For graduate school application, I have been tasked to describe, the meaningful moments in my life. The moments that have influenced my unique view as a designer and researcher. Unfortunately, to a generalist and overall fluid thinker such as myself, you might as well ask me to write a memoir. Pinging between observations of the seemingly mundane like a child dropping their icecream, to the more world shaking events of the death of a loved one, my mind tends to connect the most seemingly unconnected memories. Perhaps the discipline to sort these memories is why I journal and enjoy poetry so much. With that said, the below poem was a first step to me organizing my mind behind the prompt. Why did I care so strongly for design? Why do I feel observation and immersion are so important?
Perspective is rooted in the details.
Dad
Flakes – of ashened skin dust my Dad’s knuckles as
he gathers the bulk of blankets and tucks them around
my shaking hands, shaking his head at the daughter
who only brought one glove.
Grandma
Puckered lips – pull in from a pair of missing teeth
the bite was in her gaze, the tune held in her hum
When she smiles I smile back.
Grandpa
Wheat – a single stalk dancing upon the hill
of his head, next to the wood at our table
where we would gather, wind building in a silent
laughter as he reached for the last bowl of rice.
I
am a time traveller, returning
again and again, to a new home,
a new window, a new plot in
my memory.
Archeology is the act of digging
I sow
and I reap
and I reap
and I reap
Questions scatter uncovered,
like ants seeking shelter – in a storm I wander
between yesterday and tomorrow.
I design to imagine
Callus – can’t form
around the eyes, so I cast
golden light to soften the boundaries.
Wielding metrics like a mirror,
I flip the screen
and write
and ask
and find
all the little gaps we hold
so dear.
I miss lava tag and Jeff Corwin
the taste of honeysuckle
off the vine, fishing
for tadpoles by the pond
How many members in this meeting can recall
the smell of rain?
To observe, I recede
into the walls and become the night sky.
The North Star with a tender gaze, stays
amongst the swells, guides ships to shore to meet
the blinding Dawn. Some truths are best revealed
in the quiet hum of the morning hours, before
we realize we are awake.
I am tethered to the pinprick of freshly cut grass
the sharp inhale of a child about to drop
their ice cream.
I don’t understand why,
I care,
but I do.
Perhaps it’s in my nature to be rooted
by the details of experience.