Impromptu

I found myself at a crossroads approximately 1.5 minutes ago when I had this urge to post this heart-tugging photo of my grandparents celebrating my grandpa's birthday.  Yet again, I questioned the dichotomy of publicly sharing and privately sharing.  I've noticed a pattern within myself; a willingness to share when the opportunity arises, but truly feeling dumb when I want to share a part of myself that has to do with family  on social media.  Is it that I think that Instagram followers, Facebook friends alike lack the ability to dissect what I put on social media, that I don't trust others with information, or that I'm shy?  I'd like to write off such sharing as unnecessary and that in many ways, I'm lucky because I'm willing to share on this blog.  It is true that only one other person knows of this blog's existence (as of know, hopefully) (soon to be changed when I overcome shyness).

So why in the world were today's photos so heartwrenching in the paradox of happiness and sadness?  Well, I called my grandpa in the afternoon to wish him a happy birthday and when I was talking to my grandma, she kept repeating that she loved me (사랑한다 수진아 보고싶다 수진아).  This is completely out of character, a bizarre act for my grandma.  She is one person who has the biggest, most generous heart, but has the world's hardest time verbalizing affection.  Even though she was scary when I was growing up because of the language barrier and because she would dig her nails into my hair when she bathed me and my cousin, I've come to understand her as a maternal and paternal figure when my dad passed away.  She and my grandpa were the ones to pick me up the day my mom was at the hospital, when I still knew nothing of his fate.  They held up strong and haven't wavered in their stability since.  They moved closer to us.  They paid for my private school education.  They taught me to eat well.  They never made me feel insecure about "immediate family" since they could fill up seats at my middle school graduation and high school graduation.  It's funny to think that I had it wrong this entire time.  After moving closer to us, because of their old age, my mom's responsibility to them has increased.  Even when eating dinner with them every weekend, I thought that we were the ones doing them a favor by keeping them company in the midst of their boring, repetitive retirement weeks.  But I was wrong, they kept me occupied enough to stop dwelling on the absence.  They filled me with presence and they teach me in their quirky ways that a long life is worth living.

I should know better than anyone that life is both fleeting and worthwhile.  I should know better than anyone to treat them with a hundred times the attention they ever gave me and I try, but I can never achieve compared to what they have dedicated to me.

In the end, it doesn't matter who knows through social media that I love and respect my grandparents through a "post," it matters that I show them through actions, words not captions, and showing face not idyllic pictures.

Thoughts These Days: Birthday Grinch and Favorite Words

The dalai-lama is a fellow self-proclaimed birthday grinch at 80 years wise.
I've secured my two favorite words: indelible and ineffable.

Pattern love: Connect the dots

The F word

What an eye-catcher: "The F word."
It's a word that is formal and familiar and sadly now distant for me: "father." I can never know how I'm going to feel about this particular hallmark holiday.  This year, I felt good; this is what, my ninth Father's Day without a father in attendance of this "holiday/appreciation day."  I've officially reached half of my entire existence coming to terms with this and I'm more equipped than ever.  I'm way less insecure than in elementary school when we took up class time to make arts and crafts.  Of course, I could give it to my grandpa, but it never was the same; I shunned the idea of looking for a substitute.  I only wish that we as a society could be mindful of the medley of family dynamics.  I didn't choose to not have a father at this time in my life and so why make it isolating.  At different times today on different platforms of social media, I've thought to myself "this makes me sad."  Frankly, Father's Day makes me feel isolated and I even drafted an Instagram post myself, but decided against it because how much of me is private and public seems to be a huge issue that I'm still sorting through.  This isn't a major breakthrough secret, but I am coming to think that sympathy doesn't come from a "like."  I'm not even looking for sympathy or empathy; I'm looking for expression and I'd rather do that here-- a place where I can explain myself fully.

My grandma, my mom, and I, we, all hate the idea of holidays and the byproduct of shallowness.  Every day should be full of appreciation, love, and reminders.

Here's to the post that never quite made it to Instagram

Even in dreams, I'm unable to talk to you.

These dreams are too real; they remain a projection of the reality that is our family's tragedy.

Yet still I am so grateful to call myself your little girl.

There is no other way to thank you for being the best man I will ever know.

Mommy and Daddy thank you for being the best parents-- for setting a precedent

of drunken funny faces and a splendid cd collection.

There are not enough days in my lifetime as your daughter to show my appreciation.

I'm also a brat so I'm inept at the whole showing thing.

Milan Part Two: Ciao Bella!

Milan will forever be my introduction to Italy.  Hopefully, there will be a lot of Italy that I get to see before any sort of conclusion.  I am honest with myself when I say it's not a perfect city; I was surprised by how local it really is because there aren't a plethora of touristy things to do.  But there are huge takeaways, there is tons of beauty in relatively low-key sights and I'm obsessed with Risotto alla Milanese.

To reiterate my Facebook caption of my current profile picture: (to clarify, the photo is of me adorably posing in front of Lago di Como in Bellagio, not the glorious goodness below)

I like risotto alla milanese

Yo, the Italian craze 

#bellagiobutnotlasvegas — at Lago di Como.

My love for risotto was reaffirmed and all white wine has earned its place as my true love.

*You can really see how much of a try hard I was with my outfits.  It is impossible to live up to an effortless European chic standard when you put in my kind of effort.

We like to call them Austin's "meme-ries," which are annoying yet endearing, exactly like him.

 

Milan Part One: Italians and their chic dogs

In a fashion-forward city like Milan, everything is fashionable (the most fashionable of them all being the dogs).

Spring Break 2015

Slip

slip 1 |slip|
• (slip away/by) (of time) elapse

A great part of me lives in fear of the "slip away."  As I've grown older, dreams of my dad are less frequent and while I've been told that dead people don't speak in dreams, this is the first dream where I think he may have spoken.  Or this could very well be me attaching words to him.  Already, I remember less of last night's dream than I did this morning, but I was at a dinner with my mom side's family and my dad was at the table.  My mom was glowing of happiness and my dad was his saintly self.  There was banter and there were laughs.  I remember feeling that I discovered a new side to him-the happiness I felt in that moment observing him across the dinner table is ineffable.  He then left early and I followed him out to the parking lot and he got into his forest green Ford Explorer.  It's been a long while since I've had a dream about him, but it felt nice to feel again a touch of familiarity.  These dreams of him have become memories with him.  Every date I perceive seems to be in relation to 2006 when I was a young girl 9 years old.  Now, I am 18, and I deal with coming to know that going half of my life without my dad quite plainly remains difficult.  There are far less memories than my nine year old self would've ever imagined.

Shortly after his death, in a rare moment that my mom and I shared about my dad with his death being so recent, we both had a dream about him.  With very similar themes, mine had a timer clock that was running down time with a countdown as my dad and I simultaneously or not searched for each other throughout the lower part of my elementary school.  It was either him looking for me before the time ran out or me looking for him.

Another dream--With a recurring theme of search, I sat a few rows behind my dad in a theatre and while the performance was going on, I meant to say things to him once I was given the chance, eager to see my long lost dad in my dream.  But by the time the performance ended, he had already disappeared.

In a landscape I had never seen before, there sat a picturesque cabin in the middle of a snowy mountain and I met my dad outside where again of course he eventually disappeared.

I do not know how I feel about an afterlife and I will never know the truth, faithful or not faithful.
I do know what these dreams mean to me and what they would mean to him-- the best man I will ever know.

 

This photo from the bbq that Father Keenan hosted today reminded me of Matisse's "Tea in the Garden," which in turn reminded me of my first exposure to Matisse ever (without ever thinking beyond what to me was a simple painting of goldfish).  This hung up in our bathroom first in 6th street's black tiled checkered bathroom and then in the bathroom we shared on Ingraham.

I strive to live in awe of detail because these make up memories, which I cherish now that my dad is gone and has been gone for half of my life.  This half will only continue to grow and my lack of detail will only grow-- may be linearly, may be exponentially.  There is no way of knowing and I have to be better at being okay with that.

Spurring into action

Fuel Cafe; May 25, 2015

Usually weekends pass swiftly; I can't remember a time in the past when I felt the darn weekend was way too long.  This time must be different because I am on a less busy campus during summer break after a far too busy freshman academic year.  I'm liking this pace; the pace at which I've consciously chosen to exercise (a first in my lifetime) and the pace at which I go.  This Memorial Day will be remembered because I want to keep in touch with myself aka keep up with this blog.  While living in a house of 19 BC P-scholars, I have struck the balance of socializing and keeping to myself.  I toss and turn in bed until the latest waking time possible just because I can.  Chores accompanied by a rocking playlist keeps me occupied and my thoughts about my placements keep me intrinsically motivated.  Cheers to this newly renovated dumpster where I shall empty all my musing, pondering, and meditation, reflection, deliberation, and such.