Ferdinand the Bull

'Once upon a time in Spain there lived a bull and his name was Ferdinand.' - Munro Leaf

The day my husband introduced me to Ferdinand, I knew I was in love. With Ferdinand. Just like he had loved Ferdinand as a kid while sitting on the floor of his grandparent's cabin on the lake. And just like kids reading the book through the past 75+ years in 75 other languages have loved him. There is something unbelievably beautiful about a bull who defies expectation and contentedly smells the flowers. 'And for all I know he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly. He is very happy.' I hope he is.

Recently, I realized something about the two males that live in my house: they are both a lot like Ferdinand. I absolutely love that my husband has decided that it is better to happily enjoy nature than use his strength to go butt heads with other bulls, or show off in front of people, or bend to other people's expectations of who he should be and what he should do. And I think we should have named our dog 'Ferdinand', too. But instead we named him Peluche.

Peluche is the perfect dog for us. He really is. And Peluche is so much like Ferdinand it really is remarkable. Peluche loves to stop and smell the flowers whenever possible. The other day he moseyed his way through a flowering bush emerging with pollen all over his snout. Another time we had to scold him for laying on top of our grandma's flowers! Yep, Ferdinand's spirit lives on in our pooch.

Peluche loves to go on long hikes in quiet forests and mountains 'til his legs buckle beneath him and he can roll in soft grass to nap underneath a tree. He'd prefer it if we just let him off leash so he could mostly loop around us alone...he'll find us again, he promises. He won't be lonely. We used to let him, but here where cougars and bears reign, it seems unwise to have him looping back with a bear on his heels.


When he gets an idea in his head, he'll just go bowling through anything in his way not thinking about what's happening behind him. Beware knocking heads with Peluche; he will win.

Recently we went on a longer hike with big boulders at the top. Peluche climbed up right behind us but then suddenly was just unable to get his four tired paws to jump among the rocks. Yep, he was stuck.

What to do?

At first he just enjoyed the view. Laying down in among the rocks, then propping himself up to see what could be seen, then leaning into us with his head for a few scratches behind the ear...and a few more. He didn't whine. He didn't cry. And he didn't move.




But then, as I was scrambling up to get to the very top, I looked back to see this rather sweet scene: my two Ferdinands clambering down the rocks together, one clearly putting in more effort than the other...but the other exhibiting a trust that he never would have two years ago when we adopted him.

And sitting there, on a new favorite mountain, enjoying the wind in my face just quietly, I was very happy.

Hobbies and habits

A little over a decade ago I worked at a large sports camp that would bring kids in for a whole month. They were the most amazing camp facilities I've ever seen, before or since. The money flowing into that place allows them to have access to the best of the best. And the time spent together allowed us counselors to really pour into the campers. It also left some of the campers feeling (probably rightly so) that their rich parents didn't want them around for the summer so had shipped them off to residential camp. I only know of one Person who can rightly judge the thoughts and intentions of people's hearts, though, and that's not me so I won't try. As for the camp, the stated philosophy behind bringing kids in for a month was that it takes 3 weeks to break an old habit and 1 week to form a new one. Do you think that's true?

Perhaps. At any rate, I have just passed the 4 week mark of living in my new home. I think I actually had many more than 3 weeks to break old habits as we were wanderers for all of June and most of July. But let's just pretend not. I was thinking of this camp's theory a week ago when I started seriously considering what new habits I wanted to put in place in this next stage of life. And, because I am in a privileged state of being able to choose and not spend all my time gathering food or hauling water, essentially choosing what new hobbies would become those habits.

I asked a friend of mine and she said 'you used to crochet'. Ah, yes. I did. I tried that a few years ago...the bag of yarn and hooks saw my actual use for maybe an hour and the side of the couch for a few weeks. Obviously not so interested. I also used to embroider, thanks to my Mom who taught all of her children how to sew. I tried that a few years ago, too. I have no idea where those two pillowcases with the blue flowers partially embroidered on are, but they didn't make the car-ride west. No, I think my hand-held bedding making is done for the time being.

I used to play viola. I auditioned for a community orchestra before I left my last town and after being accepted realized I didn't really want to play. In fact, I rarely really loved to play viola; it always felt like the instrument that was the afterthought and the section that no one expected much of. I loved playing with an orchestra, or with a quartet, because I love playing with the team and not so much because I loved the viola. It's a great instrument to choose because if you're even half-good, you'll always be able to play. But I realized I didn't want to any more. So I sold my viola. I learned to play basic chord progressions on the guitar in college, but it was hard to stay motivated to keep learning and the interest grew stale when not surrounded by lots of people who wanted to have Kumbaya sessions. I sold it too.

Reading. Now there's a great hobby! But I'm about to start graduate school and am trying to find non-reading activities to enjoy, knowing that my reading capacity is going to be maxed out very soon. Actually, I think this whole hobby-finding thing will be very short-lived as my life fills up with other responsibilities. And that's exactly why I've spent the last week intentionally thinking through how to spend that valuable commodity I call hobby-time. I've decided that if I choose hobbies that matter, I should make them habits. If the hobbies aren't important enough to matter, then I don't want to do them. Time is too precious. And so, at the end of the week of reflection, I've settled on three hobbies to make habits: giving the music inside me a voice on the piano with periodic recitals for my husband, physical exercise with tangible goals and races, and spiritual exploration and discussion with honest seekers.

I know a lot of people choose kids at my life stage as their new and lasting habitual hobby...but wouldn't you rather play the piano without having a kid pounding on the F#, go for a long bike ride with your best friend at any given hour, and have deep discussions for longer than 2-3 minutes at a time? In fact, this would be a great time to weigh in on why, exactly, people decide to have children at all. Don't get me wrong. I love kids. I just like being able to walk away. I have a theory that people want to be primary care givers of kids for 18+ years because they are bored and don't have other hobbies they enjoy, or they didn't change enough diapers in their formative years, or its like putting away savings and part of their retirement plan, or they fell asleep in their high school health class <devious chuckle>.

Cocreating family

Yesterday was a highly localized celebration of 'Take your wife to work day' in which I rode a blue double-decker bus with my husband downtown and enjoyed the sites, smells, and tastes of the International District. Of particular note was the most delicious baked cha siu bao of all time. Amazing what 60 cents at a non-descript Chinese dimsum/bakery will buy you! I was reminded to at least attempt good posture as little stooped Asians shuffled by with their bucket hats and smell of tiger balm, one of them sporting the most innovative cane/pop-out-stool I've seen yet. And I felt a deep respect for them that, at their age, they were still walking down the city streets - some people of that generation wouldn't be. And I pondered why 5 or 7 blocks down the road the parking lot was full of Audis while the one across from me had old Hondas squeezed beside each other like fingers trying to grab that last pickle out of the jar. It was a really fabulous morning and a much needed break to trying to home-make as a part of this grand transition. It was a morning that reminded me that my husband and I have created a marriage culture that is different and more rich than we'd ever have experienced on our own. After eight years of walking together, it still feels new.

I've spent a lot of my recent life in transition and immersing myself in new. It only hit me recently (exhibiting a self-centeredness that I'd rather not dwell on) that my constant transition forces transition on other people who are close to me and they may not enjoy or appreciate it as much as I do - in fact it may even cause stress. I'm talking about more than updating the address book or punching in a new phone number to the contacts page.

It's been obvious that my husband is doing transition with me - a constant in the ever shifting scenery - and we decide together, so its impact hits us mutually and is mostly expected. My dog's hair falls out in clumps when we transition, bless-his-heart-I'm-going-to-kill-him-for-making-me-clean-so-much, but as a member of our pack he will survive as long as we keep his water and food bowls full and the walks, head-rubs, and words of affection available. The hair is starting to grow back already, so he's emerging alive although I won't lie and say he looks well.

But I've been thinking about the others - friends and family - who have their own hopes of where we'll be when, and how we'll be doing life in any given month. My husband and I come from very different family cultures. In fact, the most serious 'culture shock' I've felt in the last decade was not traveling to another country, or even to multiple countries over a series of weeks/months. The most intense culture shock I felt was one holiday season in which we spent 3-4 days with family at one set of parents and immediately transitioned to  3-4 days with family at the other set. I think because they're 'family', there was this feeling that it should be easy to adapt quickly and just settle in without much thinking. That couldn't have been less true. It was exactly because of the expectation of being able to assimilate easily that culture shock surprised me.

When I travel to other countries, I already know that it's going to be full of new and that as a foreigner I can only blend so much. Anyone I interact with will eventually know that I'm from another context (hopefully guessing Canada or somewhere in Europe ;) ) and so while I work very hard not to be offensive, the pressure to assimilate has its limits. In reality, this same piece is true with extended family but, unlike traveling internationally, traveling 'interfamilialy' hasn't had the natural built-in limits to expected assimilation.

My husband or I didn't grow up with half of them, and even those we did grow up with have changed over time by shaping relationships and life experiences - ourselves included. Even being back in a childhood home doesn't mean that things in that home still function the way they used to or that responses to childhood family traditions or norms are the same. I'm not really the type to think 'if it's not broke, don't fix it'. Actually, I think that, in general, that attitude is lame and lazy because I'm of the opinion most everything can be improved. But that's not what I'm trying to say. I'm trying to say that now, so many miles away from most of our family, I'm wrestling through what it means to live in 'family', and how to negotiate vying responsibilities and desires. But in this particular line of musing, it's striking me that I've been approaching much of my time with extended family all wrong. Instead of viewing it as culture that I need to assimilate to - as if it is a static entity - I should have been viewing it as culture that we are, that I am, co-creating. Culture is alive. It's organic. Family is no different.

I know that I love it when people in the family culture I am most familiar with bring new ideas, new experiences, new ways of living to our family culture. Sometimes that means new types of food, or new activities together, and sometimes it means holding onto a value over holidays that mean they don't join 'the pack'. But with some degree of embarrassment I can admit that I sometimes lack boldness to do the same and find myself reacting to perceived expectations instead of acting into new life.

Kudos to those in my family, on both sides, who have embraced us in the middle of our change (which essentially forced changed on them even though I'd never thought of it that way) - not as something to be tolerated, but something to be celebrated and lived into. In past years I have embraced the mantra: 'the grace to be and the space to become' for everyone I love (which should be everyone). I wonder if I could take the extra step to apply that to how my own life and marriage culture cocreates, instead of assimilates into, the diverse and organic family cultures that I have chosen and have chosen me.

My life now

I'm watching the Olympics, soaking up the sunny clear day through our floor to ceiling living room windows, next to my sweet pupper, with french roast coffee nearby. I'm home. And I love the Olympics.

It's been a wild ride these past few weeks, and while I'm one person that really dislikes the way that the word "blessed" is used with so much frequency in some circles (mostly because I've yet to comprehend - or perhaps disagree with? - what most people mean when they use it), I do feel that God has been intensely present in the happenings of the last few weeks.

Only a journey of six failed offers could have brought us to this condo. Mainly because we weren't looking at condos. And then we weren't looking at condos that weren't within walking distance of the university where I'll begin working and studying in a few short weeks. But here we are, in a top-floor condo with a rather pleasant view of trees, vaulted ceilings, shared walls and floor, and a 45 minute bus commute. We knew as we were walking through offer after offer (during which our mantra was: "We want your house. Please take our money!") that after it was all over it would feel like a blip on the screen of life. But that's not to ignore that some of the days in the past few months have felt the longest of my life.Then, in one smooth week, we had a written contract getting what we believe to be a most amazing deal, my husband and I both had job offers of different kinds, and we closed and moved into our new home! One week! After house-hunting since March!

The day we moved out of the storage unit into the condo, 2 weeks ago, I felt like the delayed start we had been anticipating finally began. There have been some serious changes in our lives in the past few months. Resignation from a decade of preparing for, working at, and trying to finish well a major research project. Recovery from wrestling through the ins and outs of that kind of life (blogs for other days). Reflection on those years of investment and hoping and praying that we created more beauty than doing harm, both for the world we love and in our own beings.

And now what I feel most is a bubbling excitement to go back to school - to research, to learn, to be surrounded by academic purpose and intelligentsia. To be able to play with ideas, and have time to just think instead of daily feeling the need for practical production. I hope that with some time to think, I'll be able to process and put words to ideas and theories that have been simmering below the surface for a few years now. And I hope that those ideas emerge into making something beautiful.

I just finished and submitted a chapter to a book on language, borders and identities to be published in the UK next year. My first invited contribution. The hardest thing I've ever written. I had no idea that the feeling of living an uninspired life would make writing so hard, writer's block so real. I hope that it proves to be a valuable contribution to the edition. I sincerely hope the difficulty writing it is not indicative of what's to come. I'd hate to give less than my best. Call it my ever-present competitive spirit - although I've always known that I'm mostly competing with myself.

I've watched some amazing rowers competing in the Olympics that were products of my university-to-be. At first, it was just fun. But after watching dozens pull their way through the 2k and watching the blades glide over the water, I have to admit, I let my mind wander through the lands of what might have been.

I rowed for a year in undergrad. Just a year, but I loved it in a way that defies words, even all these years later. I mean I loved it. I can't explain to you the physical euphoria of strength, balance, grace, finesse of rowing with a crew if you've never experienced it for yourself. The power in the boat. The glide. The team as one. In one short year, my coach and I were looking at places for me to go to begin training for the next Olympics. There was a unique hope there that in walking away from (it's a long story) left a hole in my heart.

Some parts of life are like that. And I don't think that hole just needs to be filled up. Some holes in life should just be respectfully treasured as good in and of themselves. I love my life now. I love that hole. It's a part of who I am - a part of my identity.

But last night I began thinking - would, could, it be possible for me to row again? For the first time in my life, over a decade later, I'm actually in a place of life where I could do it. I doubt I'd ever be able to bench press the numbers I once did, but could maturity gain me a rowing prowess over the next five years that I didn't develop in that one?

Part of me says that was let go a long time ago. That my life now is something entirely different and good. That, realistically, there just isn't time.

But something else says that my life now, is exactly this. A chance to dream again.
Ahh...the Olympics. The thing that dreams are made of.

Dancing horses

I drove by a restaurant in a strip mall today. Its name was "Chinese and Pizza". This cannot be good. I might have a slight smile if it said "Chinese and Hamburgers" after my recent foray into Hong Kong and the unbelievable numbers of hamburger joints lining the roads devoid of rickshaws. But last I checked, Chinese food rarely explored the wonderful world of cheese. Perhaps that's because of the widespread dairy intolerance. That's not to say that I haven't eaten pizza in lands filled with Chinese...I most definitely have...but in Pizza Hut. And that's not to say that I don't enjoy fusion restaurants, either. I'm just having a hard time embracing the Chinese and pizza fusion. 

But perhaps this restaurant is on to something. Yesterday I went to the local 4th of July parade and was rather surprised by the number of John Deere tractors, Republican party advertisements, Free Mason floats, cowboy hats, and (my absolute favorite) dancing horses. I always think a fantastic way to get to know a community is to visit their museum(s) - not so much for the objects themselves, but for how those chosen objects represent the values of the choosers. Another great way to do this is to enter a thrift store - the quality, quantity, and prices of the available merchandise in each neighborhood is telling of the surrounding economic bracket and dress code. Yesterday, I added to that list when I realized that a community parade is yet another fantastic way to get a feel for a local community's political and approved community affiliations.

Viva dancing horses - cha cha cha!

If I have learned anything about my new locale after three days (into the unknown next few weeks where this is 'home'), it's that just an hour outside of a very progressive city, lies a very conservative farming community full of family-oriented, duck-raffling fun. Perhaps "Chinese and Pizza" isn't such a bad idea, given the context. In fact, way to be culturally adaptable Mr. Chinese and Pizza owner!

Still...forgive me my lack of enthusiasm for this creative mix, but I will be going back to the local Thai place where he actually gave me green curry at "100 star" spiciness and I felt like I had been transported back to Koh Chang, Thailand. I'm trying to adapt, I really am. But put me into a good Thai restaurant and any desire for a different type of food just dances away. Cha cha cha!

Hosting a Stranger

There are all sorts of people in the world, and most of us have either hosted others or been hosted ourselves at various stages of our lives.

I am incredibly thankful that my parents were the kind of people whose doors were always open. I can look back on most holidays and picture random people who have joined us at the table. Rooms in our house were often full - students who needed housing for a bit, abused women who need a safe place 'til they figured out what to do, friends who were stopping through, family immigrating from Asia trying to get established, kids sleeping under the piano because the couches and beds were all taken. I've always wanted my own home to be a place where anyone can show up on the doorstep at any time, day or night, and they would be greeted by a quick hug into a safe space. A simple place, most guaranteed, but a place nonetheless.

Over the past few years I've also found myself hosted by various people, many times strangers who opened their doors to us simply because we worked with an organization whose mission they wanted to support. This past weekend, we stayed for two nights in just such a home and I got to thinking about the lessons that I've learned from being hosted and how I can both learn from and emulate these environments.

So here are a few comments about the first moments of hospitality - from the request to threshold crossing - for the hosters among us:

1. Asking a person to host you is often a daunting task. There are of course those who take advantage of others hospitality, but for many "cold-calling" and asking for a place to stay is tantamount to begging for help. It is humbling, for sure, but can also be humiliating depending on who is hosting. Please don't make a person "prove" that they deserve a place in your house. If you don't feel comfortable, just say no. Undergoing a 10 minute interview only to hear "we'll see how it goes" is just not encouraging. By all means, get to know them, but if your questions sound like something you got from a job interview, maybe think of some new questions.

2. Do treat a request for a place as just a request and something you can say no to. It's not a demand so you don't need to come up with lame excuses for why you can't host. Simply say it won't work for you at this time. People looking for a place totally understand and don't want to make you feel guilty for not being able to host. If you communicate guilt, the person asking will feel like they need to assuage that guilt which is quite exhausting if repeated with dozens of people who do the same thing.

3. If you can't host but want to help, don't give a list of names and numbers of people you know to the person asking for a place to stay. Instead, why don't you call these people that you know yourself and see if it can work out? This allows those people to say no to a person they trust and cuts down significantly on the explanation of the person asking for help. And, most especially, do not give your pastor's name and number to call...do you know how many calls these people get a week from people they don't know?! If you think they can help, be the ambassador and call them yourself.

4. Most people have expectations of guests who enter their home. This is perfectly normal and to be expected. The important thing is to communicate that clearly before they arrive. Do you want to eat together or separately? Do you have lots of events planned where they'll be home alone? If you are having guests over, where to you want the hosted person to be - In their room? Involved in the conversation? Are there food allergies in the house where peanut butter shouldn't be whipped out of a bag? Where do you want them to park when they arrive? Is there a limit to how many days they can stay before trying your patience? Communicate, communicate, communicate. This allows the person being hosted to back out if the expectations don't fit their needs and minimizes the chance for misunderstanding later. Don't feel like you are being picky - the worst for a person being hosted is finding out that there were a lot of uncommunicated expectations that they now need to perform to.

5. My favorite hosts, by far, have been the ones who verbally affirm that they are glad that I am there. Then they invite me into their kitchen or living room, hand me a hot drink (hot cups are proven, if held for a few moments, to improve a person's mood), chat for a few minutes, show me my room, hand me towels, give me the wi-fi code, give me a house tour, open the kitchen cupboards to show me where the glasses are for water, ask me if I need to do laundry and show me where the laundry machines are and to help myself to their soap, and then tell me to make myself at home and that they don't mind if I hang out in the living room, at the kitchen table, or my room and just to holler if I need anything. Sigh. Heaven in a host.

I think most of it can be summed up in the following quote:

"There is no hospitality like understanding." - Vonna Banta

Was it Stephen Covey who said to seek first to understand and then to be understood? If you are hosting, find out what has been going on for the person walking into your house the past few weeks and in the weeks to come and, with a little imagination to fill in the blanks, you'll be surprised how much easier it is to make a gracious place for them to rest. And isn't that what we are all looking for in a home? Just a safe place to rest.

My husband and I have been traveling a lot since the beginning of our marriage. So much that whenever we walk into a new room in a hotel or house, we look at each other and say "Welcome home". For one night at least, your house is their home. And just so you all know: Mi casa es su casa. (At least it will be as soon as we have one.)

Dr. Seuss' Trees

Have you read Dr. Seuss enough that the title of this blog jogged a mental image or two?

I love Dr. Seuss - his creative wordplay and the colorful drawings that accompany them. I love it all because it is so other-worldly. Or at least I thought so. Until I camped this past weekend in the Cascades.

I am amending a few decades of belief that Dr. Seuss came up with the craziest trees imaginable and stuck them in his books. These trees exist! I just didn't know where to look. Or have the opportunity to see them. And isn't that just like life?

We think things, believe ideas, and generally view the world through a lens of our own experience. This is one reason I believe it's incredibly important to have some of my deepest friendships be with people who see the world very differently than I do, but share a desire to see it as it really is.

Even if I've never experienced anything that they have, I can share it with them as they live vulnerably and authentically. And even if I don't know where to look to find something new and wonderful, they help me explore just the right nooks and crannies. And in their experience, something that seems so foreign suddenly becomes real. And in my new experience, something I was blind to I can suddenly see. That doesn't mean that we always agree on what we see. But in respectfully looking together, in sharing the search, my best friends help me open my eyes.