I understand now why they don't celebrate Christmas with trees and gifts--it became apparent to me on the transatlantic flight home. When poverty and suffering were literally next door--how can you live lavishly? How does a Christmas tree and stockings even make sense?
I understood then why my father wore the same dress pants for years. Why my mother never took us to fancy restaurant. Why Sunday lunch consisted of 99¢ whoppers and pre bought canned coke.
Growing up I thought it was their ignorance and lack of capital ....but now I see it's was neither ignorance nor poverty, rather something nobler (something that I fear is lost). Something I am just starting to understand and value. Something I want desperately to pass on to my own children.
I know my parents carried with them grand ambitions and dreams across the Atlantic but also guilt. Guilt of escaping a land that with it's scenic beauty and cultural riches provided opportunities only for its most gifted, favored, or wealthy citizens...guilt for leaving others behind.
How can I eat extravagantly if my parents and siblings starve? How can I shop at fancy department stores when my childhood friend's children are dressed in rags? I am sure they asked themselves these questions. The guilt that these questions left behind are evident in my childhood memories.
Guilt, however, doesn't carry over so easily to ones offspring, how can I feel guilty for growing up in land I did not choose for my own... I was uprooted and planted here I did not forsake my motherland.
I look back at my childhood with pride. Knowing I was raised by compassionate and loving parents. Parents that taught happiness was more than the accumulation of wealth and status. That taught religion, education, and culture had precedence.
Parents that knew Christmas could be celebrated without a tree or stockings without even gifts. Parents that knew a meal of fish and tapioca (kappa) on a November afternoon was as delicious as any combination of turkey and stuffing.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Friday, October 1, 2010
The Ripple of Words
He wrote those words not knowing they would last forever. They were written in a moment of clarity and madness.
He regrets writing those combination of words, because he knows that they were true, and as long as he exists they remind him of a “road home" not taken.
If those feelings weren't penned maybe they would have never have came to fruition. Or perhaps he wrote those words because his feelings were true and they deserved a monument blind to circumstance and outcome...regardless of why he wrote them, he has to live with fact that those words exist.
The words "yellow sheets" and "pile of snow" linger on in his mind, kept alive in an untamed corner. They mark the ruins of a fading memory of a frozen pond and an empty campus on a cold December night.
Feelings attached to words may loose their vigor but I assure they are eternal. Listen to a favorite song or re-read a favorite line of a poem, feelings you once felt rush back, sometimes in weaker form, but still they remain, even if only as whisper, because they originated from the only place that really matters.
He regrets writing those combination of words, because he knows that they were true, and as long as he exists they remind him of a “road home" not taken.
If those feelings weren't penned maybe they would have never have came to fruition. Or perhaps he wrote those words because his feelings were true and they deserved a monument blind to circumstance and outcome...regardless of why he wrote them, he has to live with fact that those words exist.
The words "yellow sheets" and "pile of snow" linger on in his mind, kept alive in an untamed corner. They mark the ruins of a fading memory of a frozen pond and an empty campus on a cold December night.
Feelings attached to words may loose their vigor but I assure they are eternal. Listen to a favorite song or re-read a favorite line of a poem, feelings you once felt rush back, sometimes in weaker form, but still they remain, even if only as whisper, because they originated from the only place that really matters.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Revocate Animos
2 years later, he finally arrived at the wooden chest.
Outside of the cave, he found himself in; he could only see fog and pieces of the mountain that protruded through. The proximity of the wooden chest made the mountain seem so distant, but it was only a month ago he was on that mountain.
Memories of his trek came rushing back. He remembered the night he broke down and almost decided to turn around. That night all his fears caught up with him and turned every obstacle into a painful reminder of his frailties and flaws.
His desire for the treasure would have suffocated under the eroding burst of the Simoom, if it was not for the shelter that blind faith & self-reliance provided. The idea of reaching his treasure kept him going, despite the plea of his logic and common sense to go back. He had ignored advice and omens. He believed he had reached the wooden chest because fate and providence were his guiding compass.
Before he opened the chest he looked around the lonely cave, even though he knew he was the only one around for miles. No one would follow him this far. He was alone but he had his treasure.
He pushed the lid of the chest open and the cave was immersed in a radiant glow. He could not look away even though the light was blinding. He felt joy and vindication, the suffering and sacrifice was worth it, he had his treasure. He wondered if this moment, this feeling of contentment would remain with him for the remainder of his life.
He could see emeralds, diamonds, and seven bullion of gold. As he reached his hands to touch his treasure, the illustrious shine turned into a faint shimmer. The gold turned into dross and then sand. He stood helpless as the sand leaked through small breeches in the wooden chest. The diamonds and emeralds went through a sublimation process and vanished into air. The boy was alone in the dark cave with a pile of sand and a broken wooden chest.
As he fell to his knees in despair, he remembered an old proverb his mother used to sing to him--
“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal….For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also”
and so he knew now were his heart was; it was in a cave on the other side of world laying next to pile of a sand.
Still on his knees and angry at his fate, he remembered the Bedouin’s daughter who had told him that he should forget his treasure, because it would not give him any joy. She had seen many men wandering across the desert looking for treasure or just reprieve from pain. When she saw the boy, she knew that it was neither providence or fate that guided him rather selfish desire. She knew that the treasure had become an obsession for the boy and the moment he would touch it; it would be of no value to him.
He laid there in the cave next to the pile of sand. He was prepared to die there but outside of the cave life went on. Warm rain and fog surrounded the cave for two days. On the third day he felt the Simoom encompass the cave. He felt the hot wind blowing on his face but in his anger he did not shield himself. He welcomed it, he had lost everything; there was no treasure. He didn’t want reprieve; he was ready to face life as it came. The boy tried in his anger and pride to stand against the wind but was quickly over powered. He fell to his knees again. The wind was so strong that he had to cover his face.
The Simoom finally passed, the boy lifted his head and looked around the cave. He saw that the wooden chest was gone. The Simoom had blown the pile of sand revealing a message carved into the cave's stone floor:
Revocate animos
(recover your courage)
via ut vestri thesaurus est difficilis
(the way to your treasure is difficult)
tamen vestri thesaurus est dignitas praeter aurum
(but your treasure is more valuable than gold)
Friday, October 16, 2009
IMMORTAL WOUND
What do you do with an immortal wound?
Do you bandage it up with layers of new memories?
Or do you leave it uncovered, accepting it will never heal?
Just letting it bleed while time and life continue to march on.
Eventually growing accustomed to it, until it becomes the vast tumultuous ocean around small islands of joy. The arid desert surrounding the brief oases you stumble across. It becomes the origin of the your saddest thoughts. The catalyst for the melancholy you feel on mundane days. The germ that gives birth to the despondency you feel at random intervals. It is evidence that happiness is fleeting, sorrow reoccurring, and love not a guarantee. It serves to remind us that nothing is safe and anything possible.
Immortal wounds cannot heal.
They remain because they spring from a source of some truth, something slightly divine. They are reflections of heaven, of something true and eternal.
For Adam, Eden was his immortal wound, it was happiness taken away, never to be returned, despite sincere pleas and cries.
Regardless he went on, with sweat on his brow, tilling a land that was barren, living among thorns and thistles; all the while his previous home haunted him, his wound left uncovered.
We were meant to live here on earth with diluted experiences of paradise, memories serving as Cherubims with flaming swords, a painful reminder of what we lost ages ago.
In the end arid deserts only prove the existence of lush forests and tumultuous oceans only prove the existence of stable dry land.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Final Prayer
Knowing the inevitable outcome he fell on his knees to pray. The doctors told him that the cancer had spread and he had less than a month to live. He was tempted to pray for healing but he resisted. He mustered all the faith his soul could gather, he doubted if it was even the size of a mustard seed.
He sat there silent, as thoughts ran across his mind.
He dreamt of his daughter becoming a woman, then a wife, and finally a mother. He thought of the books she would read and the places she would see. He imagined her with children of her own, sharing with them her favorite poetry.
He dreamt of his son. He dreamt of how he would struggle to find purpose. How he would question and wrestle with his faith. He couldn't help but smile knowing that despite the boy's wanderings, he would always return to the place he started. To the prayers, songs, and Faith of his childhood.
And finally he thought of his wife. He thought about her sitting alone, as their children would have to one day leave the home they built together. He saw how she would sit and cry, how she would save a few of his shirts, refusing to give them away. How she would sit and watch old family videos.
It was this thought, the idea of leaving her, that brought him the most pain. They travelled half way across the world together and now he would have to leave her. It was at the thought of her alone he started to pray.
"I will lift up eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help," he continued broken and in tears, "I am in the valley of the shadow of death but it is still a place you possesseth. Lord let your will be done my life. I submit to it, but I pray for the ones I leave behind. I pray that my children find joy and peace. I pray that my death draws them closer to you and doesn't push them away. Let them cling tightly to you. Be their father now.
I pray for my wife, Lord I know she will hurt the most. I know that her pain will be worse than what I feel in my body. Lord draw close to her, let her find her strength in you. I know she will dwell among the ruins of the memories we built together. But Lord I pray that sorrow she feels will not weaken for her the joys of this life.
Let her take comfort in you in your providence, in your special care of the fatherless and widow. Let each tear she cries be a blessing for her and our children. Amen."
After this he couldn't pray any more he just wept. He got off his knees washed his face and headed back to the living room.
He sat there silent, as thoughts ran across his mind.
He dreamt of his daughter becoming a woman, then a wife, and finally a mother. He thought of the books she would read and the places she would see. He imagined her with children of her own, sharing with them her favorite poetry.
He dreamt of his son. He dreamt of how he would struggle to find purpose. How he would question and wrestle with his faith. He couldn't help but smile knowing that despite the boy's wanderings, he would always return to the place he started. To the prayers, songs, and Faith of his childhood.
And finally he thought of his wife. He thought about her sitting alone, as their children would have to one day leave the home they built together. He saw how she would sit and cry, how she would save a few of his shirts, refusing to give them away. How she would sit and watch old family videos.
It was this thought, the idea of leaving her, that brought him the most pain. They travelled half way across the world together and now he would have to leave her. It was at the thought of her alone he started to pray.
"I will lift up eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help," he continued broken and in tears, "I am in the valley of the shadow of death but it is still a place you possesseth. Lord let your will be done my life. I submit to it, but I pray for the ones I leave behind. I pray that my children find joy and peace. I pray that my death draws them closer to you and doesn't push them away. Let them cling tightly to you. Be their father now.
I pray for my wife, Lord I know she will hurt the most. I know that her pain will be worse than what I feel in my body. Lord draw close to her, let her find her strength in you. I know she will dwell among the ruins of the memories we built together. But Lord I pray that sorrow she feels will not weaken for her the joys of this life.
Let her take comfort in you in your providence, in your special care of the fatherless and widow. Let each tear she cries be a blessing for her and our children. Amen."
After this he couldn't pray any more he just wept. He got off his knees washed his face and headed back to the living room.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
"It's a cold and broken Hallelujah"
"Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah"
- Leonard Cohen
The morning after is always the hardest. The sunrise that usually brings optimism and new beginnings, now only acts to shed light on the previous nights mistakes.
In the heat of the moment, one can justify anything. Passion, Anger, Desperation, all these reasons that momentarily justified your actions all scatter at the break of dawn, and you are left with just the scars of your sin.
When the passions resides, when the anger ceases, and the desperation lifts, you realize all the other options. You realize the wrong turns you took and the exact spot of your fall. You are overwhelmed by your decision, and left wondering how far you have fallen, how far you have strayed from the narrow road you had planned to follow.
You are lost, until you cry to your Shepard. The Shepard never loses sight of you. He can’t lift you and return you home, until you cry for help. It is in the cry, that the secret of salvation lies. In the tears that run from your eyes, the moment you realize that you cannot make it right by yourself. It is in that moment, salvation comes.
Salvation “it’s a cold and broken Hallelujah”
Friday, June 12, 2009
KATHMANDU
Everything changed at Midnight on June 10th. I arrived back to the city that had been my home for the past year. The monuments, buildings, and streets that I had grown accustomed too remained unchanged, but something was inharmoniously different.
It was not a mystery, it all changed because she had left. We said our final goodbyes a few hours ago, as I boarded the train. She had left back to her native home to chase her dreams or to perhaps just find her place in the world.
We parted ways, but told each other we would remain friends. I was not fully convinced that our friendship would remain the same. Something about her leaving, maybe the distance, maybe the circumstances, maybe the timing, but something made me believe that it was the end of the relationship that I grew accustomed and comfortable with.
I met her about a year go, when I moved into DC. We lived a few metro stops away from each other. The fist time we met was outside of church, in Northeast DC. We sat together upstairs on wooden pews and listened to a message about The Beatitudes.
Afterwards we went for some coffee, and spoke about pretentious DC topics such as the economy & foreign relations; I was only half paying attention. I assure you she was probably not paying much attention either. Over the next several months, our conversations departed from these pretentious topics, and started to focus on real stuff, the stuff that are the building blocks of friendships.
She left, and I realize now I am in a bit of funk. Everything around me seems inharmoniously different. I think somewhere in all this there is a life lesson. But to tell you the truth, I can’t quite figure it out. Friendships are necessary. Friendships enrich lives; they have the ability to mold a personality. Maybe even the direction of a person's life. Real and brief friendship could be like a gust of wind that blows the sails of ones fate, to an unexpected course.
I am not sure how long this melancholy will last. I’m sure it won’t last forever; this seems to be the reoccurring theme in my life, “Nothing Last Forever.” Life is cycle a succession of seasons, a finite trail of valleys and mountains.
It was not a mystery, it all changed because she had left. We said our final goodbyes a few hours ago, as I boarded the train. She had left back to her native home to chase her dreams or to perhaps just find her place in the world.
We parted ways, but told each other we would remain friends. I was not fully convinced that our friendship would remain the same. Something about her leaving, maybe the distance, maybe the circumstances, maybe the timing, but something made me believe that it was the end of the relationship that I grew accustomed and comfortable with.
I met her about a year go, when I moved into DC. We lived a few metro stops away from each other. The fist time we met was outside of church, in Northeast DC. We sat together upstairs on wooden pews and listened to a message about The Beatitudes.
Afterwards we went for some coffee, and spoke about pretentious DC topics such as the economy & foreign relations; I was only half paying attention. I assure you she was probably not paying much attention either. Over the next several months, our conversations departed from these pretentious topics, and started to focus on real stuff, the stuff that are the building blocks of friendships.
She left, and I realize now I am in a bit of funk. Everything around me seems inharmoniously different. I think somewhere in all this there is a life lesson. But to tell you the truth, I can’t quite figure it out. Friendships are necessary. Friendships enrich lives; they have the ability to mold a personality. Maybe even the direction of a person's life. Real and brief friendship could be like a gust of wind that blows the sails of ones fate, to an unexpected course.
I am not sure how long this melancholy will last. I’m sure it won’t last forever; this seems to be the reoccurring theme in my life, “Nothing Last Forever.” Life is cycle a succession of seasons, a finite trail of valleys and mountains.
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