Paint by numbers

Train station in Tokyo. Summer 2010. 

Sometimes life feels like a paint-by-numbers kit. Like, it starts off slow and it doesn’t make sense and it’s not always beautiful at the beginning (and all the new mothers stopped reading my blog at that last statement....) But, if you follow the directions, if you just keep painting, everything seems to turn out alright in the end.

I know, I know, of course this isn’t always true. Sometimes life is more like a surrealist painting than a paint-by-numbers, but go with me on this.

I’ve been reflecting on the fact that recently I’ve made a number of full circles.

This week I finished my last test in Japanese at Bellevue College. Golly, it was difficult. After the test, I walked straight to the little piano room that I used to spend so much time in back when BC was my college. That was, of course, before I ever enrolled at Northwest, before I ever decided on my major. I used to play the same two songs over and over and over as I talked to God and didn’t know what to do with my life. I couldn't figure out if I wanted to major in photography, or philosophy, or music, or, God-forbid, I had been tossing around the idea of English. I was always in that piano room. I was often playing that piano even though I was never any good. 

Yesterday, I sat down at the same piano bench and played.

The difference, of course, is that now I have a much better idea of what I’m doing and what *the future* looks like.

I’ve been thinking about the beginnings of everything. And really, recently, I’ve been feeling so grateful.

I took my first literature class at Bellevue in the fall of ’07. We read Life of Pi, James Joyce, Ibsen’s ‘A Doll’s House,’ poetry by Kim Addonizio, and so so so much more. It all stuck with me; permanent. That fall, I brought my anthology home to my roommates and read to them poems and paragraphs that I loved. They laughed, and I think were maybe a little annoyed with me. They could think of better things to do with their time.

I couldn’t.

I aced the Introduction to Literature class, but I wasn’t seriously thinking about becoming an English major. Not at the time.

At BC, I took my first philosophy class and my first photography class and the world opened up to me in a new way.

In spring of ’08, I took a combination class called Whosespace which focused on immigration in America. It was fifteen credits of photography, expository writing, and political economics. We read The Names, and Catfish and Mandala, and The Beautiful Things The Heaven Bears, and Breath, Eyes, Memory. But my favourite novel that we read was Native Speaker by Chang- Rae Lee. It’s about a man struggling with English as his second language, it’s about language and culture and the alienation you feel when you don’t entirely belong. The class made me think about Genesis and the story of Babel. At the end of the class, we all had to write something. I wrote a poem and it came to me, like nothing else had ever before. It was the first time I’d ever written in an inspired frenzy where the words just poured out of me. And, to top it off, for the first time ever, something I wrote elicited a standing ovation from a classroom of my peers and my professors. 

The piece I wrote had lines like this:

She scribbles black on white figures

and I can’t imagine what that could possibly mean

and

And do you dream in Japanese? Or think in English?

Are you constantly translating your thoughts?

Now, here I am, at the end of all of this, and I’m the one who’s spent the last year scribbling black on white figures learning the language I thought I’d never understand. What was once a wall to me is now a bit of a door. Mind you, it’s a big heavy door that takes all my strength to even crack open, but it’s still more of a door than it is a wall. Now, I’m the one who has been dreaming in Japanese, I’m the one who is always translating her thoughts.

Recently, I’ve been thinking so much of how I didn’t know then what I know now. I’m so grateful to be able to look back and connect the dots. I’m in awe over how much my own words, my own artistic expressions, have guided and steered my life. I didn’t know when I wrote ‘persimmons & bamboo shoots’ that I would go on to study Japanese,  go to Japan,  delve deeper into this whole cultural assimilation mystery. But in many, many ways, it’s because I wrote it that all of that has happened. That's why I named my blog after that poem from Whosespace. In ways, I feel like writing it was the seed for so much of what has happened since then. 

The summer after I took Whosespace, I turned 22 and a friend took me to Korean food for the first time. I was introduced to kimchee, barely tea, and the cute guy who waited our table. The moments of that day are indelible to me because the dinner was expensive and it was my best friend paying and it was just us and that’s how I’ve always preferred to do things, in small groups.

That fall I took a geology class at Bellevue. We learned about rocks using a very simple textbook. It was science for liberal arts majors at it’s best. My lab partners were two Korean guys who were fresh out of ESL classes. The professor didn’t partner us up, we choose our own partners and I don’t know what drew us all together, but we met the first day of class and after that we were inseparable. From them I learned about Korean drinking culture, Jeju island, and the two years required in military service for every Korean male. I learned about Korean names and, gosh, it was a lab class and we had time on our hands and nowhere to go. I learned a lot, and none of it was about rocks. Among other things, they talked about homesickness and how you gain weight so easily when you move to America. I became their English tutor. We’d keep in touch for years afterward.

At the time, Korea was this fearful mystery to me because I only ever heard about North Korea. I knew nothing else about it. I certainly wasn’t ever going to go there, although, I had to admit, Jeju island sounded nice.

The next summer I moved out of the house on Juanita drive and into a house where the main language was Japanese. I became the go-to English expert. I also became the foreigner. I mean, literally, they called me the gaijin. It was incredibly difficult at times because it was literally like living in Japan, but at the same time, I loved it. I didn't realize then how strong that experience would make me, how much I would need that strength later on.

That fall, I enrolled in classes at Northwest. The first class I took was Slavic literature with Martha Diede. There was only four of us students and I was terribly nervous about everything, but I loved it. I loved listening to Diede and I loved our class talks. After Dr. Diede returned my first paper to me with the words YOU SHOULD BE AN ENGLISH MAJOR scrawled in bold in one of the corners, I took a trip to her office and I changed my major. Sometimes I think maybe all you need is a little encouragement to act on what you already know.

A word after a word after a word is power. That’s Margaret Atwood, for you. I love the power of words. Specifically, I love the power of encouragement I’ve seen my teachers yield to change lives. It’s part of what has inspired me to be a teacher.

I had no idea that fall that the members of that tiny little Slavic literature class would come together to form writer’s workshop two years later; Jessie, Michelle, Meghan, even Sarah who was just down the hall in the writing lab at the time; life is full of such beautiful surprises.

The next fall I moved in with new roommates, and Jessie, from Slavic literature was one of them. It wasn’t really something that I wanted to do because I didn’t really know those people, but it all sort of worked out since, in time, I found out that they liked to read aloud from books, too. Another full circle.

Now, it’s almost three years from when I first started at Northwest. When I started, I was purposefully not trying to make new friends. I already had enough friends from being part of a megachurch and I felt like it was hard enough to keep in touch with them. I didn’t want anymore. I know that sounds terrible, but it's true. 

Gosh. I’m so glad it didn’t work out how I planned.

In my opinion, the best thing I’ll take from Northwest won’t be the university diploma, even if it is a first in my family. Rather, the best thing I’ll take will be the people I’ve found who’ve changed my life along the way; comrades and mentors who were completely worth the fact that I overpaid for my private school education.

I’ve been connecting the dots and thinking about how I never could have figured it all out on my own, but looking back, it all makes sense and I fully, completely, 100% believe that Providence had everything to do with it. Paint-by-numbers. I was simply following the vague directions and hoping to God that it would work out alright.

And it did.

I’ve tried to tell as many people in person as I’ve been able, but for those of you who don’t know, I’m currently going through the process of applying to teach English in South Korea with Michelle Meade. That’s part of what makes all of this a full circle for me, the fact that we’re going together, the fact that when we first met, neither of us had any idea that we’d embark on such an adventure together. I couldn't be more grateful. I couldn't be more surprised at where life has taken me. 

I’m excited for the future. I’m excited to share new things. That’s why I started this blog. 

Is every life different?

*This post is kind of serious and I apologize in advance for that.

And is each person’s death the same?

How can that be if every life is different?

Is every life different?

From ‘Dying Stupid’ by Li Young Lee

When my friend Masa died six months ago I couldn’t get these lines of poetry out of my mind.

I’ve seen a lot of death. I’ve had three siblings die, although I only ever talk about the one who affected me the most, my older sister. I’ve had two parents die, my biological mother and my adopted-but-divorced father.

However, when Masa died last January, it was different. I’m going to tell you why.

I met Masa my first week at Northwest University in Fall 2009. That same week I met all the people who are so very valuable to me today, but of course I didn’t realize it at the time. When I met Masa, he was surrounded by friends and he was laughing; those two traits would come to characterize his life.

We became acquaintances. It was easy because I lived with many of his Japanese friends at the time. Later, in Spring 2010, Masa learned that we have something in common through the fact that my little brother has kidney failure. We became better friends after that. 

I never told Masa that I had an older sister who died from kidney failure. 

Masa and I took a class together that summer semester at Northwest. It was New Testament survey with Charette. I loved it, but it was no doubt difficult. However, if it was difficult for me, it was three times that for Masa, who had absolutely no prior knowledge of the Bible, had English as his second language, and was going to dialysis three times a week.

If he was struggling, and I knew he was, Masa never let on. I’m not even sure that Charette knew he was in and out of the hospital daily until I told him the reason for one of Masa's absences.

One night that spring, Masa and I went on a dinner run. We’d both been in the library for most of the afternoon. It was pouring down rain outside. Masa chose a dingy little Japanese place in Kirkland that I'd never been to. I had curry udon and edamame for the first time and over dinner, Masa told me how he came to know God and why he was going to school at Northwest. He said he’d met some people through a program at Shoreline Community College called Talk Time. He said that from these people, for the very first time, he felt a different, real kind of love that he didn’t know had existed before. Previously, he thought that strong love only really existed between a parent and a child, or as romantic love.  He said he’d been very depressed after he found out he had kidney failure and that he was questioning whether or not life was really worth it. But then the people at Talk Time introduced Masa to God and everything in his life changed. Masa believed God could heal him. He’d never before known about hope before he became a Christian. 

I wish I could remember all the details of our conversation that night.

I think I remember crying just the smallest bit.

I know I didn't finish my udon. 

Summer 2010 we both went to Japan. I went to Tokyo as a volunteer English teacher and Masa went to Osaka to visit family. We both came back in August and we both took Biblical Interpretation as another summer course. 

We stayed up late at coffeeshops that were open all night in Seattle. Studying in the summer is kind-of depressing, but it's easier with a friend. No matter how late I stayed, Masa stayed later. He was diligent with his school work. 

Fall 2010 we took a third course together, Temple Imagery. I admit that it wasn’t very nice of me to encourage Masa to take it because it was a terribly difficult course, but he did it anyways. We often sat together in chapel and when they would play the song ‘Healer’ Masa would stand up and raise his arms to the roof and I’d stay where I was, watching him, pleading with God.  Some days, the song would come on and I’d weep uncontrollably. Kidney failure had already taken the life of my sister, it had already made my younger brother's life more difficult, it seemed so unfair that it should have Masa as well. 

Time passed. We took separate courses. I didn’t see Masa as often around school but I knew he was doing well. I knew he was seeing the world and spending all his free time with friends. Masa had hundreds of friends. He wasn’t so much a social butterfly as he was simply somebody that people loved to be around. He was loyal and a good friend. I remember some days we'd be studying and he'd leave suddenly because he needed to go counsel a friend. He was always happy. Always smiling. Always taking pictures and on the hunt for a good coffeeshop.

On Christmas Eve last year, Masa showed up out of the blue at my coffeeshop while I was working. It wasn’t all that uncommon since he often came in from time to time, but this time, he said he was leaving for Japan in a few days. He was looking sharp and healthy and I knew from the news I’d heard on the grapevine that he started dating someone. I was so happy for him. He was so smiley. When I asked to take his coffee order, he hesitated, and that’s when I realized that he hadn’t bumped into me by happenstance; he’d come to say good-bye. He stood there in his nice Christmas Eve clothes and

we chatted and he assured me he’d come back to Seattle from time to time, maybe even as early as January. I considered walking around to the other side of the counter to hug him good-bye, but I didn’t. It seemed like too much. I’d see him again soon, after all, and we both knew I had plans to go to Japan one day so it didn’t feel like good-bye, but I was still touched by the gesture of him showing up on Christmas Eve.

On January 5^th I came home from work to a message on facebook saying that Masa had suffered from a subarachnoid hemorrhage and that he was brain dead and lying in a hospital in Osaka.

There was already a prayer group on facebook that was at around 150 people. I watched over the next few days as that number climbed to over 1,500.

Everyone was praying.

Except me.

I was tearing apart my room. I was pulling books off of hidden stacks in my closet, under my bed, layered on my bookshelf. I was furious. I felt like all the breath had been sucked from my lungs. I had no words. I couldn’t pray.

I was looking for a book called Letters to Malcolm by C.S. Lewis. It’s a short little book about prayer, I remember it having a few chapters on praying when you don’t know how to pray. I was convinced that I needed the book, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.

Finally, exhausted, I gave up.

I knelt on the floor in my room and I wept uncontrollably. I considered giving God an ultimatum: my faith for Masa’s life. I considered telling God that I’d never believe again if he didn’t make good with Masa. I  considered that Masa's death, if he died, would be the end of my Christianity. How could I go on believing in a God who would let something so terrible happen? 

But I didn't have the guts to say that to God. I know my God. I know who he is in trouble and in good times, and I know that no matter what, he's there. Life is really terrible at times and sometimes it's unexplainable, but it's not for us to know, and it's not God's fault that we live in a fallen world- it's ours.

I thought about what Masa would say if he knew about my proposed ultimatum and I decided just to do my best at the praying bit.

I pleaded with God for two days. 

I wasn’t alone. 1,500 other people were also pleading.

When Masa died on January 7, 2012, I cried again, but it was so different from any other death I’d experienced.

I didn’t cry because Masa hadn’t lived a full life or because he’d missed out on something, I knew that he hadn’t missed anything. Masa lived every day to it’s full potential; he saw every sunset and every blue sky. 

I didn’t cry for my own selfish reasons, like I did when my sister died.

When Masa died, I wept for his girlfriend, and for his mother and father, but mostly, I wept for the hundreds of people who he hadn’t met yet, who would never get to meet him, who would never be touched by his life like I was. 

And is each person’s death the same?

How can that be if every life is different?

Is every life different?

In answer to the poem's question, yeah, I think every life is different. I’d like to live a life like Masa lived.

transit of venus

Hello. This is my new blog. 

This morning I drank dark coffee and sorted through old photos for my grandmother’s 100^th birthday party. I watched videos about North Korea on the internet. I got yet another urgent message about paperwork that I thought wasn’t  needed yet. I hoped it would rain more.

I stopped in at work to pick up my idea of an ideal-moving box. It’s sturdy, and squarish, and covered with the Café Vita logo. I guess, my thinking is that when I come back to Seattle, when I visit the tiny room where all my stuff will wait for me in the dark, I’ll want even the outsides of my boxes to reflect my idea of home. Home for me is a coffeeshop. I've been a barista a long time. 

I walked around my store with the box on my head.

I went to Japanese class; my last Japanese class of the year and my last class as an undergrad. After this, it’s just two tests and I’m finished.

But I don’t think I’m finished studying Japanese.

After class, I climbed into my car and spent time thinking about how I felt about the sound of Japanese when I first started studying it. Oh, I hated how it would get stuck in my head. I hated it’s sounds and I was frightened by it’s unfamiliarity.

Now, I feel comforted and at home when I’m enveloped in the sounds of a language that I’m still far from fully comprehending.

It's strange how home is this ever- evolving idea. 

This evening, I ate thai at a sidewalk table outside a coffeeshop while the rain poured off the roof just feet away. 

I read the paper. 

I thought about the unknown future.

I didn't see the transit of venus. It's been too cloudy here in Seattle.

I won’t pretend to know why some days feel more solemn than others. 

You might say it’s the rain.

But I’d say you’re wrong.