Endless

Endless


The warmest embrace my baby heart knew
Comfort in your arms
And when the firm and secure cradle of your hands placed me
Securely into my crib
And when I woke up to find you gone
Endless sorrow

The brightest smile my childhood eyes desired
Affirmation in your face
As you guided my hand to draw delicate birds
Imagination growing on paper
And when you spoke your praise
Endless joy

The most shaming sound my juvenile ears could brace
Apprehension in your mouth
When you scolded me for my unruliness
Being pruned like a plant
And when you looked my path
Endless guilt

The unspeakable words that had to come from our mouths, mom to son, son to mom
Unsettled in our bodies
When you could not speak
Heart grasping for something
And when you passed
Endless

Four Years

Four Years

Four years ago

You slipped quietly out of this world

Which barely understood your beauty
Worn in the canyons on your face

Set by the strains of smiles and tears

And the trembling hands you offered

To a world that often winced away

Because it did not know how to receive your wonder

And moving forward even though your feet did not follow

Stubborn to chase your heart

Looking on with innocent eyes that sliced the view with a beguiling passion

That saw terror and beauty

Ever searching you were

Even when your body refused to move

I remember that

Baffling and wondrous love

Given to us

Who barely understood your beauty

As you slipped quietly out of this world

Four years ago

Diamond

Diamond

As the tectonic plates of your world shifted around you

Relentlessly scraping, pressing, molding

Swallowed up by the earth

Deep in the suffocating soil

Your heart felt all of its weight

The more they pressed in

Your supple soul toughened

Internalized

Dense, sharp, clear

Crystallized

A diamond

People look and say,

“Oh! So beautiful!”

Yes…

But little do they know.

Yes…

But little do they know.

A diamond

Oh…

So beautiful…

Tattoo

Tattoo

The warm weight of a surgically gloved hand rests against my fleshy side

Gravity heavy and secure

With the flickering buzz and hum

Burning needles singe the wicks of my nerves endlessly

Knives meticulously sawing, cutting, piercing, scraping, stabbing

Blades with heavy feet

Running with varied cadence across epidermal topography

I cannot outrun the pain

Carving canyons of smoldering tissue

Scouring the image in

The picture must be birthed through the narrow canal of pain

A throbbing river

Waves of lightning ink surge, burst, and sear

Buried under layers

Of trauma

Emotional wounds rise

As the needles dive in

Which I have survived

Creating…

Art

This last week I got my first tattoo. It was 5 hours of the most intense pain I’ve ever experienced. Sometimes, depending on where the tattoo needle was, it felt like a hot knife scraping my flesh. Other times it felt like my tattoo artist was Captain Ahab sadistically and meticulously harpooning a beached Moby Dick with a magical harpoon set aflame by Hades and concentrated ghost pepper extract. That was a long time to try every pain tolerance technique I’ve heard of or could imagine.

I told myself to imagine the pain was pleasurable…nope, didn’t work. I tried feeling the pain and telling myself, “It’s okay. You’re safe. Those are just needles. You’re in no harm. Holyshitballsoffirewhatyouarefeelingistherealestmotherfuckingpainever!!! And you’re still safe. Those are just needles. It’s okay. It’s OKAY. It’s OKAY!!!” I tried staring at a single thing in the room so that everything else would fade away. I ended up staring at almost every single thing in my sight for at least a few minutes each before the pain returned as quickly as it would sort-of-fade-away but not-really-fade-away. I tried focusing on a beautiful tree in my mind while breathing on the hairs of my left forearm while my right hand was tightly gripping the thigh part of my jeans and clenching my teeth. I held my breath for as long as the needle was on my skin and took a breath whenever the needle wasn’t touching me, imagining I was surfacing for air while swimming. I imagined I was David Blaine doing some feat of endurance. I imagined I was Lance Armstrong and the pain was the lactic acid in my legs while I powered up the hills of the Tour de France. I listened intently to whatever was streaming from Pandora, even the commercials. I kept telling myself this is only a moment in time and it will be over soon. I did those things and more, cycling between different survival techniques for 5 long hours.

And after all was said and done, my tattoo artist told me he was impressed with how I sat. Although I was in constant agony, he heard neither a peep nor felt a strong twinge from me.

Speaking of which, I almost forgot to mention a particular pain tolerance technique I used. It was one that kind of shocked me, which I’ve used before for other painful things in life, and that I’m not proud of. I told myself that I deserved the pain. In those moments I imagined the pain to be miniscule to the pain I may have caused others. In my mind I minimized my pain by comparing it to others who I imagine suffer more than me…the mother in the throngs of child birth, people who have been tortured, all those who had ever suffered intolerable injuries and sicknesses. I told myself I’ve been a bad person before and this pain pales in comparison to what I should suffer for all the times I fucked up…so bear it and don’t be a bitch.

It scared me that I could think that way and really tap into such feelings, but in other ways I’m not surprised. I know the persecutory and minimizing voice inside me that came out has been the result of a collection of angry voices in my life. Unhealthy internalizations. Guilt derived from a punitive superego made manifest. It is what evil wants me to believe. But although pain is inevitable, regardless of whether or not it is deserved, it doesn’t mean I need to join its efforts to tear down. Getting the tattoo just reminded me I still have a lot of healing to undergo…healing that forms a beautiful picture.

Kony 2012, Eat Your Food, and Merit Badges

I still have vivid memories of my time as a young child watching T.V. and seeing Ethiopian children with skinny bodies, distended stomachs, and flies swarming about. The Caucasian man wearing khakis on the screen pleaded for the viewers’ help. As I ate my dinner during the broadcast, my parents said to me, “Eat your food. See those kids starving? They would be so grateful to have your food. Think of the Africans.”

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has those types of memories etched into their childhood. The question is, "How have those memories shaped who you have become today?” More specifically, “How have those memories impacted how you react and what you do about similar images, sounds, emotions, and experiences?”

For me, the honest truth is that I have been both a softie and hard-ass in response to anything that triggers those memories I’ve had as a kid watching those humanitarian aid pleas on T.V.

I remember a time throughout my childhood (one that I’m very ashamed of) in which I saw Black people as always needing help from others. Since I was from a different race and culture, and didn’t have any other perspectives around me in my mostly Asian upbringing to challenge my views of Black people (fueled by humanitarian aid programs on T.V., my parents’ racism, the dominant White perspective that surrounded me, etc.), I had an extremely skewed perspective (as a child would). If the people around me looked like or reminded me of what I saw on T.V., my immediate response was to see them as not on the same level as me, feel sorry for them, and be glad I was not them. It wasn’t just an intellectual idea or response but a deeply embedded and visceral feeling I had. It was a strong emotion of feeling pity and sadness for the Ethiopian children and families I saw on T.V. It was the feeling of fear and anxiety that swept over my body, causing my little heart to race as I walked past some of the Black homeless people in downtown Los Angeles; scared because I thought they were in need of help but absolutely desperate and dangerous. It was the feeling of superiority I had as I made friends with Black kids at the Boys and Girls Club, thinking my family and race knows how to thrive while theirs doesn’t. It was racism in its most unadulterated and seemingly soft form. And this is what I mean by saying I’ve been a softie, because I felt like I genuinely cared for them; however the care was poisoned with a false sense of superiority. I highly doubt that I would’ve felt the same way if I saw Black people as strong, independent, and complete human beings – something that those programs on T.V. left out in their efforts to tug on my heartstrings. And whenever my heartstrings feel plucked and the old sentimental song rises, I wonder if I’m infantilizing the other and putting myself in the parent/rescuer position.

So now I am an adult; and having gone through many of my own experiences of being on the receiving end of racism, my perspectives have changed. Enough people have done the chinky eyes look to me for me to passionately hate being inaccurately made fun of and ridiculed for a physical feature associated with my race. Enough people have expressed inarticulate, patronizing, inaccurate, and over simplified views and associations of what it must mean to be Asian; to the point where I want to lash out every time somebody asks me if I know “Karate” or am “good at math” or why my people are “bad drivers” or have “small penises.” My parents and I have experienced enough times of being made felt stupid and left out for not being a part of the dominant culture, to the point that I passionately despise the racialized status quo that’s so prevalent in America. Being Asian is different than being Black for sure, but I’ve experienced enough to know that people’s views of other races must be tempered with a heavy dose of reality and perspectivism. I remember my over simplified, inaccurate, infantile and softie-racist emotional overtures towards Black people and want to avoid it at all costs. As such, I have become a hard-ass, and often think, “Who the hell do you think you are?!?” when one people group approaches the other with an emotionally charged overture of help. Are they – are you – perpetuating an oversimplified and demeaning stance toward the other? Are you taking away the capacity, autonomy, and dignity of the other by breaking the butterfly’s cocoon? As much as I question others, I continue to ask myself these very same things.

So it goes without saying that these memories, experiences, emotions, and thoughts came to the forefront as the Kony 2012 (http://youtu.be/Y4MnpzG5Sqc) whirlwind barraged my Facebook feed. I do not intend to ridicule anyone with the good sense to stop a horrible man. However, I do intend to question what motives are mixed into people’s sentiments and fledging urges to help. If you decide to contribute to the Kony 2012 cause, will you also look within yourself to see what lies behind your motive? Will you research how your choice to help or withhold will actually affect the people of Uganda beyond what is stated in the Kony 2012 video? Will you try to be informed beyond your assumptions? Again, these are questions I ask of myself too.

I’ll end this post by sharing two things. 1) These links here (http://www.globalpost.com/dispatch/news/regions/africa/120307/kony-2012-campaign-criticized-dumbing-down-conflict) and here (http://hopewanders.wordpress.com/2012/03/07/the-kony-2012-party-crasher/) as food for thought about what the Kony 2012 campaign may be leaving out (there are also other articles online offering many other perspectives. BTW, thank you David L. and Jonnali M. for posting those perspectives on FB), and 2) a spoken word poem I wrote last year as I was processing some conflicting emotions and thoughts connected to much of what I’ve expressed in this post. It is meant to be read as the thoughts of an adult (who originally came from a third world country and is living in America today) perusing Facebook pictures.

Merit Badge

What is this phenomenon of White people and their pictures with third world kids?

They float around on Facebook like badges of pride,

Merit badges sowed on to their Facebook profile vests.

One, two, three White people surrounded by a small sea of dark brown smiling faces.

You could see the joy in their faces,

I mean the kid’s

But their smiles betray and mask the agonies they have had to march through

Because they have had to

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think the smiles are fake at all,

For after all the porcelain veneers that cover teeth exist just as much as the fractured teeth underneath.

Do you see the brokenness?!?

Or are you so stuck on feeling like a contributor that you forget to mourn because their smiles appease your guilt and compassion hunger?

Are you satiated? Are you full yet? What do you want?

Is the answer to rescue more like these?

Are they the only ones that will allow you to rescue them? What is the true answer? I ask!

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m not disparaging the humanitarian work that exists to meet the needs of these people who count on the generosity of the human heart and its capacity to give.

Please do see the wrong.

I’m disparaging the fucked up shit that is what exists in what does not exist

As you click on the absence of humans like these

As you flip through the other Facebook pictures identifying the limits of whom to and how long one gives…and receives.

You see,

I don’t see

A small sea of brown smiling adult faces in your non-merit badge pictures.

You know, the ones of you just hanging with your family, the vacations that you take, those pictures of you eating out…

Should I go on?

Where do the Black, Asian, Latino, First Nations, Pacific Islander…PEOPLE…in your life exist?

Is there only room for diversity so long as they are children in a third world country where you come as an aid?

Is the only space in which you can hold the brokenness of others who smile through hardships or mourn and struggle a place that is far away?

What about your neighborhood?

Where do you live?

What about the bus?

Where do you sit?

What about your work?

Who do they represent?

What about your home?

Who is brought in?

What about your school?

Who is admitted?

You see, this is what I see when I see…

And I’m not just talking about Black people that need “help” in Haiti

And I’m not just talking about the cute little Korean babies that “need” to be adopted because they’ve been abandoned

And I’m not just talking about the First Nations people you buy your fireworks from on the reservations

And I’m not just talking about the Southeast Asian refugees you sponsor and host

These are the people I see and wonder when else and where else are they in your life?!?

Beyond your “humanitarian” efforts and consumer interactions and chance passing,

What should lead me to believe they exist for you beyond a one night stand?

That they have not escaped one form of forced prostitution for another?

The one that satisfies your need to feel like you have contributed?

When are they more than that?

When will we be more than Facebook profile pic merit badges?!?”

Colorblind (Irate Chinese American Psychotherapist)

I think it’s interesting how conversations can be an organizing receptacle for scattered experiences…and the conversations that especially feel this way are the ones I most love. Tonight’s meeting was no exception. I’ve been meeting with a group of guys for over a year (I think it’s been that long), where we’d share about our lives and pray for each other on a regular basis. Although none of us are homeless or flossin’ twenty inch blades on the Impala, we’re socioeconomically diverse. We’re also ethnically and culturally diverse, with each of us representing various races and heritages. Some of us are married. Some single. Some single and divorced. Most of us attend different churches. I haven’t attended a church for some time. But we all are young men. We come together holding these differences and similarities in an effort to love and support each other; and with that, come many times where we’d get into animated discussions about how our struggles with the same thing can sometimes look so different…such as romantic relationships, encounters with the police, what family means to us, how others perceive us, how we perceive others perceiving us, etc. Our assorted perspectives collide like the reverberations of various instruments in a jazz improv, taking form and simultaneously adjusting, making melodies that provoke and inspire. Or at least that’s a fanciful way of how I’d like to think of our conversations. Sometimes it also sounds like a bunch of guys laughing and cussing up a storm, as it did tonight. So as we ended up talking about race, dating, and self-perception; tonight’s song sounded like, and reminded me of, a poem that I wrote a couple years ago to process something that struck me while I was sitting with one of my therapy clients. I’m still processing it...


Colorblind (Irate Chinese American Psychotherapist)

So he says to me,
“I’m colorblind. I don’t see color. I don’t see difference.”
Now, I’ve learned about countertransference dominance and I’m trying to build a therapeutic alliance.
I get it; in non-psychoanalytic terms it means don’t let your shit get in the way of your client sorting through his own shit.
But now the shit has hit the fan,
It’s flying everywhere and I’m trying to pretend like it doesn’t bother me as the flying feces bespeckles my face.
Okay, take a deep breath and go slowly…watch...your…pace.
Do you even see my face!!!
As someone who isn’t color blind, I see clearly that this bothers me.
As he IS colorblind or as he claims to be, he either doesn’t see that this bothers me
Or he’s in denial or he is stuck in a strange mix of sight and unsight from which understanding, knowledge, and relationship can flee.
Colorblind,
I think I understand the thought behind it. Treat everyone the same. Don’t focus on difference. Be blind to it.
And as a person who:
Has had so much fear, having grown up feeling like the striking features of my hair, eyes, cheekbones, skin tone have been consciously or unconsciously highlighted to align me with the popular media portrayal of exotic dragon ladies, martial arts masters, sidekicks, nerds, and seldom the main character in a non-Asian film;
This by default makes me an intelligent exotic nerdy subservient sidekick kung fu master who never gets the lady at the end of the film.
Damn it’s demeaning!
Who wants to be pigeon holed into that caricature?!?
Colorblind, I see
That you don’t want to see -
These things have been proliferated into the mass consciousness of Western sensibility.
I’d love to love to believe you,
But the fact that Jackie Chan and Jet Li recently starred in a kung fu movie as side characters to a no name Caucasian kid actor who gets the Chinese girl at the end of the story leaves me to believe otherwise.
Damn I’m pissed! Because real life seems to reflect this skewed perspective!
Yellow fever spreads as I watch my Asian sisters go for the White guys
Because for some reason a guy like me is a second place prize.
Do you not see this?
Do you not want to see this?
I guess that’s why you’re colorblind.
I guess that’s why you have color denial.
Sometimes the truth of our difference is too much to handle
And the fact that your simple statement to me is not so simple to me
Highlights a difference from which my mind’s eye will refuse to be blinded to and from which you will not claim to see.
Yes, we are all God’s people, but God has made me different and there is such tragedy and glory in it that it must be seen.
I want to believe that God’s glory can be found in my unique traits that only color can communicate. Do you see what I mean?
So I wipe the shit off my face
I watch my pace
I leave the rant in my head and heart
And return to the session

Tumbling

Tumbling down the town of my heart
I noticed the landscape has changed and buildings are missing
Windswept and sun scorched memories thirst for a rain to settle and soothe
Like a dream where familiar images are flooded with the essence of strange
A pang upon my heart resonates throughout my body
It is the feeling of homesickness
But what is home?
Images of violent force and silent cruelty suffocate recollections of gentle care
The infant cries in an empty room
And finally running out of tears, he sets out
Tumbling out of the town

Plowshare

A few have asked that I share the poem I read at graduation. I feel so honored being asked to share...




Plowshare

You’d think you’d’ve figured out by now how to unravel the knots of life that sit uneasily in your stomach or throat
That the moments that paralyze you into cloistered patterns of interaction would’ve faded away by now
You know, those ruts you’ve been stuck into, forever
As though a large field of hardened soil lies before you
And you feel only enough strength to plow into the land that is soft and familiar
You’d think that by now, the intimate moments that you long for, don’t scare you when the opportunity presents itself
So that when you pray, with eyes open…
You can look deeply into the eyes of the one you are praying with
Intimate and without shame in that deep gaze
And know that God is there, in that minute and profound moment…
Just as much as when you gaze deeply into the eyes of your lover while making love
Feeling fully known, accepted, and loved…
You are not repelled by fear
But how often does that happen?
O love that wilt not let me go

And of course gazing deeply into the eyes of anyone is unsettling
That lump in your throat returns…
You’d think you’d’ve got used to social interactions
That by now, you’d be fluent in the language of communal contact
And all it takes is the push of the autopilot button and you are cruising at interviews, dates, parties, on the dance floor, riding the bus, family gatherings, and those awkward moments in the elevator
Don’t get me wrong, I think we’ve learned to navigate these moments to some degree
Sometimes it looks like the three wise monkeys
"Non vedo, non sento, non parlo"
I see nothing, I hear nothing, I say nothing
But to fly face first uninhibited by doubts of who we are into the face of the other and operate from a complete sense of security and a sense of complete security
Fully delighting and being delighted in
Well, I think that’s the hard part
The unyielding, dry, and cracked soil
But will it ever be easy?
O love that wilt not let me go

Who can guarantee that the look I give to another across from me, like that valentine, clumsily put together with Elmers glue oozing out of its sides like my uneasy affection, and sent out in first grade will, be returned to me with grace?
That my voice as awkward, shrill, unconfident, overconfident, compensating, and true will be received, heard, and reciprocated?
So that when I risk touching and being touched, the surface of my skin will feel the warmth of safety as much as intimacy?
Or that when I timidly step forward onto untried territory that I will not be shamed but seen and rejoiced over?
What promises do I have in this world aside from my heart scarred experiences of having been dropped as a baby…
As a baby and son
As a kindergartener, junior high schooler, high schooler, collegiate
As the pimply teenager who awkwardly navigates attraction for the first time
As a clumsy lover
As a worker that is trying to find that ever elusive niche
As a boy and man
As a Chinese American
As a Chinese
As an American
As a believer and doubter
As a married man and divorcee
As a learner who forgets
Healer and hurter
As a baby…
I have been dropped so so many times
What promises do I have that the unplowed soil will be soft and yielding?
It looks so hard…
O love that wilt not let me go

And like the tortoise returning to its scarred and battle worn shell, I can be found present but not
Or like the furious bear, my violent attacks are truly my fears in bold colors splashed across the canvas of our interactions
The unspoken promises set themselves deeply into my bones and I walk the path supported with limbs saturated…
By fears and failed expectations
They weigh heavily over me like wet clothes over a frail self
Exorcize this paralyzing force that drives me into these ruts that I have plowed forever
Been stuck in
Ruts
That I have plowed
Forever…
Especially, when I know there are new acres to set upon and a harvest yet to be reaped!
O love that wilt not let me go

It’s so easy to till the familiar and soft soil time and again
It’s difficult to break up the soil that has been hardened by the dryness and fear of life
So, as the seasons come and go
And the knots resurface in the stomach and throat
And it is time to either retreat into the shell or wrathfully rage
I remember I have much more growing to do
O love that wilt not let me go…

I set my hands on the plow...

Even God Dies

Silence.






Silence shouts.





Decomposition sinks its teeth into your cold flesh.



Hero
no
more.


Hope dissipates.


Who knows what will come of our hopes?
For even God dies.


Death.


Gone.


Worn out yesterday.
Like the mist dried up today.
Used up.
Not here.



Silence.
Mortality.
Torn.
Even God dies.
Even here you are Emmanuel.








Silence.







Even in death you are here.

Lectio Divina: Who Do You Say I Am?

Who Do You Say I Am?
A response to Peter’s Confession of Christ and Jesus’ Predicting His Death in Matthew 16:13-28.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
You are the Christ, but does that knowledge come from my head or heart?
Has it been disseminated through a surplus of fliers, camp retreats, youth groups, books, classes, political campaigns, Google searches on theology, etc?
Has the volitional willing of my being been strained through the religious status quo
To the point where I cannot even recognize genuineness when it manifests itself in honest, impulsive, heartfelt conviction?
You said upon the true confession of Peter that heavenly things will be bound and loosed because the Father had shown him things he otherwise wouldn’t have seen.
That outside of relationality with you it is impossible.
How might my vision be blocked?
How might my faith be something other than a byproduct of our intimate contact?
Has it possibly been blocked through a surplus of fliers, camp retreats, youth groups, books, classes, political campaigns, Google searches on theology, etc?
Jesus, save me from my knowledge and bring me to affection!
And this same man who confessed his affections for you,
You called him Satan!
When will my affections for you maintain the status of corruption and selfishness?
A preservation of self unlinked to your desire to be one with many?
When will I be separated from the will to lose myself to the relationality that made Peter the impulsive rock?
The one, that you knew when you asked, “Who do you say I am?” would respond with a confession that did not betray his experience of you.
His confession was his love.
I think that was why you told the disciples not to tell anyone that you were the Christ.
You wanted them to earn that confession through experience.
And to withhold that experience?
That is Satan.
So I must pick up the cross and follow you;
In the ever connected way.
Attached to affection that is ever learning,
Ever stumbling,
Ever beckoned,
Ever experiencing,
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…

Naked

Naked

Standing in front of you

I find my skin delighted in

Every inch of me you take in

Taken in

Tasted

Touched

Smelled

Seen

Thought about

And thought about again

And thought about again

And thought about again

With all the blotches and scars and speckles and hairs

How unruly and asymmetrical my body must seem

But you take it all in like the cool forest air

Like the dew on the morning leaf you waited for me all night

As if I was the scent of the forest shade on a warm day

And my touch was like the warm ray of the sun on your goose bumps

You take me into your desire and I am undone

As if that deep deep deep desire that had been stored away

It had finally been unlocked to dance and jump and romp and run

Released to play

You dance and jump and romp and run with me through the trails

When will we stop?

When will your feet grow weary?

When will you tire of me?

But you smile and gaze deeply with assurance

And I am confident with my heart leaping before me

Dancing and jumping and romping and running

Both of us with the wind on our skin and the earth and air grazing our feet

Unencumbered

I want to cry because I am naked but I am not judged

I want to laugh because I am naked and I can fly

I want to dance because I am naked and I am loved

Unashamed and fully accepted

My broken body, flaws, wounds, sorrows, nightmares

My healed body, beauty, character, ambitions, dreams

And even the pieces that were scary and secretly locked away and shrouded

They were taken in and cared for

The parts that I feared even to expose to myself were seen

And you loved

You loved it all

Even my passionate, voracious, longing desire

The urge to explode in overwhelming glory

Even the urge to linger on the blade of danger’s edge

And the desire to curl up as if I were a baby once again

Overwhelming

You loved it all

Even when you feared and turned away

You returned and loved me

So I…

Thrive

Live

Love

Naked

Last night, I stayed up till 2am reading about 140 pages of commentary on the book Song of Songs for my Theology of Eroticism class. I was captivated by the erotic and sensual nature of the book. Of course reading, "To a mare among Pharaoh's chariots I liken you my, darling." (Song of Songs 1:9-10) doesn't exactly sound romantic to our modern sensibilities. However, Longman III (2001) says:

Pope, however, puts forward an attractive hypothesis for the meaning of this verse. He first reminds us that chariot horses were usually stallions, not mares. He then describes an attested defensive strategy against chariot attack. As the stallions rush toward their intended target, a mare in heat is let lose among them, driving them to distraction so that they cannot proceed with attack...To paraphrase the thought of the man, he is saying that she drives all the men crazy with her attractiveness, with the implication that she drives him to distraction as well. (p. 103)

Can you imagine a woman so beautiful and sensual that your strongest urges are brought forward and you cannot even operate heavy machinery safely?!? For the ladies, can you imagine a guy who would do the same for you?!? And we must not forget that the stallions are distracted by raw sexual energy. Kind of approximates the feeling of attraction one has when the raging hormones are at full blast around puberty, right? Heheh.

And the entire book is poetry between lovers who are so captivated, drawn towards, and attracted to each other that they utterly cannot resist each other and must find ways of reaching each other to make love. They go back and forth praising each other's qualities, pining for each other, and yes...have glorious sex (and not so glorious sex is included - in book 5 they are in the beginning of making love and the man leaves the woman, then she goes out to find him and gets abused, but then they eventually reunite in book 6 and re-consummate. It is also interpreted that the woman is actually having a dream/nightmare about his abandonment. So I should say that even sex that doesn't go as planned is included).

I mean, I had heard before that the Song of Songs was like the Judeo-Christian Kama Sutra, but I wasn't prepared for the beauty and longing that the woman and man had for each other. There was vivid sexual imagery, but there was also vivid desire and poetic longing sung back and forth from lover to lover. We are not just looking at physical attraction, we are talking about a consummation of deep romantic desire that is connected to being fully wanted by another that is fully wanted.

In class today we talked about how Song of Songs is also to be read in context to Genesis 1 and 3. In Genesis, God creates man and woman and they have perfect union. They are naked - physically, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually - and unashamed. When the fall occurs, they become ashamed and that level of intimacy was lost. In Song of Songs we see how that intimacy is still possible. In the reading of it, we capture some of the desire that God intends for lovers to experience - highly erotic, sensual, unencumbered, longing and fulfillment that is physical, emotional, and spiritual. Fully being wanted by the one that is wanted in a way that is deep and fulfilling - deep, glorious, mutual, passionate love.

Near the end of class, we also talked about how wherever there is desire there is danger. We have all experienced how being in relationships has caused wounds and tragedies - whether it is being the child of parents who "love" each other or don't "love" each other, or in being in "love" ourselves and having our hearts broken, or even in having people ruin "love" for us in abuse. To dream and hope for our desires to be fulfilled is fraught with hope and danger. As the biblical story's trajectory moves in the direction of redemption, restoration, and reconciliation, I am moved to imagine what it might feel like to experience intimacy (physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual) in a way that redeems, restores, and reconciles in ways that I can only dream of. Dare I hope dangerously and passionately?

Longman III, T. (2001) Song of Songs, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Sound Of Your Heart

Try as I might I cannot forget

The symphony that stirred when you played your song

Vibrations tickled my eardrums and traveled to the depths of my chest

Resonating within my heart I am beset

By the wild, deep, thoughtful spirit residing in the tunes

Floating out into the air and permeating the room like a beautiful fragrance

You poured rose pedals over ears

And saturated the atmosphere with your essence

And it laid on me like a silk blanket

My ears smelled the incense and sent a message to the depths of my soul

I felt as If I was the only one who heard the comet blazing quietly through the midnight sky

A kindred fire that burned throughout the night

Your music stirring my emotions like stardust rising

Glowing magnificently and curiously captivating

Like a moth to the flames did my heart flutter around the light of your melody

My wings were singed and for a moment I felt like a phoenix rising

Deeper and deeper and higher and higher

More into my the depths of my being only to swell in inspiration

How does your mouth open and fingers float above a sea of chords

To speak a language of the heart I had never before heard but understood?

And how can I not respond or stand still and withhold my wonder?

I cannot forget the sound of your star as it marked the canvas night of heaven

Or what it felt like to have wings ablaze that would fly through and pierce the depths of darkness

Captivated am I by your symphony that stirs remnants of beauty

Your music is your soul and you must play on

And try as I might I cannot forget

The sound of your heart

I Don't Blame Them

In the summer of 2009, as part of my training as a counselor, I took Dr. Caprice D. Hollins' CSL 509 Multicultural Issues: Social and Cultural Foundations class. One of the assignments we had was to write a poem that talked about where we came from. So I poured out my heart as I wrote about my Chinese American struggle and came up with the following poem. Then I felt compelled to share it in class. Since then, I've been asked to share this poem a few times. And since then, sharing it has been a very frightening but affirming thing to do. Frightening because it is a wound that I am exposing, and frightening because I don't know how the audience will respond. Affirming because I love my story as a Chinese American, and affirming because I get to share my story. So, after being asked once again...here it is

I Don't Blame Them

我的名字是陳天略. My name is Chén Tiān Lüè.

The Chén family name can be traced back to one of the last Six Southern dynasties in China that ruled from 557 to 589.

But I didn’t learn that until recently.

Tiān means the day or sky or heaven and Lüè means plan, scheme, outline, or strategy,

But here it’s just another name people don’t know how to spell or pronounce correctly.

My parents picked the English name Solomon for me.

And it is oh so tough growing up and going to school with two strange names, let alone one.

So I wonder why they make fun of my names.

I wonder why I couldn’t be named something more American.

I don’t blame them; they don’t know any better…

Born in Hong Kong in 1979, before I was two, my family moved to State of California in the U.S. of A.

They sought the American dream and I had no choice but to be subjected to their odyssey.

Dreams of setting up shop and starting a company where my father’s line of Lesa watches (named after my mom) would pave the way for success.

My dad was a doctor who fled China during the revolution and swam to Macau.

A smart, stubborn, creative, and resilient man.

My mom was a talented artist and graduated with a degree in fashion design.

A woman girded with beauty and strength the world would never know.

Their blood and sweat, late nights up, money, late nights up fighting, yelling, screaming, my life, my brother’s life,

And where did we end up in 1991?

Broke and in the brick pillar of “eacon View Apartments” in Seattle, Washington.

It was supposed to be the “Beacon View Apartments,” but the “B” fell off the building and management couldn’t afford to replace it.

The stairwell we walked through every day smelled of urine and never lacked fresh graffiti.

During dark, rainy, windy nights the building would sway

And I felt it could all come crumbling down any moment.

Was this the American dream my parents had pursued?

I don’t blame them; they don’t know any better…

I speak to my brother in English, I talk to my dad in Mandarin, when I see my (ex) in-laws I speak in Cantonese.

This trifecta of language has been honed over the course of my life and has served me…

Served me well?

I remember in elementary school being put into ESL class and the shame I felt being pointed out as an “other.”

When I brought home my report cards, showing to my parent’s that I’ve failed to understand my teachers, this language, and what they have to offer, I’ve felt shame.

Day and night, night and day I wondered how I can be more like my English speaking peers.

Working so hard to fit in the U.S. of A. to pick up the language, the humor, the culture,
I sacrificed the little Chinese language I had to make room for the English I lacked.

So my English grew and my Chinese dwindled.

Relatives, friends, and other fluent Chinese speakers labeled me as the one who knew how to speak Chinese, but didn’t know how to read and write.

So my English isn’t good and I am left out,
So my Chinese isn’t good and I am left out.

I don’t blame them; they don’t know any better…

It’s sad growing up and not knowing the meaning of your name because your parents can’t tell you what it means.

I’ve felt so angry watching my parents succeed and fail, fail and succeed, succeed and fail because they don’t understand this new world they live in.

Even today I’m trying to figure out how I fit in and with whom.

Hi my name is Solomon Chan.

Have they ever thought of me as a chink?

你好! 我的名字是陳天略.

Will they think of me as too American?

Can I be one of them or someone different and still feel like I belong?

Where can I just be?

Who would I be?!?

Why am I so stressed?!?

Who do I…?!?

I don’t blame them; they don’t know any better…

Time Does Not Wait

This poem is dedicated to my friend Sonny Manning


Time Does Not Wait

Fast or slow
Up and down
Sideways to sideways
However you decide to move and push, push and pull
Time does not wait
The births and deaths of this reality are dialed into the eternal trajectory of mystery
As the universe expands and spreads out its proud peacock feathers
As the stars that were once magnificent monarchs of the galaxies begin to waste away
The plights of our hearts’ tears and laughter are interwoven into the molecules of God’s soul
Your soul, my soul, God’s soul
Our souls
Move together in time and time does not wait
Because time is time
It is time
And your time is up…down…sideways to sideways…move and push…push and pull
The affect of your being bounces back off of it like a ricocheting bullet
It is mindless and not your father
Time does not wait. Damn it! It does not wait for you!
But sometimes it can fool you
You see…
As you moved through the river of your mother’s birth canal
Time was the water that carried you and pushed you into the wave of air that nestled your skin and filled your lungs
Time was the thing that dragged your heart through broken shards of glass as you questioned why she left you and left you this way
Time and time again it seems to happen like this
Time did not care as your body awkwardly changed to catch up with those seemingly confident ones that walked around as if time had a favorite son
How much time before I am favored and can walk around proud, if not at least unashamed?
And time was there to whittle away on your bones and joints and marrow and flesh while you lay curled up in a fetal position wondering if it was your time to go
Time was there pouring honey over your shaking nerves as your lips met hers for the first time
And the floodgates of your heart opened with the affection that had been locked up in the storehouses for such a long time finally bursting over the dams
You can still see the mist rising above the rush and tender caress in slow motion
In your distant memories
Because you’ve also seen the dam desolate, cracked, and dry like the dessert clay
Remembering how the waters of time continued to push as you watched her float away in its raging rapids
Until the time there was no water left but the tears that rolled down your cheeks
Time introduced you to the vilest of enemies who would pierce your heart with the sharpest of words and bluntest of betrayals
And the closest comrades who would guard your heart with the fiercest of acts and tenderest of embraces
Who sometimes could just as easily switch positions in and of their own time, friend and enemy, enemy and friend
And time washed them away too
Like sand under the tides
One by one if not many by many
War moves through time
Peace moves through time
Life moves through time
Death moves through time
Fast or slow
Up and down
Sideways to sideways
However you decide to move and push, push and pull
Time does not wait. Damn it! It does not wait for you
…
But your soul, my soul, God’s soul
Our souls
Move together through time

It's in the Cards, Today

I flip the cards of my life over

Laying them down side by side by side

Analyze and decipher

I am my own shaman glossing over the bones

What will my tomorrow be and what does my future hold?

What can be done about it and how can I change it?

I am so good at imagining my future and changing my todays for it

Sacrificing what experiences I have now

Sometimes destroying myself today so I can live tomorrow

Only to die again tomorrow when it becomes today

I plan my todays for my tomorrows that have yet come into being

I leave the cards of my yesterdays face down

Down down down in the ground

Or untouched on the table that beckons me to look

“Flip me over and take a good look!” they say

But I’ve seen them before and would rather look

Look not in the past because it haunts me so

As lions lay in the grass waiting for the beast

I chew the grass and move on slowly

Yet they have been tracking me from the dawn

I plan my todays ignorant of my yesterdays that have already spoken their voice

I sit glancing at these cards

Heart beating…racing…slow…steady

Can I flip over the yesterdays and give them the space to speak?

Speak and be heard

Ingested, digested, processed

Nutrition into my body

That the roots would grow deep

And my leaves would flourish in the rays of the sun

That the lions would sink their teeth into me

And liberate me from being prey

To be one with life and death

Then maybe I would live today

Connected so my tomorrows will come into being

And my sacrifice will nourish the earth

And the shaman can sleep

And my soul will find peace

Today I plan my todays
Listening to my yesterdays today
To have better dreams for tomorrow
Today

Running

As I ran along the water on Alki earlier today - well, actually yesterday as it is 2am as I'm writing this - I realized that it took a lot of changes in my story/life before I would've ever decided to do something like driving to West Seattle for a 5 mile run. Ask me 3 years ago if I'd ever think I'd be able to run 5 miles or complete the 2010 Seattle half-marathon and I would've told you "n" "o." As a kid I would wheeze after doing anything that got my heart rate up for more than a few minutes. And let me tell you, if breathing ain't fun after letting yourself go on the playground, then running ain't or won't ever be fun...or so I thought. Even when I felt like those symptoms went away as I got older, running just didn't appeal to me. Why put your body under unnecessary strain? But after a series of huge and unexpected life changes I found myself regularly walking around Seward park to find peace. Those walks soon became runs. Running began to feel like freedom. The shackles on my lungs, my body, my confidence, my capacity, my identity began to loosen. Then before I knew it I was looking forward to the feeling of running in the rain for miles, letting God drench my body and wash my soul. So as I ran Alki earlier, I thought, "It's interesting how so much had to happen for me to reach this place where I can choose to run like this. Or maybe it was my running that chose me...that changed my life." Maybe sometimes we have something very deep down in us, residing in our unconsciousness, something that we barely acknowledge, but it is like the core to our identity and fire to our soul that quietly guides us in our everyday interactions. Then maybe eventually that deep undercurrent manifests itself and our lives are changed so that this truth can thrive. I'm not saying that my deep undercurrent was a passion for running. I think running is a way I tap into my spirit - a spirit that can't sit still, that needs air, that needs to move and express itself. Mountains in my life had to move before that undercurrent could flow. And I believe, I'm loving that part of myself more and more now a days. Because I love this part of me more, I run. And I'm realizing how much it took for me to get to this point. Thank you God for bringing to surface the things that dwell deep inside and yearn to express themselves.


Run

The path I tread I thought I chose
But as time passes
I wonder if the path chose me
Because I feel so free on it
Taking in deep breaths and feeling
My blood pumps through my veins like wild rapids flowing
The waters coming from the snow caped mountains
Breaking through stone and wood and moss
Breaking through doubt and resistance and fear
Raging at the bottom with wildness and passion
Freedom
As my feet race
As my legs race
My heart
It races
Have you chosen me?
Because I feel so free
I run

Fumblings

Poetry has always been something that has been very difficult for me. Not because I feel I lack the words, but because there are so many voices of criticisms that I carry in myself. Recently I've been encouraged/challenged by someone who's had an impact on my creative process and I can't help but to reflect on why I withhold from being creative. Why hold back what I have inside that is pushing out to express itself? So, I am trying to say goodbye to perfectionism and hello to the beauty of rawness and mistakes and fumblings...they are true and genuine.

Here is a fumbling of mine today, it came to me as I pondered Jesus in Matthew 7:7-12. I think most often we sanitize our relationship with divinity into an innocent and naive fantasy. This poem carries some of the heaviness and doubts I often bring to my relationship with God. I think God can handle it...I wouldn't want a God who couldn't.

Ask, Seek, Knock

You call me to ask, seek, knock

Ask…
But what if I am fearful of speaking?
And to ask has resulted in disappointment?
What if when I open my mouth, it will be filled with things that make me vomit?
What if asking means bearing the weight on my chest
To know that my requests will be slammed with deadly silence
Abandonment
Futility sets in on my vocal chords
My throat is like a desert

Seek…
I do not know what I am looking for
What if I don’t recognize the image in my heart?
The visions of my dreams feel strange
Nightmares pour over my body like cold water weighing on my clothes
The image is weird and unsettling
They are strangers to me
Setting in on the sight
I feel uneasy
Faces have changed so many times in my life
Can I look at them and be sure?
My eyes are dry and heavy with tears

Knock…
To reach out and make a move unsettles my nerves
Unhinges my spirit
I feel I could hide forever
Or run away and never come back
This door scares the shit out of me
Entrances into what?
Into harm?
Into pain?
Into shattered dreams?
Why would I want to rap my knuckles against the door when I can already feel its splinters digging into my cartilage?
My joints are frozen

Do you know how I feel when you call me to ask, seek, knock?