Writer's Block

Sometimes the right words sneak into my mind just when I need them the most. Wandering ideas and nomadic sentences with no clear beginning, middle or end spin in smooth circles round my mind; tender thoughts and sweet reminders gently unwind stubborn remnants of the everyday grind. Words of unexpected poetry and rhyme offer the tiniest window into my sentimental childhood, a time when no dream was unattainable and my curiosity was inextinguishable.

It takes but a single adage to grace my stories with unexpected enlightenment, to move me when my heart sinks like stone, to unravel my tangled emotions, to smooth the skeptical furrows of denial and doubt from my tales. It takes but a shred of inspiration to sweep me beneath the wings of wisdom, allowing me to send a message through my poems. It takes but a touching memory to fill my pen with ink made to leave behind a long trail of letters taken from the classics, words borrowed from the ‘golden rule’, phrases and similes crafted from years of pain and personal experience.

But just as quickly as my story begins to fly off the page with eloquence, lightning clips its wings and it is shipped right back to the ground, dense like lifeless prattle. Formidable fate rolls in, and I am left stranded in the rain. I stand, for the thousandth time, atop the old writer’s block to avoid the flash flood, too afraid to jump off in fear of what I might discover in my reflection, in fear of failure. Although I am drenched with disappointment at the loss of my rhythm, my inspiration has run dry, and all I can do is stand atop the writer’s block in frustration, wishing I had an umbrella to protect me from the rain. At this moment, I realize that it is not dry that I am seeking; I must embrace the storm.

I finally muster enough confidence to move, wringing out my shirt in hopes to fill a barren well of words with the very element that is holding me back.  There is raw emotion in my movements: desperation, helplessness, vulnerability and fear as I try to hold my own against the wind. New words fill my well of inspiration with the heavier side of life that nobody likes to look at, but at least its weight keeps me grounded.

In my desperation, I hold my arms out and crane my head up at towards sky, asking questions to stay alive. How many hours have we spent in breathless pursuit of our very own pot of gold, when 'x' that marked the spot had already been etched into our soles? How many days have we wasted in vain, trying to solve the puzzle of our purpose, when it turns out that some of the pieces were not supposed to be found? How many years have we spent in fear of the moment we would brush shoulders with death, when his presence had been trailing our shadows all along?

The clouds gradually dissipate and my words flow like sunbeam streamers, breaking free from the storm. I am suddenly grateful for creativity’s force as it sheds light on a gray situation, pulling the seed of a story like a raindrop into my palm, a product of my musings, rewarding me for my struggles atop the writer’s block. I marvel at the unassuming appearance of my tiny jewel as compared with its vast history, a lifetime of lessons. I ask more questions and marvel yet again at how many people have walked the path of life mistaking this gem for another craggy pebble. I wonder just how many seeds of hope we have kicked aside on our morning commute as we rattled off daily to-do lists, chasing endless deadlines, eyes squinting and focused in search of the answer, the very crux of our existence, completely unaware that our stories had been written in invisible ink up in the sky all along, revealed by the crack of dawn each and every morning only to the rare few who stood long enough to notice.

Questions rain down, and finally my thirst for words has been quenched, not necessarily with answers, but at least with new sentences of which I am able to stitch together a rain jacket to weather the next storm atop the writer’s block. Soaked with fresh insight, I remember just how fortunate I am to have finally opened my eyes wide enough to recognize my muse in the midst of the rain.

Flipside of a Disappointing Summer

I feel that this summer has been one of the most fulfilling seasons of my life, particularly as a teacher and a burgeoning young adult trying to find her place in the world. I am honored to have had the opportunity to teach under the most influential mentors of my childhood, crossing the threshold between being a curious absorber towards becoming a proactive creator. I am also grateful to have been granted so many bright-eyed, precocious students whose active minds exude colorful creativity, hope, open-mindedness and imagination. These are valuable attributes that most adults, and even college students, seem to have abandoned much too early. Although I have attained my personal goal of becoming a committed teacher and mentor to young students who are currently in the same exact position as I once was, this journey has been just that – a challenging adventure that leads to infinity, living proof that there is always room to learn and grow.

To be honest, my freshman year of college was an extremely exciting yet trying period, a year in which I was to live alone in a foreign place with no more mentors over my shoulder to guide me. My biggest challenge was becoming my own best friend, being able to form a new pillar of support upon the foundation of childhood lessons and guidance I had built up throughout my entire life. I learned how to stay motivated to do my best even when nobody was watching or encouraging me. I learned to assume full responsibility and credit for each of my actions and decisions, as well as their outcomes. I learned to make new quality friends who were entirely different than anyone I had ever known before. I learned to form my own set of values shaped by years of prior experience, tailored for each circumstance at hand. I learned to set new goals and challenges that really scared me, such as applying for my dream internship, taking an extra class on top of a busy schedule, and navigating the great big city by myself. I learned to seek help when I was struggling, and encourage others to do the same. I learned how to deal with feeling entirely alone.

I left Boston right after finals week, entirely disappointed and discouraged that I didn’t get the summer internship I had so coveted. Though I had sent in applications thoroughly and on time, my efforts were not enough. There I was, living out my worst-case scenario as just another factor in the unemployment statistics. Shoulders rolled forward and head hung in defeat, I rolled my suitcases back in the house, very unhappy to have nothing productive to do for four months in Wappingers while some of my high school friends had part-time jobs or even fancy internships in NYC. For a short while, the disappointment led me to stifle my formerly lofty dreams, and the summer blues set in. I struggled hopelessly to rediscover inner peace, always looking for busy work to occupy my time or distractions to offset my misery. Short stints of hanging out with friends, cooking, playing viola, blogging and reading were much too temporary; I needed something long-term, a project that I could chip away at all summer long, something I could use to set multiple goals and see a concrete result in the end.

Finally, I decided to return to my roots and ask old teachers and mentors if I could help them. I had always loved teaching as a tutor, tennis captain and private lesson teacher, as I felt that it was the best way to learn and share. Thankfully, Mrs. Lin and my private viola lesson teacher, Ms. Regan, were thoughtful and generous enough to lend me a hand and offer me positions to teach under their guidance. It took weeks of advertising my credentials to parents, making posters, phone calls, emails, setting up interviews, and arranging schedules, but finally Mrs. Lin was able to pull some strings and convince local parents to hire me. Ms. Regan also put in a good word for me around the music community, and soon I was hired to teach at a summer orchestra camp. I am so grateful for their help, and honestly don’t know what I would do right now without them.

Soon, I was busier than ever, and my work schedule became more rigorous and exciting. My parents were kindly willing to work from home in the afternoons and relinquish their cars to let me drive to work as long as I paid for gas. I decided to throw my whole heart into teaching kids to effectively read, write, think critically, appreciate music, be more sensitive to the world around them, and rekindle their passion for learning and making positive change, in hopes that they would be more prepared to face the world on their own later on.

I sifted through websites I had never had an interest perusing before, such as Scientific American, NPR Radio/News, and the science section of Huffington Post in hopes to find material that my students would be interested in reading. I brainstormed, constantly on the lookout for a potential reflection idea or assignment, project or presentation they might latch onto. I brushed up on my current events so I could practice what I preached and encourage them to broaden their global perspective. I thrived off of the energy and passion that Mrs. Lin always puts into her work, all the time and effort she spends thoughtfully innovating ways to make her kids shine. This attitude, of course, transferred over to our mission at Summer Strings as well; the same dedication and goal of enlightening kids held in terms of music. I listened to the students, their family backgrounds, habits, quirks, and nuances in hopes to learn more about them and further their potential. I wanted them to love learning and really think about the world, not just learn to take the SATs.

 Soon, I was teaching about eight students per week and parents had increased their tutoring hours. Mrs. Lin came up with the idea to showcase students’ creative projects in a fun way, through an e-magazine. She had compiled an entire CD with ninety pieces of student writing; after a lot of editing and selecting, I put up Students Speak Magazine. In a matter of a week, tons of kids were sending in the most professional-looking photo blogs, videos, short stories, piano performances and tutorials, setting the bar higher and higher for each other. Each submission was like a gem; so creative and full of life that it couldn’t help but ask to be shared with the world. Through this endeavor, I also learned how to use WordPress effectively; lingo like ‘widget’, ‘sticky posts’, ‘tags’, ‘posts’ and ‘pages’ weren’t so alien anymore.

Over time, I noticed a difference in our kids’ performance and overall attitude towards learning. Gradually, we were breaking down poor grammar habits and barriers obstructing their way of enjoying the learning process, such as lack of confidence, interest in learning, extensive vocabulary, and strong written voice. A handful of my students have recently become much more motivated to try harder and have truly evolved into quality learners. Most important to me is the character that every student developed this summer. Not only were these kids studious – they were passionate individuals whose hard work, persistence, kindness and positive attitudes led to great results. I am very proud of them for what they’ve done.

The disappointing summer turned out not to be filled with sadness, after all. I learned a great deal; how to be a more motivating teacher, to communicate with both children and parents, to be a good parent, even more SAT vocabulary, to use WordPress, to value essential skills like cooking and presenting just as much as SAT techniques, to ask for help and to be helpful, to stay organized, and to appreciate kindness and generosity when it comes. Life is unpredictable, and there are bound to be ups and downs - the only true constant is change. But sometimes, I suppose, all we can do is put in hard work towards our goals, be grateful for those who are kind to us, open our minds to inspiration and believe in the exponential power of learning. The results are more than rewarding.

Seed of an Adage

Sometimes poetry sneaks into my mind just when I need it the most. Wandering ideas and nomadic sentences with no clear beginning, middle or end spin in smooth circles round my mind; tender thoughts and sweet reminders unwind stubborn remnants of the everyday grind. Words of unexpected hope offer the tiniest window into my long-since-forgotten childhood, a time when no dream was too grand and imaginary friends brushed away my loneliness. When that beam of refreshing sunshine in the form of an adage rejuvenates my spirits like a sip of cool lemonade on a searing summer's day, I have no choice but to smile gently and close my eyes as I listen intently to the silence I've created, reveling in this rare moment of clarity.

In the blink of an eye, ominous clouds of misery wrought with jarring pangs of thunder shatter my silent sunshine. Such is life - fate can be oppressive. But the vastness of the sky remains, and hope is never lost. Just as swiftly as thunderclouds roll in, gravity's force pulls the seed of an adage like a raindrop into my palm, the sole souvenir of my gentle musings. I admire my tiny treasure chest tenderly, comparing the valuable complexities of its history with its unassuming appearance. A wave of gratitude washes over me as I marvel at how fortunate I am to have recognized this prize. I wonder, asking how many people have walked the path of life mistaking this gem for just another craggy pebble? How many seeds of hope have we kicked aside on our morning commute as we rattled off our daily to-do list, chasing endless deadlines, eyes squinting and focused on acquiring the slight apparition of a rainbow in the far distance, completely unaware of dawn's brilliant sunburst above?

I tuck my seed securely in my left breast pocket, amongst a collection of dried leaves, special rocks and old pennies of my past, my very first valuables. I know that it is not guaranteed that the seed will ever save me from sadness, yet I take comfort in its security, the sheer feeling of the its outline pulsing against my chest. I realize that my treasure may never leave its box to grow as I had expected it to, yet its presence brings me peace, a reminder that hope forever remains in the seed of an adage.

Art

I love art for the way it enlivens me, guiding me to notice the fine details that make life worth living. It teaches me to create rather than copy, to breathe when the time is right, to be sensitive to my surroundings. Whether words, notes or colors are my medium of choice, the result is the same: a fragment of my life is made permanent and real, tangible enough to share and inspire whoever has the patience to look and listen to my story.

There Will Be Lulls

There will be times when you have no idea what you want to do. When life gets hard and all you can do is try your best at what's before you, even if it's not what you want to do. Determination is infectious, however. Once you start to do one thing, it leads to another and another and another. Creating the initial spark is the hardest part. The journey is where you'll find happiness and fulfillment.

Recipe of My Life: Words I Live By

 Ingredients:

- A sprinkling of Simplicity
- Just enough Balance
- Two cups of Compassion
- A liberal amount of Kindness
- A handful of Honesty
- As much Love as you can find

 

Instructions:

1. Listen better
2. Be more responsive
3. Be kind, always
4. Appreciate
5. Work hard, yet enjoy the journey
6. Keep in touch with the world

Midnight Thoughts, Not Dreams

It's 1:30am, and I've decided to crawl once again into the safe haven that is my twin-sized bed. Lying on my back and staring up into the darkness, I breathe a sigh, strip away all inhibitions and finally allow my mind to slip into its comfort zone. Those last thirty minutes of reflection before falling can go through pretty bipolar extremes; either I bask in wide-eyed childish reverie, remembering something incredible that happened to me OR I end up squirming in anxiety-ridden despair at the thought of a most embarrassing or frightening memory. If I wrote every single 30-minute-think-session into a chapter and combined them into a book series, I think it'd speak volumes about who I REALLY am more than anything else.

They say that dreams are the portals to the soul, a chance for your brain to delve into your unconscious thoughts, perhaps revealing your Freudian fetishes, deepest desires, greatest fears or impossible dreams, but I actually find that it's the moments when you let your mind wander semi-consciously at the end of the day that show who you really are. All alone, in the darkness and safety of your own personal space, there's nobody else around to judge you. You're not bogged down about what others think of you; you're free to imagine whatever you wish, whether it be violent and full of hatred or compassionate and dreamy. That moment just before you drift off to sleep is a time for your everyday conscious brain to reflect reevaluate your actions. It's a time when you're free to be yourself, both the good parts and the bad parts. It is my favorite time of day.