Phoenix Fix

Just a head's up for anyone who wants to see how I see Arizona -- I've got a new photo blog, Phoenix Fix. Enjoy!

Transitions

I guess it's time to update the subtitle of this blog, seeing as Taiwan is not my locus anymore. I'm sure it will still play a significant role as I transition from expatriate to repatriate, but the "Life in Kaohsiung (Redux)" chapter is behind me and Phoenix is where the story will next unfold.

Phoenix is beautiful. I don't think I ever would've expected to say that, seeing as I'm fond of green and rainy places generally, but the desert has its own personality and I'm enjoying getting to know the feel of the place. In Taiwan I measured humidity by how clumped up the salt in my salt dish got; I knew a typhoon was coming when leaves fluttered up to our windows on the fourth floor. I haven't been in Arizona long enough to get a sense of when changes are coming, but I am noting how the shadows move, how early in the day the pavement gets hot, what kind of clouds gather at night to reflect the pinks and oranges of the sunset back down to earth. The saguaro were in bloom when we landed, and while those blooms are starting to fade others are taking their turn -- prickly pear bearing plump purple fruit, waxy green round-leafed shrubs dotted with tiny jasmine-scented white stars, and marigold-colored pompons on low dense hedges that feed the white-tailed rabbits that live in this neighborhood.

I visited a ghost town today on my way back from downtown. I went looking to replace something I'd broken, a souvenir I'd gotten last summer. As before, the ceramic wares were set out on tables and shelves in front of the shop and in the shop -- with no shopkeeper in sight. A cashbox stood beside the door, with newspaper and plastic bags laid out so you could wrap up fragile items and get on your way. I like the honor system. I like that even in a tourist destination, where people are free from the constraints that often keep us on our best behavior, this craftsman trusts his creations -- his livelihood -- to strangers.

Taiwan has made me more of an observer and also more of a joiner than I used to be. I'm eager to establish community, to connect with the people in my new church, to meet neighbors and teachers and get to know the fabulous crew at Trader Joe's (because TJ's always has a fabulous crew). This is what settling in feels like. I haven't had to do it this fully since our first move to Taiwan in 2001, when everything was foreign and every day was spent clearing new trails, relationally, culturally, linguistically. Coming back to America after so much time away there are trails to be broken here now, but it's a smoother terrain and the wide open skies make it easier to see where I'm going. It doesn't quite feel like home yet, but it's getting familiar, and that's the first step.

Voyages

This has been such an intense month, I'm not even sure where to start....

A friend of mine has this posted on her Facebook profile:

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes." - Marcel Proust

I have learnt the difference between traveling abroad and living abroad -- I enjoy them both, and can say that the first made the second possible, as tasting other cultures whetted a serious appetite in me. Traveling made me see my home with new eyes: what did I take for granted? what did I like better about other places, and what seemed unnecessarily hard or frustrating? how could I integrate my experiences abroad once I returned to a pretty comfortable existence back on American soil?

At first, living abroad was the same. Every new thing was examined for its comparison, which is really the only way to learn something new, whether a language or skill or culture: "What do I already know? How does it work in this new place? What do I need to do differently now?" I was busy discovering this new landscape. The standard, the referent, was always home, but that word quickly became burdened with two distinct and distant meanings, Washington and Taiwan.

We lived in Taiwan for two years before returning to the States in 2003. I had a baby, started homeschooling our son, and waited for life to get "normal" again, but it was hard -- hard getting back into step financially and culturally as well as personally. After the challenges of life in Asia, America seemed so boring. Not bad, per se, just so lackluster. I felt as if the river, the constant flow of difference, had started to shape me. Then the river changed course and I was out of the stream, missing the rush that was sometimes overwhelming but, apparently, also addicting.

After two years in Washington and not a lot on the horizon, we returned to Taiwan. I was eager to make the move, but it wasn't easy -- I knew we'd be here for a longer commitment, at least five years and probably six. But as hard as it was to leave friends and family again, I was able to jump back into the river with some understanding of what was in store, to appreciate the constant challenges. I made closer friendships, took on more responsibilities, enjoyed the culture and shed a lot of the self-consciousness that had hindered me before. I made myself smile and make eye contact with people who would then ask me questions I couldn't understand, or at least couldn't answer without sounding like an idiot. But I was happier. To say, "Sorry, wo ting bu dong" with an apologetic grin is far more satisfying than to avoid the whole encounter.

This has been home for my children for most of their lives. It has been my home for most of the last decade. It's not an easy place to love, but it does grow on you -- in you -- and now that our time here is coming to an end I am acutely aware of how much my concepts of home, normal, healthy, satisfying, and happy are shaped by this place. Certain people have made my time in Taiwan bearable, some even more than bearable. I will miss my Ladies English Club students, my Bible study group (my sisters!), my private students (who taught me at least as much as I taught them), and all the friends and almost-family who have shared their lives, troubles, hopes, adventures, and accomplishments with me and helped me feel so connected here. Thank you to everyone who made me different, better, shaped into something that I wear proudly. You have given me new eyes, not just for seeing Taiwan but for seeing myself, where we all fit in the order of God's creation, and the beauty that is sometimes hidden in plain sight.

I'm usually pretty good at looking at clouds and seeing silver linings; this move is different, and I am struggling more than I ever have in my life. It's not the move, although the move doesn't help. It's life, and changes, and brokenness, and not knowing how to make better what you can hardly even wrap your brain around. I don't lead with my emotions, so most of this year I've been holed up in my own head, trying to mentally sort through something that defies a cognitive approach. I guess I put that out there so I can then say, No matter what comes next I will be glad I was here. I will be sad I left. And I will always have two homes.

Hohuanshan: check

As our time here winds down it seems to be picking up speed. The list of to-do's, the stack of empty moving boxes, the myriad details that I have managed to avoid confronting full-on are now getting too big to ignore. I tend to work best under pressure, so I say bring it on and let's get this thing going.

My mountain weekend was fabulous -- just what I needed, in fact, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Like most popular hikes in Taiwan the terrain was not particularly challenging: clear paths, stairs carved or built into the hillside, and a fair number of other people on the trail. What made Hohuanshan different was the altitude. Three of the four peaks we bagged were over 3,400 m (11,000 ft); coming from sea level I found catching my breath to be much harder than I'd expected. Setting up camp at 2 a.m., I got winded unrolling my sleeping bag and wondered how on earth I was going to climb higher when the sun rose in four short hours.

Thankfully I didn't need to keep up with the others in my group -- I was the lone female, and certainly the least athletic -- and kept my own pace up to the peaks. The point of the trip for me was to make good on a promise (Cole goaded me into making a New Year's resolution this year) and to check something off my dusty old "Do Before Leaving Taiwan" list. It was also a way to tackle something physical when most of the year I have been grappling with intangibles. As one friend said, the great thing about a mountain is that you can kick it. I did not, in fact, kick it, but getting to the top of those peaks brought a great sense of satisfaction every time.

The mountains were socked in almost constantly; there were some moments where the clouds would thin to a wispy mist and part just enough to give you a hint of the vistas beyond, and then they'd roll back in again, thicker than ever. I have seen the views from Cing Jing, have crossed the mountains by car, have taken some lovely pictures of the heights of this island. It would've been nice to capture some pictures from the heights, but I learned some lessons while I was climbing in the fog (see "grappling with intangibles," above) so I will not complain.

I really appreciate how Mark at Blue Skies Adventures organized all the details and took care of us so well. The whiskey was a nice touch. If we were staying longer I'd happily join him on other outings -- I haven't ever been to the outlying islands, and do regret never visiting Penghu (the Pescadores). I have learned over the years, though, that I have no idea what lies in store, so I will wait for another opportunity to come back and see more of this lovely country. For now, though, it's time to move on.

Leave and Learn

As our time in Taiwan draws to a close, I find myself getting sentimental about the small things, the daily or weekly interactions that I know I'll miss: buying magnolia blossoms from the lady on the street, chatting up my tea guy, exchanging pleasantries with folks at the morning market. I have also begun to distance myself from people I'm closer to, not unlike picking away at a bandage in hopes that the eventual ripping-off will be slightly less painful if the edges have already been pried back. I will miss the Taiwanese women I teach on Tuesday mornings, and the expat women I study with every Thursday. When I sit in church now I just want to close my eyes and listen, not sing. I hear about events in the not-too-distant future and realize they are nevertheless too distant for me. I am inching towards the door but still facing the middle of the room.

I'm also having to face my biggest disappointment about my time here: I have not learned Mandarin. I first came to Taiwan, way back in 2001, with a certain linguistic confidence. I had mastered German in school, was working as a sign language interpreter, had dabbled in French and Swedish and could even sing a hymn in Swahili. I liked languages. I could do languages. Since I was the only student in the "survival Chinese" class that year I expected that I'd pick things up fast, but even in that one-on-one environment I struggled -- I couldn't discern the tones, couldn't remember new vocabulary once I walked out the door, sometimes forgetting words as soon as I learned them. My teacher was patient, and commended me for my pronunciation, but my brain would not retain this precise, demanding, homophonic language. The irony was that the grammar of Mandarin, which is a hurdle for many foreigners, was so close to the grammar of ASL that it made perfect sense to me already. I didn't need reminders that time markers came first, or question words came at the end. But could I tell the difference between all those guos and guas, the shis, syes, and shrs? Could I buffalo.

I have learned enough from my intermittent lessons and bursts of solo studying to handle the day-to-day interactions. I can be polite, combining the right words with the right cultural cues for the most common situations. I can ask the time, tell a friendly stranger how old my children are, answer the question "Do you teach English?" with wo bu shr lau shr and an explanation of where my husband works and what he teaches. But I can't say much about my own life, talk about my interests, explain how I spend my days. I can ask, "What's that called?" but not remember the answer five minutes later. I dread asking someone his name, knowing that it will bounce off my ears and land, gently but irretrievably, at my feet.

I should've started with characters. I am a visual learner, not auditory, and love the meaning and images that are wrapped up in characters. This is a late-blooming realization, and not much use to me now that we're leaving, but I will keep it in mind. If Arizona is going to be home for a while I should start working on Spanish now, I suppose. And maybe if it comes too easy I can dabble in Apache.

It's All Greek to Me

Okay, here are the answers to yesterday's puzzle in no particular order (heh heh). See if you can match them up:

A. Head and shoulders above the rest.

B. If it's Tuesday, this must be Belgium.

C. She's too good for you.

D. Sometimes bravery is just ignorance.

E. Out in the boondocks.

F. Strong start, weak finish.

G. It's Greek to me.

H. Patience is a virtue, OR don't be lazy (depends on context).

Ready... Steady... Go!

Listening to Thunder

It's Tuesday, one of my busier days: I get the kids out the door with their lunches (instead of waltzing them over to school at the sound of the lunch bell like I usually do), and then I head downtown to teach my ladies' English club. Part of my routine is buying a ring of white fragrant magnolia blooms from the old woman who sells them at the same intersection every week. She sees me coming, and always has a huge smile and Taiwanese thank-yous. I hope to get a picture of her before we go.

Today's class was good. About ten women gathered around the ping-pong table to discuss the second half of our chapter on languages. I was especially looking forward to the section on Chinese proverbs which had been transliterated into English, and which the students were to explain to me. As I looked down the list of these odd (at least odd-as-transliterated) sayings, I tried to guess the meaning. Some were easier than others. I'll let you have a go:

1. A place where birds lay no eggs.

2. Tiger's head, snake's tail.

3. Riding a horse, looking at the flowers.

4. Standing by the tree stump waiting for a rabbit.

5. Ducks listening to thunder.

6. A crane standing among chickens.

7. The newly-born calf does not fear the tiger.

8. Thinking of eating swan's meat.

Let me know if you think you've got them figured out. I'll just be over here, in a place where birds lay no eggs, listening to that distant rumbling sound....

Easter Update

The Ho Huan Shan hike has been postponed until early May, so my Easter morning will not be spent on a mountain top... this year, at least. In case the May dates fall through, too, I'm looking into another mountain-related challenge for my birthday. I'll keep you posted.

Teacher Potato

I like to find myself in odd situations. It means I'll be different afterwards.

Wednesday night found me in a small white classroom crowded with long narrow tables and metal chairs. I sat quietly in the back while Ray, one of the foreign teachers in this after-school program, taught an English lesson in his crisp, rhotic Guyanese accent. Only two students had shown up for the five o'clock class, and it was already quarter past. Ray led Jimmy and Benny in a children's song, "Frogs Around the Pond," which was rather juvenile for these boys of eleven or twelve, but they repeated the words and sang along when asked. As the lesson went on, another boy, Arthur, came in. Then came a couple of girls who were quiet and compliant, and whose names therefore were never said very loud.

After going through the vocabulary of the song -- "hiking, biking, wishing, fishing" -- Ray turned the class over to me. I walked to the front of the narrow room, set my bag of supplies on the floor and my notebook on the front table, and greeted the children. "It's been a long time," I said. "Do you remember my name?" "Teacher Potato!" the older boys yelled out, and I gave them a grin. Teacher Potato indeed.

This class might be taught by foreigners but it is clearly under the guidance of a thin, large-eyed Taiwanese woman named Christina. She attends a weekly English club I lead, slipping in silently about halfway through my lessons, careful not to interrupt the discussion. About this time last year she asked if I would teach a lesson on the story of Easter to her buxiban students. Native English speakers from around the globe come to Taiwan to teach in these cram schools, yet I had never set foot in one; so out of curiosity -- as well as a desire to encourage my quiet friend -- I agreed to come. Christina asked me to focus on the religious side of the holiday, whose more commercial aspects were appearing in the markets here. The students' English comprehension levels were all over the map, as were their ages, interests, and enthusiasm. I had no idea how I was going to reach across these gaps. I ended up doing a lesson on symbols (this was a new word to them), starting with symbols of spring -- flowers, bunnies, eggs and lambs, all signs of new life -- and juxtaposing them with the cross, not an obvious sign of new life until you hear the whole story. They followed the lesson well, and the older ones were comfortable enough to tease me about my drawings: my Easter egg had come out a bit misshapen, ergo my new nickname.

I have returned to the class several times over the past year to teach lessons on summertime, Thanksgiving, and two cooking classes at Christmas (rice pudding and scones). What the students now know is that I will come with props, I will teach them strange new words, and I will make them do something. When Christina asked me to again teach an Easter lesson, I agreed. After some thought and a very timely suggestion from a friend, I came up with a craft that combined elements of the Easter story. Strands of hot glue trailed across the tables as we attached leafy fronds, coins, twine, thorns, nails and gauze to their papers. It was messy and out of their comfort zone and glorious. As we talked about the women coming to the empty tomb on Easter morning, coming to finish the burial preparations that had been cut short by sundown on Good Friday, I gave them cotton balls spritzed with perfume to symbolize the heavily scented materials they would've carried. The boys coughed and waved away the heady lavender that wafted their way, but the impression was made, the story taking shape in a new way in their minds.

Someone asked me recently if I am in Taiwan as a missionary. Technically yes, as we are one of the staff families at a missionary school. But I don't wear that label easily. I'm not here to win converts. I don't consider myself a missionary in the sense that I have a job to do and numbers of souls to tally. I know many missionaries, actually, and that doesn't describe them, either. But I do value my faith and know that if I were somewhere mundane, somewhere more ostensibly Christian, I would say less about this rather vital subject than I do here. People here are interested. Not easily offended, not easily swayed, but interested. So when I am asked, I share. It grows me as much as it might grow those who hear me speak, and it is only the former that I am in position to measure. As we prepare to return to America I wonder what will grow me there, what odd situations will present themselves, and how I will respond. I find that my faith, like the Easter craft, gets messier the deeper I try to delve into it, the more I try to apply it. I don't know what God has in mind for Jimmy and Benny and the rest, but I know that He made them and loves them. I don't know what God has in mind for me, but the story is the same.

Peaks and valleys

All sorts of titles are coming to mind for this post, many of them film references. Hm. Anyway, I had said in my last post that I had something in the works, and now that all systems are go I'll fill you in. On New Year's Eve, at Cole's behest, I made a resolution -- which makes obsolete my circa-1999 vow to never make another New Year's resolution -- to climb a mountain this year. For years I've wanted to scale one of Taiwan's peaks, so now that our move is looming I've been looking for a way to make good on my recent promise to Cole and the long-standing one to myself.

Thanks to Blue Skies Adventures I'll be hiking Hohuanshan (insert one of many alternate spellings here:_____) the weekend of April 3rd and 4th. At first I thought the timing was terrible. It's Easter! How can I take a solo trip that weekend? But Cole insisted that I should go, Tim is willing to manage the holiday details, and I am now free to watch the sun rise on Easter morning from a height of 34oo meters plus change. It promises to be amazing.

Hohuanshan comprises eight peaks, and on this trip five will be up for grabs. Three are quite mild hikes, two others are a bit more challenging. I'll see how it goes once I'm there. At this point my goal is to do four, but I'm saying that with very little information on the conditions. My own condition is another factor. Must get out the boots and pack and start breaking them -- and me -- in.

If you're on island and want to come along, contact Mark at Blue Skies. And if you want to partake with me in Eucharist Under Special Circumstances on Easter morning, let me know; I'll bring more wine.

Home and Away

Time for an update, or rather, well past time for an update. It's been a crazy year, and not necessarily in a good way -- lots of changes ahead, but as Cat Power would have us believe, "What comes is better than what came before." (Although I hear she needs to lay off the sauce.)

Okay, musical ramblings aside, here's the scoop: We'll be moving to Phoenix this June. Both my parents and Tim's have retired to Arizona, so this is a good place for us to land. The hardest part of living overseas, for me, is not having the kids grow up close to their grandparents. So this is a good thing. [Hey, as I was just writing that "What Comes Is Better" started playing. Spooky.]

Other news... is scarce. At the moment things like renewing passports, packing up the house, getting tickets home, house hunting from 8,000 miles away, and looking for work seem to be more than filling up my time. Well, to be honest, thinking about those things is filling up my time. I'm making slow progress. We have three months yet; plenty of time for panicking later. Not sure how often I will get back to this, but I will try to post occasional updates and maybe some pictures of any farewell jaunts we take. Kenting is certainly on the list of weekend trips, and I am planning a little expedition to make good on a New Year's promise. News at 11:00.

Merry Christmas!

The big day is here, at least in our time zone, so Christmas greetings to one and all and wishes for a very happy new year. Here are some new recipes to keep the holiday cheery, sweet and warm. Lots of Christmas love from Taiwan!

Recipe update

(Because if I'm going to resurrect one blog, I might as well resurrect the other....)

I've been cooking with my students a lot this fall, literally taking my show on the road, so the new recipes I've posted on Wonton Woman are field-tested and Taiwan-approved. Hopefully you'll like them, too.

Show of Hands

One benefit of letting my blog languish for months is that I can come back to favorite topics without fear of wearing them too thin. It is no secret that I like driving here -- I like the organic nature of it, the hierarchy of the moment, the freedom to fill a gap when staying within a set boundary would only cause problems for those in your wake. It's not Western logic, but that doesn't mean it lacks logic. You just have to let go of the known way before you can really embrace the local driving mentality. It took me about a day to figure out that I was going to like driving here. Other people never get to that point. We're all made a little differently, so I don't judge -- I just wish everyone could enjoy the Galatians-like freedom of driving in Taiwan (grace and law being the two major forces battling it out in the foreign driver's heart).

So this brings me to today's Adventures in Licensure, Wherein Two Friends Take the First Step Towards Getting Their Taiwan Drivers Licenses and Are Stymied at Every Point Along the Way. This is not the first time I've considered getting my license but I never got past the at-home practice exam's morbid pronouncement of my skills. I am rope shy. With this attempt, however, I don't have to go it alone, so I am hopeful that I might, in the coming weeks, actually come home one day with a real Taiwan license. This is an illogical hope, really, but I cling to it; if I did not, I would have given up ever accomplishing the first of three steps, the physical exam, at the first sign of trouble today. Or if not the first sign then definitely the second, at the very least the third.

The process seems straightforward enough, albeit a bit drawn out: you first submit to a physical exam at a local hospital, which is equipped to test your abilities and determine if you are fit to sit behind the wheel. If you pass, you proceed to the written exam and driving test when you are ready, but no later than one year on. The physical exam involves checking your weight and height, verifying that you possess two hands (yes, really), checking for colorblindness, performing a vision test and a night-vision test -- which simulates the very real situation of a car suddenly turning its headlights on right in your eyes while you are staring at a sign you can't quite make out (probably the most practical part of the entire three-part testing process) -- and finally, confirming your ability to discern whether a tuning fork is thrumming in your left ear or right. This is useful when trying to balance the speakers, although the buttons on our stereo are so mysterious I leave all adjustments to Tim.

Our adventure started well -- we found the hospital, and even found the parking lot. We got as far as registering (this is called gua hao, the same as when you register a letter. I don't know why I was surprised that it's the same term, considering we use register for both situations, but I was). After paying the registration fee (NT$120, or about US$4.00) we toddled off towards the physical exam wing where we gladly handed over our health cards and registration forms to the nurse. She took them, then asked us for our photos. Screeeech, and... halt. We had no passport-sized photos with us, and the hospital had no photo booth. The nurse told us we could go to the Department of Motor Vehicles a few miles away and get photos done there, then return. Our registration would still be valid if we came back the same day. (Have I mentioned that my M., my friend-turned-licensing sherpa, had left her infant son at home with a sitter, and we were hoping to get back before he woke from his nap?)

We gathered our documents and drove to the DMV; I was pleased because we had spent so little time in the hospital we didn't owe any money for our few minutes of parking. My friend pointed out that the NT$20 we saved on parking would be used up in gas. But no matter! We (meaning I) managed to negotiate the very tricky Nanzih interchange and get us going the right direction on the right road, and within minutes we were there. I knew right where the photo booths were, so, again, our confidence was strong. All went well until suddenly it didn't: after M. got her photos I hopped in the booth, practiced my most natural non-smile, and then waited for my visage (times eight) to drop into the slot. I was told to wait 27 seconds, but after a full minute went by with no photos, I peeked in and saw an error message on the screen. M. went for help, and before long someone came along: she told me to use the other photo booth, the one with the "Out of Order" sign pinned to its curtain. "It's not really out of order, it just won't take bills. You'll have to use coins."

Back at the hospital (after reversing our Nanzih interchange journey), we made our way back to the exam wing, noting the undeniable smell of cigarette smoking wafting through the waiting area. We handed the nurse our papers, again, and our photos. She gestured to a counter and stools behind us, where we were to use the provided scissors and glue to affix our photos to our documents. Hand sanitizer was also provided, thankfully. M. and I enjoyed our brief crafting session before she was called in for her exam; I believe she passed. Mine followed, and while it's likely that the nurse's hao le just meant you're done, I'm hoping that I passed, too. She stamped my health report twelve times -- that has to be a good sign. Right?

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.