The Goodbye Season

It's that time of year. We say goodbye. We get excited for hellos. We count down days until we're leaving and ignore days until we return. OG's countdown is on two hands. How will we sleep?

This year, I am blessed to say goodbye to someone pretty darn special:

I'm only leaving him for two floors up and a few hallways down, but when you plan daily, teach together often, and pop in and out of each others' classrooms forty times a day, it's a loss. 16 years ago, I was blessed to team with an amazing woman. She raised llamas. She danced at the salmon festival. She taught me about Terry Tempest Williams and Mary Karr and not being so scared all the time. I loved that lady and our accordian wall we'd push to the side so we could face all fifty of those rowdies at once. Since then, I've grieved losing that relationship. And this miraculous year, I had it again. Thanks, Bri.

Brian taught me to let kids see my love of words in all its embarrassing glory. Every birthday, we give each student a poem and read it aloud with gusto. It's not his birthday, but I'm going to read him some William Stafford:

I've never been comfortable with ceremony or spotlight. I don't like to talk about myself. But, I'm learning--slowly--that there's a place for ritual, for honor, and for public moments to celebrate a season. 

And of course, since I can't take anything too seriously without getting red-faced, I'll probably have to come home and make a list of what we'll do ten days from now when we sit on the hill, in Washington State, looking at Mount Cashmere: Legos. Slow Coffee. Legos. Fat Tires. Legos. Hike. Repeat.

Two hands!

Magic Babushka: She's back!

In places I used to live, May was the month where we all started wearing our summer clothes too early. Glaring white legs held firm in shorts and outdoor seating was used even when teeth were chattering. I waited for those lilacs and goldenrods to show themselves, so I could abandon leggings and freeze my way to June.

Not in Singapore. Singapore May is a cooker. It's a cruel month after three uncomfortable ones that's leading right into an even hotter June. It's the end of school, the end of any hope of a bearable cool-ish morning, and the end of deodorant by 9:00am. There are a lot of reasons to be fragile in Singapore Mays: Grade reports need written, dear friends are moving, families are worried about transcripts, students are tired, teachers are tired, people are bracing for six weeks of visiting families they rarely see (and by people---all you dear readers---I don't mean us. We're EMbracing!), and well...everyone is really really hot. Things can get kind of passive aggressive or just outright aggressive at work. I can always rely on one or two truly bonkers days and out-of-character outbursts. I pass out a lot of chocolate macaroons to my co-workers. It's May and it's getting weird.

Last week, I made a slide in my daily slide shows that had a lot of sad pugs on it. It seemed like a good weapon at the time for battling student angst, the heat, and my encroaching feeling of May doom:

The results of my pug warfare have yet to be seen (secretly hoping for a pug in a school uniform to show up in my classroom as the Best Teacher Gift Ever).

This week I tried something new and probably equally unhelpful. Long ago, as a comfort to my strange self, I started doodling Magic Babushka. She's so wise. May needs lots and lots of Magic Babushkas. For a date with two dear friends tomorrow, I have two tucked in my purse with back-up signs for them to hold, proclaiming very encouraging phrases:

I'm learning about Adobe Illustrator as I go, and mostly I'm learning that I don't know much. She started black and white:

And then I played:

If you're thinking that having two of these in my purse is proof of the May Bonkers, then I might concur. However, with any luck, they will laugh...and we will be seated somewhere under the air conditioning.

Best Gift Ever

Everyone is desperate to know if they are the lucky recipient of this. You'll just have to wait and see. I think you have a July birthday and know who usually gets the strange cut-out paper products:

If you look very closely, you'll see that to make the elephant howdah, "more cutting skills are needed."

Roy

Today we had a little bit of amazing.

I called Roy, a friend's delivery guy, to see if he could move some furniture for me. I had two cabinets to pick up at condos of people that were leaving Singapore. Roy seemed a bit confused. He wanted to know how I got his number and was a bit challenging to communicate with. Whatever. Accents on the phone are tough. The only thing that left me wondering was when I asked how much he charged and he said, "I've never done this job. You pay me what you want."

Roy showed up at the first condo all right; they called to confirm.

Roy showed up at the second condo, but my friend texted to say he seemed a bit flustered.

Roy showed up at our house.

His name is Myo Min Kyaw and he just got that phone number a few days ago. He's a foreign worker from Burma who got a random call in the middle of the day on the jobsite from a crazy expat woman calling him Roy and telling him she needed him to pick up furniture for her. He borrowed a lorry, drove all over town for probably the first time, and with a big grin delivered my items. 

The good news is that he seemed happy for the work and understanding of my embarrassment. He even took away our rusted out BBQ to sell for parts. "Roy" was honestly one of the nicest strangers I've ever met. We handed him a Coke, promised him we'd pass on his number, and shook our heads. 

Dreams

We did not bring Grampa home to stay. Grampa's eye-sight was too far gone for a rowdy four-year-old. Fetch would have been tragic, and he seemed a wee cranky. But, we did have a hilarious conversation with the dog adoption lady.

"What kind of dog are you looking for?"

"Well, we're not very picky. We just want to have a good dog. But it would be nice if it didn't bark. Or jump or lick. Or chew on anything. And we couldn't handle a dog that stunk or drooled. I'm not sure we really want a dog with a lot of energy, but we would like to take a dog on walks. Maybe a dog that likes to follow our son around? But isn't too needy? A friendly dog that likes to snuggle...but not a dog that will get on the furniture or anything..." It went on and on. She's a wonderful woman with a sense of humor, so she laughed very hard. 

While we wait for our mythical dog, we dream about art with inspiration from Peter Brown. This talented artist and writer came to school this week to work with lucky students, and I got to sit in on a quick and entertaining session of his. Amazing stuff!

Staying

Naming things is fun. Right now, it is our number one family activity. We're on a tentative dog hunt, and we've recently met an elderly little fellow that has no name and no home, and we're thinking of inviting him to stay a while to see if we can all make it work. As people that have deliberately dropped out of nearly every commitment possible except our jobs and evening dinner, acquiring any sort of obligation is completely whack-a-doodle. But the list is adorable. I'm a fan for real-people names: Brad, Mo, Gordon, Johnny Cash. P's are always a little exotic with a nod to former lives: Darko, Pivo, Tsunami. And Gus's, well Gus's are ridiculous: Doctor Donut, Po, Microwave, Doctor Microwave, Doctor Po, Miss Pearly (that's for you, KB!), and Grampa. The last one makes us laugh so hard, it might just win. This potential canine friend arrives as we re-sign our lease. This is significant because it is the first time in 24 years that I will have lived somewhere beyond 24 months. My adult life has no idea what that feels like. Today at sacred dinner time, P said earnestly, as if we were signing up to climb Everest or marathon across the Sahara, "I really hope we make it." I do too. For the first time ever, I don't want to pack up and find new digs. I'm voluntarily staying. This means something.

Maybe what will help us plant ourselves is something to name. Our strange little feat of strength is digging into community and getting a little dog hair in our tidy, transient lives. So, we're looking at happy-eyed orphans and wondering if they need to stay too. 

Doctor Donut (or Grampa?) and his two teeth.

 

 

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.)