a missing piece

summertime

2008-06-03T14:35:00.000-07:00

Summertime is a lonely time, especially when your heart and soul lives nine hundred and seventy miles away.

AWAKE

2008-05-03T20:54:00.001-07:00

I heard the saxophone wail
Alone into the silence of the night
And I thought that perhaps
It was the loneliest sound in the world;
And the chimes, they rang
And I sang along, a little
For the oboe well-played
And rich its sighs;
For the piano, when forte
And apassionato, with wild hair,
And the timbre there, the color,
The rosy cheeks of a newborn overtone.

And still, that saxophone sang
And mourned the rain
And that which dies;
Like emotion sung
By choirs wrought from glass
Displayed and known, like old friends.
I felt the warm drip-drop of amber
From the sitar strings
And couldn't sleep,
Not with it pounding in my veins,
And in those fitful dreams I cried,
Wait, love, wait just a little more,
And arpeggiate, love, did you hear it?
And the saxophone hummed a melody
To the tune of the harp
Like a chorus of angels
All silver and brass
And rendered me vulnerable,
Vulnerable,
and elated.

And still the saxophone sings,
And still I think it is
The most beautiful sound in the world.

weather poem II

2008-04-09T13:28:00.001-07:00

you are the noonday sun,
and i, the moon at midnight.
we are at the top of the world,
each a light unto our own sphere,
and yet i cannot reach out
and hold you.

new shoes

2008-04-02T08:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday in one of my classes, my prof raised a few very thought-provoking questions.

He first asked the question, "Why are you here, studying music, right now?"

The most generic answer is, of course, that each of us was inspired by music at least once.

He then asked us to recall the defining moment that made us decide to pursue the serious study of music. For many of my fellow students, it was a particularly mind-blowing concert, a certain person, or even a vague realization of the buildup of positive feedback.

For me, it was a single summer afternoon, when I was fifteen. I had been in choir for a few years, but it wasn't until I unexpectedly made it into Madrigals that I realized I had something of an aptitude for music and began to consider studying it and pursuing a career in it. Up until then, I was the art girl of the family, or the lawyer, or the scientist, but never the musician. It's hard, to feel like anything but the "other" daughter, when your older sister is a musical prodigy who's already been at it for years. It's hard for your mother to understand that loving music isn't just a phase, that you're just blooming later because you were so intimidated as a young child that you thought you could just put it on the back burner forever.

It's not that I don't understand why my mother told me that afternoon that she didn't think I had any chance of successfully pursuing music, while my sister did. Actually, I appreciate the fact that she's not some fawning stage-mother, convinced that her over-dressed and under-talented child is the next big Broadway sensation. And it's not that I haven't forgiven her for it -- in fact, I didn't realize, not until I found myself holding back tears in class yesterday morning, three years later, how much her words still hurt me.

I realized that everything I have done musically since then has been a reaction against that day. I genuinely love music and have a passion for pursuing it, it's true, but hurt and anger are what have really kept me going. But what's said has been said, and I've forgiven her for it. It's not about her anymore. I know she would feel terrible if she knew how much it affected me then, and how much I still think about it. That's not the point. Although the person who said those words is the reason they were so hurtful, it is the words themselves that still haunt me.

In high school, it manifested itself in my being competitive, wanting everything for myself without actually wanting it. I would get bitchy when someone else got some big part or impressive solo, how they didn't deserve it, and yet it was never about them. If you thought I was mean in high school, you're probably right. But I'm not a competitive person at all. I don't really even like performing. Fighting for roles and solos and awards was just how I tried to defend myself, as if I was in this absurd uphill battle of constantly fighting for my mother's respect, for her approval, in this part of my life that I loved so much. It was as if everything I didn't attain was one more bullet, shooting me down, proving her right, and I wanted more than anything to hear her say, "I'm proud of you," the way she said it to my sister.

The people I avoided, even deprecated, often did nothing to deserve it, and the relationships I ruined by being so rude over such little, insignificant things were just collateral damage from this petty war. And yet, the person who suffered the most damage is myself. Isn't it funny, how a pitiful lack of confidence can look like conceitedness to everyone else? And even more ironic is how I tried to convince myself through all of this that I didn't have to prove anything. I needed a major attitude adjustment, and I knew it, even then. But ah! c'est la vie.

Back to yesterday, my prof then asked us to approximate what percentage of our lives we spend feeling inspired. I thought too fast and said about half. That was a gross overestimate. I'd have to say it's more like 2%. Which leads me, of course, to wonder, why so little? I can safely say, beyond any reasonable doubt, that I love music, and that it inspires me, and that I want to be inspired in everything, all the time. I want to live my days with passion, with conviction. It is in me, and I feel it, some of the time. I think I have finally realized that the stumbling block, for me, is a weird mix of reckless ambition and lazy apathy. Perhaps it's because so far, I've been approaching my studies from the wrong perspective.

If my life as a musician has simply been a reaction against my mother's hurtful words, if everything I have done is simply to break even with the negative, how do I take myself to the next level? The hurt has propelled me this far, but how do I plunge forward into the green? Because the fact of the matter is, at this point, I am a mediocre musician. I have failed to put in the time it takes to really, really understand music, not just in my head, but with my hands. Time and time again, I have failed to dedicate myself fully to what I am doing. All too often, I have turned music into a mechanical process to master academically, as if art can be confined to rules, and at the same time discrediting those like me, such as Fux, who took a similar approach. I have taken my heart out of it. Often, I have not even followed through academically. I have gotten all the right grades, I suppose, but how much have I really benefited? I always laud and envy those musicians who commit themselves fully and put in the necessary time to get really good, and yet I fail to apply their example. I know I could be so much better than I am, but frankly, I've been lazy.

This is not, and has never been, what I want for myself, and I am ashamed for it. I want to be inspired. In an entry I wrote last fall, I proudly declared, "I will never live in shades of grey." So far, I think I have failed. I thank God that there is always another chance to clean the slate and start over. And if I really can choose to be inspired, as easily as I choose what new shoes to put on in the morning, I hope God will give me the strength to grasp it wholeheartedly, to soften those hard and calcified places of myself. From this day forward, I want to leave behind complacency and hurt, and never look back.

Here's to a fresh start, and to a new pair of shoes.

ah, the days

2008-03-25T18:44:00.001-07:00

Ah, the days! we'll twirl on our fingers
And oh, the ways! we'll spend our time
Laughing in summer
And loving in winter
And loafing about in autumn
And living for the life of the spring,
And everything in-between.

Life is our own melody
To play by ear
And make up as we go.

a poem for love

2008-03-21T04:53:00.000-07:00

I swallowed the sunrise and made it my own,
Lassoed it well and bundled it up
With blue paper and a matching satin ribbon
For to give it to you, with love.

I wandered once along the shore
And kicked at seashell men,
Just fine; but they were all the same,
And in the end, were lacking.
But now, o love, my greatest wish
Is simply to hear the flutt'rings of the ocean
In the graceful ebb and flow
Of the beatings of your heart.

Love, o love, we are victorious!
We have deciphered the unbreakable hieroglyphic
And taught butterflies to dance a samba.
We have conquered the cosmos,
And are now its happy king and queen.
Shall we dance on the moon?
Shall we waltz on Io? Poor thing, but
Gadflies ne'er would sting our feet,
Because we are their masters now.
I will make you pancakes on Neptune,
And we will loafe all day on Jupiter.
Perhaps we will play cards on Mercury,
And fall asleep on Venus.

I put the sunrise in your eyes,
And now I only see its light,
Only in their earth.

your mom

2008-03-15T18:23:00.000-07:00

A small thought:

Your mom may be a lot of things,
But your mom is not an insult.

weather poem

2008-02-17T05:21:00.000-08:00

from gentle dark will sweet morning dream
and winter weather, happy garden spring
present grey could never see or believe
to imagine flowerly green

(Composed with magnetic words.)

living backwards II

2008-01-29T14:03:00.000-08:00

After further reflection on the issues discussed in my last blog entry, I am feeling much better. But I realized that I have forgotten why I am studying music in the first place. So I am going back to the roots. I am making a point of setting aside time just to listen to music, all kinds of music, from everywhere, tens of genres, hundreds of composers. The library is my new residence.

It's sad because I didn't even realize how much is down here in the library basement. Ironically enough it was Dr. Zelle who showed me how to find my way around. The same one whose simple statement so deeply troubled me has now also introduced the cure.

Did you know we have photocopies of (to name a few) Beethoven's and Bach's and Mozart's original scores? Whole symphonies written out in their own hand. The passions, the sounds, written out there in front of you by the mind in which they were born.

I am remembering why I love this. It is like medicine for the soul.

living backwards

2008-01-27T17:20:00.000-08:00

It was a typical morning in piano class with one of the most eccentric professors you will ever meet. That is to say, I thought it was a typical morning until he said something very profound between the bits of his usual, vaguely philosophical musings. He stopped us as we practiced our B minor scales, stepped up to the board and simply said,

"Until you love yourself, you will never master music."

And it was then that I realized that I am living backwards. Here I am, eighteen years old, capable of understanding/explaining/doing things that most people don't even know the name of, studying music at a good school with professors that like me, and yet, I am constantly feeling sadly inadequate. No matter how good I get at something, there is always something else I could learn or improve. I feel that I won't be satisfied with myself, and definitely won't be able to love myself, until I reach a certain level of ability. I ignore the fact that the level I strive for is constantly changing and becoming more difficult to attain, and thus the end result is that I constantly hate myself.

I want to reach "that level" of mastery so that I can love myself. But I have forgotten -- or perhaps, never been aware at all -- that in order to reach that level, I must love myself first. I've had this attitude of self-hatred for a long time, I admit. I just don't approve of myself as-is. But up until now, my self-depreciation was a source of motivation for me to achieve higher and improve more. When I think back upon myself as a musician ... ah! It really is incredible how much has happened just in these past few years. I went from being only a casually interested singer to being the only soprano in my entire school district to make the All-State choir. I went from not knowing what a tritone or a triplet was -- and that was just two years ago! -- to being a girl who walks around solfeging whole-tone scales in her head and analyzing Bach chorales in her sleep.

And yet it all happened because I hated myself, and I was willing to work hard to stop hating myself. I thought it was a constructive hatred. Only now am I realizing that inside, I am falling apart.

This morning in church, Pastor Hong reminded me of something that I think I need to remind myself constantly from now on:

"'You don't have to prove anything,' says God. 'You are My child, and so you are already all you ever need to be.'"

I wanted to cry when he said this. It's not like I hadn't heard it before. But it was something of which I really, really needed to be reminded. In my head, I am convinced. But for my heart, I will need time to heal.

meditations

2008-01-08T23:44:00.000-08:00

regardez-moi, monsieur plus beau
that i might look in your exquisite eyes.
a perfect day is nothing more than
to think on you and smile within
and sing my french soul's quiet song:
je vous regarde avec un amour comme une montagne.

stream of consciousness -- christmas poem

2007-12-25T18:58:00.000-08:00

a christmas holiday:
hot music, warm day, cold house, numb toes,
et canunt juglans regia
of the horrors of the nutcracker's bite.
but for all else there is peace and love
and a gift of a Baby in divine humble splendor
and the joyous music of the season .
thank god for angel choirs
and oceans of piano keys:
white, black, white, black, white, white, black,
a richer beauty than any other,
and yet all in monochrome;
that metal and wood should render souls from onlisteners,
weeping and sighing, ebb and fade,
it is truly a christmas miracle.

power of words

2007-12-09T22:25:00.000-08:00

Breath circulates. Vocal chords engage. Mouth opens.

Phonation.

You're talking. But what are you saying?

A simple biological chain of events can do a lot, either for better or worse. It doesn't take a lot of effort to create words, and thus it doesn't take a lot of effort to have a lot of power. If words are from the right Source, they can calm a storm or move a mountain. Words can change the course of history. And if they get out of control, they can be poison.

Words have power. They must be carefully guarded and stewarded. It's an easy thing to forget, how a small word can have big implications, so we slip up often. In the heat of anger, we make mistakes. If only we could take them back.

But since we can't, let us use those mistakes to remind us of the power of words and to remember that such power should only be used to encourage and ennoble, and never to condemn and destroy.

for a sex slave in bangkok

2007-12-08T13:07:00.000-08:00

little actress in the rusty bed
spins cobwebs in her dusty head
empty just to save herself

and then a knock sounds at the door
she'll moan and sigh when he wants more
and smacks her, rapes her, calls her 'whore'
she'll pretend she likes it -- he loves that

and when he is gone
the little actress, no glamour for her here,
lays back into her bed of lust and smut and pain
and falls asleep to await her next encore.

an oscar winner at age thirteen,
and momma and dad are so proud,
or at least, they have food to eat now.

life is a poem

2007-12-04T11:09:00.000-08:00

life is a poem,
but then mine is a haiku
or so it would seem

life is a haiku
it can seem extremely short
yet it means so much

or life is a song
possessing pain and beauty
in its careful notes

life is a poem,
so I will write a good one--
at least, I will try.

when and if

2007-12-02T20:32:00.000-08:00

I am tired of your whining. I am tired of your moping. I am tired of your drama. I am tired of how hyperemotional you are. It hurts us both, and I can't believe how inconsiderate you are. I tried and tried and tried to help you, but it's going nowhere, and I have reached the limits of my patience.

When and if you are ready to let yourself move on, then I will be ready to speak to you again.

When and if seeing the world through wise eyes becomes a part of you and not just a pair of eyeglasses, then you will understand me.

Until that when and if happens, I am done being your life.

life is ironic

2007-11-20T10:06:00.000-08:00

It occured to me this morning -- as it has often occured to me in the past, but never as eloquently as today -- that the most important thing you learn as you grow up is that you are never "grown up." The more knowledge you acquire, the more you realize that you know nothing.

How many times have I told myself that life will be what I want it to be in the future? How many times have I ignored where I am now because I was so concerned with the future? How long have I tried to make something out of myself that I liked, only to feel completely unsatistfied and start over again? How many of us has looked forward to something for so long, and yet found themselves utterly disappointed when that end is finally realized?

And thus I am trying to remind myself that life is too short not to savor every moment. Pardon the cliche when I say that every moment is a gift, and it should not be squandered. Think of Jesus's parable of the prodigal son. He took his inheritance and ran with it. He spent it on things that did not satisfy him beyond the moment. And in the end, he returns to where he was. No growth, nothing to show for his time, only shame. And when we read that story, we think, "how foolish of him to squander his resources!" Yet that is precisely what we do with so many seconds and minutes and inhalations and exhalations that God gives to us, here and now and until we die. So preserve the child within you. Love that which is marvelous, and remember that life is short.

white light

2007-10-26T14:10:00.000-07:00

Finally, there is clarity, and I can breathe more easily. The sun is coming out from behind the clouds, shedding light on the situation. God whispers, and I am able to hear him louder and louder, guiding me far better than I have guided myself lately. That He can do so should not be surprising, and yet I seem to forget it too often. And even though the truth of the matter is not necessarily what I want it to be, it is the truth, and therefore, it is good. I am beginning to feel as if things have worked out for the best, and so I am feeling better.

a solitary soul

2007-10-17T16:50:00.000-07:00

I am just fine without him, until I think about him.

I had a dream that I drowned myself in the ocean. The most frightening thing about the dream was that it did not frighten me. I found a peace in the sea that I have not known for months. All I feel right now is fear, sadness and self-hatred. Death was easier than trying to come to terms with all that is wrong with me.

If only love could be simple. If only I had the capacity to love without always feeling like something is lacking. There are days when he is so adorable that I cannot help but feel as though I love him. Any woman loves being doted upon. But there are also days when he is so irritating that I just wish I were single. Much as I may want to, I cannot completely resign myself to this relationship, because regardless of how much I love being loved, there is something critical that is missing. He is so much of what I want in a man, but he is not everything.

The more I think upon it, the less I want to be in a relationship. And yet, the more I think upon it, the less I want that to be the case. I want nothing more than to want him, yet I am unable. For so long I thought that my good intentions would create the desired end, that wanting to love him would eventually make me love him. But they have only made us both unhappy. Every attempt of mine to feel what I feel I should feel has failed, and perhaps it is best to move on and to allow him to move on. I find myself wanting to try again, but I just cannot get over the fear that I will only break both our hearts all over again. After all the damage I have already done, I cannot bring myself to take that risk. A heart can only be broken so many times, and difficult as it is for me to end it with him now, I know that I could not possibly live with myself if I did it to him all over again. Even if he thinks otherwise, I know that I am not worth it. It is not enough to try again and to know that we tried. I have never accepted that mentality. Of course we tried, and we failed. It was useless. I do not want to try again and get the same outcome of failure.

And yet, I am so afraid that if I let him go, I will never find another man who will love me the way he does. For all I know, I may someday genuinely love him, but while I am flattered by his devotion, I have to admit that I do not love him. The fact that he loves me, that we share interests, and that we have long been so close should be enough to guarantee my happiness, yet I am unhappy, and I can only ignore that for so long before it surfaces.

So much of my unhappiness comes from the fact that I simply want to experience more before I settle down. The intensity of his love frightens me. Especially after everything that has happened, I know that if I go back to him, it is for good, and that scares me like no other. It feels too early for me to commit to anyone. I am only eighteen. I have no desire to be tied down. I want to breathe, to run, to live a vagabond existence while I am still young.

But how selfish of me! After all we have been through, after all I have done to him, after all he has done for me, I hate the idea that it could be over forever simply because of my inability to love him the way he deserves.

I hate the idea that we might go on with our lives separately and that I will be forever plagued with the knowledge of what I have put him through. He has loved so deeply for so long, and I hate myself for allowing it to go on. I should have been responsible. I should have listened to myself when I said I would not get into a relationship with him. But he loved too greatly, and he wore me down. If only I had been stronger at the beginning, it would have ended before it began, but he broke through the resistance that I put on to protect us both, and now we are dealing with the consequences. He finally had me, and his happiness pleased me. It was a storybook ending. But it was not enough to outweigh that which is lacking.

For so much of my life, I wished only for one single person to love me, whom I could love in return and cling to and be with and be happy with. Now that such a one has found me, I have run away from him, and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for being unhappy. I hate myself for wanting more out of life. I hate myself for being so petty, foolish and selfish. I hate myself for allowing the relationship to continue when I knew full well how torn I was about it. I hate myself for trying to create something that did not exist. I hate myself for trying to force myself to love him, because it has only created even more heartache.

I had everything I really needed wrapped around my finger, yet I could not just be content. What in the world is wrong with me?

It is not in my power to create love. Either it exists, or it doesn’t. I must learn to accept that which I cannot change. Slowly, I am recovering, but there still remains a long distance to go, and it will not be easy. I am "seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in myself that color and change my environment." I am realizing my place in the world, the things which I truly desire, and the direction in which I want my life to go. I am realizing what a mess I have made of things, and I am beginning to understand the anguish that drove Edna Pontellier to the depths of the ocean.

I am so completely and utterly disappointed.

the lesser of two evils

2007-10-16T09:21:00.000-07:00

This would have been so much easier if he did not love me. It would have been easier still if I were like other girls, if I could just love him back, as I feel like I should. I would be hard-pressed to find one kinder, gentler, or more earnest, and yet "an indescribable oppression, which seems to generate in some unfamiliar part of my consciousness, fills my whole being with a vague anguish. It is like a shadow, like a mist passing across my soul's summer day."

I often find myself wondering, Why does he love me? I do not know what there is to love about me so much. I am petty. I am foolish. I am irrational. I am hurtful. I don't make any sense. And yet, he loves on, and it is remarkable indeed, for I confess I doubt any other man would ever be so generous.

Yet here I am again, unable to cope with what seems to be an inability to love. I feel cold and disconnected from my own existence. On the outside, I do my best to conform, to do what I know I should, to do that which makes logical sense. Yet inside, I question always. My intentions are only for the best, yet there is always that part of me which dissents, that inner chamber of myself, whispering things which I can only ignore for so long.

And so I find myself standing at a crossroads, trying to choose between the lesser of two evils:

Should I cut myself off, break his heart and perhaps find happiness someday in my own lonely freedom? Shall I bear the burden of having forsaken his love all for the selfish sake of securing myself some fresh air? Or, should I stay with him, preserve his heart and perhaps find happiness someday in his arms? Perhaps love simply comes more slowly than I wish for. It is absurd to assume that I will love someone after only about four months of dating them, despite every reason that I should. For all I know, I could just need more time.

Whatever I choose, it will bring unhappiness to either one or both of us. I almost feel as if I should just choose the option that will at least guarantee his happiness. To have caused my own unhappiness: that, I could live with, but to make someone else miserable...that is a thing much more difficult to bear.

So, as on the summit of Gethsemane, I am praying for the strength and the will to sacrifice my own life for the sake of my dear, dear friend. I should carry the cross of my own selfishness, my dissatisfaction, my inability to commit, and give myself away upon it. My heart is wild and uncertain, and I must tame it. I must be realistic. "The acme of bliss...is not for me in this world." He has fallen in love, "as men are in the habit of doing," and I should devote myself to the "man who worships me," taking my place "with a certain dignity in the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind me upon the realm of romance and dreams."

Ah! Si tu savais! Has The Awakening taught me nothing?

I do not know if I can provide for him the love and peace and devotion that he needs. If he truly wants me, then unfortunately he wants someone who is simply incapable of loving him all the time, the way he deserves to be loved. He has bestowed his love upon a most unworthy recipient, for I suffer from the terrible, incurable disability of being unable to love properly, and we are both the unhappy victims.

My own inadequacy is to blame for what has happened. Much as I care for him, there are times when I wish, for both our sakes and especially for his, that we had never met. But I must find a way to forgive myself for that which I cannot change. I must pray that God will show me the right way to resolve the situation. I must try to trust myself enough to listen.

More than anything, I need to get away, to run to the north, into the woods. I need to find some peace and quiet, where I can think.

in full color

2007-10-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

I grew up in what happened to be basically an all-white neighborhood. It was not for any racism, but simply that it was the suburbs and not many people lived there who were of other cultures. I think it is sad that I was not really exposed to other cultures earlier on in my life. Despite my lack of exposure, however, I was brought up in a home that vehemently believes that racism is wrong. Lately, I have observed that perhaps the racial acceptance of my parents is fed in part by the prejudices of their parents.

What is it with the elderly and racism? I realize that things were very different when they were children, but how, in this day and age, can they possibly continue to hold on to those old falsehoods?

My cousin was telling me about one of her new neighbors, whom she recently met. She can tell the story in more detail than I, but basically he stated that he believed that Muslims, Hindus and Mexicans are filthy animals. When my cousin chided him, he replied "well, I'm old."

Even my father's mother, the sweetest woman you could possibly meet, is a racist. She may not believe in oppressing minorities, but when I told her that my roommate was from the south side of Chicago, the first thing she asked was "is she black?" (Not to mention, this was not on just one occasion, but two.) If you ask her about the Chicago neighborhood where she grew up, she'll tell you that it is overrun by Mexicans. The first thing she said to describe my choir director was "he's black."

It pains me to call my relatives racist, but I simply cannot avoid the fact any longer. I believe in respecting my elders, but with all due respect, I cannot possibly respect anyone with such outdated, ridiculous opinions. I will not accept their racism simply because it was once tolerated. I will not put up with it just because they're old and don't know any better. Since when has ignorance been an excusable offense?

I was speaking with my mother's mother (who still refers to African-Americans as "colored people") recently about racism. She was telling me a story about how my great-uncle, a white man, shot a black man for trying to steal something from him. She was apparently expecting me to think this was perfectly all right, because when I told her that I thought it was wrong to shoot someone, especially when it is partially because of their race, she actually became angry, telling me I could not possibly understand because I had never lived in the South.

Quite frankly, I think that is the most absurd lie I have ever heard in my life.

Racism still exists because some people still tell themselves this lie, that because racism existed in the past, it is simply a reality that we cannot rectify. Racism still exists because, in the eyes of some, it remains a very grotesque tradition. Racism will continue to thrive until we can find the beauty in every language, every culture, every nation's colors, creed, music, and art, and yes, every skin tone.

We must not try to paint the world all in one color. We must not paint it yellow, black, white, nor should we paint it red with blood. To oversaturate the world in one color just brings darkness. Rather, we must cover it in light, for in light there is every color of the spectrum.

One of the things I love most about my neighborhood here in Chicago is the diversity of the community. Every African-American, every Anglo, every Asian-American, every Native American, every Latino, every Arab-American, every Jew, every Muslim, every Christian, every Buddhist, every Hindu, and every pot-smoking Rastafarian is made in the Lord's image, a reflection of God.

Like a huge photomosaic, every face is part of God's face, and that is the most beautiful thing there is.

the fundamental problem with faith

2007-10-01T19:02:00.000-07:00

The fundamental problem with faith is that it requires, well, faith. It is too abstract to be understood by most people, not because they are incapable but because they refuse. By its very nature, one must have faith to understand faith, and thus, many people are often left out or misled elsewhere. The fundamental problem with faith is that, because of this, it can drive away the people one loves. The fundamental problem with faith is how it cannot be compromised, despite the fact that not to compromise is often dangerous and frequently painful. Isn't it funny how, despite all this, faith is still the best way?

North Park's motto of the year is "What is a life of faith?"

In simplest terms, a life of faith is extremely frustrating. Perhaps that is why, in the end, it is so rewarding.

the very sweetest wisdom

2007-09-30T22:15:00.000-07:00

Remember that the fool in the eyes of the gods and the fool in the eyes of man are very different. One who is entirely ignorant of the modes of Art in its revolution or the moods of thought in its progress, of the pomp of the Latin line or the richer music of the vowelled Greek, of Tuscan sculpture or Elizabethan song may yet be full of the very sweetest wisdom. The real fool, such as the gods mock or mar, is he who does not know himself. ... The supreme vice is shallowness. Everything that is realized is right.
-- Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

The very sweetest wisdom...what is that? To know oneself?

To know oneself...but how? For within oneself, there are many people to know. I am acquainted with my dark side. My quirky side is my soulmate. I am quite close with my spiritual side, and we are becoming better friends every day.

But while I know much of what lies within myself, I do not know what I want in life. It occurs to me that perhaps wisdom is what happens when one stops trying to be wise, but trying to navigate life and love without a guide, a map or a compass is not exactly an easy thing to do. I feel as though I am wandering. The Lord dwells within me, yet uncertainty and insecurity remain my closest traveling companions. If the opinions of others are mirrors, what does my reflection look like? When will I know what is right for my life? How can I possibly leave this world better than I found it? Whose heart will I break on this seemingly aimless quest?

All I want for myself is this: to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God, to be kind and compassionate even to the least of my brethren, and ultimately to find wisdom in the fear of the Lord.

Yet this is that which I have come to know about myself, that which is realized, and therefore is right:

Despite all attempts at depth, I can only scratch the surface. Shallowness has become my supreme, unhappy vice. The gods shall mock and mar me, for I do not know myself. For all my love and desire of wisdom, I remain a fool.

only in music

2007-09-23T11:22:00.000-07:00

Only in music does 4 + 5 = 8.
Thus, traditional math is irrelevant to any music major.
Hence why I am still procrastinating on my math assignments.

distance

2007-09-23T11:00:00.000-07:00

distance separates in more ways than one,
like smoke between us,
putrid and stifling smoke
that renders us mute
and makes us speechless
please don't be so silent

clean slate

2007-09-19T16:22:00.000-07:00

I was reading some of the posts on my old blog earlier today and I realized that that person speaking is no longer me. It's amazing how much a person can change in just a few months.

So, here is my new and improved blog.

(I did repost a few things that I still like.)

after the weekend

2007-09-19T10:30:00.000-07:00

After the weekend, my week starts, and I have returned to my old habit of being stressed out all the time.

Something about these uncharacteristically warm autumn days gets me thinking, usually about nothing in particular.

"What is the greatest experience you can have? It is...the hour when you say, 'What matters my happiness? It is poverty and filth and wretched contentment. But my happiness ought to justify existence itself.'
-- Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Kaufmann translation)

I had never read Nietzche before, though I knew a good deal about him (or so I believed). I think my friend Matt ascertained it best: reading Nietzche is difficult because "either you're going into it biased, in which case you may as well not even bother, or you're going into it blind, which is worse." I found myself to be one of the former, at least, until I began to read. What I did not find was a sense of disgust at the absolute blasphemy, nor that disdain of what I would term to be overly "emo," and therefore not worth attention.

Instead, what I found was compassion and pity. I owe it to reading the translator's notes at the beginning of the book, detailing Nietzsche's bad digestion, near-blindness, and migraines that would hold him hostage for days at a time, among other things. Yet it was not simply the physical maladies of the slight, slightly stooped man that caused me to pity him. It was when the translator spoke of him as an "utterly lonely man" that I began to feel very sorry for him. I hated myself for having thought ill of him simply on the basis of quotes which I read completely out of context. Rather than seeing Nietzsche as the sneering, arrogant, angry Modern who writes "God is dead" simply to draw a reaction, I saw him for what he was: unaffected, tortured, and utterly lonely.

Nietzche himself would hate me for pitying him, as when he writes,...The hour when you say: "What good is my pity? Is not pity the cross on which he is nailed who loves man?"
But I have found that while being compassionate towards other people can sometimes be a burden, it is far lighter than the feeling of guilt for refusing to sympathize for a fellow human being.

We live in an age where the individual is considered the supreme entity. Self-consciousness, self-awareness, self-improvement, self-confidence, self-esteem, self-help, self-indulgence, and the list continues.

Let me put it this way: if you ever have need of a camera, you only need to go so far as a teenager's bathroom to find one.

Clearly, we are obsessed with ourselves.

I heard a statistic once that said the average person spends only 5%-10% of his or her time thinking about other people. This is a problem. Isn't it interesting how, along with our total vanity, we are now seeing an utter breakdown of community? Families are imploding upon themselves, countries are divided, and bombs rip apart entire neighborhoods daily, all because people are so busy pushing their own agendas that they have forgotten what is truly important: life, love, breath, friendship, family, cooperation.

If we put all of our effort into ourselves, what is left after we die? It is like renovating a home after it has been condemned to be demolished. It is pointless. I recognize that it is not always easy to put other people before yourself. But then, that which is truly rewarding is never easy. And so I offer a challenge:

"This is ME. This is what I am. This is what I do. This is what I think. This is MY opinion. This is what's important to ME."

Just stop.

Banish these thoughts. They are poverty and filth and wretched contentment.

Today is the day to ask someone, "What is important to you?"

that's my KING

2007-09-12T19:50:00.000-07:00

My King is a sovereign King. No means of measure can define His limitless love. No far seeing telescope can bring into visibility the coastline of His shoreless supply. No barrier can hinder Him from pouring out His blessings. He's enduringly strong. He's entirely sincere. He's eternally steadfast. He's immortally graceful. He's imperially powerful. He's impartially merciful. Do you know Him?

He's the greatest phenomenon that ever crossed the horizon of this world. He's God's Son. He's a sinner's Savior. He's the centerpiece of civilization. ... He's unique. He's unparalleled. He's unprecedented. He's the loftiest idea in literature. He's the highest personality in philosophy. He's the supreme problem in higher criticism. He's the fundamental doctrine of true theology. He's the cardinal necessity for spiritual religion. He's the miracle of the age. He's the superlative of everything good that you choose to call Him. He's the only one qualified to be an all-sufficient Savior. I wonder if you know Him today?

He supplies strength for the weak. He's available for the tempted and the tried. He sympathizes and He saves. He strengthens and sustains. He guards and He guids. He heals the sick. He cleanses lepers. He forgives sinners. He discharges debtors. He delivers captives. He defends the feeble. He blesses the young. He serves the unfortunate. He regards the aged. He rewards the diligent. He beautifies the meek. I wonder if you know Him?

My King is the King. He's the key to knowledge. He's the wellspring to wisdom. He's the doorway of deliverance. He's the pathway of peace. He's the roadway of righteousness. He's the highway of holiness. He's the gateway of glory. Do you know Him?

His office is manifold. His promise is sure. His light is matchless. His goodness is limitless. His mercy is everlasting. His love never changes. His word is enough. His grace is sufficient. His reign is righteous. His yoke is easy, and His burden is light. I wish I could describe Him to you, but He's indescribable. He's incomprehensible. He's invincible. He's irresistible.

You can't get Him out of your mind. You can't get Him off of your hand. You can't outlive Him, and you can't live without Him.

The Pharisees couldn't stand Him, but they found out they couldn't stop Him. Pilate couldn't find any fault in Him. ... Herod couldn't kill Him. Death couldn't handle Him, and the grave couldn't hold Him. Yeah! That's my King, that's my King.
-- Dr. S.M. Lockridge

why i came to the city

2007-09-04T19:51:00.000-07:00

I came to the city to learn deeply, to be challenged greatly, and thus be greatly rewarded.

I came to create and explore that which ennobles mankind: music, art, philosophy.

I came to read Nietzsche, Coleridge, Sartre, Byron and Poe and have no one tell me that they were drunken, drugged or lifeless men, only that they were exceptional men with ideas and visions and passions that set them apart from their peers.

I came to ask the pressing questions -- Who am I? What is humanity? What is a life of faith? Who is God? What am I really supposed to do with my life? -- and begin to find the answers.

I came to dive into cultural diversity, to smell and see it everywhere, to make friends in many circles, savor their differences and experience that which makes us all the same - breath, faith, love.

I came to be moved to tears by poignant moments, unashamed of emotion and dedicated to living a life in bright and saturated color.

I came to surrender myself to God and experience Him in new ways.

I came to sip coffee and intellectualize, unashamed to be young and curious.

I came to develop my own potential, with the help and blessing of He who gave me that potential.

I came to take in the bad times along with the good, to suffer, to toil, and thus to reap a greater appreciation of the good times, when they come.

I came to taste freedom, free from material burdens.

I came to speak dramatically, even poetically, with many infinitives.

I came to throw my head back and laugh with gusto.

I came to be bold, broke and happy.

I came to live my life in a shout, not a whisper.

Oscar Wilde once said, "It is tragic how few people ever 'possess their souls' before they die. Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their life a mimicry."

Myself, I refuse to live in shades of gray.

infinite metamorphoses

2007-07-24T19:56:00.000-07:00

Due to my perpetual dissatisfaction with the person I am, my life is constantly fueled by growth and change. Those who knew me five years ago know how different I am today. Those who know me today may well find me very different five years from now.

June 2nd marked the end of an era that taught me many things, an era that I appreciate for the things it taught me, but do not miss. August 21st marks the beginning of the next, hopefully greater, era of my life.

August 21st...the date seemed so far for so long. My dreams and hopes of many years are finally materializing before my eyes, and yet, realizing that they are less than a month away, I am frightened for the first time.

The future looms ahead of me like a wall stretched across the horizon, and I must try to find my very own door somewhere along the wide expanse.

Success is pressing its nose against my window, but do I have the ambition, or even the ability, to capture it?

Do I dare?

nonsense

2007-06-29T05:52:00.000-07:00

Some people.

Put what they want and need right in front of them, and every time, they turn around and choose something else that is completely wrong for them.

For simple ignorance, there is forgiveness. For willful ignorance? Never.

There is no hope for these people.

Don't even try.

navigation

2007-06-02T05:53:00.000-07:00

It is June 2.

Today marks the end of this phase of my life, as well as the beginning of the next.

Today, I wear stoles and cords and pins and badges to mark my achievements so far. I wear them all with pride, for I have worked hard for the things I have achieved. Yet I am venturing into a world greater than what I have previously known, where these achievements are nothing, and I am starting fresh. Out there, I am not Erin Smith, Thespian of the Year. I am not Erin Smith, only All-state level soprano in the school district. I am not Erin Smith, winner of the James Iddings Award, the National School Choral Award, the North Park Music Honors Award, graduating with high honors.

I am simply Erin Smith, and I am starting fresh.

In less than three months, I am to stand on my own two feet, without the careful guidance of those around me who love and protect me.

Most of me is ready to take on this new journey. And yet, a part of me still feels like a child. Does one ever reach a point where that inner child grows up? Does one ever completely become an adult? Or will there always be that part of us that, despite the pointy shoes and pinstripe suits and briefcases that make us look so distinguished, is just playing dress up?

Somehow, childhood slipped away without my noticing. Can I still cry on my mother's shoulder after a bad day? Am I still Daddy's little princess? Can I still be that precocious little girl, spinning stories, singing songs and drawing pictures, never asking for directions, only creating?
The future looms ahead of me like a wall stretched across the horizon, and I must try to find my very own door somewhere along the wide expanse.

It is a scary thing, because I am not really that good at navigating.

I suppose I will just have to hand control over to One who knows better than I.