When in Rome...one delivers zucchini bread

There's this burn barrel about eight feet from my patio where all of my neighbors burn their Joss paper money from time to time. Oranges and incense crowd around it. It's really interesting and beautiful, and I really don't mind it except when they set that thing alight while my son is busily chalking it up six inches from the roaring flames. Okay, I mind it a lot, as it also leaves a layer of ash on my furniture and stinks up my yard and makes relaxing outside with your wine-filled-with-floaters a little challenging. But, When In Rome. Which is why I should not grouse that I've been the recipient of three condo complaints in three days. One was just from a screaming auntie telling Gus to quit having fun at 1:00 in the afternoon. He was standing in the grass. The other was a nervous security guard having to quiet down my patio for the second time. He backed off when he saw it was just four adults chatting normally at a normal evening hour. But today we got the big, "Three strikes and yer out" lecture when Oscar's chalk art was finally formally reprimanded. We've been told to spread the word, folks. Chalk art---verboten!

So little Banksy and I are having to take our work to shadier places. And honestly, on an island where you can't chew gum, I can actually wrap my brain around the horror of our actions a little bit. A little bit. 

As someone who has spent a lot of her life worrying about how much time she takes in the ATM, or thinking that the car that's honking is absolutely honking at her because she is doing something tragically inconvenient, or going out of her way to never ever cut in line or be late for a meeting or not be fully prepared for any number of documents you might have to present at passport control, I am struggling a wee bit to discern if I've morphed into the ugly American. We do collect a lot of snails. There is a patch of grass that may not grow back due to some digging. Sometimes, sometimes we turn up a song called "Alabama Chicken" very loudly and sing the chorus with gusto. 

All of this coincides with a hilarious English-as-another-language moment with my students. I have these "choices" cards where I read some inane statement and the kids have to make a quick decision. It's supposed to be based on brain research and warm us up for some serious thinkin'. "Would you rather eat a raw egg or a slice of raw bacon?" kind of things. "Would you rather give up your birthday forever or give up your siblings?" They love it. The last one was, "Would you rather be chased by a charging bull or a roaring lion?" And one sweet student, wonderful dear student, got this disgusted look on his face and said, "That's ridiculous. Why would anyone be chased by either of those things?" I tried to cajole him into guessing. I mean, come on, I know it isn't going to happen but neither is the loss of your birthday (unless you chalk art on the mean streets of this condo!). He stared at me, brow furrowed, and finally said, "A roaring lime?" He thought I'd asked if he'd rather be chased by a bowl or a lime. Yes. Yes, that IS a stupid question.

I've been trying to think of how to pose my neighborly dilemma in the "choices" jar later this week. "Would you rather be neighbors with the family that waves and smiles and doesn't make a peep from 9:00pm until 7:00am but that sometimes draws repetitive patterns of squid and octopus on the walking paths and may have been responsible for the snails that crawled in your kitchen window because we lined them up under there when you had them all open and they move far faster than one might expect--OR--would you rather not?

Hm. I guess that is a stupid question too. When in Rome. When in Rome one bakes something really good as an apology. Gus and I have some serious baking to do!

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We also have some baking to do for an upcoming birthday bash. Gus is six weeks from age three, and so I've reserved the poolside for cupcake eating and unorganized preschool mayhem. We ignored his birthday for two years, and he's catching on. Goodie bags, here we come!

PS. Today's video: Killer Snails.

Recycled topic: Living well 101

It's been almost three years of almost:

Almost back in shape.

Almost drawing again.

Almost Skyping all those people I've told I'll Skype.

Almost enjoying long hours building block towers that get knocked down over and over and over and over.

Almost writing.

Almost parenting.

Almost making it home for Christmas without the flu.

Almost maintaining friendships.

Almost sleeping through the night.

Almost hanging all the pictures in the eight months "new" apartment.

Almost figuring it out.

Almost buying a house.

Almost handling that last interaction with grace (before it went tragically south).

Almost learning Czech.

Almost making it through the whole year within my sick day allotment.

Almost attending the 47 dinners I've canceled.

Almost grading all those papers on time.

Almost using "swag" correctly in front of my seventh graders

Almost giving up coffee.

Almost tackling that skin rash.

Almost answering the phone.

Almost finding a new topic for the blog other than the cyclical, "How do I enjoy this cup of life that is handed to me?" one.

As I've alluded to 40 billion times, as someone that read wayyyyy too much Emerson in college, I know that I should take heart in the process of transcending my yucky self, but being on the verge is really unsatistfactory. I'm a lady hankering for a victory. An apex. Two and a half weeks post-sinus-surgery, I have a big ol' infection in my face. I'm thanking God it's not MRSA, but I'm also cartoon kicking the dirt and saying, "shucks!" If you knew how meticulous I have been with self-care, you would think my usual cavelier-about-doctors'-advice-self was taken over in the zombie apocalypse. I have been careful. 

And so I'm mildly defeated over dumb reasons.

I canceled another dinner date.

I came home from the doctor and was a poopy mom and didn't really enjoy setting up the lego train or (worst game of all) pretending there was a bee trying to get us so we hide under a blanket and scream (repeatedly). 

But, I did do something I haven't done in months. Maybe years. I handwrote a letter. I got out paper, and I scribbled a long note to a dear friend and in the slowness of those looping words, I reminded myself about (warning: repetitive blog topic alert!) seasons. We don't get to pick how long some seasons are, but we can wear them well and with kindness to self and others. We can quit fighting them and live them. We can shut up. This season is one of loose ends and loss of muscle tone and holding tight to what is near. Writing it out to her relaxed me enough to think past simply grinning and bearing it (at least for the afternoon), and I was able to react to my day with true delight. Gus was wild, and so he and I sang ourselves through a little Sesame Street therapy after dinner, which I did thoroughly enjoy. Prior to his shower I got out the "washable ink" (a manufacturer's joke) stamp pad, and we made marvelous fingerprint caterpillars and a few deranged handprint turkeys. And as we lay in bed thanking God for his snail collection, his friends, his dad who is admirably building houses in Cambodia with 14-year-olds, and anything covered in chocolate, I was understanding of our now. I wouldn't have chosen all of it. Almost-living isn't best for my personality. I'm disappointed I didn't get to have Nepalese food with a gaggle of interesting people tonight. But I am thankful--very thankful--I got to watch my interesting son shovel in quinoa and tell me the differences between male and female mosquitos.

Madeleine L'Engle wrote often of the necessity for "being time." The time where we walk alone, where we sit alone, where we write for ourselves, where we let our brains relax a bit so we can tackle the routines before us without animosity. I am so ridonkulously stupid that I forget it. And I waddle through days in my Almost-fog and forget to live. And to be fair, how is one supposed to feel excited about that dreadful bee game when a truly disgusting situation is going on in her newly remodeled nose? Being time PLUS giving ourselves a big fat break seems a fair balance for sanity and the ability to recognize the good in life.

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I took some being time last week while I mended to celebrate a birthday of a new friend. She doesn't resent my 5:00am texts canceling our jogs, understands why I didn't show up to the dance party, and she also eats frosting-laden cupcakes, so I like her very much:

I also bought these confectionery shaped erasers. They've totally amped up tea parties around here:

PS. It's question list time in my class! Man, is THIS a season that's easy for me to savor. My list wonders what adenoids do, what YOLO means (yes, I finally looked it up), the reasoning behind the mango shortage during Chinese New Year, why they all laugh at me when I say "swag", whether or not I can eat my lucky Mandarin oranges, how they pick a new Pope, what the US's involvement in WWI was, tenable methods for deterring a large asteroid from striking the Earth, what was the Marconi scandal, and does Chapstick really create a dependence on lip balm. Good times.

 

Story telling

I've been thinking a lot about story lately. Dear friends were discussing a family phrase for recentering worrying in their house, "Is that the truth, or is that a story you're telling yourself?" It's a good barometer reading for self-imposed-suffering.

Since Deborah Wiles worked with my students (see yesterday's post), I've been thinking on how story tells the truth, even when what you're writing is fiction. It's helping me frame some of my own stories and giving me license to write. It's also providing a more compassionate lens.

(thank you for DW)

When P and I were recovering after the tsunami, we had our stories taken from us by two different people. One journalist published an email we didn't want seen and another author lifted quotes by P and used them in painful, derogatory ways in widely-read angry diatribes. Those violations made me quit talking and question my own reliability and experience. This week, an 8th grade student was doing a research project on the tsunami of 2004 in order to write a short story for her language arts class. She found one of those "shocking but true" books that tells tales of brushes with death. And of all the stories, in that book was the tale of the family that P helped rescue eight years ago. But, P wasn't in the tale. They shared an entirely different story with an entirely different hero. At first I was enraged. For the third time we were absent from our own life-changing experience. But then I thought about what Debbie Wiles taught us, and I stepped back. That story was what that family experienced. They were panicked--like us. They were in survival mode--like us. What they wrote is what they felt, hoped for, and lived through---even if it didn't really happen. Who am I to say I'm the reliable eye-witness? I spent enough years teaching social studies to know that no account is to be trusted when we examine history. Include me in it. I'm sad we're not in the story in the book, but it's only for petty reasons. Mostly, I'm happy that family had a shared narrative that leaves them stronger and that gives their children scaffolding for making sense of something very hard and scary. I'm grateful for story, and it's not mine to judge if it's fiction or not. 

That's all sort of heavy and weary-making, so I'll think about this: Today, while I continued to recover in bed, Gus brought me a coconut he picked up on his walk home from school. Things like that make me really dig Singapore. We shook it together, heard the milk slosh around and made plans to smash it open when his dad gets home. In Gus's story, he knows that you can't stand under trees laden with coconuts or one could fall. He also knows that there are different kinds, and we usually only drink from the green ones the street vendors hack into with machetes and poke with bendy straws. He knows every snail in his yard by family order ("that's the littlest brother and the almost biggest sister"), and he also remembers not to touch milipedes or yellow fuzzy caterpillars. The sting is outrageous. Yesterday, a green snake (mildly venemous) climbed the trees in our yard and got into a second story apartment. Gus knows that snakes are dangerous and that we run and get help when we see one. The condo "uncle" who caught it, also told Gus tales of a python he caught on the eighth story last year. Gus is learning his natural world even in a city of five million people, and he is creating memories that I had. Mine featured large mouth bass, ducks, and sunfish. I picked lilacs and goldenrod and not tropical fruit. The parrots in the trees we see here would have only existed at the zoo. When we moved overseas, I worried that we'd lose our footing with nature. Thankfully--hallelujah-- nothing has been lost: the storyline is the same, the elements have just altered. That gives me great joy.

So does smashing coconuts. 

Breathing soon

We've been having a quiet time that has felt very noisy.

P and I, ever list makers, have been feeling overwhelmed with lack of lists and Groundhog Day-ish surviving. Even after long post-holiday peptalks where we informed ourselves we were not too tired to be creative, we are still working our way through evenings of season two of NCIS when we could be scribbling. And darn that Downton Abbey. It's simply no good. 

We're doing things. We work. We send a lot of house-buying emails. We have mandatory daily walks. We play with that wild Gus, and we changed four light bulbs on Tuesday. I had the rich pleasure of co-teaching (That's a lie. She did it all.) for three days in my classroom with Deborah Wiles, who reminded my students that they are not invisible voices and that our stories matter. I cried happy tears every day she was there. I've rushed through fleeting art moments. For his 37th birthday, P got a card I was too lazy to scan with a Carole King quote that did not look quite as sappy when I drew it in blue ink: "Funny how I feel, more myself with you, than anyone else that I ever knew..." He also got a from-scratch red velvet cake that stretched for five whole days.

I even sketched a collection of logo ideas (View this photo) for a friend that is doing admirable jewelry work. What's your vote?

And yesterday, I got my sinuses surgerized. My face feels like I should have ducked a little lower during that last shot, but I'm told my life will change. The new B will get so much oxygen to her brain that she'll only need four hours of sleep and will finally produce that novel. Or at least she'll make a list or two. On that list will be, "embarrassing hospital stories." They will include the doctor in Prague that ate his lunch in front of me while I sat pantless polietly listening to his diagnosis on a very cold chair. They will also include Wednesday's nurse, a lovely woman who apparently is from a far more conservative culture than mine, who had never heard of a tampon and caused me to have to explain what it was in front of six patients and several shy hospital staff. 

I will also have a list entitled, "community building 2013." We've had the rare rare rare Singapore opportunities lately to make people meals (gasp), walk their dog (wow), and send get well cards. In our insulated society of (for whom we are much grateful) domestic employees, you rarely get to open someone's refrigerator and get yourself a glass of water. To get to deliver the soup to the table is the community we crave, and I'm so happy the C family let us in this week. (I'm also embarrassed that it's all it takes). That same week, we found ourselves at 8:30pm getting in trouble from the condo security because an impromptu happy hour led to a dozen children drawing with chalk on the sidewalk (against the condo rules!) and playing fabulous rowdy games in the yard too loudly. It was such a welcome scolding to have enough kiddos around us that we could make a wild ruckus on a weekend night not from the adults on the patio but from the sweaty toddlers to teens in the yard. My biggest prayers when we moved here were that Gus would be loved by others and that there would be dirt in which to dig. He is hugged, and he is filthy. Praise God. To all my Singapore friends, you can look in my laundry basket anytime. Please, let's see one another's mess.

And man, once that oxygen starts flowing, who knows what creative genius will strike. Look out kids, chalk masterpieces are ahead!

Virtual Holiday Letter

We didn't write our annual Christmas letter this year. Our card (this photo--spoiler alert) just lists our blogs, as we're not very coherant (this post will attest to that in every regard) right now. Thoughts are scattered. What's interesting to us is universally mundane. We chuckled a little bit about what we'd even say: "Um, we are humbled at every turn?" "We moved, foolishly thinking it would be easy and are still trying to catch our breaths?" "We gained ten pounds?" "We spend our free time re-catching Gus's surprisingly speedy snail collection?" 

The skinny is that things are good. Just plain good. And there's a lot of learning--tiny learnings--but good learnings, nonetheless. They may say it all (though not as cleverly as P's holiday letters):

• Gus snacks regularly on Char Siew Pau, rice noodles, mango lassis, and dried seaweed. He avoids vegetables of any cuisine, french fries, chicken nuggets, or potato chips.


• Two years in Prague were long enough to make some life-long, much-missed friends and permanent cultural connections. It's been a happy return to our former lives here, but we're sorely missing our recent lives there.


• We can survive a snake in the house. Barely.


• Gus is allergic to all brands and all forms of sunscreen (Thanks to reoccurring rashes, he now has a phobia to boot).


• An extra million people in a country the size of Whatcom County is noticeable.


• Bike paths DO exist and are getting better every day (good job, Singapore!).


• Gus digs the water. He swims. He dives. He repeats.


• If you want to sleep well at night, don't think about how much the cheese you just bought would cost in another country.


• One doesn't seem to get as many spontaneous airline upgrades with a toddler in tow.


• Carve your Halloween pumpkins on the 31st to ensure that they survive the humid evening.


• If you want your son to be outgoing and friendly, you cannot be the wallflower at every party (sighhhhh).


• The wild pig population appears to have doubled on the island. Beware on dark morning runs and rides.


• For now, trips to the beach rather than adventurous backpacking expeditions are refreshingly all right.


• Good libraries do a lot for this family's happiness factor. We heart you, SAS libraries.


• Driving on the left side of the road just comes right back to you. And after a few months of practicing, reciprocated patience, and several close calls, we CAN reverse the car into parking spots with ease.


• The world is small and grand folks abound on all continents.

Some of those grand folks on an adventure race in Krabi, Thailand. And one of the many reasons I was humbled this year (hoooooo boy...not quite up to pace with the old running crew)

A happy puddle-jumper.

My two best friends mid-MOvember. See P's FB page for a too-cute-for-my-blog shaving video. 

Our legacy of tragically awkward couple shots continues. We just don't have "act casual" in us. Soon after, the photograper gave up.

MERRY CHRISTMAS and happy, happy holidays. Wishing you and yours a wonderful new year with good people, good learnings, and good times. Please buy a big ol' block of cheddar cheese for us and savor that it's not a billion dollars. May joy abound.

Singapore Season

'Tis the season.

P is back from a week in Boston (he says we'll live there someday) with treats:

Grand treats.

When he is away, I don't sleep great, so I sometimes have midnight drawing bursts. And in the words of Gus, the Christmas cards are "Over!" A sneak peeK:

I attended a few holiday parties. Thankfully, I have good friends willing to be my dates at all of 'em. It looks like I'm particularly merry, but the truth is, I'm just relieved to not have to walk in that restaurant alone.

It's so good to have P back. The stockings are hung, the tree is trimmed, Gus requests the same Christmas book every night, and it's the second Saturday of Advent.

These pre-Christmas weekends are sacred. We slow down. We light our Advent candles. We take walks. It's a sweaty holiday season on the equator this year, but it almost makes it more special to have to fight against the external forces that try and tell you it's not Christmas. It is Christmas, indeed. And I'm so happy to have both boys home for our celebrating--even if we're hunting lizards rather than throwing snowballs.

 

 

Behaving and transcending

Oy. The guilt.

There was a recent no food/cold medicine/glass (okay, maybe two) of wine incident. We knew we shouldn't go to the party, as we were really sick. But we have these issues with morality and it seemed better to take the Sudafed and go to the wine tasting than to cancel on the nice people hosting it. We did not pick the best option and yes, I have fielded phone calls from folks laden with embarrassing recollections.

I learned, on the same day, at the doctor's office for said sickness, that I am infecting my family. He told me that I am a carrier of deep infection and that every time my husband and son get sick, it is all my fault. Actually, he said it twice, much more slowly the second time, to let the burden of this sink in. 

I believe that guilt is not from God. But I also believe in behaving. I don't know much about parenting, but from what I can tell from those around me, what I DO has a lot more power than what I SAY. This boy needs to see his mama loving unabashedly and seeking understanding. I had a dream today that I was in Nepal with super-smart Betsy and Rebecca (who I'm trying to woo into blogging with me). We were told we could not buy a rug we wanted unless we found a "transcendent guest house" (this was said to us by Sam Elliot in a Bhutanese goh...have I mentioned I'm on a lot of cold medicine?). We kept looking in guest houses and asking, "is this one transcendent?" Perhaps that will be my new message to myself as I make choices. Is what I'm doing trasnscendent? Rebecca often asks me to ask myself, "How is this helping right now?" It's a good barometer reading. When that second glass was poured, I might should've asked myself, "Now, just how is this helping? And specifically, how is it helping little Gus?" 

November is the month of gratitude. But for me, it may be the month of gratefully behaving. Starting tomorrow, I will floss twice daily, not eat so many salty pretzels, and be thankful for the folks that keep me on the straight and narrow. When Gus tells me that someone is a grouch (as he is prone to report--and with accuracy), I will not concur, I will instead ask questions that lead us to understand why someone might be grouchy. I will help us both transcend.

And I will stay home when medicated.

For your own transcendence, you might want to peek at this (how does a person pick which book is more amazing?). You could also read this, which is one of the sweetest little young adult novels I've read in a long, long time. Lastly, you could enjoy this:

Here's what matters about these leggy ladies. One of those girls finished a 50km running race lately. Two of them did a 60km adventure race a couple weeks ago in wicked-fast time. All of them are stellar and competitve athletes with enviable ab muscles. I don't know what they were thinking when they asked me to join their team, knowing I'm one kid and three years of training behind everyone. I couldn't do it. I was slow. I walked when I should have ran. I was winded and wincing and yet they committed themselves to doing every step of the race by my side. Even when one of the organizers swore at us and said, "Well, you're not dead--bleeping--last, but you're pretty-bleeping-close to it" as we came through a check point VERY late in the day, they kept laughing, holding my hand, and cheering me on. I asked one of the girls at the end, while gasping for breath, "Was it hard for you?" she looked up, pursed her lips and said, "Umm...I mean I kinda feel like I had a workout..." What she meant was, "Um, that was a fun little stroll through the woods with my grandma..."

I'm not even thinking about feeling guilty for their love (well...). Part of transcendence is accepting help. And being grateful. THANKS, ladies.