California Roll

"Why wouldn't she want to leave her child in the church childcare?" My questioner, and cousin, sounded like this mother aimed to get rolled over by a two-ton truck.

I told my cousin of "Jessy" feeling hurt and criticized after an older woman complained about the noise Jessy's two-year old made. The three were in the church library watching a video of the worship service. The silver haired lady was huffy. "We can't hear the sermon with the noise your son is making!"

Jessy felt humiliated as well as shocked that a Christian would not kindly receive her little one.

When Jessy told mer her story, I felt sorry for her, but my cousin, also a mother of a two-year-old, felt astounded. Why would anyone would want to keep her child with her when a church nursery was available?

Different backgrounds bring different assumptions. My cousin in a brunette whose great grandparents were born here. She was dropped off at a church nursery weekly as an infant. Jessy has black hair and came here from Taiwan for college and settle into marriage and home with an American guy.

Jessy's decision to avoid child-care seems nomal to me. Once I would have reacted like my cousin.

I teach ESL (English as a Second Language) to many Asian mothers of two-year-olds and younger. They are with their kids day in and day out. Grandmothers who would joyfully offer babysitting aid are far off. The displaced young mothers receive help only from husbands who go shopping with them on weekends to aid. If the husband keeps the children by himself, it's a remarkable event. The couples have no date nights.

All in all, these are quite different patterns for family life than what I and many of my American friends developed. We left frequently left our children with husbands and babysitters.

The young Asian mothers I know are very present to their chidlren. They do get tired, annoyed or want time by themselves just like American mothers, but they suck it in and endure patiently with only a few quiet complaints. The little recoup time they get comes late at night.

Their actions and lifestyle have puzzled me, especially that they do not ask friends with children to take care of their own at times. Or the reluctance of a mother to leave an 18-month old boy in a well-supervised church nursery so that she can attend a woman's meeting. A stranger would be too frightening implied the mother when I questioned her.

Recently I e-mailed them: "Let's discuss child care at our next meeting. When is it okay acording to your culture to leave your child with someone else."  Their answers surprised me.

Several had left their infants with child caregivers when working full-time in Japan. One Taiwanese woman had left her child  during the weekdays with her parents living in the countryside while she worked full-time in the city. On weekends parents and children were reunited.  One Japanese woman told me that in rural areas child care was only available in a very limited way. Full-time workers had first priority and so a part-time worker could not get child-are. No one hires high school babysitters in the American fashion. Child care comes through an institution.

One woman told us that though the younger woman may feel it's okay to leave their child in short-term child care to allow time-off or a date, her mother or mother-in-law would probably criticize. The old way says, "Don't waste your money that way." 

At the end of our discussion, one woman said, "I think we Asian women are too protective of our children. I want to start a baby-sitting co-op. Who would like to come to a meeting?"

The Next Generation:

It didn't surprise me, but it did the older women, when "Ling," Chinese-American, showed up with her five-month-old baby with her at a one-time church women's event.

After all, until she started back to work, Ling used to come with her babe in a stroller come to the weekly mother's group at church. If an infant coos or whimpers, no one says anything to her. The surrounding mothers tolerate quite a bit and the a mother knows when it's too much and takes her baby out.

Ling leaves "Irene" in childcare while she works thirty hours a week. The little time she's home she rushes to make meals, wash laundry, clean house, and answer e-mail as well as change diapers, soothe a tired baby, breast-feed or pump milk.  Why not bring this mild-tempered, smiling infant to join some twenty women in eating dinner and listening to a speaker? The ladies, mostly gray-haired and white, did oo and ahh over the sight. When the baby fussed, one woman eagerly relieved Jessy by holding the little one.

Watching this, I was happy. It was a sharing in the stages of life with a dear mother and child. But not all were. Later, I heard concerns. "The baby distracts. Our agenda is too tight to lose time." These words seemed a particularly white complaint. We are used to sending our little distractions off to a nursery when they interrupt our concentration in a church service. I did it two decades ago myself.

But I've seen a three-year old escape her mother's arms and run up the center aisle of a church to her father who was preaching. In Tokyo, no big deal. The breach of stillness and quiet was rare. A few minutes lost, that's all, and all of life is seen and embraced in the congregation.

Are we Presbyterians of Silicon Valley in so much of a hurry that we cannot tolerate a three-minute hiatus? I wonder if this is the idol of productivity breathing flames of agitated worry. Perhaps an issue of control is as much as an issue of protecting people's time

Wouldn't it be better to try on a different way of thinking? Perhaps we might find goodness, even validity in that. Probably Jesus' followers did after he told them to let the little children come ot him. And since the God of the Jews repeatedly told his people to welcome the stranger, we need to make an effort to understand and respect this different way of treating children in the gathering of God's people.

If you'd like to consider a discussion among American church-goers re whether children should be in an actual sanctuary service, go to: http://donteatthefruit.com/2011/11/the-iphone-shaped-body-earthen-vessels/ and see especially the comments.

 

Anywhere I sit in my gorgeous garden, there are little (or not so little) weeds. While I sat in the sun editing my story, I also picked twenty weeds, with roots only a quarter inch or less.

I'm trying to do the same too in my in the life of my mind and relationship with Collin.

A spring garden brings joy to the eyes and work for the hands.

A fun little gift that an English student carried back from her trip to Japan--one packet each for me and four others. "Omiyage" they call this kind of gift. The little hills greened by spring grass are actually miniature "castelo cakes."

At home, laying the six-inch packet on my dining table, I imagined enjoying them later over a cup of tea. From now till then looking at them will sprout thoughts of the dear woman who expressed her delight in me and other English class friends in this Japanesque way.

"Why eggs for Easter? What do they mean?" I asked a group of four Japanese women I met with today. They all had gone to a city-sponsored Easter egg hunts, but had missed any point besides fun for kids.

Perhaps the symbolism has been lost to Americans too and so we don't explain it. Long ago eggs blessed by the priest were often the first food item people ate after abstaining from food for Lent. The new life a fertile egg reminds Christians of the promise of new life that Jesus brought with his victory over death and resurrection from the dead.

What the Doctor Does Not Tell You (about a bunionectomy, or any surgery perhaps)

A month ago a surgeon applied a knife to a bony growth on the inside of my big toe, part of a condition called a bunion. She also cut and realigned bones with screws so that that same big toe will not angle off to the left. Sound minor?  Not so. It took several hours and will require a year to  completely recover from.

In fact, my PT called it a major surgery, a term I hadn't heard. It was good to know that there was good reason for the exhasution I feld during the first three weeks--many naps needed and 9 PM bedtimes. Before my next bunionectomy, I will tell my friends "I'm having a major surgery" to elicit more support!

Also, that one-year for full recovery was news to me. Within four to six weeks I'll be mainly back on my feet, just going slower--that I was told. I'm wondering what this means for late May when I'll go to Colorado for hiking and snow play. I'm doing my part to regain muscle strength and build endurance by using an exercise bike and weights so as to keep up my strength.

What else might somone want to know that I was unclear on? Afterwards, I had to recline with my foot raised higher than my heart for 48 hours, getting up only to visit the toilet. Due to brain fog, I didn't remember this injunction and sat at the computer and to eat with my foot on to a chair. So I fudged on the rules and oame out fine--not that I'm recommending my negligence to others.

Fourthly, you don't necessarily have to take the inflamation reducing medicine like ibuprofen that a podiatrist will recommend. My gasterenterologist said, "Don't"  (because of my GERD). "Stick to Vicodin, or just plain Tylenol." 

That's what I did, consuming only two Vicodin and no more than a dozen Tylenol in the month's time that has lapsed. Intense and persistent pain has rarely occurred. (I'm not counting the pain I felt when I knocked my foot against something the first week. Nor the pain that came after going out for a 30 minutes last week, accidentally. 

A cold water therapy machine has made it possible to get by without ibuprofen. It's a marvelous invention, well worth the rental fee. During the operation, a hose was inserted under the bandaging. Then, while lying around, I snapped the hoses together and 50 degree water flowed around my foot.  With the cold water machine, I felt nothing, that is not until Monday night, three days after Friday's surgery.

On Monday I had return the cold water machine and receive a change of dressing. The doctor didn't say that with the change of dressing that my foot could swell significantly and cause me pain. Or maybe she did and her words did not impress themselves on me.

That night my poor foot swelled and swelled and, as my foot pushed agianst the new bandage, big pain. I cut slits as the doctor told me to do, but still my foot ached. I took Vicodin and still it hurt. I could not sleep. I took Ibuprofen (my first and last time) to no effect. I slept only four hours that night--the worst episode of this whole process.

A few days later I could start wearing a speical boot the doctor sold me. I recommend this orthopedic shoe, but beware. I learned after I stopped needing to use it that I could have developed compensatory injuries to hip or back because my left and right sides were of uneven height. Fortunately I was spared. The boot enabled me to walk half my normal. Without it at first, my gait was like that of an awkward one year old. 

And that's another thing: the doctor said I'd be slow, but didn't say how slow! Even now I'm slower than my ten-pound poodle. She pulls me, even though I'm going as fast as I can while concentrating on walking normally.

Lastly, the podiatrist didn't tell me how time-consuning is wound care. Euring the first four to six weeks a surgery I've given an hour or two every day to the recovery process, to things like icing, elevating, doctor visits or the logistics of keeping the foot dry while showering. Now with the stitches out, I devote time to doing exercises, going to PT, while continueing to elevate my foot, ice it and changing the dressing twice a day.

Don't get me wrong. This doctor is good: thorough, caring and patient with my questions. Though she did explain much, I wish I'd known what I know now. So I'm explaining what was not said (or I forgot). After all, surgeons want to cut. It's not in their interest to say too much lest they dishearten someone who needs to go under the knife!

 

 

Almost Miraculous

    Not just once, or twice, but three times this week amazing things happened.

    My panic (and my need for help) surfaced on Sunday night when I dreamed that my daughter was getting married (as she did last summer) and I didn't know what time I needed to show up for the photos and I realized my abysmal failure to communicate with my husband. The real terror underneath the images of the nightmere was about  surgery on Friday afternoon and needing to ready for the arrival of my daughter and her husband on Friday night.

   My first dilema was what to do with an oak bed frame, the twin one my daughter used to sleep on. We were making way for a better beds and mattresses (a day bed with a trundle under it). Advertising it on a yahoo list and to next-door neighbors did not pan out. No time for Craig's list--I didn't want stranger coming to my home during weekdays when my husband was far away and no weekends intervened. I started to feel desperate.

    Prayer. It's always good--even for practical, physical things. God is not so far off he can't deal with beds. Fortunatley, he does not have to limit his focus. Of course whether people understand the forgiveness available to them through Jesus's death on the cross or whether the millions of hungry children get fed are more important than getting this bed into someone elses's home. But he can do both. So I asked both my friends and  a leadership team to pray about my petty concern.

    On Tuesday night I was envisioning Collin dissassembling the bed and russling up a neighbor to carry th heavy pieces out to the street on Wednesday night with a sign, "Bed. Free." An unhappy reoourse for a tired husband fighting off my cold. But a strange idea flitted thorugh the mind for the third time and this time I decided to act on it. 

    I rung up my housekeeper. She lives a three-hour drive away, so it didn't seem practical, but I asked. "Do you want a bed?" Her yes was immediate, without reservation. Her grown son had just told her the day before that he needed a bed!   With that call I saved my husband from laboring to undo fourteen screws and received a thorough cleaning of the room where the bed had stood, the room where the newly-weds would sleep.

   But Tuesday morning had brought another difficulty, A sore throat arrived. With me a sore throat normally turns to a runny nose and then congestion and sinus ache and a bacterial infection. If the usual happened, surgery would be cancelled. And if no bunion-cutting now, then it would have to wait until May and I'd be forced to waste time repeating pre-op appointments (two) and bloodwork.

    I decided to curtail activities in hopes of warding off this cold. No walk with a girlfriend, no weight lifting at the Y. I couldn't refrain from two loads of laundry. I wrote an annotation and ate chicken soup. At 1:30 lying on a phsycian's table, a cranial osteopath pressed and maneuvered my sinuses and unblocked the stuck right side. At 5 PM I napped. I had decided to skip the BSF group I ususally attend on Wednesdays mornings.  But then, on dropping into bed that night, I remembered--Wednesday would be an introductory class for new members. It happens only once a month and two Japanese friends wanted to attend it along with their preschool children. Meeting them there to introduce them to the facilities and the childcare co-ordiantor was worth the risk. God is big enough to handle this and my sore throat. So I pulled on basic clothes, skipping the makeup, and went out in the chill. Even though the outing turned out to be more than I'd anticipated, I was glad I did it.

    On Thursday when I awakened, my sore throat was worse. But my nose remained the same. A nurse and doctor told me that if it was merely a sore throat, I could probably still have the surgery.  So I laundered sheets and towels and continued to prepare for guests and surgery. The more I anticipated being off my feet for most of two weeks, the more things I could see I'd better do now!  Hang the pictures in the living room that I'd taken down for Christmas decorations. Move the large flower pot from my bedroom to join other pots outside. And, of course, take a little nap. Through the day I murmurred, "Jesus, please heal me." And I knew that my BSF small group was praying for good-enough health along with friend.

    Friday morning I awakened and the sore throat had disappeared in the night! On to surgery. One more uncertainty I'd been praying about - the when of the surgery. If it was moved to earlier in the day, as my doctor told me could happen, anytime, Collin could not take me. But no, it stayed as scheduled. And I saw a good friend in the waiting room and met a new one.

    Kind nurses and doctors. Successul bunionectomy. Slept well last night. No pain then or this morning.  Resting, reading, talking and writing.  Almost miraculous.    

 

 

Last night when my husband turned out the lights, i wasn't sleepy.  I sat in our wonderful green leather easy chair reading Henri Nouwen's Life of the Beloved.  The chapter titled "Broken" called me. I was feeling how small, stupid and foolish I am, forever prone to repeating mistakes. The impetus? Letting someone cheat me out of $45. I could have prevented it, if only I was thinking. 

I was holding my miniature pooble and standing in front of a Starbucks cashier when I had to fish money out of my backpack. Thinking it was a five dollar bill, I handed her the cash. I saw a strange look in her her eyes when I called the bill a five, but I thought it had to do with my poodle. I saw that peculiar look in her eyes five minutes later when she brought my tea to me as I sat at an outdoor table. I didn't know why she looked unsettled until last night. I checked my purse and found that I no longer had the $50 bill that I had before.

To make it worse, I had made the same error the day previous and the clerk then was honest. If only I had remembered that a fifty can easily be mistaken for a five.

And then there's the pain of realizing how needy I still am, how prone I am to over-react and mis-interpret according to my own insecurities.  To point, since I wrote my last post, I chatted briefly with my sister-in-law about that painful situation. I learned that though she sat at the same table with me, the words had not caused her pain. She affirmed that her family wants values me as did my mother-in-law in her e-mail to me yesterday.  Good words, but then opened room for me to fault myself for feeling so strongly in the first place. I am needy. I am broken. I am insecure.

Here's where Nouwen's words are helping me. He urges us to embrace our brokenness. He writes, "The first step to healing is not a step away from the pain but a step toward it" (95). The realization of our brokennes is wrenching because we often see pain as confirmation of our negative feelings about ourselves. We things gone awry as indicative that our deepest fears about ourselves are true.

I love Nouwen's words about this. "There is always something in us searching for an explanation of what takes place in our lives and, if we have already yielded to the temptation of self-rejection, then every form of misfortune only deepens it" (97).

I am choosing today to throw away the lie that I am a bad person because I make mistakes or am insecure and need affirmation. I choose today to believe that I am God's beloved and to see my weakness not as confirmation that I am worthless, but as an opportunity to rely on God and to purge away the lie that my worth comes from my perfect record of action or belief.

I forget what I should know and I get upset at small things sometimes, but God still dearly loves me and calls me his child.

 

Returning Home (a long stay with in-laws)

 At the Thanksgiving dinner at my daughter's home we enjoyed conversation with her new parents-in-law, delightful people.  At one point they mentioned that now when they go back to their home country they do not quite fit in. They wisely observed that they have formed their own culture within their nuclear family (they are natives of the same country) .

That's what has happened in my marriage to a husband of Korean descent who grew up in Hawaii and yoked himself to white me of California and influenced by parents of mid-western origins.

We (husband and younger daughter) have just spent two weeks in Hawaii with relatives. After seeing the word "Hawaii," you probably stopped thinking and sighed, Oh to go to Paradise. But, as the chief character says in "The Descendants," we still have conflicts and heartaches in Hawaii. Relationships still matter and we still have problems getting along at times.

My differences and conflicts are small compared to those in the movie, but they still affect me--I was in tears two times during our trip. I'm still working through some strong emotions now while I'm at home.

I think what affected me most pervasively was the "Don't plan much--only if necessary." Because I like planning. I like knowing in advance what will happen.  I like the way things go more smoothly if a plan has been made, with contingencies and back up plans.

But I've been learning to be more flexible and to decide things the day before or morning of the event. I've been in training for this due to having young adult daughters who function that way (made possible by cell phones and texting). I'm patting myself on the back for going along with this more-in-the-moment way of doing things. I actually enjoyed that for the most part during our trip.

But, knowing how frustrating it is to make my one plans and then find out his parents had other plans for usm I did ask relatives to decide in advance when we would have our "everyone in the extended family eats together" restaurant dinner. They kindly did and that eliminated a past annoyance.

A sore point for me of fitting into my husband's family is the different way of communicating and interacting within the family. I don't know for sure how much of this is restricted to this family or if it reflects a wider way of relating. I think it's probably the latter because a few bright Asisan Americans I know have told me that this communication style occurs often in their experience.

Firstly, my husband's family members do not usually ask me questions about my life. Since they do not ask me questions, I do not tell them much. I ask them questions - about their work, their church life, etc. But questions rarely come back to me. So I'm not sure they want to know, so I usually do not tell them much about myself. After two weeks of this, it hurt. A lot. I felt unknown and invisible.

Secondly, I noticed the lack of praise given directly to a person's face. They may praise the person in his absence, but not when he/she is around. This generalization does not apply to young ones who are praised all the time. 

Because encouragement matters a lot ot me, I tried to notice what my relatives had achieved and to praise them. Since they were not asking questions about my life, none of that came my way. That fed into the hurt I already had. I'm not proud of how addicted I am to affirmation. I'm not blaming them--it's a culturally  different covnersational style.

All that lead into my becoming angry on the last night when I heard my father-in-law praising his daughter Donna (who was absent from the table). She'd made a banana pie from her garden bananas. It was delicious. He noted that and all the other wonderful things she does with her hands (making placemats, costumes for Hawaiian dancing, paper angels for Christmas gifts).

Collin's father has a right to be proud of his daughter and a right to say it. But I'd heard it said many times and at that point I wasn't feeling generous. I wasn't dying to myself like Jesus tell us to do. I  wanted to know that my abilities and gifts were seen and recognized as also valuable. I ended up telling him that I can do many of the same things as Donna, but have given up doing them for the sake of other callings on my life, such as writing, mentoring and organizing events for church. God gives us different gives and each are valuable, I said.

I am still thinking about this and wanting to write about it,a sign of how emotional an issue this is for me. If I had felt my need to be seen, known and validated with my own parents were perfectly met, it might not be that way. Maybe. But no chance of that now (both dead). Can my husband? Sometimes.

No human can give me all of what I need. It is a mistake to demand that. Long for it - yes, that's part of the the human condition.

So I can really only deal with this deep need spiritually. That is a long, hard road. Just writing this does not help. Just praying for two minutes in the morning is not enough. I can see now how much time I need to spend on Jesus' lap hearing his words of love and knowing that I exist and that I matter because He created me and He has good purposes for me. How much I need to worship him. And that's what I did last night with my daughter after I told my husband and her about the hurt i'd felt in that dinner conversation. Singing Christmas carols was good. It restored my sense of wholeness and joy.

I'm wondering now how it goes with my twenty-two year old daughter. She is having her own cross-cultural experience with in-laws for the first time, in Florida with her husband's parents, grandparents and aunt and uncle.  I'm eager to hear how it goes. If it hurts, that's okay. Marriage is about a life-long companionship meant to bring spiritual transformation. It's bound to hurt, but it can yield joy and fruit as I keep my main goal learning from Jesus.

 

 

Thinking with My Fingers

So long since I wrote to you, my blog readers. I could list the reasons why, but I think it's better to merely say, "I'm sorry." I do know I'll be more regular after I graduate at March's end from my MFA program in Creative Writing. The requirements - reading a book a week and writing a reflection on it, plus writing short stories and revising them, consumes much of my creative energy.

Writing this now is inspired by my husbands blog.  He made an on-line list of what he is thankful for. And, since I asked my students of English to also list what they are thankful for, I'd better do that too!

- for how much joy our whole family takes in our "Poppy" (a minature poodle we adopted from the local Human Society). That joy is emarkable given that initially she was called "not a real dog"  by two family members, who pined for a large dog.

- that I've recovered well from mono (diagnosed in February), without needing to take iron supplements--something to be thankful for since the previous year I also had mono and at that time had anemia also and the iron I was required to take set off lots of gastric reflux.

- the joy I've been having in singing again--both with helping to lead worship once at our church's mother's group and in singing in a women's community chorus, Clef Hangers. Soon we'll start singing a string of holiday concerts at various senior citizen's centers

- how greatly my writing has improved.  I'm receiving very enthusiastic comments from my mentor

- that my prof-mentor told me that the first draft of my thirty-page essay was, "Fabulous"

- for a wonderful celebration of my daughter's wedding and our 25th anniversary this summer

- that my shoulder is getting better and I rarely have tendonitis in my arms these days

- for how much I enjoy the ESL tutoring work I do. It's amazing to have a job where I both feel useful, cared about (by my tutees) and earn money!

- how God has healed many deep inner wounds so that I'm not so overly-sensitive and anxious as previously

- for how much delight and closeness I'm experiencing in my marriage and how well we're working togther to get the work in the household done

- for the joy and privilege of working on the leadership team for the Women's Spiritual Mentoring Ministry

- for a good friend only five houses down the street - someone who brings me fruit and I give her soup!

- that I'm recovering from colds easier, with less asthma or sinus infections incurring

- for how God has been giving me the ability to try again in friendships, rather than to feel hurt and unwanted and to, without even knowing I was doing it, withdrawing when I do not get the response I want

- for how we have good conversations with both our daughters, although they live quite a distance away

- for a warm house and lovely kitchen with warm tile floors!

For this and more, I give thee thanks, Oh Lord.

 

Eyes for Parisians

 

I’ve been observing Parisians for four days now as I walk through the streets of Marais, stand on the Metro or sit at in cafes. Differences with California society do surface. Both on the skin. To the superficial first.

 

Parisians are wearing a lot of black, even in early September. Since I wear deep pink frequently amid the the bright colors many Californians wear, the French penchant for the dark surprised me. But yesterday in my informal survey, while no one sported pink tops, two wore neon pink shoes!

 

Scarves add warmth and color to many women’s faces. Perhaps not only for good looks. I’ve found how handy it is to just unwrap my scarf to cool off when going from the chill of gray skies to a subway’s cloying warmth.

 

I’ve been eying male attire too (sorry Collin). On many trains and streets I love the suave look of the many men wearing suit jackets, both formal and casual. Also younger fellows often choose them over sweatshirts.

 

Americans and Parisians do have this in common – jeans. In fact, the French not wearing dressy clothes, are usually clad in black or denim pants. White and beig pants make only an occasional appearance.

 

Now to the more consequential. People relate across racial lines more openly than I see in California. Today on the subway I saw two  young women, one black, one white, with their faces leaned close to each other. An exchange of dear friends--sweet. At night by the Eiffel tower I saw a young black man snapping a photo of a young white couple with a baby. Friends? I wondered enough to look back over my shoulder to see what happened after the photo taking. Camera returned, good-byes given. Also inter-racial couplings seem common.

 

Three images that I don't see happening much in my home area, the "peninsula" (between San francisoc and San Jose).  It's sad, though I know my informal surveys and observations are inconclusive. I do know that trust and acceptance of people of color lags far behind what is advocated in California.

 

A friend of partial black descent has confided a few of her experiences. In a upscale East Bay neighborhood, a sales clerk in a small story refused to wait on her. Other people of color echo stories like this. When my friend and her family moved into one middle-class community, their cars were vandalized and go-away-messages posted. This wasn’t thirty years ago, or even as long as ten.

 

One thing is sure: within the public transit system of Paris people of all economic levels, ethnicities, and races rub shoulders or at least see each other. Not hidden and divided from each by the glass, sheet metal. fences, of cars and houses. Maybe it’s harder to hold on to stereotypes when the real thing is standing feet from you, and in similar clothes as you.

 

The various races I see in Paris are often wearing the similar styles of clothing, with only a few exceptions (like the women in wrapped, long dresses of African or mid-Eastern style or the black man I saw today in bright red pants and matching).

 

My favorite snapshot of racial integration occurred yesterday on the train: two teens relaxed on a bench sharing an i-pod. One of ear pieces stuck in each boy’s ear—one black, one white. Sharing the enjoyment of music, sitting close, in public, where all could view them.

 

The Guts of the Writing Life

Since I wrote last my twenty-two year old daughter graduated from college and got married seven weeks later, on Long Island New York. I've also been preparing a reception for her here on the west coast. The planning, communicating, and logisistical work have sapped my energies, leaving no time for blogging. But I don't care. It's my daughter and my love for her would compell me to climb to the top of Everest, if that would ensure her happiness and growth (assuming a guide and an oxygen tank!).

Keeping up with that and the demands of my course work in Creative Writing has entailed thinking closely about what is most important. Some decisions were easy, like don't plant tomatoes this year. Some much harder, such as putting off an invitation to walk with a friend and baking cookies.

The next four months of work on my Masters of Fine Arts will be the hardest yet. I need to keep doing what I did previously (reading a book a week and writing comments on it plus generating new stories), plus write a 20-30 page critical essay and perfect some of the stories I've written.

When I started this writing journey, I had no idea how arudous it would be to complete a story.

Right now I'm revisiting a story I submited to my faculty mentor in May. I've already done a major revision of it cone, based on her comments. Then I submitted it to our workshop with fellow students when we met in July in Santa Fe. And each of these drafts submitted entailed probably four versions of it.  Yet I'm revising it once again. We're talking about the eighth or tenth draft.

This is one of those times writing does not feeling very productive. I'm not seeing anyone smile at the food I've served nor seeing an English student beam because they've learned to say a needful phrase correctly. I'm not seeing the yellow of a daisy plant I dug into the dirt and sprayed with a hose daily.

So it was good this morning to think again about calling, or vocation. Calling comes out of identity, an identity I find in pursuing God and what He wants for me. I believe I am called to be a writer and thi sis my unique vocation. As Benner puts it, we need to "work out with God the truth of our being." (p.98-99)* So writing is not merely what I do, but who I am called to be. It requires being grounded in the self that God made.

I did not know when I started that how much writing would demand of me, not just in money and time, but psychologically and spiritually. The first inkling that wrioting was my calling came out of my own joy in writing and affirmation of that gift from the community. It started with feeling God's pleasure in me as I wrote. Yet the development of the gift does not always grow naturally out of my own wishes. Think of Moses, who did not want to go see Pharoh, or of Jonah, who ran way from his calling.

So with me the hard work of editing and revising means missing some of what naturally calls to me, like camping trips I'd like to take, movies I'd like to see, or gourmet meals I'd like to prepare. It means dyigng to self-will and surrendering to God molding me through the loneliness and self-denial it takes to pursue this writing life.

* The Gift of Being Yourself by DAvid G. Benner

 

Insomnia of Rehearsal

Beer, music, dancing, reunions and making of new friends and relatives—no wonder I can’t sleep. It’s 3:45 AM and I’ve been awake two hours. Tried the normal tricks—taking Carafate for gastric reflux, praying, snuggling up to Collin—but still faces and snippets of conversation, joys and longings have been parading through my mind, refusing to to slow and still.

And the wedding is yet to come! Yesterday was named a mere rehearsal, but proved more. Practice of the ceremony at Three Village Church was normal enough—only a few minutes of panic wondering if the accompanist was coming, and surprise at the bridesmaids’ speedy march up the aisle.

This kaleidoscope of brilliant colors, exotic sounds, clothing and jewelry resounding in my mind, keeping me from sleep, are echoes what was called a rehearsal dinner, but was actually a modified enactment of rich Turkish marriage traditions.

When we entered the designated restaurant, The Pita House, Jenny and Ozan were seated at a small table presiding over the event. Jenny’s shiny red gown with gold-threaded designs on it covered her from wrists to shoulders to ankles, despite it being one of their hottest days here on Long Island.

Jenny is marrying into a Turkish family, and the fun of experiencing new traditions started at the back of the church before the rehearsal of western ceremonies began. Her mother-in-law, Feza, opened a bag filled with wide, silver-coined jewelry and asked each bridesmaid to select one to wear around her neck. Then Feza taught them the steps for a simple line dance.

After the splendid meal came a series of traditions adapted from a Turkish wedding celebration. Jenny and Ozan’s hands were rubbed with a red paste, (an imitation henna). Then the couple gave Turkish greetings of respect and affection to their extended families.

Next, Ozan’s aunt introduced the meaning of the Turkish songs we would hear. They mourn for the bride and her mother at the changes in their relationship as the bride goes off to live with the husband’s family and will little see her mother again. (I’m glad those days are over! YAY for cell phones, cars and planes).

Then line dancing—some simple steps and kicks, led by Jenny, Ozan and the rest of the bridal party, but we were all urged to join in. Seeing everyone’s happy faces and watching their legs lifted in the air in unison was wonderful.

I enjoyed it all, but perhaps most moving was getting to know Ozan’s family. Something about the smiles, the eagerness to please and connect and to appreciate touches me deeply. They approach marriage as being not only about the connection of two individuals but of two families. I am fortunate for this opportunity to be with them.

To New York and Back

Flying used to be a novelty I loved, a chance to sit still for three hours or more, instead of chasing after small children; reading instead of hauling out laundry or shopping; and being served tea or a hot meal instead of making sandwiches or loading the dishwasher.

 

Sitting here in Chicago Midway Airport,with a flight delayed one hour, I realize that air travel no longer has that appeal. Having gotten up at 3:45 AM (and I'm speaking east coast time), my neurons are not all firing. Working on my short story is beyond my wearied capabilities—my excuse to do what I've been longing to do–write a blog for you all!

 

This eight-day trip has been stupendous – thanks for all who prayed for my concerns like good times with daughters, future in-laws, staying healthy (I'm still recovering from mono). I've received all that and actually got more rest than I would have at home, even sleeping ten hours a night three days in a row!

 

Seeing Sheri's hung canvases, “Genesis and Dreamtime” hanging in the campus center of Union was thrilling. Plus reading the guest book showed the spiritual impact of her work. One day her paintings will be in NYC galleries or museums I believe.

 

We met and conversed with Sheri's digital photography professor who spoke in glowing terms about her and told us about the fall semester in Vietnam she will participate in. She'll be learning Vietnamese, sightseeing, working and learning more photography under him.

 

Having dinner with both daughters and their beauxs (my first meet up with Sheri's boyfriend Paul) was another highlight. It also felt good to help a little with Jenny's wedding invitation project, going to the Post Office together and putting stamps on envelopes that are now in the mail. All this took place in Schenectady (a three-hour drive north of NYC, five-hour drive from Jenny's campus).

 

Having Ozan, Jenny's fiancé, drive us around was wonderful. I definitely felt I was entering a new stage of life.

 

On Long Island the tulips and daffodils and blossoming trees delighted my eyes. Perhaps the best part was conversation with the parents of Jenny's fiance as we relished a wonderful homemade Turkish dinner, including Sarma, grape leaves rolled around a tasty mixture and another dish of phyllo dough layered with spinach and cheese.

 

What a delight too was hearing Jenny discuss her poetic response to the Iliad to a group of twenty students and three professors. She told us that for months she truly lived and breathed Homer and though, as a Christian, she disagreed with some of the beliefs and views (a ceramic pot was worth more than a women!) she imagined and joyfully wrote her way into the different characters of this ancient tale. And brief conversation with her mentor professor, Dr. Manning, made this proud mama even prouder.

 

So here I am, waiting another three-hour flight where a trip to the bathroom is a precarious endeavor. But as I've counted the blessings of having come here, I know it was well worth it. Bathroom remodel, front door replacement—all those needed home projects are of little account compared to the joy of being with and supporting my children in their endeavors as they stretch into adulthood.

Willing Guides

I enjoy teaching English as a Second Language privately, through one-on-one and small group meetings. With some students we've been going through the Polite Fictions - Why Japanese and Americans Seems Rude to Each Other.  A Japanese and an American share the authorship, and its concepts are illustrated by poignant, often amusing, stories. The book was invaluable during my Japan stay.

Recenty I asked one of the two graduate students I tutor ("Kenji")  what he had learned about American culture while in California. He said, "Americans are independent."

"How did you learn that?" I asked. I thought he would refer back to Polite Fictions. Afterall, it explains and contrasts the differences in the two cultures in this aspect.

But the personal is more powerful. Kenji spoke of the great impact of a simple interaction between he and me that's taken place repeatedly. I'll explain.

I tutor Kenji and "Taku" (both psyeudonyms) in their residences on the Stanford campus. Their lesson times are 15 minutes apart and their homes are a 7-10 minute walk from each other. This walk involves some confusing zig zagging through lawns and buildings with no names and few landmarks. (By car it would be more circuitous and take just as long!)

The first time I was to introduced to Kenji, it was through Taku, who offered to walk me to Kenji's home. Approaching Kenji's home, I told Taku, "I'm afraid I won't be able to find my way back to my car."

Once we arrived, Taku asked Kenji to walk me back at the lesson's end. He instantly replied "Of course," or something similar in Japanese.

I expected that after that first escort back, I'd be left on my own. It's a reasonable assumption that I would take care of myself after being lead on this route twice and they are busy guys. Often one look at their haggard faces tells me they've been sleeping very little.

Yet, they've kept offering. Whenever I need to walk from one home to the other, my host puts on his shoes and jacket and walks me to the next place.  I often feel embarrased to be causing them to walk out in chilly night air in shorts, taking their time. I sometimes protest, "I think I can find my way now. Just point me in the right direction."

"I can take you there."

"You don't have to. Are you sure you want to do that?" I say.

"Yes." And the kind guy puts on his shoes and escorts me. Since I am directionally disabled, I've been quite grateful.

Taku or Kenji do this not because they want more English practice (which is fun for both of us), but because it's the Japanese way, to offer help, often repeatedly and at some cost of time or energy to the person giving.

I saw this in how school teachers or piano teacher treated my children when we lived there, going beyond what Americans in similar positions would consider their responsibility.

This interdependency and caring for people with whom one is related is a strength of Japanese culture, something I often miss here in California.

 

Wanna be an Eagle (a Tiger Mom)

The on-line world has been full of Asian Americans weighing on about Amy Chua's book claiming Chinese mothers are superior.

http://www.mercurynews.com/family-relationships/ci_17100944?source=most_emailed

The San Mateo times has interviewed Chinese-American mothers local to my area. I was glad to see that both moms interviewed thought it bad to shame their children by calling them names. One talked about how she admired her mother as a "stuffed tiger," but couldn't copy her.

But Amy Chua is not an anomaly. We've heard through our daughters about friends of Chinese background  and the great pressure they feel. My husband is of Korean extraction and from a high acheiving famly, but of Hawaii - a more layback culture. My German-English parents thought education the key to success and expected A's, but my dad also told me not to work too hard in college.

Together my husband and I have forged a parenting philosophy that has seen two daughters off to college and great success there, albeit not Ivy League Schools. But that was not what we were after.

We believe it wrong to purposefully shame our children. We don't want that sense of guilt and self-hatred and anger towards us for implanting it there.  Also it's detrimental to push children towards achievement to such an extent they couldn't sleep well, form friendships or enjoy relaxed times.  Healthy -physical, emotional, and spiritual -are of long value than grades and test scores.

Chinese mothers in the U.S. are up against a western culture that has, to some extent, abandoned the work ethic. Americans often don't value the same things as in the country they came from, mandating long years of classical piano playing a case in point. Thus they have to push where if they were back in CHina the culture there would reinforce their values. Also, the kids are disadvantaged by being immigrants - less English spoken at home, less knowledge of the culture, ete. Maybe this is part of the reason for the extreme pressure Chua advocates. When a person feels inferior, for whatever reason, they try to compensate by academic performance (and I have also done that myself)

One of our goals in parenting has been that our kids would still want to relate to us when they were adults, in contrast to some young people who have graduated from some prestigious college after many years of long study, but don't want to relate to their parents because they resent how they were pushed and manipulated.

We have encouraged our kids towards achievement and self-discipline by our own models, our prayers, and by affirmation when they did act responsibly, whether or not they received good marks on their work.  Shaming and comparison are tools we have observed other parents use but we have rejected.

I believe progress and effort should be rewarded equally to making the top mark. If kids are in a "good" school, that school culture awards enough effort to the top mark and the peer influence adds pressure, so when the kids were in high school and college, we've been careful to affirm them for "B"s as well as "A"s if the effort has been there, or if the choice to do kingdom building (service to God) has caused grades to slip some.

Each kid needs to be treated individually according to what they need. Some will need prodding than others. Some kids are inherently sensitive and anxious and will need from their parents a different kid of parenting than a more phlegmatic personality.

We have also praised and prodded our kids not only for good academic effort and marks, but for being good friends. We believe that life is ulimately abour relationships, with God, self and others and that needs to come through in our examples and words.

The controversy Chua has touched off is about more than how hard parents should push their children, but about what is the purpose of life. What are the important things to strive for? Is it high marks, prestigious school? enjoyment of family? Making friends? Suceeding in sports? Having influence?  Loving others and serving the poor? Getting to know God?

I believe that most answers other than the last are quite susceptible to becoming idols. They are not wrong in themselves, but the question is whether they displace God as our ultimate goal.  Do they  supplant the place that only God is meant to have in our lives? Has a good goal becomd a master that enslaves us and takes away an everyday peace and confidence in the worth of one's life?

After all, no one wants their kid to commit suicide or become mentally ill. At Gunn High School in Palo Alto, there are many Asians kids, creating a performance culture climate. More than one Gunnn student kid I've met has talked about the extreme academic pressure there. To show my point, within less than six months four Gunn students committed suicide, as reported the LA Times on Oct 23, 2009. Is this the price a mother might pay for being a tiger?

I want to parent like an eagle. An eagle does push its young out of the nest- but at the right time, when they are ready to learn to fly. And if the baby can't flap its wings right and starts to free fall, the mother comes underneath to raises him up and brings him back to the nest. I want to teach and to discipline, but to also support and protect--to feed a life, not rip it apart.

 

A Trip to Death?

Death Valley Haiku

From lava dust heaped, pressed and tilted, rocks and cracks color round the plain.   No break to flatness till hills unfrill in yellow peach, rust—call such death?
	Click for larger images

The time has come to do my first writing of the new year. In Japan, the first words a person writes on January first are very significant. That stops me. What if I don't have anything significant to say?

What if the ache in my sinuses and the congestion in my lungs has throttled out the words and creativity inside me? What if my words aren't as good as the words I've been reading on-line and in journal and novel this morning?

But they are the words given me. They are a gift, to be used. I refuse to let fear holdme.

The dishwasher roars and retreats, like a wave too steady to natural is in the background, our third load in two days--so much used glasses and plates. My husband has just gotten up from a nap. We didn't welcome in the new year at midnight, but sank our heads on our pillows at 10:30, exhausted from colds and serving dinner to guests two nights in a row.

“The girls” (my 19 and 21-year-old daughters and one girlfriend who spent the night) have left for Stanford Shopping Center and Savers, a low-end used-goods store—two extremes in price, fashion and quality. (But I do cherish the Saver's brown corduroy pants my daughter found last December and placed under the tree.)

I completed my own shopping this morning on-line, while the girls slept or made pancakes. I wondered if the jacket I'd pick would be of correct size to fit a fleece or sweater underneath and briefly considered getting into my car, but my lifeless-feeling legs protested.

So I've stayed home. I'm glad for the quiet now that the girls are gone, but missing them too. Missing being invited to go even though I wouldn't have gone if asked. I'd be a drag on them. A fifth wheel.

 They had four friends over last night at 8:30, two of the four arrived in short black dresses and tights and heels. Thus the second party started as our 5:45 dinner party ended. We'd been savoring with another family our homemade Korean style vegetables as well barbecue beef and blackberry pie until the doorbel rang and my daughters got up. Our conversation at the table suddenly seemed dim and dry.

I watched the young women lean into each other, eyes big in sympathy or surprise. or laughing and congratulating. We were contained, dreary, insipid apple juice compared to sparkling champagne. We were four 50+ adults of similar age and stage to us, merely chatting about a trip to Death Valley, parents visiting and asking questions to include the three collegiate and one high schooler sitting with us. (Such as, “What advice would you give to a high school about ready to start the college decision process?)

They are young women stepping towards independence. How to live and work after graduating. How to handle boyfriends, or parents. Whether to marry the man she loves. Major decisions. Major reports. They know the angst and the excitement, the certainty and the fear each faces, the sense of a future wide open before them, because they're all in it.

 For me, it was long ago. I wish to be one of them, but I can't. My best shot for deeply connecting is my own girlfriends, those of my own stage. The sense of daring and connecting these young women have calls to me. How or shall I attempt to capture that in this New Year or is it a gift I wait for?

 

Thanks Giving

        Japanese people have invited me into demonstrations of prepping food as well as giving and receiving it, and I regret lost opportunities for this. My first year in Tokyo a friend said, "I wish I could show you how to cook."  I thought, "Yes, I wish you could!"  wondering why she could not, missing the subtext of her words: she was offering while avoding the awkwardness of a possible refusal.

    When I lived in Kobe four years later, I was better able to hear the subtlties. The mother of a boy in my daughter's class, a mere acquaintance, invited I and my five-year-old over for tea and snacks. She mentioned wanting to have friends over to bake bread, I knew she offered me an opportunity. I wasn't interested. I knew how to bake bread--didn't appreciate the chance to discover an uncharted friend.

    Fortunately, I accepted one invitation to a cooking class, an invite by a close friend, and have enjoyed the recipes taught, a clam and Napa cabbage soup, meatballs, a dessert with tofu.

    This week I invited my class of five Japanese women over to watch poultry roasting and making pumpkin pie. Preparing my home and demonstrating cooking took longer than teaching my usual lesson of grammar and conversational English, but the women gave back to as much as I gave them.

  The comments, "You're home is so beautiful!" (Really? It's not designer done!) and "It's hiroi (spacious)" (Small by comparison with many in my Menlo Park church, but large by their standards).A good reality check. And when I pulled the browned whole bird out of the oven, not only the women were impressed, but the two-year-old boy held at his mother's waste, said, "Tsugoi!" 

    Many Japanese homes don't have ovens and if they do, only the few who are bakers use them for bread, cakes and cookies. Japnese cuisine doesn't include roasting cuts of meat.  In fact, Japanese supermarkets don't stock even whole chickens.

    My students learned not only cooking vocabulary, methods and recipes, but a care-free spirit tocooking, where precise measurement wasn't necessary, where using a frozen pie crust and opening a can of pumpkin and adding spices was good enough. No need to roast a fresh pumpkin and mash it or mix flour, lard and water to make pie crust from scratch.

    These Japanese women, even if working professionals before following their husband over here for his stint at Standord, (three doctors among the women I tutor), don't need to be convinced of that making food in one's own kitchen is a very good thing. They count it a act of creation bringing delight and satisfaction.

    Joy is found in giving. I believe this as much as I believe that life is about loving. In fact, it's a corollary. My husband says that, "There are just a few pleasures in life better than preparing a meal for those you love and enjoying it with them." http://collinpark.blogspot.com/2009/03/that-made-my-day.html   So I'm doing thanks for giving  Thanks that I don't need to reserve a place in one of those in-restaurant Thanksgiving dinners displayed in newspaper advertisements.*

*Recommended: The Spirit of Food, a collection of essays <www.leslie-leyland-fields.com/books> 

 

Fall Spices

On the brick patio outside my sliding door, red and brown leaves are piling up. Lately as I drive to church, stores and tutoring appointments, I admire the fire of Japanese maples or the more mellow red and yellow of liquid ambers.The change of seasons recalls for me not only Halloween candy and harvest festivals, but (as for others over fifty) dunking for apples—plunging our faces into a tub of cold water,attempting to sink my teeth into an apple dancing. Then afterwards came a cup of hot spicy cider, a quintessential part of fall.

 

Fall is a season of strong spices - of cinnamon, long red-brown sticks plunged into cider and boiled until they impart into the sweet juice a verve and vigor, a dash or a slap, like cold water on a hot day. Today I introduced my English conversation class to hot spiced apple juice. The Japanese women are married to men working or studying at Stanford University or Hospital for a season. Of the five women, one has been here only a short time, others one, two or three years. In addition to the grammar book and dialogues I bring to an English class, I carried apple juice I'd spiced and boiled the day before. Todays mulled cider was a first for the ladies and they loved it. I taught them how. Iti's easy and quick.

 

I made the mulled juice with five minutes prep and twenty of cooking, using a mix purchased from Peet's Coffee: tiny round balls of allspice, clove twigs, short sticks of cinnamon bark, dried orange or lemon peel. Put it in a ball for loose tea, immerse and boil it in the juice or cider for 15-30 minutes, and then remove the ball. If you wouldn't drink Sanka (or other powdered coffee), then never sample the the dried instant cider.

 

Fall's has other spices too, hitting us stronger than summer's. Perhaps the dive into the cold calls out of us a longing for the heat of spice, for pungent smells and hot tongues. I've grown up with a mother who liberally used a few spices, so the tastes I enjoy can bother others. My husband or children have never liked much cloves, those little brown twigs that get ground into dark powder—so I've lessened the clove twigs from six to two in my chile recipe. I've always loved Mother's beef, potato, carrot stew, never thought of the flavor as spicy and my children from a young age have relished too. So I served it in Tokyo to a Japanese friend and her children. What a surprise was her remark it was spicy, and so difficult for her child, unaccustomed to such flavors, to eat. It had no jalapenos, only a pinch of marjoram and a mere single teaspoon of chile powder, just a sixth of the amount I put in my chile and beans dish. That's not spicy, for me that is, but it was for them.

 

Thanksgiving is a time of sage rubbed on poultry and giving thanks for all the spices of our lives. As I prepare for college-age daughters returnign home, I've reflected on how spices correspond to the mix of family life. The individual strong personalities, pungent habits and hot points in our family are like spices for our stew, making it tasty, a little too hot or spice for some tastes at time.

 

And a new elements is being thrown into our stew, my 21-year-old's boyfriend. I'm delighted that he's coming here for Thanksgiving, his second visit from New York. What new spices are being added to our combination of meat and vegie stew, heightening flavors—a paprika or chile transforming bland mush to red and savory.

 

Friendship Japanese Style

Sitting cross from my Indonesian friend and enjoying Waco Fish tacos and black beans, I explained my day, “I met with a girlfriend to give her pointers on teaching English to a Japanese grad student I had referred to her for lessons.”

“You're teaching someone, for free, how to do the work you do?”

I smiled and nodded.

“That's unusual. Most Americans don't do things like that.”

“You're probably right.”

It hadn't occurred to me before that my action was unusual. It merely seemed right, what a good friend would do for another good friend. And I had no second thoughts about it, no regrets.

Giving up this potential English teaching appointment and revenue was not solely because I had enough of hustling to get to hour-long appointments or had tired of speaking slowly and clearly to recent arrivals here. Nor was my gift of time only because I knew my friend needed to find a way back into the job market after years of mothering, gardening, and gourmet cooking. I think my choice had to do with Japan.

Living there six years made me think differently about time use and friendship, because the people I spent 90% of my time with (Japanese nationals) thought differently than the typical Californian (I can't speak for the rest of the country, but I know what it's like in the SF bay area).

Consider the mother of my younger daughter's friend, Matsuoka-san, also my friend and English student in Kobe. When she heard that my older daughter Jenny was sobbing because a classmate at school had stolen a cocoon from the plastic carry-box that sat on her desk, Matusoka immediately offered to drive Jenny to a field where she could find another cocoon.

She didn't say, “Tomorrow.” She offered to go right then. She probably had plans she had to lay aside, perhaps of a stop at the store or folding up the dried laundry or paying bills. Giving up her time might have meant Matsuoka had to serve dinner an hour later or stay up till 2 AM to get chores done.

She did it, for a child she didn't even know well – Jenny was not the friend of Matuoka's daughter, but merely the sister. My friend gave her time generously and spontaneously because she loved, because she saw a child crying and it pained my heart, her heart.

That's friendship and it's more—it's about interdependence, about believing we're here to help each other, to interrupt our agendas for each other rather than going it alone.

 

 

A friend asked me why I'm putting myself through the ordeal of studying Creative Writing in Grad School.

Good question.  I've got a deadline looming on Monday. Need to revise another story for this packet I'll submit. The last story I revised took three weeks of deliberating, going at it, withdrawing, trying again. This time I had only a week when I started; only three days now, and I'm scared.

Most of the time I know why I write, but not this morning  when I awakened from sleep. Today I feel the effort useless.

I had read yesteday the comments from classmates who workshopped this story in July, this story I'm now rewriting. Serious faults with it. Damming faults, or so I feel.

In the first four hours of the morning, these comments from others played and replayed in my mind, making the work of turning it into a satisfying story feel insurmountable. Even after a cup of tea and going to the Y and doing jump jacks, and lunges, and all the movements that usually get my blood and adrenaline moving fast enough to again believe didn't work, I could summon the belief that I can write, that it's worth the effort and inevitable mistakes and correction.

So I told God and my husband how afraid I was. A picture drifted into my mind, a picture of words on paper going out from my body, drifting off into the air. I heard again the words I heard six months ago when God first gave me this picture. "They're just words. They aren't you."

 

That helped, some. Stil I don't want to sit down and work. Still, faith has to wrest control from feeling.

*    *    *

It's after lunch now and I've worked two hours on this story. Good changes are underway and I like what I'm doing. I don't want to quit. I believe now, with help from outside, I can do it.

Where the Weeks have Gone

Blog readers, I’m sorry for my long absence. The first reason for my hiatus was having college-age kids home during August. Hunks of time went into helping the youngest put on an art exhibition, hiking with the oldest from Big Basin State Park to Waddell Beach (a hike of nine miles with wonderful views, ending at a point where wind-surfers colorfully dot the ocean!), playing scrabble and shopping with them. All good.

 

September has been full of start up events – team and advisory meetings  with leaders in the young mothers group at my church, the actual start of a hundred plus women meeting weekly, and starting up my tutoring business. Thirteen people have asked for sample lessons with me, filling up my schedule with six appointments per week, one being a group lesson. I've started referring inquirers to other teachers and am enjoying teaching a capable friend to tutor.

 

Another endeavor has been reading, then writing. two plus page reflections on these books for my graduate courses in Creative Writing. August I read Grapes of Wrath and the last last few days I finished books started in September Cutting for Stone (contemporary medical fiction) and Mystery and Manners by Flannery O’Connor—all excellent.

 

Readers, I commit myself to writing something to you once a week again. Some great ideas have been simmering and the whispers of the muse are increasing in volume,near ready to shout for my fingers' time and attention!

Soaking in Santa Fe

I'm here in the small town of Santa Fe, New Mexico for ten days for my residency classes as I work on an MFA in Creative Writing. About forty of us are engaging in lectures and discussions on Art and Faith as we examine the works of  two outstanding authors, Gerard Manley Hopkins (poetry) and Annie Dillard (Pilgrim at Tinker's Creek).

We are also privileged to hear authors and graduating students read their works as well as critiquing our short stories in a small group setting with a faculty mentor presiding. I'n convinced that this workshopping with an expert teacher is the best way to perfect our craft in writing. I am learning much also from the lectures and various meetings.

Rain has come most every day, usually in late afternoon or evening, often accompanied by thunder and lightening. When it's not raining, the drama of clouds enthralls me. Here's my jottings from a 6 AM walk on open land surrounding the campus:

Pink ruffles a gray billowing cloud. A fiery chariot behind lights up the morning sky, turning luminous the necklines of dark ocean surges, an apparition of Gabriel blowing his horn.  I swivel my scan from east to north--everywhere the shining pink prevails. Above, dirty cotton balls dot the sky like a path. 

Yesterday I rode two city buses to reach Budget Rental Car. The first bus driver chatted to me about doing welding work in California before moving to Santa Fe be near his family. The next talked about fishing in Peco and Taos and politics in Santa Fe.  The town has a friendly ambience despite its population of 150,000. 

I rented the car so that I could drive to  Bandelier State Monument on our day off yesterday. It was both gorgeous an fascinating. I'll put up photos of it after I return home.

This afternoon I did some true soaking at Ten Thousand Waves, a lovely Japanese style spa complete with hot baths.-One good thing about a fender bender accident that took place two weeks ago is it has given me a reason to indulge is such a treat!

 

Stepping into the Park Clan

To be honest, before I traveled to Oregon last Thursday I was not looking forward to the prospect of meeting all at once seventy new relatives at the Park family reunion (my husband's relatives). I'm an introvert, so spending Thursday through Sunday with people I didn't know in a place I didn't choose was not my idea of a dream vacation.

Of course I wanted to see Joyce and other Oregonian Park relatives once again, but I had many assignments due for my graduate studies both before and after the event. And I would have to depart  for New Mexico just two days after returning from Oregon (i.e Thursday this week). Plus, I'd recently spent time with another dozen Park relatives and haven't had time for my own extended family - so, in anticipating this event, sometimes it felt like an unwanted pressure, alongside positive hopes.

The event exceeded my expectations. I met many kind and fascinating people and deepened friendships started previously. We ate delicious food, feasted on the verdant green and tall, tall trees of Oregon, and enjoyed feeling a part of a widely extended family who hailed from Carolina, Nevada and Manhattan as well as Hawaii and California. Over the dining table I heard stories of feeding orphans in North Korea, about setting up a charter school in SoCal at an archaeological lab and parenting two very active young boys.

The setting, a Presbyterian retreat center, was a wonder venue for this - in the free time the wee ones could tumble on lush green lawn and climb trees, older ones swam in the pool, and older ones yet played horseshoes or sat in the numerous lounges and continued conversations started in louder and more public settings. 

I credit how well it went to to the hard work of the organizers. About six people took on significant responsibilities. Little things like printed name tags held on strings, a posted family tree and photo display and slide presentation and a fun icebreaker on he opening night helped us to learn each other's names and feel comfortable initiating conversations.

My two college-aged daughters were quite enthusiastic about the event. They relished viewing a 2.5 hour slide show of sixty or eighty-year old photos that pictured their grandfather's nine siblings and their descendants.

A talent show was entertaining as well. Organized games, courtesy Collin's sister who is an educator,  during the free time in the morning and afternoon helped keep the very young to teenage kids happy, involved and getting to know each other.

One afternoon many folks went to visit the grave site of Kyoung Soo Park and his wife Im. These two  immigrated from Korea and from them descended this huge body of hard-working and accomplished people. We heard the story of how Grandpa Park, who went to Hawaii as a farmworker knowing no English at all, ended up in Mountain Home, Idaho by himself among people who knew no Korean, as a bartender. I learned how one of Collin's uncles was an Ace Pilot in WWII and honored with six medals, despite opposition at one time to Asians participating in the American war effort.

It was indeed a rich time and left me and my family wanting to do it again.

Keeping the Flowers and Fruit Coming

    We have a large, lovely tangerine tree that has gone from producing bountiful orange fruit to fruit with black sticky insect residue on them. So a few weeks ago I attended a seminar on Citrus Care. I came away excited with what I'd learned about pruning and fertilizing citrus trees.

    Since then I've spent several hours pruning the tree and arranged to have it sprayed with pesticidal oil, applying part of what I learned at the seminar. I also heard how spraying frequently with liquid fertilizer  keeps the tree healthy. Have I done that yet? No. Nor have I bought the siphon sprayer or the liquid fertilizer needed.

  Saturday I distributed fertilizer granules on the ground under the hydrangea, lilies and other backyard plants. I couldn't procrastinate doing this application any longer since soon my gardener and his guys would apply mulch.  I could have, should have fertilized in April, or at least May. It took me until three weeks ago to buy the fertilizer. Here it is July and I do what should have been done at the start of the growing season.

    It's a motivational problem. Applying fertilizer is so unspectacular and flowers lure me. I love pulling off dead lily buds and leaving the open-wide yellow lilies to shine without brown, shriveled lilies marring their glory of the blooms. I enjoy snapping off long brown stalks projecting from the geranium bush with their once-cherry blossoms curled up or fallen. The bush looks a happy-pink afterwards.

    What do I get from doing fertilizing?  Nothing--I just see a lot of dull, gray tiny balls on the ground. I know it will help the plant grow and produce more flowers, but it doesn't happen within my sight, or even overnight. I'm impatient -- I like immediate results, like what pruning and dead heading brings. But long term, without the right feeding, the lilies stop putting out green stalks with blooms or tree or plant may become diseased.

    Today, on Sunday, I've determined that I'm going to keep in mind the long-term view for not only my plants but myself. I want to invest time in food for my soul.

    When I don't have to get a meal on the table, write a paper or other tasks, my mind goes to how I can be of help to someone else. Sounds good, but the danger is that without receiving fertilizer for my soul, I'll be infested long-term and what fruit I produce may not be sweet or wholesome.

    So today I'm going to take an hour to pray and read my new Christianity Today magazine, and Pilgrim and Tinker Creek--a fertilizer for my soul.