the winding road to self

stuck on salutation There I sat, watching the spacer blink in front of me, over and over and over again.  I had a million things I wished to write and ask, but when the time came, I couldn't write a single word.   I was attempting to write a letter to my biological mother.  My social worker had advised me to prepare a letter and a few photos to send in case she was open to communication. How do I even start this letter,  I wondered.  Dear...mother?  Mom?  Or maybe just... hello?   Nothing felt right or natural.  Maybe I could just skip the salutation and dive right in.  But then what do I dive into?  My name is...?   Do I use my American name or my Korean name?  If I couldn't even begin the letter, how could I possibly complete it? I rolled my chair back from my desk and sat with my thoughts for a while.  I considered all the things I wanted to know.  Why did she give me up?  Did she know where my biolo...

thresholds + first-steps _________________ My husband checked his phone to see the time.  11:18pm shone bright through his cracked screen.  He sighed softly and turned off the tv, then rose from the couch and began turning off the lights in our living room, one-by-one.  He leaned down and gave me a kiss, then said he was going to read in bed for a little while.  I smiled and nodded at him.  As he left and the room fell quiet, my eyes adjusted to the loss of light and there I sat...alone.  I thought about only one thing:  At this moment,   there is a letter being delivered on the other side of the world, making its way to a home where a woman may or may not still live.  A woman who looks like me.   They are sending a letter to my biological mother.  And I'm not ready for this.  God, I'm not ready for this.  __________________________________ I like to do a lot of things that make me feel nervous.  I try to live by...

  counting bricks __________________ "Okay, sweetheart!  Today is the day!" he exclaimed. I squealed as I ran to my room to grab my stuffed bear.  I had been waiting for this day for what seemed like an eternity.  It was the perfect day outside.  I grabbed my shoes and plopped down on the kitchen floor.  I had recently learned how to tie them so I focused hard as I tried to recall the exact sequence of steps between the first bunny ear and the final knot.  Once I successfully pulled on the second pair of bunny ears securing my shoes, I bolted out the front door, down the steps and sidewalk to our car.  I hurled myself in the back and excitedly buckled my seat belt, imagining the car was already screeching down the street at full speed. I saw him look at me in his rear view mirror and he smiled.  I smiled back, then turned to look out the window as I tried to count the trees that passed by.  I couldn't believe we were on our way. ...

a vulnerable shell But first, a series of separate yet related accounts... ____________________ "Do you see half of what I see?" I laughed and playfully shoved Bailey's shoulder as she pulled her eyes back from the corners bringing them to a slant as she innocently smiled and giggled.  It was senior year of high school and we were heading into orchestra, the last mod of the day.  Bailey was a sandy-blonde freckle-faced girl I considered a friend.  She radiated with an earnest, genuine air that assured me this was no offense.  She was a church-going, friendly-to-everyone, always smiling kind of gal, so I knew she meant no harm.  No harm, no foul.  I knelt down to my locker as I paused to recall the 3-digit combination on my lock.  "You know that's a stupid question, right?" I said jokingly, looking over my shoulder to see her smiling back down at me as I shook my head and rolled my eyes.  She shrugged her shoulders, giggled once more, then turn...

the rose bush I've always loved to craft and create. To most families, the dining room is used primarily for the purpose of dinner.  For our family, our dining room served many purposes.  It was our schoolwork room, the room where my mom worked on the bills and balanced her checkbook, the room where our cats would escape for a quick nap, the room where we kept fancy things like china and dishware only used for special occasions, and of course, it was the room we sat in for our holiday meals when we had family or friends over.  It had beautiful french doors that opened up to the deck my dad built with a few nails, a hammer, and his bare hands.  I spent my summers on that deck playing tag and getting splinters, and then when the leaves would fall and the air would chill I'd spend my winters jumping off the rails into giant snow mounds refusing to come in when the sun set. I remember one particular day in the dining room, though.  It was bright.  ...

"Where are you from?" he asked. Not a single "hello," or "good morning!" or even the politely attempted preface, "can I ask you a question?"  I was en route, making my mile-long walk to work when I was interrupted by another hotel employee.  It was a little after 5am in Nashville and I was headed to Cocoa Bean, a small coffee shop in the city-like hotel resort, Opryland.  Employees had to park in satellite lots and take an elevator underground to access lockers before dispersing into various tunnels like tiny ants prepping for a hard day's work.  The tunnels led to every stairwell of the hotel and employees would quickly mutate from ants to gophers, popping up to their designated areas to report for duty.  Most days I'd walk these tunnels slowly while half-asleep, mustering apathetic smiles to everyone I'd pass and exchange conversation with no one.  I was perfectly content to spend my morning walk looking at my no-slip shoes, co...