I was a bit reticent about attending a women's Bible study. I don't actually read the Bible, or pray much . . . and it's been years and years since I've thought of myself as a Christian.
Not that it's hard to do the motions. They're familiar and easy enough. But, really, I feel bad pretending participation while secretly making observations and judgments at nice emotional distance. That's what I usually end up doing. So I wondered if maybe I shouldn't go.
But Catherine kept talking about her Wednesday morning group. She does not take for granted the chance to share deeply in the lives of women close to her age. This is one of the things in her life she's most excited about. I wanted to meet these women. I decided to go.
They were amazing! The host was this brilliant and bold mother all dressed in purples and lipstick, and nose ring. She was steady and funny and very much herself, it felt, but also let us know that she was lacking in sleep, and not able to do much more these days than take care of her family.
Another mom with a gravelly voice, hard laughter, and less-polished language gave me the impression that she knew how to party. She and I made faces when Paul warned people of the light should remain awake and sober for Jesus' coming.
The woman who led the study part of the bible study was all business and let's get this started but with a gentle edge, and you could see she loved herself, and quietly loved as well.
An ex-journalist really seemed to empathize with my crises of confidence and transition. She said to me, "you have to learn the art of contentment", which I've always thought I knew. I began to think again. Maybe I could use a bit more peace.
There were others, all strikingly different in personality . . . and they all touched me a bit. I didn't pull back the way I thought I might. I engaged, and enjoyed them.
As I listened to them talk through the big (and little) issues and decisions of their lives, I realized that I could also use a return to prayer in my life. I could use some women like this, who are making space to listen for God/Wisdom/Universe/Our Own Souls to speak. Who are holding life gently, understanding that it's not really ours, but something we move through. Loving the people we have the chance to love. Encouraging and engaging.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
a little bit of extraordinary
This morning when beautiful Catherine went to work, I walked toward the "Octagon" at the center of Dunedin . . . into a lot of stores that sold jewelry, pottery, gifts, and merino clothing . . . and then out again, empty-handed, every time, despite the fact that Christmas is coming, much of it was very nice, and some even locally made. But my suitcase space is limited, and (are we paying attention?!?) everything is just so much cheaper in the US. I assured myself I'd buy nice, locally-made things back home, but only what I need, and what will last. (Thank you, Patagonia, for your initiative.)
The last store I walked out of was on a corner across from the train station.
On the sidewalk in front of me I saw a Chinese student who, at least from the back, looked a lot like Jeff, a friend from Nanchong. This guy was waiting at the stoplight, so I had a moment to decide whether to walk up behind him and awkwardly peer round at his face to confirm . . . or just walk away. I knew Jeff was on working holiday in New Zealand, but this guy looked a bit too clean-cut. A bit too run-of-the-mill-Chinese-tourist with his backpack and jeans. I remember Jeff wearing a colorful cloth bag from Thailand slung over his shoulders, and his hair slightly long. It didn't seem likely, but I checked anyway, just to be sure.
You know when something so extraordinary happens that you struggle to even acknowledge it? As if you know any reaction you produce will not measure up to the moment, so you just sort of shrug, and walk down the street. It was like that as Jeff and I hugged, found a place for coffee, caught up on travel and plans, walked back through the Octagon, bought strawberries on the street, shared a plate at the Chinese fast food restaurant, wandered through the Cadbury factory free exhibit, until we eventually parted ways. Every so often during the afternoon, one of us would remember, and exclaim a bit, because it felt like something to be exclaimed at, and we'd just shake our heads and laugh.
It's not like he's just another student from Nanchong (he was never my student, in fact). Jeff was an ultimate frisbee player, a volunteer, one of the only Chinese students I know who's actually interested in working with NGOs, he carried bags from Thailand! He spent his summers during university connecting with other students in international camps. He even held a fundraiser (unheard of in Nanchong) to send himself to one.
Since moving to New Zealand in July, Jeff has worked selling pies, washing dishes, cleaning fish, and making Christmas cookies. He hitchhiked from Christchurch to the Southernmost tip of the South Island and says he's not worried about finding the next job. He's found that it's mainly luck and timing anyway. When his friends back home say they're jealous of his life of adventure he asks, "then why not join me here?" So far, none have taken him up on the suggestion.
At some point during the day, Jeff had reminded me that I could be working to help connect Chinese students with Western language schools and universities eager to have them. It's an idea I'd been thinking about when I first moved to Sydney, but hadn't acted on much since. With his reminder, I got curious about the idea again. . . and mentioned it to Catherine when I got back to her workplace . . . the language learning center attached to the university. She promptly went and knocked on some doors and within an hour I'd been introduced to the CEO, met with the head of marketing, and as it happened that the woman who manages the Chinese market is in New Zealand for the week, I met her too, and learned all about their system for recruitment. It was all a little overwhelming. It was that kind of day.
The last store I walked out of was on a corner across from the train station.
 |
| Dunedin train station |
It was him, of course.
You know when something so extraordinary happens that you struggle to even acknowledge it? As if you know any reaction you produce will not measure up to the moment, so you just sort of shrug, and walk down the street. It was like that as Jeff and I hugged, found a place for coffee, caught up on travel and plans, walked back through the Octagon, bought strawberries on the street, shared a plate at the Chinese fast food restaurant, wandered through the Cadbury factory free exhibit, until we eventually parted ways. Every so often during the afternoon, one of us would remember, and exclaim a bit, because it felt like something to be exclaimed at, and we'd just shake our heads and laugh.
It's not like he's just another student from Nanchong (he was never my student, in fact). Jeff was an ultimate frisbee player, a volunteer, one of the only Chinese students I know who's actually interested in working with NGOs, he carried bags from Thailand! He spent his summers during university connecting with other students in international camps. He even held a fundraiser (unheard of in Nanchong) to send himself to one.
Since moving to New Zealand in July, Jeff has worked selling pies, washing dishes, cleaning fish, and making Christmas cookies. He hitchhiked from Christchurch to the Southernmost tip of the South Island and says he's not worried about finding the next job. He's found that it's mainly luck and timing anyway. When his friends back home say they're jealous of his life of adventure he asks, "then why not join me here?" So far, none have taken him up on the suggestion.At some point during the day, Jeff had reminded me that I could be working to help connect Chinese students with Western language schools and universities eager to have them. It's an idea I'd been thinking about when I first moved to Sydney, but hadn't acted on much since. With his reminder, I got curious about the idea again. . . and mentioned it to Catherine when I got back to her workplace . . . the language learning center attached to the university. She promptly went and knocked on some doors and within an hour I'd been introduced to the CEO, met with the head of marketing, and as it happened that the woman who manages the Chinese market is in New Zealand for the week, I met her too, and learned all about their system for recruitment. It was all a little overwhelming. It was that kind of day.
Monday, November 28, 2011
thirty days to thirty
While many of my students in China wished they could be eighteen again, I've always felt happy to be as old as I happen to be. I'm grateful for the years and experiences that have twisted and taught me until I can hardly believe the changes. And I would not trade any of it for fewer wrinkles and gray hairs. I like my wrinkles and gray hairs.
So here I am at 29 with thirty days to thirty and counting. And I want to DO something. Something to mark the occasion. Something to remind myself that life is there for the taking. Something to make me little more like this baker-blogger. Except maybe not quite so ambitious as thirty different things. Just thirty of one should do me fine. For thirty days.
So . . . thirty days of what? Should I give hugs to strangers? Write emails to old friends? Learn new songs on the guitar? Give away cupcakes? Study new Chinese idioms? Yes, yes, and yes.
And write blogs. One a day, for thirty days. With the vague theme of "things I've learned" - today, last week, last year, in the last almost-thirty years. It's a broad theme. I sometimes have trouble with narrowing. But I'll try not to dwell much on the things I have trouble with (I spend enough time doing that already). Instead, I want to write about what inspires me, what excites me, what has challenged me to become better and different and still curious.
Like today, for starters. Catherine my beautiful New Zealand host went to work and I went to the Otago Museum. Otago is the name of the southern region of the South Island, where she lives. At the museum I learned things about cultures of Polynesia. There are 700 languages spoken in Papua New Guinea. The tatooist held an important place in the feudal hierarchies in Hawaii and Tonga. In the Santa Cruz islands, tumeric was believed to have supernatural properties. Yams were treated like currency on another island, and all Polynesians, it seems, ate breadfruit, a fruit that tastes something like bread?
I learned about Sir Edmund Hilary, the first person to climb Mt. Everest. Even though he was born and schooled in Auckland (in the North Island), the Otago Museum claimed the former beekeeper as a New Zealander. I learned that not only did he get to the roof of the world first (thanks to a mixture of ambition, planning, and talent, and lots of sugared lemon drink for hydration), but he went on to do a whole of lot of humanitarian (and diplomatic) work in Nepal and India. He continued on to ten more Himalayan summits, an expedition to the South Pole, a jet boat trip the length of the Ganges . . . all the while seeking approval of local Buddhist leaders when adventuring in their land. According to the exhibit, he was well-known and respected by the Sherpa people, and he returned each year to continue his work there with the Himalayan Trust for fifty years, until he was 86.
I hope I may have a tiny bit of his dedication. And sense of adventure.
So here I am at 29 with thirty days to thirty and counting. And I want to DO something. Something to mark the occasion. Something to remind myself that life is there for the taking. Something to make me little more like this baker-blogger. Except maybe not quite so ambitious as thirty different things. Just thirty of one should do me fine. For thirty days.
So . . . thirty days of what? Should I give hugs to strangers? Write emails to old friends? Learn new songs on the guitar? Give away cupcakes? Study new Chinese idioms? Yes, yes, and yes.
And write blogs. One a day, for thirty days. With the vague theme of "things I've learned" - today, last week, last year, in the last almost-thirty years. It's a broad theme. I sometimes have trouble with narrowing. But I'll try not to dwell much on the things I have trouble with (I spend enough time doing that already). Instead, I want to write about what inspires me, what excites me, what has challenged me to become better and different and still curious.
Like today, for starters. Catherine my beautiful New Zealand host went to work and I went to the Otago Museum. Otago is the name of the southern region of the South Island, where she lives. At the museum I learned things about cultures of Polynesia. There are 700 languages spoken in Papua New Guinea. The tatooist held an important place in the feudal hierarchies in Hawaii and Tonga. In the Santa Cruz islands, tumeric was believed to have supernatural properties. Yams were treated like currency on another island, and all Polynesians, it seems, ate breadfruit, a fruit that tastes something like bread?
I learned about Sir Edmund Hilary, the first person to climb Mt. Everest. Even though he was born and schooled in Auckland (in the North Island), the Otago Museum claimed the former beekeeper as a New Zealander. I learned that not only did he get to the roof of the world first (thanks to a mixture of ambition, planning, and talent, and lots of sugared lemon drink for hydration), but he went on to do a whole of lot of humanitarian (and diplomatic) work in Nepal and India. He continued on to ten more Himalayan summits, an expedition to the South Pole, a jet boat trip the length of the Ganges . . . all the while seeking approval of local Buddhist leaders when adventuring in their land. According to the exhibit, he was well-known and respected by the Sherpa people, and he returned each year to continue his work there with the Himalayan Trust for fifty years, until he was 86.
I hope I may have a tiny bit of his dedication. And sense of adventure.
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