A Prisoner in Silence

For the past two mornings I have woken up on my couch. I don't even remember falling asleep here the night before. My body is twisted and contorted in the blankets as part of me is crammed into one corner, part of me is dangling off the edge, and at least one limb is wedged down behind the cushions. As I lie there trying to piece together the events of my life that have led up to this moment this morning, it just comes across as a blur - an unbelievable blur. My apartment is silent except for the light breathing of my two slumbering cats, and the lazy hiss of the radiator. I've been waking up around 7am and the sleepy morning light that streams through the windows is both inviting to engage with the world out there, but also insistent that perhaps buried in my couch is the best place to be today.

In those first few moments of coming into awakened consciousness, I feel restless. I know my dreams have been filled with a sense of anxiety, uncertainty, pain and suffering. I cannot remember them when I wake up, but my body and my mind are tired in such a way that suggests a battle throughout the night with these sorts of things. As my senses slowly tune into all that is around me, still twisted and half buried in my couch, all I can feel is the absence, the silence, and the sorrow. Yes it is another day and another start, but it is painfully lacking what used to be. It wasn't a smooth transition. It was a violent jolt out of what once was into a dark abyss. I am desperately trying to cling to the sides - to anything that will keep me from falling. And all the while I keep repeating, "this is not my life."

I have spent most of the past two days watching the world through tear-filled eyes. It doesn't take much these days - a sound, a sight, a memory, a place, a subtle breeze - hell, even a crumb on the floor would probably make me lose it. As I am walking from moment to moment I become so overcome with emotion that I literally cannot breathe. My throat swells shut and I have to stop and literally gasp for air and try to calm down. I feel out of control of my body. It does what it does. I try and control my emotions and my thoughts. I expend so much energy each day trying to get through it without completely losing my composure. To say it is grueling would be an understatement. It's constant, persistent, nagging, abrasive, and refuses to give up its occupancy in my being. It makes me tired, yet I refuse to give up. I refuse to give into this fight for something that I believe in and know in my heart of hearts is true. What kind of a person would I be if I did that?

When I came home from Korea, I remember having similar battles with my body and my emotions. I was scared and felt completely out of my element. My life and the world that I knew was completely tossed upside down. In coming back, I had no choice but to make sense of it again. Try as I might, there was a void that could never be filled. And while it has ebbed and flowed since I've been back, I can still feel its presence or some left over pieces of it floating around - unable to be corralled. I gained a new perspective, many new perspectives, on my own life throughout that experience. As the emotions swirled, the thoughts jumbled and collided, and as my body broke down, I knew I had to find a way to heal.

The ability to use my voice, whether audibly or written, has been one of the most healing aspects of my various life journeys, including Korea. For the past couple of days I feel that I have not been able to use one of the my most therapeutic and necessary tools. Holding my words, my thoughts, my emotions in, with no release, is destructive and imprisoning. I'm held captive by my own silence. Let my voice be the flashlight. Let my voice be the ribbons tied to the trees so you can find your way home. Let my voice continue to speak of beautiful things that you know are true and you know are right within your heart and mine. Let my voice be heard in a way that you haven't heard it yet. Please...

Another Beginning to be Had

Finally, a curve in the road. I could finally see what lie ahead of me instead of staring into the back end of a maroon Toyota Scion. Brake lights on, brake lights off, brake lights on - sustained for about 7 seconds - brake lights off, brake lights flicker and blink momentarily - inch by inch we crawl forward.

The bend in the road allowed me to see the snaking traffic as it coiled and slithered its way around the lanes of the freeway as they divided off into various directions - casting cars off to where? Home? Evening jobs? The gym? Out with friends? To nowhere? Perhaps ust to more road to travel for many purposes, or no purpose at all.

In a sea of taillights reaching - stretching - further than I could see, I let myself zone out into the music that coursed through the interior of my car. It allowed for a dissociative kind of retreat from the back of the Scion and the countless red lights sometimes swelling in luminosity - brake lights off, brake lights on, etc. The ambient tones of the music and the rumbling pacing beat of the bass offered a much welcomed auditory massage. I hate rush hour traffic.

As I was rounding the bend where 35W winds its way down to 94W, I remember glancing over at the Minneapolis skyline. The steam that rose from various buildings created a low lying cloud of sorts that blocked out the bottoms of the skyscrapers. It was a floating city, hovering silently next to the noise, the buzz, the sloppiness, and the impatience of rush hour traffic. My music seemed a fitting soundtrack to this floating city. The juxtaposition both visually and emotionally was alarming and jolting, yet, in that moment, it fit. It made sense. The effect seemed natural and familiar. The mismatch was one that only a smack back into reality could demolish. Otherwise, I am fairly certain I would have lived the rest of my life thinking Minneapolis was a floating city and the traffic was the sea of red that churned and coursed below its surface.

I was on my way to meet a friend I hadnt seen in some time. I was late. Only finding relief in that brief moment I glanced over at the skyline, I was annoyed by the traffic, my dirty windshield from the road spray, and the slower-than-snail's-pace that we were crawling. As my eyes shifted from the buildings back to the road, my phone rang. I answered. What happened next would mark one of the hugest significant changes in my life.

For the past several months I had been working extremely hard applying to PhD programs. This included taking the much dreaded GRE. In not a whole lot of time I dedicated my life it seems to writing personal statements, revising writing samples, filling out applications and dealing with frustrating technicalities, and gathering letters of recommendation. I shed more tears than I wanted to studying for the GRE. I wore out my brain and I wore out my body. I have been waiting for the last month to hear whether or not I would get into a program. I met with faculty in the departments I applied to. I still have more meetings yet to come. I researched and gathered as much information as possible. Most of all, I sent out as much positivity and hope to the Universe where I truly felt a door was open for me. If I was good enough, and this was really my time, I would be allowed to walk through.

Tonight around 6 o'clock, stuck in rush hour, and existing in a moment of surrealism, staring at the floating city wandering off into my music, and reality, watching in agonizing frustration the back of that Scion, I got a call. My primary application reviewer was on the other line. In all of the words he shared with me of my acceptance into the Family Social Science PhD program, all I remember are the following: "We all think you're terrific" and "We hope you will choose Family Social Science." There was something about February 19th, which I think is the welcome retreat and more about a letter I should be receiving in the near future.

My body was so overcome by excitement and joy. This acceptance means far more to me than just furthering my academic and professional pursuits. It signifies the beginnings of a new beginning. It's a prominent mark in my life journey and I honestly believe it is the Universe giving me an opportunity to begin - begin so many things. In those few minutes after the call, I traveled to the furthest quadrants of the world! I traveled back through almost 33 years of life and back again. The only thing keeping me in one piece was my seatbelt! If I didnt think I would cause the death of innocent drivers or even myself, I would have thrown on the emergency break, jumped out of my car, and sprinted through the lanes of traffic pounding on hoods, screaming, laughing, and crying. With my heart pounding, my body literally vibrating, my face numb, an ear to ear smile, and tears in my eyes, the phone calls rolled out.

2010 ended with a bang. 2011 has begun with an explosion! I still wait to hear from the School of Social Work about whether or not they will accept me into their PhD program. I should hear sometime in March. For the time being, I for sure know I have the option and opportunity to begin my studies in Family Social Science focusing on adoption research and the intersections of racial, ethnic, and cultural identities and GLBTQ identities. I am beyond excited to embark on this new adventure. Thank you to everyone who supported me and helped me in various ways. Thank you especially to those who had to put up with me during the process when I wasnt the most pleasant to be around. Your belief in me and encouragement has meant so much - much more than a thank you could ever convey. For now a thank you is what I have. Perhaps if I studied my GRE vocabulary more I would have a better selection of appreciative sentiments!

Hockey Ponds, Woods, and Monkey Bars

The house I grew up in is situated in a precarious place if you think about it. It's almost is if the very land it sits on exists only to provide the ground on which to support a house, a yard, and many many memories. The address is at the dead end of a residential street on a neighborhood that has been around since, I believe, sometime in the 40s. The long dirt driveway that descends into the cozy hollow where the house sits, surrounded by a small patch of forest that has lost its denseness and extensive land cover over the years, is actually owned by the city. As part of the easement with the property, we have permission to use it as a driveway - our only escape to the rest of the world, at least by vehicle.

Our backyard looks out upon a newer housing development that tore up the woods and poisoned the ground water with toxic chemicals that leaked out of metal barrels buried beneath the ground by a major corporation that built up on the land just a couple of blocks away. The street that winds its way through this newer neighborhood, created sometime in the early 90s, is lined with modern houses that went up in less than two weeks. Every third house repeats a similar design and color-scheme. It's drab and commercial - unexciting and a symbol of our desire for fast, new, material and cosmetic things. Our backyard still contains the monkey bars built by my father in the early 80s that now provide a secure structure and foundation for various vines to scale - twisting, turning, and hugging the wooden beams and metal bars as they continue to reach for what lies just beyond. Rising above the monkey bars and our crab apple tree, the old, white, stucco house rises higher than the other homes upon its throne as it sits on top of a small hill that used to provide hours of sledding fun in the winter for two little kids who were barely taller than the snowdrifts that accumulated back there.

Through our front yard, yet another newer housing development built during the late 80s/early 90s, depleted the large grassy hill that was the site of kite flying in the summer and sledding excursions in the winter. A holding pond stands between the limits of our front yard and this neighborhood. I grew up learning how to play hockey on this pond. During the winter, I remember waking up and peering out my window which had a nice bird's eye view of the pond. If I saw anyone up there, I was immediately out the door, my jacket barely on, dropping a trail of skate blade covers, hockey pucks, and mittens as I sprinted up to the pond to join in the fun. I would be on the pond from sun up to sun down. I can still hear the sounds of our skate blades scraping the smooth surface of the ice, carving out our existence and our memories. I still see the pucks racing across the ice slapping from stick to stick. The footbridge that one of the neighbors built across the pond is filled with boots, skate guards, extra sticks and pucks, and slowly accumulates more jackets and hats as we strip layers as our games pick up and we sweat more. The neighbors would plow the pond after a snowfall and would occasionally flood it so we had a smooth surface on which to play some massive neighborhood pick up games. The neighbors installed strong flood lights that would illuminate the pond through the night. Some of the best memories of my life have taken place on that pond. It was the central hub that not only brought together two neighborhoods, but also the friends and families of the residents of these two neighborhoods. Holidays oftentimes brought extended families and distant friends. It seems everyone found a place on that pond whether it was playing hockey, sledding down the hill between the houses, or warming themselves by the fires that we sometimes built on the frozen shores. As I've grown older and moved away, so have all of the kids that I played hockey with. Sometimes when I am visiting my mom, I will find myself gazing out of my old bedroom window at the old pond. Today it is desolate, dark, uncared for and as much as I am filled with the memories of yesterday, I am also filled with some sadness of my distant childhood memories.

I think about the places, spaces, and times that used to be home for me - the significance of their meaning and existence in my life then, and the memories I have of them today. Many times I long for the days when life seemed easy - get up and play hockey with the neighborhood all day, build forts in the woods in our backyard, fly kites on top of the grassy hill, and the variety of competitions we would have on the monkey bars. Life was carefree and easy. I didnt have to think, I just had to play. The only worrying I did about tomorrow was hoping that there'd be enough people on the pond to play hockey or that my neighbor friends would be home and able to come and play in the woods. Today life is far from a day-long hockey game or an awesome tree fort in the woods. What home and family has meant to me has never changed in definition besides all of the oftentimes challenging events that have taken place in my life. When I'm visiting my childhood home, where my mom still lives, I can see us in the cul-du-sac playing baseball or street hockey. I see all of us racing our bikes down the street. I still remember the one neighbor yelling at us all the time for tearing up his yard playing football. It was just the perfect yard for it. How could we not? I am still up on the pond playing hours of hockey. I am exploring the woods with my friends building tree forts and having Goonies (80s movie reference) adventures. I am still climbing all over our monkey bars with my friends - making our way to the top and shimmying out to the middle to sit talking about those important life topics that 13 year-olds find important.

For me, becoming an adult was not an easy transition. Rather, it has been full of many challenges, difficulties, and pain. Of course there have been many positives as well. I certainly dont mean to paint such a dreary picture, but, something happened along the way that jolted me away from those fun, carefree childhood memories. People left my life. For many years through adolescence into early adulthood, I felt like my life was comprised only of people leaving, relationships ending, and people I thought I knew becoming strangers to me. Worst of all, I think I became estranged from my own self. The past 6 years or so have marked a journey of self re-discovery for me. I've worked hard to connect my childhood with my adulthood by filling in the gaps of those missing lonely years. The path is unfamiliar and sometimes feels too challenging to continue on, but, every moment of every day, I continue to put one foot in front of the other. Each step I take I am discovering something new about myself - or perhaps I am reacquainting myself with parts of me I forgot or left behind long ago.

I was reading my friend's blog the other day and she had posted a poem by Veronica A. Shoffstall. One of the lines in there really stuck out to me and I wanted to share it here:

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul

instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

As I continue down my life path, I have come to realize that no matter how much I want someone to bring me flowers, no one ever will. I will say I dont pride myself on my green thumb or interior design abilities, but I also know I have barely tried. As I begin this new calender year and this new year in my life with 33 fast approaching, I commit to myself to hone in on my gardening and design skills. Even if it's sloppy and the flowers don't grow right away or choke each other out, I will continue to try. I promise to not clutter my soul with old habits and thought patterns because life and people in my life are good. I am good. I deserve to tend my own garden and to choose my own wall-hanginings. I will try to live my life on that old hockey pond and in our woods - places that not only remind me of home, but ARE home. And it is in my home where my garden exists and continues to grow. Now, it's time to water.

Home Is Where I Am

I have come to realize that home is not a structure. It's not a house that makes a home, it's me that makes home. We are taught and socialized to understand our home as our house or some material structure in which all of those we consider family can share space and where our belongings can be, or something along those lines. And for some, this is home. For me, one thing that Korea taught me is that home is much more of a state of being than it is a house, a geographic location, or anything that is tangible.

While the house I grew up in has very much been my home, my true sense of home there belongs to the spaces between the paint splotches that are still on the floor in our basement where my dad's studio used to be. I still smell the beer on my dad's breath and can see that Special Export bottle sitting on the counter. I hear the classical music as it finds its way into every corner of that studio. And there's my dad, painting in his yellow and blue coach's hoody. My sense of home is in my old room remembering the plastic/vinyl shades that were in there when I was little and the way they sounded as they were being drawn at night when my parents would tuck my sister and me into bed and the feeling of love and security that even the sounds of shades being drawn evoked in me. Home is also the sound the shades made as they were being opened by my mom when she came to wake us up in the mornings when sleep still consumed my body and with heavy eyes that couldn't stay open, I retreated further into my warm blankets as the first light of a new morning came streaming into the room. These memories, even today with the paint blotches covered up, blinds instead of shades, and how I feel when I remember this make home for me.

Photography has also offered a sense of home for me in that I am truly out of my body and literally in with nature. This is the only thing that is truly meditative. When I can be outside standing in a stream, perched precariously on a rock wall, or laying in the dirt, grass, or snow trying to capture that perfect shot, everything fades away except for what I see in my viewfinder. And, it's not so much the physical pieces of the composition, although obviously that's there too, but it's the feeling, the smell, the emotion, the taste in the air, and the sounds that are abundantly present in every shot I take. Photography is such a sensory experience for me unlike anything else I have experienced. My mind and my body are at ease and things make sense without having to think about anything. The world in my photography realm is perfect and I feel completely whole and completely at peace. I am at home.

I remember being in college. I lived in the dorms my first year. Our beds were lofted and actually quite close to the ceiling as a result of poor measurement by my roommate's family who built the lofts. My first year of college in the beginning was pretty intense emotionally. And while my dorm room was certainly not home, what was home for me was a small patch of glow in the dark stars I had put on the ceiling just above my head. I would fall asleep every night looking at those stars listening to some relaxing music - ambient synthesizers, slow soft piano, low rumbling percussion - that carried my body away. In those brief moments before sleep consumed my body, looking at those plastic stars, and being overtaken by the beautiful music in my headphones, I was home.

As has been previously mentioned in some of my blogs, the night sky has always had a very significant meaning in my life. The night sky is my home. I could lay for hours and just lose myself in its awesomeness and mystery. The stars, the distant galaxies, the planets, the dark spaces between, and all of the questions and ponderings that I have sent up there to wander around until the next time I can visit - these all make up a feeling of home for me. Combining stargazing and photography, which I try and do often, creates the ultimate experience of closeness, completeness, and wholeness within myself.

Biking and running have also fostered a sense of home for me. It's not so much the act of doing it or even how I feel in terms of working out my body, but it's more in the tuning into the sound of my bike as the tires hum on the pavement, the clicks of the gears and movement of the chain, the turning over of the pedals, and the sound of the wind as my body and bike slice through. With running it's about the sounds of my feet hitting the pavement and the different sounds and pitches that change as I run through a sandy patch, a puddle, or crunch through the snow. It's the ability to cycle through my thoughts and my emotions from a place of objectivity, of feeling secure with myself, and of knowing that no matter what, things will be alright. Perhaps it's the endorphins that aid in this kind of thinking, feeling, and being, but I also think it's the result of being truly one with myself.

Feeling the pull and the draw of my body to my home home in Korea as I prepared for the trip, feeling the tug of the Yellow Sea as it willed me to stay while on the beach in Jeju, and feeling such emptiness for not only the land, but also the state of feeling whole and complete in Korea, taught me that home for me is a state of being and the sensory experiences that bring about memories and emotions that seem to fill in the holes in my life if even for only a moment. While the moments can be brief and fleeting, I take comfort in knowing that wherever I am, I can always go home.

My Many Birthdays

August 6, 2010, I learn finally who Lee, ChoHee was as I visit the orphanage in Seoul where I spent the first six and a half months of my life. A few weeks after my return, I continue to learn more about my Korean name. When I was at the orphanage, I was told that the orphanage named me, however, upon further review of my file by some friends who read and speak Korean and who know more than I do about what certain things in files mean, it appears that my birth family named me. Lee, ChoHee, my name of origin. I am fascinated!

October 5, 2010, I was driving home from a friend's Korean dance and drum studio after having an amazing home cooked Korean meal and sharing a night of conversation and food with friends new and old. It struck me as I was heading south on Cretin Ave., a usual route home for me, that tonight was my last night of being what is now my former legal name - a name I had had for 32 years. I felt sad. As much as I am and have not been that person for a while now, it was and always will be a significant part of my identity. It was the second name I was given in my life when I arrived in Minnesota.

October 6, 2010, approximately 10:45am, I, Shawyn Lee, am born at the Ramsey County Courthouse. It was a quick and painless delivery and many were witness to this glorious day! Although I have lived as Shawyn for the past 2 years and 2 months, I finally was able to have my name legally changed. Now, I wait for the official court documents to arrive and then I can begin changing my name on my ids, bank accounts, insurance, etc. Shawyn is the third name I have had - a name that I intentionally gave to myself as I felt it is an accurate and complete representation of who I am in terms of gender identity and expression and in terms of my Korean identity.

October 6, 2010, I also celebrate a year of being alcohol free. A year ago, after not even being able to finish a Mich Ultra by the river on a late fall night, I didnt even realize that would be my last drink. I think a few days or a week later, I made the decision to remain alcohol free for the rest of my life. Here's to year 1!

I hope the rest of 2010 is full of good things and wonderful surprises...like maybe somehow legally procuring a massive amount of money!

Through the Camera's Lens

I woke up in a new place the other day. I moved slowly and quietly as the sleep withered away from my body. The knotted pine door to my bedroom was closed and I noticed the pine knots were glowing red. Just beyond the door were massive windows that overlooked Middle Cullen Lake near Pequot Lakes in Minnesota. I held my breath in that momentary pause filled with wonder, curiosity, excitement, and anticipation. We arrived to the lake the night before and I had no idea what it looked like outside as it was dark upon our arrival. Whatever I was about to see for the first time, I had no doubt, would be stunning.

The sunrise on that early very crisp fall morning on the lake was stunning. I immediately threw on some warm clothes, grabbed my camera, and away I went. Each second was critical as the light changed so fast. I stepped out on to the deck of the lake house, snapped a few photos, and proceeded onward through the dew covered grass. In the tranquility of this morning, you could hear the day waking up. It was tender, gentle, and serene, yet definitely knew how to make an entrance!

I headed down to the dock where a few boats were lazily and patiently waiting, tied to the dock. They slowly moved back and forth as the water beneath them stretched and yawned. I looked out over the lake as the steam rose from the water's surface - rising to meet the sun, embracing the rays as if to say good morning. The water sheepishly lapped against the metal poles of the dock not wanting to be intrusive in its movements, yet uncontrolled in its need to move about. The tall reeds swayed and bowed scooping up the slightest of sweet autumn breezes. The sun dodged in and out of some overstretched clouds across the morning sky causing the sun sparkles on the water to dance with the lily pads speckled throughout the shallow part of the lake. And in the distant, the haunting call of the loon quietly echoed over the lake.

I think I viewed that entire morning through my camera's lens. I stretched out on the dock trying to compose that perfect angle for my shot. The sun warmed my face and cast a stunning brightness through my lens. I couldnt even read the meter through my viewfinder so I did my best to guess the appropriate shutter speed and aperture. I let go of my concentration on the technicalities of my camera and welcomed the image that revealed itself, letting the moment guide me rather than my equipment.

The morning was peaceful and grand. The nipping cold air was refreshing and comforting. This was a perfect autumn morning. As the day continued to wake up and unravel itself, I found myself lost in a cumulative set of meditative moments. I've tried to meditate - sitting quietly, concentrating on my breathing, or sometimes I use music, clear my head and just let go. This has never proven to be successful for me. When I have camera in hand and am able to be in nature and let go of everything else but what I am seeing, hearing , smelling, feeling, tasting through the lens of my camera, it is like no other peace I have ever felt in my life. Each photo is my meditative moment. It's a representation of my most present existence in that exact moment - a visual documentation of the texture of my life, the scent of my life, the scene of my life. Just as I had those sensory experiences while I was there in that moment - living, breathing, feeling, touching, smelling, tasting, and being - I hope for my viewer a sensory experience as well - completely personalized to each individual person of course. My art is alive and while I may no longer be physically there or physically present in that moment, emotionally, I always will be and that permanent presence will continue to live on through my photography.

Lately, life has thrown a few rough patches at me. I rumble over them doing the best I can, but my shocks are worn and the cushion that was once fully intact and strong has been well beaten and worn throughout the years. Some weeks I am clawing and scraping my way to the weekend. My clothes are ripped, the souls of my shoes are shredded, and I feel like my life is literally bleeding out of me. Other weeks, I feel fine and seem to coast through without a care in the world. Or, perhaps I am only living on the surface, refusing to let things in - to let things get too close. While last week proved very well to be one of those weeks that kicked my ass, this weekend getaway was just what I needed. Much of my energy is spent trying to figure out just who I am in this life. Having come from a life-changing experience traveling back to my birth country and navigating daily, hourly, minutely challenges in my professional life, especially around my various social and cultural identities, many times, I feel as if I am reaching out into the universe trying to grasp on to anything that seems sound and stable. If this even works, that object carries so little meaning to me. It's more of a secure foundation for me to rest on just for a moment.

There are places throughout the world where I feel whole and complete. There are people in my life who I know I can count on and are stable fixtures in my life even when I feel chameleon-ish, changing colors and shedding layer after layer after layer. And finally, there are moments, many moments and scenes in my life, that represent all of who I am - the good, the bad, and the ugly at times - caught in the click of a shutter and captured and presented in the most beautiful, honest, and truest way that I could ever reveal myself to anyone. Every part of my life becomes the best part of my life. And my story, my life, is stunningly revealed through the camera's lens.

I'm a Grown Up. I Need to Make Grown Up Decisions

Remember riding bikes with the neighbor kids all over the place - races down the street, skid out contests in the cul-du-sac, wheelie contests and giving our friends bucks on our bikes either on the handle bars or on pegs?

Remember tearing up the neighbor's yard while they were away at work playing tackle football and how we'd always time it just right to vacate the premises just before their car appeared coming over the hill? We thought we'd be safe if we weren't there ripping up the grass pretending to be Joe Montana, Herschel Walker, and The Fridge.

Remember the late night ditch games and the bonfires? Remember when we were running through the neighbor's yard that one night and you didnt see the clothes line because it was dark and the bon fire was too far away for the light to provide any assistance?

Remember just sitting on the front steps with a couple of friends drinking sodas or eating icees and just listening to the distant lawn mower, the birds chirping, and the occasional planes flying overhead? Remember the sweet breezes that used to blow and the warm spots in the sun and cool refuge in the shade?

Remember day long, even on into the night, pond hockey games with the neighborhood? Remember snowboarding contests and icy jumps on the sledding hill between the two houses up on the pond?

Remember when it was a big deal to ride our bikes to Texaco and load up on candy and Texaco Tankers full of some awful mixture of Mountain Dew, Orange Soda, Coke, and Mellow Yellow? How we still have teeth is a miracle of nature I suppose. And remember when $3 would buy you more candy than you knew what to do with?

Remember go-cart races and bumper boat derbies? Trips to the A & W Root Beer stand and Dairy Queen. Remember all weekend long softball tournaments, dusty gloves and cleats, sweaty jerseys and the best cheers ever from the bench? Remember every time you robbed me of my famous home run hits? I may or may not still hold a tiny grudge!

As I sit here typing out these words, reminiscing on these memories, I can still feel the wind in my face as I raced down the street on my bike. I can still see the huge plastic Texaco Tanker cups. I can still hear the voices and laughter of all my friends and neighbors at the bon fire or just sitting outside enjoying a beautiful day. I still smell the bon fire smoke in my clothes and filling the cool night air with such an inviting and comforting smell. And I'm still up on our old pond all day and all night playing hockey. And every now and then, I hear the chatter of my co-workers down the hall, or I tune into the construction sounds outside my window, or I glimpse over at the various piles that have started accumulating on my desk and I am reminded, I am not 10 years old anymore enjoying the freedom of being a kid. I'm 32 and a half and dealing with all of the non stop responsibilities of being a grown up. While in reality, I have much more freedom, or, perhaps, different freedom, from when I was a kid. Most days I wish I could be back out on my bike, playing football, drinking Texaco Tankers, and sitting around bon fires every Friday night without a care in the world.

After going to Korea and experiencing all I have there and through my experiences since being back at home, one thing has become extremely clear to me in terms of my life path and what I want and need. The idea of family is extremely important to me. Going back to the orphanage and finding out the information I did and knowing that at one point I had a family in Korea and knowing that I may still have a family there but then being thankful for the adoptive family I came to and knowing that I have that family here that I can talk to and see on a regular basis, this all has reinforced the need for continued family in my life. For me that means at least a kid of my own. I have no interest in giving birth to this child, but am interested in exploring alternative, and extremely expensive, options that fall within the realm of having children. I am starting to battle a bit in my own head with the idea of international adoption and how would that be for me as an international adoptee who has had the experience of going back and who would be so intentional about making sure my adoptive child would have the resources, support, and access to their cultural heritage and personal history. Again, a very expensive option as well.

I know I do not want to be a single parent. I know myself well enough to know I would not do very well with this. I want to relationship - a healthy meaningful relationship. Romantic relationships have always been places I have struggled for a variety of different reasons. While I know not everything has changed for me because of my experiences with Korea, I know a considerable amount has and I feel more in a place to be able to function well within a relationship context. And I am making those grown up decisions in order to be able to have that kind of relationship. I'm not getting any younger and there are things I want in my life. It's not anything I feel I am forcing for myself, but more of an entry into this particular phase of life that I have been evolving to for quite some time. I can envision a partnership, at least a kid, but probably more, love, honestly, commitment, and all those other necessary ingredients for a good, strong, stable relationship, and shared space that we open up to our family and friends that is filled with lots of light, laughter, and positive energy. I can see this so clearly in my mind's eye that it's almost as if I can reach out and grab it.

So I am here in this moment knowing what I want and knowing how to get there and really feeling for the first time that I'm really close. Along with all of this comes to major grown up decisions that I feel more than ready to make. It's not about someone else. It's about me. It's about making a commitment to myself and filling my life, the life I want to have, with the things that I know will allow me to share my life and my heart in ways that I never have before. And although alot of this unfortunately carries dollar signs with it, it's also not about that. It's so much more than that - above and beyond all that - and like alot of things in my life right now, these are things that are seemingly beyond my control in terms of thinking about them, wanting them, or envisioning them. Everything is flooding in so automatically and this new frame has been put before me. In just the last few weeks I have thrown my arms up in the air to the universe and let go of alot of stuff. It's pretty amazing what's resulted from that I do just have to say.