Living the good

When you're not in a space of creating art, you take that season to savor good works of others. I'm learning from her daily practice.

You also take time to be with good people. It doesn't always go so well. Recently I read a book on some exercises to boost dear Gus's development. One of them had him lay in the middle of blanket. Then, I grabbed the four corners to make a bundle of Gus that I was supposed to swing around--stimulating his senses and turning him into an athletic genius. He shrieked like he was on fire and yelled, "I'm not a dumpling, I'm a boy!" For the rest of the evening, and well, at least once a day since, he's asked, "Remember the time you thought I was a dumpling mom? And you didn't know I was a boy?" Sigh.

You also might escape to good places. We're inadvertent jet-setters at this house. Chennai two weeks ago. Bali last weekend for me. And this weekend smart P is keynoting a conference in Hanoi. It sounds glamorous in print, but it's the same as driving four hours anywhere in the US and probably the same price as the cost of the gas. 

You eat good food.We have a new rule: You may not have any food or drink if you're consuming it on the run. If there isn't time to sit and to savor and hold a conversation with your loved ones, then you can just have water. We've been ten minutes later to work sitting with our coffees and a sleepy Gus, but I think we might be more sane.

You make good lists. And the top of the list has art projects. They will come. For now, we read, we talk, we listen. We try not to make Gus shriek. We enjoy what our Southeast Asia life has to offer. 

(I did a good job savoring this breakfast.)

 

 

 

We are back

It has been awhile, but I am back. We've been walking our way through the new year in hopeful steps. This is a season of mantras for us: reminders to be kind, to not take ourselves so seriously, to keep company with the wise, to avoid hot dogs (that Gus sure does like nitrites), and to spend time together doing what we love. I've been feeding my soul with Anne LaMott's newest, with good friends, and with a return to long trail runs. 

And while Chennai doesn't seem to be the best place for the latter, it was perhaps the most spectacular choice possible for everything else. There wasn't a hot dog in sight, and there was soul-feeding by the bucketload. It was a first solo getaway from Singapore for P and me, and it was beyond all expectations.

I like to think that as I get older, I get more tolerant all around. We all have quirks. We all have stories that have shaped us in strange ways. We are all--hopefully--doing the best we can with what we have. That tolerance is tempered with caution, and as my heart and time belongs to P and Gus, I'm grateful for the miracle of friendships where being me seems easy and not embarrassing even despite spans of time and miles. K and G are those rare gifts. And how can we not love people who have THIS waiting for us?

It's been many years since I could just sit and stare out of a tuk tuk at color and people and take time to wonder and not answer the four-millionth "why?" question from a curious G. I love that G. But I also love to stare.

We ate. We watched. We tried not to worry that we were causing a lot of inconvenience asking for kurtas to be unfolded and bedspreads to be opened and block prints to be unwrapped. I came home with treasures.

Time away and time with people that are doing great things in the world gave me hopeful thoughts. And some big ideas burbled. There's good paper in India. There's inspiration. There are places like this one taking on important projects and making stunning things:

It was also hopeful to learn that our adventure selves still exist. There's this reoccurring event that happens in my Southeast Asian travels. I call it the "awkward room." It's happened in Kathmandu and Chiang Mai. In Ubud and Sapa. At some point a stranger--usually a transport driver--leads us up a stairway or through an alley to some chairs and some more strangers. Often there is tea. A couple of times there's been unfortunate homemade whiskey. We have absolutely no idea why we are there. We sit and stare. I smile awkwardly. Someone summons someone else in to show us something. Art. A happy baby. Something carved out of wood. This time it was a French woman, who claimed to be a doctor despite looking 14 (I kept thinking of Dr. Piglet and Dr. Winston from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "Please, we are doctors..."). The youngest-doctor-in-the-world was disheleved, holding a mewing newborn kitten, and talking about tuberculosis. For a long time. She was talking hard and holding that creepy cat. We'd been through the awkward room drill, so we nodded it out, waited for a pause, and excused ourselves. And while usually I like to avoid those moments, this one was really affirming. We were back! We were traveling! Once again we were somewhere and we had absolutely no idea what was going on! Yay!

Back in the oasis of their home, K and G talked printing presses, writing, ashrams, children's books to promote literacy, yoga, third-culture-kids, and more. We caught up on their children, our G, and what is good and hard. We ate paneers and drank homemade gingerale, and watched everyone from women in regal saris to dog-walkers with finicky pugs stroll the Bay of Bengal. 

And, we may have sat in a nice hotel and savored brunch. That's okay too, right?

I've lists of ideas, plans to outline for next year, and possibly a trip to Pondicherry to work out. My heart is full, my Gus was blase about our return (sad and affirming all at once), and it is a hopeful new month in the year of the horse. According to my Chinese calendar predictions, it's the year we dragons should be focusing on writing and paper products (no joke!). Amen!