Naked and Taking up The Quest
The thing is: I like nakedness. After shower, I cover my personal places in a yellow towel and walk fast to my room. When the door is shut, voila, I drop the towel on the bed, and just be. Blow dry my hair, make up, browsing through clothes, answer phone messages, make bed, arrange my desk - all the while naked. I like to feel the cool air brushing at my belly when all my pores from head to toes take a breather. No cover. No inhibition. I feel free.
What does it have anything to do with that I’m writing a book titled “Coming Home”?
Well, we’ll get there.
I’m writing a book. Its title is: “Coming Home”. Its genre is: memoir. And as much as I like nakedness, I’m afraid of writing it. A writer - I can’t recall her name - wrote that as she sits down on her chair and begins to write, it floats her out the window; so she’s there, hanging midair next to an oak 6 meters above the parking lot. That’s how I feel. One tiny different is that I’m here naked, no yellow towel around, there are 300 people on the parking lot, and they’re reading aloud my words written big on the sky. That’s how uncomfortable, vulnerable, overly-revealed I feel.
But I’m writing it. Because I need this book. And this book needs me. And perhaps its readers need it. Perhaps you need it.
“Coming Home” isn’t a story with its neat structure: beginning-middle-ending. “Coming Home” is a collection of moments in my life. Those moments are dots and when all the dots are connected, like constellation on a night sky, it shows the journey of a girl who undertakes a sacred quest. Existential quest. Existential - isn’t it a very grand, abstract, and sacred word? Sacred folks like Buddha, the saints, the sages, the monks, the pilgrims, Yoda, are those who labor such quest - finding answer to this one question “Who am I?”
I, a born-n-raised Hanoi girl, happened to ponder that question too. And so when most of my peers were putting a lot of make-ups on and collecting posters of H.O.T (a Korean boyband); I suffered. I’m glad that I suffered. I knew the question was unanswered, I knew something important was lost, I knew I was not home. And I’m glad that I knew.