Stay

I feel the holiday season coming around, and it's something I feel deeply, a kind of eager anticipation, but also a little ache as well. Eager because I can't wait for break and not having the weight of projects and tests and meeting expectations. Ache-y because Christmas always brings a little bit of nostalgia, but for what I'm not sure. Maybe for things that have changed since last Christmas--changes in relationships and locations and growing up. Christmas is kind of like a dependable marker for time passing. There have been wonderful Christmas' in the past, but there have also been bittersweet ones. It's kind of a bummer when you give and don't feel anything in return. I know Christmas is not about that, but I feel like it's so pounded in my head by ads and media and just, the way things are, that it's hard to dissociate the two. I wish I could just make it about Christ and his birth and be completely joyous and content with that.


I just finished reading the book "Some Things That Stay" by Sarah Willis, and it struck a chord in me. It asks some serious questions about what home means, death, life, and faith. I don't really agree with how the author chose to portray all the Christians in the novel, but it brought up some really good questions/thoughts about God and fear and grace from the viewpoint of the protagonist Tamara, who is not a Christian. It made me a little sad by the end of it, but it was a wonderfully written book, full of interesting descriptions and nuances weaved throughout. I wish I could write like this. Also, take a look at that cover! Tamara's father is a landscape painter and their family never lives anywhere longer than a year because her father needs new inspiration for his paintings. Tamara and her family long for a place, a home to call their own. I think the cover does such a good job of speaking about this yearning found within the book. The brush strokes paint over the title, almost completely covering "That Stay" to show that for Tamara's family, "staying" is only transient with an expiration date.

And speaking of things that stay, I'm amazed at the capacity of memories that stay even as the years stretch on. I'm equally amazed and a little disappointed at the ones that don't. This weekend my cousin, who is now thirty, came to stay with us for the weekend. The last time he stayed at our house was fifteen years ago in West Virginia, when he stayed with us for the holidays. He was only fourteen then, and I was five. I remember that he often had indigestion, that he loved nerds and he stole them from his stocking over the fireplace long before Christmas came. He could spin a pillow on his index finger, and I would stare, fascinated, as that silk red pillow spun. He gave our family a Pocahontas cup for Christmas, which we still use now. It has survived while others have died, shattered in a moment of carelessness while washing the dishes, or the jab of an elbow on unsuspecting glass. Fifteen years later, he still has indigestion. Some things just stay the same. Haha.

Our entire family had Thanksgiving together for the first time since 2002. I didn't realize this until my sister pointed it out. In 2002 my dad had moved to New Jersey while we were still in California, waiting for the year to end. To save money he didn't come for Thanksgiving but came instead for Christmas. In 2003 my sister stayed in California for college and the rest of us were in Jersey. Then she stayed there after college too, when she worked. So eight thanksgivings have passed where all of us weren't together. That's a lot of Thanksgivings. Boy, does time fly. But anyways, I was and am thankful that God brought us all together again. It's such a simple thanks, but it's enough.

Bookworm, Artist, and the Strings Between

I am a bookworm. Yes, it's true. But it's not something I advertise because I'm not an avid reader of the great classics or deep philosophical novels. I read a lot of YA literature, which makes me feel a little ashamed for some reason. Some of it is honestly crappy writing, and I'll get through 1/4 and then decide not to finish, but there's some really good stuff out there too: fantasy, science fiction, historical fiction and the such. Actually I wouldn't say that I favor YA books over others. A good book is a good book, no matter the genre. See the thing about good young adult literature is that some of them are pretty easy reads, but challenging in that they do make you think about life and what it means while still having fun with the characters and sparking the imagination. And if it's a fantasy or science fiction novel, magic thrown into the mix always makes it exciting. I guess I'm a little bit ashamed of my choice of books because sometimes I feel childish and that I should be moving onto the great classics that are "honor worthy" of Jeopardy questions and have deep hidden layers of meaning, but I read to be entertained as well as to think, and struggling through a book is not my idea of fun. Given it's all subjective and what I think is a bore might be beyond fascinating to someone else. I am also well aware that I miss out on some really great books simply because I don't have the patience to sit and read enough to get into them. There are a lot of books I wouldn't have read if it weren't for high school language arts classes, and I'm grateful because they were great books. Among them? Native Son, Huckleberry Finn, Crime and Punishment. The latter two were resonating for very different reasons, and it's true that the underlying meanings behind their actions were interesting and incredibly telling of humanity. I must admit though, that I like to read books with female protagonists because I find them more relatable, but I think I should probably broaden my scope more. Here are a couple favorites that stick out.



Anne of Green Gables by LM Montgomery
If you haven't read this series yet, please do. Anne is such a wonderful character, brimming with imagination, personality, passion, and woeful humor that endears her to everyone. I know she certainly won me over. It's such a classic. Read the rest too, they're great, especially Anne of the Island because Gilbert makes many appearances :) hehe. Also check out her "Emily of New Moon" series as well as "The Blue Castle"





Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card
I haven't read this one in years but it's an excellent book. The details of this other world Ender is in are carefully crafted, and Ender is so...human. He's still just a boy but is thrown into extraordinary circumstances. A book about survival, perseverance, and war both externally and within oneself. Also read "Ender's Shadow" for Bean's story/perspective for a different take.






Daughter of the Forest by Juliette Marillier
I saw a lot of people recommend this on amazon, so I gave it shot, and I'm so glad I did. It is a retelling of the childhood story of the seven swans with a darker plot of greed, betrayal, loyalties, love, and the bond between family. Marillier tells the story beautifully, with developed, believable settings and characters that startle resonate with you in their combined fragility and strength. It was moving and I loved the main character Sorcha. One of my favorites. The other books in the Sevenwaters series are beautiful as well, but I think this one is the best.



MEMOIRS/AUTOBIOGRAPHIES

I love memoirs and autobiographies, and regret that I have not read more. Besides "Memoirs of a Geisha," which everyone pretty much knows, here are some other good ones.



Open by Andre Agassi
Agassi had always seemed kind of a jerk on the court, at least from what I read about in his younger days. I tended to have more respect for players like Pete Sampras or Michael Chang, the former because he was always consistent and had an awesome serve, and the latter because he was well, Chinese, but also the underdog. And who doesn't like rooting for the underdog? Anyways, this memoir was honest, real, and refreshing. I still found myself a little skeptical of some things he wrote, but Agassi honestly reflects on his life thus far, the goods and bads, and his love hate relationship with tennis. A good read.



Falling Leaves: The Memoir of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter by Adeline Yen Mah
I read this one a long long time ago and still remember it because I really felt the author's pain and desire for approval and love as she told her story. Her story becomes your story as you empathize with her and everything she has been through.





So there are a ton of other books, and I'll occasionally make other book recommendations in future posts. I know this is a long blog entry so far, but stick with me here. I rarely talk about art and what graphic design means to me personally, but I'm making an attempt. I never considered art as a profession in high school. I took one art class (sculpture and ceramics) freshman year, and that was the only one I took in high school. I liked it, but wasn't super passionate about it. It was only when I came to college and figured out I didn't want to be a journalism major, that I decided to give graphic design a go. At first I was pretty bad. My typography was a mess, composition not too great, and drawing on the computer seemed pretty impossible. I think I've improved a lot since sophomore year, and I've grown to like and really appreciate what good graphic design can do. It's not just about visual appeal but about practicality as well. It must speak directly to the audience, and in that way serve a function. I also love words, I love stories, I love a good book. Those were in my life before art ever made a serious appearance. Good design and a good book are parallels in that each should tell some kind of story. Design through the typeface chosen, colors, composition, image, and words. A book through the characters, plot line, climax, diction, conflict, and words. Ultimately words. Because words have the power to move hearts and convict and bring joy and sadness and tears. And these words are only words written by man. I praise God for words.

I know this last paragraph was kind of disorganized and maybe didn't seem to have a point, but I'm still trying to figure it out too. To draw connections between design, words, culture, and to figure out what exactly it is I'm passionate about. I'm still learning, and this, I think, is a very good thing.

My mom sent me the cutest text. She almost never texts, so it was a nice surprise.

hi tiff,
i had spare rib tonight. it stuffed me. i exercised in the hotel. i'll call you when i get on the train the time i'll arrive. tks for picking me up.
-mom

Wow look at mama hsieh using slang "tks." haha I don't even do that.

So I feel like recently I've been in a little bit of a slump, both spiritually and academically. Sometimes it's just hard to stay motivated and I slack off like crazy. I can honestly say the only thing I have ever been super disciplined in is running. It made me a little sad because life is so much more significant than a running race, yet I spent so much more time and effort to train for a measley 5K, mile, or half mile which is over within the span of a couple minutes, or at most half an hour. It was over so quick, but I knew to make that time count. Relative to a lifetime, those few minutes spent running the race pass in a blink of an eye. Relative to eternity, life on earth is just a split second in comparison. What will I do to make it count? Am I treating it like a race, training with diligence, encouraging other people on my team, and being aware of the opponents that try to take me down from behind? Am I feeding myself with food that will make me stronger rather than weaker, am I working on my form to make it more efficient, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth, steady, so my stomach doesn't cramp? And most importantly, am I relying on all these things I do to take me to the finish this race of life, or is it all in perspective? The perspective that it is all meaningless if I'm not looking to my Maker as the center of it all, holding everything together.

So it's something to think about.

bring a flashlight

So I've realized something since the last post a couple days ago. I'm trying to knit in the dark, but wouldn't it make sense just to bring a flashlight? Haha, yes I know, corny. But it's so obvious. Bringing a flashlight can look like a couple things. It can be reading God's word and drawing truth and light from that (God is light and he drives out the darkness), or it can mean bringing someone else who can carry a flashlight and help you out, encouraging each other and spurring one another on. And then maybe a third person to bring batteries as a back up. Sounds good to me. Yesterday God revealed a lot of cynicism that had been growing in my heart, but instead of actually being the hands and feet of Christ, I sat back and complained and let my bitterness breed contempt. It's pretty awful and I hadn't even realized it. I'm only one person, but if everyone can come together as the church and work together, that's when things really happen. Put your hope in God, Tiffany.

Writing poetry is hard stuff. I'm taking a creative writing class and we have to write at least four times a week and turn it into dropbox each time. I can go on and on about my life, but no, she wants it in poetry form, which makes it a little trickery. Gots to think of lines and very specific word choice and sound and rhythm blah blah blah. I can appreciate it, but it can get wearisome. It turns out that I'm a lot more trite/cliche than I originally thought. My original thoughts were pretty unoriginal. I wish I were a funnier person but alas...not so. Haha.

But here is a poem that was one of the better of the bunch. I hope I never have to date this many boys. Only one or two men are good enough for me. I hope it makes you laugh and maybe think.

Like the Boy of Her Dreams
after Mitch Sisskind

My cousin tells me Gunther was an ugly boy.
Acne mapped his face like bloody constellations
Toes pruny
No, he wasn’t smelly
But he always had poppy seeds stuck in his teeth,
trails of his morning bagel from 3rd Avenue
and cuffed trousers because he could never find pants
that were short enough for his even shorter frame.
Yet beside Hector, my cousin says,
Gunther was like the boy of her dreams.
Gunther was like the boy of her dreams beside Hector.
For my cousin tells me that Hector was an ugly boy
because he never paid or opened doors.
Chivalry is dead, he said,
And he lived by it too.
Really you don’t need to pay on the first date (it was crappy).
You don’t need to do anything at all.
Yet beside Alex my cousin tells me Hector was like the boy of her dreams.
Hector was like the boy of her dreams beside Alex.
For my cousin tells me Alex was an ugly boy.
He cracked his gum wickedly, charming the girls with his crooked grin
but smooched too long behind her back
and had a book that ranked them all on a scale
like cows in a meat market auction.
His words could be sweet as Splenda,
Sugary but fake, sitting on the tongue to leave a bitter kick
after it’s all over.
Yet beside Sam my cousin tells me Alex was like the boy of her dreams.
Alex was like the boy of her dreams beside Sam.
Beside Sam’s stalwart hand my cousin tells me
Alex was like the boy of her dreams.
His stalwart hand composed and conducted the rhythm of her soul
weaving a haunting tide of false reveries
Passion ignited
Then smothered in a fury of soft white ashes.

When things fall apart

Why does it feel like things are falling apart? It feels like the knitted blanket that surrounded us some time ago is unraveling, unraveling, being pulled by some invisible dark force bent on destruction, planting seeds of lies. The father of lies. And in heaps all around us are yard and yards, miles and miles of yarn, connected but apart and broken and split. What purpose does it serve just lying there unwoven. It cannot clothe, cannot cover, cannot be washed, cannot offer warmth to a heart dry and aching. And oh, it sits there, rotting under a tarnished sun. I wish I could pick up those double swords and knit deep into the inky night, but my hands bleed and my heart weeps and I can't even see the needles so they prick my fingers, pinpoints of red, and there are gaping holes that open to engulf me in a tide of helpless thoughts. The father of lies.

How can it be like this? The church should be together, unified, like each stitch of the needle, one after the other, soldiers prepared for a holy war, and each member is needed, essential to complete the body. Instead I see all these ugly holes, and something in me trembles with the unwavering feeling that this is not how it should be. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead, so that in everything he might have the supremacy. For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross.

in Him all things hold together. Oh Lord, please hold us together, reconciling us to you and to one another in your name.

The other day I was looking at journals in the bookstore to buy one for a friend, and I came across a beautiful one with gold flowers, and embossed on the front were these words: "believe in yourself." I know it means believe that you have the ability to do great things; it's meant to be a self-esteem booster. But if I were going to take it literally, this is what it would look like: Believe that I can do all things through myself who gives myself strength. Believe that through believing in my abilities I can overcome all things and cure all my illnesses of health and soul and mind. "Believe in yourself" translates to "I can save myself," which is a lie lie lie. It makes me so sad that our world spouts this nonsense instead of placing their trust, their belief in someone who is so much more capable, and who holds us, and the universe in the palm of his hand.

the green eyed monster is an ugly, ugly dude. worst of all, he creeps up unexpectedly and explodes in the brain, smearing green guts everywhere, branding the heart with a seal of loathing and unrest and dare I name it? Yes, even a twinge of hate.

But my heart is not his. The green eyed monster will die an even uglier death than he is ugly, and he might reappear, but only for a time. My heart belongs to a King, creator of heaven and earth. My Lord and Savior, you have won the battle for me, and you wipe away the stains of green, yellow, black, of all the different monsters of my world, and replace it with red--your blood shed on the cross for me. And it's a red that cannot be removed in any circumstance. Neither life, nor death, nor angels, or demons can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

:)

Surrender

oh hay
I like your beard.

de de de de.

I had to get that out. This strange beat has been stuck in my head. It's not part of a song or anything I can think of..I can only describe it as four splat-like beats one after the other. It's a cool kind of splat though, quick and snazzy and hip. I promise I'm not crazy, just weird.

God is doing some incredibly awesome things in my life as of late. He is always doing amazing things, but either I'm too blind/stuck in my own world to see it or I have never prayed that God would stick me there at the right place and right time. So much of it has to do with obedience. Go where you're called to go, talk to the people the Holy Spirit is nudging you to talk to, and so much can unravel. It can only be described as a miracle. To be honest, in the past talking to people, even friends, could feel like a burden. I was in a strange catch 22 where I did not want to be around people because it was just easier, but when I was alone it was lonely. These past two weeks have been filled with this desire, not of my own, to talk to people and my eyes have been opened to how much people really need to hear about God's love and grace and most of all, what was accomplished with Jesus dying on the cross.

As I surrender to Christ, I hope not to be puffed up with pride but to walk (or even crawl if need be) to greater degrees of glory, not because I am competent but because Christ is more than competent. Could it be that I can reflect the image of Jesus more and more as his love and glory is revealed to me? According to 2 Corinthians 3, it is so, and I am so so thankful and overjoyed that I am forgiven and continually restored. Restored! Oh, bliss.