To My Baltimore Writing Group

“I cannot give you the formula for success, but I can give you the formula for failure, which is: Try hard to please everybody.”
-Herbert Bayard Swope, journalist

Before I started the writing class, I was alone in the workshop room. I said, “Thank you,” to my ancestors and my spiritual leaders because I felt so blessed for the opportunity to share what is so close to my heart. After the class, I said, “Thank you,” again because the group felt especially open and present.

I wanted to write this to keep track of the process for me as a teacher and invite others to share if they would like as another blogger on this site.

Driving home, I felt a bit lost in a world of Richard’s birthday wish of flight and Gerry’s coffee brewing just waiting to be noticed again. I too had a strong longing to fly and that was how my obsession with vampires began when I was 8 years old. Then I remembered the coffee that I used to set to a timer to wake me up the first summer I lived on my on, sharing a studio in Boston with my best friend. We had a pet mouse named “Homer” that was really a city rat that stole our food. Both memories remind me of dreaming of escape into the skies or to the roof of the building where a thin breeze blew.

The beings we choose to take care of us and the beings that choose us to parent them… I thought of the Lou, Melinda’s dog, whose coat helps to strip away her stress with each pet and caress. The two free souls that entered Annette’s life and reminded her of the lineage of independent parenting that her mother passed on to her. The latitudinal parenting Susannah grew up with that allowed her to pass many latitudes of the world traveling for work and pleasure. It reminds me of a saying that we borrow our children to teach them to become individuals who are able to navigate the world on their own. I try to model this for my son. But since having relocated here to Baltimore, I have been trying to pull myself out of a shell and a stagnancy of familiarity. I see him trying to make friends and reach out while looking at me – his snail mom.

This shell has been breaking lately and the class pulled me further from the protective layer that hasn’t served me. I felt bolder after the class when I witnessed the openness and bravery of everyone there to share and be genuine. Tonight, I saw this tree that was covered with sections of colorful knitting. I imagined the care and love that went into knitting onto the tree or knitting for the tree, I am not sure how it got there. But it felt like our group, just beginning, but already warmed and brightened by our unique contribution to the whole, to our class.

Thank you again for signing up, for showing up in every way. I feel so lucky to be a part of this group.

Lemon water,
Soo Young Lee

Weird and Glorious in Baltimore

Atomic Books
3620 Falls Rd.
Baltimore, MD 21211
410.662.4444
http://www.atomicbooks.com/

Nestled in Hampden (a ten minute drive from downtown Baltimore on 83 North) is my favorite bookstore. It is a shining star in light of the cold, hard fact that independent bookstores are a dying breed. This one is going strong because of its niche market that is borderline cult classics and kitsch. There is an amazing collection of magazines that fill up two wall shelves of space. You will find some mainstream titles, but their shelves are plastered with alternative, subversive magazines and zines like Hip Mama, Bitch, Beautiful Decay. They even carry a selection of local zines by area artists and writers. It reminds of living in San Francisco during the hey day of zines when they could be found in every flavor and size in local bookstores.

If you like Japanese figurines that are grumpy, sassy versions of San Rio, this is the place to find, buy it, and order it. My son especially loves the ones you can paint yourself and the glow in the dark baby skeletons. He has this obsession with painting little figurines and Lego guys. Figurines come in many sizes and varieties, but the best ones are the mini-sized versions that you pick blindly like gumball machine trinkets. You pick a box that does not indicate what’s inside and then can trade them or collect them with friend.

There are bundles of subversive craft books as well as a hefty collection of graphic novels and comics. I personally love the movement of domestic arts with a vampy edge. Knitting and sewing are the new way to show off your spunk in style.

Atomic Books reminds me of an orderly explosion of color and toys into an adult wonderland. There are goodies for children too like little toys but also some children’s books of the alternative kind.

If you get on their email list, they will let you know of their new acquisitions and what is on sale. If you have a someone in your life who is hard to shop for, check out their store and online shop. You won't be disappointed. If you haven't figured it out already, the store is an offspring of John Waters, movie cult hero, and you can send his fan mail there too!

Charming City

Walking around my new home, Charm City, I wanted to take pictures of scenes that caught my eye. When I lived in New York, I used to carry a small silk notebook to write down what I wanted to capture to memory. Now, I can take pictures and use those images as triggering points from which to write.

Blue Moon Café: 1621 Aliceanna St Baltimore, MD 21231 (410) 522-3940.
This a place that Ronnie, my son’s best friend in Colorado, told him to go to because he saw it on the Food Network. The restaurant is a link to a past experience because it is a link to my son’s beloved friend. Places take on layers of meanings, the memories you created there, the suggestion made by someone whose opinion you value and the hopes you place upon the experience you wish to have there. Blue Moon is small, inviting and worth the wait for the innovative breakfast and brunch fare. Featuring perfected twists on traditional dishes: hashbrowns that crisp perfectly on the tongue and teeth and caramel rolls that are sinfully delectable. Because the dining space is so limited, I would suggest getting takeout when placing your order. What I have heard from others who have ate there is that when you eat there, you want to look for your Mama in the kitchen because the food is that authentic and heart warming. While I walked by, I saw the most beautiful Saturday brunch outfit on this woman. Since I have been contemplating going to fashion school, I have been more watchful of styles that seems to flatter and accent the shape of one's body. Just beautiful and effortless.

I love being by the water again. Baltimore reminds me of an amalgamation of my favorite cities: Brooklyn’s flavor and diversity, parks that echo of Central Park, the docks of Oakland and churches of the Mission in San Francisco. I grew up by the water, and I see why I need it. Seeing the water reaching back out to the ocean beyond the freighters and the industrial buildings, makes me feel expansive as if anything could happen even if it is not within my sights right now. Looking at the mountains in Colorado, I felt blocked, almost trapped by the grandeur before me.

Next to the some of the newer docks are these old docks that are falling apart and overgrown with grass. How did the grass get there? Did someone plant some soil and then the grass seeds spread? But there is real beauty in seeing how negligence still gives life. When looking back over my images notebook, I realized many things that I found beautiful were broken:
Shattered blue automobile glass
A fork that is pressed into the street
Shoes left all alone, a single mitten

I find beauty in accidents like this birthday cake that was thrown on the ground face forward. The day-glo like colors are intense against the black of the pavement. It makes me wonder what happened? Many stories form in my head.

Did someone slip and drop a cake for a child’s birthday?
Was someone pissed and decided to dump the cake on the ground?
Were they tempted to still taste the frosting? I was.

Why does breaking or destroying certain things more meaningful than others?

Favorites

Not too long ago my son asked me, “What is your favorite song?”

These “favorite” questions of his stump me each time. It makes me realize that life gets ahead of me, and I forget to appreciate what I value. When was the last time you thought about your favorite movie, book, etc? It makes me slow down and stop whatever I am doing to scroll through my past to decide on what still matters to me now.

After a moment, I told him that my favorite song is “Sweet Avenue” by Jets to Brazil. He could not recall the song, but when I played it for him, he said it brought back so many memories of living in the heat of Texas. He asked me why it was my favorite? Then it was my turn to fall backwards into memories.



Summer 2000. I loved the song for the simplicity and depth of the lyrics that crooned on about the ability of love to transform everyday life into something memorable, meaningful. It was a time when I was obsessed with poetry and the ability of very few words to capture powerful emotions and anxieties. The song acquired super strength power when I fell in love that same year, in November. I flew back East from Texas to attend a wedding of my best friend from college. There I ran into a mutual friend of ours, and we stumbled over our newfound chemistry for each other.

There at the reception, sitting at a table surrounded by white flowers and wedding paraphernalia, he told me that he loved this same song. I told him that the songwriter was a poet, and later he told me that he wished he could write poetry to capture the feelings he felt for me. As we fell in love over the many miles between New York City and Austin, Texas, this became our song. The relationship did not last long; we were young and thought that forgiveness was always possible. Sometimes our harsh words and actions seemed to count on this.

Listening to the song now, I realize that what was so special about that relationship was our ability to feel so inspired by the love we felt for one another. It was as if we were riding on some high that seemed to have jolted our creativity into high gear. I wrote as if my life depended on it and the inspiration to write was unending. We lived so far away and saw each other so infrequently, but somehow that space helped us to become more of who we wanted to be for one another as well as for ourselves.

Now that I am single again and looking back at the loves in my life, I see how they helped to shape who I am now. I am grateful to have loved and I am even more grateful to still have an open heart. I spoke to this old flame not too long ago as friends who hadn’t seen each other in over 6 years. It seemed that he was still looking to make his mark on the world. That felt right to me because I still have the same goal. I know that romantic chapter in my life is over, but I am grateful to have known a love that inspired and boosted my personal growth. I know now that I can not settle for anything less than that.



Lyrics for “Sweet Avenue”
tasting you and rain I
walk down to the train
trying not to look down
this day could someday be
an anniversary
everything is light and sound

facing forwards going slowly
wait for you to show me
where this train wants to go
living by the L ride I
stop for every flower
everything is soft and slow

now all these tastes improve
through the view that comes with you
like they handed me my life
for the first time it felt right

thank you for making me
see there's a life in me
it was dying to get out
holding you we make two spoons
beneath an April moon
everything is soft and sweet

this cigarette it could seduce
a nation with its smoke
crawling down my tired throat
scratches part of me that's purring
softly stirring

I'm a captain of industry
smoking famously
feet up on the windowsill
looking at all these trees I
feel affinity with
everything so soft and still

budding at my fingertips
touching you I start to bloom
alive with trains and passing ships
soft and sweet along your lips now
I go "oh wow"

thank you for taking me
from my monastery
I was dying to get out
with tears of gratitude
I like my latitude
cross town train to you

now all these tastes improve
through the view that comes with you
like they handed me my life
for the first time it felt worth it
like I deserved it

check it out http://www.last.fm/music/Jets+to+Brazil

My Writing Group

Writing can be a lonely and intimately personal process. I often surround myself with strangers at cafes, libraries, and public spaces to avoid this sense of isolation. During the embryonic stages of the first draft, I am plagued with questions like “What am I writing?” or “Why am I writing?” These questions can be useful in a dialogue of sorts but they tend to get lodged into the existential abyss of writer’s block. Once I am beyond the first draft, my body and mind eases itself into the solitary work of editing and revising. Later, I get stuck again after looking at the same essay for the 20th time and need a pair of eyes and ears that are not my own. That is when you hope to find a writer or a writing group that can give you insight, inspiration, and shred your work into lean articulate pieces. I know; it is a lot to expect.



I have found a wonderful surprise in my writing group. We share our writing and receive honest to goodness, sharp and useful feedback. Since we formed, we have been taking turns celebrating our successes and commiserating our rejections. Beyond the group as a whole, I have discovered many jewel like moments with each member of the group: conversations about long distance love while sitting in the sun, the sweetest cottage and greatest neighbor who gives me encouragement on long walks, a playwright who shares my passion for dance and mothering a son, and a colorful spirit who shares amazing writing advice and provides another perspective regarding the concept of living with one’s mother.


Our writing group just celebrated Rachel’s birthday at Bacaro Happy Hour, and we found some warm hugs within the very cold evening. Rebekah was there briefly before she had to attend another event, so she is not photographed yet. As we drank and nibbled and laughed, I thought this is the opposite of feeling lonely as a writer. Rachel with her beautiful rosy cheeks, maybe from the tequila shot, said that she loved how writing allows us to take our experiences especially the darker ones and transform them into writing material. It is true. No matter what we experience, grow or regress from, we find fodder for our art. I remember one time smashing commitment jade rings into a fine almost white powder on the sidewalk. It felt so final, so completely necessary to destroy what they stood for. I remember a side thought of being surprised that jade could turn into powder. Then adding a mental note: add this image to pool of ideas for a future story.


Right now, in this morning, with my shades drawn and having only stepped out once to walk my dog, I feel so grateful for the memories that I created with this group and to find the words to record and share them.

First Snow

A few days ago, it was so bright out at 6 am that I thought I has slept through my alarm. It was snowing and had been snowing throughout the night. I love that feeling of excitement and surprise that I find with each first snowfall of the year. On our morning walk, Peanut started walking around with her mouth open like a snow plow, then it got stuck in her nose, which made her very angry.

That same night, I talked to my friend out in San Francisco. I told him that it was snowing. When he was growing up near Salt Lake City, he had a big window that looked out into the yard. Jeremy and his brother often peered out this window in anticipation of how much snow would fall that evening. I too had a window like this one. When I was growing up in Maryland, my cousin, Hae Jung, and I would gaze out the open window while standing on my bed. Our upper bodies would be dressed in winter gear complete with scarves, hats, and mittens over our pajamas. Tasting the new snow and trying to catch it with our tongue, we would laugh quietly so as not to get caught. Jeremy told me that the sense of anticipation is what fills you with wonder and hope.



Children make magic out of snow. Tristan made this snow frog last year. How many windows have caught the eyes of little children looking out beyond the glass to the snow? I am sure it is countless. Snow is a reminder that beauty can appear out of a familiar landscape. That the same roads and sidewalks we navigate on a daily basis with confidence and complete knowing are different and suddenly require caution and inspire appreciation.

I feel like right now with the holidays approaching and the weather getting colder, it is not an easy time to be alone or down. I know some people have lost loved ones around this time of year and many painful as well as joyful memories layer the holiday season. It makes me feel grateful for the family and friends that I have close by.

But to be honest, it has been hard to stay afloat above all the busyness and anxiety that comes around this time of year. Lately, I have noticed that I often forget to have fun and fill my days with carefully wrought plans as if by doing this, it will somehow guarantee my safe passage through life and inevitable change. Maybe that is why I started dedicating more time to my blogs again. I have been busy traveling and preparing my writing for publication and thought that the blog practice could slip into the background. But I have noticed that writing the blogs changes me. It keeps me aware of what happens throughout my day with an eye of curiosity and possibility. This awareness to witness my day without rigidity is what makes me happiest. In that way, writing about my life and the reflections that appear is like the snowfall. It brings attention to what is occurring in the moment and hope for what will come.


“When we live in a state of knowing, rather than unknowing, we’re living in a fixed state of being where we can’t experience the endless unfolding of life, one thing after another. Things happen anyway – nothing ever remains the same – but our notions of what should happen block us from seeing what actually does happen.” Bernie Glassman

Halloween Stomach Flu

On Halloween morning, I woke up to my 11-year-old moaning, “Uma, uma” (Korean for mother). Because of jet lag, I wanted to see if he was just talking in his sleep. Both my son and I are major league sleep talkers. While fast asleep, I used to scream whole strings of arguments in Korean to the dismay of my non-Korean lovers. Just last week, Tristan cried out in his sleep, “I know sex is disgusting but…” and then his body nestled back into his plum colored duvet and started snoring lightly. But this morning, it was a cry from the bathroom, the toilet to be exact, where he was pouring out his digested dinner from his mouth.

After he threw up, instead of feeling better, his stomach knotted up in pain. Then for the first time in 3 years, he asked me to rub his belly. This really woke me up. I truly believe that this gesture of having your belly rubbed is an act of faith and trust. The trust comes from a childlike belief in magic; the type of magic that allows you to equate the touch of a loving hand with instant healing. Then there is faith that having your mother that close to your ailing body will create a sacred vigil of sorts and bring relief.

When I was four, I had a severe case of chicken pox. I could not stop my compulsive scratching, so my mother slid her special silk gloves onto my hands to keep them still or to dull my sharp nails. I remember begging her to sit next to me and pray (maybe to Buddha and Jesus?) for my itching to go away. As she whispered her requests to her God, it felt as if a cool mist covered my itching and made them tolerable for a moment. My mom still talks about this request. As a mother, I realize that it must have given her the same wave of bliss that I felt when I rubbed Tristan’s belly.

So I rubbed his belly with some castor oil and citrus lotion and sang him the song that my mother sang to me and her mother before her. It goes like this and mind you it is a translation. Literally it says, “Go down go down (the pain) and go away, your pain is just a fluke and mother’s hand is medicine.” It repeats in sing songy fashion that matches the rhythm of the circles on the belly.

When I was a child, I was happily wrapped up in the warm gesture of a belly rub from my mother’s soft hand. Now I see that it is also a gift it is to the mother who is rubbing her child’s belly.

Below are pictures from last Halloween. Tristan was Reno from Final Fantasy 7. I was Chin-Lee from Street Fighter.