Food for Thought

I have been leading an English club for over a year now, one which was started many years ago by a good friend as an outreach ministry. The women who attend are from slightly different social and economic backgrounds, but most fall into the stay-at-home-mom or work-to-keep-busy-wife categories; many of their husbands run businesses in China or Vietnam, and their children are not babies anymore. The women are happy to have something to do on Tuesday mornings that is both social and edifying. We spend the bulk of our time studying English ("Chat Room" is our current textbook), then move on to a shorter study of something Christian in nature, and finally end with prayer. This was the format when I took over, and while I am not a "preach it and teach it" evangelist by nature (preferring the "preach the Gospel; use words when necessary" approach), I was happy enough to keep the discussion going on spiritual matters. I enjoy their questions about my faith and culture as well as the chance to ask about theirs.

Today's lesson was about food, and went particularly well. First, we ran through a list of about forty vocabulary words and then took turns answering questions from the book: What is the most disgusting thing you have ever eaten? When you are nervous or angry does it affect your appetite? Do you have an oven? (Not everyone does here, although toaster ovens are common.) My favorite was, What should a foreigner know about food customs in Taiwan? This opened up quite a conversation on cultural differences related to food. I noted that westerners linger over a meal much longer than locals; when we go out to eat the table next to us might go through several different parties who come in, order, eat, and leave, while we eat and talk and talk and talk. (And maybe ask for the menu again to check out dessert.) I was instructed on how to avoid second helpings of foods I don't care for (don't finish the first helping), how to avoid offense with my chopsticks (don't stick them upright in my rice; don't point with my index finger while holding them, lest I point at the gods or ancestors; and don't bang out a rhythm on the table with them), and how to hold my rice bowl properly (do bring it nearer your face, but not in your open palm, which looks like a beggar holding a bowl; rather, secure it with your thumb, which not only looks less beggarly but also prevents spills).

We talked about congealed blood as an ingredient, about the hidden message in the English phrase, "That's different," and about why foreigners say "congee," a Japanese word, rather than "rice porridge" when speaking about that traditional breakfast food of the Taiwanese. Our time sped by as we compared two cultures and their food beliefs and traditions. Next week we will use our class time to cook -- scones, cheddar crackers, and rice pudding are all on the menu. They are curious to try nutmeg, which was a new word to them (the fact that I happened to have an actual nutmeg in my pocket didn't help, sadly, since a whole nutmeg doesn't have any aroma). I am looking forward to seeing what foods they'll bring to the cooking party. Winter is just around the corner; I'm sure I'll get a lesson on which foods to avoid and why I shouldn't have iced drinks despite the temperatures still being in the low 80s. If they don't volunteer it, I'll ask.

Touching base

I feel guilty whenever my two most loyal readers, my mother and Tim's mother, say that they still check my blog to see if I've written anything lately. I've not posted anything in a very long time, and part of that is due to Facebook. Being far away from friends and family, I like the immediacy and the interaction it provides; in comparison, blogging feels like monologuing in an empty theatre. I have stopped most other kinds of writing, too. No poems, no essays, no progress on the back-burner book that was an active project last year. I am not feeling writerly these days.

Writing about Taiwan is in its own category of non-writing. When you first arrive here you are surrounded by blog material. Everything is noteworthy, intriguing, odd. After more than six years here, though, the novelty is mostly worn off, and what remains is leftover observations and complaints. One of my cardinal blogging rules is No Complaining -- it does no one any good at all -- so in the absence of anything fascinating to share my posts have dried up.

November is here, which historically is one of my least favorite months in Taiwan. It's still hot, the skies are steadily grey, and the holidays lurking around the corner will bring with them too many responsibilities: church programs, school programs, and the need to make Christmas fanciful and lovely despite being nothing like what I'm used to. This is not a problem for Tim and the kids -- this feels like home for them more than it does for me -- so really my issues with feeling untethered and without traditions are pretty contained. I am grateful that they are content with being here; I am conflicted, constantly wanting to be here and somewhere else at the same time, but I appreciate that this place and time in our lives is good. We are safe and fed and enjoy the company of some very good friends. We are healthy and busy and just generally blessed, and therefore able to wail the lament of the well-off: why can't we have all of this, plus more? So maybe now you see why I haven't written much lately. I know I do.

I have been pursuing some new interests this year: I've taken up guitar and I'm really enjoying exploring a different musical side of myself. Improvising on guitar is much more satisfying than doing so on the flute. (It's also easier to sing along to.) I've been accepted into the University of London's divinity program and will commence studies as soon as my materials arrive; I can sit my exams in Taipei, and plan to enter at least two exams this May. I am still tutoring one private student, and I lead a ladies' English club once a week. I have been setting up a new Sunday school program at our church using the Godly Play approach, and love to see the kids really connect with the stories instead of just filling in worksheets and placing stickers on a page. I think children are so close to God; it's a joy to give them the chance to work through the stories in ways that are meaningful to them.

The kids are doing well -- Nora's in kindergarten, Cole is home schooling. They are funny and kind and getting bigger all the time. Nora's reading more and more, and Cole is learning guitar along with me; they're both pretty happy with where they are.

I won't promise to write more often, but I will promise to write again. I know it would be good for my soul, like any discipline. We'll see how it goes.

I plugged this blog into the wordle machine and this is what I got.  (Click on the image to make it larger.)  I notice I have a lot of time words in my mix.  Go figure.  

Go make your own at www.wordle.net.

Numbering my days

I like a bargain.  I especially like a bargain in an otherwise-pricey store.  Last year, in my search for a personal calendar, I found the perfect thing at MUJI: a plain brown blank calendar, with room for notes at the back.  It was less than a dollar, and just what I was looking for.  (MUJI often has just what I'm looking for, but rarely at a price I want to pay.)  It's a 16-month calendar, so come April I'll switch to a new one.  This means before April I'll need to sit down and fill in the dates for the next year and a quarter, so I've put that on my to-do list now (I sometimes require a long lead time).  It was an interesting exercise when I did it last winter: filling in every day of the coming year, thinking about the seasons and holidays that are predictable, wondering where summer would take us and what else the year would bring--a year is full of both the mundane and the unexpected.  Numbering the days made me appreciate how many days there are, and yet how quickly they can be counted and how quickly they will pass.  

Looking ahead, the next few months are getting full, and summer is once again on the horizon and demanding some attention already.  My week is full.  My day is full.  I skipped the farmers market this morning and kept Nora home with me, just to have a quiet morning hanging out together.  She heads off to kindergarten in August, and my days will seem a lot emptier.  No less busy, but emptier.  Today I have lessons to plan, meetings to organize and pray over, lunches to make and dinner to think about; but for now, I can enjoy her company and my tea, and know that those things will wait another hour or two.

New Year, New Post

It is time to write. Well past time, really, but not much I can do about that (aside from rigging the date I publish this under). 2009 is underway, and the Year of the Ox is upon us. Having just crossed from Saturday night to Sunday morning, it is officially New Year's Eve and the country is on the verge of massive migration. Later today, millions and millions of people will take to the roads and rails as they make their way back to their husbands' and fathers' familial homes for the first night of celebrations. On Monday, New Year's Day, they will move on to the wives' and mothers' families. There will be food, and drinking, and fireworks to frighten away bad spirits (you'd think the karaoke would take care of that, but apparently not). People will clean house to sweep away the old year -- but no sweeping on the first day of the new year, lest you sweep away any good luck inadvertently.

For those of us not obligated to follow this drill -- which just means foreigners, really, because everyone else is expected to go whatever distance to fulfill the New Years duty -- this is a holiday of peace and quiet, and a holiday for staying home. For many of us, living among Taiwanese and Chinese during New Years is akin to how a man must feel when his wife goes into labor: we're next to the action, but we're not really doing it. Sure, we get excited for the holiday, and put up red banners over our doors and greet everyone with "xin nian kwai le!", but we are not ringing in a new year that really registers as such. I'm not going to consider myself a year older tomorrow, I won't don red undergarments for luck, and I have no plans to hand out red envelopes of cash to my own children, let alone someone else's. I hope that doesn't sound Scrooge-like -- it's a rich and colorful holiday, and fun to observe, and I love that the two weeks of celebrations are capped off with the charming Lantern Festival which fills the skies with lights. But there remains that invisible barrier between "mine" and "theirs," and it doesn't seem likely to budge.

Our Christmas holidays were busy, but not terribly so, and before that we had family visiting in October and November. This week off from work and school will be a real pleasure: time to catch up on some projects around the house, and catch up with friends over dinner here and there. So often we say we need a vacation after a vacation; with an early Chinese New Year, that's what we've got.  Happy New Year, everyone!  May the Year of the Ox bring you peace and joy.  And maybe a red envelope or two.

Belated goodbyes

It's two o'clock in the morning here in Taiwan, and I am finally saying goodbye to my parents' house. A sensible person would have said goodbye when she was actually leaving the house, I suppose, but the morning of our departure after our long summer home was harried: load up the car, rouse the sleeping children, make one last pass through the house for any overlooked belongings. I'm sure we forgot some things--I'm expecting a box from my mom any day now with assorted summer leftovers--but the thing is, it's the house I left behind that I'm missing now.

Today--as in this moment, while it's dark here but nearly noon in Washington--my parents are holding an estate sale, downsizing as they prepare for their move to a new home in sunnier climes. I had all summer to set aside anything I particularly cherished and didn't want sold, and I did tuck away some favorites. Still, my mind is now wandering through all the rooms (dodging all the bargain-hunters who are doing the same thing), as I recall what goes where, and imagine how it will look when it's gone.

I am happy for their move, truly. And I'm happy that they are sorting and selling and saving aside as they see fit. I've done that before our moves overseas, and it's liberating. I just wish I could be there today. I'm sad that the house is beginning its transformation from "is" to "was" without me, and am feeling a little adrift. Perhaps it's not right to keep an anchor on the other side of the world, but it has been a comfort to me. I will miss it when it's gone.

I really must get to bed, but first, Mom, if you haven't sold the elephant mug I made in 5th grade, and the chromed boat bell that dad told me I could have one day, please stick a "sold" sticker on 'em for me. Thanks.

Headlights & red lights

It's late, and I should be sleeping, or if not sleeping then getting our bags packed for tomorrow's jaunt to destinations north and an overnight with friends.

However.

Yesterday we were on the peninsula for a family get-together and on the drive home Cole was struck by the sight, as we came over a rise in the highway, of a solid band of headlights in the on-coming lanes and a solid band of tail lights ahead of us. He said, "That looks cool. Headlights and red lights." For some reason that resonated, like some sort of metaphor for life, or at least travel. Today it formed into a more concrete thought after rattling around in my brain: I do love coming home to Washington for the summers, seeing friends and family, eating favorite foods, losing sensation in my toes because it's so freakin' cold here in the summers; but when I'm here I have a general sense that I am looking at everyone's life from behind. It's not that I couldn't live like most people here, but the lifestyle seems one step ahead of where I want to be; if out of reach, only because I am taking small steps while everyone else marches on. Staring at the back of the American Dream: those are the tail lights.

On the other hand, living in Taiwan virtually guarantees that I'll not fit the mold. I live better than most locals, but am poorer than most expats; I am valued for my ability to speak my native tongue yet frustrated daily in my inability to speak Chinese; I do not really understand the culture around me, am not sure of my real reason for being there, but still persist in trying to make sense of all the whys and hows. Taiwan stares me down every time I step outside my cozy little nest: headlights.

This would be a great spot for an epiphany, or at least a platitude, but I have none. It's a puzzle, how we sometimes end up in unexpected places and then start calling those places home. And what was home becomes home again only when you're not there.