Reflections at the art museum
(in memoriam of Yves, a friend)
i see into the white
and i wonder about the last thing you saw
felt
the painter is desolate
the landscape alive
and i see your baseball hat,
omnipresent, protecting you from your future.
or so we thought.
lilies seemingly float on the pond, growing and shrinking
with every day.
they are eternal
eternal
without you here.
3 things I’m grateful for:
1. safety
2. a warm home
3. poetry to capture my emotions
Hello beautiful people!
I’m returning to A Certain Slant of Light after a year of posting. The reasons for this hiatus are simple and complex (per usual): my last year of grad school was intensely busy and I needed a break. Although I enjoyed writing entries, I did not feel like I they were representing my genuine self. The news was constantly depressing, as it still is, and I felt like I was focusing too much on these depressive aspects without also taking care of myself.
These past two years in my social work program, I have learned a lot about self-care. Am I better at it? Not necessarily, but it has led me to practices of gratitude and writing. I hope in my reinvented blog that I will be able to share that with my readers as well as stay faithful to what this blog has always been about for me; reflecting on that certain slant of light that can shine on and transform literature, people, and the world.
Almost two weeks ago, I graduated with my Masters in Social Work (MSW). As I sat through the ceremony, I thought of the two previous graduations I’ve been a part of: high school and undergraduate. Unlike these occasions, I know what I’m going to be doing, what career I’m going to have – at least to a certain extent. At my high school commencement ceremony, I knew I was going to college. At my undergraduate commencement ceremony, I knew I was going to Pennsylvania, to a place called the Sycamore House. I couldn’t ever have imagined that my year in PA would inspire me to be a social worker. There was a marked emphasis on the meaning of graduation at high school commencement and for the life of me, I can’t remember what was said at my undergraduate ceremony. This time, I did pay attention to the speech, which was about struggles in the speakers’ immigration to the U.S. and the entrepreneurial spirit, but what created the most impact for me was what I had written on my cap:
“She Believed She Could So She Did”
And I did!
Now, I can place the letters “MSW” after my name and in the next couple months, I can start calling myself a therapist. A slightly scared, excited, fledgling therapist, but a therapist nonetheless. I am proud that I can add these letters to my name and I am proud that I am training with and joining the legion of therapists. May I be a compassionate, helpful one.
Every week, I try to write down things I’m grateful for. I then deposit them (or an object symbolizing my gratitude) into my gratitude box. After 2 years, it is full and heavy. I am dedicating this space at the end of every entry to share three items of gratitude. Starting… or commencing… now.
I am grateful for:
1. Family
2. The stress of grad school being over.
3. Keeping in touch with old and new friends.
Growing up, my family usually participated in the MLK Day marade that marched – or rather, walked at a leisurely pace – through Downtown Denver. The first year I remember going, my dad pulled me in our little red wagon. Then there was the year we saw and briefly talked to Cleo Parker Robinson. And the year we met our neighbors there. The weather (because this is Colorado after all), was always different. It was windy or hot or chilly or cold with a side of hot chocolate. But two things remained the same for over the years: we went to Chipotle afterwards and… it didn’t mean much to me. I had learned about Rosa Parks, Ruby Bridges, Martin Luther King, Jr. himself, and what they stood for, but I saw the day and the marade as an excuse for no school and a long walk with hundreds of strangers.
In college, even though I had long since discovered racism, both historical and present, MLK Day was admittedly the day before my second semester and quite simply, a day of mental and physical preparation.
Today, I worked. I listened in as a staff member read about MLK to some residents while they ate cake and occasionally interjected with facts or questions. And I returned to listening to and observing the ones I was there to serve. I had learned that all of these civil rights leaders and legends were human and not infallible, but these people I interacted with, even so, more real and equally as impacted by the abuses, neglects, and hatred of the world as the people I learned about in history books.
Listening to a resident describe how he was mistreated by medical professionals and seeing how another resident was abused by family and the world around her, I truly see what racism, sexism, and stigma sound and look like. In some ways, I think working today has been the best experience I’ve ever had of MLK Day. It’s made me feel a little helpless, I have to admit, but mostly, it’s given me another reminder of why I want to be a social worker. Maybe one day instead of feeling helpless, I’ll feel help-ful.
Growing up, little time in school was devoted to the issue of racism. Sure, we learned about the civil rights movement, Martin Luther King, Jr and Rosa Parks. But modern racism was not touched upon. I myself was exposed to a fair amount of diversity and no one I knew was such an outright racist that me, an oblivious kid, noticed. The attitude was: the civil rights era has ended and things are better.
Which is admittedly true to a certain extent. I am quite aware that my interracial relationship would have been illegal not so long ago and very grateful for the progress that the country has made.
But then… Saturday happens and one peaceful protestor is killed and more are injured at a white nationalist rally and that progress seems to have been for nothing. I wish I was surprised by what happened. But the last few months have seen a president supported by the KKK, neo-nazi rallies, and undisguised hate speeches. The violence this weekend was inevitable.
With such darkness and hate, its hard to hope. But I think it is possible. Throughout my facebook feed, I have seen messages of solidarity for Charlottesville, I have seen the inspiring reactions from President Obama and celebrities, I have read and heard sermons about being a neighbor, and I saw how many cities (including Harrisburg and Colorado Springs) have organized “Unite with Charlottesville” events. I look up to Black Lives Matter and others who protest. I also look at my Sycamore House Community, who are now all in different states now, but are all dedicated in their own ways to seeing and standing up to racism.
The combined fans in my room drone on consistently, the sound drifting over to me and playing with the edges of my ponytail. Contacts sitting by my bed in their solution, my eyes glance at the paper in focus and then blindly at the shapes whizzing past my window. I know that they are cars and I know there is water glimmering and reflecting the lights of the city. I know there are trees and I know there are stairs of stone, some steps crumbling, that lead into the river. There is probably a groundhog family nestled in their hole, surrounded by leaves cascading down the hillside. There is probably a man laying under a bridge, grateful it isn’t raining. Maybe in the morning, he will walk into the city, his face toughened by the sun, his beard long, his eyes shining like the stars. This man may walk into the city, breaking bread at a community meal, saying hello to the regulars or staying silent. This man may walk into the city, wandering until he finds a place to stay for the night, be it shelter or sidewalk. This man may be given a small card with a light blue logo and 3 numbers. If so, this man may find a payphone or use his cell phone to dial those 3 numbers. A woman may pick up and say “PA211. May I have your zip code please.” And he may say that he doesn’t have a zip code, that he’s homeless, but he’s in the city. And she will try to the best of her abilities to give him a number or two that will listen to him and give him shelter.
That woman, who he might have said thank you and have a blessed day to, will not know the rest of his story, but will turn around perhaps with a smile, perhaps with a furrowed brow, her mind on the man who called when she hears a soft knock on the door and I will come in, ready to relieve her and listen to the people with stars in their eyes and the moon on their cheek.
2-1-1 is a national number that anyone can call if they need help paying rent, utilities, prescriptions or need a referral for shelter, food pantries, community meals, clothing banks, lawyers, mental health services, and more. The 2-1-1 call center that I work at also provides emotional listening support (not all of them do) for anyone who needs to talk. Our listening service is non-judgmental, confidential, anonymous, and 24/7. Just dial 1-800-932-4616.
Last week, my housemates and I sat in around our living room, writing on different colored strips of paper. Periodically, we would glance at a key in the center of our circle detailing what we should write:
On the yellow: Where we’ve seen joy this year.
On the blue: Where we’ve seen God.
On the purple: What we’ve learned this year that we’ll take into next year.
On the white: What we will do to continue on in service.
After writing, we linked the papers together, sharing our written thoughts as we folded and taped, folded and taped. After all 24 links were in the chain, one of my housemates said, “Now we’re all chained together.”
Lately, I’ve been wondering what our relationships will be like in the years coming. Except for two of my housemates, we will all be in different states instead of rooms only a few steps or flight of stairs away. And except for a wedding in a few months, we don’t have planned meetings in the future. While I have questions, I don’t have any doubts that we will be connected together for a long time. For me, the proof is in what is written in that chain.
I wrote, among other things, that I saw joy and God in each Sycamorean and every one around me. Everyone else’s answers varied, but one thing that they had in common were people because people often have the greatest impact. Some of us wrote that we had gained newfound knowledge of ourselves. Some of us wrote specific acts of service that we will continue to do and some others were more vague. I, for one, will try to be more involved with social justice in whatever community I am. Our answers were all different, but they all had something in common: They were all influenced by each other, further proving that…
“There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them”(Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, J.K. Rowling).
Or rather, there are some things you can’t share without being chained together forever, and being in the Sycamore House together for a year is one of them.
1.
The first time I touched a moth, I shuddered. I discovered it when I crawled out of bed one morning. It was laying, motionless, presumably dead, where my right leg used to be. How long had it slept with me? Had I rolled over it and killed it? How the heck am I getting rid of it? A folded tissue answered my last question, but my revulsion remained.
The second time I touched a moth, I was amazed. Like the first time, it was purely accidental. It flew into my hand and instantly dropped into the car’s cup holder beside me. The collision site was shimmering with the moth’s wing dust, the eyeshadow like dust that gave it flight. Flight, which gave it independence and means to fend for itself. Flight, which it could not live without.
2.
She struggles with the words to describe what she is feeling. “You like being more independent,” I paraphrase what I’ve heard so far. Her breath clouds the phone for a second. “Yes.. that was the word I was looking for. Independent.”
3.
“I really admire your relationship,” my friend says, her long fingers playing with her coffee cup. “You don’t have to be together all the time. You’re independent.”
4.
I loved going to children’s chapel, which took place during the adult’s church service (boring to a five year old). When my brother was sent to get me, I would refuse to hold his hand because I could walk by myself.
5.
In the first grade, my class learned about butterflies. I was obsessed with the word, “chrysalis” for weeks, especially as we watched tiny cocoons in mason jars. I wondered what it was like inside. Was it warm, like when I was wrapped in my parent’s arms? Or was it more like a sleeping bag? Constricting, but oddly comforting? Or is it pure sleep with shadowy dreams of its caterpillar days?
When my Painted Lady butterfly broke out of its chrysalis, it fluttered quietly, discovering it now had wings. And during a warm, spring day we let them go, watching them disappear in sunlight.
A couple weeks ago, my friends and I decided to rent a movie for a girls night. We were going for “Big Hero 6,” but ended up with “Blended,” a comedy with Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore.
I usually am weary when it comes to comedies, especially romantic comedies, but I loved this one. What’s great about it is that is not wholly a traditional romantic comedy. So called “Rom-Coms” usually involve two single people who have great jobs and are typically gorgeous, but not a lot of responsibilities. In this movie, however, the main characters (Lauren and Jim) are both single parents.
Lauren and Jim are both relatively new at being single parents: Lauren is divorced and Jim’s wife died. And both of them have handfuls to deal with: Lauren has two incredibly boisterous boys who remind me somewhat of the Weasley twins and Jim has three girls, one of which is struggling with puberty and a dad who treats her like a boy.
Inadvertently, they end up at resort for families in Africa. Lauren and Jim (like Benedick and Beatrice, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger) don’t like each other at first, but eventually end up becoming mentors for each others’ children.
What struck me about the movie is that it does not pretend that there is dark in the world. While it is clearly a light family movie, it hints as much as it can at deep social issues. It sympathizes with those who do not have it together and the children who are starting to grow aware of themselves. It is thanks to the writers of the screenplay that audiences can see themselves in the teen girl, the boy who complains of his mother, but is incredibly protective of her, and the two parents who fail to connect to their offspring sometimes.
One example of this is a scene in which one of the girls leaves a spot at the table for the mother who she hasn’t let go of yet. Lauren tries to sit down in the reserved seat and the girl (sorry, I don’t remember her name) tells her its taken. Lauren takes a couple seconds to comprehend the situation and then moves to another seat. Throughout the movie, Lauren makes sure that the girl’s mother has a place to sit.
Not only does this attest to the strength of the writer’s minds, but also to the potential for brilliant human understanding and kindness.
On a scale of 1-10, I would give it an 8.5.
I was recently visiting one of my friends from high school. While we were talking, I noticed that I had to clarify which home I was talking about because I currently have two places that I call home: my parent’s house and my own apartment. I’ve thought about this many times before, but for some reason it really struck me this time.
The connotations of “home” are different to everyone.
To me, home is:
A place you have a key to, but you don’t have to use it because the door is opened by a loved one before you get to it.
Where sympathy and cough syrup that tastes like liquified cherry candy is readily available when you’re sick.
Where people who love you and who you love are.
Where people listen to you and sometimes gently tell you that you are wrong.
Where you can wake up in the morning and feel safe.
Where you can get up in the middle of the night and find your way to the bathroom without opening your eyes.
Where you can feel content while being confined indoors because of weather.
Where you keep your most powerful memories.
The definition of “home” from Oxford Dictionaries is cold and does not necessarily fit in with the connotations of the word. It says that home is “the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.” I haven’t been living at my apartment for very long and it already feels like home.
One definition that I like uses it as a verb: return by instinct to its territory after leaving it. This “home” obvious refers to animals, like geese that return to a certain place for the summer. But I think it could be applied to humans because after all….
Home is a place that we return to.
Last Friday, I got the opportunity to see the film “The Power of Forgiveness,” which is directed by Martin Doblmeier, in my philosophy class. Afterwards, I got to sit in on a Q & A with the director himself.
In the film, Doblmeier explores the idea of forgiveness in communities that have been wronged grievously, including Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland, the Amish in Pennsylvania, the Jews, those in the Columbine shooting, and some others.
The documentary did not try to educate its audience on how to forgive. Quite the contrary, it acknowledged that everyone, every community has a different approach to forgiveness. For the Amish, forgiveness is almost automatic, something that they are taught to do all the time. They even applied this concept to the school shooting that happened in their very own backyard, so to speak. Some members talked about how it was a little more difficult than usual, but still they forgave somewhat out of habit. That does not mean that they forgot or even became less angry. Oh no. After all, forgiving is not forgetting. It is letting go of the pain.
I am in my early twenties. I don’t think I have enough years of experience and wisdom to forgive everything and everyone.
I do forgive my roommate from my freshman year who hurt me greatly.
I do forgive mean comments that have come my way over the years.
I do not quite forgive James Holmes, the man who opened fire in a movie theater that I have grown up going to.
I do not forgive Hitler, a man who lived and died before I was even a thought, but still instills terror in me.
One of my classmates stood up at the end of the period and asked if forgiveness isn’t a little selfish because it is typically done for your own well-being and not for the good of the one who wronged you.
I can see his point, but I think the opposite of forgiveness is vengeance and letting the wrong destroy your life and is infinitely more selfish. By letting your pain consume you, you are saying that it matters more than everybody else’s pain.
And the truth is: everybody is in pain of some sort. You are not alone, even if struggles vary from person to person. And it very well may be that part of that struggle is forgiving someone. And forgiving is hard. Hard to understand and do.
But I think that forgiveness brings us together and gives us peace, which is, I believe what human beings crave. In the end.