What more is the point other than coming upon this earth in order to leave with it your fragrant perfume that stirs nostalgia like the paste from elementary school classrooms. I started out today with this beautiful image in my mind of imprints of my footsteps being fossilized into words. The thread read, “Fossilization of spoken steps towards immortalizing essence.” Because the whole point for me has been to figure out immortality. Not in the physical sense, but more in the “I was here, I make my imprint, and remember me dear earth.” way.
Driving to my jobs along the coast, I pictured myself carrying morsels of peace in my pocket fumbling around the darkness as I tramped with bounce by chance that some of these pieces may fall and nestle warm into the sand and some unsuspecting stroller would trip over it laughing along the fall with the swish of the waves. And in the distance somewhere, I spread my arms, I spread my fingers, I spread myself like wings to the gentle, yet invigorating kisses that spray from mother’s kisses and her sweet scent sweeping over hungry senses.

And I begin the evening humbled and with an abundance of gratitude because I had the chance to hear Alan Watts tell me, I am only whole if I die and my existence in light and in darkness is the same. I accept my mortality and will still strive to live the same because nothing has changed except I know one absolute truth. What more is there to know, and what more can be beautiful but the whole experience.

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Musing Nude #2

I’ve been working with children for a decade now, whether it’s teaching piano, writing, book clubs, test prep, or even just playing with my friends children and now my own. “I love my students! I love children!” Have become one of those mantras that spills out of my mouth without even realizing it. Something about their inability to lie, even when they think they are, makes me admire them just as candidly. The way they cannot help but be themselves has me feel at ease around them. I can make goofy faces, speak like a muppet, and not have to suck it all in around any child. Even the most personal things to me such as play the piano or even shed tears is easier to do around children.
I’ve realized recently that when I try to play the piano in front of anyone besides children, my leg shakes so uncontrollably that my heart vibrates rather than beat. I don’t know how I was able to perform when I was younger or when this condition started.
To go off on a tangent, I have started this blog because I really just wanted to write and get over my fears of exposing myself to people. One day as I was taking a shower, since this is the place for many of my epiphanies, I said “Fuck it!” which is also another mantra of mine and I say this positively. Why should I fear people seeing me, hearing me, knowing me, when all of my passions and ironically jobs are just that. However there is something more personal when I expose my creativity and not just teaching. So I started this blog as a way to write where people can read me as well as write in all honesty whatever it is that I’m thinking without fear of being judged because “Fuck it!” I have this life and I love it and fear has never really been the reason behind the secrecy.
A couple nights ago, one of my beloved precious students passed away and I wanted to stop writing because I didn’t want people to know what I was thinking or maybe I didn’t even know what is appropriate. I didn’t curse God like I did a few years back when my best friend passed. I didn’t feel acceptance and a little relief like I did a couple years back when my 94 year old grandma with cancer passed. I have no anger, although from experience I might be speaking to soon. I just feel sad. But the word sad doesn’t even rightly describe it. When people use cliches such as “My heart feels heavy!” I get it now. When people say any of their extremities went limp, I get it now. When people talk about their head spinning or a numbing, I get it now. There really is no other way to describe the hurt and pain I felt when I learned of the sweet little child’s passing.
Is it ok for me to speak in public about something so personal? “Fuck it” I don’t know, but I have been trying to write each day, and these thoughts sneak in and I have been accepting them with tears. When my son asks, “Why are you sad Mommy!” All I can do is answer the same way he would, “whaaaa! I just am. Excuse me for a bit but I will be ok sometime. Promise.” And he accepts this. I look at him and feel grief for any and all parents who have to go through this because I honestly don’t understand it. I don’t know what to say or if I should say anything at all. All I can accept is that I will be plagued with hard tongue biting thoughts, but I have to keep moving, keep doing what it is I do. I know the pain will subside and even today, I got to practice and guide yoga on the sand on the beach. I want to say that even with the grief, I am still capable of feeling blessed that this life is here and I can enjoy the fact that I live in a beautiful place where the sun loves to shine down on us. I took many moments to give thanks, to acknowledge beauty, and send out a prayer for the sweetest little girl who is now on a different journey, though I will not assume anything more about the unknown. Bless it be to everyone!

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We the Imaginators

We the Imaginators think up the fantastic and the scientists, they fall in love and bring form to the chimerical into beauteous light.
We the creators conjure the images of our mind, whilst the mad with their belief place in it the feelings from our heart.
We are not playing at anything divine.
We, the Imaginators, have a design.
We are inspiring life to dream beyond the day into that surreal place that exists in the nerve of our spine.
We put it down in words, in melodies, in pictures across the canvas for all to see.
Shout it out for all to hear, and if they don’t come?
Let us Whisper so they’ll stretch their necks and crowd in close because even if they don’t get it,
The appeal is enough to spark a curiosity and ignite in the future creators, the future magicians, the future Imaginators,
The passion to dare the impossible.
The spark will blaze in the crown of those who have the gun powder to make it go poof!
“Abracadabra!” And like that it is!
Bend the note in the 16th and then Replay it until it makes sense you’ll see.
Bend the note on the 16th and repeat it until it makes sense.
You’ll see the note bend on the 16th and repeat until it makes a new beat. You see they’ll all be singing it.
If it does not supply our bellies, let it feed our souls and sustain us with the endurance for us to fast and then create in that space where we can let go of the whining of the ego.
That place where magic comes when succumbing to the courage of our passions,
Stomping out the fears of our failures.
We the Imaginators, who flirt with the magicians, make change to the world.

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Precious Heart

With eyes so bright they glimmer in the dark,

She sings,”Why Miss Hannah, I like whatchyu wearin.

But why do I have to play the piano when I don’t want to teach piano.

I wanna play the violin. And why you always smilin when I say that.”
I will have to tell her when I see her,

“It’s the strength I admire coming forth from delicate lips,

If I could take an X-Ray of your heart and plaster it across the sky

For the world to see what Strength is,

People would tie the picture to poles and hang em outside their door

and be proud of being made from the same flesh, the same bones, the same blood.”

“And why you always gotta count at me Miss Hannah?”

See she speaks the language of poetry, like my son too,

These children, the ones whose eyes reflect the whole ocean, they speak in a way that sounds like song.

But her strong heart must have been working double, because right now it’s resting,

along with those sparkling eyes,

The song is being sung somewhere I might find darker than I’d like,

I know it’s being sung by the sweet little voice that knows not how to talk,

but to sing poetry with conviction of a soul who’s been around longer than I.

and next time she says, “Miss Hannah, why I have to learn to play these keys with my fingers, when my feet can do the same?”

I must reply, “Miss Amara, i forget sometimes that you are the teacher and not I.”

Dedicated to Amara Baker

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Rest in Peace Sweet Child

Dah-Hee

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A fortune teller gave me my Korean name Dah-Hee. During lunch with my Dad, I learned the meaning and how I attained my name. My Dad took a 15 year sabbatical and took to gardening, singing, and dancing. After school he’d have lunch ready with a story about his past. He is an amazing storyteller although it’s unclear how much of it actually happened and how much is a fancy from his imagination. Regardless of the validity, the point is always honest.

“How come no one calls me by my Korean name.”

“Your name means full of laughter. Uh, Halmuhnee, She bought your name.”

“How did she buy it?” My grandma was a very devout Christian. She became born again during a time in Korea it was dangerous, but her feet also never uprooted from the soil of her land either. She was a strong woman and God was not stopping her from talking to fortune tellers because she was a woman of spirit.

“When you were born, she went to the best fortune teller and bought your name. The name is good. It’s a beauty. It matches you too. The name Hannah I got from my best friend’s, friend’s daughter. Aw she was sooo cute.” He likes to slur and draw out his word to emphasize how he really feels, which makes sense because I think the Korean language is really expressive. A statement and question only differ by intonation.

My Halmuhnee, the woman who loved to sing, dance, juggle, cook, and tell stories, taught me life. She named me by buying a proper name for me, which suits me really well. I laugh. I laugh with my mouth open and eyes closed. I laugh through life. Happiness with teary eyed laughter, sadness with pained soft laughter, and anger with burning eyed laughter, I laugh. Either the prophet was really prophetic or it was the name which was, but I look up to heaven because I always give thanks to Halmuhnee for having the wisdom for knowing and carving an illusive road in the right direction. So give thanks and Bless.

A Speak Through Running Fingers

I pounded the plastic for hours trying to convey the emotive heart with growing frustration, yet also finding myself understanding the problem because how am I supposed to blame a digital thing for not measuring up to its guts and strings version.
He says, “It sounds good. It sounds like a grand piano. Do you like how it sounds?”
“I don’t hear it. Actually I don’t ever hear myself play.”
Aghast, “You don’t hear yourself play? What do you hear?”
“I guess I hear the melody in my head and playing on this keyboard, I can’t feel what I hear.” And that really is the difference between the digital and the acoustic piano.
I’m so used to feeling my expression as my fingers gleam the keys that transcend the physical senses and brings me closer to the vibrations reverberating from celestial whispers.
With the digital, I’m pounding and hitting! I’m trying to speak, but I feel muted, as if I’m trying to actually hear spoken words form in dreams before realizing I’m dreaming, and of course words are never really spoken because a dream is really a moment of understanding the language of souls.
And then I hear the digital recording play back and the product contradicts every emotion I felt playing the big plastic box because I hear the melody from my mind and heart.
I sit down in conclusion after playing for several hours to listen and I realize that I just don’t understand it and maybe it is beautiful too, if I don’t expect it to do something that the acoustic counterpart does.

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Freud and I

He asks, “How much do you love me?”
“Like infinite times! That’s a lot!” I answer back as I stare back at him from the rear view mirror. And I say this as I think to myself about my voyeuristic tendencies.
“I love you like…one thousand, eighty-nine, five hundred twenty-eight, hundred thousand, two. Is that like a billion, momma?”
“Yes definitely and maybe more son.”
“And infinite. I love you that much and that’s a lot!” He exclaims big eyed and serious. “Momma I wish I was an adult so I can marry you.”
“Yeah but Mommas and Sons don’t marry. The bond we have is way different and way stronger.”
And all this time I wonder if I first majored in psychology as a way to get myself ready to handle these parenting situations correctly. I have internal dialogues with Freud on the regular even though sometimes these hashings turn into debates.
And I want my son to know everything I know- no lies, misgivings, and bending the truths. I love bending rules just enough to stay within the boundaries of being clipped by rubber, but not when guiding the future ones. Be honest, and they’ll be honest. Be moral, and they’ll be moral. Respect, and they’ll respect. Fear not, create lots, and they’ll grow up holding satchels of hope in vibrant colored knapsacks.

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Musing Nude #1

Elijah is a lot like me. All he wants is to find someone who will do all the things he enjoys with him.

I know it’s important to have alone time. Everyone always says it to a point that makes me self conscious.

But there are things I can do alone, such as paint, read, play piano, watch a movie, or write.

So one would think that if I were alone all the time, I would have come to my accomplishments, but that’s not true.

Because I spend so much time really enjoying these experiences in between what I call “work” which I say with a smile because it’s pretty ironic to think we must label every part of our lives with categories – work, play, rest, love, making love, making sustenance- it’s all just living. All my work, my family, my son, my art, these things “things” are simply living, as I sleep and I conjure.

But in completely spilling forth my soul, I am not fearful and admittedly also love to have witness and companion to truth.

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Forgotten Valentines

Before the day ends and the night begins, let me apologize, Love,
For being so inconsiderate.
I did not have much time Love!
I did not have much time to prepare a thing Love!
I did not have much time because I was so busy yesterday
Thinking about how your smile each morning makes me wish I could melt into bed.
And the day before I was thinking about the way your eyes have this amazing glint when in deep thought about many of your phantasmagorical escapades.
I did not have much time to glance at my calendar to see what day it was Love
Because I have been so busy thinking about your charming idiosyncrasies
Such as the charming way you sit and stare with only one sock,
And hum songs of the beautiful and the profane.
So forgive me for forgetting to do anything on Valentines day, Love,
For I get lost in Love sometimes.

Dedicated to Jose Jurado

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The Dark Side of Being Stigmatized a Tomboy

I remember staring at my dirty little size 12 feet after running through the streets and building forts with my younger brother and his friends. I remember how grand it all was (it being this thing we call life, though I didn’t have a word for it then). As I grew, my Momma was persistently trying to mind my awkward habit of sitting with my legs open in a dress and mold me into a lady, which I fought and insisted on playing with boys. I enjoyed the feeling of my heart racing because of the physical sport of playing and later enjoyed again the same racing beats from innocent glances that reflected my admiration.
People around me were convinced I was a tomboy and admittedly I must have been one by default. I loved the way boys view politics (all of it), their taste in literature (from Hemingway to Batman), and their somewhat apathetic approach to love. However it also made me ashamed to love the things “chicks” love. I began to feel self conscious and would have to make an excuse when I felt the call to venture to a theater to watch a Jennifer Aniston movie with shame and guilt because I enjoyed it. When one of my girlfriends would fantasize about her perfect wedding, I’d smile with no quip, even though I must have dreamt the same events several times since I had black bottomed feet.
Now as a grown woman who dresses like a girl, walks one foot in front of the other like a girl, giggles like a girl, and cries tears for all happy, sad, frustrated, angry, and touching moments like a girl, I am confessing that I am a closet romantic. In order to get my fix, I used to succumb to secretly watching the corniest romantic B-rated TV movies. There were moments I would go as far as having a bowl of ice cream, a box of tissues, and the remote control in hands reach just in case. If I would get caught in reverie thinking about silly dreams of little hearts who wished one day to dance under starlight for no reason, my fast acting masculine brain would respond “oh sorry, I was just thinking about how Star Wars has made its way from popular fiction to a valid religion of good vs evil and how it really is all the same.”
The stigma that was placed in me, mostly by Korean mothers, but not excluding teachers, boys, and other girls, has made it difficult for me to embrace my femininity with the same kind of shame that makes some girls eat before a date. So I am deciding to lay it all down and confess that I love flowers, talks about love and fancy, and to be swept off my feet as such a scene from Breakfast At Tiffany’s. I declare I will castrate my symbolic balls and attempt to read Twilight in public so that I can once and for all shed tears of delight when two lovers kiss because it really is that beautiful. Amen

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