tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19905502398906678152024-02-20T02:35:09.344-08:00Days of My LifeRemy SeaRemy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.comBlogger497125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-19417271494372011602019-02-03T12:53:00.000-08:002019-02-03T13:03:31.925-08:00Becoming Happier<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I can't always make other people happy. It's hard to do and even harder to admit. I spent years making decisions and commitments based on what I thought others wanted or needed, forgoing the better decisions for and commitments to myself. I tried to convince myself that seeing other people happy made me happy, but alas, they were only fleeting moments. On the occasions I failed to make somebody happy, I became disappointed. On the occasions somebody was completely unappreciative, I became angry. Furthermore, I can't ever base my happiness on one person, or any group of persons. I have to find happiness on my own terms, and that means asking myself what <i>I</i> want, and actually <i>doing</i> it. <i>(from "<a href="https://remysea.blogspot.com/2018/01/reflections.html">Reflections</a>", January 2018) </i></blockquote>
You know the saying, "Do what makes you happy"? Well, I've been trying that out for the past year or so, and it really works. It took a lot for me to realize that I hadn't been happy, and it took a long time for me to become happier, but the easiest part was figuring out what makes me happier. A couple of years ago, a friend asked me what five things I wanted to do more in my life in order to become happier. I didn't even need a minute to ruminate the question before I confidently answered:<br />
<ol>
<li>Run</li>
<li>Write</li>
<li>Work with kids</li>
<li>Travel to and photograph new places</li>
<li>Spend more time with people I care about</li>
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Having forgotten this conversation, I realize now that in the past year, I have become happier because I have done more of these things (with the exception of working with kids, which I need to work on). I <a href="https://remysea.blogspot.com/2018/12/running-thoughts.html">ran 10 half marathons</a> and joined a running group; I blogged and journaled more meaningfully and intentionally; I traveled to new cities for the races and photographed bridges, buildings, and beautiful things; I spent a good amount of my free time doing things with friends. </div>
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Other things that were not listed but that were equally, if not more, important were:</div>
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<ul>
<li>Letting go: Being as self-aware as I am, I know almost right away when something isn't good for me. However, letting go continues to be one of my biggest challenges, because, per sunk cost fallacy, I hate to give up something or someone that I've already invested <i>x</i> amount of effort in. But on each occasion I have let go of something or someone that I knew I needed to, I have ultimately felt happier, despite initial disappointment or sadness. Recently, I came across a quote by Deepak Chopra, an Indian-born American author and prominent figure in the New Age movement: "<i>In the process of letting go, you will lose many things from the past, but you will find yourself.</i>" While losing things can be one of the most painful human experiences, finding yourself is one of the most rewarding. It's part of the "you give and you take" (I prefer "receive" over "take", though) balance of the world.</li>
<li>Being alone: I used to hate being alone for fear of feeling lonely. But in the past year of more alone time than I'd ever experienced, I transitioned from feeling uncomfortable and restless being by myself to embracing my alone time away from social engagements. I learned that a critical part of "you do you" and of "love yourself" is <i>spending time by yourself</i>. I gave myself room to think about things clearly, to not think about things at all, to focus on my health, and to figure out who I am on my own. However, it did not mean that I isolated myself from the world. I tried that once upon a time, and not only was my alone time unproductive because my intention was to hide rather than to contemplate, but it also did not feel good because I was so removed from everyone and everything else. That is to say, just like many situations in life, this is a tedious balance. Never have I enjoyed more going places or staying home by myself. At the same time, never have I appreciated more spending time with the people I care about (item 5 above). This balance of inward and outward focus is something that took me a long time to realize and then achieve, but it has contributed immensely to where I find myself today.</li>
</ul>
I often say that <i>we are in control of our own happiness</i>. So rather than continuing to be unhappy about or because of the things that I couldn't control, I chose to focus on the things I already knew make me happier and to continue pursuing things that make me happier, because I'd rather be the happier version of myself.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijsIU7VTuI8L30il3prUzUpadeEgAo5On7gFOdwgzKh5f_d4K_rL19-g6d_d1LpPOjdqormmyL9pJoZFWO92qw_HfXifblsWtmpDa92mEYbTIa3jjraadzQAnmZY41b4DlZUmaqxf5ey4/s1600/happier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijsIU7VTuI8L30il3prUzUpadeEgAo5On7gFOdwgzKh5f_d4K_rL19-g6d_d1LpPOjdqormmyL9pJoZFWO92qw_HfXifblsWtmpDa92mEYbTIa3jjraadzQAnmZY41b4DlZUmaqxf5ey4/s320/happier.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the happiest moments of 2018: taking a train ride throughout San Antonio's Brackenridge Park </td></tr>
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Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-13329767345931541442018-12-10T02:20:00.001-08:002018-12-10T13:35:31.970-08:00Running Thoughts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Are you crazy?"</blockquote>
Yes, I am a little bit crazy, but I think we all knew that already. Signing up for half marathons was an idea; signing up for 10 half marathons was a mentality: go big or go home. Yes, I could have done two or three... But there was a 10-pack "tour pass" and I thought three would be too few and far in between. So I went for 10--for the sake of commitment, for the sake of adventure, and for the sake of 10 being a nice number. This was also an excuse for me to see more cities across the United States.<br />
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"How do you do it?"</blockquote>
At an expo earlier in the year, I saw a t-shirt that read "mind over miles" and that image remains vividly in my head. It takes a great deal of mental preparation--perhaps more of that than physical preparation. (Admittedly, I tell myself that also because I didn't physically prepare for most races, having treated each one as preparation/ training for the next.) Particularly toward the end of the year, when I started getting mentally and physically exhausted from traveling for and running each race, I frequently reminded myself that I set a goal for the year and I must accomplish it, no matter how long it took to cross the finish line each time.<br />
Of course, part of the mentality was also the various people in my life who consistently asked about my past and upcoming runs, who encouraged me and wished me luck days preceding races... It helped tremendously to know that people supported my goals, even if they thought I was crazy. In summary, it really was mind over matter, mind over miles.<br />
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"Why do you do it?"</blockquote>
One of the slogans of the Rock n Roll Marathon Series is "I run for the bling". That isn't why I did it. Toward the end of 2017, I began experiencing some health issues caused by poor diabetes management, and for the first time in my life, I was scared. Each one of my doctors urged me to do better.<br />
Until then, I had taken a few years hiatus from running because of knee pain. But then my knee kept hurting anyway, and I missed running... I also remembered how good my blood sugars were when I consistently ran years ago. At this point, I also weighed the most I'd weighed since my chubby pre-pubescent days, and I was not happy about it.<br />
So I put two and two together, and decided to resume half marathons.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Do you hate yourself?"</blockquote>
Only between miles 9 and 13.1 of every race, and particularly when I got hungry within those mile-markers. But otherwise, no. I did this because I needed to love myself more by taking care of my health (let's ignore the knee issue here, though). And in fact, I did come out of this with overall improved health conditions. While there is still much room for improvement, I'm happier with myself for feeling and looking better and for having accomplished what I only recently realized was quite a big goal.<br />
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"Which was your favorite?"</blockquote>
Seattle was by far my favorite, and it does have a lot to do with my positive predispositions of it. The route goes through different parts of the city, and while it's hilly, it's also beautiful because you catch some fantastic views of the downtown skyline. There are a few things I remember distinctly about this run:<br />
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<ul>
<li>The "king of the hill" just past the mile 9 marker. For a little while preceding that, the route is pretty flat. You hit 9 and think, "Oh, not far to go." But then you turn the corner and face the runner's worst nightmare. And then you hear the multiple groans even through the music playing on your noise-canceling headphones. Then you see people slouched over as they trudge and toil step by step up the hill. Then you glare at those one or two individuals who have the audacity--and the ability--to actually jog it. </li>
<li>Mile 10.5. This was the very first time that I felt hungry during a run. I remember texting my friend about it because I was running out of steam and was imagining all the different foods I could be eating soon. Which made it worse, actually. </li>
<li>Shortly after that, I looked over at the downtown Seattle skyline on my right. And I decisively thought, "This could be me." </li>
</ul>
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"Which was the most challenging?"</blockquote>
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<ul>
<li>Oh, man. Montreal was the most mentally challenging because the course loops back after the sixth or seventh mile. So it was like doing the same thing twice, rather than one thing once. There was also nothing good to see past the fourth mile, so it wasn't motivating at all.</li>
<li>Denver was both mentally and physically challenging because my blood sugar was low before I even crossed the start line, but I didn't realize it until half a mile in, when I needed to walk already. I stopped at the first medical tent at mile 1 and ate some honey (it was really weird, and I even made a comment about how my endocrinologist would disapprove) and a few cookies, which normally would have done the trick, but because I kept trying to jog, my blood sugar kept being low. It wasn't until mile 8.5 that I finally felt okay again. But by then my entire right leg had begun to hurt so much that for the first time, I began to question whether I could cross the finish line. At that point, though, I knew I had to make the mental push, because while I had never run through hypoglycemia before, I had run through pain on many an occasion. So run through pain I did. It was slow and gruesome, but the job got done. </li>
<li>This last one in San Antonio was a struggle because I fell victim to food poisoning 36 hours before the race. And for the first 24 hours, I could barely drink water. It sounds dramatic. It was dramatic. Even though I was able to eat a little bit the night before the race, I knew I still wasn't okay, and continued to doubt whether I could or should run the next morning. Again, it was a struggle... But I crossed the finish line for the last time this year. </li>
</ul>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Are you going to do it again?"</blockquote>
Initially I emphatically answered, "NOPE." When I was hating myself between miles 9 and 13.1 of the last few races, I angrily thought, "NEVER AGAIN (after December)." But on Tuesday, two days after San Antonio, I ran a 5k with a running group I recently joined, and I began to feel some heavy FOMO a few minutes into it. I realized that these half marathons defined my 2018: they defined what I did, where I went, and who I was this year. But who I have been isn't going to change. And if running is a large part of who I am, who would I be without running? This FOMO episode may also be classified as a mini existential crisis.<br />
When we got back to the rendezvous point, there was a group of people announcing open registration for the Pasadena half marathon in January. Now if that wasn't a sign, I don't know what is.<br />
To answer the question, I certainly will not do 10 again, but I certainly want to continue running. It's been an amazing, albeit exhausting, journey, and it doesn't have to stop here.Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-70506091109346648272018-09-03T16:35:00.000-07:002018-09-06T08:40:23.565-07:00Talking about T1D<i>I used to tell people, "I am diabetic" or "I am a diabetic" and I never liked saying that because it wasn't something that people reacted positively to, or it wasn't something that everybody understood. </i><br />
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Previously, I wrote about my first <a href="http://remysea.blogspot.com/2016/10/taste-of-empowerment.html">taste of empowerment</a>, when I (finally) learned in middle school to give myself injections. Undoubtedly, this turning point also brought about a change in attitude. Until then, I used to constantly be frustrated or angry about having diabetes, about not being able to do X/Y/Z, about being micromanaged by my parents. After I learned to administer injections to myself and especially after I started using the insulin pump, I began to feel more control over and ownership of my condition. I no longer had to rely on my mother or the school nurse, and I could take insulin whenever, for whatever I wanted to eat (within reason) or glucose reading I needed to correct. </div>
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One day, I had an epiphany: that what I had been telling people all these years was wrong. I wasn't, in fact, <i>a diabetic. </i>I was a student, a friend, a sister, a daughter--I was just like everyone else, and I just so happened to <i>have diabetes</i>. (For the sake of argument--because we all know I like that--even if I wasn't just like everyone else, I wasn't going to let diabetes be my distinction.) Saying I was (a) diabetic was like defining myself with the condition, or worse, letting my condition define me.</div>
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Therefore, I began to say, "I have diabetes." This change in language now matched my change in attitude about my condition--my feelings of control over and ownership of it, my feeling of empowerment. Although diabetes was and always will be an unavoidable part of my life, I no longer felt daunted or burdened by it; I no longer felt owned by it. <i>I have diabetes. It doesn't have me. </i></div>
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And with that, I started to do things that I previously believed I couldn't do and therefore wouldn't even try. So began my running journey which continues today. It was catalyzed by a big change in attitude, a big change in how I talked about something that is significant but does not own or control my life. I own it, and I control it. I <i>have </i>type 1 diabetes.</div>
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Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-3503866938421490742018-05-17T01:32:00.000-07:002018-05-17T01:33:32.233-07:00Relatables <blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Don't ever feel bad for making a decision that upsets other people. You are not responsible for their happiness. You are responsible for your happiness." - Isaiah Henkel</blockquote>
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"Don't ever let someone make you feel like you're crazy for wanting what you deserve." - @thegoodquote</blockquote>
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"You know you're winning when you're happy for no reason. When you don't attach your happiness to anything or anyone, you become free." - @thegoodquote</blockquote>
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"Stop waiting for someone else to give your life meaning." - Jeff Hood</blockquote>
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"One day someone will<br />mention their name<br />and you will feel<br />no bitterness<br />no hatred<br />no hurt in your heart<br />and that's how you know<br />you have found inner peace."<br />- M. Ballard</blockquote>
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"Everything you want is on the other side of fear." - @electricflightcrew</blockquote>
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"If you help everyone around you but can't help yourself, you've missed the point." - Lewis Howes</blockquote>
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"I'm attracted to intelligence. Not the book smart type of intelligence. I could care less whether you've gone to college or how much money you make because of it. I like intelligent conversations that make me think even hours after it's ended. I soak up words from radical minds." - @wildflower510</blockquote>
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"Ever loved someone so much that you'd do anything for them? Well, make that someone yourself and do whatever the hell makes you happy." - @thegoodquote</blockquote>
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"She's a little bit savage and a whole lot of soul." - @cwpoet</blockquote>
<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-39237429062252866142018-05-10T02:07:00.001-07:002018-09-06T08:42:24.439-07:00Fears<i>It seems that I go through a "quarter-life crisis" every three years or so. Accordingly, several years ago, I was going through one of these said crises, and had been making some life changes--for the better, of course.</i><br />
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For some reason, I had always been scared of dogs. I'd never been bitten by one--I was just so afraid of even coming close to any dog, big or small. One day during the aforementioned quarter-life crisis, I was standing in my cousins' house contemplating my recent changes and wondering what more to do. Suddenly, their chihuahua approached me and licked my foot, which initially grossed me out. Then I looked down at her, and in that moment I decided to simply not be afraid of dogs anymore. I inhaled deeply, bent down, and picked her up. I exclaimed, "Look! I'm holding Snowflake!" Nobody reacted because picking up Snowflake was such a normal thing to them, but to me, that was a moment of triumph, a moment of <a href="https://remysea.blogspot.com/2016/10/taste-of-empowerment.html">empowerment</a> that I vividly recall and happily recount.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzkWDGOqVvpmBc-0dVOxTe-p1doAv4CtDEjhvgqNKvhxmyYYboLox6BFWToBUMaXHRq66iNZKYC3uu-aNF-6rhuIW07zUSTyvq_QVUXjLKtfVYuilJwV17_svwzOS30mOPmcd8Z_PDuRM/s1600/aves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="902" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzkWDGOqVvpmBc-0dVOxTe-p1doAv4CtDEjhvgqNKvhxmyYYboLox6BFWToBUMaXHRq66iNZKYC3uu-aNF-6rhuIW07zUSTyvq_QVUXjLKtfVYuilJwV17_svwzOS30mOPmcd8Z_PDuRM/s200/aves.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avery, my first dog</td></tr>
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Let's backtrack. I was having a conversation with a friend today, and the topics went from "So you didn't grow up with dogs?" to "Why were you so scared of dogs?" Which led me to share that anecdote, which I then extrapolated into a discussion of fears. Which I think might have seemed off-putting because people don't tend to talk about fears because it reveals our vulnerabilities.<br />
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However, because I'm all about showing <a href="http://remysea.blogspot.com/2017/07/vulnerable.html">vulnerability</a> and wearing my <a href="http://remysea.blogspot.com/2012/12/heart-on-my-sleeve.html">heart on my sleeve</a>, I went ahead and did some introspection, out loud. And these are my main takeaways from those few minutes:<br />
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<ul>
<li>I fear disappointment. While I hate to disappoint others, what I have come to truly fear is disappointing myself. I cannot control other people's expectations of me, but I can control my own; and I have to live with my own disappointment that comes from deep within rather than others' that comes from the outside. I don't want get stuck in a cycle of self-disappointment, and I certainly don't want to be disappointed in myself for having tried so hard to meet other people's expectations of me while ignoring my own. In other words, I fear living a life of "What could/ should/ would have happened if...?" and being disappointed in myself for not trying to reach my own expectations. </li>
<li>I fear wasted time. Time is incredibly valuable, and I feel it becomes even more so as I get older. Five years from now, I don't want to look back at these past 12 months and think about all the things I could have done "if I'd had the time", but the fact of the matter is, I'd simply wasted the time I'd had. Moreover, I realized that this is why I'm always doing something, and always so irritated about wasting time doing trivial things or waiting around; it's why I'm constantly multitasking and looking for the most efficient method to do something. I want to do as much as I can with the time I have. </li>
<li>I fear stasis. I don't want to be in the same place five years from now as I am in the moment. I strive for growth intellectually, emotionally, and physically. I strive for betterment. And all of this requires change. Which is also to say that I fear lack of change, because change is what allows for growth, and if nothing changes--if everything is static--I won't grow, and I'll find myself exactly where I am now, leading to the self-disappointment I fear. </li>
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These are fears that aren't tangible and therefore won't be as easily overcome as my former fear of dogs. Nonetheless, I do believe that they can be overcome, because few things are impossible, and I have unlimited control over my own thoughts and actions. </div>
Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-87905929355181340092018-03-20T19:24:00.000-07:002018-03-20T19:52:40.043-07:00OriginsPeople frequently ask me what "Remy Sea" means. Following is the thought process I underwent as I contemplated a "pen name" for this blog forever ago.<br />
<ol>
<li>Just before freshman year of high school, I read <i>This Lullaby</i> by Sarah Dessen, one of my favorite YA authors. The main character's name is Remy Starr, which I thought was poetic, because she was the star of the story (e.g. the protagonist). I greatly admired her determination, independence, and grit. She knows what she wants and she knows how to get it. She doesn't let herself get attached to any one person, and she certainly doesn't let any one person tell her what to do. She became my favorite fictional character because she was the (slightly rebellious) 18-year-old I wanted to become.</li>
<li>I didn't (still don't) know how to swim. Hence, the vastness and unpredictability of the ocean used to (sometimes still does) frighten me deeply. But during sophomore year, I learned to reframe vastness as opportunity and unpredictability as spontaneity. The possibilities are boundless, but that also comes with immense uncertainty. Nevertheless, you must move forward and make (sometimes impulsive, spontaneous) decisions in order to stay afloat. </li>
<li>One day, it suddenly occurred to me that my Chinese name, 銳敏 (ruì mîn), said in Mandarin sounds somewhat like "Remy". Just say it quickly and don't think too hard about it--you'll understand what I mean. Obviously, at this point, the name of my favorite fictional character was still top of mind. This was also a way to integrate my heritage with my passion.</li>
<li>In elementary school, when there were two Wendys in the class, I was called "Wendy C". I wanted my last name to somehow fit into my writing--and at this point I was pretty sure I wanted Remy to be a part of it--so I combined that with the concept of item 2. So "sea" represents the significance of the sea as I see it as well as the first letter of my last name.</li>
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And there you have the making of Remy Sea!</div>
Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-70922150756267594512018-03-07T03:38:00.000-08:002018-03-07T03:42:23.851-08:00As the World TurnsIsn't it wondrous how easily people appear in our lives, and how much more easily some of the same people disappear from our lives? I've been thinking about this a great deal lately.<br />
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Let's say you've just started dating someone new. One month in, you introduce him/her to your friends. They might think, "Oh, where did s/he come from?" but they wouldn't actually ask; rather, they accept that someone new has entered your life, and subsequently someone new is entering their lives. Months or years later, you separate, and your former SO is no longer S, just O. It's as though s/he has been erased from the pages of history, never to be mentioned or seen again amongst you and your friends.<br />
<br />
Alternatively, you're on a dating app. You match with somebody (yay!), you go through the obligatory initial conversation, you meet up, and you dig one another. With as little as a few hours of (virtual and face-to-face) conversation, you've let somebody new into your life--somebody who as little as a few hours prior was a complete stranger. Then after another date, you decide to ghost him/her. Never to be seen or mentioned again, unless in entertaining anecdotes to your closest of friends or the most unfamiliar of strangers.<br />
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Isn't it crazy? Sometimes it feels as though the relationships in life are like a revolving door--around and around, people go in and out. Some come to stay for good, others go as quickly as they come. But I think either way, people leave. I believe that there is a balance in the world, and for everybody who enters your life, the same person or another person exits it, whether because you choose to spend more time with one person or the other, or because someone else has simply chosen to depart.<br />
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It isn't all bad, though. Someone(s) leaving allows for more units of time to dedicate to other(s). Not everybody is meant to stay in your life, and like I wrote about in the <a href="http://remysea.blogspot.com/2018/03/things-i-wish-id-known.html">previous post</a>, not every relationship needs to stay a relationship. We have to be willing to let go of those who want to go, as well as let go of those who we need to go.<br />
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So yes, it is wondrous--to me, at least--how easily people appear in our lives and how much more easily some of the same people disappear from our lives. From time to time, it's saddening, but more often than not, it's also necessary. But it's okay. Because while for every person who enters, someone exits, for every person who exits, someone new enters.Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-22263966055482318452018-03-06T19:13:00.003-08:002018-03-07T14:57:33.063-08:00Things I Wish I'd Known<ul>
<li>I don't need to try to please everybody. As valiant and commendable of an effort as one can make, it is impossible to make everybody happy. While happiness can ensue via acts of service for others, I've come to realize that it also has to be actively pursued by asking myself <a href="http://remysea.blogspot.com/2012/11/what-do-you-want.html">what I want</a>. </li>
<li>A good relationship with my parents is just as important as a good relationship with anybody else. In middle school, I began to "rebel", and in doing so, I of course often upset my parents, and began to communicate with them less and less about my daily goings-on. Meanwhile, I began to develop deep relationships with friends and later romantic relationships with boy(s). A part of me thought that it was a trade-off--either relationship with my parents or relationships with my friends. And I made a choice. But really, there was truly no reason it couldn't have been both. </li>
<li>Not every relationship (the general sense of the word, not just the romantic sense) needs to stay a relationship. Similarly, not everybody I meet is meant to stay in my life. There have been numerous relationships that I have held on to for the sake of holding on, or for the sake of simply not having to deal with letting go. I haven't quite figured out the psychology behind my reluctance to let go of people, but I have learned to do so here and there in the past couple of years, and for the most part, it's been good for my mental well-being.</li>
<li>Take the plunge. Embrace the risk. There are so many activities and so much fun that I missed out on by being a scaredy-cat and by overthinking/ rethinking/ overanalyzing danger and risk. It's okay to just take the leap every once in a while. For example, bungee jumping--if millions of people have already done it and come out alive, I probably could do it and come out alive too. <a href="http://remysea.blogspot.com/2018/01/reflections.html">Just do it!</a></li>
<li>On a related note: just because diabetes, doesn't mean... I used to think that having diabetes meant there were many things I couldn't do. NOT THE CASE. I could have done most everything all the other kids were doing, just with more caution. I spent the first 17 years of my life fearfully shying away from physical activities, but no more of that! In fact, I have a half marathon in Washington, D.C. this weekend, and then nine more over the course of the year. Additionally, just because I have diabetes, doesn't mean that nobody will love me. Growing up, I constantly worried that because I had to do finger pricking and needle injections and bloody stuff, nobody would want to be with me. But I have experienced that diabetes does not change how anybody sees or feels about me. More on this in a future post. </li>
<li>There are bigger issues in the world. Spend less time being angry at the inconsequential things and more time appreciating everything else. Believe it or not, I used to have a really short temper. I was easily set off and angered, and I knew it, and I wasn't proud of it. Looking back, I wasted far too much time being angry at people, at the world, and at myself generally for no good reason, and I lost sight of the people and things around me to be good to and to appreciate. </li>
</ul>
Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-56554588871271700072018-01-29T18:21:00.001-08:002018-01-29T18:21:38.963-08:00Reflections<div>
<div>
It has been almost two years since I began my journey of personal development. It’s been long, and it’s been a long time coming, though “development” connotes an ongoing process, one that doesn’t end. As my colleague once wisely stated, “Mastery is a direction, not a destination.” While it would be easy for me to readily negate everything that I’ve done and the progress I’ve made by saying, “Meh, I haven’t accomplished that much,” that would be giving myself too little credit. I have reevaluated and reflected a great deal, and admittedly, I also have never cried so much and so often before this whole process began—sometimes good and happy tears, other times--simply sad tears. Here are a handful of things I have learned. This list is not meant to impart wisdom or evoke sympathy. I merely want to share some of the recurring themes that go on in my head since my journey began as well as some of the recurring themes that go on in my head for the journey that continues.</div>
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<ol>
<li>Everybody has their own story(ies). Quick to judge, we readily make assumptions about people based on what we see from first glance or what we gather from first impressions. And it isn’t that first impressions aren’t important, but people and their stories are ever the more important. We don’t understand why or how people do the things they do, and without intimate and meaningful conversation, we never will. Everybody has their reasons, their stories for whatever it is that we are judging them about.</li>
<li>When I am in angst and turmoil, it’s easy for me to isolate myself and forget that I have a support system, for which I am grateful when I realize it—often too late. I keep to myself, thinking that I can solve things on my own, that I shouldn’t bother others with my personal issues. But if not emotional support, what else are family and friends for? (And dogs. Can’t forget dogs.) And it helps tremendously to have one-on-ones with people (and dogs), for the aforementioned intimate and meaningful conversations. And on this note, I have realized that the people who care about me care more than I often lead myself to believe. They just don’t know that I need the support when I don’t reach out to them, or when I don’t express the need when we are together.</li>
<li>While people care more than I think, people in general also care a lot less than I think. People are too busy minding their own business and going about their days to care about whether my shoes match my top, whether the coffee mug reached my chin instead of my lips, whether my cheeks look a bit puffy today. So I shouldn’t spend so much time wondering what people will think. </li>
<li>I’m not alone. In the past couple of months, I have been opening up more about my thought processes—let’s be real, it’s an early onset midlife crisis—and on multiple occasions, I have had moments of pure elation, envisioning party poppers launching tons of vibrant confetti into the air, upon realizing that I was not alone! This entire time, I haven’t been the only person who feels lost in both personal and professional realms; I haven’t been the only person who feels purposeless; I haven’t been alone at all. If I had earlier on expressed a need for support, I would have felt this connection with others sooner, and I would not have felt so alone.</li>
<li>Naturally, reflection is based on the past. So obviously, I have reflected a lot on my childhood, and in doing so, I have time and again had moments of “Wow, THAT’s why [insert Wendy behavior or belief here].” And in these moments, I recognize that I need to let go of some things. Undoubtedly, the past largely comprises who I am, but it doesn’t need to define who I want to be, especially since who I am is immensely flawed. Which brings me to…</li>
<li>I can’t change or take back anything that has happened, but I can control how I react to it. How I feel and what I do are completely within my own control. And this reaction starts a chain reaction, because my actions do not affect only me. This is something that has taken me years to realize, and something that I still struggle with. In this sense, I’ve always been a little selfish. I don’t quite understand the circle of influence or the chain reaction that I can set off with an action that I would think harmless, at least for myself, at least for the moment.</li>
<li>Just as everybody has their stories to tell, but that we do not know, people’s lives are not as picture-perfect as social media portrays. While I am constantly in awe of the power of social media, I recently became appalled by the self-degradation and envy that it can evoke in its audience. Yes, I am speaking from personal experience. While I didn’t wish I looked like any particular Instagram model, I began to point out parts of my body to “focus on”, chastising myself for not trying harder at the gym. I began to envy the friends who frequently post travel photos of weekend trips and long vacations, forgetting my own magical moments I told myself I’d never let go of. I began to spend inordinate amounts of time focusing on my phone instead of what or who was right in front of me, getting “FOMO” about a missed brunch instead of appreciating nature on a beautiful morning. Just as I don’t post about the hardships and the hard moments in my life, others don’t often share that realm. Social media highlights the best moments in someone’s life, so it’s easy to fall into the trap of self-degradation and envy. </li>
<li>Do life one day at a time. Until last year, I had always prided myself in being "very chill". But then projects and people started piling up on my plate, and soon enough, I began to feel anxious all the time, and this took a mental as well as physical toll. After being advised multiple times to write things down and prioritize, I finally did so. And it helps so much! What doesn't help is worrying about next week and next month on top of today and tomorrow. Things change and plans change, and that's okay. Some things you just can't control. (See #6.)</li>
<li>Self-limiting beliefs are just that--self-limiting. Given external deterrents and discouragement, what sense does it make to deter and discourage my own self? I can be my own biggest doubter, or I can be my own biggest supporter. One of my former bosses once told me to surround myself with greatness via great people--only then will I become great too. But I think greatness also comes from within. It would be futile to surround myself with and be inspired by great people if I myself don't have the willpower, determination, and self-encouragement to do anything about my goals.</li>
<li>I can't always make other people happy. It's hard to do and even harder to admit. I spent years making decisions and commitments based on what I thought others wanted or needed, forgoing the better decisions for and commitments to myself. I tried to convince myself that seeing other people happy made me happy, but alas, they were only fleeting moments. On the occasions I failed to make somebody happy, I became disappointed. On the occasions somebody was completely unappreciative, I became angry. Furthermore, I can't ever base my happiness on one person, or any group of persons. I have to find happiness on my own terms, and that means asking myself what <i>I </i>want, and actually <i>doing </i>it. Which leads me to...</li>
<li>Just do it. It's true what they say: the hardest step is to begin. While I have many self-limiting beliefs and much deeply rooted negativity to overcome, I have found time and again that once I commit to something--whether it's krav maga or a Spartan Race--and begin doing it, it isn't as difficult as I somehow originally led myself to believe. After that, the challenge lies in persistence, which I still have to work on. </li>
</ol>
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<i><b>Stay tuned. Reflections to be continued as personal development journey continues... </b></i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">P.S. Can you tell by this face that these are all the thoughts that go through my head?</td></tr>
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Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-33861958685445196762017-08-02T17:03:00.003-07:002017-08-02T17:04:42.862-07:00Relate and Resonate<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I told her I was lost in this world,<br />
and she smiled,<br />
because she was too,<br />
we were all lost somehow,<br />
but we didn't care, we had, in the chaos,<br />
found each other."<br />
- Atticus</blockquote>
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Don't give up now,<br />
chances are<br />
your best kiss<br />
your hardest laugh<br />
and your greatest day<br />
are still yet to come."<br />
- Atticus </blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Self-love is so important; I don't want to be in my elderly years, flicking through old pictures of myself and at the last moment realising how beautiful I truly was."<br />
- Meggan Roxanne</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Give people time. Give people space. Don't beg anyone to stay. Let them roam. What's meant for you will always be yours."<br />
- Reyna Biddy</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
"Your relationship with yourself sets the tone for every other relationship you have."<br />
- TheGoodQuote</blockquote>
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Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-7543578169126980872017-07-18T15:51:00.002-07:002017-07-18T15:54:11.241-07:00Vulnerable<i>Vulnerable</i>. A word that I rarely ever used, especially to describe my state of mind or being, prior to my current job. One of the main things we do is teach and help leaders develop the eight characteristics of greatness, and vulnerability is one.<br />
<br />
In years prior, I had periodically seen and characterized myself as "a sensitive soul". Nonetheless, I would hide it behind the jokes and the laughter. It was really only when I watched sad scenes in movies or shows that I showed my sensitive side. Or when I would occasionally get upset about something that someone said about me.<br />
<br />
But in the past year of learning about the world and learning about myself (not mutually exclusive), I've realized that it's okay to be vulnerable and to show vulnerability. It's hard, especially when we grow up being told to not show vulnerability, which is a sign of weakness, and that we might be stepped on by doing so...among other things. I don't know how it works for our clients or for anyone else, but for me, learning to be vulnerable and actually letting myself exhibit it has been an imperative step toward my personal development.<br />
<br />
I once wrote a post about wearing my<i> <a href="http://remysea.blogspot.com/2012/12/heart-on-my-sleeve.html">heart on my sleeve</a></i>. And I still do that. I don't think I yearn for the reciprocation as strongly anymore, because I've realized that everybody has their stories, and they share them differently, to varying extents and with varying details, and that's nothing to be taken personally on the listener's part. Admittedly, I used to worry that if I put myself too far out there, I'd be opening myself up to a world of (potential) hurt. And who wants that?<br />
<br />
Although it isn't the easiest or most pleasant thing to put myself out there--whether to my own sister or to a complete stranger--I ultimately feel better putting it <i>all on the table</i>. I let everything be seen, and I open myself up to questioning and critique, for better or worse. If they accept what I've shown and shared, then great. We've opened the doors for a deeper, more meaningful relationship. Otherwise, we know where we stand on the depth or status of our relationship.<br />
<br />
More on this topic in future post(s). Meanwhile, see quote and listen to song. (The song lyrics may not directly correlate to the content of this post, but the title certainly is relevant.)<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Vulnerability is about showing up and being seen. It's tough to do that when we're terrified about what people might see or think.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>-Brené Brown</i></span></div>
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Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-32287999707511765462017-04-29T22:49:00.003-07:002017-04-29T22:50:57.704-07:00Joke<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<h2>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sherry: "I've typed it so many times, but I still don't know how to spell 'Hors d'Oeuvres.'" </span></span> </span> </h2>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<h2>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; white-space: pre-wrap;">Me: "It's spelled a-p-p-e-t-i-z-e-r."</span></span></span></h2>
</blockquote>
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Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-79158630145172936062017-04-29T00:57:00.001-07:002017-04-29T22:41:13.928-07:00I Feel Ya, Ma<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
This week, Ace disappointed me for the fourth time in the four months I have had him. The first three months were a perfectly--and surprisingly--smooth ride. And then I guess he started to grow up, and not only got comfortable, but also learned to take things for granted.<br />
<br />
The first time was several weeks ago, when I had been in a rush to get out of the apartment, and I snapped at him right before I left. While I was away for an hour, I felt unreasonably guilty, so I was already planning to give him a small piece of rotisserie chicken as a treat--or an apology--upon return. After going up and down the stairs with several loads of Costco merchandise, I walked into the kitchen, and saw a huge mess on the floor. He had jumped and somehow gotten the tied-up bag of food-trash out of the sink, and ate nearly all of its contents: half-eaten tortillas (because I don't eat tacos properly, so they say), saucy Styrofoam containers, browned banana peels... There was a myriad of things that I'm certain dogs should not eat, and he most definitely ate either a little bit of everything, or the whole of some. Needless to say, I was very upset. As I picked up the pieces, I began to feel disappointed instead. While I should have thrown that bag away into the actual trash can, he should have known better than to just jump for trash. I was disappointed that he didn't know better, or worse, that he did, but he consciously chose to do the wrong thing despite that. Moreover, I was disappointed that after three entire months of smooth-sailing, reality had finally hit. These thoughts looped in my mind:<br />
<br />
<i>It's not like I don't feed you, Ace.</i><br />
<i>I'm sorry I yelled at you, but you really didn't have to react like that. But maybe it was my fault for triggering that behavior.</i><br />
<i>Why did you go after </i>trash<i>?</i><br />
<i>Is what I give to you and do for you not enough?</i><br />
<i>What could I have done differently?</i><br />
<i>I really wish you hadn't done that.</i><br />
<i>Do you not appreciate or love me as much as I thought?</i><br />
<br />
But then I reminded myself that even though he's five years old, he's still my baby. Further contemplation (can you tell how much this bothered me?) led me to reflect on my own childhood. My mother fed me perfectly fine. In fact, she provided fantastic, healthy, balanced meals for me every single meal; she'd go to the supermarket and buy fresh fish and vegetables every day, and she'd pour her heart and love into each dish. And yet, between each of these meals, I'd inevitably sneak "unhealthy" snacks--peanut butter, bread, Cheetos, Jolly Rancher--that my mother had forbidden me from eating because of my diabetes. Granted, she was vastly overprotective, but that isn't the point in this particular case. It wasn't like I wasn't full after each meal. I just wanted the forbidden fruit(s). I did think that what she cooked for me wasn't good enough, wasn't enough. I wanted more. I wanted what I wasn't allowed to have. So I snuck it every chance I got. I truly took my mother's meals for granted.<br />
<br />
So then I began to understand Ace's action. I also began to understand my mother's frustration with me all those years. Day after day, she provided what she thought was best for me, and she tried so hard. But I never appreciated it, and chose to attain lesser things (upon reflection) because of that. And that very likely hurt her feelings; that very likely disappointed her deeply. She just acted in my best interests, and I went around her back time after time.<br />
<br />
Ace did this twice more. And that was my mistake. I thought that after yelling at him the first time, he would have learned. But then it wasn't like I ever learned any of the umpteen times my mother yelled at me. So again, my mistake--erh, mistakes. But I did start to shut him out on the balcony as "punishment".<br />
<br />
So the other day, I shut him out on the balcony. I had stopped leaving any food trash out, so I thought he would be fine alone after that last incident. But boy, was I absolutely furious this time. As I walked through the front door, I noticed a takeout box on the floor where he had been sitting. I wondered where that came from, but then thought maybe I just left an empty box on the table (unlikely). I proceeded to walk toward the kitchen, and BAM--trash all over the carpet, trash can knocked down on its side, lid open. He had figured out (1) that remnants of the good human food he smells go into the trash can, and (2) he could access it with his athleticism.<br />
<br />
I summoned him with my angry-at-dog voice (I have variations of angry-voice), "Ace, come here! Get over here." He timidly approached and gazed at me, and I pushed him toward his mess, pointed at it, and sternly said, "NO. NO, NO, NO." I opened up the balcony door, and he already knew the deal, though he was reluctant to cooperate. As he sat still out there and I picked up the pieces, I noticed myself just talking to him--or at him--like a human kid. I started with, "You act like I don't feed you or something, Ace. I just fed you an hour ago, so you aren't even hungry." And I continued rambling about him not appreciating me, about why he didn't think what I did for him was enough, about him having regressed... I actually thought I might be crazy. But then I reasoned myself out of that--because I'm not crazy, duh--and thought back to my childhood once again. My lamentation probably echoed my mother's countless lamentations all those years ago. Despite that I had reflected on this weeks ago and thought I had come to peace with it, I was still utterly perturbed by this instance. It was so much worse than before. He was acting out, and I couldn't understand why.<br />
<br />
I left him out there for an hour, and when I reopened the balcony door to take him out on a walk, he was so excited, though the walk was no-frills, no-praise. For the next 48 hours, I felt that my relationship with him had been altered slightly. I had felt that the first and second times that he had jumped and gotten the trash out of the sink, too. Because I yelled at him so harshly (harsh compared to never), and punished him for his behavior, I was afraid that (1) he wasn't what I'd hoped he'd be, and (2) I wasn't what he'd hoped I'd be. And I'm pretty sure he felt my distance in each of these occurrences.<br />
<br />
That also brought me back to my relationship with my mother. Each time that she yelled at me big-time, I'd be mad at her for at least a day for being so unreasonable, and would add time to that because I thought she was mad at me, so I didn't want to communicate with her if she was mad at me (for something unreasonable)--see the vicious cycle? And I think that really hurt our relationship at the time, because it consisted of so much wasted time of me being mad, and me thinking that she was mad for longer than she probably ever was.<br />
<br />
Having my own dog for the past few months has opened my eyes more than anything else I have experienced. I have a taste of full-time parenthood, its highlights and its disappointments, its endless responsibility and concern... and I'm beginning to see things from a whole different perspective. Or maybe it's the age--I'm also getting old.<br />
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<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-55515614498473542432016-10-07T00:21:00.001-07:002016-10-07T00:21:38.312-07:00Taste of EmpowermentThe first time I ever felt empowered was the second day of sixth grade. On the first day, my mom had taken her morning off work to drive me to school, from Chinatown to Northridge, in order to give me my insulin injections for breakfast and lunch, and to make sure the school nurse knew everything she needed to about me. Nurse Sue was astonished that my mom had gone to such an extent to take care of me. "Astonished" might be too nice of a word--I think she was shocked, and perhaps even abhorred. I was in sixth grade now, and I had never given myself an injection, despite having had T1D for 10 years now?! Now that I think back on it, I myself am ashamed.<br />
<br />
The second day of school, my mom did the same thing--she took the morning off work and drove another almost 40 miles to school. Again, she waited in the nurse's office while I had my morning classes, and when lunch time rolled around, I entered the nurse's office wondering how we would ever resolve this major inconvenience. As I realized that Nurse Sue could simply administer my shots every day at lunch, I felt some calm. A great deal of dependence and maybe some childishness, but calm. Calm because I didn't have to face the music. So I checked my blood sugar and my mom prepared the injection accordingly. As I pulled up my t-shirt sleeve, Nurse Sue suddenly exclaimed, "No, let her do it herself! You cannot do this for her every single day." I was stunned. My mom was stunned. Stupendous, we both stared at her, as though this were an outrageously revolutionary--and insane--idea. And in fact, it was. Neither of us had ever considered that I would take this over on my own.<br />
<br />
After at least 10 minutes of hesitation, I took some deep breaths and told myself this was something I simply must do. I also knew that there was no way in the universe Nurse Sue would let me get out of it. I felt helpless, anxious, nervous--I don't think I had ever felt any combination of those three prior to that moment. And my mom--oh, bless her soul--was just as anxious and nervous as I, peering frantically from the edge of her seat as I millimeter-ed the syringe closer and closer to my skin. She was ready to leap out of her chair if anything for any reason somehow went wrong. At last, I went for it. I hated seeing the needle go under my skin. I had always looked away each time anyone gave me an injection, and each time a medical professional on television administered a shot. But as I pulled the needle out (I'm sure there's a more medically appropriate term for this step of the process), my mom and I exhaled huge sighs of relief in tandem. Nurse Sue simply stood there with an "I told you so" smile, and proceeded to rush my mom out of her office, urging her to go on with her day.<br />
<br />
My mom never returned to the nurse's office at Nobel Middle School, and Nurse Sue never administered an injection for me.<br />
<br />
This lunch time was a tremendous turning point in my life, but I give little thought to it. I once wrote an essay for Chinese school about Nurse Sue, and I have told this story once in my past year of personal development. Despite that it took me nearly 10 years to face the music, I had finally done it. This was my first step toward real independence, and dare I say, adulthood. I no longer relied on my mom for every single injection--which was multiple times a day. It gave me freedom, and it unquestionably gave her freedom. Granted, she still worried immensely, but at least she no longer needed to physically be with me all the time. Only this week did it occur to me that this was my first taste of not only independence, but also empowerment. Gradually, a whole new world of possibility opened up, and I began to see and exercise control over my life. I no longer was tied down by (medical) dependence on my mom or my school nurse. Rather than letting T1D hold me back and hold me down like I had in elementary school, I began to own it. It was something I had the power to control; it did not control me. It was certainly a part of my life, but it was absolutely not my entire life. If injecting myself had been my biggest fear, and all I had to do to overcome it was <b>just do it</b>, then there was probably little that I couldn't do (within reason). With all of these realizations, I felt empowered.Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-29028254941193101442016-10-04T14:39:00.001-07:002016-10-04T14:42:57.809-07:00A Day OffLast Friday, I found out during our team meeting that our office would be closed the following Monday and Tuesday (i.e. yesterday and today) for Rosh Hashana. My immediate reaction was panic mixed with a bit of pleasant-surprise-shock--because who wouldn't welcome a day--much less TWO days--off? But I was panicked because I didn't know what to do with myself. I had plans for Saturday until mid-afternoon, and then I had three blank days ahead. Three blank days! "What do I do with myself?!" I crazily asked myself aloud and silently on repeat. I spent the rest of Friday contemplating plans and trips that I could execute in solitude, half-settling on driving up to Norcal to visit some friends. Alas, Saturday rolled around, and I did everything I had planned to do, in addition to a mid-afternoon impromptu shopping trip with my mom. I also ended up staying in Lincoln Heights, given that I had no real reason (i.e. plan) to go back to my apartment, and had lunch and went grocery shopping with my mom the next day. It was kind of nice to go with the flow and, more importantly, to hang out with my mom. After dinner that night, I returned to my apartment, per the Sunday night routine.<br />
<br />
Routine. I realized I was sticking to routine, other than the out-of-the-ordinary hangouts with my mom. I scratched the tentative plan to visit Norcal, and after further contemplation, decided that I would do two individual day trips--one on Monday and one on Tuesday. Come Monday morning, on which I slept in and remembered how glorious sleep is, I changed my mind, and instead ate an early lunch, then made my way to the gym, and spent the rest of the afternoon reading and swinging at a park in Playa Vista. Come evening, I drove to the beach to watch the sunset, only to have that thwarted by high winds pelting grains of sand against my bare, unsuspecting legs. Who knew sand could hurt that much?! I can completely imagine that being a form of torture. Anyway, as I drove back to the apartment, I heard a great new song on the radio, and ended up looping it on Spotify as I strolled around the neighborhood--also something I hadn't done since the PokemonGo craze begun. By the time I got back into the apartment, I realized I had gotten through an entire day on my own. Without having done anything particularly special or out of the ordinary--like driving 360 miles north--I had a perfectly enjoyable day during which I gave work and other stressful things no thought at all.<br />
<br />
Currently, I am sitting at Philz Coffee in Santa Monica. Although there was the usual traffic en route up the 405 and then the 10, I was at ease because I had <i>no rush, no time limit, no need to be anywhere or do anything</i> within any confines. I had only the desire to consume a nice cup of coffee, continue reading <i>1984</i>, and maybe do some writing. And so far, I have done--or am doing--all of that. After this, I'm going to head over to the Misfit to have a drink, and then walk around the Pier to absorb some of the liveliness. Later this evening, I have a plan to go to a Meetup and then perhaps boxing class.<br />
<br />
So far, it's been a good 1.5 days off. I went from not knowing what to do with myself and feeling completely lost, to doing a myriad of activities that work often gets in the way of--rightfully so because I'm paid and expect to do that work, of course. But the past 1.5 days have made me realize how imperative it is to take some time for myself to refresh, and more importantly, to do things that I truly enjoy doing. I haven't felt this stress-free, and free in general, in a long time.<br />
<br />
Which also brings me to this. Lately, I have been craving human interaction. Working from home definitely has its advantages, but the biggest disadvantage is the solitude. While I appreciate being able to get through all of my work without the distractions of a physical office, I also miss being around people. So I've committed to working at a coffee shop at least once a week, which has eased the solitude considerably, despite that I don't actually talk to anyone else. However, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I must first be happy and content on my own before expecting to find happiness and contentment with anyone else. I always thought that everything I did needed to be done with somebody, but as more and more of my friends are occupied with work or study, I am increasingly left to my own methods of spending time. And I've learned that that's totally fine! There are times to be spent with others, and times to be spent with myself, both sorts of times equally enjoyable in their own respects.<br />
<br />
That is all to say that I'm beginning to value "me-time." Not just working-at-home-by-myself me-time, but doing-things-outside-of-work-by-myself me-time. And ironically, in doing so, I also give myself the opportunity to meet new people with whom I can spend time, such as I have done through my boxing class.<br />
<br />
TL; DR: I think I'm finally finding myself.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>[taking the steps to finding myself]</i></td></tr>
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<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-56857611254192450042016-09-29T12:00:00.000-07:002016-09-29T12:32:14.071-07:00NomadicBefore moving into our apartment in PDR in March, M and I had planned to split our time between our houses in OC and LA and commute to work from wherever we were any given day. But that never really happened, because right after that decision, we found this apartment. And frankly, I'm kind of glad it hadn't happened, because I do not enjoy any commute that involves the 405, the 110, or the 10.<br />
<br />
Weird, though, because in the past month, I have noticed how nomadic our lifestyle is, despite having "found our own place." Almost every Friday, we'd pack our duffle bags and get into the car early afternoon before rush hour or late evening after rush hour to go somewhere--his parents' house, my parents' house, Sacramento, Joshua Tree, somewhere random. And when we came back on Sunday night, we'd exhaustedly toss our duffle bags onto the living room floor, putting off unpacking for a couple of days--only to have to repack on that very Friday. At some point, we had reached an unspoken agreement to just leave our bags packed the entire week. That way, we'd be ready to go at any moment. If that isn't nomadic, I don't know what is.<br />
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And it's rather convenient to just have a bag filled with clothes, shoes, and chargers, ready to go somewhere for the weekend. But it dawned on me just this morning that maybe this is why I've been feeling so emotionally/ mentally unsettled lately--because I've been <i>physically </i>unsettled. As much as I love to stay active, move around, and go places, I probably need to settle down and give myself some stability and calm first. PDR is a beautiful place, and I should give myself the chance to stay here for an entire weekend and really immerse in my environment without worrying about getting from point A to point B to wherever else and back. I realize now that that gets exhausting. And that's likely why I have been so exhausted, emotionally and physically.<br />
<br />
That's not necessarily to say that I'm going to sit at home for the entire weekend, though. It just means not picking up my duffle bag, not bringing stuff to and from my car, and not driving 50+ miles. There's a farmer's market here that I really enjoy, an LA Fitness with a pool I should practice in, a hiking trail overlooking the wetlands... So many things to do, places to go, and people to see here. In allowing myself to settle into the area, I will also settle down emotionally/ mentally/ psychologically. Hopefully.<br />
<br />
And I'd love to start this weekend, but of course I have commitments the entire Saturday, thereby perpetuating this entire dilemma. Maybe next weekend.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-41998840280619129112016-08-25T09:26:00.000-07:002016-09-29T11:02:42.223-07:00Camp: Visual Overview<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset after the first day of training</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wonderful ladies that were by my side </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creative creations by the campers</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first time "dabbing"...</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ryan always wore a Superman cape, and made a Superman cupcake.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So excited about mason jars!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXm3Eb_k5wFLVBPKK5r1rMHwVN8K9sN4zcgkfJ1EIksrE-p4QkMuoVJMLgeH_AuwUj8Tad65E1IsY_qL5HXTnefLDxWOrnG-yGrZZG11MiY8jIB01iPvlZ2LO5WV-M6pblnkhnnV7ZzVI/s1600/DSC_0159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXm3Eb_k5wFLVBPKK5r1rMHwVN8K9sN4zcgkfJ1EIksrE-p4QkMuoVJMLgeH_AuwUj8Tad65E1IsY_qL5HXTnefLDxWOrnG-yGrZZG11MiY8jIB01iPvlZ2LO5WV-M6pblnkhnnV7ZzVI/s320/DSC_0159.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"So Pinterest, so Tumblr"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRY-tcwDt5IPMHYxNmzWfAB_nYA8fukbkUJiQ-irZwzWSrJYlJNuDSCB0V1b2A9dQU4SwflgGRG5RfBsX_MyC20wY7WqXCbGAm_IJIeu5h_3w5oHAxRMVoac_2H8CS_S7yIuJ6mWl-CQU/s1600/DSC_0012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRY-tcwDt5IPMHYxNmzWfAB_nYA8fukbkUJiQ-irZwzWSrJYlJNuDSCB0V1b2A9dQU4SwflgGRG5RfBsX_MyC20wY7WqXCbGAm_IJIeu5h_3w5oHAxRMVoac_2H8CS_S7yIuJ6mWl-CQU/s320/DSC_0012.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I love the mountains, I love the rolling hills..." </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cxb6HHZvVF6CQoq_x8brDKK06k7M53-aqSvPYeDxMLOsGh7R3TyfLWxWWICVwh-Qxz-Jpro-83TbKVenrm8N35p91sxSlGrSKurnW-vk6hFxIFqCKSDlR6JneDRMOCFZIfYODIxwRxs/s1600/DSC_0019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cxb6HHZvVF6CQoq_x8brDKK06k7M53-aqSvPYeDxMLOsGh7R3TyfLWxWWICVwh-Qxz-Jpro-83TbKVenrm8N35p91sxSlGrSKurnW-vk6hFxIFqCKSDlR6JneDRMOCFZIfYODIxwRxs/s320/DSC_0019.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rock n Roll Breakfast </td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreAtzrjIXK0jYjtFi0vy2FJ1fyX0hxnwToDvTLYp9-E5U2MfAnviw3f3kjEPsi_6VGrryw9guGjGTWqIuF3dVJnYMjLtvFYU813cwyyG1ovJH75G4JHfmqnLIqUhOoBaLU8y_Zpoflss/s1600/DSC_0044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreAtzrjIXK0jYjtFi0vy2FJ1fyX0hxnwToDvTLYp9-E5U2MfAnviw3f3kjEPsi_6VGrryw9guGjGTWqIuF3dVJnYMjLtvFYU813cwyyG1ovJH75G4JHfmqnLIqUhOoBaLU8y_Zpoflss/s320/DSC_0044.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teamwork and focus in baking cupcake cones </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikb5IGfMTWlSL10DjPIxyYa9z7sRIl1VEie33YiOzOuKLCN53_V7RwkjUCL-7-amlZmW4QoHKjxqry7xo1OMtv1s9mlKxdKzAKQ8sqRSGHGlnrW5wkAPREI89PhhyphenhyphenyY5XZlUSEsws7RTQ/s1600/DSC_0168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikb5IGfMTWlSL10DjPIxyYa9z7sRIl1VEie33YiOzOuKLCN53_V7RwkjUCL-7-amlZmW4QoHKjxqry7xo1OMtv1s9mlKxdKzAKQ8sqRSGHGlnrW5wkAPREI89PhhyphenhyphenyY5XZlUSEsws7RTQ/s320/DSC_0168.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cabin 6 love on Cabin Night--we were "so Pinterest" with our mason jars! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1eZCmP6Op1EBH0HdgvgpW06KSWhrJK8YipD2Uald5t_cBTgc8Q93N1uPFOF4p_QiMpUHfqiOSA_QaKmNA6qTV3fXEOpX_6p23QJJwKX4fAay2HE694I070Pi8lHO3A5eC56XFQBuDz4w/s1600/DSC_0215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1eZCmP6Op1EBH0HdgvgpW06KSWhrJK8YipD2Uald5t_cBTgc8Q93N1uPFOF4p_QiMpUHfqiOSA_QaKmNA6qTV3fXEOpX_6p23QJJwKX4fAay2HE694I070Pi8lHO3A5eC56XFQBuDz4w/s320/DSC_0215.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A photo with the boys, sans "dab"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBLK5qWq-d_YC-o-EZthQrg6Q81NN9Ozla9JJolfOTJtbsns50ACvCIgHw6xhofQeWHKHeAIuMe8G40yfFV_L7zNGHLcGxTPwytqv-Jdfn862j7JgKZdQxTR38u7sqOj5VgtF5hKpgubM/s1600/DSC_0481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBLK5qWq-d_YC-o-EZthQrg6Q81NN9Ozla9JJolfOTJtbsns50ACvCIgHw6xhofQeWHKHeAIuMe8G40yfFV_L7zNGHLcGxTPwytqv-Jdfn862j7JgKZdQxTR38u7sqOj5VgtF5hKpgubM/s320/DSC_0481.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dance </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFz-zc17jHbKJDYaf4UqrwRjNaC8KME-_PsXlDEiltF11okaA8Fh7aNvjNqw_83cdfMDjjV531LgNE_IuO99jJFNCM_vcu9B1XosdS9LzjnsTRrlNm1PZJmvHI58edxrH5a__6jEGS9Xc/s1600/DSC_0538.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFz-zc17jHbKJDYaf4UqrwRjNaC8KME-_PsXlDEiltF11okaA8Fh7aNvjNqw_83cdfMDjjV531LgNE_IuO99jJFNCM_vcu9B1XosdS9LzjnsTRrlNm1PZJmvHI58edxrH5a__6jEGS9Xc/s320/DSC_0538.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love these gals (and Trevor) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi847xs2rps-w6rq4-hkwMvmUYcKkrtp2qQUeStDcrIFYPcax6_u5wMilUayUs0pxyw0ID9RPeos1ifCaqJ5cj9AZ052LB1TpDoVa6eiXwaVGxwfe_UXlpkWJsYQHWihXeyUi40AF57HGs/s1600/DSC_0321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi847xs2rps-w6rq4-hkwMvmUYcKkrtp2qQUeStDcrIFYPcax6_u5wMilUayUs0pxyw0ID9RPeos1ifCaqJ5cj9AZ052LB1TpDoVa6eiXwaVGxwfe_UXlpkWJsYQHWihXeyUi40AF57HGs/s320/DSC_0321.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making "spirit stones" in nature/ mindfulness </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVVDeBoOoox5Jk1fXn9ix1WI27OBpn1Dg4M_SQEkvBrYR9dpYO5E_NUYMA0HvfbPJIpJ2mk2I3jh2h3jg01zZZETa7xzuSZh1l7tY0puQQmUOpRJQ6cbq3aZf3WNpTtRU4RE7gfwtzOI/s1600/DSC_0530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVVDeBoOoox5Jk1fXn9ix1WI27OBpn1Dg4M_SQEkvBrYR9dpYO5E_NUYMA0HvfbPJIpJ2mk2I3jh2h3jg01zZZETa7xzuSZh1l7tY0puQQmUOpRJQ6cbq3aZf3WNpTtRU4RE7gfwtzOI/s320/DSC_0530.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The little ones become such gentlemen</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-vkNdrekQscSoqlDDYNWRt3xj_aPi9Dr66Yej8UDFN5poeaO4l6zhXqauvSJED_pCy1AoRYFH5uFsYcJLtbcytT05IEa9dyRpXmbR1cuvy6JCgla452oBUoaxdF4ArlOBCt_aYCEsbBA/s1600/DSC_0073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-vkNdrekQscSoqlDDYNWRt3xj_aPi9Dr66Yej8UDFN5poeaO4l6zhXqauvSJED_pCy1AoRYFH5uFsYcJLtbcytT05IEa9dyRpXmbR1cuvy6JCgla452oBUoaxdF4ArlOBCt_aYCEsbBA/s320/DSC_0073.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strong bonds and sisterhoods (and focus) in the older cabins </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9hB61fwjjsaLLP8K5TwrTI66vgnmyn3wY5IEqqUVs4WPXefKd2e-xTzVsWLkHWgiEpcbKUdpheRJTy8Miy0T6NVEeYbt0qogYOAsE1VK5MmUaZdV9OaoXP_HiDLY0b_1WcBAgpFaRqQ/s1600/DSC_0312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9hB61fwjjsaLLP8K5TwrTI66vgnmyn3wY5IEqqUVs4WPXefKd2e-xTzVsWLkHWgiEpcbKUdpheRJTy8Miy0T6NVEeYbt0qogYOAsE1VK5MmUaZdV9OaoXP_HiDLY0b_1WcBAgpFaRqQ/s320/DSC_0312.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys patiently awaiting next instructions, so well-behaved! </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYRU1CDoDOTCKlST-BT1A-0AHKnU0_ytGN_g5LD8UhcqAACvasv4DMuhypb_-tXk9L5T6wUMt64VBE1fAcMfgA1IDCpO82shU6B3s9bu-eDoHe61rCAvmqc7l0onHj3kdWxaKiGBkTyY/s1600/DSC_0272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYRU1CDoDOTCKlST-BT1A-0AHKnU0_ytGN_g5LD8UhcqAACvasv4DMuhypb_-tXk9L5T6wUMt64VBE1fAcMfgA1IDCpO82shU6B3s9bu-eDoHe61rCAvmqc7l0onHj3kdWxaKiGBkTyY/s320/DSC_0272.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Better together</td></tr>
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<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-24681591233615219082016-07-24T16:03:00.001-07:002016-07-24T16:03:11.505-07:00Learning (to) Love<i>This is a post that I had started in August/ September 2015, shortly after I returned from camp (see below). I had begun to summarize my Asia trip at the bottom of the post, and then closed out of the draft window, opting to sleep, telling myself that I'd continue and finish it the next time. It is now July 2016, and the only update to this piece are the added pictures. Everything </i>else<i> to come later, in a separate post...</i><br />
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Before I start with what I've been wanting to write, let me tell you this: if you are considering broiling/ boiling vegetables with coconut oil, don't do it. Or if you really want to, use only a tiny bit of the oil, because it certainly is strong.<br />
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The last few months have been a true blessing, for lack of a brief description. However, since I rarely lack a brief description, here's a skeleton of what I feel fortunate enough to deem a blessing. I'll start backwards chronologically:</div>
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<a href="http://rmhcsc.org/camp/">Camp Ronald McDonald</a>. It's truly the best life decision I have ever made, and I can't wait to do it again. I went in with no clue whatsoever about what would go on and how. The first few days of staff training and development were almost dreadful, because I just wanted to be back in the land of technological and material distraction. But after the 139 campers arrived, I forgot about everything else in the world, and had no worry at all except for how I would co-run the arts and crafts and cooking activities, and which cabin I could snag a seat with during meals. It was great to contribute to a "normal kid" environment that simply lets kids be kids. I used to want to be a "normal kid," too, but never knew that magical places like this existed. The kids are the most intelligent, generous, and kindhearted individuals I've ever met; and the counselors, however jaded, sarcastic, and what-have-you that we are in the outside world, somehow overcome all of their personal issues to activate and provide the genuine love and care that everybody needs. It's truly fantastic also to witness the kids grow out of their shells and transition from stranger to friend to family in just a matter of days. The hardest thing, strangely, was trying to not be the kid-at-heart that I am with all the kids around; the second hardest was, rather than us saying goodbye to the kids, the kids saying goodbye to each other--and some of them saying goodbye to camp. Furthermore, camp was a simultaneously firm and gentle reminder that people are kinder than we judge and think. We have vast capacity to be truly good people, and we just need to put ourselves in the physical position and environment which activates that. The best case scenario would be that we can do that in any position and environment, for everyone around us.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0eKZLDO6LP9yHolBQbFfdEW3AtmCF_kzoeEJ16Nv0G3x-mZkkMu7qakWMUBBU2Nz2k7OllPMetdRKjesvQON_mbiLKIEsY41-0QHQEiSqRn21ifHP2VoRqmLUolsnaBb6ldwU0J9vGBk/s1600/DSC_0062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0eKZLDO6LP9yHolBQbFfdEW3AtmCF_kzoeEJ16Nv0G3x-mZkkMu7qakWMUBBU2Nz2k7OllPMetdRKjesvQON_mbiLKIEsY41-0QHQEiSqRn21ifHP2VoRqmLUolsnaBb6ldwU0J9vGBk/s320/DSC_0062.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think everyone's cups were overflowing with love that week.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY2dKzw__MoMERN91Cx-L6b3YxInLUxcsCoEh3wP78OzvPi9KRd7_1Z6PHgDmQmOe1t5WCOuHkJLnJ38CkuE8_z3rQzzwD7g8ijAnqI1lxaNe8St4Z86hybnoH-QXqsNItM9-Ug4HOb5c/s1600/DSC_0017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY2dKzw__MoMERN91Cx-L6b3YxInLUxcsCoEh3wP78OzvPi9KRd7_1Z6PHgDmQmOe1t5WCOuHkJLnJ38CkuE8_z3rQzzwD7g8ijAnqI1lxaNe8St4Z86hybnoH-QXqsNItM9-Ug4HOb5c/s320/DSC_0017.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cutest brothers and their crayon-art masterpieces.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtt0pz6vBmngWvCxGa_jXobtviLjPB-40t3_vCTU0InJfyW8fFeKuISDg-knH-gt9ZefMqHc86uAvAVy5iiJ8BeY7i1gWmOJg047XojB7gICEAoOrcEzoOO7tKQa4g49-hwbxir357SI8/s1600/DSC_0981.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtt0pz6vBmngWvCxGa_jXobtviLjPB-40t3_vCTU0InJfyW8fFeKuISDg-knH-gt9ZefMqHc86uAvAVy5iiJ8BeY7i1gWmOJg047XojB7gICEAoOrcEzoOO7tKQa4g49-hwbxir357SI8/s320/DSC_0981.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite cabin of campers :)</td></tr>
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Everything that preceded Camp suddenly seemed so small, after such a grand experience. Nonetheless, I do remember Asia--though not vividly:</div>
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Our first stop was London for a 10-hour layover, and although I was hangry and irritable (for some reason, I remember that very distinctly), it was nice to walk through the same areas I once--or twice or thrice--perused in the summer of 2012. I wanted to pretend that I knew where everything was, but I'm pretty sure MC caught on to the pretense. </div>
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When we finally got to Bangkok, we were extremely jetlagged, and after two nights of claiming we would "go out," we ended up never having done throughout our four-day stay there. Bangkok is so amazingly cheap and so incredibly crowded. </div>
Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-23321792530311740292016-07-18T01:31:00.001-07:002016-07-18T01:35:51.887-07:00Full CircleFrequently, it occurs to me how little immigrant parents know--and I don't mean that in any negative way. Knowing little of the English language and little about American culture, they assimilate how they can, and what they see is what they absorb and subsequently "know." For instance, until last year, my family had never had a dog--or any pet, for that matter, other than the occasional goldfish we scored from carnivals at Alpine Park. The only kind of dog that we ever "regularly" came in contact with was a distant (but not really, because she lives in El Sereno, which is adjacent to where we live) relative's guard dog, a German shepherd of whom I was stupidly afraid. A little over 1.5 years ago, my dad began contemplating getting a dog; then it became getting a guard dog; and then, of course, it became "getting the dog that 'mumu' [Cantonese translation for a non-blood related grandmother] has." At some point, he found out from mumu the name of the dog breed in Chinese, and the only part I understood in that translation was "German," and all of a sudden, "German shepherd" made sense. At the time, the only other type of dog he knew about was the chihuahua, and that was only because our cousins next door had had one for a few years already. So then we got Avery in February 2015. A few months ago, we got Milou, a Dachshund, and my dad could only describe him as "a brown chihuahua," because that was the only other breed he knew. Surely, he has seen a plethora of other dog breeds over his lifetime, but he was applying only what he knew, from the limited knowledge--perhaps the better word is <i>exposure</i>, and/ or <i>understanding</i>--that he had. That's not to say anything negative--it just highlights to me that the learning process never stops. No matter how many years you've lived and experienced, it's hard to truly say that you've seen/ been through it all.<br />
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I used to think that adults knew everything. Heck, when I reached what I thought was (numerically speaking) adulthood, I thought I knew everything and therefore did not need my parents' consultation anymore. But now that I'm actually an adult, having experienced rent, bills, full-time work, and all that great adult stuff, I increasingly--and humbly--realize that I <i>don't </i>know it all, and that I <i>do </i>need consultation, that I have much more to experience, and much more to learn, from everyone and anyone around me. Talk about a reality check. A life lesson? I'm not even quite sure what it is, because a reality check sounds harsh, but a life lesson, despite its nomenclature, doesn't sound impactful enough. Anyhow, I don't think I've ever been in a position to need consultation, advice, learning, and experience more than I do now. And I might feel the exact same way again in a couple of years, ten years, etc. And that's one of the most humbling things I've ever felt, and most likely one of the most humbling things I will feel for years to come.<br />
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What's important is to next embrace that humility and take the opportunity to learn from those around you. Sometimes I feel bad telling my parents they're wrong or unknowledgeable about something, but sometimes I feel bad not saying anything at all--and, admittedly, I feel worse when I whine, "You just don't understand!" and leave it at that. But in the past few days, it occurred to me that they're expressing moments of vulnerability and humility, and I shouldn't shoot them down for not knowing certain things about a culture which is still strange and unfamiliar to them; rather, just as they have taught me all of the lessons and values that have made me a productive person in this society (or so I like to think), I should help them to assimilate to this American culture of which I am very much a part.<br />
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I think parents don't like to express very much that they need us, because they're the parents and we'll (supposedly) always be their "babies." But there does come a point in their lives when they need us, just as we needed--and need--them growing up. In fact, as we and our parents grow older, the need becomes reciprocal. This need refers to both physical and emotional need, as well as intellectual and cultural need, the latter particularly for immigrant parents (see anecdote above). Most kids, whether or not they openly admit it, depend on their parents immensely--a <i>great </i>need for many years. But the inflection point at which the parents begin to exhibit, or reciprocate, the need for their kids--that's tremendous. That's vulnerable; that's humble. That's a point when our parents, at whatever age they may be, can say they have not been through it all just yet, that they have more to learn and to experience, and they need <i>us </i>to help them in doing so. And as bothersome or burdensome as it may seem, we need to embrace this moment with love and patience. Because we'll be there some day, too.<br />
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<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-22091616956740009462016-01-09T02:17:00.001-08:002016-07-24T15:31:56.216-07:002016's First RambleIsn't it crazy? When I was younger, I couldn't wait to be twenty-something years old, because I knew these would be the prime years. I assumed I'd know everything there is to know about life by this strange, odd age of 24 (okay, more even than odd). Now here I am, a few weeks past my 24th birthday, without a clue about the adult things that I've been hearing about and should do or start doing, the adult things described with words and numbers I never thought to string together as a child:<br />
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<li>"Are utilities included in the rent?" </li>
<li>"Is 750 square feet big enough?"</li>
<li>"401K."</li>
<li>"Make a budget."</li>
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While I'm getting more involved in the adult life I had long pined for, I admit that a part of me wants to stay at home, where I know I don't have to cook my own meals and can even make requests here and there, where I can assume that if the laundry hamper is overflowing, someone else (i.e. Mom) will likely take care of it, where I am more taken care of than taking care of. But I acknowledge that sooner or later, I must "grow up," and that means physically detaching myself from home for long periods of time.</div>
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When I lived in the dorms my freshman and sophomore years at UCLA, I didn't dare call those 10'x10' rooms "home," because home was where I returned every Friday to see my family, friends, and then-S.O. When I moved into my apartment on Rochester Avenue junior year, I was reluctant--and afraid--to call apt. 410 home: reluctant because I wasn't sure how I felt about my roommates, how I felt about the apartment, how I felt about the rent; afraid because I didn't want to emotionally detach myself from my official home, because I felt like I was betraying my parents if I could make a home outside of the one in which they raised me. But after a few months of simultaneously nonchalantly and intentionally calling apt. 410 "my apartment," I began to ease into calling it "home," albeit not "my home." Eventually, "home" became an utterly confusing term--it referred to apt. 410, M's apt. 102, my parents' house, M's parents' house... And at some point in the midst of all that, I learned that home truly is where your heart is. And your heart can be in many places at once, and it isn't a case of betrayal or disloyalty; rather, it's a sign of family, acceptance, love--however differently displayed in the respective realms. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me picking fruits with my dad at home</td></tr>
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Shortly thereafter, I learned that the term "family" is just as flexible as "home." It's the people who love and accept you at your best and your worst, who give you a hand when the going gets rough and root for you even with the smallest accomplishments. </div>
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Just before I turned 24, I began to practice being assertive and being flexible. I'm more assertive--though not necessarily pushy--about the things I want or don't, more assertive about my feelings and my intentions. I'm more flexible in my attitudes toward others--though I probably should stop yelling at other drivers while I'm driving alone with the windows closed; flexibility in this sense mostly refers to my interactions with and acceptance of people--except irritating drivers, I guess. Even though as a child I thought I'd be all grown up by now, I'm still growing up and learning a lot about not just (adult) life, but also about myself. You know the saying "There's always room for improvement"? Not true in every case, but I do believe it's true for personal development and growth. No matter how old you've just turned or what you've done, there's always room for improvement.<br />
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Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-81639571664308614992015-12-14T09:13:00.002-08:002015-12-14T09:13:47.753-08:00RevelationsDuring the drive up to Napa yesterday, Sherry and I saw something incredible. We had been on the 5 for several hours, zooming down the California-drought yellow bush-lined freeway, and had just gotten onto the 55-mph limit CA-12 West highway. While I was disappointed by the considerably decreased speed limit and the intermittently one-lane road, I was also extremely fascinated by the scenery. Here I was, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the glorious way the mid-afternoon winter sun shone on the body of water to my left, when all of a sudden I glanced over at Sherry to make commentary--what we both saw next was something I'll remember for a long time coming.<br />
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Ahead, a little to the right, a huge swarm of small black birds--and I mean SWARM--was flying all together, and suddenly, flocks began to come out of that swarm. One after another, these flocks pirouetted out of the group in S-shapes, like a hurdle of ballet dancers breaking into their choreographed formation. Each flock exited neatly, and then created their V-shaped flying formation gracefully. While most flocked eastward, others seemed to go slightly more northerly. When I thought this was over, still more flocks appeared to my left and one or two more emerged from the remaining of the original swarm. That quarter-mile stretch of the drive was a miracle--physically in that I had never seen flocks emerge from swarms like that, and metaphorically in that I had never seen anything quite literally just fall into place so gracefully and peacefully. Simultaneously, I wondered why we as humans, with such great intellectual capability, are seemingly unable to do what these birds had just done--together come up with a solution, and together fall into place to migrate to a suitable situation for everybody; and I was hopeful that everything for this trip was going to simply fall into place. Simultaneously, my heart was racing because of this miracle, and my heart was calm because of what it immediately meant to me. </div>
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I feel that these words do no justice to the complete awe that I felt, to the incredible wonder I witnessed. Try as I might to utilize figurative language and vivid imagery, I'm actually having a difficult time conveying the scene. It's times like these that I wish I were a skilled painter, so I could physically illustrate--no pun intended--exactly what I envision in order to share something so profoundly beautiful with you. Admittedly, even with an illustrious painting, something will be amiss. And that something is the exact feeling that is evoked at the exact moment of the experience. While this feeling can be described, described around, or described about, I don't think it can be replicated or re-experienced.</div>
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And that statement certainly isn't meant to be a downer. It's a reminder to keep our eyes peeled for the amazing things that can happen at any given moment. We so often interpret from those sad commercials or horrific news stories the very negative connotations of "Anything could happen." This takes up so much of our mental capacity that we forget there's a different perspective to that, too. Something like this bird experience, or something entirely different but similarly wondrous, can happen while Sherry and I drive to Santa Rosa later today, and we could very well miss it if we're on our phones. Or we could very well witness another revelating occurrence which can be fully experienced only in that moment.</div>
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Meanwhile, here are a few pictures of yesterday, after arriving in Napa.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Artesa Vineyards & Winery, our first stop. We were too late for the last tasting, but they gave us a complimentary "splash of wine" since we made the trip. All smiles after a smooth, safe, and beautiful drive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> The beautiful "fountain" outside of Artesa, just after sunset. I conjecture that this is close to what heaven looks like.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">St. Clair Brown Winery, highly rated on Yelp as an urban winery. Very small and cozy, great Sauvignon Blanc.</span></div>
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I also want to note how wonderful yesterday was. Even though we left home an hour later than planned, the drive was much more beautiful and much faster than we anticipated. With the sunroof open and our favorite '90s pop songs jamming on the car's CD player, we had a fantastic time together, and I'm so thankful that Sherry is back and that we and our relationship have grown to enable us to not just tolerate each other, but to enjoy each other's company, for an entire day. Love you, sis.</div>
Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-46201847535101258562015-09-25T18:35:00.002-07:002015-09-25T18:35:17.328-07:00Love SongsI feel that a humongous chunk of my life is missing from this blog. The last post was from June--maybe even May--after I started my (no longer) new job. Now, three--four, maybe even five--months later, I feel also at a loss for words to describe those months. I had started a post several weeks ago, and an hour into writing, got distracted and left that window open on my computer for two weeks, only to finally close it out later, admitting defeat to laziness in tandem with busy-ness. It isn't that I've forgotten details about my monthlong travels through Asia or my weeklong experience at Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times. It's that, after so much time has passed, all of wanderlust-ful, awe-inspired ooh's and ahh's of travel and all of the magical, heartwarming moments of camp have passed. While I can still imagine particular encounters and occurrences, it's hard to trigger or evoke the precise emotions I felt or expressions with which I reacted--the very things that I told myself I would write about once I got back from wherever I was, whatever I was doing.<br />
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So, here I sit on a stool of a tall table in Starbucks, in a feeble, sleepy, and sniffly attempt to write personally for the first time in too long. A while back, I spent a considerable amount of time thinking about love, particularly how it's portrayed and expressed through song. Artists/ singers often make it seem like loving somebody is easy.<br />
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"All of me loves all of you?" Easier said than done. Everyone has "their things" that make them hard to love. Committing all of oneself to love all of somebody else is such a dauntingly grand gesture--promise, really. I don't believe I can ever love absolutely all of anybody: part of me wants to justify that by pointing at the other person and his/ her imperfections that I cannot just ignore. Another part of me acknowledges that it's probably one of my defense mechanisms preventing me from full vulnerability, holding me back from giving my absolute all to somebody. On top of that is the expectation that that somebody will reciprocate--what a perilously presumptuous thought! "Give you all to me, I'll give my all to you"--what else can you then give to other parts of your life? If you've given something your all, can you give anything else your all, if anything at all? How much can one love and how much can one give?<br />
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"How can I give you all of me, when all I get is half of you?" This lyric used to resonate very much with me, because I spent--and continue to spend--so much time giving myself to people who didn't always reciprocate. I didn't necessarily give my all, all the time, but I gave enough to eventually begin to question relationships. In any case, it's always been one of my emotional fears that, after giving my all and loving with my all, I'll get only a portion--if any--of that back. And then I'll probably feel like everything I put forth was wasted effort. Valid fear, right? Because who doesn't want to be given to and be loved to the same extent they give and love? Granted, there might be a handful of people who don't give or love with expectations of receiving--but that just isn't me. And I wonder, between "all of me loves all of you" and "give you all of me... I get half of you," which is the better/ more accurate model of love?<br />
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"Love don't cost a thing" is a lie. Even notwithstanding the financial woes of dating or any type of relationship, love costs time, effort, emotions... The price to pay for love is emotional vulnerability, first and foremost. You have to open yourself up and share your life, and be open to the other party's as well. You sacrifice things you do or want to do, you might lose touch with people in other social circles, and so on. And when arguments and heartbreak come around the corner, that's at the expense of your well-being, happiness, and sanity. Love costs--a lot. But that's a negative vantage point. Because if you just want to give and you just want to love, then I suppose J-Lo is right--love doesn't cost a thing, if you really want to invest yourself in it and don't have an absolute need to get anything back.<br />
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Certainly, love songs abound, but the first two were stuck in my head for those weeks of contemplation, and the last was just a last-minute addition.<br />
<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-8713737595601275412015-06-03T01:56:00.001-07:002016-07-24T15:29:48.267-07:00Lessons LearnedAfter having used a MacBook instead of my PC for the past three weeks, returning to the latter seems strangely foreign. And I'm pretty sure that, from lack of usage, several of my keys have gone "numb." I know no other way to concisely describe it--these keys are now much harder to press (it is taking an insane amount of effort to type all of the <i>s</i>'s and periods hereby) than they have ever been. And I keep pressing the "ALT" button, thinking it's the "Command" one when really, I mean to go three keys over to "CTRL." When I first started using the Mac for work, I told myself that I would never lose sight of my Toshiba. But alas, my fingers have lost the familiarity. Still, my loyalty to and preference for PC remains (for now).<br />
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Prior to finally starting this, I was thinking up a storm--lighting, thunder, and all--of ideas, anecdotes, and jokes to share. You would have been delighted--because obviously, my posts could evoke nothing other than delight--to read all of it, too! But worry not. Delighted you still shall be. Perhaps enlightened, even--just perhaps.<br />
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Because I started working full-time (yes, a REAL job!), I could no longer tutor my students. I had a relatively hard time telling them "This will be our last week" and "This is our last session" because I had grown so attached to them, and felt connected with them! But to no surprise, none of them really expressed any sadness or anything... Maybe because they're boys. Yes, I'm going to say because they're boys. Actually, one of them did admit he was a bit sad, saying, "Because you're such a good teacher!" The others just kind of said, "Oh, okay." I suppose I expected them to view each last session as more momentous than just a regular session... Each "goodbye" was almost like a breakup to me! And even though it's been a while and school is coming or has come to an end for all of them, I still think about them and wonder how they're doing, hoping that they're keeping up the progress that they've made.<br />
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I texted my Spanish student's mother the other day to check in on his progress in the class. She replied by telling me he had scored a high B on a make-up test (which he originally received a low C or D on), and scored an A on his oral presentation, resulting in a solid B for the class. And the entire time I was tutoring him, I thought that he hadn't listened or paid attention--or cared at all. But it turns out I was wrong, and I'm darn glad of that. I'm so proud of him, and so proud of the other students. It's incredibly rewarding to see results happen, and even more so when they and/ or their mothers acknowledge you for it. (Yes, my ego is definitely coming into play here...)<br />
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Although I was the one doing the teaching/ mentoring/ advising as the tutor, I learned one hugely important lesson myself, too. In some ways, this lesson surpasses any that I have given and many that could be given. Through working with these kids and their mothers, I realized at one point--it was an epiphany, really--why my mother is so crazy! Sorry, let me rephrase... I realized why mothers do the things they do. I used to think my own mother (sorry, Mom) was just crazy for making my sister and me do this and that, yelling at us, and so forth. But everything that they do truly is in their children's best interests. They truly just want the best for us, whether that means paying somebody big bucks (not that I got big bucks, sadly) to facilitate time to do homework or signing us up for random after-school and weekend classes. They want us to get into good colleges so that we can do better; they want us to be healthy so that we can be better; they want to help us succeed. Sometimes, their approaches may not be the most tasteful or fun, but often, they really do know best. In elementary and middle schools, my mom always chastised me with, "You'll see one day that I'm right." I never believed it, because how would she know, and how could she know everything? Halfway through high school, I was horrified! As more oncoming growing-up matters ensued, I realized slowly but surely that she was right about one thing after another... Come freshman year of college, I just surrendered and told her, "Remember when you said you'd be right about everything? I guess you are." And of course, that led to nothing less than a victorious, "I told you so!"<br />
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Oops, it seems I digressed slightly. But I realized, after having learned the above lesson, that I've been too unappreciative of my mother. There are still many cultural and generational differences that she hasn't accepted or actualized yet, and maybe never will, but she tries so hard. And I don't say that in the condescending "You try too hard. Just stop trying" way at all. I say it with admiration. Despite our attitudes and tempers, she continues to try to appeal to and appease my sister and me. As absolutely taken aback as I was by the fact that she packed a VEGETABLE and two loaves of bread in my bag for our trip to Hawaii, it later occurred to me that she just wanted to cook for us if we didn't feel like eating out, and I came to appreciate that. Still, it was crazy--I still cannot believe she packed a VEGETABLE! And rice... And Spam... And sardines... But ya know. We ended up having to binge-eat everything the day we were due to fly home because we ran out of space because she went crazy on the souvenir-buying. For which I also thought she was crazy. But after haranguing her for going nuts (literally--they bought boxes and boxes of macadamia), my attitude softened considerably, because through all of that ridiculous spending, I saw her generosity. It isn't like she has a bank full of cash to spend, but she has an enormous heart (not literally, because that would be a dangerous condition) that leads her to buy tons of things not for herself and not even necessarily for us, but for OTHERS. Maybe that's why they're called m<b><u>others</u></b>? Mom + others = mothers? Yes, I think so.<br />
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And I know I'm not any of your guys' tutor or anything, but if you take away nothing else from this post, take this: <u>appreciate your mother</u>! I'm far from doing it right myself, but I'm going to devote more time and effort toward it. As well as toward my father and sister, and family in general, because family really is important. I wish I had known that and used time to appreciate that instead of throwing my attitude all over the place when I was younger.<br />
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Another thing I really appreciate about my mother is that even though she strongly opposed getting a dog for our home, she has come to really care for Avery, and I've even come to believe that she has become her primary caretaker. It took a while for our German Shepherd sweetheart to warm up to my mother--especially since every time Avery was let into the house, she would just take a lap around the living room and proceed to find a random spot to declaratively pee on--but now she voluntarily bathes her! Yesterday when I came downstairs, she and my dad were washing her together, and it was really one of the sweetest and best images I have seen in a while, even considering the fantastic scenery and landscapes in Hawaii last week.<br />
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Speaking of Hawaii--it was spectacular. I think it seems every time someone asks and I reply like that, my voice probably sounds flat and disinterested. But it really was and probably still is spectacular. Even though we didn't go to the more remote Maui or wherever else, Oahu was still pleasantly enjoyable. The first evening that we went to Waikiki Beach down the street, I exclaimed as I stepped into the water, "Wow, I can see the sand under the water!" The natives nearby must have thought, "What is she talking about? You can always see the sand." And with my weird jokes and nonstop laughter following that, they must have thought I was crazy. Anyway... the food wasn't as good as I would have liked, though we did have fresh-made udon for dinner one night, which reminded me of all the Chinese la-mien (pulled noodles) carts I saw in Shanghai way back when. I also tried snorkeling, which was a true struggle. I've had two true struggles lately--this being one, and Sunday's half marathon being the other--and I'm not sure which outweighs the other. Granted, I still can't swim, which probably explains the struggle that accompanied snorkeling. I tried, I really did! But believe me--there was something defective with the snorkel mask to begin with, because there's no way I'm that good at sucking in water through my nose through a mask. It was still cool while it lasted, because I saw fish in their natural habitat (instead of on a plate)! After I gave up, I just laid there and tanned like the noob that I am. Another highlight is papaya. Yes, papaya. I've always liked Hawaiian papaya, and it hadn't occurred to me until day 3 out of 5 that I should try Hawaiian papaya straight from Hawaii... Believe it or not, my biggest regret about Hawaii is not having eaten enough papaya from the fruit bar of the $17 (without bottomless mimosas?!) breakfast buffet a few of us went to one morning. Aside from that, the pineapple is rather delicious, too. I am pleased to announce--not that you care, though, I presume--that I am NOT allergic to pineapple! (Background: I spent years avoiding pineapple and anything pineapple-flavored because I used to itch slightly after eating the smallest chunk of pineapple, so the fruit just became a complete turn-off.)<br />
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The whole pineapple situation actually is more significant than it seems. It reminds me of the one night that I suddenly and decisively told myself that I would no longer be afraid of dogs--and then just picked up Snowflake (my cousins' chihuahua). It was a victorious night, and I still consider it a victorious moment, because it was one in which I consciously and purposefully overcame a fear. The pineapple moment is another one of those.<br />
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Another inspiring (I deem it so, anyway) experience occurred the other day. While I was in line for the Porta-Potties (not sure if that's correctly spelled, hyphenated, or even capitalized, but probably not worth looking into at 1:39 a.m.) at the crack of dawn on Sunday (Rock n Rock Half Marathon in SD), I anxiously looked around the throng of runners, hoping to find somebody who looked like they could help me with my kinesiology tape. I had bought a roll the evening before, and knew that I had taped it on my knee wrong because the pain still bothered me. So I figured I'd, last-minute, just ask somebody to tell or show me how to do it right. After a few seconds of perusal, I noticed a woman and a man sitting on the open grass between lines; she was taping him up in what appeared to be an expert fashion. So I waited until he got up before I headed over and meekly said, "Excuse me? I have this same tape that I bought yesterday, and am not sure how to use it. Would you mind showing me?" The nice woman, bless her soul, actually just told me to sit down and wait for her to finish wrapping herself up so that she could just do it FOR me. Immediately, I expressed my gratitude. Throughout the process, she explained some tips and tricks of the tape and told me that she knows all about knee problems since she herself has had two knee surgeries. I saw her a few more times after she wrapped me up, and thanked her every time. It may have been annoying, but I just appreciated it so much! She actually took the time, half an hour prior to race time, to tape up BOTH knees of a complete stranger.<br />
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I was still doubtful that the tape would work, but decided to have faith anyway--paradoxical, I know. So I threw my knee brace back into my bag to check in, and just told myself that if she and others could use just the tape and be okay, I should be okay, too. I had started race morning by telling JH, "I'll just stay here (on the shuttle from parking to start line) and take a nice nap," because I was 80 percent sure that I would not be able to complete the 13.1 miles that day. But I am now confident that I was able to complete it--in just under 2.5 hours--largely because the nice woman helped me out. Until mile 7 of the race, I didn't even need to walk! When I hit mile 11, I remembered something that I had read at work recently: "<b>Give generously. Receive gratefully.</b>" And I've been trying to do just that, especially since MC told me a while back that I wasn't very good at showing appreciation. I'm now making a conscious effort to tell people that I appreciate the things they do, big or small, because they should know. It isn't that they absolutely need to know, but if you show your appreciation and acknowledge their efforts, they're more likely to feel better about not just their work, but also about your relationship. Even though I probably will never see that woman again--and honestly, I don't even remember what she looks like--I'm going to remember those few minutes for a long time, because she demonstrated to me the generosity that people are willing to give, especially if you just ask. Which is another lesson I've learned lately--if you really want or need something, it's worth asking somebody. Everybody wants and needs things all the time, and surely, we can't always have or attain all of them, but many people are willing to help and accommodate. I think even if you can't "give generously," you should "give what you can." Do what you can for others; they'll do what they can for you. Even if it isn't evenly reciprocal, so what? Many of us receive a significant amount of just... well, <i>good</i>, in our lives that we really should make the conscious effort to give what we can, when we can, too. I'm starting to see more and more that this is one way to live more rewarding days and lead a more rewarding life.<br />
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Anyway... I was going to insert pictures into this post just to make it seem less wordy, but if a picture is worth a thousand words, then this post might as well become a research article.<br />
(Yes, that is my half-joke, half-excuse for not posting my fantastic Hawaii and Avery pictures. Also, it's rather late. Pictures to come next time.)<br />
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<i>Next time being July 2016:</i><br />
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<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-49109212589861932152015-04-25T23:58:00.001-07:002016-07-24T11:56:45.539-07:00A Nice, Warm, Sunny Day"Please let tomorrow be a nice, warm, sunny day. In Jesus's name we pray, Amen."<br />
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That's how I ended every prayer, every night when I was a child. And almost every day turned out to be a "nice, warm, sunny" one, so I thought God must have been real. At some point, I got suspicious, so from time to time, I purposely skipped that part (and felt guilty about it because I wasn't doing the world the favor of asking for good weather); and for the most part, each of those days still turned out to be exactly the way I otherwise prayed. Down the road, I wised up and realized that in Southern California, the bulk of the year consists of "nice, warm, sunny days."<br />
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This anecdote does not represent my shift away from prayer. It's just something that crossed my mind earlier while hoping for good running weather for tomorrow's La Jolla Half Marathon. We have to be at the shuttle to get to Del Mar by 5:30 a.m. yet I am still awake, attending to my urge to write.<br />
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Running has been quite the challenge lately, both mentally and physically, what with bad knees--and sometimes ankles--and then simple laziness. But the end of every run, from the sweat to the soreness, feels fantastic. I'm starting to believe that, with the recent improvement of my knee conditions (knock on wood), I can continue to run half marathons as long as I properly care for my knees in between each stint. I think. I sure hope. On the other hand, a small, strange, perverse part of me frequently tells me that I should not be going out to run or work out because I don't deserve to feel the endorphin-induced high because I haven't found a full-time job. On the other hand, a tiny, complacent yet caring, part of me doesn't want to have to leave my six students for a full-time job... Per usual, my mind is befuddled with contradicting thoughts that typically end up in mental stalemate and physical inaction.<br />
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Thankfully, though, I've been receiving a great deal of support from MC and a few others lately, and that encouragement really helps to remove me from the state of stalemate and inaction, because as I have previously written, we have near complete control over our own lives. Most of the actions that we take or leave are by choice, uninfluenced by any greater power that cannot be overcome or overreached. We can very easily choose to do the better thing, the right thing, to take one path over another, to pave additional paths... And often, whatever we end up doing but don't like, we try to think up excuses to justify the dissatisfaction. Meanwhile, we could more effectively be seeking alternatives to increase overall contentment.<br />
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But that brings me the topic of the next best thing. At what point are we to stop actively seeking and pursuing the next best thing? Unless complacent and content, don't we all want the best for ourselves? But then while doing that, aren't we being unfair to those who deserve more than just a sliver of our attention and effort?<br />
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Just some food for thought... I should catch those quickly fleeting four hours of sleep now before the half marathon.<br />
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<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990550239890667815.post-65733932878692189322015-03-20T01:02:00.004-07:002016-07-24T16:09:51.886-07:00Life and Lemons, revisited<a href="http://remysea.blogspot.com/2013/02/life-and-lemons.html">Original "Life and Lemons" post (February '13)</a><br />
<a href="http://remysea.blogspot.com/2013/03/lemons-contd.html">Follow-up "Lemons" post (March '13)</a><br />
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Now, what happens when there are no more lemons, when you're standing in the middle of the hill and nothing is tumbling from the top, while everything at the bottom has gone bad?<br />
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You could stay put and await another harvest, as I suggested in the conclusion of the original post; or you could walk on over to another hill, pick another fruit, and move on. In the latter case, you must still heed limits and satisfaction, and pick wisely.<br />
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But let's address the concern that must be looming in your mind: what if lemons start rolling down that first hill like no tomorrow once you get to this other one? If there are limes rolling down this hill but you've never made lime-ade, what do you do? You could, of course, return to the comfort of sunflower yellow lemons and follow the originally prescribed methods. Alternatively, you have discovered another hill which presents you with plentiful new opportunities: you can explore the new territory of spring grass green limes, and you may enjoy it more if eye-wincing sourness is your scene. Note, however, that you cannot be on both hills at once. It's one or the other, lemonade or lime-ade, yellow or green (notwithstanding the semi-ripe lemons and the aging limes, which one wouldn't use for optimal juicing and consumption anyway).<br />
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Although you want to quench your thirst, you must again pick carefully and distinguish the good from the okay, the better from the good. It's a delicate process, really, one that requires dedication. Certainly, you could always just go for whatever passes you by in order to get the job done and hydrate, but you risk losing all of the better, best lemons or limes to the bottom of the hill. Wouldn't it be more effective to apply patience and pick out the prime?<br />
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Now let's suppose you could move up and down the hill instead of just transferring between hills. If you're stuck with nothing, what would behoove you more: trekking uphill to reach the entire range of options, or strolling downhill to reach the leftovers?<br />
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Lemons--and limes, too, now--are quite the complicated fruits, wouldn't you say so?<br />
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<br />Remy Seahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09088910092486142923noreply@blogger.com0