Heart Crafted

A Soundtrack for the Mundane

2009-05-12T22:44:00.001-07:00

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

2009-05-12T11:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-12T11:31:00.000-07:00

Ginger candy and dried kiwi. Totally sustainable.

The Festival I Didn't Attend

2009-05-12T10:46:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-12T08:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-28T16:30:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-28T05:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-26T17:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-20T07:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-19T06:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-16T05:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-10T07:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-09T20:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-31T07:32:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-29T08:49:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-28T05:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-27T07:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-24T07:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-23T02:18:00.000-07:00

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?"

2009-03-18T05:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-18T00:22:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-16T21:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-16T07:46:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-16T01:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-15T05:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-14T06:46:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-12T03:21:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-10T19:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-10T06:22:00.000-07:00

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.

A Smoggy Day in Guiyang Town

2009-03-09T05:20:00.000-07:00

Today is the first day since arriving in Guiyang that I haven't had a long list of things to accomplish or lesson plans staring at me from my coffee table.

I got to sleep late, which was good for my tired, jet lag body, and woke up to the sun shining through my window. Despite the smog, I was happy to see that the rain in this city will let up for a while to let its residents enjoy a warm, pretty day.

I'm finally beginning to get my bearings, so I took off toward the supermarket — one of my favorite places to visit in foreign countries. You can tell a lot about a culture from its supermarkets, so I guess it's fortuitous that I thoroughly enjoyed my time at Beijing Hualiang, a grocery store that is about a 15-minute walk away from my flat.

I needed to get some things for my apartment and stock up on yogurt and fruit. I can't handle these red bean- filled pastries that so many Chinese eat for breakfast; they are too sweet and not nutritious enough for my liking.

At one point during my time at the grocery, I stood next to an old lady as we sampled different bulk-sold nuts. While we munched she pointed to a particular type of walnut, as if to help me make a decision without messing with our language barrier. I responded by smiling and giving her a thumbs-up sign. We both giggled and each of us grabbed a bag of the walnuts to buy.

It's strange to be one of the only Westerners in Guiyang, maybe the only one in my section of the city. People unashamedly stare at me for uncomfortable amounts of time and follow me around like they have never seen a white person before. It doesn't bother me though; these interactions are more endearing than awkward. I'm their laowai (foreigner), and I love the unique relationship I get to share with the people in my new community.

All in all, it was a successful day. I finally got Internet set up in my apartment, I cleaned my refrigerator, I bought a new cell phone, I found two new restaurants and a fruit stand near to where I live, I figured out how to work my washing machine (all the settings are in Chinese characters), and I got to interact with some of the individuals who live and work around me.

A Dose of Chinese Hospitality

2009-03-09T04:05:00.000-07:00

I teach 21 hours on the weekend, so you are reading the blog of one tired soul. Don't get me wrong, I have genuinely enjoyed my new job. I love the people I work with, the energy at the school on the weekends and the hustle bustle of dozens of Chinese English students and their parents crowding the halls of Aston.

The school has an amazing staff, and many of the teachers are Chinese females who are about my age. They have been great to me, helping me avoid cultural blunders and doing a wonderful job inviting me into their city. Each night they have waited for me to finish teaching to walk with me part of the way home, even when it might be out of their way.

Saturday night, as we were walking, I went out on a limb and invited myself to dinner with one the teachers, Lilyth. She was meeting some people at a local eatery, and being a person who needs friends in Guiyang, I asked if I could join.

She said of course I could come, and I had a wonderful time spending time with her friends. They were so gracious to me, buying my dinner (we ate fish and vegetables) and taking me to visit a historic tower that rests on Guiyang's lake.

I'm humbled by Chinese hospitality, that the Aston teachers and Lylith's friends would go out of their way to make me feel welcome. I keep waiting to experience homesickness, to feel sad that I'm so far away from my community in Texas. But it's hard to feel lonely when you receive nothing but kindness from the people who surround you, even when you've known them less than a week.

Making Lemonade

2009-03-09T02:40:00.000-07:00

I've become convinced that every cross-cultural move has some amount of "making lemonade out of lemons" as the old saying goes. Transitioning out of the norms of your life and your culture into a whole bunch of newness can be a bit tricky at times.

Scenes from the documentary "God Grew Tired of Us," about the Lost Boys of Sudan keep running through my mind. Kristine and I watched this film only several days before I left, and we were amazed at the boys' lack of exposure to things like indoor electricity and amused by their good-natured but often futile attempts to fit in in the United States.

But I can so identify with these boys. I can't tell you how many times in the last week I have been that awkward, out-of-place person. The reality that I don't look remotely Chinese doesn't help my case.

I'm definitely in the "just don't sink" phase of my time in China, trying to gracefully adjust into this culture but mostly wanting only to keep my head above water.

I have a terrible sense of direction, which made my first attempt at walking from the school to my flat, generally a 20-minute walk, somewhat disastrous. The first predicament I encountered was that I, as expected, got turned around and ultimately lost. The second predicament came when I tried to get directions.

I can speak just enough Mandarin to give the impression that I am competent in the language. But I am not. The woman I asked to give me directions was confused, and I think frustrated, when I was unable to understand what she was telling me, when I really just wanted her to point in the direction I should walk. Luckily, I eventually found my way back to the school, and my new friend LuLu, a receptionist for Aston, walked with me back to my apartment.

Speaking of apartments, I got to move into my new flat yesterday! I’ve always lived with other people, so I haven’t quite figured out what to do with all this space. I feel really blessed to have a place to call my own, but as always, there are some drawbacks.

My bathroom looks a little more like a utility closet with a squatty potty in the middle. In China, toilets aren’t that common in public places, but I was under the impression that most residential properties contained toilets. I was wrong. Also, my washing machine is in the corner of my bathroom, taking up what minute space I have and causing me to get potentially electrocuted if I don’t remember to unplug it before showering.

As a rule, provinces below the Yellow River don’t have indoor heating because they are comparatively warmer than the northern region. Of course, Guizhou is in the southern part of the country, but it is also in the low 40s right now and rainy most days. So I’m learning to exist in the cold and keeping really good company with my space heater.

These issues — bad bathrooms, no heating, getting lost — are relatively small in the big scheme of switching cultures. You learn to suck it up and adjust. You learn that this initial insurmountable feeling is actually comprised of smaller things you eventually learn to manage. And all at once you look back and realize that while you were once struggling to crawl you are now competently walking and even running at times, that your worldview is expanding with every comfort you learn to place aside.

I will never forget the words of my friend who has been living in Tanzania now for many years. He would always tell me, “Lauren, life minus expectations equals happiness.” I couldn’t agree with him more.

Friday's Field trip

2009-02-21T19:07:00.000-08:00

I love old houses. I love my retro, one-speed blue bicycle with a basket and a "I heart my bike" bell. So Friday's bike ride through some of my favorite Denton neighborhoods was just the medicine I needed to end the work week.

My friend Callie accompanied me and with cameras in hand we took off toward Oak, Egan and Congress Street.

I was born in Denton and have loved this town for as long as I can remember. It's nice to have roots somewhere, for memories to be connected with certain places and with certain people. And while so many of the houses I photographed are ones that I have grown up driving by, I so rarely stop to study them, to look at how beautiful and often quirky they really are.

My oldest, life-long friend grew up in a little house at 810 Congress, and since she moved out about 14 years ago, I believe that house has been painted ever color imaginable, which we laugh about often. It's a great house, and yesterday as I rode past it, I just had to stop for a moment and remember. I had to remember getting splinters in my feet from the old wooden floors and camping in her backyard as we attempted to catch fireflies in glass jars.

It's sad sometimes to feel as though life is quickly slipping through my fingers, like I can't reclaim the last 23 years. They have been good years, and I'm glad I have this place — Denton, Texas — to help me remember what a blessing life has been as it enables me to dream about the future.

Operation Cupcake

2009-02-21T18:47:00.000-08:00

What better way to spend a Saturday than to bake goodies for people you love? My friend Catie, who more acurately fits in the "sister" category, has dreams of opening her own bakery someday, and her specialty — cupcakes!

The other night while eating Indian food with her family, we decided it would be fun to bake for all of our friends, for newcomers at church and for people who may be going through difficult times right now. The result ended up being something I like to affectionately call "Operation Cupcake."

Catie was the baking master mind. I served as her sous-chef and also made little, handmade labels for our cupcake creations.

We wanted to broaden our cupcake horizons, so we decided to make layered cupcakes. Just like you would layer a cake, only more bite-sized. The results ended up being just as cute as they were tasty. Catie and I enjoyed coming up with names for our baked goods as well. While "three story cupcakes" and "breast cancer awareness cupcakes" were both in the running, we finally decided on calling our creation "Obama cupcakes." I mean, why not name your chocolate and vanilla cupcakes after your newly appointed, biracial president? We found this to be both fitting and honoring.

I enjoyed getting to spend a day in the kitchen with Catie, hearing her talk about the collages she's looking at and singing along to The Weepies' music as though we were Deb Talen herself...

"In days to come when your heart feels undone may you always find an open hand."

Catie talks about whispering words of blessing over her creations, praying for the people to whom she's giving her treats. I hope the recipients of our cupcakes felt half as blessed as we did making them.

Lend me a hand

2009-02-20T07:22:00.001-08:00

I have long had a fetish with hand sculptures and have been collecting them since I was freshman in high school.

For my fifteenth birthday I was given a gift card to my favorite local store, Sleeping Lizards, where I found this eclectic wooden hand. I'm not sure what originally persuaded me to buy the hand, but I had no idea that it would be the first among many hands that I would eventually collect.

Since then, I notice them everywhere — in gift shops, international artisan markets and antique stores. I'm running out space to put them, but when I see one, I always feel compelled to buy it.

Something I love about collections is how people in your life can share in your excitement for a certain object. For instance, since my Auntie Em learned of my collection she is always on the hunt for a good hand sculpture. When I was at university, she would send me letters with hand buttons or hand soap or hand stickers stuffed inside.

And some of my favorite sculptures have been ones that friends have given me. One Christmas my friend Amanda became giddy each time she referenced my Christmas present, assuring me that I would love it. She had bought me this metal hand sculpture, and to this day it remains a favorite.

I'm a strong believer in collections because I come from a family of collectors. Whether it's green depression glass, vintage globes or stained glass windows, there are some objects that I will forever see and think of certain people, which is so special to me.

The hand sculptures in my photos are a few of my favorites. I have found that the ones I love the most have a rustic feel to them and are usually crafted by artisans. Whether the sculptures are wooden and carved with lifelines, or whether they have long Indian-style fingers, I am always on the look for new ones. So if you know of a location where hand sculptures are sold, please let me know.

Oh, and I have found that hand sculptures make great jewelry displays!

All Torn Up

2009-02-19T14:55:00.000-08:00

One of my life heros has been my elementary art teacher. I always loved art class as a child, which I largely attribute to Mrs. Ruestmann's ability to translate her craft into a more malleable, five-year-old form without watering it down.

I still have my second grade version of Vincent Van Gough's "Starry Night" and keenly remember learning about the primary colored squares in Piet Mondrian artwork, which I later learned to call neo-plasticism.

So when Mrs. Ruestmann invited me to her house the other night to make collages, I was so excited to see what fun project I would come home with.

The collage process is simple. Take a heavy watercolor paper (Mrs. Ruestmann and I used Aquarius II, but I later used gemini, which worked just as well) and cover it in Matte Medium. At this point you can decorate your "canvas" in any sort of paper you have on hand. And be creative; we used dress patterns and wrapping paper, as well as handmade papers.

Put another layer of Matte Medium on top of your paper, and let dry. Once all your paper is dry, turn over your canvas and measure and cut your large paper into smaller sections. Now you can add a focal point using any sort of ephemera, stamps or stickers you have stashed away.

At last!

2009-02-19T09:36:00.000-08:00

Before leaving for Spain my friend Lael drew a sketch for me of a statue she saw when she was last in Barcelona. She presented my handmade gift with a little note on the side instructing me to scout out this particular statue.

I have loved her drawing and carried it across Africa and then finally into Europe with me, tied up, with other beloved objects, in my favorite vintage scarf. It then sat on my desk in Barcelona, giving me a beautiful piece of relief when my studies felt overwhelming. But as hard and as often as I looked for the statue in Spain, I never could find it. I soon learned that there are a multitude of statues in Barcelona, each one teasing me upon realization that it was not the particular one I was searching for.

I left Barcelona, a little disheartened to have never found the statue in Lael's sketch.

Fast forward two and a half months to the Sunday afternoon when my dad and I decided to take field trip to our favorite Denton local: Recycled Books and Records. We needed to buy a present for mom and planned to look for a glass cake plate at the nearby antique store. But as always the aroma of used books and the knowledge that we would find all sorts of treasures inside Recycled's purple walls soon lured us in.

While my dad thumbed through 19050s sheet music, I wandered around the three-story maze, and that's when I saw it. Pulled off the shelf, lying on the ground like it was just waiting for me to peruse, there was a photo book about modernism in Spanish art. Having recently discovered a love for Antonio Gaudi, I initially grabbed the book in hopes of finding photos of Sagrada Familia or Pablo Picasso's acclaimed hangout, Cautro Gatos.

But instead, I opened the pages and saw a photo of the sketch I had carried around for so long. Here she is.

The heart of the matter

2009-02-19T07:19:00.000-08:00

I bragged to some girlfriends Friday evening over coffee and dessert how I am immune to the effects of caffeine, especially late at night.

Reality check.

Apparently, I'm not as stalwart as I was during my college days when I could drink three cups of coffee to accompany late-night writing and then, without fail, fall asleep on cue.

Quite the contrary. I was so alert after returning home from Dallas on Friday night, I stayed up until 3:30 a.m. making handmade Valentines to garnish my home.

But the results far outweighed my lack of sleep. And while March is quickly approaching, I can't seem to part with my Valentine decorations. I love them, as they are both a colorful addition to my home and a reminder of the kind heart of my God.