An Open Letter to Socality Barbie

Dear Socality Barbie,

I spilled my coffee this morning trying to take a photo of it. It's dumb to even ask why I was trying to document the experience, I wanted people to know that I'd gotten up, made my own coffee, and was now preparing to conquer the first Monday of November. Why else would I need the perfect morning lighting and my cellphone at 6am? My mom looked at me and blinked twice like, "why are you even taking a picture of it?" Now not a single soul knows how authentically I managed to live this morning with my coffee. If you felt like your day's missing something then it's probably that photo. Happy to solve the mystery for you, Barbie.

But do you know what happened after the coffee spilled this morning? Life moved forward without the documentation. I made my new coffee. It's still good and piping hot. No one's made better or worse because of some inspirational caption I planned to pair with a photo softened by VSCO Cam. I tasted real life for a second and it felt pretty foreign on my lips. I wrapped myself in a blanket and a little bit of conviction for this day: why is it necessary to obsess over making life look perfect for the others? We all know it isn't. Why does the charade play on until something breaks? Glass or a heart, why can't I actually show you my real mess?

…

You weren't made to have my actual, day-to-day mess. It's you and a couple hundred or thousand followers who are not equipped for what happens when my junk actually hits the fan. You and I both know it, Barbie: the day you get drunk and leave Ken, and act like an angry train wreck with a megaphone on all your social media streams then people on the fringes won't want you anymore. It's harsh but probably true. Ken's friends will unfollow you. So manage your mess, Barbie. We want a mess we can monitor from the people we follow. We want honesty without the bruising. We want the kind of pain that's digestible and won't disturb our days. The day you use social media as a megaphone for your pain, the kind of pain latte art can't touch, people will leave you.

Some people will start talking in their circles the day you start to let the anger and the rant statuses flow. They'll start psycho-analyzing and putting the pieces together from a safe distance. They'll take social media and turn it into a soap opera, sigh out of relief as they say, "at least I'm doing better." But when did tiny glimpses of our lives, cropped to perfection, become the measuring stick for who's doing better and who's doing worse? When did life, and managing to live it, become a competition and a comparison? When did we confuse the real with fake and the fake with real?

Maybe I'm being a little too cruel to you, Barbie, seeing as you're not really 'real' but I reminded her of all the times people manage to say, "well, that person was fun to follow until that happened." And we all know what that thing was. Point's this: we want you right now, Barbie. We like you right now. You're doing something awesome and managing to make some really great puns of out of posed coffee shots and #liveauthentic hashtags. When you're doing something awesome people will always want to claim you and tag you. When you're making life look easy then people want to follow you.

…

Social media's in the DNA of our relationships now. It scares me to say that but it's true. I wanted to see how a friend's doing the other day and I clicked into her Instagram. I checked her off my mental list without even using the phone in my hand to perform the task it's always meant to do, dial and hear a person's crackly voice on the other line, find out they're okay. I know how damaging that action of mine was. I know because I sat across from a friend, and I heard them say to me, "from the looks of social media, you are doing just fine."

Them saying that, it broke my heart. It broke my heart to think that, because I had white walls in all my pictures, it meant there's no longer a reason to reach out and ask if I was really doing okay. Barbie, I'm so afraid to check people off my list because of surface level visuals. I'm so afraid to find out, too late, that I needed to ask "how are you" before someone died inside and no one could get to them. Please don't hide within the cracks of the exposed-brick breweries and trendy tiled coffee shops you find. If you're lost, pick up the phone and call someone. If you think you're about to lose someone (and yes, there's a gut feeling for that), pick up the phone and call them. Ask them 4 words: are you really okay? We save lives everyday when we just manage to speak up.

…

This whole letter might be a terrible waste. Maybe your life's as perfect as you portray it to be, Barbie. In that case, congratulations! You beat us all with your plastic lattes and trendy hiking boots. Regardless, I hope you find something real today. Something tangible and intangible, all at the same time, that you would skip the act of documenting it just so you could live inside it for a little bit longer. I hope you spot a rare, soon to be extinct, moment. And I hope it's all yours, no need to share it. Maybe it's the smile of an old man who's going to leave this earth real soon. Maybe it's a piece of a mail from a friend you used to be able to trace the scent of when they showed up in a room. Maybe it's a single dance from a cute stranger at a wedding who makes you feel like you're the most beautiful thing in his orbit.

Either way, I hope you feel known. I hope you feel picked out and chosen. I hope something grabs you so hard, shakes you so good, that even the notifications can't touch it. You're not fake, Barbie. You, like the rest of us, are probably just doing the best you can within a world that wants to trace and tag every tiny, beautiful piece of itself.

We're Strangers Once More

I was sitting in a Starbucks in the hazy middle of daybreak. It's barely light out, despite the clock hitting 10 am. The rain's dripping, falling slowly and softly on the windows flushed green from the gray sky. Outside, trees were blowing. In just seconds, it went from a pale gray to charcoal horizons. It's dark indoors, the outside spreading a smudginess into the flickering light of Starbucks. Cars zipped by quickly, skipping the drive through, skipping the place, and slip through the rain.

People come in, wet and tousled from the deluge, laugh, say they're escaping from the storm. Instantly, strangers become friends for minutes, united over terrible weather, worried about the storm that's passing, gathering around each others phones to glance at radars, bemoan over the clouds of blackness coming in. I've got a caramel Macchiato, and then they're gone. The tables outside echo with the slap, every second more droplets tap out their pattern, the sound dulled by heavy glass windows and the faint hum of electricity. The water outside is soupy, splashing in puddles up to the middle of car tires as they rush through. It's so deep outside that waves are made and they crash on the cement. It's strange, unsettling, to see cars that size swallowed up in water that was just minutes ago suspended in air. Every so often, lightning opens up the dimness of the sky and reminds us that the power could disappear in an instant.

People come and go, regulars filter through those looking for a decent cup of coffee, and people see each other for the 1st time. These bonds created over a strangers phone, from people trapped inside because of the weather, who only know each other based on their daily cup of coffee, surface. A group of people, finding solace together. It's a rainstorm that brings us together, and yet, the sun persists in coming forward, pulling apart what's being built. And so we go about our days, waiting for these collective glimpses of humanity, reading between the lines and usual orders to see something a bit more, a yearning for relationships above else.

The rain pounds but the sky clears. A bird flies across the murky clouds, an ink stain in the weather, and the cars roll by unknowingly on the freeway, forever apart, forever mysteries. Thunder rumbles, the rain abates, hardens, rolls on surfaces and fills the pooling tables and streets, and yet, we're strangers once more.

I Bought a Plant

I bought a plant. A beautiful green and pink and leafy thing. Plants are having a moment in my life right now. They have a way of making a home of a place. Not to mention they suck toxins right out of the air. Which is to say, superpowers.

I was away from home for weeks and there's no one to water the plant. I almost killed it. I was hopeful that it might yet come back to life. I mean, not too terribly hopeful, but hopeful enough. The pink's gone and the leaves, cold to the touch, have folded in on themselves, but things are cyclical, plants, especially. And I was willing to invest a little a bit of time to see how it played out. And to practice hope, even when it didn't feel reasonable. Or rational. I was investing in radical self-love. Which is what the plant was all about.

Things are cyclical. Especially life. It took me a very many years to untangle the mess of all the many things I felt. A giant ball of yarn. A thousand small threads that I called one thing.

And now a spade is a spade. Sadness is a thing. But happiness, too. The latter shaped almost entirely by the former. Which is a nearly impossible thing to try and explain to someone who hasn't lived through it. There's a quote that I've been searching for. Something like, only the nearly-drowned-man can understand the person who stands on the shore laughing just because there's air in his lungs. I have bastardized these words. Someone else said them much better, and to much greater effect, but as I can't find them, I offer up my poorer version.

When I was living in that shoebox of Usia apartment there was a night when I turned to the girl I was living with and read her a set of words, not my own, and she looked at me, head half turned, and said, but what do they mean? I long ago gave up wondering what words mean. I'll wonder about gestures and events and the idiosyncrasies of almost anything, but never words. Far more concerned, as I am, with what they feel like. You can't explain suffering someone to someone. You can't tell them of the beauty that exists inside of that very dark place. You can only wrestle with the warring feelings of not wanting a person fail, and knowing that they need to.

Plants die and they come back to life. And hope in the face of ridiculous things is important. Even if it's absurd. Sadness is a part of my life. Because it needs to be. Because it's important and good and telling. Because it shapes who I am. Because it's one hell of an educator. Because sadness rears its head and says, fight for yourself! And I know enough now to listen.

Curated Life

Years ago I went to a prom night. It wasn't fun. It should have been fun, but it's really not. When images of that party appeared on Facebook days later it looked like a blast. In fact it looked spunky and joyful and really, really lovely. And that's when I understood, really and truly, that almost nothing on the social media is as it appears. That, in fact, the appearance of a life is often at the expense of life itself. 

I know this. I've seen this. From both sides. And still occasionally I'll see photos and feel the knee-jerk reaction of I-wish. I wish that was mine. I wish that was my life. More and more I've seen think-pieces about how we need to examine that impulse in ourselves. There's finger-pointing, but we pointing the finger at ourselves. And I get that, I do. I'm the first person who will take on blame, even if it's clear the blame isn't mine to take (this is not a good quality). But this self-reflection assumes, to a certain extent, that everyone's willing to take the time to do that. And it lets the medium, which is to say the internet, off the hook. But the thing is, while you can put a verified checkmark next to a person's twitter handle, there isn't any real policing of validity beyond that. Search algorithms are based on popularity, not truthfulness, and certainly not value.

We see a curated picture and we want the handbag, the heels, the husband, the wedding, the life. And okay, yes, we have to approach the image with critical awareness, but that takes a pretty high level of intelligence. It's like asking consumers not to gain weight in a society where food is specifically designed to get us to eat more than we need, or even want. Not-gaining-weight nowadays is far harder than maintaining weight and yet we blame the consumer. I think there has to be change on both sides, how we produce and how we consume. 

And I fear sometimes, that the bloggers who respond to the criticism that their life's too curated, aren't actually the bloggers presenting the most highly curated lives. Because there's a difference between boundaries, meaning what one's willing to discuss and what one keeps private, and a stylized representation of what's presented. I guess what I want to say is this: it's okay to feel like shit sometimes when you're looking at other peoples' lives online. In fact, a lot of people are banking on it, they all make a lot more money that way.

Show Up and Break Open

Here's the thing, I am trying to show up for life. I'm trying to give voice to my days. Trying to break open. But right now, my life's in a middle-ground. It's neither here nor there. Frankly, I'm exhausted.

Yesterday, I was sick and slept all day. It was the strangest sensation to watch an entire 24 slip by and to be an observer of my life and not a participant. Yesterday was a fog, a veiled face and an unassuming moment. I woke up at 10, perhaps I'll feel better at noon. Then it was a quarter to 1 and I was uncomfortable. I stood up and almost fell over. I went into another room and curled up on a couch. How are you feeling? Better, I said, when I really meant worse. Sickness does something to your head. Mine shook.

I laid down on the couch and when I woke up next, it was 4. I wasn't sure where I was. I heard voices and couldn't place them to faces. I was going to do yoga this evening, I laughed and moaned and rolled over. When I looked at the clock next, it was almost 7. In a span of 10 minutes, the light in the room went from butter yellow to deep blue shadows like the evening was a bruise heavy under the skin. My stomach hurt but my head felt better. I fell asleep again. Then it was 8 and afterwards 9 and I ate sandwich, watched Running Man, and finished the day like I had started it, asleep.

This morning I woke up and felt better. Not perfect, but better. Side note, isn't that the case with almost everything in life? I feel better, but not perfect. Digressing. And mulling. Besides feeling better, I also felt panicked. It was irrational but the thought of missing 24 hours of my life set me into a frenzy. 24 hours.

Sometimes life's really hard. That's an understatement. Writing about it seems like trying to collect water by pouring it through a sieve. Everything runs through me and I wonder, where to begin? Or, why? What's the balance between over sharing and being honest, and is there a disconnect that lies with the two? What happens when you have nothing to write at all, or what you have to say is boring, underwhelming, inherently ordinary? What then?

Sometimes, it seems like too much. I'm inundated with things I need to say, words that crawl under my skin, moments that leave me open-handed, chasing wind. Other times, I'm a dry well, scraped raw and emptied of everything. Then I say to life, pour into me, in all your beauty and pain and joy. That's when life asks, will you give back? And there lies the act of showing up. Morning and morning. Returning to the page. Returning to the road, to the pavement, to the poetry, to the music, to the rhythm of your life. So I do and we do and we hope to make something honest, something that matters, in our 24 hours.

Because, goodness, I don't want to live my life asleep.

And So I Write

I've missed blogging this past week. Though lately, my posts have become more and more sporadic, there's something freeing about sitting down and writing. I've always loved writing, ever since I was little, stringing words together to create something has excited me. And blogging gives me the arena to say what I need to say, gives me room to write what's on my heart. Writing is a passion and I'm grateful for the gift of this little online journal of mine.

There are many things I've been pondering lately. I'm in a new season of life and there are countless changes and choices coming up. Decisions and new paths that are necessary, yet hard. Because while change can be good, it's still tinged with melancholy. There's that sense of remembering what's gone and wishing for it, even though the future holds brighter promise than the past could have contained.

I'm working on several changes in my life right now; managing my time better. I lose time like leftover change, and unlike those bright pennies, time that's been wasted can't be found again. It's gone forever. And in my life, I've been coming the conclusion more and more that I need to work on how I spend my time. I long to be diligent, intentional, and authentic. Yet sometimes I view change as something that will just happen, and bam! There's a new me.

Change, however, is usually a gradual process; an incline that gets steeper along the journey and sometimes, you don't think that you'll ever reach the top. I'll always keep growing. But it's not a one time thing, not a spontaneous and instantaneous action that immediately transforms you. All that I can do is take my life as it is, a blessing, a day at a time and gradually grow into someone better. I choose to live intentional.

I fail, I flounder, fake, and fall down. We put ourselves into places from our sin that are far from Him. Yet He is always there, and no matter what, He is good. It's a choice to everyday live for Him. A life lived for Him isn't easy but it's the best kind of life there could be. I deeply desire to live a life that's meaningful, one that matters. A defined life is one that's lived for God. That's a life that I want to live. That's a life I'm going to live. There's no more "I'll do this tomorrow." Or putting it aside. I only have today and I won't let this gift of now fall by the wayside.

I have one life to live and I'm going to live it.

p.s: For those asking, yes, I'm currently working on a story. It's not finished yet. In the meantime, I'm planning to restart the short fictions on my blog. There are so many drafts at the moment and I'll publish them when the time comes. ^^

Post-ChicPox and Grammys

Last week I had an attack of freaking chicken pox. I know, maybe I'm too old for this because most of you had it when you're little. Lucky you. You should be grateful. Having a chicken pox when you're adult sucks as hell. It started on last Saturday, I was out with my friends watching The Last: Naruto The Movie and I had a slight fever. I noticed some spots on my face but I assumed they're just pimples and I thought, oh period is coming. But then I noticed a few weird fluid-filled blisters on my body. I googled it. And the result showed that it might be the symptom of chicken pox. So Ifo took me to see doctor but doctor said it's too early to confirm that it's chicken pox but he gave me some medicines and calamine lotion anyway, just in case. The next day, I was so sure that it's chicken pox because there were more blisters on my face, my head and body. They're itchy and my body temperature were getting higher. It's getting worse on the following days..it's all over my body, even in my mouth! I got bad fever, headache, can't sleep at night, woke up in the morning in pain, can't eat properly and just lied in bed all day. Looking at myself in the mirror terrified me. It's like looking at a zombie. Oh it's so terrible I almost can't take it anymore. 

I'm glad that it's over. I'm half recovered now, most of the rashes have dried out and it feels so good to be human again. I thank God for everything. And I thank my parents for taking care of me throughout the week..I can't do it without them. Though I had to go to an interview with my face full of scars yesterday, it went well. I hope I got that job. 

And today I'm really happy because my favorite song, Ain't It Fun by my favorite band, Paramore, won Grammy for the Best Rock Song!! Yay! Congratulations to Hayley, Jeremy and Taylor! It's been a good time for Hayley..she's got the trailblazer award, she's got engaged, and now..Grammy, ya'll! I feel like hugging her. ^^ Speaking of the 57th Grammy Awards, let me show you my picks for the best dressed stars from the red carpet. 

Rita Ora in Prada

Rihanna in Giambattista Valli

Beyonce in Proenza Schouler

Kelly Osbourne in Christian Siriano

Meghan Trainor in Galia Lahav

Anna Kendrick in Band of Outsiders

Jessie J in Ralph Russo

Gwen Stefani in Atelier Versace

Ariana Grande in Atelier Versace

Taylor Swift in Elie Saab

Annnnnd my favorite is...... Taylor Swift! She's wearing a lovely turquoise dress by Elie Saab, just the way I like it. ^^ So which one's your favorite?  

The Lists

Lists are so dear to me partially because they're unique to the moment you wrote them. From grocery lists, from to-do-lists detailing the day (run in the morning, write and read in the afternoon, piece time together for tea around 4). The "here-now" of these lists tug my heart, and I see some crossed off, others standing bold and waiting to be done. Make soup for dinner, Chinese fried rice and steamed chicken. Bundle up before a walk, remember a cardigan. Buy more apples. Pick up dry leaves on the driveway. 

If I was a poet I'd write a piece but for now, I'll catch syllables between rhythms and round the rhymes into letters half between cursive and print that range from words between clean my room and buy a birthday gift for my sister. And yet, there's a piece caught between the lines. My line is cast and I sit quietly in a boat, holding my pole tight and waiting to snag words. I'm a fisher woman of stories and stories in all forms, from photos to books to music to drawings to designs to the halfway letters of a list not finished. I collect the discarded grocery lists in the bottom of my purse, the leftover pages of a packing list for weekend getaway crumpled in the pocket of my bag, a few hurried lines of to-do before lunch.

There's a beauty and grace to the change of seasons and the differences that come in our homes and hearts within them. Some days are for quiet and abundance of simple. If we had a hearth, ours would be lit. I'm sucker to the romantic and pretty things but will not disregard the simple, because honesty is the best. 

Things that catch my eye:

light

cats

quirks

wispy curls

steam and smoke and fog

reflections

dabs of color

continuity errors in movies

textures

Books I'm reading:

I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak

Anna and The French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins

And the Mountains Echoed by Khaled Hosseini

Songs that I could hear over and over again:

Yellow by Coldplay

When It Rains by Paramore

100 Years by Five for Fighting

Somewhere Only We Know by Keane

Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men.

Happen Ending by Epik High

Chandelier by Sia

Things I don't want to purchase (but need to anyways):

a haircut

a power bank

new bag

new jeans

an iPod

What I want to get better at this year:

going to bed early

giving grace (always)

being intentional with my time

eating healthier

affirming

creating art that matters

baking gluten free

punctuality

getting fit

Some things I'm excited about:

weddings

traveling plans

being healthy

the weekend

going shopping for food

making lasagna

new job

Names I like:

Levi

Sophie

Gwen

Audrey

Heather

Aimee

Myrabell

Plans for the rest of the week.

take a walk

go out for lunch and coffee

order pizza

mail postcards

get my inbox cleaned

tidy my room and declutter and simplify

workout

Outside my window:

bird nest on a tree

an acrylic sky painted blue

slippers on neighbor's roof

cat's footprints on sandy pavement

sunlight warm across the neighborhood

quiet

Life Goals

Travel the world. Travel some more. Write a story. Fall in love. Stay in love. Get married. Travel with my love. Write a story of us. Sing. Learn a new language. Gain a few pounds from eating through traveling. Spend a week in Italy. Have a baby. Have another baby. Have lots of babies. Maybe just a few. Travel with my babies. Kiss my husband. Write another story. Have a library. Buy a Mini Cooper. Go to Mecca. Be honest. Live in another country. Make pancakes on Saturdays. Make pie on Sundays. Buy a house by the water. Sell extra things. Open up our home. Plant a garden. Learn to play piano well. Travel. Go wedding dress shopping with my daughters. Go to little league games. Live out of my gut. Write my grandparent's stories. Get good at yoga. Move cross country. Start over. Stay. Meet the girls my sons love. Photograph what I see. Watch my husband become a grandfather. Spend my anniversary in Paris. Drink tea with people I love. Explore. Live with less. Get a rabbit. Make lots of pastry. Stop being afraid. Cook through Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Wear skirts more. Start a traveling library. Ditch the TV. Start traditions. Keep traditions. Make cinnamon rolls and egg bake for family brunch. Say I'm sorry, I love you, I need you, I like you, I miss you. Understand they're sometimes the same.

Unpredictable

The weather has been so strange lately, so unpredictable. For days we've seen a mix of sun and fog, extreme heat one day followed by brisk cold the next. Yesterday, what felt like a light breeze suddenly turned into a gust of wind so powerful I had to stop in the middle of the street so to keep from blowing right over. Needless to say, things have been changing rather suddenly these days, rather unexpectedly.

As a creature of habit, as someone who leans toward the familiar, toward routine, it usually bothers me when weather isn't steady, when I wake up and don't have any idea what I'll find outside my window. Usually, that makes me uneasy. Recently, though, my life has matched the odd weather; things have been constantly shifting, any sense of routine tossed right out the window.

And it's been just what I needed. Invigorating, exhilarating, altogether satisfying. Funny, isn't it, how sometimes we believe we know just what we need, when all along the universe knows better?

Blog Manifesto

I'm learning every day to allow the space between where I am and where I want to be to inspire me and not terrify me. - Tracee Ellis Ross

I was 17 when I started blogging, nearly 18. I was fresh out of school and unclear on how-to-live-my-life-and-live-it-well.

There's something really joyous about blogging then (oh do I sound old?). Blogs were sort of deliciously imperfect. And I needed that in my life. That joy, that delicious imperfection. Very quickly, blogging became a lens through which I could see the world: the details, the absurdity, both the loneliness and loveliness of everyday life. And it became a way to reach in the direction of the future at a time when my personal future felt very tenuous. I couldn't imagine life beyond 20, couldn't imagine getting better, or growing up, or anything after.

There's an Elizabeth Gilbert's quote I think of often:

Someday you're gonna look back on this moment of your life as such a sweet time of grieving. You'll see that you were in mourning and your heart was broken, but your life was changing.

Some part of me knew that at 20, ill as I was, my life's changing. And If could recognize it as it's happening, bear witness to it, then I could transform the most heartbreaking moments of my life into the most meaningful. So the purpose of blogging, for me, was to document the in-between-ness of my life. To document this difficult, but important, events.

For the record, I realize I'm still in the in-between. But I feel a hell of a lot closer to one end than the other. I didn't know that I'd like writing so much, find so much meaning in it. Didn't know I'd fall so hard for words and their endless variations. I like blogging. But I don't know if I like what has become of it. Can I say that? I'm gonna say that. Let me explain. It seems to me that as blogging has evolved it's become far more commercial, but what this means is that more and more blogs look the same, feel the same; similar content, similar interface, and a sort of homogeneous cultural refrain: happiness as the ultimate end.

We're bombarded with images all day, every day, on television, the internet, in magazines, that make the desirable life seem just beyond reach. Images that make us want things we have no use for. It's a pretty simple formula actually: put something that has no immediate value to the consumer, next to something beautiful (the aesthetics of beauty having a higher value than almost anything else) and suddenly it becomes important, desirable.

The thing about blogs now is that they seem to be selling a way of life, one in which nothing bad happens. In which everyone's always cheery and smiling and dressed in impeccable and expensive clothes. This is nothing new of course, we as a culture and country seem to have cornered the market on happily-ever-after. But the thing about blogs is we think of them as non-fiction. And that's where it gets tricky. We mistake a very small, very edited slice of life as the whole of the thing. And few things are as they seem. Images flatten, words distort, and photo filters enhance.

I like fashion blog as much as the next person, I really do. The pictures are like candy, immediately satisfying. But here's what I wanna know: who can really afford to wear Jovian dress, carry a Chanel bag, and dress their arms in Tiffany & Co jewelry day after day? Certainly, I can't. And do I need to feel bad that I can't? It's that second question I worry about, because that's the question that sticks around longer than the immediate hit of pleasure. And that's the question that, if I'm not paying attention, sort of chips away at my self-worth.

Perhaps other people don't have the same experience. But what if they do?

I understand that depicting total realism is impossible and not the point of blogging. I've heard time and time again bloggers explain that their corner of the internet is their space and therefore they have the right to choose what they share. But we don't live in a vacuum. And shared content goes into the world and has an effect. Free speech is sort of a misnomer, isn't it? Because it's free to a point. There's always a cost..we just don't always know what that cost is.

Of course I believe in personal responsibility and accountability, that we can't entirely control how what we say is received. "Perception is reality" is one of those principles that drives me nuts because it's such a lazy way of thinking..so unimaginative. And let's be honest, you can't reason with crazy. And if a crazy person perceives you as crazy, does that make you crazy? But the thing is, much evidence exists to prove that the onslaught of doctored images in favor of "flawless" bodies is extremely damaging. So what about "flawless" lives?

I took this blogging break to work on other things, but also to give myself some time to figure out if I wanted to continue. And the thing is, I do. Because I actually quite love it. But for the last few years I've attempted to reconcile what I love about blogging with what has come to be expected from the medium. And I'm not sure I can. Or that I need to. But what I did feel like I needed to do was create a governing set of principles to remind me of what I'm doing and why I'm doing it.

 A Blog Manifesto

1. This is a writing blog. Not a lifestyle blog.

2. I do this because I love it and it has meaning for me but if I stop loving it, I will stop doing it.

3. I'll occasionally be abstract and private, but I'll do my very best to never paint my life as something it's not.

4. This space is a part of my life, but only a part. If it ever gets in the way of living, then enough.

5. My purpose here is to document what has happened (and occasionally dream of what might be). I believe the moment I do something specifically for the purpose of blogging about it, it cheapens the experience and undermines the content.

6. I have no interest in distilling my life into a three-sentence-bio.

 7. I believe in women. I believe in women who speak up for themselves and ask for what they want and demand more out of life. I believe in a woman's brand of intelligence and wit and grace. I think we need more of it in the world. I want to see more women in leadership positions, more women who aren't afraid to ruffle a few feathers. And I believe because we live in a world that is tremendously connected, the bonus is on each and every one of us to encourage the full realm of a woman's potential.

8. I'd love to say that I'll blog every day. But it's just not possible. There's only one of me and I can't generate that much worthy content. So I'll blog when I can.

9. I'm not interested in more content for the sake of more content (or more clicks).

10. If you're uninterested, move on, I'm not counting numbers.

11. And if you come here and then head elsewhere with the sole intent of gossiping amongst internet strangers...well, I just don't get that. And for the people who run and moderate those blogs, I'd like to ask what value you think you're adding to the larger world?

12. Maybe that's the question I want everyone to ask: what value are we adding?

13. I've met more than a few internet mavens whose lives seem far cooler and more vibrant online than they do in person. They have secured a niche and figured out what works for them and that's great. But my goal is, and will always be, that if someone were to meet me offline they'd think me just as they imagined. I'll very often fail at this, but it's nonetheless my intent.

14. I write the best version of myself, always. But I do believe that's a very different thing than writing a different and better version of myself.

That's what I got. And hopefully it's still a little deliciously imperfect.

Too long? Sorry.

Grief Is..

My grandmother was a tiny force of a woman. When she died, she was so light. They say moments live on in your bones, like words layered brick by brick. You're a skeletal foundation of stories and your knees are muddy. I cried at her funeral and the sound of death broke on my skin, falling like rain.

I started this post, "Grief is..." and couldn't find words. I laughed at first, but it's hard. A sad little knot in your stomach. It's hard when something you do doesn't come easy. It's hard when one of your things, your way to process and pull apart life and say, it's still good, still beautiful, feels foreign. Like realizing you're speaking gibberish and you thought it's a language. Unsure. Hesitant. Tasting out words on my tongue and trying to remember if they're the same. I'm reading what I write and telling myself I can't delete the words. That to put something out there, anything, is better than nothing. That the first step to get through is to dive deep.

It's messy. I say that about everything. But life's messy. It's gory. It's gritty. It's unpredictable, in a laugh so hard tears come out your eyes and ache so hard you stay up all night weeping way. I read something on weeping the other day and it hit me right in the face. One of those pieces where you breathe a little deeper and shift in your skin. Because someone tapped into a raw place and pulled out something still beating. Someone put words to it, like touching a frosted glass with cold fingertips. Brushed the edge of something.

Weeping is not the same thing as crying. It takes your whole body to weep, and when it's over, you feel like you don't have any bones left to hold you up. - Sarah Ockler

I had chills when the word weeping caught my eye and I was crying at the end. Maybe that sounds silly. But to be walking through long and lonely moments only to turn and find someone next to you, saying, I get it. That's a relief. That's what's so delightfully, deliciously, dearly human about us. That we're not alone.

Grief is a funny thing. It's unnerving, unsettling. I start to write a sentence and stop. Everything is heavy. There's a weight we carry, unconsciously. Grief clings to our back with cold fingers and we hunch over to compensate. Curl up, close in. I need to apologize more, because I'm so damned shaky. I'm sorry, I just feel so unsettled. I've said it more than I can count to someone. I'm sorry, I feel so uprooted.

The irony of feeling uprooted when my 2014 word is seed isn't lost on me. What I'm trying to say is. I'm sorry that it takes me so long to reply. I'm sorry that I cry about stupid things. I'm sorry that I ask you what you think twice. I'm sorry that I'm beginning to sound like a broken record, especially now with that last sentence. I'm sorry I snapped at you.

It's just. I'm so tired. Of waiting and hoping. The hoping is what hurts the most. It's like carrying hot coals close to your chest because just a little further on, there's wood. That's what you believe, anyways. It's coming. But the journey, staggering forward and faltering steps...it's numbing. It's exhausting.

I feel sapped. I feel heavy. I feel unhinged, in a quiet, curl up with my cat and cry it out way. I gain weight. I cut my hair. I'm tired of writing when everything feels old. November is turning me into a hermit. I want to throw off the stale scent of indoors and last year and scrub everything clean. I want to strip back to the foundation and rebuild with good wood.

I'm waiting for this earth to unthaw enough to plant something new. I don't know. I don't know. My hands are shaking and my head is spinning and all I can think is, the days are lengthening. I make my coffee in the morning. I say yes to green tea. I'm practicing being kind to myself.

Sometimes, it's enough. Right now, it's enough. Grief is. And maybe it's not grief anymore. It feels different, not quite so raw. Maybe the swelling has gone down and it's a sad, slow sorrow. Maybe it's an undercurrent, not the whole melody. The days are lengthening. Thank God it's not the end.

Of Becoming an Adult

Do you still remember those times when you're becoming an adult? Did you experience this? :

There was a time I spontaneously decided that I was ready to be a real adult. I don't know why I decided this; it always ended terribly for me. But I did it anyway. I sat myself down and told myself how I was going to start cleaning the house every day and paying bills on time and replying to emails before my inbox overloaded. Schedules were drafted. Day-planners were purchased. I stocked up on fancy food because I was also planning on morphing into a master chef and actually cooking instead of making instant noodles. I prepared for my new life as an adult like some people prepare for the apocalypse.

The first day or two of my plans went okay. 

For a little while, I actually felt grown-up and responsible. I strutted around with my head held high, looking the other responsible people in the eye with that knowing glance that said "I understand. I'm responsible now too. Just look at my groceries." At some point, I started feeling self-congratulatory.

This was a mistake. I began to feel like I've accomplished my goals.  It's like I think that adulthood's something that can be earned like a trophy in one monumental burst of effort and then admired and coveted for the rest of one's life. 

What usually ended up happening is that I completely wore myself out. Thinking that I've earned it, I gave myself permission to slack off for a while and recover. Since I exceeded my capacity for responsibility in such a dramatic fashion, I ended up needing to take more recovery time than usual. This was when the guilt-spiral starts.  

The longer I procrastinated on returning phone calls and emails, the more guilty I felt about it. The guilt I felt causes me to avoid the issue further, which only led to more guilt and more procrastination. It got to the point where I didn't email someone for fear of reminding them that they emailed me and thus giving them a reason to be disappointed in me.  

Then the guilt from my ignored responsibilities grew so large that merely carrying it around with me felt like a huge responsibility. It took up a sizable portion of my capacity, leaving me almost completely useless for anything other than consuming instant noodles and surfing the internet. At some point in this endlessly spiraling disaster, I was forced to throw all of my energy into trying to be an adult again, just to dig myself out of the pit I'd fallen into. The problem was that I entered this round of attempted adulthood already burnt out from the last round. I can't not fail. 

It always ends the same way. Slumped and haggard, I contemplated the seemingly endless tasks ahead of me. And then I rebelled. Internet forever! LOL.

Everything has to Start Somewhere

I've been afraid to say it aloud (much less in print) but here it goes: I'm writing a story. Should I call it a novel? Yikes. I'm not sure yet. But I'm really writing this time. 

For whatever reason, I've felt too nervous to tell anybody. I've felt nervous, embarrassed, worried that I'll seem too bold or presumptuous or some other terrible, negative adjective. I need to mention it, though. I need to see how it feels when the whole thing becomes real.

See, there's been a cast of characters dancing around my brain for the past few months, and their story has slowly come into focus as I've opened myself up to the idea of actually writing it. But the truth is, I've been scared. Really, really scared. The idea of writing a novel carries its own weight, its own pressures and assumptions. What if I can't finish it like previous times? What if I do and it's no good? What if?

The what-if fears have been plaguing and paralyzing me forever, but hey, why not huh? So I don't finish. So it's terrible. So what.

As I slowly but surely move through this complicated story-writing business, I'd love to know: what's the best, most inspiring or helpful writing advice you've ever heard? If there's any?

On Love and Looking In

Recently I was talking to a friend about relationships, about the ones that work, the ones that don't, the ones that would have worked or could have worked, and the ones that probably, definitely never should have worked. Eventually, inevitably, the conversation turned to ourselves.

I love talking about relationships. All kinds, really. But I especially love to hear what people have to say about themselves in relationships. It's interesting, isn't it, to think about who you are to someone? To think about the best, worst, and strangest parts of you, all tangled up in love and sometimes loss and sometimes everything all at once? To think about what it's like to love you?

In my younger age I went through a handful of dark and heavy things that forced me to look inward. To look at myself and my place in the world, at why I was who I was and what that meant and where that would take me. I learned to reflect and look inward very early on, too early, maybe..and that, coupled with my writing habits of stepping outside a moment, make me self-aware.

And it must be interesting, so to speak, for better or for worse, to be in a relationship with someone so drenched in that sort of awareness. I think about how odd and tiring it must feel to be in a relationship with someone so aware of moments, someone who steps in and out of them and back in again, all the while internally narrating the ifs and the buts and the maybes. And then I think: seriously, Aemy, stop thinking so much.

Once, in college, a girlfriend joked that our friendship would steer her straight into therapy. She said that my self-awareness is rubbing off. I cracked up, knowing all too well what she meant. We eventually became roommates, and no, she didn't end up in therapy. But there were a lot of late-night talks. And snacks and movies.

Still, that stuck with me, the idea that my self-awareness was something other people were aware of, and that my tendency to reflect might somehow wedge its way into my relationships one way or the other. For better or for worse. I found myself thinking about those faded friendships and relationships with a new sense of clarity, a genuine empathy, realizing what a real turn-off that might be for someone who'd rather not look back or inward. Because not everyone wants to doubt and change and shift and evolve all the time. And that's okay.

I talked to Ifo about what that friend said back in college and he agreed, saying my sense of self is a tangible part of me. I felt a bit embarrassed, then, at 1st, a bit ashamed of that curious, sensitive piece of me. But then I thought about what it all meant, because if it's true, if that piece of me somehow really does rub off, then how lucky I am to be there when that self-awareness strikes, when those walls come down. How lucky I am to grow into relationships with people who look in at themselves, and at me, and who hold both of us accountable for being our best and truest and most sincere selves. For better or for worse.

You Listen and Let Go

Sometimes you know and bury that knowing underneath petitions like, I should do this, or this is expected of me, or people will be disappointed...and that process is called forgetting. Trying on faces and wanting them to fit..but they don't and this is called confusion. 

By this time, you've forgotten what it is and wonder what's going on and why's this not what you thought. Small things trigger small thoughts that remind you of that thing, the knowing. Seeing an image in a perfect swell of music. The stars. Driving past yellow lights in the black of night. A moment that triggers a dream you had, but before you can stuff it away, you grab the ends of it by the hands and say, wait. And, what's that?

This part of yours that knows is like an old friend that you lost touch with. Only now, you're remembering how things used to be and how you wanted them to be and how they aren't that way now, so you suck it up. You call her up. You apologize. You say, "tea?" with a sad laugh. And when you get together, it's awkward, hesitant, neither of you look like you remember. 

You're meeting a piece of yourself that you pushed away for years and coming to terms with who you are. You're looking yourself in the face and saying, I don't know you. But you sit there. You drink your tea. You have another cup, force yourself to be still. But most importantly, you listen. You don't interject what you thought, what you think. You listen and not say a word, and when she's done talking, you're weeping. Shaking from apologizing. 

Calm down. Now what? And she's saying, well, you know now, you remember. So, go do, kiddo. And you're laughing, what, it can't be that easy? But she's got a smile borne out of waiting and shakes her head slow, sipping the rest of her tea. It's not that easy, but it's that simple. You know. Her smiles slips and she's serious now. To not go after it now is to say your desires don't matter. That your authentic center isn't worth it. That your deepest beliefs and truest hopes and realest loves can't measure up. That your story, message, song isn't enough. Don't do that.

Now you're at the door and you can choose to part ways, say let's talk again soon. Or, you can listen. And you can let go of what you thought, of all the shoulds and coulds and woulds. And you can be brave enough to start over and live out what makes you come alive. You know, a part of you knows, that the same part in your heart that stings listening to this music or cries from that film or feels lopsided and soft in your hands is the same part that knows what you're supposed to be doing, what you want to be doing, what's your thing. Maybe it's like finding out that you knew where home was the entire time, that it wasn't where you thought or what you dreamed, but upon discovering it, walking into it, you realize it's better than what you thought you wanted.

We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.- Joseph Campbell

And So, You Get Up

Sometimes, life's heavy.

You don't notice it at 1st. It's like collecting stones. You start slowly, gently. At 1st, you can't feel the weight. Then it becomes harder to notice what's in front of you. You can't see the scope, the slope of the landscape, because you're focused on carrying the foundation. It's easier to shoulder it all and numb yourself to the weight.

But there's that place. That point where you read your threshold, your valley. Maybe you've walked for so long that you're bone weary and ringed with grief. Or perhaps you ran, the entire way, and your breath's knocked out of you. And you realize you don't know where you are, how you arrived. You look back and see that you've missed the markers, missed the milestones, missed the moments. Too busy holding onto the heaviness of the journey. It's been like that for so long that you're afraid you won't know who you are without it.

You have to let it go. To not go apathetic. To not go numb. To not go quiet. Don't let sorrow swallow your song. You need to be awake to the world, to life, to yourself. It feels like running for the 1st time, like stretching your shuddering muscles, like walking in the cold dew of morning. It stings. You start in the dark, with only the promise of sun. There's no light to outline the path. It doesn't matter. You've forgotten the road anyways. You've walked so long without one that trails are unfamiliar and foreign.

There's no hiding from brokenness. There's no running from grief. Some manage to evade it for longer, others find it knocking on their door daily. It has a face you cannot forget, leaves its calling card everywhere it goes. We're each stitched with ribbons of our every heartache, except, some of us are frayed. Even the best of us have tears.

Sometimes it feels easier, better, to go cold. To give into the pain and become numb, and once again, pick up the skeleton of who you were before grief marked your face. To let your heart harden. Lock it away and melt the key and live in the motions, never the moment. At the very point of pain, it seems less exhausting. But passivity's a silent slow killer, a lie that laps away at the texture of life like water on the stone.

And so, you get up. You keep moving though your bones ache. You walk until you run. You hum until you can sing. You catalogue small things until you can once again take in the scope. You choose to be awake. It's surprisingly painful. It's sobering to look around and realize you have forgotten what it means to be alive, for so long. It's October and you're barefoot and the ground has still not thawed.

Breathe. Again and again. Dive into the core and pressure point of your pain, the heart of your ache. It's red hot and white and bitter black. It shakes like starlight. You swallow it like stones. But you emerge and understand, it hasn't added a layer to your heart, but a ring. It's not a mark, but a message.

The thing about being awake is you notice things; good, bad, beautiful, painful, sorrow, sweet, bitter, broken, dizzying between everything. You cry more. You laugh deeper. You understand broken things and encourage flowers to just be. You find your soul sprouting little green things, that the roots of the marrow of being haven't left after all. And it's painful, the fire of wakening running like blood. You've been asleep for so long feeling's foreign.

But you begin to appreciate what's small. You begin to breathe gratitude. You stumble on meaning, find grace woven alongside ache. It's not easy, it's not quick. It's gradual, a journey. This time, instead of collecting stones, you're collecting colors of the sky. You jot down thanks and let them go wild in the plum breath of the evening. The smear of jam on toast, black coffee in the morning, a walk in the evening that lingers.

Look at the trees, how they burn. Look at the fields, how they deepen. Look at the world, how it cries. It's a choice to go deep and live through your pain, to feel it all, to choose to be awake to what comes. Bravely, when the time beckons, to let it go. Knowing that the struggle and searching builds strength, story, a song. Only, you'are alive and present and find the words to sing inside you, and they were, all along.

Truth Is..

To put yourself out there is hard. To share parts of your story, when you can't share the full, is hard. To juggle metaphor and meaning and to be vulnerable and say, this is where I'm at. I'm not always happy. Life's not always sweet. Sometimes it stings and slaps and feels like winter all the time. That's hard.

And then, to be judged by people who don't know your heart, to have assumptions made. To be offered pretty advice or "kind" suggestions. To be told you share too much, not enough, that you're rude, that you're melodramatic, and on and on. That makes my bones ache.

The thing is..knowing and believing are different things. And getting messages telling you to do or don't do, messages telling you who you are and who you aren't, they still hurt. I'm not going to pretend they don't. There's no power in that. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me is a pretty thought, but sadly, not always true. Especially if you're going through something absolutely crappy. If you've had a rotten day. If your heart simply hurts.

No matter that people who love you get it.

No matter that your story, your pain, your joys, are personal to you.

No matter even that you know where you're at.

It still hurts.

And thankfully, truthfully, in the end, the messages don't matter. The words don't stick. But in the middle of places in your life that are raw, they're salt in the wound, lemon on a cut. They worsen the pain, even if the source doesn't stick around. I felt myself collapsing and crumbling. I love writing. I love sharing. I love creating and connecting and being a part of this place. But it had gotten to the point when doing so didn't feel safe for my heart anymore.

But then. You lovely, kind, dear people. I don't know how you did it, if you knew. I woke up to messages on my phone. Encouraging thoughts. I'm praying for you. Love and support. A group of beautiful people all walking through your own joys, your own pain, your own stories, taking a moment to stand up and say, I may not know where you're at, but I'm with you.

I was (I am) overwhelmed. I cried. I had chills.

Because in the process of sharing our stories, in choosing to be open and vulnerable, we create a safe place to say, you are not alone, I'm standing with you, there's hope. In not hiding our brokenness, we form a community built on honesty, authenticity, strength. We create a safe haven for people to gather and share real life and the painfully beautiful and beautifully painful moments that come. We form a place to celebrate the intricacies and nuances of our stories. We're brought together and stand together. And in the places we could find ourselves so very alone, we find ourselves with not one hand to hold, but many.

So, thank you, friends. Thank you for standing beside me even if the story is not all told. Thank you for praying, for loving, for encouraging. Thank you for sharing your stories courageously and truthfully. Thank you for spreading light and hope. Thank you for reminding why this is the way that it is. Thank you for being there even if we didn't meet.

All of it matters more than I can say. You matter more than I can say. I wish I could give you all an enormous hug, could look you in the eyes, could express how overwhelmed and grateful I am and how much you've blessed me. Thank you.

Seeds and Journeys

The feeling you get in your stomach before stepping into a new place. You have to keep with the flow. You don't want to be the one that misses the first stair..smacks right into the door. Every step before you is carefully calculated, dreaded. To you at least. Everyone else seems to have it mastered..the art of stepping in, stepping up. You don't. Before you even try your mind's filled with terrifying scenarios you're convinced are about to come true. If only you could take the damn staircase, skip it all, including this dumb metaphor.

The hot mess of a metaphor I just tried to convey is my attempt at expressing how it feels to be among peers that are getting real jobs, marrying their loves, creating babies. They seemingly took off their cap and gowns after graduation and stepped right into the next phase of their lives. I applaud that. I envy that. I definitely didn't do that.

Instead, I feel like I'm merely an older version of the person I was 9 months ago when I received my degree. Nothing else has changed. Well, I teach again. Now at my former high school. It's really nostalgic being here because..well, I studied here for 5 years. So many memories..sweet and bitter. And I'm missing my friends. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I'll be teaching again at different place in the future because it brings me more time to figure out what to do post-university. It brings me time, but it doesn't slow down anyone else's clocks.

Rather, I'm a million miles away, reading updates about others' first salary, how they got promoted to higher position in their company, how they got married, and how so-and-so. I'm trying to convince myself that it's okay to take a different route, a different staircase. But it's hard to keep myself convinced daily. So instead, I'm just trying to convince myself that it's okay to feel scared, anxious..eager even. Some days all that matters is that you feel anything at all.

Even if you feel like writing a terrible, terrible metaphor for a blog post.

Anyway, I'd like to share something. Somebody told me that..what we don't realize is that you can have a life-changing encounter, travel to a place that causes a shift in your heart, can meet someone who changes you..you can go, do, read, see, watch, something, anything, that makes it just a little harder to breathe. And you think, yes! Here I go, from now on, life will be different. But the thing is, that experience isn't full-grown, it's just the seed. It's the beginning, not the road itself. That's the map that you use as a road mark, not the trail you'll walk. 

And it's up to you to decide to continue or retreat into routine and wonder why things didn't change. Too often we go through something revolutionary, good or bad, and then slip back into the normalcy of our day to day lives instead of choosing to do the hard work and tend to that seed. Then we finally take a step back and start asking ourselves why our life doesn't line up with our vision. How could that moment, the experience that mattered so intensely, seem not to have changed anything at all? That's the thing. You can have as many seeds but until you plant them, until you continually water them, until you die to self, choose to go through the process of growing..it's going to be a seed. What matters is what you do with it.