I decided the blip has blipped it’s last blip. I’ll be blogging here now.

Update your bookmarks and readers accordingly

I don’t speak to my father. Or his father. Or his mother, brother, sister, wife, children. I don’t speak to anyone on that side of my family. We left my (physically and mentally abusive) father when I was in 4th grade, and that effectively severed those ties. Sure, we’ve had a visit or two. We’ve exchanged a couple phone calls and emails over the years, but for the most part, I’ve lived my life with one parent, one side to my family. A few years ago, my father found Jesus and subsequently stopped sending birthday cards, Christmas presents, etc. Most holidays, after all, are “Pagan traditions” and we should “just be thankful for what we have.” He further justified this absence by pointing out that he was not even buying presents for “his own children,” as though my two sisters and I were not linked to him in any way; we were just something that happened to him a few years back that he’d moved on from. He had a family now, and he didn’t have time to bother with his pesky first wife or their three little accidents.

We don’t communicate, and the rest of his family has followed suit. My grandparents send birthday cards and Christmas presents, but they don’t know anything that goes on in my life. I’ve emailed pictures a few times to no response. My great grandfather passed away a few years ago, and no one told me until a few months later. I guess they thought I didn’t care, despite the fact that I pretty much learned Spanish just so I could write letters to my great grandparents in their own language. Now, my grandfather has prostate cancer, and still, no one has officially told me. I found out through the grapevine. And, if he dies, I’m sure no one will think to let me know.

And the whole thing has me wondering, how will I feel when these people are gone? The funny thing about our lack of communication is that they’ve always held me responsible for it. Like, hey, you’re 12 years old. Why aren’t you better at staying in touch? We’re not the adults in this relationship or anything. It’s your job to come to us. That’s the big excuse. We don’t talk to Ashley? Well, that’s because she doesn’t talk to us. I’ve always found that kind of ridiculous, mostly because I’ve always been the child in the scenario, and I wasn’t willing to reach out to anyone, let alone a group of people who, to me, felt like strangers.

I’m an adult now, though, and I’ve felt lately that those relationships are partly mine to mend. So, I emailed my father. And now, we’re going on day one, two, three…

No response.

My grandmother has been emailing my little sisters, mostly because they sucked up to her at the opportune moment to secure a birthday present. That’s how I found out about my grandfather’s cancer. And, I guess if I sucked it up and played happy, I could probably secure some sort of phony relationship from them, too. Here’s the thing, though: I won’t. There are big things at play here, big wounds that need mending, and many (too many) lost years to make up for. I won’t gloss over that. I don’t want anything from anyone; I just wanted to feel for once that I had a father. I told him my immediate feelings, I asked for guidance, and I promised to do my part in return.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe for him to write back and finally support me in something? For him to validate my feelings? Finally deem me worthy of his time, effort, energy, support? It was a foolish notion, though. My father has never supported me in anything, even my decision to leave South Korea under such heinous circumstances. In fact, the only support my father has ever given me has been court-ordered. And, even that, has been a nuisance to him; something he fought and sought ways out of.

I guess in writing to my father, I was looking for him to redeem himself somehow. I was looking for a way to forgive him; for him to do something that would allow me to forgive him. I was looking for him to extend a fatherly arm around me and tell me that he had my back. I was looking for a way to heal, and I assumed, wrongly, that I needed him to be a part of that.

I had a conversation with Zach a while back about forgiveness. “It’s not so important to seek closure and forgiveness from the other party,” I told him, “as it is to find it within yourself”:

I forgive myself for the confusion and wanting that these relationships have brought into my life. I forgive myself the hard lessons I’ve had to learn, the unorthodox family that I will bring my future husband and children home to for the holidays, the million ways that I’ve sought love in every wrong place, the million broken things I’ve done to fill that void.

I forgive the Molitors their shortcomings and failures. I forgive them not knowing me or the story of my life, and missing out on the opportunity to know fantastic people in their children, grandchildren, and nieces. I take responsibility for the faults that I can claim, and leave them responsibility for their own. I carry with me the appreciation for their lives, as their existence ensured my own. I forgive my father’s wife for being able to stand by a man who values his family so little. I forgive my father the way he’s twisted religion to justify his means. I forgive all of us the things left unsaid.

I understand now that their story in my life is what it is, and need not be more. And, I feel comfortable sharing that here because, though we share a last name, the people I consider my family exist very separately from them.

“It’s hard to give, I’m never gonna forget, but everybody needs a little forgiveness…”

I want to write.

It’s hard to say that. I feel sometimes like the beginning songwriter who swaggers about town referring to himself as a musician. I’ve been published, yes. I keep a blog that’s read by more than just my family and close friends. I write weekly, if not always daily. I have passion for my craft. But, am I a writer?

I don’t know how to answer that question other than to publish something incredible to validate and solidify myself as a writer, but I can’t write anything worth publishing if I don’t have the confidence to write. And what about people who never get published, or who have no desire to? Are they not writers?

It’s an age old question: what makes an artist? I think, more often than not, I’m of the opinion that we all have the capacity to create; the artist is the person who actually takes time to do it. If I bear that in mind, I really don’t need any other sort of validation.

But, you know, it never hurts to hear that other people believe in you.

(hint, hint)

Just sayin’.

When I blog, it’s usually a thought or an emotion that NEEDS to come out. I get this fullness in my chest, this sort of shout-from-the-rooftops urge to create, and I have to get it out before I can go on and do anything else. If I blog about something, it’s usually because I feel it strongly enough to share it with the world. I think it’s universal enough, or I just need enough support, that I’m willing to put it out there.

Writing, especially in hopefully-this-will-one-day-be-a-book form, is…somewhat different. It requires discipline. I have to sit down and will myself to put words on the page, will myself to find the urge to create when, most times, my mind is elsewhere. Writing requires trying, and for me, that’s a new concept. I’ve never had to TRY before. It’s weird attempting to discipline your passions; to put them on reserve and call them to action when the timing is right. I feel, most times, like I’m trying way too hard, and I don’t like it.

I need to master this. I need to set aside a time every day that I will write, a time when the flood gates will open and everything will be allowed to pour out. And, more than anything, I need to stop self-editing along the way and just get it out already.

I’m open to suggestions.

I think we say that a lot. Or, at least, I know I do. I’m scared I’ll live with my mom forever, run out of money, become the little birdie that never took flight. I’m scared of snakes. I’m scared of rejection. I’m scared of heights. I’m scared of a million little things that really hold no weight or significance in my time here. But now? Now I’m falling in love, and I’m terrified.

I know it’s normal to be scared, and I know most people like it because it makes them “feel alive” or some ridiculous load of crap they heard in a movie once. It’s just that I’m not like most people. I’m jaded and cynical. And, the past few years have made me so fiercely protective of my heart that I could much more easily be alone than allow someone inside and risk…

Risk.

Everything.

The relationship I’m in now is the most honest of my life; it’s the first time anyone other than my family has ever really just seen me for exactly who I am and loved me without expecting anything more. Hell, I don’t know that my family even loves me without expecting more sometimes. I’m exposed, and I’m vulnerable, and I guess I’ve always sort of been that way; I’ve just never found someone before who is so receptive to it. I’ve never been loved as I am. And now that it’s happening, it’s terrifying.

I spend exorbitant amounts of time talking myself into it, trying to remind myself that some people really do hit the relationship jackpot. That every man is not a lying, cheating asshole. That it is not too good to be true. That I really do deserve to be loved this way.

And maybe that’s what it all comes down to: believing you deserve to be loved unconditionally. I do, on some level, but there is still that part of me that questions it; that thinks I will somehow prove myself undeserving and it will all disappear. Then, there’s an even bigger part of me that thinks, what if I do believe it and I open myself completely to this person, and he throws it all away like the rest of them did? What if all these pretty words grow to become daggers and me their exposed mark?

I guess my biggest fear is that I’m in love with a man; a human who is vulnerable and flawed just like me. He is not a super hero. He is not a god. There’s a very great chance that he will someday make a promise that he won’t keep, hurt my feelings, let me down, tell a lie. And, after so many lies and broken promises, I find myself wondering if I have the strength to endure even the chance of more. It’s not that he is bad, or that I, in any way, think him dishonorable or dishonest. It’s just that he’s a person. I’m a person. And I know what people do to one another. I know what love does to people. And, I don’t want to believe that this time it will be different, only to find myself once again crawling, bending, breaking.

The odds aren’t in our favor. And, for women, the odds never really have been. The only thing that’s changed is that we now have a choice. We don’t have to bear the burden of a broken heart in exchange for shelter, safety, security. We can have our own lives, independent of anyone’s shortcomings but our own. But as soon as I reconcile myself with that fact, I think of the ones who do find it; the illusive ever-after romance. It’s not a fairy tale, but a story of two people who were brave enough to love and respect each other as people. As human beings. As complete collections, good and bad, the inspired and the mundane.

I want to know that kind of bravery. I don’t want to choose loneliness out of fear, or because it feels safer than floating out into the unknown. I don’t want to live my whole life terrified of what could happen, what he might do, who he could turn out to be. I don’t want to give the breakers of my jaded heart that much power.

“Love is a conscious decision to become vulnerable enough to allow yourself to purely pursue a realization of another person’s beauty.”

I’m trying to keep my eyes open through the scary scenes.

Thats the question I’ve set out to answer. After graduating college, traveling the world, coming home unexpectedly with zero money and no car, living with my mom, finding work, finding love, and pulling myself back up on my feet, I’ve found myself with a million stories to tell. I’ve always been told I have a gift for writing, and publishing a book has always been my dream. The only trouble I’ve had is how to do it.

I took a challenge from another blogger to write 500 words/night. Through this exercise, I found my story. I kept on writing, and I got pretty far into it before I realized I didn’t like the direction it was taking. I took a step back, regrouped, made a few outlines, and now I’m finally ready to start again.

This blog will chronicle the process of writing my first book and figuring out how the hell you go about getting your work out into the world. I have no idea what goes into writing or publishing a book, but I’m operating under the philosophy that if I write it, they will come. Or something.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life is too short for “if onlys…”

So, here we go: first book. Feel free to peruse the blog for stories from before the book, and look for updates from now on showcasing my life as a clueless first-time wanna-be author.

I’ll see you kids at Barnes & Noble.

Soup is a genius food. It’s filling, healthy, and super easy to make vegan/vegetarian. I’ve been using a ton of recipes from Fat Free Vegan, and they are SO good. Most of the time when you cook vegetables, all of the nutrients cook out in the water and evaporate out. With soup, you’re also eating the water (or vegetable broth, or chicken broth, or whatever), so your meal is jam-packed with nutritious-ness. Plus, you get to party with your spice rack to jazz it up AND you get full control over your sodium intake. Soup for the win!

I googled "soup kicks ass" and this is what popped up...

I haven’t been running as much since I met Z, as my boyfriend shall henceforth be called, so today I woke up super early and went for a run outside. I only made it about half as far as I usually do without wanting to fall over and hyperventilate, so I think I need to do a better job of keeping up with my…training, for lack of a better word. I’m getting myself ready to run in the Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving.

I started back at work last week, and it’s been a bit of a ride. Things are really chaotic right now, but I’m hoping it all settles down soon and we can get into the groove of the school year. I’m going to work on getting my teacher certification once I get a paycheck, which will be in a few (very, very long) weeks. It’s been great getting back into the swing of work, though, and I work with a really great team of people.

Overall, I feel amazing. I feel happy, safe, and loved. I feel like the past few years and all those months of heartache and hard work on my self have really paid off. But, I also feel very protective of this peace of mind. My happiness, my health, my love is mine. I guess that’s why I haven’t been writing here as much. For the first time, I feel like I don’t need to invite the world in to affirm this bliss for me because I feel it strongly enough to affirm it for myself. So, I’ll find more to say; I’ll find some interesting stories to tell. But, in the mean time, forgive me if I take a step back and focus a little bit more of my energy on nurturing my reality. I’ve got important things and people to attend to, and we all know that I take these things very seriously…

my most serious face

Happy Monday, Internet! Oh, and congratulations to my friend over at Fit, Fun, and Fabulous on her fabulous engagement!

I just want you to understand
that I know what all the fighting was for
And I just want you to understand
that I’m not angry anymore
I’m not angry anymore

She taught me how to wage a cold war with quiet charm
But I just want to walk through my life unarmed
To accept and just get by like my father learned to do
But without all the acceptance and getting by that got my father through

I just want you to understand
that I know what all the fighting was for
And I just want you to understand
that I’m not angry anymore
I’m not angry anymore

Night falls like people into love
We generate our own light to compensate for the lack of light from above
Every time we fight, a cold wind blows our way
But we learn like the trees how to bend, how to sway
And say:

I think I understand
What all this fighting is for
And I just want you to understand
that I’m not angry anymore
No, I’m not angry anymore

– “Angry Anymore” by Ani Difranco

I mentioned in an earlier post that my unemployed status was changing. I’m now officially re-employed at the job I had before I left for South Korea. It’s the best job in the entire world! I wrote about leaving here, which was probably one of the most bittersweet days of my life. Luckily, I am returning to the same school I left, so I get to see everyone I missed. I can’t wait! I’m going out to lunch with my coworkers on Sunday to celebrate my return. I just feel so blessed to have a job that I love and a group of coworkers that I really enjoy. It makes all the difference, really.

The other development is the addition of a man-friend to my life. I don’t want to go into too much detail here because I feel like I’m invading the privacy of our relationship or something, but I have to gush for a second about how grateful I am for the relationship as a whole. It’s a really rare gift to find people who celebrate you for exactly who you are, and that’s exactly the type of person he is. I am just delighted and proud that I not only found that, but am able to recognize it because for so long I’ve looked for it, but been drawn to the exact opposite. No matter where this goes, I am just grateful for the gift of knowing him.

I know those are only two examples; it’s just that they’re really big news, and it finally feels like my life is coming together. After so many weeks of bleak, everything is finally on the rise. So, the moral of this story? Wait. Wait, wait, wait, and wait some more. I’ve reflected a lot on Korea the past few days–the things that lead me there, the life I lead, the friends I made, my likes and dislikes. For the past month or so, being back at home has been a lot like mourning the loss of a loved one. I had friends that I may never see again; friends that I didn’t know to hug a bit longer before I left for China because I didn’t realize those would be our last moments together. I had an apartment with a guitar and an orange tea kettle, a yoga mat, a space heater, an empty wine bottle holding a yellow rose beside my kitchen sink. I had a route to work, a shopkeeper I said hello to every morning, a waitress who knew my order by heart. I knew bus schedules and taxi destinations. I knew the city I lived in as though I’d been there for years. And, yeah, it was my decision to leave, but it has taken a while for my heart to wrap itself around the experience. It was abrupt, and it hasn’t been so easy to close that door.

When I first got home, I rushed into dating, into job hunting, into plans to move far from home again. I resisted the urge to give in to my surroundings, my situation, because to me, it was unacceptable. I had a life in Korea, and I needed to build one here again.

Immediately.

Perhaps, though, I’d forgotten those first few lonely weeks in Korea; the weeks when I would pull on my favorite hoodie and wander through the streets of Gwangju alone at dawn, music blaring, my heart making wishes on parked cars and street lights. I’d forgotten the time it takes build a life, the precision with which we must fall into our destiny. There’s a lot to be learned in life’s waiting room, and I know that now.

The thing is, you’re going to build it, and it’s going to fall. You may not lose it all, but the pictures in front of you will change, the hands you hold will feel coarser and weaken over time. When it feels like everything is lost, when you really want to pull the covers over your head and sleep it all away, don’t. Don’t fight the tides of your life. Give in and freefall, all the way to the very bottom of your empty cup, and right before your eyes it will start to fill again. And when it does, count your blessings because that’s all we really have in life: ephemeral moments of joy; blessings past and yet to come, shining upon us in our darkest hour like fleeting light in the space between stars.

I get a little carried away, I guess. I just think fall, even more than spring, is a time of renewal. It’s the closing of another year; the period during which we shed the last skins of yesterday’s identity and inhale our first ecstatic gasps of new. And, I guess that’s why it felt right, sitting there by the water, fingers entangled as our lips struggled for the courage to touch. I guess that’s why it felt right to study his silhouette against the light of the harvest moon. I guess that’s why it felt right to give in to the glow and just…