For me, future me, and my mama.

Archive for April, 2014|Monthly archive page

I Can Only Imagine: For the Parents Before and To the Kids Ahead.

In Thoughts. on April 17, 2014 at 3:42 am
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Hey Loves,
          It’s Mom, though 25, 30, 35 (dear God, I really hope it’s not 40+ years in which case, you’d be my adopted kids) back in the past.  The date is April 2014.  The address is Manhattan, New York.  The occupation is, well, who knows—student, I suppose, learning and living full out in between the coffee shop, the dance studio, and the camp in the middle of the woods.  Anyway, I wanted to take this time to encourage you as you embark on your twenties, what very well could be the most topsy-turvy time of your life thus far, though an immensely defining decade all the same.
          Up until now, the rhythms of your life have been run by first days of school and final exams and then low-paying jobs and borderline illegal internships to fill in the time between.  Then graduation happens and you walk across the stage to receive a piece of paper that costs several thousands of dollars and says, “Bon voyage, you’re done here!”  Then after a good night’s rest, the first since before freshmen orientation, you realize you have no clue what you’re doing in and with your life.  Uh oh.
          But Son, but Daughter, I urge you now not to waste this precious time.  Thirty is not the new twenty.  Twenty is twenty and twenty-five is twenty-five and so forth and what you do in this time of life indeed matters and will set the course for a lot of the patterns and projections for future decades to come.
          So in regards to work—You didn’t go to college to learn how to better follow directions or a formula.  After all, life is not so much like paint-by-numbers as it is a messy and abstract watercolor piece of passion, contemplation, vision, uncertainty, execution, feedback, and perseverance.  With that said, don’t be afraid to take risks, to do what you love and love what you do.  Take the job that you want, though it may not pay all that much.  Or go ahead and take the job, for a time, that you are not necessarily crazy about but the one that will nevertheless help to fund your passion, student loan payments, and monthly rent.  In whatever you do, work hard and humbly, and I promise you, my Love, you’ll be amazed at where your repertoire of transferable skills and connections will lead.
          In regards to money—Be poor.  Why not?  Learn how to manage your money well.  Learn also how to give well and loosen your grip on that which was never yours in the first place nor will be with you in the last place.  Speaking of final places, go ahead and wear the same ten articles of clothing to death, the same goes with technology and stuff in general.  What’s the point in trying to impress people you don’t actually know or care about anyway?  Really, don’t worry about always having the coolest or newest goods.  It’s too much of a hassle when moving anyway.  Instead, live simply and build your wardrobe of experiences.  For when all is said and done, chances are slim to none that any lives will be changed for the better because of the outfits you put together or the new iPhone16 you carry in your overpriced jeans.
          In regards to relationships—choose your home team wisely and be their biggest fan.  Get off of Facebook or whatever conduit of distraction it will be in your time and work to be present with them.  Listen.  Engage.  And don’t be afraid to be the one who loves more.  Build and practice good habits of permanent union today.  For when greater responsibility like marriage and kids come tomorrow, that won’t be the time to establish your roots.  Rather, it will be a time of testing your roots, ones that you need to be tending to now.  Of course, it’s more appealing to build a resume rather than character and community but trust me.  Though roots live underground and are invisible to much of the world, they will be the base on which your future hangs.  You’re going to want to get that right and have them reaching far, deep, down, and wide into the rich soil of your home team.
          Now in regards to faith—Make it your own.  Figure out what it is that you believe and why you believe it.  Admittedly, I am tempted to expound on this matter, though I shall refrain for fear of negating the original point.  In short, don’t just believe your beliefs.  Live them.
          With that, let me run with the same thought to the end of this letter.  There are several other things I could say.  As your mom, I’m sure there always will be.  Even so, I’m going to resist and wrap it up because in spite of the things I am feeling, I choose to listen to that which I know to be true.  I choose to believe that indeed true love gives, always and in immeasurable ways and depths.  Withal, the true love of a parent also gives away.  No matter how difficult it may be, it lets its children go and grow up.  True love trusts.  Your dad and I trust you.  
          In closing, it is our continuous prayer that the Lord will bless you and keep you and  make His face shine upon you as go, grow, and live every day to its fullest.  And it is our promise that we will do our best, as in “try to,” not hover or be overbearing.  All the same, we’ll never be too far away, ever, whether in this life or the next.
          Love you times infinity.
–Mom.

Flowers for Keylan Sato.

In Thoughts. on April 15, 2014 at 3:25 am

“Every happening, great and small, is a parable whereby God speaks to us.  The art of life is to get the message.” –Malcolm Muggeridge

 Flowers are some of my favorite things in the entire world.  Slathered in vibrant colors and grafted with a soft-spoken splendor, they make any desk or dinner table, sidewalk or park exponentially livelier.  Now whenever I buy a bouquet, I want it to last forever.  That’s not to say that I want fake flowers.  No, no, no.  I want the real ones, just to do the fake thing, though I know that’s not possible.  Having said that, following the initial desire for immortal flowers that don’t actually exist, I concede that in its most basic circle of life, flowers pop up and then wither up.  They are indeed a fragile beauty.  They are a fleeting beauty.  And for those very reasons, they are a figurative beauty.

For in the still moments like right now when I am able to sit for long enough and listen well enough, I can scarcely hear the susurrations of the individual blooms that sit on my table as well as the ones outside waking up from the winter nightmare that overtook the city for the last couple of months.  I can hear the flowers now, and they are insisting that they are more than just pretty things to look at.  They are the fearful parallel of the human existence, teaching us a lesson in urgency if we will only listen.

Now I’m not talking about the urgency of aggressive living that makes us speed up our already million-mile-per-hour lives or stuff it with more and bigger enumerated lists, but rather the kind of urgency that arrests us in our tracks with its sweet aroma and unassuming beauty and whispers, “Stop and appreciate me.  I won’t be here for long.”  Granted, I can’t say for certain the full intents of God in this matter.  Still in my curious imagination, I really think that one of the reasons He put flowers on this planet is to make us stop and to make us appreciate ________ (you fill in the blank).  It’s as if flowers are His invitation, His call, His beckoning or dare if that’s more your language; flowers are His challenge to you and to me right now to stop and appreciate the little moments that make up the 8-hour shifts between vacations and the white spaces between bucket list items.

Stop.

Appreciate, Reader.

And understand that these thoughts are the aftermath of a letter I was writing to Keylan’s mom.  There’s no need in the world, though, to remind a grieving parent that life is short.  In this case, 24 years and 10 months kind of short.  Thus, her letter eventually evolved into this piece that it is now, a piece for everyone else who is tempted to believe that life is an endless pursuit of happy hours and far away adventures.  This piece is for me as well, specifically in the last season of monotony before I head out for summer; it is for the early alarm clocks and repetitive commutes, the opening tasks and endless errands I have to get done before I board that plane.  Over and above it all, though, this piece is for those I sold Zippy’s chili tickets with and played shambattle on the scalding hot Noholoa Park asphalt with in my hanabata days, many of whom have been fossilized in my memory as their 10-11-12 year old selves.  Still even though I have lost contact with many, I wish them the best and of course want them to live long, prosperous, and impacting lives.  Nevertheless, when boy meets world and the coffin hits the ground, I must concede that in its most basic circle of life, people are born and people pass away—indeed a fragile existence just like a fleeting vapor.

So it is with these concluding thoughts, not so much within the spirit of teaching or admonishing or saying anything new or profound but rather in the spirit of walking along side with you, Reader, and calling your name, reaching for your hand, and wanting you to come back and stand with me so that we can, together, appreciate and smell the flowers that we so often pass by while power-walking to the train and to the next season of life.

Stop and stay a while, Friend.

It’s a beautiful day.

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Happy 25th Birthday, Keylan.

What? You Barely Know Me? Then This One’s For You.

In Thoughts. on April 5, 2014 at 2:55 am

I was flustered today.

I’m still a bit flustered.  And it’s still, technically, today.  Though given the fact that I’ve already taken a shower and changed into my pajamas, I’m calling it a day at 745 PM.  Yes, please.  Party hardy on a Friday night with my thoughts and my second cup of coffee.

Anyway, this might be a terribly unexpected shocker for you all, but behind the unattainable expectation of always and forever providing A+ customer service at the shop, the truth is that I just didn’t feel like being at work today.  I didn’t feel like serving.  I didn’t feel like smiling or engaging in small talk about the weather or weekend plans.

I apologize.  It’s me, not you.

Now I don’t know what was the matter with me, and I’m not sure how many times a month or week or how many times in a day is permissible to use the PMS excuse, but something was the matter.  It wasn’t bad, though it wasn’t great; though as I think about it, I don’t believe it was really anything in particular.

It was just one of those days.

—–

Earlier this week, I went to a contemporary class with a new teacher.  We warmed up and learned the phrase and eventually split up into groups.  For the first couple of rounds, everyone watched from the sides, doing it in their heads and following along as the preceding group took the floor.  After two or three turns, the teacher had everyone not dancing move from the sides of the studio to the front.  What she said next really moved me, and I don’t just mean physically upstage.

She said, “When it’s your turn to dance, remember that just because the exterior energy and the eyes of the room have shifted and are on you now, that doesn’t mean that your interior does anything differently.  You dance your dance.  You tell your story and stick to it.”

I needed that.  Because as the days are long and the hours in my bed are short, so extreme was this word received into my soul.

Now there are those of you reading this who have done life in the nitty gritty with me.  You’ve gotten to know my heart over lunch dates and during late nights, with coffee mugs in hand and with dust from the dance floor still on our feet.  You’ve seen me in my ups and in my downs and have given me grace along every point in between.  You know my heart and understand that it is continually being renewed and transformed from glory to glory.  You also know that I love you, but this entry is not primarily for you.

This entry is for those who have stumbled upon this link but don’t necessarily know my life.  This is for those I’ve only had a couple of encounters with and have read only a couple of my entries.  This one is for you, Stranger and Acquaintance and very well the Customer-I-Served-Today.

That’s not at all to say that I go about promoting my blog with every transaction that I make.  “Have a good one!  Oh and read all of my most intimate thoughts at msmaliawee.wordpress.com!”  Very much on the contrary.

Still, this blog, whether read or not holds me to a certain level of accountability with what I write and with what I live.  Over and above that, it makes me think twice about mentioning the ultimate title to which I claim and cling to but fear tarnishing?  It seems almost taboo to say on days when I feel that my worth is measured by my performance, but how about this?  How about on those very days, ones like today, when I feel like a hot Christian (if I could convey a whisper over a Word document, that would have been the word to do it on) mess.  How about being honest, especially during that time and owning to the fact that indeed, I am a Christian.

Again, for those of you who might not be familiar with God or with faith or religion but only know of us as homophobic and judgmental hypocrites, firstly I apologize more than words can say for missed opportunities to love and a misconstrued message that we often and wrongly communicate.  Nevertheless, I write specifically for you and to you tonight with my metaphorical palms up and my heart open.  And I humbly but boldly declare that I am a Christian.

Now I don’t always feel like one, but feelings are fickle.  I don’t always do the right thing, but it’s not about what I do but rather what He already did on the cross.  I mess up far more than I would care to admit and have bleh days just like everyone else.

Nonetheless, it is my persistent desire that the convictions on this blog would match up with the actions of my life.  That regardless of who is watching or how the energy or eyes of the world may shift about and try to focus on my flawed exterior, I pray that the dance of my interior would remain resolute and that its story would always be about the One who lived the perfect life that pardoned all of my not-even-close-to-perfect days.

May it always and forever point to the One who said, “It is finished.”

 

A Time to Get My Feet Wet Again.

In Thoughts. on April 2, 2014 at 8:01 pm

For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.

There is a time to go home to be with family; a time to eat too much chocolate and drink too much coffee at breakfast; a time to watch high school basketball, not so much for the scoreboard but because the coach over there means the world to me.  There is a time to hold mock photo shoots for my other brother and his family because they are constantly thinking of and doing things for everyone else that it’s the very, very least I can do for them.  There is a time to get a massage, and who better to get it with than my mom and what better place than in a back alley, drug-dealing, second-floor apartment turned “massage paradise”.

There is a time to relocate, a time to learn about bank checks and money orders and the importance of finding a responsible broker.  There is a time to get the grand tour of the New York City boroughs.  However, hunting down an incorrectly labeled check around the entire city and then some an hour before friends come to help move is not the time.  Regardless, I digress.  Bringing it back.  Moving on.

There is a time to travel, a time to get on a bus and a time to get on a train.  Don’t get the two confused, though, or you might end up on the side of the freeway in Jersey.  There is also a time to get on an airplane and fly to the middle of nowhere, which really the only high calling I can understand that would take one to such a barren land as Alabama would be to meet up with family.  Many apologies if you have an affinity for the state, though not too many.  Then there is a time to rent a convertible (it’s all they had left).  I personally would never advise one to do that in February during a winter storm.  Be that as it may if your salvation is secure, your affairs are in order, and you’re wearing decent-looking undergarments that you wouldn’t mind the paramedics seeing, YOLO.  That’s up to you.

Then there is a time for dance, a time to work for classes and perhaps the only time, job, and circumstance where you will find me behind a desk is at the studio.  Additionally, there is a time to plant, pour into, and pray for the beginning seedlings of the dance team at church as well as plant, pour into, and pray for the beginning seedlings of the kids I teach in Alphabet City.  But then there is a time to dance-dance—hallelujah—a time to show up to class with my out-of-shape body and say “come what may” knowing that what I care about is what I do and will continue to do, whether or not that comes easily.

Now there is a time to be picky about what is most important, a time to lay the foundation as a young adult of what I want my life to look like and be about.  There is a time to focus in on certain things and give up others to make that life a reality.  As a result, there is a time to go silent on my blog, in order that other adventures are able to happen.

With that said, there is also a time to distinguish between stopping and starting up again and quitting for good.  April sounds like a good time to start writing.  The day I die sounds like a good time to quit.

Cheers to this new season.

Stay tuned.