For Daughter’s Gifts, Part I, click here.
For Daughter’s Gifts, Part II, click here.
For Daughter’s Gifts, Part III, click here.
Daughter's Gifts, Part IV
Three years ago when my daughter was nine she was on a paper-cutting snowflake-making rampage that lasted for days. She crouched on the hardwood floor of our living room as small scraps of paper encircled her and fanned out in a pattern that looked as though she had just jumped into a pile of raked leaves. Her fingers were swift and aflutter, folding and cutting, unfolding and smoothing creases. She poked, slashed, snipped and trimmed, wielding her scissors with mastery and ease as though they were a part of her hand.
The snowflakes piled up. When the pile grew large enough she switched tasks and threaded them through with white string. She stretched the lines from the kitchen threshold to the back door; from the corner of the hallway to the picture window. Before long string and paper chains of hundreds of snowflakes criss-crossed the living room, hanging in the open space like streamers, most suspended in complete stillness while some turned silently like leaves touched by currents of unseen air. I loved their quiet presence, how they swept through the empty space with curve and pattern and undulation — each snowflake a handmade world that when unfolded, holds itself in radiant symmetry; each flake a drop of dew hanging from spider’s silk, drawing my attention to the world of invisible threads that weave unseen through empty spaces, always there and always close by, awaiting a child at play to open my eyes and help me remember a deeper form of attention.
They stayed up for three years. Most of them. On occasion, the kids jumped up to touch them, and once in a while the force of their touches was greater than the strength the quarter inch-width of paper holding them up could handle. At other times, flakes were brought down from boisterous play, victims of a flailing arm or slashing toy sword. Because of my height, I had to bob and weave through the room to avoid them. In moments of inattention I would brush up against them with my head or a shoulder; in moments of self-absorption the strings would clothesline me, leaving me flustered and startled by their very presence, and at times, my own.
The microscopic debris collected on the surfaces, atmospheric particles floating through the room — oil vapors from the stove, cat dander, dust. Slowly, the strings lost tension and the lines sagged lower and lower. Walking routes through the living room created regular weather patterns — air currents that over time nudged the snowflakes into bunches along sections of string at the room’s edges where they hooked together, where their protruding corners slotted into holes cut in the shapes of diamonds, clovers and hearts, entangled where they touched. Once in a while, in the night, a snowflake would fall from its string unnoticed. Sometimes they fell in pairs.
Finally, months ago, I took the remains down. Too sad, I thought. Too much holding on. I remembered the joy, the immersion, the abandon. The way she let the world fall away and the way I let myself see her that way. I remember how on the last day of her snowflake flurry, she gathered a pile of finished pieces together and marched into my bedroom. I followed and watched, curious to see what she was up to. But when she saw what I was up to she grunted and scowled in protest. She advanced on me with elbows locked and hands outstretched and Daddy, get out! and pushed me backwards out the door. Only few minutes later, she called me back, with a subtle sing-song in her voice. Daddy, you can come in now!
I opened the door. She was stretching a string of snowflakes across the bedroom window and was tying an end to one of the blinds’ vertical cords. She stepped back and gazed at her work, eyes wide, saying nothing, smiling. I was overjoyed by the gesture but more so by the way she beamed.
Last year, one of the snowflakes fell from the string. I laid it down behind two houseplants on the small table by the bedroom door among a collection of rocks, shells, sand dollars, and a tiny paper heart not half an inch wide. There it lived beneath the small canopy of leaves where a year of organic residue had settled on the once crisp and clean surface, softening it and weighing it down — the effects of being among living things.
Today, I picked it up. I thought for a moment about taking care of it — cleaning it or somehow restoring it. I’d placed it there for a reason, after all, albeit a reason that now felt vague and inaccessible. I decided against it. I felt bad for my nostalgia. It wasn’t what it once was. I felt bad I’d let it come to this.
I walked to the kitchen, to the trash bin. I crumpled it up and threw it in. As I walked away, I was surprised. I thought I would feel lighter. I thought my hands would feel empty. But now, they were sticky with residue.
Creative Mornings Portland - Upcoming Talk at Clinton Street Theatre
Friday, October 27th, 8:30 am - 10 am
I’m thrilled to announce that I will be speaking about my creative practice at Clinton Street Theatre in Portland, Oregon as part of a series on Endurance being hosted by Creative Mornings, Portland.
My friend Steven Gosvenor will be sharing his music to open the session, after which I will speak on the relationship between the body, pain, endurance, creativity, aliveness and the process of becoming a full human being.
Coava coffee and V/GF breakfast will be provided.
For more information: https://creativemornings.com/talks/michael-namkung