I am writing this from Indianapolis, Indiana, my second home in America. I am attending a Midwest performing arts conference called MAX to share what I do as a pianist. There is a pleasant breeze in mild, sunny weather at the end of summer. I must have caught the right time to be here—not too humid, not too hot.
The Uber driver asked me what I was filming, noticing I was taking video outside from the window on our ride to the hotel. There wasn’t an apparent picture-worthy scene other than green pastures, brick buildings, and two-story houses surrounded by big trees. Something about greens in summer here is much lusher than San Diego. I smiled and said, “Indiana…”
Having returned to Indiana a handful of times since moving to Southern California almost nine years ago, I notice conflicting emotions arising whenever I visit this home state. This might be similar to seeing my small hometown in South Korea during my early childhood.
Familiar yet unfamiliar, new and shiny modern buildings have replaced the ones I used to know. Many of the people I used to hang out with are no longer there, though a few still are. Most strangely, I, who has all those memories in that space, am standing here yet have dramatically changed into someone I don’t even recognize.
This realization doesn’t mean it is good or bad. It just is. It feels weird that I can drive to places without GPS in Indianapolis or Bloomington, yet I no longer recognize it anymore by its landmarks.
A hundred years from now, perhaps three to five hundred years from now, this place might look completely different. People I used to know will be long gone, including myself. The things that I care about will have been forgotten and become dust in the universe. The foods I used to love, the memories I cherished, the people I loved, and the music I used to make—none of these will matter to anyone.
After a long day at the conference, a woman asked me what my plan was for the rest of the day. I said I would go to Butler University and practice for a couple of hours. She was surprised by my answer. “You mean now? Aren’t you tired?”
The truth is, I was a bit tired, yet I wanted to practice some. Not because I wanted to prove anything to anyone or because I had an immediate deadline that I needed to meet for my concert schedule, but because this was another first day of the rest of my life. I desired to feel the music, especially after such a long day.
When I think of how things are constantly changing and how I will be forgotten in hundreds of years, I feel the urge to feel today and enjoy the details of the moments that entail more. How I live my life today, how I interact with people, how I enjoy the things I love, how I express my love for people, and how I appreciate the food that I eat are what matters now, in this moment, the most.
Macro and micro. Focus on this moment, each step, but don’t forget the big picture, as you go on, existing in the passage of time. I try to make this delicate balancing act my compass for navigating this life.
Whenever I feel behind on my practice schedule for upcoming performances or overwhelmed by the workload, I remind myself that nature doesn’t hurry, yet everything is accomplished. The flowers that we see seem to happen overnight, but they have been making their way all along.
Just like saying:
“Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”
Perhaps my version might be:
“Before enlightenment, play piano. After enlightenment, play piano.”
This poem, an excerpt from The Eighth Elegy of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies, resonated with me this week:
If no one else, the dying must notice
how unreal, how full of pretense,
is all that we accomplish here,
where nothing is allowed to be itself.
Oh hours of childhood, when behind each shape
more than the past appeared
and what streamed out before us
was not the future.
We take the very young child
and force it around, so that it sees objects –
not the Open, which is so deep
in animals’ faces. Free from death.
We, only, can see death;
the free animal has its decline in back of it, forever,
and God in front, and when it moves,
it moves already in eternity, like a fountain.
... it feels its life as boundless,
unfathomable, and without regard
to its own condition: pure, like its outward gaze.
And where we see the future,
it sees all time
and itself within all time,
forever healed.
The part “it moves already in eternity, like a fountain . . . its life as boundless” strikes me like lightning. I had to read the poem aloud multiple times to absorb the presence of the words and take it all in. This has been a transformative poem for me in many respects.
I am now curious. What would your action be like to the quote that I shared?
“Before enlightenment, (BLANK), after enlightenment, (BLANK).”
Please share it with me! I hope you get to do that (BLANK) today.
Have a wonderful week!
💕Jeeyoon
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