Dear Mr. David J. Studley,
You don't know me, but I'm the girl who was using the Bank of America ATM machine next to yours today around 5:45pm and singing Hide and Seek- Imogen Heap to herself under her breath. Sorry about that...it was playing on the radio in my car.
Anyway, you left your debit card in the ATM! I waited around for a while, but you never came back, and I didn't know what else to do. So, I wedged the card underneath the door of the bank, since it was closed. Hopefully one of the employees will see it on the floor Monday morning, find your contact information, and return your card safely to you. Meanwhile, I hope you're not too worried, and your wife/family/friends aren't giving you too hard of a time...everyone makes mistakes! At least I can definitely sympathize...although, you must have had a lot on your mind if you didn't hear the ATM machine beeping loudly and continuously when you neglected to retrieve your card at the end of your transaction.
Please be more careful next time!
Best,
Jennifer
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Cans and Can'ts
A has convinced me to start making lists on our blogs.
6 Things I Can't Do
1) I can't whistle. (Excuse: It's not for lack of trying...I've had so many whistling lessons that resulted in my poor exasperated instructors finally giving up, after I continuously blew gusts of silent wind into their faces for an hour.)
2) I can't twist my tongue into cool shapes. (Excuse: I think it's genetic.)
3) I can't sit still. (Excuse: I really have no excuse for this one...short attention span, I guess. There are just too many interesting things to look at to stay still!)
4) I can't watch "Dumbo" without crying. (Excuse: That part when Dumbo and his mom link trunks through the bars of his cage...it's just too sad. I cry every time, without fail.)
5) I can't tell directions; in other words, I'm a terrible driver. (Excuse: I always read in the car when my mom drove me places. I also have a hard time telling right from left...I have to make an L with my hands sometimes.)
6) I can't say good bye to people I love. (No excuse. I just have the hardest time doing it...it's my biggest weakness.)
6 Things I Can Do
1) I can roll my R's. (How: I don't think it's genetic...maybe my mom taught me when I was really little.)
2) I can say "I love you" in 10 different languages. (How: I learned from people.)
3) I can recite the 50 states alphabetically in one breath. (How: In Challenger elementary school, we sang the Fifty Nifty song every day, and I eventually memorized it and found out one day that I could sing it super fast in one breath. I thought everyone could do it, and I didn't realize this was a rare/special skill until I mentioned it on "From The Top," and they made me do it on national TV a million times.)
4) I can type 148 WPM. (How: I played Text Twist a lot.)
5) I can tell you what pitch almost any sound is; in other words, I have perfect pitch. (How: Learning music at a young age? I feel like perfect pitch is acquired, not inborn, even if it's acquired before you're old enough to realize it.)
6) I can make really nice homemade cards. (How: Well, anyone can do it...it just takes time. I don't think I've given someone a store-bought card in the last...5 or 6 years? Unless it's Christmas, and my mom is handing me a pile of Hallmark cards to address to 20 different relatives.)
6 Things I Can't Do
1) I can't whistle. (Excuse: It's not for lack of trying...I've had so many whistling lessons that resulted in my poor exasperated instructors finally giving up, after I continuously blew gusts of silent wind into their faces for an hour.)
2) I can't twist my tongue into cool shapes. (Excuse: I think it's genetic.)
3) I can't sit still. (Excuse: I really have no excuse for this one...short attention span, I guess. There are just too many interesting things to look at to stay still!)
4) I can't watch "Dumbo" without crying. (Excuse: That part when Dumbo and his mom link trunks through the bars of his cage...it's just too sad. I cry every time, without fail.)
5) I can't tell directions; in other words, I'm a terrible driver. (Excuse: I always read in the car when my mom drove me places. I also have a hard time telling right from left...I have to make an L with my hands sometimes.)
6) I can't say good bye to people I love. (No excuse. I just have the hardest time doing it...it's my biggest weakness.)
6 Things I Can Do
1) I can roll my R's. (How: I don't think it's genetic...maybe my mom taught me when I was really little.)
2) I can say "I love you" in 10 different languages. (How: I learned from people.)
3) I can recite the 50 states alphabetically in one breath. (How: In Challenger elementary school, we sang the Fifty Nifty song every day, and I eventually memorized it and found out one day that I could sing it super fast in one breath. I thought everyone could do it, and I didn't realize this was a rare/special skill until I mentioned it on "From The Top," and they made me do it on national TV a million times.)
4) I can type 148 WPM. (How: I played Text Twist a lot.)
5) I can tell you what pitch almost any sound is; in other words, I have perfect pitch. (How: Learning music at a young age? I feel like perfect pitch is acquired, not inborn, even if it's acquired before you're old enough to realize it.)
6) I can make really nice homemade cards. (How: Well, anyone can do it...it just takes time. I don't think I've given someone a store-bought card in the last...5 or 6 years? Unless it's Christmas, and my mom is handing me a pile of Hallmark cards to address to 20 different relatives.)
Lady Chatterley's Lover
Favorite Quotes:
Perhaps the human soul needs excursions, and must not be denied them. But the point of an excursion is that you come home again.
Logic might be unanswerable because it was so absolutely wrong.
Then one afternoon came Leslie Winter, Squire Winter, as everybody called him: lean, immaculate, and seventy: and every inch a gentleman. Every millimeter, indeed! And with his old-fashioned, rather haw-haw! manner of speaking, he seemed more out-of-date than bag-wigs. Time, in her flight, drops these fine old feathers.
His hand passed over the curves of her body, firmly, without desire, but with soft, intimate knowledge. As she ran back home in the twilight the world seemed a dream; the trees in the park seemed bulging and surging at anchor on a tide, and the heave of the slope to the house was alive.
"Once you've been really fond of a man, you can be affectionate to almost any man, if he needs you at all. But it's not the same thing. You don't really care. I doubt, once you've really cared, if you can ever really care again."
Perhaps the human soul needs excursions, and must not be denied them. But the point of an excursion is that you come home again.
Logic might be unanswerable because it was so absolutely wrong.
Then one afternoon came Leslie Winter, Squire Winter, as everybody called him: lean, immaculate, and seventy: and every inch a gentleman. Every millimeter, indeed! And with his old-fashioned, rather haw-haw! manner of speaking, he seemed more out-of-date than bag-wigs. Time, in her flight, drops these fine old feathers.
His hand passed over the curves of her body, firmly, without desire, but with soft, intimate knowledge. As she ran back home in the twilight the world seemed a dream; the trees in the park seemed bulging and surging at anchor on a tide, and the heave of the slope to the house was alive.
"Once you've been really fond of a man, you can be affectionate to almost any man, if he needs you at all. But it's not the same thing. You don't really care. I doubt, once you've really cared, if you can ever really care again."
Sunday, August 22, 2010
the Magic of Live Music
On the phone with M on her first day of college:
"There's a pianist here who had her Carnegie Hall debut when she was eight! I mean, geez! When I was eight, I was just sitting around, picking my nose!"
HAHAHAH.
I went to John Mayer's concert at Shoreline a few nights ago. In my humble opinion, I think a main difference between classical music and popular music these days is, experiencing a live performance for classical music (like going to a concert) is usually better than experiencing a recorded performance (listening to a CD or the radio). Whereas, in popular music, the artists sound better on recordings than in real life. In general. Owl City opened for John Mayer, and it was pretty disappointing...I usually like their songs, although they all sort of sound the same. But seeing them live was such a boring experience. I couldn't appreciate the lyrics (their strong point, for me), because it was so loud that the words were indistinguishable. They didn't have much of a presence, and the quality of music-making was kind of non-existent, since apparently most of it was pre-recorded (LAME).
Then, John Mayer bounded on stage, and my heart sighed a million sighs of relief. Real music at last. He is one of the few artists of the day I believe is infinitely better live than recorded. The spontaneous and incredible guitar solos, the sweat flying off his face, the IMPROV...there was one part when the saxophonist in his band (Bob Reynolds) was improvising a lead-in to their next song. It was the most tender and intimate sound, the notes fluttering out of his instrument soft and light and sensuous, like white butterflies or little neck kisses, one after another. Beautiful. After a while, John Mayer walked over and started improvising with him, each of them intertwining his own thread of notes with the other's, as it blossomed into this organic, round climax...until the recognizable tunes of the next song finally spilled out, like a heaving sigh of satisfaction.
His band is amazing, too. Especially the saxophonist. Pheww...be still, my heart!
"There's a pianist here who had her Carnegie Hall debut when she was eight! I mean, geez! When I was eight, I was just sitting around, picking my nose!"
HAHAHAH.
I went to John Mayer's concert at Shoreline a few nights ago. In my humble opinion, I think a main difference between classical music and popular music these days is, experiencing a live performance for classical music (like going to a concert) is usually better than experiencing a recorded performance (listening to a CD or the radio). Whereas, in popular music, the artists sound better on recordings than in real life. In general. Owl City opened for John Mayer, and it was pretty disappointing...I usually like their songs, although they all sort of sound the same. But seeing them live was such a boring experience. I couldn't appreciate the lyrics (their strong point, for me), because it was so loud that the words were indistinguishable. They didn't have much of a presence, and the quality of music-making was kind of non-existent, since apparently most of it was pre-recorded (LAME).
Then, John Mayer bounded on stage, and my heart sighed a million sighs of relief. Real music at last. He is one of the few artists of the day I believe is infinitely better live than recorded. The spontaneous and incredible guitar solos, the sweat flying off his face, the IMPROV...there was one part when the saxophonist in his band (Bob Reynolds) was improvising a lead-in to their next song. It was the most tender and intimate sound, the notes fluttering out of his instrument soft and light and sensuous, like white butterflies or little neck kisses, one after another. Beautiful. After a while, John Mayer walked over and started improvising with him, each of them intertwining his own thread of notes with the other's, as it blossomed into this organic, round climax...until the recognizable tunes of the next song finally spilled out, like a heaving sigh of satisfaction.
His band is amazing, too. Especially the saxophonist. Pheww...be still, my heart!
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Jude the Obscure
Favorite Quotes:
It was curious, he thought. What was he reserved for? He supposed he was not a sufficiently dignified person for suicide. Peaceful death abhorred him as a subject, and would not take him. What could he do of a lower kind than self-extermination; what was there less noble, more in keeping with his present degraded position? He could get drunk. Of course that was it; he had forgotten. Drinking was the regular stereotyped resource of the despairing worthless. He began to see now why some men boozed at inns.
Haha, ouch.
"The Gospel of Nicodemus is very nice," she went on, to keep him from his jealous thoughts, which she read clearly, as she always did. Indeed when they talked on an indifferent subject, as now, there was ever a second silent conversation passing between their emotions, so perfect was the reciprocity between them.
"I know that women are taught by other women that they must never admit the full truth to a man. But the highest form of affection is based on full sincerity on both sides. Not being men, these women don't know that in looking back on those he has had tender relations with, a man's heart returns closest to her who was the soul of truth in her conduct."
"It is a difficult question, my friends, for any young man--that question I had to grapple with, and which thousands are weighing at the present moment in these uprising times--whether to follow uncritically the track he finds himself in, without considering his aptness for it, or to consider what his aptness or bent may be, and re-shape his course accordingly. I tried to do the latter, and I failed. But I don't admit that my failure proved my view to be a wrong one, or that my success would have made it a right one; though that's how we appraise such attempts nowadays--I mean, not by their essential soundness, but by their accidental outcomes...it was my poverty and not my will that consented to be beaten."
"Your generous devotion to me is unparalleled, Jude! Your worldly failure, if you have failed, is to your credit rather than to your blame. Remember that the best and greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly good. Every successful man is more or less a selfish man. The devoted fail...'Charity seeketh not her own.'"
It was curious, he thought. What was he reserved for? He supposed he was not a sufficiently dignified person for suicide. Peaceful death abhorred him as a subject, and would not take him. What could he do of a lower kind than self-extermination; what was there less noble, more in keeping with his present degraded position? He could get drunk. Of course that was it; he had forgotten. Drinking was the regular stereotyped resource of the despairing worthless. He began to see now why some men boozed at inns.
Haha, ouch.
"The Gospel of Nicodemus is very nice," she went on, to keep him from his jealous thoughts, which she read clearly, as she always did. Indeed when they talked on an indifferent subject, as now, there was ever a second silent conversation passing between their emotions, so perfect was the reciprocity between them.
"I know that women are taught by other women that they must never admit the full truth to a man. But the highest form of affection is based on full sincerity on both sides. Not being men, these women don't know that in looking back on those he has had tender relations with, a man's heart returns closest to her who was the soul of truth in her conduct."
"It is a difficult question, my friends, for any young man--that question I had to grapple with, and which thousands are weighing at the present moment in these uprising times--whether to follow uncritically the track he finds himself in, without considering his aptness for it, or to consider what his aptness or bent may be, and re-shape his course accordingly. I tried to do the latter, and I failed. But I don't admit that my failure proved my view to be a wrong one, or that my success would have made it a right one; though that's how we appraise such attempts nowadays--I mean, not by their essential soundness, but by their accidental outcomes...it was my poverty and not my will that consented to be beaten."
"Your generous devotion to me is unparalleled, Jude! Your worldly failure, if you have failed, is to your credit rather than to your blame. Remember that the best and greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly good. Every successful man is more or less a selfish man. The devoted fail...'Charity seeketh not her own.'"
Happy Activities, for the simple and innocent :)
Saratoga isn't the most exciting place in the world, especially fresh from your first years of college. But here are some simple little things I've been doing at home that put a smile on my face:
1) Taking Walks
Not only are there beautiful views, but I've concluded that taking a walk is the best quality time you can spend with a friend. Think about it, if you eat a meal together, you're distracted by the food. If you're shopping, you're distracted by the stores. If you drink together, you're distracted by the alcohol. And how are you even supposed to have a decent conversation at a movie or concert? Walks are perfect...you exercise, you bond, you talk, you look around and make observations if there's nothing to talk about.2) Go to IKEA!
As M said, it's like going to Disneyland! There's organized parking, a guided tour map, a day care, shows, a lot of walking, and the food there is way better. Plus you can lie on all the foam mattress beds.
3) Practice cooking steak.
Well, I actually just ate the steak, but it seems like fun to make it! It'll also kill a lot of time.
4) Go to the Book-Go-Round.
The most amazing discovery I've made in Saratoga...this place is a 3-minute walk from my house, and all the books/CD's/DVD's are under $5. I bought the Sound of Music video tapes for 75 cents! It's cozy, the workers are friendly, and it smells like books. You don't have to keep uncomfortably quiet like at the library, and you can donate old books you have at home that sit around collecting dust.
5) Go to a drive-in movie theater.
Yes, these still exist! You pay a few dollars, park your car, turn to the correct radio station, and watch a movie from the comfort of your vehicle (wait, there's only one "C" in "vehicle"??). You can eat whatever you want, talk as much as you want, fall asleep and snore if you want.
6) Find a secluded corner of a road with a great view and decently comfortable ground, and go stargazing.
Yesterday night and today early morning was spent watching the Perseid meteor shower. I had no idea what I was looking at, but I saw at least 8 shooting stars, and when they got scarce, there were the beautiful city lights to admire. Also, we spotted at least 8 deer on the way there! 
They weren't scared of the car headlights at all, but they didn't like the flash from our cameras.
1) Taking Walks
Not only are there beautiful views, but I've concluded that taking a walk is the best quality time you can spend with a friend. Think about it, if you eat a meal together, you're distracted by the food. If you're shopping, you're distracted by the stores. If you drink together, you're distracted by the alcohol. And how are you even supposed to have a decent conversation at a movie or concert? Walks are perfect...you exercise, you bond, you talk, you look around and make observations if there's nothing to talk about. As M said, it's like going to Disneyland! There's organized parking, a guided tour map, a day care, shows, a lot of walking, and the food there is way better. Plus you can lie on all the foam mattress beds.3) Practice cooking steak.
Well, I actually just ate the steak, but it seems like fun to make it! It'll also kill a lot of time.4) Go to the Book-Go-Round.
The most amazing discovery I've made in Saratoga...this place is a 3-minute walk from my house, and all the books/CD's/DVD's are under $5. I bought the Sound of Music video tapes for 75 cents! It's cozy, the workers are friendly, and it smells like books. You don't have to keep uncomfortably quiet like at the library, and you can donate old books you have at home that sit around collecting dust.5) Go to a drive-in movie theater.
Yes, these still exist! You pay a few dollars, park your car, turn to the correct radio station, and watch a movie from the comfort of your vehicle (wait, there's only one "C" in "vehicle"??). You can eat whatever you want, talk as much as you want, fall asleep and snore if you want.6) Find a secluded corner of a road with a great view and decently comfortable ground, and go stargazing.
Yesterday night and today early morning was spent watching the Perseid meteor shower. I had no idea what I was looking at, but I saw at least 8 shooting stars, and when they got scarce, there were the beautiful city lights to admire. Also, we spotted at least 8 deer on the way there!
They weren't scared of the car headlights at all, but they didn't like the flash from our cameras.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Love
If you've known me for a while, you will know that I am my grandpa's girl. It's been this way as long as I can remember; probably since I was born, he's adored me and I adore him. Every Friday night at 11pm without fail, I call him and we talk, usually only for 5 to 10 minutes, because he's afraid of taking too much of my time. Our Friday night talks have been a tradition, also for as long as I can remember. At home, my dad is the one who makes the calls, and then he hands the phone to me when it's my "turn." When I went to college, those 15 digits that make up his phone number became ingrained in my memory as I punched them into my cell every week. We talk about the same things each time: we ask if the other is happy, whether the other is exercising (sometimes I have to lie), and he tells me to be careful and never accept food from strangers or make bad friends etc.
My grandpa has three things that he loves to talk about. First of all, he loves recalling the times he spent with me when I was a little girl and all the games we played together...how I made him watch Barney over and over, how I would "drive" him to San Francisco in my toy car and make him buckle his seatbelt, and most specifically this one time when he fell asleep and I crawled upstairs and put on a pair of giant sunglasses. He laughs so hard every single time he tells that story. The second thing is this story from when he was living in Japan as a teenager, and some girl asked him out on a date, but he declined. He said that she was very sad, and to this day, he feels so guilty for rejecting her and would like to apologize to her. Never mind that she's probably either been married for a bunch of years or might not still be alive...it bothers him, even to this very day! That's how detailed my grandpa's memory is, and how much he considers other people's feelings. Finally, he loves to call me Diamond Jennifer, and he loves to explain why. He says that I am like a diamond--an ordinary rock on the outside, and the more you rub it and uncover it, the more precious it becomes and the more it shines, and you realize how rare it is. He's possibly the only person who thinks this, but it's the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me. He tells me this EVERY time we talk.
I hope that every person has someone out there who means the world to him/her, and vice versa. I am so blessed to be able to say quite confidently that I mean the world to my grandpa, and he means the world to me. Our lives are so different and moving in opposite directions. I feel like I'm reaching the end of my beginning, while he is reaching the beginning of his end...my life constantly becomes more complicated, while his becomes more uncluttered.
Love comes in many different shapes and sizes...the love between my grandpa and me is the simplest kind that I can think of. We aren't even very close in that there are many things about me that he doesn't know, and I am sure there are many things about him that I don't know. To be honest, I don't even understand 40% of the stuff he says to me. Chinese is neither of our best language, and we both have a pretty bad accent (his Japanese, mine English). We rarely see each other, and when we do, we are even more rarely alone, just the two of us. Usually we're surrounded by a vast chattering crowd of family (most of the chattering coming from my mom, of course) and a large amount of food. But no matter what, we somehow always gravitate toward each other, like two peas in a pod. I have so much admiration for and faith in my grandpa...I think we both pray for each other, in the same principle but for different goals. He prays for my success in the future, and I pray for his success in preserving the present. He is one of the healthiest people I know, never having gone to the doctor ever since he was a child, because he simply takes care of his body so well. When we hike, he's the first up the mountain with a spring in each step. I love the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, and the way his hands are constantly making circular gestures when he talks. I love how he tells jokes that don't really make much sense and then laughs super hard afterwards, and I love how every once in a while he randomly turns to look at me, pats me on the shoulder, and goes "Oh! Jennifer! You are the best!" (in Chinese). If I could have one wish, it's that he'll be here when I get married. (Well, I suppose the wish that should come before that is that I will get married.) I don't know if there is anything in the world that could make me happier.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Having Siblings
There are pros and cons to every kind of family, but I think, somehow it is so essential and ideal to have siblings. Rivalry, disagreements, noogies and wedgies, jealousy...they all exist. But today, I watched my mother and her sister hold each other as my grandmother's body was put into an incinerator and cremated; and now, as the two of them sit side by side, writing and editing their last memoirs of their mother...I realize this significant importance of having a sibling figure in one's life.
Even if two siblings are not close, they must be there for each other during family suffering. When a death in the family occurs, a hole is created, like a missing piece in a puzzle. All your loved ones (spouse, children, relatives, best friends) are like other pieces that try to fill this hole...they want to fill it of course, because they love you. But today when my grandmother's body was placed into the incinerator, I saw my dad reach out an arm to support my mom, I felt both me and my sister start forward to help her, I sensed our whole family's energy center around the two women in the middle of the group, the ones that felt the most pain. And in the midst of all this love coming from all directions, the two sisters turned not to us, but to each other. I think that if there is any possibility of finding your missing piece after a death, you would find it in your sister or brother.
In the meantime, I know I planned to write in here at least every few days, but I've been busy and lazy--a bad combination. I will update on life in Japan, a short hiatus in Taiwan, and more life in Japan as soon as possible.
Even if two siblings are not close, they must be there for each other during family suffering. When a death in the family occurs, a hole is created, like a missing piece in a puzzle. All your loved ones (spouse, children, relatives, best friends) are like other pieces that try to fill this hole...they want to fill it of course, because they love you. But today when my grandmother's body was placed into the incinerator, I saw my dad reach out an arm to support my mom, I felt both me and my sister start forward to help her, I sensed our whole family's energy center around the two women in the middle of the group, the ones that felt the most pain. And in the midst of all this love coming from all directions, the two sisters turned not to us, but to each other. I think that if there is any possibility of finding your missing piece after a death, you would find it in your sister or brother.
In the meantime, I know I planned to write in here at least every few days, but I've been busy and lazy--a bad combination. I will update on life in Japan, a short hiatus in Taiwan, and more life in Japan as soon as possible.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Grandma Memoirs
My earliest memory related to Grandma is looking through her collection of cosmetics. She had rows of lipstick and eye shadow in every color of the rainbow. As a little girl, probably four or five years old, I admired my grandma and thought she was very cool and sophisticated for having so much makeup.
Grandma was really beautiful. Back when we were kids, she loved painting our nails, she had tons of fancy clothes that my cousin and I loved to try on, and she always wanted to look her best when she went out. I remember her caring especially about which shoes she would wear.
In 1996, my mom, Grandma, and I travelled to Europe. I think we were in France, crossing the street, when a bicycle collided with Grandma. Mom was really upset and yelled at the bicyclist, threatening to report the incident to the police. Grandma was very calm and didn't seem bothered at all. She kept telling my mom to cool down, and eventually we left and went back to the hotel.
From a journal entry I wrote in 2001 during a family trip to Japan: "The next day, I banged my foot on a door, and it bled and hurt when I walked. So I stayed home with my grandma while everyone else went to a museum. I spent the whole day watching TV, painting my nails with my grandma's pink nail polish, playing card games with my grandma, and resting with cream on my foot. At home, I'm not allowed to wear nail polish, but Mom wasn't here today, and my grandma says it's okay! Yey! I won a card game on the computer tonight. Grandma said it meant good luck and fun tomorrow. Hope she's right!"
I remember sitting at Grandma's kitchen table in Taiwan and watching in fascination as she sorted through her daily pills. She had one of those weekly pill boxes with a compartment for each day of the week, and she would let me hand her the correct pills every day after dinner.
I remember how Grandma would joke about her false teeth, and I remember how cute she looked when she took them out at the end of the day. I loved the times when she really laughed. Her eyes and face would scrunch up, and she had one of those silent laughs, where her whole body would shake with laughter.
I remember last summer, when she insisted on staying awake past midnight so she could say hi to me when I finally arrived at Taiwan. Everyone else who had been waiting for me (my aunt and cousins) had eventually gone to sleep. I went to her room where she was lying in bed with her eyes open and her face puckered up like a prune because her false teeth were out. Only after she saw me and gave me a hug did she go to sleep.
I remember how Grandma came to my Pacific Music Festival concert in Tokyo, and how she really liked our conductor Michael Tilson-Thomas.
I remember one time at a hotel in Japan when I walked into the room, and Grandma was asleep with this purple cat-shaped eye pillow I'd given her across her face, and she looked so hilarious and cute.
On my last day in Taiwan, Grandma unexpectedly asked me to play something for her. I played "Meditation" from Thais, which is a short violin arrangement from an opera by Massenet. I thought she would like it, because Grandma used to be a singer. She was an amazing musician...Mom told me that Grandma left high school early, because she was discovered and invited to attend a prestigious music school. I remember playing for her in the living room, with her sitting in a leather sofa across from me. I didn't see what kind of expression she had on her face while I played. After I finished, she just said "thank you" in her usual quiet, calm way.
My last memory of Grandma is saying good bye to her before leaving Taiwan, a year ago. We took a lot of pictures before I left, with Grandma, Mom, my sister, my cousin, my aunt, and Grandma's housekeeper at the time. I remember hugging Grandma a lot before I left. I'm glad we did that. Her hugs were really strong, even though her arms were thin and frail. I remember that she would wrap her arms all the way around me and squeeze me tight. And I remember crying a lot after getting in the car to the airport, and not knowing why I was so sad. I was practically sobbing, even right after I walked out of Grandma's apartment. At the time, I figured I was so sad because I didn't know when I would come back to Taiwan next, and I wished I could stay longer...but maybe it was also an instinct, some sort of subliminal message from God that this was the last time I'd see Grandma.
Rest in peace.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
An Analogy
"Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints on your heart."
I've been thinking about true friends, and the different ways they come in and out of your life. I'm going to try out an analogy and see if it works...
Let's say my life is a House, and I am the Owner.
I'd say that my family--mom, dad, and sister--are Architects. I build the House and have the final say in its making, but they are the ones who design it and choose what kind of house it will be...brick or stone, backyard or pool, how many stories, where to place the windows and doors etc. Next come my most prominent teachers and mentors, the ones who guide and inspire me. They're the Interior Designers. The changes they make to the House are less immediately or outwardly visible, and their contributions must accommodate decisions already put in place by my family. Ideally, they enhance and emphasize the Architects' achievements, while minimizing and concealing possible mistakes.
Then, there are companions...the ones that leave footprints on the heart, the ones that affect my views and passions. I hesitate to use the word "friend," because it seems at once too vague and too specific. By "companion," I mean anyone I'd view on equal ground as myself--like a peer, but more personal. Thus far in my life, I can think of four categories of "footprint companions," and four people to represent these categories. (For privacy's sake, I'll refer to them as if they are all male, even though they're not--sorry, the glass ceiling still exists in my writing...it's easier than saying "he/she," anyway.) So here they are.
The Mailman- The Mailman is constant and reliable. His job is indispensable, and his visits to the House make me excited and happy. (Who doesn't love getting mail?) The Mailman's presence is something I can always count on, and it's difficult to remember a day when his smiling face and cheerful voice weren't there for me when I needed them. Because of his reliability and seemingly simple nature, I sometimes take him for granted. I wait for him to come to my House, ring my doorbell, and deliver my mail; it is less common that I go to the post office to deliver things and pick things up myself. The Mailman never fails, rain or shine. Even in a storm, he can be seen trudging up my driveway with an umbrella, poncho, and his usual good spirits. Times with the Mailman are usually easygoing and casual. We discuss light-hearted stuff, joking and laughing. But because of the frequency of his visits, he has seen me at my best and worst. He's been there for every mistake, disappointment, failure, heartbreak...and though during those low points, I am too preoccupied to truly appreciate his presence, he is there...not for too long, not to discuss the nitty and gritty...but simply, to be there. He always has been, and always will be. A seemingly simple role he plays, most of the time, and yet...without him, I couldn't survive. Love you too, Mailman.
The Gardener- The Gardener didn't start coming to my House until it was developed enough to have a garden. Gardens take time, patience, and experience. They also depend on the seasons...they are a cycle of growth and decay, ripeness and rot, joy and sorrow. I met the Gardener when the first flowers in my yard started to bloom. He helped arrange the plants, find the correct tools and fertilizer and sunlight to make them grow as best as possible. The Gardener brought vibrant colors into my life and taught me how to appreciate beauty to its fullest. The nature of his profession means that I only see the Gardener during certain seasons. He comes at the beginning of spring, when blossoms are due to appear, and he helps them along, encouraging them and preparing them for their journey. Then he steps back and lets them flourish on their own. When winter rolls around, he returns to clean up dried-up petals, rake dead leaves, and clear away old roots. During periods when I don't see the Gardener--when my garden is either doing fine on its own or simply inactive--I keep him in mind, and the lessons he taught me are present in my everyday actions. When he does show up, his presence is significant and consequential...he can change the essence of my House in one visit. My Gardener shows me how to make the House beautiful, and taught me what it means to celebrate humanity.
The Stray- The Stray cat showed up unexpectedly at my doorstep one night. He was soft, fluffy, and very cute. He was also alone, seemingly helpless and in need of shelter. I let him in with caution; after all, you never know where a stray has been. He turned out to be a sweet creature--loving, endearing, and capricious. Everyone who saw my new favorite visitor of the House fell in love with his charm and perfection. I let him explore every room of the House, even ones I guarded with the utmost privacy. I couldn't say that the Stray belonged to me, but he visited so often, left his mark in so many nooks and crannies, that I believed he would stay forever. One day, without warning, the Stray was gone. There are many possible reasons for his departure--perhaps he found a bigger house with more food and better company. Maybe he grew tired of the House...the mess in the closet, the stain on the carpet I hid under a couch, the bathroom window that was stuck shut. But most likely, the Stray is simply that--a stray. He's never meant to belong to anyone, at least not yet, and I learned to accept this, as confusing and frustrating as I found it. Certainly I'm not the first to lose him, and I probably won't be the last. And as wonderful as he was at making my House that much of a better place in which to live, he is, above all else, a being unto himself, one who lives by himself and for himself. It is what it is.
The Roofer- A Roofer is needed at all times, but most importantly in the aftermath of bad weather. Sometimes, one or two lone tiles from the roof are blown off by a gust of wind. Other times, a hailstorm sweeps in, and I must call the Roofer in a panic, so he can fix the holes. The Roofer knows my House inside out. He knows its weaknesses and faults, where to step lightly and where it holds strong...and he fixes a situation as if it were the easiest thing in the world. The Roofer isn't my most frequent visitor, nor does he always come at the exact moment I wish him to. He has other appointments...or else, the storm is blowing too hard for him to do his job safely. Once, I asked him to check a few loose tiles on the side roof, and though a recent rain had rendered the rooftop precariously slippery, he eventually agreed. Halfway through, he lost his footing and fell to the ground, breaking a few bones. Though he didn't blame me, I could not forgive myself for causing him pain and damage. He told me it would be a while before he could walk again, and only if he took a break would his wounds heal. But he promised he would return. In his absence, the House suffered. When it rained, leaks in the roof opened up; the water seeping in were like giant tears that dampened the rooms. Nobody else could mend the damage. There is only one Roofer, and I knew it still was not safe for him to return. Finally one day, he showed up on my doorstep. His arm was in a sling, and a scar was visible on his cheek, but he was walking again. True to his promise, he came back. Gradually he returned to fixing things--cracks, holes, chipped tiles...but the past cannot be erased, and scars don't disappear...it will be a while before he can climb onto the roof again. There is a ladder I always leave propped up, though, waiting for when the time is right.
I've been thinking about true friends, and the different ways they come in and out of your life. I'm going to try out an analogy and see if it works...
Let's say my life is a House, and I am the Owner.
I'd say that my family--mom, dad, and sister--are Architects. I build the House and have the final say in its making, but they are the ones who design it and choose what kind of house it will be...brick or stone, backyard or pool, how many stories, where to place the windows and doors etc. Next come my most prominent teachers and mentors, the ones who guide and inspire me. They're the Interior Designers. The changes they make to the House are less immediately or outwardly visible, and their contributions must accommodate decisions already put in place by my family. Ideally, they enhance and emphasize the Architects' achievements, while minimizing and concealing possible mistakes.
Then, there are companions...the ones that leave footprints on the heart, the ones that affect my views and passions. I hesitate to use the word "friend," because it seems at once too vague and too specific. By "companion," I mean anyone I'd view on equal ground as myself--like a peer, but more personal. Thus far in my life, I can think of four categories of "footprint companions," and four people to represent these categories. (For privacy's sake, I'll refer to them as if they are all male, even though they're not--sorry, the glass ceiling still exists in my writing...it's easier than saying "he/she," anyway.) So here they are.
The Mailman- The Mailman is constant and reliable. His job is indispensable, and his visits to the House make me excited and happy. (Who doesn't love getting mail?) The Mailman's presence is something I can always count on, and it's difficult to remember a day when his smiling face and cheerful voice weren't there for me when I needed them. Because of his reliability and seemingly simple nature, I sometimes take him for granted. I wait for him to come to my House, ring my doorbell, and deliver my mail; it is less common that I go to the post office to deliver things and pick things up myself. The Mailman never fails, rain or shine. Even in a storm, he can be seen trudging up my driveway with an umbrella, poncho, and his usual good spirits. Times with the Mailman are usually easygoing and casual. We discuss light-hearted stuff, joking and laughing. But because of the frequency of his visits, he has seen me at my best and worst. He's been there for every mistake, disappointment, failure, heartbreak...and though during those low points, I am too preoccupied to truly appreciate his presence, he is there...not for too long, not to discuss the nitty and gritty...but simply, to be there. He always has been, and always will be. A seemingly simple role he plays, most of the time, and yet...without him, I couldn't survive. Love you too, Mailman.
The Gardener- The Gardener didn't start coming to my House until it was developed enough to have a garden. Gardens take time, patience, and experience. They also depend on the seasons...they are a cycle of growth and decay, ripeness and rot, joy and sorrow. I met the Gardener when the first flowers in my yard started to bloom. He helped arrange the plants, find the correct tools and fertilizer and sunlight to make them grow as best as possible. The Gardener brought vibrant colors into my life and taught me how to appreciate beauty to its fullest. The nature of his profession means that I only see the Gardener during certain seasons. He comes at the beginning of spring, when blossoms are due to appear, and he helps them along, encouraging them and preparing them for their journey. Then he steps back and lets them flourish on their own. When winter rolls around, he returns to clean up dried-up petals, rake dead leaves, and clear away old roots. During periods when I don't see the Gardener--when my garden is either doing fine on its own or simply inactive--I keep him in mind, and the lessons he taught me are present in my everyday actions. When he does show up, his presence is significant and consequential...he can change the essence of my House in one visit. My Gardener shows me how to make the House beautiful, and taught me what it means to celebrate humanity.
The Stray- The Stray cat showed up unexpectedly at my doorstep one night. He was soft, fluffy, and very cute. He was also alone, seemingly helpless and in need of shelter. I let him in with caution; after all, you never know where a stray has been. He turned out to be a sweet creature--loving, endearing, and capricious. Everyone who saw my new favorite visitor of the House fell in love with his charm and perfection. I let him explore every room of the House, even ones I guarded with the utmost privacy. I couldn't say that the Stray belonged to me, but he visited so often, left his mark in so many nooks and crannies, that I believed he would stay forever. One day, without warning, the Stray was gone. There are many possible reasons for his departure--perhaps he found a bigger house with more food and better company. Maybe he grew tired of the House...the mess in the closet, the stain on the carpet I hid under a couch, the bathroom window that was stuck shut. But most likely, the Stray is simply that--a stray. He's never meant to belong to anyone, at least not yet, and I learned to accept this, as confusing and frustrating as I found it. Certainly I'm not the first to lose him, and I probably won't be the last. And as wonderful as he was at making my House that much of a better place in which to live, he is, above all else, a being unto himself, one who lives by himself and for himself. It is what it is.
The Roofer- A Roofer is needed at all times, but most importantly in the aftermath of bad weather. Sometimes, one or two lone tiles from the roof are blown off by a gust of wind. Other times, a hailstorm sweeps in, and I must call the Roofer in a panic, so he can fix the holes. The Roofer knows my House inside out. He knows its weaknesses and faults, where to step lightly and where it holds strong...and he fixes a situation as if it were the easiest thing in the world. The Roofer isn't my most frequent visitor, nor does he always come at the exact moment I wish him to. He has other appointments...or else, the storm is blowing too hard for him to do his job safely. Once, I asked him to check a few loose tiles on the side roof, and though a recent rain had rendered the rooftop precariously slippery, he eventually agreed. Halfway through, he lost his footing and fell to the ground, breaking a few bones. Though he didn't blame me, I could not forgive myself for causing him pain and damage. He told me it would be a while before he could walk again, and only if he took a break would his wounds heal. But he promised he would return. In his absence, the House suffered. When it rained, leaks in the roof opened up; the water seeping in were like giant tears that dampened the rooms. Nobody else could mend the damage. There is only one Roofer, and I knew it still was not safe for him to return. Finally one day, he showed up on my doorstep. His arm was in a sling, and a scar was visible on his cheek, but he was walking again. True to his promise, he came back. Gradually he returned to fixing things--cracks, holes, chipped tiles...but the past cannot be erased, and scars don't disappear...it will be a while before he can climb onto the roof again. There is a ladder I always leave propped up, though, waiting for when the time is right.
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