chasing truth & making art
You waltz through the world,
like wildfire and whiskey with
maskless soul unfurled.
You know I don’t curse,
and that my only scandal
is dancing with words.
You say I’ve got wings,
but now we’re in free-fall and
I’m not good at dreams.
(I’m alive, and I really will try to write more regularly).
I love and hate that tributes to those we lose can be so eloquent. We can max out profundity and pretty words, inspiring tears and shivers, yet eloquence ends at the grave. We say these words, share these memories, but you’re still gone.
And we will continue with our lives, and slowly forget.
I guess that’s why funerals are more for the living than the dead. The tributes we pay are closure for us, even if they are infuriatingly, eloquently inadequate. But we have no other means. So here are mine.
You taught calculus and not poetry, but you were a type of John Keating—Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society—even though my friends thought you looked like Brad Pitt. Not that that’s an insult by any means.
I remember how you loved astronomy, and that was fitting for a man who lived with such fervor. The world couldn’t confine your spirit to a small blue orb spinning in a galaxy spinning in a universe spinning in infinity. Funny, you might have been the first one to teach me about infinity, outside of Scripture and church and the infinitude of God. I remember hearing it in your classroom, probably on a dreary gray morning, when you introduced asymptotes and limits, and bewilderment shot the sleep out of our eyes.
Why do we wait until someone is gone to remember, and realize the little things were really the big things? I can feel the years standing between then and now, with the space, the distance, the merciless drumbeat of time. Yet it also feels like yesterday, with the memory pressed so close.
You must have believed in strong ripple effects, and if not, your life has contradicted you. I wonder if that is why you chose a small classroom in a quiet suburb. Because I scrolled through your Facebook page today and saw generations of lives you touched, some that came before me, and some after. I read silently and left, unable and afraid to think of words to leave you in such a public place, but inspired by those who did. Instead, I scrolled through my old photos to graduation and found the one I took with you.
You, with your strong smile and hairstyle we poked fun at. Me, in my cap and gown, grinning with genuine unconsciousness of adulthood and its trials.
I stared at the picture for a while, thinking of how it marked an ending. The close of one chapter, and the start of another. I wish I visited more, kept in touch, after I left. I wish you had more real estate on the pages that followed.
I don’t think you were the Facebook stalker type—that belongs proudly to our generation—so here’s a brief summary for you: I went off to chase sunshine and dreams in California. Found some and lost some. I still laugh a lot, and at dumb things, but the smiles have stretched over a few more scars. Which is okay. The battle wounds of adulthood are bearable because of strong refuges. Like memories of your pi jokes and class pranks and juvenile things that remind me how good it was to be a kid, and how to savor the present before it’s gone.
I still make impulsive decisions sometimes, and that’s partly why I’m doing a graduate degree in engineering. When I took Optimization last year, I understood my professor about 10% of the time, and I owe a large part of that to someone who taught me well so I could still do derivatives years later like it was second nature. I’d get stumped after that, but thanks for the partial credit. This time, the kudos goes to your teaching, and not my begging.
John Keating and my old English teacher used to tell us Carpe Diem. Seize the day. You never said the words, too busy making lessons and helping the helpless—which were most high school students sitting in a math class. You never had to say the words because your life said it all.
You Carpe’d the hell out of every Diem.
I don’t like goodbyes as much as gratitude, so I will simply say thank you—
Thank you for teaching (so tirelessly).
Thank you for believing (that it doesn’t take a genius to survive math).
Thank you for sharing that one video (I still share with friends to make them laugh).
Thank you for accepting our insanity (and sharing your own).
Thank you for being kind (to the difficult and the downtrodden).
Thank you for your courage (in sickness and in health).
Thank you for the memories.
If I was back in your old classroom, I would—don’t laugh—stand on my desk in a silent salute to you.
Oh captain, my captain.
your hand in mine
and a million miles
of sand and waves and sky
swirl around your smile.
the smell of autumn
with roasted coffee beans
and smoky haze swelling
through gold-crimson trees.
sticky, cinnamon rolls
warmed near our hearth
while our ice-chipped boots
bite the snow and earth.
naked branches blossom
in rosy pink and white
we dance down the sidewalk
and all the world is bright.
the world’s still cocooned in sleep
as golden light sails through my skies,
and I’m wrapped up messily—
half in sheets, half in dreams,
painted by your wistful smile.
it smells like lemonade and gasoline,
when the hot winds come alive.
I don’t dance, I protest
but she’s got a sunset-colored dress
and there’s witchcraft in her eyes.
sparks fly up, as if flames believe,
there’s life beyond the bonfire.
we tango, half in sand, half in sea—
and my world bleeds into hers
as crimson burns the dusk to night.
They do not cry when you cut them,
muted in life
and death.
But what gods are we,
to measure a soul by science,
or days, or sound or sight?
Listen:
to the rending of the conscience,
for the voiceless will not speak.
But what men are we,
to stand by quietly, amid
the silent genocide?
Poetry is oft for lovers, rarely for mothers.
Theirs is the thrill, the mystery, the romance, I suppose. They command our devotion, with a drama of ecstasy and despair. Some strange charm beckons us in the star-crossed tale and the daring plunge of two naked souls.
But what do we write of the ones who fold the laundry, steam the rice, and frighten the ants away? What glory do we dismiss, when we relegate her to nursery rhymes: the ones who bore us to life, and in times of thunder, hold up our skies?
Quietly, they build the world, when the world is not watching.
My mother, she builds
with thick skin and iron fingers—
She never wears mittens, juggling pots with bare hands. She is not delicate, as fearless in the face of man’s mockery as she is with boiling dishes. Let them laugh, she says, why spend your life saving face? We choose whether their words wound us or not.
Grown in the soil of her country, she will always love its food, but never wear its masks. Who will judge you, when Heaven has pardoned you?
as a romantic and a realist—
She once danced for farmers in the rice paddies as dusk shimmered away, back when Mao was god. Her limbs moved with childlike grace, a brief light in poverty, a defiant laugh in the dark. Beside her candle and banned books, she dreamed of being a rural schoolteacher. Now, she visits suburban homes and American libraries, teaching calculus to the fearful and probability to Ivy League-dreamers. Still, she labors with compassion, and knows in silent wisdom that the rich may be poor in spirit.
like Sherlock to my Watson—
She fires every gardener she hires for costly incompetence. She cannot bake sweets, but solves puzzles instead. What sort of grandmother will you be? I lament. Oh, I will teach your children about Calvin, not cookies. She forgets, sometimes, how to convert her height to feet and inches, and the order of planetary orbits. But communism was thin in the education department, and she has deeper things to ponder. She does not hear, sometimes, satire and sarcasm, because her habit is bald sincerity. She might offend you, or she might inspire you.
She lives good stories, and I try to write them. And sometimes, she wears funny hats.
in sorrow and splendor—
She is there when my world cracks and catches fire. Though she knows, in all her logic and reason, that tears do not fix broken hearts or dreams, she lets me weep. And when I cannot believe the kind, empty words of men, she speaks, like a songbird piercing hollow cathedrals. How splendid, when the strong in truth walk beside you in suffering. How steady and sure, the promises of God sound in her voice, whispered into the summer night.
Quietly, she builds the world
when she lays new dirt in the spring, when she fills the kitchen with garlic and soy, when she questions my sanity in all the right moments, and when she takes herself lightly, serious only in what matters most.
Quietly, she builds the world, yet teaches me—in triumph or in tragedy—not to love it so. But to store up in heaven the treasure of my soul.
Photo by Caleb Woods on Unsplash.
This piece first appeared in 1:1000, an online literary journal. Check out their excellent stories!
Ming hauled the door open, her lips pressed together against the chill. Rubbing her hands, she dusted the white flakes off her coat and hurried inside.
She rarely came to this side of campus. Though it was a small university, the engineering students kept to their quarters and the art students to theirs. A quiet thrill shot through her at this minor act of defiance.
The art studio exhibited a curious architecture. Filmy drapes hung on black bars, almost like shower curtains. Bulging pipes peered from the ceiling. A string of lights crisscrossed overhead with no real symmetry. Concrete walls splattered with ash and paint. At least the low-rise tables and chairs appeared orderly and clean, gathered in blocks across the tiled, gray hardwood.
It was a very American studio, at least in Ming’s mind. Back home they would not tolerate such a design, even for a creative workshop. Ventilation pipes belonged behind walls and makeshift lights would be tossed in favor of unobtrusive ceiling fixtures.
Naked. That is how she would describe the room.
“Escaping the cold?”
She jumped at the voice. Turning, she found a lanky, raven-haired boy watching her with an amused expression. His hands were dark with charcoal dust.
“I wanted to wait for the snow to stop. I parked in the main lot.”
“You’ll be waiting awhile, then.”
Ming shrugged. She did not want to dwell on what prevented her from going home earlier, much less explain it to a stranger.
“Are you a student?” she asked instead.
He nodded. “Just transferred from art history to art. Drop a word from my major’s name and gain another year’s worth of work.” He grinned. “I’m Jonah.”
“I’m Ming, electrical engineering,” she said, knowing that was sufficient explanation for why they were not acquainted.
“Ming,” he repeated. “Cool name.” Jonah glanced at the dirty window, the edges frosted over with snow and ice. “It doesn’t look like the storm is letting up. I make a mean hot chocolate, if you want me to fix some up.”
She hesitated for a moment but agreed. The roads were dangerous, and the hot and humid weather of her hometown had not prepared her for the bitter winters here. Besides, Jesse would not call anymore and Ming did not want to be home alone with her thoughts.
Jonah had an easy, unaffected manner. He filled the silence with small talk about his life as he bustled around the kitchen area. Ming sat at a table nearby and listened. She learned that he switched majors late, so he spent frequent nights in the studio playing catch-up. Unlike most college students, he disliked coffee, but had an unhealthy addiction to hot chocolate.
“It’s my grandma’s recipe. No sugar,” he boasted, as he set two steaming mugs before her.
The warm, rich scent filled her nostrils. “Thank you,” she said.
He pulled out the chair opposite to her. “So, Ming. Does your name mean anything?”
“It’s the same word for ‘bright’ in Chinese. It’s quite common.” She paused. “What about Jonah?”
“The prophet, in the Bible.” He grinned at Ming’s blank look. “God sent him to preach to a wicked city, he disobeyed, and was swallowed by a fish for three days.”
She considered it for a moment. “It seems like bad luck,” she said finally.
Jonah laughed. “He made it out alive. It’s a great story, actually.”
Ming flushed and fell silent. Her family burned incense, prayed for health and prosperity, and tried to live good lives for karma’s sake. In her last two years in America, her circle of engineering friends rarely discussed religion, philosophy or literature. If Jesse worshiped anything, it was Bruce Willis movies, which he insisted were a sufficient lens into western culture and ideals.
“Do you plan to go back to China after school?”
“I wasn’t, but—” Ming stopped abruptly, a painful twinge in her chest. She met Jonah’s eyes, steady and kind. “My boyfriend is from here. He broke up with me today.” The words fell out in a rush.
Jonah’s eyes crinkled. “I’m sorry.” Then he added, “He’s a jerk.”
Surprised, Ming glanced at him. “You don’t know him.”
“Of course not. But he probably is.” He held up a hand to stop her interruption. “Here’s a rule for breakups. Get rid of that urge to defend him.” A crooked smile slid up his face. “I don’t know him. I know you. I’m on your side, alright?”
Ming suppressed the urge to tell him that his logic was convoluted and nonsensical. She had to admit it felt good to have someone on her side.
She and Jesse shared the same circle of friends. Or, more accurately, Jesse formed their circle of friends and drew her in when they began dating. Ming knew this was nonsensical too, that the loss of one relationship could make her feel so unanchored and lonely on a campus teeming with students.
“Thanks,” she said. “My friends were all Jesse’s friends, so…” she trailed off.
Jonah nodded in understanding. “Jesse is from the Bible too. Father of a king,” he murmured. “I’m guessing your ex isn’t that great.”
Ming couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think so. And how are you living up to your name?”
“I’m all for seeing the inside of a fish.” Jonah grinned. “I like a good adventure. I’m forming a campus club for explorers, actually. The Misfit Pioneers. Have you heard the rumors about this place?”
She had. The administration tried to check wild gossip, but students still whispered about secret passageways and treasure troves buried beneath the grounds. Ming could never decide if it was the typical American obsession with conspiracy, or if there was some truth wrapped in the stories.
Jonah was on the ground, wrestling with something in the tiles. “This is what happens when you spend too much time here,” he called up to her. She heard a crack and an entire tile came loose. A plume of dust rose as he heaved it aside.
Ming yelped and joined him, peering into the darkness.
“What’s—in there?” she asked.
“Not sure. I was going to check it out sometime, hopefully with a buddy.” He met her gaze. “So, interested in joining my club?”
“How many people are in it?” she asked, still distracted by the gaping hole in the floor.
“Well, now there are two of us.”
Photography by Anthony Delanoix. Story by me. Original publication here.
Remember also your Creator in the days of your youth.
I look around and wonder what we are, really. A mortal yarn that spins its life away with each second, each breath. A small beating, blood-colored muscle surrounded by a fragile cage of bones. Thump, thump. A frail fleshly body that houses an eternal weight of glory, made to worship and chase and love with an undimmed blaze that we have canned and isolated like preservatives with a shelf life. Here’s a candle for your career. A brief, colorful firework for your love story. A lamp for your Sunday religion, if you want it.
We have learned to make filters that cover our brokenness. What, I wonder, would we find, if we tore the layers away? Where is the raw, bleeding heart buried in the rubble?
A splintering world can’t be bandaged by human hands and machines. I want to shake you, when I see you drawing maps in the dark and sprinting through a maze with a cliff at the finish line. What good are these bits and bytes, these Babel-like structures, these soaring speeches if we all come to dust and ashes?
Still our hearts love these glints of gold, gleaming in the dull iron landscape of existence. Oh, how we live for that bright and elusive tomorrow, forgetting that all tomorrows will end in the grave. I suppose we must forget – because we are not human without hope. Hope that there is more, that the glimmers in the gray are not liars, but angels. Hope that we simultaneously cling to and crush because we love and hate holiness.
Before the silver cord is snapped, or the golden bowl is broken, or the pitcher is shattered at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern, and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.
The mad world spins on. But on the other side of the veil, glory dawns like a sunrise. And in the still, quiet moments, it calls to us.
The stone was rolled away. And He is not silent.
For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?
Hello, host of headlights
chasing me down the highway,
like golden fireflies peering
through the dusky night.
Souls on the same road,
yet anchored to another world
and another, invisible life.
Where are you going, strangers?
I wonder what you believe in
when the world goes to hell,
I wonder what dreams you chase
and what party jokes you tell.
Goodbye, freeway friends,
who will only ever be
bright
dots
in my rearview mirror.
But I wish you well
as the rain spirals down
street lights blur
the radio plays
I’m homeward bound
and I say a prayer
that you might find
the Grace I found.
Read [Part I], [Part II], [Part III], [Part IV], [Part V], and [Part VI].
Part VII. A Farewell to Fear (Finale)
MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 12:09:23 AM
From Jansen to Darby
How did it go?!
–
MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 12:12:10 AM
From Darby to Jansen
[LOREN-MAGS.JPG]
–
MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 12:13:40 AM
From Jansen to Darby
My life is complete.
–
E-MAIL SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 3:25:12 AM
From Avery Chan to Darby Chan
Oh Darby.
I would too. To answer your last question. I would be home in a heartbeat too if things were different.
For some reason our Internet is being rationed to the extreme, so I have only minutes to write, and no way to do justice to this topic.
You are brave, my sister. You are brave to look at these hard things in the face and ask hard questions that I don’t have good answers to. Let’s agree now that we will talk about all of this in person when I come home, even if it’s awkward and difficult. (Pinky promise?)
Would you consider going home for New Years? There’s still a bit of break left if you change your mind. No pressure, but maybe that would help—you, mom and dad. And me, to know you’re there.
Regardless, I love you. And my Internet might cut out any moment but can I just say WHAT ADRIAN HAS A GF? Okay not funny but I can’t wait to hear how Jansen and Mags react to
–
LETTER FROM THE COURT
Re: Speeding Ticket #F9474
Dear Mr. Suzuki,
Thank you for your letter. We have read and considered your petition, but unfortunately, your request has been denied. The $300 fine will stand, and you must complete the required hours of driving school or receive a mark on your record.
We wish you a restful holiday and a happy new year.
–
MARGARET’S JOURNAL
Major update 1: I went to dinner with Loren. He was quite the gentleman and it was actually enjoyable and not too awkward until Adrian and Darby scared the lights out of us. We were indignant, but secretly, they made the evening more memorable. Loren looked like a total deer in the headlights.
Major update 2: Darby is going home for New Years. She’s hitching a ride with Adrian, who incidentally, was already planning to go home for New Years.
Major update 3: Apparently, Adrian has a girlfriend. Way to keep us in the dark, Darby. Though Jansen’s reaction was pretty great.
Major update 4: Loren asked me to be his girlfriend.
I said yes.
–
GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 9:28:02 AM
From D-Chan to Juki, Mags
Guys. I can’t believe I’m leaving in an hour.
–
GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 9:30:21 AM
From Juki to D-Chan, Mags
We’ll miss you. But we are proud of you, Darby.
–
GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 9:35:29 AM
From D-Chan to Juki, Mags
JUKI. ACK.
I love you guys.
–
GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 9:37:10 AM
From Mags to D-Chan, Juki
We love you!
–
GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 9:40:05 AM
From Juki to Mags, D-Chan
Kids, please don’t get too emotional on me. It makes me uncomfortable.
–
GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 9:42:12 AM
From D-Chan to Juki, Mags
Making you uncomfortable is one of life’s great pleasures. Keep me posted on EVERYTHING at Zephyr for the rest of break!
–
GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 9:45:49 AM
From Juki to D-Chan, Mags
Yes ma’am. I’ll just be third-wheeling a lot.
–
E-MAIL SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 10:13:30 AM
From Darby Chan to Avery Chan
Thanks sister.
Just writing to say: I’m going home.
Here’s to being brave and loving fiercely in 2016.
–
MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 10:03:09 AM
From Adrian to Darby
Ready to go?
–
MESSAGE SENT ON December 30, 2015 AT 10:05:18 AM
From Darby to Adrian
Let’s hit the road.
–
Fin.
Thanks for reading, and a wonderful 2016 to you!
Pen and Fire 