The child of immigrant parents, I've spent most of my life striving to get to the top by working hard and constantly improving. The road was clear, but I never stopped to question whether I was on the right path. I was always busy, yet never fully engaged.
In my freshman year of college, a dilettante with an insatiable curiosity, I rejoiced at the activities fair and during shopping period, voraciously sampling from a tantalizing buffet of academic courses and extracurricular clubs. I eventually became a European history major, but vividly remember two of my elective courses.
One was a Japanese calligraphy class taught by a master of the art who communicated through a translator. On the first day, wielding a horsetail brush as big as himself, the sensei majestically drew swirling lines in unctuous black ink on a sheet of rice paper spread across the floor. Without uttering a word, he transmitted to us the centuries-old culture embedded in the single character on the page.
