Moments {take to the streets}

The last few days, I feel full with thoughts of this place and of living here. Some friends just repatriated back to the States after living here for several years, and their journey as they settle back in to the Midwest feels so near and far at the same time.

We listened to a woman speak the other night on Third Culture Kids, a phenomenon that happens to children who are raised for some, or all of their developmental years in a country that is not where they hold their citizenship. My husband is a Third Culture Kid and I can see the way it has affected him. I know it already has irreversible roots in my own children now too, roots that will only grow deeper. At one point the speaker said, for Third Culture Kids, "their childhood is a grieving childhood." You can't say that to someone like me. I'm a sad thinker. I think sad thoughts. But I understood what she meant. It's not an entirely bad thing, this grieving. It's a part of life. But it is hard.

One thing I love to do and don't get to often enough is to walk the streets of our city and photograph it.  This is not an easy task, to capture the faces and lives of people here... it feels intrusive (and it is) since most of them are strangers and they don't know that I am not a tourist, or merely oggling them as if they were a zoo animal.

I can't pass a person without wondering about the life that is draped by that body, that set of clothes, that particular color handkerchief that is tied tight around a head of dark matted hair. I wonder if they have a family, and if their job is steady. Do they have a burden they are heavy with today, or every day? Do they get along with their mother, their wife? Do they have some hope that drives them?

So I've noticed that with all the loss and gain that comes from living in this land as a foreigner, but as one who is making this foreign land her home, sometimes it helps to just gaze upon the details of the place. The more I do it, the more I find that I love it, in a surprisingly tender though painfully removed kind of way.

Today I took a walk, and did just that.

Moments {kitchen dreams}

Sometimes I daydream about what a kitchen could really be... not philosophically or anything, just the plain, bare-bones wood and tile, ceramic and stainless steel make up of it.

It could be spacious, with pine flooring that shines from the sunlight streaming in through large, french paned windows. It could have countertops that wrap and roam for miles around the perimeter, like a freshly mown path that just waits to be trampled on with kneading and chopping, hot baking pans and bowls of ingredients, and maybe three or four little bums that want an aerial view.

It could have sinks like bathtubs, so deep you have to bend and reach with your fingertips to scour the gleaming white enamel. It could have cupboards that reach to the sky (which I could reach, because I am just that tall) and pantries that you could get lost in (or lose someone in). I even know someone that has two ovens, stacked right on top of each other. A Thanksgiving Day dream.

And best of all, or sort of best because really all those things seem like "bests" to me, it could have a large table with six or even eight chairs gathered around it, that sits by a window and gathers bodies from wherever they wander and lets them join you, right there, where all the cooking and talking and making and pouring and all manner of wonderful things takes place.

It really is just a dream though, isn't it? I know some of you have all those things... and it doesn't mean your life is rosy or your family close, or the struggle to do housework vanishes down the drain of that bottomless sink.

Our kitchen here is nice, though it reminds me of cooking in a camper sometimes, like those old pop-up Jayco's my family spent our growing years wandering around the country in. But you get used to what you have, and I know this has been true for me (outside of daydreaming).

On days like today though, when I have twenty things going at once and everything is fighting for space (and losing), I can get a little twitchy. But eventually everything finds it place, and gets its turn in the oven, or its run through the doll house size sink. And we have also managed to learn to shop a bit differently, which means cooking a bit differently, and maybe planning a bit differently too. My kids may not all be able to land a seat on the counter at the same time (which really isn't necessary or sanitary anyway), but those same counters are also low enough (think mid thigh) that peering over them is made a bit easier.

And the table I think would bring everyone together? It likely would, but small houses can make for strong love too.

And cookie dough stuck to your heel can make you wake out of a daydream...

The Best of 2010 {in pictures}

Our computer is still down, and I am still using an old one, which means to post a {your best of 2010} post, I could only select from the photo pool of what has already been posted on this blog. Yet, even with that narrow(er) playing field, it was hard for me to pick... so I just clicked on any picture that I loved for some reason or another... the memory, the pure aesthetics of it, some new trick I learned that happened when that shot was taken, or just the way it made me feel when I looked at it.

I can't wait to do it again next year.

Blog Work

TodayI took a little time to do some blog renovations, or additions. You can find them under the header above.

-I also dyed my hair... just a bit redder than normal.
-And let the kids ravage our house with legos and forts and pools of pillows on the living room floor (it's Saturday).
-I went for a morning run and it was cold, and my legs were sore, but it hurt so good.
-Nearly finished a hat while they hauled out the Lincoln Logs, and I hauled their sister out of their way... multiple times.
-Watched someone read Dietrich Bonhoeffer's epic biography that just came out recently. He's obsessed... but I'm okay- Dietrich is a good guy to be obsessed with.
-Enjoyed curried stir fry rice for lunch, which he made, and was way better than my "night off" dinner of sloppy joes and diced apples.
-Watched the Cosby Show... a gift from a friend who knows us so well, and it was great.
-And now off to bed to enjoy a little War and Peace (which is getting better) before I fall asleep.

Moments {out of the cold}

We are heading back in now, having waved our goodbyes to the boys and squealed our hellos to all the little ankle biter dogs on the way home. My fingertips are nearly numb with cold, even under layers of wool and fleece, and Scout's cheeks are pink as a near ripe tomato, along with her nose and tips of her ears peaking out from under a hat.

At the top of the hill, where we all congregate to send off our kids, a fellow mother who is Chinese had shuffled and shivered, vowing to return home to add one more layer to the four she was already wearing. I had laughed, almost incredulously, stating how proud I was to have even taken the time to put on my one under layer this morning. We shook our head at the differences, the not quite genetic but somehow merely cultural circumstances that could lead such similar bodies to such different conclusions. It's always a point of wonder between us... they dress for arctic conditions (when we are still layering tshirts), and would rather sweat out the unbearable heat than turn on an air conditioner.

In the way that a mind does, it reminded me of a story Jung Chang shares in the preface to her book, Wild Swans. In the mid 80's, when China was just beginning to open up, Jung who was one of the first students to be allowed to study abroad in New York City, had attended a small forum where a professor shared some slides from when he had visited a school in China. The weather in the photos was obviously freezing, and the windows broken with no heating system. The visiting professor had asked the teacher, "Are they not cold?" and the teacher had responded, "No. They are not." After the slideshow a woman approached Jung and said "You must feel hot here."

 It was probably a statement made out of not knowing exactly what to say, but Jung left in tears, feeling the weight of all the stories she knew and the misunderstandings she witnessed about the treatment and lives of the Chinese. As if they were so different than the rest of humanity, that the things we "westerners" would deem insufferable and miserable, were things they enjoyed. She writes, "I thought of the old observation that Chinese lives are cheap, and one Englishman's amazement that his Chinese servant should find a toothache unbearable." In the end, it inspired Jung Chang to write the stories of her people and her country, to tell the world how very human we, and they, all are.

We make it to our door half frozen and once inside start peeling off the layers. This is a ritual we repeat several times throughout the day, and though it is done with a two year old and at a pace I'm not always patient enough for, in some ways I am grateful to be putting on layers.Was it not only a few months ago that I was panting for relief from the heat and humidity? And now today I am haunted by the idea that what little discomfort I am feeling at the tips of my fingers and toes has only been multiplied by the thousands and millions who have and do suffer from lack of warmth.

And I am heavy with the responsibility of being a foreigner in a place where I am surrounded by human beings who are in every bit of their being the same as I am, and yet in a vast amount of unsearchable ways, are culturally so different than me.

*Moments {Up and Out the Door}

I've been sitting peacefully for awhile, a warm mug in hand that now grows cool as the liquid is slowly sipped out of it. It's caramel tones and small swirls of cream are like my own little personal morning sunrise, staring at me from the white cloudy confines of my cup. But now, the personal moment is coming to a close. I can hear footsteps from behind the door, one of six (three bedrooms, one bathroom, one kitchen, and the entry) that opens off of this main living space. Sure enough, the handle turns loudly and I cringe a little, hoping whichever boy it is doesn't slam it shut again so the littlest one stays asleep just awhile longer. Bang. No such luck. But I can't hear her opening cries yet so we must still be okay.

The little barefeet come plodding quickly across the bare, fake boards of our mock hardwood floor. The Chinese are good at tile. They love tile. Tile is everywhere in most homes. But they have recently caught on to the love for hardwood and are slowly making pains to use it more often. Pains seems the right word because this seems a far cry from craftsmanship with its spongy foundation and wide gaps that catch the toe. It's not dirt though, and so most of the time it is just fine.

We curl under a blanket, the light of one or two lamps spreading a pool in the dark room where the January mornings will take awhile to fill with the natural light of day. I can feel the draft coming in from the windows,  and the sliding door to the (tiled) porch. No amount of shutting or twisting or jamming seems to close them tight enough. We pull the blanket closer, warmed by our cuddling, and by my now refilled coffee mug.

It doesn't take long before the others arrive, and all of them are clambering for food. We forced and stuffed and cajoled and threatened and rewarded only 12 hours previous in the hopes that they would make it through the night without starving, but it seems we nearly lost them. They are famished. We trail into the kitchen, where the floor turns to tile again and we can feel the heated pipes pumping under our bare skin. Chins on the counter, and stools gathered swiftly to make up for where lack of height keeps you down, and all watch as toast pops and the butter slathers; maybe eggs today and pancakes tomorrow.

They rush off with their plates full and I keep working, smacking sandwiches together, scrounging for suitable snacks and a treat to take the edge off of such a boring lunch. Somewhere inside me there's always this little struggle; wanting them to eat healthy and not grow accustomed to bourgeois eating (like cheese everyday for goodness sake, what frills!) but remembering how it feels to pine after all those other lunches and just wish your mom hadn't slapped processed bologna and miracle whip on your whole grain bread yet again. Good thing you can't buy bologna here. But it still takes more work than I have the foresight to plan for to make the lunch exciting. Oh well, another childhood story for the next generation, I guess.

The plates are pretty well cleared and they have somehow managed to get dressed though I wouldn't sign them up for Gap advertisements any time soon. Still, they are pretty independent and I'm proud of them even for something as little as pulling their pants up and getting socks on. They do all seem to struggle with shirts faced the right way though. Teeth brushed, and there's the struggle over stool space again, but we work it out and somehow everyone gets room to spit, one last rinse, and then the race around the corner to start tackling the coats and shoes, gloves and backpacks so we can haul ourselves out the door, down two flights, through the complex, out the gate, up the hill, and there we part while the little sister and I wave and throw kisses.

*Moments
In the absence of picture posting ability, and really not much exciting to write about these days, I've taken to just thinking through, or simply describing small moments from the day. It's likely this will delight Grandma, but don't worry if you don't feel the same. Hopefully I'll be back soon with something more visual to share, but in the meantime I'm sure the reprieve is somehow good for me and maybe these little excercises will be as well. If you stay, thanks for reading:)

Same Old Stuff, But A Whole New Year

It's a new year and we are surrounded by all of the same old, but plenty that promises renewal. Although computer limitations still remain and seem to be dragging on, they are accompanied by the gifts of time, restraint (though an imposed one) and reflection, and so the limitation is reluctantly but gratefully welcomed.

Another unexpected gift was a quick three day trip up to Beijing all on my own to visit a friend who is in many ways like a mother, and the mixture of these two things is one of the best combinations. My own mother has this duality as well and in the long stretches of time when I miss being in her presence, the time I can spend with Sue is a not something I can soon imagine taking for granted. Though she may (in reading this possibly) feel embarrassed by my stating it, one of the many things I enjoy when visiting with her is just the observation by osmosis of her life: the matter of fact way she takes care of things, her service of others, her tireless hospitality, her humor, her openness and directness coupled with her unassuming attitude. It's refreshing and peaceful, hilarious and entirely like being at home to be in hers.

Needless to say, these unexpected days of absence from my family gave me some precious time to read and think and just be quiet. I found myself piling several books to borrow from the shelves of my friends and over the few days was able to read Leslie Leyland Field's Surviving the Island of Grace, Dr. Helen Roseveare's Give Me This Mountain, Bob Benson's "See You at the House," and Paul Miller's A Praying Life. Though far different in style and content from one another, somehow they each touched a nerve in me and made me both reflective and visionary as I thought about the end of one year and the beginning of another.

In Surviving the Island of Grace, Field's recounts the journey of her life as a young newlywed moving to Kodiak Island in Alaska and learning the ropes of salmon fishing. She weaves memories of her unique and difficult childhood and similar years as a married woman and young mother in a memoir of outdoor struggle and adventure coupled with inward joys and sorrows. In the final paragraphs she describes a moment on the rugged and unforgiving beach, where she muses on the paradox of a barnacle who is confined by the prison of its own making, and yet is saved by this, the very grace that sustains it.

I was struck by this, thinking of all that reflections over the past and dreams of the future can do to you. In many ways it is true, that the sometimes confining prisons of our lives, our circumstances, perhaps our failures or our tragedies, or just the realities that we are less than content with, can also be the very graces that sustain us. Many times though, it is just not within the range of our vision to see or understand this when we are living those particular moments.

But there are some who do (which is why I enjoy reading their thoughts), and I think too, God is always at work to show us this. Among a few other little "resolutions," such as sending a birthday card to each of my niece's and nephews this year, or filing all our pictures into books we can actually sit and look at, this is something I want to mark this year, and those after it by... the seeing of this life, this day, as a gift covered and marked all through with the fingerprints of God.

May you see newness of life in this coming year!
Happy New Year!