Category: gratitude

To dance with my father again

Many tragedies have already occurred this year – both in my personal realm and out in the larger realms of this country and the world. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and I try to celebrate my family every day (even from afar): steeping myself in gratitude for their love and hope for their well-being. This Sunday is Father’s Day, which always falls on or close to my birthday.

* * *

When my sister and I were kids, my mom would give us pots and pans to bang on like drums. In the living room we had free reign to hold big spoons up like microphones and giggle while shaking our little behinds. Mom would laugh, telling us how we were so good at “扭屁股” as toddlers.

My father listened to all the songs you’d expect a dad from his generation to listen to. I remember groaning in the mornings when I’d hear Broadway musical songs start blasting through the thin walls. I’d cover my ears, fully knowing that this was his subtle morning wake up call. He always preferred to have Rodgers and Hammerstein take the heat of a teenager’s wrath at getting up early. As a side effect, I learned all the lyrics to “The King and I,” “Sound of Music,” and “Fiddler on the Roof.” He would put Peter, Paul and Mary cassette tapes on repeat, and he made us attend guitar classes to learn folk songs.

Yet there was always a chasm that I couldn’t cross to get close to him: the stereotypical strict and stoic “Asian dad” that sternly directed me to the collection of World Book Encyclopedias rather than answer my questions himself. Like the way he placed Broadway musical songs in between us and him, I felt that he wedged his career in there too. In lieu of “I love you,” he would declare variations of “Go study harder.” I was terrified of him, not because he was mean, but because he was always the strong, strict silent type. And I wanted to be perfect for him, I never wanted to let him down. I thought that you were supposed to be terrified of your dad. Maybe as a kid that’s the only way you know how to feel when you’re in awe.

He always worked incredibly hard to help the people around him. I didn’t see him as much as I hoped because he’d often leave for work before I woke up and return after I had already gone to bed.

A few years ago I went to a restaurant in Houston’s Chinatown for lunch. The restaurant owner came up to our table and started chatting with me in Mandarin. When he found out the name of my father he bowed to me out of respect. I stood there in shock. Because I rarely interacted with my father outside of his strict requests for me to behave or do better in school, I was unspeakably moved at how revered my father is in his community; like a king, even.

So one of my fondest memories is a big cliché, but it’s a cliché because it matters. Though he often spent more hours at the office than at home, I remember the few occasions during which he would put my tiny toddler feet on his feet to dance around the living room, and sing in a Sinatra-like voice (with a pretty thick Taiwanese accent). Whirling around the room with my handsome dad grinning at me, I felt like a star in a musical.

My parents came to the States knowing almost no English. They met each other here while studying at university in South Carolina. They never had the means or time to take a honeymoon together. I think often with indescribable gratitude about how they have encouraged (or at least silently conceded to) my adventurous curiosity and desire to live my life fully.

Though I’m sure my mom worried endlessly over the years as I went on frequent trips, I have been filled with gratitude that they’ve given me a life that allows me to chase my wanderlust to far corners of the world. My first solo backpacking trip found me in Paris along the Seine, watching people dance the polka to live music. I promised myself I’d learn how to dance it, and my senior year I took a ballroom class and whirled around the room laughing while boys arduously led me into the merry polka steps. I felt determined that one day I’d be able to take my parents to places they were never able to see when they were younger.

In November of last year, I casually texted my mom about where she would like to travel if she had more free time. She loves sitting at home in the living room watching travel shows, and we talked longingly of colorful India. She quickly added, “But first, New York City to see you.” I had to be sneaky because it’s difficult to get my mom to agree for me to do nice things for her. So I covertly booked the plane tickets that night.

My mom (with her well-worn skill of basking in Taiwanese and Texan heat) feared it would be too cold in New York City in December but braved it anyway. My parents’ first time in the city, and luck was on our side as the benevolent sunlight shone down on us. While researching good things to do that weekend, I stumbled upon an incredible coincidence: “The King and I” was playing again in New York City during a Broadway revival tour at the Lincoln Center. We had the amazing opportunity to go together, and I still remember my Dad’s eyes, silently watching in real life this musical he had loved for decades from afar.

Afterwards, I asked him if he enjoyed the show. “Well, it didn’t put me to sleep,” he responded with a smile. Which, in case it isn’t clear, is a compliment of the highest order with my dad.

After watching the musical, on their final day in New York City, I took my parents to Central Park. We walked past the Shakespeare statue, and I talked about how I would dance tango with friends during the summertime in this part of the park. During the “King and I” song “Shall We Dance?” Anna teaches the King how to dance the polka.

I exclaimed to my dad, “Would you like for me to teach you how to polka?”

Even now, the little girl inside of me is a little bit terrified of him. I steeled myself for my dad’s stoic scoff and possible responses: that we were in public, that he was tired, that he’d be embarrassed. To my amazement, he held out his hands to me. I showed him the step slowly. And we danced around the statue, laughing and shuffling as I hummed a polka beat while breathlessly counting “one two three AND, one two three AND” while the sun shone down on us in New York City in December.

The King, and I.

2016

I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain; and never shut myself up in a numb core of non-feeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. To learn and to think; to think and live; to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.

— The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

A turn of events at the end of the year leaves me even more contemplative and evaluative about the coming days. Immediately after the news, I went for a run. Steady feet, quickened breath, cool and heavy Houston air. I realized again for the umpteenth time how lucky I am, how marvelous it is that my legs work. I haven’t forgotten to have gratitude for it, and I hope I never will.

***

Sometime in the middle of last year, I wrote my 1,000th post on this particular blog. I finished with 154 posts in total for all of 2015. I created a new website, became a New York City subway expert (I can guide you anywhere, really!), and was lucky enough to eat at a lot of new restaurants. I did my first handstand, which has been a goal since 3 years ago. I learned more about cooking. I read a lot of books. I practiced being okay with feeling deeply, instead of fighting it.

Meanwhile, somewhat unintentionally, my writing here has changed. Instead of a hodgepodge of quick notes, it’s turned into a collection of longer, more edited entries. Over dinner one night, a friend encouraged me to publish more. I resist publishing at times because I feel censored in what I say and pressure to edit out imperfections. “Publishing makes you a better writer,” he insisted in response.

So with a deep breath, I’ll try to publish more. With intent. I thought about a few other things that I would like to work on in the coming year(s), and I’ll think about ways to make them measurable:

Be persistent.
Debbie Millman said, “Expect anything worthwhile to take time.”
Leave room for uncertainty and creativity.
My entries here have become more formal, but I want to retain a balance of whimsy. Don’t engineer the art out of life. Don’t plan a trip so specifically that you miss the chance to wander and get lost. Don’t compose so strictly that there is no room for the improvisation in jazz. Imagine immensities. Even if you’re scared. Even if you’re uncertain.
Be brave enough to find stillness.
It takes a lot of bravery to be still these days. The “fear of missing out” can feel overwhelming, but sometimes the richest adventure can be found in the quietest, stillest moments.
Speak up.
There’s a reason why communication is so important in life. In conversation the other day, a friend and I talked about how “language is the bridge between our hearts.” It’s not always a perfect bridge, and it takes courage to cross it. The times that I have been able to find you on the other side, it’s been worth the risk.

I’m still cautious and working on opening up. I am so grateful to the people who have inspired and supported me. The ones who continue to encourage me daily to reach toward passion and beyond my hesitations.

The only thing holding me back from doing my first handstand was trust in myself. I was strong enough, I just needed to believe that I could do it and let go of all my fear. I still find myself wondering, “What if I mess up? What if it’s not worth it?”

But hasn’t it all already been worth it? Isn’t it amazing? Falling is part of flying.

Paraphrasing Anaïs Nin: the risk to remain closed becomes much greater than the risk to open.

Life is gigantic, and we don’t have much time. It took stepping away from my computer to find the words to finish this post. So let’s get lost together, let’s play some jazz.

Cheers to 2016, and living fully. So it begins, again and again.

The Art of Losing

Almost exactly 3 years ago, I wrote my 500th blog post here on “rose in midair.” The blog I wrote on immediately before that was “becoming.rosekuo.org,” which I took offline. I’ve since written about 500 more posts here.

Three years ago, I was living in the green hills of Pennsylvania. Falling in love with men who wrote me heartfelt letters. Dancing a lot. Pretty much my life on repeat.

I practice reading back on my paper journals and blog entries — to remember, to forget, to indulge in knowing that nothing lasts, to know that pain is temporary, and that despite the odds, I am still here (!)

Memories are a funny thing. My most recent TinyLetter was about the art of losing that which we love.

An example of the universe converging: the day after I sent that TinyLetter, I read Josh Wagner’s Instructions for Life addressed to his 18-year-old self. Wagner writes:

You thought you loved this thing but really you loved the arrows that burned around you. And now your entire focus becomes how do I get rid of what took me so long to achieve? Because it no longer feels like the end-all-be-all of your entire life. Now it feels like guilt and confusion and naturally you have to wonder if you’re completely broken as a human because aren’t we supposed to want something and then have it and then we’re happy? But what you’ve forgotten is you don’t actually have it. We never have anything.

Here’s the painful truth you already know. Nothing lasts. Everything ends. The only eternal element in life is change. We call phrases like this cliché and roll our eyes when we hear them because we hate it. We hate that we’re going to die. In the morning we’re pushed out of the airplane and by sunset we’ll be a memory on the sidewalk.

So what to do on the way down?

If something has an expiration date you can let it spoil or you can turn it into fuel. What you have now in your arms, what you’ve struggled so hard to achieve, is ready fuel. You know you can’t keep it so you have two options: you can put it in a landfill or you can set it on fire.

…

Don’t be afraid to love. But first make sure you don’t think you know how.

Stop putting all that work into agonizing over the imminent loss of everything you love. Simply love. While it’s still right there in front of you. Time not spent burning is draining, every bit of it trickling away at one second per second. Do you want a landfill piled up over your bones or do you want a trail of fire through the sky?

And when you do fall in love—and you will, again and again and again—don’t stop falling just because you hit the ground.

Recently, the thought of loss has followed me quietly. Maybe it’s the feeling of getting older. Maybe it’s my heart flexing, preparing for the inevitable. Maybe it’s the habit of having lost so many times before, and the desire to protect my heart from it again. A discussion about love not being a zero-sum game haunts me, because it’s difficult to accept grey in a world where binary definitions make things easier:

In game theory and economic theory, a zero-sum game is a mathematical representation of a situation in which each participant’s gain (or loss) of utility is exactly balanced by the losses (or gains) of the utility of the other participant(s).

I don’t know what compels me to continue writing similar stories two decades later.

Italo Calvino writes, “Memory’s images, once they are fixed in words, are erased. Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it, or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little.”

I did once think this, and I would sometimes stay silent for fear of losing the thing I wanted to speak of. It’s a particular kind of vulnerability, to speak of something out loud, to address it. But now, I don’t know if I agree — because maybe by speaking of cities, my capacity to keep them grows stronger. While speaking of other cities, New York City patiently awaits my faithful return.

Like those scenes in the movie Inception in which buildings come apart in dreams, I imagine my losses to be just as prevalent and devastating. Everything good in this life comes more slowly than we have patience for — our urgency makes every small step seem a catastrophe, because we haven’t yet arrived at the destination we are reaching for.

I guess this is still the age-old thought: let the journey fill your arms, you know. Let optimism startle you, even convince you a for a little while. This has been the theme. Write on. Love on, through the windy nights. Love on, through the stormy ones. Love on, for this can be our sunlight — our trail of fire through a constant sky.