Tradition. It's about repeating the same things over and over again, year after year. Pretty soon, these repetitious actions start to feel like an old, favorite sweater, or a childhood comfort blanket. Safe, secure, grounding.
For a month now, I've been focusing with the kids and Scott on celebrating the season. We've made a gingerbread house (from scratch, thank you very much), read a part of the Christmas story every night and acted it out with our Fisher Price nativity set, toured neighborhoods at night to see the lights, listened to favorite Christmas CD's over and over again. All this, to build up to 'The Day', a short 12 hour period that had better be joyous and perfect, because we anticipate it all year, darn it.
Now, the trash is overflowing with wrapping paper, the sink with dishes, there are pine needles stuck in the carpet, and I'm left pondering the frenetic month I've just spent. Part of me wonders, why did I work so hard to create all those memories and reinforce the traditions? The nice answers, of course, include, 'so that the kids will have fond memories of childhood', 'to make Christmas about more than just the gifts', 'to spend time together as a family.'
But if I'm really honest with myself? If I really examine it all closely? If I pull back the pretty nice things, what is beneath? Beneath, deep, deep beneath, it is fear. Fear of not connecting. Fear of losing time. Fear of knowing that nothing in life really ever stays the same, that there is no real stability.
Stability.
Traditions.
It's my comfort blanket, this frantic memory making. It is a constant need to connect, to belong, to take a quick snapshot before it's all uprooted again. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I get so frantic to create the tradition, that all enjoyment and peace is taken out of it.
Case in point:
We had arranged to video chat with my parents during our present opening time, so that (again), we could be connected while apart. When it came time, I could not get my computer to work. My kids and husband were sitting there, waiting to enjoy the moment we'd all been anticipating, and all I could think about was suppressing the rising anxiety because I couldn't get my blasted computer to work.
How ridiculous! I was robbing my family of a beautiful moment, because I just couldn't let go. And live. In the moment.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Beauty of a Woman
I saw it in a friend today. That deep, flowing river of strength unique to our sex. Her face was etched in lines of hurt and worry, I could almost physically see the mass of her burden pressing down on her. Her eyes pulled down, hiding behind protective lids. Everything about her drooped and blurred, as if she was a watercolor painting left out in the rain.
And yet, underneath it all, miraculously, I saw so clearly a deep current of strength flowing through her. It was beautiful. Abiding. Swift. Sure. Constant. I saw, and I understood the true beauty of woman.
What makes us beautiful is not really a Grecian profile. It is not bone structure, eye color, the curve of the neck or soft pearling ear. Woman's true beauty lies in the duplicity of emotion and strength.
We are feeling creatures. We filter our experiences, interactions and relationships through a tangled, interconnected web. Everything connects to our heart on some level. In a way, this makes us weak. Dependent. Easily swayed.
At the same time, women have a strength that is as deep and unchanging as the sea. The very thing that weakens us, our emotions, also gives us an under girding steadfastness. It is the strength of a mother who is up every hour during the night with a sick child. It is the strength of a wife holding it together for the sake of her man. It is the woman who miscarries her baby, but in the midst of it has love and attention for her living children. It is loving so fiercely that it is impossible to let go.
It is beautiful, this undercurrent of strength that flows from the breaking heart of a steadfast woman.
And yet, underneath it all, miraculously, I saw so clearly a deep current of strength flowing through her. It was beautiful. Abiding. Swift. Sure. Constant. I saw, and I understood the true beauty of woman.
What makes us beautiful is not really a Grecian profile. It is not bone structure, eye color, the curve of the neck or soft pearling ear. Woman's true beauty lies in the duplicity of emotion and strength.
We are feeling creatures. We filter our experiences, interactions and relationships through a tangled, interconnected web. Everything connects to our heart on some level. In a way, this makes us weak. Dependent. Easily swayed.
At the same time, women have a strength that is as deep and unchanging as the sea. The very thing that weakens us, our emotions, also gives us an under girding steadfastness. It is the strength of a mother who is up every hour during the night with a sick child. It is the strength of a wife holding it together for the sake of her man. It is the woman who miscarries her baby, but in the midst of it has love and attention for her living children. It is loving so fiercely that it is impossible to let go.
It is beautiful, this undercurrent of strength that flows from the breaking heart of a steadfast woman.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Epic Boat Trip: Prayer and Reunion
We were kindly fed from one big bowl of rice with ramen noodles sprinkled on top, with a mug of syrupy tea apiece. Then, the kind woman showed us into a side room that had foam mattresses, pillows, and blankets spread across the floor. "Go sleep," she said.
"Where are my mom and dad?" I asked, but she just smiled at me and repeated that I should lay down with my little brother and sister. Apparently, we had reached the limit of our ability to communicate with each other.
I spent the next several hours in our little nest, watching the soft lamplight filter gently through the open door. Soft wisps of air puff up through the slatted floor. The adults in the other room talked softly in a language I didn't understand. I could not relax and sleep like my siblings, although I knew it would be easier if I could escape into dreamland for a while. Although the woman and her family seemed nice, a little part of me was afraid of the new place, and didn't quite trust our hosts. I was afraid of a stranger coming into our room and doing bad things, unmentionable things, to us while we slept. I was deeply afraid that I would never see my parents again. I thought about the dark waves, menacing sky, and scrambling passengers of the Baruku, but here my brain balked and wouldn't let me imagine the horrors that could await my family still aboard. I wondered how I could get my siblings and I back to Honiara, or if we would be stuck on this island, alone. I was too young to know about the network my parents had with other missionaries and Islanders around the country. Eventually, I just prayed over and over again a simple prayer: "Please, Lord, help my mom and dad and brother be ok. Please, Lord, help them to be ok."
Meanwhile, in Austin, Texas, a close friend sat watching the news as he drank his morning cup of coffee. Flipping through the channels, he stopped for a minute on the weather. "There is a hurricane system picking up steam in the South Pacific," the announcer intoned, as a map flashed up on screen. The man slowly put down his coffee, and started to pray.
I must have eventually dozed off, because the next thing I was aware of was dimly hearing a familiar voice in a familiar language from the other room. A silhouette darkened the doorway and I shrunk back, the nightmarish fears returning to my foggy mind in full force. The next instant, though, my mother had come fully into the room and was kneeling beside me, stroking my face and hair. "Oh, Mom, I thought you were ..."
"Shhhh," she said gently. "It's ok. You didn't need to be worried. We're here. Everyone's ok." I wanted to get up and hear the whole story then, but she kissed me back to sleep. Next morning, I awoke to brilliant sunshine and my parents and brother all no worse for the wear except for being tired and still a bit damp.
"Where are my mom and dad?" I asked, but she just smiled at me and repeated that I should lay down with my little brother and sister. Apparently, we had reached the limit of our ability to communicate with each other.
I spent the next several hours in our little nest, watching the soft lamplight filter gently through the open door. Soft wisps of air puff up through the slatted floor. The adults in the other room talked softly in a language I didn't understand. I could not relax and sleep like my siblings, although I knew it would be easier if I could escape into dreamland for a while. Although the woman and her family seemed nice, a little part of me was afraid of the new place, and didn't quite trust our hosts. I was afraid of a stranger coming into our room and doing bad things, unmentionable things, to us while we slept. I was deeply afraid that I would never see my parents again. I thought about the dark waves, menacing sky, and scrambling passengers of the Baruku, but here my brain balked and wouldn't let me imagine the horrors that could await my family still aboard. I wondered how I could get my siblings and I back to Honiara, or if we would be stuck on this island, alone. I was too young to know about the network my parents had with other missionaries and Islanders around the country. Eventually, I just prayed over and over again a simple prayer: "Please, Lord, help my mom and dad and brother be ok. Please, Lord, help them to be ok."
Meanwhile, in Austin, Texas, a close friend sat watching the news as he drank his morning cup of coffee. Flipping through the channels, he stopped for a minute on the weather. "There is a hurricane system picking up steam in the South Pacific," the announcer intoned, as a map flashed up on screen. The man slowly put down his coffee, and started to pray.
I must have eventually dozed off, because the next thing I was aware of was dimly hearing a familiar voice in a familiar language from the other room. A silhouette darkened the doorway and I shrunk back, the nightmarish fears returning to my foggy mind in full force. The next instant, though, my mother had come fully into the room and was kneeling beside me, stroking my face and hair. "Oh, Mom, I thought you were ..."
"Shhhh," she said gently. "It's ok. You didn't need to be worried. We're here. Everyone's ok." I wanted to get up and hear the whole story then, but she kissed me back to sleep. Next morning, I awoke to brilliant sunshine and my parents and brother all no worse for the wear except for being tired and still a bit damp.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Epic Boat Trip - The Village
What choice did I have? Although trusting a stranger who I couldn't even communicate with scared me, staying alone on the barren beach scared me even more. I swallowed the lump in my throat, took my sibling's hands in each of my own, and followed the woman's beckoning.
She led us up to a firmly beaten path through the low scrub that fringed the beach. Past the initial mangroves and coconut trees, a little village sat protected. The huts were a haphazard mix with timber frames, coconut mat walls, and some corrugated aluminum roofs shone industrially against the tropical lushness. Here and there, a coconut broom, just a bundle of stripped coconut leaves tied tightly at one end, leaned beside a doorway. Clotheslines were strung among the huts and trees, the clothes dripping and grey now from the recent storm. Tendrils of smoke eased themselves out through the leaf roofs or up from under the eaves of the aluminum ones. Everything was dripping with heavy, overpowering tropical life.
Our guide came to a stop outside a house that was slightly larger than the rest, and unique in that it stood about three feet off the ground on round, thick stilts. I caught a glimpse of some chickens huddled underneath. Another woman was standing in the doorway. Her eyes, which I noticed first, were a warm, kind brown, slanted slightly and almond in shape. Her gently curling hair framed her face softly, and seemed to blur into the dimness behind her. "Hello," she said, smiling, in thickly accented English. "Come."
She led us up to a firmly beaten path through the low scrub that fringed the beach. Past the initial mangroves and coconut trees, a little village sat protected. The huts were a haphazard mix with timber frames, coconut mat walls, and some corrugated aluminum roofs shone industrially against the tropical lushness. Here and there, a coconut broom, just a bundle of stripped coconut leaves tied tightly at one end, leaned beside a doorway. Clotheslines were strung among the huts and trees, the clothes dripping and grey now from the recent storm. Tendrils of smoke eased themselves out through the leaf roofs or up from under the eaves of the aluminum ones. Everything was dripping with heavy, overpowering tropical life.
Our guide came to a stop outside a house that was slightly larger than the rest, and unique in that it stood about three feet off the ground on round, thick stilts. I caught a glimpse of some chickens huddled underneath. Another woman was standing in the doorway. Her eyes, which I noticed first, were a warm, kind brown, slanted slightly and almond in shape. Her gently curling hair framed her face softly, and seemed to blur into the dimness behind her. "Hello," she said, smiling, in thickly accented English. "Come."
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Epic Boat Trip - Landfall
Once inside the lagoon, the waves were calmer and we sped along the top of them towards the beach. The ocean, as fiercely independent as a headstrong toddler, tames once it has been encircled by a firm embrace of reef. A lagoon is a well of life, an undersea Eden where plant and animal sea life abound in prismatic color. It is a world waiting to be explored once you break the surface.
The island we were speeding towards sat low on the horizon. Little more than a glorified sand bar, Sikaiana sprouted coconut trees and houses, looking oddly like a head submerged in the water, with only the forehead and hair sticking above surface.
The beach in front of us was filled with brown figures. Sikaiana was a sister island to our Luaniua, and many of the people on the ship were kin in some way with these islanders. They had come out of their huts to anxiously watch the drama unfolding beyond the reef.
We touched shore, and several boys ran forwards to drag the canoe further onto the sand. The occupants of the little life boat all piled out, and somebody lifted my sister, brother and I onto the beach. Although the rain had finally stopped, dusk had now fallen over the storm darkened sky. The beach quickly emptied of people. Anna, Matthew and I stood there, holding each other's hands. We had nothing with us except for the clothes we were wearing. I don't think we even had shoes on. I thought about my mom, dad, brother, and the Aussie teacher who had been on the ship with us. Out beyond the reef, the Baruku sat low and dejected, an almost indiscernible black spot against the lighter blackness of the sea. I looked around myself. We were standing in the middle of an empty beach in the semi-darkness. I had started contemplating sitting down and waiting to see if my parents would show up, when a kind faced woman approached me.
"Hamai inei, okou haikama emoe kehale anau la," she said. I looked blankly at her. She repeated, this time using summoning motions and came a few steps closer to us. We drew together even more tightly. I was afraid of her foreign tongue and the unknown village she was beckoning us towards. My younger siblings looked at me as I stood in indecision on the alien beach.
The island we were speeding towards sat low on the horizon. Little more than a glorified sand bar, Sikaiana sprouted coconut trees and houses, looking oddly like a head submerged in the water, with only the forehead and hair sticking above surface.
The beach in front of us was filled with brown figures. Sikaiana was a sister island to our Luaniua, and many of the people on the ship were kin in some way with these islanders. They had come out of their huts to anxiously watch the drama unfolding beyond the reef.
We touched shore, and several boys ran forwards to drag the canoe further onto the sand. The occupants of the little life boat all piled out, and somebody lifted my sister, brother and I onto the beach. Although the rain had finally stopped, dusk had now fallen over the storm darkened sky. The beach quickly emptied of people. Anna, Matthew and I stood there, holding each other's hands. We had nothing with us except for the clothes we were wearing. I don't think we even had shoes on. I thought about my mom, dad, brother, and the Aussie teacher who had been on the ship with us. Out beyond the reef, the Baruku sat low and dejected, an almost indiscernible black spot against the lighter blackness of the sea. I looked around myself. We were standing in the middle of an empty beach in the semi-darkness. I had started contemplating sitting down and waiting to see if my parents would show up, when a kind faced woman approached me.
"Hamai inei, okou haikama emoe kehale anau la," she said. I looked blankly at her. She repeated, this time using summoning motions and came a few steps closer to us. We drew together even more tightly. I was afraid of her foreign tongue and the unknown village she was beckoning us towards. My younger siblings looked at me as I stood in indecision on the alien beach.
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Epic Boat Trip - Shipwreck pt 2
I sat there, huddled in the rocking dinghy. A yard from us was the hungry reef, with ocean frothed above it in perpetual breakers. The receding waves showed a 5 foot channel between the jagged coral heads, repeatedly filled and emptied with each swell. The reef grinned at us from beneath the traitorous surf, dripping in malicious expectation. Salt water slapped up against the low sides of our craft. Low hanging clouds spit rain down in our faces.
There was a man piloting our little life boat. He sat at the very back, his hand gripping the outboard motor's throttle, his eyes inscrutable slits against the elements. A Polynesian Charon. He studied the rise and fall of the grinding surf in the little channel, all our lives depending on his skill of reading the water. One seconds delay would catch us in the backwash of surf, a flow too powerful for our little motor, and we'd be swept back out to sea at the best, or dashed against the rocks at the worst. The coral here was ribbed in rows of living stone as fine and as sharp as razor blades. Soft flesh and the weakness of human muscles would prove no match for all the vast, ageless pull of the ocean surf. Once in the water, the waves will tumble you up, around, and speed you down in a quick, vicious somersault onto the jagged reef. Pray that you will already be dead when the waiting sharks get to you.
We waited as our Charon judged each wave. I was perversely reminded of playing jump rope, watching the great curve slowly rise up, then fall again with precision through the moment of truth, back to the ground and up again. He suddenly gunned the motor, and we sped on the front of a rising wave, breathless and gripping each other. A wall of spray smacked my face as the bow of our little craft assaulted the tumult over the reef. Salt was up my nose and on my tongue. The boat rocked precariously to one side as the ocean angrily made its strength felt. Our driver urged his little engine even higher. There was a moment of gasping, breathless struggle. Then man triumphed over nature. Inertia was overcome, we surged forward and the next instant were safely within the womb of the lagoon.
There was a man piloting our little life boat. He sat at the very back, his hand gripping the outboard motor's throttle, his eyes inscrutable slits against the elements. A Polynesian Charon. He studied the rise and fall of the grinding surf in the little channel, all our lives depending on his skill of reading the water. One seconds delay would catch us in the backwash of surf, a flow too powerful for our little motor, and we'd be swept back out to sea at the best, or dashed against the rocks at the worst. The coral here was ribbed in rows of living stone as fine and as sharp as razor blades. Soft flesh and the weakness of human muscles would prove no match for all the vast, ageless pull of the ocean surf. Once in the water, the waves will tumble you up, around, and speed you down in a quick, vicious somersault onto the jagged reef. Pray that you will already be dead when the waiting sharks get to you.
We waited as our Charon judged each wave. I was perversely reminded of playing jump rope, watching the great curve slowly rise up, then fall again with precision through the moment of truth, back to the ground and up again. He suddenly gunned the motor, and we sped on the front of a rising wave, breathless and gripping each other. A wall of spray smacked my face as the bow of our little craft assaulted the tumult over the reef. Salt was up my nose and on my tongue. The boat rocked precariously to one side as the ocean angrily made its strength felt. Our driver urged his little engine even higher. There was a moment of gasping, breathless struggle. Then man triumphed over nature. Inertia was overcome, we surged forward and the next instant were safely within the womb of the lagoon.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Kohimarama
We lived for a few months in a little Anglican priest training school on Guadalcanal, called Kohimarama. Kohi for short. This was right after we got back from our US furlough my sixth grade year. I hadn't lived in the bush since village living days in Papua New Guinea, so it was an experience living more than one hundred yards from the beach.
Kohi consisted of a mix of adult students with their families, local teachers, and foreign teachers. My dad was filling in the bible translation teaching position, and I really wasn't thrilled to be there. I had been plucked out of sixth grade right after Christmas, just as I had been feeling like I was starting to fit in and make friends. I had learned important things like: '90210' is not somebody's phone number. It is very important where you sit at the lunch table. There is no such thing as a $2 bill in US currency (after a prolonged discussion with my math teacher).
Instead of going immediately back to Luaniua, where I already had connections and a reasonable expectation to fit in, we went inland to Kohi for a few months. Here, again, I was surrounded by the unknown. There was some crazy jungle bird that lived in the wetness behind our house, and shrieked a deaf child's cry of pain at all hours, day and night. The Melanesian culture was foreign to me, seemingly untrusting and closed off compared to the more open Polynesians I was used to. Instead of being viewed with collective indulgence as 'our adopted white girl', dark eyes followed me everywhere and people gave me the wide berth of an outsider. I spent a lot of time in my room, where I had stapled snapshots of Austin and West Ridge Middle School to my wall.
Kohi consisted of a mix of adult students with their families, local teachers, and foreign teachers. My dad was filling in the bible translation teaching position, and I really wasn't thrilled to be there. I had been plucked out of sixth grade right after Christmas, just as I had been feeling like I was starting to fit in and make friends. I had learned important things like: '90210' is not somebody's phone number. It is very important where you sit at the lunch table. There is no such thing as a $2 bill in US currency (after a prolonged discussion with my math teacher).
Instead of going immediately back to Luaniua, where I already had connections and a reasonable expectation to fit in, we went inland to Kohi for a few months. Here, again, I was surrounded by the unknown. There was some crazy jungle bird that lived in the wetness behind our house, and shrieked a deaf child's cry of pain at all hours, day and night. The Melanesian culture was foreign to me, seemingly untrusting and closed off compared to the more open Polynesians I was used to. Instead of being viewed with collective indulgence as 'our adopted white girl', dark eyes followed me everywhere and people gave me the wide berth of an outsider. I spent a lot of time in my room, where I had stapled snapshots of Austin and West Ridge Middle School to my wall.
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