Take me back to the basics and the simple life. Tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

It occurs to me that I don’t have a favorite book. Per se. Like, I have books I really love, and since I’ve got the actual worst appreciation for details I can read things over and over again without remembering most of the plot or the punchline. (Even mysteries…I’m blessed, I know.)

As such I’m not sure that I’d classify something I reread often as necessarily my favorite, you know?

What makes this whole thing even stranger is the fact that I have a favorite in a lot of other areas. TV? Probably Doctor Who (because River, okay). Movie? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid unless I’m sick and then it’s most definitely Miracle. Music? Needtobreathe, hands down. (Or EXO but it’s kind of embarrassing to admit my love for kpop in person.)

Most of the people who know me even a little know all of the above about my preferences, but I doubt if I asked them about my favorite book that they’d have an accurate answer. Of course, I might just be forgetting something glaringly obvious here, but I got a good amount of sleep last night so I’m pretty sure I really just don’t have one.

I asked a friend about this—actually, more like he doesn’t really have any strong feelings for Harry Potter and so I’m over here like, um do you like anything?!—and he told me his fave is a book he hasn’t read in a while but can really relate to. Naturally I racked my brain for any books I love to read and read again, wondering if any of them really spoke to me on that level. My conclusion? Not really.

The Horse and His Boy, for instance. I grew up listening to the Focus on the Family radio theater version of the Narnia series on repeat. Of the seven books The Horse and His Boy is easily the one I like the best, but it’s not like I often encounter talking horses who want to go with me as we run away to the north.

Other options that I’d classify under the fantasy/magic genre include The Hero and the Crown by Robin McKinley and the entirety of the Half Magic series but most particularly Half Magic itself. I like Howl’s Moving Castle, and all of Harry Potter of course, and when I’m home with my original collection I really, really like digging out The Goose Girl or Graceling.

In short, I like books that aren’t about the real world. In short—again—I’m on the cusp of entering the real world myself and appreciate the effortlessness with which I can lose myself in these stories. They aren’t about people who have to look for work prior to a big move—Seattle, in my case—or who have to write a 60-85 thesis or who don’t know how to pay taxes but certainly hope they’ll make enough next year to have to file. That same friend, the one who I’m still trying to convince to give HP a try, told me he reads nonfiction because they’re about real humans who gave life their best—or not—and can offer a little insight into how he and I, and everyone else struggling to leave their childhood behind without wilting completely under the weight of adulthood, might better survive.

What drags me deeper into the anxiety of graduating this May and still not entirely knowing what I want to do other than just write is precisely what makes him feel a little bit better about this whole adulting thing. Somehow we’re friends despite this and it’s kind of amazing because I really don’t get the appeal of reading about others’ very real successes and failures when I could be reading about something so completely imaginary that it pulls me far away from reality.

I wrote before about escapism, I think. Maybe…And here we have it in it’s finest form.

Strangely enough I’m not really bothered by this. It’s cool that my friend has what he likes to read and I do too; no one said we had to have the same opinions about books just because our Myers-Briggs letters are exactly the same. In fact, something that brought me and my best friend together is a book we both happened to randomly stumble across. It came up in conversation somehow like the first or second time we met and we’ve been friends since. (It helps that she likes Needtobreathe and once loved the Jonas Brothers as much as I do/did but whatevs, moot point.) She’s a goose feather of an ENFP to my very rigid ISTJ and some of our likes converge as much as they sometimes really differ.

I’m not sure what my point is in bringing this up, other than to maybe acknowledge that people are different and not everyone has to have a favorite book. And I’m not any less of an avid reader because of the fact that I don’t have one.

At the very least I’m not the kind of person to casually name drop Catcher in the Rye or Pride and Prejudice as my absolute fave at a cocktail party. Not that I go to cocktail parties…But the point remains: If you have a favorite, great! Tell people about it so they can understand you a little better since I truly believe that what you read reflects who you are, what you believe, and what your values are.

But if you don’t? That’s great too. I mean really, what better excuse to go out and read the world than that?

**Title: “EASE” by Troye Sivan**

They say there’s linings made of silver folded inside each raining cloud Well, we need someone to deliver our silver lining now. And are we there yet? Home, home, home.

I’m told that being an adult involves thinking ahead and making goals and knowing what you want to do and paying bills and taking actual responsibility for your actions even when you don’t really want to. Because no matter how much you think back to your glory days—college or even high school; take your pick—you’re grown up now.

And being grown up means rationality. Logic. Sacrifice. Restlessness that was okay in your teen years because it meant you were open minded with a wide variety of interests; now it just seems flaky and a little juvenile, even to yourself.

So fine, I’ll make goals. I’ll graduate from university next year with two degrees and two theses, but probably still no concrete idea of what I want to do. Or where to go next.

I like Chicago. But I’m told it’s cold. And then I wonder…does it matter? Do I care? If moving to Chicago is what I want, why don’t I just go?

Is that too selfish of me? Do I care? Of course I do. Usually.

Yet it just occurred to me that it’s kind of hard to make goals for myself when my self doesn’t quite know what it wants. So excuse me for a moment while I process. Call this a running diatribe if you’d like, but I prefer the term “open and unfiltered self expression.” So maybe just consider yourself lucky that I’m sharing this at all. Because usually I wouldn’t but today I’m feeling a little irrational and quite a bit petulant and there’s a first time for everything, right?

Well then, what do I want?

I want to go home. And I want to know where that is exactly.

I want to eat speck and pasta with my Host Dad’s tomato sauce and Tuscan bread with olive oil and salt. I want to have real gelato one more time. Or maybe more than that, if this whole thing is about being honest.

I want to go everywhere and see everything and meet everyone; without worrying about money, without being shy, without wasting hours upon hours in stuffy airplanes and long immigration lines.

I want my senior thesis to jump from my brain into the hands of my professor and basically research, outline, and write itself.

I want to be consistent. As a blogger (what an awful term. Bleh), a student, a secretary, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a general human being.

I want to be able to cry when I know it would make me feel better. And I want to know why I can’t.

I want to write something people want to read. Partly because I’m a words of affirmation person and partly because ideas, even fictional ones, are better when shared.

I want to be with someone who’s a little dangerous, a little wounded, and probably a lot bad for me. And I want it to be okay that I probably won’t find him at church. I’ll just have to bring him there and hope he doesn’t lose what it is that drew me in the first place.

I want to protect myself without seeming villainous or self-centered. If you feel you can tell me anything, please know that you truly can and I will do my very best to be loving and supportive in any way possible. But if this is not reciprocal, then where does that leave me? Alone and drowning in myself.

I want to express what I want without seeming petty or childish. Or like I don’t care what God’s plan is for my life. Because that isn’t true.

I want life to be easy. Not for me, but for the people I love. I want my parents to retire whenever they’d like. For my sister to get into her dream school. For my Dad not to worry about my ever deepening academic debt.

I want to have lots of kids so that 50 or so years from now I will be my grandma. And I want to be the same inspiration to my grandchildren that she is to me.

I want River Song to come back to Doctor Who. I want Eun Sang to choose Young Do. And I want Maid Marian to go back in time where she belongs.

I want exactly twelve happy days to every one that is even moderately sad.

I want university snow days. Or at least rain that is only ever warm. Even in winter.

I want the A’s without the effort. And the ability to go back and improve those grades from the days when I thought such academic magic was actually possible.

I want to go to Cuba. And North Korea. And Saudi Arabia. Just because I know I can’t.

I want extraordinary willpower so I can use it to exercise every day. But mostly just so I’ll read my Bible, even when it’s not Sunday.

I want my hair to be long enough for people to instantly tell I’ve never cut it because “You’ve never cut it? Really?! Then, why isn’t it longer?” isn’t exactly something I like to hear.

I want clean cut to be enough when I really know that I prefer sharp edges.

I want this to mean something. To be more than a petty, childish expression of my current (and likely changeable) desires. And I want this to actually assist me in the writing of my goals so I stop feeling too unorganized and irresponsible for all the sacrifices that have been made for me.

I want to think I’m not the only one who feels this way. That maybe my exercise in self help has maybe helped you too.

So lastly, I want to thank you. No one asked you to stick with this project; to read all the way to the bottom; to attempt to relate to the wants of someone else, but you did. And I thank you for it.

**Title: “Are We There Yet?” by Ingrid Michaelson**

This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill. Fifteen percent concentrated power of will. Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain. And a hundred percent reason to remember the name.

You sneak a surreptitious glance at your watch and realize that you’ve already been in this interview for half an hour. That’s a good thing, right? When your eyes leave your watch to reconnect with the interviewer’s, she gives a practiced smile and says “One last question.”

You hold your breath and hope she’s not going to ask what your self-defined strengths and weaknesses are because everyone knows that’s a loaded question. Instead she asks “What three words would you use to describe yourself?”

First reaction: Why is it always three? Why can’t it be five words for describing yourself? Why not one?

Second reaction: Oh, no. What am I going to say? This is almost as bad as the strengths and weaknesses question.

Third reaction: Just go with responsible. That’s always a good one. Maybe creative too–what kind of job is this again? Okay good; that’s two. For the last one…

You tap your lip as you think but pull it away and clasp your hands together on your lap when you realize she’ll probably perceive the gesture as a manifestation of nerves. Or worse, as your tell (creative might be a stretch but you really are responsible…in your own way…that’s not a lie, right?).

Suddenly, it comes to you; the perfect answer has been there all along–literally.

You tell her your name.

——————————————————————————————————–

Who would you be without your name? Who would I be without mine?

When I was a kid my parents would describe a person to me and I would usually be able to come up with a name. I was right too, most of the time at least. I guess names are just something I’ve always been good at remembering; it’s a side effect of the many moves.

Tangentially, I’ve now lived in more countries than my mother. Quite a feat, I know.

That minor digression aside, I really do believe that a person’s name is an important aspect of his or her identity, even though said name is generally not self-appointed. This is why your name can be used as a clever addition to the above three word self-description exercise.

Anything can be argued as long as the argument’s support is valid and logical, even if the argument itself is not. Apply this thinking to the interview situation and what do you get? A job.

Actually, don’t quote me on that. Seriously, please don’t. My point is that everyone has a name but it’s the meaning you attribute to it that makes your name important. Here, I’ll give you an example.

My name means “safe harbor.” Does that make me one? Not necessarily.

I was named after one of my parents’ favorite places. Does that make me their favorite? I wish.

My middle name is arbitrary. Does that mean I am too? Of course not.

So in what way can my name be used to define me? When people ask my mom about the artist of the pieces she hangs in her office, they aren’t told to look for a Concordia graduate or an NYU student. They’re given my name.

When someone wants to know who they should look for if they’re interested in the on-campus Bible study, they aren’t told to find a girl in skirts with River Song hair the color of On Golden Pond. They’re given my name.

When my sisters are asked about their jie-jie who’s off at university, they don’t say they miss the instigator or 1/3 of the whole. They say they miss me; and they say my name.

That’s what I mean when I say your name can define you. Your actions and your words, your accomplishments and your mistakes, everything about you that makes up who you are is encompassed in your name. If your name is mentioned there are pictures and memories of you that inevitably appear, even if you aren’t physically present.

In a way, yes this is a never-ending cycle. You are your name because it’s the first thing you’re given after birth, and then you live your life and your actions are attributed to your name. So you are who you are. Basically.

And your name is who you are too. Less basic, but still true.

Response time! I’ve never before actively asked for responses to these because it never occurred to me that people might be interested enough in my rambled musings to actually comment on them. That changes now. What do you think comes to mind when people think your name?

**Title: “Remember the Name (Clean Version)” by Fort Minor**

Nothing ever happens if you stay in your room; nothing ever happens if you leave the party too soon. Never be a winner if you’re not in the game; nothing ever happens if you always play it safe. Make a little space and get out of your own way.

As of 2011, the Manhattan borough of New York City has a population of approximately 1.6 million people. China’s population is quickly approaching 1.35 billion, and my current country of residence–Italy–has almost 61 million. 20,000 young people from my religious organization might, therefore, seem like a rather measly number, but I was blown away by the sheer number of people my age who believe, more or less, the same things I do.

I’m not there now, but living in New York was hard for precisely that reason; everyone has different beliefs and opinions, which is wonderful and completely a result of the freedoms I get to exercise as an American, but it’s always nice to be surrounded by the like-minded, if only for three days. That said, if the conference were much longer than that, I’d probably go insane–diversity is what makes life exciting, at least in my opinion–but I enjoyed my time, learned important lessons, and have since moved along.

I was in New York for three days but that hardly counts since most of that time was spent unpacking from my summer life and repacking for my academic one. I got to see old friends, which was wonderful, but left me feeling strangely divided. Seeing people that whose friendships I value once more before leaving the United States for almost a year was, of course, really nice. And we had a grand time. But there was a part of me, though small, that wished I hadn’t gone to New York at all. Life can be bittersweet at times, and I’m not always sure that the benefits outweigh the negatives. In this case, they definitely did; but do they always? I don’t have an answer to that one.  It might just be something for each of us to decide on our own.

Returning home to China was nice too, until I had to leave. I have been dreading my year abroad since I decided to go to NYU in the Global Liberal Studies program around May of 2011; this has been a long time coming, and its turned out to be amazing, at least so far. The problem is that I had no idea how much I’d enjoy myself in Italy and how comfortable I’d become in such a short time. If I had known this, I probably could have left China for Italy with a much lighter heart. As it is, I was so stressed about this transition that I stayed up the entire 10 hours of the overnight flight and was absolutely exhausted when I finally arrived in Florence. I could have saved myself so many hours of sleep, but I just didn’t know. 20-20 hindsight and all that.

So now we’re all caught up. At least mostly. When life is coming at you faster than you can think, it’s hard to process it personally, let alone for other, faceless people on the internet. Although if you’re reading this, the chances are high that I actually know who you are.

Thank you for that, by the way. Keeping a blog is a lot more work than I imagined, as most things in life usually are. I can’t promise consistency in updates, but you’ll at least never be bored. That’s a plus, right?

Until next time, then. That’s when you’ll get the fun stuff. And in the words of River Song, “No sneak previews.” Cause I’m in Italy, but I’ve barely begun to tell you about everything that’s happened to me here, and if I spill all the good stories now, what’s to keep you coming back? So no spoilers this time, but when we return, prepare to be amazed–I certainly was.

**Title: “Nothing Ever Happens” by Rachel Platten**

A drop in the ocean, a change in the weather.

Imagine sunny beaches, sand between your toes, and weather so hot you can see the waves coming off the asphalt. Sounds glorious, right? Except not. Get it together people! I said Oregon, not L.A. This is the Pacific Northwest, where a record breaking 340 days(not an accurate statistic–take any of my math related comments with a grain of salt) of the year are cold, grey and decidedly drizzly.

That said, I had a great time. Who’s going to complain about getting to spend two weeks at a beach? I mean, really? The point is, I was in Oregon, and I had fun. Doing what, you may ask? Well, I’ll tell you.

Aside from unintentionally flirting (apparently I do this thing with my hair…?) with half the town at the Marion County Fair which I got to attend with my family, I also went to four farmer’s markets, swam almost everyday, and ate. A lot. Like no joke. We’re talking corn on the cob and cubed watermelon every night; surf and turf; patriotic ravioli; burgers, hot dogs on the beach. Basically, you name it, I probably ate it during that trip. Except eggplant. Never eggplant.

I also drove again for the first time in literally a year and I promise anyone who will listen that I saw my life flash before my eyes. On a somewhat connected and yet simultaneously tangential note, I’m in Florida right now. And before you ask, yes the two thoughts are connected. Why? Because I just got back from an overnight trip to Miami in which I ate in an awesome bookstore/cafe crossover, applied for an Italian visa, and drove home on the Turnpike in the rain. Exciting stuff, this is.

Based on that brief description of my day, one would think I should be exhausted. And I am, ish. At this point though, I’m a certifiable insomniac. Although my lack of sleep, at least tonight, can probably be attributed to slight jet-lag from crossing the US, and not to my appreciation of Diet Dr. Pepper which could easily be described as an addiction. Like, actually.

Tune in next time for adventures in the life of me. Speaking of adventures, prepare yourself for a description of why escapism is the greatest thing on this planet since sliced bread. And River Song. And Jesus. But I think you get the point.

Laters. (Fun Fact: I’ve been saying this for ages and only just discovered that its actually from BBC’s Sherlock. Are you hearing the British accent yet?)

**Title: “A Drop in the Ocean” as sung by Ron Pope**