soopastryheart

Ay carumba, the scarcity of actual writing being done for this blog is downright pitiful.

Usual excuses set aside, and at the risk of sounding like a total spiritual fruitcake, I have been hard at work trying to recollect my center as I formulate a new plan for the current detour I am on. Without saying much (because really, there’s not much to be said), I am excited, nervous, and totally freaking out about the year ahead. Sure, it’s a scenario I never really envisioned, but one I inevitably chose at this particular moment in my life.

And no, I will not be elaborating, at least, not quite yet.

So please excuse the absence of the terribly insightful ramblings of a borderline crazy for now. I will return with writing – as sorry as ever – in due time.

The truth is, I fell in love a long time ago. I fell completely and totally in love, without a sense of how far and how strong that love would grow. It was a love introduced by Hans Christian Andersen and Dr. Seuss, nurtured by public libraries and book fairs, and continuously supported by Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com. It is a love that keeps me insatiable and obsessive, fulfilled and collected. It is an all-consuming yet totally unselfish love, one that I never see leaving my heart.

Let me tell you something about my life.

When my parents decided to move to the US over two decades ago, they only brought a handful of things over. Moving can be expensive business, especially if you are crossing continents, and we weren’t particularly rolling in the dough at the time. What did make the cut however, were sets of books in Korean – a 50-set collection of some of history’s most important (Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln, etc), and a set of children’s most popular fables (Sleeping Beauty, Arabian Nights, the Ugly Duckling). Both sets were for children, and despite the fact that I had only spent one year in the Korean educational system, my parents brought the heavy mother-effers over. I read each and every one of them, repeatedly, until the hinges began to appear battered and bruised.

In grade school, we lived half an hour outside of town. We had limited proximity to other children and with my parents being as overprotective as they could be, Ki and I were stuck in the house quiet often. Did we suffer unfathomable boredom and depravity of our childhood? Absolutely not. Twice a month, my dad would drive us to the local library, where we would check out the maximum books allotted out (25). And in between each visit, I would finish all 25 books, awaiting anxiously for the next visit. One summer, I read the most books for my age group in the summer reading club at the library, that I won an autographed copy of “Wayside Story Gets a Little Stranger” by Louis Sachar. The book remained within arms length for nearly an entire month.

But of course, every love goes through trials and tribulations, testing you, challenging your allegiance. In college, I took a series of classes required by my major that really tested my patience. For a short period, I felt abandoned by the very books I thought would strengthen my love (coughromanticpoetrycough). Even with all my dedication in trying to understand, I was often left confused, frustrated, and utterly betrayed. Still, we worked through our differences, and came out of our rough patch with out love renewed and stronger than ever. And after the quarter was over, I thought if we could make it through Blake and Wordsworth, we could make through anything.

You aren’t a nerd if you enjoy reading. In fact, you should be reading. Newspapers, magazines, books, pamphlets, nutrition facts, road signs. Reading, like vitamins, are good for you. Your vocabulary improves. So does memory. And like vitamins, they come in a pretty good variety. So if one leaves a bad taste in your mouth, you can always try the gummy ones. I’ve never understood those who say they hate to read, or can’t name a book they’ve read since high school. I would feel utterly unfulfilled and malnourished.

I will admit that I have strayed on many occasions. There have been droughts where I had not turned a page or marked a corner. There have been times where pretty pictures in a magazine took priority over a new chapter. And even through it all, the light remains on, and I am always welcomed back with open arms, no flowers or apologies required. It accepts me without judgment, no matter how much I’ve changed or strayed.

It’s nice to know that such a love exists.

I took Honie to her first dentist appointment in nearly two years the other day. I know, I know, that’s pretty irresponsible of us, considering her age and all, but it was what it was. I stood in the room as the dentist pointed out the numerous cavities that have made their residence in her mouth, shooting my disappointment at Honie’s terrified eyes. The dentist explained that at least one tooth had to be removed, and the others be resorted to fillings. She then informed me that orthodontic work would have to be done to correct the crowding, since Honie’s mouth is apparently too small to occupy her teeth. And I stood there, watching as the dentist extracted the condemned tooth, politely emphasizing the importance of thorough dental care because without it, “the damage becomes irreversible.”

In the car, Honie, even with her mouth swollen, numb, and filled with gauze and regret, said to me, “I’m going to take such better care of my teeth from now on.” And with a stern voice, I replied, “You should have been doing that anyway. Fillings are forever.”

And I thought about that all day… the idea that sometimes, you can only learn after the mistake, and that even with such a realization, not all mistakes can be rectified with a pair of medical pliers or fluoride. Sometimes, the mistakes are far too great, and far too complex – and will convince you that the damage has indeed reached the point of no return.

There are the types of mistakes that become a singular event. The scars on my body have made damn sure to never let me forget; that steam can be hot enough to scald you, that oven mitts are never just a decorative accessory for the kitchen, that it’s never a good idea to stick your finger in a fan, and that if you somehow manage to stab yourself in the hand with a utility staple, your first instinct shouldn’t be to tear the sucker out with such brute force and panic. These are incidents that should really happen only once (okay, the steam thing may have happened like two or fifteen times), because they become imprinted in your brain. And as painful as the lesson may have been, you learn, you heal, and you never rollerblade down a rocky hill ever again.

Then there are the mistakes that you continuously acknowledge but allow them to reoccur, for reasons that have become either irrelevant, inefficient, or inconvenient. Everyone knows that one girl who has been on and off with her boyfriend at least twice a month. The night cramming before a midterm, you cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die-promise God to go to church more if you pass the test. You naturally bomb it, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die-promise to yourself that you will study so much harder for the next, only to find yourself in the library before the next exam, bribing the big guy once again. We trust people who have lost that privilege, make fully aware invalid promises, and floss less and less. So why do we gamble with our emotions (and dental hygiene), knowing that the possible outcome is more than likely, a repeat of what has happened before?

I think it’s because with some mistakes, you have to continuously get kicked in the ass because the alternative, to not do it, would mean something much more awful than a couple of broken hearts or broken bones. Most mistakes don’t lead to life-changing, life-interrupting epiphanies, so you do the best you can, handle the situation accordingly, and hope that maybe you’ll have a bit of luck this time around. That’s what it is, isn’t it? It’s hope that leads us through that ringer time and time again. It’s hope that deceives us, motivates us, encourages us to risk it… that despite what history may tell you, there’s still that slimmer of a chance that things will happen differently. And really, is that so bad? Isn’t that worth a couple of nicks and bruises?

But of course, sometimes, the damage is just too extreme, too extensive to be repaired. Some bonds can never be reconnected. Sometimes, the faith dissipates. Sometimes, probability becomes insured by statistics and facts. Sometimes, there’s just never enough glue.

So what happens when “the damage becomes irreversible”?

What’s left to do but adjust? You reconfigure or you reformulate. You throw away the eraser and pull out a blank sheet. You reorganize and remember your irrevocable mistake and once again, do the best you can. And if I’ve learned anything at all, it’s that there are very few things in this life that cannot be repaired in one way or another (unless you’re in a museum). Some relationships, despite the brutality and level of pain it may have caused, can teach you that with time and a little forgiveness, you can let it go. You can’t change that lowly number that is your GPA. You can’t transport back and retake that test – but you can work to strengthen your weakness, fill those gaps with other facets.  You can blame yourself for all the voids and insecurities that came along with all those “permanent” mistakes, or you can work to make them less prominent and more irrelevant.

I’ve made a handful of mistakes today. I forgot to drop off the Netflix so that the next movie arrives by the weekend. I didn’t go to the bank, meaning I’ll have to do so in the morning when I already have a crapload of errands to run. I didn’t put on sunscreen on my face this morning, which will only contribute to premature wrinkles as I get older. I didn’t work on my portfolio, schedule my eye exam, or return any text messages.

But the beauty of tomorrow is that it’s another day, another opportunity to fix the wrongs of the day before.

And tomorrow, I will buy Honie an electric toothbrush.