Tag Archives: Thoughts

The Art of a Conversation

A few weeks ago, we had some house guests. I’ve known about this family for a while, but I didn’t really know them. Anyway, the parents and their youngest son came up. He’s my age and so I had the job of “entertaining” him. This proved a very hard thing since he probably only said a total of 15 words the whole 17 hours he was here, most of which consisted of “yeah”, “sure”, and “uhuh”. Talk about awkward.

But that encounter got me thinking about conversations. I believe that being a good conversationalist is a necessary, but rare, skill. I’ve never found it hard to talk to people — unless it’s like talking to a statue. But lately I’ve felt slightly off when I talk. I first noticed it at a wedding. I had the opportunity to be assistant photographer to my friend. That involved a lot of meeting people and talking. I was confused as to why I felt like I was having a hard time talking to these people. After some thought, I realized what was happening: I was a good conversationalist — for a child. A child is expected to coherently state opinions and express ideas. Once that is done, ta-da, good job, you are a good communicator — for a child. However, if you wish to master the art of communicating as an adult you must coherently state opinions, express ideas and ask about the other person.

You see I was used to saying things like this to adults: “Yes, I really like that band. They have a good sound and their lyrics are meaningful,” and then wait for them to ask another question.

So I started practicing this: “Yes, that band is really meaningful to me. What songs of theirs do you like?”

That’s it. Just asking questions. Passing the baton, and taking an interest in their lives.  At Escape to the Lake, I started conversations. I asked questions. I got to know adults — maybe even more than they got to know me. It was a good exercise. But I have a ways to go.

 

My Golden Sunshine: Hawaii

It’s finally here! Eight months, 6,282 words and 11 pages later, my Hawaii paper is done. This is a monument. And also just a recollection of my times in O’ahu.

The Very Beginning

20131023_JKW_00008-53I barely know how to begin or write about my time there. The whole experience was one of those things that creep in slowly without your knowledge until it becomes a part of you. There wasn’t a “BAM” or “lightbulb” moment in the whole trip. Maybe that’s why it was so different from any trip I’ve ever been on: it was merely life. It was living; it was feeling; it was caring; it was needing. It was laughing and crying. It was learning and sharing. But I must start somewhere.

I’ve heard the beginning is the very best way to start. So I’ll make the beginning of my trip at the O’Hare airport at 7:30am with Kara, my traveling partner and roommate for the next 13 days. Oh, and I’d only met Kara once previously. So here we are two minors, mere acquaintances really, standing with our luggage in an airport not sure what direction to go. We were directed to a specialty frequent flier security line. I’m thinking that it must be a mistake, but they let us through the line. We didn’t have to take off our shoes, coats, belts, take anything out of our bags or go through the body scanners. Heaven in an airport. We boarded the plane, took off and tried to get comfortable for the 8 1/2 hour flight to Honolulu, Hawaii. The flight was perfectly average. But on the way down, things got interesting. It was Kara’s first time on an airplane and apparently she wasn’t feeling too well. All I remember one moment I’m trying to get a view out the window and the next Kara fumbling around in the pocket of the seat in front of her for one of those little blue paper bangs. If there is one thing I’m a wimp about, it would have to be throwing up. Even after my Mongolia experience when the whole team’s breakfasts, lunches and dinners burst out of them like a water through a fountain I still can’t deal with vomit well. So I just sat there and said, “I’m sorry I can’t help. But are you okay? I just can’t look.” Yeah, I’m a jerk. Kara mended herself well though, and before we knew it, we had landed.

“Baggage claim B” was to be the rendezvous point for us and Joanna, our friend we were meeting. I was looking around for her when I heard familiar footsteps running behind me. I smiled, turned, and hugged Jo. I hadn’t seen her in a month and I hadn’t realized how much I missed her until then. After hellos were exchanged and leis were given to Kara and me, Dawn and the kids arrived at the airport.

I was going to spend two weeks with three kids. For me that was strange and kind of scary. I’m the youngest in my family, and I had hardly ever spent time with kids. I don’t know how to deal with them. If there was a little kid in the room, I would normally place myself in the opposite corner. So I was nervously curious to meet these kids and their mother. Dawn came out of the minivan and gave me a big hug. I knew that we would get along perfectly well from that moment. There was something about her smile and the way she said things that made me overcome my judging forethoughts and embrace this loving woman who would become my Hawaii mama.

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Standpoint

This is a — er– song… rap? I wrote late last year. Hopefully I can think up a melody and beat for it sometime. Any ideas?

Seeing each side
Knowing I lied
When I said I knew
Look I have no clue

I’ll watch each side
With my tongue tied
Smile for yes and no
And put on a good show

I have a standpoint without getting up
Sitting outside of the right club
Why should I bother myself with an opinion
When without I could persuade dominions
Passive is the new movement
There’s no need to represent

They just want your consent
To have no intent
Don’t understand, stay content

I’m not even a note in a song
Not even a pebble in a pond
I’m nothing and that’s something 2x

Who can say what went wrong
When it happened, where it started
Keep it that way
You’ll be glad you stayed
For knowledge is power
The power to cower

I have a viewpoint with closed eyes
Blinded by those blurred lines
Oh, they’re so easy to jump over
So I’ll just be a pushover

There are messed up people out there
That have a way of getting in your hair
So deny their existence; belie their resistance
What you don’t know will kill the rest of you

Hair

When I was 12 I wanted a pixie cut. You know, cute, short and risky. Well my hair dresser gave me a bob. And I hated it. I totally hated it. I felt awkward and worse, little. People actually assumed I was my age instead of several years older. For a 12 year old who was already the youngest in her friend group and family, it felt like the worst thing ever.

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Yes that liner was for my peacock costume.

So I grew my hair out. I let it grow grow grow. Slowly but surely, as my hair grew out people would guess I was a little older. More people would talk to me or ask me to dance at social events. Granted, it probably had more to do with the fact that I was older, started wearing makeup, and got my braces off; however, it felt like it was because my hair was longer. About a year and a half ago, I finally considered my hair “long”. And I didn’t want to change it. A sense of security came with my long hair. It was part of me. It was a strange status to have: “the one with long hair”. I felt empowered by it. I could look at other people and think I wish I had this or that of theirs, and then think “but I have longer hair”.

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A lot changes in 4 years. Yes it was quite possible that it was me that became more interesting and less awkward and not my hair. I started to realize this. And then I realized that I was letting my hair control me. I was making it too much a part of me. Making it an excuse to put down others. Making it an excuse to make myself feel better. Because my growing up processes including growing out my hair, I felt connected to it. So I started thinking of cutting it.

hair

But still I didn’t want to look younger. And then one day I thought about it and realized that I didn’t care if I looked my age or younger. I don’t care if my other hair cut was better. It was time for something new.

Photo on 6-26-14 at 6.15 PM #4

I’m having wayyy too much fun with it. Pretty spiffy curled too, eh?

Photo on 6-26-14 at 8.30 PM

 

The Importance of No Answer

So I’m actually writing this because I haven’t written in a while and so I feel like I should have something to say. But truthfully, I don’t have much to say. Normally I write once an issue has been resolved or an event is over. But this time everything is still unclear. I find myself left with questions.

What is love?

What is this the time for?

Who do I want to be?

Who am I now?

Why are things that seem wrong right and vice versa?

Is it ever wrong to ask how someone is doing? 

Is it ever wrong to care?

What is most important to me? 

I am stumbling around trying to understand these questions. I’m tempted to say some of them can’t be understood or answered. But that doesn’t mean that the questions are wrong.

I easily get frustrated with confusion. I don’t like guessing. I don’t like it when I have no plan. I want a level of certainty in my life; so questions without answers bother me. I tend to internally freak out and shut down when I don’t know what to do. Normally this is when I do what I should have done in the first place: I ask God what to do. But then, more often than not, there is silence. Why does there have to be silence? So this time I didn’t ask God to make all the confusion go away. I didn’t ask Him to show me how my life will play out or how I should act. This time I asked Him for peace.

I don’t understand it, this peace. But it’s there even though there is no “reason” for it. It defies nature and it defies my ever important feelings. But it’s there.

I like knowing things, but sometimes knowing isn’t what’s important. Without confusion, how can we learn faith?

So here I am writing. Completely confused. Unsure how to carry on. Stuck in a predicament. And  here I am — at peace.