Firsts...

I don't have children of my own, but I have heard it said over and over again that the best part of being around a baby or a toddler is seeing them experience things for the first time. Ahhhh....the merriment of soap bubbles, the surprise of discovering a small orifice in the center of your belly (or perhaps an out-y if you have one of those), the wonder of your own hands -- this is LIFE unfolding people! Soak it up! Drink it in!

That is why I feel so lucky to have been part of our nephew's first trip to an outhouse this weekend .

Do I really need to say anymore than this? The input variables looks something like this:

1 inexperienced baby-sitter (moi)
1 2-year-old little boy (just potty trained)
1 Saturday morning soccer game for 5-year old niece
Many soccer fields of other 5-year olds and flocks of families
1 port-a-potty (yes, only one)
1 playground at far end of of soccer fields (opposite from aforementioned port-a-potty)
90 degree day
1 adult with an aversion to any port-a-potty because of possible dry heaving (also moi)***

The output is this:

Picture me running with a toddler from the playground to the far end of the fields, sweat gushing out of my pores, only to enter one steamy port-a-potty for an immediate number-2. Something maternal stirred inside of me just then - as I held one desperate toddler hovering over the lid that opened up into who-knows-what-vastness below, I was able to quell the gagging rising up in my throat. A little voice told me he was done and we both staggered out into fresh air (after the necessary wiping part in case you were concerned).

What made it all worthwhile was when he said to me "I love you Susan." But I still believe a strongly worded letter is required to the Rocklin Parks District to allow access to flush toilets.


***
There are several reasons I avoid port-a-potties:
1. They're gross
2. When I was child visiting family friends near the sea port town of Pusan, South Korea, we only had access to outhouses - next to a cemetery no less. There were stories of children falling into these pits and drowning so some morbid person concocted a story of a ghostly woman whose long mane of hair would stream out of the hole. If a child went into an outhouse without knocking and stepped on her hair, they would be pulled into the hole. Nice.
3. 2000 Austin Marathon - port a potties at mile marker 5. I won't describe it but apparently everyone had to go within the first five miles and were all in a hurry. I threw up.

Kicking the Bucket

I've been working on my Bucket List. There are about 60 items (so far) and I'm averaging about 2-3 of them per year. Most recently, I checked off item #23 which was to see a blue whale. We spotted one on a whale watching trip off the Monterey Coast. I have some oddball ones like this - and to be honest I didn't really believe I would see a blue whale in this lifetime. But the power of intention is alive and strong, and it gave me a swift kick in the butt again. Now I'm getting excited about item #25: See Earth from Space.

Half Dome

I just had my third visit to Half Dome - reacquainting myself with my monolith of a friend. It's quite an interesting relationship as I am always slightly intimidated in the beginning expecting some pain and judgment but always leaving quite filled and satisfied. I was able to gain a slightly different perspective on this visit hiking up in the darkness and making a lonely summit up the cables by the light of a full moon. On my two previous trips there were throng of hikers so distracting that you couldn't even hear nature anymore. However, on this journey it seemed my breathing was the only thing taking up space.

About half-way up on the hike I panicked. It wasn't because it was dark or that I didn't feel strong enough to make the journey. In spite of having two companions, I felt very lonely, or more specifically, I felt insignificant. Here I was plodding along, step after step, where thousands have walked before. It seemed my small party was the only thing transient in that moment - just passing through this landscape of gushing waterfalls, granite walls, and giant trees. They were there before us and will survive long after we have passed. What shook me out of that very tiny mortal feeling was awe and gratitude. Here I was along for an extraordinary ride, the rhythms of my body commanded by the setting and rising of a moon or sun.

That's when the door opened and I felt amazed by everything. Just above the treeline we paused to watch a massive lightning storm off to the East. More intimately, I peed behind a tree, but took the opportunity to face opposite the trunk in order to view the Southern ranges - relieving AND breathtaking! I watched a trail of headlamps inching up the cables to the summit ahead of us. The last headlamp fell behind and hesitated much too long at each post. The first headlamp turned around at the top, and made his way back down the cables to help his friend finish the climb. I dozed off on the summit and woke up disoriented only to pleasantly realize I was napping on half dome! I saw the shadows across the valley fade into light and the chill leave my bones as the sun peeked out over the horizon. I could go on but I keep thinking about the bathroom experience I just mentioned. Why didn't I ever realize before to turn around?

80 oz of water, 1 gatorade, two GU's, one plum, trail mix, PB&J, one pair of stripped gloves, and multiple doses of Advil later, I am still feeling a little sore. I keep saying this is my last trip to half dome. But I don't quite believe myself.

Heading South...

I haven't written in a while. The longer I stop posting the more critical and insecure I get of myself when I sit down to write. I don't have anything to write about in particular, so this is purely for the experience of it.

My suitcase is packed and I managed to fit everything into a carry-on. Now I don't usually pack ahead, but for once I wanted to enjoy a quiet evening rather than the mad frenzy I usually find myself in. For those of you interested in my itinerary I am heading to Portland to pick up my 10 year old nephew and accompanying him to Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama. Isaac, my nephew, doesn't seem particularly excited about camp so either he is quietly reserved, he's scared, or he has no interest in it at all. Perhaps a little bit of all three. I couldn't be MORE excited for him, but I also realize I may be living out some childhood fantasy through him. Still, I hold out hope he will get something positive out of it.

I am a little worried about traveling down South with a child. I'm only there a few days doing the drop off/pick up and flying to Denver a few days in between, but when I spoke to D--- at the A--- cab company to arrange transportation, his drawl was bigger than his reservation skills. I know this is the 21st century but in the deep recesses of my mind, I still harbor some concern about how many Asians they have seen in Alabama? Perhaps all the Asians that are down in Huntsville are the ones that attend space camp? I guess we will see what happens when we arrive there at midnight. I just hope nobody asks me "Are YOU VIET-MA-NESE?"
By the way, no offense meant to those who live down in AL.

By the way, I've been thinking a lot about tar balls. Perhaps because they keep referring to it in the news when speaking about the BP oil leak. Huntsville is pretty far from the coast, but whatever they are, I hope I don't have to see one. Just in case though I will pack a little 3oz bottle of DAWN in my carry on.

The Tempo of Creativity

There is a speed to all the things that we have squeezed into our space-time continuum. In my case, the creative process is no exception. When my postings are read out loud, I discovered that I convey some excessive amount of urgency into the way I write. Maybe I am not alone in this as we hurl into an even faster society. So even without this intention, I am reaching into my brain to choose those words that send you on a speedy journey.

I like to read classics, however, as with with all classics, I say you have to stick with it for a 100 pages to really get into the rhythm of it. Nowadays, who does this unless it is required school reading? Have you ever tried to speed read "Wuthering Heights" or "Anna Karenina?" It is virtually impossible, and even if some understanding is derived from setting a speed record, the experience is severely curtailed. Language has certainly evolved, but as much as it is attributed to a melding of cultures and classes, it is also a product of our ever quickening lifestyle.

So what does this all mean? We may not all read classics, but I am certain that most of us email. I'm going to try and practice reading my emails aloud (work included) before sending them into cyberspace. I don't want anyone, especially clients, to junk my emails, but I can certainly be mindful of the tempo in which I frame my words.

Poetry is also helping me to return to my quieter roots. Because I am a product of this RIGHT NOW generation, I tend to have to read a poem a zillion times. The first time is my speed read. The second time is my speed read. The third time is also probably a speed read. It is around the fourth time that I allow myself to absorb each word. It is around the fifth or sixth time that some long buried synapses begin to stir and fire. I wonder if something that slows us down and inspires us with revelation could possibly produce more activity in the brain?

I recently practiced such an experience with the following poem

"The Anniversary of My Death" by W.S. Merwin

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveler
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
and bowing not knowing to what

Somebunny Loves Me

I blame Stephanie. At least, I want to blame her and all her time spent helping the elderly. Recently she announced she wanted to try cross-stitch so she "could have something to do with her hands."

"Oh no," I thought to myself. This is where it starts -- the early-bird specials, night gowns, false teeth. But a few days later we found ourselves in a fabric store purchasing some beginner cross-stitches. I made every effort to resist stubbornly clenching my book as she stitched away. Alas, my impatient hands got the best of me. My sewing beast was unleashed and two days later, I have tiny needle punctures in my thumb. I've filled out the green grassy areas and am nearly done with the pink heart in my "somebunny loves you" cross-stitch pattern.

It completely satisfies my obsessive compulsive tendencies. I imagine aristocratic women of yore filling their days with this activity and it leads me to wonder what came first, cross stitch or OCD?

What it does afford me is the opportunity to be present. Not all of us desire cross-stich, but subconsciously, we all crave the experience of being in the moment. And strangely, for the past few days I've been bombarded with this message that somebunny, somewhere, loves me. So Thanks Stephanie, dammit.

Night Shift

I've been working a lot of long nights lately. I'm sleep deprived and I have the munchies when I'm sitting on long conference calls. My job involves a lot of "encouragement" - getting people to communicate about technical issues and fix problems in a timely manner. Sometimes, the lack of communication is exasperating and I wonder what my cohorts' personal lives are like. After all, if they aren't communicating during half their lives at work are they so different at home? Perhaps when we interview people for their jobs we should also interview their spouses or partners. Well, it could be a disaster but wouldn't it be entertaining?

So I guess with all my frustration and tiredness it is not such a stretch that I would be fantasizing about winning the lottery. I even went so far as to buy a ticket this week - something I have NEVER done, but heck, my 1 in 200million chance is just as good as the next person.

What would I do with an exorbitant wad of cash? Well, after quitting my job, paying off the house, and doling out some nice gifts to our families, I would start tackling some more eccentric things on my life list and winning the lottery would certainly afford me more opportunity to fulfill those dreams. How much does it cost to see earth from space? Right now none of it seems as important as a soft cozy bed. And as crazy as it sounds, I am also thinking about nuts. How did one decide to eat a nut? They aren't attractive. They are deceptively tasty in spite of their outer appearance. It took one risky (or very hungry) person to try a nut. I've never craved a nut but if they are sitting in front of me I will eat one after the other relishing their hearty flavor.

When I am not so tired I would like to be that person who tried the nut (or asparagus, or seaweed). I don't need to win the lottery to take some risks. Though, I reserve the right to buy a ticket now or then.

The Wardrobe's Short Story Contest

I submitted the following short story to a local contest (less than 1000 words). The theme had to do with fashion and how an article of clothing has inspired you. Okay, I am NOT a fashion-ista but I thought, what the heck, it would be good practice writing.

"ISLAND FRIEND"

I have never been one to pay much attention to my attire outside of what is necessary for business or occasion, but fashion is perhaps deeper than on the surface. It is a sign of our times and something whose meaning is formed in one’s sub-consciousness from an early age. Being first generation, my parents had different thoughts about what was important. Going through grammar school, clothing was merely functional and outfits were changed only if they needed washing, so I was constantly wavering between fitting in and making do. From my formative years, I never quite developed any fashion sense, or perhaps even fashion common-sense, until the following experience.

I arrived in Sacramento via a job transfer from Texas armed with (1) clothes for work and (2) an assortment of t-shirts, shorts, and jeans for casual wear. Around this time I befriended a family of Polynesians – a tight knit laid-back bunch. Having never been to Hawaii, I was immediately attracted to what was exotic – from taro to pigeon English. I was particularly close to Pua, who was closest to my age. She was a little thing and relative to me, on the other end of the fashion scale, piecing together a stylish and unique statement.

In this part of the story enters a faded round-neck lime green t-shirt. It was from REI and had little tribal figures printed across the chest. It was soft, comfortable, and in the deep recesses of my mind, very Islander. I was set! We passed the months together and my impressionable self was starting to speak Pigeon.

One weekend in the early summer, Pua and I went shopping at the Galleria. I needed new tops and she graciously offered to help me. We perused the usual stores trying on different things but I didn’t end up buying anything. Near the end part of our journey we arrived at a sporting good store to look for bathing suits. I was in my comfort zone distracted at a rack of summer sale t-shirts. I happily flipped through the hangers finding t-shirts with palm tree prints, surfing logos. I sallied forth to the fitting room. When I decided on the one I wanted I stepped out to show Pua.

In history, patience and silence has won battles. Pua did not say anything but she had a look of concern in her eyes that teetered close to horror.

“NO,” she finally concluded.
“What – what’s wrong with it?” I questioned pressing my face downward to inspect my newly donned light green t-shirt.
Silence…
“You need to pick another color,” she finally replied.
“What’s wrong with the color, Pua?” I whined, “I look good in this color, the shirt I had on earlier is…”

And then it dawned on me.

“You don’t like my t-shirt?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” she started slowly, “It’s just that…you wear it…a lot.”

A light bulb went off on in my head. Once or twice a week I would do my laundry and in would go my lime green t-shirt. One or twice a week Pua and I would meet up for dinner, hanging out, or a movie and coincidentally, out would come my lime green t-shirt. This had been going on for many months.

I was embarrassed and a little hurt.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Sue-babes (this was my islander nick-name), I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“But that’s my favorite t-shirt,” I explained,
“I KNOW,” she retorted.

And then, I started laughing. I buckled over in that store and laughed until I was crying. I could not believe her restraint. I could not believe she had gone out with me in public night after night enduring my green t-shirt. Little by little her story came out. She would come to pick me up or vice versa and every time she would be silently thinking, “Oh man, please don’t let sue-babes be wearing that t-shirt.”

Pua joined in my laughing. We would stop for a minute, sigh, and then bust up laughing again. It turned out my beloved t-shirt was far from Polynesian. The little tribal figures were Kokopelli, from the Southwest. Not that it mattered as my t-shirt had worn out its welcome long ago. The t-shirt lived out its days as sleepwear, but long after its life had ended, it has stayed with me as an endless source of giggling. I was lucky to find a friend who could see past my one t-shirt and still love and accept me, all the while patiently opening me to try something new. Of course, I still have made many mistakes, such as my pique polo era, but that is a different story.

Networking

Aaaaahhhhh! I'm already losing steam on this project. I feel myself waning...thinking about the blog and then distracting myself with something else. Like training for my half marathon, which was this past weekend. I've run half marathons before and started doing 3-5 mile jogs several months ago. When I realized my half was three weeks away I crammed in two longs runs -- an 8 mile run and 11 mile -- over two weekends. This lead me to consider over and over again during my 13 mile event, why (oh why oh why) did I wait so long to prepare? My conceptual pain, brewing in my mind didn't motivate me much for several months. However, during the run, it was obviously trumped by physical pain in my body. Similarly, conceptual joy is always trumped by satiating myself in the moment. So how to rewire this network?

I just went on a walk and came back ready to process my own question. Well, that and a particularly inspiring coaching session. In my formative years, I hated to eat. My mom is a fabulous cook but back then Korean food was just not that appealing - too many edgy colors I guess. So relatively, anything American was a treat but a rarity in our household. My brother and I were latchkey kids so when it was just us, I would microwave Velveeta cheese slices in a bowl until they were melted in the middle and crispy on the outside. Seriously, I'm salivating while writing this. I was also one of those kids you hear about who would pilfer tiny slivers of butter off the cube and eat plain. It was an act of rebellion and independence. Maybe it was a coping mechanism. Ideally, I would like to say, there is some special mineral I needed in processed dairy that caused me to act this way... you know, like kids who eat dirt. Whatever it was, it happened early on.

In telecommunications, I would say this is cable laid by the operator. It's buried deep in the ground and goes from point A to point B. Now, I'm trying to go wireless. I'm trying to create new demand for a new product and I am my own consumer. I need help. Maybe I should post my food journal on here.

Rain

Happy Birthday to the love of my life. When I was young I was standing in the driveway of my childhood home and saw the rain begin falling -- way down on the other end of the street. Like an ocean wave, it made its way across the sky to where I was. I felt like life was happening ever so slowly and that I should run for cover, but I was rooted to my bicycle seat completely mesmerized by what was happening. I don't recall ever seeing that happen again, even growing up in Portland's infamous weather...until today.

So I know that today is very special. Thank you for being so aware of the life that unfolds around you. You have taught me to be more present and take in the tiniest details - so that I might find more joy in all experiences. You have shown me a way of owning the thoughts and feelings that come from my deepest places. After all, it's the same place my love comes from.

4-leggers

I'm eating a sour punch straw I found in my backpack. I'm not sure how old it is but desperate times call for desperate measures. I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel here trying to eek out some creativity from this day. So I will write about what's close to home.

There is a 105lb Akita occupying my living room. She is 20 times the size of our Maltese puppy and the cats are registering concern. She is harmless though. Nicki is 12 years old with an ailing hip, dimming black eyes, and selective hearing. She is also recovering from some sort of virus affecting her balance so her head is permanently cocked to one side. She's looking at me right now like I'm crazy or something. We're watching her for a few days while her person is away on a business trip. I feel honored to be with this dog during one of her last numbered days. She takes me back to my own first love.

For anyone who knows me you will know how much I love dogs. For those of you who don't know me I was that Jane Doe blubbering uncontrollably on the plane from Chicago to Denver reading "Marley and Me." I guess you could say it was a dog who saved our family. My parents were the immigrants and we children were caught in the cultural gap of the first generation. Few words were exchanged during family meals. We never expressed any emotion except anger. Our stoicism was silently driving a wedge between us. It was around that time during the widest gap that my parents purchased a black female lab puppy, who we named Augustine (Auggie for short).

We took turns coddling her and whispering "I love you" into her soft black ears. We told her these words before we could say them to each other. Later, when she topped out at almost 100 lbs you could wrap your arms around her large burly neck and she would let you hug her indefinitely. She was our own furry ball of intentionality allowing us to say and feel what was already there but guarded in our vulnerable spaces. At 9 years old she accepted her disease and dying with grace. She knew it while the rest of us mourned how short her life was. She let us put up the good fight but she knew it was time - patiently waiting on us to let her go. A dying dog is one of the few occasions you can see a grown man cry. And so it was with my dad and brother on that last day she she went to sleep in my lap.

I don't know why I'm writing about this except that Nicki is here. And I remember how much we loved our damn dog. She showed us a way to love that which we are so afraid to lose. And the passing was not nearly as frightening as it was an aching and tender experience.

Jumping Off Lines

I took a creative writing class where the instructor gave us what she called "jumping off lines." She reads an opening a sentence at random and you finish it along with the rest of whatever it inspires. You write for a set period of time with no cross-outs. At the end of the class she gave us a whole bunch to take home. I keep them next to my bed and when I don't feel like journalling I will pull one out of a drawer and write un-interrupted for a few minutes. Here is one I worked on recently.

Jumping Off Line: The last time we talked...

The last time we talked I didn't really listen to your words. All I could feel was colors - bright vivid oranges and yellows, reds, blues, purples, crashing together on a vast canvas. I felt warmth. You might have told me something important but lately I can't hold onto my brain. My thyroid has been acting up and it makes me hungry and anxious. Sometimes I find a nice spot in the sun and I dream in my sleep but I usually wake up startled and don't remember a thing. This must be aging. THIS must be what mothers feel when their children grow up and love their boyfriends or girlfriends more than their mothers. I'm a passenger in the back seat now and I have to sit in the middle. I don't even get a good seatbelt, just that flimsy one across my lap. So I lick carelessly around my butt and let the dingles pile up. This is how I get attention lately but I'll take any morsel because I love you. And I know you love me too -- you're afraid to love me since I'm dying. I'm good at seeing the warmth and colors -- I tell you with a wide array of beeps and buzzes. Fucking little dog. And that heathen feral cat. I lick you.

note: written from the perspective of our 15 year old cat who is having a hard time adjusting to her health, the new puppy, and the new cat.

Yosemite

Yosemite - valley or up high
I put my anchor in you
And navigate my life by your sky.
The air I breathe here--
Crisp, smoky, or mist,
pulses of great mountains
as far away as Tibet.
Every visit I am a changing season
My knees...a bit more sore
My sags...a bit more sag
And Yosemite your currents still flow
your falls still fall,
Half Dome glows lavender and gold
And your shadows will stretch across this place
long after mine have faded away.

Starting and Driving

Starting something -- it seems the most difficult place for any action. So I'm doing this without any self evaluation. Let's see where it goes. I can't stand California drivers. If there is a ying to the yang of California's moderate climate, mountains, and beaches it would be the general sub-human attitude of the state's millions of motorists. Even the most delicate of blue hairs will flip you the bird. Forget any gestures of Thank You if you let someone into the lane. I used to take this personally but my sensitive self has hardened up. I'm street-wise now and while I'm still generous with my right of way, I've come to expect nothing from my fellow drivers.

It is quite lonely on the road...

Which was why I was so surprised on a recent trip to Portland, OR. I was driving behind a man in a tricked out Japanese racing vehicle, wearing a bandana and over-sized cap on his head, riding low with his seat back. He signaled into my lane and attempted to squeeze in. I backed off and gestured him in (all the while silently fearing for my life). He then proceeded to lower his window and stick his arm out, waving his hand rather gleefully in a motion of appreciation. THEN, he waved at me in his rear view mirror. I waved back overly excited about this experience. He wasn't who I thought he was. We connected and, in that moment, gratitude was exchanged. Silly as it sounds, it made my day.