A Soundtrack for the Mundane

I've learned in the last four months that I am most eager to blog when I should be getting something else accomplished. Today the task is studying for my Mandarin class, which I'm almost as excited about as drinking cough syrup. Most weeks I look forward to practicing my Chinese, but for whatever reason today it feels more like a chore.

So my study breaks have been increasing in number and duration as I've been perusing my music library and attempting to put together a soundtrack for my afternoon. I'm hoping background music will help motivate me, and I've been working on a little project anyway.

I read the blog of a man I know in Austin who is quite the music nerd, and he's always writing music reviews and "top 10 album" lists. But my favorite is when he occasionally puts together compilation soundtracks for movies that have yet to be made. 

I've always dreamed of working as a music consultant for independent film makers, but as this is not an option at the moment  — a thing that is evidenced by my current salary — I like to make compilations for loved ones instead. And today, with Kester's recent listing as inspiration, I'm coming up with a soundtrack for the current day in Guiayng, though ever so mundane. Maybe you need something a little snappy as well. Feel free to adopt it as your own. 

Lauren's Soundtrack

1. Keep the Car Running — The Arcade Fire

2. Bridges and Ballons — Joanna Newsom

3. Skinny Love — Bon Iver

4. Wildfires — Josh Ritter

5. An Ocean and a Rock — Lisa Hannigan

6. Start a War — The National

7. Collide — Rachel Yamagata

8. Give a Little Love — Noah and the Whale

9. Furniture — Final Fantasy 

10. For the Interests of Few — Norfolk and Western

11. Backwards/ Forwards — Sarah Jaffe

12. Marry Me — St. Vincent

13. Quiet Houses — Fleet Foxes

14. Olive Hearts — Bowerbirds

15. Mr. Blue — Catherine Feeny

16. The Penalty — Beirut

17. Blue Umbrella — Dana Falconberry

18. Amiss — The Long Lost

19. I Don't Know if I'll be Back This Time — Sea Wolf

20. The Greatest — Cat Power

High on a Hill was a Lonely Goat

My friends and I traveled to FengHuang with a travel agency as it was both the cheaper and more convenient rout to go. On the way back to the city the itinerary landed us in a minority village about three hours away from Guiyang where a famous hot spring is located. 

I was not thrilled about this plan. I'm not the greatest swimmer, and the thought of dozens of Chinese people crammed in tiny swimming pools didn't seem like the most appealing way to spend the afternoon, especially because the day was warm and the natural surroundings all too enticing.

Luckily, my friends shared similar thoughts, so we set off to explore the rice terraces and old fashioned architecture of the village instead. The afternoon was just the medicine my tree-starved soul needed, and the people of the village were so intriguing.

And out of nowhere, as we meandered around, my friend Sharon broke into song, sharing her renditions of music from the "Sound of Music," with her friends. In these situations, the best response is to join in the merriment. And so my Chinese friends and I walked along the terraces — more of a balancing act, really — singing "High on a Hill was a Lonely Goat" while eating the chocolate ice cream we bought from a vendor up the road. Very satisfying. 

This afternoon in the village was the perfect way to end my vacation to Hunan province. No deep thoughts, no burrowing issues. Just sheer enjoyment and some much needed time in the sun. 

My Latest Obsession

Ginger candy and dried kiwi. Totally sustainable. 

The Festival I Didn't Attend

China is dotted with minority villages of all sorts, and the most prevalent of the region in which I live are the Miao people. When my friend and travel mate got word that there was a special Miao festival taking place about 45 minutes away from where were staying, we decided it was too great a cultural experience to pass up.

We set out to catch a bus to the village where the festivities were taking place, which provided to be a more difficult task than imagined. After trying to find the bus station for an hour — mind you I was traveling with Chinese people — we finally found a micro-bus headed toward the countryside. Of course we hopped on.

The scenery along the way was breathtaking, and I became more convinced than ever that I live in the most beautiful piece of China. I completely lost track of time until the bumpy yet pleasant ride came to a complete halt. Apparently this festival is quite popular, but the tiny dirt roads can't handle all the traffic, especially after having been rained on for two days thus making them quite sticky to vehicle wheels. 

And true to form, most of the drivers got out of their cars to assess the problem, which accomplished nothing accept motionless vehicles that all needed to get to the same place. And so we sat and waited and napped and waited until I had almost lost my mind.

I believe, sans the aroma of stinky tofu, that I have acquired a great tolerance for many things in Chinese culture that would have once made me crazy. But something I don't understand about the Chinese is why they find it necessary to honk their horns incessantly when they know full well that it will resolve nothing. Why would an individual lay on their car horn for minutes at a time when half of the drivers on the road aren't even in their vehicles? 

After finally regaining motion, we were dropped off three miles from the fair because the parking was so bad the bus couldn't travel any further. I didn't mind. I wanted to move my legs after being stuck on a bus for hours. I enjoyed observing the minority costumes the Miao were wearing until I also observed that everyone was moving the opposite direction as us. Bringing this to my friends' attention, we soon discovered that we had in fact missed the fair all together and were now caught in a tangle of people who were moving toward the place we had waited so long to get away from. 

So we turned around, at this point up to our knees in mud, and continued walking. I kept trying to think of a comparison to this situation. I most likened it to a crowed day at Six Flags when the mass of people is overwhelming and the ride not nearly as satisfying as the long line would assume. 

While I did enjoy the beautiful scenery and the festive clothing, I think I would have been a much happier version of myself that day had I actually made it to the festival. 

On the Road Again

One of the strongest and dearest memories of my time in Fujian was the wealth of international literature at my disposal. The director of the China Studies Program had bookshelves stocked full of titles like "River Town," "The Poisonwood Bible," and "The Ugly American," books that have since helped me better develop my worldview.

The other 10 students in the program were some of the most veracious readers I have known, and soon we had developed a sort of unofficial book club among us all. Toward the end of the semester we spent about three weeks traveling the country of China, sleeping on overnight trains and stopping along the way to take in the beautiful countryside. And all the while we passed around our books to one another, utilizing our time the best we knew how as we spent endless hours in train stations all across the country.

I strongly believe that a person reads more intensely when traveling, and I hadn't realized how much I missed doing just that until last weekend when I got to revisit this cherished activity. 

Some girls from work invited me to spend May holiday with them in the ancient river city of FengHuang, which is located about six hours away from Guiyang. Besides the wonderful company I found in these girls, I could not have been more thrilled to spend a solid 12 hours reading and soaking up the Chinese scenery outside my window. 

I had been purposefully saving Muhammad Yunus's "Banker to the Poor," for a special occasion, so I tucked the book in my overnight bag, hoping it would serve as a sufficient companion for the long drive. I would soon find that this book was the perfect read for my short trip to Hunan province, and the intwining of Yunus's stories and the images  I saw outside the foggy bus windows provided some really interesting food for thought. 

Yunus won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2006 for his work as founder of the Grameen bank, an institution that provides micro-loans to the world's poor. This man has for sometime been one of my heros, as his work has gained wild success across the globe and micro-finance has given what Jeremiah would call a "future and a hope" to people who have little to nothing of which they can call their own.

I heard an interesting commentary on NPR several days before leaving for Guizhou. The man being interviewed talked about how China is a facade of growth and development, and for that matter who hasn't seen the countless images of cement-laden Chinese cities like Shanghai and Shenzhen smeared across our television screens? But China is still very much a developing culture as I was keenly reminded last weekend, and most of it's inhabitants don't have a Stackbucks at their disposal. Rather they live like the people I saw on the roads linking Guizhou to Hunan: with very little.

I guess you could say I'm in the process of learning how to respond to these realities. I took lots of classes in college where I learned about the economics of developing cultures and the pressing issues that face the world's poor. But the situation looks a lot different from a Chinese bus window than it does in a text book. I don't mean to sensationalize the situation or propose that people with little material wealth don't experience joy and contentment from life, as I would be out of line to make such assumptions. But I wonder what it looks like for me, Lauren Emily, to play into this dynamic by getting outside my test-tube life and helping others on a very real level. It seems like such an abstract idea, but I believe individuals like Muhammad Yunus teach us that it can in fact be done if we can open our eyes to catch the vision. 

Keeping it Fresh

I've found after writing for the past two months that it's hard to keep a blog fresh, to give my readers new and interesting insights into my world rather than posting twenty photos that all look similar and constantly rehashing the same issue in each post. I'm a sentimentalist at heart, and as I result I find this blog at times is a bit too sappy for my liking as a trained journalist. But I hope that for today you will humor me, as I have news that I believe is worth getting a little sentimental about: Today marks two months I have been in Guiyang.

Yesterday, I was coming home from yoga class and running late to meet a friend for coffee. I walked about 15 minutes out of my way, which I normally do, to chase down the sweet potato vender who I often buy my lunch from (They move around a lot. It's hard to keep track of them.) I kept thinking about how Rufus was probably ready to get out of the kitchen, where he stays when I leave the house, and how I needed to prepare some more material for my adult class that evening.

These are very normal thoughts and activities — meeting friends, getting lunch, thinking about work — but it occurred to me what a transition I have made in the last two weeks. For about six weeks I had been living in Guiyang. I am official resident here, my paycheck comes from Chinese employers and my community is almost completely Chinese. But several weeks ago I felt a shift had taken place as I realized I am no longer merely eating and working and living in Guiyang; I have a life in Guiyang. And there is a significant distinction between the two.

I have a dog, and I regularly go to a yoga class where my instructor and classmates know me. I don't feel nervous anymore about teaching, and the faces I see when I walk into my classes are familiar ones by this point. I have well-established friendships, and I'm no longer the new American girl at work. I'm just Lauren. Lauren who is willing to go significantly out of her way to buy a sweet potato or a piece of corn on the cob. Lauren who likes rice dishes more than noodles and doesn't prefer to eat meat. Lauren who lives on Jiahu Lu and who no longer gets lost when navigating the city. It's nice to be known and to feel comfortable in my environment. So today, on my two-month anniversary with Guiyang, Guizhou, China, I feel gratitude for the last eight weeks and excitement about the 16 that still await me.

Dreaming in the Colour Green

This is the lot I was cast, to sit here on this sharp, jagged point between two centuries when so much of everything hangs in the balance. I get to choose whether to hang it up or hang on, and I hang on because I was born to do it, like everyone else. I insist that I can do something right, if I try. I insist that you can, too, that in fact you already are, and there's a whole lot more where this came from.

That manner of thinking does not seem to be the fashion at this sharp, jagged little point in time, where the power is mighty and the fashion is coolness and gloom and one raised eyebrow. But still I suspect that the deepest of all human wishes, down there on the floor of the soul underneath the scattered rugs of lust and thirst and hunger, is the tongue-and-groove desire to be understood. And life is a slow trek along the path toward realizing how that wish will go unfulfilled. Such is the course of all wisdom: Others will see the front and back, but inside is where we each live, in that home where only one heart will ever beat. There we have to make our peace with all we need of sorrow, and all we can ever know of the divine, by whatever name we can call it.

What I can find is this, and so it has to be: conquering my own despair by doing what little I can. Stealing thunder, tucking it in my pocket to save for the long drought. Dreaming in the colour green, tasting the end of anger. Don't ask me for the evidence. The possibility of a kinder future, the existence of God — these are just two of many things that fall into the category I would label "impossible to prove, and proof is not the point." Faith has a life of its own.

Maybe the cynics are on top of the game, and maybe they're not. Maybe it doesn't cost anything to hope, and those of us who do will be able to live better, more honest lives as believers than we could as cynics. Maybe God really is just a guy on the bus. Maybe those really are his wife's measuring spoons hanging up there on my garden trellis, waiting to dole me out a pinch of grace on the day I need it. Maybe life doesn't get any better than this, or any worse, and what we get is just what we're willing to find: small wonders, where they grow.   

  -Barbara Kingsolver 

Let Them Eat Cake

When I showed up to my C14 class yesterday, which coincidentally takes place at 8:30 a.m., one of my students had about nine individually wrapped pieces of cakes resting on her lap and desk.

Many of my students bring pastries and such from local bakeries to munch on before and after their English class, but never had I seen one student, and a particularly small one for that matter, have so much food at once.

"Jane, what are you doing," I asked, unable to conceal my amusement. 

"It's my birthday today. I'm celebrating," Jane responded. And this I thought the most perfect Chinese response to such a quirky action. I allowed Jane to eat her snacks during class that day, and I was surprised to watch her successfully consume all nine pieces of cake. 

I always appreciate these funny moments with my students, especially considering I wasn't at all looking forward to going to work this weekend. In fact, I was rather dreading it. 

One of my C3 classes has been giving me lots of trouble. They're terribly behaved, and while I love them a lot, I'm still learning how to enforce discipline to a group of little kids who speak less English than I speak Mandarin. Apparently, the parents of a group of these students are notorious for complaining each term that their  children aren't learning enough and that the teachers aren't doing their job. Of course, the school is privy to the fact that the problem rests more with the parents and students than with the teachers, but it's still hard to teach an already difficult class when you have bunch of condescending parents watching you from the little window on the door, their noses pressed against the glass like they're just waiting for you to fail. 

And I have another class, my C6 class, that makes me want to pull out my hair. While they're good kids, they are so lazy. Despite my best efforts, I don't know how to get through to them. My friend Licson and I teach this class together; we have done everything we know to help these students, and yet it feels as though we are speaking to deaf ears. I get frustrated and sad that I don't know how to reach these kids, and it's hard to continually show up to teach a class when I feel my students are making no progress. 

Due to my less than enthusiastic attitude, I felt really convicted to get on my knees and spend time praying for my students before the long weekend began. Honestly, I don't think I do this as often as I should. I asked the Lord to fill me with a joy for my work and a love for my students because I felt a need for some super-natural assistance. 

I'm intrigued by the way God chooses to answer our prayers. Sometimes, like my C6 students, he doesn't seem to hear or understand my requests, despite the time and energy I invest telling him how I think he should respond. Other times he is so responsive he is almost audible. Yet I have found that most often in my life he allows me to struggle for a while, to hobble around while he ever so kindly gives me small doses of relief and perspective to endure my frustrations. 

You know, I still had a bunch of angry parents huddled around that tiny window this weekend, and my C6 kids were more oblivious than ever. 

But Jane brought nine pieces of cake to class, and who can't find joy in something so hilarious. 

I've been teaching present continuous form to my C2 students, and we've had so much fun. I instructed my students, they're little guys, to ask me a question using the present continuous. They took turns asking, 

"Do you like dancING, Miss Lauren?"

"Do you like runnING, Miss Lauren?" 

"Do you like swimmING, Miss Lauren?" 

It was Winston's turn to ask; he sat up straight in his chair, and his eyes widened.

"Do you like ME, Miss Lauren?"

Despite the fact that he completely missed the concept, I felt everything inside me melt for a moment.

"Of course I like you, Winston," I answered. And I believed it.

I don't just like Winston. I love him. And I love Jane for bringing nine pieces of cake to school with her. And I love getting to hug each of my C6 students as they leave class, regardless of how frustrated they have made me in the last two hours. 

I'm learning more with each week that passes that these students are worth spending time on my knees for, they're worth the grief they sometimes cause me, and they're worth moving half way around the world to teach.  These children were created to be loved, and I in some small way get to take part in this amazing reality.

Puppy Love

Guiyang has markets for everything. We have markets for flowers and fruit and antiques and used tennis shoes. We even have a puppy market. 

The puppy night market rests on a street corner downtown, and every evening breeders bring their pups for people to buy. Bear and I always pass that street corner when we walk home from work, and I always think how much I would love a dog. 

This wish turned into a reality today as I saved Mr. Rufus Wainwright Sutton — the Sutton family likes to name its dogs after famous musicians — from the perils of ending up on someone's dinner plate. 

Prior to finding Rufus, Licson agreed to be the godfather and caretaker of my dog when I leave China. Rest assured, Rufus will be left in good hands. 

My Chinese friends and I went on quite the field trip this afternoon in search of the perfect puppy, and I think we may have found it. Historically, I like big dogs more than small ones, but considering I live in an apartment and don't have a back yard, I think Rufus fits perfectly into my Chinese life.

Rufus loves his Aunt Bear

The Important Things in Life

Bear, Lilyth and I all keep little journals in our purses so that we can jot down tidbits of English and Chinese language that is exchanged during our conversations.

Mine is more of a survival guide, and my Chinese girlfriends are always so gracious to write out the characters next to my piyin (Mandarin written out in the Roman alphabet.) My little book has tons of my favorite dishes, basic requests and names of some of Guiyang's major streets written inside. There have been numerous times I have tried to communicate something or another to a Chinese person, unsuccessfully, and then I'll point to that particular thing in my notebook and receive a head nod and excellent service. It works like a dream. 

Both Lilyth and Bear use their journals as a way to learn more about American language by writing down some of the terminology I throw out in conversation. Their English is already so good; I sometimes forget that they miss a lot of the slang I use. Still, they're quick to ask for explanations, and I'm happy to report they're quickly filling their pocket-size journals. 

I was explaining to Bear this evening what it means to get "hit on," and of course she was studiously taking notes. Curious, I asked Bear if I could look through her notebook. I wondered what intuitive and wise insights into American culture I had shared with her. I looked inside and laughed to find the first two subjects listed in her journal: road trips and Starbucks vocabulary. Apparently, I'm teaching my friends the really important things in life.

Strengthened by the Light

I told my mom one day before leaving for Africa and Europe last fall that I often got scared at nighttime. During the day, I felt strong and empowered to take care of all the details required for my trip, but at night when everyone was asleep and the house was silent, I began to fear the transition and doubt my ability to carry through with my plans.

"But Lauren, that's why Jesus is the light," was my mom's simple but powerful response. I have carried those words with me all over the world in the last year and have pulled them out of my pocket for the many times I have needed an extra dose of strength.

By this time, I have read all of the books I brought to China more than once, as English books are difficult to come by in Guiyang and I am a bit of of book worm. I just happened to be re-reading a Donald Miller book the other day, and he talks about this issue of God being light. My mom's "pocket truth" has become all the more meaningful with Miller's thoughts to supplement it.

God makes a cosmos out of the nothingness, a molecular composition, of which He is not and never has been, as "anything" is limiting, and God has no limits. In this way, He "isn't," and yet "is." The poetic imagery is rather beautiful, stating that all we see and feel and touch, the hardness of dense atoms, the softness of a breeze is the breath of God. And into this being, into this existence, God first creates light. This light is not to be confused with the sun and moon and stars, as they are not created until later. He simply creates light, a nonsubstance that is "like" a particle and "like" a wave, but perhaps neither, just some kind of traveling energy. A kind of magnetic wave. 

Light, then, becomes a fitting metaphor for a nonbeing who is. God, if like light, travels at the speed of light, and because space and time are mingled with speed, the speed of light is the magic, exact number that allows a kind of escape from time. Scientists have played with atomic clocks, matched exactly, setting one in a plane to fly around the world, and another motionless, waiting for the return of its partner. When they reunite, the one that traveled rests milliseconds behind the one fixed. The faster you move, physicists have found, the less you experience time. And if you move at the speed of light, you will never age; you are outside of time; you are an eternal creature.

But before you strap on your running shoes, you should know scientists warn us that with speed, matter increases in density, so an attempt at the speed of light will have you imploded by the time you hit Wichita, your atoms as dense as bowling balls. And to make matters worse, your density increases on a curve; the faster you go, the greater the density, and though you can get close to the speed of light, matter and that magic speed can never meet. The faster you go, the steeper the trajectory on the graph. You and I, made from molecules, cannot travel at the speed of light and cannot escape time, at least not with a body.

Consider the complexity of light in light of the Hebrew metaphor: we don't see light; we see what it touches. It is more or less invisible, made from nothing, just purposed and focused energy, infinite in its power (it will never tire if fired into a vacuum, going forever). How fitting, then, for God to create an existence, then a metaphor, as if to say, here is something entirely unlike you, outside of time, infinite in its power and thrust: here is something you can experience but cannot understand. Throughout the remainder of the Bible, then, God calls Himself light.

(I should give credit where credit is due. This photo was not taken in China, but rather in Tanzania. Mwanza, you are beautiful.)

Change

We talked about seasons today in my C3 class, and I was reminded how grateful I am that the weather is finally changing. I was tricked by a warm spell we had several weeks ago, thinking spring had finally arrived, but the weather got cold and rainy again. Unfortunately, I think my spirit dropped with the thermometer. 

While it continues to rain almost every night, it's been sunny the last several days! People on the streets just appear to be happier, myself included. 

Farmers are selling produce and beautiful flowers on the side of the city's roads — I bought a cactus yesterday — and children run around, chasing each other up and down the crowded sidewalks. 

I marvel at the concept of seasons because I am a girl who needs change. And I am experiencing it. Around me and inside me.

When Thoughts Become Pictures

It's been a little while since I last wrote. I've had other things on my plate in the last week, but I'm back with some bittersweet news. I have decided and will inform my school later this afternoon that I will not be working with them or the greater Aston system after August. Rather, I will be moving back to Denton in hopes of establishing deeper roots in this great Texas community. 

Those of you who have kept up with me in the last month and half know that this decision has been one that has produced a lot of questions and more anxiety than I would like to claim. Honestly, I feel more relief than I feel resolve to have this decision now behind me. 

Somedays, like this morning, when I wake up to find that all the water in my flat has been turned off or when the stranger walking next to me hawks a giant luggie on my foot, the thought of moving back to Denton sounds pretty nice. 

Other days, when my Muslim noodle mama welcomes me into her restaurant with a giant hug and a big bowl of noodles or when I watch my students laugh during class, the thought of leaving this city absolutely breaks my heart. 

I knew this decision would not be a painless one to make; both Denton and Guiyang are communities which have greatly impacted me, but after thoroughly weighing the cost benefits, I believe moving back to Texas is the healthier, wiser decision. 

About a week ago, I was waiting for my friend Lilyth at a local coffee shop. We were meeting for my Mandarin lesson, and I had arrived to the shop early to journal a bit. Just that day, one of my best friends Emily, who I have known since kindergarten, announced her engagement to a guy who she is so crazy about her voice raises an octave or two whenever she references him. I had been thinking about Emily all morning, and these thoughts turned into doodles on the corner of my journal page. 

The creation started as several individual circles. As I traced around these shapes, the individual circles were less apparent while the overall image became the focal point. My sketch stemmed from Emily's news, but I think all people are this way. Yes, we are all individuals, but when we live in community with other humans — be that marital, familial, professional or missional community— our individuals lives become intertwined with other individual lives, and it's hard, if not impossible, to separate ourselves from the larger image. God has been tracing my life around his people in China for almost six years now, and I can't believe that will end in August. But it will have take on a new shape, and part of me is reluctant of the change. 

I think most deeply when I am walking, and yesterday on my way home from work, I got anxious thinking about what the transition back to Texas will entail. Where will I work? Who will I live with? Who will be my friends? In some ways it feels like moving back to Denton requires greater faith than moving to China. 

And I realized that it's not so much about being in one place or another, but rather this uneasy sense of placelessness that I find so difficult. I'm the only American at my work, so no one here really understands the place I'm from, and yet none of you can really understand the place I'm at. I'm tangled up in these two cultures, and the longer I stay in one place the less I fit into the other.

I received an e-mail this morning from an old college buddy, another traveler, and the timing of his letter couldn't have been more perfect. He kindly reminded me that one of the great benefits of traveling is how we learn so well that earth is our not our home. We weren't ever meant to be comfortable here, and "fitting in" isn't really the point.

The e-mail made me think of a note card I keep posted to my fridge with Deuteronomy 10.17 written out in my messy handwriting:

He executes justice for the fatherless and the widow, and loves the sojourner, giving him food and water. 

I hold fast to this promise and eagerly await the provisions to come. I trust that the God who called me to China that fateful morning in Barcelona is allowing me to leave China, at least for a little while. And I believe the result of this intertwining of lives and cultures will be reaped eternally, when I finally make it home. 

Up To My Ears

One of my favorite aspects of Chinese culture is that people are more relationship-oriented than task-oriented. When a person asks you to lunch what they mean is that they would like to spend the rest of their day with you if you are willing. This to say, I have been playing a lot this week with Chinese friends but getting very little else accomplished. 

While cultivating relationships with my Chinese friends is pretty high on the priority list, I would also like to keep my job. In all the fun I've had in the past few days, I've carved out little time for lesson planning and Mandarin study, both of which are imperative. I also have been chipping away at a new story I'm hoping will be published for the Burnside Writer's Collective, and had given myself a April 1 deadline. Well, it's April 2, and the story is still unfinished. So today I'm playing catch up before the crazy weekend and Tomb-Sweeping Festival, a Chinese holiday that takes place this Saturday.

Though I would much rather be running around town with friends, scurrying across busy intersections while sipping bubble tea, today it's back to the books for me. 

Patterns and Colors

One day not too long ago I walked into the school wearing a new scarf  I picked up when shopping with some friends at a minority village outside the city. It was a steal. I just couldn't resist.

"You have so many scarves," was the first thing Bear said when seeing me. 

Guilty.

I have a weakness for beautiful textiles that I can tie in my hair or wear around my neck. People randomly started giving them to me for various reasons several years ago, and as I travel, I always pick up one or two. They're light and inexpensive, a wearable way to remember the places I've visited. By now I've accumulated quite the collection, and apparently my Chinese friends have noticed. 

I have a bit of a bohemian streak, and when it comes to fashion in China everything goes. I love it. I even saw a woman on the street one day wearing pajamas with high heals, her face and hair made up like she was going somewhere important. 

In China I feel no need to be matchy, and today on my way to yoga class I realized I was wearing a bandana, scarf and satchel which were all clashing colors with busy patterns. I just couldn't get away with that in the States. 

Tuesday is my favorite day of the week because neither my friends nor I have to work. This allows time to hang out longer and do things that are harder to make happen when we have to teach at night. Today we went to an Indian shop down the road from my apartment, which had been recommended by another foreign teacher for Aston. 

As we perused this eclectic little nook, Bear grabbed a bandana off the shelf and said, "Lauren, this looks like you." I admit, it was beautiful. My others friends agreed, and laughing at how I made them promise to not let me buy anything, continued to try them on. I'm happy to announce each of my Chinese friends bought an Indian bandana today.

I don't think I talk enough about my Guiyang friends in this blog. I just really love them, and I can't imagine how hard the transition to China would be if not for their friendships. In the last week, I've noticed how much of their mannerisms I've picked up. We have inside jokes and conversation comes easily. In some ways I feel myself becoming more and more Chinese as absurd as that statement may sound. My interests and preferences are evolving as a result of my time with them.

And as little a thing as it may seem, my heart really melted today as my friends tried on the bandanas and talked about how much these simple accessories reminded them of me. I realized then that I am not only learning from them, but they are learning from me. It's cool to observe this reciprocity. I can't wait to see my friends fashion their bandanas in the weeks to come. I'll give you a sneak peak. 

Fruit and Rain and A Bird Cage Home

After a month now in China, I finally bought some hua long gua. I had seen this fruit at the grocery, but I could never figure out how to weigh my produce. I've learned that when everything you do requires more energy that you are accustomed to expending on such tasks, it's easy to put certain ones off, hoping that you will come upon a day when you have inspiration to figure it out. 

Today was that day. Hua long gua is translated fire-dragon fruit in English, and who doesn't want to eat fruit with a name like that. I always forget how heavy produce is until I'm lugging it home from the store, and today I barely beat the rain. 

I can't seem to move away from places where the weather is unpredictable. On Monday I was wearing a skirt with sandals; today I wore my heavy coat with thick tights and boots. But with the cold weather and rain has come a quieted spirit. 

When living in Xiamen, my roommate Simone and I walked by a certain apartment complex everyday, which we affectionately called the bird cage homes. These apartments had intricately designed iron bars, reminiscent of a bird cage, outside the windows to protect the residents from falling out when hanging their laundry. 

These days I live in a bird cage home. I was taking some photos of the rain tonight and smirked at how life has brought me full circle. I haven't consciously thought about fire-dragon fruit or the bird cage homes for several years now, or at least the last time I was in China. Yet here I am, eating hua long guo and leaning outside my bird cage window while Belle and Sebastian join the rain in serenading me.  

It's The Small, Treasured Things

We talked about families today in my C3 class. I love my C3 kiddos. They haven't yet reached the age where they're too cool to run up to me before class and give me hugs. 

"Miss Lauren, Miss Lauren, how are you," they always ask while wrapping their arms around my waist and squeezing me tightly. If I responded with any other words except "fine, thanks," they would have no idea what I was talking about.

C3 is a great class because at this stage the students have developed a foundational vocabulary and are finally beginning to construct sentences on their own, as opposed to reciting parroted lines they learn in earlier classes. It's fun to teach, and they're so cute and entertaining to watch.

We learned the word house today and reviewed terms like mother, brother, father, sister, grandma and grandpa. I decided I was long overdue for an art project in this class, so I asked the students to draw me a picture of their house and label it. They were to then draw and label their family members standing next to their house.

I confess, I have a huge soft spot for children's artwork, even if they are simple sketches drawn on scratch paper. My journal is full of drawings by the Kenyan children I sat next to in church the Sunday I visited Nairobi. And I love them. 

Today was no different. I probably should have let my students keep their drawings, but I couldn't resist collecting them and taking them home with me where they have been thoughtfully stashed away.

I smiled as I walked around the class and studied the pictures of my students' families, feeling as though I could enjoy my own, if only vicariously, during this simple lesson. I had given a sample of what I wanted from my students by drawing my own house on the chalk board and myself next to it. One of the boys, Winston, I think was a bit confused and when collecting his artwork, I realized that he had included me in his drawing. Perhaps he didn't quite grasp the concept, but it warmed my heart to see a stick figure with my name on it next to Winston's family. 

As I've eluded to so many times in these posts, life in Guiyang is pretty simple. I have two suitcases of belongings to call my own, a handful of Chinese friends and my students. That's all. But I don't need much else, and one day when I'm really missing my luxurious American life, I'm going to pull out these pictures and remember how much joy I received the day my students drew sketches of their families for me. I'm going to remember this object lesson and that the small things in life are often the most treasured. 

I hope you won't be too harsh a copy editor. We're still working on our spelling...

Muslim Noodle Friends

One of my greatest desires as I prepared to make my China move was to build community with the people who lived and worked around me. This hope has been harder to accomplish than I imagined. 

Forget the language barrier, many people in this town treat me like I'm other worldly. I'm getting better at not letting this annoyance get under my skin, but it's hard to want to return to a restaurant, for example, when the wait staff all comes out and standing about 10 feet away from you snickers and stares the entire time you eat your meal. 

I just want to be treated normally while having healthy interactions with my neighbors. I was beginning to believe this was too much to ask for.

I'd been looking for a good Muslim noodle house since I got to Guiyang. While I'm generally a rice and veggies sort of girl, Muslim noodles are the exception to the rule. You just can't get this stuff anywhere in the States. I know. I've looked. The cook stretches out the dough as far as their arms span and divide it in half. This action rapidly occurs over and over until they have long, stringy noodles.

My favorite Muslim noodle dish is called "da shao mian," where the cook takes a large slab of dough, and with a knife, slices pieces right off into a pot of boiling water. It's then served with a broth — so good. 

It occurred to me ridiculously late into my time in China that I could probably find a pretty good noodle place in the Muslim quarter that is right across the street from my apartment. Brilliant, I know. 

Guiyang's Muslim quarter is tiny in comparison to many big cities like Xian, but I quite like it. Several weeks ago as I was wandering around, I noticed a man making da shao mian outside his restaurant, so of course I wandered inside.

The noodles were great, and the company was even better. The owners didn't treat me like a foreigner but rather like a friend. They even helped me with the correct pronunciation of the dish I was ordering. 

I've kind of fallen in love with the family that owns this place and find myself there at least once every other day. If noodles were more nutritious, I would eat there every meal without hesitation. I appreciate the generosity of my Muslim noodle friends toward me and look forward to learning more about them in the months to come. 

It's nice to feel that if anything were to happen to me I could run across the street and my Muslim noodle friends would help me out, and it's encouraging to believe that maybe this community thing is possible after all. 

I asked my Muslim noodle friends if I could take some photos of them, and they said that I could. They also kept trying to smile for all of my shots, but I managed to steal a few candid photos. I hope their kindness is as evident in these images as it is in their restaurant. 

Tears Producing Growth

As a little girl, one of the saddest sights I can recall was watching my parents cry. An image of strength and stability, I never knew how to react when these two "rocks" in my life felt too weak to hold it together. These moments weren't often but they left me with a painful feeling of desperation, knowing I could do nothing to remedy their heartache.

I've had my fair share of tearful moments, but in the last year I realize I had been responding to hard times less with tears and more with gritted teeth. I think a lot of this shift has to do with the fact that many of the frustrating experiences I've had in this season have occurred in solitude, when I was away and didn't have my community around to fall back on. I had been fighting tears rather than permitting them because I feared breaking down and being unable to pull myself back up.

My friend Kelli from Abilene, an amazing girl with an amazing mind, made the comment once that she believed tears were a spiritual gift, and while I always thought that was a beautiful idea, I never really could understand what she meant.

I think of my friend Peggy. Peggy is, with the exception of my mom, my Happy and my Auntie Em, the woman who I would like my life to most resemble. I can't count the number of times during my four years in Abilene that I dropped by Peggy and her husband James's house unannounced to steal a little time with these two amazing individuals. I enjoyed nothing more than to sit at Peggy's breakfast-room table or to lie in her hammock while catching up on the week.

Peggy has a beautifully sensitive spirit, and so many times during our chats I'd watch her eyes well up with tears as we talked. It didn't matter the topic of conversation, I never ceased to be impressed by this friend of mine who allowed the Spirit to affect her in such a way that she couldn't help but cry.

Maybe this is the response of which Kelli was speaking.

Since arriving in China, I find myself crying more often than is normal for me. Not a despairing sort of crying, but rather of acceptance and gratitude. I see now how backwards my mindset has been as I have found great healing in this action.

I've been working my way through the book of Esther in the last month, and I can't seem to make it through a chapter without finding myself on my knees, my face wet with tears. I receive e-mails from friends back home and my eyes well up, silently rejoicing over their existence. I walk through the streets of this city and become overwhelmed at the stories that surround me, stories of joy and of trials in the faces of people in my Chinese world. And all at once I am once again in tears.

The other night when I arrived at work, a Chinese co-worker came up to me and wiping remnants of mascara off my cheek asked, "Lauren, why is your face so dirty?" Apparently, I need to do a better job cleaning myself up.

The province of Guizhou is known for its rain. It rains a lot here, but yesterday as I was on a bus headed toward the countryside for an afternoon of bike riding with friends, I sat silently in amazement at how lush everything had become. The mountains here are vibrantly green and the strawberry fields stretch out for miles and miles.

I relished in thoughts of how God has set life into motion, how we have seasons and how the earth experiences drought and death and nurishment and life just like humans.

And I thought of what Don Miller said in one of his books about how he wants to keep his soul fertile so that things can keep getting born in him and so that they can die when it is time for them to die.

Perhaps tears, like rain to the dry earth, are the means by which we keep our souls fertile so that growth can at last take place. Perhaps this process really is more spiritual than we can understand.

Journeys and Luggage

I first read The Great Divorce on my high school senior trip to Fort Lauderdale; C.S. Lewis and I hung out at the beach a lot that week.

At a different stage of life, I'm happy to announce this book is just a great the second time around. Honestly, it's taken me several days to work through the preface, trying to wrap my head around all that Lewis is proposing and taking to heart the words of this brilliant mind. 

You cannot take all luggage with you on all journeys; on one journey even your right hand and your right eye may be among the things you have to leave behind. We are not living in a world where all roads are radii of a circle and where all, if followed long enough, will therefore draw gradually nearer and finally meet at the centre: rather in a world where every road, after a few miles, forks into two, and each of those into two again, and at each fork you must make a decision. Even on the biological level life is not like a river but like a tree. It does not move towards unity but away from it and the creatures grow further apart as they increase in perfection. Good, as it ripens, becomes continually more different not only from bad but other good...

I believe, to be sure, that any man who reaches heaven will find that what he abandoned (even in plucking out his right eye) has not been lost: that the kernel of what he was really seeking even in his most depraved wishes will be there, beyond expectation, waiting for him in 'the High Countries.' In that sense it will be true that those who have completed this journey to say that good is everything and heaven is everywhere...

But what, you ask of earth? Earth, I think, will not be found by anyone to be in the end a very distinct place. I think earth, if chosen instead of heaven, will turn out to have been, all along, only a region of hell: and earth, if put second to heaven, to have been from the beginning a part of heaven itself.

-C.S. Lewis

"Is it a Dragon?"

Wednesday nights I teach a C2 class (six and seven year olds).  Meet Juliet, Kevin, Dennis and Liam. I'm actually pretty crazy about them.

While I'm fond of all my students, I absolutely delight in these four. It is one of those classes teachers dream about. Besides coming to two hours of English class after being at school all day Wednesday, they are polite, they are energetic and they do a great job following instructions. 

Tonight we talked about animals — a thrilling topic if I do say so myself. I was so impressed by each student's participation and excitement about the topic.

"What is it?"

"It's a dragon."

"Is it a rabbit?"

"No, it's a dragon."

"Is it a bird?"

"No, it's a dragon"

"Is it a dragon?"

"Yes, it's a dragon."

And on and on we went. 

I think highly of my students who are not afraid to make speaking mistakes, and at the same time are correctable. They listen rather than making the same errors over and over. These four are all great at this. I wish I had their boldness and teachability when practicing my Mandarin. 

Take Liam for example. He is by far the youngest in the class and really struggles with his reading. He could so easily tune out of the class and passively participate. But he works hard and contributes great things to our class time. I see him each week get a little more comfortable with his speaking. It's fun to watch this growth. 

Juliet on the other is ahead of the game. She has the answer before I finish asking the question. And yet she doesn't have to be the one who always answers the questions. She's a team player, and she has the most welcoming spirit.

I love only having to teach one class on Wednesday because it's fun to pour all my energy and efforts into one class. Especially this class. 

Provisions

After an eventful St. Patrick's Day, nothing could have been more refreshing than my day spent at the park. Some friends and I made plans yesterday to go to this particular park, but Licson's partner was ill today, leaving Lilyth and I to take in the beautiful scenery and warm Guiyang air on our own. Though sad that Licson could not join in on the fun, I admit it was nice to have a girls' day of sorts. 

Parks in China differ from the States. In Texas at least, parks connote large plastic jungle gyms, sand boxes and perhaps a tennis court or two. But here the parks have large lakes, mountains and all sorts beautiful scenery. Lilyth and I climbed a mountain where a Buddhist temple rested on top. As we climbed she explained more to me about Buddhist religion, helping me better understand all the symbolism and telling me stories of coming to this temple with her family as a child. 

In the times I have lived in China, I have found Buddhist temples to be some of the most beautiful and peaceful places in the country. When living in Fujian, I would often go to a temple near the university where I lived. I of course am not a Buddhist nor do I have plans of ever becoming one, but this temple was built up in the mountains, and it was such a nice place to get away from the busy Chinese streets. I would take a sack lunch, climb out on to a particular rock that overlooked the city and rest for a while.

I felt the same sort of restfulness today; as Lilyth worshipped, I walked around snapping photos and enjoying the mountain-top view. We had a nice meat-free lunch at a little restaurant at the monastery and prepared for our descent. 

Apparently this park is known for its monkeys; I have never been so close to so many monkeys. Honestly, I found myself a bit nervous about the situation and couldn't help but imagine all those creepy flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. Lilyth informed me that the monkeys are so used to people feeding them that they will jump on you if they want your food or water. And this made me even more worried. 

But my favorite part of the afternoon was getting to sit next to the lake and chat with Lylith. Though I have only been in Guiyang about two weeks, I'm already thinking and praying about what life should look like after this six months is up. I know August will come quickly and I don't want it to find me unprepared. I enjoy my job, but I don't see myself being an English teacher forever. 

I've long dreamed about living in China, and I honestly love it. In so many ways, this time here is an answer to prayers I have been praying for years now. But I also love my family, and I love my hometown. I love the idea of being involved in a church and watching Elizabeth Colton grow up. I feel my dreams shifting and that scares me.

It feels like I have to choose between two very distinct lifestyles, and I often feel incapable of making this sort of decision. I don't have to make the decision today nor does the decision affect my ability to enjoy the day at hand. It's just a nagging reality that I can never quite shake. 

I had a dream last night that perpetuated a lot of these questions. I woke up frustrated, and my first thought was to e-mail a friend from home or to Skype my dad and ask for some wisdom. 

But I decided otherwise. 

Rather I chose to confide in Lilyth, to share with her what was taking place in my thoughts and get some feedback. She too is at a point of transition, with many of her own plans and dreams hanging in the balance. It was such a good thing for me to sit at a lake and have this conversation with my friend and not because I now have a better answer to this conundrum. I don't. But it's nice to realize I have friends in Guiyang who I care about and who care about me. I'm not at a place in life where I can run over to Kristine's house after work or meet Stephanie for breakfast at the Cupboard. I can't take a walk with Jess or grab coffee with Shannon. 

In all my plans and hopes of moving back to China, Lilyth and Licson, Winona and Bear weren't, at the time, in the picture. But they're here now, and my friendships with them allow me to navigate life with some great people in the absence of loved ones back home. At some point I'm going to have to make those hard decisions about what comes next for me. And while I don't look forward to that day, I'm reminded by these relationships that I'm provided for. I'm always provided for.