Eunhae Han > Recent Status Updates

Responsibility is feeding our roots: parents, family, friends, and community

True choice is creating, not habitual reacting

Opening life’s presence with heart-felt gratitude, enjoying that life expresses itself through you as you

Being honest is always interesting

Doing nothing with friends is never doing nothing isn’t it

Love brings you home

Isn’t it odd. We can only see our outside, but nearly everything happens on the inside

One of our greatest freedoms is how we react to things

How do you raise a black child by Cortney Lamar Charleston

Do I l Look Sick To You? (Notes on How to Make Love to a Cancer Patient) by C.J. Hribal

Autism Screening Questionnaire - Speech and Language Delay by Oliver De La Paz

“The Whitest Girl” by Brenda Peynado

“The Great Meal” by Jung Hae Chae

Of course they hadn't. It was dangerous to speak something so far from reach, to allow it to float through the air even if the possibility of it was moments from evaporating. Maybe already had. Even I had to admit the word felt funny on my tongue, like a stray piece of hair that was nearly impossible to find but could be felt in the choke of my throat.

This is how all family's created. Confession. A yearning to release.
Somewhere to place your shame and have it wrapped up, coddled, cradled like an infant who don't have words yet to explain all the ways the world haunts them.

Fantasy gives space to experiment with identity, process emotions, test ideas, experience freedom.
Why are images arranged in this way?
emotional architecture
pleasure -not obligcation-iswhat creates lifelong learners
cultivate children's skills to notice artistic choices, appreciate ambiguity, tolerate uncertainty, recognize sincerity
children deserve art, not just instruction
wonder is valuable

The tale of custard the dragon

"Abdul Waheed claims my grandfather sold him this prop-erty," the girl says, her tone tired, as if each word is a heavy stone she has to lift and put down again.

And when his darling Intisar arrived, she redefined his happiness.

They imagined him living a life of ease, enjoying a freedom theyd fantasized each night as they lay their heads on their stiff cots. Indeed, hed tasted such freedom. But his secret open wound thrummed, and there was no salve to heal it, not even the love of a wife or the miracle of a child.

What they wanted more than anything was a picture of home; the image of it was branded on their minds, its wonderful aroma wafting through their nostrils, its tender flavor swirling across their tongues.
Hafez could never capture such things.

Hafez sketched and sketched, yet there were only so many places the men had been-and their imaginations stretched only so far. Their requests gradually petered out like the fading flourish of his pencil trailing the corner of a page.

Like them, Hafez clung to the warmth of his parents against his body for as long as he could, like the flaps of a coat against a strong wind before its evitable chill finally penetrated his bones.

The land of his birth was never named in this new country except to identify terrorists on airplanes. So he'd folded that identity away like an old shirt that no longer fit.

He'd munch on tangy, unripened handfuls directly from the tree in the orchard. The floral taste of the fuzzy skin and tender mound filled his mouth like a bouquet.

To his daughter, a father. He was tethered to other human beings, his actions falling on their lives like rocks breaking away from the hills, crushing unsuspecting, innocent bystanders. Hed believed if he joined the resistance, he could crush his own fear and shame. He wanted to tell his father how he'd felt his spirit fracture inside his body, all the pieces of himself scattered. He was only trying to be whole again

Sorrow prickles her heart like the thorny stem of a rosebush after its fragrant blossom has withered.
Yalla! Tell her now, a voice urges her. Tell her this land is now hers. It is the perfect moment, and yet the words still won't come. How can her granddaughter simply earn it by default, without all of its attendant history, its pain and joy, its loss and triumphs?