Invisible string

what it represents. Looking it up, you’ll find an array of words that could potentially give a half-formed idea: affection, heart, sympathy.

e mail, email, email

This brings us to outreach. currently, it is difficult to get application traction by just applying cold. so what can you do? Go to LinkedIn, find out the names of team members at company name XYZ, and write them down. Then, go to Google and find the email format for said company. Proceed to send a blast email to every member of the team and just ask to connect for their experiences. 70% of the time, you will see connectivity. I have followed up religiously with some folks and they appreciate the persistence.

Leverage the Notre dame network

Take whatever thoughts you might have about the notre dame network and toss them out the window. This network is so much more powerful than anything you could’ve possibly fathomed. And the best part? People want to help. notre dame alums love to connect. but they aren’t mind readers, and it all it takes to get some help is to ask for it. brilliant, right?

Gratitude and check-ins once you have made connections, follow up. Let people you’ve talked to know how you are doing. Tell them if you have landed a role, etc. And always thank them for their time. A little love goes a long way. Trust me. so to those of you still looking for gainful employment, good luck and happy hunting. no translator or Korean-e nglish dictionary gives a definition of jeong that succeeds in encompassing

Stephen Viz is a one-year MBA candidate and graduate of Holy Cross College. Hailing from Orland Park, Illinois, his columns are all trains of thoughts, and he can be found at either Decio Cafe or in Mendoza. He can be reached at sviz@nd.edu or on Twitter at @ StephenViz.

The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

Jeong is cosmic. Jeong is a silhouette. Jeong is an enchantress who follows us, just as much as we follow her — trust in her to guide us, protect us, comfort us.

Jeong is my favorite Korean word, and it’s the one term for which I can never manage to pinpoint an e nglish translation.

I wish I could explain it to you.

When I visit s eoul for break, my mother drives us to a sujebi restaurant in Jongno. It’s a discreet nook, blending into the street corner’s timeworn scenery. Sujebi is a simple meal, soup with noodles handmade from dough. It’s the meal that’s been perfected over decades in the same lively kitchen, the same bowl of warmth and comfort that generations of locals return to. A family-owned business, turned one of the city’s culinary legacies — with signatures covering the wall from celebrities and politicians who seek sujebi on a rainy afternoon, just like us.

As we wait for our order, my mother recalls coming here with her friends when she was around my age, a trusty hangover cure after a night out. The owner gives us extra sides of banchan when she finds out I’m studying abroad, and because she likes my long eyelashes. I have to eat all the real food I can while I’m here, she says, before I return to french fries and pizzas.

Jeong explains itself through experience. It’s more profoundly defined by the moments in which it trickles into our lives than any written definition could — like the kindness of the extra banchan at the restaurant, or the serenity shared by the families, businessmen and college students depositing their umbrellas in the basket by the door as they wander in for lunch.

I like to think of it as an invisible string, attaching us with unbreakable bonds, yet light as a feather. The immediate comfort I feel going up the elevator to my grandmother’s apartment, the photos my mother sends me when she receives the peonies I sent her. It’s more than affection or heart or sympathy. It’s the kind of connection you feel with someone that comes to be over time. The kind that doesn’t come with effort, but saturates your presence when you’re not paying attention, the way a light summer rain seeps into the shoulders of your T-shirt.

Too often, I look into the eyes of someone I adore and wish they spoke Korean, just so we could label it jeong , together. The one-syllable word is always on the tip of my tongue, like a teaspoon of sugar, melting faintly into a sweet and enticing aftertaste. It tints our most subtle hours and is here to stay, and I know the sensation is mutually acknowledged.

It’s at the tip of my tongue when my friend comes into my room crying, and I know that no questions need to be asked — how we’ll sit and listen to our favorite songs until she’ll offer a weak laugh at my stupid joke. o r when I come home after spending the day with a boy I like, recounting his compliments and embrace after he drops me off, lingering by the door for a few extra minutes before saying goodbye. When I’m watching my little cousin go through the rites of passage of a teenager and offering her never-ending, unsolicited advice despite her annoyance.

As many times as I’ve regretted the absence of the perfect e nglish word for jeong , it’s all the more entrancing that we all feel the jeong in our lives, imbued by its warmth and led by its invisible string. If you hadn’t encountered it before, now you have a word for it.

Jeong is the fondness humming through us as we split a dessert, hold hands, exchange knowing glances. Jeong is the contentment in weathering someone else’s turbulence. Jeong is the confirmation you can hear in the silence as you sit together in the back of the cab, the grace you can see in their eyes in the dark.

Jeong . I wish I could explain it to you, but I’ll bet you already know.

Reyna Lim is a sophomore double majoring in finance and English. She enjoys writing about her unsolicited opinions, assessing celebrity homes in Architectural Digest videos and collecting lip gloss. Reach out with coffee bean recommendations and ‘80s playlists at slim6@nd.edu.

The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

Joey Jegier

discerning Your best self o n the spot, I gave two answers. First, I said that a life well-lived would be one after which a person would look back upon their life and say, “I did the best I could.” d issatisfied with a posthumous answer and wanting to provide the first-years with a concrete idea, I said that the ultimate mark of a life well-lived is love.

I was visiting a m oreau class last week to talk about my research when the instructor posed a difficult question: What makes life well-lived? I was stumped. s o many things make life good and beautiful. Friendship, family, fulfillment. h ow do they all fit together?

In this essay, I would like to elaborate on the principle of love and provide some ideas and suggestions for how to live a life of love.

A loving life is a good life. Love forges meaningful relationships. We love our family, our friends and our communities. This bonds us with other people and gives us a sense of purpose. Love leads to transformation and transcendence of the self. b y loving others, we escape the bounds of the ego and live a different way of life. Finally, love radiates peace, joy, faith and hope. When we abide in love, though it may not always be easy, it will always be worth it.

When I say love, I do not mean the mere experience of passionate, infatuating emotions. n or do I mean only romantic love. Love is not an emotion, but an action, a way of being, an infinite and universal power that undergirds existence, sustaining and connecting all of us in one web of humanity.

Love is an act of the will. To love, according to s t. Thomas Aquinas, is to will the good of the other for their own sake. When we love, we want the person or people we are loving to flourish and increase in well-being.

This kind of love, however, requires a radical redirection. It shifts the focus of our thoughts and actions away from our self-serving desires and toward the goodness of our fellow human beings. Instead of saying, “I want to do what makes