Last week, I went to Japan.
I ate like a prince, and witnessed the beauty and wonder of nature. I felt the buzz of the city nightlife. I sat in a lot of trains. And I met some incredible people whom I’ll never forget.
Then I came back.
I flew back on Thanksgiving, and went straight from rolls of nigiri to turkey and mashed potatoes.
Days after, with the tryptophan and jet lag waning, I’m still left with this heavy feeling. It’s more like a deep impression.
After spending a night cramming for what felt like an exam, I voted. Though unlike other exams I did not have the “None of the above” option.
As I left the voting booth, I thought about my friends and what they were saying on social media, whether they swung left or right or everything in between. And I realized something.
Passion is a powerful thing, compassion even more powerful.
No matter what the results, the real test will come in the morning after. It’s a matter of how we as a people respond to not only our new president but to one another. It’s a matter of reaching out to “them,” those people whom stand across a perceived line we believe to exist, holding a set of beliefs that look different from ours.
Lately I’ve been watching a lot of food network. Every night when I come home and hit that remote, I’m on that channel.
I’ll work my way through episodes of Chopped. Cutthroat Kitchen. Beat Bobby Flay. It’s a way to inspire my own amateur chef work—and feed my food binge, that’s for sure.
But if I’m truthful, I’d have to admit it’s the only place I feel safe.
Where I don’t have to deal with political agendas and networks spewing fear or hate. Where I don’t have to try to comprehend another senseless killing or act of terrorism or some other controversy. Where I don’t have to be tempted to despair.
I get the feeling I'm not alone.
When I’m speaking with my friends and coworkers, we’re a mix of things. We're two shots of sadness, poured into a glass and stirred with indignation. Numbness. Somewhere in these conversations I might recall a faint whisper of hope. But when everyone's heavy on that drink, it gets harder to hear...
Kobe.
This is new territory for me. I'm writing to someone I don't really know. I've never spoken to you. Never even said hello. I grew up watching you rock that purple and gold, hitting jumper after jumper. I saw you once on July 4th, when you pulled up in your cream-colored Bentley. You flashed a smile to that kid sitting in the beat-up accord next to you. I was back then, and still am now, just another fan.
But to me, and to many others, you are a symbol...
Do not forsake the wisdom of your elders.
Older people, your parents especially, have many years of experience and insight to bring to the table. And if they love you, you will hear the truth. Because they aren't afraid to tell you like it really is.
In these moments, be ready to receive it. Do not harden yourself to their words, because only foolish people spurn wisdom. And you don't want to be a fool.
I say this because I had a decision to make this morning. Would I carry this hurt, or would I learn to let it go? Last night my mom brought something up from the past, something I didn't think was a big deal. Something I had already apologized for. And it hurt. Why hasn't she gotten over this? I thought she had forgiven me. And I didn't even think it was my fault to begin with. Poor communication, perhaps. But my intentions weren't wrong.
