I have started a new blog! I might blog at sharingsher from time to time as well, but check out the new one called: America Through an Immigrant's Eyes to hear about Dom and I as we are on our new adventure in America!
immigranteyes.wordpress.com
:)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Cinderella
Stir-fried chicken with broccoli, a random Thai veggie that resembles a wee cabbage, mixed in a firey flavorful Thai red pepper sauce with dark purple rice on the side. Oh my!
And for dessert crispy guava with a warm coconut sugar and spice sauce that reminds me of the taste of caramel dipped apples from a county fair.
And he wouldn't let me help at all! He always wisely chooses all the fresh produce and chicken from the Thai market down the street, and then lets me rest on the bed reading my book while he cooks away in our little red plug-in hot pot on our tiny balcony.
I never knew how fun it would be to be married to someone whose love language is serving. It makes me feel like Cinderella who never dreamed she would one day be a princess.
But the thing is, I love to cook and invent dishes that bring joy to the eater's taste buds. Yet, since we dont have a kitchen, and only a hot pot, and it's easier for my hubby to do the market shopping, I haven't had the chance to shower my husband with food love. But at least I have had the chance to receive his showering.
The day is coming though, perhaps only five weeks away, when we will return to Waxhaw and stay with my parents for awhile at their house where there is a kitchen with an actual stove and oven, and a grocery store nearby with American products that aren't grossly over-priced!
As for now though, I will enjoy being Cinderella with my Prince.
And for dessert crispy guava with a warm coconut sugar and spice sauce that reminds me of the taste of caramel dipped apples from a county fair.
And he wouldn't let me help at all! He always wisely chooses all the fresh produce and chicken from the Thai market down the street, and then lets me rest on the bed reading my book while he cooks away in our little red plug-in hot pot on our tiny balcony.
I never knew how fun it would be to be married to someone whose love language is serving. It makes me feel like Cinderella who never dreamed she would one day be a princess.
But the thing is, I love to cook and invent dishes that bring joy to the eater's taste buds. Yet, since we dont have a kitchen, and only a hot pot, and it's easier for my hubby to do the market shopping, I haven't had the chance to shower my husband with food love. But at least I have had the chance to receive his showering.
The day is coming though, perhaps only five weeks away, when we will return to Waxhaw and stay with my parents for awhile at their house where there is a kitchen with an actual stove and oven, and a grocery store nearby with American products that aren't grossly over-priced!
As for now though, I will enjoy being Cinderella with my Prince.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Airport People
Magical places of arrival, in-between, and departure, airports, how I love them.
From Sherri's Perspective, there are three major groups of passengers at airports. The first are the in-betweeners. They are the sitting ones who typically look bored out of their minds, or if they don't look bored out of their minds, they are sleeping in awkward, back and neck cricking positions on hard plastic chairs. There are some who are productive: they are engrossed in books, networking on Blackberries, or chatting on their phones. Others are eating with languid faces. But most of them have the same expression of blah at where they are and either dreaming of their destination, or where they came from.
Then there are the arrivalers split into two groups. The first group are those who are so stoked to be at their destination. You see them scampering, dancing, smiling, crying, as they collide with loved ones, or a loved home they have missed, or a loved place they have never been to but finally have arrived at.
Then the others are those who have arrived, but it doesn't even phase them. The same vapid, empty expression remains on their faces. They drudge through the winding halls, get their bags and leave with no fanfare. Maybe they dont want to be at their destination, they don't have a home to look forward to, they were forced to come, and dream to be one of the frolicking ones who is thrilled to be exactly where they are.
Lastly, there are the departurers. There are also two groups of these people. The first group are hugging, and crying, but more in the melancholy way than the merry way. They don't want to leave their place of love and comfort, and dread what lies before them. They want to stay where they are, but know that it can't be, thus the crying.
The other group might be hugging and crying, but behind their tears and tight hugs, there is a twinkle in their eyes. They know they are leaving behind loved ones and comfort, but they are going somewhere new, on an adventure. They know saying good-bye is the price to pay for their adventure, but it's worth it, thus the twinkle.
So if my life was an airport right now, and me a passenger, I think Im the in-betweener. Im in the waiting, at my seemingly eternal lay-over. I feel done with my adventure, and now am eager for the next one, but it seems so faraway still. Will I ever arrive? Will my plane ever take-off? Im sure things that have happened the last few months have pushed me from excited arrivaler to a bored in-betweener, but whatever it was, that's where I am.
But soon I will be a departurer. I will be crying, and hugging Thailand tight, but, yes, there will be a large twinkle in my eye.
And then...hopefully I can bring some joy to the departurers and in-betweeners, when I finally become a frolicking, dancing, crying, hugging arrivaler at the airport. Come for the show if ya want!
From Sherri's Perspective, there are three major groups of passengers at airports. The first are the in-betweeners. They are the sitting ones who typically look bored out of their minds, or if they don't look bored out of their minds, they are sleeping in awkward, back and neck cricking positions on hard plastic chairs. There are some who are productive: they are engrossed in books, networking on Blackberries, or chatting on their phones. Others are eating with languid faces. But most of them have the same expression of blah at where they are and either dreaming of their destination, or where they came from.
Then there are the arrivalers split into two groups. The first group are those who are so stoked to be at their destination. You see them scampering, dancing, smiling, crying, as they collide with loved ones, or a loved home they have missed, or a loved place they have never been to but finally have arrived at.
Then the others are those who have arrived, but it doesn't even phase them. The same vapid, empty expression remains on their faces. They drudge through the winding halls, get their bags and leave with no fanfare. Maybe they dont want to be at their destination, they don't have a home to look forward to, they were forced to come, and dream to be one of the frolicking ones who is thrilled to be exactly where they are.
Lastly, there are the departurers. There are also two groups of these people. The first group are hugging, and crying, but more in the melancholy way than the merry way. They don't want to leave their place of love and comfort, and dread what lies before them. They want to stay where they are, but know that it can't be, thus the crying.
The other group might be hugging and crying, but behind their tears and tight hugs, there is a twinkle in their eyes. They know they are leaving behind loved ones and comfort, but they are going somewhere new, on an adventure. They know saying good-bye is the price to pay for their adventure, but it's worth it, thus the twinkle.
So if my life was an airport right now, and me a passenger, I think Im the in-betweener. Im in the waiting, at my seemingly eternal lay-over. I feel done with my adventure, and now am eager for the next one, but it seems so faraway still. Will I ever arrive? Will my plane ever take-off? Im sure things that have happened the last few months have pushed me from excited arrivaler to a bored in-betweener, but whatever it was, that's where I am.
But soon I will be a departurer. I will be crying, and hugging Thailand tight, but, yes, there will be a large twinkle in my eye.
And then...hopefully I can bring some joy to the departurers and in-betweeners, when I finally become a frolicking, dancing, crying, hugging arrivaler at the airport. Come for the show if ya want!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Mangroves, Mud, Monkeys
"Bring a swim suit." Typical Thai fashion, given a few facts, and you are left to fill in the details. Of course we assumed we were going to the beach, so I brought my white and pink two piece, with my matching white and pink sarong to wear as a cover-up over my suit.
All 14 of us, our two American friends, and the rest newly met Thai friends, piled into a 14 passenger party van. Well, if it was night, instead of at 7:30a.m., I would have pictured it as a party van. There were huge round speakers in the roof, and fluorescent lights ran up and down the interior like a disco. But instead of dancing, we half-slept on each other and chatted as the shock-less van bounced the two hours to our unknown destination.
"Oh, you might get muddy." That was a side note our Thai friend told us as we got out of the van to the traditional Thai-style resort next to what looked like a lake.
Clad in orange as a construction cone, and bright green as 80's running shorts life vests, we split up into two long Native American-style wooden canoe boats with motors, and a hand-made flat plastic red roof covering us.
Thus began the adventure, not at the beach, but in a mangrove forest. We rode through the water neighborhood of the fishermen surrounding the forest, gazing at fences which were sticks stuck in the mud, with only about a foot of the stick poking out of the water to gently remind the other fishermen where their "land" began and ended. The river houses, instead of having two cars sitting in their driveway had two or three boats which looked similar to ours stacked up under their houses.
We jetted through the muddy, gray water to pull up next to a fisherman at work. His 4-year old son sat in the middle of the boat with him, separating shrimp, still squirming around in their net, that had been dumped in front of him. He barely glanced at us, keeping his eyes on his work, picking out the good shrimp with nimble fingers that will touch more fish and sea creatures in his lifetime than the keys on a computer or the buttons on a cell phone.
After waving farewell to pro-fisher boy, we were steered into an inlet and stopped. Of course, we weren't told why we were stopping, Stone-Faced Captain just stopped. We looked at the island next to us and reared back. Monkeys were swinging and mangroves were swaying before us.
"Aww, cute monkeys!" we thought as they played on the trees. But then they started to come down and run across the island to us. One brave soul flung himself off the island and grabbed the edge of the boat like we were his hoped for rescuers, causing me to scream and leap back, rocking the boat. But then the bananas came from Captain which made them scatter as they attacked each other over the small yellow treasures.
We squeezed a little further down the inlet, where we stopped again. Captain, without at word, got out of the boat, stepped onto the island, and suddenly was knee deep in mud. We giggled at how shocking it was to see him so deep in mud, but then he got a plank of wood to put from the boat to the island so we could join him too. Oh boy...
With much snickering, slipping, sucking, and sludging, we stomped through the mud, and were passed mangrove saplings. We weren't told what to do, but were pantomimed to take off the material that covered the roots, jam it into the mud and squish more mud over it until it was firmly in the "ground". After about 10 minutes of tree planting to prevent erosion in the future, we were back in the boat.
As we pondered how deep the water was, we saw that slowly the water was disappearing. Before us was a desert expanse of the mud. Then as we wondered how we would get through the mud in the boat, the boat in front of us flew away through the sludge, spraying an arc of mud behind it. Woohoo!
But instead of making an arc of beautiful mud behind us, we pulled ahead, sputtered, and left nothing. We had stalled.
Thankfully Calm Captain had a cell phone, called the other driver and asked him to stop. We had fun blowing our emergency whistles on our life vests, much to the annoyance of Captain, but much to our delight.
Eventually, instead of having the boat come to us, we went to it. I was first to hop onto a wooden plank surf board which I was pushed on as I waved farewell like Miss America to my friends. Captain pushed me over the mud so smoothly I felt like a snowboarder sliding on snow to the other boat.
After everyone made it, a little more muddy and wet than before, but full of adrenaline from the adventure, we laughed our way to the river house stilted high above the waters where we would eat lunch. We climbed up the smooth and silken wooden rungs of the ladder to our feast.
Sitting on the wooden floor, we ate: fresh shrimp, huge prawns, bass in sweet and sour sauce, squid, Thai omelette, oysters, clams, hummingbird flower, tom yum soup, rice, coconut and sticky rice, and sweet satisfying Thai grapefruit. How delightful.
Then it was time for extreme mud boarding through clam infested mud. But we soon discovered that the smooth ride over the mud, isn't as smooth without an experienced mud boarder pushing you along. We got stuck. Some of our legs disappeared with only our chests sticking out. Some of us just sat in the middle of the mud in awkward positions, trying to stay on our board somehow, laughing and shrieking until we were saved.
Eventually, Im not quite sure how, we all got over to the waters where we used netting to scrub our legs and and arms and hands and feet free from as much goo as we could. Then the boats carried us back to land-- our stomachs now full, our skin now clothed in mud, our legs and arms now covered in scratches from sharp clam shells, our minds full of memories, and my white and pink swim-wear now brown.
Mangroves, mud, and monkeys. When I woke up on Monday morning I never dreamed that's what my day would be made of.
How I love you random Thailand and how I will miss you in busy, scheduled America.
All 14 of us, our two American friends, and the rest newly met Thai friends, piled into a 14 passenger party van. Well, if it was night, instead of at 7:30a.m., I would have pictured it as a party van. There were huge round speakers in the roof, and fluorescent lights ran up and down the interior like a disco. But instead of dancing, we half-slept on each other and chatted as the shock-less van bounced the two hours to our unknown destination.
"Oh, you might get muddy." That was a side note our Thai friend told us as we got out of the van to the traditional Thai-style resort next to what looked like a lake.
Clad in orange as a construction cone, and bright green as 80's running shorts life vests, we split up into two long Native American-style wooden canoe boats with motors, and a hand-made flat plastic red roof covering us.
Thus began the adventure, not at the beach, but in a mangrove forest. We rode through the water neighborhood of the fishermen surrounding the forest, gazing at fences which were sticks stuck in the mud, with only about a foot of the stick poking out of the water to gently remind the other fishermen where their "land" began and ended. The river houses, instead of having two cars sitting in their driveway had two or three boats which looked similar to ours stacked up under their houses.
We jetted through the muddy, gray water to pull up next to a fisherman at work. His 4-year old son sat in the middle of the boat with him, separating shrimp, still squirming around in their net, that had been dumped in front of him. He barely glanced at us, keeping his eyes on his work, picking out the good shrimp with nimble fingers that will touch more fish and sea creatures in his lifetime than the keys on a computer or the buttons on a cell phone.
After waving farewell to pro-fisher boy, we were steered into an inlet and stopped. Of course, we weren't told why we were stopping, Stone-Faced Captain just stopped. We looked at the island next to us and reared back. Monkeys were swinging and mangroves were swaying before us.
"Aww, cute monkeys!" we thought as they played on the trees. But then they started to come down and run across the island to us. One brave soul flung himself off the island and grabbed the edge of the boat like we were his hoped for rescuers, causing me to scream and leap back, rocking the boat. But then the bananas came from Captain which made them scatter as they attacked each other over the small yellow treasures.
We squeezed a little further down the inlet, where we stopped again. Captain, without at word, got out of the boat, stepped onto the island, and suddenly was knee deep in mud. We giggled at how shocking it was to see him so deep in mud, but then he got a plank of wood to put from the boat to the island so we could join him too. Oh boy...
With much snickering, slipping, sucking, and sludging, we stomped through the mud, and were passed mangrove saplings. We weren't told what to do, but were pantomimed to take off the material that covered the roots, jam it into the mud and squish more mud over it until it was firmly in the "ground". After about 10 minutes of tree planting to prevent erosion in the future, we were back in the boat.
As we pondered how deep the water was, we saw that slowly the water was disappearing. Before us was a desert expanse of the mud. Then as we wondered how we would get through the mud in the boat, the boat in front of us flew away through the sludge, spraying an arc of mud behind it. Woohoo!
But instead of making an arc of beautiful mud behind us, we pulled ahead, sputtered, and left nothing. We had stalled.
Thankfully Calm Captain had a cell phone, called the other driver and asked him to stop. We had fun blowing our emergency whistles on our life vests, much to the annoyance of Captain, but much to our delight.
Eventually, instead of having the boat come to us, we went to it. I was first to hop onto a wooden plank surf board which I was pushed on as I waved farewell like Miss America to my friends. Captain pushed me over the mud so smoothly I felt like a snowboarder sliding on snow to the other boat.
After everyone made it, a little more muddy and wet than before, but full of adrenaline from the adventure, we laughed our way to the river house stilted high above the waters where we would eat lunch. We climbed up the smooth and silken wooden rungs of the ladder to our feast.
Sitting on the wooden floor, we ate: fresh shrimp, huge prawns, bass in sweet and sour sauce, squid, Thai omelette, oysters, clams, hummingbird flower, tom yum soup, rice, coconut and sticky rice, and sweet satisfying Thai grapefruit. How delightful.
Then it was time for extreme mud boarding through clam infested mud. But we soon discovered that the smooth ride over the mud, isn't as smooth without an experienced mud boarder pushing you along. We got stuck. Some of our legs disappeared with only our chests sticking out. Some of us just sat in the middle of the mud in awkward positions, trying to stay on our board somehow, laughing and shrieking until we were saved.
Eventually, Im not quite sure how, we all got over to the waters where we used netting to scrub our legs and and arms and hands and feet free from as much goo as we could. Then the boats carried us back to land-- our stomachs now full, our skin now clothed in mud, our legs and arms now covered in scratches from sharp clam shells, our minds full of memories, and my white and pink swim-wear now brown.
Mangroves, mud, and monkeys. When I woke up on Monday morning I never dreamed that's what my day would be made of.
How I love you random Thailand and how I will miss you in busy, scheduled America.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Oasis in the Desert
My desert began a two weeks ago when i was hurt by a dear friend and experienced pain I had never been through before. But I have come to discover from it, that in a desert of confusion, pain, and longing, true friends are the oases that bring refreshment, perseverance and hope.
One oasis was when I couldn't stop crying at Gloria Jeans coffee-shop and after a frantic txt to my husband, the words he replied with calmed me like a mother's gentle embrace soothes a child's violent tears.
Then a friend arrived, just seeing her smiling eyes, peaceful presence, and flowery, flowy skirt helped me feel like life wasn't over. I poured out my anguish to her and what restored me to my old positive self for the time being, was more than anything her listening ear that made me feel that she was in this with me: I wasn't alone.
Or when i went to lunch in the middle of the work-day and I just had to cry and my friend held my shoulders as I walked through the maze of food vendors unaware of what caused my pain, only seeing the effects of it drip down my reddened face.
Then a relaxing dessert place where on cozy couches my friends counseled me as we ate a chocolate lave cake, every bite scooped into my mouth with the golden spoon awakened my sleeping serotonin. As I sipped my lychee mint drink, I was even able to laugh at how crazy life can be.
Emails, and chats with friends from home full of love and lines from years long ago, reminded me that I have friendships built on solid foundations, awaiting for me when I return back to the States.
Talking with my parents over skype, thinking about memories of home, and hearing their sweet voices and words of loving advice, I couldn't handle how blessed I am, even in the midst of my hurt.
I hope I can be the ice-cold refreshing water for someone wandering in the hot, bleak emptiness of the pain of life, since now I know how sweet to the soul it is.
One oasis was when I couldn't stop crying at Gloria Jeans coffee-shop and after a frantic txt to my husband, the words he replied with calmed me like a mother's gentle embrace soothes a child's violent tears.
Then a friend arrived, just seeing her smiling eyes, peaceful presence, and flowery, flowy skirt helped me feel like life wasn't over. I poured out my anguish to her and what restored me to my old positive self for the time being, was more than anything her listening ear that made me feel that she was in this with me: I wasn't alone.
Or when i went to lunch in the middle of the work-day and I just had to cry and my friend held my shoulders as I walked through the maze of food vendors unaware of what caused my pain, only seeing the effects of it drip down my reddened face.
Then a relaxing dessert place where on cozy couches my friends counseled me as we ate a chocolate lave cake, every bite scooped into my mouth with the golden spoon awakened my sleeping serotonin. As I sipped my lychee mint drink, I was even able to laugh at how crazy life can be.
Emails, and chats with friends from home full of love and lines from years long ago, reminded me that I have friendships built on solid foundations, awaiting for me when I return back to the States.
Talking with my parents over skype, thinking about memories of home, and hearing their sweet voices and words of loving advice, I couldn't handle how blessed I am, even in the midst of my hurt.
I hope I can be the ice-cold refreshing water for someone wandering in the hot, bleak emptiness of the pain of life, since now I know how sweet to the soul it is.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Warning
Last night some of my friends and I, all American ex-pats living in Thailand, were discussing over greasy Thai food, how we are losing our English.
Everyday we speak to Thais who yearn with all their hearts to know English, yet since they don't get much practice, most still linger at elementary levels. So in order to get our points across we simplify.
We now analyze in our heads the words we are about to say before we say them to make sure the vocabulary isn't too difficult. We never say idioms anymore. We talk in a slower, clearer tone of voice without thinking twice about it.
One girl told a story how she and an American friend were walking by a fish and tackle store. She peered in the large glass display window and said to her friend, "Look! Fishing sticks!"
"You mean, fishing "poles"?"
One of my friends from home told me that when she talked to me on the phone last, it sounded like I ended my sentences in a weird-anime-character-like-way. I thought, "Oh boy, my English is becoming Thinglish!" since Thais, when they attempt to speak English, stretch out the end of their sentences.
For example, if I ever told my motorcycle man to take me to "Asoke Tower", he would stare at me blankly. But if I said, "Asoke Toweeerrrrr" he would take me there without hesitation.
Even when I email I will write an idiom, delete it, but then remember that my friend is fluent in English! And then pack the email with all the idioms my fingers have been holding inside for the past months.
So this is just a warning for when I come home. If I have trouble using advanced vocabulary, pronouncing words correctly, and understanding slang, it's only the Thailand effect. I will be ok soon, please be patient.
Everyday we speak to Thais who yearn with all their hearts to know English, yet since they don't get much practice, most still linger at elementary levels. So in order to get our points across we simplify.
We now analyze in our heads the words we are about to say before we say them to make sure the vocabulary isn't too difficult. We never say idioms anymore. We talk in a slower, clearer tone of voice without thinking twice about it.
One girl told a story how she and an American friend were walking by a fish and tackle store. She peered in the large glass display window and said to her friend, "Look! Fishing sticks!"
"You mean, fishing "poles"?"
One of my friends from home told me that when she talked to me on the phone last, it sounded like I ended my sentences in a weird-anime-character-like-way. I thought, "Oh boy, my English is becoming Thinglish!" since Thais, when they attempt to speak English, stretch out the end of their sentences.
For example, if I ever told my motorcycle man to take me to "Asoke Tower", he would stare at me blankly. But if I said, "Asoke Toweeerrrrr" he would take me there without hesitation.
Even when I email I will write an idiom, delete it, but then remember that my friend is fluent in English! And then pack the email with all the idioms my fingers have been holding inside for the past months.
So this is just a warning for when I come home. If I have trouble using advanced vocabulary, pronouncing words correctly, and understanding slang, it's only the Thailand effect. I will be ok soon, please be patient.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Kitung Na
Thailand. Maybe my feelings for it are like those a parent might have for her rebellious teen. It can get on my nerves, annoy me, make me yell and scream at times, but then deep down, I still love it dearly.
I hope I won't ever forget my days of
daily eating Thai food-for only $1-that is so spicy and flavorful it makes my taste-buds do the the salsa with every bite.
swimming outside my husband's old gym on hot December nights in dark water magically glowing from the gym lights and gazing at the stars peeking out under the palm trees dancing in the breeze.
never driving but always riding: the skytrain, subway, rickety buses, tuk-tuks, motorcycles, taxis, bikes, and of course walking to get around the city.
eating dinner with my hubby Thai-style on the floor in our tiny studio while watching Prison Break episodes we downloaded on his laptop.
sipping cheap iced drinks from sweaty, smiling street vendors-- cappuccinos, chayen, coco, lemon tea...ahhh...
escaping Bangkok for the weekend and remembering that emerald oceans, white sands, cotton-candy blue waterfalls, friendly monkeys, ancient ruins, and refreshing mountain air really do exist in Thailand.
meeting and befriending treasures from all over the world--Swedes, Californians, Canadians, Vietnamese, Koreans, Japanese, Singaporeans, Chinese, British, Trinidadians, Irish, Russians, Zimbabweans, and Malaysians.
falling in love with my husband
my Thai sisters helping me pick out my perfect wedding dress.
walking to work everyday while repeating the speech in Thai I memorized to say at the reception to my hubby
looking out at the shining Grand Palace on the other side of the river during our wedding ceremony and marveling at how unpredictable life is.
teaching hard-working Asian kiddos who can all pronounce my new last name, Phengchard, correctly.
I think this list could become endless, so I will stop now and write more as the days pass and I become more and more nostalgic. I hope when those Thailand missing pains come in America, I can look at this and smile.
God gave us memories that we might have roses in December. ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922
I hope I won't ever forget my days of
daily eating Thai food-for only $1-that is so spicy and flavorful it makes my taste-buds do the the salsa with every bite.
swimming outside my husband's old gym on hot December nights in dark water magically glowing from the gym lights and gazing at the stars peeking out under the palm trees dancing in the breeze.
never driving but always riding: the skytrain, subway, rickety buses, tuk-tuks, motorcycles, taxis, bikes, and of course walking to get around the city.
eating dinner with my hubby Thai-style on the floor in our tiny studio while watching Prison Break episodes we downloaded on his laptop.
sipping cheap iced drinks from sweaty, smiling street vendors-- cappuccinos, chayen, coco, lemon tea...ahhh...
escaping Bangkok for the weekend and remembering that emerald oceans, white sands, cotton-candy blue waterfalls, friendly monkeys, ancient ruins, and refreshing mountain air really do exist in Thailand.
meeting and befriending treasures from all over the world--Swedes, Californians, Canadians, Vietnamese, Koreans, Japanese, Singaporeans, Chinese, British, Trinidadians, Irish, Russians, Zimbabweans, and Malaysians.
falling in love with my husband
my Thai sisters helping me pick out my perfect wedding dress.
walking to work everyday while repeating the speech in Thai I memorized to say at the reception to my hubby
looking out at the shining Grand Palace on the other side of the river during our wedding ceremony and marveling at how unpredictable life is.
teaching hard-working Asian kiddos who can all pronounce my new last name, Phengchard, correctly.
I think this list could become endless, so I will stop now and write more as the days pass and I become more and more nostalgic. I hope when those Thailand missing pains come in America, I can look at this and smile.
God gave us memories that we might have roses in December. ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922
Friday, May 15, 2009
Rainy Day Dream
Thunder is rumbling, and rain is plit-plattering outside. Just seeing the darkening clouds, and the sky dumping itself out, makes me instinctively want to curl up into a ball next to a warm fireplace on a soft, leather couch under a fuzzy blanket and sip steamy hot chocolate with gooey marshmallows while reading a page-turner.
Hmm..but there are no fireplaces in Thailand. The closest I have come to comfort is splish-splashing through the rain puddles to buy the cheapest coffee drink from Gloria Jeans, a white chocolate mocha, and sip it while I type in my fluorescent bright, sort of muggy office room while dreaming of my hot chocolate fireplace fantasy described above.
2 and a half months till America...
Hmm..but there are no fireplaces in Thailand. The closest I have come to comfort is splish-splashing through the rain puddles to buy the cheapest coffee drink from Gloria Jeans, a white chocolate mocha, and sip it while I type in my fluorescent bright, sort of muggy office room while dreaming of my hot chocolate fireplace fantasy described above.
2 and a half months till America...
Monday, May 11, 2009
"Our" East meets "Me" West
"They are busy at work, so it's ok if we borrow their car. They don't need it now, so they won't mind." Dom told me while we were in visiting his hometown car-less.
"Are you SURE?"
"Yeah, no big deal!" Dom said, while his eyes said, "Why in the world would this be a big deal?"
So we walked down a few streets over from his grandma's small house to his old high school friend's internet cafe to pick up the car. The store was full of Thai kiddos engrossed in screens covered with millions of blinking chat conversations, fighting or dancing computer games, or hi-five pages full of comments written in Thai.
While the wife of Dom's friend gave someone a password for a computer, balanced her 3-year-old son on her hip as he ate a piece of guava dipped in spicy sugar, she searched the desk piled up with business-type papers looking for the car keys. Eventually she found them, passed them to us with a smile, and then left us to our own devices as she unlocked the cashbox to give someone change for a 1000 baht. "What a woman! " I thought.
For the day we drove around to the ancient ruins, had special hot, sweet and spicy chicken soup for lunch, got groceries at the Big C, brought them back to Grandma's and then took the car back later that night. Dom gave the keys back to his friend, they chatted for a few minutes and we left.
I had this feeling of awe and wonder for most of the day, pondering at this huge difference between our cultures. I was thinking how weird it would be for me to randomly ask my friend I hadn't seen in ages to borrow their car and use it for the whole day, without them thinking twice about it-- as if instead of asking to use their car I was asking to use their bathroom. If I was able to borrow their car, I would feel paranoid and guilty all day, like I had stolen their precious treasure.
When I told Dom this, he thought that was odd that people don't freely share their possessions in America. He had noticed with his American roommate, if Dom asked to borrow his motorbike, he would make a huff-and-puffy big deal about it, let him borrow it, but eventually asked him not to because it was "his" motorbike.
Even though it's not stated, many Thais have an "our" mentality instead of "me". I love this mindset especially when it comes to the way they eat because I love to try new foods. In America, I will even ask people if they want to try my food, hoping they will say yes, so they will ask if I want taste theirs.
But many times in America, most people don't want to try my food because they already have their own and hardly ever ask if I want to taste their dish.
Thailand is a different story. When Thais have big meals together, they order what seems like a Thanksgiving feast number of dishes and sprawl them out at the center of the table. Forks and spoons go flying to this or that dish. We dont even pass dishes in Thailand, we just stretch arms. Many times when Im just eating with Dominic at a restaurant we will order two dishes and share both together. I can't wait to bring this tradition to America: one fountain drink between the two of us and free refills, bring it on!
It may not be very apparent to many Americans that we have this me-focus, but the rest of the world definitely defines us by it. One of my cute-as-can-be Thai co-workers has recently started dating an American guy. She anxiously questions me frequently about the differences between how people date in America compared to Thailand. One thing which is holding her back is she says, "American guys are so selfish. I don't know if I can handle that."
Of course I told her not to generalize, and tried to convince her to test this guy out before she compared him to the stereotype, but it hurt my feelings to think that our culture is known all over the world as selfish.
Thai culture isn't perfect either. The easy-going attitude about everything has led to a lot of political and economic turmoil. As I always say, every culture has good and bad in it, no culture is perfect. But Im glad that I live here, and have learned about this good part of Thai culture. I hope that I can apply it when we move to America. Yet, if I mess up, at least Dom will be there to remind me through his way of living life that truly--what's mine is yours.
"Are you SURE?"
"Yeah, no big deal!" Dom said, while his eyes said, "Why in the world would this be a big deal?"
So we walked down a few streets over from his grandma's small house to his old high school friend's internet cafe to pick up the car. The store was full of Thai kiddos engrossed in screens covered with millions of blinking chat conversations, fighting or dancing computer games, or hi-five pages full of comments written in Thai.
While the wife of Dom's friend gave someone a password for a computer, balanced her 3-year-old son on her hip as he ate a piece of guava dipped in spicy sugar, she searched the desk piled up with business-type papers looking for the car keys. Eventually she found them, passed them to us with a smile, and then left us to our own devices as she unlocked the cashbox to give someone change for a 1000 baht. "What a woman! " I thought.
For the day we drove around to the ancient ruins, had special hot, sweet and spicy chicken soup for lunch, got groceries at the Big C, brought them back to Grandma's and then took the car back later that night. Dom gave the keys back to his friend, they chatted for a few minutes and we left.
I had this feeling of awe and wonder for most of the day, pondering at this huge difference between our cultures. I was thinking how weird it would be for me to randomly ask my friend I hadn't seen in ages to borrow their car and use it for the whole day, without them thinking twice about it-- as if instead of asking to use their car I was asking to use their bathroom. If I was able to borrow their car, I would feel paranoid and guilty all day, like I had stolen their precious treasure.
When I told Dom this, he thought that was odd that people don't freely share their possessions in America. He had noticed with his American roommate, if Dom asked to borrow his motorbike, he would make a huff-and-puffy big deal about it, let him borrow it, but eventually asked him not to because it was "his" motorbike.
Even though it's not stated, many Thais have an "our" mentality instead of "me". I love this mindset especially when it comes to the way they eat because I love to try new foods. In America, I will even ask people if they want to try my food, hoping they will say yes, so they will ask if I want taste theirs.
But many times in America, most people don't want to try my food because they already have their own and hardly ever ask if I want to taste their dish.
Thailand is a different story. When Thais have big meals together, they order what seems like a Thanksgiving feast number of dishes and sprawl them out at the center of the table. Forks and spoons go flying to this or that dish. We dont even pass dishes in Thailand, we just stretch arms. Many times when Im just eating with Dominic at a restaurant we will order two dishes and share both together. I can't wait to bring this tradition to America: one fountain drink between the two of us and free refills, bring it on!
It may not be very apparent to many Americans that we have this me-focus, but the rest of the world definitely defines us by it. One of my cute-as-can-be Thai co-workers has recently started dating an American guy. She anxiously questions me frequently about the differences between how people date in America compared to Thailand. One thing which is holding her back is she says, "American guys are so selfish. I don't know if I can handle that."
Of course I told her not to generalize, and tried to convince her to test this guy out before she compared him to the stereotype, but it hurt my feelings to think that our culture is known all over the world as selfish.
Thai culture isn't perfect either. The easy-going attitude about everything has led to a lot of political and economic turmoil. As I always say, every culture has good and bad in it, no culture is perfect. But Im glad that I live here, and have learned about this good part of Thai culture. I hope that I can apply it when we move to America. Yet, if I mess up, at least Dom will be there to remind me through his way of living life that truly--what's mine is yours.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Meditations on Mother Theresa
A petite, stooped over wrinkly like a pit bull, but as cute as a puppy, old lady wearing tattered nun clothing.
Im sure that is all i would have thought about her if I had passed by her on the street or seen her on a bus, but wow, Mother Theresa was so much more than a wee, pit bull puppy looking woman.
This week I have been re-reading the book, One Heart Full of Love, which is a series of Mother Theresa's speeches she gave all around the world at different functions and awards ceremonies.
It is so delightful because I can hear her sweet, gentle voice coming through as I read them and it reminds me of my loving grandmother's voice. Her speeches repeat the same stories and themes over and over, and aren't laced with flowery language and are free from theological arguments. Instead they portray, nothing more and nothing less, than a simple, authentic faith.
One of my favorite quotes was when she was going to be awarded an honorary degree as a Doctor of Divinity from Cambridge and she felt unqualified, "You know full well that I have not studied theology. I just simply try always to live it out."
Reading this book has inspired me, but not in ways that I at first thought I would be. When I think of all the work Mother Theresa and her Missionaries of Charity have done all over the world--starting orphanages and houses for the dying, caring for lepers, finding parents for orphans, feeding the hungry, loving the sick, being a friend to the friendless--the list goes on--I thought I would want to forsake my ordinary life and move to the slums and take a vow of poverty.
But the one thing that she spoke on more than helping those who are have physical poverty was helping those who have poverty of the soul, the hardest poverty to cure, which is loneliness. This poverty is what she said we need to focus on curing, and it starts with loving those in our family who are typically neglected by society.
Mother Theresa said how she went to a top of the line nursing home which had beautiful rooms, caring nursing staff, and wonderful healthcare, but as she walked the hallways and peered in the rooms she saw that every person who lived there kept looking out their doors, with sad, yet eager expressions. She was told that everyone is always waiting, for a daughter, son, grandchild to visit, but hardly anyone ever does.
My sweet grandmother's health is slowly deteriorating, which breaks my heart, but I feel at peace because I know she doesn't have poverty of the soul during this hard time. My mom and dad have decided to move her into their home so they can be her care-takers and support her.
My mom will have dinner with her and share about the crazy kids in her kindergarten class that she teaches, while my grandmother faithfully asks about every child by name.
My dad is my go-between on skype when she wants to chat with me while Im at work. He will type out her thoughts to me word for word so I feel like she is speaking to me.
My parents, and Mother Theresa, have set me an example that I hope I can follow after. I can't wait to go home and be near my grandma, to be able to sit and listen to her stories and share mine with her, to make her breakfast and coffee, and to just smile at her and be smiled at.
So even though I do feel at times that I just want to move to a remote orphanage and love on kids all day, I know that first I must love on my husband, my parents, my grandma, my friends and co-workers. Because maybe it is my job to help cure poverty that runs deeper and and wider than any food or pills or money can relieve.
Im sure that is all i would have thought about her if I had passed by her on the street or seen her on a bus, but wow, Mother Theresa was so much more than a wee, pit bull puppy looking woman.
This week I have been re-reading the book, One Heart Full of Love, which is a series of Mother Theresa's speeches she gave all around the world at different functions and awards ceremonies.
It is so delightful because I can hear her sweet, gentle voice coming through as I read them and it reminds me of my loving grandmother's voice. Her speeches repeat the same stories and themes over and over, and aren't laced with flowery language and are free from theological arguments. Instead they portray, nothing more and nothing less, than a simple, authentic faith.
One of my favorite quotes was when she was going to be awarded an honorary degree as a Doctor of Divinity from Cambridge and she felt unqualified, "You know full well that I have not studied theology. I just simply try always to live it out."
Reading this book has inspired me, but not in ways that I at first thought I would be. When I think of all the work Mother Theresa and her Missionaries of Charity have done all over the world--starting orphanages and houses for the dying, caring for lepers, finding parents for orphans, feeding the hungry, loving the sick, being a friend to the friendless--the list goes on--I thought I would want to forsake my ordinary life and move to the slums and take a vow of poverty.
But the one thing that she spoke on more than helping those who are have physical poverty was helping those who have poverty of the soul, the hardest poverty to cure, which is loneliness. This poverty is what she said we need to focus on curing, and it starts with loving those in our family who are typically neglected by society.
Mother Theresa said how she went to a top of the line nursing home which had beautiful rooms, caring nursing staff, and wonderful healthcare, but as she walked the hallways and peered in the rooms she saw that every person who lived there kept looking out their doors, with sad, yet eager expressions. She was told that everyone is always waiting, for a daughter, son, grandchild to visit, but hardly anyone ever does.
My sweet grandmother's health is slowly deteriorating, which breaks my heart, but I feel at peace because I know she doesn't have poverty of the soul during this hard time. My mom and dad have decided to move her into their home so they can be her care-takers and support her.
My mom will have dinner with her and share about the crazy kids in her kindergarten class that she teaches, while my grandmother faithfully asks about every child by name.
My dad is my go-between on skype when she wants to chat with me while Im at work. He will type out her thoughts to me word for word so I feel like she is speaking to me.
My parents, and Mother Theresa, have set me an example that I hope I can follow after. I can't wait to go home and be near my grandma, to be able to sit and listen to her stories and share mine with her, to make her breakfast and coffee, and to just smile at her and be smiled at.
So even though I do feel at times that I just want to move to a remote orphanage and love on kids all day, I know that first I must love on my husband, my parents, my grandma, my friends and co-workers. Because maybe it is my job to help cure poverty that runs deeper and and wider than any food or pills or money can relieve.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Fortune Tellers
He was in his late 30s, had long, black hair that was pulled back in a pony tail. He wore a plain white T-shirt, and jeans. Except for his longer hair, his appearance wouldn't have been very memorable. But I recalled that the last time I was at this same mid-range Thai restaurant I had seen him too, and everyone who came into the restaurant greeted him like they were old friends. I thought perhaps he was the friendly owner of the place and left it at that.
But this time Dominic's mom pointed him out and said that he was a fortune teller; her clue was his special fortune cards with intricate pictures of his customer's fate he laid out on the table. Im always caught off guard at how common fortune telling is in Thailand, or in Asia for that matter.
A chubby, gypsy woman wearing excessive gaudy jewelry, a turban, and a rainbow colored mumu is usually what comes to my mind when I think of a fortune teller. She has a mystical smile and an eager glint in her eye, mesmerized by her crystal ball she rubs over and over in a candle-lit room. But the perfectly normal Thai man I saw at the nicer Thai restaurant destroyed all my fortune teller preconceived notions.
I also used to imagine people who went to fortune tellers as artsy people intrigued by magical things or normal people who go but never let it out. But here, the women customers who sat at his table wore fashionable funky dresses, and the men polo shirts and black dress pants. Typical mid-upper class Thai people who weren't ashamed to have everyone at this restaurant see their yearning to peer into their unknowns.
Some of my friends, and some of the high schoolers I teach, have mentioned to me that they have gone to see fortune tellers. They don't make a big deal of it. The way they describe it I suppose it's like us reading our horoscopes. Some people believe it is true, others believe some of it and discard the rest.
I wonder why we as humans desire to know the future so much? Why can't we just be surprised at whatever happens next?
I know right now I would love to know when we will finally get the letter telling us when Dominic's interview date for his green card is, or what job Dom or I will do in America starting in August, or what we will do in two years.
I like to make predictions and try to figure out what will happen through thinking so much my brain hurts because it makes me feel like Im more in control of my life. Yet, whenever I think I know what is going to happen next, Im always surprised by how the road Im riding on will dangle off in a direction I never fathomed existed.
Im tired of trying to be my own lousy fortune teller. How I want to be a horse with blinders on. I want to take life step by step, give up my control, and let my Rider lead the way.
But this time Dominic's mom pointed him out and said that he was a fortune teller; her clue was his special fortune cards with intricate pictures of his customer's fate he laid out on the table. Im always caught off guard at how common fortune telling is in Thailand, or in Asia for that matter.
A chubby, gypsy woman wearing excessive gaudy jewelry, a turban, and a rainbow colored mumu is usually what comes to my mind when I think of a fortune teller. She has a mystical smile and an eager glint in her eye, mesmerized by her crystal ball she rubs over and over in a candle-lit room. But the perfectly normal Thai man I saw at the nicer Thai restaurant destroyed all my fortune teller preconceived notions.
I also used to imagine people who went to fortune tellers as artsy people intrigued by magical things or normal people who go but never let it out. But here, the women customers who sat at his table wore fashionable funky dresses, and the men polo shirts and black dress pants. Typical mid-upper class Thai people who weren't ashamed to have everyone at this restaurant see their yearning to peer into their unknowns.
Some of my friends, and some of the high schoolers I teach, have mentioned to me that they have gone to see fortune tellers. They don't make a big deal of it. The way they describe it I suppose it's like us reading our horoscopes. Some people believe it is true, others believe some of it and discard the rest.
I wonder why we as humans desire to know the future so much? Why can't we just be surprised at whatever happens next?
I know right now I would love to know when we will finally get the letter telling us when Dominic's interview date for his green card is, or what job Dom or I will do in America starting in August, or what we will do in two years.
I like to make predictions and try to figure out what will happen through thinking so much my brain hurts because it makes me feel like Im more in control of my life. Yet, whenever I think I know what is going to happen next, Im always surprised by how the road Im riding on will dangle off in a direction I never fathomed existed.
Im tired of trying to be my own lousy fortune teller. How I want to be a horse with blinders on. I want to take life step by step, give up my control, and let my Rider lead the way.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Little Eye Lessons
My right eye had become the new target for a laser beam war. Every time I tried to look at a brightly lit skyscraper or fluorescent sign on the road I felt like the light shot through my eye, making it throb with pain. I covered my eye with my hand, and tried to bury my face in my lap.
Im sure my taxi driver was rather confused about what was going on with the foreign woman in his back seat that appeared to be crying perhaps, or about to throw up. Yet, he didn't say a word, but calmly did his job, navigating through the endless Bangkok traffic and dropping me off at my apartment.
The eternal taxi ride with my attacked and beaten eye was the climax of my inflammation of the cornea experience. For two days I thought my flaming eye was just pink eye, which is something I had never had before. I thought, "Little kids get this all the time, if they can handle this, so can I."
But as my eye got redder, more swollen, and more sensitive, even after buying antibiotic eyedrops, I knew I had to do it...go to the doctor.
Of course in Bangkok, not may people just go to the doctor when they are sick, instead they go to the hospital, which always sounds so intense to me. Thankfully, medical bills are not too bad in Thailand compared to the States, so at least that was one less thing to worry about.
The first eye doctor I saw looked at my eye through a hanging microscope contraption and told me that my cornea was infected, if it wasn't treated properly it could turn into blindness, and now I must wait for the cornea specialist eye doctor to look at it.
Dear me, I was freaked out a bit as we waited. Silly Thai soap operas were blaring on the TV above me, while Dom looked at Thai newspapers and I longed for a huge stack of waiting room magazines to distract me from the thoughts of wondering how hard it is to learn how to read braille.
The next doctor reminded me of Christina from Grey's Anatomy who gets so excited when a patient comes in with an interesting case. She gawked at whatever was on my eye, and said, "Ooo, ahhh...you have inflammation of the cornea!!"
Yes, I had already been told this, so I waited paitently for her excitement to wear off so she could fill me in on what that precisely means. She said it had gotten infected from my contact lens which hadn't been cleaned properly so something had gotten in my eye.
She told me to rest for three days, not go to work or do much of anything, put eye drops in every hour, not put water directly on my face, and to keep my eye protected from anything coming in.
I spent most of the next few days laying on my bed, wearing sunglasses in my room when the lights were on, keeping my eyes closed so they wouldn't hurt, and the best part--being fed, eye dropped, hair washed, and looked out for by my wonderful Doctor Dominic.
Being the constant over-analyzer that I am, I always wonder when such not fun, odd experiences happen, what can I learn from this?
I rarely miss work, or get sick. It is amazing how one small particle of something in my little eye could rearrange my schedule for a few days. When my eye was out of order, I realized how vital it was to my life, and I just take it for granted. I could survive without it of course, but life just isn't as fun with one eye.
It makes me think of how many other things I take for granted on a larger scheme. What if one unexpected thing destroyed my family, husband, friends, faith? I could survive without my parents' sweet words of encouragement, my husband's embrace, my friends' caring concern, and my God's hope.
But how empty life would be...how painful...how boring...how meaningless..how empty.
It is silly to compare an eye infection to losing everything I hold dear, but I hope that I will constantly be reminded, through minute or massive ways, how blessed I am. I hope I won't take it for granted, but use my blessings to bless others.
So step one at trying to bless others. Contact wearers, please clean your lenses carefully to avoid inflammation of the cornea and all its lessons to be learned.
Im sure my taxi driver was rather confused about what was going on with the foreign woman in his back seat that appeared to be crying perhaps, or about to throw up. Yet, he didn't say a word, but calmly did his job, navigating through the endless Bangkok traffic and dropping me off at my apartment.
The eternal taxi ride with my attacked and beaten eye was the climax of my inflammation of the cornea experience. For two days I thought my flaming eye was just pink eye, which is something I had never had before. I thought, "Little kids get this all the time, if they can handle this, so can I."
But as my eye got redder, more swollen, and more sensitive, even after buying antibiotic eyedrops, I knew I had to do it...go to the doctor.
Of course in Bangkok, not may people just go to the doctor when they are sick, instead they go to the hospital, which always sounds so intense to me. Thankfully, medical bills are not too bad in Thailand compared to the States, so at least that was one less thing to worry about.
The first eye doctor I saw looked at my eye through a hanging microscope contraption and told me that my cornea was infected, if it wasn't treated properly it could turn into blindness, and now I must wait for the cornea specialist eye doctor to look at it.
Dear me, I was freaked out a bit as we waited. Silly Thai soap operas were blaring on the TV above me, while Dom looked at Thai newspapers and I longed for a huge stack of waiting room magazines to distract me from the thoughts of wondering how hard it is to learn how to read braille.
The next doctor reminded me of Christina from Grey's Anatomy who gets so excited when a patient comes in with an interesting case. She gawked at whatever was on my eye, and said, "Ooo, ahhh...you have inflammation of the cornea!!"
Yes, I had already been told this, so I waited paitently for her excitement to wear off so she could fill me in on what that precisely means. She said it had gotten infected from my contact lens which hadn't been cleaned properly so something had gotten in my eye.
She told me to rest for three days, not go to work or do much of anything, put eye drops in every hour, not put water directly on my face, and to keep my eye protected from anything coming in.
I spent most of the next few days laying on my bed, wearing sunglasses in my room when the lights were on, keeping my eyes closed so they wouldn't hurt, and the best part--being fed, eye dropped, hair washed, and looked out for by my wonderful Doctor Dominic.
Being the constant over-analyzer that I am, I always wonder when such not fun, odd experiences happen, what can I learn from this?
I rarely miss work, or get sick. It is amazing how one small particle of something in my little eye could rearrange my schedule for a few days. When my eye was out of order, I realized how vital it was to my life, and I just take it for granted. I could survive without it of course, but life just isn't as fun with one eye.
It makes me think of how many other things I take for granted on a larger scheme. What if one unexpected thing destroyed my family, husband, friends, faith? I could survive without my parents' sweet words of encouragement, my husband's embrace, my friends' caring concern, and my God's hope.
But how empty life would be...how painful...how boring...how meaningless..how empty.
It is silly to compare an eye infection to losing everything I hold dear, but I hope that I will constantly be reminded, through minute or massive ways, how blessed I am. I hope I won't take it for granted, but use my blessings to bless others.
So step one at trying to bless others. Contact wearers, please clean your lenses carefully to avoid inflammation of the cornea and all its lessons to be learned.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Holding On
My roughened, sweat slippery hands gripped the wooden, smooth, chalk-stained bar as though my life depended on it. My legs were in a V-shape, stretched 90 degrees before me. They were shaking so much they were tremors before an 8.0 magnitude earthquake.
My teammates giggled at my legs antics while my coach said in a stern voice, "Hold them up, or drop down." I squinted my eyes closed, trying with all my might to break my old record of 1 minute 20 seconds. Finally my slick hands, and wiggly legs couldn't take it any longer. I let go and with a "poof", collapsed on the soft, thick, blue foam mat beneath me.
"Good job Sherri! 1 minute 23 seconds! Go get some water!"
I grinned sheepishly as my teammates gave me praises and high fives while I limped off to the water fountain oasis on the other side of the gym.
Hours upon hours spent doing pull-ups, sit-ups, crunches, splits, squats, running, stretching, back bends, jumps, turns, penny-pinchers, super-man and hollow holds--molding myself into a pretzel and yanking muscles I never knew existed.
I never really thought much about the importance of all our many strength-building exercises. For most of the 10 years I did gymnastics, I only saw it as the torture time of practice, just another part of our jam-packed three hours of work outs.
Today I was thinking back to gymnastics toning and the groaning and pain and soreness which were the only tangible results I saw of our strengthening. We would always try to barter with the coach to skip out on one or two exercises because "Wahh wahhh..we worked so hard today!" or hope that by working slower on our routines, "Oops! There is no time left for strengthening! Save it for next time!" Surprisingly, our ploys hardly ever succeeded.
But without those exercises, I never would have had the power in my arms, stomach, or back to successfully do a round-off back handspring, or be able to pull myself up in a kip on the bars, or spread my legs enough to do a split leap on the beam, or push my arms off the vault to do a front handspring. Instead, I would have always fallen on my face or butt because I wasn't strong enough--and never would have gotten better.
Im at a place in my life in which I don't feel like Im doing what fits my passions, or what I assume I was "created" to do. I don't see the point in it. I whine about the monotony of it, get frustrated, impatient, and just want to give up. But Im starting to see how perhaps at this moment my Coach is pushing me and training me so I will have my skills honed--prepared fully for whatever is next.
I don't know what is next, but for now, I will keep my eyes fixed on my Trainer and keep going while my hands are slipping, and my legs are becoming noodles, because if I keep hanging on, I will soon be able to collapse, and rest because I have gained what I need for the next task before me.
My teammates giggled at my legs antics while my coach said in a stern voice, "Hold them up, or drop down." I squinted my eyes closed, trying with all my might to break my old record of 1 minute 20 seconds. Finally my slick hands, and wiggly legs couldn't take it any longer. I let go and with a "poof", collapsed on the soft, thick, blue foam mat beneath me.
"Good job Sherri! 1 minute 23 seconds! Go get some water!"
I grinned sheepishly as my teammates gave me praises and high fives while I limped off to the water fountain oasis on the other side of the gym.
Hours upon hours spent doing pull-ups, sit-ups, crunches, splits, squats, running, stretching, back bends, jumps, turns, penny-pinchers, super-man and hollow holds--molding myself into a pretzel and yanking muscles I never knew existed.
I never really thought much about the importance of all our many strength-building exercises. For most of the 10 years I did gymnastics, I only saw it as the torture time of practice, just another part of our jam-packed three hours of work outs.
Today I was thinking back to gymnastics toning and the groaning and pain and soreness which were the only tangible results I saw of our strengthening. We would always try to barter with the coach to skip out on one or two exercises because "Wahh wahhh..we worked so hard today!" or hope that by working slower on our routines, "Oops! There is no time left for strengthening! Save it for next time!" Surprisingly, our ploys hardly ever succeeded.
But without those exercises, I never would have had the power in my arms, stomach, or back to successfully do a round-off back handspring, or be able to pull myself up in a kip on the bars, or spread my legs enough to do a split leap on the beam, or push my arms off the vault to do a front handspring. Instead, I would have always fallen on my face or butt because I wasn't strong enough--and never would have gotten better.
Im at a place in my life in which I don't feel like Im doing what fits my passions, or what I assume I was "created" to do. I don't see the point in it. I whine about the monotony of it, get frustrated, impatient, and just want to give up. But Im starting to see how perhaps at this moment my Coach is pushing me and training me so I will have my skills honed--prepared fully for whatever is next.
I don't know what is next, but for now, I will keep my eyes fixed on my Trainer and keep going while my hands are slipping, and my legs are becoming noodles, because if I keep hanging on, I will soon be able to collapse, and rest because I have gained what I need for the next task before me.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Mind Control
We finished watching 7 Pounds yesterday and I felt like maybe my husband was going to die soon. My heart beat fast and my arms needed to hold him right away. So I did and said, "Don't die, ok?" He laughed at my dramatics, and I knew I was being silly, but it's amazing the power movies and books can have to control your thinking.
Yet, I love how I feel after I read a book in which the characters become my friends I come to know them so well or watch a movie/TV show that draws me in so much it makes me scream, jump, gasp, or cry; it's like I just woke up from a powerful dream. The remnants of the characters pains or joys still cling to me as the lights go up or the book is closed.
I can't shake Prison Break off me after watching an hour or two the night before. The next day as I'm walking around town I wonder, "What will Scoffield do now that he is in prison in Panama? Oh! I bet he will discover Sarah is dead and be mad at Lincoln..." I ponder sometimes why Im trying to figure it out so much, it's just a TV show, not even reality. But it feels as though the characters are acquaintances I know of, but don't really know, and I want to figure out their lives for them.
Or recently after I finished reading The Secret Life of Bees (a wonderful book by the way) I felt as though I was back in the South, my lips all day were savoring a ripened peach from an orchard in South Carolina. I wondered if the next Thai person would start speaking in a Southern accent and wanted to find August so I could become her apprentice and learn from her about bees and life.
How do stories do that? They stick onto us and, if we allow it, their themes can transform the way we view life. Oh the power words or pictures can have on a person to steal part of their subconscious away and control it for as long as the viewer allows. Writers are the hypnotists of their audiences.
I hope I can use my hypnotizing powers to help others escape the harsh world for a bit and to help plant seeds of hope in minds searching for it.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
-Lord Byron
Yet, I love how I feel after I read a book in which the characters become my friends I come to know them so well or watch a movie/TV show that draws me in so much it makes me scream, jump, gasp, or cry; it's like I just woke up from a powerful dream. The remnants of the characters pains or joys still cling to me as the lights go up or the book is closed.
I can't shake Prison Break off me after watching an hour or two the night before. The next day as I'm walking around town I wonder, "What will Scoffield do now that he is in prison in Panama? Oh! I bet he will discover Sarah is dead and be mad at Lincoln..." I ponder sometimes why Im trying to figure it out so much, it's just a TV show, not even reality. But it feels as though the characters are acquaintances I know of, but don't really know, and I want to figure out their lives for them.
Or recently after I finished reading The Secret Life of Bees (a wonderful book by the way) I felt as though I was back in the South, my lips all day were savoring a ripened peach from an orchard in South Carolina. I wondered if the next Thai person would start speaking in a Southern accent and wanted to find August so I could become her apprentice and learn from her about bees and life.
How do stories do that? They stick onto us and, if we allow it, their themes can transform the way we view life. Oh the power words or pictures can have on a person to steal part of their subconscious away and control it for as long as the viewer allows. Writers are the hypnotists of their audiences.
I hope I can use my hypnotizing powers to help others escape the harsh world for a bit and to help plant seeds of hope in minds searching for it.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
-Lord Byron
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Water Fights
My brother frantically squirted icy cold water out of the green snake-like hose at me, while my cousins Michelle and Natalia snuck behind him with a heavy, plastic white bucket full of water. When I was shrieking just loud enough to distract him, the girls would attack, dumping the waterfall over his head. Of course he always got us back, but then we had even more reasons to invent newer, complex strategies. Summer water fights were the essence of wild and shockingly cold, yet refreshing childhood fun.
I never thought much about our precious water fights since then, but last week I was reminded of them on the streets of Bangkok where we took part in the annual Thai New Year water fight celebration, Songkran.
I felt like I was taken back in time, but instead of my cousins and I against my bro, it was everyone against each other, not in an evil, riotous way, but instead a playful, joyous way. Kao Sarn Road was covered with Thais of all ages, foreigners, water guns, water bottles, and clay. While Dominic and I walked down the street everyone sprayed us with cold, or warm water, or dumped it all over our heads. Some affectionately smeared clay over our cheeks while saying, "Happy New Year!"
My heart wanted to soak up every droplet of the Thai moment that I will miss next year. I love how in Thailand the city takes off three days of work to have a water fight together. I tried to picture Songkran in America, and for some reason I just don't think it would work. I imagine tough, drunk guys getting annoyed at other guys who got them wet, and eventually the water fight turning into a fist fight. Or even no one wanting to join in on the fun because they don't want to get themselves or the whole city messy, so only a few crazy teens play who are eventually stopped by the police.
But in Thailand during Songkran, the freedom to play and have fun that I had in my childhood was available for everyone to take and enjoy. I hope next year Dom and I can have our own mini-Songkran in Waxhaw, if you want to come and join in the merriment, just let me know and don't forget to bring your own squirt gun.
I never thought much about our precious water fights since then, but last week I was reminded of them on the streets of Bangkok where we took part in the annual Thai New Year water fight celebration, Songkran.
I felt like I was taken back in time, but instead of my cousins and I against my bro, it was everyone against each other, not in an evil, riotous way, but instead a playful, joyous way. Kao Sarn Road was covered with Thais of all ages, foreigners, water guns, water bottles, and clay. While Dominic and I walked down the street everyone sprayed us with cold, or warm water, or dumped it all over our heads. Some affectionately smeared clay over our cheeks while saying, "Happy New Year!"
My heart wanted to soak up every droplet of the Thai moment that I will miss next year. I love how in Thailand the city takes off three days of work to have a water fight together. I tried to picture Songkran in America, and for some reason I just don't think it would work. I imagine tough, drunk guys getting annoyed at other guys who got them wet, and eventually the water fight turning into a fist fight. Or even no one wanting to join in on the fun because they don't want to get themselves or the whole city messy, so only a few crazy teens play who are eventually stopped by the police.
But in Thailand during Songkran, the freedom to play and have fun that I had in my childhood was available for everyone to take and enjoy. I hope next year Dom and I can have our own mini-Songkran in Waxhaw, if you want to come and join in the merriment, just let me know and don't forget to bring your own squirt gun.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
A Thursday Collage
Sweet, succulent, smooth, slippery like an eel orangey-yellow mango.
The first words I said to the first three co-workers I saw in response to their, "How are you?"s was "Hot," wipe sweat, "Hot," pull sticky shirt away from body and fan myself, "Hot."
Eating dark and light purple, thick grains of moist rice with my veggies and omelette feels as wholesome as eating wheat bread chock-full of oat and nuts.
Wide-eyed, blonde haired European kiddos on the Sky Train with their backs facing the riders, knees on the yellow with black speckles seats, peering out the windows in awe at the stern skyscrapers, long-forgotten gratified buildings, haphazard construction sites for new condos, and forlorn concrete lots.
I pondered today about how the red shirts are protesting the government for the people and in December the yellow shirts were protesting the government for the people too. I wondered if I should write a blog about it, but decided it's too complex to get into for a Thursday afternoon.
Smiling about the delicious Italian gelatto I ate last night with my friends, one Korean, one Thai, and one Vietnamese-American, in a Thai shop in which there was a cut-out bear display with Japanese gummy bears. What a mingling of cultures.
Still dreaming of the six scoops of gelatto: chocolate brownie, ferro rocher, kiwi apple, yogurt berry, cappuccino, strawberry. Decorated with waffle crisps, strawberry and chocolate syrups, apple slices and cashew nuts.
The gelatto made me hunger for Italy. I long to be sipping a perfect cappuccino at a dainty cafe on the streets of Florence while a cute old man with a beret plays his accordion in the square.
But focus...savor the mango, heat, rice, wonder, politics, and cosmopolitan life that make up the unique collage of my Thai days.
The first words I said to the first three co-workers I saw in response to their, "How are you?"s was "Hot," wipe sweat, "Hot," pull sticky shirt away from body and fan myself, "Hot."
Eating dark and light purple, thick grains of moist rice with my veggies and omelette feels as wholesome as eating wheat bread chock-full of oat and nuts.
Wide-eyed, blonde haired European kiddos on the Sky Train with their backs facing the riders, knees on the yellow with black speckles seats, peering out the windows in awe at the stern skyscrapers, long-forgotten gratified buildings, haphazard construction sites for new condos, and forlorn concrete lots.
I pondered today about how the red shirts are protesting the government for the people and in December the yellow shirts were protesting the government for the people too. I wondered if I should write a blog about it, but decided it's too complex to get into for a Thursday afternoon.
Smiling about the delicious Italian gelatto I ate last night with my friends, one Korean, one Thai, and one Vietnamese-American, in a Thai shop in which there was a cut-out bear display with Japanese gummy bears. What a mingling of cultures.
Still dreaming of the six scoops of gelatto: chocolate brownie, ferro rocher, kiwi apple, yogurt berry, cappuccino, strawberry. Decorated with waffle crisps, strawberry and chocolate syrups, apple slices and cashew nuts.
The gelatto made me hunger for Italy. I long to be sipping a perfect cappuccino at a dainty cafe on the streets of Florence while a cute old man with a beret plays his accordion in the square.
But focus...savor the mango, heat, rice, wonder, politics, and cosmopolitan life that make up the unique collage of my Thai days.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Tar Heel Girl
I must confess. I don't know how a bracket works, the process of how a team gets into the Final Four, or which players are supposed to be the best this year. But the one thing I do know is that my alma-mater, UNC-Chapel Hill, is in the Final Four and going to the Championship game.
While going to UNC I didn't care much about the stats of the games, or how it all worked, but what I loved was the passion. I loved to go to games and see a sea of Carolina blue and white jumping to the same beat; to hear one side of the Dean Dome chanting "Tar" and the other side yelling back "Heels"; to put my arms around fellow random fans like they were my family while we sang our school anthem at the end of every game.
And even after graduating, the feeling of unity lives on. When I looked on Facebook during the semi-final game, every UNC person I knew had written on their status' slogans like "Go Heels", "U-N-C", or "We love Roy's Boys!". Even though I live in a different continent now, I felt so connected to them in spirit as I put up my own status to show my Tar Heel love.
I love the underlying connection I feel with all Tar Heels-- like we are all part of a secret club and the password to get in is "Boo Duke". Just one way I'm reminded of how fun it is to be part of something bigger than myself.
I'm a Tar Heel born, I'm a Tar Heel bred.
And when I die, I'm a Tar Heel dead.
So it's rah-rah, Car'lina-'lina!
Rah-rah, Car'lina-'lina!
Rah-rah, Car'lina-Rah, rah, rah!
While going to UNC I didn't care much about the stats of the games, or how it all worked, but what I loved was the passion. I loved to go to games and see a sea of Carolina blue and white jumping to the same beat; to hear one side of the Dean Dome chanting "Tar" and the other side yelling back "Heels"; to put my arms around fellow random fans like they were my family while we sang our school anthem at the end of every game.
And even after graduating, the feeling of unity lives on. When I looked on Facebook during the semi-final game, every UNC person I knew had written on their status' slogans like "Go Heels", "U-N-C", or "We love Roy's Boys!". Even though I live in a different continent now, I felt so connected to them in spirit as I put up my own status to show my Tar Heel love.
I love the underlying connection I feel with all Tar Heels-- like we are all part of a secret club and the password to get in is "Boo Duke". Just one way I'm reminded of how fun it is to be part of something bigger than myself.
I'm a Tar Heel born, I'm a Tar Heel bred.
And when I die, I'm a Tar Heel dead.
So it's rah-rah, Car'lina-'lina!
Rah-rah, Car'lina-'lina!
Rah-rah, Car'lina-Rah, rah, rah!
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Homesick
Oh how I miss going to Cracker Barrel with the fam. While waiting, wandering around the country store with my mom, picking out random trinkets for whoever has the next birthday. Sitting down at a homey table and ordering thick, warm slices of French toast with freshly-made blueberry syrup spread on top and with a light dusting of powdered sugar.
How I miss waking up to the smell of my mom's waffles pulling me to the kitchen. Fighting with my brother over who gets the Peter Pan peanut butter and honey first, probably losing, and then spreading it on top, and gobbling them up.
Oh Dad, how I miss sipping a morning latte with you out of my favorite funky black and white mug we got on our trip to Spain and chatting over your not too thin and not too thick banana crepes.
How I miss going with the fam in the morning to a southern mom and pop diner. Eating a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit. The buttery biscuit falling apart in my mouth, the crispy bacon melting into the cheddar cheese and the egg holding it all together perfectly.
Oh how I miss making blueberry pancakes for my smiling grandma. When just enough bubbles have risen to the top, trying to expertly flip them over in her cast-iron frying pan. Sitting next to her, savoring and listening avidly to stories of days long ago
How I miss after a morning run with with my mom, getting a glass bowl from my parent's cupboard and pouring in just enough crunchy granola with raisins. Then decorating it with thick and creamy, strawberry cheesecake Yoplait yogurt. And topping it with bananas and blueberries before mixing it in a frenzy and scarfing down the delectable masterpiece.
Oh how I want to be part of those breakfasts the bring us all together again. But how blessed I am to have something precious to miss.
How I miss waking up to the smell of my mom's waffles pulling me to the kitchen. Fighting with my brother over who gets the Peter Pan peanut butter and honey first, probably losing, and then spreading it on top, and gobbling them up.
Oh Dad, how I miss sipping a morning latte with you out of my favorite funky black and white mug we got on our trip to Spain and chatting over your not too thin and not too thick banana crepes.
How I miss going with the fam in the morning to a southern mom and pop diner. Eating a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit. The buttery biscuit falling apart in my mouth, the crispy bacon melting into the cheddar cheese and the egg holding it all together perfectly.
Oh how I miss making blueberry pancakes for my smiling grandma. When just enough bubbles have risen to the top, trying to expertly flip them over in her cast-iron frying pan. Sitting next to her, savoring and listening avidly to stories of days long ago
How I miss after a morning run with with my mom, getting a glass bowl from my parent's cupboard and pouring in just enough crunchy granola with raisins. Then decorating it with thick and creamy, strawberry cheesecake Yoplait yogurt. And topping it with bananas and blueberries before mixing it in a frenzy and scarfing down the delectable masterpiece.
Oh how I want to be part of those breakfasts the bring us all together again. But how blessed I am to have something precious to miss.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
A/C Gym Dreams
I opened the door and entered a pre-heated oven. In a few minutes, I felt like I was an over-baked chicken, which had been cooked so long that all the juice and flavor had evaporated out. I didn't have any energy left to do anything, much less run hardcore for 30 minutes on the treadmill and do toning exercises on the weights.
Oh ye who work out in perfect temperature controlled gyms don't know how lucky you have it.
I used to be a lucky one. I had a shiny golden card which allowed me to go for free whenever I wanted to California Wow, one of the gyms in Bangkok. I had gotten a deal for a free membership through a friend and savored it. Unlike some of my friends who discuss working out as torture they must endure weekly in order to feel better about themselves, Im one of those weird people who actually enjoy the thrill, the sweat, the challenge, and the joy I feel after a good workout.
I reveled in walking into the refreshing air of my old gym, getting my card swiped, skipping past the many autographed profile photos of famous people I had never heard of who love my gym. Then right before the escalators meeting the huge poster of a woman's face who has a pixie-haircut, a perfect smile, and eyes that wink at whoever walks by like she is saying, "Welcome back friend."
I used to go in the mornings before work, or on my days off at times when it was the least busy. The gym became my adult version of a playground where I could play on any of the hundreds of treadmills, ellipticals, and other cardio machines; bend, lift, turn and twist on the wide array of machines in the weight area, and stretch my worn body in the section full of mirrors and mats.
Or of course there were the free classes I could go to at any hour of the day, but all taught in Thai with only a few English numbers or phrases tossed in. Yet, if I observed closely, I usually caught on fine.
But then it happened: my glorious, beautiful free year membership ended; my golden card became void and added to the pile of the useless cards I still kept in my wallet for nostalgic reasons.
And we moved, to a new apartment complex which had a gym--one of the main reasons we chose to move there. Of course, in Thailand, at a mid-range apartment, the gyms aren't much. They told us it didn't have A/C, but to my tough husband, it wasn't a big deal, we could handle it. I wanted to be tough too, and agreed, yeah, it wouldn't be that big a deal. This was during the somewhat cooler season, when the temperature is around 85 degrees.
The first week I was rather miserable, I missed the variety, familiarity, and cold air of my old gym. The machines in our new one are all made in the 80s and somehow have lasted until now. Long gone are hundreds of cardio machines, now I can chose between only two treadmills and two bikes. And our air conditioning substitute is five low-powered, lint-covered overhead fans spread throughout the whole room.
I got used to it though, and it was nice having the freedom to go whenever I wanted, be able to work out easily with my hubby, and for him to meet new guy friends through it.
But then it happened: the crazy hot season rolled in. I think the temperature must average at around 95-100, but even if it is around 90 or so it still feels like 100 because the air doesn't move at all; it just sits there like the heat has scared all the cool breezes and winds away from Thailand forever.
So thats why this week I have been running as fast as a 100 year-old turtle, sweating through my shirts in minutes like I'm a large 53-year-old man and sucking water out of my bottle like Im a 3-month old starving infant.
At least next year when I go to an air-conditioned gym, or run outside in the morning in 70-degree weather, I will work out with thankfulness cuz of how lucky I am--and if you got that now, be grateful and please say a lil prayer for me every time you work out, that I will survive being baked in my Thai gym oven.
Oh ye who work out in perfect temperature controlled gyms don't know how lucky you have it.
I used to be a lucky one. I had a shiny golden card which allowed me to go for free whenever I wanted to California Wow, one of the gyms in Bangkok. I had gotten a deal for a free membership through a friend and savored it. Unlike some of my friends who discuss working out as torture they must endure weekly in order to feel better about themselves, Im one of those weird people who actually enjoy the thrill, the sweat, the challenge, and the joy I feel after a good workout.
I reveled in walking into the refreshing air of my old gym, getting my card swiped, skipping past the many autographed profile photos of famous people I had never heard of who love my gym. Then right before the escalators meeting the huge poster of a woman's face who has a pixie-haircut, a perfect smile, and eyes that wink at whoever walks by like she is saying, "Welcome back friend."
I used to go in the mornings before work, or on my days off at times when it was the least busy. The gym became my adult version of a playground where I could play on any of the hundreds of treadmills, ellipticals, and other cardio machines; bend, lift, turn and twist on the wide array of machines in the weight area, and stretch my worn body in the section full of mirrors and mats.
Or of course there were the free classes I could go to at any hour of the day, but all taught in Thai with only a few English numbers or phrases tossed in. Yet, if I observed closely, I usually caught on fine.
But then it happened: my glorious, beautiful free year membership ended; my golden card became void and added to the pile of the useless cards I still kept in my wallet for nostalgic reasons.
And we moved, to a new apartment complex which had a gym--one of the main reasons we chose to move there. Of course, in Thailand, at a mid-range apartment, the gyms aren't much. They told us it didn't have A/C, but to my tough husband, it wasn't a big deal, we could handle it. I wanted to be tough too, and agreed, yeah, it wouldn't be that big a deal. This was during the somewhat cooler season, when the temperature is around 85 degrees.
The first week I was rather miserable, I missed the variety, familiarity, and cold air of my old gym. The machines in our new one are all made in the 80s and somehow have lasted until now. Long gone are hundreds of cardio machines, now I can chose between only two treadmills and two bikes. And our air conditioning substitute is five low-powered, lint-covered overhead fans spread throughout the whole room.
I got used to it though, and it was nice having the freedom to go whenever I wanted, be able to work out easily with my hubby, and for him to meet new guy friends through it.
But then it happened: the crazy hot season rolled in. I think the temperature must average at around 95-100, but even if it is around 90 or so it still feels like 100 because the air doesn't move at all; it just sits there like the heat has scared all the cool breezes and winds away from Thailand forever.
So thats why this week I have been running as fast as a 100 year-old turtle, sweating through my shirts in minutes like I'm a large 53-year-old man and sucking water out of my bottle like Im a 3-month old starving infant.
At least next year when I go to an air-conditioned gym, or run outside in the morning in 70-degree weather, I will work out with thankfulness cuz of how lucky I am--and if you got that now, be grateful and please say a lil prayer for me every time you work out, that I will survive being baked in my Thai gym oven.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Drama Queens
Chicken quesadillas. Guacamole. Cilantro. Mango salsa. Fun conversation with a fun friend.
These are a few of my favorite things.
Last night I got to meet up with a Thai friend whom I hadn't seen in awhile and eat over-priced (but quite delicious considering the fact we live quite east of the border) Mexican food--one of my long lost friends I miss immensely.
I enjoyed the food like crazy, and my stomach was so excited to eat cheese again it didn't know what to do with itself.
But I love how when women get together for lunch, coffee, or dinner, the food or drinks are always just a sidenote, something nice to gather around while we pour out our hearts to each other.
I listened to my friend's stories that were bubbling with new loves and lost loves and the many other crazy things going on in her life. I introduced her to the word "drama" and she was so delighted to start calling herself a "drama queen".
We decided that when women get together and share their stories it is like watching a movie of each other's lives. The food is just the popcorn you eat while you are engrossed in the story, empathizing with the actress starring before you.
How fun it is to be a woman--to have a lead role, to share your stories with an avid audience, and to always have a good story to watch and listen to.
Hope you get some popcorn and enjoy a movie today. :)
These are a few of my favorite things.
Last night I got to meet up with a Thai friend whom I hadn't seen in awhile and eat over-priced (but quite delicious considering the fact we live quite east of the border) Mexican food--one of my long lost friends I miss immensely.
I enjoyed the food like crazy, and my stomach was so excited to eat cheese again it didn't know what to do with itself.
But I love how when women get together for lunch, coffee, or dinner, the food or drinks are always just a sidenote, something nice to gather around while we pour out our hearts to each other.
I listened to my friend's stories that were bubbling with new loves and lost loves and the many other crazy things going on in her life. I introduced her to the word "drama" and she was so delighted to start calling herself a "drama queen".
We decided that when women get together and share their stories it is like watching a movie of each other's lives. The food is just the popcorn you eat while you are engrossed in the story, empathizing with the actress starring before you.
How fun it is to be a woman--to have a lead role, to share your stories with an avid audience, and to always have a good story to watch and listen to.
Hope you get some popcorn and enjoy a movie today. :)
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Gold
I wish I was 75 years old. I wish I had a head full of wisdom and white hair. I wish I had grandkids who came to visit. I wish I had a beautiful kitchen where I could make them cheesy omelettes and banana pancakes. I wish I was retired in New Zealand and lived on the side of a hill overlooking a Hobbiton-like town.
I wish I could say Dominic and I have been married 52 years and are more in love than we ever were before.
How I envy those older couples who hold hands quietly as they walk down deserted beaches together. It seems they have developed ESP over time, so there is no more need for words.
They have battled the winds, rains, and tsunamis of life together and made it through. These storms have somehow transformed them from scraggly saplings into solid oaks, and they now stand, without quivering, through the worst gales of life.
They have their battle scars, but time, forgiveness, and love mixed together have healed whatever pain they ever brought to one another. They have beaten the odds and stuck together till the end.
But it took so much to get there. So many misunderstandings, so many tears, so much figuring out each other to not keep hurting each other.
It took so much forgiveness, so much acceptance of imperfection, so much unconditional love.
I wish I could skip all the hurricanes and just poof, become that solid oak.
But then how would I gain the gold I seek everyday: wisdom? How would I be able to help those who are struggling understand that it will be ok?
I admire those who have made it through and are still standing strong. You are my inspiration.
I envy the wisdom you have already gained through your tests of life. Please don't be afraid to share some with those of us who are hungering for some too.
I wish I could say Dominic and I have been married 52 years and are more in love than we ever were before.
How I envy those older couples who hold hands quietly as they walk down deserted beaches together. It seems they have developed ESP over time, so there is no more need for words.
They have battled the winds, rains, and tsunamis of life together and made it through. These storms have somehow transformed them from scraggly saplings into solid oaks, and they now stand, without quivering, through the worst gales of life.
They have their battle scars, but time, forgiveness, and love mixed together have healed whatever pain they ever brought to one another. They have beaten the odds and stuck together till the end.
But it took so much to get there. So many misunderstandings, so many tears, so much figuring out each other to not keep hurting each other.
It took so much forgiveness, so much acceptance of imperfection, so much unconditional love.
I wish I could skip all the hurricanes and just poof, become that solid oak.
But then how would I gain the gold I seek everyday: wisdom? How would I be able to help those who are struggling understand that it will be ok?
I admire those who have made it through and are still standing strong. You are my inspiration.
I envy the wisdom you have already gained through your tests of life. Please don't be afraid to share some with those of us who are hungering for some too.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Cotton-Candy Blue Moments
Cotton-candy blue waters chilled my sticky like glue, hot like an overheated car body. Little shouts of "Ah, cold, wow," escaped from my lips, but really--I couldn't have been more delighted.
Future Muay Thai boxers (aka skinny Thai boys with arm muscles slowly coming into bloom) practiced sparing with each other on the limestone rocks surrounding the pools. The other kids on summer vacation were screaming, laughing, and pushing each other in the nature-made water-park. The tough ones would swarm like bees around a smaller victim until they were able to yank him to the tiered waterfall's sliding rock and shove him down as he screamed with fear/delight.
The dirty, messy hike, over rocks in the river, up unsteady steps made of rickety planks of wood, on walking bridges dangling precariously on ropes above the waterfalls' river had led us to our final destination: the top of the seven-tiered waterfall.
Each of the first of Erawan's waterfalls levels were so tempting; I just wanted to stop there and not go on. They were like the snacks I always want to eat before dinner because I'm so hungry. We watched the mix of European backpackers and Thai families frolicking in the emerald green or sky blue waters with little fishies nibbling their toes. The explorers would hide behind the mighty curtain of the falls or clamber up as high as they could go on the slippery rocks. I loved watching so many cultures mix together and come out with the same product: refreshment.
I'm glad we decided to not swim until we made it to the top. It made the experience taste better than it would have if we had stopped early. I loved to watch my hard-worked sweat and dirt be swept away in the clean, pure water's flow. I loved sharing in it with my husband as we held each other and laughed and took pictures in the waters, trying to somehow make the fleeting like a shadow moment last.
I wanted to keep this forever with me. I wanted to hold onto it and be able to replay it over and over until I had it memorized like my favorite movies. Why do precious times like this have to slip away so quickly?
I always feel somewhat bittersweet feelings whenever Im having a perfect day because I know soon it will disappear. I will be back to normal life, and it will become only something we tell others we did the other weekend, and it was great.
But I guess that is rather pessimistic of me. I hope I can enjoy every moment more and squeeze all the savory and sweetness out of it and then know that when that delicious time passes another one is just around the bend.
Future Muay Thai boxers (aka skinny Thai boys with arm muscles slowly coming into bloom) practiced sparing with each other on the limestone rocks surrounding the pools. The other kids on summer vacation were screaming, laughing, and pushing each other in the nature-made water-park. The tough ones would swarm like bees around a smaller victim until they were able to yank him to the tiered waterfall's sliding rock and shove him down as he screamed with fear/delight.
The dirty, messy hike, over rocks in the river, up unsteady steps made of rickety planks of wood, on walking bridges dangling precariously on ropes above the waterfalls' river had led us to our final destination: the top of the seven-tiered waterfall.
Each of the first of Erawan's waterfalls levels were so tempting; I just wanted to stop there and not go on. They were like the snacks I always want to eat before dinner because I'm so hungry. We watched the mix of European backpackers and Thai families frolicking in the emerald green or sky blue waters with little fishies nibbling their toes. The explorers would hide behind the mighty curtain of the falls or clamber up as high as they could go on the slippery rocks. I loved watching so many cultures mix together and come out with the same product: refreshment.
I'm glad we decided to not swim until we made it to the top. It made the experience taste better than it would have if we had stopped early. I loved to watch my hard-worked sweat and dirt be swept away in the clean, pure water's flow. I loved sharing in it with my husband as we held each other and laughed and took pictures in the waters, trying to somehow make the fleeting like a shadow moment last.
I wanted to keep this forever with me. I wanted to hold onto it and be able to replay it over and over until I had it memorized like my favorite movies. Why do precious times like this have to slip away so quickly?
I always feel somewhat bittersweet feelings whenever Im having a perfect day because I know soon it will disappear. I will be back to normal life, and it will become only something we tell others we did the other weekend, and it was great.
But I guess that is rather pessimistic of me. I hope I can enjoy every moment more and squeeze all the savory and sweetness out of it and then know that when that delicious time passes another one is just around the bend.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Women's Work
My mundane work week was over. I was reveling in the fact that now I was sitting in a comforting chair, sipping a heart-warming mocha, with my sweet, handsome husband of 2 months sitting next to me. Warm, gushy feelings were filling up my insides so quickly I thought I might burst and flood super-sweetness over everything if I didn't let some of it out soon.
So the vessel I chose to pour my abundant delight with the world into was my mother-n-law who was sitting in front of me innocently nibbling on blueberry cheesecake.
"Dominic has been so sweet to me! He makes me dinner since I work late, and he helps with laundry and cleaning too! He really cares for me so well!". No, I wasn't just trying to be a-suck-up-to-mother-n-law-to-get-her-on-my-good-side-wife. I just wanted her to feel encouraged about how wonderful her son was. What mom doesn't want to hear stuff like that?
Dom blushed, as much as his caramel-toned skin will allow him to, and translated my words to my mother-n-law. She sort of half-smiled and chuckled and then said something in Thai.
I grinned as she spoke, trying to put the puzzle pieces of the sing-song language together. But alas, since the smile-nod-hug language is the only one I have become fluent in since living in Thailand, after much effort, I still had no clue what she said. I assumed it must have been something like, "Im so glad he cares for you well! Im so proud of him!"
Dom nodded as she spoke. Then sat back in his chair, starting to look at the magazine in his lap again. I tugged on his arm, "So what did she say??"
"She asked how much do you pay me for doing the housework."
What! I was astonished. Here I am trying to laud her son, and all she thinks is that I'm commenting about how lazy a wife I can be because my husband does the work that I should be doing.
I shouldn't have been surprised though. I remember when Dom and I were first dating and I had asked him what he spent his Saturday doing and he said he had been doing "women's work" all day. What??
In Thai "women's work" is the phrase for cleaning, laundry, etc., all things women apparently do. I told him that in English we say "house work" and please can we stick to that set of terms from now on.
I don't hold it against my mother-n-law, or against Thai society because some of them are still having their minds pried open to the idea that a woman doesn't always have to be the only one who stays at home and does all the dirty work.
For example, right now Im the one who provides the income as I have a full-time job as a SAT writing, and book club teacher, while Dom is working full-time on his masters thesis in Telecomm Engineering. Im thankful that Dom doesn't mind sharing the dirty work and working together as one.
Hmm..but it would be rather nice if his mom didn't think I was a lazy, American girl who pays her husband to do things for her. But Im eager to be part of conducting opening mind experiments on her over these many years before us.
So the vessel I chose to pour my abundant delight with the world into was my mother-n-law who was sitting in front of me innocently nibbling on blueberry cheesecake.
"Dominic has been so sweet to me! He makes me dinner since I work late, and he helps with laundry and cleaning too! He really cares for me so well!". No, I wasn't just trying to be a-suck-up-to-mother-n-law-to-get-her-on-my-good-side-wife. I just wanted her to feel encouraged about how wonderful her son was. What mom doesn't want to hear stuff like that?
Dom blushed, as much as his caramel-toned skin will allow him to, and translated my words to my mother-n-law. She sort of half-smiled and chuckled and then said something in Thai.
I grinned as she spoke, trying to put the puzzle pieces of the sing-song language together. But alas, since the smile-nod-hug language is the only one I have become fluent in since living in Thailand, after much effort, I still had no clue what she said. I assumed it must have been something like, "Im so glad he cares for you well! Im so proud of him!"
Dom nodded as she spoke. Then sat back in his chair, starting to look at the magazine in his lap again. I tugged on his arm, "So what did she say??"
"She asked how much do you pay me for doing the housework."
What! I was astonished. Here I am trying to laud her son, and all she thinks is that I'm commenting about how lazy a wife I can be because my husband does the work that I should be doing.
I shouldn't have been surprised though. I remember when Dom and I were first dating and I had asked him what he spent his Saturday doing and he said he had been doing "women's work" all day. What??
In Thai "women's work" is the phrase for cleaning, laundry, etc., all things women apparently do. I told him that in English we say "house work" and please can we stick to that set of terms from now on.
I don't hold it against my mother-n-law, or against Thai society because some of them are still having their minds pried open to the idea that a woman doesn't always have to be the only one who stays at home and does all the dirty work.
For example, right now Im the one who provides the income as I have a full-time job as a SAT writing, and book club teacher, while Dom is working full-time on his masters thesis in Telecomm Engineering. Im thankful that Dom doesn't mind sharing the dirty work and working together as one.
Hmm..but it would be rather nice if his mom didn't think I was a lazy, American girl who pays her husband to do things for her. But Im eager to be part of conducting opening mind experiments on her over these many years before us.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Modern-Day Angels
After a discussion with my hubby this morning I felt like I was failing, and not a good enough wife. It was just about something silly, and he had no intentions of making me feel that way, but for me and my fragile self-worth, silly things easily turn into serious things.
On my walk to work this morning the weight of my invented expectations were still pulling me down. I felt as though I was going to sink into the broken sidewalk. The heat, stress about my upcoming work day, and the thought replaying over and over again that Im not whom I want to be, made me feel so low that I had become a slug, slowly pulling myself along, leaving slime and gunk to everyone in my wake.
I had been praying that I would somehow be encouraged, that I would be refreshed and that joy would come to me in the midst of my silly storm.
I stopped at a street-side drink vendor I have always wandered by but hadn't tried out yet. I ordered a Thai-style iced cappuccino, for only 30 baht ($1 ish). While the barista worked quickly and expertly, I tried to smile at her, to try to leave her out of my gloomy world. She smiled back as she handed me the tall, perspiring, pink plastic cup with a simple flower and the word "blooming" imprinted on it.
I took my first sip of the iced capp as I walked away. The sweetened condensed milk, espresso and foam mixed together in my mouth and all the sudden it was like someone had waved a magic wand over me and said, "It will be ok, feel joy," because that is what I felt, inexpressible joy.
A cooler breeze started to tussle my hair, the fruit the street vendors were selling looked brighter and fresher than usual. Thoughts were running through my head of how blessed I am to get to walk on a Bangkok sidewalk to go to work, that I have a husband full of grace, family and friends from home to miss, and family and friends here to love on. I also remembered that Im a human, who needs to forgive myself and remember Im totally accepted by and acceptable to God no matter what I have done, so shouldn't I give myself the same forgiveness He gives me?
It was like the iced cappucino had made a wrong turn and went up into my mind to refresh it, before going down to my stomach.
Or I can pretend that it was an angel sent to remind me of what joy there is in this world, not only in my relationships, but also in the simple pleasures given to me that bring delight to my soul--like coffee. Because after my soul-refreshing cappuccino came more modern-day angels...a sweet message from my hubby, encouraging emails from friends, and amazing lasagna from the Thai market.
I wonder if joy is always around us, but it is our choice to see it and claim it as our own or to keep slugging by it.
On my walk to work this morning the weight of my invented expectations were still pulling me down. I felt as though I was going to sink into the broken sidewalk. The heat, stress about my upcoming work day, and the thought replaying over and over again that Im not whom I want to be, made me feel so low that I had become a slug, slowly pulling myself along, leaving slime and gunk to everyone in my wake.
I had been praying that I would somehow be encouraged, that I would be refreshed and that joy would come to me in the midst of my silly storm.
I stopped at a street-side drink vendor I have always wandered by but hadn't tried out yet. I ordered a Thai-style iced cappuccino, for only 30 baht ($1 ish). While the barista worked quickly and expertly, I tried to smile at her, to try to leave her out of my gloomy world. She smiled back as she handed me the tall, perspiring, pink plastic cup with a simple flower and the word "blooming" imprinted on it.
I took my first sip of the iced capp as I walked away. The sweetened condensed milk, espresso and foam mixed together in my mouth and all the sudden it was like someone had waved a magic wand over me and said, "It will be ok, feel joy," because that is what I felt, inexpressible joy.
A cooler breeze started to tussle my hair, the fruit the street vendors were selling looked brighter and fresher than usual. Thoughts were running through my head of how blessed I am to get to walk on a Bangkok sidewalk to go to work, that I have a husband full of grace, family and friends from home to miss, and family and friends here to love on. I also remembered that Im a human, who needs to forgive myself and remember Im totally accepted by and acceptable to God no matter what I have done, so shouldn't I give myself the same forgiveness He gives me?
It was like the iced cappucino had made a wrong turn and went up into my mind to refresh it, before going down to my stomach.
Or I can pretend that it was an angel sent to remind me of what joy there is in this world, not only in my relationships, but also in the simple pleasures given to me that bring delight to my soul--like coffee. Because after my soul-refreshing cappuccino came more modern-day angels...a sweet message from my hubby, encouraging emails from friends, and amazing lasagna from the Thai market.
I wonder if joy is always around us, but it is our choice to see it and claim it as our own or to keep slugging by it.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Used Toys
She is beautiful. Her hair is so dark and shiny it is onyx. Her skin is the color of coffee with a little too much cream. Her eyes appear black at first, but then with a second glimpse they have flecks of dark brown swirled in. Her fake eyelashes curl up dramatically and her filled in eyebrows are gentle waxing moons. Her dark mauve lips pucker off her face.
Her long legs are on display in her tight, fake designer Seven jeans which must be size -1. Black, strappy heels lift her 2.5 inches off the ground. Her flat-chest is hidden beneath a billowing, sequin studded, silver shirt.
The words, you are beautiful, sexxxxy, hot, gorgeous, have rolled through her ears more than a million times it seems. These words have lost all meaning to her. They were like a toy that she had always wanted, but once she got it and played with it, she saw how temporary the pleasure lasted and now she wants nothing to do with it.
They know her body, inside and out. But do they know her?
Do they know what kind of movies she hates? Do they know her unforgettable embarrassing story that happened when she was 12? Do they know how to make her smile after she's had a long day? Do they know how much she wants to be known?
She is a delicious meal. They delight, enjoy, revel in, and then leave because their hunger has been satiated for the time being. But she feels like a leftover, previously adored, now sitting cold, alone in the fridge.
Bangkok is one of the most visited cities in the world. And as one of my friend's said,"I wonder why so many people come to Bangkok? The Grand Palace isn't that grand.." It is because of the booming sex industry which draws middle-aged, old, nerdy, sketchy, etc. men who haven't found enough pleasure at home, so now they search for it here along the streets flooded with their dreams come true.
I see pain on both sides and don't know how to help either. The women are attempting to escape from the pain of poverty, the men are attempting to escape the pain of feeling powerless and unloved.
But my heart mourns for the women. Their priceless beauty is turned into something hawked on the street. Their hearts that yearn for a man to save them and care for them are left hungry and starving everyday.
Everyday they become the toy that the boy doesn't want to play with anymore.
Her long legs are on display in her tight, fake designer Seven jeans which must be size -1. Black, strappy heels lift her 2.5 inches off the ground. Her flat-chest is hidden beneath a billowing, sequin studded, silver shirt.
The words, you are beautiful, sexxxxy, hot, gorgeous, have rolled through her ears more than a million times it seems. These words have lost all meaning to her. They were like a toy that she had always wanted, but once she got it and played with it, she saw how temporary the pleasure lasted and now she wants nothing to do with it.
They know her body, inside and out. But do they know her?
Do they know what kind of movies she hates? Do they know her unforgettable embarrassing story that happened when she was 12? Do they know how to make her smile after she's had a long day? Do they know how much she wants to be known?
She is a delicious meal. They delight, enjoy, revel in, and then leave because their hunger has been satiated for the time being. But she feels like a leftover, previously adored, now sitting cold, alone in the fridge.
Bangkok is one of the most visited cities in the world. And as one of my friend's said,"I wonder why so many people come to Bangkok? The Grand Palace isn't that grand.." It is because of the booming sex industry which draws middle-aged, old, nerdy, sketchy, etc. men who haven't found enough pleasure at home, so now they search for it here along the streets flooded with their dreams come true.
I see pain on both sides and don't know how to help either. The women are attempting to escape from the pain of poverty, the men are attempting to escape the pain of feeling powerless and unloved.
But my heart mourns for the women. Their priceless beauty is turned into something hawked on the street. Their hearts that yearn for a man to save them and care for them are left hungry and starving everyday.
Everyday they become the toy that the boy doesn't want to play with anymore.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Digital Perm Death
My usual curly mess of hair was transformed. It was now smoothed straight at the top, and then flowed into elegant, loose curls. I loved it and my new boyfriend adored it too.
The hairdresser had told my friend in Thai, which was then translated to me, that if I wanted my new look to last for about 6 months, I could get a digital perm. I wouldn't have to do anything but wash it, and it would fall into place perfectly everyday.
How could I say no?? The next week I went to the same hairdresser to get it done. The whole process took 3 hours and two of my friends hung out with me the whole time. First my hair was chemically straightened. Then the ends were curled in a machine that looked like the suckers dairy farmers put on cow udders.
I kept trying to stay hopeful that this rather tedious, strange process would bring about the desired result, so I stayed positive and looked at pictures in a Thai celebrity mag as cow udder suckers were stuck to my head and chemical smells burned up my nose.
Finally, it was over. So my hair didn't look quite as curled and elegant as the first day I came to the hairdresser, but I figured it might need some time to loosen up. The next day I washed my hair, excited to see what would happen. Out of my bathroom mirror peering at me was a girl with straight hair at the top, and frizzy, wavy-ness at the ends. Not quite what I expected or wanted to get from my $200.
I decided to go back, and try again because the hairdresser told me if it wasn't curled enough, she would fix it for me for free. I didn't realize this would mean doing the entire process again. I sat for another 3 hours, with even more hope under the udder-suckers than before.
But the next day, my hair looked exactly the same as the day before. And now, my fine, soft hair, felt like the hair on a long-forgotten Barbie doll. It was coarse and knotted and impossible to run my fingers through. It wasn't until six months later when I went back to America to a hairdresser that I would learn my hair had been completely and throughly fried to death.
The average strand of Asian hair is much thicker and coarser than a non-Asian's strand of hair, and probably 10 times thicker than my strands. So a typical Asian's hair can hold up to a digital perm's harsh treatments, but when my hair was permed not only once, but twice, all life was sucked out of it. After I learned all this it clicked in my head why the second time I went the hairdressers they were saying something about foreigners hair in quiet, confused tones.
So I had to live with this mistake and deal with the fact that I would never again see my once annoying, messy curls that in my mind I now remembered as precious ringlets which I was so silly to be discontent with.
But even horrible hair mistakes don't last forever. After a few months, I noticed that in the midst of my straight hair on top small curls were popping up like waves in a calm sea. This didn't really make me happy though because my hair wasn't any better, now it was just indecisive-- it couldn't make up its mind to be straight or curly. Random people I would meet would say, "Wow, you have an interesting hairstyle. How do you make your hair curly and straight?" Then i would have to go into the death of my hair story every time.
This morning, about one year later, as I was walking through the Metro Mall glancing at myself in the mirror-covered wall, I saw how my hair is almost all curly now. It still isn't completely back to normal. Maybe it won't ever be the same, but Im starting to like the new look.
It hit me how like my hair, I see all the ugly, messed-up parts of me and wonder if they will ever change--will I ever be the stronger, more loving and considerate woman I yearn to be? I think even though I don't see the transformation over night--like I hoped would happen to my screwed-up hair--it is happening, a little more everyday as I let go and let more grace come in to make beauty out of the ugly things in my life.
The hairdresser had told my friend in Thai, which was then translated to me, that if I wanted my new look to last for about 6 months, I could get a digital perm. I wouldn't have to do anything but wash it, and it would fall into place perfectly everyday.
How could I say no?? The next week I went to the same hairdresser to get it done. The whole process took 3 hours and two of my friends hung out with me the whole time. First my hair was chemically straightened. Then the ends were curled in a machine that looked like the suckers dairy farmers put on cow udders.
I kept trying to stay hopeful that this rather tedious, strange process would bring about the desired result, so I stayed positive and looked at pictures in a Thai celebrity mag as cow udder suckers were stuck to my head and chemical smells burned up my nose.
Finally, it was over. So my hair didn't look quite as curled and elegant as the first day I came to the hairdresser, but I figured it might need some time to loosen up. The next day I washed my hair, excited to see what would happen. Out of my bathroom mirror peering at me was a girl with straight hair at the top, and frizzy, wavy-ness at the ends. Not quite what I expected or wanted to get from my $200.
I decided to go back, and try again because the hairdresser told me if it wasn't curled enough, she would fix it for me for free. I didn't realize this would mean doing the entire process again. I sat for another 3 hours, with even more hope under the udder-suckers than before.
But the next day, my hair looked exactly the same as the day before. And now, my fine, soft hair, felt like the hair on a long-forgotten Barbie doll. It was coarse and knotted and impossible to run my fingers through. It wasn't until six months later when I went back to America to a hairdresser that I would learn my hair had been completely and throughly fried to death.
The average strand of Asian hair is much thicker and coarser than a non-Asian's strand of hair, and probably 10 times thicker than my strands. So a typical Asian's hair can hold up to a digital perm's harsh treatments, but when my hair was permed not only once, but twice, all life was sucked out of it. After I learned all this it clicked in my head why the second time I went the hairdressers they were saying something about foreigners hair in quiet, confused tones.
So I had to live with this mistake and deal with the fact that I would never again see my once annoying, messy curls that in my mind I now remembered as precious ringlets which I was so silly to be discontent with.
But even horrible hair mistakes don't last forever. After a few months, I noticed that in the midst of my straight hair on top small curls were popping up like waves in a calm sea. This didn't really make me happy though because my hair wasn't any better, now it was just indecisive-- it couldn't make up its mind to be straight or curly. Random people I would meet would say, "Wow, you have an interesting hairstyle. How do you make your hair curly and straight?" Then i would have to go into the death of my hair story every time.
This morning, about one year later, as I was walking through the Metro Mall glancing at myself in the mirror-covered wall, I saw how my hair is almost all curly now. It still isn't completely back to normal. Maybe it won't ever be the same, but Im starting to like the new look.
It hit me how like my hair, I see all the ugly, messed-up parts of me and wonder if they will ever change--will I ever be the stronger, more loving and considerate woman I yearn to be? I think even though I don't see the transformation over night--like I hoped would happen to my screwed-up hair--it is happening, a little more everyday as I let go and let more grace come in to make beauty out of the ugly things in my life.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Locked Up
I am a bird locked in a cage, peering out of the half-open blinds onto Bangkok, Sukhimvit 21 more precisely. I see a Minute Maid orange juice billboard, with curly-q Thai script printed on it. The vivid blue background and orange bottle seem to come from another world, a world that I don't exist in at the moment.
Cars, busses, pedestrians, street vendors, meander along the street or sidewalks, but they are not part of me either. The site outside the window to another world lures me, it taunts me to come, and how I want to give in and escape. But no. I can only fly around in the third floor of Asoke Tower, and can't leave until I am set free for the day at 7 p.m., only to return to my cage the next day at 11 a.m.
But when I am set free at 7 p.m., I fly down the steps like a jubilant school girl. I don't take the elevator because I can't handle being in another closed in space for one more moment. I breathe the dark, street-lighted air, still stuffy from humidity and pollution, but this doesn't bother me because it's air from the outside world. Everything that was jammed into my head during the day in my work world floats out for a moment while I walk down the city sidewalk and catch a motorcycle taxi to the Skytrain.
My soul, which was squished and stifled all day, is now regaining its strength. While the motorcycle taxi smoothly zooms around brightly colored taxis and dull-colored cars with the wind hugging me close, my spirit eats up the unrestrained freedom. I am alive again.
Are we suppose to live most of our lives caged up? I hope not. How I dream to one day have a job where I feel free. Where my soul is fully satisfied because I'm doing what I was created to do.
"Don't ask yourself what the world needs. ask yourself what makes you come alive and go do that because that's what the world needs- people who have come alive."
-Walt Whitman
Friday, March 6, 2009
Restful Coffee Beans
I love it when I get to help my students by writing a sample of the writing project I want them to work on. This term my 4th graders are reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and their assignment was to write to Willy Wonka and share with him what new candy he should create in his factory.
Today I will read their assignments and post some of their ideas too. Here is mine:
Dear Mr. Willy Wonka,
You have many wonderful creations in your factory, but I think there is room for one more. I think you should make Restful Coffee Beans.
The world loves coffee so much, but people are so busy that they like to drink it on the go, but soon people may be so busy they won’t even have time for that.
Restful coffee beans will bring so much relaxation and refreshment to the person who eats one that she will be as peaceful as a boat in the middle of a calm sea.
Once she puts the swirled white and dark chocolate coated bean in her mouth, she feels like she enters into a dream and her stressful world floats away.
In the dream world, she will arrive at a coffee shop, maybe her favorite one. The barista is so friendly and kind she is a loving grandmother. She makes the dreamer a perfect cappuccino and guides her to a soft, leather cozy chair that hugs the dreamer in its gentle arms.
The dreamer first stares at the cappuccino. The white foam is delicately swirled into a heart shape. It is so perfectly designed it looks like a painting by a famous artist.
She then sniffs it. The strong coffee scent is a perfume. The scent is made just for her and is all the smells she loves: waffles, chocolate, clean bed sheets, and ocean breezes.
Last of all she tastes it. The foam and the hot liquid mix together in her mouth and the rich, smooth taste slides down her throat into her body like a gentle stream of water.
Her mind, body, and heart are all at rest, so now the dream must end. She wakes up exactly where she was when she ate the bean, but only one minute later. She feels so refreshed it is like she just got up from a lovely nap. Now she has strength to do anything!
Mr. Willy Wonka, people are so tired they need something to keep them going! This is the perfect way to bring rest to stressed-out society! Please make it!
Sincerely,
Mrs. Phengchard
...I wish that children's fiction were reality..oh what a happy place the world would be....
Friday, February 27, 2009
Savoring
"Live like you are going to die tomorrow, learn like you will live forever." I randomly saw this sticker on the back of a funky car when I was in Dominic's hometown at his old college. The phrase jumped out to me like crazy, for one it was in English and not Thai, and it is something that I really have been pondering lately.
Since after we got married, it's hitting me a little more everyday how we aren't going to be living in Thailand forever. In August we will pack up our slew of suitcases, hop on a plane and jet back to our other home.
So I'm trying to live my life in Thailand more in a way so that I savor it: to taste and enjoy completely every moment. Usually, being the human that I am, I forget to delight in it and go through life too quick to notice anything around me or dwell on the future so much the present never truly exists. I have seen how this takes the joy out of life, and hope to God that He will free me from it.
Last night at a street side restaurant near Newsong (our church), I was eating glass noodles stir-fried with a rainbow of vegetables, and chicken, covered with a dark red, sweet, spicy sauce. The dish is called in Thai, suki heng gai, and is one of my new favorites this year. As I was slurping up a bite from my fork and spoon, I was really trying to soak up every part of the experience--the heat, which was giving me and my friends from our women's small group all shiny foreheads; the air, smelling of car exhaust fumes and fried food; the tastes, of my freshly-made iced Milo chocolate drink, and the spicy, sauce lingering on my tongue; the conversation, full of woes of the week, as well as laughter and encouragement; the women, sisters from Russia, Thailand, and America.
I will miss those moments in little Waxhaw. But whenever I think about missing here, I think about what I miss there, in my other home, that I don't get here. My family and old friends who I have history with, cheap Mexican food, even cooking food at home, coffeshops galore with amazing coffee at reasonable prices, and actually knowing what random strangers are saying to each other around me. I can't wait to get those special times again.
I hope I can savor all my moments, not only the huge ones, like getting married, but also the everyday ones--no matter where I am. Moments on earth disappear in the breeze, but I know I will learn forever.
Show me, O LORD, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man's life is but a breath.
Psalm 39:5
For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
1 Corinthians 4:18
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Happy Thailand
"Happyyyyy Thailand! Happyyyyy Thailand!"
Not the words I expected to hear the night before my wedding after crying from the stress of the many details that seemed so important that I needed to figure out for the next day.
But these words are two of the few English words that my new grandmother-n-law knows.
Those two words, which she probably learned from a commercial promoting tourism in Thailand, her vibrant eyes, and uplifting smile, were part of the remedy to cure my stressed-out-bride syndrome. As sweet Grandma kept repeating them, holding my hand in her worn and wrinkled fingers, and smiling as big as ever, I started to giggle and smile at her compassionate heart. Slowly the stress and sadness began to float away, to be replaced with "Happy Thailand."
I'm sure part of my heartache was that my American family wasn't there to hold me and wipe away my worries the night before the big day. I could tell that Grandma wanted to speak to me directly, in my language, to try to lift up my hurting heart. She couldn't speak profound, eloquent words, but her simple attempts, giving me the only positive words she knew to speak, were just what 
I needed.
My grandma-n-law has taught me many things already. One of them being, that you never need the perfect words or actions to show love, or encourage someone. All you need to do is give out of a compassionate, loving heart what you have--whether you think it is a lot, or nothing at all--it is enough and just what they need.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Mystery Novel
I love to read good mystery novels. There is something about the intrigue of trying to figure out what is going on and in the end how, if the mystery is by a good author, my predictions are never right and how the author's endings are always immensely better than my paltry ponderings.
I have decided my life is a mystery novel. Im always trying to predict what is going to happen next, but alas, Im never right. I want to flip forward a few chapters constantly to see if something good or bad lies ahead, but sadly, unlike a book, my pages only appear one at a time for me to live in.
When I was young I dreamed that maybe I would marry a cute, curly brown-haired, artsy hobbit-like guy. Wow, I was wrong. Dominic is definitely not a hobbit, but Im so delighted I'm a bad guesser.
I never dreamed I would fall in love with a Thai guy, since most of the time Im not attracted to them, but Dom is not a normal Thai guy. He is a Christian-not Buddhist. He loves to work out-unlike most Thai guys. He loves learning about new cultures and taking parts of them with him-like wearing Abercrombie and Fitch, and learning English. He is confident-not many Thai guys are brave enough to go for an American girl. He doesn't agree with many Thai politics that the majority sides with-he has his own views and sticks with them. I admire how he isn't afraid to be different from his society and stand out.
I never dreamed I would get married in Thailand! I always hoped I could have a destination wedding, but never thought it would be possible. We are so thankful to Dominic's mom, and friends who helped pay for our exotic Thai wedding. Even though my friends and family from America weren't there, God blessed me with friends and family in Bangkok so I didn't feel sad and lonely on my wedding day, but instead, so loved. I can't believe Im blessed enough to now go home in August and have another celebration with the American side.
I never dreamed I would go to Jakharta, and Bali, Indonesia, and Kuala Lumpar, Malaysia for our honeymoon. I always dreamed to go to an island for my honeymoon, but never thought it would be in Bali. Im so grateful to my parents who provided such a gift for us.
My wildest dreams haven't come true because never before did I even fathomed any of this ever happening. Just like a grand mystery novel, Im eager to see what the next page of Sherri Phengchard's Mysterious Life will look like. I guess I should stop guessing and trying to flip ahead the pages that seem to be super-glued together and just enjoy the ride.
--Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him, endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Hebrews 12:2--
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Countdown
Im sitting at work, about to go teach my second to last day of SAT boot camp while counting down to what is ahead...
3 days until our honeymoon in Bali, and Malaysia--a gift thanks to my AMAZING parents.
7 months and 2 weeks until our wedding in Waxhaw, NC.
Wow!
Step by step :)
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