Writing, to me, goes like this.
I sit on my usual seat, my green patio chair on my balcony. I do my morning readings which comprise of my study Bible, devotion, and two monthly essay magazines in Korean. After my readings are finished, I simply hold the coffee mug and stare at the green leaves or the blue sky. The morning sun shines from the east but it is blocked by the townhouse building I live in. It’s only a partial light, just enough to make trees glow. I see sparks from the trees as the morning breeze shakes the leaves. It’s glorious. It’s shiny. I get carried away by the beauty of a million little sparkles of the rising sun. I simply feel mesmerized.
Time freezes in that moment of purity and I am taken out of my physical body- you could call it an ecstasy. It’s a state of euphoria, a jolt of high vibration swarming through your chakra channels, the flowing energy connecting you to the higher power (You could tell that I’ve done a lot of new age readings in the past). It’s so sensational. It is also here in that moment that I hear a quiet voice that narrates. It’s always a simple sentence with no emotions tied to it. It’s the voice that I could only dream of. It is low but feminine, it’s quiet but captivating. It has so much underlying power that grabs the attention of the listener and makes you want sit down and hear what the voice has to say next. It’s the voice I wait for every single morning.
And just as the voice was about to tell me how her youth was spent in confusion and illusion, my toddler appeared along with her furry brother, our family dog, by her side. Then I knew the magic was broken and that the owner of the voice had quickly vanished. I was sitting alone again on my table with my imaginary narrator out of my head. Fallen back to the earth, my blank eyes stare at the books my daughter brought down from her bedroom. It always takes me a while to readjust to this earthly plane where I am a mother raising a chatty toddler girl. Instead of listening to the intriguing stories the voice was about to reveal, I read Little Miss Trouble and Little Miss Sparkle with my daughter on my lap.
Writing, to me, is interrupted like this.
It took me a long time to accept my new reality. It was hard to let go of my agenda and to learn to receive life as it comes. Instead of welcoming life as a gift to be enjoyed, I battled to maintain my old ways. I had my own ideals and I fought for them. Little did I know that God had better paths planned out for me. I thought my thoughts were better than His.
“We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity— in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.
Perhaps this is the most important thing for me to take back from beach-living: simply the memory that each cycle of the tide is valid; each cycle of the wave is valid; each cycle of a relationship is valid. And my shells? I can sweep them all into my pocket. They are only there to remind me that the sea recedes and returns eternally”.
Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Just as the ocean waves come and go as God wills, the ebb and flow of my life constantly moves by His will. Life’s most crucial moments are lived in between the major scenes. It’s in the small joys and mundane events. It’s in the interruptions and pains and sufferings. Even the confusion and illusion of the past, you eventually find, were valid because they made you exactly the way you are.
If I just close my eyes, I am immediately transported back to the ocean. The cooling feeling of the gentle summer breeze and the whooshing sound it makes as it passes my ears, and the smell… it almost smells like ocean at this point. I am a few hour’s drive away from the closest beach but in my mind and heart, the ocean is right here in the moment. The waves are ever approaching and receding, continuing its magnificent dance. In growth. In fluidity. In freedom.
And now My daughter is playing with white sand that we made yesterday with flour and oil, adding a little magic to this wonderful makeshift beach day I am having on my balcony.
Then sudden, I hear the quiet voice again. She says—
Writing is never far away. Your life is the best story you could ever write.