I'm [not] a napkin holder.

Two and a half years ago, L asked our poetry workshop,

"What is the reason the artist
was unable to remain silent?"

She sifted through each poem with a dozen tools of craft. This one — emotional impulse. The emotional impulse answers why the poem was written. Why the artist was unable to remain silent.

It wasn't enough to know the mechanics of poetry and identify how each piece was crafted through its line breaks, metaphors, leaps and hinges. The crafted thing had to have a purpose.

Of course, not every piece of art will possess a grand purpose. Very few are meant to melt evil dictators off their thrones. But every creation was once in the hands of a maker. And all makers, all artists — yes, I dare say, all — create with a purpose in mind for the thing being formed.

Even postmodern pieces that are designed to deny purpose answer to an emotional impulse: to frustrate the idea that a made thing needs to have purpose at all.

Two weeks ago, I pointed to a ceramic napkin holder at my best friend's home. All sobs and wild coughs, I exclaimed, THIS IS WHAT I AM.

Then I proceeded to grab the napkin holder, brandish it vigorously and say, But what the hell IS this thing?

The ceramic napkin holder was nothing more than an oddly shaped lump of tile bent in half with an inch-wide space left between the two halves. Until the artist painted the outside of this bent thing and scrawled the letters N-A-P-K-I-N-S across both sides, nobody knew whether to hang it with the ceiling plant or fling it for the dog to fetch.

The problem with exploring and deepening my belief in God is the increasing realization that I am a made, handcrafted thing.

As an artist, I'm accepting this awkward reality with a slew of reactions. Shock. Remorse. Gratitude. Amusement. Relief.

Accepting the idea of a Creator of humans has unexpectedly shifted my worldview. Suddenly, I ask new, more impressive questions. I grant meaning to the stupidest things. And everything makes sense. My life is a foreign film and someone finally switched on the subtitles.

Why this "I'm a napkin holder" idea is important to me:

Every cross-wearing, well-intentioned fool on this planet has tried to convince me that God has a "divine purpose" for me.

I would say, "But I was an accident." They would say, "God doesn't make accidents." And I would say, "No, I really was. My dad was a kid. He fucked my mom, who was also a kid. She got pregnant. She quit college. Trust me. That wasn't divine."

I refused to believe that God would allow all the shit that ensued with the bad marriage [note the understatement] simply to birth me. For one thing, I couldn't handle that level of pressure.

Then my trusty train of thought traveled here:

When I create, some of my best work comes from the fuck-ups. The unintentional. Sometimes, when I'm trapped in a wreck, my emotions pull words from me better than I ever can when I set aside healthy "writing time." In those frenzied moments, I birth the most unexpected words.

But although the catalyst for those words was unplanned, I still craft them with love, focus and so much desire. I shake the words, erase them, restitch them and chisel each line until I unearth the poem's unique purpose.

By fleshing out this analogy, I've successfully convinced myself that if Creator God exists and if I am a made thing, then despite the fact that I was conceived accidentally, I have a specific purpose.

And if I have a specific purpose, then what am I flitting around for? I demand to know what that purpose is! I refuse to be hung from the ceiling or thrown to the dogs. I want my Creator to etch my real name and purpose in bold letters where everyone can see so that I will exist to my fullest, most satisfying potential.

My irreverent prayer for the year is, "If I'm a napkin holder, fucking say so already so that I can be the best damn napkin holder there ever was." You get the idea.

What is the reason God was unable to remain still?

Why shove another feisty Korean American girl into the motley of humans littering this sad planet? Am I decoration? Am I twelve books on one shelf at the local bookstore?

Or am I a good, strong wrecking ball?

How can I not ask? And if God exists, how can he refuse to answer such an honest question that will only help him [her/it] be better known and understood?