Dear FutureMe,

Dear FutureMe,

      Hi. I know you don't receive so many letters, especially from the future, especially from yourself. I know you're stressed out right now, perhaps reluctant to read a letter written in a foreign language, at this time of the year. But no worries, this is no novel with a complex device in it, more unlikely a question with answers to choose from. It's just another diary-ish flashback to yourself a year ago.

     This time of the year, you used to suffer from a deep consideration of your future. You were distressed from your favorite task of the semester - enrolling your courses. Yes, you've spent a lot of time today to run around, looking for the best combination you can take. You've also tried to escape the clichē of biology/chemistry major students by your openness to "weird" subjects, even if it meant taking more AP and English courses than international field students. Your major concerns were no longer whether you should have lunch or not, but what you were going to do for a living. Pretty depressing, huh? But it was a difficult question for a sixteen-going-on-seventeen.

     Sixteen-going-on-seventeen. I never thought such an age would ever come. Neither did I believe I would be so naive, and the young couple from Sound of Music were not wrong about being too naive and young to understand any of the topics they were discussing. The point here is that I don't believe that a seventeen-going-on-eighteen would be much more intelligent than herself a year ago. It isn't about that I have low expectations, but it's simple justification on how I'm not putting pressure on you, future self of me.

     As I hereby head back to the dorm after music festival, I sense how my high school life is facing the end at last. It is already your third time visiting the same concert hall. First time as a newbie of the audience, the second as a violinist of the orchestra, the last as 가야금 player of the class. Two years ago, you sat on that seat, filled with entusiasm toward your future and sunbaes who were performing. In the same red seat you sat, it strikes you that it's likely that this is the last time you will ever visit the place again. The position behind the red curtain make you feel somewhat nervous and hyper at the same time.
   
     You were always an introvert, but that never stopped you from performing. On stage, you always changed - to an artist painting a scene of the play, coloring it around as you will. No one could ever find the look of the fragile heart of a girl, whose eyes were full of tears because one of the teachers got angry because her voice was too small. A random flashback to 10th grade by a conversation with your history teacher, but I am sure you remember them by your heart. And all the performances you had, including what it took to give such a show. The first talent show you ever had. The very play you designed with your friends on your 5th grade. The very first winning of the competition that my orchestra always lost, which was brought by you as the concertmaster, though it required you to practice a few hours every 6 am. With all these memories aroused, I wonder what you are feeling now. Perhaps you've forgotten them for too long time.

     Though you may not have realized, there are more things you have achieved during your life. To begin with, you have survived. For seventeen years. Despite the numerous attempts world has made to threat you. Secondly, you've completed your education. A lot of people quit or cannot afford to continue their pursuit of knowledge, which shows you are both lucky and talented perhaps. The list can go on forever, which is the reason the letter omits the rest. On the stage and under it, so many things happened.

*Note. This is a letter to myself, written on 11/18/19. Via site www.futureme.org, anyone can freely set delivery to future self.

On Happiness 1

     I would not likely call myself a bibliophile. I do love afternoon reading with a coffee and falling asleep with a lamp turned on, light shone over the book that my hands still hold. Yet I was not the type of student who voluntarily talked to the librarian, looked for recommendations, or wrote about a book I read. I did not believe a single book could change my life.

     That was only until I started to work at the school library in my middle school.

     Not exactly work, as it was performed in the form of volunteering work. I never wanted to do it either, as I feared librarians (due to a bad memory of ringing alarms in my youth). Long story short, the library needed more people to work, and one of my friends (yes, I did have some friends) asked me to apply, as he thought I was suitable for the job. (Later I found out that it was only because the library was the only place I could be seen during school vacation.) It turned out to be better than I thought. Though there were days I headed home two hours later my school dismissed, I still loved to plunge myself into the bookshelf, helping books find their places. Eventually, I began to like Fridays, the day I did my volunteer work.

     Friday was not my only reason to love volunteer work. I loved planning events for the library (the librarian liked my ideas, she actually helped to make it come true on my 9th grade). I loved being able to borrow 5 books at once, just because I was one of the people working there. I loved the treats given after the work and little chit-chats on the week passed by. But mostly, I liked the treasure hunt among the long aisles of bookshelves.

     One of the books I found during my volunteer was <Happiness Is ... : 500 things to be happy about (해피니스: 몰랐던, 잊었던, 작은 행복 500가지)> by Lisa Swerling and Ralph Lazar. The content is pretty straight-forward - this book is on the little items that brighten our daily lives, and the writers show how to pay gratitude to them. There are more books in series; about 500 ways to be happy on the moment, 500 ways to show how I love you, and 3-year-journal on how to be happy every day.

     Some contents seem inappropriate in every day happiness - I cannot afford to take luxurious baths every day. There were things seemingly repetitive; I saw no difference between 'twerking' and 'dancing'. However, just by having the book on my hands filled my mind with delight. I am sure I was happy, at least on the moment I was reading the book.

     I haven't thought about this book after graduation, the last time talked to the librarian. I couldn't see her more, as she seemed to have left school (which was sad, considering all vacation camps I participated). Today one of the videos on YouTube recommended me reminded of the sweet afternoon breeze that passed through my nose and eyes as I flipped the pages.

     A note I wrote on that date showed how amazed I was by how there were so many things a person can write in the book that instantly made the reader smiling. I was also amazed that the book had no explanations, but only several words describing each picture. And I was in awe, overwhelmed by the feeling I experienced.

     Back then, I doubted if gratitude (and gratitude journal) actually helped people feel better about their lives and feel happier. I did enjoy thanking events in my daily life, but I thought that it was somewhat obvious to have such feeling and that happiness should be somewhat grand, derived from a massive emotional climax of a meticulous plot. As I recall this book today, I feel as if I had been neglecting the value of happiness - the slightest joy that brightened my life.


     Every Two Set video uploaded on YouTube, comments made by my favorite artists, reply from one of my role models.

     A short walk with my friend, perfect dines with perfect mates, a pack of cold chocolate milk completing the tiring week.

     Photos taken at the perfect moment, short conversations after role-call, homework done in time without staying up all night.


     There were more things filling my life with contents than I thought.

Observation of an Amateur Artist

Colored draft of mango, drawn by the writer.

     What is this fruit? Anyone? anyone? Though it is modified for drawing and its colors are relatively faint to the real fruit, it is mango. The cut-open version of mango may be familiar, as it is the 'normal' version of mango we see. The leaf on top may seem surprising - I never expected mango leaf to be so long, and it to have such gradient of color, shading from light orange to deep red. But as I delved deeper in search of the actual form of mango in its raw state, I found that mango was more interesting fruit that I thought.

White and black version of unripe mango, drawn by the writer.

     Mango trees have droopy stems that look like willow trees. They have long stems ending with long leaves, somehow reminding the lazy atmosphere of a random afternoon. Their dotted stems stretch out, and it almost looks as if they are about to reach the ground again. Comparing the image of trees and their gradual change in its gradient, it occurred to me how different the fruit actually was compared to the "image" of mango I previously had inside my mind.

     Thinking about it, it was weird seeing a fruit I love from a different perspective. Not only that the un-yellow fruit was a new sight, but the fact that it grew on a tree and was a 'fruit' seemed new. All the mango I have known were in containers, often cut into cubes, squeezed to make juice, or condensed into specks of dust to be smelled. I realized how the fruit was unknowingly losing its name and became silent. Its voice recovered only as someone came to observe its beauty again.