I fantasize about yoga.
I see myself pressing my heels to the floor, muscles warm like clay, lifting through my hips, deepening and lengthening. Vertebrae by vertebrae, I see my spine rippling down my back like a ribbon caught in the wind, fluttering, wild for a moment, and then snapping back into place: alignment.
I don't get up.
I stare at the computer until my eyes feel small and hard, hot, like two sun-shriveled blackcurrant berries, and I want something, some future place, some future me, something better than this, but just the same, but different, and then Penelope wakes up.
She bounds down the hall with her bathrobe open. Her nightgown is swinging. "I'm shivery-cold," she announces, so I tie a knot in her robe. I straighten the seams over her shoulders. Then I pull her close and think to myself, again, "I've waited too long."
It is my first real moment.
**Finding the Bigger Picture through Simple Moments**
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Welcome, Tooth Fairy!
Last week, while I was busy telling travel stories, I didn't tell you about the super-exciting things that were happening right here in Japan. It was a big week though, and the biggest part of all was when Katherine lost her first tooth!
But here, I'm going to let her tell you:
How My Tooth Fell Out
as told by Katherine
(age 6)
It was A's birthday and she brought Ariel cupcakes to school. We ate them during snack time, and I got a purple mustache from frosting. That's when I noticed my tooth was out. I felt something hard in my mouth. I took some of the cupcake out with my fingers and wiped off the hard bit. There was my purple, frosted tooth; it was exciting for the whole class! Everyone wanted to see the hole in my mouth, and they all thought it was cool because my tooth was purple. It was really magical. It wasn't sparkle-magic, but it felt like magic because I was so excited. My friends kept asking me, "Can I see your tooth? Can I see it?" And I said, "Yes!" I was so happy that my tooth had come out. I'd been waiting a long time! Before my tooth came out, it hurt when I was eating. My tooth had been loose ever since we were at our hotel room in Vietnam. My tooth was only a little bit wiggly when we first found out. Mom gasped, "Not only does she have a loose tooth, but she already has a grown-up tooth coming in!" When Mom said that I was very, very, very excited. I was so excited my head was popping off! Then we went down to breakfast and that's when I found out it hurts to bite down on things when you have a loose tooth, so I wiggled it and wiggled it to make it fall out faster. The night I finally lost my tooth, the tooth fairy came to our house. She left me 200 yen and a note. I was really excited! Now I can save all my coins until I have enough money to buy something I really want, like that white, stuffed puppy at the store; the one who really wags its tail.
Thank you, Tooth Fairy!
Love, Katherine
xoxo
Monday, January 30, 2012
A Stranger Tells a Story
"You know," the man said suddenly, "the Khmer Rouge killed many people in Cambodia."
"Yes," we said.
The man looked surprised. "You know the Khmer Rouge," he asked.
"Of course," we nodded.
The river was shining in the evening light. Palm trees were in silhouette against the sky. "It's beautiful here," I sighed, resting my head on Chris' shoulder.
The man turned his face away. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
"They killed my parents," he said. His voice was a whisper. "They took them when I was nine years old. After that, I was alone. I had no one to care for me, so I worked in the fields. Spreading fertilizer. I remember the smell, the heat and the dirt, the mosquitos. I remember spreading manure with my hands." He shook his head and looked at Chris. "That job was very bad," he chuckled. Then he paused.
We stood there, quiet.
The man laughed suddenly. "Cambodian swimming pool," he said, pointing at two, small boys in the river. "There are crocodiles there, of course, but the boys don't worry. You hardly ever see them." One of the boys scrambled onto the muddy bank, grinned, and then jumped onto his brother. They both went under then came up again, spluttering and splashing. I closed my eyes. I could hear Katherine and Penelope jumping off stones in the field behind us. They were loud and laughing; every now and then one of them would shriek.
They're all the same, I thought, these children.
"In the old days," the man said, and his voice was soft again; his eyes were fixed on the boys in the river. "In the old days, we were always thirsty, but there wasn't any cold water; we weren't allowed to have ice. One year though, one year I remember they gave us ice. People stood in line, hundreds of people; they stood in line for hours waiting for one, small cup of ice water. That's communism, though," he said, turning back to Chris. "Communism, very bad."
"Yes, very bad," we nodded.
"Yes," we said.
The man looked surprised. "You know the Khmer Rouge," he asked.
"Of course," we nodded.
The river was shining in the evening light. Palm trees were in silhouette against the sky. "It's beautiful here," I sighed, resting my head on Chris' shoulder.
The man turned his face away. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
"They killed my parents," he said. His voice was a whisper. "They took them when I was nine years old. After that, I was alone. I had no one to care for me, so I worked in the fields. Spreading fertilizer. I remember the smell, the heat and the dirt, the mosquitos. I remember spreading manure with my hands." He shook his head and looked at Chris. "That job was very bad," he chuckled. Then he paused.
We stood there, quiet.
The man laughed suddenly. "Cambodian swimming pool," he said, pointing at two, small boys in the river. "There are crocodiles there, of course, but the boys don't worry. You hardly ever see them." One of the boys scrambled onto the muddy bank, grinned, and then jumped onto his brother. They both went under then came up again, spluttering and splashing. I closed my eyes. I could hear Katherine and Penelope jumping off stones in the field behind us. They were loud and laughing; every now and then one of them would shriek.
They're all the same, I thought, these children.
"In the old days," the man said, and his voice was soft again; his eyes were fixed on the boys in the river. "In the old days, we were always thirsty, but there wasn't any cold water; we weren't allowed to have ice. One year though, one year I remember they gave us ice. People stood in line, hundreds of people; they stood in line for hours waiting for one, small cup of ice water. That's communism, though," he said, turning back to Chris. "Communism, very bad."
"Yes, very bad," we nodded.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
And The Winner Is...
Oh you guys, thank you.
You've read my words so openly this week, so generously, and I can't tell you how much your thoughts, your insights, and your donations have meant to me as I've been processing my experiences in Southeast Asia. It's a testament to you, and to the kindness of the human spirit, that during a time of so much economic hardship you read a stranger's story about a still-more-distant stranger's sorrows and felt called to action. Thank you so much for reading, for listening, and for allowing me to be part of this amazing community. You inspire me.
Thank you.
Now, onto the drawing! I know many of you said you wanted to make donations without taking the little girl's bracelet, but I really would love for you to have it, so let's draw a winner, shall we?
You've read my words so openly this week, so generously, and I can't tell you how much your thoughts, your insights, and your donations have meant to me as I've been processing my experiences in Southeast Asia. It's a testament to you, and to the kindness of the human spirit, that during a time of so much economic hardship you read a stranger's story about a still-more-distant stranger's sorrows and felt called to action. Thank you so much for reading, for listening, and for allowing me to be part of this amazing community. You inspire me.
Thank you.
Now, onto the drawing! I know many of you said you wanted to make donations without taking the little girl's bracelet, but I really would love for you to have it, so let's draw a winner, shall we?
And The Winner Is...
...Alita Jewel!
Congratulations, Alita!
Send an email with your contact information to thekeepingtime@gmail.com and I'll send you the bracelet!
And thank you all again, so much, for your donations!
And thank you all again, so much, for your donations!
Friday, January 27, 2012
Lucky Lives
I'd already shaken my head, said no before she'd even asked me, but the woman jerked her chin in the air and looked past me. She was squatting in the gutter, loading bananas into a wooden basket. "That your husband," she asked.
I followed her eyes.
Chris was standing on the sidewalk, sunlight glinting off his hair, and looking down at Katherine. Katherine was talking. She said something to Penelope then waited, hopping from one foot to the other, while Penelope giggled. Penelope threw her hands over her eyes.
Chris started laughing.
"Yes," I answered.
The woman nodded. "Big," she said, "good job. He take care of you. You don't worry about the price of fruit." There was a gap in her mouth where two of her teeth had halfway rotted. She handed me a bag of bananas.
I handed her two dollars.
She tucked the money into an old, coin purse. "Lucky," she said.
I nodded.
I followed her eyes.
Chris was standing on the sidewalk, sunlight glinting off his hair, and looking down at Katherine. Katherine was talking. She said something to Penelope then waited, hopping from one foot to the other, while Penelope giggled. Penelope threw her hands over her eyes.
Chris started laughing.
"Yes," I answered.
The woman nodded. "Big," she said, "good job. He take care of you. You don't worry about the price of fruit." There was a gap in her mouth where two of her teeth had halfway rotted. She handed me a bag of bananas.
I handed her two dollars.
She tucked the money into an old, coin purse. "Lucky," she said.
I nodded.
***
"Oh Mommy," Katherine cried, wrapping her arms around my neck, "do you know what those women kept saying to me at the market?"
"No, baby" I laughed. "Tell me about it."
"They kept telling me I'm beautiful. Beautiful! At first I didn't understand them because I don't speak their language, but then a woman translated for me. She leaned forward and said, 'Do you know what they're saying?' And I didn't know, so I shook my head and she said, 'everyone thinks you're beautiful. That's what they keep saying.' Can you imagine? I mean, why do they think I'm beautiful?"
"Well, love, you are beautiful, but also, everyone always notices you because you're foreign."
"I'm foreign?"
"Well, yeah, haven't you noticed?"
"I don't know. All I know is, after that I had to blush several times. I felt so lucky!"
***
"Are you an American," he asked, standing up as I settled into the seat beside him. He was wearing a well-cut suit, and his voice was soft; his English was flawless.
"Yes," I nodded.
He smiled. "I could tell. I observed your family in the airport. I could tell you were American because of your accent. I am from Pakistan. Have you been to Pakistan?"
"No," I smiled, "I haven't."
"Oh." He looked so sad for a minute, so genuinely surprised and disappointed, that I had a wild fantasy about lying to him, telling him we were only just now on our way to Pakistan, and asking him all about his country. "Why not," he asked me.
"Um," I stammered, searching for answers, "I don't know. I guess I thought it might be too expensive."
"Oh, but Pakistan is not expensive! You can have a beautiful meal in Pakistan for only two American dollars, and the food is very good. There is a great deal of variety, and the people like Americans. You would be welcome."
"I didn't know. I don't know very much about your country."
He shook his head. "But why not," he asked. "In Pakistan, even in the small villages, everyone knows about America. We know about your political system and your leaders and your elections. Why do you not know about us?"
"I don't know. I'm sorry."
"I once met an American in my country. I believe he was in your Army, and he told me about all the places he's traveled. He's had a lucky life, he told me. And you? Where are you traveling?"
"Oh, we're on our way home now. We live in Japan. We've been touring Southeast Asia."
"And that man is your husband," he asked, nodding toward Chris, who was reading a story to the girls in the row behind us.
"Yes."
"He is a good father. Your daughters are very lucky. Literacy is a problem in my country. I'm going to Japan to study their educational system."
"Oh, wow, that's impressive! My girls love to read. I can't imagine life without stories."
"You are very blessed, I think. People lead lucky lives in your country."
"Yes. Yes, you're right," I nodded.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Culture Shock: a Motion-Sick Meditation
Where are you?
In an alley, in a taxi. Buildings keep rising up to the right and to the left. They obliterate the sky. Lights flash. I can't see past them. We're lurching forward. We're slamming back. Families zip past us on motorbikes: moms, dads, babies in the middle. They turn their heads as they rush by. They peer at us through our rolled-up windows, flashing eyes in the flashing light, and I squint back at them, blinded by the series: eyes and lights and passings. City smells waft toward me, petroleum and sewage. Somewhere ahead, someone's making curry. Oh God, I can't do this. I can't do this.
My wrists are numb. My hands are shaking.
NO.
Where are you?
I closed my eyes! I closed my eyes!
Focus. Where are you?
Oklahoma.
Good.
It's night and my dad is driving. The streetlights are dim. The road is smooth. I'm eight-years-old, and there isn't any traffic. My dad has one hand on the wheel, his wrist is straight, and his other hand is resting on my mom's shoulder. She's half asleep in the seat beside him. I'm in the backseat with my legs tucked up. My head is resting against the cold, glass window. If I breathe deeply enough I can smell the night air and the sweet, prairie grasses. Everything is wide and dark and quiet.
But, oh God, now someone's burning incense. It's so hot here. My back is sweating. We're getting closer to the curry. The smell is stronger. Why does everyone keep honking? Jolting, jangling, jerking, stopping, my ears can't find the rhythm. I'm shaking. I'm shaking!
NO! Stay focused. Where are you?
Vietnam, and the motorbikes keep whizzing past us. The eyes keep looking. I'm spinning!
I'm shaking!
Comfort
My stomach muscles ached from heaving.
"Are you okay, Mommy," Katherine asked, looking up at me with wide, startled eyes. From the front seat, Chris turned around and patted my knee. "We're almost there, sweetie," he reassured, "just a few more minutes." Then Penelope took over the conversation. "Daddy gave me a bag to hold," she announced proudly. "If you need to throw up again, I will give it to you, but if you don't need to throw up," she shook her head, "then I will hold it. Are sure you're okay, Mommy?" She was holding the bag high up over her head and swinging her feet while she talked. "Do you need to throw up again? Do you want your bag?"
"No, sweetie," I shook my head. "I'm feeling better now. Thank you." I tried to unfurrow my brow, and failed, so I rested my hand in her hair, but in that moment, in that disembodied, flashing moment, I didn't see my hand. I saw my mother's hand, cool and soft and smelling like lavender, brushing the hair off my forehead. I straightened my back. I lowered my shoulders. And the thought came, inchoate and rushing forward:
I'm getting older.
I'm turning into my mother, and it turns out that's a gift; it turns out that's a comfort.
In an alley, in a taxi. Buildings keep rising up to the right and to the left. They obliterate the sky. Lights flash. I can't see past them. We're lurching forward. We're slamming back. Families zip past us on motorbikes: moms, dads, babies in the middle. They turn their heads as they rush by. They peer at us through our rolled-up windows, flashing eyes in the flashing light, and I squint back at them, blinded by the series: eyes and lights and passings. City smells waft toward me, petroleum and sewage. Somewhere ahead, someone's making curry. Oh God, I can't do this. I can't do this.
My wrists are numb. My hands are shaking.
NO.
Where are you?
I closed my eyes! I closed my eyes!
Focus. Where are you?
Oklahoma.
Good.
It's night and my dad is driving. The streetlights are dim. The road is smooth. I'm eight-years-old, and there isn't any traffic. My dad has one hand on the wheel, his wrist is straight, and his other hand is resting on my mom's shoulder. She's half asleep in the seat beside him. I'm in the backseat with my legs tucked up. My head is resting against the cold, glass window. If I breathe deeply enough I can smell the night air and the sweet, prairie grasses. Everything is wide and dark and quiet.
But, oh God, now someone's burning incense. It's so hot here. My back is sweating. We're getting closer to the curry. The smell is stronger. Why does everyone keep honking? Jolting, jangling, jerking, stopping, my ears can't find the rhythm. I'm shaking. I'm shaking!
NO! Stay focused. Where are you?
Vietnam, and the motorbikes keep whizzing past us. The eyes keep looking. I'm spinning!
I'm shaking!
Comfort
My stomach muscles ached from heaving.
"Are you okay, Mommy," Katherine asked, looking up at me with wide, startled eyes. From the front seat, Chris turned around and patted my knee. "We're almost there, sweetie," he reassured, "just a few more minutes." Then Penelope took over the conversation. "Daddy gave me a bag to hold," she announced proudly. "If you need to throw up again, I will give it to you, but if you don't need to throw up," she shook her head, "then I will hold it. Are sure you're okay, Mommy?" She was holding the bag high up over her head and swinging her feet while she talked. "Do you need to throw up again? Do you want your bag?"
"No, sweetie," I shook my head. "I'm feeling better now. Thank you." I tried to unfurrow my brow, and failed, so I rested my hand in her hair, but in that moment, in that disembodied, flashing moment, I didn't see my hand. I saw my mother's hand, cool and soft and smelling like lavender, brushing the hair off my forehead. I straightened my back. I lowered my shoulders. And the thought came, inchoate and rushing forward:
I'm getting older.
I'm turning into my mother, and it turns out that's a gift; it turns out that's a comfort.
Monday, January 23, 2012
One Dollar
She wasn't as cute as the others.
Her hair was too short, shorn, and her eyes were too wide, but she was the only one I noticed, the only one who looked bewildered, standing there, gawking at me with her basket full of wooden beads. Her legs were dirty to the knees.
All the same, I knew better than to let her know I saw her. I looked away when I passed, quickened my pace, avoided those too-wide eyes, and shoved my hands deep into my pockets. She trotted along beside me.
"One dollar," she whispered, holding up her basket, but you could tell by the way she formed her words that the sounds were still a struggle. The other kids rolled the phrase out easily. "One dollar," they'd call, holding up postcards or bracelets or wooden flutes, and shoving them toward you. Smiles on their hunger-eaten faces, shouting, "One dollar, Madame! You buy for your daughter! One dollar! One dollar!"
"No, no" I'd tell them, looking upward, away from them, and shaking my head. I knew I couldn't look down, couldn't take them in, or they'd swarm; it was too much like a promise. I can't help you all. There are just too many. "No. No, thank you. I can't help you. I'm sorry."
But this little girl, she didn't ask a second time. She just trotted along beside me, not saying a word, and I just kept my hands in my pockets. I just kept looking up. I just kept walking.
I quickened my pace again.
I didn't see her fall. Just heard the sound.
I took three steps away from her before I paused. Turned around. She was face down in the dirt. Her basket was empty, wooden bracelets all spilled out on the ground, and I was just standing there, hesitating, until I finally knelt down.
I picked up the bracelets and put them back into her basket.
She sat up and looked at me. Her eyes were even wider now somehow, darker, brimming with tears and even more bewildered; that's when I saw her, really saw her.
She was a baby.
Penelope's age, maybe. She couldn't have been more than four, and every instinct in my body told me to open my arms. I wanted to check her skinned knees. I wanted to hold her.
And she wanted me to hold her. I could tell.
She didn't cry, but she looked up at me with those wide, dark eyes, all full of hurt and surprise, and she leaned her body toward me. If I would have opened my arms she would have rushed into them. She would have rested her head on my shoulder. She would have cried.
I couldn't help her.
I pointed at the bracelets. "One dollar," I asked. She nodded. I handed her a dollar and she handed me a bracelet. Then I left her. She was still sitting in the dirt, examining her knees, just a baby, and I left her. I walked away.
I didn't want to walk away. I wanted to open my arms. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to help her, but I didn't know how.
I still want to help her, but this time I want to support an organization that can make a real difference in the lives of street children. And I want you to help, too.
So here's the plan:
I'm asking you to make a donation to UNICEF. You don't have to give much, but I want to honor this little girl, along with all the children I saw in Cambodia, and I want you to help me.
If you do donate, please leave a comment here saying "I Donated!" and I'll enter your name in a drawing. At the end of the week, on Sunday, January 29th, I'm planning to close the comments and draw a name at random. The winner will receive the bracelet I bought from the little girl in Cambodia. It isn't fancy, and it only cost a dollar, but it's special to me.
So I hope you'll participate. I hope you'll tell your friends.
I hope you'll like it.
*Finding the Bigger Picture though Simple Moments*
Her hair was too short, shorn, and her eyes were too wide, but she was the only one I noticed, the only one who looked bewildered, standing there, gawking at me with her basket full of wooden beads. Her legs were dirty to the knees.
All the same, I knew better than to let her know I saw her. I looked away when I passed, quickened my pace, avoided those too-wide eyes, and shoved my hands deep into my pockets. She trotted along beside me.
"One dollar," she whispered, holding up her basket, but you could tell by the way she formed her words that the sounds were still a struggle. The other kids rolled the phrase out easily. "One dollar," they'd call, holding up postcards or bracelets or wooden flutes, and shoving them toward you. Smiles on their hunger-eaten faces, shouting, "One dollar, Madame! You buy for your daughter! One dollar! One dollar!"
"No, no" I'd tell them, looking upward, away from them, and shaking my head. I knew I couldn't look down, couldn't take them in, or they'd swarm; it was too much like a promise. I can't help you all. There are just too many. "No. No, thank you. I can't help you. I'm sorry."
But this little girl, she didn't ask a second time. She just trotted along beside me, not saying a word, and I just kept my hands in my pockets. I just kept looking up. I just kept walking.
I quickened my pace again.
I didn't see her fall. Just heard the sound.
I took three steps away from her before I paused. Turned around. She was face down in the dirt. Her basket was empty, wooden bracelets all spilled out on the ground, and I was just standing there, hesitating, until I finally knelt down.
I picked up the bracelets and put them back into her basket.
She sat up and looked at me. Her eyes were even wider now somehow, darker, brimming with tears and even more bewildered; that's when I saw her, really saw her.
She was a baby.
Penelope's age, maybe. She couldn't have been more than four, and every instinct in my body told me to open my arms. I wanted to check her skinned knees. I wanted to hold her.
And she wanted me to hold her. I could tell.
She didn't cry, but she looked up at me with those wide, dark eyes, all full of hurt and surprise, and she leaned her body toward me. If I would have opened my arms she would have rushed into them. She would have rested her head on my shoulder. She would have cried.
I couldn't help her.
I pointed at the bracelets. "One dollar," I asked. She nodded. I handed her a dollar and she handed me a bracelet. Then I left her. She was still sitting in the dirt, examining her knees, just a baby, and I left her. I walked away.
I didn't want to walk away. I wanted to open my arms. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to help her, but I didn't know how.
I still want to help her, but this time I want to support an organization that can make a real difference in the lives of street children. And I want you to help, too.
So here's the plan:
I'm asking you to make a donation to UNICEF. You don't have to give much, but I want to honor this little girl, along with all the children I saw in Cambodia, and I want you to help me.
If you do donate, please leave a comment here saying "I Donated!" and I'll enter your name in a drawing. At the end of the week, on Sunday, January 29th, I'm planning to close the comments and draw a name at random. The winner will receive the bracelet I bought from the little girl in Cambodia. It isn't fancy, and it only cost a dollar, but it's special to me.
So I hope you'll participate. I hope you'll tell your friends.
I hope you'll like it.
*Finding the Bigger Picture though Simple Moments*
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