I wear a hat when I write. It's a white crocheted sun hat with a little flower on it. I don't wear a hat because my office is particularly sunny or because I'm trying to compensate for a bad hair day; I wear a hat because it's part of my writing ritual.
Last summer I took a class about how to make writing more of a habit. The instructor suggested one way to really get into the writing mindset is to have a ritual of some sort that triggers the senses and says to my brain: "Keri, it's time to write." I tried a bunch of different things before I chose my writing hat. First I thought when I sat down to write I would light a scented candle, and after a while, every time I smelled that candle my brain would be ready to write. I went to Target and found a candle that smelled nice. It smelled just as nice when I burned it. But it also made me sneeze. And sneeze. And sneeze. So I scrapped the candle idea.
Then I thought maybe my sense of taste might get me into writing mode. I decided I would eat black licorice only when writing, and the taste of black licorice would entice me into a creative frenzy. Unfortunately, I love black licorice way too much to only eat it while I'm writing. Plus I figured that snacking while writing is probably more like mindless eating, and I didn't want to develop any bad habits whilst trying to establish a good habit.
After that I was stumped. Fortunately, I remembered a scene from the movie Little Women where Jo is writing a play in the attic, and as she writes, she wears a special hat. Aha! Thus the writing hat idea was born. As I rifled through my hat collection, which is surprisingly expansive for someone who doesn't really wear hats in the first place, I can across my white crocheted sun hat and knew it was going to be my writing hat. You see, it's not just any ordinary hat; it has memories behind it.
Back in early 2003, I was working as an English teacher in Beijing, China, as was my youngest brother. At the time of the Chinese New Year, we had about a month off of school, so we decided to go to Thailand for a change of scenery. We first went to Bangkok, which was lush with foliage and colorful flowers--a lovely contrast from the drab brown of Beijing. We did some sightseeing in Bangkok, but we really wanted to escape the city and cleanse our lungs with some clean air, so we headed down to the island of Koh Samui, where the European tourists sunned themselves on the beach but rarely set foot in the sea. I walked by the sea at night, listening to the whoosh whoosh of the waves over the sand and contemplating how easy it would be for the sea to swallow me up in its dark vastness. It was less than two years later when a tsunami that came barreling across the very same sea did swallow people up, though not on Koh Samui.
On Koh Samui I tried my hand at sea kayaking around the jagged rock formations surrounding the island as if they were dropped there from the sky. After steering my sea kayak in circles, I figured I'd be better off on land and so hiked to waterfalls and pineapple plantations and temples.
From Koh Samui, we island-hopped over to Koh Phi Phi, a tiny island filled with twenty-something tourists clad in cut-off shorts and scuba fins. My brother and I decided to sign up for scuba diving lessons and soon found ourselves 20 meters under the sea staring wide-eyed at reef sharks and clown fish and corals in a dizzying array of colors. I didn't want to leave Koh Phi Phi. I was captivated by the deeply tanned islanders who hauled carts down the dirt roads barefoot, yelling "beep, beep!" as they passed; I was intrigued by the fishing boats left forlorn in the sand when the tide went out at sunset, each its own desert island; and I was left speechless by the unspoiled beauty of the rocky cliffs along the shoreline.
The main "road" of Koh Phi Phi was crowded with shops selling everything from flip flops to kayaks, and when I spotted the white crocheted sun hat, I knew it suited me perfectly. To this day, more than seven years later, the hat still encompasses my memories of a country as diverse in landscape and people as a 1000-piece puzzle, as well as the little island of Phi Phi that, unlike Koh Samui, was not spared from the wrath of the 2004 tsunami. It was, in fact, nearly completely destroyed, as far as news accounts go.
Our trip didn't end in Phi Phi. From there we went north to Kanchanaburi, a solemn town featuring the infamous railroad bridge over the River Kwai built by POWs held in Japanese camps during WWII. I crossed this bridge many times, each time looking down through the cracks between the railroad ties at the fast-moving river below and then quickening my pace to the other side. This town holds a cemetery of hundreds of white headstones set neatly in rows, each commemorating one soldier's life. It's an eerie resting place, so far from home for many of the people remembered there.
And that's the story of my writing hat. Whenever I put in on, I hear lilt of the islanders' words; I taste the pineapple, sweeter than candy, and feel its juice running down my chin; I smell the orchids in my hair, and I see a collage of images that waken memories long since fallen asleep.
It's a great hat.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
This chicken's scratchings
I've been thinking a lot lately about the idea of finding strength in my weaknesses. For the longest time I knew I had come across this concept somewhere--I thought maybe in the Bible or in a song, but I couldn't remember specifically what the context was--and it's been nagging at me. Yesterday it finally dawned on me that the reference I was seeking was in a Madeline L'Engle's classic novel A Wrinkle in Time.
I haven't read this novel in many years, though we listened to it in the car on a road trip maybe three years ago, so I don't remember all the details exactly, but essentially teenage Meg "tessers" to another planet to rescue her father and younger brother from the grasp of a mind-controlling entity called "IT" (I think). When Meg is going off to face the entity alone, someone (I can't remember who) tells her to use her weaknesses as her strengths. This puzzles Meg, but as she confronts "IT," who has pretty much taken over her brother's mind, she realizes her stubbornness, which she'd always thought of as a weakness, gives her the determination to not give up on her brother. That's about the gist of what I kind of remember.
Why this particular scene from this particular novel has stuck in my mind I can't say, but it's really made me think hard about how I can generate strength from my weaknesses. Of course, the first step in my self-analysis is to think honestly about my weaknesses, which is about as fun as standing outside in the snow barefoot. But I did it--on my 40-mile drive home from work last night, I tried to list all my weaknesses in my head. I'm not gonna lie; it was depressing. After filtering through them all, I narrowed the list down to one weakness that seems to impact quite significantly the choices I've made and continue to make in my life: I'm a chicken.
That's right. The cowardly lion has nothing on me; my second language is bawk, bawk, be-gawk.
Let me clarify: I'm not lacking in courage when it comes to new experiences (except those involving great heights or considerable risk to my person). I am, however, incredibly inhibited when it comes to dealing with people. I suppose there's a fine line between being chicken and being reserved. I'm an introvert, and there's nothing wrong with that. But when fear dictates my actions (though fear of what I'm not quite sure), that sounds like squawking to me.
When I was little, I was afraid to ask a clerk in a store for help. In college, I got all nervous before calling Dominos to order a pizza. Fortunately, those kinds of things don't bother me anymore like they did when I was a spring chicken. Still, to me, being in a social situation with a group of people I don't know well makes me more uncomfortable than when I'm at the dentist getting a cavity filled. Okay, so I've never had a cavity, but I imagine getting a filling would not be on any one's bucket list.
I don't know what it is about people that intimates me so much. I guess maybe I'm afraid they won't like me, but that seems too easy an explanation. Or maybe I just worry too much about what people think. When I was teaching classes at a local college, I absolutely dreaded student evaluations because I took any feedback that could be interpreted as negative personally. Constructive criticism is one thing; I value knowing ways I can improve myself or my work, but when students would complain about the textbook (which I didn't choose) or would say I was a bad teacher because they were failing (which they believed was my fault even though they didn't do the work--see I'm getting defensive), I felt terrible, like who I am to as a person was being dragged under the bus when that really wasn't what student evaluations were about.
The area where my chicken-ness bothers me the most is when it comes to reaching out to people. Our church hosts the homeless once a month every year and asks for volunteers to help people settle in and feel at home. When our family volunteered a few years ago, I could smile and say hello, but actually emitting warmth and welcome by reaching out, engaging people in conversation, giving hugs, what have you, I couldn't do. This bothered me because I don't think I'm a cold person, but when I'm trying to connect with people whose experiences I know nothing of, I can't think of what to say or do, and so I chicken out and to very little.
Okay, so I've analyzed my weakness as much as I can without professional intervention. Now the question is, what can I do with it? I suppose one way to look at my weakness is to realize that my inner chicken has no doubt kept me from making any number of big mistakes that might come from leaping before looking. Also, given my fear of people in numbers, I've gravitated more toward developing one-on-one relationships, which is great.
The heart of the matter, though, is figuring out how I can use my weakness to glorify God. I think being chicken causes me to turn to God for help every time I know I'm going to be in a situation where it would be really easy to be afraid and run away. My inclination toward cowardice pushes me to really lean on the Lord when I step into a place where I know shining his light is going to mean I'm uncomfortable. I've been inclined to not do things that involve reaching out to people because I'm afraid; being aware of my weakness helps me trust that I'm never alone and that God can use me regardless of my reluctance. But I want to be joyful, so I pray for that too. I wonder if Jesus called me out on the water to him whether I would sink. My prayer is that I have to courage to go where I'm lead, knowing that weakness and all I am a beloved daughter of Christ; he's my strength.
I'm seeking out a coward's boldness. How's that for an oxymoron?
Monday, February 21, 2011
A trip down memory lane
Today I transferred all the photos from the 4-gig memory card in our camera to our external hard drive because the 4-gig memory card was full. That's a lot of photos! As I was doing this, I took a few moments to browse through the pictures I'd already saved onto the external hard drive. I'm so thankful for all the pictures we have; I love looking at them and remembering. Since I'm not feeling particularly creative today, I thought for my blog I'd post my five favorite pictures from the past--as least from the recent past (in other words, after digital cameras came along). So here they are, with commentary.
June 2004. This is a lotus flower from Wei Ming Lake on the campus of Peking University in Beijing, China. The lotus flowers only bloom for a short time, so I was thrilled to see one in person!
August 2005. This is my nephew when he was only sixth months old. (He's five now!) My sister and brother-in-law adopted this adorable little guy from Guatemala, and I love him to pieces.
March 2006. This photo was taken when I was visiting some missionary friends in Lima, Peru. These kids' parents recycle plastics and cans and anything else that can be salvaged for a living, and they essentially live in a garbage dump of sorts.
November 2006. I love this picture from our wedding!
June 2010. This is Kev watching the sun set over Lake Superior along Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The UP is one of our favorite place to visit.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
All's well that ends well (for lack of a better title)
Friday night my friend Lis and I went out on the town for dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory followed by a play at the Guthrie. Dinner was delicious, and the play was full of tragic misunderstandings, mistaken or hidden identities, secrets and lies, witty humor, and rather raunchy comic relief--in other words, typical Shakespeare.
After the play, we went to the parking ramp where Lis had parked...and after wandering the various levels where nothing looked familiar for more than twenty minutes, we started to wonder if maybe the car had been stolen and if we should call the police. Fortunately, I spotted a guy with a name tag and clipboard and explained our situation. He looked at me, expressionless, and informed me there was another ramp a half a block over and we were mostly like parked there.
Oh.
Turns our the guy with the clipboard knew what he was talking about, and as soon as we spotted the car, we scrambled to turn the heater on full blast and warm up our frozen extremities.
Needless to say, this was not the first "adventure" Lis and I have been on together. In the more than fifteen years we've been friends, we've traveled abroad, been roommates and housemates, laughed ourselves silly, and chatted ourselves hoarse. We've puzzled over the strange ways of men and encouraged each other in our careers. I celebrated with Lis in the hospital when her beautiful daughter decided to arrive earlier than expected. And on my wedding day, Lis was right there with me when coffee spilled on my veil at the hair salon. (Fortunately, spillage on veils must happen frequently at the salon because one of the stylists knew just what to do!)
I have to go way back in time to remember when Lis and I first met. We were in the same French class my sophomore year of college, where Lis witnessed me rather skillfully averting the advances of the guy we later coined "French-class Brian" (we knew several Brians at the time), and though Lis and I didn't yet know each other well, we were both relieved to see a familiar face in the group of students who would spend a semester on an exchange program in England the following fall.
Our friendship really solidified during our semester abroad, where Lis, the bolder of us two, nudged my way-too-chicken 19-year-old-self toward countless new experiences. We shared many a stuffed-crust pizza and game of gin rummy, pub crawled like the best of them, took in theater in London, roamed the countryside of Cornwall, and thoroughly enjoyed spending time with our new friends--British, German, and American alike.
Back in the States, Lis, our friend Tam, and I rented a tiny house our senior year, where each of our bedrooms was about the size of a closet, and a mouse sometimes inhabited the silverware drawer. That year my parents were in Africa doing mission work; in their absence, I looked after my grandparents who lived about a half an hour from the university. It was a dark time for me, as my grandma's dementia and osteoporosis made in increasingly difficult for my grandpa to care for her, and when my grandpa's sister called and said my grandma needed to be in the nursing home, I was the one who had to make it happen. There were many evenings when I sat with my two wonderful housemates and cried, not really knowing what to do, and I've no doubt God placed these two incredible women in my life at just this time to help me through.
After graduation, I moved back to Minnesota, and Lis went to graduate school on the East Coast. Those years are fuzzy in my memory, but I remember that even after long stretches of time passed, Lis and I picked up our conversations like we'd never left off. When Lis moved to Minnesota not long after I returned home from China, I was thrilled. In the many years since then, both our lives have changed dramatically--some changes for the better and some not so much. Yet in the midst of the joys and challenges we find ourselves facing, our tea outings, lunches, birthday celebrations, and occasional excursions to the theater give us both a chance to unwind and enjoy the familiarity of a friendship as comfortable as a Saturday sweater. A rare gift indeed.
As we walked into the Guthrie on Friday, Lis commented that she could see the two of us as old ladies hobbling down the street with our canes and getting in the rush line to see Shakespeare at the Guthrie. Of course, we'd be sure to know which ramp we parked in. Or better yet, maybe we'd take a cab. Here's to many more adventures to come, Lis! You're a treasure!
After the play, we went to the parking ramp where Lis had parked...and after wandering the various levels where nothing looked familiar for more than twenty minutes, we started to wonder if maybe the car had been stolen and if we should call the police. Fortunately, I spotted a guy with a name tag and clipboard and explained our situation. He looked at me, expressionless, and informed me there was another ramp a half a block over and we were mostly like parked there.
Oh.
Turns our the guy with the clipboard knew what he was talking about, and as soon as we spotted the car, we scrambled to turn the heater on full blast and warm up our frozen extremities.
Needless to say, this was not the first "adventure" Lis and I have been on together. In the more than fifteen years we've been friends, we've traveled abroad, been roommates and housemates, laughed ourselves silly, and chatted ourselves hoarse. We've puzzled over the strange ways of men and encouraged each other in our careers. I celebrated with Lis in the hospital when her beautiful daughter decided to arrive earlier than expected. And on my wedding day, Lis was right there with me when coffee spilled on my veil at the hair salon. (Fortunately, spillage on veils must happen frequently at the salon because one of the stylists knew just what to do!)
I have to go way back in time to remember when Lis and I first met. We were in the same French class my sophomore year of college, where Lis witnessed me rather skillfully averting the advances of the guy we later coined "French-class Brian" (we knew several Brians at the time), and though Lis and I didn't yet know each other well, we were both relieved to see a familiar face in the group of students who would spend a semester on an exchange program in England the following fall.
Our friendship really solidified during our semester abroad, where Lis, the bolder of us two, nudged my way-too-chicken 19-year-old-self toward countless new experiences. We shared many a stuffed-crust pizza and game of gin rummy, pub crawled like the best of them, took in theater in London, roamed the countryside of Cornwall, and thoroughly enjoyed spending time with our new friends--British, German, and American alike.
Back in the States, Lis, our friend Tam, and I rented a tiny house our senior year, where each of our bedrooms was about the size of a closet, and a mouse sometimes inhabited the silverware drawer. That year my parents were in Africa doing mission work; in their absence, I looked after my grandparents who lived about a half an hour from the university. It was a dark time for me, as my grandma's dementia and osteoporosis made in increasingly difficult for my grandpa to care for her, and when my grandpa's sister called and said my grandma needed to be in the nursing home, I was the one who had to make it happen. There were many evenings when I sat with my two wonderful housemates and cried, not really knowing what to do, and I've no doubt God placed these two incredible women in my life at just this time to help me through.
After graduation, I moved back to Minnesota, and Lis went to graduate school on the East Coast. Those years are fuzzy in my memory, but I remember that even after long stretches of time passed, Lis and I picked up our conversations like we'd never left off. When Lis moved to Minnesota not long after I returned home from China, I was thrilled. In the many years since then, both our lives have changed dramatically--some changes for the better and some not so much. Yet in the midst of the joys and challenges we find ourselves facing, our tea outings, lunches, birthday celebrations, and occasional excursions to the theater give us both a chance to unwind and enjoy the familiarity of a friendship as comfortable as a Saturday sweater. A rare gift indeed.
As we walked into the Guthrie on Friday, Lis commented that she could see the two of us as old ladies hobbling down the street with our canes and getting in the rush line to see Shakespeare at the Guthrie. Of course, we'd be sure to know which ramp we parked in. Or better yet, maybe we'd take a cab. Here's to many more adventures to come, Lis! You're a treasure!
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Punctuation and me, happy as can be
I love punctuation. Some people have a favorite sports team; I have a favorite punctuation mark. It's true. When I told this to the first English Composition class I taught at a local college, the students looked at me like I had sprouted a third ear in the middle of my forehead. To them, punctuation was something to dread, not something to swoon over.
I've heard rumors in the editing world that the current trend in writing is toward less and less punctuation. Even the Chicago Manual of Style, the be-all-end-all in the editing business, advises against using a comma after a short introductory phrase. Truth be told, I'm okay with that. Too many commas clutter a sentence. However, when my stepson told me that his sixth-grade teacher said the only comma rule the class needed to know was to use a comma when they would normally pause in a sentence, that I was not okay with.
I understand, though, why the teacher would want to simplify any punctuation rule she could. Punctuation is tricky, and there's really no easy way to learn to use it correctly except to practice. I've worked closely with punctuation for more than ten years now as an editor, and every day I have to look up some rule or another. I can handle the reality that comma splices are a fact of life. They actually help keep me in a job.
Still, I have to admit, when I see a flier announcing "car's for sale" or a billboard telling me to "stop in, and shop," I want to hang my head and cry. Fortunately, there are still some punctuation vigilantes out there, and we'll do our best to help future generations carry on the fine punctuation traditions of the English language.
By the way, in case you're curious, my favorite punctuation mark is the semicolon. Interestingly enough, I didn't learn about the proper placement of the semicolon until my freshman year of college, but that is perhaps a whole other story.
I've heard rumors in the editing world that the current trend in writing is toward less and less punctuation. Even the Chicago Manual of Style, the be-all-end-all in the editing business, advises against using a comma after a short introductory phrase. Truth be told, I'm okay with that. Too many commas clutter a sentence. However, when my stepson told me that his sixth-grade teacher said the only comma rule the class needed to know was to use a comma when they would normally pause in a sentence, that I was not okay with.
I understand, though, why the teacher would want to simplify any punctuation rule she could. Punctuation is tricky, and there's really no easy way to learn to use it correctly except to practice. I've worked closely with punctuation for more than ten years now as an editor, and every day I have to look up some rule or another. I can handle the reality that comma splices are a fact of life. They actually help keep me in a job.
Still, I have to admit, when I see a flier announcing "car's for sale" or a billboard telling me to "stop in, and shop," I want to hang my head and cry. Fortunately, there are still some punctuation vigilantes out there, and we'll do our best to help future generations carry on the fine punctuation traditions of the English language.
By the way, in case you're curious, my favorite punctuation mark is the semicolon. Interestingly enough, I didn't learn about the proper placement of the semicolon until my freshman year of college, but that is perhaps a whole other story.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
To text or not to text?
Monday night my cell phone went flying across the garage and crash landed on the cement floor. When I picked it up, the screen was blank. Turns out it was cracked in half, but when I pushed it back together just right, I could get it to work. My first thought when it looked like my phone was indeed out of commission: How soon until I can get a new one? Followed by: What if someone is trying to call me? Followed by: What if there's an emergency? I really shouldn't leave the house without my phone working.
Sheesh. After a moment of insanity, I remembered all the years I somehow survived without a cell phone--how I drove back and forth to Eau Claire every weekend in all kinds of weather with no instant form of communication--how I had to wait to get home and check the answering machine when I was expecting a call following a job interview. It really wasn't that long ago.
So now that my old flip phone has bit the dust, it's time to think about upgrading. I've resisted having a phone that does more than make calls until now. I'm a bit turned off by the idea of texting and having instant access to the Internet no matter where I am, but I wonder if it's time I got past all that and joined the 21st century. The truth is, I'm a bit intimidated by the technology I don't really understand. What are apps, and what does it mean to tweet someone? I don't know, and frankly, I'm not that interested in finding out.
Let's consider texting for a moment. It puzzles me to see people moving their thumbs at an abnormal speed in order to come up with a bunch of words (I'd hardly call it a sentence) composed of made-up acronyms that they could just as easily relay in person were they to actually dial the phone and talk to someone. I don't get it. Maybe it's because I enjoy the English language so much it makes me nauseous to see what texting has done to it, or maybe it's because I value more personal forms of communication than fragments flashing on a screen, but I'm really reluctant to jump on the texting bandwagon.
And as for instant Internet access, well, I can see the benefits, but I'm kind of creeped out by the idea of being connected to the outside world all the time. What if I want to get away? Will I be able to just turn off my phone and forget about it, or will I be sucked into the Borg?
Okay, so maybe bringing the Borg into the debate is a little melodramatic.
I must concede, I can see how texting could be convenient. And I've already admitted that having the Internet at my fingertips might well come in handy. It's doubtful I'll ever tweet anyone, though (whatever that means), and you certainly will never catch me ROFLing, KWIM?
Sheesh. After a moment of insanity, I remembered all the years I somehow survived without a cell phone--how I drove back and forth to Eau Claire every weekend in all kinds of weather with no instant form of communication--how I had to wait to get home and check the answering machine when I was expecting a call following a job interview. It really wasn't that long ago.
So now that my old flip phone has bit the dust, it's time to think about upgrading. I've resisted having a phone that does more than make calls until now. I'm a bit turned off by the idea of texting and having instant access to the Internet no matter where I am, but I wonder if it's time I got past all that and joined the 21st century. The truth is, I'm a bit intimidated by the technology I don't really understand. What are apps, and what does it mean to tweet someone? I don't know, and frankly, I'm not that interested in finding out.
Let's consider texting for a moment. It puzzles me to see people moving their thumbs at an abnormal speed in order to come up with a bunch of words (I'd hardly call it a sentence) composed of made-up acronyms that they could just as easily relay in person were they to actually dial the phone and talk to someone. I don't get it. Maybe it's because I enjoy the English language so much it makes me nauseous to see what texting has done to it, or maybe it's because I value more personal forms of communication than fragments flashing on a screen, but I'm really reluctant to jump on the texting bandwagon.
And as for instant Internet access, well, I can see the benefits, but I'm kind of creeped out by the idea of being connected to the outside world all the time. What if I want to get away? Will I be able to just turn off my phone and forget about it, or will I be sucked into the Borg?
Okay, so maybe bringing the Borg into the debate is a little melodramatic.
I must concede, I can see how texting could be convenient. And I've already admitted that having the Internet at my fingertips might well come in handy. It's doubtful I'll ever tweet anyone, though (whatever that means), and you certainly will never catch me ROFLing, KWIM?
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Angel Food Cake
For years now, I have been on a mission to bake an angel food cake just like my grandma used to make. This may seem like a relatively easy task. After all, Betty Crocker sells angel food cake mixes in a box. The thing is, after eating my grandma's angel food cake for so many years, I can remember the taste and texture so vividly that I won't go near the stuff in a box--it's not even close. Grandma's angel food cake was, literally, food for the angels. Moist and soft on the inside and crispy on the outside, topped with fluffy French cream frosting. Ahhh. Perfection.
I know for a fact that Grandma spent many years mastering the art of the angel food cake, and even after she'd baked it for half her life, she still had flops once in a while. She told me that she once had to bake three different cakes for a friend's birthday before one of them finally came out just right. The humidity in the air that day had caused the first two cakes to collapse!
What makes my mission so difficult is not just that I have never made an angel food cake from scratch before--I also do not have my grandma's recipe. I honestly don't even know if she had the recipe written down anywhere. I remember her saying something about the cake having eight egg whites, but that's all I know. This means having to try a variety of recipes before I find one that tastes like my grandma's.
Really, though, it's not about duplicating the little piece of heaven I used to enjoy on every birthday so much as it is about remembering and paying tribute to my grandma. Baking for her was an art. Every Christmas, she filled ice cream pails full of gingerbread men and other cookies. On Thanksgiving, her "impossible" pumpkin pie was my favorite part of the meal. I looked forward to when Grandpa harvested his zucchini crop every summer so Grandma could make her zucchini chocolate cake. She collected recipes from magazines and newspapers and tweaked those recipes until they were just right and until they were uniquely hers.
Even after Grandma started showing signs of dementia, she still figured out a way to bake. When she was unable to remember which ingredients she had added to whatever she was baking, she started putting the ingredients she was going to add on one side of the counter and moving them to the other side of the counter after she had added them. Baking was her therapy, and when she could no longer bake because she could no longer remember what day it was or how to turn on the oven, in many ways her life stopped.
I wish I would have learned more from my grandma when I had the chance. But isn't that so often the case? If she were still alive today, I'd ask her the secret to her angel food cake. I'd stand beside her in the kitchen and commit to memory the way she cracked eggs and stirred the ingredients.
My husband never had a chance to meet my grandma. Neither did my nephews or niece. To them she's only a photograph. I hope that once I learn to make an angel food cake like my grandma's, I can share in a tangible way a little of my grandma with those who never knew her. But I suppose the perfect angel food cake isn't really necessary. Afterall, I am her granddaughter; she is a part of who I am. I love that.
I know for a fact that Grandma spent many years mastering the art of the angel food cake, and even after she'd baked it for half her life, she still had flops once in a while. She told me that she once had to bake three different cakes for a friend's birthday before one of them finally came out just right. The humidity in the air that day had caused the first two cakes to collapse!
What makes my mission so difficult is not just that I have never made an angel food cake from scratch before--I also do not have my grandma's recipe. I honestly don't even know if she had the recipe written down anywhere. I remember her saying something about the cake having eight egg whites, but that's all I know. This means having to try a variety of recipes before I find one that tastes like my grandma's.
Really, though, it's not about duplicating the little piece of heaven I used to enjoy on every birthday so much as it is about remembering and paying tribute to my grandma. Baking for her was an art. Every Christmas, she filled ice cream pails full of gingerbread men and other cookies. On Thanksgiving, her "impossible" pumpkin pie was my favorite part of the meal. I looked forward to when Grandpa harvested his zucchini crop every summer so Grandma could make her zucchini chocolate cake. She collected recipes from magazines and newspapers and tweaked those recipes until they were just right and until they were uniquely hers.
Even after Grandma started showing signs of dementia, she still figured out a way to bake. When she was unable to remember which ingredients she had added to whatever she was baking, she started putting the ingredients she was going to add on one side of the counter and moving them to the other side of the counter after she had added them. Baking was her therapy, and when she could no longer bake because she could no longer remember what day it was or how to turn on the oven, in many ways her life stopped.
I wish I would have learned more from my grandma when I had the chance. But isn't that so often the case? If she were still alive today, I'd ask her the secret to her angel food cake. I'd stand beside her in the kitchen and commit to memory the way she cracked eggs and stirred the ingredients.
My husband never had a chance to meet my grandma. Neither did my nephews or niece. To them she's only a photograph. I hope that once I learn to make an angel food cake like my grandma's, I can share in a tangible way a little of my grandma with those who never knew her. But I suppose the perfect angel food cake isn't really necessary. Afterall, I am her granddaughter; she is a part of who I am. I love that.
Monday, February 14, 2011
February 14 ramblings
Ah, Valentine's Day. I'm not a big fan of greeting card holidays, but I did get Kev a stash of his favorite candy bars, and he took me out for lunch, since tonight I had a date with the senior citizens at the local care center. We watched Marmaduke and ate popcorn and drank cranberry juice. And then we chatted a bit, and I squeezed some lovely wrinkled hands and said good night.
I had all kinds of ideas jumping around in my head about what I would blog about today...I thought I could tell the story of how Kev and I met or write a poem to the dear man I can't wait to come home to whenever I'm away. But my mind keeps going back to a couple I saw at the care center. They were up toward the front of the dining hall doubling as a movie theater--he a resident and she a visitor. He struggled to hold up his head, so she lovingly held it up for him. And whenever she turned to look at him, I saw in her eyes a warmth and tenderness clearly reserved for her beloved.
I don't know this couple or their story, but I wondered what was going through the woman's mind. Here she was, watching the man she loves struggle and caring for him as if he were a child. I imagined myself in her situation, visiting my husband in a nursing home during the day and going home alone at night. The mere thought of it makes me feel hollow and empty. While the thought of growing old with Kev is romantic, the thought of the struggles that come with growing old scares me a bit.
Not long after we met, Kev told me about a very powerful dream he had. I can't remember all the details now, but the gist of it was that he clearly heard the message that he needed to hold onto the people in his life with an open hand--he needed to hold onto me with an open hand. I remember Kev being deeply affected by this dream, and it has since become a major theme, if you will, in our relationship. I don't mean in an easy-come-easy-go sense, but in the sense that the people God places in our lives belong to him; they're just on loan to us for a little while. If we hold onto them too tightly, we can lose sight of God's sovereignty. We love and cherish them in all situations when they're with us and praise God when they're with him.
I don't know how to relate all this back to Valentine's Day. Let's just say, I'm thankful for my devoted husband and for the way I've been blessed with a partner with whom to navigate this uncertain life. And while we hold onto the people we love gently, God holds onto us with both hands.
I had all kinds of ideas jumping around in my head about what I would blog about today...I thought I could tell the story of how Kev and I met or write a poem to the dear man I can't wait to come home to whenever I'm away. But my mind keeps going back to a couple I saw at the care center. They were up toward the front of the dining hall doubling as a movie theater--he a resident and she a visitor. He struggled to hold up his head, so she lovingly held it up for him. And whenever she turned to look at him, I saw in her eyes a warmth and tenderness clearly reserved for her beloved.
I don't know this couple or their story, but I wondered what was going through the woman's mind. Here she was, watching the man she loves struggle and caring for him as if he were a child. I imagined myself in her situation, visiting my husband in a nursing home during the day and going home alone at night. The mere thought of it makes me feel hollow and empty. While the thought of growing old with Kev is romantic, the thought of the struggles that come with growing old scares me a bit.
Not long after we met, Kev told me about a very powerful dream he had. I can't remember all the details now, but the gist of it was that he clearly heard the message that he needed to hold onto the people in his life with an open hand--he needed to hold onto me with an open hand. I remember Kev being deeply affected by this dream, and it has since become a major theme, if you will, in our relationship. I don't mean in an easy-come-easy-go sense, but in the sense that the people God places in our lives belong to him; they're just on loan to us for a little while. If we hold onto them too tightly, we can lose sight of God's sovereignty. We love and cherish them in all situations when they're with us and praise God when they're with him.
I don't know how to relate all this back to Valentine's Day. Let's just say, I'm thankful for my devoted husband and for the way I've been blessed with a partner with whom to navigate this uncertain life. And while we hold onto the people we love gently, God holds onto us with both hands.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The Simple Things
When as a young girl I daydreamed about my husband-to-be, I imagined our marriage would be all flowers and romance, holding hands as we strolled along the beach, breaking into a spontaneous dance number when the mood struck us. I never thought we would spend our evenings washing dishes, doing laundry, lying in bed watching Nova, or baking a raspberry white chocolate cheesecake together. That's what we did tonight--we baked a cheesecake. And it was way more fun than any walk on the beach (especially considering it's February and the beach is more like a skating rink!)
What I didn't realize before I was married was how much joy I could find in doing the simple everyday tasks with the person I love most in the world. I have a wonderful memory of my grandparents standing side by side at the sink after every meal, my grandma washing dishes and my grandpa drying. Even after my grandma started to develop dementia, she and my grandpa still stood at the sink together performing their 50-year-old ritual. Now that I've stood next to the sink with my husband, I can fill in the blanks; I can imagine my grandparents chatting about their day, laughing together, reflecting together. And at the same time, the dishes got done.
"Date nights" for Kev and me often consist of running some sort of errand and then trying a new Chinese restaurant for dinner. Sometimes we drop off a load of stuff at the Goodwill or take our hazardous materials to the recycling center. Not very romantic by most people's standards, I suppose, but the whole time we're in the car together, we talk. There's no elaborate planning or high price tag involved. There's just the simple realization that we're accomplishing something together and enjoying one another's company as we share a plate of wontons and crack open our fortune cookies.
My fortune? You will find happiness with the one you love, no matter what you're doing. There's a lot to be said for the simple things.
What I didn't realize before I was married was how much joy I could find in doing the simple everyday tasks with the person I love most in the world. I have a wonderful memory of my grandparents standing side by side at the sink after every meal, my grandma washing dishes and my grandpa drying. Even after my grandma started to develop dementia, she and my grandpa still stood at the sink together performing their 50-year-old ritual. Now that I've stood next to the sink with my husband, I can fill in the blanks; I can imagine my grandparents chatting about their day, laughing together, reflecting together. And at the same time, the dishes got done.
"Date nights" for Kev and me often consist of running some sort of errand and then trying a new Chinese restaurant for dinner. Sometimes we drop off a load of stuff at the Goodwill or take our hazardous materials to the recycling center. Not very romantic by most people's standards, I suppose, but the whole time we're in the car together, we talk. There's no elaborate planning or high price tag involved. There's just the simple realization that we're accomplishing something together and enjoying one another's company as we share a plate of wontons and crack open our fortune cookies.
My fortune? You will find happiness with the one you love, no matter what you're doing. There's a lot to be said for the simple things.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Beauty Queen
I remember when I first saw her on the corner of Wabasha and Kellogg—her dark velvet dress, her long silver hair, her posture erect and dignified. She proceeded slowly down the sidewalk with her tiara-crowned head held high, looking straight ahead. A light breeze rustled the satin sash that lay crosswise from her shoulder to her waist, much like that of a beauty queen. I thought maybe she was a beauty queen. Could a local senior center have held a beauty pageant? I strained to see the words on her sash, but there were none.
As she approached the bus stop where I was standing, I tried not to stare, but I was spellbound. What was she doing? Was she mentally ill? I wondered if I should ask her if she was a princess. Would she have appreciated a bit of conversation?
I noticed on her feet she wore high-heeled sandals. Her feet must have hurt; she’d already walked four blocks in her sandals, and she gave no indication of stopping. Did she wander off? Was someone looking for her?
I glanced at the people around me. No one gave her a second look. A woman walked slowly behind her, a small smile on her face and kindness in her eyes. I thought maybe this woman was with the beauty queen, but she soon quickened her pace and crossed the street. I had never been in this part of town before. Maybe those who frequented the area saw the beauty queen every day.
Years ago on my drive home from work, I regularly passed a young man who wore a stuffed alligator on his head. This particular young man was always accompanied by a young woman who seemed to be helping and guiding him. The beauty queen, however, was all alone. I would have felt better if she had had someone helping her.
I boarded my bus shortly after the beauty queen passed. Three times along the road I saw men holding signs with words like “homeless” and “hungry.” I was uncomfortable. I was glad I was on the bus; if I had been in my car, I would have had to decide what I might do to help these men.
I want to help, but I don’t know how. I envy the people who can reach out to others so easily when I do nothing because I'm worried I might offend. Last winter when I took the bus to work on snowy days, every day a woman and her granddaughter caught the same bus, and every day I noticed the little girl had no hat or mittens. I wanted to bring her some; the thought crossed my mind more than once. But in the end, I worried about how the woman would react; I was afraid she would be angry at me for making assumptions. Maybe the beauty queen would have responded to a kind word. Maybe I should have asked her what kind of pageant she had won. If her status was real to her, I should have made it real to myself.
The moment I saw the beauty queen I began to pray, but I was selfish in my prayer. I asked for guidance for myself; I didn’t ask for anything for the woman. I know God sees her. I pray that next time he will help me move beyond only seeing.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Talking my way out of the mid-winter blahs
Since I'm on the topic of winter in Minnesota, it occurred to me that it's about that time of year when the mid-winter blahs set in. Last year winter pretty much went out the door with February, but I have a feeling we won't be so lucky this year. Every time I try to navigate a parking lot with its towering snow piles, I wonder how long it's going to take for all those piles to melt.
Truth be told, I really hate winter. I know hate is a strong word, but somehow saying "I intensely dislike winter" doesn't have the same effect. I hate having cold feet all the time. I hate driving in the snow and ice. I hate shivering when I get into my car after work. Oh sure, I'm Minnesota born and raised, and I suppose you can say feel proud to make it through the winter each year, but as the years go by, I look forward to someday being someplace else.
Yet when I think about moving away from Minnesota, it makes me a little sad. Despite the cold and misery of winter, there's an incredible beauty to this place that I'm homesick for when I'm away. When the snow sticks to the bare tree branches and wraps them up in a white fur coat, I stop and stare out my car window, taking it all in. When the sun comes out (anemic though it may be) and makes the icicles hanging from the roof of the house sparkle, I think I must be in some sort of fairyland. When the snowflakes are the size of my hand and melt in puddles on my face, instead of running for cover, I turn my face to the sky. And then there's the silence of a snowfall at night that causes a feeling too overwhelming for words to well up inside me. These are the things of creation that call out in praise to their Creator.
Okay, maybe I don't hate winter quite as much as I thought. But I do appreciate it when it waves goodbye for another year. And I wouldn't mind if it were just a bit shorter. And my feet are still cold. But praise God for the joy that comes with even the most unpleasant of weather.
Truth be told, I really hate winter. I know hate is a strong word, but somehow saying "I intensely dislike winter" doesn't have the same effect. I hate having cold feet all the time. I hate driving in the snow and ice. I hate shivering when I get into my car after work. Oh sure, I'm Minnesota born and raised, and I suppose you can say feel proud to make it through the winter each year, but as the years go by, I look forward to someday being someplace else.
Yet when I think about moving away from Minnesota, it makes me a little sad. Despite the cold and misery of winter, there's an incredible beauty to this place that I'm homesick for when I'm away. When the snow sticks to the bare tree branches and wraps them up in a white fur coat, I stop and stare out my car window, taking it all in. When the sun comes out (anemic though it may be) and makes the icicles hanging from the roof of the house sparkle, I think I must be in some sort of fairyland. When the snowflakes are the size of my hand and melt in puddles on my face, instead of running for cover, I turn my face to the sky. And then there's the silence of a snowfall at night that causes a feeling too overwhelming for words to well up inside me. These are the things of creation that call out in praise to their Creator.
Okay, maybe I don't hate winter quite as much as I thought. But I do appreciate it when it waves goodbye for another year. And I wouldn't mind if it were just a bit shorter. And my feet are still cold. But praise God for the joy that comes with even the most unpleasant of weather.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Home of the hearty...and the hopeful
The other night as I was watching Ken Burns' documentary on the Civil War, I found it quite interesting when the narrator commented that people living in the North at the time, because of having to deal with harsh winter weather, were perhaps more determined and innovative than Southerners when it came to figuring out how to make a living without owning slaves. I'd never considered the way climate might affect the mentatility of a group of people, and this comment really made me think about how living in the North, or more specifically in Minnesota, is, well, not exactly for everyone. It certainly does take a certain mindset to not only exist but also to thrive in this tundra.
I have a coworker who moved up here three years ago from Texas, where she had lived her whole life. She told me that after making it through her first winter in Minnesota, she felt like a survivor. She was proud that she stuck it out and came out for the most part unscathed and much more educated.
The idea of being a survivor is appealing to me. It produces images in my mind of courage, perseverence, and downright determination, like the early pioneers who planted, harvested, canned, and pickled their food; chopped tree after tree of firewood; and then hunkered down to wait it out. But they didn't just stay inside and rot--they found ways to make the most of the weather. They tobogganed, snowshoed, ice skated, and curled up the fire while Pa played the fiddle (at least they did in Little House and the Prairie anyway). In my imagination, those pioneers never lost hope for spring, even though they probably wanted to chuck it all and head South around the middle of February.
And to me, that's what living in Minnesota comes down to: hope. Every year I unpack the warm coats, make sure the ice scraper is in the car, fire up the furnace, burrow under the down comforter, and try to make the most out of winter. And every year I hope for spring, and spring always comes. Without fail, the days get warmer, the snow gets slushy, the air gets fresh, the trees bud, and then aaaahhhhh, it's spring. I love it. Determination and a strong will are great assets, but hope is what keeps survivors going.
I have a coworker who moved up here three years ago from Texas, where she had lived her whole life. She told me that after making it through her first winter in Minnesota, she felt like a survivor. She was proud that she stuck it out and came out for the most part unscathed and much more educated.
The idea of being a survivor is appealing to me. It produces images in my mind of courage, perseverence, and downright determination, like the early pioneers who planted, harvested, canned, and pickled their food; chopped tree after tree of firewood; and then hunkered down to wait it out. But they didn't just stay inside and rot--they found ways to make the most of the weather. They tobogganed, snowshoed, ice skated, and curled up the fire while Pa played the fiddle (at least they did in Little House and the Prairie anyway). In my imagination, those pioneers never lost hope for spring, even though they probably wanted to chuck it all and head South around the middle of February.
And to me, that's what living in Minnesota comes down to: hope. Every year I unpack the warm coats, make sure the ice scraper is in the car, fire up the furnace, burrow under the down comforter, and try to make the most out of winter. And every year I hope for spring, and spring always comes. Without fail, the days get warmer, the snow gets slushy, the air gets fresh, the trees bud, and then aaaahhhhh, it's spring. I love it. Determination and a strong will are great assets, but hope is what keeps survivors going.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
No man (or woman, in this case) is an island
When I got my first journal as a gift for my eighth birthday, I took it with me everywhere--to school, to piano lessons, to the park. It was as if I had a secret friend with my wherever I went. I could confide in this friend of mine about how much my brothers bugged me or how my sister wouldn't let me be Princess Leia when we played Star Wars with the neighbor boys.
As the years went by, I filled journal after journal with my most private thoughts and feelings. Sometimes I imagined an audience reading about my oh-so-dramatic life after I died, and I would address this audience directly, asking them to please not be too hard on me and all my foibles. Sometimes I spoke to my journal as if it were a living thing, able to offer me counsel.
All through college I wrote, wondering about whether the young man I had my eye on felt the same way, stressing out over the next exam, complaining about my dormmates and how they could be a little quieter coming in at 2:00 in the morning. When I lived overseas at age 20, I recorded every sight and sound and taste and feeling when my senses practially burst with new experiences. And after college, when life on my own brought a confusing combination of apprehension and excitement, I continued to scribble until late in the night, sometimes blurring the ink with tear drops.
Several journals came with me when I packed up my belongings and went to China to teach English for a few years. Through the wonder and excitement, the homesickness and lesson planning, the pages of my journals continued to fill with a slightly slanted hand. In those years, though, paper was gradually replaced with computer, as my hand could not keep up with my thoughts, and it was mostly through letters to others that I told my story.
When I returned to the United States, life was full of work and friends and activities, and at some point, I stopped confiding in journals and started confiding in other people. I didn't have much to write about any more, and I could barely fill one book in a year. I tried to start again. I remembered the wonderful that release writing in a journal had brought me. I tried using the computer too, but even that couldn't lure me to commit my life to record. When I met my would-be husband, I picked up a legal pad and recorded each moment of our courtship; I realized these were moments I would likely forget but wanted to remember. And after the courtship ended and the wedding took place, I never really kept a journal again.
Now I feel like I've lost a piece of myself. I always thought I'd never forget the important things, but as memories blur together, I confuse one year with the next. It's sad, really, that some memories are so deeply hidden I can't seem to find them. Oh I have plenty of pictures and e-mails and other memories, but it was those thoughts I only thought once and those feelings I only felt once that I lost.
And so here I am now, with my 365-day blog challenge (an idea I borrowed from my brother). I decided that I wanted to keep a blog instead of a journal because keeping a blog means connecting at some level with other people. It means sharing experiences that other people might very well relate to...or that people might find foreign and strange. There's something in me that makes me want to tell my story, even if it's not glamorous or even particularly interesting. As John Donne so famously said, "No man is an island entire of itself," so I desire to live not in isolation but as part of a community. I desire to share and to grow and to contribute, and these are things I can't do if I'm floating alone in the middle of the ocean.
John Donne was reflecting on the end of his life. My life begins new each day. Here's to making the most of it!
As the years went by, I filled journal after journal with my most private thoughts and feelings. Sometimes I imagined an audience reading about my oh-so-dramatic life after I died, and I would address this audience directly, asking them to please not be too hard on me and all my foibles. Sometimes I spoke to my journal as if it were a living thing, able to offer me counsel.
All through college I wrote, wondering about whether the young man I had my eye on felt the same way, stressing out over the next exam, complaining about my dormmates and how they could be a little quieter coming in at 2:00 in the morning. When I lived overseas at age 20, I recorded every sight and sound and taste and feeling when my senses practially burst with new experiences. And after college, when life on my own brought a confusing combination of apprehension and excitement, I continued to scribble until late in the night, sometimes blurring the ink with tear drops.
Several journals came with me when I packed up my belongings and went to China to teach English for a few years. Through the wonder and excitement, the homesickness and lesson planning, the pages of my journals continued to fill with a slightly slanted hand. In those years, though, paper was gradually replaced with computer, as my hand could not keep up with my thoughts, and it was mostly through letters to others that I told my story.
When I returned to the United States, life was full of work and friends and activities, and at some point, I stopped confiding in journals and started confiding in other people. I didn't have much to write about any more, and I could barely fill one book in a year. I tried to start again. I remembered the wonderful that release writing in a journal had brought me. I tried using the computer too, but even that couldn't lure me to commit my life to record. When I met my would-be husband, I picked up a legal pad and recorded each moment of our courtship; I realized these were moments I would likely forget but wanted to remember. And after the courtship ended and the wedding took place, I never really kept a journal again.
Now I feel like I've lost a piece of myself. I always thought I'd never forget the important things, but as memories blur together, I confuse one year with the next. It's sad, really, that some memories are so deeply hidden I can't seem to find them. Oh I have plenty of pictures and e-mails and other memories, but it was those thoughts I only thought once and those feelings I only felt once that I lost.
And so here I am now, with my 365-day blog challenge (an idea I borrowed from my brother). I decided that I wanted to keep a blog instead of a journal because keeping a blog means connecting at some level with other people. It means sharing experiences that other people might very well relate to...or that people might find foreign and strange. There's something in me that makes me want to tell my story, even if it's not glamorous or even particularly interesting. As John Donne so famously said, "No man is an island entire of itself," so I desire to live not in isolation but as part of a community. I desire to share and to grow and to contribute, and these are things I can't do if I'm floating alone in the middle of the ocean.
John Donne was reflecting on the end of his life. My life begins new each day. Here's to making the most of it!
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