Tea-Things

Dreams

2011-11-03T12:01:00.000-07:00

Children are expert dreamers.

When I grow up, I'm gonna be a bachelor.
Wow, that's so cool! But C, what's a bachelor?
It's a guy who lives alone and gets to do whatever he wants.

I want to be a zookeeper and play with animals all day.
I want to live on a farm and run around all day.
I want to be a dancer and dance around all day.
I want to work in television so I can watch TV all day.
I want to be a teacher so I can make up all the rules.

Ok, those are actually my dreams. Oddly enough, they are all about freedom. Common sense has demolished most of them to bits, although I admit I still love the idea of waking up on a farm. I could wake up just before sunrise and gaze into the occurring daytime. I could walk downstairs and enjoy pancakes with a side of freshly picked strawberries. I could run through fields that only come up to my waist, run my hand over them as I go, and collapse gracefully into a bed of lilacs, hair falling perfectly around my face.

... Is anyone else imagining Bella from Twilight?

Alas, my dream is just a dream. Hazy, picturesque and absolutely unreal. If I lived on a farm I would wake up to a noisy-ass rooster, a long-ass list of chores to finish before lunch, and the stench-assness of manure. I did not have the heart to share this with my student, that his dream is just a dream. I wonder how he would have taken it. C, stop dreaming. Do you think that's all you're going to do? Whatever you want? Do you know what bills are? Do you know where money comes from? It comes from hard work. You ready to work hard for a long, long time for this dream? This dream of 'whatever'? Your free time won't even compare to your work time, buddy. Stop your idealistic, childish imagination dead in its tracks before it eats you alive. Your welcome. Finish your Math Box.

When I think about dreams I am always left feeling exhausted. Ms. Glass-Half-Full wars with Ms. Glass-Half-Empty as realities and delusions are considered. There are times when I feel as though it is not worth it to dream at all.

But that last dream of mine, to be a teacher, has come true. With it has come an abundance of insight and joy, as well as one, solid promise. The promise of a lifetime of lessons to plan and lessons to learn. Whenever I come face to face with this promise, surprisingly my load is lightened. While the idealism of Teaching has been shattered by the reality of work, my students continue to surprise me with awesome, little moments such as the bachelor comment above.

This I believe: When a dream comes true, big or small, something in our hearts burst. We become jaded yet changed for the better. Everything changes. We no longer just see our dreams but become inevitably immersed in them. Like popcorn. Changed forever.

Popcorn immersion.

Happy dreaming.

Picture:
Popcorn Night!

Words of the Week

2011-10-05T18:23:00.000-07:00

it
is
my
you
like

On some days, we think of sentences using our words of the week.
First graders are AWESOME at this.
Ambitiously, many succeed at using two or more per sentence.

I love you, oh my lollipop.

You are beautiful.
Thank you, E!
No, I meant--
Who else has a sentence?

I like... it is windy.

Can it be like my you is?
What?
All five!

On some days, my job is like love.

Picture:

They say Love is just a word

Monday's Musings

2011-09-19T15:48:00.000-07:00

Utterly exhausting Monday. Oh, to be in 1st grade. This morning a papercut epidemic broke out in the classroom. And then there was the boy who bit his tongue during snack and showed the blood to all of his neighbors. Please stop, that's gross. No, I can't do anything about it. Yes, you're probably swallowing a little bit of your blood. Surgery isn't necessary, actually. You'll be fine, I promise. Water helps. Have a drink of water.

Thank you, Lord, for the classroom water fountain.
Also, thank you for Band-Aids.

As I collapsed onto my bed, my mind wandered to My Wishlist of Happy Things...

1. Nashi Pears

Trader Joe's called them 'Apple Pears'.

2. Tea Chest

A chest full of tea!

3. Miniature Vintage Teapots

Itsy bitsy.

4. Bon bons

Pistachio, I love you.

5. Sisters and Carousels

Happy Birthday, Poo Poo!

Bonsoir, Lune.

Flying Bird Botanicals
Undercover Owl
Ma Vie En Rose
Nashi Pears

Football

2011-09-11T14:33:00.000-07:00

As teachers officially settle into the new school year and as New Yorkers and Americans commemorate the day that marks a decade of remembrance and respect, sports fans around the nation login to their Fantasy accounts and ring in the new season of football.

As I thought about the upcoming week being the first full week back in school, I reflected on my new-school-year resolutions and goals. As I watched a bit of the 9/11 memorial program this morning, I reflected on the time that has passed and the sentiments of those who have lost loved ones. As I sat in church today, I reflected on the need for prayer and love in my life, in this world, and prayed for an end to destruction and hate. And as I turned on the TV to watch the Giants lose their first game, I reflected on all the things I have learned about football from my man. Then I heaved a great sigh for the hard times endured and the hard times to come... Welcome, football. NFL, so glad you're not dead. Fantasy Football, you are the woman with which my man openly cheats on me and I will always hate you.

What I Have Learned About Football

There are only two ways to survive football season: make peace and take your time. Firstly, you have to make peace with the fact that he loves football more than you right now. No, he can't do it all. He cannot give you everything whilst giving his football team everything and his fantasy team everything. He just can't. You know it. I know it. Accept it. He cannot multi-task and when it's football season, in his heart of hearts he doesn't even want to. Secondly, it helps to see those Sunday nights as time to be completely free. In a way, the NFL is giving us the gift of time. You can be free in this time. Get busy with a new hobby. Get busy with an old hobby. Watch a movie. Watch Top Chef. Eat, drink, be merry, be free.

Now you might be thinking "That's not true. Football season isn't Survivor. I don't know of this dread you imply. He loves it, I'm cool with it and there is no conflict here." That may be true of you and yours and if it is, then I am sincerely happy for you and completely envious. My football opinions are outcomes of the combination of who he is and who I am. Perhaps your he is like my he. And perhaps you are like me. But it is my sincere hope that you and he are not.

Your he is like my he if...
He is a football fanatic.
He is in at least 1 Fantasy League.
He owns at least 1 football jersey.
He checks ESPN.com and Fantasy Football each at least 10 times a day.
He talks about football at least 20 times a day.
He retells the same stories regarding NFL games, ESPN commentary, and his Fantasy league so often that you wish you could be as stupid as Mike 'The Situation' to knock yourself the eff out.

You are like me if...
You used to mildly enjoy football.
You know what Fantasy Football is because he won't stop talking about it.
You own 1 football jersey, maybe. He bought it for you.
You take interest in it because he does.
You see your act of taking interest as one of love and support of your man.
You, when being absolutely honest with yourself, feel threatened by football and saddened by your loss of his attention during football season. His attention was once only split 3 ways (his life, your life, sports) but is now split at least 50 ways (his team, his Fantasy team, 31 other NFL teams, the 12+ competing Fantasy teams, Sports Center discussions, Fantasy Football discussions, Phainom's Phantasy Phootball Phun, his life, other sports... and maybe you).

Grrr...

In all seriousness, I have learned that football is about much more than winning games and scoring touchdowns thanks to my man, the NY Giants and Coach Taylor. Obviously, as Dan's teams strive to lose all their games, the NY Giants are too busy getting injured to do their job and FNL is no longer on the air, indeed football is grounded in something bigger than the games and players themselves. Football seems to be about seeing something through to the end despite hardship (opposing team), criticism (commentators, fans) and injury (your own gun).

It seems to be about Heart.

And Heart is something women know all about. During football season, women are not excluded from this call to have heart. We have to see this season through to the end just as much as players and fans do. Yes, the screaming will hurt. Yes, you will suffer the losses your man suffers. And yes, just like when he screams at the players to do something and they don't... he won't either. But we have hearts that can rise above such challenges. We have hearts made of perseverance, loyalty and love. And in the world of football, those things work together as harmoniously as do the perfect coach, the perfect offense and the perfect defense.

They work to yield victory.

Let us enjoy this football season and experience victory.

Movie Review: Contagion

2011-09-10T17:59:00.000-07:00

Intriguing enough to linger in my mind for a few days. Not frightening enough to make me stop touching my face, subway poles or anything real. Perhaps my second favorite movie stuffed with famous people. Also, I will continue to eat Chinese food. MSG is just too delicious.
Yea, I said it.

Contagion.

Post-movie conversation that I overheard between Boy 1 and Boy 2.

B1: Everyone who spoke in that movie was famous.
B2: Like everyone.
B1: The only people that spoke that weren't famous were the Asians.
B2: Seriously. I didn't recognize any of the Asians.
B1: But how many Asian actors would you really recognize?
B2: I can only name two Asian actors: Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee.
B1: Bruce Lee isn't an actor. Idiot.

Me: The one Asian I did recognize was the Chinese guy from Dark Knight.
My sister: What Chinese guy from Dark Knight?

Score: I love Marion Cotillard.

Hello! Love you!

Faithful Instincts

2011-07-18T22:47:00.000-07:00

When the wine ran out, the mother of Jesus said to him,
“They have no wine.”
John 2:3

When the wine runs out, what do we do? Panic? Problem-solve? Pray?

My emotional default for life's wine shortages is to act in a state of worry. Panic. Plan. Get it done. Early March, layoff threats were published in the New York Times and shared around our school. Two hours later I submitted an application to graduate school. In November, people were over and drinks were running low. I asked close to 10 people to run out for more. And some time last summer, the electricity went out and I found myself without candles, flashlights or the brain function to breathe. I packed a small bag, left the apartment and jammed the airwaves with texts, calls and voice messages of panic to three close friends... In the end, everything was fine. The layoffs didn't happen, there was plenty for everyone to drink and I crashed at a friend's house.

On a good day, I amuse myself and refer to all of it as Being Prepared. But I know the truth and the truth is that I spend a lot of energy actively fighting against all my natural instincts to worry in order to stay cool and be flexible. Because when I don't it isn't good for anyone. It is a legitimate threat. Like the Phoenix in Jean Grey. That is right. My worries are an immense cosmic power.

Or they are like the Fruit Loops in this photo.

A worrieruption.

Perhaps it is a side effect of teacheritis, a self-diagnosed but likely widely shared disease among educators who make the plan, love the plan and live the plan... and know how difficult it is when things don't go according to the plan. Perhaps it is part of the nature of being a first child, seeking perfection and wanting to please those around me. In any case, there is something deeply wrong with the worry in me. Generally speaking, to be wrong is to be out of line with what is right or good. As human nature is naturally out of line with what is right or good it makes sense to me, then, that my natural reaction to worry is likewise a wrong, not good one. In First Grade when we discover that something is wrong, we explain why it is wrong and figure out what is right. I have worried enough about worrying and the explanation as to what is deeply wrong seems perfectly plain: I struggle with deep idols of control and acceptance.

Wrongness identified. Rightness, then?

This I believe: The first step to finding what is right
is finding hope in what is right.

I have found my hope. Jesus changing water to wine is my hope. More specifically, the mother of Jesus preceding the miracle gives me hope. One day, instead of having worry I will have faith. Mary was a woman of tremendous faith. Her simple reaction to the wine shortage at the wedding in Cana gives me hope against worries to come. Without hesitation, she immediately goes to Jesus. "They have no wine." With missions, school and life coming up, Mary is an inspiration to keep at heart and an example to follow. The depths of her faith as well as the strength of its foundation are things that I can only aspire to have when the unexpected inevitably occurs. Like a tree with deep roots that survives a violent storm, when my faith is rooted in Him I know I can weather it all. Like Mary, I hope to be a woman who is strong in her faith, knows who her Savior is and knows exactly what to do when the wine runs out.

Pictures:
Cereal explosion

This I Believe: Pride Steers Passion

2011-02-22T11:48:00.000-08:00

Today I played my first 9-hole golf game ever. It was absolutely amazing. Spectacular, spectacular, practically perfect, absolutely amazing. Enjoyable, motivating and surprisingly soul-filling. The whole time I kept wondering how did this happen?

As it was four days ago, I absolutely detested golf. A plethera of baggage, detail and rules. My top three nemeses. My loathing, Everest and dejection, respectively. I loathe carrying around heavy things. The golf bag seemed so bulky and heavy and yuck. With very little strength in my body, I might as well have been required to pick up the golf cart and carry it around the course. On to my Everest: conquering detail. Truly, truly I say to you... I could care less. Yes, there are times when I absolutely pour myself into the details of a project but it is always to a certain point and over the years I have noticed that I reach this point much sooner than my peers. If it were a finish line, I would win every time. Be it a cooking, cleaning or work project I am famous for 'It'll be fine', which means I have nothing left. Brain capacity to hold or create information is now 0% and descending into frustration and depression. The time it takes to reach this point will vary depending on the project, people affected by my work and how many people will judge me in the end. (It's true. I care.) But in the end, I always cross that finish line. Everyone has an end. For me it is when Coach Detail pushes Perfection to take the field. Mostly, she is not feeling well and It'll be fine subs in to throw the entire game. Lastly, those stinkin' rules. It dejects me to have to follow so many rules. Watch your form, watch your ball, pitch it, chip it, putt it, drive it, birdie, bunker, handicap, par this, par that... Par you. Oh and BONUS: you are responsible for everything. No team, no collaboration, no one. Yup, you. The Golf Idiot. The overall feeling was horrid. You are terrible at math and you cannot play golf? Give me your Korean; you don't deserve it.

So how did this happen? How did I go from loathing to loving so quickly? Just gave it a try? Maybe. Infatuation with something new? Doubt it. Power of pride? YES. In other words, I was actually good! Cue bewildered expression. Well, I was not terrible. Better yet, I was not an idiot. Must say it feels great every time I discover this. Not being an idiot, having a couple of good shots (Gootshyat! as Papa Park says) and feeling able to wrap my head around Everything Golf has given power to my pride. This must be good pride, if there is such a thing. On the course, chips are not food, pitches are not beer breaks and Golf is not a monster trying to bring me down. Let us take a happy sprinkle break.

Bring it, Pops.

I believe some passions are awake at the moment we enter this world. Things you know about yourself, things you know you love, these are the passions in our DNA. We cannot deny them and they are evident in our livelihood. Or at the very least our browser history. Other passions, I believe, have to be awakened. Once awakened these new passions also become part of our livelihood. Pride may be the one to awaken, as in my case with golf. I can imagine other introductions from friends, family or YouTube stir up our enthusiasm. However it comes to be, I believe these secondary passions are driven by pride and continue on as long our pride in them continues to prosper. Or self-destruct. I have watched Devil's Advocate enough times to know that pride is never a good thing in the end, however well-intentioned its birth. Still, I believe there is a layer of pride beneath the passions we take on. To the good, this layer is a cushion, softening the blows to our ego and the mockery our self-confidence often endures when we grow to love something. To the evil, this layer is flamable poison seeking to annihilate inspiration, hope and all in its path, the destructive spark igniting both at the first sign of adversity and at the peak of Mt. Ego.

Pride steers passion. To heights or depths indeterminable.

That said, I believe only the Cross has the power to wield our pride, good and not good. When I can turn everything I have in my heart towards the ground, surrendering everything grand, anything I love and whatever I enjoy at His feet, that layer beneath it all will have no say in my life because my passions will not define me and my pride will not renew me. Pride may steer passion, yes, but His will steers my life. Knowing this, I can play, lose and still enjoy my sprinkled ice cream. He is spectacular, perfect and amazing.

Pictures:
Golf Thursdays
Darth Sprinkles

Dirty dishes and Harry Potter

2010-11-27T18:21:00.000-08:00

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the dirty dishes in my sink.

I am thankful to be free of the quarrels and silent grudges that grow between roommates from the simple chore of washing and clearing the dishes. Living alone I am forced to wash all my own dishes. They are my dishes after all and who else would be expected to wash it? I admit that even when others offer (a boyfriend, perhaps) I appear to surrender the task that I actually find therapeutic only to rewash them once said person has left the apartment. Someday, I will bravely venture into the unknown depths of my obsessive-compulsive psyche and reflect deeply on all my findings. Today, however, is about the things I am thankful for.

Lately more than ever it feels like I wash a ridiculous number of flatware and cutlery considering it is all for one person. Perhaps I am eating more frequently than I used to, or perhaps I am delaying the washing more than I used to. Whatever the reason is I was so annoyed by this feeling that I complained more than once to my tea-time friends about it. This is my life, isn’t it? Unending dishwashing?

At least you can see the TV from the sink.

True. Fine.

As I contemplate the clichéd metaphoric possibilities of dishwashing – daily cleansing of my spirit, clearing out the mess in my life, the repenting and forgiveness of sins – I cannot stop thinking about Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. The one printed seven years ago.

Harry Potter was so bitter and angry in the first few chapters of that book. Why wouldn’t he be? Neglected for a whole summer, suffering in the Dursley house on Privet Drive, attacked by dementors, kept in the dark by his closest friends, You-Know-Who always out to get him… I totally get it. But why so emotional? Why all the tempter tantrums? Done yet, Potter? I found myself being upset with him and stopped reading the books cold turkey. I could not deal with reading about moody teenagers having just come out of such an age myself when it was printed. So I did what I would have done if I were Harry in his situation. I shut the book and moved on to something else. (Hello, Aragorn.)

Seven years later I am at Kips Bay on Thanksgiving morning watching the seventh Harry Potter installment and feeling like I missed out on a lot. Thinking about the last time I was reading a Harry Potter book, I remembered the frustration. And I remembered the fear. Fear of negative emotion. The inclination to shut, close, and run is my way of surviving. I survive by avoiding. I choose flight, because nothing is worth the fight. I close up before someone closes me out. I shut down and walk away before I am walked away from. It is a pretty cold way to live but a girl living alone has to protect herself… or so I thought until recently. Being in a serious relationship has taught me that sometimes it is worth the fight because the championship belts are engraved with love and understanding. And, everyone gets a belt. The increasingly frequent tea-times with friends have helped me overcome my insecurity of being loved, as faith has guided us to accept each other for all the good and bad things we carry with us. And the sense that I abandoned Harry during a crucial time in his life and therefore missed out on his life’s subplots, subtexts and truths all because I did not want to face it with him weighed very heavily on my heart that morning.

So, in an attempt to finish all my unwashed dishes and face the reality of Harry’s emotions which mirror the emotions I have allowed myself to feel and reveal to others in the last couple of years, I am going to read through Harry’s fifth, sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts. Go Harry. Boo He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Bonus: I know the correct pronunciation of Hermione.

Happy Thanksgiving, Potter!

First Grade Missions

2010-09-25T20:53:00.000-07:00

In first grade, we learn about communities. Who are the members of a community? What do communities need? What are the resources in a community? These kinds of conversations do not come easily to first graders, as their worlds have thus far been ‘All About Me’. Where is my desk? Look at my story! I like mine the best. At the end of the year, after various discussions, community-building activities and occasional law enforcement—If you can’t be nice, then you can’t stay— the student is prepared to enter into any community and be ‘good’. Be respectful. Be kind. Be good. That is the dream, anyway.

Watching our team in Mexico reminded me of first grade. Speed-walking football, slam-dunk contests, and trampoline procrastination were pure childlike fun and silliness. There were also times of complaining. Our AC-challenged van provoked the whining child in each of us as we fanned and slept our way through each hot drive. And while it was pointed out more than once that we did not have to pile ourselves into the van ten minutes before the driver was ready, this was advice our first grade ears were not ready to heed. But like any school year and like any trip, the heart of it was found in the times of learning. The incredible testimony of Pastor Paulino at Casa Bethesda was a lesson about surviving on faith and faith alone. His words spoke to each of us, moving our souls to tears as he shared his brokenness with our team. There was such strength in his honesty about his unwilling heart, his broken obedience, and how the orphanage came to be and survives with so little support. How appropriate it was that we heard this testimony on the last day, as the tenderness of his heart imprinted onto ours as we prepared to return home. Back to reality. On to second grade.

What is the dream of missions? To help people? To worship God? To share his Word? After six mission trips my list of possible answers only grows. I can only say with confidence that it has been two months since our trip and I still dream about Mexico. I still marvel at how we did crafts with close to 100 children. I still laugh when I think about how one team member sat in wonder during every time of praise as our team flipped to the songs, not realizing the praise songs were in alphabetical order. And my eyes still well up when I remember how Jesus stood beside the broken man and carried him through each day of his life. My heart is still tender from the sights and sounds of this trip. When I wake each morning to go back to first grade my nerves are calmed and my heart gains strength when I think of the man whose life lesson is perhaps now my life lesson: Faith alone.

That is the dream, anyway.

This I Believe: Childlike Fun

2010-08-07T02:33:00.000-07:00

I believe in a heart-warming day at Six Flags. Sun, soda and blessings were poured out abundantly as we laughed and cried our way through the park. A roller coaster tried to steal a friend's wallet but proved to be no match for the Lord as a ridiculously perfect mini-series of events returned the wallet safely back to its owner... so I guess, now, I also believe in Good Samaritans.

Coasters and parachutes.

Ferris wheel at dusk.

Simpsons, sillyness and sisterhood.

The prize of all prizes.

Camaraderie is greater than competition.

The fun of the wait.

This I also believe: Fireworks!

Movie Review: Inception

2010-07-20T23:28:00.000-07:00

Score: SPEECHLESS.

World Cup Fire

2010-07-13T16:11:00.000-07:00

The World Cup came and went too quickly. Every minute of it was exhilarating and emotional. Players, people, and pride. So much color and so much love! I cannot put my finger on it but something about this one was special. Maybe it was the vuvuzelas. As much as I hated their obnoxious buzzing, I would gladly endure a few more weeks of it if it meant more games to watch.

Concluding thoughts: Soccer trumps all.

The Man.

The Other Man.

Purpose.

Pride.

Instinct.

Anticipation.

Relief.

Embellishment.

Treachery.

Unity.

Victory.

Joy.

Adieu.

Next stop: The Offside.

Photos by soccernet.espn.go.com

This I Believe: Coolness

2010-07-12T21:50:00.000-07:00

I believe in staying cool when it's hot. This little man was so cute today in Central Park. If I had a body like that, I'd strip and walk around too.

Movie Review: Toy Story 3

2010-07-01T23:04:00.000-07:00

Basically the greatest movie of the year. Not sure there is much else that can top this smart, smart film. If you want to laugh, watch it. If you want to cry, watch it. If you want to feel like a kid again, watch it. If you want to journey, watch it. Unlike so many sequels, this movie had everything to do with love and storytelling and absolutely nothing to do with ticket sales or opening weekend. There was depth and maturity. It was like seeing Pixar grow up, not just Andy. Funnier, smarter, creativer, and truer to their dedication to good stories than I have ever seen.

Score: WATCH THIS MOVIE.

Movie Review: Alice in Wonderland

2010-04-07T15:07:00.000-07:00

I have an unending and unconditional love for puppets and stop motion art. This love was sparked by what are, for me, The Four: Sesame Street, Gumbi, Jim Henson, and those old holiday movies about Rudolph and Frosty. I feel giddy whenever I catch a reminiscent glimpse of these, such as the North Pole characters in Elf and the vampire musical in Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Fondness has etched stop motion into my heart, cherished memories of watching these shows with my sister cementing them in place forever. Pajamas, puppets and socks. Makes me crave a cup of hot chocolate.

When I was 10, I watched The Nightmare Before Christmas. It was mesmerizing. Clever, detailed and so so cool. It was then that I fell in love with Tim Burton. Like any love, I don't love everything. But what I do love of his, I love a lot. Dark, creepy, crawly. Romantic, intricate and mysteriously ethereal. That is what sums up Alice for me. Bold, delicate, and so so pretty.

Score: DIZZY WITH DELIGHT.

Love At First Grade

2010-03-11T14:00:00.001-08:00

Dear E,

I am so sorry. I wonder if we could be in love. If you said yes, then we need a plan. If not, we are lost.

As I sifted through student writing I came across this letter. We are writing persuasive letters. Started on Monday. Students are attempting to understand the structure of letters. Yes, the line at the top is for the date. If the comma is at the end of the line, then the paper is right side up. And don't forget the punctuation. It's like your underwear; always necessary.

My first thought was about E. I don't know who E is, but she is one lucky little girl. How many boys will consider themselves lost without you? And he is already planning for the future, so you know he is in it for the long haul. This little man is clearly not playing games; he means business.

J is one of those rare kids that is just plain honest. That is the most important thing I have learned about him so far, and the thing I most love about him. He is honest about everything. Is mom picking you up after school today? I hope so. What's wrong, J? I am in love! Everything is wrong. Did you do your homework? I forgot. And I didn't want to. How did he come to be so honest? And can this honesty be taught to others, or have we no choice but to admire and attempt to imitate? Wish it could be captured somehow and passed around the classroom.

J is fluent in Spanish, falls deep into the stories and illustrations of his books, and often talks to himself throughout the day. No doubt he is composing sweet sonnets for his beloved E. He laughs at all of my jokes, always tells me what he ate for dinner the night before, and I predict that he will be a brilliant writer when he grows up.

Mail picture by Smithsonian Institution.

Letter picture by topsy cretts.

Pears of Wisdom

2010-03-07T18:52:00.000-08:00

me: Bye Appa, I'll call you when I land.

Appa: Ok, geureh. Have a good flight.

And next time you come, don't wear clothes with holes in them.

... Really? Those are your parting words? I've worn these jeans for the past five days without a word but now, in the crowded security check line, a few seconds before we both leave this airport, is the best time to address the wear and tear of my jeans?

This is why my father is so wise. Yes, now is the perfect time to remind you that it would be wise to think about your appearance every now and then. Because while what matters most is the 'stuff' inside your heart, the decisions you make in accordance to that 'stuff' represent who you are. I could have brought this up at dinner four days ago, but now you will remember me clearly. It is a good idea to care.

Those jeans are distressed. Are you in distress?

Do you feel worn out in some places?

Not really?

Then why do you dress like a beggar?

That last comment is always said with a chuckle and an endearing I-don't-understand-you-girls smile. I heard it often back in the JNCO days, when my sister and I were accused of being street cleaners due to the excessive length of our pantalons. He often referred to pants and jeans as pantalons. Pronounced bbang-dda-longs.

Perhaps it was his sublty. Or his off-beat timing. Whatever it was, it struck me in the heart in a way that made me smile the whole 6 hours home and love my dad even more than I already did.

There is something in the gospel of Matthew about a tree. A tree is recognized by its fruits. Good trees bear good fruit and bad trees bear dragonfruit. (Ok it doesn't really say that but have you ever tasted one? Seriously. Fruit of the armpit.) Had my dad intended to remind me of this lesson? Or does he truly not understand why I choose to dress 'like a beggar' ? It's not a perfect metaphor, jeans as fruit. But it was as good a time as any to remember to live like the good man, who brings good things out of the good stored up in him... and, who knows, probably wears jeans without any holes in them.

There are a few more Appa-isms that have stuck with me:

Always hold your breath when taking a picture. It keeps the camera steady.

You can never have too many books.

Everyone should have and use a shoehorn.

Picture by Sheila in Millstone.

Movie Review: Sherlock Holmes

2010-02-01T16:27:00.000-08:00

" You wear a jacket."

When does the DVD come out? Because I need to watch this at least 10 more times. Cannot get the acting out of my head. Cannot get the riddles out of my head. Cannot get the music out of my head! It was dark enough to be intriguing, just the right amount of spooky without being scary, and endlessly witty. If you don't pay attention to the dialogue you can miss a lot of it so I recommend ditching the commentator friend as well as that friend who always wants to know what just happened.

Score: I LOVED IT.

Movie Review: An Education

2010-01-10T17:14:00.000-08:00

Just watched An Education and I loved it. So much. I enjoyed every minute of it and highly recommend this beautiful movie.

Is there anything better than 50s/60s fashion? Or Paris? Or love? (Brownies.) Carey Mulligan is fantastic and adorable. The colors in this movie were absolutely gorgeous. Muted but with tastefully bright accents. It is a drama, for sure, but had the perfect balance of light sarcasm and heavy emotion. Everything came together in such a graceful and subtle way. I was sad when it was all over, and will probably watch it again tomorrow.

Oh, to picnic by the Seine!

Score: FANTASTIQUE.

Defrosting

2009-12-31T03:45:00.000-08:00

As the holidays come to a close and winter enters the room with gust after gust of chilling winds, I am thinking about the kind of attitude with which I want to ring in this new year of 2010. Twenty ten. This number sounds the way a perfectly round donut would if it were thrown against a wall. Round and fresh. That is, if any sound could be heard beyond my hysterical shouting about wasting such a perfectly delicious donut.

Mostly, I cannot stop thinking about compassion. This is not because I have a big heart. My heart is small and mostly covered with ice. A heart like this produces words that are blunt, sarcastic, and mean. Worst of all, sometimes I am proud of this, and parade myself around like some unstoppable, undefeated champion of rudeness, often confusing my snarky comments to be witty ones. Friends are too nice to tell me to shut up, and when they do I think they are teasing me.

A few weeks ago I met with a parent. She told me about how every day he comes home complaining about how much he hates school, also how much he hates me. My response: I'm not surprised. If I were him, I would hate school, too. This is no defense but my honest opinion about how this student is performing. I wonder now that it was perhaps a little too honest but at the time I thought it was a very objective. At the end of my little speech, she starts to give hers. It is a speech I feel as though I have heard before, details, defense and deductions about her child all the same, but at the end she proves me wrong. I have not heard this before and hope to never hear it again. She trembles a little bit, her voice a mixture of anger, worry, strength, and sadness, and says "Have a little compassion for him."

Have a little compassion. My heart sinks with guilt and shame. It was really sad to hear a parent request this of their child's first grade teacher, and it strikes a chord so deep in my ice, cold heart that it has played over and over again in my mind more times than there are donut crumbs. When I wake up, when I step into the classroom, when I get into bed... I am afraid that it will resonate with me for the rest of my life. I am also hopeful that it will.

So, here is the attitude. I want to be more compassionate. I know I have passion for teaching and for children, but I don't know that I exhibit compassion for them. Especially towards students who need good teachers the most... I am not going to tolerate my sinful personality anymore. 'I'm cold-hearted' and 'I'm just mean' are not acceptable. I cannot imagine facing Jesus and making those kinds of excuses, so I will not do it now.

I want to be a more compassionate person. I feel the need to say it over and over again. I don't know what this requires exactly. I feel the need to be a little bit softer, kinder, quieter even. But I am afraid that compassion will somehow diminish or crush the strength in me, strength the cross has given me, strength that has extinguished so many plaguing, stifling, toxic insecurities...

Then I remember the cross, really remember, and conclude that compassion most definitely adds strength to strength.

Remember the cross.

Watch out, 2010. I am ready to kill and destroy with compassion.
(Or something nicer.)

Donuts, courtesy of rosy outlook.
Ice Melt, courtesy of GlasgowPhotoMan.

Hot and Cold

2009-11-23T19:35:00.001-08:00

"Sea glass is one of the very few cases of a valuable item
being created from the actions of the environment on man-made litter."

This past year has been all about hot cold, yes no, in out, up down. (Katy Perry is a bright-eyed, bright-lipped genius.) 'Roller coaster' doesn't even begin to describe all that has passed. More like uncoordinated juggling. Imagine the colorful balls of first grade and a teacher's first year thrown clumsily into the air along with love, pain and pimples-- all to be poorly juggled by an amateur who instead of asking for a hand barks at the offers to assist.

That is all that I remember lately. To do lists, poor juggling, and deterrence. Start date? Can't remember. End date? Indeterminable. When I try to think of what good has come of this year, it often produces no result. I look at my face and I see scars. I look into my heart and I see wounds. I look around me, I see nothing and no one. An optimist would have no trouble seeing the full glass of adversity. I guess that makes me a pessimist today. The sky is gray, my sweater is itchy and this tea is too cold to drink.

After all that crashing and tumbling, how hopeless the bottle must feel. Broken to bits. No consumers in sight. Not a hand to recycle it. There is an astounding persistence about its hardship. On the one hand it seems unbearable and cruel. It serves its purpose only to be thrown into the ocean, literally, where waves and storms relentlessly wear it down. On the other hand, I say it is astounding because sometimes.. I get the feeling that the waves that persistently come at me are the people I love the most.. and they come at me not to break me down but to shape me with their support and loving presence.. which is astounding considering the miserable way I have treated them through and through..

What words can be left after such things?

None. There are no words, no things, and no people.

There is only grace.

Because in the end, through everything difficult and terrible, what remains? Not a stone that used to be a beautiful shell, but smooth sea glass that used to be a piece of garbage.

The remains will always be that of a sinner, survived by grace and grace alone.

Breakfast in the train

2009-07-06T17:09:00.000-07:00

Dan and I eat our breakfast in the train every Sunday, on our way to church. We have done this for a year now, soon after we started dating, and in the beginning I did not approve. Eating where it does not usually take place draws attention, and I feel embarrassed to bite, chew, and swallow so visibly in front of others. “Who cares what they think? We gotta eat so let’s eat,” he would say. I tried to convince Dan to meet earlier so we can sit down and eat instead of eating on the train. But seeing as he barely made it on time as it was, after one month of failed attempts it became clear that meeting early was asking too much of him. I had no choice but to swallow my pride, and my breakfast, in the train.

This morning I ate breakfast on the train. Alone. Today is Monday, not Sunday, and it is my bagel, my drink, and me. You can do this, I think as I walk down the stairs. People will stare, they will not offer to help, and they may even judge you. But you can do this. My hand squeezes the paper bag holding my bagel, the ground rumbles a little under my feet, and the train screeches make bubbles in my stomach. The doors open and the car is empty. Yes! I think. The loveseat is free! That’s the best seat on the train. This is a great start. I plop down in the seat pretending to be exhausted and in need of refreshment. I toss my bag to the empty seat beside me, put my tea between my legs, and reach into my bag to unwrap my bagel. I concentrate hard on my bagel. I do not look up, I do not look around, and while I suspect the pair of shoes across from me belongs to a man I do not check to verify.

My bagel smells delicious. It is toasted, golden, and cream cheese has filled the center. I take my first bite. CRUNCH. It is the kind of delicious that requires me to close my eyes and smile as I chew. My muscles loosen up and I remember Dan for a moment. He would be smiling, too. He would be proud of me for putting my cares aside and eating my breakfast. “Good start to your day,” he would say. I wipe the crumbs and cream cheese from my mouth. 72nd street already? CRUNCH. A few more stops, a few more bites and this breakfast ride is done. With a stomach full of bagel, tea, and confidence, just a few steps are left to reaching the summit of my insecurities. No doubt a plaque awaits me, one that honors my bravery, applauds my strength, and immortalizes my accomplishments. SHE SAT, SHE ATE, SHE CONQUERED. I start composing my acceptance speech and chew with a smile… until I see a pair of feet next to mine, in front of the seat next to me, daring me to juggle. I quickly remove my bag from the seat, juggle the bagel, napkins and tea with one hand, and flatten my bag across my lap with the other. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Pat, pat, pat. My shoulder touches the shoulder of the lady next to me, my hands starts to sweat, and I cannot decide if I should keep on eating or stop.

I weigh the importance of my pride against the importance of satisfying my hunger, and decide to keep on eating. “Who cares what they think,” I hear Dan say. I look up to face the judges before me, prepared to declare that food is NOT prohibited on this train, ready to defend my right to a breakfast before a long day… and find that no one is even glancing my way. There are a few people reading books, one man playing a video game, and the rest asleep or in deep meditation. I look back down at my bagel, smile, and take another bite more bashfully than my first all those minutes ago. Thoughts float around as the last CRUNCH disappears in my mouth. Tomorrow, I think I’ll have an apple, too.

At Teacher Camp, we worked on personal narratives. We were encouraged to find inspiration in our hearts by thinking of people we love, important memories or lessons we've learned, and meaningful hobbies we may have. With each draft of this assignment came a new love and appreciation for those few minutes Dan and I continue to share every Sunday. A restaurant or diner would not have been the same, and I have only Dan and his inclination to snooze to thank. To his credit, Dan has been very punctual in the past few months and has given me a look or two about being late.

"Well well well, how the turntables..." - Michael Scott

Superheroes

2009-06-20T06:56:00.000-07:00

girl: When I grow up I'm going to marry you.
boy: But I'm a superhero.

I try to remember what perceptions I had of myself when I was little. Not quite superhero, but definitely indestructible. Climbing up the very tree that threw me out of its arms the day before; racing around the bend of the street that tripped my bike just an hour ago; fighting back with my sister. What possesses children to be so brave? Their fleeting memory, perhaps? Or their natural resilience to injury and pain? Whatever it be, it is something to admire.

In this case, I admire the courage it takes the boy to not only see himself as a superhero, but to say it out loud to his peers with assurance and conviction. It is a bold statement indeed to call yourself a hero, deem yourself super, and willingly sacrifice friendship and love. I suppose superheroes bear a burden of responsibility that we cannot fully understand, forcing them to sacrifice the pleasures of love for their calling. And to realize this at such a young age. Boy, you are remarkable, and quickly becoming my favorite superhero.

I cannot forget the girl, though, who deserves applause for her bravery as well. She is honest with her feelings, and courageously declares them to the world. If only I could relate. There have been so many times when I wished for half of this girl's courage, to say exactly what I was feeling. However, to my own shame, if I had to compare the times when I desperately wished for courage to be mean or vengeful as opposed to the times when I wanted to be encouraging or loving... the latter does not even begin to tip the scale. So I admire you too, girl, for being loving, honest, and brave. Go find that boy and tell him that you are a superhero, too, and be happily married.

'boy' had this conversation when he was in preschool, according to mom.
He is currently finishing up 1st grade with flying colors.
He has the heart of his teacher, Ms. Park, in the palm of his hands
and his affections for her are the same.
He always tells her to have a good lunch and he cries when she is absent.

'girl' was 'boy's preschool classmate.
Though Ms. Park does not know her, she has no doubt this girl is still
as brave and honest today as she was in preschool.

This I Believe: Rainbow Sprinkles

2009-05-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

I believe in sprinkles, sprinkles, sprinkles on everything! Adding color and crunch to a good-old anything always brightens up my day.

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!

2009-03-28T03:37:00.000-07:00

" Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!

How I wonder what you're at!"

Up above the world you fly,

Like a tea-tray in the sky."

- - -

When you love something, do you see everything only through the lens of that love?

I have a friend who loves wrestling and instead of spandex, steroids and choreography, he sees glory, honor and valor beyond comparison. People who love babies do not see tears and diapers. They see curious eyes, tiny fingernails and tiny, tiny toes. And who could forget the dormouse in Wonderland, who loved tea. Instead of a star, he saw a bat. Instead of a diamond, he saw a tea-tray.

At dinner I shared this children's book website with my cousins. This website is the coolest and most fantastic site in every way, practically perfect like Mary Poppins. My cousins, who have no emotional connection to children's books (excuse: they did not grow up here) said So what's the age limit for this website? ... I don't understand the question. What's the maximum age of the viewers of this website?

...... Wait, who doesn't appreciate children's books?? I am completely baffled at this thought and for the rest of the night dwelled on the absurdity of a maximum age limit for children's books.

Tea-trays in the sky. We see what we want to see. And when challenged to look away, we are baffled.

(The teacher is, anyway.)

practically perfect: www.onepotato.net

Coffee to start the day

2008-02-13T23:15:00.000-08:00

I need to remember this day I had. This morning I had, rather. I wake up feeling the refreshment of slumber, chipper from eight hours of rest, and am practically whistling zip-a-dee-doo-da as I head out the door. I almost burst into song at au bon pain when I am interrupted by the cashier. I reach out to pay and my arm knocks over a lady's cup of coffee. Coffee is now all over my pants, my boots, and in my socks.

I am incredibly annoyed, almost upset. My boots... and my socks... and lady, why would you leave your cup of coffee uncovered in a place that is so cramped and crowded?

Then I think, Oh well at least coffee is brown and my boots are brown. And my socks are black. Phew.

I get a look at the lady who used to have a cup of coffee. She doesn't look pissed off but... she looks like 8pm after a really long day. But it is 8am and I suddenly feel horrible. I mutter 'sorry' through my scarf and she softly says 'It's ok.' She does not make eye contact with me. As the cashier gives me my change, I turn to offer the lady another cup of coffee but she is gone.

It is a horrible, heavy feeling, to think you've just ruined someone's day. Especially when it was ultimately for no other reason than the fact that you are selfish. I could've said sorry right away, and offered her another cup of coffee right away, and potentially cheered her up from a huge act of clumsiness through a small act of kindness.. right away. But instead, I grumbled.

Looking back it is so plain that this morning was a wasted chance to be a faithful witness to Him. I was so challenged to consider just how many chances He gives me each day to be the salt and light of the earth... and how much patience it takes for Him to wait on me day in and day out. Because as opposed to being salty and full of light, I prove to be... peppery. And dark.

In school, when I have to remind my student for the third or fourth time "We do not run in the classroom"... it is really never in a patient tone of voice.

On that note, God has never sent me to my cubby.

And I do not deserve His grace.

Spike!

2007-01-30T16:14:00.000-08:00

There is a boy named Spike in my class. He looks exactly like Dash, from The Incredibles. Blond hair, tiny nose & lips, and a square face. Spike has a crush on Olivia and wants to be close to her all the time. While they already sit at the same table he also makes every effort to sit next to her on the rug during teach times. His persistence is noteworthy, as he is but six years old. The other day, Spike tried to impress Olivia by recounting the things he did over the weekend. Specifically, he told tales of his bravery and courage, how he bravely pressed a butter knife against his tongue shedding neither blood nor tears. The pride on his face quickly disappeared when he saw that she was unimpressed. Fortunately, Spike has an adorable 'sad face'. Press on, Spike.

Unlike Dash, Spike is from England and his British accent, coupled with his slight lisp, makes him the most darling boy in his class. Just delicious. I desperately want to be his friend but it is clear that Spike is too cool for the likes of me. And my 'sad face', unfortunately for myself and everyone else, is nothing like adorable.

Spike: Fish 'n chips. That's a British word.

me: What about the loo? Like, 'I'm going to the loo' ?
You are so awesome. Let's be best friends.

Spike: No. I don't recognize that word.
Get away, I have a lot of friends already.

me: ... Whatever, your name is weird.

Kids are too immature to be friends with anyway.

To the bookstore

2006-11-18T15:48:00.000-08:00

I just received a Barnes & Noble book catalog in the mail today. I was so excited because I love looking through catalogs. It excites the imagination. But as I flipped through it I started to not like it anymore and I will tell you why.

If there is any one part of Barnes & Noble that I would have to point out as 'What I Love The Most', it is walking in and seeing all the books displayed so attractively on their tables. Organization and strategery at its prettiest. And as much as I have been taught not to judge a book by its cover, I totally do. I love looking at book covers and judging from the increasingly alluring photography and graphic designs lately, it seems book covers have gained their status alongside storyline and prose.

It suddenly felt like such a waste to be looking through this catalog in my hands. This catalog did not do these books any justice. This catalog did not smell like books and did not overwhelm me with possibility when I opened it. When I walk into B&N I get overwhelmed at how much I could know and how much I will never know. Kind of like God. This catalog stifled every large, grand and beautiful thing about any Barnes & Noble bookstore I love so much.

That is when I realized this catalog kind of represents me. Trying to capture all these things in just a few pages and hoping to win someone over, as when I try to 'promote' faith, missions, or God to someone, is wrong and insufficient. There are some cases where pictures and words may suffice. But a lot of the large, grand, beautiful stuff of believing, is just something that person has to experience themselves. A person who has only looked at a catalog of books their whole lives will never know what they are missing unless they get up and go to the bookstore. And while part of me thinks the right amount of encouragement and nudging to get up and go will do it for a person... another part of me thinks it is more important for a person to realize it on their own. It needs to be their decision. Again, kind of like God. He encourages, nudges, even pushes a little, but ultimately He leaves it up to us to get up and go. Or not.

Catalog, bookstore. Catalog, bookstore. I suppose it is not necessary have to choose one or the other. I can always look at my catalog and then go to the bookstore. But if I were to choose, I hope that I never choose the catalog over the bookstore. That I am never too lazy to go to the bookstore, because the bookstore is a greater experience. Greater atmosphere. Greater detail. Greater gain.