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. 

The Smell of Clean Laundry

I love slow, lazy mornings; the kind of morning where you don't have to be anywhere or get anything accomplished. Tuesday is my self-imposed laundry day, and in between pulling clothes out of the machine and hanging them to dry outside my bedroom window, I have enjoyed a relaxing morning at home, puttering around the house and chatting with friends in Texas. 

Still, this laundry task feels like a defeat before I even begin. I enjoy nothing more than to smell like soap and freshly washed clothes. But no matter how hard I try, by the time my clothes dry they share the aroma of the bar next to my apartment. Oh well.

My time in Guiyang continues to satisfy my spirit. I'm making dear friends and enjoying work that I feel both betters my community and brings great personal fulfillment. It's strange to live outside the rat race that I've grown up in, where I can enjoy a laid-back morning and the demands of the day can wait for me to finish washing my clothes. The world seems to unfold a little more slowly in this place. It's lovely. 

We Found a Piece of Soil

I put a lot of pressure on myself to do things on my own. I want to be able to take care of myself, but sometimes it's just more efficient to use my resources: my Chinese friends.

Today was one of those days. I needed to mail a package and put minutes on my cell phone, and I wasn't sure how to accomplish either of these tasks. My friend Bear, who was working at the school, said she could help me out. 

As we were leaving the post office, I told Bear that I had seen an English sign earlier that morning for something called Soil Cafe. I inquired as to what it was. Bear, being in the know, told me it was an American-run coffee shop and asked if I wanted to go. I already felt bad that she had left work to traipse across Guiyang with me, but she assured me it was not a problem.

"You work for Aston and you are new in town," Bear said. "So this is my work."

We walked several blocks to Soil Cafe, and I wasn't sure what to expect. Coffee culture is different in China than it is in the United States, and I didn't want to get my hopes up. 

But it's amazing. I knew it was a winner when they started playing The Weepies music. The Weepies in China! 

I'm confident this two-story hangout will serve as a great refuge in the months to come. The coffee tastes great, the atmosphere is pleasing and the natural sunlight is perfect for an afternoon of lesson planning or, like today, warm drinks with a friend. 

Stopped in My Tracks

A new teacher in a new city, I often find myself responding to the world around me in more task-oriented way than I would like. It's hard to really let myself rest; I'm always thinking about how to get from one place to another, how to improve my teaching and how to communicate basic needs in Mandarin.

Yesterday I had eight hours of classes and I was running late to work. I try to avoid taking taxis if possible because walking is both good for my health and helps me become better acquainted with my new home. So I picked up my pace, walking briskly through Guiyang's traffic-laden streets.

As I walked (more like jogged,) I mentally ran through my day, attempting to prepare myself for interaction with and instruction for about 50 Chinese students.

Aston is on the third floor of a building on ZhongHua NanLu, and as I approached the school I was slowed down by the family in front of me, obviously headed toward the same destination as me. Still lost in thought and not really paying attention, I kept wishing this family would walk faster. I had to get to work, I thought.

When I finally snapped out of my trance, I realized that the son of the family walking ahead of me was disabled; he appeared to me to have Cerebral Palsy. This scene caught me off guard because I've never seen a disabled child in a context like this. Not in China.

The family realized I was walking behind them, and I think they were embarrassed by the situation, that one of the foreign teachers was waiting on them. They stepped aside as to let me pass them, but I instead smiled and signaled for them to go on ahead of me; I could wait. Being on time no longer felt so imperative.

What I wanted my face to express in a way that I could not adequately convey with words was that I understood what it feels like to be a part of a family that's a bit outside the norm. These three could never have known how much they encouraged me in that moment. And while I'm sure they felt incredibly self conscious about the situation, I couldn't help but inwardly celebrate the testimony of this unique family.

The photos below are snapshots of the eclectic scene I observe on my way to the school. 

Let the Music Lead You

With two weeks of teaching now under my belt, I've enjoyed watching each of my 18 classes take on a personality of their own. My presumption was that I would most enjoy my lower level classes, but I think my my C14 students (15 to 17 years olds) are in a pretty strong ranking for NO. 1. 

C14 is the highest level Aston offers, so these kids are sharp. Three students — Clark, Laura and Candy — comprise the class, and I enjoy the laid-back atmosphere and interesting conversations I get to share with them each Sunday morning. 

Today's topic of conversation was music. I must have been wearing my excitement on my sleeve, explaining terms like ballad, time and metre. My dad would have been ever so proud. I enjoyed watching my students get into the lesson, their eyes brightening and their minds engaged. But who isn't interested in music? It makes for a great English lesson as I would soon find.

We played all sorts of listening games, and I gladly introduced my class to a smattering of my favorite musicians, including Billy Joel, the Temptations, Ella Fitzgerald, U2 and Radiohead. 

You can't talk about music without dabbling in culture. I knew that in order for my students to enjoy the songs they were hearing they had to first understand the context from which the musicians were coming. One of their activities was to listen to the Jens Lekman song "I Saw Her at the Anti-War Demonstration" and complete a gap-fill worksheet of the printed lyrics. 

For those unfamiliar with Lekman's work, this Swedish musician is both clever and wordy. I knew that his lyrics would be over my students' Chinese heads, but I decided they were up for the challenge. As I pre-taught some of the concepts and phrases they would hear in the song, I at one point just had to chuckle out loud. I am a dreamer through and through, but I never imagined teaching a class of Chinese English students what vegan pancakes are or why people in the West go to anti-war demonstrations. Of course my class didn't catch any of the song's humor. I, on the other hand, was thoroughly entertained. With them.

But the crux of the class, the absolute climax was the mini American Idol performance we put on. I explained to the students what the word genre meant, giving them examples from my music library. They were to then choose a music genre and write the chorus to a song appropriate for that genre. 

It's Chinese modesty to assume incompetence when given certain tasks, and my students responded accordingly. They looked at me with a blank stare that communicated, "There's no way I can do that." I told them that they were completely capable of writing a few short verses, but that if they were too embarrassed to sing in front of the class, I would be content to let them merely speak their lyrics out loud. 

And the song writing began. 

I didn't think any of them would want to actually perform but was happily surprised when Clark, who had been the most quiet during class asked if he could sing first. The bar had been set. At once, they all started practicing their songs, humming out loud and trying to memorize their lyrics. I knew I was in for a performance. 

Clark's genre was pop music, which just in case you didn't know, is a BIG deal among Chinese youth. Oh, and he sang —loudly and with great passion. Just imagine Josh Groban. Except Chinese. And 17. And terrible. 

It would have been one thing had his song been about love or heartache or painful growth — some issue with a lot of emotional pull. But Clark instead decided to sing about studying, about he was going to increase his daily homework dosage. This of course made his performance all the more compelling. 

Candy came next, and after Clark's performance, I could tell she was intimidated to follow her classmate's soul-wrenching act. Candy is your quintessential Chinese teenager: conscientious and thorough. After humming for something like two minutes and trying to find the perfect melody for her lyrics, I told Candy I was sure she she would do a great job, that she should go ahead and perform. And what I received was a beautifully nasal rendition of love and loss. I could tell she was very proud of herself.

Lastly came Laura, my free sprit. I love Laura's transparency and unconventional personality (a bit of a novelty in China,) so I was surprised when she said she didn't want to sing her song. I told her she was not required to sing but that I would like for her to share her lyrics with her classmates. And she did. She also asked if she could sing another song, and the class got to listen to Laura sing Avril Lavigne's  "Complicated" — all three verses.

Throughout the activity, I kept studying my students, trying to gauge their reactions to the cheesiness in which we were partaking. I for one was having a difficult time not falling out of my chair in laughter. In fact, there were several times when I had to put my hand over my mouth in fear that my students would see me laughing and think they were being made fun of. 

Several years ago I interned at a Chinese newspaper, and one of my tasks was to help judge a writing contest for young English learners in the Xiamen area. I soon learned that the Chinese treasure all things sappy and emotional. To them cliches are beautiful and poetic. Just think about the uber cheesy greeting cards you read at the supermarket. Yeah, the Chinese eat up that kind of stuff. 

So an activity that I intended to be funny and lighthearted, my students interpreted as powerful and moving. They were inspired by their peers' creativity and soulfulness. I was mostly pleased that everyone involved had a good time and really took the activity to heart.

I wish at times that there was another American in my classes, someone I could exchange glances with when things get hilarious, someone who can see life and especially humor outside this Chinese perspective. These experiences are so rich, I feel a need to share them with others. Where's a Handy-cam when you need one?

Had These Mountains the Ability to Reason

If I haven't stated it previously, my weekends border insanity. Though I enjoy my job and love the people with whom I work, I was feeling a need to retreat today after teaching my last class. 

I turned on some Sufjan and finished Through Painted Deserts for something like the 200th time this evening. It never gets old. Ever. 

And while I sometimes feel my literary inspiration should come from dead people who constructed "the classics," my spirit resonates with a more modern, more bohemian author. In fact I have quite a crush on Donald Miller, as evidenced by my ability to read his books over and over without tiring of them.

 

Even tonight, though I've read it so many times before, I became teary as I wrapped up Through Painted Deserts, feeling as though I had made the cross-country excursion with he and his best friend Paul and learned better the answers of the cosmos...

And if these mountains had eyes, they would wake to find two strangers in their fences, standing in admiration as a breathing red pours its tinge upon earth's shore. These mountains, which have seen untold sunrises, long to thunder praise but stand reverent, silent so that man's weak praise should be given God's attention.

It's a wonder that those exposed to such beauty forfeit the great questions in the face of this miraculous evidence. I think again about this small period of grace, and thank God for it, that if only for a season, I could feel the "why" of life, see it in the metaphor of light, in the endlessness of the cosmos, in the miracle of friendship. And had these mountains the ability to reason, perhaps they would contemplate the beauty of humanity, and praise God for the miracle that each of us is, pondering the majesty of God and the wonder of man in one bewildering context. 

Their brows are rumpled even now, and their arms are stretched toward heaven.

-Don Miller-

On the Street Where I Live

My favorite part of the day is walking home from work at nighttime. The weather in Guiyang has warmed considerably in the last week, which makes the evenings quite pleasant. Also I enjoy having a bit of solitude time after teaching energetic Chinese kids all day.

Guiyang is known for it's nightlife. And it's fun because I live right in the center of the city. There are tons of night markets and little vendors selling food that line the street where I live. I've been quickly reminded why I came home from my last excursion to China a vegetarian. You can have any part of any animal you want to eat, and it's all just sitting out on trays under the florescent bulbs that light the tents, hoping to allure you. 

The Japanese eggplants are more my style, and last night a vendor near the school was selling the most beautiful cherry tomatoes. I have loved cherry tomatoes since I was a little girl when my father used to grow them in our vegetable garden in the back yard. I would follow him around, picking the fruit right off the vine and munching on them as he worked. 

I am incredibly cautious to wash all my produce, and of course I washed my tomatoes after buying them. Apparently not well enough, as they have been reeking havoc on my stomach all day long. I have been so sick I couldn't work tonight.

Street food always looks so inviting. I like the idea of buying produce off the street rather than the grocery, especially because I want to be a part of the vibrant atmosphere that is taking place right outside my door. But I need to come up with a better system for cleaning this produce because I don't want to have to endure another day like today. 

Remembrance

Despite my noble efforts to stay germ free, I'm sick this morning. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Fortunately, I don't teach until the evening time, which allows me a whole day to feel better. I've tried to be somewhat productive, using my time at home to do some laundry and catch up on my correspondence. I undertook the huge task of cleaning out my Inbox, sifting through old emails as I ditched some and categorized others into folders.

I came across an old e-mail that I sent late last year to a friend living overseas. I confess, it did my heart good to re-read the letter and remember my fall travels. I've been so consumed with getting settled into my life in China that I easily forget what a cool adventure I had in Africa and Europe. I keep a few of my favorite photos from Africa in my kitchen, and every morning as I fix my oatmeal I smile and try to remember that corner of the world. It would be such a shame to forget.

Anyway, I thought I would share the e-mail with you as I still find it to be completely applicable and would love for you to join me in remembering.


My favorite memory of Africa was at a construction site in a village outside Mwanza. The Guilds were helping with a certain building project. All the Sukuma women were collecting rocks for the cement because apparently it's not a man's place to do such a job. And so I crawled around on the ground with the women for several hours and helped gather rocks. I don't know why that memory is so potent, except that it seemed fitting. I always want to feel so important, to look the part or to impress. But there's nothing wrong with collecting rocks and siting criss-crosss applesauce in the middle of a field with a group of Tanzanian women who laugh at your inability to speak their language. In fact, it's up there with the most beautiful things a person can experience. So in some regard, Africa really helped free me from myself, if that makes any sense at all.

I know a lot of people travel to run away from things in their lives that seem dismal, and I don't think there is harm in that mentality. I've just always felt like I was running toward something, not away from it, like Africa, as general a term as it may be, was helping me become who God intended, though I am still far from that goal. Africa wasn't the missing piece, but rather a really great means to a much better way of life.

And I remember one particular Thursday evening in Barcelona, I walked home in the rain. Each day after hours of classes about adverbial clauses and dental, labial consonants, I enjoyed a café con leche and an hour or so of free time to decompress at this little bar, Rembrandt’s, located about six blocks from my flat and one block from the nearest metro station. I didn’t mind walking those six blocks in the rain that night, my last night in Barcelona, feeling as though it was somehow appropriate for the city to mourn my departure.

It’s strange how places can connect themselves to a person, as though they were building themselves into that individuals’ landscape and not the other way around, clinging to the clothes that person wears and lingering in their conversation for years to come.

I had gone to the ocean the day before. I needed to feel small and be reminded that feeling small is ok, that I don’t have to save the world to lead a meaningful life, and I can be content with the way the sand feels between my naked toes or the way the waves so consistently come up into the shore and back out into the deep.

And at some point on the other end of this huge mass of water, my loved ones were cramming for some final, enjoying time with their families or driving home after a long day at work. I closed my eyes and momentarily dreamt myself to Texas, remembering what it felt like to listen to music in my Honda, remembering how much I liked to sip hot chai at Jupiter House but most remembering how good familiarity felt.

And I knew that familiarity would have to come at the cost of ending a really great chapter of life, and standing on the beach and walking in the rain merely served as a sort of bookend to a season marked by free-spiritedness, Tanzanian laughter and new places ripe for exploration.

And so, dear friend, that is where I'm at — at another point on the map and waiting. Wondering how the next chapter looks, and attempting to internalize my experiences rather than taking them for granted because places and people really do become a part of a person, whether or not we choose to accept that reality.

I hope I get to go back to Kenya and especially Tanzania. I hope I get to see more of Europe and Asia and Latin America (you know Chile was my almost home) But even if I don't, the experiences I've had thus far are mine; I'll always have them. And someday I'll wake up feeling melancholy, and I'll remember picking up rocks in Africa, or I'll hate my 9-to-5 job and I'll remember standing on the beach in Barcelona and singing "Love and some verses" under my breath. And I'll remember how many places and how many people have connected themselves to me because I'll still be talking about them and I'll still be thinking of them when I get ready in the morning. And I'll be free again.

A Cold Splash of Water

I'm not going to lie, I like convenience. I like being able to take a taxi from one place to another if it's too rainy to walk. I like having wireless Internet in my apartment, and I enjoy all the options I have the moment I walk in the grocery. 

So perhaps it's hypocritical to say that I sometimes get tired of the city's slickness.

 I just love the beauty that comes with antiquity, in worn architecture and wrinkled faces. I enjoy spaces that have more grit than luster and that draw people to them, not by their neon lights but rather their character. 

Today my friends Lilyth and Winona took me to Qingyan, an ancient town about 45 minutes outside of Guiyang that was built in, go figure, the Qing dynasty. 

Even the drive was enjoyable. We took Winona's family car, which was a novelty to me because I have never had a Chinese friend with an automobile at their disposal. The mountains in Guizhou look like artwork out of a Dr. Seuss book, and listening to the "Dixie Chickens" as the girls referred to them made me feel as though I could experience both Texas and China at once. 

On our way to Qingyan, we stopped at Guizhou University, where Lilyth went to college. I loved walking around the campus grounds, and I think because part of me misses this aspect of living in China. I miss the university students who surrounded me at Xiamen University in Fujian. I miss living in the dorm and the energy and charisma of campus life. Plus, Guizhou University had these enormous magnolia trees that were some of the most beautiful I have yet to see.

Once arriving in Qingyan, the girls took me out for customary Guizhou cuisine, which included all sorts of gelatin dishes and pigs' feet. It wasn't the greatest Chinese meal I've ever had, but I enjoyed getting to share in this part of Lilyth and Winona's cultural heritage. 

We spent the next several hours wandering around the streets of Qingyan, indulging in local snacks — I tasted and loved the rice cake — and enjoying the beautiful scenery. I appreciate the presence of China's minority groups in Guizhou, which was evident in all the funky tapestries and clothing being sold in the shops. There were also large amounts of loose-leaf tea. I love tea! 

Sometimes life here seems so normal. I'm reminded of Meg Ryan's words in "You've Got Mail." I do "lead a small life." I wake up and go to work and eat and spend time with friends just like I would if I were in Texas. It feels natural to enjoy a day with these Chinese friends, discussing work and laughing over dinner. But I have to pinch myself at times to help remind me that this season of my life is a bit unconventional, that I'm lucky to see and experience the things I often fail to notice. 

I guess you could say that days like today and places like Qingyan are a good, cold splash of water in the face for me. They are so completely out of the norm that they enable me to remember how blessed I am to live out this dream and to be in China right now, that life continues to unfold whether or not I open my eyes to realize it.