I have my bed back

Young Prince has moved out and fully into his Big Boy Bed. Yes, he is 4 1/2. But I had an "until 5 at the latest" rule. Exceptions include nightmares and big storms. Otherwise, everyone OUT!

I am enjoying my king-sized bliss--all by myself.

The first morning I have not yet had to be up and out for any reason, I took advantage to dust off my (former) dead battery case. You know the one--big, purple with pearl action. And ears.

Ah, why I had I abandoned thee? What an absolutely glorious way to begin a Saturday.

***

In order to fully enjoy the effects of my little purple Peter Rabbit, I have to conjure in my mind the picture of him. The only man I have ever loved; the only one, in the history of my lovers, to have ever raised me to the heights of bliss just by a look. The only with whom I could fight and look forward to our reconciliation...and who would come after me when I never would admit I wanted to be chased. The only who would love to create with me as a team, be it a meal or a project, or even a work of art. The only who could tell by the tone of my written word--not even voice--my mood. The only one felt challenged by me yet not intimidated by my powerful and very complex spirit. The only one who could make me laugh and cry and feel valid no matter what, because of an acceptance of who I am. The only one who physically fit me as if we had been created for each other.

To experience a love like this makes everything else so gray by comparision. Unfair it is, really; nobody else could ever have a chance in my life. Having such a partner by my side like that, I feel invincible. I am learning to find this strength within myself. Some days are better than others, but I know this will be a good year. I am prepared to make it so.

And with a little help from my friend, all the better!

another full circle

Nori called today. He's getting married!!

We met in New Orleans. He was studying English, I was starting my masters program, missing Japan and longing to grasp hold of anything or anybody that could bring a bit of my three years in Japan back to me.

And I met Nori. And a couple other very close friends as well, but Nori was special.

His dream was to become a famous photographer in New York. I vouched for him to Immigration so that he could obtain the necessary visa to find work, get an employer sponsor and start the wheels turning so that he could begin to pursue his dream.

And he did. He had his own freelance photography office based out of Manhattan and was doing model shoots, advertising shoots for Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren and other famous people. I, feeling almost like the proud mother, watched and relished in his successes.

He will now leave this dream-come-true and return to Japan; not to him hometown 古里 but instead to Tokyo. Neither he nor I like Tokyo very much. But Japan is his home, and will be where his new life will begin at the side of his new partner!

It has been ten years. We were lovers for a very short time, fulfilling a basic need we both had but is the only with whom I still maintain a strong friendship. He even photographed my wedding, in black and white; his photos were better than the photographer we hired. His folio of our wedding won him first prize in a photography school contest.

I told him today of my separation. That was incredibly hard for me to do for various reasons, the first being that he is just a week away from being married in Tokyo. The second, as he was not only in attendance at my wedding but photographed it beautifully and even caught the garter that was tossed from the balcony of the Columns Hotel.

But I did it. And I am glad I did, because one of my greatest fears regarding this new phase of my life is the possibility of disappointing others--especially those who witnessed my wedding vows.

I wish him all the happiness in the world, and thank him from the bottom of my heart for picking up the phone to share his lovely news with me!

hoochie mama

Here I am in my sweats, hair pulled back, not yet showered today, garden grime lacing my recently-cut and self-manicured fingernails, two four-year old boys playing in the dirt in my front yard and thinking

I wanna be a hoochie mama.

Yeah, right. I can hear you snickering.

Although I am quite aware of the familiar negative connotation of that, I have only heard it used or have used it myself to simply mean a really hot, sexy lady with no deragatory implications whatsoever.

So what would it take for me to feel like a hoochie mama?

No, I don't need to turn heads when I walk down the street. I cower under that kind of attention; having lived and traveled as a foreigner in many different countries in which I looked so different than the native population, I don't get a rise out of people looking at me.

All I need is just a look from one single person.
The one who makes me feel like the most important person in his life.
The one whose touch-or even the though of his touch-even after so many years sends electricity through my body.
The one whose voice makes my body quiver.
The one whose eyes make me melt.
The one who sacrifices sleep to make sure I am well, secure, okay, healthy.
The one who calls me his Queen.
The one who invests himself to make sure we are okay
The one who calms me.
The one who challenges me.
The one who questions me.
The one who makes me a better, more patient and more tolerant person.
The one who teaches me.
The one who motivates me.
The one whose kisses communicate his love for me.
The one who I lose sleep over.
The one who ravishes me.
The one I love to ravish.
The one who I fight with.
The one I always reconcile with.
The one that communicates so well with me.
The one who hates when I wear make-up...or when I have to wear anything at all.
The one who puts his hand on the small of my back to guide me when we walk, who shows the world in his look and his gesture and his stance, "I am her man, she is my woman, we belong together."

Is this a dream person?
Isn't this too perfect to exist?
Is this a fallacy...or is it being true to myself?

passion

Passion is important in every part of our lives. I am a particularly passionate person, very opinionated with strong points of view regarding how I live my life and what I believe to be good and true for me, my family, my country, and my world.

I am a passionate mother, much like many parents are. I could be a passionate wife and lover when with one who can bring that out in me--challenge that passion and match it.

Part of my fabric, which I have learned to be true in my adult life, is my passion for teaching. I am a language teacher, but the first time I taught was violin. I had a student while I was in high school, then had a few while in university. I thought music was my greatest passion; my violin and choral work would evoke such emotions that would bring me to my knees. I had never known such joy or such melancholy as I did when expressing myself with music.

In the second grade I remember answering that I was going to be a teacher. Teaching was always a part of me; Daddy was a math teacher, Mom was an English teacher, my grandmother had a teaching degree from OSU, my uncle retired relatively recently from teaching in Sacramento. I always held all my teachers in highest regard. Clearly I had my favorites, but I respected all my teachers for all they did for me. I can remember every single teacher I have ever had.

Now I am teaching in my own right. Fifteen years of teaching while affiliated with an institution of some sort has given me the confidence to branch out on my own; my teaching evaluations always came back stellar and I resented old-school professors who wouldn't allow me to teach the way I do (student-centered rather than egocentrically me-centered).

Today an ex-student from the uni contacted me. He is an African man about to finish his Ph.D coursework and embark on his dissertation. He needs Spanish to help him fulfill his doctorate in nationality and ethnicity, but is unwilling to continue with the University's program due to the lack of, in his words, 'qualified professors like you who know what they are doing and can actually teach well.' So now, two years after he first took my course, he would rather study with me than earn any credits through the University.

Tonight I met with two new students, both from Iran. These young men are extremely interested in learning Spanish--and with me. One told me today, "Do you know why I contacted you? Let me tell you. I took two advanced courses at the local uni. The professors could not captivate my interest nor keep my attention. They didn't seem to care. So then I went through Spanish Black Belt. Great website, only native speakers teach. But they offer absolutely no substance to back up their marketing. I was surfing around on CraigsList, ready to give up but then saw your ad. I checked out your website and you know what got me? Your enthusiasm. It comes through in your words and in your testimonials. You obviously love what you do. So I figured I should try you out and see if I can complete my goals through you, and here you are meeting with us, letting us get to know you and ask questions all on your time."

Enthusiasm. Passion.

When creating my website, upon deciding to go independent, I struggled with how to market myself without coming across as a braggart. Tonight's feedback told me that, to at least a couple choosey customers, I have succeeded in that quest.

Now I only hope not to let anybody down.

intimate friends

In New Orleans, I once duct-taped my breasts together.

Rather, a very close girlfriend did the taping. I merely stood there with my arms up. And duct tape can do anything, right?

This has nothing to do with the coincidence that I happened to live in N'awlins at the time of this formal military dinner dance I was attending. It had everything to do with the fact that, in the spaghetti-strapped sparkly gray dress I had donned for the evening, I wanted to have cleavage. Or something that could possibly resemble more endowment than that I had been naturally or genetically given.

I have had two children and, both times had close friends in attendance. Girl friends. The kind who you can trust at the time you are in the most pain your have ever experienced in your life and denying yourself pain medication to give you all the support that only a Community of Women can provide its members. The ones who can see you naked and giving birth and be a part of and appreciate that miracle. But that is different.

Yesterday my new piko ring arrived...finally. It had been over two months since getting my piko pierced, something I find incredibly sexy, and I ordered myself something very nice and classy. After all, if I have a hole through my abdomen, I want something nice going through it.

Getting it in, however, was no small task. She-ra, in compliance of her position as Enabler Extraordinnaire, not only stood with me as I got the nail pushed through my belly button in April, she was here in the morning to await the arrival of The Piko Ring.

With her camera.

As it is a top-down design, I was hoping to thread it through by attaching the piercing to the top of the bar with which I was initially pierced. That did not work. She-ra then suggested following the tecnique demonstrated during the piercing, when my skin was pinched tight so that there would be lesser distance for the piercing to travel to get through the other side. So here is She-ra, trying to pinch-grasp my belly skin and hold the ring steady so I could try to connect the new one to the old one and "pull" it through the track.

Yeah. Great theory, did not work.

So, with She-ra watching I somehow just took a deep breath and pushed the silver bar out with my new golden diamonds. She-ra stood facing me and exclaimed, "I see it!" as the gold pushed through to the other side.

My hands were shaking so hard that I could hardly get the ball screwed on the bottom, but I did and my new piko ring is now in place!



Sure could have used a shot of something after that.

Meanwhile, She-ra has now been elevated in stature as One with Intimate Knowledge of My Body. No, true, she did not duct-tape any of my body parts together. But she not only was my accomplice in getting the nail through my gut, she was my cheerleader in the daunting task of changing the piercing for the first time.

No more piercings for me. Ears thrice, piko. That's it. I think I'm getting too old for this.

(shudder)

Tequila, anyone?

stormy surrealism

A thunderstorm rolled over me at 2:30 in the morning.

True, it rolled over the entire area, but I am usually the only one I know who is awakened by the thunder, the flashes, the energy, the rain, the gloriously wet smell that fills and freshens the air.

I find thunderstorms, especially those that surprise me in the middle of the night, to be extremely exciting and invigorating. The energy is undeniable; I feel connected to so much around me with senses heightened during such storms.

Last night I allowed myself to remain in a semi-dream state during the storm. I felt a deep longing pulling at my soul, an almost primal need for connection that has not been fulfilled in so long. I have never made love during any storm, which surprises me because, although I feel so alive I never could awaken my partner or the opportunity was simply unavailable to me for whatever reason. My passionate soul has found great disappointment, sadness and loneliness in a marriage lacking in desire to share any form of spontaneous, stormy pleasure; indeed, "give-give-give" does breed resentment among the giver when there is no reciprocity involved nor any desire demonstrated in learning how to reciprocate.

As my muscles reacted in the anticipation of each thunder clap that would follow each brilliant flash I tried to remain floating above the pleasant sensations, the draw back to Earth attempting to awaken me further but I resisted the gravitational seduction...

...and then came the rain.

In squalls, the sky would open for about thirty seconds, then cease suddenly to a trickle with a very zen-esque quality to the drip-drops from the leaves of the dogwood outside my bedroom window to the wet mulch below. This cycle repeated about three times until the rain continued steady, lulling me back into my dreams. I could taste the water in the air, I could smell the delicious humidity and, in closing my eyes, I could sense the water bringing calm to all fires caused by the lightning.

Is this my oft-joked druid side? Or is this me being Woman?

Gravity then won its seduction when the pitter-patter of almost-four year-old feet came from his room into mine, and a little cuddle ball climbed up to put his cold feet against his mother's warm thighs.

Back to my sweet reality.

saving the world, one baby birdie at a time

Today I gave Mother Nature a little hand.

As it is late Spring here in the Northern Hemisphere, there are many baby birds hatching from their nests in the various trees, filling the air with the joyful and sometimes frantic chirping of newly hatched chicks and first-time parents. New birds are learning to spread their wings and fly from their comfortable nests. However, this first flight can actually end up being much more of a stumble into a situation out of which Baby Birdie cannot quite find a way!

I heard a very insistent chirping coming from the garage early this afternoon, so I sent the little monkeys to investigate. The chirping ceased and no bird flew out of the garage, so I decided to take a look around. I could see nothing and, as there was no more chirping had no sound assistance to go on. Coming out of the garage, I noticed gray fuzz in my big rosemary bush, behind my lavender and oregano in my herb garden. It was a baby mockingbird! Still with some newborn down on its head and little feet that are way too big for its body, but just looking at me and staying calm in the rosemary. I called the children over and we all quietly admired this being that had no choice but to be our captive entertainment.

I thought that I was perhaps mistaken, that Rosemary Birdie was the one that I had heard and that it had gotten lost from its Mama Birdie. But then the panicked chirping ensued. We returned to the garage but found nothing. La Princesita's ride then arrived to wisk her off to play for the afternoon, so the Young Prince and Mama Llama were left alone to solve this mystery.

The chirping began again. Silently I entered the garage, deducing from the sound that it was on the right-hand side. Following the chirps, I found Baby Birdie #2 on top of one of the front wheels of the lawn mower! Remembering that baby bunnies, if carrying the scent of humans on their fur when newborn are eaten by their families, I quickly found a sweatshirt and inserted my arms and hands into the arms of the pullover so that I could catch the bird without tarnishing it in any way with my scent. I had to "calmly chase" the creature around a bit but, after a bit of coaxing was able to gently grab Baby Birdie #2 and ever so lightly carry it out to be with its sibling out on the rosemary.

There they sat for a good while, siblings, the one from the garage squawking quite a bit in protest of their mother having pushed them out the nest. "How dare you! You see what happened? We weren't ready and had to deal with those HUMANS you warned us about! And you pushed us into their world!" The eternal child-to-parent guilt trip--I could hear it in the chirp.

Later this afternoon, upon The Young Prince and my return, we noticed that one of the babies was gone. Still remaining was the vociferous one, but even it had gone from the rosemary to the stones just below the lavender. I mentioned to my son that it might be a good idea to watch from the large window overlooking our driveway and see what happens.

Sure enough, in flies Mama (or Papa, who knows) Birdie and gives Baby Birdie something to eat. Then Mama flies to the fence, looking back as if trying to coax Baby to follow. Baby stands its ground.

Later, I see Mama making another approach, hopping over the driveway and back to the fence. I never did see Baby Birdie follow as I was also sauteeing my first garden squash of the season, but when I went out to check on Baby's progress, I was surprised to see that Baby Birdie was gone!

I doubt Baby Birdie would have found its way out of the garage, or if Mama Birdie would have gone in after it to coax it out of hiding. So I feel that my intervention was warranted and gave Mother Nature a bit of a helping hand this afternoon.

After all--we are all in this together, are we not?

randomness

Here it comes:

1. The poem, done in brush on gold washi with long strands. Final product came to 24" x 18" approx.

The framing placement should help offset the apparent lack of centering of the poem on the actual sheet--I am usually a firm believer in , but... (sigh). It is also written straight (yes, I drew lines like a good girl, although I resisted, trust me!), just photographed slightly off (did I mention I am just slightly off-kilter?...yes, that is a joke--JA!). Greatest challenge in doing this project? Definitely the blending of culture--Western concept of beauty is extremely different than Eastern (Oriental) concepts of beauty. The simplicity of the strokes--writing horizontally with a brush that is meant for writing vertically was tough. So I instead tried to incorporate the techniques for character formation (of Chinese characters) into the formation of the English and hence the result. I like it. It is very, very different than my "usual" calligraphy style.

2. Two new McMansions just went up across the street from my humble 45 year old brick abode during the winter. The one really LOVELY thing about my humble abode is my garden and my fence...oh, I guess those are TWO things, not one. Anyhow... *both* McMansions had exactly the s.a.m.e. fence as I have had for, what, three years or so now put around their properties. I did mine to be different from everyone else. Not anymore. I say I have rights to a sign that says "Mine was First." Or I should get a cut from this fencing company's revenue they have made on our street since we got ours--another property, to which one of the McMansions is adjacent, also did the same fence about a year after ours was done. It is a bit further down the street. However, now that makes three properties, all in a little row, across the street from mine all with the same fence.

3. What fence, you may ask, could be so rockin' stylin' that everyone wants a piece of it? Well, here you go-sie...last week's coveted Garden Pictures (all garden work, by the way, courtesy of blood-sweat-tears of Mama Llama, thank you VERY much):

So at least my garden is not mass-produced. Have I yet mentioned I LOVE SPRING?!

4. A nice compliment. My student tonight told me how much she really enjoys learning from my book and wants to see it on shelves one day. I don't honestly think I will ever produce this text for commercial selling, but it is incredibly rewarding to be able to use the textbook that I have put so much work into authoring and editing (and publishing on my own little printer!) in my own classes, and the feedback is so valuable to me. Unfortunately I have a few more chapters to finish until I will be satisfied that I have what is about the equivalent of 3 semesters of a college-level course, but for adult learners and highly conversation-based (although I refuse to let areas of grammar, reading/literature, culture, vocab development and the like go by the wayside--my job is to teach my students to communicate correctly but not ignore the colloquialisms and the cultural variants that create the richness of language).

5. I can make an arrangement with this place and get a three-months no-interest on the piko-ring of my choice. I am happy about that. Fortunately, I can't (read: ought not--those of you who really know Mama Llama know just how impaciente Mama Llama can be...and like a true Taurean llama, incredibly stubborn to boot) even change mine yet so there's no huge rush now, is there?

6. Bikini bought. Tried on. Fits. Imagine this furry creature in a bikini. Gonna scare everyone away.

7. We had just over 3 1/2 inches of rain here on Sunday. Dude...imagine had it been even a month or so before, that could have easily translated to almost 4 feet of snow. It was wet. Have to cut my grass again--can barely see my tulips over the long weeds. But the tulips survived, as did the phlox, which I cannot believe. Only one tulip broke, and La Princesita rescued it and we placed it in a tiny vase.

When I fell asleep there was something on my mind I had wanted to blog about. Now that the midnight hour is upon me and I am in my insomnia cycle for the night, I can no longer remember what on Earth that deep thought was. Someone recently told me she preferred to think her lack of memory was due to the fact that she was blonde over the fact that she was getting old. I think I prefer the geriatric approach. I see wisdom in those who have lived longer--and with all that wisdom crammed into We Wise Women's brains, where IS the room to remember every single detail?

(added Friday morning)...A-ha! I remembered! Am-A-zing what sleep will do for you!

8. Change. I figured that out to be the root of my problem. This year was especially difficult in that La Princesita started a new school, I knew nobody there and my security blanket was therefore swept out from under me. I came to terms with a shyness that I seemed to have somehow developed in my adult life. I realized I had to become active in her school in order to start meeting people and let that shyness melt away. And I was thinking, last night before falling into dreamland, why someone like me, who has lived all over the world, moved so many times in my adult life (I never left 'home' until I was 18. The house where I was born is still where my mother resides in Oregon.), who taught for a living, could feel so strongly like this...a strange and very potent form of introversion. Then it came to me: this is the first time in my life that change is being imposed upon my by others. All along I have made the decisions to go, to change my scenery, and along with that decision-making came mental and emotional preparation. I am not accustomed to having others (even those being my own children) creating this change of environment in my life and, for me this signifies a great loss of control. I realize that over the course of this school year I have made great strides to regain this lost sense of control and last night I reflected a bit on how much better I feel now, that I have settled into this new environment and hopefully can be a complimentary figure to my daughter's elementary school career--not an overpowering one, not a controlling one, but one that will give her the confidence to grow and learn and, likewise, learn to accept and integrate change.

And so there you have it.

Happy Friday to all!

gettin' my fix

Okay, so I went a wee bit overboard.

But it was on sale.

10 bars of my soy free chocolate for $2.00/bar as opposed to my normal $2.50/bar.

But...

I also bought the other night, in absolute desperation, a case (12 bars) on Amazon (free shipping!) plus a bag of their 73% choco drops...no, make that two bags (it was a two-fer special!!!!).

So now I will never run out. Ever.

Well... (insert fork into humble pie)

I admit I ever-so-slightly, um... overreacted.

I found five--yeah, count them,
UNO
DOS
TRES
CUATRO
CINCO
bars in the front pocket of one of my shopping bags.

Come to think of it, I seem to recall putting them there a while back...

So I was never really "out" of chocolate and thus, not as desperate as I thought I was--as I didn't SMELL the damn stuff under the roof of my own house.

I am starting to doubt my survival instincts here, people.

emergency!

I am OUT of chocolate.

This is an
Official Emergency.

Must

gasp

get to

gaaaaasp

store...

(crawls away, scratching at floor)

serendipity

Or, Expanding My Business, Chapter 2.

I have rid my house of a lot of ゴミ gomi trash through the magical e-world of Freecycle--stuff that is still, of course, of use but for which I simply no longer find need. I scribble the recipient's name on a piece of scratch paper (always in abundance) with my handy-dandy felt-tip calligraphy pen and set the baggies outside for pickup in front of the garage door.

One day, a woman had commented back to me on a kind "thank you" email regarding my calligraphy. It turns out she was into Japanese sumi calligraphy, the kind I earned my teaching license in back in 1997 while still living in Japan. She had always dreamed, while in Japan with the State Department, of becoming the first left-handed brush calligrapher--but that dream had never actualized, perhaps in part due to the fact that left-handedness is completely repressed in Japanese society and you are forced into being right-handed. Regardless, we exchanged a few emails and that was that.

Out of the blue---

On Sunday I received an email from her inquiring into my calligraphy and how much I would charge to do a 7 stanza poem (each stanza in haiku form) that she had written some 18 years ago for her father, that she would like to present him with for his upcoming 80+ birthday. It would be an interesting mix of my cultures and a wonderful challenge; she has envisioned black sumi ink on exquisite washi (rice) paper calligraphization of Western script; the poem is in English.

So I am looking forward to having some time, perhaps this afternoon, to get my sumi stone out, rub my ink, loosen up my brushes and do some practice samples of different "fonts" that would look good done in brush strokes. What a fun project! And to be paid a little for it as well--who would have ever thunk it?! I have been paid lump sums for wedding invitation envelopes or graduation envelopes or school certificates in the past, but nothing like this; I will do quotes, prayers or poems for friends or my children's teachers as gifts. So this could be a lot of fun...and all from simply having scribbled someone's name on a piece of scratch paper with a nice pen. Go figure.

Okay: so we have Spanish professor/dream analysis/palm reader/calligraphizer. This is getting interesting and all the more varied all the time. Get a degree in horticulture (another dream of mine...costs nothing to dream) and we'll add Master Gardener to the list...JA! I wish...

V-day in Japan

Valentine's Day is not celebrated quite in the same way in Japan as it is elsewhere. It is merely a day during which women shower men with gifts of food, chocolate, drink and superficial shows of appreciation, perhaps crushes and/or love.

Women do not receive anything on this day. Instead, a mere obligatorily "reciprocation" and acknowledgment of the given gift of chocolates is granted the woman on March 14, called "White Day".

She will instead receive gifts of soaps, shampoos and body scents.

Bah.

Does this mean to say the men think that we stink?

Why do they get the chocolate and we get body scents?

Yet another reason to boycott the whole day, in my humble opinion.

Oh, and pass the wine. And, um, don't you DARE forget the chocolate.
(Soy-free, of course.)

ice skating with Royalty

The great adventure of the day: To the Land of Ice.

Also known as the local ice rink.

As I knew we weren't going to make it a full 3 1/2 hours, I passed La Princesita off as "5 and younger" to save a few cents and she, the Young Prince and I, the Queen, got our llama hooves sized right and skates donned.

It was a bit crowded, as expected for a Sunday, but I am sure it will be even moreso tomorrow with a day off for the local school district. It's one of the largest school districts in the Nation, so...

La Princesita appeared frightened of the daunting task at hand; her courage melting away faster than Frosty in the greenhouse scene. So Mamacita had to think fast; I could not hold both little creatures up by myself at the same time. So the Young Prince went to the bench, where he could stand and watch through the window the rink action, right at the entrance to the rink, and I could see him the entire time. That worked. Made it around once with La Princesita. Then dropped her there and took the Young Prince out for a spin. That worked. Then vice-versa. There were other mothers there with young children not skating at all, and they seemed to quickly see my dilemma so they stepped in to "entertain" one child while the other was out with me. We're all in this together, ¿no?

Quickly, however, La Princesita regained her brave composure and balance, and spent the last hour or so revolving around the rink at her own speed and pleasure. The Young Prince, also gaining his "ice legs" was soon able to allow Mamacita to only hold his hand instead of skating backwards in front of him to keep him up, and just glided like a pro the last hour. I think he was the youngest, or definitely among the very youngest, out there and did amazing well for his first time ever on ice.

We made it just over two hours. Amazing. It worked out. How wonderful that we are finally getting to that age of being able to do activities like this together!

Then a Buckies hot cocoa treat for the skaters, two of which had kind of royally icy buns (brrr) despite my attempts at layered, padded clothing.

refreshed

Ahhhhh...

Good company, good food, good kids, good wine, good pool (billiards, not swimming!), good conversation, good rest...

Now back to reality. But much stronger and ready to take on whatever it is REALITY decides to throw my way.

road trip

I get to take the children on a road trip today! It is supposed to start snowing at our destination in the afternoon, so I would like to get there right about lunchtime. I think we are planning to return on Monday.

It is not a long trip, but it is along a notoriously heavy traffic corridor and, as I really have not driven much long-distance in a while, my anxiety starts to climb. It's not like I don't drive on the freeway anymore; I do all the time. But my point of view is so skewed...I don't trust a soul anymore.

She-Ra and I were going to caravan down (power in numbers) but it's looking probable that she won't make it today. Maybe that is a good thing. Maybe that is what I need, to know that I can do this all by myself, again, finally. It has almost been two years...

I was going to go to the gym, but I think I had better stay and do a few last things here. I think we'll be leaving in the 9:30 arena, anyhow, and I'll have to hit the store and Buckies!

Have a wonderful weekend.

She-Ra the Godsend

I will have to admit, the hardest part about being sick as a dog is the Princesita and the Young Prince.

She-ra, Princess of ?? and mother of 3, not a mere 2 but THREE, from neighboring quadrant of town, came to the rescue this morning, even as her mother is visiting from Afar, completely out of her way, to bring The Young Prince to his preschool classroom...and not only did that but she picked him up, picked up McD's Happy Meals for All (a royal favorite among the young group), ran off to get the Princesita from the end of her kindergarten day, and wouldn't let me pay for lunch.

She even called later to ask if she could take them for a while this afternoon--a point at which The Young Prince was SCREAMING at Princesita about something having to do with the Happy Meal, the Court Jester cat wouldn't get off my butt (literally) and I was tempted to take her up on the offer!

Dear She-Ra. Thank you for all your help today. It is one thing to be off, alone, sick in a foreign country. It is quite another to have responsibilities to fulfill, children to get places, etc., and I am not often enough sick, especially sick like this, to have to worry about it. I hope to not have to pay you back in equivalencies...but as you always say, it always comes around.

And I promise not to make you anything shrimp-containing from my kitchen...ever! Not that it would affect you in the end, anyway, but still...I make a point to say that NOBODY else got sick from this, so it obviously wasn't a point of my lack of cooking skills at fault!

big sigh

She-ra called today...no, wait...I called her. No matter. We spoke on the phone this afternoon. It was a nice conversation. Her dog is in the doggy hospital overnight; she was sick during Christmas and it has persisted, so my entire household is worried. We are a pet-loving family, although I only have it in my to "love" a cat--I can hardly handle him at times.

Anyhow, our conversation turned to my personal self-esteem issues. She said that she went to my professional website (I felt need to have a website for my business, a step I'm glad I made in the marketing of myself) and read every single testimonial written by ex-university students of mine. After that, she said, how could I doubt myself?

-But that's work. Professionally I'm fine.
-But so much of what was said has to do with who you are as a person. You as a person comes through in you as a teacher. I especially liked the guy who said, "And I was the one who saw all the evaluations."

I have always separated the working me from the personal me. I always felt so differently pulled by what were often opposing forces acting on my personality in different situations that, when I was young, I questioned if I could be schizophrenic (not having any real idea what schizophrenia was really all about, of course...just to illustrate how different my personalities were). When at school, I was incredibly outgoing and outspoken but could not be that way at home. I rarely had friends over because I felt torn in how I ought to act...the way my friends know me, or the way my family knows me.

I have to be honest...sometimes I go into a classroom (especially one filled with anywhere from 20-40 students) and I don't know what the hell I am doing. But somehow, and I have no idea how, everything magically works out and we always end up with a wonderful experience in which all proclaim to have learned so much..."Oh, fulano de tal never explained it like that." "Oh, NOW I get it." What I would always call "light bulb moments." To be brutally honest, I sometimes felt like a fake, going in and 'teaching'. Relating. Telling stories. Making jokes. Creating characters. Playing games. Grabbing interest and holding onto that interest and that attention and not letting go, and in the meantime cramming whatever I could into those heads, even if indirectly. I could blah and blah on and on about how I was educated in the methodology, blah blah...but everyone in my graduate program was so educated in methodology at Tulane. Few could actually practice it.

So I'm a good teacher. There are good teachers and there are teachers that suck. There are teachers that believe that anybody could be a teacher, and there are those who believe that those who were born to be teachers were born to be teachers. They are the ones that do it for love, not for the money...because there is no money in teaching.

But does being a good teacher equate to being a good person? A good mother? A good friend? A good sister? A good daughter? No, not necessarily. That's where I seem to lack. I feel like, over the past 15-16 years I have obsessed over learning to become the best whatever-it-is-I-can-educate-myself-to-become (note the goal orientation) that I have left the rest of Me on the back burner to simmer. In the process, that Me became stagnant and stale, unappetizing to the sight and unpleasant to the taste.

2008. A year to redefine, to get that back. When I was in my early 20s, I told myself I never want to me a 50 year old who said, "I wish I would have..." I'm only 35 and here I am.

Let's see what we can do. 365 days is a lot of time.

...or is it?

Lemonade from lemons, revisited

Okay...

So the fudge...yeah, well, it being chocolate and all, I just didn't have the heart to send that out to Wasteland, so I stuck it in the fridge to get a fresh, more chilled perspective on things this morning.

I dipped my finger in...

No, still had not set. But damn, it's good.

Could be marketed as "Almost Fudge Chocolate Sauce." With walnuts, of course.

I can spoon some over my Haagen Dazs Chocolate Sorbet (no soy in that baby)...or just spoon some into a bowl...

ahhhhhhhhh. Qué rico. A little piece of heaven. Almost orgasmic.

The sun is shining, the spring daffodils are starting to peek their heads out in my garden, and two little phlox flowers are actually blooming today, as is my rosemary. And I still have chocolate.

It is a very Merry Christmas Eve, indeed.

公一

This will be the only Japan blog written about a specific person.

公一Kouichi was one of the first people I met in Nakanojo.

A very gentle person, he was the 係長, kakaricho, or sub-section chief, of my side of the 教育委員会 kyoiku iinkai, the Board of Education. We sat back-to-back at our desks for the entire first month of my first year's tenure, as the schools were on their Summer break and were not to begin school again until the end of August; there is about a six-week or so break in the summertime for Japanese students.

公一, or 公ちゃん Ko-chan, as he was affectionately called by his co-workers and as he invited me to call him soon after we met, was a quiet person by nature but he had a great sense of humor; during the first month he would turn around and, little by little, start teaching me some of the local ベンben (slang) based on the Japanese I already knew. I would crack the entire office up by trying out my new ben but, in the end, I found they were thrilled that someone would want to learn all that I could and acted as a sponge, soaking up all that I could, and all that anyone would be willing to teach me.

During the first month of my stay, 公ちゃん and Papa-chan took me out to climb the local landmark, 嵩山, Takayama and taught me of the magic of living in an area surrounded by volcanic hot springs. They took charge of me in my 歓迎会, kangeikai, welcome party during which I demonstrated not only my decent alcohol tolerance but also my stamina to stay out all night eating sushi and ramen and singing カラオケ karaoke.

We went on a trip along with other Education Board members and with several groups of junior high students who were involved with Nakanojo's sister city, located in 千葉県, Chiba Prefecture, on the beach. Papa-chan, 公ちゃん, Yuri-chan, Taka-chan, Kogure-san and I soon formed a sort of sextet; between us we would take little day trips from time to time to different places, everything from art museums to hikes in various natural landscapes. This group of people averaged in age about 15 to 20 or so years older than I was; most my age had left Nakanojo for The City, but tended to return when the responsibilities of Life called them back home to an existence more in touch with their roots, a very important detail in the lives of the Japanese.

公ちゃん and I became allies. I would join him and his wife in various activities. His sons were students of mine. Although feeling very attracted to him, an attraction I sensed he shared but knew it was something neither of us would speak of nor act upon, a deep and enduring friendship developed between us. In the middle of my second year's tenure, 公ちゃん was rotated out of the 教育委員会 kyoiku iinkai board of education and into the position of the Mayor and Vice-Mayor's right-hand man.

Although the move made everyone in the 教育委員会 sad, as 公ちゃんwas so sweet and loved by all, we still were able to see each other often and get out for excursions. There was a huge going-away party held for all who were being transferred out, and a welcome for those transferred in. The Japanese love to party. But that's another post. 公ちゃん had quite a low tolerance for alcohol, and I would often go to his rescue when I saw his face becoming flush with all the 義理 giri obligatory sips of 酒 sake he would have to drink...it's a cultural thing. I would come around with the sickeningly sweet orange soda drink or the canned 紅茶 kocha tea to give him something other than alcohol in his system, for which he thanked me, silently and profusely, and we would sit together and chat while watching the rest of the world imbibe.

In August 1996, the beginning of my third year in 中之条 I decided it was time to return to my home for a visit; I had not seen my family in a year and a half. Five of my friends, including Papa-chan and 公ちゃん decided to take a trip to the continental US at the same time so as to meet my family and see where I was from. I was thrilled to have this opportunity to share my home with them. My family was so gracious as to open their home to them for meals, arrange hotel stays, rent a van so we could travel to some famous and special sites together and try to communicate as much as possible with my friends. 公ちゃん really put himself out to try to communicate with my father. The two of them ended up very close, with my father greatly influencing 公ちゃん into making a huge change in his life--公ちゃん became a Christian a few years later because he thought my father so embodied all that was good and tried to live the way a Christian out to live without being pushy about it...living by example and not by word. At the end of their few days' whirlwind trip through Southern Oregon, we had to depart in the airport. For me, it was not sad as I knew I would be heading back to the Orient in a couple of weeks. But my family was extremely emotional, as were my normally rather emotionally-stoic Japanese friends. Tears were shed. 公ちゃんhad stayed up late composing a thank you message he wanted to read to my family in the airport, and he followed this up with a hug given to my father. The effort alone was very touching.

My final year in Japan witnessed great changes in 公ちゃん and my relationship. We tried to cram as many activities together in as possible, feeling like our time together was almost over.

We truly loved each other. This was very pure in the sense that no feelings were ever acted upon beyond shared activities and simply spending time, laughter, feelings...together.

公ちゃん was diagnosed with stomach cancer in the second half of my final year. Right before my departure, he was hospitalized and had the upper portion of his stomach removed.

My last night in Japan, before going to dinner with the closest of my friends from the 役場 yakuba town hall, I went to the hospital to spend a few hours with 公ちゃん. I told him everything I wanted to do still with him. He confided in me all he felt and wanted. Then we sat there, held hands, hugged and wept.

For an eternity.

That was the beginning of tears shed upon my departure, and yet that does not end the story. 公ちゃん made it through just fine, although he did lose a bit of weight that made his already slight frame even slighter. I had returned to the States, entered graduate school and met who is now my husband.

Seven people came all the way from Japan for my wedding.

公ちゃん was among them.

Taka-chan, a very close friend and confidant, pulled me aside while I was entertaining the group in the days leading up to the wedding and told me that 公ちゃん and his wife had divorced. She left him. But he did not want me to know because he didn't want things to change for me.

I let 公ちゃん know that I had been informed. I didn't know what to say. I don't know if anything would have ever been different, but he was not about to change my life's trajectory.

Our honeymoon took us back to Japan. My friends made it back before we did, and 公ちゃん was at the 中之条駅 Nakanojo eki train station awaiting us. He had with him a newspaper reporter from the prefectural paper to interview me as "the gaijin who has returned to her 第二古里 daini furusato second home."

Leaving 中之条 that time was very difficult for me. A part of me knew, I suppose, that I was never to return. My hopes skyrocketed when, in 2001 I heard from 公ちゃん saying he and Papa-chan wanted to come for a visit. I then received word from Papa-chan that 公ちゃん was in the hospital again. I gave birth to my daughter in November of that year and sent word back. I received congratulatory messages back from 公ちゃん through Papa-chan.

The next word I had from Papa-chan was that 公ちゃん had died.

He was 45 years old.

December 15, 2001.

My heart was broken, my world completely fell apart, after having tried so hard to reconstruct what had shattered after my father's death two years almost to the day before.

I will never again return to 中之条. Without 公ちゃん there with me, there is nothing more there but memories shared. I visit all the time in my dreams. I am still speaking Japanese in my dreams. 公ちゃん is there, by my side, in my dreams, and will be, I am sure, until the day I die.

It is my secret, that I keep guarded deep in my heart and soul, under lock and key. Very, very few who know me well know this story...

...but perhaps it is time to let the beauty, the deep sadness, and the truth of the story be known.

書道 shodo-the way of the brush

As a self-taught calligrapher from an early age, the idea of learning Japanese through the brush writing of the characters greatly appealed to me. 公ーチャン Ko-chan, who you will learn about later this month, had a personal connection to a wonderful 書道 teacher, who happened to be his father-in-law, and who happened to teach, on Wednesday nights, an older group of 中之条's citizens for an hour. Although silently skeptical of my dedication at first, this group became a core part of my development of a Japanese consciousness, not only through the learning and discipline of this ancient art form but through the friendships that were founded in that intimate 畳 tatami loft, essentially an extra room at 齋木さん Saiki-san's house.

齋木さん and his wife both practiced and were amazing 書道 artists. They welcomed me, with my limited linguistic abilities, from day one, but were able to see from the first day my honest intentions and genuine interest in and respect for the art form, and thus made an effort to teach me weekly everything from how to properly rub my own 炭 sumi ink to tips on how not to let me legs go びりびりbiribiri fall asleep while sitting 正座 seiza on my knees for an hour at a time.


My teacher would instruct me on the patience and the theory behind each stroke. I quickly learned that my traditional ideals of Western beauty does not translate into that which is considered beautiful or elegant in Japanese culture; indeed, each stroke had a reason, a thought, a specific maneuver and even a bodily position one had to learn in order to correctly create the stroke. As I learned, my submitted works would be published in the regional (tri-prefectural) magazine. I was much better at my 太字futoji wide brush block 漢字 kanji strokes than I was at my 細字 hosoji thin-brushed calligraphy that would often express 俳句 haiku or a proverb. I had both types successfully published, but my 太字 like the one above, became much more recognized, even in my workplace.

As I continued my practice in my third year and my calligraphy would consistently be awarded promotions to the next level, my group and I became increasingly intimate and would actively meet outside of class to relate on other levels, away from the quiet, disciplined atmosphere of the 書道 classroom. We would meet at sushi bars and even went out to カラオケkaraoke a few times together. 齋木さん was a member of an amateur radio club, as was my hairdresser, and I would be invited out to group picnics and fun parties with that great group of people. 齋木さん's daughter was my age and we got along very well once ice was broken regarding my ability to maneuver the language (I believe the Japanese, much like so many of us, have a true fear of not being understood...the "what happens if I don't understand her? or if she doesn't understand me?" complex that, once overcome, can really open doors).

Anyway...

Toward the end of my stay, my 書道 group organized a farewell party for me. Unbeknownst to me, my teacher had been in communication with the regional master, he who judged all the works, decided those worthy of publication and who would eventually be promoted to the next level of mastery, and they had spoken in great depth about me and my progress over my three year 書道 study. My formal Japanese had quite a workout that night as the Master chose to attend the farewell dinner for me, but his purpose for being there, besides meeting me, was to bestow upon me a true honor: the title of "teaching master" for the Japanese art of 書道 calligraphy.

I still open up my brushes, smooth out my 和紙 washi rice paper, place my inkstone to my right and my paperweight atop my 和紙, placed over a piece of black felt to ensure a smooth gliding surface for my brush and go through the ritual of rubbing my 炭 sumi stick for ink to practice my characters. A great sense of peace washes over me when I can allow myself to be lost in the great focus required for the correct formation of the characters I choose to write, and I must force my Western brain not to fall back into my Western-defined sense of elegant script but to instead recall the discipline required to correctly form characters that, when placed together on a piece of 和紙 have profound and often divine meaning.