Are you my city

Last Wednesday I went to a yoga class, where the yoga teacher, Lila, began the class with a article she was reading. It was written by a disabled actor in hollywood. Maybe it was this one: http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2014/07/why-disabled-characters-are-never-played-by-disabled-actors/374822/. The main point was that able-bodied actors are often cast as disabled characters, in part because it is easier for the audience to look at them, knowing that after the performance they go about their life unhindered by the disability. And she says that she has heard a disabled friend say that this is what hurts the most, for someone disabled, when people avert their gaze when passing them, when they are unwilling to acknowledge that existence.

And so Lila asked the class to take a moment to look at each other, in this city, where people have been trained to not look at each other, to drop that guard and look at each other, softly, with kindness. Not the judging, looking up and down, critical look; nor the staring, creepy look; just acknowledging each other for their existence, their humanity.

I looked around the room with a slight smile. And it was somewhat hilarious and sad to see that we were struggling to make eye contact. Even in this room, at a gym, where socio-economically and in age we were not that different, where we were all able-bodied yoga practitioners. Many people in the room tried, but could not quite naturally fulfill Lila's request; and some didn't seem to try at all.

And I remember telling my friends from out of town, to not look at other people, especially on the subway. And I remember one of them telling me how, this city is so lonely, people don't even look at you.

It's a week or two shy of a year that I moved all my boxes into my studio apartment. I remember being excited, thinking this is where things happen, where all the things to do are, and the food(!). And there will be interesting and creative people. And there might be endless possibilities. After a year, I've been to the interesting events and tasted delicious food. But somehow I haven't really found the connection to people. My old friends who live in the area I see every once in awhile, but not at the frequency I'd like.  When we do see each other, I struggle to remember, what has happened in the past weeks or months, it's been so long, I need to update them. I wonder if it is a function of just being older, but then it seems the city wraps us in a cocoon of busyness and self-centeredness, and we cannot make time.  And then every day I see strangers, a bit worn, a bit cynical, who won't look me in the eye. I see a city with a high density of individuals, but a low level of connection.

And looking around the room at that yoga studio, I remembered why I'm not convinced that New York is my city yet. Can I really call a city where we won't even look at each other my home?

Settling In

There are many steps to settling into a new city. In the first stage, it is setting up house -- you unpack your boxes with all your things, then spend hours inside IKEA, target, home depot or the local thrift stores shopping for furniture or containers in which to put all the stuff from your boxes. In the next stage, it is becoming friends with your neighborhood-- you learn which stores carry the cheapest tofu, the best selection of produce, or your favorite shampoo; you pick out a few favorite spots to get takeout, and know how to properly estimate your travel time to any point in the city, especially that route to work, where you figure out how to avoid every second of idle waiting, by timing your walk to the station just right so that you are next to the last one to squeeze into the train car.

And then the final stage of settling in is the most difficult, making the city your home. Your tiny apartment can feel cozy and home-like, but it is not home yet. Home is where your people are, and so to finish this stage you need to establish a circle of friends.

In a city like New York this seems to be both an exciting but then also overwhelming task. 8 million people, there must be a handful for you! And these friends will be interesting/exciting/better because of so many choices and possibilities. You're friends no longer have to be all graduate students in physics-- doesn't that sound exhilarating! But then how do you find those few people in 8 million, seems like the classic needles in a haystack.

My old friends remind me it took me awhile to find them in Ithaca-- and I remind myself that it also takes time to incubate and develop and establish any connection-- that my old dear friends were accumulated through years of being in dear old Ithaca. I try my best to be okay with finding myself often alone on weekend nights not really sure who I should call. It will get better in time... I hope...

So for now, in place of people, I find activities. New York makes that easy.

On Friday night I tore myself away from catching up on episodes of Homeland, and took the train to Chelsea for Friday Night Blues. This is my third time going to a dedicated blues dance- but I'm falling for it, and the scene. It's crowded and there's no AC and you get sweaty and bump into people, but I love the energy in the room, of the young and the old, and the way everybody moves and has their own style. I must admit I am usually shy and awkward about expressing any form of sensuality, and the argentine tango closed embrace still makes me slightly uncomfortable when I dance with people I don't know. But somehow, on the blues dance floor I open up, I have confidence, and am not afraid to let my self be showy and (for some songs) sexy. I think it's the fact that blues is close to swing and there's so much room for improv and that the music is rarely subdued, it's usually the pop songs of all the past decades, swingy showtunes, jazzy ballads, rock n' roll, broadway... I enjoy dancing with all people, young and old, holding people close, enjoying the the few minutes we have interacting and dancing and playing with the music, expressing ourselves and having a conversation through body movement.  I have yet to take proper formal lessons in blues dance, but already the time flies and I have fun, and I want to dance for hours.

I didn't dance for too many hours, because I had a busy Saturday morning planned. I woke up to get out of the house like it was a regular workday-- I had a lovely blueberry scone and pumpkin spice latte on my way to the New York Common Pantry in East Harlem. The company I work for has this really nice program where if you volunteer 25-50 hours a year, they will donate money to a charity of your choice matching your efforts at $100/hour.  On top of that, they have an office that coordinates volunteer activities with community organizations which employees can sign up for.

I've often wanted to volunteer for a food-related cause. Food is so central to my existence, and I can't begin to imagine the difficulties of hunger or poor access to nutritious food. Anyways, this being my first experience, I was very impressed with the way this food pantry is run. For one, they offer fresh produce, and nice grains, beans, some diary and eggs -- things I would gladly purchase for myself if I were grocery shopping. Additionally, all the pantry clients have membership cards, which gives them a sense of ownership, and is a good way of organizing/keeping track of pantry distributions. Lastly, they have a shopping system, where based on your household size you can choose between the inventory selections of the week.

The last point surprised me-- doesn't this cause lots of additional required work? But as I was very impressed as the morning went on, their system is designed such that the orders are digitized-- you can order online or come in to access the webapp during your pickup time.  Inside the pantry, around two dozen volunteers scrambled to fill in the orders as they came in, bagging groceries, running around.

I started out the morning dividing beets and pears into 1 lb bags in preparation for the incoming orders and crowd. At 10 am, I got reassigned to a job working with clients who came in to make selections on-site. 6 of us volunteers, each armed with a tablet, sat with clients as they chose their selections through the webapp. Most of the clients were nice and friendly, even the ones who didn't speak English. I got to speak some Mandarin, and practice very broken Spanish phrases (a few of the Hispanic seniors were very amused at my efforts, but the webapp shopping list was written so that it displayed the client's preferred language and had nice colorful pictures to help both of us along).

The volunteer experience was extremely streamlined (no idleness of standing around being unproductive, no questions on what to do or how) and the impact of the pantry very apparent (most clients were very happy to be making their grocery selections). A lot of my colleagues shared my sentiments and were curious how to volunteer in following weeks, and were eager to see the pantry coordinate more sign-ups through our company.

As I took the train back to my place, I thought to myself, it is quite a nice way to spend a Saturday morning. Although looking at all those pictures of food and being around the food made me hungry and wanting for some fresh produce for myself. So I stopped by the farmer's market near my house, got myself some ingredients for a arugula and pasta + steamed asparagus lunch and then a nice thai basil tofu stir-fry for dinner. And that dictated the rest of a very charming saturday, cooking and housekeeping and blog-writing.

I've met a few friendly people at these activities, and had a few interesting conversations. Perhaps along the way I will make myself some friends. Perhaps not or perhaps elsewhere. But I'm building up the structure of my life in the city to my liking. For everything else, friendships, relationships, maybe even love, I guess that's an adventure that I will not be able to design, and can only look forward to experiencing.

Thank you for the love

This evening I was struck by a wave of feeling down.  So I went to talk to John and Matt as they played pong-ping (where every hit is a serve).  John spoke in his usual very soothing voice and told me to take up painting; and Matt made jokes like Matt usually makes jokes, cracking me up. And I felt immensely better after the seeing the pair of them. And then I talked to Alice and Alice, being the rational wonderful Alice she is, said very many right things. Right, not in the sense of being accurate, but right in the sense of being things I needed to hear. And at swing dance I saw Gretchen, who always asks me how I am, and passes on words of wisdom, and Gaby, who always greets you with such enthusiasm you can't help but smile  The next stop was trivia at Silky Jones, and sitting there reliably as always was the calm stoic Nicole who had just saved a panicked girl from the fire alarm in Uris.  And Alisa who promised to go to the Ukelele club with me some Sunday. And the rest of the trivia team who somehow, collectively, know everything in the universe, and allow me to sit idly by sipping wine listening to all they know about American culture and world history and foreign languages and plants/fruits/vegetables.

And on the way home I was reminded that every once in awhile I feel compelled to write a "thank you note" to all the wonderful people in my life for being wonderful people in my life.  Even if they might not happen to read it, I just want to go ahead and send these thoughts out to the blogosphere.

To my darling Shayna, who always has an open mind and sees the best in people no matter what, and introduces me to events of the hippie -yoga-vegan scene of Ithaca (which I often fail to attend).  And Yvonne who always remembers to get everyone together for food and gossip. The stubborn and adorable Yao for always complimenting me on my outfit and wanting to punch anybody who has upset me.  Flip for being an ear whenever I need one.  I'm grateful for the yoga practices and heart to heart's with Colwyn, one of the few friends who have been a consistent presence from my physics cohort. And Chloe, who I'm glad is back from Hong Kong, who is sharp and witty and makes me laugh without intending to.  My lovely sister, Jesse, who needs to move to New York to be with me, because I say so.  All the colleagues who smile and say hi and joke around, and sometimes try to challenge you with a physics problem (by this last bit I mean Alex). And my advisor, for being his enthusiastic self and coaching me through all the little setbacks and trials that happen in research
 
Lastly, I never have said this in such a post before, but I'm grateful for myself.  This stubborn, slightly willful, creature has recently learned some valuable lessons about taking care of herself -- not just the physical being with exercise and nourishment and rest -- but also the emotional being with honesty and respect and gentleness. And so tonight, I'm proud of me, and I'm delighted to be me.

Thank you for the love.

Our Banal Existence

My friend Yariv was sharing a piece in New York Magazine by Elizabeth Wurtzel with me today, and he was drawing parallels between the discordant aimless yet defiant depression of the author with his own life and the way he feels as of late. And as always, because I always like accusing Yariv of being narcissistic, I told him, she is extremely "not banal", but I can see in him the capability of being banal and leading a perfectly ordinary life in a perfectly ordinary way, and being depressed in an extremely ordinary way. That Elizabeth Wurtzel possesses a borderline pathological phobia of banality, whereas he does not. And of course, I laughed at him for romanticizing his grad school career as unconventional.

But I was thinking, as I was performing such banal tasks as making boiling water for noodles and washing the dishes, that there was a time when I also romanticized my own life. When I thought I was the actual center of the universe. (I am still the center of my own universe, but I now acknowledge it is only my own). I guess I was a bright child, slightly neurotic and over-sensitive, but very much full of myself, and of course I believed I could and would become President of the United States.  Imagine my disappointment in fourth grade when I realized that given the current constitution there was no way. The next logical thing was to become a famous actress of course, and perhaps a great novelist.  When that got old, for awhile I imagined that I was the main character of some secret alien experiment; the music I heard on the radio while riding in my mother's car was not an accident, but some sort of carefully chosen background score to match my current circumstance and mood.  Of course, the aliens had some mechanism of observing me from afar, much like watching a reality TV show (although reality TV hadn't come into fashion yet when I was dreaming this up).

During this time, it was not just I felt I was destined to be important and extraordinary. It was also that I felt I was special, in terms of how I felt things, how I dealt with the world, and what went on in my mind day to day.  That my life story belonged in one of those very thick phonebook novels, like Anna Karenina (although her story is quite banal too if viewed through a lens that isn't Tolstoy).  I don't remember when this feeling faded, but eventually it did. I realized amongst the great thinkers, the manic creative types, the driven ambitious types of the world, I was really in essence a couch potato type -- happy to sit in front of the computer with my sister, chewing on gummy bears and watching TV shows to pass the time. That most of my sad stories or depressions were common to the other children of my generation and class. That really romanticizing my own place in the world was only about feeling good about myself and my existence.

But often, we depend on these things to live or feel a meaning of existence. Some feeling of importance in the world, whether stature, or fame, or respect. Or just the feeling that one's own way of living, of being, of philosophizing is superior, or at least unique, with respect to that of the masses.

What are the merits of feeling superior or unique? There is the floating theory that people who actually do achieve celebrity status, politicians, heads of multinational corporations, musicians, artists, are in some ways narcissistic and self-important. Of course, there is the danger of falling flat, failing to live up to your own self-image, and feeling depressed and lacking. Of one day discovering, perhaps, reality is in any case boring and ordinary, even all those wonderful stories and thoughts in your head, even if you try really hard to be abnormal. As perhaps Elizabeth Wurtzel-- despite her determination to prove, through her writing and living, that it isn't so-- is starting to realize.

It took awhile to come to terms with, but I am quite pleased with myself to say I am now quite comfortable and at peace with my own banality. Rather meanly, I'd like to smirk a bit at Elizabeth Wurtzel and say, you know, it's not quite so bad to want a real job, and save for retirement, and care about your friends only through facebook. Even if you lead a life of extreme pitiful banality, it's not so bad if you are enjoying yourself. In the end, perhaps it doesn't make much of a difference whether you are living in an unconventional depressed way or a conventional depressed way. Both ways, you are depressed. The unconventional can tell themselves that at least they have led interesting non-banal lives; while the conventional can bask in the comfort of a safety net and a savings account. And in both cases, people will tell themselves they are better off than the other(s).  Which perhaps is the saddest and most depressing part, what we end up telling ourselves.

But mostly I think I have this figured out and I pat myself on the back for not being supremely depressed, just occasionally ordinarily depressed, and mostly having good humour through it all. And  I feel all self-important and self-righteous in my own philosophy while claiming this, writing here as though there is an audience who thinks I am important enough to read.

Missing You

It's been a year since 11/11/11. It seems so long but then it feels so close. It is a funny kind of sadness.  Different from all the other sorts of goodbyes. I could almost cry, but then I sort of also smile. Because of all the wonderful memories.

It is at random moments I think of you and miss you. Whenever I walk into the Barnes and Nobles where we used to spend our weekend afternoons reading, working, and gossiping. Whenever I pass by BTI where you worked. Whenever I see that blue couch of yours sitting in my living room- our houseguests still sleep on the pull-out mattress. Whenever somebody mentions the Catskills, or lunch at the Heights, or desserts at Madeleines. Whenever I hear one of those songs you gave me- you liked quirky songs - they are still amongst my most played songs in iTunes. Whenever I see a luffa.  

That January in Taipei, I didn't know that it was the last time that I would see you in this lifetime or I would've hugged you harder. Last October on Skype, I didn't know it was the last time we would chat or I would've not gone off to answer another phone call. I would've sent you more e-mails and letters and packages if I had known that this was the last stretch of time to remind you that you were appreciated and loved. Should have, could have, would have.

But I guess what I can remember now is to really appreciate life and friends. And how you told me while I was complaining about all those mundane things, including not having a boyfriend, how you told me that 活著就有希望, there's hope as long as you're alive. And I remember how you were so brave, how the last time we were on Skype, around a month before your death, you really sounded at peace.  Death is not the most horrible thing, you said, there are worse sufferings and pain. And I try to remember that, when I can, it puts many of my little worries and anxieties in perspective.  

You once told me you were afraid that once you were gone, people would get over it quickly. That eventually everybody would move on, that nobody would miss you for long. I'm writing this post to say I still do think of you, miss you, wish you were here. That I smile when I think of you. Even if I'm sad. But that's a good way to leave an imprint on someone's life. And I'm sure many of your friends feel that exact same way.

Judging a Book by Its Cover

The way I prefer to pick books to read is much like the way I prefer to make friends.  Naturally, through a chance encounter, or introduced by a trusted acquaintance.  Our time spent together should not be forced- trying too hard makes the relationship chore-like.  Our friendship should be genuine- not to make use of any gains this friendship may present or would it be for showing-off that I know somebody cool.  Any book that I purposely read, just because it is a "classic" or other people love it or I want to appear sophisticated while sitting in a cafe- those books usually fall flat.

As we grow up it seems that it is harder to make friends.  It also seems harder to find time for leisurely reading.  Reading without an agenda.  Socializing without viewing it as a networking event.  And in my life, in the pursuit of being scholarly, my Ph.D. studies have taken time away friend-making and book-reading alike.  It is the book-reading that has suffered the most.  Books have been replaced by PAPERS.  Science papers.

Although it is also the written word- somehow it is hard to feel cozy with a paper or find papers good bedtime reading.  Sleep inducing, yes, but not appropriate bedtime reading material.  Seldom do I feel like I would like to take a paper on vacation or to a park.  I do not reread a paper for the comfort of familiar characters, like they way I reread Harry Potter, or because the prose sings.  Mostly if I have to read a paper more than once is because I didn't understand it much the first time.

So scientists are lousy story tellers, or sometimes probably they don't have very compelling stories to tell.  But survival in academia dictates that we must publish something even without a compelling story, and the day to day life of a graduate student means I must sift through these papers in case there is a compelling or at least useful story hidden somewhere.

And so by the start of my recent vacation, I was determined to get some non-paper reading in.  In hindsight, it was fortunate my kindle recently broke.  Ever since I acquired a kindle last year, I rarely meet books the old fashioned way anymore.  Shopping the kindle bookstore is like online dating.  The selection is limited and not so enticing.  Some really good books are not available online.  The store pretends to make informed recommendations, as if they know anything about your tastes. I always come away from it slightly dissatisfied. 

At the beginning of my vacation, a Sunday in New York City, it was beautiful out, and not too hot.  I decided I wanted to read a book in the park under a tree.  Because it had been awhile since the book in a park under a tree scene has occurred in my life.   So I found myself, on the Upper West Side of New York, in a cramped used bookstore, searching for something to read.   

I usually find myself a shallow person- appearances matter.  Slightly when it comes to making friends (so all my friends- you are good looking!), more so for dating, and extremely when it comes to books.  Sometimes I will read a book just for its cover art.  And I will refuse to read a book I was planning to read if the cover is ugly.

But I know all that is nonsense.  That even though the author and editors have a say in the cover art, and that it is probably true that the choice of cover says something about their target audience or who they would like their target audience to be.  It is also probably true that great writers and editors could have very very poor taste in aesthetics.

And so I encounter this book with a rather unfortunate cover design.  It is pink.  I love pink, but this pink has a gradient, changing from white to pink at the bottom, like a powerpoint slide.  The title is pink "Women and Fiction", in some type of calligraphic font, and the three words take up half of the cover.  The rest of the space is mostly filled by an incomplete list of the (female) literary greats it includes.  And much more!  It declares on the bottom.  Something like a stock photo of a book with rose petals fallen on the open pages is sandwiched between the humongous title and the list of authors.  It is small, appearing squashed by the title above it, and intimidated by the authors below it.   It is not entirely the best cover for its contents.

   

It is a compilation of short stories.  That's why it's so ugly.  They made it for cheap and probably was not thinking about marketing it properly.  Short fiction seems perfect for the park.  It's stories by women about women by great authors I've read and have wanted to read.  Kate Chopin.  Virginia Woolf.  Edith Wharton.  Joyce Carol Oates…. Nice representation throughout the ages too.  And it's only 4 dollars.  4 dollars for anything seems like a steal in the City.

So despite its rather disturbing cover I buy it and plant myself under a tree in Central Park near a Jazz trio.  Some old guys are playing enthusiastically.  They play quite well, with their sax, bass, and keyboard.  And I feel quite luxurious as I slowly make my way through a few stories and lounge away the afternoon.  

The next day, I am at JFK enroute to see my family, and I am having trouble with the self-check-in kiosk, so I flag down an "airline representative"

"What are you reading there?" says the airline representative who sees the book poking out of my purse.  He's black, tall, fit, my age, maybe younger, being friendly.  

"Short stories."

"I'm not gonna judge you, cause at least you're not reading 50 Shades of Grey."  he teases.  "I see people reading that everywhere, and I do judge them."

Suddenly I comprehend what he's assuming the book is, and if I knew how to blush I would, but I rarely show any color in my face, so I blush internally. 

"No, no, it's not…  I mean, this is literature.  Like Edith Wharton and Virginia Woolf and famous authors like that, from all different times."  I quickly rise to my book's defense.

He's apparently never heard of Edith Wharton.  He laughs  "Literature? It looks like…"

"Here."  I interrupt and shove the book at him.  "Read a bit of it and you'll see…"

He reads a paragraph of a random page or so, and says "I'm sure at some point a guy will come in and…"  he catches himself before the verb.  

I decide the situation is mute and give up and make small talk instead.  "So have you read 50 Shades of Grey?  I guess you didn't like it?"

He says, "Oh, my ex-girlfriend used to own a copy.  I didn't read much of it.  I prefer porn- visual stuff.  But you ladies, you can imagine things.  More imagination..."

I smile and we exchange a few other sentences about the difference between sexes.  And I depart, amused, and pretend that I'm nonchalantly carrying around my pink "romance novel".  But on the plane, I catch a few people reading the discussed "50 shades", and all of a sudden, I feel very very defensive and sad for my book.  Because it is a rather nice compilation, and does not deserve to be classified in the same category a cheap romance novel with bad writing.  I defiantly read my book in an angle that the cover is extremely visible, but pretty soon I forget about the cover, and get lost enjoying Gertrude Stein and her "Picasso-like" writing style.

The Ease of Happiness

It is easy to be happy.  But I forget.  It is also easy to forget- especially when one is a giant ball of stress.  I am stressing out about basically what others think about me- about research- what I think of myself.  What am I doing with my life?  What is anyone doing with their life?  Argh.

But it was Lola who reminded me of the ease of happiness yesterday- as we were going to Greenstar to get Ice Cream, and we were talking about French croissants and yoga and simple things, that I observed, it is easy to make Lola happy.  And I felt envious- that is a nice character trait to have- I want that character trait too. 

But then I thought about it a bit, and realized that I have forgotten it is easy to make me happy too.  Good food.  Warm tea.  Music you can dance to.  Cozy conversations.  Sleeping in.  Being indoors on a rainy day.  And French croissants. 

But sometimes I try too hard.  Try too hard to be happy.  Try too hard to make friends.  Try too hard to learn how to flirt.  Try too hard to work (and get really frustrated when I get stuck).  And things don't really flow.  I've been reading "Tao-te-ching" and "The Tao of Pooh" lent to me by a dear friend.  And it is reminding me how sometimes you have to let things flow naturally.  Be yourself.  Trust in the universe.  And just let things happen- even if they don't go your way- even if you think they are bad things.  The Taoist principle 無為 (woo-way), which sort of translates as "do nothing", is not really laziness or inaction, I realize slowly to not go against the nature of yourself or of your surroundings...  or in western culture, this is called "The Pooh Way."

So - I will stop letting my stress and mess and myself get in the way of happiness.  Because there is much to be pleased with - it is summer, Ithaca is beautiful, we are young (and can still effortlessly walk, breathe, dance, laugh), and life continues to unfold in expected and unexpected ways.  (AND~ pretty soon I'll be having one of those French croissants!)

Gossip

So my new bff, who shall remain nameless, was jealous that I didn't mention him in the last blog post: "Serendipitous Connections".  In my defense, it was written before we bonded over gossip. 

So this is what this blog post will be about- dedicated to you know who you are…

I have mixed feelings about gossip. 

Sometimes I have the suspicion it is toxic.  But then being in the know and knowing tiny details about others gives one a sense of belonging to a community.  It is also a  way to feel closer to a person- to share secrets.

And usually that's the way I gossip- about myself.  I am like an open book to all my friends.  They usually know all my secrets.  Sometimes so many people know my "secret", that really it ceases to be a secret.  Not that I have especially juicy ones- usually its only my anxieties and thoughts and frustrations and crushes.  I will share them with most of my friends without thinking or evaluating the possible consequences of being so open.

I also like having the listener reciprocate with secrets of their own, and delight in knowing their innermost thoughts, emotions, fears and scandals… not that many people have delightful scandals.  But I only feel close to somebody once they open up and tell me things they don't share with just anyone, either revealing vulnerabilities or some darkness or some depressive state.  So if you are one of those people who don't have any of those things going on in your brain, and are generally sunshine and happiness, I don't think I'll ever feel you are a close friend.  Sorry.

But then gossip can also be misused.  To confuse situations or stir trouble or cause misunderstandings.  One must be careful in not being malicious about gossip or accidentally spreading gossip that may be hurtful or embarrassing to others.  I have made the mistake more than once of doing the misdeed of spreading such gossip.  I have also made the mistake of revealing too much about myself that it has caused a bit of embarrassment to my own self.

So it is a hard act to balance.  So maybe I should gossip less.  But then my new bff and I would have nothing to talk about. 

Serendipitous Connections

The other day, outside of my habitual mourning of connections severed, lost, distorted, dropped, or faded- I realized on the flip-side I should rejoice in those serendipitous connections.

This post is for the friend I serendipitously met at an interschool mixer where we bonded through our lamentation of the lack of hiking boots in our friends' lives.  I think now I believe in "Friendship at first sight."  Through all our busyness I think we have not gone hiking even once together yet- but thanks for all the lunch gatherings, and gossiping, and anecdotes about life in the Law School.  You're wonderful and a reminder that serendipity is beautiful.

This post is for my friend far away in Mumbai who I was really excited to get a call from on Sunday, who I met by chance on a ride to Boston.  I almost didn't meet you, cause you made a last minute decision to take me up on my rideshare offer.  I remember we talked for 6 hours- I never knew I could sustain a conversation with somebody for so long.  I miss having your company in Ithaca- but I know other meaningful connections and exciting journeys are in your path.  The world is your oyster, it's so much larger than Ithaca, and also slightly larger than Mumbai, don't forget!  There are also lots of cute/wonderful/decent guys out there.  (Somewhere, but don't ask me where...)  

This post is for my colleague and as of late travel-mate where we've suddenly had the circumstance to share lots of high density bonding time.  That magical mixture of a few drinks and nobody else to hang out with might never happen again for us.  But truly you are awesome and funny and nice.  You are nice- you shouldn't deny it.

Last, but not least, this post is for my darling friend who recently shared with me stories of serendipitous encounters with new interesting people, and exciting new possibilities for life.  And for that crazy evening where we had froyo at Smart Yogurt, then bubble tea and mochi at CT Bento, then apple pie a la mode and cheese fries at the State Diner.  You appreciate serendipitous connections in the way I'd like to appreciate them.

I'm trying to use these tidbits, joyful little scraps, to encapsulate the joy of serendipitous connections.  Every day I'd like to record somehow those interesting conversations or warm exchanges or crazy dessert nights or sad stories or shared anxieties- but I am not skilled enough as a writer to capture their texture.  So for now, I'm learning to be grateful, to the universe, for these connections, however shortlived.  Even if I forget the details one day, I am so glad for the existence of you, and you and you and you who have made all these days wonderful.

Writing: The Story of Stories

When I was young I wanted to be a writer.  Mostly because I loved books, books held a magical power over me.  And I was such a bookworm.  While my healthy active sister played outside with neighbors, I liked to sit inside with a pile of library books, solitary.  I think I went so far as preferring books to people.  My greatest anxiety in life was that there were too many books in the world, and I would not be able to read all of them before I died.  It took me awhile to realize that not all books are worth my time.  But to this day, I still get slightly depressed at the fact that there are worthwhile books and movies that I will never cross paths with.   This is the power stories have over me.

 I remember as early as I was 9 or 10, I would have spiral notebooks filled with a few failed attempts at writing a novel.  Every night I would lie in bed dreaming of characters and plots and how to begin my novel.  But beginnings were all I had.  I never got beyond three chapters before I decided my story was stupid and boring, and then I would go make up another one.

This is why I gave up this dream.  I felt I never had any interesting stories to tell.

I did not lack encouragement.  Once in awhile I would have something published or win a small school-wide writing competition, and I came across teachers from elementary school through college who had good things to say about my writing, and they tried to encourage me to polish my grammar, learn more vocabulary, and read more books.  (My writing in Mandarin has always been plagued by some type of English style grammar and vice versa…). 

Other than that there was a deep feeling that I couldn’t write interesting stories, that I hadn’t experienced enough of life or human nature to actually write about life and human nature.  And I was always an ambitious girl- I wanted my work to be moving, important, profound!

Laziness and ambition are a bad combination.  No it is not an impossible combination.  These people are what we call dreamers.  I guess I am a dreamer.  So it is in part laziness I chose to be a scientist, where the material for the stories I would tell were in some sense “written in the stars”.  I just had to learn the language to tell them.

But now, I am trying to be “un-lazy” by blogging about my mundane life.  It was actually Sumiran, my office-mate who accidentally motivated me to start doing this.  We were talking one day and as usual I was blabbering and going into detailed descriptions about the origin of my every statement (this my friends somehow bear patiently while hiding their annoyance).  And Sumiran made an observation: “You talk like a writer.”  I was amused, “How? Why?”  “The way you seem to be thinking about how to say things…”  And I admitted to him I love writing.  I crave to write something important! Gigantic! Magnificent!  Somehow he pushed me in the direction of “start somewhere, start small.”  And so I started this blog.

Nobody's Perfect

So many songs and stories are composed this way, so many movies and TV shows, and so many glowing couples around us think this way.  We expect our romantic partner to be our soulmate and companion, "our all", "our everything"- the one person who understands us know us is there for us.

But, lately I've been thinking, is that a reasonable expectation?  What is a reasonable expectation of a partner? (Darn, I'm starting to sound like SJP from Sex and the City...)

Now I am probably the least qualified person in the world to go on a rant about this, since I've only ever had 1.5 long distance relationships, so in fact I really don't know how bad it can be or good if the person is or is not your soulmate.  But I recently read this very convincing book about "singlism" as a form of discrimination, how we automatically assume things about people who are single, how laws and workplaces favor those who are coupled.   She pointed out that due to our unreasonable expectation of the function of a spouse, as both best friend and lover, we overburden romantic relationships, and also neglect all other meaningful relationships.

And I know this all too well- many of my friends have little time for me when they are in a relationship (hanging out a few times a week becomes let's have dinner once every month or two months), when I invite somebody non-single to something, the reply is often, "well, i have to see about XXX (husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, wife)'s schedule."

But I am guilty too.  In dating, in finding someone to date, I am often "picky".   Not picky in the usual terms of appearance or job or age, but picky in terms of "what do you think about this random topic" "do you have a temper" "can you understand me" "are you a good listener" "can you make me laugh"... And usually I want all those things, and so logically of course there is no one that fits the bill, or the probability of meeting such a person is of course very low.  And then when I think I have met such a person, usually through the course of getting to know them some other issue crops up (such as "you don't really have the right sense of humor to understand my jokes"),  and of course then this person "is not meant for me".

And I realize I am setting the bar extremely high.  But my friends tell me I should, books and movies and self-help websites also say I should.   Every single glowing wedding invitation or declaration of love  seems to imply I should.  The only person who ever says I should settle for "good enough" or "a decent guy" is my mother.

After some deliberation, I think the resolution to this issue is not where one sets the bar.  But to really have reasonable expectations- and also find fulfillment and support in your friends and family.  Surround yourself with people who enrich your life and love you, regardless of whether or not you're single.  I don't know if this is the answer- I'm still working on it.  But feel free to share- what do you think?    


p.s. This post is dedicated to the friend I called today for the first time in 8-9 months.  I miss you!  We need to talk more!

Wired and Disconnected

For lack of better mother-daughter entertainment in Ithaca in the evenings, I got a dvd movie to watch for one of the evenings my mother was in town.  She therefore got the novel experience of watching me use a redbox kiosk.  "No wonder people are out of jobs."  She marveled after we had read through a few synopses on the touchscreen, picked a movie, swiped my credit card, and out popped a movie

Thinking back to my childhood neighborhood movie rental shop in Taipei, I am not sure if the loss of movie rental personnel as an occupation has contributed significantly to unemployment.  The small shop overflowing with VHS cassettes was run by a couple who usually took turns looking after operations, and the odd part-time (always young probably a student) employee or two would sometimes be there to relieve them.  What was distinct about those days was that renting a movie required human interaction.  The wife, much more sullen, rarely said anything.  However, the husband was a friendly guy, and whether with my dad or by myself we would exchange small talk.  Unlike netflix, he did not automatically make recommendations based on what we usually rented.  But more useful than netflix, you could go up to him and say, we want to see that new movie with Harrison Ford in it, the one where he's like a spy or something, but we forget what it was called.  And he would know what it was called, and go dig it out for us.  Or we would notice the movie playing on the television behind the counter, which was perpetually playing something, and we could ask him what it was, and whether it was worth watching.  Or we could ask him for the non-automatic recommendations in the form of "we want to watch something funny.  do you have any funny?"

I've been thinking about the value of such interactions lately.  Algorithms can't do such things yet, but I'm sure that maybe pretty soon they'll have most of the above transactions covered.  Computer scientists are improving on algorithms that can recognise your tone of voice or emotion, and then respond appropriately.  Machines may be able to do things better, faster and cheaper, but what is that sense of loss that keeps nagging me?

It irks me when I see a couple out for dinner or the movies, and they sit silently while one of the partners plays with their smartphone.  Conversation.  You could be having conversation I want to go remind them.  I am also bothered by the prevalence of texting or e-mailing as a the main vehicle of communication.  Don't get me wrong, I think these are wonderful inventions, smartphones and e-mail and texting and online chat.  I love that my computer is as fast as the supercomputers were when I was 5 years old.  It makes many things easier.  But when my roommates send me an e-mail when we are both at home, I wonder, is it so terrible to talk to each other?  I am also flabbergasted when people send me e-mails or texts a few hours before something important is happening, and expect me to respond or even see such things.  I remember when I was little my sister and I would try to avoid answering the phone, and let the answering machine do the job, lest we have to speak awkwardly with one of our parents' friends.  Nowadays, I am delighted when somebody calls me.  I even relish calling costumer service, it's so much nicer talking to a person than clicking through online links listed in not so informative search results.

How do I quantify this "niceness" of human interactions?  No it is probably not measurable in terms of monetary value, or immediate gain in profit margin.  But I am convinced there is value in talking to another person, face to face, reading their emotions, navigating responses, feeling charmed or pleased or angry or frustrated.  And I think it is worth the little inconvenience to perhaps preserve a bit of the human touch and stay somewhat connected, even for things we can automate.      

All Those Bandhas and One Goodbye

Actually there are three(?) bandhas- I always hear them mentioned in class or in some video or the other, but it's still quite mysterious which muscles I am supposed to be using.  (By the way it sounds like it's spelled "bunda" to me  when it's spoken, which apparently means something else in various languages.  "Buttocks" in portuguese, I think it is also Turkish for something...)

But there are many things I have yet to learn and experience in yoga, but I'm not in any particular hurry, because as David Swenson would say "Remember you have your whole life to work on your practice.  It will come in time.*".  And also because it has been only nearly a year since I've started yoga.

*Note:  I am not sure if that is the exact quote.  And also I use this excuse to not try headstand or any inversion or pose I deem scary.  It will come in time.

Late last August or early September, since I was bored of running on ellipticals at the gym, I decided to try out yoga as a new means of exercise.  At the Cornell fitness center,  I took my very first yoga classes from Elaine and Zach.  I remember, that at first, Elaine taught me flexibility and Zach taught me strength.  After awhile, I decided Zach was my favorite yoga teacher at Cornell, just because he had this way of teaching that made one want to challenge their own limits.  When I first started Zach's classes,  after a few rounds of his lovely elbow to knee abs, the next day I would feel my abs complaining, with every laugh they would say "this laugh is hard work".  But my abs grew to love elbow to knee.  I also  remember wanting to fall over and lie down midway through all of those standing poses he made us hold forever.  But now, probably due to this training, every time I practice Ashtanga, the part I love most are the standing postures.  And five breaths is not nearly long enough to enjoy the chair pose, seriously, we need to hold it longer.  And, ah, then there's dolphin.  I still hate that pose.

Anyways, I shouldn't be posting on my blog, because I should really be studying for my A-exam right now.  So I will get the point of this blog post.  Today was my last class with Zach.  I am a bit selfishly sad to see such a wonderful teacher leave Ithaca.  But goodbyes are a natural part of life, and so through this blog post, I say goodbye, a positive upbeat goodbye.  I'd like to thank Zach for being part of my introduction to yoga, and I'm sure that little bits of what I've learned from him will stay with me in some form for a very long time.   I wish him all the best for his new life in Houston.

This Ephemeral Life

"It might be a bit harsh to say this.  But you know, some relationships, once they are broken are irreparable.  Some people once they drift away it means they are gone."  My friend Tina told me on the phone.  "This is the sad fact of life.  Sometimes we need to acknowledge this and move on."

It was interesting that she was telling me this, because she is one of my oldest closest friends who is "still there".  We've known each other for 12 years now, and we talk on the phone or online every so often.  Sometimes every few months, sometimes every few weeks, sometimes a few times a week.  It doesn't really matter, there is no pressure to keep in touch, but there is motivation to do so whenever we are bored or randomly think of one another or have something profound to discuss.

Tina was telling me this because I was complaining to her how I miss those people who have drifted in and then out of my life, how I wish they would reply to my e-mails or call me or still care about me.

This is the way my young adulthood has been, a constant struggle of balance between holding on and letting go.  I know the ideal frame of mind I should go about dealing with these things, but knowing is different from doing.

Fundamentally nothing lasts.  Not even our visit to this life to this earth.  Yet knowing this, we go against the tide, we are constantly on the search for lifelong connections (many people search for this in the form of a lifelong romantic partner).

Sitting on the corner of Cayuga and Cascadilla downtown, Shayna and I discussed various connections.  Those hypothetical, those current, those past, and our tendency to want things to last forever or last a lifetime, and why we are so.  And I realized that two years ago I didn't know Shayna, but now she is a wonderful presence in my life.  And although I hope our friendship will last forever, I know it won't.  And I remember all the connections these few years that were built after connections destroyed or faded.  Is it that some relationships have to die for others to be born?

Sometimes I think it is the fear of having to face the reality of ourselves that drives us to seek something permanent.  As if we could conquer the short span of life with something that looks and feels like forever.  As if once there was someone out there who had known us for long enough and well enough it would resolve the question of knowing the ins and outs of ourselves.  As if we could avoid thinking about the meaning (of lack thereof?) of life, if we were in constant pursuit of lasting connections.  I hypothesize that if we were strong enough, it wouldn't matter how long each relationship lasted.  We would cherish each one for what it was throughout its duration, and end them with open hearts and minds.  But I am not strong enough, not yet, and so I still sit down and write that lengthy e-mail to that dear friend I miss but haven't heard from in 3 months, and hope for a response...

A Temporary Vegan

I've been eating vegan for 10 days now. 21 more days to go! It's more difficult than I thought: I find myself sick of soy products already. So I will need to find more bean and quinoa recipes in order to survive the next 20 days.

And I am making a vegan chocolate cake this weekend - recipe courtesy of the Moosewood website. I've had it at Moosewood restaurant, and it tasted non-vegan and wonderfully sinful. I just looked at the ingredient list and all of the ingredients look like what a normal cake would have just without the eggs or milk or butter. The one magic ingredient turns out to be vinegar! Can you imagine? I am totally psyched about this.

This diet is a result of too much meat and cheese in Europe (mostly too much cheese I think). So being vegan is mainly for detoxification. Also as a challenge to myself: I wanted to see if I could do it.

For the past few years I've wanted to be vegetarian for environmental and social justice reasons, but I suffer from the difficulty of liking meat. It tastes good. I love food. And many dishes are just not complete without the flavor of meat and fish. Writing that sentence was surprisingly painful- my favorite daydream activity is planning what to eat or cook for the next meal, and being vegan has made this activity more of a chore.

Nonetheless, being a temporary vegan has it's upsides: 1. It has made deciding what to order at restaurants super easy (there are usually only one or two things I can eat). 2. It's a wonderful excuse to explore the many bean and grain dishes I've been meaning to try cook. And that vegan chocolate cake! 3. I feel self-righteous when reading articles such as this one: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1879192,00.html

So we'll see how the rest of this month goes. It's tough, but it's giving my a whole new perspective and attitude towards foods. And, oh, did I mention that vegan chocolate cake?

Snowflakes

My roommate and I spent around an hour shoveling our driveway yesterday evening, only to discover our driveway covered in a foot and a half of snow again this morning... but we are lazy today, so we will resume shoveling tomorrow...

On a happy note, in my search for songs about snow this morning, I remembered the nutcracker and came across this video that made me smile. Hope it tickles you, too, whoever you are, reading my blog...

When life hands you lemons...

I know that sulking about it or getting mad or making delightful plans in my head on how to sabotage the new office space will not get me anywhere. That what I need to do right now is try to make the best out of whatever I'm getting... but somehow I can't win myself over with that argument.

One thing is that I've been making lemonade with my current office already. I don't like it. I'd mostly rather be at home or in a library somewhere. But I go anyways, I go because I like being around everybody else, I like being able to bug people when I have a question, I like being there so that my advisor can find me when he wants to, I like having conversations and being part of a community.

Maybe if I were a serious physicist I'd be thinking only about science and not ambience. It's true when I first started I was so excited about being able to do something, that I didn't mind going to Clark nights and weekends, and hardly noticed my surroundings. But nowadays if I am stuck or feeling down the office just pushes me further. It literally makes me cry sometimes.

So I decided to make lemonade. I decided that yes we can and should do something about it. Make our own place more cheerful. So I talked to Sumiran and Hitesh about it, and we started writing a petition. Even if nothing came out of it, I felt glad that at least we were trying to do something. I admire the fact that Kendra, Shankar, Jeehye and Katie bought plants for their office, and threw some of their clutter away. I was thinking about doing the same thing with my office, cleaning it, putting in some plants, putting up pretty posters... until I heard I had to move...

Now all of the sudden I'm informed I'm supposed to move to this gigantic cubicle with ugly carpet (and ugly dividers (but then how can dividers be pretty anyways)) and small desks and an insane amount of file cabinets, and poorly designed everything (except chairs). In a still windowless room, except now with 30 other people. And of course I'm upset. I'm upset because I know it is out of my control and I am in no position to request anything. I am upset because I know I'm supposed to just roll over and say okay fine let me think how to spruce this new crappy place up as opposed to my old crappy place. (And I never thought I'd prefer my old crappy place to any other, but I do.)

And then there's "the way things are" which means we will probably spend a lot of time asking for things, and then get none of them. Probably not blackboards. Probably not even moving the furniture around. Getting larger desks is obviously a pipe dream.

And so irrationally I've decided to sulk. I am officially sulking. I am not putting any effort into designing the stupid place. Do not come to try to persuade me with any lofty statements about rising above my own feelings or doing anything for the welfare of future grad students. I declare and defend my right to sulk.

Cause I don't see any sugar, so how can you expect me to make lemonade.

The Way the World Is

I've been reading a book called Cheap: The high cost of discount culture. The title can probably clue you in to what it is about. It's a history of how "cheap" came to be the driving force behind the retail sector and how it has affected manufacturing in all sectors.

I feel a familiar anger and frustration and helplessness and guilt whenever I read books like these.

It's not very well written to be honest- a bit too dry and the chapters do not seem to make the book a coherent whole and the editing is quite shameful- but the author summarizes many interesting facts and researches her subject thoroughly and avoids being emotional which is exactly what I am being reading this book.

Enough about writing quality, and back to my feelings:

Anger and frustration: Why is the world so messed up? Why do we have enough food for everyone on this planet, yet people still starve? Why do we turn a blind eye to all the environmental damage we are doing just so we can drink cheap milk and eat cheap shrimp?

Frustration and helplessness: I would be willing to double my grocery bill if it meant a few more percent of the world population could be lifted out of starvation. I would be willing to pay an extra 5% in taxes if it meant that the unemployed and poor could get more help, the infrastructure in the United States could be repaired, and children could get a better education (And I can't even vote in this country!). And I know many many people who feel the same way. Democracy does not work! The market economy does not work by itself! But then non of the other available options seem to work well either. Argh.

Guilt: Sometimes I'd like to help make the world better but don't know where to begin. And sometimes I know exactly what would be the right thing to do but fail.

I've returned my parking pass and am taking the bus (and biking once the weather is warmer) this year. But I know I will still drive around when parking is free and take long distance plane rides a few times. So I may think I'm reducing my carbon footprint, but probably not by a noticeable amount.

I've donated some money to charity last year, more than I have in the past, and plan to do the same this year. But I know I could put in more- I know I could choose not buy that eyeshadow or that new yoga mat and have an extra $50 to give...

Ever since being in Ithaca and under the influence of friends who are vegetarian and vegan, I've had less meat in my diet compared to when I was in Taiwan. Although I am a huge fan of tofu, and I am well aware of the evils of meat on the environment, I've tried being a part-time vegetarian and failed... because meat still does taste good to me... and I have these sudden cravings for beef noodle soup sometimes...

And so I feel guilty. A friend once told me "You do what you can." But I know in my heart I could do more, lots more.

But I guess I can work towards more. And that's my very vague new year's resolution.

10 years

Every time I go home, I like going through my things and remembering times past. My shelves and drawers are cluttered with photos and journals and stories I've written. In Ithaca I am mostly a forward looking person, because nothing much is stored there relating to who I was, so I focus on who I strive to be. But when I come home, I realize I rather like and miss this person who stayed in this room in which I'm sleeping.

I was flipping through my journal at home. There is an entry every few months, because I had to be in a certain mood to write and record. But there was one tradition I kept up for quite a few years, that on my birthday I would record my most up-to-date status in life, in the form of lists. Here is a snapshot of me on my 18th birthday:

Favorites: Ed Harris, Edward Norton, Books by Cynthia Voigt, the song "Starry Night" by Don McLean, History, Physics, ice treats, solitude and friends.

My hopes, dreams and fantasies: be in a band, act in a movie, become a brilliant scientist, travel around the world, publish a book, keep in touch with all my best friends, and study in a world renowned institute of science.

I read this and laugh at how young and silly I was. But am also impressed that I am now studying physics at a decent graduate school (I recall that this seemed the hardest task to achieve when I was 18!). I don't want to be in a band anymore, but I would like to be in a movie (or on broadway). Publishing a book doesn't seem all that hard anymore, although writing a good one does. And keeping in touch with friends has had mixed results, friendship is a two-way street after all...

Now that it is 9 years later, and the start of a new year, let me record once more:

Favorites: yummy vegetable dishes, fresh kale from the garden, bubble tea, spending time with my sister, apricot flavored white tea, hanging out with friends, cooking for people, watching documentaries on how the world is messed-up and feeling self-righteous, yoga, dance, singing, mario-kart, finishing a book, and interesting conversations about random things.

My aspirations: travel the world, not feel like a total loser when I get my Ph.D., make a positive difference in other's lives, not lose my temper at stupid things, and make better choices in general (plus be in a movie or on broadway)

Hibernation

Jolyon just reminded me I haven't updated my blog in 6 weeks.

Maybe I've been busy. But maybe it's just winter. I feel slow. And heavy. (I have stored a significant amount of hibernation fat!) All I want to do is sleep and drink hot cocoa.

Actually, during this 6 weeks I have had thoughts for blog posts that I wanted to make known to the world. But I store them in my mind for a day or two, never get to them, and they slip away, into oblivion.

Life lately feels like a monotonous drone. I drag myself through grading and teaching and doing research. Yes, it feels like I'm dragging myself. No jumping or skipping or sparkles lately. I think I will blame it on the weather.

The little events I've looked forward to have come and gone. My choir performance. My thanksgiving in Toronto. Now I've sailed past those lighthouses what I have before me is a dark sea of winter. Oh yes, there is still Christmas where I get to go home. But that is 3 weeks away, so that light is still faint.

But in this sea of darkness there is something I look forward to, consistently: Savasana at the end of each yoga practice. I love that little escape of just lying there, being there in my body, and quiet, letting go of all of the other stuff outside that moment.

Oh and also there's another moment every night, when I'm warm underneath my covers in bed, just before drifting off to sleep. In that moment all my frivolous worries seem to evaporate, and lying there warm and sleepy, I have a vague realization of how comfortable and fortunate I am, to be here, to be me.

So I will fight off hibernation with my little moments of bliss. And winter will pass. As it tends to do. (Is it wrong to be looking towards summer already?)