Passion and Details

A month or so ago, I caught up with a friend for a 3-month delayed birthday brunch. Naturally, the conversation flowed to the topic of her current boyfriend and his awesome cellist ways. One story she told me that really got me thinking was how her boyfriend would repeatedly practice the same line the same way for several hours. Of course, repetition is a critical piece of artistry, but my friend found it odd because the notes and rhythm were correct, yet her boyfriend was visibly frustrated. She eventually asked him why, especially since he was hitting all the notes at all the right times. He then pointed out to her the more subtle nuances of cello performance (how does the direction of the bow change the sound, what note should that sound change coincide with, etc), and all of the details that go into "mastering" that particular piece. My friend is no musical slouch herself (relative to normal people, she's a piano prodigy; relative to piano prodigies, she claims mediocrity), but these differences were so slight that even she did not notice until he pointed them out.

This cello anecdote got me thinking about the relationship between detail and passion. Until then, I had never made the now-obvious connection: we are most detail-oriented about that which we are most passionate.

One of the stereotypical (yet accurate) depictions of passion is a nerd who loves technology and will grab anyone and unload, at one million words per second, slews of jargon understood only by himself. Another example is a young boy in love; all of his energies are spent on observing, to the best of his abilities, the likes and dislikes, the comings and goings of his crush. In other words, recognizing detail is an inseparable indicator of passion.

This epiphany got me thinking in two streams: God and myself.

The last couple of months, God's simultaneous vastness and meticulousness have put me in awe, and this was another example. If I really believe that the same God who created the heavens and the earth, the God for whom time is meaningless, the God who knows what lies beyond this galaxy, this universe also created me, an insignificant, little (in universal scope) boy, how can I not be amazed? But it doesn't end there. His attention to the details of my life did not end with my creation, but continue into even smaller moments, events, historical/chemical/physical/social/emotional/mental/spiritual experiences both recognized and not.

I am God's passion. He is trying to time, like my unmet cellist friend, the infinite variables of my life to ultimately produce a symphony that will bring glory to him and eternal life to me.

As for myself, my friend only introduced more questions. What details do I hold and for whom?

집으로 가자

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dqBx7u7ctak

구원받은 몸이라 안심하고 있었나
끊임없이 생기는 어둔 죄 감춰둔채
의인은 믿음으로 살리라 하셨는데
친구 넌 그뜻을 진정으로 아는가

A Tree by the Water

Something I've been increasingly realizing these days is the aptness of the metaphor between trees and Christians (or maybe people in general). Like trees, we stand there, completely rooted and unable to move. It is completely up to whoever plotted the land that we inhabit (God) whether we are near or distant from the water. We don't control the weather, nor can we move nearer to the water. Sure, we can try futilely to grow branches at certain angles and in different directions, but we will never determine the water that we receive.

As a tree that's been placed in a superfluously blessed position, I have no words but thanks.

Isaiah 30:19-22

For a people shall dwell in Zion, in Jerusalem; you shall weep no more. He will surely be gracious to you at the sound of your cry. As soon as he hears it, he answers you. And though the Lord give you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, yet your Teacher will not hide himself anymore, but your eyes shall see your Teacher. And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, "This is the way, walk in it," when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left. Then you will defile your carved idols overlaid with silver and your gold-plated metal images. You will scatter them as unclean things. You will say to them, "Be gone!"

Information and Opinion

I was a rather tardy entrant into the world of intelligent cellular technology. By the time I got my first smartphone, many of my friends had already disposed of a few of their own. As a matter of fact, I can only think of one friend who still did not have a smartphone when I purchased my almighty iPhone 4(no S), and I'm about 97% sure that she is now a hippie and that the immediate predecessor to her phone (which she still uses) belonged to Zach Morris.

One of the pillars upon which I propped up my opposition to smartphones (besides my penultimate decision-making factor in life, convenience) was phone addiction. Already having a penchant for people and communication, I did not want to risk undue attachment to my cellphone (people). I did not want to become a person whose palm slowly morphed into an amoled touch screen.

Of course, once I actually did have my own iPhone, I soon realized that in order to become the aforementioned cyborg, I needed at least some semblance of popularity (which I freely admit I did/do/will not have). Regardless, I found myself becoming slowly addicted. However, my drug was not, as I had previously feared, people; it was information. More specifically, I was addicted to updates. The simultaneous buzz of minute novelties and the reprieve from the weight and responsibility of my own thoughts tickled my blood stream with endorphins.

Through this addiction, I've come to realize that the media is an all-inclusive crutch for the brain. I don't mean media in the traditional sense: newspapers, television, magazines. Rather, I mean it as any ways through which information is passed from one party to another. Now, when faced with a problem, one just needs to google "how to tie a tie," "what is my ip," to figure out meticulously detailed, well thought out instructions to questions.

This accessibility is certainly helpful when in a bind, but when it is time to form opinions, it provides a lazy way out for people. There are now people who can eloquently sum up the opinions of the great minds of today, but cannot or are afraid to form their own. Informed opinion is dropping its inefficient, antiquated caboose and becoming, simply, informed.

And then there I am, lying lazily in the midst of all this, in bed, oblivious to the happenings of the world outside my social media networks.

46 Days

"he was a slave to his own moods and he felt that though he was capable of recklessness and audacity, he possessed neither courage, perseverance, nor self-respect"

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

One of my favorite aspects of reading is finding textual reflections of my thoughts or emotions. However, when a couple lines of text manage to encapsulate the essence of my nature in such a way that even I pause to say, "Damn, there I am," it's a bit disheartening. While relieved to be absolved of that particular burden, I'm daunted by my inability to verbalize my own angst and my reliance on the genius of a man with whom I have absolutely no relation, familial or otherwise.

edit: On second thought, I decided that F. Scott and I are kindred spirits.

Denial and Epiphany

A few years ago, I was at a church retreat playing Mafia. I normally hate Mafia because, for some reason, I never ever am selected as the Mafia. Therefore, I really try to savor the few opportunities I get to assassinate my fellow church members as they apprehensively sleep. Luckily, this was one of those few instances that I actually flipped the card to see an ace, marking my entrance into the simulated crime world.

After a few "nights" passed, however, my joy was threatened by my inept accomplice, who had attracted too much negative attention. As the accusations flew at my accomplice, I sat quietly, putting on my best poker face and looking for any hole to rescue him and continue our mission of civilian annihilation. And then, right as I was giving up hope, I heard one of the accusations fly at a new target. Without even thinking, I piggybacked on the later accusation and tried to shift the suspicious focus from my accomplice. Little did I know, it was a trap: “John, I think you’re mafia too. No one else was accusing this person until I did just now, and you agreed with me too easily right away.” In my eagerness, I had foolishly been found out.

I think one of my defining characteristics is my honesty. I lie very rarely, and if I do lie, my lies are usually more short-lived than mayflies. Of course, you can see how this could have been an issue for my parents when I began socializing as a toddler. I loved free stuff. The lessons I remember most from my childhood involve appropriate behavior in public: decline every gift or favor offered to me in any situation.

As I aged, this training evolved into other aspects of my life. Empowered by a special talent for laziness, my just-say-no campaign eventually ended up pervading my life. The phrases, “It’s okay,” “Don’t worry about it,” “It’s cool,” and “It is what it is” took firm root in my daily, perhaps even hourly, communication. What’s worse, I had told the same lie enough times that I believed it.

However, despite this suspended state of want, I still find myself being provoked so strongly by things that I didn’t think I wanted, by things I swore I did not want. I’m increasingly figuring out that no matter what my words say, I am still a fool in front of my objects of desire. When placed in front of me, the tantalization overwhelms me. I’m also finding out that regardless of how nonchalantly I feign disinterest, losing something desired on the cusp of attainment brings incredible pangs of disappointment. Sometimes it’s a girl, sometimes it’s a job, sometimes it’s a conclusion, sometimes it’s normalcy, and sometimes it’s not being found out in Mafia.

Ironically, within these moments of overwhelming enticement and disappointment, I catch very quick glimpses of my passions. It is here that I find my misplaced passions, the same passions that I have searched for since high school. More importantly, these passions manifest themselves not only as simple desires and cares, but as goals and, ultimately, ambitions. I want to be courageous enough to constantly be honest with myself. That way, I can dictate when I sneak peeks at my ambitions, and not be abruptly surprised time to time by my own self.