Monthly Archives: August 2024

From the heart-wrenching beauty of summer and its strong residue to brief moments of reality in New York, and through contrasting phases of convenient sanctuary and unfamiliarity in Korea, I now prepare to return to my everyday life, marked by numerous changes. Everything is happening so quickly, and as always, I do not feel ready.

What does it truly mean to be “grown-up”? Am I overthinking this concept? As I consider my next steps, I find that playing the piano remains the most endearing and liberating pursuit—perhaps an indication that, in some ways, I am still a child at heart, quite immature. What can I do to gain the wisdom needed to navigate life more effectively and confront who I am and what I am capable of?

For the first time in a while, I revisited my old neighborhood in Korea—the place where I grew up, attended pre-school, elementary, middle, and high school, formed friendships, and spent cherished time with my family. Although I have lived abroad since 2006, returning there each summer or winter has always brought me profound joy. When I first decided to immerse myself in a place as isolated and distant as possible—not just geographically, but spiritually as well—I strongly believed in the sense of trust that came with “coming back home.” I knew where my home was, which allowed me to embrace being physically nomadic and mentally free. Knowing I had a home to return to, whether in the US, Germany, or Israel, I eagerly (almost desperately) anticipated these visits and worked hard for “the day of return home,” which felt like a great reward for my solitary efforts. In that space, I experienced a return to a simpler self—curious, unburdened, yet deeply reflective and engaged.

A few years ago, my parents relocated, and I stayed with them in their new home during my visits. While returning to my old place and reconnecting with familiar faces was once a source of immense joy, that sense of “coming home” has diminished since their move. I now feel more at home in the United States. My visits to Korea have become primarily about seeing my family. Perhaps that is all I truly need—family. Especially my grandpa. I also feel as though I am losing time with them, along with memories, places, and my youth. And their youth. (And our youth.)

Two days ago, I visited my old town, and it evoked a flood of emotions and nostalgia, providing me with a deep sense of belonging. The familiar and nostalgic memories of the neighborhood offered peaceful solace, leading me to wander there for hours.

I once considered myself inherently nomadic, yet I have always yearned for stability. As I navigate these complex feelings, I return to the US—a place I cannot yet fully call home, but where I find a sense of belonging and connection, supported by friendships and professional ties. There is also significant freedom there.

As I reflect on my future, I wrestle with the notion that I may not find a true “physical” home until I discover it. What am I willing to sacrifice? How can I balance a physical home, an emotional sanctuary, and a fulfilling career? I feel a pressing urgency, as though time is slipping away, and I long for a sense of peace to go back to, even though I understand that perfect tranquility may be unattainable. Where do I return? Do I have a place to return? And why do I want such a place of return? Ultimately, perhaps my truest home is found in the heart of my mother—a place of unwavering comfort and love throughout my journey of exploration and self-discovery. Although she often says she has failed to show me love and she is sorry—a possibly beautiful confession—she has exemplified the greatest form of unconditional love. That is my real home. One might say that the way I wrap my rambling thoughts is rather nonsensical or cliché, but I say, “Why not?”

Parting ways or saying goodbye is a heart-wrenching and emotionally quite painful experience.

I always reassure those around me that I am ready to let them go, never clinging or begging them to stay. Although I am never truly ready, and probably never will be, I say this to offer them a small peace. It’s okay to leave if that’s their path. Who am I to impose such demands? I am often driven by desire, yearning for things that frequently elude me, particularly the warmth of people. The challenge of letting go of people, memories, and time may be my greatest struggle in life, despite my usual words to those around me: “Leave when you need to leave. I am always here.” True friendship, love, and appreciation are not about holding on tightly, but about granting the freedom to depart whenever desired. Even when we are apart, we remember the warmth. Even if it’s my own misunderstanding or one-sided, I still feel surrounded by that warmth from the person or the people, like the comforting warmth of the sun on a winter day—I love inhaling the cold air with my absolutely red nose while being enveloped by the winter day light’s warmth.

Although I describe myself as a solitary person, my mind remains deeply engaged by interactions with others. I haven’t attended a music festival in years because I was “wondering,” and even in school, I was not necessarily the one to seek out social engagement. However, my intention to be alone still stems from a yearning for the warmth of others. The space left by others, though painful, has also been a source of fascination of my mind and emotional fulfillment.

Creating music, building memories, and sharing meaningful moments are central to my pursuit of inner peace amidst life’s constant ebb and flow. One hour I say, “Is that it?” Another hour I accept things as they are. Yet another hour, my emotions stir me up, and the next I sit in complete silence amidst confusion.

Upon returning to Korea, I slept through the entire flight, craving a single night of uninterrupted rest. Despite the turbulence, the crowd, and the cramped quarters, I slept deeply as if nothing else mattered. I awoke briefly to drink water before falling back to sleep, and when I next opened my eyes, we were preparing for landing. The profundity of that sleep, shrouded in darkness, provided a rare sense of peace which I haven’t had in a while. I am glad to let myself absorb the complete darkness of memory and emotion and forcefully shut myself off from the noise of minds and circumstances. Replaying the memories and turning them off, replaying and turn them off again and again.

Was this experience merely a dream? The memory lingers vividly, not just in beautiful images but in the air and sounds of the moment. I remain overwhelmed by emotions and thoughts, perhaps hoping to silence them, even if just temporarily. When people say it’s not a big deal, I find it precious. When people say I am overly sensitive to minor changes in my life, those changes matter to me. I connect the dots, creating significant patterns and spaces, and I am overwhelmed in awe.

Before I start my rehearsal later today, I may look for a piece of music that allows me to explore my current emotions, something that resonates deeply with me. I know for sure it will be very far from Hindemith. What do my ears hear?

Some random contemplation: is my life too disconnected from what is deemed “normal”? When did this divergence begin, and what is its nature? I am left questioning this gap and seeking understanding. I hope I am not too alien to anyone or anything.