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.