Choosing Depth Over Brilliance

Choosing Depth Over Brilliance: How Blogging Changed My Life

I prefer doing things steadily. Rather than producing something spectacular in a short time, I like moving at my own pace, looking around, and quietly taking one step forward after another. In that sense, blogging suits me perfectly. A blog requires no exaggeration, decoration, or flashy techniques. It does not demand impact or novelty, nor does it require shocking people or offering enormous help. Blogging feels like a small confession. And that is why I love it.

Before I began blogging, my life felt like walking through fog. I was painting and working, but it all felt like a hollow echo. Only through blogging did I rediscover the meaning of writing as an artist. Writing is the act of holding time still for a moment. Time is like air, or like light—felt for a second, seen for a moment, then gone. Our years pass in exactly that way. Some lives pass in brilliance, though not always and not forever. Others may feel like walking through darkness. Some people walk hand-in-hand with someone they cherish, becoming explorers of meaning together. Others walk a special path that everyone watches. But ultimately, all of us move through time equally. Our endings are the same.

In the midst of these varied moments and experiences, we slowly fade—like flowers that once bloomed brightly but inevitably fall. Yet writing becomes a small signal that I existed in this world. Perhaps this is why I suddenly understood the ancient people who painted the Altamira cave walls. Why did they press their hands onto stone and draw the bison and horses they saw that day? Maybe they too simply did not want to disappear. Maybe they too wanted to share the sunset with someone, despite the hardships of life.

Through blogging, I learned the importance of time and the value of small things. I once believed that bigger and more impressive things were always better. So I boasted, felt envy, and wanted to shine. But after realizing the beauty of the ordinary, I became a quieter person. I began to enjoy my own life more deeply. After learning the significance of small earnings, I stopped chasing big wins in the stock market. After witnessing how tiny bits of information can help people, I’ve tried to record even the smallest insights here.

If I can open my eyes in the morning, feel the weather of the day, and warm my surroundings even a little, I consider that a successful life. If I can treat the students around me with sincerity, care about their futures, and try to help them—not as a famous educator, but as the teacher they see every week—I consider that a successful life.

Writing keeps my eyes on the humble things. Writing is not a feast to be devoured greedily, but a simple piece of bread to be chewed slowly and appreciated. Through writing, I think, feel, learn, and change. Without this inner movement, we crave stronger and stronger stimulation, and it becomes easy to slip into a life driven by pleasure. Writing creates a simple, disciplined, meaningful life. Blogging offers a space for that kind of life.

More than anything, I am grateful that I can now express what I feel and think so naturally. If we feel something in our hearts but cannot record it, express it, or develop it, then we are living a life no different from animals. Sometimes I think that a life without expression is like a gorilla pounding its chest, trying desperately to communicate something. As humans, it is natural to express, think, and create.

In this age of artificial intelligence, I feel this even more strongly. Society seems eager to dismiss human creativity, valuing only what is perfect or fashionable. But we all know that the shiny things we see are not the whole story. Simple, repetitive tasks may gradually be taken over by AI, but humans will turn toward more advanced, thoughtful, and creative work. Imagining how the future will change is enjoyable—and expressing those thoughts in writing is equally enjoyable.

Running my art classes, I’ve witnessed extraordinary transformations. At first, I felt joy when students won awards. I counted them secretly, feeling proud because every single student of mine had won something. I used to tell myself, “Anna, your classes will only get better.” But writing allowed me to re-examine this mindset. It did not align with the philosophy I truly value, and my students themselves taught me this truth.

The transformation was simple but profound: they became self-directed learners.
Most new students ask, “Teacher, what should I do?” And I answer, “Look at this sample. Start with this part.” They brighten and begin working. Then they call me again: “Teacher, I finished. What’s next?” And I give them the next step. On and on it goes.

Eventually I wondered if my structure was preventing their independence. So I tried freestyle sessions. “Today is your free day. Use anything here and create whatever you imagine.” The students then asked, “What should we imagine?” That was when I realized today’s children need a style of teaching that feels more like play—more natural, more intuitive, like the way I sense the seasons and write.
So I changed the structure little by little. And I repeated it endlessly.
The results were astonishing. Unless they were brand-new students, they no longer asked, “What should I do next?” Instead, like yesterday’s class, they designed their own projects, searched for materials, and asked for help only when needed. Sometimes they even suggested ideas: “Teacher, if you teach me more about this part, I can make what I really want.”
This, to me, is the closest manifestation of the educational philosophy I learned in graduate school and the approach I strive to practice. Seeing how my daily life and writing intersect with teaching has made me even more devoted to writing.
If students can think for themselves, lead their own work, trust their abilities, embrace mistakes, and create something every day, then the future will be bright. If I can cultivate even a small space where this kind of learning happens, more young people will grow up with creative lives. And eventually, the world will have many more lifelong artists.
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Image by Cindy Z.

Even now, my new students still ask me what they should do next. And although the beginning is always like this, I already know how they will change as time passes. So I happily guide them to the next step, and I always tell them, “Try it on your own. Trust yourself.” These small repetitions will one day transform them. They will surprise me with ideas I never expected.
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I will wait for that change—patiently and for as long as it takes—hoping each student increases even a small percentage of self-directed learning. This is the same approach I have used with my own children.

After witnessing how rich a day—and even a whole life—can become when I focus not on grand achievements but on simplicity, on the process itself, and on the joy of making, I began to think more deeply about what joyful art truly is. These reflections and explorations will continue to unfold through my writing. And I am deeply grateful to have a blog where I can share this journey.