I don’t like to be busy.  But I’m busy all the time.  What is up with this completely opposing desire and reality?  I know — we get busy the older we get.  Life just does that to you.  I get it.  But I don’t have to like it.  I’m starting to hone in on the fact that I really value time and if there isn’t anything going on, I feel each hour, each minute, each second just wasting away, and I’m not comfortable with that.  So I fill it in with activities, and more activities and then some more activities.

I’m tired.

I think a lot of that has to do with this very notion to which my friend was referring.  I need spontaneity.  That is a part of who I am.  I’m not talking spontaneity like bungee jumping or sky diving or going skinny dipping in a lake in the dead of winter.  They sound kinda exciting but not really anything I’d do or have any real interest in doing.  I’m talking spontaneity more along the lines of having an open schedule enough to be able to spend time with a friend on a moment’s notice or decide to go for a walk on the Highline or visit a dog park or strike up a great conversation with a stranger about something random or catch a movie that I did not plan on seeing or take a weekend trip to the woods for some fresh air, simply because I want to and I can.  I need this kind of spontaneity to feel like a whole person.  I realize this kind of freedom is not sustainable long-term but for now, I’m going to consider this time in my life a gift and be as spontaneous as I can be.

So, anyone wanna join me for a walk on the Highline?

“A lot of people think the blues is depressing but that’s not the blues I’m singing. When I’m singing blues, I’m singing life.” ~Etta James

I am very much affected by the weather. When it’s gloomy outside, I just wanna stay in bed all day and sip on coffee and watch a movie or curl up with a book under my Snuggie (just kidding, I don’t have one of those. Or do I…). As I’ve been alluding to in the past couple of posts, I was pretty much in a rut the latter half of 2011 and I was struggling a lot internally about my purpose in life and what next steps I was supposed to take with music. I stopped writing music, stopped booking gigs, only played shows I had agreed to play early in advance and just… stopped. The only thing I was actively and consistently doing was playing at New Life Fellowship, which was basically my lifeline. Otherwise all of my musical muscles would have undoubtedly atrophied. It’s a terrible place to be for an artist (if I can call myself that) and for an introspective person, and also a person who identifies herself with clear purpose and accomplishment. I was drowning in self-pity and dashed hopes and didn’t have the courage or the wherewithal to dream anymore at the thought of another disappointment. Why is life so full of failures and disappointments? I wonder that quite often these days.

At the turn of the year, I braced myself for what I expected to be a long winter… and fully anticipated my “winter blues”. But somehow I’m distantly watching myself climb out of the manhole I dug myself in, and I’m curious as to why or how this is happening. I won’t resist it, no matter how tempting this experience of wallowing-in-sorrow might be. I have lived through enough to allow life to unfold the way it sometimes seems to have been destined to go. And suddenly a thought dawned on me today. Could I possibly be in the process of some kind of rebirth? Is that a light at the end of the tunnel that I see? Something within me reaches out for that twinkling of hope, as if I was made for this moment. All those fears and the discouragement that held me back and made me swear never to try again somehow just subside (who knows when they’ll be back, but who cares for now?) and my eyes, once again, see the hope of glory. But it’s different this time, because I feel as though I’ve been through a fire. The human experience is so peculiar and altogether mysterious, isn’t it?

Why do I want to try again? Why do I want to live again? What is it that is pressing me forward?

Then I am reminded, yet again, that there is no resurrection without death. I must go through the fire to be refined. There is no short cut. I reject any notion that might speak to me otherwise. There is no other way.

There is no spring without winter.

So I now welcome the Winter Blues. When Spring comes, I’ll be singing a new song.

Take away from me the noise of your songs; to the melody of your harps I will not listen.  But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.  –Amos 5:23-24 (ESV)

In 1989 my family and I stepped foot in Los Angeles, California and my encounter with racism began quite abruptly. Granted L.A. was already highly concentrated with Koreans who had immigrated over the last 2 decades, I was very aware that I looked different than the average American at that time, mostly that I wasn’t white. That first year in this country didn’t prepare me well for the racial antagonism I experienced in the years to come, especially in upstate New York. Ever since, I’ve been overly conscious of my Asian appearance and it has affected my interactions with others in public places.

Racism is not an issue of the past. In fact, as I continue to live in New York City, arguably the most ethnically diverse city in the world, I see how racism has remained and actually edged itself into the undercurrents of life, so inherent and yet not easily noticeable unless one digs beyond the surface. Even in a city like ours where we come into contact with someone of a different skin color than us on a daily basis, it takes conscious effort to realize how institutionalized racism has become.

I’m not trying to overdramatize things but merely trying to shed a bit of light, because I need to preach this to myself. I don’t deal with racism daily, but it has been significant enough that it has influenced the way I present myself to people and institutions.  I’ve also recognized racism in my own heart that subconsciously influences the way I approach others (even my own race).  This is the main lesson I have learned over the years: Racial reconciliation doesn’t happen passively. It happens with intentionality, initiative and hard work. The kind of reconciliation that unites people isn’t generally considered very cool and it is certainly humbling. Since we tend to think of the civil rights movement as something of the past, race issues are oftentimes perceived as already resolved. But as long as human beings in all of our cultures, ethnicities and skin colors exist, racism will remain. I’ve heard some people say that the word ‘race’ isn’t even a legitimate term and was only conceived to bring division among people groups. Whether or not that is true, racism exists and it’s alive and real in this modern day. And as Americans we face it to a greater degree because this country is a melting pot and we are almost forced to deal with it.  The question is, do we?

I guess I’m thinking a lot about this because today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. But I’ve actually been wrestling with it for quite a while.  Most recently, I’ve been reading a book called, “Let Justice Roll Down“, by John Perkins, and it’s breaking my heart.  And it’s also giving me hope.  There have been great strides made since the civil rights movement of the ’60s but we have not arrived by any means. People point to tangible evidences of justice and reconciliation. I also know of more and more diversity present in churches, businesses, marriages and groups of friends.  I’m starting to realize, however, that the presence of diversity doesn’t necessarily mean there has been reconciliation.  I imagine if I ever married someone of a different race than me, that we’d have a whole lot of reconciling to do to get to the deeper level of love and connection.

In about 2 weeks I am going on a journey called “Sankofa”, hosted by the Evangelical Covenant Church. Sankofa is a west African term that means “looking backward to move forward”. This trip will encompass a four day trip through the deep south as we visit significant civil rights landmarks and interact with companions who are ethnically different than ourselves.  It’ll be a learning experience and an opportunity for growth, compassion and connection. I want to commit to taking active steps toward racial reconciliation. It’s not just a personal conviction. I believe God has called us to this.

A few more thoughts.  I’ve been thinking lately that justice and reconciliation cannot begin and end with pity.  In other words, we cannot respond to the need out of a sense of pity. Pity comes from superiority, not equality. Pity results in a handout and a cycle of dependency. Justice induces compassion and compels equality. This is an important distinction and I need to constantly search my heart to check my motivation for such urges toward justice and reconciliation.

Also, reacting to the need for an absolution of guilt is selfish. It doesn’t really have anything to do with the other person and has so much more to do with my need to feel better about myself. I find it much more meaningful to pursue justice to uphold the inherent value of another person, as a human being and as one created in the image of God.

I just tried to tackle many, many different issues in one blog post.  I’m not satisfied that I did any of these issues justice.  But I do know this for sure — Racism isn’t just a social justice issue. It’s a spiritual one. As we honor MLK today, let us continue on the personal journey toward racial reconciliation.

As I write this, my sister and Bandit are sleeping on the couch in the living room.  Bandit is my sister’s doggie.  She’s 8 months old.  Bandit, that is.  My sister is a few years older than that.  Like 26.  They’ve been there for the past month like that, every night, sleeping on the couch.  In a few days, they’ll be there no longer and my sister and Bandit will move into their newfound mid-town apartment.  I haven’t had a dog or been so close to one for 20 years but my love for doggies has never faded.  I love them with the kind of burst-at-the-seams love that I can probably only have for dogs and maybe my own baby, if I ever have one someday.

This last month has almost been like having 2 children.  Except one is grown so I don’t really have to concern myself as much.  But Bandit… it’s been quite a ride for us.  Having a doggie is very similar to having a child.  On my off days, when my sister isn’t home, I schedule my day around Bandit’s walks and naps.  I can barely get anything done when she’s up and about.  She’s chewed up my plants, left bite marks on corners of furniture, tries to grab a shoe every chance she gets.  She leaves her chew toys everywhere and demands playtime most of her waking hours.  Also, due to poor timing and also confusion (she’s moved several times in the last few months, that poor thing), she’s pee’ed several times around my apartment.

Bandit was potty trained pretty well soon after my sister adopted her from the shelter.  But when my sister’s living transitions happened too quickly, Bandit started to get a bit confused and I noticed she was pee’ing in my apartment sometimes during the night.  One day, she did it right in front of me and I got so upset that I yelled at her.  My entire disposition changed towards her and she knew it.  She became very sad with her tail down and she curled up into a ball and fell asleep on my rug near me.  I went to do some work while she slept and I glanced over at her and just started to cry because I felt so bad that I got so angry!  She’s a dog and she hasn’t settled into a potty schedule here.  I asked her for her forgiveness.

Bandit also has major separation anxiety so every time we leave her alone in the apartment, she starts to cry.  I can’t bear hearing it — it makes me so, so sad!  For awhile, I was really stressed and also anxious that she was so sad about being alone for an entire workday.  Letting her “cry it out” is excruciatingly painful for me.  I just wanna run back and bring her with me!

I imagine parenting to be something like this.  I’m going to be a wreck, aren’t I.

Sigh.

Bandit and I have gotten much better in the past month.  Things get easier with time and routine.  But they’re leaving in a couple of days and I’m pretty bummed about it.  I’m going to miss them.  Besides living up to her name on occasion, Bandit is a very sweet dog with lots of personality.  She’ll curl up and nap with me when she’s tired and sees that I am, too.  When I am sad or upset about something, she senses it and comes over to console me.  She’s also very playful and has lots of energy, and loves it when people interact with her during playtime.

A part of me is also relieved that they’re moving out, cuz I get my apartment back.  I don’t have to vacuum every day, or have to worry about my food being stolen when I turn my back; I can leave my doors open and not have to worry about Bandit chewing up my plants and shoes and stuff.

To be really honest, I’m pretty sure I’ve used Bandit as an excuse for my lethargy.  The truth of the matter is, it’s easier to shift my focus on a doggie than have to pay attention to my heart or what’s really going on in my inner life.  It’s been a downer of a few months for me and I welcomed the distraction.  I let life go along its way, one drudging step at a time, and I didn’t really care for it much one way or another as long as I was able to get out of bed and get through the day.  This is really no way to live.

I’m starting to understand how people let days, months, years pass by in this distracted way.  It takes hard work and determination and sometimes just brute force to listen to and care for our inner selves – the parts that make up the core of who we are.  Who really wants to deal with the brokenness, darkness, sadness, anguish and disappointment that lie deep inside?  I’d rather just take care of a doggie. I’m pretty convinced that the way of distraction is a road frequently traveled by many.

My admitted distraction will be gone soon and I’ll be left to an empty apartment.

I guess it’s time to face the music.  Or make some music.

She likes to stick her tongue out a bit when she naps.

When I’m done writing this current post, I’ll have written 40 blog posts in 2011.  I guess I’m making progress looking at the numbers.  Honestly, though, I haven’t had much motivation to write lately…  or sing… or compose, for that matter.  It’s a rather sad existence for an artist.  There is much I could have written in 2011 but most of it went unwritten.  Instead, I’ve been asking myself some hard questions and maybe in between, wallowing in self-pity.  I guess I got tired of chasing after my lofty dreams and without even realizing it things just started to slow down.  Way down.  And then I just distracted myself with a busy schedule.  That always seems to do the trick when I don’t want to think about life.

As usual, I have no concrete answers or thoughts about where I am and what I’m doing.  The longer I live, the more I’m coming to realize that I really don’t have control over much, especially over things that I feel like I should have control, i.e. my life.  And I’ve found that the surrender that inevitably ensues after accepting that fact is rather demoralizing, instead of being liberating, as one would expect.

Or maybe I haven’t been actively surrendering, but more likely giving up.  And then somewhere along the way this year, I gave up on giving up, if that makes any sense at all.  So I’d start a blog post, a song, some project… and then just let it trail off into oblivion.  There is a certain carelessness that accompanies giving up.  I would think surrendering does not look like this.  I would think there is a kind of acceptance when it comes to surrendering.  But no, I haven’t really accepted anything and there is a part of me that is still stomping my feet, crossing my arms, and pouting.  I have to have this my way  or else.  At least I have the child-like thing down, like Jesus wanted.  Or is this not child-like but more like child-ish.

I seem to be doing my typical end-of-year reflections in this post, except, I won’t be sprinkling this one with any positive accomplishments of this year.  God forbid I do that, or I might feel like this year was actually good or something.

The thing is, that other person was also my friend.  And a couple of weeks later, I sat down with that friend and we talked about what happened.   I felt similar emotions of heartache, pain and regret.  But, I heard a very different story.

I came home that night and realized that perhaps for the first time, I had heard two complete sides to the same story and that both sides, though different, were completely valid and true.  It was the same relationship, same situation, the same fallout and yet they each experienced something very different.  I started to see how many times I had been quick to render an opinion on someone based on just one side of the story, or take a side just because I knew one person better than another.  I started to recall all the times in my life that I had felt victimized without knowing the point of view of the person who hurt me.  I rarely admitted my own faults in the situation and made enemies of people because I was unaware of any other story than my own.  This is a continual and profound lesson I’ve been learning since the conversations I had with my two friends.

There is always more than one side to every story.

As much connotation as the word “desperation” in all of its iterations takes on, I have to say that it is one word that describes me very well.  In fact, I am able to say, with a considerable amount of confidence, that desperation has been the main driving force behind all of my life pursuits.

Why am I so desperate?  Maybe that’s not the right question.  The better question is, what am I desperate for?  To put it simply, I’m desperate for life.  For purpose.  For meaning.  For something more.  I keep digging and digging and digging because I’m desperate.  I keep asking questions because I’m desperate.  I keep waking up in the morning because I’m desperate.  I embrace pain because I’m desperate.  I love because I’m desperate.  Something inside me tells me that maybe, just maybe, if I’m desperate enough, I will find.

And from that place, I want to share this song with you.

This past trip to Wichita was my third time going there.  Why Wichita of all places?  And why for the third time?  Well, the connecting link is my friend, Matt.  He just got married to his fiance, Judy, and I flew out for the wedding.  I don’t really fly out for weddings but Matt and the friends I’ve made through him hold a special place in my heart so I made an occasion out of it.  It was a beautiful wedding and I couldn’t be happier for them.  Unexpectedly, during this weekend, there was one particular moment that I have a feeling will stay in my mind for a long time.  In fact, I have not been able to stop thinking about it since I got back.

For the wedding weekend, we stayed at a nice hotel in downtown Wichita.  Every morning we’d go downstairs to the dining area and eat a delicious breakfast.  After we finished eating, there was an area to bring back our plates/cups but I noticed there were several tables where people had left their used plates, cups, napkins, etc.  Then this hotel staff lady came along and cleaned up after the mess.  She’d go around picking up the garbage and cleaning out the tables.  Nothing unusual – apparently, this was her job.  The thing is, she’d always say the most friendly greeting to us and offer to clean our table when we were done.  When we told her we’d bring the dishes back ourselves, she kept saying that this was her job and she’s glad to do it.  Her service to us was undoubtedly the best that I’ve ever received of this kind.  She had a pep in her walk and it was clear her attitude toward her job was rather cheerful considering the menial labor she was doing.  I couldn’t help but want to talk to her.  So the last day before we left, my roomie and I went over to thank her and we struck up a conversation.  We thanked her for being so nice to us and going above and beyond to clean up after everything.  She kept saying, “This is my job.  It’s no problem.”  Then she said something that is still ringing in my head.  When we mentioned that we had noticed some of the messy tables, she said, “I don’t mind at all.  This is my passion.”

I kinda just stood there, listening to her voice.  At first, I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it.  This… cleaning dirty tables….was her passion?   How could this be a passion for anyone?

Her voice has continued to ring in my head.  I don’t even remember what she looks like anymore but I keep hearing her voice.  This is my passion.  And I believe her.  Her actions prove it.  Her words affirm it.

I think about passion often, probably most often about my own.  Lately, I wonder if my passion is real or genuine or strong enough.  Sometimes, I wonder why my actions don’t prove it.  All I know is, I want to live like that.  I want to get up in the morning and be passionate about whatever it is I have to do that day – if it’s cleaning tables, folding laundry, keeping the books or making music… I just want to be absolutely passionate about it.  And I wouldn’t even have to say a word.  You would just know it by looking at my life.

When it comes to passion, I’m pretty sure I over-think what it is that I do and not think as much about how I do it.  But now I’m thinking it matters much more how I do the things I’m currently in the position to do and not so much what it is that I’m doing.  I’m not defined by what I do, but I may be defined much more by how I do it.

May I never, ever forget this.

I’ve never been a real fan of K-dramas but I’ve had some favorites along the years, from even just the few that I’ve watched.  My all-time favorite is “All About Eve” from 2000.  It’s very typical but there are a couple of scenes that break me down every single time I think about it or watch it.  I think that Koreans have mastered the art of drama – aside from the sometimes cheesy cinematography and melodramatic situations, they know how to pull at the heart strings and do it in a way that’s very subtle and poetic.  If you’re a sucker for drama, then it’s pretty much game over.  But even if you’re not, there may very well be something there with which you can identify.

There are lots of things about K-dramas that frustrate me, especially the display of very plasticized women (and even men), the overly dramatic scenes resulting from constant miscommunication (missing each other by seconds, seeing their love interest with someone else, lying to “protect” the other person), stereotypical portrayals of men (and women, for that matter), idealistic rendering of romance… After all that, one would wonder why I even bother watching them at all.  I’ve found that it’s because there are many characteristics about K-dramas that I find absolutely endearing, like valuing family, sacrificial love and hard work.  I suppose these things, stereotypes, romance, sacrifice, are parts of every good human story, Korean or otherwise, but they are so prominently and intricately woven into the fabric of K-dramas that I find myself taking something like a life lesson away from every single one that I watch.

Today I was reading a Nicholas Kristof piece about a woman in Kenya who, in the midst of poverty and making ends meet through prostitution, started a dressmaking business to provide for her children.  One of her sons mentions that when he grows up and gets his first paycheck, he’s going to buy his mom something beautiful.  Strangely, this helped me process why I keep watching these K-dramas.  That part about life where the first thing we think to do when we are better off is to give to our loved ones… that kind of love, that kind of sacrifice, never gets old for me.  I want to do the same.  It’s not that it’s my responsibility or obligation.  It’s my desire.  We want the best for those we love.

So this leads me to ask, what, in fact, is actually the best for someone?  I’d think it would vary depending on the person.  We may be able to come to a consensus that for someone lacking basic needs like food, water, clothing, shelter – those material goods might be the best for that person.  But what about the balance of us who have all those things?  What is the best for us?  What about my parents?  My sister?  We might think the best includes something like a big house, nice wheels, brand name clothing, comfortable retirement… but I’m going to beg to differ on this.  What are we sacrificing for?  What are we working towards?  And does the answer to those questions mean anything?   Do they matter at all?

So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask him.  -Matthew 7:11 (New Living Translation)

But I don’t think this is really humility.

I think humility is the ability to embrace myself in my fullness — the good, the bad and the ugly.  And always keeping the three at bay.  Humility is knowing that I cannot do it all but that I can do a lot.  No matter how great a thing I’ve done, I am aware of the darkness in myself enough to know that I can mess it up just as much.  No matter how much wrong I’ve inflicted, I am aware that I am redeemable and that I am a deeper well than this wrong.  I can acknowledge an accomplishment, even if it is my own, but I don’t ever have to blow it out of proportion because I embrace it for what it is.  I can also acknowledge my faults and don’t have to be defensive about it.  I can acknowledge someone else’s fault and not have to discourage them for it, since I know that I am capable of the same thing.

I can claim the good, bad and ugly knowing I somehow embody them all.  This is humility.