I think I've been fooling myself into thinking that I was okay with both of the things above, that I don't really care about this state of reality. But actually, I care a lot. I want to make much of myself. Not in a let's-become-Taylor-Swift way (okay or even like a let's become Ingrid Michaelson way, cause let's be real I am so far from wanting to be TSwift), but like I want to be recognized for humanly things. Encompassing career, academic prestige, the acknowledgment of the peoplez for whatever character/personality trait, etc. Even recognition for the fact that I hold values that are poetic, such as the fact that "I am small in God's big world," ugh you tricky little soul.
Somehow, God individually and particularly loves ME. Little, insignificant-and-not-okay-with-this me.
This renders me significant. [oh, right. identity in Christ? oh.]
The best lessons are always always always easier said than lived.
How do you navigate through life's struggles?
How do you pick your mate?
What is good? What is evil? What are we?
How do you deal with displacement and abandonment and that foreverlonely you feel in the pit of your stomach, no matter how much you try to squash it down with loud noises and bright lights and even seemingly-worthy Pursuits of Happiness?
"Literature answers philosophical questions with particulars. Novels throw a bunch of people together on a level playing field and have them work out these human problems."
And we watch and learn, laughing and crying and frowning in vicarious pain and joy and ah-hah moments.
That's why people believe in life-saving poetry and stuff. It's how terrible circumstances are redeemed as tools for recovery and encouragement; like how phoenixes rise from their own ashes and how beautiful flowers grow from poop.
Good words to think about on a melancholy Monday afternoon of a fourth-year fall semester.
Thank you, God, for literature.
Thank you, God, for this undergraduate path as an English major.
Thank you, God, for Mysteries of Udolpho and the weepy sensibilities of Emily St. Aubert and for saving us poor unfortunate souls from ourselves.
for a lucky few, life is not so struggley.
though maybe that's an unfair judgment from a haughty perspective.
First, click the play button on the video below and listen while you read. Then after you're done reading, listen to the words again carefully. Sorry if you feel bossed around - you don't have to if you don't want to heeheee
There are many things that make me feel like a nobody, a noob. n00b. Taking the bus. Crossing unfamiliar crosswalks. Talking about nice and not so nice cars. But most of the time when that happens, it's okay. I actually kind of like feeling small - like I'm just a teeny piece of something bigger, something greater and more purposeful, like yeah I don't understand what's right in front of me but zoom out and you'll see a more coherent, make-sensical picture and ultimately everything really does make sense, at some level - that's nice. And it's good to be honest about one's noobishness and unashamedly so, sometimes (um yeah I'm having a little trouble figuring out which way to go in this FOUR-WAY crosswalk, but hey it's like only my 4th time here and there are so many cars and persons all around and this thang is complicated!), cause it makes for a good learning experience.
But the thing is, sometimes I feel like a noob about things I claim to love - things I know I do love. Things people think I'm good at (eeeeeep!), just by virtue my appreciation of them, combined with the semi-obscurity of said topics. Poetry. Art. Conversationing about human hearts. Blabbering words and sentences and not being sure I make sense, and even worse, experiencing someone else's elegant eloquence - extremely excellent - and being dwarfed by their genius. Don't misunderstand me - it's not about being jealous or bitter that I'm not smart enough. It's more like...being reminded about how much genius is truly out there in the big world, outside of my own head and feeling kind of scared because I'm supposed to "be good at this," cause supposedly, "omg I luff poetry!" you know? But do I dare even utter these things? Do I dare declare myself an English major? Who will care about what I say, do, make, write, synthesize, create? Am I even worthy of claiming that I love these things, when I know so little and am so inept at even expressing my love? I have no idea.
Art
For those of you who will not click the play button above:
"Art, art, I want you. Art, you make it pretty hard not to.
Watching the (Korean) news with mom and dad at dinner and found myself constantly in panic. Dying livestock, dying regular stocks, monster-sized icicles, mini icebergs floating down the 한강...sigh. There was one good thing after 298234 bad things - apparently the report (made 12 years ago) about the flu vaccine causing autism was made up. And in a way, for somebody out there that piece of news is a horrible one too, I mean for that scientist person who did the initial study, wrote the report, blahblah.
Makes me feel so helpless. And makes me think of how every banal moment of my life must be, for someone else in the world, is the worst, most frightening, life-changing, wonderful, etc. moment. Every moment, around the whole world, is something special and ultra significant. How little I am, and how big the world is. And how much bigger the God behind the happenings and healings of every moment everywhere! wuhhhhhhhhhh so global.
