Books & Reflections

You seem, in your great calmness and quietness of heart, numb to my kind of mental turbulence, great exuberance and unbearable heart pang. I envy your peace, but dislike your detachment, too cold for my heart overcome by feeling, by soaring and by the mire. Yours is the type of personality I have yet to understand, who remain an enigma and forever at a distance from me. Others do share your vulnerabilities and joy, and I was bitter, but I have understood that the contrast is

Yesterday I came across a random teacher's post about a question she sometimes adds to the end of her tests: “How are you? Are you happy? Stressed? Home life okay? School life okay? Tell me how you’re doing! Can I do anything to make your life better?" I read the question, and cried. It's the kind of presence I want to be, the kind of question I want to be asked. I get these flashes of wistfulness, of defiance (不服气), of regret (可惜). What a shame (好可惜), and I ache; it stings.

I say that I want to leave here for California, but a fortune-teller whisper suggests that I never will. Not because I'm trapped, but out of my own free will. How ironic, because New York City is this place that made me say "I feel trapped" and "I'm so stuck." This place makes me feel like I have no place. Whichever room I enter, I feel like either an outsider or an imposter. I'm not high enough yet not low enough; not cool enough and not uncool enough; not fancy enough and n

It's perception, Association, Reinforcement. There was a certain innocence between You and I. Yes, I can still trust. But there's always the battle of reservation, A certain heaviness, Confrontation of the heart. How do I trust You like a child again? I read of Your power with gravity, but not awe. When You exchange Egypt for me, I bring to You an objection, Instead of feel Your love, Though I believe it. Who is the clay to question the potter— I understand, but I blink back

I will let the fear pass over me. The fear must pass over me. Let it go through me. Let it go through face to face. Let it be like a rolling wave I walk into. I am not sucked into it. I am not swept away. I walk into it, letting it hit and roll over me. Spirit, Person, this is my moment of attention. If I let this pass by, I will never take each little piece apart concisely, exactly, with vivid clarity. Confusion follows a moment lost. The moment must be seized. We must conve

I take sure, gliding steps; empathic, stamping ones. The desk is my back rest, the tables my foot relief. No I'm not a king, but this is my world. I'm not the protagonist, but this is my stage. Since I am given a seat at the table, I will claim my place. Back straight, then waist released. Legs crossed, back leaned. Gaze is firm—I'm here to give, not to fill an empty cup. I'm pushed, but I do not tilt backwards. A full cup does not need more water. It's my stage to pour. My e

The Waves by Virginia Woolf p. 7: "... and the grey cloth became barred with thick strokes moving, one after another, beneath the surface, following each other, pursuing each other, perpetually ." p. 94: "... I, who desire above all things to be taken to the arms with love, an alien, external. I, who would wish to feel close over me the protective waves of..." ---------------- You say that Your waves are perpetual, the strokes everlasting. Yet I feel if I left today my hear

inspired by  Genesis 41:51, 52 “Joseph named his older son Manasseh, for he said, ‘God has made me forget all my troubles and everyone in my father’s family.’”  “Joseph named his second son Ephraim, for he said, ‘God has made me fruitful in this land of my grief.’”  and  The Brothers Karamazov The coffee does not flow. 15 grams output in 51 seconds so bitterly sour, spit out with vehemence.  Dial back to zero the opposite direction, obstinately.  Back to zero the opposite dir

There's beauty in the symmetry— Branch stacked on branch. Upon closer glimpse: The right side, for its intrusion into home windows, amputated. As long as it shall live, it lives with an amputated right. It will never see a day of granting, A day of missing realized.  This forever amputated tree, Stopped me in its beauty, the beauty of its parallel left side. When will a life like Leah's strike me as a possible beauty?  When can a lifetime of missing, be to me a possible well-

"The Raising of Lazarus" Ribera lo Spagnoletto, Jusepe de ca. 1616 The glow of light around Him It doesn’t have to be flashy to be capturing. Here is your protagonist.  A gaze of absolute authority.  Death cannot resist Whatever He commands all will do. I fall in love with this Man of supreme force.  Why won’t You command my unhappiness, command my sickness, command all pain and evil? None could resist You should Your gaze pierce them, Your finger command them. This is the my

“The Penitent Magdalen” Georges de La Tour ca. 1640 The empty glass which held her reflection no longer does. She’s now an outsider, She surveys from the side— It’s withdrawing into darkness;  It’s something that has passed. Her folded hands upon the skull— A motion of contemplation. This is the hour of acceptance It is the moment where she realizes a death. Will this moment lead to action?  It is the moment of decision.  This is a prompting point What represents a past way i

"This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.” “This is my dearly loved Son, who brings me great joy.” (Matthew 3:17) I...

"All That I've Ever Wanted" - Amanda Cook "All the other wells, they run dry / Other lovers never satisfy / That empty aching longing...

7.18 The dichotomy between cynicism and expectancy is so complicated. On the one hand, it’s wrong to be cynical and think, "I’m feeling happy right now: shoot, I need to stop; this is not for me, and I need to stop thinking about it because it will not result in what I wish and dream for it to be." I realized that if someone thought like this I would be so sad for them. I would not want them to always anticipate bad in their lives. But then here is the catch-22 (don't know if