather spend my time focused on them and their problems than on my own. Only problem is that in these past few weeks, I’ve found myself burning out because I’m making myself so available to everything and convincing myself that I can make time for things that I really can’t.
One of the many good things that came out of all those coffees and lunches and dinners and meetings, though, is that I got a better sense of my own skewed sense of priorities. Even though I “knew” that I should slow down and stop attracting unnecessary stress, it took hearing it from multiple people to really set in.
There are only 24 hours in a day.
I am not superwoman.
If I don’t take care of myself, I can’t fully take care of anyone or anything else.
Slow down.
Enjoy it.
Breathe.
There are a million things that still need to be done this weekend, but after really taking the time to stop and take my own advice, I’m realizing that I’m not only happier, but a whole lot more functional. I’m making lists and prioritizing, cutting out the fluff and getting down to what really matters to me.
Putting myself first feels a bit strange, but I’m telling myself that I need to get used to it. Help myself before I can completely help others, and learn to say “no” to commitments.
I won’t worry my life away.
There’s a rhyme and reason to why I love Mr. Mraz’s music so much. True, there’s something soothing about his voice, the way he makes it an art to sing and scat, but beyond that, his music reminds me of senior year and anticipating the next step. Of new beginnings and turnarounds and reassessing. Hearing his songs is a reminder of what has been and what is to come. It sounds dramatic, I know, but music is my life, and each clip of sound is a segment of my soul, pieced together into the person I am now.
Going to the concert really brought home the reality that I’m now in my senior year of college. No more adjustment period. I’ve found my groove and I intend to ride this out till I can’t ride no more. This is it and I’m going to make it the best year yet. I’ve decided.
“You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.
You're on your own.
And you know what you know.
You are the guy who'll decide where to go.”
More than that, though, I thought about what hasn't changed, what parts of me are still intact after four grueling, eye-opening years of college.
Four years ago, I was sprinting through my last leg of high school, nervous about college applications and the prospect of leaving the bubble of comfort I had grown up in. I remember having a whole jumble of emotions as I started the year - excited about being top-dog (assuming power over yearbook and Chinese Club seemed to be such a big deal back then), hesitant about figuring out my plans post-graduation, reflective about friendships made within the cardboard walls of Whitney. There was a sense of urgency to the whole year, trying to cram in as much as possible before ending that ever-so-significant phase of life.
It took a lot of introspection and reevaluation to strike a happy balance between work and play, holding on and letting go, and I had to flounder a bit at the beginning of the year before I could upright myself and structure my life in such a way that I wasn’t burning out or always running to catch up.
Now, four years later, I find myself in the same situation. These past three weeks have been hellishly busy, but I really have no one but myself to blame for making it so. I was overextending myself and living from day to day, doing everything just in the nick of time, not really planning ahead or really even taking the time to breathe. Even after my stint in the hospital following the marathon, my mind refused to rest, racing forward to what I had to do the next day following my release. I told everyone that physically collapsing was a wake-up call for me to really slow down in life, but in my head I told myself that I just needed to make myself stronger and even scolded myself for letting myself falter.
I’ve grown up with a need to be busy, to make every moment of my day count. As a consequence, I’ve been filling any empty spaces in my schedule with lunch dates, office hours, catch-up coffees, dinners, meetings…saying “yes” to everyone because I’d rather spend my time focused on them and their problems than on my own. Only problem is that in these past few weeks, I’ve found myself burning out because I’m making myself so available to everything and convincing myself that I can make time for things that I really can’t.
One of the many good things that came out of all those coffees and lunches and dinners and meetings, though, is that I got a better sense of my own skewed sense of priorities. Even though I “knew” that I should slow down and stop attracting unnecessary stress, it took hearing it from multiple people to really set in.
There are only 24 hours in a day.
I am not superwoman.
If I don’t take care of myself, I can’t fully take care of anyone or anything else.
Slow down.
Enjoy it.
Breathe.
There are a million things that still need to be done this weekend, but after really taking the time to stop and take my own advice, I’m realizing that I’m not only happier, but a whole lot more functional. I’m making lists and prioritizing, cutting out the fluff and getting down to what really matters to me.
Putting myself first feels a bit strange, but I’m telling myself that I need to get used to it. Help myself before I can completely help others, and learn to say “no” to commitments.
I won’t worry my life away.
There’s a rhyme and reason to why I love Mr. Mraz’s music so much. True, there’s something soothing about his voice, the way he makes it an art to sing and scat, but beyond that, his music reminds me of senior year and anticipating the next step. Of new beginnings and turnarounds and reassessing. Hearing his songs is a reminder of what has been and what is to come. It sounds dramatic, I know, but music is my life, and each clip of sound is a segment of my soul, pieced together into the person I am now.
Going to the concert really brought home the reality that I’m now in my senior year of college. No more adjustment period. I’ve found my groove and I intend to ride this out till I can’t ride no more. This is it and I’m going to make it the best year yet. I’ve decided.
“You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.
You're on your own.
And you know what you know.
You are the guy who'll decide where to go.”
31 August 2008
Up and Out
I'm going to really miss eating alone. The loneliness that I felt at the beginning of summer in the my first few days of moving to Westwood have come around full circle, and now I find myself really longing for more of the solitude and familiar routine that has reigned over these past few months.
One of my worst, more irrational, fears when I was younger was of eating alone. There are too many negative stereotypes about people who dine in public alone - either they are social outcasts or they are somehow incapable of carrying out normal tableside conversation. Or they have some sort of gross deformity that repels even the most understanding of dining buddies.
None of these are really true, though, because people who are able to venture out and eat on their own in public have to be pretty dang comfortable in their own skin to do so.
Either that, or they have to quickly become comfortable.
Over the summer, every lunch break would be a mental and physical break from hours upon hours of talking, listening, writing, planning – exercising my journalistic prowess, if you will. I’d grab a pen and paper and just write – freeform, stream-of-conscience poems, blurbs, thoughts, stories, as I munched on a wrap or stabbed at some salad.
The first day I did this as a form of security, because I didn’t want to attract sympathy for my dining alone even if I had done it by choice. I wanted to get over this irrational fear of mine. But over the weeks, turning down lunch invitations didn’t feel so bad anymore – I rather looked forward to having a meal by myself and being able to gather my thoughts in an hour away from work, home, or obligations. I felt at ease in my solitude.
Friday was my last day at the Daily News, and I'm really going to miss working there. The features department has become my journalism family, and they've adopted me as one of their own, which is flattering. I'll miss Sandra's advice, Rob's sarcastic quips, Sharyn's blunt observations, even Simone's long, drawn-out stories about interviewing John Cusack and Dave Matthews.
I think that it was honestly very rare and lucky for me to stumble into such a nurturing work environment. My editors came off as cold and calculated in the beginning, but I've since learned that just because they aren't overly, fakely happy to see me all the time doesn't mean that they dislike me. In fact, I really appreciate the way they treat me like a real human being, as opposed to a golden intern spouting hope and naivety. They’re realistic and down-to-earth and so much what I needed to get my head back in the journalistic game.
Their quiet approval and support throughout the summer really helped me to move out of my comfort zone and learn to be more proactive in my quest for the story. If I wanted to cover an event or issue, I had to speak up. If I was unsure of what to do in a given situation, I had to speak up. Nothing came easy, and they intended it to be that way. You get what you give, and sometimes more if you’re lucky.
I got lucky.
I learned as I wrote, and really discovered what I was capable of doing as a journalist and as a writer. Simply being genuinely interested in a person and having good follow-through opened doors in ways that being pushy and condescending probably could not. Understanding and empathy made reporting a joy rather than a burden. Telling stories in intricate new ways was a challenge I loved to meet.
This is what I’m meant to do with the rest of my life, I’m pretty certain.
Well, maybe.
Don’t know how long this certainty will last, though, but I can say this: even in the face of a dying journalism industry, I think there’s still a place at the table for me. I hope there is.
Even if it means dining alone out in the real world, because at least I’ll have my thoughts to keep me company.
One of my worst, more irrational, fears when I was younger was of eating alone. There are too many negative stereotypes about people who dine in public alone - either they are social outcasts or they are somehow incapable of carrying out normal tableside conversation. Or they have some sort of gross deformity that repels even the most understanding of dining buddies.
None of these are really true, though, because people who are able to venture out and eat on their own in public have to be pretty dang comfortable in their own skin to do so.
Either that, or they have to quickly become comfortable.
Over the summer, every lunch break would be a mental and physical break from hours upon hours of talking, listening, writing, planning – exercising my journalistic prowess, if you will. I’d grab a pen and paper and just write – freeform, stream-of-conscience poems, blurbs, thoughts, stories, as I munched on a wrap or stabbed at some salad.
The first day I did this as a form of security, because I didn’t want to attract sympathy for my dining alone even if I had done it by choice. I wanted to get over this irrational fear of mine. But over the weeks, turning down lunch invitations didn’t feel so bad anymore – I rather looked forward to having a meal by myself and being able to gather my thoughts in an hour away from work, home, or obligations. I felt at ease in my solitude.
Friday was my last day at the Daily News, and I'm really going to miss working there. The features department has become my journalism family, and they've adopted me as one of their own, which is flattering. I'll miss Sandra's advice, Rob's sarcastic quips, Sharyn's blunt observations, even Simone's long, drawn-out stories about interviewing John Cusack and Dave Matthews.
I think that it was honestly very rare and lucky for me to stumble into such a nurturing work environment. My editors came off as cold and calculated in the beginning, but I've since learned that just because they aren't overly, fakely happy to see me all the time doesn't mean that they dislike me. In fact, I really appreciate the way they treat me like a real human being, as opposed to a golden intern spouting hope and naivety. They’re realistic and down-to-earth and so much what I needed to get my head back in the journalistic game.
Their quiet approval and support throughout the summer really helped me to move out of my comfort zone and learn to be more proactive in my quest for the story. If I wanted to cover an event or issue, I had to speak up. If I was unsure of what to do in a given situation, I had to speak up. Nothing came easy, and they intended it to be that way. You get what you give, and sometimes more if you’re lucky.
I got lucky.
I learned as I wrote, and really discovered what I was capable of doing as a journalist and as a writer. Simply being genuinely interested in a person and having good follow-through opened doors in ways that being pushy and condescending probably could not. Understanding and empathy made reporting a joy rather than a burden. Telling stories in intricate new ways was a challenge I loved to meet.
This is what I’m meant to do with the rest of my life, I’m pretty certain.
Well, maybe.
Don’t know how long this certainty will last, though, but I can say this: even in the face of a dying journalism industry, I think there’s still a place at the table for me. I hope there is.
Even if it means dining alone out in the real world, because at least I’ll have my thoughts to keep me company.
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