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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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!

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.