Naming our heart's desire

I've been thinking about women of late- Maria Shriver, Mui from The Scent of the Green Papaya, and Catherine Vance Freeman Nimitz. It started with the disclosure of Arnold Schwarzenegger's betrayal of his family- I kept thinking of the years he used his wife for his political career and then I got to wondering about the other woman who continued to work as the housekeeper- to live an untrue life seems the worst possible thing to me. Maria Shriver's life may not be what she thought it was, but at least she was operating from what she knew to be the truth, where as the housekeeper with her greater awareness of the falsity of the characters and relationships, chose to live with deceit. In contrast the male pianist character in The Scent of the Green Papaya falls in love with the housekeeper, Mui, realizing it before he marries the ideal fiancee. The story reveals the ease and rituals that bond the pianist and housekeeper which result in their relationship being a good match despite what others might perceive as the better match. It reminded me of the Garcia and Grisman tune "Fair Ellender" a love triangle story:

Father, oh father, come riddle to me
Come riddle it all as one
And tell me whether to marry fair Ellen
Or bring the brown girl home

The brown girl she has house and land
Fair Ellender she has none

Another love triangle comes to mind from the movie Eat, Drink, Man, Woman. The main character, the father, has three daughters and the story revolves around their relationships. The father has fallen in love with the neighbor, but the neighbor's mother thinks she is a good match for him creating some difficulties as what matches and what works differs. The love triangle is as old as story.

These conundrums of what seems to be a perfect match and what is our heart's desire absorb a lot of energy. The complexity of being human is sometimes so confounding that it can be hard to know for ourselves what it is we truly love and need. Being honest with oneself requires seeing some flaws within and without; we are all full of contradictions and few of us seem willing to reveal this to ourselves or others, but this is where we have the potential for change. Honesty is hard to come by- I do not meant cruel, unkind, expressions that demean others, but in letting a truth come up from the pit of our being as a revealer of our own base motives and not fearing it, not fleeing from the idea that perhaps in the other's story we are reacting not to their recitation but to our interpretation which is ours and not theirs; we need to listen more deeply to ourselves and others. My frustrations with others are usually my frustrations with lack of time or lack of control- I don't have much time to listen and do what I want to do; I can't change what is happening and I can't fix it even though I want to.

My husband is reading to me a "study" quoted on Facebook from The Onion about how Americans charge into things like maniacs when really they should take a deep breath, think of plan, and do the opposite. We assume too much which is where I am trying to go- if we truly listen, if we truly hear, it is usually not what we assume, but this takes time; we need to make time to listen to the people in our lives and to what pings in our inner psyche or gut as we listen- perhaps we would ultimately be less frustrated.

There is a story from many years ago from when the Oakland Naval Hospital pharmacy was being remodeled, it had only one window open with a very long line. A "Mrs. Captain Such and Such" made it a point to announce her title in hopes of securing quicker service only to be reminded by "Mrs. Fleet Admiral Nimitz" that "if I can wait, so can you." One person wanted recognition that they were important, but really everyone is important and busy which is why I appreciated that Mrs. Nimitz spoke up. If only we all spoke the truth to ourselves and others when it could make a difference.

From Insha'Allah to Afternoon Tea, From Bahrain to Japan

The lone woman, in a room full of Indian accountants and Bahraini administrators to discuss a local hospital's billing practices for the care of U.S. military personnel, frustrated at the double talk and unclear answers, I snapped. The crowded room grew momentarily quiet; it visibly taxed them to work with a woman, uncovered, and very pale, let alone one yelling, "No insha'Allah!" I was young and culturally not as aware as I could have been. As a nurse I tend to speak up- mistakes impact health and can unfold quickly. That day I did get my way as I represented millions of dollars. However, I learned a humbling lesson: if I get to yelling, if I lose my cool, then I have lost my way. The next time and the times after that I always said, "Insha'Allah" after any request and trusted it would go as far as it could. There was only so much change I could wring from them, the rest of the change would have to emerge from within.

Realizing I was working too much, I started asking friends to meet at different hotels for afternoon tea. It was a pleasant way to while away time in Bahrain and it offered a much needed break. The service was impeccable, the atmosphere luxurious and pleasant, sometimes there was music- a harpist or a pianist, and always tea and treats. The British had been in Bahrain long enough to expose the Bahrainis to the merits of English Tea in addition to the Arabic tradition of hospitality. I dearly missed this pastime when we returned to the States. In Bahrain I had been reminded to just sit about in a cafe- the nonchalance of it stoked memories of my teenage years in Spain. Some how as an adult I hat gotten sucked into working and working. Pausing time for a finer moment was a habit I sought to continue.

In Washington, DC, we occasionally went out for afternoon tea at some of the fancy hotels especially in the beginning when we rented an extremely small apartment while we searched for a house to buy. After we bought a house, we started the tradition of making tea on Sundays. Sometimes it was only tea and scones and sometimes we had sherry and sandwiches followed by scones and sweets. It was a lovely tradition albeit a bit fattening.

When we moved to Japan, we discovered a whole new world of tea and sweets- mugicha, matcha, hojicha, yuzucha, and sweets made from rice and beans- marvelously light, healthy, and of tastes and textures I had never had before. I rarely make scones here, but I have learned to make dango or rice flour dumplings. There are also tastes in Japan that I did not know about until I lived here - soba, mochi, onigiri, five kinds of tofu, all kinds of seaweed, etc. The best suggestion I have for those who are curious about Japanese food is to watch "Cooking with Dog" on Youtube.com; it shows you the ingredients, recipes, and how they put together a variety of healthy dishes and desserts commonly eaten. In Japan, the servings are small and the tastes delicate- no overwhelming fat particles or sweeteners to bomb your senses into smithereens. Surprisingly, my Japanese friends mostly want to go out for coffee! I did not expect to encounter so many coffee drinkers. There are several shops that sell pastries and serve coffee or tea; I never say no, but mostly we go out for lunch as that is when most mothers are free. I still like to take time to pause for afternoon tea even at home, but now it often includes a treat purchased from a shop- often individually packaged. We make a pot of black tea, Assam or Darjeeling, and drink cup after cup which is more excessive than the Japanese way. In Japan they call it "mil ku tea." My Aussie friend calls it a "cuppa." Whatever it is called, afternoon tea always revives me, and a day doesn't start properly without one, insha'Allah.

Bitter Herbs

The annual "passover" has happened yet again at our house. Though this passover is not the the traditional Jewish rite of passage whereby the Jews remember their deliverance or Exodus from enslavement in Egypt, we have come to see it as steps toward our freedom from life in the Navy. Yes, my husband's annual May passover is the Captain's list. We will be departing Navy life at the end of next year- perhaps the Pacific Ocean will part to allow us quick passage.

The first year he had just returned from a long deployment in Iraq with the Army so I was mostly unaware of the upcoming event; my husband is not one for pining. Once aware, it seemed unfair, but as he often reminds me, "If only Captain Honey Bunny ruled the world."

The next year, we both had higher expectations- fit rep, check; letters of support, check; more admin work, check; etc.- only to have those same expectations dashed on the dastardly rocks of the annual passover list- his name was once again absent. This was a cause for soul searching not so much for me as I was mostly angry that his hard work and dedication to patient care were being overlooked by admin gurus who pitched slogans about health care being "patient centered" while rewarding health care providers who shunned patient care with advancement. Let's put it this way, seaman to admiral, if you are in need of consultation or services that my husband provides, you want him as your doc. Yes, I am married to the man which means I might be biased, but I also know his strengths and weaknesses well; I'd wager the Pepsi Challenge so to speak, but I digress.

He soul searched; I grumped- there were a lot of family sacrifices made along the way. His conclusion was that he was happy with his work and that if that wasn't good enough for the Navy then so be it; it was all he had. My response was, "Then say 'no' more often to some of this stuff and come home from work!" Yeah, you can read some hysteria into that along with a "fat chance" of him saying no to the Navy.

This year, I had no expectations as we had noticed that friends who had returned to the visibility of the States picked up advancement, and we were still overseas (at the Navy's behest may I add). Everyone tells you to do this and that to get promoted but the clearest trend is give up patient care and do administrative work. This is antithetical to my husband's view of being a doctor. Dual boarding in specialities, not enough; volume of patients over an eighteen year career (invariably always has one of the largest loads despite any and all other duties), not enough; respect of paitents and colleagues, not enough; take call for months at a time, not enough; overseas deployment, not enough; work an average of fifteen hours a day, not enough; it goes on- the Navy takes and takes.

I am beginning to think the requirements to advance are: sell your soul to the Devil, give up all family time, stay in the States, and/or do not under any circumstances see more than a week of patient care in a year (that is the Army's requirement for doctors in admin billets to maintain their specialty pay). It is a sad state of affairs when I think of being a patient too in that the docs are not rewarded for their work with me as a patient or in their clinical expertise as a providers. I do not mean to take away from those who were promoted, my hat is off- congratulations, but looking from the other side I am tasting of the bitter herbs- allow me to indulge.

I am not Jewish and have only celebrated the seder meal once in my own home, but I can't resist fleshing out the passover analogy using the seder plate. No offense is meant in utilizing the seder analogy to see the sacrifices and difficulties of Navy life.

Zeroah, the lamb of sacrifice, check, we have sacrificed family time from dinner to missing funerals to helping during times of family stress or illnesses. Baytsah, roasted egg represents an additional sacrifice, how about missing about every major holiday with extended family and a few holidays with immediate family. Karpas, a green herb that represents spring and new life, perhaps life beyond the Navy. Maror, the bitter herbs that represent the years in slavery, no comment. Charoset, the chopped sweet salad that represents the mortar used in buildings, perhaps the building blocks of our Navy life- the training and education and advancement that were received (the good stuff). Matzah, the unleavened bread that represents the haste with which the Jews fled Egypt might be seen in our countdown to retirement and moving along. There is also salt water to represent the tears and sweat of enslavement, uhh, check. And there are four wine cups for drinking toasts, one of which is to the promise of redemption. I'll be having a few swigs of wine or beer when this is all over too.

Navy lesson #1: Consult Locals

Being a Navy wife means you spend a lot of time alone, away from your husband. I can divide my husband's Navy career into two distinct parts- before and after kids. The first ten years of his Navy career we both worked a lot- money was made, graduate school was completed, and while he was busy working obscene hours, I gradually began to find my way to tolerate living with someone who had only a little time to play. New friends and new places meant that I discovered new interests and had new things to share. I would jokingly call it "research" and then use the experiences to decide what to do when my husband could come along.

Not long after we got married, we moved from Florida to the Puget Sound area near Seattle, Washington, a new place far from family and old friends. My husband, in the throws of a Family Practice residency, worked 36 hour shifts for days on end- all he had to do was sit down and he would fall asleep. I worked twelver hour shifts at the local hospital, but I would find myself with a day off and no one to play with. By fall when the grey permacloud arrived, I was sleeping all of the time- as a Florida girl, I was used to sunshine.

I had been warned about the "rain" in Seattle, but no one mentioned the darkness that defines the seasons from October until July. My husband was too exhausted to say much, but he did notice what we had for dinner. It went something like this, "Cereal again?" Rousing myself from the couch, I wiped the drool off of my cheek and said, "Mm. Milk and cookies for dessert." I always had a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the freezer. Dessert does nothing for my husband, but at the time it was just about the only thing I could cook, well, bake so I kept them in supply. When spring came and the sun breaks occasionally happened and the daffodils popped up here and there and then the tulips emerged, it slowly dawned on me that I was sleeping my life away and so like a bear coming out of hibernation I realized I had to get busy.

Being newly married, it was also the beginning of the time when you spend each other's money and make decisions for the other person with or without their input. I was a woman at the edge- I was either going to fall off the cliff or claw my way out. I bought season tickets to the Seattle Opera- by buying the tickets I knew we'd have to make time for it- along with tickets for a few plays and some other concerts. I committed us not knowing how we would find the time to break away. Bremerton is an hour long ferry ride to Seattle and that is just the ride across the water. But those tickets led us to jump some hurdles. My husband generally slept in the car while we traveled to and fro; sometimes we both slept through an event, but we went, and gradually life was about more than work. We found our more curious selves again- the part that is fascinated by a story or a song or put off by people wearing fleece at an opera. We were still tired and worked too much, but at least we had some new ideas clunking around in our heads.

The next winter we took up snow skiing- you drive into the mountains and, most importantly, up and out of the permacloud into bright light being reflected off of the snow. I had skied once before in my life so this was a painful new sport, but it was what the locals told me I had to do to thrive in the local environment. Seeing that my first fall/winter/spring go around had a tinge of seasonal affective disorder, I started asking every local I encountered, "How do you survive the winters here?" "Skiing" was the repeated response. So we went.

I watched many a sobbing child "pizzaing" their way down a mountain trailing a ski instructor with envy- children with their low center of gravity can easily stay on their skis even if they do cry and feel a bit afraid; they ski perfectly. I bruised body parts, kept a dry eye, and stuck to the green slopes, but I was awake, outside, and basking in glorious light. I filed away the idea to ask the locals sooner how they deal with local idioscencrecies.

I never went skiing without my husband, but as I came out of the fog of that first winter, I learned the importance of art, outdoors, and beauty in my life. Getting the gumption to go on adventures with or without my spouse came from realizing how vital it was to my mental and physical health. Inspired, I had an awareness of my need to get out daily, and to be sure it included sunshine when possible. From the Seattle area we were sent to Bahrain, an inland nation in the Middle East, the sunniest and hottest place I will ever have lived. I'll save that one for another day.

Awhaling inspiration

Sea shanties were shipboard working songs from the days when sailors used the rhythms to synchronize movements and to while away time on long voyages. "Off to Sea Once More" performed by Jerry Garcia and David Grisman has become a personal favorite of late- background music to my reading of In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex by Nathaniel Philbrick. This is the story that inspired Herman Melville to write Moby Dick. When I think I know a story, I procrastinate; do not tarry as I have.

This is an epic disaster story, balanced by historical research and background details, that presents a fuller picture of life at sea in a whaleship from Nantucket Island in 1821. Understanding Nantucket society of the era with its closed knit community where every degree of difference sets one apart: being a Quaker or not, being born on island or off, being black or white- impacts shipboard life and ultimately survival when the Essex sinks. Whaleship voyages were two to three years in the making, leaving the women and fatherless children behind to run the business of island life. As a Navy wife, I can relate.

Whaling was a gory business. Six whalers set out in row boats with a harpoon to kill a whale; the whales dragged the boats and thus the men along for a ride on the open ocean while being stabbed with a lance until death arrived. Obtaining oil from a sixty ton sperm whale involved cutting it into workable sections with blood, guts and oil coating every surface and crevice of ship and sailor. Discarded whale carcasses were left floating in open waters. The oil was collected into barrels and it was when these barrels filled the ship that the voyage would come to an end. The sailors were paid at the end of the voyage to insure they did not desert. A-whaling was dangerous and difficult work, but money was a mighty motivator. The quest for oil does not seem to bring out the best of humanity.

I keep mulling over the story because of the unique tragedies and triumphs experienced by the Essex crew. Their ship is attacked by a sperm whale and sinks while most of the crew including the captain are on the open ocean hunting- they look up to see their ship sinking thousands of miles from any known shore. Fearful of cannibals, they set out on a difficult journey, fighting wind and currents, to return to the known South American coast; a decision that results in the loss of lives and in their own cannibalism. It is a grim and gripping read. The cannibal island they were trying to avoid was the unknown Hawaiian Islands which is the very place I started reading the story. If they had made for Hawaii or even Tahiti, they might have all lived and the story would not haunt my psyche. Philbrick's research on successful command leadership styles, controlled experiments with a starvation diet, sperm whale habits, and historical knowledge at the time from nautical equipment to maps, brings depth and understanding to this tragedy. Sea traditions did include drawing lots for a victim to eat and for a victim to kill the victim. It is a gruesome moment to realize you have come to that.

I have read other twentieth century accounts of sea survival- all of them set in the Pacific, which covers nearly a third of the total surface area of the earth. Those survivors, such as Pim, Zamperini, and a couple in the 1980s, included details about fishing. There were few attempts at fishing done in this tale because of where they were- the Desolate Region- a place of little life as this crew was set on avoiding cannibals and not on finding landfall.

The triumph of this story is that some of them returned home and to other ships. The captain was known for disappearing every year on the anniversary of the sinking of the Essex to pray and remember, but, otherwise, he was able to live with all that happened in a way that was meaningful. As the town nightwatchman, he cared for the many fatherless children on Nantucket Island and by all accounts seemed a kind and giving man; tragedy did not define his life. Now, I must read Moby Dick, but until then, I will be humming this traditional tune:

"Off To Sea Once More"
When first I came to Liverpool
I went upon a spree
Me money alas I spent too fast
Got drunk as drunk could be
And when my money was all gone
'Twas then I wanted more
But a man must be blind to make up his mind
To go to sea once more

I spent the night with Angeline
Too drunk to roll in bed
My watch was new and my money too
In the mornin' with 'em she fled
And as I roamed the streets about
The whores they all would roar
Here comes Jack Rack, the young sailin' lad
He must go to sea once more

As I was walkin' down the street
I met with Rapper Brown
I asked for him to take me in
And he looked at me with a frown
He said "Last time you was paid off
With me you jobbed no score
But I'll take your advance and I'll give ya's a chance
And I'll send you to sea once more

I hired me aboard of a whaling ship
Bound for the Artic seas
Where the cold winds blow through the frost and the snow
And Jamaican rum would freeze
And worst and bear I'd no hard weather gear
For I'd lost all my money ashore
'Twas then that I wished that I was dead
So I'd gone to sea no more

Some days we're catching whales me lads
And some days we're catching none
With a twenty foot oar cocked in our hands
From four o'clock in the morn
And when the shades of night come in
We rest on our weary oar
'Twas then I wished that I was dead
Or safe with the girls ashore

Come all you bold seafarin' men
And listen to my song
If you come off of them long trips
I'd have ya's not go wrong
Take my advice, drink no strong drink
Don't go sleeping with no whores
Get married lads and have all night in
So you'll go to sea no more

In Infamy

"Conferences should be held in places where you don't want to be outside," has been a lament of my husband who was sent to Hawaii for continuing education. I suggested he take off an additional day to take a tour. He chose to go to Pearl Harbor; I groaned inwardly as we would have to get on a bus at six in the morning. However, since I suggested he pick, I had to go with it.

Our bus guide was Hawaiian. On the way to the harbor he told us about his auntie's experience during the bombing. She was a child at the time. It was a Sunday morning and she was outside awaiting her parents before church. She saw the incoming Japanese planes and commented that the pilots seemed to wave her and the others inside their homes. She said she never understood that, but as the years unfolded she came to understand that the Japanese were only intent on damaging the U.S. Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor and not the people of Hawaii. This was something I had not thought about.

Our tour included the National Park Service's film about the events at Pearl Harbor, tours of the USS Arizona Memorial, the submarine USS Bowfin, and the USS Missouri. Two pivotal issues presented were when the Americans cut off Japan's access to oil due to their aggression in China and when the U.S. Pacific Fleet moved from San Francisco to Hawaii in May of 1940; both were seen by Japan as giving them no way out. Some of the Japanese planners had been educated in America- Harvard and Princeton. The Japanese plan was to take out the U.S. Pacific Fleet so that Japan could secure its position in Asia thus access to important resources; oil has been motivating politics for a long time.

The Americans expected a Japanese attack- they moved the pacific fleet to Hawaii- but then they lined the battleships in a row as well as the planes from wingtip to wingtip at the air fields, fearing sabotage more than an air attack. Seeing Pearl Harbor in person I was most struck by its smallness even with three ships in the vicinity. Eight battleships were in place at the time of the attack. Newly deployed radar detected the presence of incoming planes but the information was dismissed when reported because some B-17s were due to arrive from California. The bus guide pointed out that the radar detected the planes coming in from the opposite direction of California; unfortunately the lieutenant in charge failed to consider this on that fateful day. All eight of the battleships were hit, but six of them were eventually returned to service by salvaging them from the bottom of Pearl Harbor. The U.S. aircraft carriers were out at sea at the time of the strike. Back to the auntie's comments, of the 2,335 killed in the attack, 68 of the dead were civilians, reflecting to some degree that the target was the fleet and not the Hawaiians.

The USS Arizona memorial was tough on the Moose- all that talk of dead bodies being trapped below, the list of the dead crew's names, and the oil "tears" flowing about in the water made him decidedly "stressed." He wanted off. People around us were somber with a few tears being shed all these years later. We sat on a bench together, out of the others' way, awaiting the Navy boat back to shore.

The tour guide on the battleship USS Missouri, where the Americans and Japanese signed the formal surrender in Tokyo Bay, made it a point to tell of MacArthur's plans of humiliation for the Japanese at the signing. The Japanese arrived in formal attire including top hats and full dress uniforms; the American sailors were instructed to end the war as they began it- in their work clothes. MacArthur also requested the tallest most intimidating sailors as side boys . These planned slights, however, were partially undone when the Colonel from Canada signed the surrender documents on the wrong line. It amused me to some degree because with my time in Japan you come to realize that the Japanese are meticulous and detailed in a way that few Americans ever strive to be. MacArthur's slights seemed petty to me and lacking in respect of a worthy foe all these years later, but he did have to make do with an incorrect signature. The tour guide also explained that the USS Missouri had removed the Japanese flags that were painted on the bridge signifying airplanes it had downed as a sign of respect for a country that was now our friend and ally.

There is one more tale to add to this day. On the tour of the USS Missouri, we were shown a barely discernable dent that was so small that I wasn't sure if I was looking at the right spot. I asked for confirmation. The dent, the size of a silver dollar or a 500¥en coin, on the starboard side was the result of a kamikaze crash by a nineteen year old Japanese pilot. From photographic evidence (snapped by the ship's cook), the pilot appeared dead before impact. The ship's crew, intending to throw his body overboard, were stopped by their captain who told them, "he was doing his job just as you would do; he deserves your respect." This call to humanity inspired the crew. A Japanese flag was hand sewn overnight by crew members, and the pilot was given a six gun salute and a proper burial at sea. Later, the ship obtained a photo of the pilot from the Japanese which included a picture of him as a child holding a toy airplane in a family photo. It reminded me of something Rickie Lee Jones said at a concert in DC, "even bad guys were once little boys in footie pajamas."

F. D. R.'s first typed draft of the speech given to Congress calling December 7, 1941, "a date that will live in infamy" was also on exhibit. Those famous words were written in pencil, canceling out the typed version that had included the word "history" from what I could glean. I was impressed by FDR's skill with words. I also had no idea that a member of Congress, a woman, voted against the U.S. going into the war, Jeannette Rankin of Montana, a life long pacifist.

A memorable tour for the lives lost and the history learned.

Knowing Munsters

Our Hawaiian Vacation

The band played until at least eleven. Sirens and other traffic sounds invade the peace of sleep with the doors open and so we slept with the air conditioner on despite our preference for the open air. The air of Hawaii is fragrant with the smell of flowers- it is subtle, but lovely, and very much preferable.

The "Fainting Mother" Story

We caught up with an old friend last night, a perpetual bachelor. The munsters loved him- he swapped story for story with them and got them laughing. He told them his "fainting mother" story. Mr. Bachelor, as a youngster in Georgia, was interested in putting a fire cracker into his cowboy. One evening after a quick dinner, he departed into the bathroom with his pen knife and stood there carving a hole into the back of Cowboy Bob. The knife slipped and cut open his finger. Knowing he was likely to upset his mom, he thought to stick it into the sink. Unfortunately, he turned on the hot water and bled a lot. In a great deal of pain, a sink full of blood, and a pale pallor , his mother walked into the bathroom, took a look at him, and dropped dead away. Wow! To make your mother faint! My children were interested. At least he also told them to keep both feet on the floor when on the balcony.

The Playmobil Army Takes Hawaii

The Moose showed Mr. Bachelor his motley Playmobil army. I am amused by the current king who happens to wear a sunflower crown he 'borrowed' from the Mule. His soldiers are sometimes Roman, Greek, Egyptian, Thai, Chinese, etc. It depends on his battle inspiration such as what we eat for dinner. They have a range of attire from a pink fairy cape to an Eskimo hood to a pirate hat to an American Indian feather head dress. The Moose puts them into various formations- the triangle position is the volcano position, the circle is the coliseum position. They amuse the Moose a great deal and have been all over Hawaii just in case he has some time to play. He happily waited with them while the Mule and I attended our free hula lesson on the hotel lawn. When my husband popped over to meet us, the Mule said, "I know how to hula now Dada. It was the same hula dance as they did at the luau last night." Twice exposed, she is an expert. The Moose's response to the hula lesson, "Why is it over already?"

Accepting Motherhood

Chatting with mothers at the pool, a mom said to me, "You know your children well. I am envious." I was floored and perplexed. It was the first time any one has said that to me besides my husband, who frankly would make the better stay at home parent- he is calmer, cooks better, and has a better sense of humor than me. I'm at present a stay at home mom. How could I not know my children, I wondered.

I can't say I chose to be a stay at home mom, but orders to Japan presented an opportunity to try it out in light of the few tempting job offers. Giving up income, prestigious job titles, and public recognition is not easily done in Washington, D.C. The words of my friend echoed once again in my head, "Let's face it, in this town you are your job." When I arrived in Japan and finally had a chance to break away from that mentality, I let go of a whole lot of stress that I'm not terribly interested in revisiting. I am satisfied with my choice, but it is no easier than for those who work- you are equally busy, tired, drained of energy, in search of quiet time, and frustrated from time to time.

I am more focused and less pulled in too many directions and yet sometimes it feels stifling to stay focused on a small aspects of life- the care taking of home and children. It is all essential, every meal cooked, every schedule kept, every minute you have to play and be silly; whether or not it is paid for or acknowledged. However you do it, home or work, accepting your choices, whether you get to make them or not, is part of the process to make peace with what you do. Success is redefined for the me as a mom that is at home. Yesterday at the pool, I got an Oscar, an acknowledgment of my work by my peer(s).

A Pool Side Chat in Hawaii

Pool side yesterday between "Mama, look at me!" demands of four children which translates between a lot of interruptions, another mother and I had a bit of a chat. It was the first one I have had here as when we went to the Luau we sat next to two deaf families with four hearing boys; it was very loud but lacking in conversation. This mother seemed a gentle sort. She asked me, "Do you know Kahlil Gibran?" "Yes, mm, but I can't remember the quote," I said thinking of children and longing. She said, "I can't remember the exact words either, but they are not our children. They are on their own path." "Mm, so they are," I said, "but in the meantime they wear me out." She said, "Sometimes when my husband comes out of his office, he finds two children waiting to see him." I laughed, "You really do that?" She replied, "Oh, yes. Don't you?" I replied, "It doesn't really work like that in the Navy." We chatted on about this and that.

"In Japan, have you ever experienced unkindness or coldness?" she asked. "No, I haven't, but some experiences frustrate me." "Really?" she asked. "Really," I replied. She wanted an example of what frustrated me in Japan. I told her that in Japan when you learn the way to do something, even as a foreigner, it may irritate you that there is no deviation from that way, but that everyone experiences the same way. "It's better than what I experience here," I said. "What do you mean?" she asked. I told her about coffee shop experiences- the yellow cup Vs. the total lack of eye contact.

The "yellow cup" story was a profound moment in my understanding of the Japanese way. Mr. Donut is one of the few coffee shops where you can get refills in Japan. On the particular day our order was a cup of coffee in a red cup, a cafe au lait in a yellow cup, a hot chocolate in a white cup, and an orange paper cup with ice and milk. The Moose, then two years old, had the white cup, but he wanted the yellow cup. In the way of a worn out mother who is sick of negotiating and just wants peace, I poured the liquids here and there and managed to pour the Moose's hot chocolate into my yellow cup. Satisfied, he sat there quietly. I was then happy to chat with my husband without interruption. The waiter approached to offer us refills, I held out my now white cup, pointed to the yellow cup, and asked for a refill as all that shuffling left me with lukewarm cafe au lait.

This was the moment that I learned my lesson. "So sorry. Cafe au lait only in the yellow cup" said the waiter. No amount of pointing to the yellow cup or trying to explain that the kid was two and stubborn would help. It was my first glimpse of "Rainman Nation." There is only one way to do things in Japan and in these kinds of situations, you will not prevail. I did my mama magic and shuffled about the drinks to get my cafe au lait (I'm not one to let obstacles stop me) and then reversed shuffled to satisfy the Moose. Yes, I was annoyed, but in accepting the way, I got my cafe au lait.

In contrast to the yellow cup experience, my coffee shop annoyance in the States comes from the lack of engagement. Setting: any coffee shop. Issue: employees who do not look at me, see me, talk to me while taking my order, or generally appear that they want to be working in a coffee shop. The employee's vacant eyes and lack of engagement in taking an order seem to be about being better than the work they do; they are not present.

In contrast in Japan, work is valued in and of itself- there is no shame in having a job whatever you do. Having a job is valued in a way I do not see widespread in the States. Perhaps the case could be made about industries like fast food and coffee shops being less than humane, but I am merely contrasting experiences in one culture's fast food industry with another in the sense that how we see ourselves comes through.

Personally, I prefer the way I am treated in Japan where I am greeted with Ishamaset or a "Welcome" and then, with eye contact, the employee looks at you to take your order. I also like that when I pay for something in Japan, my change is always counted out sometimes with dramatic flair that makes me smile. In the States I'm handed a wad of money and change with a receipt- no one counts out the change- it is dumped in my hand. I'm dismissed unprofessionally.

The other mother at the pool side nodded in acknowledgement. She understood my experience. We talked about Pearl Harbor as well. Perhaps later, we are going there, I will write about it. I thought her question about Japan reflected a general impression people have of Japan that for me is not true- every culture has some history in which is less than stellar. I liked her reminder of the children not being ours- can't say I have heard that from another mother before, but I have read the poem many times. Here it is for you.

On Children
Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Luau Night

The light of the moon brightens the night sky, the trade winds gently blow, the sounds from the pool echo upward to our balcony, and the lone singer accompanied by the guitar plays on in the open-air bar below. He is singing Jail House Rock; I loved that song when I was a kid- it's the first Elvis song I've heard here in Hawaii, but it's a bit loud as we settle down for the night.

We wore our matching Hawaiian prints to the luau- boys in Hawaiian shirts and girls in dresses. Surprisingly, we were the only ones wearing a matching set. We got to sit front and center of the stage and received a few compliments mostly from other women. My husband said we looked "cheesy," but it seemed appropriate for the setting. I am not a fan of buffets; the munsters ate very little, but the show was why we went. I had my first Mai Tai at the luau; next time I want the umbrella too. I'd recommend the luau for the show.

The vibrancy and energy of the dancers made it especially enjoyable. I particularly loved the grand finale, the fire dance, as did an enraptured Moose. Afterward, the Mule had to work through all of the moves she could remember. Those native dances convey emotions of fierceness or love or even hospitality, but something is taken away with a non-participating audience. The dancers seem to accept that it is a performance more than a real exchange. You get the idea that the dances were once part of communal gatherings with energy flowing both ways. One crazy tourist, pulled from the audience to learn the hula, seemed to have his own hula story to tell; he was a bit of comedic relief. Fortunately, they saved the mushy love song until near the end (think Wayne Newton) and then followed it with the fire dance. The Moose definitely has the "no mushy stuff" button deployed. I can't blame him; it was too much for me too. Here is a clip if it comes through from some of the dancing.

Wandering about the zoo today, we enjoyed the flowers, weather, animals, and space. The Mule chased the peacocks about while the Moose played on the playground equipment. In the late afternoon we returned to spend some time at the pool with slides. The Moose said, "Can we come back to Hawaii? With Dada?" When I told Dada about this later, Dada asked, "Is there an island where there aren't so many people?" It doesn't seem too busy, but I think he would just like to get away to a quieter spot. Maybe if we come back for a real vacation- meaning all of us on vacation, we can find a quieter spot to chill. Perhaps where they are not singing Jail House Rock down below. The Mule is requesting I go out for milk and cereal to top off that fancy luau dinner she did not eat. Gotta run.

On Vacation at last

This rocks! Awesome weather, a recovering Moose, a swimming Moose & Mule, a conferencing Dada, and a momentarily forgotten Mama, all under the embrace of beautiful weather, dangling orchids, and gentle trade winds. Hawaii grows on you quickly. The hotel beds are even gloriously comfortable. We checked on the penguins, the flamingoes, the turtles, the koi, and our luau tickets; everything is all right. I have a lovely grass umbrella shade. Must read.

Aloha Hawaii

Friday the 13th, twice. That means we are in Hawaii, well the Hilton Hawaiian Village; it is very nice- beautiful flowers, lots of flowing water, a very clean beach, and real palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze. They have pink flamingos, turtles and koi by the dozens, and even penguins on the grounds. In the evening there are tiki torches. The lobbies and elevator areas are open-air. It feels pampered and safe; it is not real life. I noted the homeless guys chatting together on our way to the Pho shop only a few blocks away, but still the air here is something and that real life stuff is not for vacation.

Upon arrival at the airport the Moose threw up and continues to throw up with every sip he drinks. Swimming in the pool cured him temporarily, but we can only hope tomorrow will be better. He said, "I'm tired of my stomach doing this." Me too.

A tropical paradise full of flesh- an overwhelming amount of skin was on display at Waikiki Beach today; bikinis are popular not matter your age or body type. When we returned from the Middle East, I had a similar shock- all of those legs in shorts in DC about did me in. It's always the tourists. Except for the high school to college crowd in Japan and the occasional naked kiddo, beach attire is modest in Kamakura- lots of swim shorts and coverups when not in the surfer wet suit uniform.

It is loads of fun to people watch here- the beauties, the beasts, the babies, the workers, and people from everywhere. In Japan, we stick out; here we blend in to the point we can't keep track of each other.

I had a bit of Glamour "Dos and Don'ts" running in my head while whiling away time at the kid's pool. One gentleman wearing a light khaki shirt and white pants struck me as a glamour don't with his heavy black shoes. He was standing at the edge of the children's pool talking for a while. I had the thought, "He's not southern or he would know he should get a pair of bucks to go with that outfit." Funny thing was though, when he sat down at one of the pool side tables, he was wearing RED socks! Those socks screamed, "Look at me!" Perhaps the black shoes were there to ground the socks. I have never seen a man wear socks that red. I'd guess he was a Californian as after noting the socks I was curious as to why someone would wear such outrageous socks in flipflop-Croc land. That's when I noted he was trim, tan, and that his clothes fit well so I decided he must think of the socks as a fashion statement. Who knows, but it was the thought that entertained me in my weary jet lag that takes you back a day and adds five hours in time, sigh.

The Moose has been dragging me around to the various signs to read them to him- explaining the statues and animals on display along with a few Hawaiian myths. We saw the Aloha Friday Fireworks, and I sit listening to Hawaiian music being sung as I type this outside on the balcony. The Moose has no legs so we are hoping an early night will help everyone's internal clock adjust. I keep thinking of some of the myths I read today. The myths often have something to do with death. Growth seems to come from death- the death of something or someone.

I am curious to see what effect Hawaii has on my disposition. I would guess it will be correlated with the Moose's stomach.

The moments that change us

What is alive today? Too much buried under the rubble of my own broken expectations of myself. I keep thinking, "You are what you do every day. What do I do everyday?" I hurry and shove things toward the world in an effort to get where I want to be all the while thinking: life should be slower.

Hurry, blurry, fast with flurry
Find some time to sit still
In the quiet of the noon
Near the heart, an open room
Time to listen in the stillness and the dark

Slow like a heart beat
First a rhythm, then a spark
Ideas emerge and begin to collate

From gentleness, reach across the divide
Touching the soul and the hand
With words and deeds that unite
Known and unknown to each other,
It is the giving, the connecting that help us grow

Scattered you are less of yourself
Wind swept and whisked about
There is no depth from which to spring
No root from which to push.

Listen, to those with pain
Feel their mystery and let them unfold
It diminishes you not, despite what you've been told.
You are only diminished if you do not listen, do not hear
Lend your ear, let them flow- the other one

Beauty can renew grandeur to our human fate,
But words shared and held between two can renew our strength
Move along and open that there yonder gate
Follow an unknown path from this known place.

I wrote that a few days ago, but I felt unsure of posting it. However, I want to pursue my thoughts, where they take me, as they come to me. There are so many people in need of simply being listened to, but we package programs with zippy names and think we can race in and zap away their concerns with a bit of information when what is needed is to be present and some small amount of time.

A Quaker man told the story on On Being that when he was in the midst of a serious depression, many people came to see him. They tried to cheer him up with "you have everything to be happy about" and this kind of talk, but it didn't help. I think I related to it at the time because I was overwhelmed with the sleep deprived baby stages of motherhood- the be grateful stuff seemed to add to my difficulty- I knew of the good news, but in my heart I felt an avoidance of something.

The Quaker goes on to tell of one man who visited everyday and said nothing. That man came and rubbed his feet (with permission) and went away, everyday. There is such intimacy and humility in this act. The Quaker said it was a transformative healing experience. A presence- no words, no potions, no agenda- a humble intimacy, helped him recover. Such powerful healing and yet very few of us have likely experienced it or offered to one another.

I realize the world needs a lot of things, but if a person is to chose a wise path they first need beauty and light. Our burdens hold us back if we find no way to let them go. When we forge connections, not to the pain or to the walls separating each of us, but to the intimate and fragile parts inside of us, we grown in strength. It is this strength that gives us courage to ask for more from ourselves and each other. When we can advocate for beauty, education, and something that is fair; we create a better world. Improving the world starts with presence and beauty. When we feel the depth of humanity within, we can be present in silence for others, and then together we can see the need for jobs and industries that are ennobling and enriching, or environments that are fair and beautiful, or the willingness to help and help again. The moments sustained by beautiful music, observing a sunrise, or in touch with the gentle hand of a loved one, feed us more than the news already played out or rancorous politics that distract us from issues we can impact. The moments that change us come from beauty not from anger that holds us in its grip.

Onsen Tomodachi

A friend who has been working in Iwate, a prefecture in northern Japan devastated by the earthquake and tsunami, is on break. The day, cold and rainy, had us heading toward the warmth and steam of the onsen hot baths. We talked about the elderly, countryside ways, and hometowns.

The tsunami destroyed the homes and landscape of Iwate to the point that even with clearing the debris, there is no place to build. Of the thousands of shelters needed, only a few hundred have been built. The people live in the school gymnasium for now. Though there have been offers of free houses in Kyoto, in Tokyo, the people, who are mostly older, do not want to leave.

The evacuees visit their home sites even if there is nothing there. The buildings may be gone, but every memory they have is tied to this devastated countryside. To leave after already losing everything,  it is too hard. This isn't just their hometown, it's their whole lives- the place of every celebration, the places where daily routines were kept, and the place their connections with each other were formed and continue, even in a school gymnasium. Many evacuees are fishermen and so the thousands of boats that disappeared left them without work. The few fishermen with both a boat and a net talked of the bits and pieces they found in their nets- from homes to humans, not exactly the catch of the day.

Many agencies and groups have rushed in and asked, "What do you need?" Then having delivered the goods, departed. The people left with each other and destruction at every turn, see the aid though generously given, not channelled toward the wider community, the greater good. A different kind of help is needed now-- a not so easy kind to give as a bottle of water. They need people to listen to their pain, to help them sort through options, to do so many things they can't yet name.

The ways of the Japanese countryside are hard even for a native- to them she is an outsider, from the city. There is a need to cultivate the locals to implement a successful program, but the prevailing approach is to push in outside ideas and bypass local input. In the best of times sitting in a Japanese board meeting as an American is tough- everyone has a say and consensus will be reached irregardless of time- it is tedious and painful. Americans tend toward avoiding the dissenters and skipping the gory details. Add to the mix: countryside, elderly, massive destruction, and lost lives, there is listening to be done.

"What do the people there want? Hope for?" I asked. "They want to rebuild. They want things to be normal again. When they talk, they start talking about the beginning. They are not past that," she said. I can imagine when you are sleeping in a school gym and staring at piles of debris that used to be your town, perhaps grieving for friends and family members who died, having a vision of the future is not your first impulse. People need to tell their stories, must tell their stories, before they can let go of their suffering whether from natural disasters or war. I thought of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission established in South Africa after the abolition of apartheid.

She said, "Operation Tomodachi- by the way, I liked the name of that."

There is something to having a hometown and being from somewhere. When you move away, work in another culture, you sometimes forget the power a place holds on all of these parts of you when you are from there, of there, and live there. Perhaps hard for foreign aid workers who live in another culture to remember when working in yet another culture.

I hope they build something beautiful for those who stay there that allows them to remain in place and that honors some of what they lost that fateful day. To do so, we must aim to remember who we help and not ourselves.

Then What Happened?

Alas, as I feared, free time and no thoughts! My fear says, "See, it is the busy life that keeps you full of thoughts to share!" My wisdom says, "Stay, sit a while; thoughts will come." My fear says, "You have no patience, who are you kidding?" My wisdom says, "The well is deep. It takes time to access it."

Sunday we packed our beach gear and headed up town. We parked our bikes at the bank. There were at least fifty bikes there thanks to the fine weather and it being Mother's Day. The udon shop was busy so we settled in for a wait after the Mule wrote our name in Japanese on the waiting list. The Moose was unhappy to have to wait. After a bit, I went over to chat. I asked him, "Have you ever heard the story 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears'?" Grumpily he replied, "Yess." "Well, have you ever heard the story of 'The Furry Sea Otter'?" He sat up, interested. I began by thinking of friendship and adventure. He snuggled in and listened. His consistent refrain was, "Then what happened?"

The furry sea otter's name was Billy. He had a friend, a sea turtle, named Charlie. Charlie disappeared one night in a storm. Billy search for Charlie, but he did not find him. Billy met a duck, Flynn, who promised to ask after Charlie during his travels. Flynn eventually found Charlie in the Galapagos Islands. He told Charlie that Billy missed him a great deal. Charlie asked Flynn when he returned to please tell Billy to come to the Galapagos Islands. Eventually Billy meets a Tahitian sailor named Tiki who offers to take Billy to the islands. Billy and Charlie are reunited and begin to travel with Tiki on all sorts of adventures.

I was impressed with the Moose's interest in my telling him a story. We read stories or tell stories from when they were little or we were little, but I have not made up a story. Having an audience makes you dig for some zaniness to keep them enthralled. Telling the story was fun, and it made me realize it doesn't have to be fully formed. Alas, the counter opened up, and we had our turn to eat lunch. The Moose peppered me with more questions about the kind of boat being used and whether a sea otter could really swim that far. I responded with "when using your imagination" you have a story license- with a story license you are free to make any thing happen.

Puttering about today in my attempts to use some quiet time to think and read I came across this passage in Brenda Ueland's If You Want to Write, "... art is a generosity, i.e., you tell somebody something not to show off, but because you want to share it with them." I immediately thought of the tale above and how it came into being because the audience was hungry for it. It also clarified why I like to write the blog versus keeping a journal- the audience. I can share my thoughts with someone. Those who have responded to the blog have been generally enthusiastic and kind- encouragers of art. The journal hasn't been touched in a long time. I drag them around and think, "I will get to it eventually." I tried writing what I am grateful for but within a few weeks I abandoned that. I tried jotting down stories about my day with the kids to save the memories, but regurgitating events didn't motivate me to keep at it. Posting a note to the internet with the awareness that it will be read, allows me to share some of my story. Sometimes, I find that what I intended to share and what is received are different, but it helps me understand when my writing has been effective and when it has not. I am learning and so I like that.

It feels a bit lonesome today- three free hours of time! I finally get quiet time and I feel concerned that I should be doing something- running about wearing myself out or emptying out the cabinet and once and for all figuring out what to keep in it. HA! That, like my "To Do" list that says, "Sharpen Knives, Tune Piano," will be there for a while. It may take time to adjust to the actual experience of stillness and quiet in my day, but it is a beginning.

Thoughts from a Mother in the Weeds

Mama, Mama, Mama

The dialogue of my day would go something like, "Mama!" and then "Mama!!!" and "Mama, look at this!" I think that would cover most of the day if you repeat it one hundred times. At the beach today, we marveled that we could hear the surf and the Moose calling, "Mama!"

Tonight the Moose asked my husband, "What is your favorite thing to do Dada?" He replied, "Spend time with munsters." The Moose liked that answer. He then asked me, "What is your favorite thing to do Mama?" I said, "Snuggle with munsters." This is true particularly because it is usually an indication that they are going to bed. Who can resist the warmth of child's cheek, especially when they wash with peach soap (they are trying to lure a peach fairy to visit them)?

I have been playing "Barbie" the past few days. The Mule and I have dressed Barbies for a party, a luau, and tonight, a ball. All of the clothes are kept at Lola Barbie's house so we have to go there to get dressed. I am only allowed to play with one Barbie- it is the Chinese barbie. We both have dark hair. I really wish I had not given away my Barbies' clothes when I was a teenager. My mother warned me I would be sorry. Well, I am dutifully sorry especially because Grandma Jennie who sewed many of those clothes never met the Mule, and she would have loved her.

To the Beach

The Moose can finally ride his bike to the beach and back with only a bit of whining at the end. The Mule collected a pile of sea shells in all of my favorite colors- she brings me the brown and purple ones and says, "Look Mama! It's your favorite color," with such delight. I wear a lot of brown which is why I think she thinks I like brown so much.

Pruning the Garden

I was possessed by the garden again. I hacked at the overgrowth around our car parking space. I created a small row along the fence to replant the sunflower seeds that have begun to sprout. There is little to no sun in our yard which is full of overgrown trees in need of trimming. Unfortunately, I can't climb the trees and whack at the canopies- too high. However, I haven't tried to do it from the second floor windows- I might be able to get something from there. I am not sure what my landlord or the neighbors will think, but all of this overgrowth feels as if it is choking me. I need the air, the light. I am hoping the row of sunflowers bloom and add some pizzaz to the parking space. I like seeing order restored to the garden patches I clear; I think that is what keeps me going back.

Hillbillies in Japan

My husband, looking out the windows at the hillsides today, commented, "We live in a holler honey." "Mm, yeah, we do!" I replied. We're from southeastern Ohio where folks live in hollers which means a valley. He thought another moment and added, "And we live by a crick!" Yes, we live by a creek. We could have a show, "Hillbillies in Japan." We could probably make someone laugh though my husband doesn't think the southeastern Ohio accent is as funny as his ever favorite "Pittsburghese." His brother sent a link to some radio show from Pittsburgh (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEyJjAAPy38). He and the kiddos are currently quoting, "I get my disahbillatey check and POW! Downn nah pannts anh att" a lot. They wanted to listen to it for their bedtime story tonight. Sigh. They are all possessed by sound, but not silence.

Motherhood

I thought I might wax poetically on motherhood in honor of the day, but I think that I am still too far in the weeds to have any real thoughts beyond daily survival. It strikes me that the moms who have the most to say have kids that are either grown up in which case I think the mothers are delusional since they can't possibly remember the weeds part anymore or they have kids that are easy- quiet and dutiful- which has nothing to do with mothering- it is genetic, just how the kid is made.

My kids are young, distractible, and talkative- it's genetic too, but impacting it, well, that is a problem. The main refrain at our house is, "Stay on Target. Stay on Target," a movie quote from Star Wars. It is about as useful as holding your breathe. I do that too. Happy Mother's Day to all of those who have nurtured a soul or two or more along the way especially to those who have had to dig deep to keep their balance and their sense of humor. I humbly receive the lessons of these little zen masters who show me daily the importance of playing not cleanliness; of humor not facts; and the importance of sound not silence in the life of a child.

Lessons from a Lost Shoe

I woke up at five in the morning yesterday. I laid in bed and thought, "Ok, this isn't so bad, I can have some quiet time to myself." While I was marveling at my opportunity, the Moose woke up. He is a very joyful soul in the morning- unlike the rest of us who are not morning people. My planned for aloneness was short lived. We meandered down the stairs and started onto the usual morning things albeit an hour early. For no particular reason the Mule also got up so there we were, having breakfast at 5:30 a.m. They did their reading and English lessons which does not happen often enough so there was a plus side to being up so early. By seven, my husband, heading to work for his first day back after his recovery, came in to tell me his car had a flat tire; he took my car. At 7:45 a.m. anticipating the kids going off to school and at last having a stretch of quiet time, the Moose's tennis shoe could not be found. He went into orbit. An hour later, he was late to school- it took him time to simmer down and agree to wear another pair of shoes. I found the missing shoe in his sister's swimming bag (who knows why) so I road my bike to school to give it to him. By nine in the morning I had used up my day's reserve of patience, but I also had a bike ride and fresh salad from the farmer's market. It is wise to take the Pollyanna approach and end on what good came from it, though the truth be told, I would have drank a beer if someone had offered.

Letting go of judgment- good or bad- is a step toward peace. It helps to see the good in the bad, and it helps to approach mundane chores as an opportunity for quiet and stillness. Nonetheless, letting go of the voice of judgment is hard. Taking a meditative approach by acknowledging "there it goes again," helps, but I still loose my equilibrium from time to time which does serve to remind me that nothing good comes from my frustrations as when I witnessed the Moose's fit over things not being as they should be. I asked him, "Which is more important: the shoe or school?" He grumbled, "Schoolllll." We sat on the front stoop for a bit staring at the garden. I hugged him and said, "It's ok." We could all benefit from some reassurance that it is ok to let go of our frustrations and pain, but so often we are left with our judgments which don't always help calm us down- "it should be here!" or "it should work, arghh!!!"

My children have a storybook, The Lost Horse by Ed Young. It is based on a Chinese proverb. With the loss of his horse, the wise man in the story says, "You know, it may not be such a bad thing." With the return of his horse with a mare, the wise man says, "Perhaps it is not such a good thing." When I find these ribbons of truth in stories, it speaks to me of their veracity and of our need to consider them. Judgment is not always useful.

Suffering can't be avoided, but labeling our sufferings or letting them define us is best avoided. My sufferings are not so much; I am grateful. Observing the loss of temper in the Moose and maintaining my own was hard- it took something from me. I was tempted to join in on the mayhem. I just wanted him to go to school, but I knew using anger and force would not server either of us well.

Rumi writes, "I want one who can quit seeing himself, fill with God and, instead of being irritated by interruption and daily resentments, feel those as kindness." Me too.

The Great Outdoors & Sabbaticals

"Go outside and play!" was a common refrain from my childhood. My parents, like theirs, sent me outside. We climbed trees and got stuck, pretended we were scouts, hid in our wild grass fort, thought the woods were a magical place, and sometimes played neighborhood games of tag, hiding-go-seek, and, later, wrestling. As puberty began, the boys, five of them, pushed me away. It forced me to expand my horizons to a neighbor girl down the road. She loved fashion, magazines, had a dog, and a pair of roller skates. I'd say Trish was my first girly friend. We moved not long after that time to Spain. As a fully formed teenager it was all about my friends anyway which meant we did a lot of strolling about and hanging around in man made structures from school to pool to friend's houses- from a childhood spent in the boughs of trees to an adolescence spent in the depths of concrete. Some of my imagination may have gotten lost along the way.

In Trainspotting, the character Tommy takes his friends to the country side. After stepping off the train they protests; he says, "It's the great outdoors! It's fresh air!" Followed by "Doesn't it make you proud to be Scottish?" There is an earnestness to Tommy's attempt to get his friends away from the drug infested squalor they endure, but they are conditioned to their world and want to stay there- the wide open space does not speak to them. We persists too long in places that are hard on us.

Forgetting the widgets, the office, the papers; the simplest way to be in the moment is to go outside. An element of the wild- the lone butterfly fluttering about, a blooming flower- can substitute until the chance comes along to go to one of those beautiful places. Until then I toil in my yard, I bike down to the store, I sit in warm patches of sunlight, very still, and I always feel better. The real issue is why do we have to get sick, ill, tired, or overwhelmed before we do more of these things? I am always amused by these foibles of human nature- I don't think I am the only one who persists in continuing habits long past their prime or in avoiding some I need to acquire. Effort is required to maintain habits- we inherently get sloppy with things we know well, so we need a checklist or we need to mix it up to keep us on our toes and keep us honest. Mostly, I find I take the lazy option and do what I already know how to do.

Unexpectedly, my husband was in the hospital which resulted in him not eating food for five days. He commented that he had a new awareness of tastes he had not noticed, at the same intensity, before. It made me think of fasting. I can't say I have ever truly fasted except overnight to get blood work drawn. I tried negotiating with the obstetrician at my daughter's delivery for juice; I was starving. So though I have had little interest or experience with fasting, perhaps this reset of our senses is a reason for doing it.

Sabbaticals, fasts, time in the wilderness, making time for stillness and quiet are in essence a way to stop our worn ways. A time of fasting can renew tastes; a rest can help us see a new direction, yielding in a change of thought or routine. Vacation'a focus is on fun with a tendency toward excessiveness- food, sights, and delights of all sorts so perhaps is not the kind of break we need. A book title on the NPR website caught my attention:A Time to Keep Silence by Patrick Leigh Fermor. He writes about his shift in awareness going from the noise of Paris to the silence of a monastery:

The explanation is simple enough: the desire for talk, movement and nervous expression that I had transported from Paris found, in this silent place, no response or foil, evoked no single echo; after miserably gesticulating for a while in a vacuum, it languished and finally died for lack on any stimulus or nourishment. The the tremendous accumulation of tiredness, which must be the common property of all our contemporaries, broke loose and swamped everything. No demands, once I had emerged from that flood of sleep, were made upon my nervous energy; there were no automatic drains, such as conversations at meals, small talk, catching trains, or the hundred anxious trivialities that poison everyday life.

There is a need for this experience in every life not just a monk's. We all have need of space and quiet whether we are aware of it or not. Modern life seems so noisy and busy and connected that quiet space is rare and undervalued. We might find we have new tastes, new delights, and more rest if we take a break- whether time outdoors or in silence.

Beverages, Quotes, and a Song

I keep thinking about J.K. Rowling: how did she write so much in a coffee shop? At least that is general story I heard. There is a neighbor who often goes to the Starbucks by the train station to write. I think he's been writing for at least the four years I have lived here. He is a single man. I often wonder why he writes at the Starbucks- maybe he needs the noise. Actually, in Japan if no one is with me, I can write in public places like swimming lessons because I am not distracted; a foreign language sounds like, "wah, wah, wah," a relaxing background noise, if I am at least alone. I am rarely alone and so free time with my own thoughts? That would be at swimming lessons or when I skip social events. I take what I can get, realizing that by the time I have free time, I will likely have no thoughts.

The Japanese generally are extremely respectful of your time and quickly depart if the slightest hint is given. I have encounters with Americans who can't take a sledgehammer- they just keep talking and talking- dumping their anxiety or at least every last molecule they can hurl in that moment. My husband referred me to Monty Python's film The Meaning of Life. The Grim Reaper appears at a dinner party to collect all of the dinner guests courtesy of the salmon mousse. He points to the American guest and says, "You always talk, you Americans, you talk and you talk and say 'Let me tell you something' and 'I just wanna say this.' Well, you're dead now, so shut up." If it is fodder for British comedy, then some of us are obviously guilty.

There is a great description by Brenda Ueland of giving a tired man an alcoholic beverage, a drink. Before the drink, his fatigue keeps his tongue in check as he has to measure the effort of what he has to say with the energy he has to say it, whereas with the drink, this inhibition deserts him and doesn't hold back. A beer is a social lubricator; it gets people talking. In college, libations were utilized to talk, talk, talk. At some point you either sober up and keep talking or you see it for what is was "beer talk." Her point was to be ware the mindless chatter we have courtesy of the drink.

Perhaps it is not such a sad thing that I rarely have time to drink, but then I still don't have time to think either; I am drowning in busy work like every one else except my brain is mumbling, "this is crazy, get out, let go, stop." I am beginning to see this vague need for quiet, for a break. It has been lurking for a long time. My soul is desperately whispering to my heart, "Don't let me go. Come find me." I feel so profoundly moved to have realized that in wanting stillness and quiet, I am wanting simply to reconnect to some part of myself that has been buried under responsibilities and duties and tasks. For a long while I thought I was selfish or asocial for wanting time away from my family or friends. You can't do it once and be done with it, you have to do it everyday. It doesn't take all day, but to wean the world off of me for a chunk of time each day, seems difficult.

I commented to my neighbor that he was looking fit. He said, "I get up at six everyday, and before I can think about it, I just go running." I laughed. I get up at six everyday too, but I have to think about other people at that hour. It means I should get up at five at my house. Whoever we are, we have different reasons, but we all want some time to ourselves- to run, to write, to think, to play an instrument, to paint; we need it.

Work life in Japan is absurdly long. Office workers trek into the office via a one to two hour commute which is usually a combination of a walk and a train ride, a twelve hour work day, and the return trip. Do the math, this is why everyone sleeps on trains in Japan. They don't have enough time to sleep. It is also why they elevate relaxing in hot water to a fine art- everyone is worn out.

My daughter (seven) told me of her friend (nine) telling her that she doesn't see her otosan "dad" much because he works long hours and on the weekend he has to go surfing in the early mornings. She only gets to see him on weekend afternoons. My daughter can relate as she rarely sees her dad during the week either. I was surprised by their conversation topic. They talked about- not kobito fairies or hula or barbies- missing their dads. My husband swears he has no choice in his long hours at least until he retires from the Navy; I try not to grump about it too much. Apparently, it is fairly common for at least some sailors to work long hours even with a desk job. It seems easier when they go out to sea- away for some period of time, but when they are home but never at home it is harder to bare. Compared to the Japanese, Americans generally do not work as absurd hours, but then I used to live in Washington, DC, where mandatory fun occupied quite a few evening hours as folks tried to make personal connections over those glasses of beers (or not) to pursue company goals and agendas for some political concession.

What do we gain from these long hours of devotion to work, companies, or political issues? I don't think it truly enriches us. We ignore our families and hope auto pilot works out? You miss a lot. I paraphrase Bob, the main character in Lost in Translation, the people who should be some of the most interesting people to you in the whole world, grow up and move on, and then it is like the song "Cat's in the Craddle" by Harry Chapin:

A child arrived just the other day,
He came to the world in the usual way.
But there were planes to catch, and bills to pay.
He learned to walk while I was away.
And he was talking 'fore I knew it, and as he grew,
He'd say, "I'm gonna be like you, dad.
You know I'm gonna be like you."

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, dad?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."

My son turned ten just the other day.
He said, "Thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play.
Can you teach me to throw?" I said, "Not today,
I got a lot to do." He said, "That's ok."
And he walked away, but his smile never dimmed,
Said, "I'm gonna be like him, yeah.
You know I'm gonna be like him."

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, dad?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."

Well, he came from college just the other day,
So much like a man I just had to say,
"Son, I'm proud of you. Can you sit for a while?"
He shook his head, and he said with a smile,
"What I'd really like, dad, is to borrow the car keys.
See you later. Can I have them please?"

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, son?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then, dad.
You know we'll have a good time then."

I've long since retired and my son's moved away.
I called him up just the other day.
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind."
He said, "I'd love to, dad, if I could find the time.
You see, my new job's a hassle, and the kid's got the flu,
But it's sure nice talking to you, dad.
It's been sure nice talking to you."
And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to me,
He'd grown up just like me.
My boy was just like me.

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, son?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then, dad.
You know we'll have a good time then."

We get conditioned to working too much and mistake it for real life.

On Writing Daily

Space to create is found in a quiet place. Noise from whatever the source seemingly keeps our depths hidden. It is the silence and the stillness that allow creative thoughts emerge. There has been so much chaos of late that it has become a struggle to find a quiet time, a still place to write. I doubt myself at times in my new endeavor and think: why should I write? There are so many reasons not to do it. Why do I seek to write everyday? Most commonly I hear, "you should only write when you are inspired." However, my gut is telling me to do it anyway.

My day is crowded with things I need to do. I get up everyday and do a hundred tasks because I have to; I want one thing that is about a search for beauty, about taking time to create, or about seeing some unknown truth I had hidden away. I have found a path through the brambles that accesses my soul, to widen the path I must return frequently. I do not fear the interruptions or dislike the noise or even have concern with the chaos, but I need a chance to get away from the distractions. This space inside that has been cleared can be quickly overtaken by neglect just like a garden or clearing left in the hands of nature- all sorts of things grow, but to no great effect. If I waited until I was inspired, I would still be waiting. If I listen to the longing in my soul, then I sit and begin, as now. Ignoring the longing leads to discontent. In a space undisturbed, there is a connection to all of life that comes into being no other way.

We stay so busy, we don't have time to be still. I feel guilty seeking a quiet space. I am constantly interrupted so it seems, I should not ask for this space, this time, and yet not seeking it is not the answer. We interrupt each other whether at home or work- you are stopped in what you are doing by an appointment, a phone call, someone popping round for just a moment, etc. It keeps things shallow, depth needs space and time. The best conversations come when we have time to listen; when we are not doing so many other things.

A modern fault is to think something productive should come from this time away: sounds from the musician, words from the writer, pictures from the artist, but we also need time to be in the silence with nothing to do, nothing to create. Seeking an end seems to backfire. To be, to sit, to allow the depths inside to emerge into this time is essential. It is work: work to create the space, work to make the time, and work to open up to world, but it is how we get to our creative space.

If everyone sticks a straw in and sucks me up, then there is nothing left, unless I am able to refill myself. If my path follows everyone's needs but my own, then I am lost to them and myself. If my path is true to me, then I can give when I am asked. Quiet, like water, nourishes. Sitting on a rock by a babbling brook, you can hear the humming insects, feel the kindness of the breeze, but the minute a conversation begins, you are lost to these moments.

I came upon the Moose walking home from school. His gaggle of friends was slowly making their way toward home, away from him. He stood transfixed at the railing staring into the river bed below. I wondered what kept his interest. I stood by a few moments, but he didn't notice; he continued his observations without awareness of another's presence. There were patterns from the mud and water that shimmered in the afternoon light, but it was the flower blossoms, caught in a small eddy, that held his eye with their color. I wanted to tease him but did not as I sensed making him aware of his rapture with nature could diminish it, and, in the end, diminish him.

We nurture beauty by taking the time to be with it. We nurture creativity by making a place for it to come. Let us encourage one another with the gift of silence in the face of beauty and with a space of time to create everyday as if they were as essential to the spirit as rest and water are to the body.

To Surf, to Float, to Be

It is Golden Week in Japan- the flowers are blooming, workers are on holiday, and the sun is shinning. The light filters through the maple tree top out side of my window. The second floor is brighter than the first floor. Many houses in Japan build the living quarters on the second floor for this reason- better light. The bedrooms are left to the darker regions- better for dreaming.

The beach is crowded with surfers and dog walkers. A friend once told me that the best part of surfing is waiting for the waves- floating and chatting. The mere suggestion of the idea of floating makes me want to take up the sport. It is not just about catching the wave. You have to be prepared, trusting a wave will come but to really enjoy it, you have to like to float. Today, I am thinking about floating.

I mostly grew up on the Gulf Coast of Florida. My favorite weekend activity was going to the beach. When my mom was in nursing school she would sometimes take my friend Alan and me. We loved to take a raft and float on the waves- over and over- drifting with the tide, dragging the raft back up the beach, and doing it again and again- losing ourselves in that feeling of floating over and over. It felt marvelous like being dizzy but never falling off. It was a great sensation. We would also sit for hours making sand castles from dripping wet sand and chase little schools of minnows caught between the sandbars. We would be there all day and yet it seemed like when we had to leave, we had just gotten there. Perhaps there were a few sunburns along the way, but I always remember the feeling of floating- up and down over the waves. The Gulf of Mexico's water is warm. I struggle to swim in cold water whether the Pacific waters of Japan or the northwest, the Atlantic Ocean, or lakes. Lakes always seem so cold. They do not induce me to float and float- there is not enough warmth. The surfers wear wet suits so perhaps I could tolerate it, but, alas, it is not surfing that I seek, but that peaceful lull that comes with floating with an occasional wave to keep me alert.

I used to think happiness was the aim of existence. I don't think that anymore. Happiness is a trap, easily manipulatable- is it health? wealth? It is too elusive. When you are happy you enjoy your health, appreciate what you have despite the wealth in your wallet, but you can be pulled along by well-intentioned ideas, friends, and advertisers into thinking something is just what you need for happiness. I am more interested in peace now. Peace has many forms but it's gentleness and quietness seem necessary in contrast to a hectic pace of life and the noise of the electronic age. Peace and floating go well together. I need to float a little more and fall back into the warmth of the sun, the rhythm of the waves, and the feeling of endless time. If we are at peace, we can let our inner self shine through, we can do work that we love despite the lack of financial reward, and we can trust that the next wave will come when we are at peace and present in the moment that we have. Sometimes we just have to wait for our souls to catch up with us- we move to fast; we aim for too much.

"Time was never reduced to achievement. Time was for wonder," writes John O'Donohue about time in Ireland in his book Anam Cara. I like to stare off into space and to float, but I keep thinking of stuff I need to do. It is not getting me anywhere- it is always there to do. We could all benefit from some time to wonder- no agenda, no product, no point. It comes back to taking time to be.