a letter to you.
Dear you,
Visual description: A one line drawing of Shuo's left ear and right ear joining together to form the shape of a heart in bold black ink.
How did I not see it before? That ‘ear’ is at the center of ‘h-ear-t’. How beautiful it is when the instruction manual is woven into the art itself. Did you know? That this is a part of the magic by design. That we reach the heart through the ear. To listen with your heart, they say. How easy it is to forget when all the noise pollution of the world lulls us to sleep instead. That perhaps this is a part of the poison by design. To…
Plug our ears.
Numb our hearts.
Give us amnesia.
And when we’re ready,
Let us resist.
Let us insist on feeling.
Let us persist by re-membering.
How did I not see it before? That the shape of two ears make up one heart. That left and right matters. That when they join forces, something new emerges. That a heart divided can still be mended. How sadness is the first emotion to tug at me when I realize a separated heart is also of my own doing. How policing the facial scars and lines that shouldn’t exist has shielded me from seeing a whole heart that’s existed all along, right beside my eyes. How ironic. That my body hasn’t betrayed me after all. That if anything, it’s never left me. If anything, it’s the instruction manual woven into the art that is my life. That my body carries the hope I cannot always tangibly feel. That my body is my greatest love, whispering until I hear its chorus…
Heyyyyyy you.
I gotttttt you.
Just listen.
How sometimes the obvious hides the most beloved. How so much can be taken for granted, unknowingly.
How I recall a friend once asking me, “what do they call therapists in China?” I said, 心理学家 (xīn lǐ xué jiā), which literally translates to ‘student of the heart’. How I then suddenly remembered that I come from a history of artists. That I am a child of a long-standing culture with language akin to an intricate tapestry woven with countless instruction manuals. How I am a single thread connected to this colorful fabric that an American citizenship cannot erase. How unfortunate it is that we are taught to belittle our origin stories. How in the same breath we are taught to revere the blood-soaked tapestry of Turtle Island. That I am shaped by this tapestry too, even if I refuse to believe it. That I shape it in return, even if I refuse to know it. That this exchange is a delicate dance for us all as long as we sustain ourselves on stolen land.
How I wonder if wounds cannot fathom healing unless we allow ourselves to actually look at it. That maybe we don’t have to be alone in the looking. Maybe heavy breaths get lighter when we get to do the heart work together. Maybe under the right set of conditions, we can all become students of the heart.
How one day I wish for you to notice your life as one thread holding many stories with infinite meanings. How I wish to ask you many questions. Invite you to new worlds…
What might it mean for you to explore beyond what you’ve understood yourself to be?
What you’ve been told you are? What systems demand of you?
How might you begin to purge the poison? Access your magic?
How might you cherish the beloved treasures within yourself, your body, of your history, and of your people hidden from your view?
What tapestries are you shaped by?
How will you shape it in return?
Who will you shape it with?
What will you make of it?
What difference will it make for you?
Your life is art. And while I would never claim to know any of these answers for you, I intend to listen with my heart. I only hope you are curious enough to venture out, to imagine, and then re-imagine, if for no one else, at least for yourself this time.
Lovingly,
me
