Plugged In

We are so often plugged in--to our smartphones, iPods, laptops, etc. Sometimes it's a way to defy--or cope with--loneliness. Instead of just walking or waiting alone, we plug ourselves into our devices to look like we have something to do other than stand around in solitude. Contrastingly, sometimes it's a way to create your own bubble. "Leave me alone. I'm listening to music and doing something important as I avert eye contact with everybody." Regardless, we have become so constantly plugged in that we've lost a considerable amount of sight of the outside world. Even if that is the purpose of plugging in, we need to reconnect with the community and pay more attention to our surroundings, be more aware of and courteous to others...by unplugging every once in a while.

By being plugged in, we risk missing out on many things--from hearing a friend say hello in passing to recognizing someone needs help onto the bus (I actually experienced this the other day), from catching the bell tower strike noon to listening to the wisp of swaying trees. This connection to technology and subsequent disconnection from other people and nature is quite concerning. But then again, who's to say that we are lost for hope?
Heidegger, a 20th century political theorist, claims that technology has caused people to miss the essence of things. Technology is supposed to bring forth and reveal the "truth" (essence) of objects and of itself, and yet, it enframes--and in that sense obstructs--our view of the world. Constantly plugging in limits how we see, hear, and experience the world.

If anything... Consider the effects of always having earbuds or earphones in our ears, especially for those of us who listen to things on high volume! If anything, it's a good idea to let our ears rest every so often and listen to the beautiful--or destructive, but who says destruction can't also be beautiful--sounds of nature. It's quite a pleasant contrast, really, between the bass and boom of hip-hop and the chirps and chimes of birds. (Then again, the bass and boom of traffic could arguably reiterate that of music.)

So, unplug every now and then and bask in the noise of nature, silence of solitude, and all that jazz.

Cups

In my Chinatown home, I always had a cup. That cup was for water, milk, juice, and sometimes even soup. That cup was a Styrofoam cup. It was disposable, it was clean, it was temporary. I halfheartedly rinsed the cup before each use, haphazardly tossed it into the fridge afterward, and heartlessly threw it away after a week or two. I thought I was cool for "getting a new cup" every week.

And then today at work while picking from six communal espresso cups, I realized that having your own, permanent cup somewhere is a sign of your belonging and permanence there. In the cupboard above the sink is an array of company mugs with their respective owners' names printed on them. I don't have one yet, and actually prefer to use one of the six communal, anonymous espresso cups--whether for coffee or for water--for now, because I don't know my condition of permanence here. I suppose that having your own cup is analogous to committing to the company.

But I never felt impermanent in Chinatown. Perhaps it was merely my lack of knowledge of and understand about commitment? Or maybe my parents just didn't want me to handle something as "serious" or "dangerous" as glass or ceramic (or even plastic?).
Or maybe I was just lazy and comfortable with the Styrofoam cups.

Now I have a glass for water, milk, juice, and sometimes even soup--at home as well as my apartment. Is it fair to say that I have grown up?

______________________________________________

...This is the nonsense I come up with at work.

Lemons, cont'd

(a continuation of "Life and Lemons")

...But no matter which lemon you pick, it's only a matter of time before the rind turns wrinkly, the flesh turns dry, and the yellow turns moldy. Because everything, no matter how fresh, juicy, plump--and full of potential--it initially seems, comes to an end, and that is the sour reality.

And that is why, while you must be aware of and heed limits, you don't just stop picking. Once your basket has emptied of the best lemon(s) you have ever picked, once your glass has emptied of the best lemonade you have ever squeezed--you smack your lips and "mmm" in satisfaction of what you just had, rub your hands together and "hmm" in preparation of what you can have. And you go out and stand in the middle of the down-sloping hill again, bracing yourself for whatever tumbles down from the top.

Why don't you simply accept that what you just had was the peak of your existence and stop hogging up space on that hill? Because, assuming that lemons are the only source of nutritional fluids (notwithstanding artificial sweetening) available, your thirst will become overwhelming. If everybody were to stop picking lemons, then there would be no progress, especially in terms of individual satisfaction. Life would be stagnant, with everybody having become complacent about where they are, what they have done. Soon, that empty glass will be marked with the murkiness of undesired water spots rather than the meniscus of enticing lemonade; soon, that empty basket will be filled with the bundles of sneeze-inducing dust rather than the harvest of mouth-watering lemons. Meanwhile, the bottom of the hill will be scattered with unpicked, un-squeezed, un-taken lemons, all gone to waste because you decided to let some perfectly good--albeit some better than others, of course--lemons go to waste, because you let them roll right down the spot where you should have been standing. What a shame.

So, don't settle for an empty glass or even a bad glass (of lemonade). Live your individual freedom, optimize your individual satisfaction: don't stop picking lemons.

Life and Lemons

Sometimes, life gives you an empty bucket. Other times, it throws lemons at you like tennis balls out of a machine.

Just when I thought I had an empty bucket, I encountered a great lemon: fresh, plump, bright yellow lemon. "This'll make for some great lemonade," I thought. I began to squeeze the lemon, indulging in every drop of cheek-tingling, tangy juice. All of a sudden, another lemon rolled toward my feet, and my eyes steered away from the one I was already juicing to the one I could be juicing. Surely, I couldn't squeeze both at once, because I have only so much focus, time, and effort. I couldn't immediately stop juicing the first one because I had only started. At the same time, I couldn't simply let the second lemon--just as fresh, plump, and bright yellow--roll away right before my eyes.

I wanted to take full advantage of both lemons. I wanted to juice the first one and to pick up the second one. I wanted to keep and savor both, but the problem was, I could do only one before its opportunity rolled or dried away. I had to stop squeezing one and pick up the other, or continue juicing one and let the other go. It had to be one way or the other; it couldn't possibly be both.

When life gives you lemons, you're in the middle of a down-sloping hill. It starts at the top. Sometimes, nothing rolls down, and you're left standing by yourself, desperately yearning for any lemon at all--ripe or raw, plump or pruny, bright yellow or dingy green--to quench your thirst. Other times, an entire harvest of lemons tumbles down, and you're left with two hands to intentionally and purposefully pick up whatever speedily passes you by. In the latter case, you must be diligent and deliberate, wary and wise. You can't simply pick up any lemon, because no two are of equal quality or character. Certainly, you want the cream--or juice, as the case may be--of the crop, but you're so easily blinded by the sudden availability and abundance of lemons that you forget you can have only a certain amount. You're so giddy with excitement that you forget your cup can hold only so much lemonade. You lose sight of limits, and in doing so, the sourness that is supposed to be pleasant transforms into one that is unsettling.

Then what? You have to take antacids. Drink milk? You have to do whatever it takes to recreate a balance in your system, in your life. Sure, lemons contain plenty of vitamin C, but everything in moderation, right?

In conclusion,
When life gives you lemons, pick carefully. (When it doesn't, just wait.)

The Calm (before the storm?)

I believe I have finally reached the calm that I had frantically been seeking for several months. I have finally taken opportunities which stood right in front of me and pursued what I know or suspect I want. And I'm in a better place (not that I was in a bad place to begin with, don't get me wrong) because of this.

Not until recently did I truly learn the significance of the following cliches:

The first step is the hardest step.
You never know until you try.

The first step really is the hardest. There have been too many great opportunities I have passed up simply because I was too reluctant to fill out an extensive application, too lazy to write a cover letter, too comfortable to consider a change. But once I decided to get myself over the seemingly impossible hump, all the open doors became much clearer to see. It really isn't difficult to revise your resume, to email HR, or to do anything. The hardest thing is just to get yourself to do it. Surely, the comfort zone is great, but it isn't necessarily the only one, nor is it necessarily the most satisfying.
And on this note, you just never know until you try. We miss out on so many potentially wonderful things when we keep our eyes and minds closed and decide to stay "comfortable." Granted, there's always the chance of rejection when we do step out of our comfort zones, but at least we'll have tried and learned. I distinctly remember the following line from Disney's 1999 movie, "Smart House"--

You try and you fail. You try and you fail. The only true failure is when you stop trying.

We have to let ourselves out every once in a while and allow failure in order to learn. Learning doesn't stop when you get your college diploma. It doesn't stop once you've established your career. It's perpetual, and every first step, every pursuit will result in some kind of lesson, and in that sense, a kind of success.

In any case, I find that I have been a lot happier lately because of the pursuits I have undertaken in various aspects of my life. Admittedly, many of them do not come into fruition, but that's okay, because I know that I have at least gone after what I think could be good for me. Previously, I blogged about "the chase" and how much I missed it. A short while after that post was when I decided to take initiative with my life. I began to chase after what (I thought) I wanted, and things have been looking up since then.

By deciding that I am going to teach English abroad for either a summer or a year after I graduate college, I have regained some certainty in my future plans. By seriously considering the education minor and deciding to stay my fourth year in college, I have regained a sense of purpose in my academics. By applying for various jobs and internships outside of school, I have regained confidence in my professional skill set. By beginning to volunteer to tutor English, I have reaffirmed my love for English as well as my interest for teaching (more on this below).
I believe I have finally reached the calm--and subsequent lighthearted happiness--that I had been seeking. It seems contradictory that by putting more on my (previously seemingly empty) plate, I feel more lighthearted and calm than before. I don't know how to quite explain it, other than reiterating the confidence and certainty that have reappeared in my life.

Recently, I began tutoring with Project W.I.L.D. at school. Every Saturday (though I've gone only twice out of four times so far), we go to an elementary school in Rosemead to tutor English grammar/ writing skills to immigrant/ ESL students. The first week, I tutored a student who I could barely hear and who could barely understand me. But when he finally understood the concepts of commas and plural/ singular nouns, I was delighted! It wasn't even that I was happy; my heart was happy. It was challenging, I admit, but that's what made the "Ah, I get it!" moment all the more rewarding. Similarly, last week, I tutored a student who immigrated to the U.S. from China only six months ago. He barely knew any English, but his earnest desire to simply learn English was so encouraging. I taught him in English and Chinese, and translated words and phrases to him as he wrote them down in Chinese. We communicated in Mandarin and Cantonese, and I learned a lot about him and his background. He learned singular/ plural verbs, past and present tense. At the same time, he taught me a few Chinese words and reminded me of how to write them. It was wonderful.

I shall write more next time, as I am now itching to watch another episode of "24"!

With this song I leave you:

The Chase

I miss the chase. I miss chasing and being chased. Looking at one old photo in particular reminds me of the several times in the beginning he said, "I'm going to chase you." I thought, "Psh, okay. You've already got me anyway." Maybe I shouldn't have adopted and demonstrated that attitude so quickly. Perhaps I should have just let the chase and the subsequent excitement persist. But what difference would that have made except maybe slightly prolong the duration of the whatever-it-was?

I can't expect to be chased--though chaste, I can expect to be (bad joke, sorry). I also can't chase just to chase, because that would leave me breathless. Additionally, though I know it's the 21st century and I do have slightly feminist views, I often feel immodest in my pursuits. Initially, the excitement and uncertainty will entice me, but eventually, it is the same uncertainty that pulls me back. Okay, admittedly, the former uncertainty is one of whether and how to go about the pursuit. The latter uncertainty is one of whether the chase will be futile. This is just regarding people.

The chase regarding goals is even worse. I can't even expect to be chased back! It's an unending run, a never-ending pursuit, one goal after another. It gets exhausting and sometimes even frustrating, but in not pursuing or chasing anything, I would be seen as ambition-less, useless, or hopeless, which--excuse my pride--is worse than failure. But maybe I shouldn't have to excuse my pride, because failure at least means I tried. In this case, the chase is worth the effort.

In the other case, I don't know, but I sure miss and enjoy it.