Youth

I don't like to think of myself as nostalgic.  I think of the New Year as having only slightly more significance than its being 1 minute after midnight of any given December 31st.  A human created, artificial constructe.  Why not Summer Solstice or Winter Solstice as the New Year?

But here it is.  This construct.  We're all wishing each other a good new year.  Recalling the past year.  And I can't help but think back, not just to the previous year, but way back.  I receive New Year's wishes from not just new, but old, way old.  Friends from my youth...

So this song isn't great poetry, but maybe because it isn't, because of its simplicity...its naivete, it reminds me of my youth. Every time I hear it, a soft enveloping pain gathers in my chest, like a misty cloud of regrets.

ABBA or Colin Firth, take your pick.





I can still recall
Our last summer
I still see it all
Walks along the Seine
Laughing in the rain
Our last summer
Memories that remain

We made our way along the river
And we sat down in the grass by the Eiffel tower
I was so happy we had met
It was the age of no regret
Oh, yes

Those crazy years
That was the time of the flower-power
But underneath
We had a fear of flying
Of growing old
A fear of slowly dying
We took our chance
Like we were dancing our last dance

I can still recall
Our last summer
I still see it all
In the tourist jam
Round the Notre Dame
Our last summer
Walking hand in hand

Paris restaurants
Our last summer
Morning croissants
Living for the day
Worries far away
Our last summer

We could laugh and play

And now you're working in a bank
A family man, a football fan
And your name is Harry
How dull it seems
Are the hero of my dreams ?

Walks along the Seine
Laughing in the rain
Our last summer
Memories that remain

I can still recall
Our last summer
I still see it all
Walks along the Seine
Laughing in the rain
Our last summer
Memories that remain

We made our way along the river
And we sat down in the grass by the Eiffel tower
I was so happy we had met
It was the age of no regret
Oh, yes

Those crazy years
That was the time of the flower-power
But underneath
We had a fear of flying
Of growing old
A fear of slowly dying
We took our chance
Like we were dancing our last dance

I can still recall
Our last summer
I still see it all
In the tourist jam
Round the Notre Dame
Our last summer
Walking hand in hand

Paris restaurants
Our last summer
Morning croissants
Living for the day
Worries far away
Our last summer
We could laugh and play

And now you're working in a bank
A family man, a football fan
And your name is Harry
How dull it seems
Are the hero of my dreams ?

Walks along the Seine
Laughing in the rain
Our last summer
Memories that remain

Happy New Year.  Artificial construct and all.

2012 Photo Review

Even photos can't adequately describe how full and blessed our life has been...is.  And it would take more space than I have, and more patience than you have, to tell you all that we've lived this year.  It has had it's struggles, of course.  I'm not one for reviewing things by the year, per se, but I can look back and see how God has made hard things, even bad things, Good for us.  On this earth, we should not be asking "why is there suffering?" but rather, "why is there so much beauty, joy, hope, love?"  I can only say that it is my faith in a God that causes Ultimate Good for His kingdom, which allows me to believe that only a loving God can overcome all the selfishness, violence & hatred that reeks all of our hearts.

I have had many thoughts swirling in my head, but almost too much to put into readable bits on this blog.  I don't make New Years' resolutions, nor resolutions at all.  But I do hope that I can keep working on my writing and share again, some of my thoughts with you.

So, here's our 2012 in photos.  It's a small way to share my life with you.

JANUARY

The boy is showing a musical inclination and starts teaching himself on his 3/4 size Yamaha, not just "air guitar" on a toy, like when he was little. 

 

The boy loves snow. At the first forecast, he's ready and waiting. Even if it's 7 in the morning

 

FEBRUARY

Not sure how this happened, but it was my birthday, but he got a new bike!

More treasured time with our host student from Korea, who counts oboe as one of her many talents.  Here, at District Orchestra.  In the 4 years, she's become our daughter and Boo's big sister. 

MARCH

 ... the returning hope of Spring

Chess club continues into Spring, and he ranks 2nd.

APRIL

Grandma comes to visit!

April flowers...

 

MAY

Science Fair project on Penguins!  Can you guess which is the real penguin?

...and an epic milestone college reunion! 

And we even went on a date!

 JUNE

Showing his Hopper-ish work (top.)  And the end (for now) of his 5-years at this Christian school.

 

...and the boy turns 10:

JULY

A month of camps!

Bible Camp with friends:
 

Hideaway Day Camp - the awesomest outdoor day camp around!

 

Environment Camp!

 

And a great story about his counselors, C&M:

C&M's grandparents were good friends with J's grandparents while at Penn State and were in the same field.  Then C&M's dad, and J's dad meet at a conference in their common field, and go on to become great friends.  C&M have known J since he was a baby, just arrived from Korea.  So in 2012, C&M were J's counselors!  They don't seem destined to enter the same field - C&M being interested in politics and J interested in architecture.  But maybe J could design them a house?

 

In between, an unusual but welcomed visit from Uncle Paul & fam from Lanna, Jo-jah!

Our beautiful gardens courtesy of HH, and Boo!

AUGUST

Many hours at the pool!  This year, with the encouragement of a friend, he tested to be allowed in the deep end, which meant hours and hours jumping off the diving board!

SEPTEMBER

Lots of excitement!

What has become our tradition - time on Cape Cod - this year during Labor Day week.

Through the years at Mashpee Commons:

 

Stand-up Paddle Boarding ("Supping")

 

(yes, that is my leg - just to prove I was there, too!)

AND the biggest changes of all:  HOME SCHOOLING!

PE at our home school co-op:

OCTOBER

 October may be the beginning of Autumn to you, but to Boo, it only means one thing: 

Fire Prevention Month!

NOVEMBER

For even Boo, November still means Thanksgiving:

but the best part isn't turkey, but being with grandma:

DECEMBER

2013

Hoping for elaborate, generous, abundant grace & peace.

On Losing My Mother

My mother died in 1987.  As that time came back, I slowly remembered it was July.  I remembered it was hot; that I had to get there in a hurry.  Late July, I think.  It's July again, but 2012.  I do the math and, slowly, realize it's been 25 years.

25 years.

They waited for me to get there - Korea - from Boston.  That I should see her and say my goodbye.  But I couldn't.  When I got there, to their living room and saw the small, simple casket, I couldn't see her.  I couldn't stand the notion of someone lifting the lid.  My aunt encouraged me to see her; that it was important to fully understand that she was gone.  The man from the funeral home was there, ready to lift that lid.  But I still couldn't.  I collapsed on my dad's shoulder and begged him not to open it.  For me, I had no trouble fully understanding that she was gone.  That she was in that box, for 3 warm monsoon days, waiting.  Forever.

My good friend just lost her dad.  She is 42.  An adult. A grown-up.  Maybe it hurts more the more memories you've chalked up; the deeper understanding you have of what it is to lose a parent.  I was 27.  I don't know if it hurts less or more.  Not that it really matters.

I flew back, went through my days competently.  I had to find a job, and I did.  I interviewed well, showed up on time, did a good job.  But emotionally, I was needy and behaved inappropriately, blind to others' needs, blind to my own deficiencies.  I'd fall asleep in my new apartment, in my new bed, having put in a full day at my new job.  But every night, as if a clapping thunder had awoken me, I'd sit up in bed, my heart pounding, a dreaded sense hovering over my stupor.  Every night, for years. 

At some point, I no longer woke with a pounding heart or a sense of dread; I simply awoke.  At 11, 12, 2, 3.  For over 20 years.  I don't know if it had simply become habit or what.  I still have trouble sleeping.  Someone suggested that if I worked hard all day, I wouldn't have trouble sleeping at night.  Circumstances are such that I no longer have to see that person.  It's a good thing, too.

I was 27.  Just out of graduate school, embarking on a career.  I'd guess my mom would have been proud of me.  I don't know.  I do know that I never had the chance to get to know her as a grown-up.  Maybe 27 seems plenty old to some of you readers, but I know how young I was, how much I needed to grow, indeed, how much I would grow.   In painful ways I never wanted to.

A year or two before she died, she had a choice to go on vacation, or fly me to Korea to see her.

She chose the vacation.

I think the hardest part was growing up and realizing that I was not the most important thing in her life.  That by my mom and dad moving to Korea, not only did I lose my physical home, but I also lost my psychic dwelling.  I slowly came to realize the existential loneliness that philosophers over the ages have contemplated.  I.  I alone.  Separate and independent from my mother. Where do I dwell?

I sought a home at my brothers'.  At an aunt's.  At friends'.  All of them were fraught with awkwardnesses not of their doing, but as circumstances of our days.  Who could I turn to that was completely and totally on My Side?  Where could I "let my hair down" and rest?

In the letter to the Ephesians, the Apostle Paul writes, "I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being,  so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith."

And there I dwell and hope to, the rest of my days.

Three Years Old

Three years ago today, I let my friends Jo-Lynne and Sarah talk me into spending even more time on the computer.  Doing this thing called "Blogging."

I didn't really know what I was doing.  Like the new girl starting school in the middle of the year.  I had some thoughts that had been percolating in my mind for awhile.  Months.  Years.  Thoughts I wanted to get out.  Set out.

I'm an architect, and my college professors will tell you I AM NO WRITER.  Not only that, I always felt a bit handicapped by being raised in a family in which I was the only fluent speaker of English. 

I was just shy of 7 when I moved to Long Island, NY.  My brothers were 13, 12 and almost 11.  My mom and dad, arriving in a new country as adults, would never master the English language. And, as it turned out, neither would my brothers.  They would never catch on to why it was "I'm going to school," but "I'm going to the hospital."  They would always carry a Korean accent and never internalize the subtleties of the new language, and yet, through lack of use, lose most of their Korean, too.  Rock and a hard spot.  Coming or going.  Here nor there.

I would slide into the slithery mystery of English and slip right into it like a new pair of  pajamas.  I shed my Korean accent without looking back; without knowing that I had lost something.

I often share the story of my first trip to the public library.  It was a one room, wooden building, dusty and with that faint smell of old charcoal.  It was the librarian who first said those magic words, "Nancy Drew."  What could my mom or dad tell me about American books?  Nothing.  What could they do to help me with my English? to expand my vocabulary?    They couldn't read to me, nor would they know what to read.  My brothers had their own difficulties adjusting to a new culture.

When it was time to prepare for college, my SAT scores reflected my home life: 95th percentile in Math and a 50th percentile in Verbal.  I heard Korean parents say their children should stay away from fields like Law that require a mastery of language; that they were handicapped because of their immigrant families. It's an essentially Korean way of thinking - to put people in boxes, fence themselves in.

Through blogging, here's what I found out. Somehow, while studying vocabulary for the SATs, reading voraciously, writing business letters over and over again, somewhere along the way, I must have figured out how to write.  My best friend said I should write more.  I scoffed, given my background, my Korean fence.  She scoffed right back at me, giving me that quintessentially American,"You can do anything" speech.  It's an essentially American way of thinking - to see the vastness of the land and sky and know you can do anything.

Three years ago, I started with a little word: CAN.
And now, three years later, I see that I can write. I can!  I think.

Thanks to all my friends, who have stuck with me and supported me. 

Our 15th of a Second of Fame

My friend got four tickets to the taping of the Nate Berkus Show.  Who?  Yeah, I had to google him, too.  I would never have gone were it not my best friend, The Artist.  I thought a trip to NYC would be fun, no matter what the reason.  I remember the days when I’d take day trips to NYC…or night runs for dinner.  I’d be pretending to study in my dorm room when the phone would ring.  A friend would say, “Hey I got a car -- want to go for dinner in NY?”  Well, duh!  Of course I’d say yes.

We’d be going with two friends of The Artist.  Hugs, hellos and fussing as the two of us get in the car to pick up Karen around the corner.  The 3 of us then go to Jen’s house.  See Jen run out her back door, to her car.  See Jen run back in the house.  See Jen run out the front door, and jump in the back seat. 

We chatter away and the two in the back seat argue intermittently about the best way to get to Trenton.  I feel a headache coming on.  Our boots tap-tap and clack-clack as we hurry across the pavement, then the glossy floor of the train station.  Conversations about our children intersperse with comments about our outfits.  Oh, I love that hat!  It’s so you.  Mine’s in 3^rd grade, how about yours? Should my pants be in or out of my boots?  Do you think we can make an earlier train?  Let’s find coffee.  I have to stop in the rest room.  Where’d they go?  Wait! 

Look!  Hi, Tim!

The train takes an hour longer than it should but we’re too busy talking.  Me, too, talking.  But what I really wanted was a latte and quiet.  That headache grows.  Not a headache so much as a too-fullness; the talking jiggling the nerves in my too full head.  Like nitro.

I’m in heels too high and another walks too fast.  We’re like a slinky dog as we 4 stretch and careen and back again.  Weaving through the Manhattan crowd 2 by 2 then 3 and 1 then 2 by 2 again in different sets.

Fries sprinkled with cheese

We get there finally to wait in the cold.  The Fast One has gluten-free crackers, ear muffs, mittens and hand warmers.  The other hasn’t eaten and we share Greek fries in line.  There are young men and women drones buzzing about with earphones, walkie-talkes and badges on lanyards.  There’s one that comes down the line to mark our tickets, then another one follows checking it twice.  There are 4 at the doorway for security.  Another at the bottom of the stairs.  Two at the elevators; two when we get out.  I’ve lost track of how many guide us to the ”Audience Waiting Room.”  There are bananas, bagels, coffee and tea. The room is filled with middle-aged women and gay men.

Many more with Earphones.  One comes in and makes an announcement.  Another hands out forms.  Then another form.  Then they collect them.  There’s one guiding the  line of women needing the restrooms.  Two male versions stand nearby.  Another one hands out the same form they just collected.   Sorry-we-shouldn’t-have-collected-it-I-didn’t-get-the -memo.  Another one is recruiting for future shows.  She even asks to take a picture of us because she “likes our vibe.”

The waiting room, the hallway, the restrooms are all dingy – the green aura of cheap fluorescent.  (Maybe that’s where the term “green room” comes from?)  I keep waiting for my glasses to clear up, but it’s not that.  It’s just dark and dingy and the worst lighting I’ve ever seen.  I feel like I’m in the movie, Brazil.

There are more and more of these drones.  We are herded through.  We get a “gift” which we are not to open.   We enter the studio. No.  Wait.

WE.  ENTER.  THE.  STUDIO.

If you could hear the eternal light of Heaven, this would be it.  The clatter and jabber and shuffle of the audience dies away as they all sense the clarity, the perfection, as  if we are entering the presence of The Almighty.  Not because Nate Berkus is such a bigshot, but because the studio is this white box of perfection.  Only a Higher Being could dwell here.  There are no shadows or gradations.  No blind spot or heat spot.  Everything in that studio is covered in a clear, pure white light. 

There is another Earphone, but she has a name, Dena, and she is paid to keep us entertained, and keep our "energy up."  There’s also a male Earphone named Gab and he’s a comedian, too.  They tell us when to clap,and for how long.

Then there’s Nate.  Charisma.  Gentle and sweet, a charm you can smell.  And he's one of those men that you think must smell good.  I thought I’d hate this part, the clapping too enthusiastically, the corny, made up “chatting” with the guests.  I thought it was fascinating.  I can see why people get caught up in all….THAT.

When we left the studio, we headed to a Greek restaurant around the corner from the studio.  We had more fries sprinkled with cheese.  We were all less talkative.  We each made calls to our families.  Then we took the train back to Trenton, all of us quiet, ready to get back to our real lives.  Our ride back to our houses was quieter.  No arguing about which roads to take.  

We said our goodbyes as if we had just carpooled to a friend’s party.  A perfectly tanned, perfectly coiffed, perfectly spoken where nobody is offended or wrinkled or have panty lines.

Me, Bren, Jen, Karen in the audience.