dear diary.

So I've been meaning to write in a diary for quite some time now... no, not a blog (like the one you're reading) that's filtered and packaged for the larger interweb community, but a real private diary that captures my uninhibited thoughts at any giving moment.

The problem with writing in a diary is that I get lazy and I only write in spurts when something exciting is going on (usually surrounding a boy) - which obviously is not a true reflection of my day-to-day life. Another issue is that I've always associated writing in a diary with actual writing by hand. As most my schoolwork and work-work have involved typing on a computer for the past decade or so, it's become harder for me to really sit there and write out anything substantial with pen & paper (I've become extremely reliant on the backspace button).  The most i can do is transcribe during lectures/meetings or sermons, but it's hard for me to jot down any original thoughts.

So, what made the most sense to me was to create a personal online blog... pretty much a blog like this, but with a privacy lock on it (that reminds me of the old-school sanrio diaries i had growing up that had a lock & key, but all the diaries they sold had the same locks & keys, which made them utterly useless). Of course, there were some reservations about doing it, since I couldn't fully trust that it's truly "private." For instance, even with facebook, you think you set something as private, and the next day facebook will change it's privacy settings on you (without warning, might I add), and all your stuff is out there for the world to see.

But after going on different browsers and different computers to see if I could have access to this top-secret blog, I realized it was safe.  So I decided to let my guard down and start writing.

To be honest, I still found it hard to write. I felt like my words still felt contrived, and the tone sounded a little too... not me.  I found myself omitting things and second-guessing everything I wrote. This is not what I wanted. I wanted something raw. Something that "bared my soul."

Thats when I realized this inability to be "naked" wasn't because of other people. It was ultimately because of me. Not only did I want to keep certain things from others, but I realized these things were also hard for me admit to myself as well. And writing them down (whether they be on written on paper or electronically) would mean that they were true and I couldn't swallow that. I didn't want the ugly thoughts swimming in my head to become hard, cold truth's that I would have to face again and again.  I'd rather not.

But I realized that I can no longer be in denial and that I'd have to candidly face these shortcomings, the disappointments, and my secret longings.

After all if i'm not true to myself, really what's the point?

debrief.

-this past week was a daily test of patience. it's hard to coordinate prep/makeup/hair/shower time with five girls and one bathroom...
-we never stuck to our itinerary, but strangely our days felt full.
-justin bieber rocked the house. and our hearts.
-never underestimate new york crooks!
-colbert is still my hero. we got in the freaking first row! he is all-around an adorable man.
-yugioh <3

now that i'm back, i'm even more discontent with life in the suburbs. sad sad sad.

am i ready to be come a new version of me?

lacking

So I took a camp24 class at the gym today. I thought I was going to faint maybe 3 times throughout the class. I don't know if I can keep going. It's a bit too intense for me. Plus my old high school math teacher is in there.

There was this stick skinny girl standing next to me, and I thought "dang, if I was that size, I would never go to the gym. And I would eat as horribly as I possibly could." Which was kind of my case in high school. In the sense that I had higher metabolism (didn't everyone?) and I ate Mcdonalds/Del Taco/Jack in the Box every other day in large quantities and never thought twice about my weight.

So I guess in a way, God slowing down my metabolism is a blessing in disguise. If I didn't have the potential to gain weight, I would never have really thought about my body, what goes in my body, and what comes out (sounds gross, I know).

And that made me think of other areas in my life that aren't quite up to par as I have hoped. Such as money. I'm not rich... probably wouldn't consider myself comfortable... more just getting by. But I wondered if I was filthy rich, what would I be doing? Somehow I wouldn't see myself as one of those people who donate all their money and help out in Africa. Having more money would probably corrupt me, and I would only care about buying pretty things that mean nothing.

Also, I think sometimes if I was beautiful, what would I be like? I think I would be the vainest person in the world. I feel like I'm already vain enough without being beautiful. haha. I would probably be one of those lazy, vapid women that would play my trophy wife status in order to attract guys. I wouldn't care to be clever or winsome or kind.

And then there is my faith. Sometimes, I would wish I was one of those people who grew up in the church, only knew the church, and that was it. I wish I was simple. That I would be able to accept the kingdom of God like a little child. But I can't. I think too much... I ask too many questions... I doubt. But maybe this is also a blessing in disguise. God is teaching me through wrestling with Him. And maybe through this all, it'll only make me stronger.

Psalms 13
¹ How long, O LORD ? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?

² How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and every day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?

³ Look on me and answer, O LORD my God.
Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death;

⁴ my enemy will say, "I have overcome him,"
and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

⁵ But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.

⁶ I will sing to the LORD,
for he has been good to me.

Levin

Before reading Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, I already knew about the tragic story of the heroine from popular culture or other literary works (i.e. The Unbearable Lightness of Being). However, what they fail to mention is the parallel, redemptive plotline of Konstantine Dmitrievitch Levin, the fellow protagonist. As I was getting frustrated at Anna's frivolity and pitiful nature towards the end of the novel, I was absorbed in Levin's story of personal growth and discovery of spiritual faith (I had no idea that Tolstoy was such an avid Christian). I found Levin's struggle with his faith so real and similar to my own.

And Levin, a happy father and husband, in perfect health, was several times so near suicide that he hid the cord that he might not be tempted to hang himself, and was afraid to go out with his gun for fear of shooting himself.

But Levin did not shoot himself, and did not hang himself; he went on living.

When Levin thought what he was and what he was living for, he could find no answer to the questions and was reduced to despair, but he left off questioning himself about it. It seemed as though he knew both what he was and for what he was living, for he acted and lived resolutely and without hesitation. Indeed, in these latter days he was far more decided and unhesitating in life that he had ever been.

Reasoning had brought him to doubt and prevented him from seeing what he ought to do and what he ought not. When he did not think, but simply lived, he was continually aware of the presence of an infallible judge in his soul, determining which of two possible courses of action was the better and which was the worse, and as soon as he did not act rightly, he was at once aware of it.

So he lived, not knowing and not seeing any chance of knowing what he was and what he was living for, and harassed at this lack of knowledge to such a point that he was afraid of suicide and yet firmly laying down his own individual definite path of life.

***

(But after Fyodor, a peasant, talked to him about "living for God," Levin comes to a realization).

"Not living for his own wants, but for God? For what God? And could one say anything more senseless than what he said? He said that one must not live for one' own wants, that is, that one must not live for what we understand, what we are attracted by, what we desire, but must live for something incomprehensible, for God, whom no one can understand nor even define. What of it? Didn't I understand those senseless words for Fyodor's? And understanding them, did I doubt of their truth? Did I think them stupid, obscure, inexact? No, I understood him, and exactly as he understands the words. I understood them more fully and clearly than I understand anything in life, and never in my life have I doubted nor can I doubt about it. And not only I, but every one, the whole world understands nothing fully but this, and about this only they have no doubt and are always agreed.

And I looked out for miracles, complained that I did not see a miracle which would convince me. A material miracle would have persuaded me. And here is a miracle, the sole miracle possible, continually existing, surrounding me on all sides, and I never noticed it!

I looked for answer to my question. And thought could not give an answer to my question- it is incommensurable with my question. The answer has been given me by life itself, in my knowledge of what is right and what is wrong. And that knowledge I did not arrive at in any way, it was give to me as to all men, given, because I could not have got it from anywhere.

Where could I have got it? By reason could I have arrived at knowing that I must love my neighbor and not oppress him? I was told that in my childhood, and I believed it gladly, for they told me what was already in my soul. But who discovered it? Not reason. Reason discovered the struggle for existence, and the law that requires us to oppress all who hinder the satisfaction of our desires. That is the deduction of reason. But loving one's neighbor reason could never discover, because it's irrational.

Well, but the Jews, the Mohammedans, the Confucians, the Buddhists- what of them? Can these hundreds of millions of men be deprived of that highest blessing without which life has no meaning? But what am I questioning? I am questioning the relation to Divinity of all the different religions of all mankind. I am questioning the universal manifestation of God to all the world with all those misty blurs. What am I about? To me individually, to my heart has been revealed a knowledge beyond all doubt, and unattainable by reason, and here am I obstinately trying to express that knowledge in reason and words... the question of other religions and their relations to Divinity I have to right to decide, and no possibility of deciding."

I had decided I will name my firstborn son Levin.

happy chuseok

Some people just like talking for the sake of talking or because they like to hear the sound of their own voice.

My theory is that:
1. they are extremely needy for attention.
2. they are uncomfortable with silence.
3. they need some type of validation.

I find people like this pretty annoying (instead of talking, I write/blog... which I guess doesn't make me any better).

Anyway, the other day, I was taking a stroll at our local park. I love going to the park in the mornings- the cool weather, the dog-walking, this sense of "community". I noticed that I go often enough to identify "the regulars." The old German couple, the bearded Japanese man with the lab, the younger gentleman who jogs and always asks what lap I'm on (so competitive~). So the other day, the old German grandpa starts walking next to me and starts chatting me up. He tells me about his old home in Germany, the war, his son, his exercise regiment, etc. I barely shared anything about myself as I just politely nodded and asked the obligatory question here and there. I think I have this intuitive "journalist" mindset where I've grown accustomed to these one-sided convos and knowing which probing questions will allow the "interviewee" to disclose more information. Usually I can feign interest in the other person through good eye contact and frequent "mm-hmm"ing, but this German guy was actually pretty interesting. Then, I came to realize that I enjoy the company of old people and hearing their stories (much more than people in my own age range), possibly just because they lived fuller (usu. hard-knock) lives, thus having cooler stories.

I should probably listen to my grandma more; She's a needy, sometimes demanding lady, but I don't blame her (plus she's quite delightful and lovable most of the time). Not only my grandma- but all of our grandparents- need some good lovin'. I don't mean to preach, but our generation of spoiled brats need to realize how good we have it compared to our forefathers. I was watching the Korean news yesterday, and I caught the segment of the Korean families that were separated during the Korean War. For Chuseok (a Korean traditional holiday), these families will finally be reunited for a day; there were clips of families embracing each other and just bawling on the floor together. They weren't really saying anything, but just wailing each other names over and over again... "Jinwoo-yah!!!" "Mi-sook-ahh!" Ironically, I guess there isn't much to say after being separated for decades... All you can do is hug and cry. According to my mom, not all the families were so fortunate, and these reunited families were picked through an exclusive lottery system. One South Korean man who wasn't chosen, was so disappointed that he committed suicide. This made me die a little inside.

the end matter

I think it must be my own personal "bomb scare" on the 60 fwy or the rapture dream I had recently, but I've been thinking more and more about the "end times" lately. We often get so sucked into the daily routines of our humdrum lives that we almost fool ourselves into thinking that we'll be going on like this forever (and sometimes it really does feel that way). But then we snap out of these delusions when we hear about some fatal freak accident or the death of some celebrity- a wake-up call of how fragile and ephemeral a human life truly is.

I remember when we were learning how to evangelize in the Philippines & Thailand, they told us that a good icebreaker is to ask people if they died right this minute, where they think they'd end up. At the time, I thought the tactic was too straightforward, even a bit harsh way to preach the gospel, but it was effective. It makes one really evaluate where they stand in terms of faith & assurance. I wonder if I asked the same question to weekly church-goers, how they would respond? I'm sure most people were never confronted with such a question.

During missions, Pastor Howard went through the study of the book of Revelation with us. In retrospect, I wish I wasn't half-asleep every morning/night so I might have learned something (I should fish out my notes though I'm sure they're just strewn with oodles of doodles).

When I was younger, I was so scared of the final book and refused to read it... those monsters with the multiples heads and such would give me nightmares. But now I really want to study it; it's really interesting how many different schools of interpretations there are on this book (e.g. Historicism, Futurism, Preterism, Idealism). I just got my ESV study bible in the mail last week, and I love the little introductions and footnotes for further explanations & historical context (My only complaint is that the thing is as big & heavy as a dictionary). It's the next best thing to having my own pocket-sized theologian professor.

on a lighter note: can you believe google is 11 years old? I thought there was a typo or my eyes were playing tricks on me when I saw this:

trippy.

health

At this young, ripe age, I couldn't help but to think that my body is invincible. My concept of "illness" would fall within the confines of the common cold or the upset stomach that could easily be cured with a magical pill of Advil or Pepto.

But after this weekend, I realized that anyone (regardless of age, gender, or physical upkeep) can fall into the doomed hands of disease. Just one arbitrary day, your body (which you considered as "your own") can turn into a merciless enemy, something separate and counteractive to your being.

There is so much to be prayed for.

Billy Collins knows how to capture my thoughts so perfectly.

On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel

like I'm coming down with something,

something worse than any stomach ache

or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--

a kind of measles of the spirit,

a mumps of the psyche,

a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.



You tell me it is too early to be looking back,

but that is because you have forgotten

the perfect simplicity of being one

and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.

But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.

At four I was an Arabian wizard.

I could make myself invisible

by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.

At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.



But now I am mostly at the window

watching the late afternoon light.

Back then it never fell so solemnly

against the side of my tree house,

and my bicycle never leaned against the garage

as it does today,

all the dark blue speed drained out of it.



This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,

as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.

It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,

time to turn the first big number.



It seems only yesterday I used to believe

there was nothing under my skin but light.

If you cut me I could shine.

But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,

I skin my knees. I bleed.



     -- Billy Collins

got me thinking.

I was sharing with life group yesterday and I mentioned how I hate confrontation, and one of the girls asked me, "are you nice?" I found this an odd follow-up question.
But she explained that most people she knew who disliked confrontation were usually nice people.

I found this particularly odd, because I never really associated the two together. The reason I dislike confrontation, I explained, is because I tend to be a people-pleaser. But with something like people-pleasing, you have to look at the motive behind it rather than the act itself. My type of people-pleasing derives from a discomfort (on my part) of having to deal with people angry/upset with me. So it's not for the sake of others that I want to please them, but for myself. I would think that people who are truly "nice" or kind-hearted would do things for others' comfort, not for their own. So, no... I wouldn't really say that I'm a "nice" person.

Revisiting

If I had to pick one thing I dislike about the Los Angeles area, it would be its bustling driving culture. I personally enjoy walking and taking public transportation as I did all throughout Korea and when I visited the east coast. Even in the west LA area, I always find some petty excuse to walk everyday- oh I need to drop off that library book or I should buy some cereal from the market. I imagine when I grow old, I’ll be one of those visor-wearing grandmas who always takes evening strolls with her old grandpa husband.

Being the restless and jittery person that I am, I decided to take a walk around my good ol’ neighborhood in Hacienda this past weekend. I have to say it’s been a while. I was in the mood to be swept away by a wave of nostalgia, ready to scrounge up fading images of childhood days and to feel a general air of wistfulness.

But something about it all was a bit haunting.

All the houses seemed to peer out at me with their solid expressions- their boxy window eyes and their scaled garage teeth. Some, I noticed, got makeovers with paint jobs or freshly manicured lawns. These renovations were slightly jarring. I wanted things exactly how I left it, and those houses were just “trying too hard.” I passed by my old schoolfriend’s house except she doesn’t live there anymore. Some new family with three little kids roaming around in the grass. They didn’t know that I, this strange passerbyer, was in their domain once, knew the contours of their home, used their toilet. The all-too-knowledgeable ex-girlfriend.

Then, I passed by that one house… “my paradise dream home.” You know how there’s one in every block- the house that sticks out like a sore thumb. The one that’s been remodeled and looks too pretty and polished to be with the rest of its rundown neighbors. Just its overwhelming presence seems to taunt the others. In all it’s out-of-place glory, I remember wanting to live there. I wanted more than anything to knock on that front door with the “welcome friends” wreath and yell “I’m home!” But looking at it now, the pink paint was blaringly tacky and even the wreath seemed tongue-in-cheek. Oh, how fickle one’s heart can be.

Then, there was that one house with that scary german shepherd that could always be found growling behind its barred gate. “Beware of Dog” the words shot out as if the dog itself wasn’t a warning sign. My steps would increasingly quicken as I would pass by, secretly praying to God that the dog wouldn’t jump over the gate and demolish me. Just as a pre-caution, I would always scan the street for some straggling neighbors or opened doors- places I could run to for protection. But this time, as I passed, there was no angry dog- no sign even. And it made me wonder if the family moved away or if the monster died. For some reason, the thought of its death made me unexpectedly sad. The house seemed desolate without the echoes if its consistent bark.

All the houses, the empty street (the places that captured the golden years of my childhood) seemed suddenly larger-than-life… presenting new wisdoms that were unsettling rather than reassuring. My assuming arrogance shaken by the harsh reality that I couldn’t hold this place “this Old Forest Road” in a permanent snow globe immune from change or tarnish.

Next stop- Wilson High.