A Blessing A Day

Sending Off

2012-01-19T05:16:00.000-08:00

They arrived at the door when I was still packing. As usual, I first hear them argue, then I turn around to see their clumsy figures moving into view. Mom bumps into things like the gate or the tiny step leading to my front porch. Dad watches her in hopeless distress, as if the twists in his eyebrows alone could reverse time and remove the harms done to his wife.

They ring the door bell, as if the rhapsody of pots and pans knocking onto the patio floor isn't enough to get everyone's attention. I open the door to help them inside. They carry a full meal with them, that is just how they travel, esp to visit me. Over the years, I've learned to be grateful when that is all they brought, no more and no less.

The smell of dumplings, vegetables cooked in ginger and garlic, and salted beef fills my tiny apartment and makes my stomach growl. I rush to finish packing, stuffing the last items along the sides. I am sure I packed everything, but sometimes that still doesn't seem to be enough, somehow.

We eat quickly. Mom asks me whether I have this and that, with a tiny bit more of panics in her voice each time she asks for something that she's sure I forgot. I review their locations in the suitcase with her, throwing everything out of orders. Dad pauses and checks my travel documents and makes copies to keep with them. He walks briskly between the printer and my bags, stuffing everything neatly wherever they belonged. I watch him without knowing how to help, my heart quivers at the sight of his legs bent from age while walking the stairs. His salt and pepper hair drawing streams into the space before my eyes, back bending up and down like an arched bow. I get up to wash the dishes, letting the gushes of water slip through my fingers as I scrub and rinse.

We walk outside to see it's another sunny California day. I duck into the sun warmed back seat and close my eyes. Dad is at the wheel but mom is driving.

"Slow down, you are gonna kill that person."
...
"Oh my god, why did you just do that?"
...
"Stop!"

Her signature soft voice disappears then, and we get the driving coach side of her, all commanding and snappy. She throws up her hands whenever possible, and they have the tendency to take over the steeling wheel and once, even the emergency break. The short ride to the airport today was almost calm, save the occasional sharp inhales she's learned to do recently, at the sight of any car coming within the fifty mile radius.

Still, the car jerks now and again, and I feel breathless and dizzy.

The commuter terminal is the size of a petri dish. After checking in at the counter, I hug them goodbye at the start of the security line. It's an awkward western gesture for them, but they try pleasantly to accommodate me. I can feel the frail frames of their shoulders shrank to childlike proportions under my arms. The years had slipped by all of us unnoticed, cruelly taking away their statures while mine felt over-sized with all the growth. It seems like only yesterday when their big strong arms last held me on the first day of primary school, waving them away through hair and tears both fighting to get into my eyes.

That bit hasn't changed perhaps.

As I strip for the security scans, I look back to see them standing just at the other side looking on. Somehow we've found ourselves in the land of the giants, so their heads can barely peak above the dividing screens and between the even taller moving crowd. But they shifted constantly to keep me in view, two basically dark heads each with just a tiny patch of foreheads bobbing up and down in a sea of tallness. Each time I make another turn and think I'd lose them for sure now, there they are again, hands waving at the sight of me turning.

Photo courtesy of the Internet - you know, Google etc.

For a while that is all I can see, and it makes me feel like a small child held in their big arms again. Somehow, for a little while at least, that is all I wanted in this too big world.

Casa La Memoria

2011-12-18T20:59:00.000-08:00

He walks right up to the table and sits down across from me. Steam rises from the heaping plate full of rice, beans and chicken before him. He digs in with gusto but stops after the first few bites to take a look at me.

I nod and greet him in Spanish. He nods back.

"I am Sammy", he shouts back in perfect English, and it stops me in my tracks.

We smile and shake hands. I couldn't help observing the difference: mine, cold and smooth; and his, warm and calloused.

"Thank you for being here. This is a great place for people like us."

I blush, suddenly not knowing where to put my hands, or my verbs. So I wait for him to continue.

He takes another few bites. I ask how long he has been there.

"About two years. When I first came, I was on drugs, and so sick. I came to die."

I can't quite absorb the gravity of this, watching him chowing down spoonful of rice and beans. His hair stands tall, each strand in the direction of its own choosing, so the plain of his head has the look of a wild fire, or wind blowing through a piny forest. His skin stretches tightly across his face, and I can see the shapes of his bones on his arms. But he ate heartily through the gaps of his smiles, looking thin but relatively healthy and happy.

The bench is hard and cold, but the place is clean. The ceiling is low and gray, but the afternoon sunlight manages to splash through the small windows, painting glimmers of oranges and reds here and there. The next room is large and white, with a TV in the center and chairs all around, stacked neatly as if soldiers waiting for their next command, or next event. The pharmacy is around the bend, a small room filled with shelves piled high with medicine, for AIDS.

This is Casa La Memoria, a small hospice on the outskirts of a small town, just outside of Tijuana. A lone building away from other residence or business clusters, it houses memories and outcasts. A tiny garden and orchard surround the otherwise bare exterior, among a field of gravel and dirt, just steps beyond the unpaved road. A mist that started this morning has turned into rain, pushing us inside before the customary history and introductory talk could be completed.

"So what happened?" I catch him between bites and smiling at me, so I let go of my next question.

"They gave me meds, and took care of me. They also brought me back to God, and He saved me. Now I am clean, and alive. I come here to see these others who are like me, because on the outside, no one understands. My family loves me, but they don't understand. They just say okay, okay. They thought I was crazy when I was doing drugs. I was crazy and I would have sold anything to get high. But here, everyone understands what it was like, and we talk to each other, and we feel better."

Somehow this sounds universal. I give him an understanding nod while trying to remember the last time my family "understood". Before I drift too far, I ask about his family.

"I have five brothers and sisters. We have a big family, two of my brothers live in the US, in California. I visit them sometimes. But I like it here, I like to go back and forth. I like to come to this place and talk to everyone, who are nice to me and understands me. My other brother is struggling, he sells used cars, and my sister is trying to finish school while raising two kids. I wish I could help them."

He looks down for a moment, eyes moist. He wipes them with the back of his bony hand before continuing.

"But I can work here. I help them cook and sweep the floor or do whatever that's needed. Everyone contributes here. We know the medicines are very expensive, but we do what we can. "

Earlier the director told us the medicine for each patient can cost up to $2000 a month. A bargain, for the lives changed in those small dorms inside this tiny building. All afternoon I hear stories like Sammy's, from Jose, from Juan, and from those young mothers. Their bodies look beaten and worn, but there is always a glimmer of light in their eyes. Sometimes it is more than a glimmer, like Sam, his eyes bright with hope, reminding me of the storm weathered plants outside, their leaves clean and gleaming with the sparks of rain drops.

I couldn't help but wanting to stay and listen forever. The rooms are without heat but I hardly feel cold. We arrived around lunch time yet before we knew it dinner bell has sounded and everyone stood up to help. Our leader takes a regretful look at the resting sun and rounds us from the various rooms, so we can bid our goodbyes with hugs and reflections.

Pharmacy wall painting: To Live With Dignity

Outside the rain has stopped as we walk to our van. It's too late for rainbows and too early for stars. Still I am filled, too the brim, like tears that want to flow, like boxes of pills piled high on shelves, like stories that got told.

Highlight

2011-11-02T22:32:00.000-07:00

It was almost eight and we were running late as usual. But the need for coffee beckons, so we dashed into the corner shop buzzing with caffeine, sounds and people.

I turned to scan the room as the line looked infinitely long. That's when I spotted him sitting on the bench just behind the line, studying.

I couldn't tell his age exactly but lines crawled across his forehead and around his downcast eyes. His pristine gray pinstripe suit stood out against the rain forest backdrops and the techno colors around him. A large textbook highlighted in a multitude of colors spread out on the tiny table. Large green plugs filling his ears and index cards filled with scribbles balanced by the edge of the table. Highlighters, used tea bags, glasses and a pocket translator managed to find and fill any remaining spaces.

The world around him rocked on. Two teenagers were necking in a nearby booth, legs stretched out so far that they kicked his table occasionally. The Batista knocked portafilters incessantly against the sink, punctuating the caffeine filled air with stainless steel rhythms and drums. The murmuring crowd sang base in low hums, not swayed by the occasional giggle or sharp exclamations.

The old man however, devoured words and knowledge as if a soldier fighting in the battleground of time. My friend urged me to prod him for answers. So I did.

"Excuse me, may I ask what are you studying?"

It took me a few tries to get his attention. But when I did, he pulled out his ear plugs and smiled at us. He turned the book to show us the cover, explaining it is about "property law".

"Oh, so you are studying real estate?"

"hm, oh no. Law, I am studying for the California bar exam." He said definitively, with a nod to cinch the deal.

"What?" I still couldn't quite believe my own ears.

"Yes, I am studying to be a lawyer." He nodded again, smiling ear to ear.

"Why?" I asked without thinking.

"Because I like to learn new things. I already have six degrees, but learning new things, " He pointed to his head, "keep my brain working well." He rotated his hands to show the workings of a brain (or anything for that matter), required constant movement.

We pondered over these words, unable to come up with any reply other than "wow."

He read through our puzzled and hesitant expressions and announced the next question on our minds. "Do you know how old I am?"

We shook our heads.

"I am seventy two years old." He spread out the fingers of his hands and smiled again, while we stood with our jaws dropped.

He dug into a small black wallet laid next to his translator, and took out his business card. It said, XXX, medical PHD, among other credentials.

I looked at his face again, speechless. Minutes ago, we were questioning whether we were too old "to learn new tricks", commiserating the rapid passage of time while never finding enough of it in the present.

We walked out together in silence, losing interest in our coffee, deep in thoughts.

"Inspiring, wasn't he?" one of us said.
"Definitely."

We blinked and let the night air carry away the thoughts that weighted on us, driving into a world without limit, at least for the moment.

Rain

2011-11-02T20:12:00.001-07:00

It rained this morning. So I blamed the sky for foiling my plan to go swimming.

It was the kind that looked like translucent threads, fallen haphazardly at an angle.

This reminded me of going swimming in the summer of Beijing when it often rained as we bobbed up and down in the pond.

The rain would land warmly on our cheeks, blur our visions by draping over our lashes, and mess up our strokes as we reached out trying to capture each sparkling drops.

Lou and I would always be the first to run out the house as it gets too hot to do anything else. We'd hardly have anything with us, save for swim wears and sandals. Even those we'd kick off as soon as we caught sight of the pond, with its murky waters and concrete edges. Our shoes would be flying and so would we. Into the water we'd dive, among the thousand other kids already bobbing in the water.

It's a pot too full of dumplings, my mom would always say. But it never stopped us.

The Wang brothers and Lou's best friends Dash would always follow us, along with Dash's younger sister Four. She was like, six by then, but she was called four for some reason and it somehow fit. She always looked like a child, even later on when she went to junior high, then high school. She had the face of an angel.

Once in the water, Lou would carry her on the shoulder, and swim like a hippo carrying his prize. I tried to get Dash to carry me, but he'd be reluctant at times. I wasn't heavy but Dash was shy. So we each swam on our own. Lou would challenge him occasionally into a fight, which would mean Four and I attack each other sitting on our respective "rides", while they peddle frantically in the water. Lou thought this was funny, and he would laugh out loud whenever he couldn't take it any more, tossing Four into the water as he did so. As Dash dove for Four, I would land in the water, fist punching air or pockets of rain as I went down.

The rain usually drove the other kids away, so we could have the pond all to ourselves. We would finally be able to swim for real, like holding our breathes for more than four or five strokes. I couldn't swim that much anyway, but I loved watching Dash and Lou race each other, their arms tan and hair shiny black against the dimple gray surface of the water. Whenever the Wang brothers were around, Dash and Lou would team up to either race them or fight them into the water. They'd usually win, leaving the brothers ready to "raise the white flag", as they'd say.

Invisible

2011-10-24T09:52:00.000-07:00

She walked in with trepidations. She was an hour and a half late.

But as she strained to conceal the click clack of her heels, she heard nothing. The swooshing sound of her rain coat that used to drive her crazy disappeared too. She peeked up through her lashes to see eyes staring toward the front of the classroom where she stood yet no glances stopped, as if she were a drop of dew evaporating in the rising sun.

Sunlight is streaming into the room, casting up glares on the whiteboard. Steven and Megan who sat in the back corners, stood to close the curtains. She jolted when she heard the sharp sound of the chain screeching against the rod, as if waking from a dream. Their faces were blank however, when she tried to smile and wave discreetly in their directions. Then she saw them smile at each other, and nodded toward a few other students who looked back. She pinched herself, and winced from the pain.

The drone of the teacher's voice put several heads on the desks. But as she sat on the only remaining seat in the back, she straightened her back to stay alert. A whisper came into her ears, so she turned around. It was Zara, who wanted to clarify a question. Dan was whispering back the answer now, but too far for her to hear. She hadn't caught the question either. She felt cold, though she sat directly under the sun, wrapped in a heavy coat.

When she couldn't come up with the answer herself, as she couldn't remember the question, she didn't panic. Somehow she knew no one would check, no one would sneak a choked laugh like they were doing to Sean as he blurted out staccato phrases of confusion. She scratched mindlessly on her notepad, too clumsy to draw a real shape, too distracted to write verses, and too afraid to pound on the paper as her heart pound into her chest walls, noiselessly but pounding nonetheless.

---

Thankful things

1. It has been so long since I wrote anything my fingers were shaking as I clicked on "New Post". This button of anxiety feels like a comfortable old bike somehow. I only had ten minutes before the next appointment so apologies in advance for what would surely be a post with more than the usual spelling/grammatical foes.

2. A frantic but life so full leaving me fewer moments to ponder and come up with words, but happy and cheerful nonetheless.

3. Supportive voices from the most unlikely places, making the occasional bad day less gray and damp.

4. Rain. It may dampen the roads but I love how it makes the leaves out by my window shine.

Seascape

2011-10-04T06:06:00.000-07:00

The trip down was as smooth and easy as a top grade tequila. Why not? We sat staring out into a span of ocean as blue and clear as the sky itself. Our rides were comfortable, companies easy and our hearts open to possibilities of the week.

Rosarito was overcast that day. A band of clouds hang at the far edge of the sea where it met the sky like frost that crawled up the bottoms of car windows overnight, smudging your view. I wanted to wipe it clean, so I could see the line where everything on earth seems to fall off, into perhaps what should be called a better place, though I would have no way of knowing.

The water seemed more turbulent and the waves more fierce here south of the border. Were the waves rising as a protest against the housing projects and pellet board houses falling to the wayside and scattered between high rise hotels? Perhaps not.

The swells danced nonetheless, between the sun and the wind, beckoning the clouds lower and teasing the heels of low flying pelicans, who flirted at the edge of the swells spraying like hair into the wind and rhythms of the dance.

As we stopped, unloaded and walked out onto the hotel garden standing at the edge of the ocean, waves splashed onto rocks beneath, making white fireworks of water exploding on impact. I let go of my bags along with my thoughts. Looking out into the mists blurring the edges between heaven and earth, I felt myself hanging at the edges of today and tomorrow, my hands and soul shook in symphony with the splashing rocks.

* * *

The group had danced the night away. Music banged on my wall, with chatters jumping in offbeat like broken staccatos. Aged looking terracotta floors and delicate mosaics on the wall carried the sound well, so I could hear shot glasses slam on the wooden tables and bar chairs being dragged across the floor. As consciousness returned and dreams faded away, whispers between those still standing traveled through the short hallway between my room and the bar, taunting me with secrets I couldn't quite decipher ceaselessly.

The clock struck at four.

I waited, read and prayed but sleep eluded me. At the first ray of sun kissing the sky fish belly white, I got up to take a walk outside, bathing in the brisk coolness of morning fresh air. I walked the grounds from one side to another, then back again, looking for what I wasn't sure.

The ocean was angry. Gray clouds had taken over as far as I could see, smudged view a new reality erasing memories of blues and gold. Pelicans lingered, mourning what they still felt was home but buried now, under turmoils of churning foams and breaks without directions.

I decided to return to my room. That was when I spotted him, crouching between the smallness of a patio chair and table. His red baseball cap lit up the gray horizon, like the tip of a match, darting only slightly but a presence of warmth nonetheless. As I walked closer, I saw that he was indeed lighting up something - a cigarette.

I didn't recognize the tall, lanky figure, even when he waved. He had told me something earlier, something that took me aback but I waved it away as a inconsequential comment. I was just under the hotel windows and he at the edge of the water, enjoying a morning smoke. I waved back but walked away, again, thinking he were just another early rising hotel guest enjoying a moment's solitude in the mists. I wished I had known it was him, but it wasn't to be. Perhaps I had been out wondering needing someone to talk to, perhaps he was too. But it wasn't to be.

Later on he was to say goodbye, a shocking surprise, a pause, an earlier exit that expected, due to a move, a change, or a job we weren't sure. But his earlier comment made sense in the light of the departure, giving context to a gray stroke of smoke dissipating into the wind otherwise. Was it a clue written in disappearing ink? Or was it just an air of swirling puff meant to be dismissed? Regardless it was a sad occasion and he would be missed. We all wish(ed) that there were time and a chance to know him better, but it wasn't to be.

I couldn't help wondering if we could have talked that morning, I would have found out a bit more. I could not change what was meant to change, but I still couldn't help wondering, what was it to be.

Missing

2011-09-26T22:09:00.000-07:00

"I miss him." he said it quietly from the back seat, pulling my heart string with only a tiny slice of voice.

"Wanna call him?"

"I can't. He is in Russia."

"Oh."

"But I can text him. Can you show me how to text?"

"Sure." I pulled the contact up into the SMS menu and handed the phone to the boy. He received it with a focus I wished I could see elsewhere, like in school.

We sat down to dinner, silently chewing our salad. School was good, we had already covered that. Just before the staff came to take our plates, he piped up again.

"I even miss the dog...."

"Hm."

"She always snuggles up right next to me, even though she is so huge and takes up most of the bed."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I miss the cats too. One fat one and the other one is really skinny."

"What do they do?"

"Well the fat one is really dumb just like our bunny. She stalks me so whenever I come down the stairs she just follows right next to my feet. As soon as I stop, she sits next to me. She used to be skinny but she got fat after she had kittens. She stayed fat even after she stopped milking the kittens. "

I thought better about telling him the correct word was "nursing".   He was on a roll.

"The other one is exactly the opposite. He runs around and catches his own food, like birds and stuff." I winced at this, thinking of the bird lovers who cringe at the sight of house cats left outside, but again I said nothing.

"But he is still really skinny, too skinny, because you can see his ribs. I remember once I went with you to our vet, and they had a chart that showed what cats looked like if they were too skinny, and they said if the ribs are showing the cat is too skinny. It should be like you can't see the rib but it's not like a huge chunk of fat..." He ran his hands against the T-shirt outside of his own ribs as he said this, slightly rounding out his frame to illustrate the perfect feline shape.

"Is he alright then?"

"I think so. He eats a lot, we feed him twice a day and when we were gone the neighbors came to take care of him and the fat cat. He also catches his own food. But he stays really skinny."

He laughed gently as a thought came to him.

"Oh and before we went to camp, we washed him because he was really dirty. He really didn't like it but he didn't scratch dad. When we came back, he was just as dirty as before we washed him."

We both laughed at this, him at the memory of his smelly cat, me at the sight of his first big smile of the day. Our soups came and went, we munch on brownies from the desert bar and he attacked a baked potato stuffed full of bacon bits.

"Can you imagine how much I am eating?" He said with an eye on the bacon potato, not waiting for an answer specifically.   Before I realized it, he was attacking a second one.

"A bit much don't you think?" I observed as I watched him dug out all the potato and stuff the skin full of bacon bits again.

"Oh all right. " He sprinkled a few bits of potato back on top the way chef Emeril Lagasse does his "bam!"

I let it go, forking my own pasta with enthusiasm.

"What else do you miss?"

"Well the skinny tom cat has a girl friend cat that comes over and plays with him sometimes. She's kinda pretty because she has black fur, white belly and white feet." He raised half of a potato skin stuffed full of bacon to his mouth and took a bite. "It is probably just a stray cat. But both dad and I feel bad for the fat cat, because we think she is really lonely and that's why she stalks us. She has no companion, so sometimes she sits really close to this giant dog and try to play with it."

He started on a plate of mac and cheese, before moving onto his own desert. As we talked and ate, the afternoon sun had settled behind trees and curtains of night drew all around us. Sparks of lights shone through the windows, illuminating figures, shops, and allowing us to peer into diners sitting at the tables in other restaurants. They saw us too. Sitting by the window, arms drawing imaginary illustrations as we talked, smiles creeping up corners of our mouths, despite a long day of drudgery, things left undone, and people gone missing that pulled on hearts.   Mouth full of sweets, weariness melted as we moved between shadows and sparks of light ourselves.

"I really do miss him so much..."

Just as quietly as when we came in, the boy said to no one in particular as we walked out, letting the night air carry a half spoken wish away into a land afar. Perhaps there is no cure for missing someone, perhaps there is a dream waiting for him tonight, a dream sweeter than all the brownies and ice cream this place can offer up.

Thirst

2011-09-11T08:53:00.000-07:00

The church parking lot was quiet, with a few cars parked here and there next to the sanctuary. I know everyone will arrive soon, so I embrace the few minutes of quiet sitting alone in the car reading. A sense of disconnectedness creep up as I stare out into the void of morning grays. I let it go, focusing a refreshing sense of peace in corners of my mind.

Sound of cars soon broke through the morning silence. I step out to see Carina, Lynda and others walking towards the van. We load boxes of school supplies until the cargo area is filled. Between loading trips, I pause, and hear the sleepy silence again, mingled in the cool morning air, like chilled 7-up poured over ice.

I can't see the stars right now, and the moon looks pale. I remember their brilliance, however, on that blacked out night. They shone against the velvety night sky, as I lay under thick blankets in stretched out lounge chairs by the pool staring back at them, mesmerized. Trees pitched their branches high, their silhouette menacing, as if in protest of being overshadowed. But even they softened as my lids grew heavy, turning into dancers posing against a dimly lit set of stage curtains. Neighborhood block parties went on around us, so we didn't feel completely alone. But the magic and wonders of a starlit sky outweighed everything that night, pulling me close into an embrace, and only letting me go on a tether of silvery light. To eyes and hearts that are open, something magnificent appeared that night, with more brilliance than all the power combined from all the generators on our tiny blue planet.

350 backpacks for 350 children - fishes and loaves

"Can we join hands?" Marjolene asked as we finish loading both the cargo and our own supplies for the day. We comply in a circle and listened to the lyrical prayer bounce off the gray world of concrete and stucco, catching light and fanning out a rainbow of possibilities. The day ahead is long and filled with dry heat, but I know I will sprinkle everything with tears that cool my scorching face. I will douse doubts and complaints in my heart with smiles of gratification seeing children lined up to receive their fall school supplies. I remember their faces from past trips, but I never tire of seeing them again. Their joy, always abundant and unabashed, never fails to spill over onto me, in songs and claps, in whispers and hugs, in simple words and big smiles, like seven up poured over ice, buzzing with thirst quenching explosions.

So it was with anticipation and excitement we finally set off into the direction of Centro Shalom Mexico. The road will be bumpy, but all I see are sweet smiles of success, already.

Fall

2011-09-01T11:17:00.000-07:00

I don't remember his fist, but I remember the fall.

The back of my head stung, like a hammer was ramming through it. I tried to force open my eyes but only tiny silvery stars leaped into view. The rest of the world was a blur. I strained to hear the sound of a baby crying, mine, in the background. It was far and fading as if someone was carrying him away, closing him behind doors of distance, and of barrier.

"So this is what it fells like," I said to myself.

I heard a punch then, not at me but into the wall. The crunch and crumble of plaster and whatever lay behind its once pristine surface, surrendering a fabricated wholeness to the weight and velocity of assault. I knew just how it felt.

I needed to see what it looked like. I squinted to keep the stars from buzzing, and saw pink insulation protruding from a jagged hole. Brown and gray construction materials reached out like a wrangled head of hair pouring down from a dark, lifeless and empty head.

Like a tired old man crying, without tears.

I strained to listen again, sounds of an animal huffing and puffing, wild, crazed and seething. Blood rushed in my ears like an ocean or the sound of a first winter rain. I wanted to run but my legs wouldn't move. Shards of something broken scattered about me, like fallen pedals but they had sharp edges that looked biting. Were they my prized collections of blue and white china? I wondered if I had returned to a childhood dream where I needed to reach for something but my legs wouldn't carry me. I tried to scream but no sound came. Everything around me seemed gray, thick and unmoving, gelling me in place, like in a dream.

A dream that belonged to the night, happening in a sunny afternoon, in my sand colored living room outfitted with cream sofa and scallop patterned curtains. The ocean room designed for waves of laughter and tides of gatherings, "for generations to come", one relative had said. I had believed her, along with that promise of "for better or for worse, ... ".

It took forever, but my elbows finally worked, propping up a leaf like body shaking with fear. My head moved though a hangover like pain blinded me once more. I couldn't speak, didn't want to. When my belief of harmony finally crashed like a tidal wave, over and through me, it left no words behind in the ghost town of my chest.

I moved, finally, like a shadow. The shadow and the shape of a lost animal. I crouched; I crawled, towards the ever fainting sound of that cry. Was it upstairs? I wanted to be there, I needed to be there, to hold that small bundle of warmth and life and to know that it wouldn't go through me like the rest of the world just did.

I limped up, turning to tell him to "get out", baring my teeth as I said the words. I came to the stairs and climbed along the railings to stand. Not for long, before I fell, then stood again. I stood and watched him leave, watching like a hawk, eyes blazing, lips dripping with something salty and thick. I stood silent and still, not daring a move, lest I fell again, until his shadows retreated beyond the line of my sight.

-- A Few Thankful Things --

A dear friend who called, after a travel excursion and telling me all about her thoughts and we share laughter and understanding.
Study groups, for better or for worse.
Beauty all around me, too many to list. Physical, emotional, spiritual, amazes me every minute of every day.
Recovery, from everyday falls, from small mistakes, to reach peace slowly but surely.

Finally, another question. Does the below ending work? Or is it unnecessary? Why or why not?

At the sound of the door clicking close, I collapsed.

Dear You

2011-08-26T08:05:00.000-07:00

(A post via Melee.)
Dear You,

You kissed me behind the bushes after the dance. You made me blush when you whispered words into my ear that no one could hear. The music was blasting through the windows, so I hoped you couldn't see that I shook with the leaves as if taken up by the rhythm of the night.

I didn't care when you started another song with another girl. After all, only a short while ago I was her, swept into your long arms and carried away by your swift steps. When your eyes shone on me, the dingy low ceiling and the dim yellow lights hanging just above us disappeared. Smoke shrouded sweaty bodies turned into angelic shadows, and a stary robe of midnight blue fell over us we twirled. I thought it would last forever, though forever turned out sooner.

Why did you call me? Why did you write? Why will you not let me forget? I can't tell. But when I blinked that night from the stars that fell onto my face, turned into water and tears, I woke up.

So let me be. I had a nice dream, and that is where you will stay.

Now to pass it on - to anyone who is interested, I ask you to write a letter to whoever about whatever. It must begin with "Dear you" and you can only use pronouns.

Thank you Melee for tagging me with this post, I thought you did a fantastic job with your letter. I've definitely enjoyed reading your stories and thoughts, I hope a few others who visits here would too.

Galaxy Walk

2011-08-22T03:48:00.000-07:00

She stepped through galaxies
stringing together
stars and dusts
a necklace of time
and space

she left behind
axles of normalcy
hoping towards a place
of dreams
flights of fancy
vaguely remembering
days of cookies
and lace

but she woke up
from warm showers
of rainfall
musky mists
of earth
and desire
spread through
midnight air

a million years
from tomorrow,
she will learn
the dance
between stars, space
and land
shedding another layer
of thorns and tears
finding center
between a slow cooked
stack
of peanut butter
and jelly sandwich

Teaspoons From Korea

2011-08-11T23:28:00.000-07:00

I have eight teaspoons from Korea.

They are about a quarter of the size of a regular teaspoon each. Along the silver handle, a pale rose grace the surface of porcelain, and a rose colored crystal tops it all.

They don't fit in with the rest of my chunky stoneware kitchen collections. This reminds me of my first day at school.

I had not anticipated attention. But as soon as I walked in, eyes fell onto me and stayed there. One chubby boy ran up to me and pointed to my face, exclaiming:

"Look, her face is so weird!"

Several other children walked up and looked from above, below, sideways and behind to examine the shape of my head, the texture of my hair and the strange shape of my cheek bones.

"Stop. Stop it. There, there is nothing wrong with my face..."

I tried to tell them. But they talked fast. Eventually the teacher stepped in and class began. I heard them whisper behind me, as I sat in the front row. Then finally when the teacher turned, the boy behind me told me he had saw my file earlier in the teacher's office and knew that I was not a "Han" like the rest of them.

No, I am Korean.

It was a dreaded word for me. I knew no one outside of my family who had to walk around wearing that label, looking and feeling different, and having it constantly pointed out to you. My parents didn't seem to mind, but they spoke Korean only to each other and never in front of outsiders.

So I stumbled into a new world hoping to hide yet made a big reveal of my identity on, what else but the first day, and it stuck with me since. I did not complain. I knew better. They ran off without me at recess and then after school, though I called behind them and told them I too would have loved to join in their rope jumping or ball tossing. I watched their brand new skirts fly as they leaped, filling the playground with songs and colors. I walked away in my too big green army pants (my brother) Lou had worn down to the last shreds two years ago but mom had patched up nonetheless for me to wear just another year.

I wanted to ask mom what did it mean to be Korean. For example, did they also pickle six large stone jars of cabbages with oceans of garlic, ginger and spicy pepper flakes? Did they eat nothing else with their rice all winter unless their relatives from the north brought fluffy white potatoes that melted in your mouth?

I didn't ask because I knew the answer. I remembered how Yan from two doors down from us taunted me with her cakes. Fluffy, white, thick with sculpted layers of cream that touched her nose when she bit into it. I had not even seen a cake like that let alone tasted it so I watched her carefully, deciphering the faint variation in colors between layers. As I licked my lips, I tried to taste and feel the way those brand new words "vanilla and cream" rolled in my mouth. My favorite past time until then was melting sugar into hot water and sipping the concoction slowly but it all ended that day.

So when I first arrived in Seoul, pocket flush with cash and friends in tow, twenty somewhat years later, I could hardly contain my excitement. Rumors about this whole country (or two) that bared the same label as I did had been flooding my ears since I first arrived in America ten years ago. I had met people. They looked like me, with the same pale round faces, high cheek bones and strange hairlines that baffled the Chinese. I almost believed in the legends of a proud country existed full of Koreans then but I still had doubts. I wanted to see it all for myself.

Naturally I headed to a department store. Shopaholic tendencies aside, I had to spend some time there alone while my friends, whose family lived in town, took care of errands. Amongst eighty billion things, I spotted the spoons and fell in love.

They had belonged to a whole kitchen set, pots, pans, dishes, bowls. Each bore the elegant silver and porcelain design, with the signature dusty rose, so faint it's barely there, tying the one hundred and eight pieces of utensils together.

As it would be impossible otherwise, I picked the tiniest ones out of the sets and decided to take them home with me. But I couldn't, as the clerk didn't speak English, and I no Korean beyond restaurant lingo. She stood shaking her head, then her hand, bowing intermittently in between, smiling, yet not budging. I stood nodding, trying to speak, failing, repeat for an hour. Then I burst into tears, crying.

Naturally she turned and left.

So I stood holding my first authentic piece of Korean memory, watching it come so close yet stayed so far away, like those childhood jump ropes, flying close, then looping away, never quite reaching me. I looked around the crowded shopping arcade, pressed amongst my own people for the first time, utterly alone.

"Are you okay?"

My head buried between my arms, I had nearly drifted into an exhausted nap. The voice jolted me back down to earth. I opened my eyes to find a strange face, staring down into me. He wasn't tall, but had a reassuring build. His face was kind, almost familiar, but not quite recognizable. It occurred to me he looked rather Chinese, then I realized he was speaking Chinese.

"Oh, I am fine. I just, tried to buy something..., but I couldn't."

Saying it out loud reminded me of my failures, so tears came up again, salty and sore. I blinked hard and took a deep breath so I could stuff everything back down again.

"Maybe I can help you. What did you want to buy?"

I told him my story, a condensed version of how I fell for the unobtainable spoons, minus the childhood trauma. He smiled easily and walked with me to the counter, uttered phrases in Korean I could not hope to catch, except for a few (overly redundant to my Chinese part of the brain) "please", "honored", "thank you, thank you and thank you"s.

My spoons in hand, I thanked the stranger for his help. He smiled and shook his hands as if saying "it's nothing" before walking away into the crowd. Or was he waving me goodbye? He reminded me of someone, but I couldn't think of whom. Later I reckoned he was one of the increasing number of Chinese immigrant who worked in Korea while sending money back home to their families. I so reckoned because it had become a new and popular trend then, given the economic and job market disparities. But I didn't have time to ask.

My spoons now sit between my chunky coffee mugs and even chunkier dishes. They are far too delicate for their American set mates, frail and breakable, so overtly decorative and not microwave or dishwasher or the other thousand appliances for which they should be safe but are not, but that's OK. They fit, as they sit in my mornings stirring up sugar in hot water, making memories old and new, sweeter.

Time Runs Through

2011-08-09T00:08:00.000-07:00

Giorgio de Chirico, Mystery and Melancholy of a Street

She cuts open the belly
of night
finding a yellow ribbon
of dreams
kissing the sky high
weary walls white
like a bride

though neither sun nor moon
joins in her game
she invites time and his shadow
standing in the corner
of ancient and anew
her hair dances
her steps flew

so why hide
brimming tears of gold
songs of blue
rolling into laughter
magical carpet unfold
until tremble subsides
time passes through

* This poem is part of the dVersePoet's art challenge prompt. Photo credits as listed in the caption.

Night

2011-08-04T23:40:00.000-07:00

"Now we wait ..." He stretched away from his tray, a crumb or two of chocolate reminiscent of the tiny wedge of cake slice I served him earlier. The cake came from a local bakery, overstocked goods from previous days.

"Wait..." I chewed on this, weighing the possibilities. Not having time to think, fearing that he would see through my panic and nervousness, I grasped for words. "Wait for..., what's next?"

"Next? Next thing is the night."

"Oh? What happens at night?"

"It gets dark."

I peered outside through the small windows. A layer of yellow crust and gray dust had taken up long term residence over the glass panes, but I could still see the early evening light. It was only seven, still a long way from darkness. But I felt the characteristic desert night chill, suddenly.

"And?"

"We sleep out there, on the streets." His chin lifted toward the double door, through which others had walked out with as much ease as they did walking in, filling this hall a short thirty or thirty five minutes ago. It was empty now. The benches and tables laid bare for the first time tonight. I had walked amongst them earlier, tripping over backpacks, shopping sacks, and worn blankets. Their overdressed owners, layering four seasons of clothing on their backs, indulged me in small talks while waiting patiently for their food.

I bit my lips and bowed my head low. I despised myself then, my spotless clothes, my almost new car parked outside, my warm, small and messy home, a short ride away. Most of all, I hated not having the right words.

His voice rose. "I was doing great. I had gotten my certificates. I can weld, make pottery and...," he paused, making sure I was listening, I held my breath, nodding like one of those toy dolls people place on the dash board of their cars.

"..., I taught martial arts. I have skills, this just isn't my time. But, my time will come."

He almost leaped, as if catching himself. A black backpack tossed over his shoulder with one hand, and the empty tray in the other, he walked towards the cleanup line. I stood to walk with him, offering to take his tray, but he shook me away. His eyes flashed at me, young, intelligent, dark, proud, deep, spirited eyes. I felt small as a child, walking next to his wiry athletic frame. I surrendered my hands high and stepped aside.

-- Ending #1

As lines shortened and voices subsided, I traced his steps out the door with my eyes, trying hard to distinguish his all black ensemble from the shadows cast by the dimming light of dusk. His words lingered in those shadows, moving into a daydream, where I watched him lay down on the concrete, shivering in the desert night.

-- Ending #2

The clinks of trays getting cleaned in the kitchen continued, through the night. They walked in, they walked out, leaving stories that stirred me, all night.

Which ending do you prefer? Would you mind helping me decide?
(*This is a true story, and both endings are real as far as my memory holds)

Ruffled

2011-08-02T11:49:00.000-07:00

Last night's moon
stumbled across tree tops
not caring
whose hair she ruffled
intoxicated by that
first cup of dawn

This morning's sun
rained down my sleeves
letting me splash
in sorrows of loss
as well as
joys
of existence.

Question: Can you give this poem a title? Please leave your suggestion in the comment?

* update: Thank you Claudia for picking a beautiful title for this poem. Thank you everyone for all your suggestions. They were each wonderful and inspiring but I could only pick one.


Sunshine that looked like rain*

- A few thankful things:

1. Friends who thought of me, and brought me what I needed.
2. Connecting with people around the world, one fragment at a time.
3. Cooking trout for the first time, ginger and soy style.
4. Listening to songs of praise, sorrow and joy.
5. Tomatoes and peppers thriving and bearing fruit in the heat.
6. Splashing in the waves.
7. Coffee anytime, warm or iced, golden or black, over a balcony or at a seaside bench.

* No that is not my house. Though I am thankful for my small apartment farther from the ocean.

Derailed

2011-07-29T11:08:00.000-07:00

Molly, Tiber and I gathered here everyday on our way home from the Ginger Root High. Our dorm rooms would sit empty for now, the first few weeks of school, the longings for home pulled us back like stretched out elastics as soon as the bell rang.

We wound our bikes along the narrow and bumpy dirt road leading to the train tracks. Overgrowth nearly blocked our views, green tendrils and soft branches stretched into each other and upwards into the sky. A bit further out of the way of the path, ash, birch and eucalyptus trees stood as anchors for the masses of butterfly bushes, wild hibiscuses and thistles. At the last turn, we could finally see that a shallow cluster of pebbles formed a ramp to the tracks, allowing our bikes to ride up to and past the metal rails. Branches and twigs brushed our hair as we rode, tickling our skin. Mosquitoes and flies swarmed some days. We longed for rain when everything smelled fresh, though dreaded the aftermath of more insects collecting in the puddles forming all about.

That afternoon Tiber led the way. Molly followed in the middle and I dragged behind. I had lots on my mind. Molly and Tiber shared a kiss after dropping me off last night, as my home was the first on our ways. When Molly shared her secret with me, I froze on the spot not knowing what to say. Tiber had been asking her to "go out" for days now, and she finally said yes, sealing her answer with a kiss. Her eyes flashed, her face blushing, a smile stretched as far as the corner of her mouth would go. I stared at her in disbelief, this quiet and shy person I knew transformed into a vixen right before my eyes. I reckoned, at that moment, that I was jealous. I wasn't in love with Tiber, but I wanted to be in love with someone, and to have that kind of a smile on my face. The kind of smile even the armies of the First Emperor of China could not defeat or remove.

The scream pierced the drums of my ears. It sounded like a girl but it was from Tiber. He turned to us with eyes bulging and face contorted, colorless against a dark background of dirt, rocks and greens. Molly and I pedaled closer, then jumped off of our seats. We turned to each other. I could see Molly's mouth wide open, but no longer dripping happiness but horror. I looked beyond her to Tiber and saw blood against the palest colored flesh.

Tiber was standing next to the rails, next to the girl laying across it. Blood covered her green summer dress, and the grass growing next to her on the track. It was a moment of complete stillness, a second that lasted a lifetime. Rocks, wooden planks, bare legs, blood soaked fingers, all took on a life in telling me a story I had no way of knowing, or wanted to know. Before I could blink, sound erupted out of the still space like someone had turned off life's mute button. I looked up and realized people were running towards us, screaming in confused curses. Soon we were pushed aside by the crushing onslaught, some uniformed, many not. Molly and I landed outside the thick circle of onlookers forming around the body, hugging our bicycle handlebars but not each other.

Momentarily, we were separated from Tiber, and from the smell of terror, death and defeat. We stopped stretching our necks after a while. Instead, we walked backwards toward the other side of the road, where it was brighter, quieter and sat down. We sat down next to each other, shivering in the late summer heat, waiting for life to come back to us, unchanged.
_________________________________________________________

I've decided to add this section as of today. I'm hoping it'd be a regular feature.

A few thankful things:

* The boy's recovery from painful stomach flu.
* Having something to look forward to next week. More beach time.
* Quiet early morning hours of cool air and playing with bunny.
* Non stop chattering of the boy marking the return of a healthy spirit.
* Being where I am, who I am, who I am with, this hour, this day.

A Few Thanks...

2011-07-24T08:44:00.000-07:00

* Having had time to write, edit or daydream, with bunny purring happily in my lap, or nearby.

* Made my first visit to a very old local mission - "God's extended hand", and met some amazing people. Their stories stay with me long after my return.

* Good friends got together to celebrate poolside, with grilled chicken and sweet rice. Heat allowed all the girls to wear skirts that bloomed into the light breeze. Tears and laughter of joy over the past year's trials and how they helped reveal supportive hands from everywhere, strong arms that held each other up as we walked through this and that.

* A group of writing minds met finally for some discussions. The critiques are so spot on while respectful, sparks of creativity flew.

* Family near and afar, on my mind.

* The boy makes a safe and joyous return from a week long trip away, browner and chirpier than ever. We eat sushi and watch "the Flying Deuces" together, stopping every so often to chuckle or chat about his experience of the week.

Dream Catcher

2011-07-19T06:12:00.000-07:00

The boy just got home, and he sleeps. It is early in the morning, so the sound of my neighbor Michael sweeping his patio comes across the walkway, but not much else. The house hums in the tune of an ancient clunker refrigerator, interspersed by occasional crunches of bunny nibbling on grass. Later I hear the soft clicking of her teeth, a sign of utter contentment.

Traffic, like a gushing river infused by snow, plays out in the background. I have to concentrate to hear it though. Birds tweet here and there, but mostly they fuss over other agendas. I don't hear the soothing tides of ocean rush onto the beach and retreat with piles of sand on their toes, not from here, a bit too far and removed. But I hear the leaves whisper, and wind chimes clink. There are no ruckus in this hour except those going on in my head, the battle against stillness, the inability to rest, mingled with whirlpools of doubts.

No matter the time of his return, he sleeps for hours or days before life can begin again. I've outgrown my angst, pleads and tacit maneuvers to speed up the process. It's small wonders I don't pull on my cucumber seedlings to promote their growth, seeing as how I manage life.

When stillness reigns, as it does now, my mind races in chariots of imaginations. Usually victory eludes me, and eventually I learn to invite peace and relish in rest. I make a pot of coffee and retrieve the golden biscuits a friend made for me. I take out a pen, turn to an unspoiled new page in my notebook, and begin scribbling. All is quiet and soft about me, buttery cookies melting in my mouth, sweet and tangy as life itself.

Perhaps blessings seldom live far away, but I want to look beyond the oceans that I can't hear or see, run after those elusive challenges, wander into the unknown horizon. Weariness always brings me back, from bubbles of dreams bursting and imaginary ghosts fading, so I can finally see the fruit of contentment sitting at my doorsteps waiting.

I know now as ever, that tomorrow I will forget and allow the call of the chase to stir me all over again. But I linger in a moment of now, teeth clicking.

Lava and Ice

2011-07-17T08:45:00.000-07:00

PhotoBy: Rosie Hardy

Black lava erupts
white flames of rats
bent tails of deceit
foam over charcoal, caramel and ice
why frozen blue stares
are those secrets not nice

Once fairy helpers
pumpkin carriages ride
magic covered ashes
cinder secret bequeath
princess twirling in clouds
music fades at midnight
bewitched dusts settles
soon as the hour strike

Dawn dances of shadows
repaint every faces
white sighs beseech
rising sash of smoke
crimson drops of envy
guarding entrance to my door
my prince can't follow
chimney my new fellow

to dust shall I return
in wanders of sorrow
thirsty from kisses
icy blue tears
weaving strands of charcoal
fabric of wayward tales

Scattered glass slippers
remaining white hat of rat
gowns of mists
chariot of past
gentle prodding of love
surrendering hours of wait
for white horse hooves
pounding basement of my heart
surviving rains of lava
til white light reigns

* Note: This was written in response to a photo prompt challenge posted at one stop poetry.

The photo above is by the incredibly talented photographer: Rosie Hardy. Her contact info:

Twitter: @rosie_hardy
Website: http://www.rosiehardy.com/
Client Website: http://rosiehardyphotography.4ormat.com/

Initial Draft (I wrote below initial revision rather quickly, thinking in the realm of #micropoetry. Then I read dustus's entry, and realized I have a bit more room to maneuver and potentially tell a story. So I thought about the white mice who drove Cinderella's carriage and wrote the second revision above. I kept the original here as it pertains to the first few comments posted:

Black lava erupts
white flames of rats
bent tails of deceit
foam over charcoal, caramel and ice

why frozen blue eyes
are your secrets not nice
begging for forgiveness
or pleading new shine

claws of the lenses
locked you behind frames
tossing away keys
so solidly your stories sealed

thirsty from kisses
gentle prodding of love
surviving rains of pests
until white light reigns

If you don't mind, please feel free to tell me which revision appeals more to you? I am new to this so would love some input.

Family Love

2011-07-15T13:56:00.000-07:00

[ T ]
Rebecca said goodbye to her job in May. They had wanted to keep her as long as possible. So she stayed through three reduction in forces and several division shutdowns. When the main office finally closed too, she was asked to stay six more month to "help clean up the aftermath". They knew as I do, that she was one of the most dependable person out there.

She said goodbye to her down payment when the new condo her bought continued to leak water from the day she inspected it to the day she finally left. A dream of living downtown, and perhaps a more carefree life, gone down the drain.

She said goodbye to us, her so called friends, who told her that "we'd be there for her", then wasn't. Life has a way of working itself out, we'd told ourselves as we watched her life spiral. Or some such nonsense. She hugged us goodbye and we her, waving away the shadows of regrets weighing down her car and our hearts.

-------------------

[ Rebecca ]
I came up here to see family -- my family and the pea sized town where I grew up. The oceans of green here replaced the myriad of sandy brown and steel blue down south. I love it. When I crossed the Washington state line, I wanted to hug the moss growing up redwoods, the needles quietly falling, and the flash of wings leaving trails of songs above.

My sister Stella took me in, though Dad and Sally also offered. Stella has a four bedroom, for her and two kids from dads that never appeared, so that was a no-brainer. People say we look like twins. I offered to cook for her, seeing as she worked all week as an RN and, sigh, stayed in bed sleeping or crying most of the other times.

Stella came home one day, and saw me got all my cooking going. I had let my friends talk me into starting a food blog recently, seeing how popular those photos of my cooking had become on facebook. I had planned a fantastic menu for them that night. I got pots and pans on all the burners, dishes spread across the counter. Fire licked one pot boiling, and sizzled the other one brown.

"What are you doing?" Stella said with a scowl.
"Cooking"   I said, in my matter-of-fact face.
"Why do you use so many dishes?"
"I need them."

I mean I didn't know what else to say. I kept on cooking. Just yesterday after spending all day in bed, she announced to no one in particular that she was the only one who ever cleaned up. What a lie! I thought to myself. I stabbed at the browning pieces of stakes to make sure they stayed in the pan. No telling if this upside down house would turn the food out to take a bite of me.

"I will wash them." I said, finally.

She scrunched her face even more, and kept on telling me she usually just used two or three dishes. So I kept punching holes through the potatoes instead, waiting for her to finally stop.

It didn't even occur to me to confront her. How could I? It'd get ugly. She'd tear open the buckle keeping her mouth pressed and pour out the venom reserved only for her kids. Her anger. Her poor boys, the sweetie in kindergarten, the moody teen in high school. Oh, no, not now when I felt so sick like I could burst into flames from this crazy itch all over me, when I didn't have a plan, a job or anywhere else to rest.

No, not even then when I do. She took anti-depressants, then washed it down with her beer, sometimes. I don't know what that's like for her, but this had gone on for as long as I could remember. I wished for the thousandth time she got it together already.

No, perhaps never will I confront her.

-----------------
[ T ]
Rebecca called me from a payphone. She had ran out of money to keep her mobile. When I invited her for a visit last month, she had debated that against snow tires. I was glad to hear snow tires won, though I'd missed her.

Her voice sounded shaky, like somebody had done a job on her. I've seen her explain things for the dozenth time until someone who should have gotten it the first time gets it, without even a tinge of frustration in her.   But whoever it was took her calm this time. That coolness, that matter-of-fact-tone, gone.

"She's crazy!"
"Who?"
"My sister!"
"Oh. What did she do?"

She gave me a run down, except she didn't. She shook into the phone and I could feel the vibration of her, full of shock, disbelief and a soft wail hanging just on the edge of her voice. But I only learned that she had moved out and not much else. After so many exclamations, she faded and only whispered an occasional um or uh, as I deliver my "it's-okay's and I-am-sorry-to-hear-that"s. Useless words, the only thing I could send across an off-and-on, in-and-out telephone line.   We both took a pause and let the idle buzz talk us into believing calm, prayers and hope. Then she told me she had lupus, and her uncle Billy had cancer. He was dying. She'd have to take a trip to see him in Texas after all.

I couldn't tell if she needed to cry, and whether I should have helped her along. I did what came instinctively, what every cowardly so called friend would do, I talked her out of it. Crying that is. Hiding behind the same faint hope of 'things will work out eventually', hiding behind the cause of comforting someone you really didn't know how to comfort, I whispered those tears dry.

"The stress of everything is just getting to me, I think I just need to get out, T."
"Nothing wrong with that..., and family is tough. " I concluded, reflecting those little things that I couldn't quite name but got under my skin every time. A thought came to me then, and I had to ask her.

"Do you still love her, as a sister?"

I didn't hear anything for so long I checked to make sure she was still there. Then her voice came up again.

"Do I love her?
No.
Do I hate her?
No.
...
Just indifference."

--------------------------------
Note: I am incredibly lucky to have a friend who cares about my writing almost as much as I do. She shared her story with me and agreed to let me interview her for further details. All the names had been changed to protect identities. Otherwise events are written to the best knowledge and recollection of the protagonist and to some extent, the author.

Shops

2011-07-12T19:14:00.000-07:00

It takes all kinds.

Some put on a suit, put up a slogan, and sell hope of "success", whatever that means. Some setup a blackboard, a whipping stick, and sell bundles of lessons and how-to's, until you want to burp out "shall"s and "shall-not"s and say enough already. Some sell illicit goods, red lantern hung up high, shadowy figure moving about behind halfhearted curtains. Some rolled up carts full of inspirations, setting up shops for the soul without fanfare. Some sell books, pages, and words, whatever you might make of them. Some sell poems, a league all of their own, more of an exchange. Some, just hanging out, chilled out. But most of all, people set up a doorway here to give directions and maps to their other shops, whatever or wherever those might be.

Still some sold pieces of themselves.

He was one of the word sellers. Or so I thought. He put out pages, bundles of words that sparkled, like crystals hung by the stalls in one of those old style markets. They caught the light, and leave you with something brighter. Some took it home, cherished it, and told him so. Some tossed him a pebble or two, of praises -- like flowers tossed onto the stage at the end of a performance, tossed and forgotten. Not a thought given to the work behind the scenes. But that's the way it goes. Some kept quiet, but kept the lightness too. And all was good.

Perhaps he got tired. Perhaps people got busy running all about but rarely stopped to look anymore. The world's always spinning faster making its inhabitants feel out of breath running but just like musical chairs no one wants to be left behind or caught without. So we spun, physically swelling and mentally exhausted. Soon it grew darker, when even a piece of crystal would struggle to shine. His words waned, like the moon swallowed by eclipse, dreams tucked away, or starving children's cheeks. Soon even the regulars stopped coming, his words dripping dry like a coffee cup begging for a refill. His pages wrinkled and chapped, like an old man's face wrung dry of vigor and strength, shop all but closed.

Before anyone realized, he joined those few out there and put up himself. At first he went clothed in the same sparkles familiar to his crowd, the friendly audience. Soon the clothes deteriorated, as the weather turned stormy. Pellets of snow, fat teardrops of rain, baking sun, and harsh winds came at him in hails of storms broken only sweltering heat. Insects helped themselves to his flesh, grime accumulated everywhere as he sat in disintegrated pieces of clothes falling away with the wind, holding up a self made sign like a flag of trust.

People gathered and gazed.

His scars came out bare, angry red welts risen from the pale flesh. The same scars, as it turned out, that fueled some of the sparkles so loved by all. Words fused with pain congealed like charcoal pressured into diamonds by heat, time and pressure. But few noticed them. Instead they slapped their jaws and said:

"oh my lord would you look at that man sitting their naked spewing filth."

"It's a disgrace" they said.

Some complained that he reeked, but the complainer never looked for the source where flesh tore open and bled. Some tossed out moral and literal dress codes, while they slogged down shots and fingered the goods from those illicit shops. Some tried to sooth his wounds by breathing out a faint breeze but it only helped for a second. Some pelted at him with rocks.

"He pelted first, "
They said. "we need to teach him a lesson."

Some, stared with their neck stretched on the outer circle in hopelessness but did not to make a move.

He grew weaker as the rocks hit, the wounds festered and more weather elements came. His presence become a sight, not for sore eyes or any kind of eyes at all. He just was, a force of nature perhaps, as some said or would have said. Those who sensed pain while at a loss for a fix wrung their hands or shrugged before they walked away, who would know where to start anyhow? Some started praising him for whatever foamed out of his mouth, as genuine, sparkly and authentic. He didn't buy it, but it felt good for a while. I suppose it did sparkle as the sun hit, albeit with a sickening twist. He continued to deteriorate, this time, from the inside.

One day he finally disappeared, without a trace. I visited his stall and found nothing. Spinning myself, I couldn't stop and check. That is, until I found his words again, shining, just barely but with the same crystal sparkles as before.

And he is staying in to let those scars heal again, as we all do, from time to time. Only we hide it better, beneath our fancy attires, expensive perfumes and painless smiles. Even though he knew that, he is just not the kind that hides.

California Gold

2011-07-07T07:04:00.000-07:00

California is known for healthy living and ...well, plastic surgeries. But as we came to the gate of the annual summer fair, along with other potential weaponry of mass destruction, we chucked our notions of natural or artificial beauty into the waste buckets. We walked into a dusty patch of land by the ocean but smells like the barnyard looking for deep fried everything. Bacon, brownies, funnel cakes, Oreo cookies, ice cream, you name it. Into the thick batter they went and out of the fryers they came triple sized, grease dripping, and artery clogging facts forgotten by the eager fair goers. The threat of throwing up on rides afterward seemed to only heighten the excitement.

This wasn't the place for yoga mamas who pack on a pharmacy of vitamins, supplements or allergy medications every time they lift off from home central. Dusts mixed with sweat, rancid perfume with jalapeno sauce took over from avocado cucumber facial cream and aroma therapy scented candles. High heels, make up or anything delicate would have looked as out of place as a lipstick wearing pig flying over the white house or capital hills. Not that there would be anything wrong with that as we learned from election campaigns and candidate debates.

We stopped trying to look beyond the sea of people or to part it, riding the tides that pushed us forward passing islands of stalls instead. Once we gleamed onto the promised land flowing with food and drinks we exited following the pillars of smoke and others who looked hungry. We ordered a plate of deep fried Oreo cookies each the size of my fist, cobs of corn, gallons of lemonade, and barbecued turkey legs fit for Goliath to swing as baseball bats. We rested our tired legs and chatted about politics and the state of economy, taxes buckets and national debt ceilings, in case the record heat and the abundance of grease haven't completely clogged our minds and shorted our circuits.

Foot long hot dogs and sides of pork

The six o'clock sun dove towards the ocean through the thick curtain of fog floating just above, soon getting all red in the face like an overinflated balloon. Silhouettes of palm trees and the Ferris wheel reached high enough into the deepening blue sky you could feel they leaned over you for a peek at all the excitement and yelling. Shadows formed and air cooled when we found a courtyard with less people and more music, coming from impromptu stages. The band was on maximum volumes and it felt good, as if balancing the excess from everywhere else, while setting up contrast in excessive beauty. The last golden ray of the sun reached the lead singer's tender face, full of dream and longing, dotted with tattoos and piercings, contorted one minute, still another, like morning dew smoothing onto the inexplicable wrinkles of a young leaf. She stepped to the microphone, breathing life into chrome and steel. Behind her, the guitarists draped in tattered jeans, spiked hair and tattoos leaped across the stage drumming out chords that transcended differences.

People slowly poured into the courtyard and as they did they paused to listen, to lock eyes with music and to respond and connect. Besides me a dark skinned young mom held the hands of her curly haired toddler, belting out tunes of her own. Next to her a group of beefy college kids swayed with music under their backward baseball caps while giving each other imperceptible nods. Even further a subdued Asian family let it loose, clapping and moving to the rhythm. Everywhere I saw worried faces like my own and carefree faces I once knew. I saw the skinny, the curvy, the misfit, the entitled, the beautifully scarred and the delicately strong. Their faces shone from the evening light and perhaps also the grease in the air, their bodies sang, their voices danced, they are the real people of California.

If there could be an instant, a moment in time, when you are simultaneously hopeless and proud, happy in sorrows, empty yet filled, leaping while standing still, I found it then as I thought about beer, bathrooms, jobs, bills, loneliness, faith, joy, but most of all people. A salty sea breeze came and waltzed with night blooming flowers hanging over the edges of balconies above the stage. Wind rustled up leaves and carried over fits of laughter and screams from those on the rides, while everything began to take on shades of gold, amber or chocolate. The sun dipped further into the now nearly navy blue pacific for her evening splash, taking an early but glamorous leave.

The rest of us stayed. We moved to the music, moment by moment, tearing free from shadows and thoughts.

Coffee Stop

2011-07-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

I sat at the sunny window of Starbucks, cradling my drink, looking out the window absently, and scribbling a note or two with only half a heart.

Sunlight splashed onto the fountain just outside on the platform, where people gathered and then scattered, like tides of the ocean. A young boy and his little sister raced towards their dad, who leaned against the fountain pouring into his phone, his children’s voice washing over him without effect. The chased each other some more, the girls hair flew up, like dark curly bubbles riding with wind and waves. After a while, they sat down to devour a coffee cake, snuggling close against dad. The girl’s feet dangling from the edge of the fountain, her ballet slipper, silvery and sparkly, dangling from her feet.

Soon the young family left, leaving the fountain flowing yet empty. The pristine base caught the light, remembering that lone silver slipper dangling from the girl’s toes. Lives came and went all around it, dangling also, frail and soft, empty vessels, suspended until a spark of light hits so they too, could shine.

Wait

2011-06-27T22:11:00.000-07:00

I stood against the railing and looked out the window. Clouds scattered across the night sky like cotton stretched thin so mom could stuff them into my lightweight quilts. Were there any stars that blinked? I must have looked but couldn’t find them or the face of the moon, knowing it’d be as soft, distant and beautiful as mom’s face at home.

I had just turned three, and said goodbye to grandma who was watching me when mom and dad worked. She missed her home in the north where ice covered everything outside but her heated brick platform bed made the rooms cozy all winter long. So dad put me on his bicycle this morning, tucking me close, yet pedaling us farther and farther from home. When he told me goodbye, grabbing my fingers and swinging them this way and that, I didn’t understand what he meant by “picking me up Friday”. It was only Monday then, even I knew Friday would be many days away and what about nights? Did the teacher shush me quiet and put me to bed, after dad left? I fell asleep uneasily, missing the sound of our kettle whistling softly on the coal burning stove, missing my brother Lou’s clumsy attempts to make me laugh, and missing the lamp lights that peeked through the curtains of my lashes while mom and dad turned their pages quietly from their desk.

A tear escaped before I realized it. I knew no one would see me but somehow it made no difference. I had woken up earlier from a bad dream, so I reached out for mom’s warm shoulders and soothing steady breath but found nothing. The slats on the railings bit my hand instead, reminding me that I was in one of the beds at the Garden of Children’s Weekly Care Center.

The room was so large I couldn’t take it all in, a forest of beds with tall railings standing guards. Were there twenty children sleeping through the quiet of the night on their own? Thirty? Fifty? I felt the presence of others, an occasional cough, a soft wail, but I was alone in my jail of thick slats and stiff sheets. The soft wood on the bed frame gave under the pressure of my nails, crescent marks of smiles and frowns. I had no recollection of this but mom later told me nail marks covered my bed there, a thousand tiny exclamations and question marks. After a while I must have gotten tired and sat down to rest my legs, eventually collapsing down to my side waiting for my eyes to shut.

Moonlight finally wandered through patches of clouds and sneaked around curtains to keep me company. Except it cast shadows that moved, so I turned and buried my face into my palms, willing and waiting for this to end, like the footsteps that went away, the cough that quieted, the dream I had woken from.

I waited, for an eternity, for dad to come pick me up, somehow.

Closure

2011-06-22T22:09:00.000-07:00

It's one of those shops with a quaint old name -- "The Bookends" or something like that. Between its creaky old floors and forest of shelves, I walked slowly with purpose, lest I disturbed the elfin atmosphere floating about like mists. Pulling a shadowy spine towards me, I half expected to have to blow off dusts from its yellowing pages. If an elf materialized from his perch atop a shelf and winked, I might just smiled and said hello. I knew better; it's how I loved walking in here feeling like I'd stepped into another century.

The coffee shop next door sells freshly made cookies, muffins and magic bars besides freshly brewed coffee with aromas that filled the two story building of shops. A half door opened to the bookstore in a way that made you remember sweet fragrances between pages, bites or sips whenever either name comes up in conversation.

The Bookends (let's call it that for now) had never been so crowded as to be deemed "popular". But gatherings such as book groups prospered here once, after the owner removed or relocated a number of shelves to make room for a large wooden table and straight backed chairs. So I'd see advertisements about various kinds of word lovers meetings. When I walked in, I'd hear hushed whispers shielded by the stacks. They huddled under a pool of light drinking in kindred spirits and warm mugs of java. I imagined it attracted the lofty literary types, seeing as how they stocked rather unique books like "The Prospector". But I also encountered several gatherings of youngsters carrying tattered books and even more tattered laptops. They grew particularly popular after the entire wall bordering the coffee shop was removed and in its place several inviting tables stained in walnut moved in.

Only later on did I realize the owners did these to strive against their online competitions, where within seconds desires could be fulfilled with sparks of electrons gathered behind the screens and amongst wires. Some said elves hid there too. The fight seemed universal and failing as I soon heard the news of 200 plus store closures from Borders and grieved. I loved my online alternatives yet I'd never wanted to part with the real stores, like the one overlooking San Francisco's Union Square. I rested hopes in the Bookend's clever strategy of supporting author signings, writing workshops, and book readings, rejoiced over its choice location near the beach, in a busy shopping center, and next to a beloved coffee spot.

Then one day I came and realized even more shelves had disappeared. A newly exposed skylight from the vaulted ceiling brought in high wattage sunlight while dispelling all sense of mystery that used to cloak nooks and crannies here. Now the center of the store displayed artful antiques for sale -- the ones I've always admired here but would never have known what to do with them myself. I ran my fingers over the painted surface of a wooden marry-go-around horse, thinking how tough it must be to say goodbye again to a once cherished home and where would it go next. Where would those African masks and potteries with a voodoo flair go, and the model airplanes that used to twirl between shelves? Together with the darkened woodwork, handmade crochet pillows and the forest of printed books they spoke a languid and rich tongue of the past, one trending towards obsolete in the ages of electrons, ever shortening attention spans and written character limits.

I hugged my copy of The Prospector and walked to the counter to check out, like I'd done so many times before with books I don't need but wanted. The proprietor smiled as usual and pointed out the wisdom in my choice, like she sometimes did but other times she just nodded and called a book "a fun read".

"Are you selling your furniture?" I probed, hoping it was not as obvious as it sounded.

"Yes. And all the decorations..."

"Oh..., What will become of this place?"

I asked hoping she will say, perhaps another bookstore.

"I don't know. That's a question for the new owner."

She finally let out an air of resignation, and handed me my final purchase. I gave her an awkward smile goodbye and took another look around. The bright airy new atmosphere seemed jarring somehow, like watching a pink ballet skirt thrown over tweed, or red lipsticks painted above five o'clock shadows. The elves, if there were any to begin with, slipped away one by one, leaving gaping holes among the shelves here and there. And slowly they merged to form a dark pit, into which the cheers and lively spirits of the bygone store sank, cried out and then was no more.

It wasn't long until when I walked by and saw an emptied out store. Even the large center skylight had failed to illuminate. My coffee in hand, I pressed my nose against the window pane until memories came back like pages of illustrations. In years past, we had sat inside hugged by a circle of yellow light, leaning into our favorite corner of the store stuffed with soft pillows and cushioned low benches. We had spread out smiling as lazily as Egyptian royals reclining on their divans, cozy under our blankets of songs, verses and stories.

As I walked away, that yellow light glowed on, long after the pages were shut.

Guest Post

2011-06-21T06:56:00.000-07:00

I am guest posting over at another site today. Her blog name is ShinyStarLight and true to that name, she is almost always happy, bright and cheerful like a star that shines over blogsphere. Please give a visit to her site and if you would, leave a comment on what I wrote about "Studying", which is the topic of this post.

Cake Walk

2011-06-16T19:30:00.000-07:00

It is not a proper festival without a cake walk. This end of year party is no exception. They hid the sweets under the shades on the lunch tables out in the school yard, so the sun wouldn't bake and melt the chocolates.

There is no worries however as the clouds dominated the day. Still you can smell the water melon and the Jamba juice stand next to it. In just a little while, miles of pizza, bread stick and salad plates spilled out also, with lines wrapping around the yard for a delicious bite. Adding the colorful jump houses inflating like giant souffles amidst laughing children, you know the school is ending, summer is beginning, and it's time to start celebrating.

Everyone gathers around the center stage facing the soccer field lawn. The performances cast a decidedly international flair over the gray pavement and black stage props. The Indian dancers swathed in golden threaded pink and aqua taffeta skirts, and the first grader Chinese martial artists wearing silk embroidered red dragon outfits. Simplicity doesn't mean ho hum however, as the group of dark haired girls in black tights and a simple red silk scarf around their waists successfully evoke the feeling of Arabian nights, to the tune of their music and the steps of their movements.

A group of fourth grade boys in drag masking as Christina (Aguilera), Britney, etc livens up the crowd with chit chat, astound expressions, suspicious fingers and heads thrown back laughter. They danced in choreographed steps until one nearly choked from laughing in the middle of the song, while swinging their hips in perfect imitations of the famed singers.

The group that got everyone on their feet showed up in black and white. They belt out tunes mimicking "Blues Brothers" and the tall guy sings, moves and looks as a dead ringer of Dan Aykroyd. They light up the stage and the air with their steps and sangs, their jazz and their saxophones, but mostly their identifiable music. The crowd whistled and cheered throughout, unified in their love for the blues.

But the festival started with cakes and so it must ends with them. Though neither walks yielded a win, we walk by the prizes letting our eyes do the feasting. Never mind that our tummies are bulging, our eyes can still take in all the varieties of pink swirly icing, chocolate almond biscuits, dozens and dozens of berry and apple pies.

And the air smells cool but sweet, decidedly Americana.

Random

2011-06-09T09:50:00.000-07:00

Though my back still ached like there is construction going on inside, I decided to venture a walk this morning in the still cool morning air. Or so I thought.

The sun was already higher than a tall stick. The air baked my skin making it tingle and buzz. I squinted sadly missing my dark shades. I looked at the boy walking beside me, happily bouncing up and down from one spot to another.

"How can you stand the sun so bright like this?"
A short pause and he said:
"I don't know... it just feels good. You know? On your skin."
I told him I missed my forgotten sun glasses.
"Oh, just don't look at the concrete."

Then I saw it. Specs of sparks flew from the ground we walk on as he points out to me, waking up to sunshine in reflections. The sky spilled over its blueness while cradling stars tired from their all night dances. Dark magnolia leaves twirled their hunter green outfits trimmed in silvery shine, and a choir of birds conspired in code hiding behind the sanctuary of branches and leaves.

I walked on from the school after saying goodbyes. Behind the mess of cars dropping students off, a giant tent loomed in the tree lines. Its bold blue and red strips brought on memories of circus, or perhaps one of those hot air balloons that frequented this neighborhood. An overzealous parent ordered a super sized jumper for a child's birthday party, I concluded. Until I pass the obscuring trees to see it enveloped a house and no doubt acted as a termite exterminating tent. I pictured the displaced family, distressed parents and perhaps excited children, in the way a sleep away adventure tends to make boring daily routines new and exciting.

As I cross over to the west side of the school to make the loop back, I got a call from a friend. She had heard about a fatal accident involving perhaps the name of a mutual acquaintance. It turned out a case of mistaken identity.

I sigh with relief while feeling heavyhearted for the real victim. A fragrant bush passed me by and sent a waft of perfume too tempting to resist. I paused to open my palms and receive a snowy blossom parachuting down with the breeze. I gazed into its delicate pedals, hardly holding yet bruising it easily on several sides. Its pristine color quickly tainted with a shade of yellow and rust, like amber tears shed for its departure. Evidence of crushing pressure lay scattered on the side walk, a blanket of snowy pedals and yellowing carcasses of former flowers.

Cars whizzed by as their heavy tires screeched against the unforgiving hardness of the road, traveling at around 60 miles an hour on a residential through fair. I knew the sense of rush. I drove the road with that same feeling of drowning in a life too full of schedules and events. I had that same sense of never catching up, always running late, and needing to squeeze two seconds out of every block, to beat the red lights coming on, to be a little less late for picking up or dropping off.

Yet in our rush we tend to forget the monster we call cars weighing several thousand pounds traveling at a heart wrenching speed. They turn into careless killing machines at the lightest touch of a pedal, an easy turn of the wrist, in the blink of an eye, a tiny flicker of attention diverted. We think little of the powers they yield after that initial week, month or at most year of obtaining our license. Instead we drive with our knees, while applying our make up, talk on the cell phone, send text messages or read a book. We think there is an invincible charm with the invisibility of hiding behind wheels, shielded from face to face awkwardness and manners we grew up learning. We sit behind a beast with iron teeth, crushing steel frames and an appetite to destroy and we hardly blink when we turn on the switch to let it go, hoping for the best. Just look at the statistics.

I close the loop by walking up the gate into the quiet complex filled with sunshine, spring plantings and sounds of life. Babies cried into the distance, into a new journey they call life, full of morning glories and crushed fragrances. While somewhere not too far, as the earth churns against the sun, life scraps by on the roads we built, as we rush to destinations we know nothing of, painting the stretch marks of our own demise, under the sun, laced in rain, while stars and clouds stand witness and sigh into their collective tears.

They Never Told Me

2011-06-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

[ Written as a guest post for ShinyStarlight, who kindly invited me to write a story for her site on this topic, please take a look at her site and catch up on one or two of her stories. ]

They never told me going to school meant answering questions.

My first day at school. I sat in the front row with my back straight, knees together, eyes forward, hands behind my back. I can't remember much about my first teacher except he made us sit like those baby trees tied to a stick. So I thought about the summer days of jumping into the fish pond with Tyler and Po, catching dragon flies and stealing walnuts from the tree hanging over our yard. I listened to birds that chirped chirped outside calling me to go climbing in case another abandoned nest awaited me in the crisscrossing branches.

The teacher must have asked a question so everyone's hands flew up. I caught the sight from the corners of my eyes and quick as a flash I pulled my right arm out and raised it up high.

Of course I didn't know the answer - I hadn't even heard the question. Only that dad had told me to raise my hands and stay engaged.

They never told me going to school meant doing homework.

As the bell rang, my heart leaped out of my throat and my steps carried me like the wings of those birds that flew away as I ran across the school yard. My schoolbag flapped against my back and the bees chased me part way through those yellow and white flowering bushes. Grandmas walking home from getting vegetables at the street vendors shouted at me to slow down. I passed the shop that sold fried bread and soy milk in the morning, and smelled the sticky sweetness that wafted through the windows. I passed the popcorn guy who sat at the curb with his hand cranked stove that looked like an ink well inside and out. It exploded when a batch was ready, popping out sweet, fluffy and white corns wrapped in newspaper cones for fifty cents. When I got home, I gather with "my team" and we play until all our moms grew hoarse shouting out our names for dinner.

The next day, the teacher asked us for our homework and he looked at me until I bent my head to hide my shame. I didn't know what he meant and I didn't know how to ask. No one ever told me to ask questions or how.

They never told me going to school meant carrying notes home.

For the first year of school I gave back no homework. The teacher shook his head and wagged his fingers. The class peered down at me calling me the "idiot" or worse, "baby". I wanted to kick them but dad told me to get along with others so I hold myself back but I had to grind my teeth to get through the day. It felt like jail to be sitting still from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon and I can't possibly imagine any more "work" at "home". Mom fussed over dinner and dad fussed over my jackets and socks, everyone said I was too young to go to school yet I liked it so much better than the alternatives and no one made me eat anything like tomatoes or cabbages. So they let me sit there everyday staring into the space in front of the blackboard dreaming of swimming, running, jumping or escaping.

But the teacher eventually got tired of explaining homework to me and got nothing back. In my second year they finally sent a note home for my parents to sign. Mom had been teaching me to write my name real good, and she showed me how she write hers. I copied it so many times I could write it just like her, with the curves and messiness that only adults allow themselves. I practiced it again on the note the teacher sent me, as I saw a blank line at the end, next to the word "name". I made it so good it looked like mom had written it.

When they find out I signed the note they got really mad at me and called me a liar. I had never been called that and it felt rotten like those tomatoes I left sitting on the window sill all summer. I didn't know what the note said, but I didn't want to find out anymore. I just wanted to throw everything from my schoolbag into the murky lotus pond under of the White Tower Bridge and ran away.

They never told me going to school meant admitting you made a mistake, even when you didn't mean it. But when I did, my schooling finally began.

Grow

2011-06-03T18:29:00.000-07:00

My neighbor Sam had been urging me for weeks now. "You should plant some vegetables to allow your boy to watch things that grow". She obviously had no idea what a ten year old boy's bathroom looks like.

But they say it takes a village to raise a child so I heed her advice and add a new item on my to do list until it too, grew too long to ignore. Today, the sun shined in a way that says, any more of my rays you'd be too late for plantings. That bossy attitude scared away the winds and most of the clouds too. With the school year ending my volunteer work had slowed down so significantly that I spent some time today wondering whether the universe had nothing better to do than to conspire against my aversion to plantings.

Not that I had anything against things that grow. Besides the boy and the rabbit, I have some nice low maintenance cacti and two rose bushes, both of which are blooming. They hardly attract any insects, and if I forgot to water them for a while, they'd stay ok albeit a bit more bare boned. They fill a niche in my absent minded gardener's heart and busy do nothing life.

Once I had a large quarter acre garden behind the too giant house I bought because it was foreclosed at an incredible deal. As I had not much else to my name such as wisdom or experience, I threw my might into a passion for plants. I bought everything that looked attractive in the home depot garden section, without realizing the amount of things that had to be done after the initial plantings. I didn't learn my lessons when they died either, I masked my "grief" for their passing with more fresh, blooming and thriving plants. After all, even those garden experts on TV said "when one plant doesn't work, it may not be suitable for that region. Go ahead and try another". But after several years of trying, I still looked out my large bay windows to a yard given in to weeds, dry branches and shriveled plants.

I read many gardening books, the instruction manuals for botanical enthusiasts. But like cookbooks, the variables are too numerous. I didn't realize I belonged to zone 7 or perhaps 8, may or may not have rocky soil but definitely not sandy. The red clay that's been baked under the desert sun for centuries under our garden barely, if at all, qualify for the term "soil" in my book. Water simply sat on it for hours at a time, slow drip or a fast down pour makes absolute no difference, despite the amount I learned about watering in the gardener's bibles.

But perhaps that was good practice after all. I learned to stick with cacti and fewer things. After I moved into a place with a matchbox sized patio the temptation to plant the garden of Eden in my backyard faded overtime. Time taught me in more ways than one that this downsizing was all for the best.

Eventually I had a chance to grow a boy. My distress over having to depart the hospital after three days lasted years. Imagine my shock when they wouldn't even give me any instruction manuals or gardening or growing books, for boys, that is. I knew the mothering thing would get harder without the nurses bringing him to me at the right time for feeding and took care of almost everything else. I didn't enjoy finding out how much.

I guess the fact he survived, with piles growing in his bathroom and all, and thrived in a certain sense is all by God's grace and his own sturdiness despite of my recorded inabilities. Maybe that is what life is all about, when you thought you'd succeed at something easy, you fail at it miserably. Then when you thought nothing of yourself as you take on a huge challenge, you scrap by sort of OK long enough until you start to think you might make it after all. Learning about absent mindedness gave me an insight into both raising a child and other things that lived in dirt. Some call it pick your battles, I call it squint and think thrice. That and focus, suppose I had tried to grow several dozens at once like I tried in my garden? I shudder at the thought.

So I shuffle over to the garden store and pick up enough seedling packs to fill the two large flower pots we have on the patio. I watch the boy splash enough dirt to re-purpose the patio as an obstacle course, thinking how messy this whole growing business gets.

And how it makes a splash. With garden hose rainbows and little boy giggles, with dirt and worms, with thorns and horns, with bugs and loves, with things that grow.

Ride

2011-05-31T21:20:00.000-07:00

So Sam climbed up the back of Tom's shell as quickly as he could before the pair of old boys swam off.

After a last look at the rock Sam had called home, they passed the corrals and skimmed the edges of the school of sardines. Soon they arrived at the surface, resting on the quiet side of the foamy wave belt called "the break zone".

Dorothy had just caught a wave and she looked magnificent. Her boys cheered as she shimmied her body and nosed onto the giant tunnel known as the "green room". Her slick silver body flew forward like a spring leaf departing the tree while cradling a drop of rain. She turned back waving to her boys and Sam like a proud champion.

Sam felt an excitement he had never experienced before. Last time he met Dorothy, high tide had pushed him dangerously close to the shore. Dorothy had kindly carried him back to the glassy waters behind the surf zone after realizing his pending perils at the beach. She was just a young dolphin learning to surf then, friendly yet shy, strong yet a bit clumsy. Sam happily looked on as she expertly taught her boys about waves. Sam closed his eyes to feel the breeze and shut out the shiny bright sparkles bounced around the surface, imaging a pair of wings carrying him away faster than the waves and higher than the surface of the ocean.

A few seconds later he paused when he realized he had indeed taken flight. The world darkened despite of his attempts to open his shells wide. He couldn't see or feel the comfortable weight and embrace of salty water. He smelled of rotten fish, decaying leaves and broken bones and torn branches reminiscent of the shorelines near the beach. Yet he found no rocks, corrals or sea creatures to cling to, the confinement that carried him, the rising sense of danger, the stifling air smelled of... He realized then he was in the pouch below the mouth of a pelican. As his consciousness restored, he recalled hearing the anxious screams of his friends below, from Dorothy, from her boys, from Tom and even the faint sound of his neighbors' nervous clicks and clacks.

Though he wanted to scream, cry, punch or bite, he somehow couldn't muster the strength or the will. What could a little clam do when a giant bird carried you away as his prey? Even among clams, Sam counted as rather lazy and pessimistic, unwilling to treat life's events as opportunities. Just look where it had gotten him when he took a chance for the first time in his life! He should have stayed below the rocks around the corners of darkness, hugging the underbellies of the ocean watching the busy crab scratching away his life, the bits of corral reef before them and everyone elses' ear drums.

But he wondered, sometimes. That faint sense of dread visited when every routine was down to sand grain level precisions. He knew any creature who had a shred of sense would have just ignored it or swam up to the next lively reef. But some nights, when he found the moon light came in through the waters like a knife piercing through sheets of glass, he felt the silent voice of the "purpose" loomed louder than the oceanic storms and all his neighbors combined.

Well it looked like "purpose" or not, he was about to find out. He sighed deeply as life flashed before him.

Bitten

2011-05-29T22:38:00.000-07:00

I took a walk on the beach the other day, and I came across a perfect set of shells. It sat in the sand split nearly into halves but not yet. When I picked it up, and held it to my ears, I heard the sounds of the ocean.

I wondered if it had heard me approaching, my limping, achy, yet persistent struts, or my son's skips and hops, his high pitched squeals of excitements. Someone had cleaned out the animal inside, leaving the interior perfectly shiny and smooth. Perhaps a combination of the waves, sand, and whatever predator had taken it as food or a grain to form a new part of the ocean. In any case, all that was left in the sand on that morning was the pretty housing without a trace of the spirit inside.

Or perhaps it lingered somewhere. As a slight shift in the wind, as the grains of sand that rolled before surrendering to ocean's tug and pull, leaving tracks of its retreat behind, if only for a moment. Or perhaps, as the story I heard as I walked on with it stuffed into my pocket.

Let's call him Sam, as the voice was of an older male, he told the tale slowly, deliberately, with an ounce of sadness, but mostly it contained carefully concealed excitement.

The story began at the bottom, of ocean that is. It was dark, damp and always moving, just the way clams likes it. Sam had lived there for only a few month, but he had settled in nicely with his new neighbors: Carl the crab, and Sally the starfish. Sometimes Carl's insistent clicking and clacking as he crawled about the rocks and debris gave Sam a migraine but he didn't mention it to anyone. He secretly admired Sally's fancy outfits, but he simply smiled and nodded whenever their path crossed.

In the rock pile not too far from them, lived the sea anemones and their busy body house guest, the clown fish. They can create so much noises and stories, Sam stayed clear of the hubbub of activities they called their center. There lived many other types of residence in that corner of the ocean floor, but Sam didn't like to butt his nose into other creature's business and kept to himself most of the time.

One thing he did cherish was the times when Tom the sea turtle would cruise by, without a care in the world, smiling and waving as he went. Sam could feel his pulse slow down (almost to stillness) as Tom's elegant motion spread through the waves, and his worries fade away as softly as the last ray of sun that glided across the glassy surface above them hours earlier.

Time didn't mean a lot when life repeats in a circular pattern. Sam lost tracks of the number of days and nights since Dorothy and her dolphin family came around last. So one morning when he woke to their impossibly joyous cries and sound of their flippers splashing in the waves, he shook off his plankton filled dreams to check out the actions nearer to the surface.

He had to catch a ride so he asked Tom.

"Why old Sam, you want to ride to the surface and watch the dolphins?"

It wasn't like Tom to be surprised at anything, let alone asking about it. But then again, it isn't everyday when the shy clam volunteered to ride to the surface either. Sam preferred darkness, quietness, and stealthy feasting to bright lights and showy entertainments. Everyone knew that and for the most part, they've tried to accommodate him most of their lives.

However, something gnawed at Sam that day, he explained. It was the closest he'd ever been bitten by a travel bug, other than the times he got carried away helplessly by the changing currents, of course. Tom shook his head in amazement, but being a kind and gracious turtle, he agreed to take Sam up without further delay.

Food Court

2011-05-16T13:12:00.000-07:00

Hoping between spots that are either too windy or too sunny, I finally sit at the Goldilocks of tables facing an infinity pool of fountains.

"He facebooked me,
he friended me,
he posted something to me,
...
he unfriended me.
....
whatever, whatever..."

The girl at the next table recounts the drama of her e-life, her hands cupping her drink, as if that too, would fly by like the wind blown pieces of napkins, never knowing when or where it will find a settlement.

Her dark hair flies up with the wind, momentarily melding into the colors of her dark eyes, flickering, wincing, then peering up and down at the world without seeing, without realizing the one next her staring and taking notes.

"What about those back-end stuff?" Three men in T shirt and shorts pushed around the metal chairs enough times to form an infantile attempt at the Requiem. When the screeching finally stopped, they popped around words like "hybrid systems, storage building..." -- terms I'd rather forget than perpetuate. The clean cut dark haired chap talked in low soft bass tones, while his friend wearing long blond hair and dark glasses cuts through the whistling wind and the strings of other conversations in high pitch.

"Did you hear about so and so?" A middle aged woman walk up to them and patted on the shoulder of the blond. After a series of low murmuring exchanges, I hear her say:

"Oh yeah, she just got so tired of working with us...
we got bought out...
competition... ruthless..."

The men showed no signs of slowing down. In fact, food disappeared rapidly as they nod in collective silence. The woman finally bid them goodbye, and after she turns a corner, they burst into chuckles and resume their shop talks in the rise and fall of voices.

I look up from my table, the swaying palm trees are backed by nothing but a perfect patch of blue, next to a hundred year old oak. If I concentrate, letting only the breezes and colors guide me, I find myself transported to a square of beach in Hawaii, with only the sound of hula dances accompanying the symphony of nature.

But my brief escape dissipated when voices shuttle me back into reality, as more men arrive in varying office attires discussing "interfaces, applications, systems, competitions..." and tossing around the general vocabulary of office gossips.

Without walls as white as envelops or water coolers that has gone stale since the Hoover administration, somehow I find the ghost of office space surround me. They shroud me with their shadows and their words, their discussions of the first day of another week of rat race, of friendship and love, of found and lost, much like the tables about us -- everyone searching for their version of the perfect fit.

Tree Mother

2011-05-10T06:01:00.000-07:00

It ought to be spring,
when soft pedals of blooms
race to cover the winter torn branches
of mountains and valleys.
Yet I have
the golden crunches of fall
under my feet in the garden.
Puddles of yellow tear drops,
from a mother
shedding her last layer of the past,
in exchange
for a chance
to bear all her hollowness
and scars
into a newly scorching sun,
the occasional pelting rain,
and always whistling wind.

From the low dampness of the ground,
the fallen leaves
smiled up
against a shiny blue sky,
blinking into the colors of rainbows,
missing none but mother's brown arms,
worn yet outstretched,
thin but fruit bearing,
labeling
experiences of standing tall
in the storms, while humbly bowing
towards the transformational calls
of the season.

But wait,
they said. Riding
with the wind towards her feet, huddling
close, against her brittle
creases, thirsty roots,
and fading scent
of sap,
warming her
over patches of thinning soil,
breaking into pieces
under impacts of unforgiving steps.

As wind rose,
and clouds congregate,
I look upwards into a weeping sky,
for signs of redemption of the fallen.
Will time bring them back down
to the depth of soil,
and will rain carry their ashes
into the tendrils of her thirsty roots?
Will their lingering essence,
rejoin the warmth of her vein,
and charge up the length of her trunk,
reaching onto the top
of her canape
once more, in celebration
of their return
as a brand new child of Spring?

Connection

2011-05-06T08:55:00.000-07:00

Kevin, my seven year old nephew, sauntered up to the sleeping bunny, looking around to make sure no one's looking. I ducked my head into my book, pretending to be immersed in the scene I am reading.

The bunny stretched out on her lazy chair, a spot low and soft to help her recover from the her surgery yesterday. Her white ears twitched at the sound of boys playing noisly upstairs. But her pink rimmed eyes remain closed.

Kevin knelt down to watch her closely, holding his breath slightly at first,then exhailing into her soft hair, making them stand up at an angle. The bunny opened her languid eyes just a sliver, struggling to stay awake, but no longer sleeping either.

A peanut lay nearby and Kevin picked it up and offered it to her. She sniffed it. That's what she's been doing, sniffing, but not eating. The doctor warned us about this, she might die. Their digestion system could shut down from the pain and she will die from starvation. None of us had been able to get her to eat anything so far.

But Kevin's out stretched hands wasn't rejected like ours. She took a bite, so tiny you'd miss it if you blinked. Kevin's lips moved, whispering something but I couldn't hear it. He touched her forehead with his index finger, massaging it, then he stroke her cheek until she started purring, eyes closed in blissful contentment.

I had forgotten the page I was on, the boys upstairs apparently had just won another victory against the battle drones spat out by the game software. They cheered, made more stumps until the house creaked, just a little.

But I almost couldn't hear it watching the silent exchange between Kevin and the Bunny. She struggled onto her feet, reaching into his hands, surprising him with a quick lick, and a few nudges. But most importantly for me, she ate everything he offered up, even the bits she had taken from us just to spit out earlier.

The cheers suddenly ended, as footsteps grew closer and louder. The boys are coming down. Albert, Kevin's big brother, who taunted him daily about his height, his baby cheeks, and his annoying personality, was in for a surprise.

A life saving surprise that is.

The Rock

2011-04-28T18:10:00.000-07:00

The burnt out warden's house perches on the top of a steep but lush cliff on the center of the island. Only the outer wall frames remain standing, with evenly spaced windows on the sides. You can picture the lovely house it once was, with an arched roof and flowery curtains that covered those gorgeous windows. You could almost see the curtains fly up in the island breeze on a sunny day, as the windows are open. You catch a glimpse of the lady of the house cooking the warden's dinner when their children play outside or finish their homework on the kitchen table. The day is clear, and the red splendor of the Golden Gate Bridge stretches out on the left, as angel island and the Oakland bridge crouch on the right, dozens or so sailboats breaking up the expansive blue water in between.

You can almost forget for a moment then, that across the narrow road winding up the hill, there sits "a federal penitentiary housing some of the most dangerous criminals." You imagine the aroma of the stew and the sound of those childrens' laughter must have reached some of the cells facing the right directions.

Then you'd walk up around the bend to enter the prison. You stop for a moment to question the wisdom of this decision as the structure swallows you with its weight and sturdiness, impressing upon you the one way nature of its design. You steel yourself for a second or so, then you walk in to hear the babbles of languages of the world echoed throughout the brick and stone surroundings. It nearly takes you out of the moment, reminding you this is but a tour, and you paid for the privilege of coming in and going out at will. Then you are handed an audio guide with instructions of how, where and when you shall visit each site within the building, with a voice that didn't invite questioning or disobedience.

So you follow, a tinge of reluctance tarnishing the excitement and curiosity swelling at the sight of cells, photos, and the authentic period voices that told the stories. Walking down "Broadway", you jump at the photos of young and tender faces in prison uniforms -- they could be college students, or someone's high school sweetheart or brother, they are sons and fathers of the family they belong. They could be that friendly but shy neighbor next door who doesn't talk much but seems completely harmless, if only you lived in their neighborhoods fifty somewhat years ago. You come up close, as you are told, to those iron bars painted pink but emits nothing warm and fuzzy, and see a coverless toilet sitting just across next to the head of that single bed, marking the loss of freedom for something so basic as a bathroom break outside, a privilege enjoyed by a first grade child when he asks. There isn't room for anything else in this five feet by nine feet space, but an air of desolation, hair raising eeriness, filled with silent screams of all its occupants that seem imprinted on the walls, like desperate claw marks of caged animals.

Courtesy of Alcatraz History (linked)

Then you turn down C-D street and are invited into an open cell inside the D-block. You hear the voice introduce its history as one of the isolation unit for ill behaving prisoners. There is a tiny square of opening on the solid door, the closing of which shuts out light completely. You heart races then clench, breath held for as long as you could stand it without realizing you are doing it, mind racing about nothing whatsoever, yet racing in any case. Two seconds pass, you think it's two hours and you may explode, missing the warm fuzzy airiness of those pink iron bars all of a sudden.

These cells face windows that look out across the water onto San Francisco. It's so close that on new years eve, you hear on the audio, music and laughter of girls in particular would float across the water arriving in the ears of prisoners on the wings of wind. Darkness then all the more unbearable at this, tears would well up the eyes of those with the most hardened hearts, sitting alone, allowing a needle of lightness and songs to penetrate in a moment of weakness, piercing that spot of vulnerability that was buried so deep they were all but forgotten.

You can't help but wonder why?

How can we - a civilized culture, build such a barbaric instrument of torture for our fellow beings?
Then you hear shots fired, sharp and crisp, like a particularly snappy firework exploding against all the concrete and irons. You hear people shouting, first the surprised shrieks of guards rushing in to find prisoners with guns on their hands, then the low and menacing commands from the prisoners demanding the final key to their freedom.

"Give the key or some people are gonna die!

Then another shot. And just like that, they'd taken the life of a son, a friend and a father.
The tender young face you saw earlier suddenly contorted into the face of a murderer as you hear his quickened breath and you recognize the hunger in his demands - so knife like that you shiver from hair to spine. You catch a glimpse of this violent escape attempt on the audio guide, happened over sixty years ago right here on the patch of concrete you are standing. All you want to do then is to withdraw from that dark thought, conceding there is no easy answer here as you move away from the leaden doors and the smell of harsh soaps still floating off of those damp and cold cell blocks.

You turn off the audio guide then, and along with it all those gloomy voices and piercing stories floating in your head for the past hour and half. Walking back out into the open, filling your lungs with the cold but refreshing wind and warming your skin under the blazing sun, you smile at the sight of your return cruise ship moving into the dock.

A pelican flies by, neck bent into an S, wings extended to float him above the sea breeze. He lowers down and makes a dive into the swell but comes up empty. A hungry nest at the pelican's tonight. A fish's life spared.

Corners

2011-04-26T00:10:00.000-07:00

[Beijing, Nineteen Eighties]

We pass by the famous Drum Tower on the corner and the wonton restaurant on its right on the way home. Me wanting to linger and savor the aroma of wontons fat with meat stuffings and broth dripping with flavor and spices; mom pulling and coaxing me away before even a word of this request can form around my lips.

Down the street is the lone corner grocery store wherein we find our weekly provisions, a strip of pork so thin it promises transparency, bowls of pickles and soybean pastes and mountains of cabbages. There is a whole candy and cake section consisting of three whole variety of sweets, which I visit, inhale and admire at every chance but isn't privy to their actual taste until much later in life.

It draws me in still, the very existence of that section nearly cancels out the terror of having to walk by the lady standing behind the counter on the opposite side with a sizable meat shaving cleaver and an even more sizable scowl, both permanently affixed to even the shadow of her shape I'd glimpse out of the corner of my eye.

The sauce counter, directly facing the door, with sweets on its left and the meat counter on its right, also draws me in like what a magnet does to a lost needle. The heavenly aroma of soy, aged vinegar and fried soybean paste triggers a raw response in me, allowing me to dream about noodles with soy sauce, lunch without any threats of greens, and the comfortable familiarity of what you've always known, like the daily chat with an old friend. I'd also dream of volunteering for sauce fetching duty when I grow up, and just like Luo I'd be able to pocket any loose changes from the trip into my own savings envelop.

But there is no time for any of that this morning. Everyone is heading to work so we rush home to find that dad has just got up so I sit down and read a story while he is getting ready. I read by myself as I know mom will purse her lips without being able to fully hide the smile that is adding a beautiful set of curves to her eyes and she will whisper something about me to dad real quiet but I can still just make out my name. Dad's mouth will momentarily go from down turned corners to upturned ones, with parenthesis lines around it like adding emphasis. He is almost as tall as the tower, with broad shoulders and arms that lifts me up so quickly it feels like flying. His eyes always look clear and happy when it holds my reflections, even when life is too heavy and the weight is wearing on the down turned corners of his mouth.

The stove buzzes a little when dad lifts up the cover for cooking and flames come through the holes in the coals stacked up inside. They call it the bee hive coal, as that's what it looks like. I don't ever see any bees confusing it for a hive though which is a good thing.

Later on, mom is to sneak out quietly without saying goodbye. I cry when I find out but without an audience I stop quickly. Dad is to take me to the garden of children riding on the cross bar of his bicycle before going to work himself. He wraps me into a cave of cotton and body heat when he reaches the handle bars riding away. I would cry again at the sight of him leaving, siting by myself on the frozen playground of the garden. At night, I wouldn't sleep but I'd stand on the bed looking outside, waiting for every shadow to materialize as mom, and every sound to turn out to be dad's, coming to pick me up and take me home. I don't understand why they always wait until the last day of the week to come by, in fact I don't understand the difference as every goodbye seems like it is forever, and every reunion gives me hope that I will never have to return again. The moments in between are spent waiting, dreaming about all the corners of my world back home and occasionally responding to commands, both the ones dad left me or the ones the teachers have just issued. On Friday, right after lunch, after I am told I must finish all the boiled cabbages in my bowl or my parents won't be coming so I'd stuff them in my mouth to show a clean bowl, tears streaming from the stiff ridges of the vegetable pressing against my throat. That is how dad would find me, week after week, chipmunk cheeked, wordless and watery eyed until I outgrew the age of the garden of children.

The Bus Stop

2011-04-20T07:02:00.000-07:00

[Beijing China, 1981]
We stand on the narrow curb waiting for the bus to arrive. I am bundled in layers of sweaters and a coat with a hood wrapped tightly around my face, making me look like an over stuffed, rigid but blinking, toy doll. The cold air bites my hands and lips, cutting deeper welts into the already dry and cracking skins. The frozen concrete below seep frost into my feet through layers of socks and plastic bottomed cotton shoes.

There is a small crowd around us, a cloud of gray pants and blue cotton jackets with hands crossing into the opposite sleeves. My brother Luo left the ear covers up on his aviator hat so his ears are as red as the sugared cherry pops on display at the snack cart behind us. Mom takes out the bus fare, and we watch three icy coins transfer from her hand into Luo's, an occasional sparkle escapes when the edge catches the weak but rising glow of the winter morning sun.

It is only six o'clock. But the commuting cyclists streaming through the Anding Street bus stop pronounces a busy and definite beginning. A beginning of the day, of the week; or if you are Luo, the first day of school, with classes starting at seven. He stands there hands in his pockets and a canvas school bag crossing over his shoulders, chest so full of purpose it rises even above layers of winter coats.

The bus lets out a heavy sigh upon pulling into the stop. The crowd doubles in size as soon as the bus appears. The door opens, as much a mechanical effort as a result of the neatly packed riders pushing through, and hardly anyone can move in or out. The few who step off seem to punch a hole through the human wall blocking the door and stumble out, nearly falling at the last step but manage to stand, to my great relief.

Luo shuffles towards the opening but I lose sight of him immediately. The crowd gathers at the door and swells to cover the entrance, reminding me of the time when I saw the pouring of a bucket of tar smoothing and covering any openings in its tracks. I shut my eyes for a minute, counting to sixty, as Luo has taught me to spare me the worry of seeing him squished. He is the "fat" one in the family, with cheeks unusually chubby for having our daily diet of rice and salted cabbages. But at six year old, he hardly weighs nor measures half the size of the other commuters, waxy and ill fed they might seem judging by the necks and limbs sticking out of the bulge of their jackets.

When I open my eyes, I see Luo standing on the highest step by the outer edge of the bus with his face peeking through the elbows of two other commuters. A big, round and ruddy smile emerges to show us the space where he lost a tooth last week. He shifts and twists until one of his arm is free, waving and shouting:

"See ya later, be good for mom!"

Mom takes a step up, and places her foot in the jam to block the bus door from closing. As she grabs Luo's waving hands, she gives it a few gentle squeezes. She is smiling and whispering something I can't hear. So I smile too, and waving back at Luo. Luo shakes himself free, chiding her:

"Mmmmmmmmom!"

The commuters standing near the edges, teetering on precious little floor space with nary of a whole foot each, looking for the solidity of the door on which to lean, join in mumbles and looks of disapproval towards her.

She nods apologies and steps off, grabbing a hold of me and wrapping her arms so tight I can hardly breathe, watching as the bus pull away from the stop. Luo's face red as a candle lit lantern, seems to stay before my eyes long after the bus has made the turn around the corner. I turn to ask mom:

"When I grow up, do I get to ride the bus by myself like Luo?"

"Call him Big Brother, not Luo like us. And no, you will not need to go to the Korean school like him. Your father can take you to the neighborhood Chinese school when you are five."

"Why don't I need to go to the Korean school?" I am as relieved as I am curious.

"Because you are a girl, so you don't need to carry on the family tradition. Luo's the first son, so he has responsibilities to marry a Korean girl when he grows up, and carry on our family's custom and heritage. Now, let's go home."

I can already read "Little Horse Crossing The River" by myself, even retelling it to other children in the courtyard like a proper scholar. But I can't make sense of what mom just said. I don't know what heritage means, but I have a feeling it has something to do with the way mom and dad pickle cabbages for all the days of winter when there is nothing else to eat. But the wind is picking up speed and ferocity, threatening to topple me over and blocking me from further scholarly reasoning. All I can think then, is the lucky bus and its riders, who will have the pleasure of Luo's company for the next forty five minutes.

Jenny (Part III)

2011-04-18T11:02:00.000-07:00

Part II of this story

***

Jenny was right about my pneumonia. Though the doctor was worried by the high fevers and my X ray results of my lungs, I was fine during all six days of stay in the hospital so they released me on the seventh. Jenny never made good on her plan to keep in loose touch with Maria. Instead she stayed close to me, and the other younger kids. Maria tried to exchange letting Jenny wear that little crown, the one with sparkles that shone in our eyes, for playing exclusively with her but Jenny said no. I also stopped crying myself to sleep at the thought of my parents and friends on the outside, much to their collective relief and surprise.

So when the doctors told me my parents were here to pick me up, I didn't jump or ran to tell everyone the good news. I walked slowly back to the ward, heads so low I saw every little rock and creature crawling along the side walk. They hurried to their destinations, while I dragged my every step. Then the wind picked up speed out of nowhere, picking up sand, dust and every inch of gray and throw them all at me, pelting me in a solid rain of ashes.

When I finally arrived at the door, I looked up. Throw the gray mist of wind tunnels and shaken leaves, I saw Jenny standing at the balcony talking to the girls in our ward, pointing to the sky while the other children, each of whom a beneficiary of her kindness at one time or another, listened. She looked as pale and thin as I always remembered, she was tall but still a child inside and out, but she had captivated the attention of others like she had mine. Unlike the wind powered dust storm our city is famous for in early spring days, she did it with a life force that ran as quietly as a small stream that nourished until it ran itself out.

I felt the sting of tears then, I whispered goodbye under my breath, afraid to disturb their talks, but she turned and saw me, pale faced, red nose and watery eyed. She knew it wasn't the sand storms, she knew it was time, and the calm on her face disappeared when she lowered her eyes and then ran like the little girl she never seemed but always was. She ran to hid herself from the rest of us, leaving the hall hollowed with a frozen wasteland of whites and gray shadows.

I didn't bother with the motions of packing and goodbyes. I knew my parents would rather fuss over it so I sat on the bed staring into space. Our window framed a world we can hold between our palms, so in the comfort of all those behind it, I had relinquished the need to return to the massive city beyond it, to the giant courtyard in which I lived. Even though my house was the size of a shoebox, it suddenly seemed as though I might drown in it, in that ocean of people, activity, of hushing and fussing and hovering, and worst of all, of the prospect of going back to the galaxy of school.

Jenny came back then and sat next to me once more. Collecting together the few items of clothes to keep her hands busy, she tried to put some senses into me, and perhaps into herself.

"Hey, it was great having you here, we had fun didn't we? But it's time to go back with your parent, like the doctors said."

I couldn't think of anything to say except:

"Can I come back to see you?"

Then without hearing her answer I felt dad picking me up silently and turned to leave. I didn't know when he came in, and why he sneaked up on me the way he did. Perhaps he saw something, and instincts took over. I didn't protest, so we stayed silent while he carried me home, my ears deafened by the ocean of city sounds or perhaps it was the sound of nothing at all, the sound of a closed book and a tiny rock tumbling over a grassy hill, crushing any tender growth of moss grown in the briefest mist of rain.

***

The next day came and went. So many relatives and my old friends in the courtyard came to see me and brought me their best (secretly stashed) fruit and sweets. I was eager to go see Jenny and didn't want to have anything to do with anyone, the world so alien and scary without those sterile white walls, the comforting clinks of the medicine tray and most of all, without Jenny's soft voice and gentle laughter.

Dad dismissed my requests to go back to the hospital right away fearing I will catch another infection. I sulked until I became fully recovered in his eyes the following week and he reluctantly took me back. As I rush through the familiar corridors waving excitedly at every familiar face, my heart thumped at the sight of our room. Jenny was standing at the far corner, even more frail than I remembered. Compared to my "healthy" friends, She looked shrunken, aged somehow, her hair fraying away and grayed by the sunlight streaming through the window. Even her skin had become translucent, nearly melting into the overly washed and faded hospital gown. Then she smiled and I recognized her again, heart flipping with both joy and bitterness. Neither of us ran towards each other. Five thousand words developed from five thousand years of civilizations at our disposal, yet we felt the divide between the world of health and hospital standing tall, beyond penetration or crossing over. We just stood there, smiling and nodding for an eternity, our legs leaden with the weight of trying.

***

The second time I went to see Jenny was a month later, but I did not find her. No one could tell me where she had gone, or what had happened to her. The hospital changed, so none of the nurses I knew were there anymore either. I looked for Maria but she had been picked up or transferred too. For months I wondered about her. Had she gotten better so her parents had finally came to take her home, like mine did? Or had she been transferred to a bigger and better hospital for advanced treatment? Or..., I didn't want to think further but I'd return every few months to ask about her, to see if maybe she had returned, or maybe if I could run into one of the nurse I knew. I searched for her in vain.

Two years later my family was moving to another part of the town, hours away from the hospital. Though Jenney’s words and actions stayed with me, I had transitioned into my normal life of school and friends, her memories a shadow held in a distant yet bittersweet corner of my heart. While I struggled with every aspect of this move, I more than anything wanted to check in the hospital one more time, and that's when I found nurse Yang.

Nurse Yang worked in our room sometimes when I stayed in the hospital that week but I never ran into her before in all my visits, it was almost like she was hiding from me. That day, she was waiting in the room, our room, and told me in hushed voices that she was not supposed to say anything, but she knew I had been back many times, and she wanted to let me know what had happened to Jenny.

Jenny's parents had wanted to try an advanced experimental surgery to correct her heart defect once for all. It was very risky, but Jenny wanted to try it too. They moved her to the specialist hospital for the surgery, thinking she'd stay there until she’d completely recovered from it. But she never did, as the surgery created a complication and she passed away shortly after that.

I could hardly remember how I walked out of the hospital that day, but I remember shaking so much my muscles ached later, like I was hit again with deadly fevers, and for moments I almost wished I were. So afraid I was to be discovered that I had learned something I was not supposed to, I hid my tears like I thought Jenny would have done, and held my head high like her, whenever someone walked by me. But when the night was set and the world settled down for bed, her pale and translucent face, her lighter than wind physique, and her gentle laughter would come in and out of my dreams often, breaking my heart and my dreams over and over again with all that I remembered of her and all that I imagined she’d become. This continued until the drama in my own life grew to a proportion that overshadowed her visits with a dream of a different kind, darker and scarier.

I want to think of Jenny as being misplaced in another hospital, not another world like what the nurse had told me. She had simply gone for a visit, that's all. I want to believe that someday I would turn the corner and run into her, and though we'd both changed we'd still know, instantly, who we were and who we are, even as we stand and stare at each other for an eternity.

Jenny

2011-04-14T15:47:00.000-07:00

Part I of this story was called [Jenny On the Side]

* * *
I woke up with a start at the edge of a dream with silent screams until I could feel cold sweat dripping down my forehead and my spine. The room was quiet, peppered with the sound of children snoring, but not much else was going on. The wind had died down, so even from the height of this fourth floor children's ward, you could hear no whistling against the windows as usual and the tips of branches swayed only gently on occasion. It seemed everything was quieting down for the moon to rise and take center stage, spilling its soft glow over onto our bed covers, silver plating the metal IV stands, and rescuing the concrete floor from its ugly day dress of harshness and bland into a soft pattern of spots and shadows.

I focused on breathing deeply like Jenny had taught me, but my thoughts were so jumbled as I had dreamed about her. I had convinced her to become my sister so we could play together all the time. But when I took her outside to meet my friends and play jump rope, she had collapsed, grasping her heart, her face so pale, eyes closed, no matter how hard I shook her and called her name.

I turned to see Jenny lying safely in the bed next to mine, and when I concentrate, I could see her chest rising and falling under the covers just so slightly but evenly. I knew I just had a bad dream, probably because of what happened earlier that day.

Tommy from across the hall had been released in the morning, and when nurse Yang had taken him around to say goodbye, I was sitting next to Jenny playing cards. She looked up at him, recognizing the packed up bundle nurse Yang was holding, and the plain clothes Tommy was wearing, and her face turned dark like the once blue summer sky covered by rain clouds minutes before the storm. I imagined she was going to cry next, but she smiled instead. She walked up and punched Tommy lightly on the arm, and said:

"Hey, now we could finally have some peace around here. No more Tommy trucks coming through, huh?!"

Tommy had been a very talkative eight year old, and he snored so unabashedly we could hear him on warm nights when the doors are left ajar. We teased him relentlessly but he just put up huge grins on that ruddy red face of his. His voice may have been a bit too loud, but his friendly and hearty laughs stuck with us. Though it's only been a few days since I'd known him, I was not happy to see him go either.

Tommy returned Jenny's touch with a gentle pat, uncharacteristic for him but not surprising either, considering how frail Jenny looked. We said our goodbyes, and just before he turned to leave, he looked at us and said:

"Please come and visit me when you are better, I live on the street right next to the bell tower, number 79, just ask around for me."

With that, he was gone. I blinked my eyes a few times to check if he was a dream, but I knew he wasn't when I looked at Jenny. She was even paler than before, her brows twisted into a knot and her eyes hollowed out like two bowls of emptiness. "Tommy had only been here for two weeks..." she later said. It occurred to me then that she hadn't seen her parents for as long, and that she was wondering when would she finally "be better" and be released like every other child into the arms of family and, more permanent friends.

The thought had cut into me like when I stepped onto a piece of broken glass the other day. I could only imagine how Jenny felt watching everyone who came in here leave so quickly. I wanted her to stop hurting, but I did not know how.

* * *

I had always wanted a sister. The courtyard I lived in housed fifteen families, nine of which had sisters in the family, the other five had brothers. My brother was the "cool hand Luke" of the neighborhood, regardless of biological relationships, the boys living in the 200 yard vicinity followed him around like puppy dogs. The girls however, made me envious of their sisterly bond. Somehow, my brother was always too far away to rescue me from the younger sister who slapped me for grabbing her tea cup a bit too harshly, or from the older sister who double slapped me for making her younger sister cry, even if she was just faking crocodile tears.

So when I saw Jenny blue over the departure of Tommy, or any children for that matter, I had an idea.

Why couldn't she be my sister?

In my mind, it was the perfect solution to everything. She would go and live in my house, and we'd play and go to school together. Mom and Dad are so busy with their work, they'd hardly notice it and we'd take care of ourselves even better with Jenny around.

But Jenny had pointed out she still needed to stay in the hospitals and in my zealous attempt to help with her sadness, I had forgotten how ill she was at the same time.

Next day at my check up the doctor gave me a clean bill of health, and that meant soon it would be my turn to say goodbye to the gang at the hospital, and to Jenny.

Willow

2011-04-07T23:24:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of Google images

"Good night", and with that, my brother Luo shut the light and returned to his room. I stare out the window in search of a star, a street lamp or a shot of moonlight, in vain. I think I see shadows, but mostly I thought about him - my friend Haoyi.

Yanyan told me this morning that Haoyi was locked into the storage room by his uncle and I opened my mouth to respond but nothing came out. I picture him in that windowless "cell", fist pounding on the door, skin giving way to the inflexible reality of wood and metal. He'd not care about that, even if he is bleeding. He'd shout and scream, even if no one is listening. He'd jump and climb, even if there is no way out. Jin Wei told me later that he was locked for running to the river to meet us last night. His uncle, it turned out, thought poorly of his report card and had wanted him to spend the summer in lock up and "reflect on it".

Well, probably not about grades, report card or anything like that.

But would he reflect on the beginning of the year when we first met? That incident at the cafeteria on the first lunch had got us both in arms. Then I heard his laugh, it was more like a howl, yet when he wore it with the confident of a young wolf, everyone accepted it; and soon, him. I didn't know his secret, but he was always the one igniting classroom pranks, often to the dismay of his teacher and the delight of his buddies.

Or would he reflect on our first trip together, when we officially formed "the group" with Yanyan and others? We, not exactly orphans of the seventh grade, but left behind as our parents went aboard to study or to work, and to secure a brighter future. We bonded over our fate, along bike trails, amongst the soaring pines and wild flowers dotting their fragrance over the mountains just beyond the city walls.

Last night Jin had kissed Yanyan for the first time under the big willow besides the river banks. I had blushed like it was me, and I blushed some more when I turned to see Haoyi's dark eyes flew over to me, somehow flashing a spark under that mop of curly black hair of his. I turned to look away, then back, then away again, mustering words that had completely escaped me, which was rare. The same seemed to be happening to him, though his dark skin betrayed no changes of color, lucky bastard.

So instead of meeting at the river like we always did for summer nights, among the company of frogs, dragonflies and fireflies, we are each lying wide awake thinking about each other, and our little group. Mostly I thought about him, wishing and hoping that the knock, quiet as a mouse, quieter than the sound of a rock hitting my window, is from him, coming for our first kiss.

Patio

2011-04-06T09:28:00.000-07:00

The door creaks loudly when she pushes it open. It startles her but she steps out onto the warm patio. The pale concrete and white fences doubles the voltages on the already bright sunlight, blinding her momentarily. She slips on her glasses as she walks pass Tommy's ultra zen patio just steps beyond Andrea's, decorated with a single tasteful tea blooming tea tree.

She walks on to see Sally's the one already out with her husband Kent, firing up the grill. A minor miracle it seems, as they stand in a patch of hardly visible open space among two prized roses, snow white cup shaped lilies against tall dark leaves that is as much art as plants, and several hanging pots of pink and white blooms. A line of topiary hedges stand in attention towards the back wall, turning out that new generation of spring green leaves rebelling against the neat dark lines drawn by their ancestors. On a tall stool, a plate of tender cut steaks lounge in a spa of marinates and exotic spices. She waits, for that first sizzle, when all prep work completes and a piece lands onto the grill.

"Sss.... crack!" The coal explodes at the excitement of fragrant fat drippings splashing down onto its hot surface. A firework of flavors flew up all around the patio, so palpable she almost reaches out with her tongue to catch a morsel. "Ah...", she hears the collective inhale of the neighborhood including her own, a valiant attempt at drinking in the taste molecules, quenching the thirst of their parched palettes.

"Hello Marianne, how are you this evening?" Sally finally looks up and her round face blossom into greeting itself. Kent nods stoically yet convey no less welcome at the sight of Marianne stepping out.

"I am fine, thank you." Pulled from her world of silent thoughts and imaginations at light speed, she nearly stumbles and falls from motion sickness and disorientation. She casts her eyes quickly to the ground, not realizing the residual frown between her brows escaped no one. "Your dinner smells wonderful..." she adds after a pause and some thought, as she moves to leave. She can't manage her social masks with her observing neighbors somehow. Perhaps it is like a neglected grill crusted in frozen icicles, a significant warm up time is needed before it can get properly lit up again.

"Thank you, we like to use the grill". Sally replied as Kent bends down to wipe off the bit of sweat forming on her forehead, a gesture too intimate in its thoughtful consideration and everyday familiarity. She flees with a quick: "Thanks but I've got to head out...."

"Have a good evening Marianne!" Sally chants cheerful behind her, waving with her spatula over the top of the fences. Marianne waves back with a half smile on her way out to a painfully slow escape.

Her own patio just a few low walls apart from Sally's is not without life. A few pots of Aloe Vera, split from the one mum had given her a year ago, are thriving under her mindful negligence and nature's seasonal rainfall designed for its survival. She likes to think of them as babies, of the original plant except she can no longer tell which is which. They are equally green, pointy and sharp against the otherwise deserted concrete slab that is her patio.

She tried but couldn't push away memories of lush growth from the past, plants that won competitions. Prized roses, artful lilies covering the colors of the rainbow, thirsty but bountiful hydrangeas and her favorite, fragrant blooming tea trees. Children, from those who coo and giggle in the snuggles of her embrace, to those who ran and hop and investigate snails, lizards and toads, used to crawl, stroll or run happily in her expansive garden, lined with soaring spruce, maple and pines.

Blessings Of The Week

2011-04-01T11:24:00.000-07:00

Inspired by a blogging friend Happy Frog and I, I wanted to occasionally do a "round up" sort of post. Inline with the name of this blog, it will be called "blessings of the week".

The moment I pressed "e-file" on all the various tax forms was one of pure relief. This came after several long days (weeks? can't recall) of figure crunching, which utterly eludes me despite of my Asian heritage and fairly respectable education records.
The Boy came home yesterday with a cut and swollen lip yesterday from an aimless basketball. I applied ice and we watched a movie together while his hands are occupied holding up the ice pack. The afternoon felt like a weekend, peppered with occasional ice cream pops and refreshing cold drinks.
He went on CCN (A school broadcasting network almost entirely staffed by kids) as an all star anchor person delivering the news and orchestrating the switching of the programs. I almost couldn't recognize the child before me, remembering his slight stutter and deer in the headlight look during his kindergarten debut on the same program.
Booked and looking forward to the trip a bit up north during spring break.
Having a new career path laid out, one that fits my talent and personality so brilliantly and one that is in the company of such creative minds at Google:
http://bit.ly/fq6A4c
The weather has stopped going through the yo-yo this week, and seem to be heading full speed to summer. Everywhere you look, there are colorful skirts and sandals dancing up and down the quiet gray sidewalks. I defrost my perpetually cool skin in the sun long and often, with only a hammock missing.
During one of the rainy days I was driving around feeling as moody as the sky which alternated between a blast of sun and hails all day long. Then a ladybug landed my window and gave me inspiration for this little tweet:
a ladybug lands on my window,
while clouds push the sun behind puffy shadows.
The rain sings in crescendo,
when I dance over that pesky puddle.

Window

2011-03-26T16:24:00.000-07:00

She moved through the days with the deliberate considerations of someone who cared, though she knew it couldn't be further from the truth.

She unscrew the cap from a milk carton, and pour a second cup into her favorite green mug. She heats it in the microwave before adding the shot of coffee into it to make a latte. Now that there is no expensive coffee breaks with cherished pals, she sighs happily with these homemade concoctions free of worrisome gossips and back talks.

But the days are long, in solitude.

The sun rises with the same brilliance pouring through the window. Her morning routine of rushing through the first hours in complete hapless frenzy ends at nine. Then she sits, waiting for the day to end, moving through pages of books she must read, to seek comfort, to live in a fantasy, to rest in the dreams of others who she will never meet.

Sometimes she sheds a few tears, in trying to reach out for a world that is suddenly moving too fast for her, like touching a cascading water fall in an attempt to catch a particular drop. She typically fails at it, sighs some more, and sometimes, a few more tears.

It isn't unusual that she will go out and meet people, who sees nothing beneath her bubbly exterior, and greet her with warm hugs and chatty company. She thaws for them, even for the moments right after their departure, but then the same lone rider always return, wrapping her in his cape of darkness.

Afternoons bring solace to her melancholy. The sun being ever brighter, the day ever warmer, and the world ever louder. Through the window the new neighbor from somewhere in Europe, perhaps Russia, perhaps Spain, or somewhere in between, would play the same cheery tunes on his piano accompanied by harmonica. At first she was irritated by its monotonous melody, but after a few days she fell in love with it and would swing lightly with the music as do the leaves in the afternoon breeze. Children would run past the narrow walkway just beneath the window, chirping in incomprehensible tones that nonetheless livens up even the slow moving snails and caterpillars. Grandmas and housewives return from their grocery runs chatting about fluctuating prices and the latest choice vegetables; then there is always that one family who starts the cooking real early, fragrance of the spices culminating in the air, dancing to the tunes of exotic beats, and inspiring even tired nostrils to go for a different dream of culinary delights.

By then, all seems softer, and the slowness and solitude suddenly just right, for day dreams, for wanderings of the mind, for even tears and laughs, or for no reasons at all.

Onion Boy

2011-03-16T14:16:00.000-07:00

A colleague once asked us to call him the "onion boy", as he designed a system of layers to prevent computer software attacks, as soon as you peel back on paper thin looking obstacle, another awaits. It stuck -- both the name and the system, to the dismay of its creator, beyond its usefulness.

So maybe layering has something to do with longevity in creations. Take the movie "Pretty Woman" for example, each layer of stories, characters and interactions in the movie beg you to discover, peel back and find new richness as you view it through the test of times.

I didn't see all the layers at first. It was more of an language issue for me at the time. But once I was able to peel back the outer layer story, the one about a fairy tale prince rescuing a princess (or, as the case might be, working girl), I saw the movies charm also belies in Edward's interactions with Jim Morse, an almost father figure to him, as compared to how Edward's memory of his real father had shaped him. These angles overlap with the fairy tale, but adds a new dimension to the story.

photo courtesy of www.starpulse.com

It's a bit like falling in love with the perfect guy (or girl), then discover that you are in love with his or her family too, and the feeling deepens as a result. Similarly Vivien's friendship with the loud mouthed but golden heart "kid", while adds little to the fairy tale in itself, builds another lovable sister into the genealogy. Even the negative characters, especially them, on some levels, adds the odious layers required for a complete onion / family attachment. Edward's faceless girlfriends and wives are central in explaining his character and past. The greedy, shady and ruthless ex-best friend lawyer Phil completes the family portrait by adding the annoying little brother you never wanted but couldn't stop inviting to family gatherings anyway. Of course he would always bring his wife, the one who inspires thoughts like "you could freeze ice on (her) ass".

Photo courtesy of www.starpulse.com

"No wonder! ... no wonder you came down to the Blvd looking for me." exclaimed Vivian.

Can you believe her? The audacity? But at that moment, I did.

Why all this talk about onions and layers? I am just getting to it. In a way this is something new writers perhaps struggle with. My stories started with exactly one character, me, or more precisely, my thoughts. Later on, some of them had two characters, and a few lines about the surrounding temperature and some trees nearby. It feels pale because it is. When I read writers who had done it for a while, I not only see the main story, I also see the setting, the people around them, and a very realistic world in which the story unfolds. Want to see an example? Check here. It is tough to establish a cast of characters with so few words, but if you browse back in a few stories, you'd find she typically manages OK.

We could also look at another movie. The King's Speech, besides a winner of all sorts of awards, is another example on layering. It differs slightly from the previous examples, in that the layers are built between the two people central to the story - the teacher and his pupil, the speech therapies and the king and in many ways, two great friends in the best sense.

What is similar though is the layers again, dug back deep into childhood hurts. Lionel Logue, an Australian born speech therapist, manages to cut through many layers of royal rules by calling his patient, then Duke of York, by his family nick name: Bertie. His insistence on building a personal relationship separate from the treatment itself, work to add not only layers of witty and funny dialogues, but also help uncovered the source of the stammer, and the very personal story of a king.

But what about the family of characters? In this movie they are as much a literal family as a movie one. Well, I guess I do not have all the answers. They are there, the movies stands at least in part, on their interactions with the king. But I can't see them as standing on their own layers. They serve as important context for the movie, but they are faint, almost like backdrops. Maybe that's the nature of the royal family, they each have so much stories on their own, it could be tough to add too much to them without distracting the main theme, where there are so much to tell already. I mean, how can you have king Edward or Winston Churchill in there and not have a whole movie just about him? It's a tough balance, and I think the King's Speech did a fine job in tweaking the lever.

Or maybe I just need to see it a few more times. Only time could tell, and perhaps the onion boy.

What about you? Do you see layers in these and other movies? Any thoughts about incorporating more layers into your stories?

Worrier Syndrom

2011-03-14T00:21:00.000-07:00

I noticed his ID before anything else: Eternal Worrier. It said much with little, and created an instant echo.

"You are such a worrier..." My boss used to always tell me. I'd stare at the ceiling at 2am running through my to do list over and over until I give up sleeping and start on them. No matter how well I try to hide it, people see traces of it. "You are so sensitive" is just another way of putting it, referring more to my worry over people's feeling getting hurt over tiny mistakes or overstated words. Though sometimes the worrying would create an opposite effect, pushing me into even more awkward poses.

Worrying got me far in some ways. "Attention to detail" usually fails me by design, and worrying pushes me to mull over things and catch a good enough percentage of careless mistakes.

It creates a vicious cycle, unfortunately. The more I catch, the more it scares me into further worrying. This nearly prevents me from thinking clearly in the first place the next time around, of this I am convinced. Soon I can't worry fast enough and the whole thing falls apart.

But of course this is like watching a goose floating on the serenity of a pond. You'd never see it's poor little feet pedaling in hyper speed underneath the calm surface. You see and imagine dance moves from the serene glide where not even a feather is twitched.

That's what I see from his words, elegant feathers of colors gliding across the soft background of his pages. He has an eye for settings, which I envy but could not emulate. He paints the story's background, with watercolor techniques in subtlety. You see it, you feel it, you are affected, but you hardly notice it. The story pulls you in, and leads you in observing the characters with affection, humor, and at times, melancholy and sadness. He likes to hide the depth of these emotions behind simplicity and soothing flows, but you get there because you follow the breadcrumbs of every word and character like a lost child and finding them feels like going home. Between the lines, I see talent, confidence, creative flares, not worries. Perhaps about life, but not about writing.

But soothing as it seems to read them, life and the work behind the stories did seem to take their toll. He is resigning from his blog with an elegant farewell. It came as a shock, as there had been more new and creative samples coming forth lately. But perhaps life is like that, unpredictable and heavy at times. I fear it maybe indefinite, but want to hope there's still a chance for a come back. In the meantime, I want to wish him well and a well deserved rest. I also urge you to check out his stories, especially the recent posts and those listed under "Most Read in 2010", you will enjoy, be inspired and if you are like me, learn a thing or two about good writing.

Broken

2011-03-11T22:30:00.000-08:00

I pour sugar into my tea until no more will dissolve, and stir while I wait. The earthquake and Tsunami news from Japan last night had frayed a nerve, when images of thousands search for stability on frail rocking grounds.

Ella is about to arrive, with news of her own. I take a sip of tea while I wait, letting the warmth travel through me and calm the quivers. When I check the time again, the door bell rings.

"Would you like some tea?" I ask out of nervousness. Her eyes have the look of all night crying spells and more tears on the verge of spilling, her pale round face ashen, and her hands trembling.

She nodded, and pulled her lips apart in an effort to smile, or talk, or both. But neither came forth. I rush back to the kitchen to prepare tea. I am lucky she likes Earl Grey and I have one bag left.

"Are you off work today?" I push the mug before her, and sat down in front of mine.

"No, but I don't have to go until later."

"Oh, that's good. You just moved here right? Do you like San Diego?"

She nods with an almost smile. We chat more about the weather and her great new job, while she relaxes further into her chair, and her hands nearly stop trembling.

She takes in the steamy tea in big gulps. Her eyes, swollen with red rims, are now slightly obscured by the tiny cloud of fog lifted around her. Her usually neat bob looks slightly disheveled, falling into her eyes and aiming to take control of this side of her face.

She had called me last night, crying and shaking through the crackling phone lines. "I am too scared to move my legs, T! Why is he doing this to me? Why does he plays so many stupid tricks? Is he going to take away my kid so I'd never see her again?"

I pictured her daughter Anni, a wee bit toddler still, her wispy blond curls flying up behind her head while she runs and hides, always babbling something about superheros. Her warm brown eyes are just like Ella's, inquisitive, impatient, and impossibly clear. She chats happily yet never for more than a minute before she's off running again, continuing the conversation herself, until she's back and find you again, a few minutes later.

I somehow couldn't picture her without Ella standing over her on the side, picking up things she dropped, pulling her in when she's about to run into something, or afterward, and wrap her up in a hug. It somehow silences them both, just for a minute and no more; a moment of reprieve, from running, chatting, crying or whatever it was occupying them the moment before. They'd smile into each others eyes, unmoving and holding on to a world of unspoken words.

I had pulled the phone close, as if that would somehow help me convey my thoughts, yet I didn't have a thing to say. Unknowingly I raised my voice and started to tell her to take some deep breathes. But I didn't stop there, I had more steps and instructions. I got so caught up in the righteousness of my logic, voice raising all the more as I speak. Then I realized I was nearly yelling, at her.

I apologized sheepishly and called her back half an hour later to invite her to tea this morning.

"I can't imagine what you must be going through...but come round..., if you like to to have some tea... I'll listen."

So here we are, sitting in the soft rays of the early morning light, studying the swirling patterns and rich brown hues of my battered cafe table. Neither of us seem to want to reach back into last night's sorrow, lest those worrisome confusions and misplaced angst return.

"So how are you doing?" I finally break the silence that was beginning to weigh on us.

Another lips pulling effort. "I was actually doing much better after talking to you last night."

"Oh good." I cringe inside but continue. "So tell me what happened...,um, sorry I was in such a rush last night I didn't,... um,... listen..."

She gives me the story, and I listen, biting my tongue at times. But the look in her eyes reminds me to be patient, the look surrounded by tears still threatening to spill over.

My hands start to tremble when hers finally stopped, along with the story. It is the same old story, of how life can go so wrong when you least expect it, in the flesh in front of me. The absurdity of it all fills me and rises up inside like the beginning of a wildfire. Were I to try to control it, it will just break open every containment and shatter them into pieces.

Instead, I open the lid to tell her how I was in that story not so long ago, of how frightened and angry I was, and how easily those memories could still be triggered. I tell her about having no where to turn, being ashamed and about crying on the floor all night, and shaking until every muscle was hurting in my body. I tell her the story I'd told no one until today.

She starts to nod, her hands reach out then back, and eventually, real smiles broke through, and melted that thin layer of gray ice freezing her face. I had almost forgotten what a nice smile she has. It reminds me of the ones I saw on Anni, always flashing by the second before she runs off.

I feel the tears then, surging in and putting out the raging fire, bringing in an ocean of peace. I tuck back the tears behind my blinking lids, not knowing why. Perhaps that is just what the moment needs, not more drama. Perhaps I am getting used to tucking things behind, after all that has happened.

I can see the questions in her eyes, I can see her wanting to hear more. I can feel the story form on the tip of my tongue, about how I finally walked out of all the mud, but I tuck that back down too, not knowing why. Perhaps there's just not enough hours in one day to hear about brokenness, or perhaps there is too many. Or perhaps there is not a way to put shattered pieces together in one go, or revisit one that is still slightly shaky, and more persistence is needed than mere strength and speed.

I see a calm in her that I didn't expect. She tells me so too. So perhaps this is enough for today. We pray that there is a chance for more stories on another day, when we can sit sipping a second pot of tea, sifting through experiences that are different but the same, shifting into emotions that are echoing but varied, not knowing why but finding that feeling of okay anyway.

We part with the news back on, remembering how people in the other corner of the world is still churning, scattering and struggling through impossible forces of the elements, praying with the spirit that is carrying us, today and tomorrow, that we will persevere both inward and out, together in aid, somehow.

Firelight

2011-03-07T14:15:00.000-08:00

The dusty and breathless air hit me like a pot of ripened stew. A small plume of smoke rises out of a gray corner, though it is no grayer than this or any other I corners I see here. Faint fumes of plastic, battery acid and cleaning chemicals manage to travel through the apparent stagnant air into our lungs, making my nose wrinkle and itch but I hold on and persevere through my walk. Garbage, gravel and dirt crunch under my feet, while my eyes take in the desolation.

A small bridge hovers just above the swirling stream below, pungent with the smell of rotten litter of unknown origins. Two shallow banks, with slumbered shoulders and shifty slopes, try but fail to shed a colorless cover of everyday living carnages. The bridge seem to be made of flats of overlapping cardboard -- an impressive exhibit of mechanical ingenuity of its maker. Yet somehow it fails to convey strength and stability, or encourage confidence in those of us standing about.

Our translator steps on to show us it's safe, and we all cross gingerly but without the fanfare of danger or squeals. We are carrying jugs of water to the neighborhood on the other side, one, two or three each -- as is the case of a few local teenagers buffing the shine off of their arm muscles.

The neighborhood, so called yet it betrays those warm memories the word denotes. No cookie cutter navajo and brick suburban developments surrounded by trimmed bushes and soaring palm waves. No paved driveways and earth toned exteriors and trims. Not even over stuffed trash cans lining up at the curb. All I see is litters dumped off on the road, foaming at the bank, falling into the stream and burning off into plumes of smoke in the distance. A long line of more cardboard and some wooden pallets (a significant improvement since my last trip, perhaps in response to the stormy weeks we've been having here), erected on the narrow plane next to the stream to form rows of houses, or haciendas, as my friend "Sammy" calls it.

It took us not much longer than an hour to drive here, yet the scenery has changed so completely it might as well be another world. The hills off to the far distance, against the sky it seems, has neat lines of housing along its ridges. They seem more like the houses we see back home in San Diego. But here, the cardboard contraptions we face have no roofs, disposals, or electrical supplies. A few resourceful owners have pulled electric wires across their exteriors to provide rudimentary lights and they almost serve as a curious and intriguing form of decorations.

Linda, our group leader, knocked one flap of cardboard before us. She must have been here before, as it opened the way a door would. A lady, small, weathered, but neatly dressed in a cotton t-shirt top, and long wrap skirt tucked at her waist, step out to greet us. Her smile blossomed throw the lines on her face. As we look down, a tiny little girl appeared behind her legs with a toothy smile. Her face is covered with grime, channels of sweat dripping down, and the eternal hopes of sunshine only a child could pull off.

"Buenos días! ¿Cómo estás?"

We tell her we are very well indeed, and hand her several jugs of water. She hold out a section of her bible, the only she has, and ask to pray with us.

"Her husband has just recently lost his job, and she has three children who are hungry all the time." Patrick, the translator, turned and told us the gist of her story.

We hand her several bags of rice and beans we've also brought, then we hold our hands, all sweaty palms and trembling hearts, to pray at the feet of tragedy, lyrical translations of each line we utter, and that glimmer of hope lit up by faith.

I sneak my eyes open to observe the girl who was writhing at her feet. She has stopped fidgeting, and two pools of warm brown liquid are staring up at me in curiosity and wonderment. My Spanish fails me, in telling her she is blessed, but our translator comes to the rescue.

"Dios te bendiga!"

Everything sounds so much better with the exotic twang, the ups and downs of the foreign tone. The air is still hot, bearing into our skin, making me crave a sip of the burdensome load we are carrying. But we press on, after several more rounds of "bless you"s, and good days.

Another makeshift door, another family, another story. They are each unique in their struggles, just like us. Yet their dignities prevail, just like ours. Our steps become lighter with each door opened, as our walks approach that distant spark, a blink of fire light still burning. It's almost afternoon when we finish, and return with empty hands and heavy hearts, laden with purpose.

---------
Postscript: This story occurred in Barrio Alama, a neighborhood in Mexico just outside of Tijuana. The families there are in desperate need of water, food and better housing. Yet from every trip I am the one receiving more than I could ever give. I wish I could do more justice in offering a glimpse of that here, but if I've failed this time, I will just try again.

Crossing

2011-03-03T11:06:00.000-08:00

I open the newly painted old gate, which separates the nook that is our neighborhood from the hubbub that is the world.

The scent of the rosemary bush planted by the side of the stairs greets me with a taste of spring, and reminds me of roasted meat on Sunday evenings, when mom would stop by and buzz over the abundance of dust bunnies, the mess made by my real bunny and the general disarray that is the state of affairs of my life. The house would smell of fresh laundry, warm spices and the comfort of someone who cares. I try not to mull over the guilt that comes with it, the voice that says I should be doing this for her. Instead I relish in the joy of her being able to visit, the satisfaction it brings her, and the health we all still posses to either survive or duke out our differences when the mood fits, about once a year that is.

I tuck these thoughts away while negotiating the stairs with some hesitation, lingering in the quiet affections that is the familiar colors and structures of my condo complex.

***

Earlier this morning, I had stepped out of my sick bed for the first time to walk the boy to school, a potentially treacherous journey in my condition. So I prepared, downing my warmest chocolate leather jacket, fluffiest scarf, and a pair of high cuffed black ugg boots. After all, there had been snow in the county just days ago, the first of perhaps thirty somewhat years. The fact that it was a brief dusting in the foothills of mountains two hours from here, while I live on the other edge of the county by the ocean, doesn't diminish the threat of that vicious cold front still lingering to bring out the convulsions of coughs, lingering in me.

But the springs in my steps surprised me, though it shouldn't have. The tiny neighborhood enclave whispers signs of seasonal transitions. The young dove, cooing even when she flew, joined the sonata of chirps high and low from other species I cannot identify but by their tunes. Palm and Pine leaves are always in some shades of green here, but the easy rustling they gave today differ from those of the winter days, when more violent winds of either hot or cold blew by regularly. Several of my neighbors have gotten started on spring planting on their patios, evidence includes spots of dark soil spilling out the side of the planters, tiny pools and big splashes of water everywhere, and garden tools scattered about. Though perhaps most of all, spring, is in those sprouts of greens I couldn't name pushing through the dark earth, waving at us in vibrant but harmonious colors worn by those too small patches of leaves curling about this way and that.

I told the boy about my plan for lunch break today.

"I will volunteer at cougars in motion this morning." I declared, leaving a pregnant pause to make the unspoken suggestion -- he should plan on participating. The enthusiasm for the program, a lunch time exercise-run the school organizes, with charms of plastic feet for each 8 loops completed, had cooled after 3 weeks and then vanished completely by the new year, in time with the onset of winter chills and the passing around of the flu viruses.

"Oh, but I've been playing tumble jumps lately, I don't want to miss it!" he exclaims.

"what is that?"

"You line up, and you jump shoot the basket..."

He launched into a complete description of the latest game craze at the school. It sounded like fun, and popular. So I told him that. Though I secretly hoped he was doing it for the first reason and not the latter.

I said nothing more. I wished he wanted to complete what he so eagerly started, and not leave so many "projects" dangling in the wasteland of abandoned passions. But I don't, because hearing that from your mother can be a hard thing, making you feel a bit bluer and turn the day just a shade darker, and making you want to turn a deaf ear to the other, even important or loving things she might say to you. So I made a choice, to let go of this choice, like the thousand other ones I made the day before.

***

The walk to school had been so warm and invigorating, I decided to push my luck further and walk out of the neighborhood to the coffee shop a few blocks away.

***

So I finally cross the dividing line of what was mine, narrow, familiar and warm, into the expanse of the streets outside. The sounds of the morning rush hour greets me, in the roars of that semi that could, rushing to deliver some goods to someone somewhere, in the squeals of that little red sports car weaving to pass other morning commuters, in the happy chatters of the retirees gathering at the library waiting for the start of a lecture, and in the quiet whispers of that lady waiting in the street corner, handing out charity pamphlets to people rushing by her, barely paying attention or intentionally ignoring those little pink leaflets of cry for help. A cry of help in its own world and in its own right, the rashness and the rushing, that is.

The breeze is so warm, that I had long shed my heavy coat and scarf, I want to throw away my boots and run on the grass next to the narrow walk way. I draw in the symphony of sights, sounds and choices, eyes closed, ears open, heart in murmur, praying for a world of patience.

The patience to stop, and listen.

Dancing With Words

2011-02-26T21:16:00.000-08:00

You have this way with words,
that made me swoon
in tears.

lights of inspiration,
shadows of pain,
dampened spirits,
sweetness of love,
young and hopeful,
grown and wise,
innocent and light,
worn bodies and soul,
vivid
with just the lightest roll
of your touch.

peering
into your intimate silver lining discoveries,
starlight stories,
snow filled soliloquies,
resisting but persisting,
musing yet confessing,
without adult supervising,
and inhaling,
the fragrance
of these otherworldly words lingering,
into the stillness of my heart.

life
turns a corner
from rivers
of hidden tears,
connections
made from zero
to hundreds,
words to look forward to,
even though the occasional sighs
the often down cast eyes
still arrive
to pronounce despair's fierce pulls;
I no longer fear,
but peek out at the world
with brand new shines
that spell understanding,
acceptance,
and hope

please allow
this fumbled salute
to words of fire
that have kindled
into the window of my soul;
baring
every sorrow,
sharing
every wound,
so even ice, snow and shadow,
break free prisons of harrow
weaving kindred spirits,
into that blazing colors of rainbows.

So my dream
tonight is without words,
and visions
for that fairy of evanescence.
Hope is in a glance
for stealing into her essence,
that seals the fate
of an inspiration renaissance.

---
Dedicated to the group of inspirational writers and blogging connections made in the past few months. Not weaved into the poem but certainly some of the most admirable writers atop this list are:

Mr. London Street
The Baglady
The runaway bride
Happy Frog and I
Nari (who writes "Nari's life")
Bth (who writes "a little light in London")
Light 208 (who writes "Shadows")
Manda (who writes "Memoirs of a Word Nerd")
Maria (who writes "Something about Maria")
the author of "Murmurs"
the author of "Domesticated Bohemian"
...
...
and so many more,
please check my blog list for a complete listing,
as my memories are failing.

Starved

2011-02-23T23:22:00.000-08:00

The whirls of the heating vent woke me, it must be nearly five o'clock, the darkest hour before dawn.

I pull myself deeper under the covers. The sheets enveloping me are soft and clean, smelling of lavender soup, dryer sheets and ....

I turn towards the window and wait. It's still dark outside too, I can not see the outline of the window before me, though I know it is there.

There is nothing to do but wait, unless I turn on the light and read. I resist the urge as I find that I am not afraid, though I usually do not sleep in total darkness. I realize by now that I'm not at home, as nothing is quite the same.

I arrived last night, booking a last minute flight after having debated the "go" or "no go" decision for weeks. Everything was a blur thereafter, apart from the smell of fried noodles (my favorite) and the sight of smiling faces that still linger. Though there were too many names to remember any, I managed to inhale most of that delicious late night meal.

Then I crashed onto the guest bed and that was the last thing I remembered.

Now the gray blue of the morning has broken through the gaps in and around the window coverings. I pull them apart to see the face of the rising sun. All red, like a blushing suitor, or an Olympic runner racing to victory. It leaps out, overcoming the horizon, and everything turns brighter by the minute.

I dress and find my way down the stairs. The floor is immaculate, not a single piece of mail or paper, stray shoes from soccer practice or school bags with its content spilling. Toys are all organized into the play area, but the expansive redwood space beckons. I feel like cart wheeling.

I step into the vast kitchen, the size of my entire apartment. Yet not a spoon was out of place, and there are plenty of them to be sure. The granite shines a warm brown with yellow and gold specs, and the room smells of freshly brewing ... oatmeal?

I turn to see Lin has already gotten up, and is just about to finish mopping the floor. Oatmeal is cooking on the stove, and a variety of breakfast dishes spread out on the antique black top farm table. The heating system came on again, blasting out warmer air tinged with lemon polish, honey bread, cinnamon apples, wheat crackers and jasmine tea.

"Are you hungry?" She asks with a raised eyebrow. This is how we (Chinese) say "good morning, how are you, did you sleep well..." we go straight to the heart of the matter.

"Starved." I was too shy to finish all the food last night, only to find out later it was impolite as the whole thing was prepared just for me.

"Let's eat!"

"What, now?"

It was still awful early, and no one from the six person household is up yet. It seems intrusive to start breakfast without waiting for the others, especially since all I could do last night was eat and go to sleep.

"Why not? All we do here is eat and sleep. Those are the best things in life. Look outside, everything is frozen, what else could we do?"

She has a point, I came to visit her and her family. I am not here to go sightseeing, shop or do anything important. Spending time with friends means going with the flow of their habits and customs, at least to me it does.

So we dive into the food, catching up on two years of happenings, that's how long we've not seen each other. Lin had moved here to Colorado with family from California, where we met and became fast friends from forever ago.

We pick up where we left off right away. Food is our common passion, and we tend to act like happy teenagers whenever we can get together and munch or feast. We also share a sarcastic sense of humor. The candies on the table look more like artifacts belonging to the natural history museums than on the dining table. But we try everything, giggle and make faces at their strange tastes, making gross noises as soon as the other one is biting into something, and invent "scientific" names to the ones that are particularly inspirational in their unusual (ugly) forms.

The sun is up now, lighting up the garden outside the kitchen. A single blue spruce stand among bare plots of exposed soil with scattered gray rocks. Ice encrusted branches has given up on waving and stood in frozen attentions.

Like this garden, I have been feeling the crushing weight of life lately. This weight has been pushing me beyond the reach of any lightness and cheer. Even under the full sun, all I could see sometimes are the bareness of the ungrowth, the wintry rock scape and the frozen development of dreams. I had a few long long-distance talks on the phone with Lin, and she urged me to visit, in her usual charming hospital way for which the southerners, her origin, is well known. But I still questioned, is she just being "nice"?

In the end I decided it didn't matter. I decide that I had nothing to lose. Besides, what's wrong with being nice?

Though the winter journey to a snow country is never easy, I sigh with relief now as I stare out onto the frozen landscapes and into my arrested hopes. Tomorrow has to worry about itself as this has to be enough for today. This warmth, from the hardworking heating vents, to the sweet and interesting breakfast, to the familiar closeness in conversations, is filling in a way that is tangible yet unfamiliar. I let it be, as it floods into me like the morning sunlight flooding through the windows.

Drip drip, I hear something melting from the inside. The sound of the beginning of Spring.

Surgical Removal

2011-02-21T15:06:00.000-08:00

The lovely HR girl moves through the terminating procedures with practiced precisions, that of a skilled surgeon removing infected tissues - a tumor - from an ailing patient. In this case, the company (or more precisely its profit growth) being the patient, and me, the tumor. Or perhaps I am just a tumorous cell in a once healthy division that had outgrown itself, its usefulness that is.

I roam around the halls thinking through my exit strategy while my eyes wander.

The halls are nearly empty, they have been for weeks. There are the beginnings of spiderwebs dancing in the fading afternoon sunlight, a dance without the lightness and cheers from the accompanying music or songs. An eerie quietness grew from emptied and darkened office spaces that were once the source of so much liveliness, banters and spontaneous ideas, echoing the sigh of terminations but recalling a different page in the story from not too long ago, written by busy feet running to and fro, filled with meetings, chalk talks, lunches, celebrations and bring your kids to work days. Now all you hear is the sound of that page torn from the book, of jagged edges trying to flap in the remaining stale air and settled dusts, but fail at it. It was not long before even these final pieces of dusts and papers are swept away by a cleaning crew whose mission was to remove all evidences of what once was.

I field calls and visits from well wishers while packing up a few remaining items. Two labtops are to be returned. Bumps and bruises aside, they were the blood line that connected this cell to the rest of the body, once healthy and pumping happily around the clock, until it is no more. Now they wrap up those half baked dreams, still warm blood and salty sweat into a few thousand documents and programs, tucked neatly into their tiny sleek cores, ready to be shelved somewhere in the supply closet, for good. I logout, shutdown, and close their lids one final time.

It occurs to me that perhaps I ought to cry. This place had been like a home to me, sadly many times more so than my real place of residence. My virtual office accompanied me through ten years and countless number of sleepless nights, early morning conference calls, changes of strategies and several near exhausted melt downs, both for me and some on the team. But we've failed, at what I am not exactly sure. Perhaps there is not a failure of how, but what is, where, being the wrong kind of cell, growth and accelerated efforts could be doubly counterproductive and speed you toward the predetermined destination of being surgically removed.

But the salty pricks of tears never arrive. My feelings are so jammed it really is like a seasoning shop has cracked open inside, bitter, sweet, sour and pungent all rushes forward to express itself yet no one gets through for the crowding just blocked the narrowest channel known as emoting at work. I attempt to send a goodbye note, yet I remember back when I was reading them from others, I'd thought "this would never happen to me" and laughed at the melancholy of their tones.

Take it easy, I'd always reply, not thinking the effect this would have on the departed. What was I thinking? Take it easy, on what?

I'd spent my life here measuring myself in the eyes of others. So I couldn't help doing that one last time today; even though I fully understand the silliness and futility in it. How will they perceive this note? If I were reading it as a recipient, high on my corporate chair of security and superiority, what would I get out of it? Do I want to sound like a loser crying my way out?

I decide then that I do. More than anything I want to say that even in a place that centers on success and victory, that focuses on progress and milestones, and tolerates no losers, I could still pronounce dignity in failures and rest, maybe even more so than in success, and the difference could just be how it is pronounced.

I finish everything and turn around to look back at the graying building shrouded in the afternoon shadows, the sun has almost set. I begin the walk away but notice a group carrying boxes walking in, their cars neatly filling up those front spots that had been emptying for weeks. Their easy chatting and laughter brought life and colors to the concrete everything that surrounds us, so all are taking on the rosy hue of the resting sun, reflecting that vibrant color you find on newborn's cheeks. They walk in and settle into offices, immediately bringing an end to the hollowed cries of spiderweb dances.

A new group moving in, and thus the beginning of another story to be written with renewed hope and trajectories. Perhaps it will be a story of triumph this time, I can already see it in the road ahead of them, as clearly I see it in mine, a new beginning that is, as I turn and walk away.

Tears flow then, freely for hours while I sat in the car waiting.

Sick Story

2011-02-17T09:44:00.000-08:00

It came so quickly I didn't have time to prepare. I didn't have enough water, juice or medicine. I lacked "sick" preparedness.

The fever hit in the middle of the night. I went to bed with a bit of a sore throat, by midnight when I woke up, I was burning like a hot brick on the side of a lit fire place. Inside, between the space of my muscle and bones, I felt a thousand tiny blades of icicles piercing me with their frozen breaths, cutting me loose from warmth, comfort or strength. Then puff, I was burning up, hot to the touch on the surface while still practically fogging up from those breaths of the arctic floating through inside just seconds earlier. Shivering and sweating simultaneously, I shrank into a tight balled fetal position for lack of any other defense.

I tell myself I haven't been sick sick for so long my body is strong. It would recover in the morning and there is no need for silly medicines. I let myself drift back to sleep, and amazingly I did. The next morning, I don't remember how I moved through the routines of getting people ready for where they need to go, but as soon as the house was empty and quiet again, I fell back into deep sleep, like I haven't slept for a hundred years and this was the first chance of catching up. In a way, it was kind of true.

On the third day I woke up to realize that I was scheduled to take an important exam the next day. I must phone the examine office or I'd be disqualified. The days I had slept away started to blur together, turning my brain into jelly and my speech into mush. I was further discouraged when I found that I was directed to an offshore support center after selecting a dozen numbers according to the computerized prompts.

She greeted me with:

"Hello, my name is Jennifer!"

But her accent gave away her true identity, and her monotone telltale sign of reading from a script. I persist in telling her, through warped words, congested nose and cracked throat that I could not attend the exam tomorrow, as she could probably derive unmistakeably the authenticity of my condition. In response, she cheerfully read and re-read to me that tomorrow if I didn't show up, it will be considered "no show".

"There will be no exception".

After some struggle, she informed me I shall get myself to a doctor's office and fax the resulting "medical document" before tomorrow to be considered for any other alternative. Most likely I'd still be a "no show" until after months of review.

Somewhere in the conversation, I coughed until smoke came out of my lungs, and she simply raised her voice to speak on top of my coughs.

I couldn't come up with a reply. As I was thinking of something to say, she sharply interrupted my slower than snail thought process:

"Mamm, are you there? Are you there?? ARE YOU THERE???"

With rapid and increasingly sharper and louder queries. Then, before I could catch a breath and respond, she hung up.

In all fairness, the world was moving much faster than I could handle at that point. I turned my head from left to right, and I found the clock needle has moved significantly from its last position on the face. I saw creatures and shadows zooming in front of me, with no hope of catching where they were going or what they were doing. So "Jennifer" in the right mind of an healthy person, must have waited a respectable amount of time, before considering me either having given up or having passed out indefinitely.

In the afternoon I felt slightly more awake so I tried phoning the doctor, only then I remembered I, having been healthy as a horse for years, do not have a doctor I could call. So I phone the pediatrician, whose number I have memorized. The cheerful receptionist, sitting somewhere in the local office not more than five minutes from my home, of this I am certain, listened to my story until I finished and asked me to leave a message to the doctor. I do.

The doctor phoned back quickly. "How is the boy?" She asked me enough questions to determine the boy was OK before saying, "Why aren't you calling *your* doctor?"

I tell her why. She pauses for a few seconds. Then she asks me more questions about me and the exam. "Can't you just talk to them? They should be able to hear you are sick."

"They won't believe me, they listened to me for a while and hang up."

"What is the fax number for me to send this note?"

I couldn't believe it. I mean I called with the faint hope that this may happen but I fully expected them to slam the phone in my face before any respectable amount of time has passed and tell me to take my crazy self to an office somewhere. In fact she does urge me to see a doctor, thinking I may have pneumonia, but not before agreeing to help me, and volunteered to call my mom to come in and help me, despite of my fear for "getting her sick". She announces:

"You could die from this if you keep this up, not taking care of yourself, not drinking fluids, or eating medicine regularly. You need to be well!" She closed sternly before telling me she will call back in an hour to check up on me.

She gave me instructions of which medicine to take, the only I had been using didn't work as well. She wants to get someone to check on my cough, as it doesn't sound "right". I feel tears pricking my lids, but I fake losing strength and bid her goodbye.

She check on me twice later that day, satisfied finally that family have come in to bring me water and medicine more regularly, and all is on the up swing with the recovery track.

In the haze of my sleep, I am oblivious to the fact she must have faxed some note to the exam office, as the first email I saw when I woke up finally from the last bit of fevers, was the office sending me loads of apologies, mentioning they have approved immediately of my "medical emergency" as an exception to the "no show". They will happily reschedule my exam any time I "felt better".

I cried at the sight of this though I don't know why. Perhaps being looked after and confined in bed for over a week have softened me, and melted that shield I carried around on "normal" days, caked with too much caffeine, too long a to do list and too much self importance. Somewhere along the lines, I needed to be sick like I haven't been for years, to slow down every fiber in my being and truly see the color and shapes of all those around me. The friend who called, the family who came, the doctor who cared.

Even the offshore support specialist, Jennifer, perhaps her too, is still thinking about me, and learning something about reading off the script. Of this I am certain.

Jenny On the Side - I

2011-02-02T11:10:00.000-08:00

I was seven that year, living in the simpler world of hand me down pants instead of new frocks, radios instead of TVs, door knocks instead of telephones, yet I was still spoiled by a world of affections if not a world of goods. One day dad took me to the hospital on his bicycle, as my fever had reached 40 degrees Celsius (104 F) the third time that week. The doctor took one look at my X-ray and sentenced me to a week's stay in the children’s ward, alone. A fate worth than death I thought.

But that was how I met Jenny, who was then only a couple of years older but a head taller. She walked with her head held high even though her hospital clothes hung loosely over her body, so pale and frail she was you’d think a strong wind might take her away. Though none of that made any difference, as she greeted me with a smile I've never seen before when I was hiding my face under the covers crying, scared of the dark and hurt from being away from home in that cold hospital bed.

The children's ward was on the fourth floor and our room had ten beds, five on each side of the room against the long walls. Most of the beds were occupied that night and I heard crying but not the loud screaming kind, just some quiet whimpers you could only hear if you weren't talking or crying yourself, and were listening intently for steps in case somebody was coming to pick you up. But there were neither footsteps nor unscheduled pickups; instead I heard whimpers that made my heart tighten. Then all the sobbing sounds dwindled into one, and when I touched my face without thinking I realized it was mine.

The girl next to me turned around and slid off of her bed without much noise and remained quiet until I was curious enough to stop crying to see that she was keeling next to my bed.

She smiled a toothy grin with a tinge of shyness when she saw me lookup, so sweetly that I couldn't help but wanting to crack a smile also, though I only managed to choke out another round of tears. She reached out and touched my forehead the way mom always did to make me feel better: "It's OK, little sis. What do you have?"

“Pneu… pneumonia...” I could hardly finish the word before tears started streaming again. A few coughs escaped and I was a mess of water works all of a sudden.

She smiled again, with relief this time. "Oh, that is not so bad, you will be better in no time. You won't even have a chance to get to know all the kids here, hehe…”

Her laugh was the sound of a baby bell, a muffled chuckle rolling off the back of her throat. Like her, it didn’t have the kind of silliness girls her age are full of, as a thoughtless giggle would. It developed into a gentle sigh that melted away my fears, just as the moon had finally risen above the thick tree lines and its light giving everything a silvery iridescent. I stared at her moonlit face and saw a familiar serenity too; one that I thought I had left me behind that morning. The sound of children crying was fading away as I started telling her about my family. But soon my eyes grew heavy, my tongue sluggish and I drifted off into a nice dream about going home soon.

The next morning I stayed in bed until the nurse came by to give us a daily check up. When it was her turn I saw she was skin and bones with her ribs protruding. Then she turned around and I nearly gasped. She had large patches of bandages covering her back, and when the nurse opened one to change it, I saw scars that shouldn’t belong there, not with her. I got scared and ran, joining some of the other kids in the courtyard for a game of songs and hand claps. But soon my curiosity won out and I came back in to find her lying on the bed resting.

"So what is your name?" I asked as a way of breaking the ice, though I had told her all about my family and my friends by then.

"We don't use names around here. You know how they call you the pneumonia? That's what everyone goes by." This was the script they all had been reciting to me.

"But I have a name, and I know you do too. Can you tell me your name please?"

I looked at her with my eyes pleading, and she sat up with a wry smile and said: "just call me Jenny on the side, because soon you will be out of here and you will forget all about me, just like putting a toy aside when you’ve had enough of it."

I wanted to tell her I only had one toy - a black haired doll since I lived with my parents and I'd never cast her away. But I couldn’t say a word as my chest tightened again, like someone was reaching in and squeezing my heart and lungs shut. I strained to hold back tears by taking in deep breaths and letting out a heavy sigh. Jenny didn't look at me again, but said she was tired and needed to take a nap.

***

In the afternoon, my parents came to see me and brought loads of treats, a rarity even for a sickie as I'd never seen a banana before then and the pint sized cake without frosting was what I had only dreamed of. I gingerly brought the goodies back shouting "Jenny" all the back, wanting to share them with her, and show her off to my parents at the same time. What a lovely thing that would be!

But Jenny was nowhere to be found. It wasn't until dinner when we all returned to our beds that I saw her dragging back, paler and wearier then ever.

"Jenny, guess what? My parents brought a cake this afternoon. I saved half for you. Where did you go anyway?"

"No save it for yourself. Not everyone's parents visit this often. Oh, I went to play with the heart murmur girl from bed #14".

"You did?"

"Don't look at me like that. I would rather play with you, but I know soon you will be out. I will have to play with her then so I might as well get used to it."

I couldn't think of anything to say. Maria, or the heart murmur as they say, was the only other kid our age in that big room, but she was kind of mean. In fact I couldn't stand her. She acted like a princess and was always trying to get others to "serve" her. Jenny, the oldest of the younger kids in the room, knew how to handle her but I could tell she didn't enjoy being around Maria either. I wished then I had a more serious illness so I could have stayed there longer.

That's when it occurred to me I still haven't asked what Jenny had, and she hadn't told me yet either.

"Jenny, what do you have? Will you be here real long, like a month?"

She laughed. A hearty one this time that made her whole body shook and her head rocked back and forth a while before she stopped and looked at me in the eye.

"I have been here since about a year ago. I don't know when I will be out, I don't know that I ever will..."

I felt all the air had been sucked out of my lung and my mind went blank for a second.

"Wha.... what do you mean?" I managed to say.

"I have a heart defect, they have to keep monitor my heart and give me injections everyday or I will die."

It was the first time I had heard the word said out loud to me, especially by a kid roughly my age. Yet I didn't see any tears, fear, or superstitious gestures as expected. The only thing I saw was what I would call a calm acceptance on Jenny's face. It made everything seemed almost OK, even though my mind had become marsh just a moment ago, seeing her like this made it somehow untangled, and I could tell pain from joy again. The joy of seeing her here, cool as a cucumber and lovely as the evening primrose. The pain of thinking her gone, cold as that sheet of paper with our names written on it, even though no one would ever read or used them.

There is a first time for everything so that was the first time I felt my heart ached for someone other than myself, for a night and more, as I drifted off into exhausted sleep, thinking and hoping. Hoping and thinking, surely there must be a cure?

Sunday Indulgence

2011-01-31T00:13:00.000-08:00

After a close and personal encounter with a rattle snake, putting out a small kitchen fire and finding an entire bag of marshmallow down my toilet, I decided to celebrate survival this morning with a healing meal of pure junk.

The cafe is already buzzing with people when S, a neighbor and I walk in, yet no one seems to be eating anything. Not the pair of teenagers who got up early to neck in the corner; nor the young mother watching her toddlers hanging upside down from the booth; or the thirty something clean shaven guy in full business attires pecking on his computer; and certainly not the older yet distinguished looking gentleman in neat polo shirt and gray slacks reading the morning news. Though the warm sunshine made everyone look soft and radiant, happy and glowing, they also looked a bit hungry, maybe even emaciated.

I order my usual chocolate croissant plus a caramel mocha. Then my eyes caught an unfamiliar shape in the display case, a miniature chocolate cake, named chocolate banana surprise. I order it without asking what the surprise was. It turns out to be a dollop of banana cream in the center but the best part was the chocolate layer outside. Smooth, rich and thick, it was bittersweet and perfect in between sips of my mocha and bites of the croissant. S stares at me in disbelief, but she dives into a danish and a latte with an equal abandon. We let crumbs drop and coffee mustaches form, enjoying the sensation of waking up every cell to that first shot of caffeine and sugar.

But of course the morning wasn't complete without the chance meeting of another friend H who implored us to stay longer and, have another "snack". We oblige and I order an old fashioned chocolate covered donut because I love its slightly crunch texture, and S getting a muffin. We each get a refill on our drinks as well. It is becoming like a little party with all the food spreading out in front of us and extra chatter flying away from us like a little cloud of roasting marshmallows fumes or the smoke rising from a little kitchen fire, carrying away anxieties and an occasional giggle or two with it.

As we head out the door to go about our errands or sugar comas for the rest of the day, we get another refill and a snack for the road. Everything is starting to seem pretty hilarious at this point and while goodbyes were said dozens of times, we struggled to find ways to actually stop talking, as the conversations had a tendency to speed up rather than slow down whenever an urgency to wrap up the parting process increased.

It is a sweet sorrow indeed, sometimes.

Award Season...

2011-01-27T00:00:00.000-08:00

It is the awards season and high time I followed up on all the generous awards I've been receiving. Apologies in the delay, I had a few posts in the works (and I keep them in my head during those times) so it was a bit of a juggling act for a while.

Thanks to Barbra L from Notes From The Second Half who passed on these awards to me. If you ever wonder what the title means, you should check out her profile and her blog, it's a neat story. I hope you like it as much as I did.

Also as I've been posting on the header section of my posts, these bloggers passed me the stylish award.

Caterpillar,

Simple Thoughts and

ShinyStarlight.

Most of them have been blogging for a while, but I think Starlight started around the same time I did, so we have a special "new blogger" connection sometimes I think. She is better at it though, so you'd find more fun stuff and more visitors on her blog usually.

Simple Thoughts is just that, he is a straight shooter, but his thoughts are not always so simple. I find myself nodding while reading his writing a lot, reflecting on pretty deep stuff.

Caterpillar is a friend from UK, she has a fun blog that ranges from new puppy adopting her to all sorts of other musings. In fact that is part of the the name of her blog, "Musings and confessions of...", if you want to find out more, please click on the link above.

So here are the awards I got:

1. Life is good
2. The Irresistibly Sweet
3. Stylish Blogger

I have to say I love both of these concepts. I mean being a chocoholic, sweetsaholic and loving all sorts of other good things, how can life not be good? (OK, don't answer that, work with me here)

I also love answering questions about myself. My friends all know they have to shut me up in time or I could sit there and talk about myself all day long and they'd get stuck with no way out. This is another reason I was so late in accepting this, it's called self ministered delayed gratification. It's a fancy way of saying "save the best for last".

So ten questions about myself, here we go:

1.      If you blog anonymously, are you happy doing this? If you aren't anonymous, do you wish you started out anonymously, so that you could be anonymous now?

I am only semi-anonymous, you know like "semi-automatic"? Anyway, I started being somewhat anonymous as I am very insecure about my writing and that the anonymity made me less self conscious about it.

I just really like the name "shopgirl" also, as I used to be somewhat of a shopaholic. People who know me well are always asking, "so, when are you going to start that fashion blog of yours?"   I'd say: "what do you mean, I sent you a bunch of emails asking for comments last week! (I didn't.)"   They'd change topic real quick after that.

If I start another blog or this one over again, I'd probably stay fully anonymous.

2.      Describe an incident that shows your inner stubborn side.

The only thing I am pretty stubborn about these days is that I am stubborn about nothing.
3.      What do you see when you really look at yourself in the mirror?

Someone who badly needs hair products, a make over and is smiling for no reason.

4.      What is your favorite summer cold drink?

I don't usually like anything cold, but champaign on ice (or Kir Royale if I was in Paris) will do nicely for a really hot summer day, but short of those white wine works too.

5.      When you take time for yourself, what do you do?

Funny you should ask, I wrote a blog about it and it was well received. So rather than repeating things, please give this a visit and let me know what you think.   Though if time is unlimited here, I'd definitely travel.

6.      Is there something that you still want to accomplish in your life?

There are just too many of those things. Learn more languages, travel more around the world, make a difference (original I know). I am one of those people that if I won the lottery, I'd become a career student in some place fun and exotic. But I'd always wanted to learn new things, have new experiences, try breaking the mold, so to speak.

7.      When you attended school, were you the class clown, the class overachiever, the shy person or always ditching?

I was all of the above. I get bored of ditching for the first two years of school so I became the overachiever from 3rd grade on. Then I got bored with that and became the clown for about a year and a half. I was both ditching quite a bit and somewhat of an achiever through middle school. Right now I am playing the role of a loser and truth be told, I may have just found my calling in life.

8.      If you close your eyes and want to visualize a very poignant moment in your life, what would you see?

I am not sure this answers it but it is something that has already happened. It was the moment when I realized I needed to stop blaming my circumstances and look at changes needed in myself instead. It was a turning point.

9.      Is it easy for you to share your true self in your blog, or are you more comfortable writing posts about other people and events?

No talking about myself is a hobby, which is why I started a blog. I am less comfortable talking about those around me as I tend to feel very protective about them, their privacy and identities. I always ask permission before I post something and I usually change names with just a few exceptions (those who gave me permissions in a more general sense). So I tend to write about myself more, and I am not that great at making stuff up so it is my true self or I'd be writing fictions. Connecting with the community I found on blogsphere had helped me opened up more, I would say.

10. If you had the choice to sit down and read a book or talk on the phone, which would you do and why?

Talk on the phone. Though I hate the phone as a medium to communicate, I always prefer human interactions over well, something that is not. But I love books and I do read a lot. I am a bit of a dreamer and a good read can inject a lot of colors and fantasies into my dreams. I also can't always get a hold of my friends, as they, just like me, are a busy bunch. Sadly though, I did the majority of my readings of the classics when I was very young and couldn't really appreciate them fully.

This is becoming my longest blog, but I'd like to pass the awards to a few others. I think they are very neat, so please do visit their blogs and give them your encouragements. I know they'd appreciate it.

1. The Triplet Crown
2. Endless Eats
3. Rachels' Kitchen to Kitchen
4. A Journal Of Days

Sorry I don't know a lot more bloggers who haven't already received the awards. I won't be upset if they don't accept them as I know writing blogs could sometimes use up that last bit of time in your day. I'd happily pass on to those who already received, if they'd like it again. I feel privileged to receive them multiple times. Again apologies for the late responses.

Black and White

2011-01-25T23:33:00.000-08:00

I don't normally write movie reviews, but I suppose this is in a way, a bit more than that. Also since a good movie is in a way a blessing, I want to share my thoughts on the movie "Black Swan".

It was a story about a ballerina being asked to perform the role of the swan queen. It is a dual role of being both the pure, sweet but meek white swan at one point, then at another stage, the dark, powerful, seductress black swan. The story has the black swan stole the heart of the prince before he fell in love with the white swan to unlock her spell, who kills herself in heartbreak. In her nature, the ballerina character is the perfect white swan, so she fails at seduction and remains "white" in her portrayal of the "black". That is, until the end.

Natalie Portman plays this snow queen, and she has you believe a frightened and frigid version of her right from the beginning. I even connected her role with all her off screen images and thought of her a meek actress perfect for this role. But upon completion of the movie, you saw the darkness that was always there, rising throughout the ripple and twists of the plot, climaxing at the end with her emerging as a larger than life symbol of power, huge black wings flapping over the entire stage, even more so than the sultry beauty that eventually came through.

And I then realize that Natalie Portman had played many a powerful roles as well. I had just as conveniently remembered that now as I had forgotten them earlier, as she would have me do. I recalled childhood acting instructions about digging into the depth of oneself and find the part of your makings that relates to the character, and bring it out in full, if not magnified. I thought to myself then, how could anyone have so much to relate? What if the character is nothing like the actor, a complete opposite?

I suppose that is what makes one a skilled actor, or an artist of other sorts, even writers perhaps. It is in that ability to dig deep down into an emotional bank and empathize so much with another character that you almost become one, at least for a time. This parallels the challenge her character - the ballerina faced, in finding that bit of darkness that is inside everyone including her and the actor. They both magnified it to such an extent that audiences on the other side of the movie lenses can feel for a moment the pain and power from the dark pull of those secrete desires.

There is perhaps a bit more to it than that also. I for one, though educated thoroughly otherwise, tend to believe that people are either good or bad. No matter how many times the real world had shown me differently. It never fails to shock me when someone I had classified as "good" in my mind fails to deliver according to the expectations I held mentally to that standard. Whenever I allow my disappointments to come through, which is nearly always, it sadly never fails to put a short brake or a long damper or both, on whatever relationship I might have held with them.

Recently my friend Nina had been comforting me through some tough times, listening to me through spells of despair and help me vent what had been troubling me. This is not at all unusual for her, to the extent I took it much for granted and hardly ever thanked her. However in the last week or so I had been having trouble finding her, even for lunch which is how we've been catching up for nearly ten years. Then on Saturday, fighting off a cold in hopes of some light heart fun, I ran into her at a mutual friend's party. Her eyes went down cast in avoiding me and we danced around the edges of frigidity and awkwardness in conversation. But it was unavoidable or perhaps she got tired of the charades, she turned to me and announced:

"Hey T, I am getting a new job."

It turned out to be the job I had coveted a month ago. The perfect setup with great bosses all the way up the chains and nice team mates all around, like I had broken down in details with her. Then I had asked for her help by "putting a good word" in the manager's ears, since she had been sitting next to them for years while I lived in another building across roads and blocks.

A most bizarre and let's face it, ugly twist must have crawled all over my face as I stood listening yet hardly believing, because soon she turned and walked away, joining the others in cheering and toasting the perfection in this job's setup, leaving me in the fume and mists of confusion.

Before she left the party halfway through the night, she walked back to me, with me being still half stunned, and half something else, she said the final words to me that weekend:

"I never realized I was going to be asked. But I was asked to take that job."

Then she walked out, head held high, heels clicking, back straight as a ballerina in her professional and powerful looking ensemble of head to toe blacks. Is that swan lake I hear playing on the sound system?

I still don't understand what happened. I just kept telling myself that I had always thought of her as the most angelic friend I ever had. She never spoke ill of anyone, in fact she rarely spoke, and certainly no one ever speaks ill of her. Nor do I plan to start that trend. Least of all because I don't think that I've truly known her, not in the way that no one ever really truly knows anyone, but in the way friends know little useless and annoying details about each other and still hang on to each other, not despite of them, but because of them.

Or..., Perhaps this is the beginning of my knowledge?

I can't blame what happened to her, though I really wanted to. In the end I find myself happy that she landed on something good for the next few years, something that will advance her career to the next level. I mean if I were to lose the job to anyone, there is no one more capable, experienced, a better person, a better friend that I'd pick myself. Though I can't help feeling proud and weak at the same time. In the end, while in search of support and the right shade of reactions, I just hope my boisterous transparency hadn't cost me yet another friendship. More than anything, whether what happened was black or white, I want to believe that friendship itself is more white or at least gray than black, something that goes well with my own blend of colors.

An Eternal Smile

2011-01-23T21:26:00.000-08:00

The room is not crowded, though it is narrow and so the short queue snakes around a shelf or two. I inhale the familiar aroma of roasted beans, morning papers and freshly baked muffins. The sun is nearly kept out by the overhung roof but not completely, marking a bright spot here and there on the otherwise dark walls the color of melting coco. The soft sizzles and clicking of the Barista's cups and steamers bring you back into reality and remind you that this isn't the depth of a warm forest, where coffee, vanilla and coco plants grew around you and reach your nostrils with their tantalizing flavor tentacles.

The family of three is sitting around a small table by the window. The father's face obscured by the paper he is reading, while mom is holding up a best selling chick lit with the tell tale pink and purple palette splashed on the cover. Your eyes however, are drawn to the little girl, with her back to us, facing the window sitting in between her parents. She is wearing a blue satin dress with a white sash. The kind Julie Andrews sang about in the Sound of Music, the kind that makes you happy when you are feeling sad.

Christina-Taylor Green

Though it isn't immediately apparent she is either one of those things, sad or happy, as her attention is focused entirely on the paper drawing in front of her. She is making a picture of tribute for another little girl, the youngest victim in the recent Arizona Shooting, as so titled on the top of her page. She is outlining a most strikingly beautiful young face, full of hope, with the kind of smile that transcends borders, boundaries, and politics. It bears no mark of ever having seen hatred or anger, the sort that took her from her family, her community and her future. A future not perfect or even rosy, yet less horrific because of people like her who cared, even when they were so young, and the world was still trying to "teach" them how to navigate the grittier aspects of life.

I disliked the word "victim" that has been associated with her and the others who lost lives in the incident. It is a tragedy, yet I can't help wanting to find victory in their stories and their lives which are not defined by the sudden loss. Or perhaps that is the only way someone like me could cope with something like this, a peer at a different angle at a brighter side of the past.

In reading about her, I learned of her passion and reasons for her being at the scene. I am ashamed to admit that it would be hard to imagine myself caring enough at age nine (or even now) to attend a political rally, as I couldn't even be bothered to vote for years. Serving my citizenry responsibility in a jury or something equally important had seemed like a nuisance, too busy I was with work, family, and more work. I didn't stop to look around the walls of my office, let alone through the windows to the world beyond. I read news only when they are passed to me through viral media, trusting the wisdom of the crowd to select out only those that are worthy of my precious time.

Perhaps I am not a political animal, but in a democratic society, I own the privilege and the responsibility to shape the system in a way so that I cared. In my reliance on the crowd, I had lost that child like curiosity once made me so dreamily creative, as nothing was impossible and the world was mine to discover, shape and invent. I had gradually reduced to connect myself with the planet through familiar routines, people I knew and comfort zones. That zone has shrunk considerably over the years, into a virtual bubble of a few square miles and a few dozen people. While I ventured outside occasionally, I vested little interest, effort or time away from home. So perhaps that is at least one sensible distinction between tragedy and triumph in our lives, not how big a pot of gold you've collected, or how high you rested on the ladder of success, as the higher you are, the worst your likely fall would surely be, but in how deep and wide your care can spread, outside of the immediacy of self or even the little bubble of familiarity we all create for ourselves.

A few college students sit nearby working on their labtop and brick like text books, pink iPOD wires growing out of their ears, heads bobbing, oblivious to the scene besides them. I see no familiarity in them, yet I recognize that zeal to complete the task set before them, to move one step closer towards that forever dangling prize hanging just above my nose. I remember seeing the prize moving as soon as I got close. So I'd try harder to catch up, never realizing that the faster I went, the faster it moved, a dog snapping at the shadow of its own tail, a hamster traveling furtively on the wheels towards nowhere. Somehow it feels like stepping out when I found myself here, staring at a group of strangers who reminds me so much of myself.

I look again at the drawing, a childish but talented depiction of an unblemished smile. It is no Mona Lisa, but eternal just the same. A smile that is unfamiliar to me. I was apparently grumpy at that age for never having enough to eat, to play with, or what have you. Not that there were greater wealth around with which to compare and compete, but it didn't stop the bratty fits to kick in during those young years. I prided on my ability to complain and "win my case" by then, my parents threatened to send me to law school so I could put the "talent" of finding faults and win arguments into profitable use. But perhaps they saw through me in the end, that I didn't have the nerves and the persistence required for law after all, giving up as soon as the opponents grew beyond the loving indulgent circles of my family.

I don't know why neither the artist nor her parents ever turned to look at me, and drive me away in shame. They must know that I was staring. In my prying eyes, the artist who is doing her subject so much justice is around the same age, and just as docile, sweet, innocent, vulnerable, yet just as fearless in her looks to the past before pushing towards the future. She checks in with her parents with quick upward glances, causing them to stop, smile and nod at her effort. Yet they resisted injecting their own thoughts, which I know takes considerable more patience than wisdom though plenty of both are required. They left it entirely to their talented daughter to imagine, to relate and to express, putting wings on her spirits, danced out before me in ink, blurs of shapes and colors.

A tragic triumph that warrants no tears but a smile, one that outlasts the trivial pursuits of my day, and maybe a bit longer.

If I Had the Morning Free

2011-01-17T12:49:00.000-08:00

For a time, a time and a half and then some, my morning conference calls and email correspondences would begin at as early as 4am. As I'd routinely wake up without the aid of an alarm at 3am, this wasn't a problem so much as a specialized schedule. But some days, as I careen myself into the telephone, speaking about things I thought faintly warrant a debate about over lingo I struggled to understand, I said to myself, I wish I had a morning free, just once.
Be careful of what you wish for, a voice replied.
What would you do if you had the morning free?

Well..., Let's see.

I would have a proper lavender bath, slather on a cold ginseng mask straight out of the fridge, and put on the words of "Starting Your Day Right " until it sings a smile into my heart, instead of rushing through a lukewarm shower while meditating on the delicate balance of politics versus teamwork, P&L versus spirits and morals, strategy versus daydreaming.

I would properly drop the kid off at school by walking with him, greeting the crossing guard and classmates with smiles and appropriate words. I'd give him a hug, a homemade lunch and a wish for a great day, instead of practically tossing him out while the car is still considering sliding further into the curb, shouting "hurry, the second (final) bell just rang!"

I would linger in the warm embraces of the morning sun streaming through my window, lighting up my curtains and my soul, instead of saying goodbye too early with a longing and a grudging noise of regret when I rush into the dark damp dungeon that is my garage.

I would sit on my ten year old desk and open my brand new journal and pour out my thoughts, tell my stories and connect with the world of written words with a flick of my wrist, a peer into my past, a tug on my heart, and a deep desire to be heard, instead of sitting in perpetual traffic, road raging and contemplating joining the league of those cutting me off, whom I can not beat.

I would finally write that letter to Phillip, my fourteen year old orphan (who lost both parents to AIDS) in Africa, in my own words instead of the masks of strength and encouragements I put on, tinged with just a smudge of patronizing superiority in the rush of time commitments. I'd tell him how much he has blessed me through his story of survival and perseverance, and how fortunate we all are to be able to connect in hope and faith regardless of where, how, who, when and why. I may tell him a little story about being left behind by my own parents when I was young, of how it had changed me forever, though it may take up all the paper in the allotment and more, tear smudges not withstanding.

I would breathe easy, and shed the heavy coat of guilt, inadequacy, fear and shame, and walk out in whatever I feel like wearing, in body and in spirit, rather than what I know the world or the office, could tolerate to see me in.

I would pray to a God of love instead of one of rules and regulations and of causes and effects, I would hum praises of compassion instead of thinking thoughts of judgments from human perceptions. I would wear my roles on the stage of life like a bouquet of feathers in my hair, rather than as a suit of armors.

I would live those brief moments free, to do justice to that offer of reprieve, before returning to my regular old self of over-thinking and overdoing, and fail as I might, be comfortable in that skin too.

Toe Edge and Making Changes

2011-01-14T23:26:00.000-08:00

[A Brief Recognition - I am very lucky to have met these wonderful blogging writers and friends who gave me an awesome award: The Stylish Blogger Award. It has truly been a blessing to know them. Thank you: Caterpillar, Simple Thoughts, Barbra L,and ShinyStarlight. Please visit their blogs and get to know them, you'll be glad that you did. Please leave them a comment if you do and let them know I sent you. ]

Years ago when I first learned to ski, my friends who taught me also gave me extra lessons about watching out for the snowboarders.

"They are rude. They called me names."

"They try to hit you, even though skiers go in such a predictable pattern."

...

and so on.

It was believable enough. I saw how those young snowboarders were thrashing themselves about the mountain, always passing me a tad too close for comfort, running over my friends too often to be accidental. Sometimes they even turned back and give us a menacing grin, with that glint in their eyes that said: "aren't I a dare devil?" or "aren't we the coolest?"

Remove the dare and you got it right, we thought to ourselves.

Then I stopped skiing for a while. When I returned with a new set of friends, a few years later, much has changed. I was persuaded to try out the fine art of snowboarding.

"It is so much fun!"

"You will never have to carry those cumbersome skis around anymore, and the boots are really comfortable."

The point about the boots got to me. Contempt with snowboarders did not deter me (even years ago) from a secret longing for their boots, comfortable enough to walk in. It also would be a nice change not to end the day with the boot's every nooks and cranny carved into my feet.

Then there's the "epic" powder conditions we're encountering. It amounts to simple physics that a snowboard just travels much better on loose powder than the thinner and longer skis. I watched a dear friend tweak his knees badly on even extra wide skis when one side got stuck inside loose powder, the other side moving forward on inertia. I resolved finally then to take a snowboarding lesson.

Of course it was strange to have two feet strapped together, at first. Failing to get off the lifts cleanly was also embarrassing and uncomfortable but my Achilles's heels with snowboarding would definitely have to be the "toe edge".

Toe edge refers to a change. It isn't something you sit on but rather something you change into. As a snowboarder, you can technically spend your life sliding parallel to the mountain on the heel edge, sitting with your back leaning into the mountain, knees bent and bums reclined much like lounging in a chair. But to make the S shape turns that is the epitome of snowboarding, you must get off that bum chair and make the transition into the toe edge.

To achieve this, you need a little speed. To get speed, you need to point your board directly down hill. If you have not fallen by then, you lift up one heel, press down the other, much like pressing down on the pedals of a bicycle. The momentum and the direction of your gaze will do the rest of the work, and there in lies the challenge.

You must trust that the work will be done, while you are sliding uncontrollably down the mountain.

Sounds awful, doesn't it?

It wasn't bad when the instructor stays close and helps you fix your gaze by successfully distracting you from all thoughts of peril.

When he leaves at the end of the lesson, the toppling angle of the hills threatens to devour me with mental images of spectacular crashes.

Though I reckon, this isn't unlike that first time I rode the bicycle. I had sneaked out of the house with it on my own, thinking if dad came along I'd never get to ride it. He'd insist on holding onto me, and run behind me like a heavy trailer. I'd remembered that heart thumping first pedal, that first moment of the bike picking up speed and gaining balance, that first feeling of gravity lifting, the suffocating strangle over my ankles releasing, the wind billowing into my hair, and the world blurring into techno color and shifting shapes.

It also isn't unlike that first time when I learned how to float. I had to get into new and uncomfortable positions and let go of some familiar stances and muscle tensions that served me well on land. Then the water carried me with surprising strength and stability, giving me a magical feeling of weightlessness, of the power of softness over hard control, of the rich gains of releasing all I held as safe.

I suppose quitting a well paid but loathing restaurant job to go back to school was a moment of letting go too, of putting a certain trust in that certain uncertainties will pay off, and that life will catch me somehow, when I forgo two years of hourly pay check and turn over my savings as tuition. Suppose I had not stopped too long to think about all these when I got that first dream job offer post graduations, vanity of the youth and all. I had just lost myself in the celebration, the elation and feelings of triumphs, forgetting the price I had to pay, the price of letting go and free falling into a chance for that moment. A chance for a new height, not withstanding new challenges and failures.

Something tells me 2011will be another one of those turning point of change. Many constants have shifted away and left me in unrecognizable tracks of snow melts while I tried to hold on and fight in vain, only to spin further away from any axial of comfort and normality. Trying to slow down had only made me fall hard against the speeding train of changes, and barely scratching nail marks into the surface of the loose snow that is the security blanket of an old life.

I caught my breathe and looked again, not down the hill but towards the direction where I am turning. A new life awaits me there, unfamiliar, on the edge of darkened woods, just beyond protruding rocks and patches of ice; yet exciting and pregnant with possibilities of being the perfect spot for another turn, for a future of flying through soft snow and new explorations.

I set my mark, as I was told, on where I am headed, rather than the potential danger that kept me from the heart's desire. I let the board slide, into that leap of faith that carries me speeding down the fluffy powdery run, a magic carpet through the clouds like experience. I hardly want to stop it but I pedal, I gaze over my shoulders and I fly, into my first solo toe edge. My hearts leaping in "I wasn't sure but I am so glad" flutters.

I no longer look on snowboarders with contempt, now that I am changed, for good. I join them on trusting the simplicity of laws of gravity and momentum, on setting intentions and falling a bit into the unknown, on exploring new possibilities. As life is not just about plateaus of comforts and conveniences, but also in experiencing moments of new heights through leaps of faith, at each and every turn.

Now all I have to do is tell ma, about this big change that's been on my mind, and hope she doesn't push me over the hill with her bear hands.

Sigh.

Bags and Diplomacy

2011-01-12T15:06:00.000-08:00

I had put on a little mascara before this important meeting, so all day my lashes feel frosted and heavy.

On the way home, I feel it’d finally caked all around my eyes. Looking in the mirror is not an option so I ask my ten year old son:

“Has my mascara smudged?”

A puzzled look. Then he decides to venture a question:

“What do you mean mom?”

“Oh. Um, is there any black circles around my eyes?”

“Oh. Those are just the bags under your eyes, it’s like you are getting older. But you are not.”

My son the diplomat.

Cafe M*

2011-01-11T17:27:00.000-08:00

The Cafe is not my usual haunt. I am too much in love with greasy hot food plates of unrecognizable origins to enjoy cold cuts served out of cold fridges on cold chairs, even if there are lovely scrolls all over them.

But Carla persisted. Nearly every time we discuss lunch, she'd say:

"How about going to Cafe M?"

I'd usually carefully redirect the conversation to somewhere I knew she liked. But either she does a decent amnesia impression or she truly can't remember how recently the last suggestion for Cafe M was made, I kept hearing about it. So finally I relented, and when I did I dragged along a few others to share the "new experience".

The interior does not surprise me on the first look. It isn't bright but a few windows do allow in a bit of soft light. The pit like space where the counter stands however, looms in near total darkness. A decent line forms before us with mostly office workers in crisp shirts and khakis from the nearby buildings. I reconsider mocking when I see a menu full of old favorites and chic new ingredients (palm of hearts, avocado, arugula...). The baked goods and coffee selection sealed the deal, I order a milky way and a chocolate chip peanut butter cookie with three giant chips right on top center, and round off the meal with the featured salad.

Carla looks unimpressed: "why am I sitting here eating just a salad when you are having all those cookies?"

I shrug it off. That's what she does if I asked her something that didn't really require an answer. She is like a big sister though I'm quite sure she looks younger and I'd never know why she eats so lightly, as she looks fabulous and a bit like a movie star if I ever saw one.

We sip our drinks and wait for the others. As soon as we sit down, Palla shows up in brand new hair and a glowing face. She proceeds to tell us about this new spa salon, and all the great deals she is finding online for hair care. I like listening to her, watching her vivacious energy fill the room with a shake and a twist of that fabulous new cut, liquid chestnut pouring down her shoulders, even though I've heard the story before. She starts to retell something funny, and a string of hearty laughs bounce around the room before she can covers her mouth. Then there is a pause on the hum of conversations around us, as if an invisible remote has been pressed, and everyone looks over. Palla just shrugs it off with another swish of her hair.

Nicole is the last to saunter in, and we give a small cheer on seeing her familiar face. She is a take charge kind of lady, and she projects this air of authority that simultaneously provokes a rebel instinct and releases certain anxieties in me not unlike when I'd found myself in the principal's office, which was pretty often back in the days. Conversations with her can sometimes teeter on a delicate balance of give and take, short of which things could turn tense quick, as was the case in our first meeting. Though we laugh about it now, and I really didn't think it was that awful, she tells quite a different story, often. So that is the lesson on thinking before talking, and walking a mile in the shoes of others, I suppose. Though looking at us now, you'd never suspect a single wrinkle in the fabric we call friendship.

The sun has come up finally out of weeks worth of clouds, and it is now as bright and warm as ever so we put on shades to avoid having to squint so much. Our food arrives, we dive in and only chime in about life, love, loss, and occasionally work when we come up for air between bites.

Everything tastes really good, I say to myself, I will have to bring Trish and Kel here next time.

Sunset In Del Mar

2011-01-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

You were new,
I was shy,
then you said hi, and I knew we'd be alright.

You ran fast,
I think slow,
then you said "let's go for a walk", we knew we'd be alright.

You kayak and raft,
I was scared of a rock,
then we went whitewater rafting, and whoever lost that paddle had to stand and get singing.

You taught me courage,
I learned to venture,
then we went skiing, and beat those tough boys in pool, drinking and skiing.

You started me on scrapbook,
I urged you to write,
then we journal our hearts out in a circle of friends and light.

You threw me a shower,
I became a T. T.,
then we grew up and each got some marriages and kids.

You permeated busy and happy,
I steeped in melancholy and sassy,
but then you dangled in my worried heart, and that string pulled quite easy.

One day I heard your sorrow,
I felt your tears,
but then I've never known to feel sorry, for your brave fighting ways.

You are surrounded,
by a thousand and one hugs.
But then I know you'd much rather, just have back that one shining knight.

You've seen darkness,
you've been a light,
I hope you'd go see the sunset in Del mar, and know you'll be alight.

-- For Angie, in the wake of your devastating loss.

New Year's Blanks

2011-01-06T22:37:00.000-08:00

It's a new year, yet much remain the same. If you are a student, you have the school terms reminding you where you are, you may be learning new lessons, but you are still in the same term. If you are a worker, your office would not suddenly have grown a measure, just because the calendar have completed and started on a new cycle. If you stay at home, you may even crave the sameness before the holidays -- some peace and quiet from the visiting family, the drunk uncle so and so's and the cousin smarty pants and the screaming children two too many. Chances are over the holidays your to do list has grown, bank account has shrank, and the state of your resolutions has remained the same year over year.

If you are me, dangling through the roller coaster of life, you may come back and stare at a blank "New Post" page for too long, racking your brain for things you can put down as "a blessing" for the day, thinking since it is a new year you ought to return to writing closer to the theme; but on second thought maybe you really hasn't fallen that far from it. After another hour you wonder if you have tempted faith a bit too much with this silly title, your mind filled with blanks.

But then you found you've had a few new readers, a few new comments, and a few more new blogs to read. Some are so good they light up your imaginations, and you make new connections with fired up comments. You don't care if they are returned, as you appreciate the writing, enjoyed the story and admire their skills so and you like to let them know that. You share a piece of you in the comment too. As a part of the story has caught onto a part of you, uncovering a corner of your memory that was put away for too long or an old wound that was never properly bandaged but suddenly you found it was not as bad as you thought, as others had it too, and they got better by letting it air out rather than stuffing it into a mental attic. When you click "publish comment", you feel the window to the attic open, and you feel the breeze.

Then you think perhaps they would return a visit, or someone else will, or they have already, and it's all good. You think perhaps a part of your story will touch a part of their hearts too, in some small way. You hope it'd light a fire in them, but you'd settle for cheering them on, even just for a moment, to see a little light at the end of the tunnel of the sameness, of drudge and dullness, new year's day or not.

So you begin, to just write about how you feel, and you've already forgotten about the blanks.

Farewell Kevin

2011-01-05T06:53:00.000-08:00

I was shocked to hear that he had passed, a news that came just after the dusts of the new years celebrations had settled, while our faint hope for his recovery still lingered on. It seemed just yesterday we were hearing his larger than life laughs bouncing off the hallways, about another one of his fantasy style parties, or some triumphs of creations during the comic conventions. Yet the illness that took him to the hospital a while ago, a seemingly benign cough, took him for good on that day after the new year.

I cannot claim to be anything more than a friendly onlooker standing on the fringe of his life, occasionally peeking into the fantastic circle of energy and waves he created. They were circles of celebrations, cheers, weddings, and adventures, of all he, a worthy rival of the Great Gatsby of the 1920s or the P. Diddy of our times, resided in the center. His parties were so legendary and popular, tickets were being sold to cover the cost of preparations. Star of India, costumes, and the works. That's Kevin, the works.

His age didn't matter. With a child like excitement he embraced everything and everyone in life, yet with wisdom and compassion beyond his years he had touched the hearts and lives of so many in deeper ways than anyone could have ever hoped in a lifetime and over. His adventure into the other world brought down tears to hundreds, yet we couldn't help but smile when we tried to picture the stir he must have already caused over there, when we think of what kind of a reception must have been put on for him.

So we cheer him on instead, we say farewell but we tell him:

"We wish we could have one more of those legendary bear hugs of yours, one more of your smile, that laugh, and we can't wait to see you on the other side. But in the meantime, you will be remembered."

PS: A friend who knew him far better and longer than I wrote this understated yet elegant post about him here, and I nearly withdrew mine as I thought I could never do him such justice. But if nothing else, I would be glad to just offer a place for you to find this link:
http://www.pawcurious.com/2011/01/come-in-and-know-me-better-man/#more-6322

Also please feel free to visit the page "Get Well Kevin" on Facebook where you can learn a lot about his life and how hundreds if not more feel about him. I think you will be glad when you do.

The Evolutions Of Hot Chocolate

2010-12-30T09:07:00.000-08:00

I love a cup of steaming hot chocolate almost any day or any season, as it has been with me through thick and thin.

When I was little, I had a sweet tooth but not much sweets around my house, as food was still rationed by that time in China. My older cousin Kelli invented this drink by putting two tablespoons of cane sugar into a glass of hot water. It was hot and sweet, the closest thing to hot chocolate I ever had growing up and I treasured the moments I spent sipping it slowly to make the sweetness last as long as possible.

I first learned about "the real thing" from Larry, my university friend here in California. I was curious to see what it looked like when he tore open the bag containing the powder, and I thought it resembled a couple of tablespoons of sugar but only darker. As he stirred hot water into the mixture, I was attacked by the sweet aroma that instantly filled the kitchen. I curve my hands around the cup and held it close, able to contain neither the constantly rising steam nor the marshmallows swirling in miniature chocolate rapids. It tastes like melted sugar but is more complicated than my childhood standby. I fell in love with the drink at that first burning sip. Since then it had comforted and picked me up on many a cold and gray or down and blue days long after Larry and I had lost touch after the university days.

A few years later as a customer ambassador I went to Paris for a work assignment. It was a November day when wind had swallowed Paris and spit it out as distorted and tortured pieces. Trees bowed deeply to the invisible yet powerful force that was whipping their branches about, pedestrians dove into nearby cafes hidden behind plastic wind barriers or glass windows. I followed suit and found myself in a cafe across the Louvre ready to be fortified by a steamy cup of hot chocolate before the day's windy journeys.

I was surprised to find the drink served me to have none of the powdery sweet aroma nor swirling mini marshmallows. Rather it looked literally like a cup of melted chocolate, so thick it threatens to congeal. Besides the generous sized cup is several squares of dark chocolate, sugar cubs, a pitcher of steamed milk, and a tiny hand whisk. I took a tentative sip of the drink, it was warm but not burning. It was sweet but not overwhelming so I could taste the tangy, rich, slightly bitter signature of coco and detect a hint of spice. I could even feel the smooth softness of the milk taming and combing through everything, not so much diluting but bringing it all together.

It was so elegant and sophisticated that I could hardly recognize it. I could not decide between feeling elated at the new discovery, indignant at the transfiguration, or rural for my love of the humble American powder. Yet I suddenly remembered that old childhood drink of sugared hot water, of how it had carried me through many belly aching days, when there never was enough food to sustain my growing hunger and it the only reliable cheer and comfort, food wise.

I made two more cups of the delicious french drink out of the excess provided, enjoying it to the last drop and feeling strengthened against even the harsh howling wind outside. Foreign as it seemed, it came through for me just the same. I have since then discovered many varieties of hot chocolate drinks and welcomed them all into my life. I guess sometimes old favorites can put on new costumes or masks that surprise, confuse or test us. But humble or elegant, the unchanging familiarity of this old friend's warm sweet comfort lies just beneath any fancy disguise; and it is never just beyond my reach, for which I am so glad.

A Christmas Wish and A New Year's Resolution

2010-12-26T16:07:00.000-08:00

Dear Family and Friends -

Happy Holidays!

It has not been the most successful year with the expected and unexpected loss of many things I used to hold dear. I found myself on the verge of depressive thoughts, crying spells and health problems more often than I like to admit (unless it is on the internet of course). Yet now at the year's end, I seem to be on solid ground.

To be sure, I don't suddenly know what my future will hold, all my problems in the physical world is still here, as real as that last piece of chocolate laying in an empty box. Yet I know I am holding onto the right kind of support, faith, hope and unconditional love. My one wish then, is to remember to never let go, not so that I will forever now be faultless, or even get close to it. I know more than ever that I am still wobbling like a toddler with many cuts and scrapes, but will run off into the danger and the wild at every opportunity that entices. I just count on that steady hand of love to wave, and a still small voice to call, whenever I did find myself back into those dark and foggy traps.

I count also on your continued patience and understanding, not only to forgive all my past angst, mood swings, and irrational at best, unthinkable at worst behaviors, but future ones too. I know I will continue to disappoint you at one point or another, like I have done so many times over the years. However I can also tell you I am relishing at life's every moment as an opportunity to grow in maturity and steadiness. The kind of maturity that exudes peace, understanding, patience, joy, love kindness, and self control, the kind that fills me with thankfulness and grace until it overflows, the kind that finally patches up all the hurt and emptiness, so long collected from the vanity of my youth and nurtured by the pride of independence.

A snowy white Christmas

I know that in every human relationships, the cost of past mistakes is lost of that all so mysterious and unfathomable thing called "trust". I will have no more short cut that anyone else to earn it back without the test of time, consistency and a true change of heart through faith and allowing forgiveness to grace my own heart. The moment I lose grip on this reality and fall back to my own ways, I lose myself in the process of controlling things over which I have no control, harboring anger and resentment into relationship nuances. So for that one resolution I am aiming, it would be to learn to let go of any past brokenness and learn to leave somethings in life alone. This is not unlike a little story about never stir when you cook oatmeal a dear friend taught me recently. When the tone of my spirit within is rest and peace, all seem to fall into place regardless of the stormy weather that may come and go outside.

So in this time of Christmas and New Year, I rejoice for your health, happiness, and peaceful minds as my own. I pray that you know how much I celebrate the moments we spend together, past, present or future, as droplets of honey sweetness into that treasured jar labeled "blessings" close to my heart. I pray that you will find moments of closeness in the days ahead, with someone that you love or need to be loved, into which you can forever look back, and smile like I do as I think of you now, thanking God for having placed such unbearable richness in my life.

Yours
T.

PS: I hope you don't think this is my new found skinflint way of cheating you out of a gift gift this year. How could you? You know I can't resist a good gift giving opportunity, but as a hopeless procrastinator, they are likely to arrive just a bit late, with perhaps just a bit of a shabby wrap, if at all. A small price for peace and a novelty to appreciate don't you think?

An Award

2010-12-23T08:58:00.000-08:00

My First Award

In a quick review of my recent entries I can see I have veered horribly off course from the original theme of counting daily blessings. True to nature, I have a difficult time focusing on one thing only (see my profile) for a while. But at the year's ending, I also revel at the knowledge that I have come across the likes of Christine, whose blog The Silver Lining
and moreover whose conduct reminds me almost daily that blessings are indeed within the grasps of a searching heart.

In my recent snowboard/ski vacation with friends, we were blessed by countless strangers who stepped forward to help in the scary uncertainties of darkness, ice, snow storms, and freezing temperatures.

In the weeks before that, I was blessed with the company of new friends and with cookies and ciders no less. This was after I had spent a wonderful thanksgiving holiday with a dear old friend resting and relaxing, and learning how to make oatmeal the right way, among other things.

So it has been a good year after all, though I would never underestimate my ability to get into further trouble in the blogging or real world. Though in those times, I like to think of and remember a Frank Sinatra quote brought to me by my friend Trish:

As an avid drinker he commented, "I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day."

Anyway back to Christine and her blog The Silver Lining, as I had discovered she had passed me a "Honest Scrap" blogging award just before my adventures in the snow. Wow, I am so excited and grateful. Thank you Christine!

I also learned that I should share five random facts about myself, and pass down the award to five other deserving blogger. Hm, this is getting interesting, as you can probably see from my blog posts, I am weary if not downright incapable of revealing myself but let's try it shall we?

Five random facts about myself:

1. I am lactose intolerant, but I love milk so I drink those special lactose free milk which tastes sweet and I get pretty addicted to it. I tried becoming a "vegetarian" who eats fish but didn't last for more than a week. I am not a steak and potato only person but I did not discover how much "meat" I eat daily until I tried to stay free from it.

2. One of my legs seem so significantly longer than the other that I sometimes feel a bit crippled by imbalance. Though a recent chiropractor visit revealed the legs are even but the bone is simple much more protruded on one side due to my poor postures.

3. For around five years in a row, I woke up everyday at 3am thinking jumbled thoughts and in many of the days I started working (My company have offices in Europe) at this hour. Eventually I changed my job and learned to pray for sleep, and now I can typically sleep pass 4:30-5am uninterrupted. If I do wake up prior to that, I can usually pray myself back to sleep.

4. I am generally considered a "Korean" in China, a "Chinese" in the United States, a "Japanese" in Japan, and "American" in most European nations but some also think I were an Italian. I look a lot like a Korean but only in China do they seem to notice and announce this regularly. Whereas in Japan I am usually mistaken as a translator, as I often traveled with a colleague of European appearance but in fact is fluent in Japanese. I speak with a fairly thick American (Cali) accent so that gets picked up before anything else in Europe.

5. I am rated as an ENFP (56%E, 12%N, 100%F, 89%P) in one of those Myers-Briggs personality tests. This surprised me as I always thought I was an introvert. But I do often leave conferences or trade shows with hundreds of business cards (new contacts) by just letting go of any perceptions and be myself. I have since then noticed around people who have decided that I was very introverted (usually an extreme extrovert who needs no help in carrying a conversation), I do tend to become quieter naturally. I am nothing if not flexible.

Whew! Now onto the five deserving blogger. Since I am so new in this world, and some of the really well deserving ones have been chosen (Sharon, Maria, and ...Christine herself etc). I really had to think about this, and at the risk of miss remembering some brilliant blogger I truly love here are my picks:

The Runaway Bride (hard to get more honest than this, in my opinion):
http://arrangedindianmarriage.blogspot.com/

You. Me. No adult supervision (Her writing is always heartfelt but I especially favor this one):
http://sallyuncut.blogspot.com/2010/12/if-it-snows.html

Mr. Londo Street (A literary blogger in the truest sense, this piece also exhibits his ability to think and write about something seemingly clichéd in breathtaking freshness and eloquence):
http://mrlondonstreet.blogspot.com/2010/11/thinking-in-silence.html

Never A Dull Moment (I seem to share many interests with her and one of which is a blog about our respective loving father's birthday, a truly honest and touching piece):
http://neveradullmoment-nikki.blogspot.com/2010/11/happy-birthday-dad.html

Memoirs of a Word Nerd
http://memoirsofawordnerd.blogspot.com/

Please check out their blogs, some of whom are actually not followers or regular readers of my blog. That is how you know I truly respect their writing and think it will be an asset for anyone to discover the same.

Snow Day

2010-12-20T22:35:00.000-08:00

We drive all day in the rain until we arrive in town. The world is white all of a sudden. Evening lights turns wind blown snow flakes into a tunnel of sparks, star trek warp speed style. We pass by several cars stopping on the side to install chains but the ski condo is seconds away so we push on.

Big mistake. A short but icy slope we didn't anticipate separates us from the condo parking lot. It would have made an excellent ski run. We must look sufficiently sad, dangerous or both, sitting in the snow installing chains on a slop. Several dozen stop to help us with advice, giving the car a push, or both.

We move a little further each time. But finally admit the chains aren't working and the hill too steep and we need professional road assistance. We longingly look to each passing tow trucks on the main street, even waving one down to ask for help, only to find someone had called him to duty from another car, at another road side.

So we call for our own, and then there is nothing else to do but wait. Helpers are departing one by one for the evenings festivity of music and lights. I am so grateful for them, but fear is setting in. It is dark and freezing with snow pelting continuously, and my gloves wet through. I send the rest of the party to walk up to the condo office so they can check into a warm room, and get dinner started.

This is the longest fifteen minutes of my life. I brood miserably while kicking the snow under feet as a gentleman walk up. He is wearing a blue hooded parka, his hands tucked into the sleeves of the opposite arms. I must have looked at him with such despair he stops.

"Do you need a push?"
Never have I heard a single sentence so many times in one night. I shake my head, and tell him the story.
"Oh, are you just here by yourself?"
I nod with determination and tells him the rest of the party are working on "something else".
"I will stay here with you then, until the tow truck arrives."
I nod again. Not quite sure what else to say, but I forget about the tiny frozen bullets hitting my eyes and nose for a brief moment.

He breaks the silence with chats that are not of specific topics, allowing my frazzled mind to follow easily. So it seems the truck arrives in no time. I suddenly realize that I have no idea how to be the driver of this car, especially under the circumstances.

"Can you put it in neutral?" The tow truck driver's question freeze me solid on the spot and I murmur: "well..."

"Do you want me to drive it for you?" He reads my mind again.
"YES please!" I nearly shouted out the answer.

My limbs and face are numb as he bids me good night after pulling the car safely into a parking spot. I thank him, yet it seem meek and pale against the falling snow, roars of the music in the background, and small acts of kindness filling the evening. I feel a hug coming, but he has already turned with a wave back, as if shying away but indeed he is in a hurry. All I see now is his blue parka moving across a world spinning into the darkness, and light.

Cookies and Ciders

2010-12-16T17:57:00.000-08:00

When an "eVite" came announcing an opportunity to eat cookies, drink ciders and meet a variety of new friends, I stopped to hesitate a few seconds on whether I'd be able to handle the sort of the high brow friends of the hostess Patty, a recent Ivy league MBA graduate. But I couldn't pass up the novelty of it all and clicked "yes" before wikiLeaks could steal my thunder.

I carpool with another friend Amy; and we notice we've forgotten to coordinate our looks. Her ensemble is rocker chick going for a hike, complete with ripped jeans and orange flash trimmed sneakers. Mine is confused corporate mom, wide legged black slacks and a purple sweater. Good thing no one in the party seem to really know anyone else, or at least not well enough to form groups yet when we arrive.

We find two college aged guys slouched against the only two chairs in the dinning room, their long legs outstretched to take up much of the rest of the room. They stand to greet us and I quickly dub the slightly shorter one as "the poet", as he has that soulful dark eyed yet pale skinned anemic and tortured look about him. The other towers over me in conversation, works in a graduate school program, and rids a motor cycle. He seems to blush occasionally, or quite often actually, as the neighboring conversations rise and fall, the roomful of people ebb and flow, energy surges and drains all around us. In fact there are such interesting weather patterns on his face I hardly remember to scan and work the room until I drain my third cup of cider and have polished off another plate of cookies.

I run into a pack of three friends, colleagues of the hostess near the cider dispenser in the kitchen. The boy in the middle has retro chic sideburns and dark eyes that belonged to another time. I wondered if he was related to his friend on the right, a girl with the same dark eyes, cheek bones and long dark curls tumbling down below her shoulders. But they are not. His girl friend who is studying in another state would visit soon and the dark haired girl used to be her roommate. The girl on the left has the kind of pale complexion, soft voice and golden hair that reminds you of sunshine or melting butter. Or if you were me, she'd remind you of an incredible caregiver. She is also in graduate studies after working for a few years. Moreover, the four of them have all worked or been roommates (the girls) at one point or another and have all been good friends for a long time. I feel a twinge of envy as I hear this, never having been good at carrying long time friendships, especially in a "complex mixed group (as they say)" scenario as this. They exudes the kind of confidence you see in young professionals who has graduated just long enough to be considered experienced, but still too young and passionate to be thought of as jaded. They are the core of their teams and wherever they maybe they will be the last included in any "down sizing" discussions. Having been there made it that much more bittersweet to see my past reflected in all the promises and heartbreaks a youth, like theirs, will bring.

I move to fetch some more cookies and encounter a girl in an orange red maxi dress with long curly blond hair and blue eyes. She is talking to an athletic looking guy who mirrors her hearty laughs, dancing eyes and wild gestures in conversation. They talk with the kind of abandon that make you think a fascinating story is being told, then you realize it may have been about the weather and you don't care. You want to join and be part of this group to share all the fun they must be having, then you wonder if you will look like the awkward new kid in school trying to join the cool kids circle. I stand on the fringe not sure whether to look on or move on, surprised when they throw a smiling glance and invite me into the conversation with a touch on my arm and a slight shift of their stances. As I have not quite mastered the art of conversation when you talk about nothing yet everything, where you gesture and wink and bend over laughing at the slightest hints of humor, I smile and listen and laugh with them as best as I could but I move on after a polite amount of time has passed and an opportunity presents itself.

Soon it is time to say goodbye, and I tally the guests to see I have talked to most of them if not all. Amy had a good time talking to a guy named Vincent, chatting up a storm about LA culture and the finer nuances of the "valley girl" lingo. Except one young couple wearing red who addressed each other as "my finance", everyone seem young, single and lovely. I picture myself from their cloudless eyes and I fail to conjure anything up. This is an oddly familiar scene, from long ago and more recently, and a part of me had thought I would never return when I said "I do". Yet another part is glad the pain of breaking that vow is no longer fresh, that I can mix and mingle anywhere as if I belonged, though I know things to be different and will never be the same.

Oatmeal

2010-12-15T08:10:00.000-08:00

When I stayed with my friend Lin in Colorado for Thanksgiving break, I discovered a little known truth about oatmeal.

--- Nov 26, Lin's Kitchen in Colorado ---
The sun has risen above the tallest window panes. Yet it is still early and the only sound from the rest of the house were the occasional hum of the heating vents.

Lin is cleaning and preparing for our trip today. Something is simmering on the stove, the kitchen filled with its gentle aroma, sweet but not overpowering. I stop myself from checking it out and talk to Lin about the plans for the day.

A soft hiss beckons me from the direction of the aroma source, and I finally walk up to see it was a pot of oatmeal. Picking up a spatula I stir the content, or I tried. Lin dived and declared louder than I am accustomed from her:

"It will stick! Don't stir it!"

Well that was kind of my point really. Puzzled, I remind myself this is not my kitchen, nor my oatmeal. I relent to lay down the spatula and walk back to our conversation. Lin see my face and explained, in her normal voice this time:

"With oatmeal, if you stir it, it will stick to the bottom. So just don't stir and it will be fine."

"I thought it was the other way around..." I add a smile to soften my contradiction.

"No, it will stick if you stirred." She nod for emphasis, proving in the face of stubborn resistance there is just no better strategy than consistent messaging. We switch our conversation back to fun places to hit today.

--- Present Time, My Kitchen in California ---
I get up this morning with a taste for oatmeal. I boil water in a pot and remember my conversation with Lin. What the hack, it is just one bag of lousy oatmeal, I could afford to experiment, couldn't I? I push away any further doubts and steel myself to watch those little flakes swim around in the heat for just seconds before sinking resolutely to the bottom. I look for dirt on the floor or dishes to wash but everything seem miraculously clean for the first time in years. Even the bunny is off duty from her morning patrol of making troubles, sitting contently in her condo nibbling hay. The house is quiet except for the soft hiss of the simmering pot beckoning for me to stir, louder as time dragged on, seconds at a time.

After an eternity (5 minutes) I check on the pot. The oatmeal has melted nicely into a caramel colored goo with cream and brown colored specs. I tentatively touch bottom with my spatula, and found nothing. Everything is in suspension, free from the law of physics as I thought I knew, obeying instead the timeless truth of "if it ain't borken, don't fix it."

--- Back Story ---
I make a second pot later, thinking that worked nicely but surly an occasional stir won't change anything. Suffice to say once I started, I was stirring constantly. In the end I find myself scrubbing a horribly sticky pot pondering the irony of blessings in disguise.