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.

Rearranging the furniture

When life feels a bit too crazy, I like to rearrange the furniture. I have a few friends who like to do the same. Instead of describing myself as a little overwhelmed - I can simply say "I rearranged the furniture this morning" and that's enough to know that there's a lot going on that feels a little out of control. After 7 years of marriage, my husband and I learned that it's really best for him not to make suggestions to me of where the furniture should be rearranged to...that's really not the point...and usually ends badly. Mostly, I just want to feel like there's the possibility of order, when everything feels quite disorderly.

Today was one of those days when I really wanted to rearrange the furniture. But, since I'm living in a hotel studio room this week, that is nigh impossible. The bed is bolted to the wall. And so is the table. I could move the chairs...but they'd have to go in front of the door or in the bathroom. And that's just weird. I could move the dog (not that's he's furniture exactly, but he has been behaving a bit like a rug today) but that's just mean.

However. Not to dismay. The perfect solution presented itself: my laptop! I have been wanting to organize my computer for months now, now that my life focus has shifted quite a bit. The files that I used to need easy access to don't need to be one click away anymore, the names of some of the folders just aren't accurate, and some of the software obsolete in my life.

Enter: Re-arranger of the computer furniture!

Sigh. Now I can sleep a little easier on my bolted-in bed tonight.

Finding a Place to Sleep

I love sleep. Sometimes I ask "Did you sleep well?" or state "I slept great!", as if sleeping is a skill that can be controlled and done well or poorly! My mom says that I'm her only child (of 8) that she never really had to tell to go take a nap. Even as a little girl, I knew when I was tired and needed to sleep - and would just go do it. This skill became rather latent in college when I spent many nights awake into the wee hours studying, hanging with friends, or getting up at 4am to head to crew practice. Rowing on a perfectly still lake as the sun rose...so worth the lack of sleep.

These past five years, while we were hopping around countries, in and out of hotel rooms, and spending nights in international airports, I developed a strong love for airports that help me sleep! Prague's airport is the best - it has a "resting room" with pillows and couches! Bangkok offers seats with no arm-rests so that you can lay across the chairs in the middle of the night,  Taipei offers free sessions in massage chairs and quiet gardens, and even Philadelphia offers rocking chairs up and down the hallways. Unfortunately, I sleep a thousand times better lying down than sitting up.

I am so amazed when I see people sleeping sitting up. Today I saw a homeless man bundled up and surrounded by his things while dozing on an overpass. I also saw a child leaned against his Daddy's chest slightly drooling as he slept in a morning church service. I saw a photograph of a man holding a big dog to his chest, while leaning against a building, both fast asleep.

In the last few days, we've tried to find new places to sleep. We have a one-week plan in a long-term hotel studio, but we're hoping that either the short-sale house we put an offer on over two months ago, or the house we plan to offer on tomorrow morning, will yield a contract by the end of the week that will become our long-term sleeping solution. But, even as we plan, I've decided that my goal for the end of the week should not be results (because what control do we really have over the results? I mean, really, did I sleep well?!) but instead that I will have put my hope in the right place, having "calmed myself and quieted my ambitions..." (David, Psalm 131).

In the end, I can sleep almost anywhere. I know this is true. I've lived it.
But there's only one place that I can place my hope. I know this is true. I've lived it.

The Quail, Eagle, and Hummingbird

Most of my best thinking happens hiking the trail as I pound out miles under my boots. I'm hoping this is true of the past few days as well but, as usual with new thoughts, I will have to wait to see what happens. My husband and I have been searching for a solution regarding a current challenge: we move on Friday but don't exactly know where to move to. Sometimes I can become anxious when I find myself in these scenarios because I like to plan a few weeks out (and perhaps live a few weeks out, too, but I'd rather not talk about that). Increased effort to solve a worry-soaked problem usually happens when I've let myself slide outside the sweet spot of trust in the Good Someone who promises to take care of me. A really experienced and wise man once said that we should look at the birds of the air and see how God takes care of them and that this should inspire us not to worry about tomorrow. 

This past weekend I had the joy of watching three quite unique birds of the air: the California Quail, the Bald Eagle, and the Black-chinned Hummingbird.

The California Quail

Running across the grass, a small pair of California Quail took flight in front of me from short, stubby legs. They were on a mission! My first thought was "adorable".

In doing a bit of research on this bird, I found out that the California Quail is highly social and often get together in groups called "coveys" of 10-200 birds. Males mate with only one female and both parents care for their babies. They like to take dust baths, forage for seed and grass on the ground, and "flush" into flight with a short burst of energy when startled. 


The Bald Eagle

Hovering in flight over the lake, I also got to watch a Bald Eagle go fishing. My first thought was "powerful".

Bald Eagles are carnivores and eat just about anything, but have a special hankering for fish. They can fly at speeds up to 43 miles per hour (70 km per hour) and don't normally like humans, preferring to stay above it all with just one other eagle mate for life. They can migrate, but tend to stick close to home, especially if they've found a great lake and winds to soar on. 


The Black-chinned Hummingbird

Hovering right next to my face, a hummingbird seemed to meet my eye before darting off into the forest. My first thought was "amazing".

Hummingbirds feed on nectar, are migratory, and can go into a hibernation state where they only use 1/15 of their normal energy. While in flight, their heart rate can reach 1,260 beats per minute. They can fly forward at speeds over 34 mph (54 km per hour) and are the only bird that can fly backwards. Their brains are larger in comparison to their body size than any other bird and they like to be alone.

Sometimes people act as if their own life stories and experiences should be indicative of yours. Honestly, I find this to be extremely irksome. I think it's important to share and celebrate each other's stories, but not to assume that all life narratives should or will look the same. As we look at the birds of the air and learn from how God provides for them, I am reminded that we can't expect the way that God provides for one to be the same provision for another. After all, we all have different flight patterns, lifestyles, and daily needs. One of us may feed on seeds, another on fish, and another on nectar. One of us may need lots of people around, another a single life companion, and still another to go it alone. Some like to migrate, constantly on the move, and others to stay in one place, rooted to what they know and love. Diversity found in the birds of the air astounds me; God's diverse ways of providing for humans is no less astounding.

What will be God's way of providing for me this Friday? Who can tell.
But will God do it? Just look at the birds of the air.

Cookie Monster in the Principal's Office

The last two days marked a momentous occasion in my high school experience stash: entrance into a principal's office. And not just one, but two principals' offices!

I was one of "those" kids in high school. The ones that never really got into serious trouble - enough to be sent to the principal's office, anyway. I don't think this was solely driven by good, or even healthy, motives. Actually, I think a lot of it was driven by overwhelming shyness and the fear of having to engage with adults in what to me seemed a severely stressful environment. I vaguely remember goofing off a few times with some smack-down by teachers and thinking: "Please, oh please, don't send me to the Principal's office!" As a result of all this, I was never privy to the inside of a principal's office - just their mini-blinds. Until yesterday. And today.

My F-bomb dropping student has let the proverbial s*** hit the fan in several classes. In fact, I have sworn more in the past 2 weeks, voicing this student's signing, than I have in the last 30 years combined. Thank you Student X, for this unique life experience. But I digress.

Yesterday, I found myself in an interpreter's nightmare: a meeting that involved me as an interpreter and then spontaneously being asked, as an adult staff member, questions during the conversation. PLEASE - if you ever use a sign language interpreter - do NOT talk to them or ask them questions during the communication event. It's just messy. Our brains are not in "engage in the conversation" mode; they're in "switch grammar and vocabulary between the two languages to make each person's message be as accurate and natural as possible" mode. A lot of interpreters don't really remember exactly what was said during the communication event that they are interpreting - all their attention is caught up in the interpreting process. I happen to be one of those kind of interpreters. Perhaps I'm a bit like Cookie Monster:

1. Message comes in and is chewed
2. Message comes out in another form, generally more messy than it went in but hopefully retaining its primary ingredients
3. A few crumbs of the conversation are left stuck in mouth and on chin and arms

Anyway, back to the principals' offices. They are NOTHING like I expected. No harsh words. No stern lecturing. Instead, body posturing and vocal intonation is welcoming and builds camaraderie. A listening ear and understanding, regardless of the accusations being made by the student in the face of what the teacher has said, is offered and encouraged. Unless something is stated against what is in the student policy manual, students are not to be interrupted or contradicted. It was mind-boggling. Those two meetings were without a doubt the most peaceful interpreting experiences I've had with this student since arriving. And it makes me want to beg all the teachers: Please, oh please, send me to the principal's office tomorrow too! The principals' cookies are the best!

Ten Influential Books

On a 3.5 hour drive through sage filled landscape, my husband and I whiled away a few hours by deciding the top 10 books either most influential or most representative of our lives. Here are the 10 that I came up with, in no particular order.

1. The Last Battle - C.S. Lewis
Like the Narnia book where Aslan tells Lucy that He hasn't gotten bigger, she has gotten older, "The Last Battle" has grown increasingly meaningful for me with age. One of the things I love most about this book is how Emeth, who did not know Aslan, is allowed into Aslan's Country where he grows to know him. As Aslan said to Emeth: "Beloved, said the Glorious One, unless thy desire had been for me thou wouldst not have sought so long and so truly. For all find what they truly seek..." I love this.

2. James - James
As a follower of Jesus, the Bible is my Sacred Text and there are many of its books that have been very influential at various times of life. James, however, has always captured my heart as being the book that encourages me that faith is more than just believing and should always have feet.

3. Why Not Women: A Biblical Study of Women in Missions, Ministry, and Leadership - Loren Cunningham,  D.J. Hamilton, and J. Rogers
After wrestling through how my faith and sex intersects, this book is the book I wish I would have written, most loved reading on the subject, and wish every Christian would read.

4. Borderlands: The New Mestiza = La Frontera - Gloria Anzaldua
Having grown up in the borderlands myself and having chosen work and life that continues to occupy borderland spaces (although of a different kind than what she describes for herself), this book gave me words and led to greater understanding of how these experiences helped shape my identity.

5. A Generous Orthodoxy - Brian McLaren
After often feeling alone in my theological musings, this book finally offered another person's written words to my own heart's whisperings. It also sent me down a new road of reading and theological pondering within the emergent conversation that is helping define my current Christian understanding.

6. Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation - Parker Palmer
After first reading this book in university, I was inspired to make sure I read it again every few years. It offers just the reminder that I need every time I find myself at one of life's many crossroads.

7. God at War - Gregory Boyd
Greg opened a whole new way of seeing an all-powerful God who is fighting to make this world the place of beauty that it's intended to be, and calls us to value the sacredness of life at all times. He introduced me to a new perspective of what it could mean for God to lovingly allow created beings to have individual choice and be so powerful that He can respond to those choices and work it for good. That perspective brought a new level of freedom to my faith journey.

8. The Walking Drum - Louis L'Amour
I loved this book as a kid (and still do as an adult). The adventure of Mathurin's world travel and quest combined with the importance of intellectual and cultural smarts for survival - awesome!

9. Trauma Stewardship: An Everday Guide to Caring for Self While Caring for Others - Laura van Dernoot Lipsky
While overwhelmed by broad societal needs and my own limitations in meeting the specific examples of these needs inundating me daily, I experienced well-meaning people I shared with trying to "fix" me by  suggesting additional things for me to do and be. Instead of feeling supported, they simply furthered feelings of isolation and loss. This book arrived just in time. With humor and practicality, it normalized my experiences in the wider context of service-oriented vocations and helped me understand the reality and impact of vicarious trauma.

10. The Encyclopedia of the Dog
I have spent more time over the last three decades researching dog breeds and all their traits than most could imagine! I still have an unnatural obsession with dog adoption websites and wishing I could adopt and foster more dogs than I should. Viva Canines!

How about you?
Any favorite, influential, and/or representative books that you recommend?

Bus on Babs

When the clocks reads 6:41 in the kitchen and 6:44 in the bedroom, I know it's time to bust out the back door and walk the 2 blocks to the bus stop on Babs Avenue. On the way, I get to experience a cornucopia of animals - a veritable zoo! As I walk down the back path, there's a dozen chickens, a couple goats, and one very large turkey on the other side of the wire fence. Across the street there are 3 albino rabbits that are often hopping around the yard. A peacock often cries "Help! Help!" (as only a peacock can), but I'm not sure where it lives. Perhaps that's why it's crying, too. Around the corner to the left, three horses are lying down or staring me down. On the right, a few cattle graze while a Great Pyrenees family plays all around them. The size isn't what differentiates the two - it's the color and the energy! The Pyrenees used to have some adorable puppies...but they disappeared this week and must have found new homes. The four older Pyrenees looked a little sad today and I wanted to give them pats on the head, but instead obeyed the posted sign: "Do not pet the dogs".

My husband and our dog sometimes walk and wait with me to get on the 170. While I'm driving away, I get to watch their backs as they mosey toward the house. I love it when my husband walks me to the bus on Babs. If you get the chance to walk someone you love to the bus station, I recommend you do it even if you don't have to. You may not see and hear a zoo, but I bet there are other little things to appreciate together. And some little things feel much bigger than you'd ever think they would, especially when shared.

Interpreting the F-bomb

For the second time in my 10+ years of interpreting, I was honor bound to voice the F-bomb from ASL into English during a class today. Because of the particular sign the student chose, there was no way of "softening" it; and because the student was so incredibly deliberate, no way around voicing it. I really don't swear that often, so to me this is an event of note.

I have long gotten over any moral quandary that I am responsible for the words coming out of my mouth when interpreting the ideas of my clients, including the young ones. It's not my identity, it's someone else's being communicated through me. I think the words we use are given meaning by the intent of the speaker, the intent of the listener(s), and the context in which it is being communicated. As an interpreter, I'm a part of the context, but not one of the main players. Still, when working with someone that is consistently pushing boundaries and being rude to teachers, staff, and myself, it just leaves me with this rather horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach and ache at the base of my cranium. I'm just not wired to be rude and move on without thinking about the consequences. And, when taking on the vocal affect and verbal expressions of rudeness for hours each day, I'm exhausted. In actuality, this is a situation when free-lancing where I would simply put their name on the black-list...the list of people with whom I would refuse interpreting gigs. But this situation is different.

I know that this student has a hard life, although I don't know just how hard. And that this student has had a hard year, although not sure how hard. They need to be loved because of their insurpassable worth. So I pray that when my amount of love runs out for this particular student (usually about half-way through 3rd period), God's will just flow through me like a rushing river and leave a little extra refreshment on the way through.

What I hate most about the interpreting role is feeling powerless to do much of anything since I'm just the communication messenger. I love to advocate, to teach, to be part of effecting change. During the interpreting process, those roles feel practically non-existent. I don't deny the importance of the interpreter role; I'm just being reminded that this particular work is not what makes my heart sing.

Room 3 Guy

We're living in a temporary rental place right now with 2 other renters and our dog. The quietest being in the house is the dog. Quiet, if you don't count scratching, excessive killing of his squeaky toy, and deep sighs of content and discontent, depending on whether supper, walks, and head massages have recently occurred. The loudest is the guy who stays in room 3.

Room 3 Guy likes to take over the shared living space as soon as he comes home. And I do mean take over. If someone is talking, don't you worry...he can whistle his way right into the living room, conversation, and any topic going. Room 3 Guy is on the larger size so if he walks through some of the smaller spaces, you'll need to move so he can fit. Room 3 Guy puts his laptop on the kitchen table, turns the TV on to his preferred channel, and starts a blackjack game on the house computer in the living room. This leaves 3 rooms left in the house unoccupied: Rooms 1 and 2, and the bathroom. But sometimes Room 3 Guy has to go to the bathroom...at that point, only 2 rooms: our room and Room 2 Guy's.

Most importantly, though, when discussing shared space: Room 3 Guy is a talker. My husband says I have "one of those faces" that people spill their guts to...but the point is, I don't think people who have the illness which I refer to as verbal diarrhea realize that constant talking is like smoking. The only people who actually enjoy the sound of it are other people who share the habit. The others, if they are anything like me (which is undoubtedly arrogant to think), are quickly looking for a breath of fresh air.

Room 3 Guy has a laugh like Santa Clause. Except, instead of "ho ho ho" it's "heh heh heh". On our walk last night to the park with the quiet being in the house, my husband and I talked about this laugh. Why and when did he use it - should it be taken as actual mirth or some other signal? It appears that this laugh occurs most frequently when he is talking about something uncomfortable, entering a room without knowing who'll be there, doing something he doesn't enjoy, or wanting to soften something he says...sort of like adding "Bless their heart" to the end of a sentence. I know I have at least a couple different laughs myself, and those who know me well just roll their eyes at the fake one but accept it as the gift of appreciation that I'm intending! I think if Room 3 Guy would really laugh, it would have no word endings. In fact I know it; I heard him laughing while sitting at the shared computer, at a joke on the TV, while I was eating in Room 1, because his laptop was on the kitchen table.

But I don't actually mind.
I adore Room 1...heh heh heh.
And I really do love hearing people laugh!

30 minutes on a track

During the past 2 weeks, I've been reintroduced to the world of secondary schools by working as a sign language interpreter and assistant (each role at various points in the day). During the course of 7 hours each day, I have the opportunity to watch teachers, students, interpreters, security personnel, office managers, school psychologists, counselors, and principals. It's not intentional, really, but I can't help but observe the various persona that people want to project in various contexts, to various people.You want to see identity negotiation in constant flux? Just step into a high school.

Today I spent about 30 minutes on an artificial turf watching high schoolers run and walk around an asphalt track in P.E. class. Students were supposed to do laps, alternating between walking the curves and running the straight-aways. A few things I noticed:

• If groups of students clump together, they'll be going slower than they could otherwise be going. Apparently underachieving is a well-developed high school value.
• Students who run alone often enter the class and the locker room alone. There's either a price to pay on the popularity chart for achieving (let alone overachieving) or those who are alone tend to achieve.
• Boys stare at girls' butts when running. Girls stare at boys' butts when running. Let's not pretend a single gender holds a trump card on raging high school hormones.
• Most P.E. talk seems to revolve around 3 topics: 

1. How much they hate P.E. 
2. When class will be over.
3. Members of the opposite sex.

• Students who run well past the line in front of the teacher usually glance over and grin, expecting some sort of congratulations. Never mind the fact that the teacher saw them slack on the other side. Most people think more about what they want people to see them do than what others actually see them do.
• If teachers make the effort to speak to students who consistently walk or run by with their head down, they should listen closely. A quietly murmured thank you, hidden smile, or small pause of recognition in their step is almost always the reward.