The other day at breakfast, I had a conversation with an older colleague at the ranch that left me dumbfounded. We were discussing employment opportunities and resumes. He mentioned that in his day, people often attached a picture to their resumes (still common practice in China, Spain, and other countries). He said he preferred this method because it gave a face to an application and said something about the person in how he/she presented him/herself in the photo. He cited one instance where a man in his 60's was automatically dismissed as a candidate because of his age.
"We knew he could only give us two or three years. What was the point?"
I asked him, "Well, how do you feel about that now that you're in your 60's?"
He responded, "Well, I wouldn't hire me either."
"What?" I asked, shocked. "How can you say that? You're an expert in your field!"
"I don't feel I have much to offer...I get tired."
"Everyone gets tired," I said.
He continued, "The only reason I got this job is because I knew a friend. You know what I can do because you've seen me. An employer wouldn't know that. I'm okay because I have a good retirement, but other people have a hard time."
Did I mention that this is the same horse whisperer I wrote about in my last post, "Cowbells?" The same man who was a dean at a prominent university for 20+ years. The same man who has taught every single person that has crossed his path (much less seen him with a horse) about gentleness. This same man felt he didn't have much to offer. How is this possible?
It got me thinking about American society and our values as it relates to age. Why are we undervaluing our wisdom keepers? The elderly are the ones who have lived history, not just read about it on Wikipedia. They have experienced death and life. Loss and love. Sadness and happiness. I am not professing that all elderly have wisdom or that young people lack it, but even if times have changed since my grandmother (almost 99-years-old) was a girl, universal truths transcend generations.
In high school, I frequented a local nursing home. I started going to fulfill a school community service requirement, and it was that first Saturday that I met Eva (pronounced Eve-a). She was in her 80's, always had a smile, and told me about how she couldn't wait to meet her husband again one day in heaven. I continued to go even after I fulfilled the requirement because of Eva and her roommate, Mama Jackson. Every time I came, Eva's entire being would light up. I would navigate her around the pee-smelling halls of that nursing home as she would happily exclaim, "You're like my granddaughter!"
I remembered her smile after I learned she had a stroke. My dad took me to visit her one morning in the hospital at 7:00 am before school. He waited in the car, while I went to find her. As I approached the help desk in my uniform, I noticed that the ward had a distinct, sterile smell. A nurse showed me to her room, and there was Eva, a shadow of the person I had known. No one was with her. She appeared to be sleeping, so I came back out, not wanting to disturb her. "Go on, honey," she said. "You can talk to her. She can hear you."
I held her limp hand and cried, telling her all I was grateful for, all that she had given me, and how I would never forget her. "I love you, Eva." She died a few days later. I was 15.
The receptionist at the nursing home knew me well. Mama Jackson died some months later. I kept going, knowing that some days the person I was visiting wouldn't know me. Some days she would be upset or angry, depressed. These people were mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, widows, and there were few times I saw any other visitors. They felt forgotten and unseen. All their lessons, all their stories, all their experiences were tucked away in some old scrap book or corner of their memory. I gave what I hoped someone would give me: his/her time and an ear to listen.
老师 (lao shi) in Mandarin means "teacher." The 老 (lao) in front means "old." Chinese people place this character before something that is valued or respected. An old person is called 老人 (lao ren), literally "old/respected person/people."
I write this post, not to point to a "right" or "wrong" way of doing things, but as an invitation for discussion and reflection on how we treat different age groups in our society. There are always multiple factors when it comes to employment opportunities, nursing homes, and family dynamics. I honestly don't know what I would do if faced with a parent in that situation. As always, feel free to comment on any of my posts, but I extend a special request for comments on this one about your ideas and feelings on this topic. How do you feel elderly are treated in the U.S.? Is agism a relevent problem and if so, in what way? How would you like to be treated at your parents' or grandparents' age? What does "old" mean to you?
Thank you for listening.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Cowbells
For most people cowbells are either associated with cows or Saturday Night Live. "I got a fever and the only prescription is...more cowbell!" I think of horses.
Every afternoon and evening 66 horses roam a designated pasture of the ranch. At the break of dawn, they are all wrangled back into the corral, which is one of the most unbelievable sights I've ever seen. Imagine more than 60 horses galloping in the morning light, dust behind them, mountains and fields in all directions. I stop and watch every time.
I have always felt a special connection to horses, as I know many do. They are powerful, brilliant creatures who embody mystery and many of the secrets of life. As a child, I often rode but stopped when the barn we went to quit giving lessons. I have never feared horses even after falling off twice. When I knew I was coming out here I planned to ride every chance I had, to reconnect with my childhood friends, and to become the best rider possible given the time. Life had other plans...
My first two weeks I was surprised at how timid I felt around an animal that had been so easy for me to approach as a girl. I forgot how to pet a horse, how to be gentle, and how to be safe. As fortune would have it, a dean from a renowned California university is here for the summer working as a wrangler. He is incredibly gifted, not only with horses, but at explaining to 2-leggers how to speak a horse's language. He taught me that instead of walking in a straight line to move toward a horse, one should move in a slow switchback pattern, stopping to smell horse dung on the way (like a horse would), and then extend one hand, head lowered in a slightly submissive way, palm faced down towards the horse, waiting for him/her to catch your scent. I watched a guy on a cell phone today extend his hand abruptly to a stunning black horse. The horse immediately turned, left the enclosure, and galloped away.
Slowly I became more and more comfortable again. Every ride I made progress and started to remember how to squeeze my legs when riding, how to post, how to blend with the rhythm of a horse's cadence. The last time I rode (late June) I rode with another horse whisperer, one of the members of the partnership of families that own the ranch. He is 70 years old but doesn't look a day over 45. Always smiling. Always excited for adventure and whatever life has to offer. Always kind, gentle, and grounded.
I watched as he addressed his horse with terms of endearment like "sugar" and "honey." I watched him lope, not an ounce of awkwardness in his body. He held his right hand out waving in time with the horse's rhythm as I followed behind him.
"You look like you're conducting." I called ahead.
"Yeah," he laughed, "the symphony is in-between my legs!"
After that ride, the summer became much busier, more guests, less time. On my one day off a week, I often wanted to catch up on sleep in the mornings or go into town. Horses faded into the background for me. I still saw them every day and would occasionally stop by the corral to watch them and pet them if they allowed me to but my desire to ride was zero until yesterday.
With only a month left to go at my time at the ranch and this week as the final major week in the summer season, I decided to opt out of riding yesterday morning. I got the impression that I could potentially be more of a hindrance than a help and my desire to have a morning to myself outweighed the desire to get back on a horse. I was happy with my decision. Sometimes in choosing not to do something in the moment, we open a much wider opportunity for passion in the long run.
I spent most of yesterday alone and after having a particularly moving 2-hour phone conversation about the next steps in my life (namely moving to San Francisco), I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon in the pastures, forgetting that the horses are now in the fields I often frequent. Sitting on the upper part of what is called South Alfalfa, I looked at the mountainous skyline and breathed in fresh air and the smell of grass when I heard cowbells.
In order to keep track of the horses and to designate lead horses for that wrangle, many of the horses wear cowbells at night. I looked below me to see the horses grazing. I decided to go to the river, taking the path I normally do. As I walked, there were horses all over. Some were between trees. Others were slowly walking and eating. The little girl within me felt like I was in an enchanted forest. I put my journal and phone down and practiced what the dean had said. The first three horses weren't interested. They didn't run from me by any means, but they made it clear, "leave us be."
I then started to walk towards a horse that looked like a cow with its black and white splotches. He saw me coming and took off in the other direction. "Was it my breath?"
I decided to try something I've been experimenting with lately: surrendering from the result or at least letting go of the idea that something needs to look a certain way. I crossed the small creek towards the larger field and was astonished at what I saw. In front of me were over 30 horses grazing in an open pasture lined with ancient trees. Instead of directly approaching the horses, I chose to go on the outer rim and lie in the grass. When I felt calm and rested, I got up and started to slowly make my way back through the field. Again, I did what the dean had said. This time a horse let me pet him briefly and continued on, but another horse approached me all on his own, letting me stroke his mane, rub the acupuncture point on his forehead, and I walked in between the two horses, taking one step as they did for some time. When it was time to leave I silently thanked them and made my way up the gravel road for dinner.
Horses symbolize "travel, power, and freedom." According to a totem website I found, "It will teach you to ride in new directions and discover your own freedom and power."
It may sound strange, but I know that the horses have been waiting for me all summer, and I don't think it's any coincidence that as I stir from my Montana retreat and prepare for huge life transitions, that the horse is with me.
It's a dark Montana night and a new moon, so there is no light---only stars and cowbells.
totem website: http://www.linsdomain.com/totems/pages/horse.htm
Every afternoon and evening 66 horses roam a designated pasture of the ranch. At the break of dawn, they are all wrangled back into the corral, which is one of the most unbelievable sights I've ever seen. Imagine more than 60 horses galloping in the morning light, dust behind them, mountains and fields in all directions. I stop and watch every time.
I have always felt a special connection to horses, as I know many do. They are powerful, brilliant creatures who embody mystery and many of the secrets of life. As a child, I often rode but stopped when the barn we went to quit giving lessons. I have never feared horses even after falling off twice. When I knew I was coming out here I planned to ride every chance I had, to reconnect with my childhood friends, and to become the best rider possible given the time. Life had other plans...
My first two weeks I was surprised at how timid I felt around an animal that had been so easy for me to approach as a girl. I forgot how to pet a horse, how to be gentle, and how to be safe. As fortune would have it, a dean from a renowned California university is here for the summer working as a wrangler. He is incredibly gifted, not only with horses, but at explaining to 2-leggers how to speak a horse's language. He taught me that instead of walking in a straight line to move toward a horse, one should move in a slow switchback pattern, stopping to smell horse dung on the way (like a horse would), and then extend one hand, head lowered in a slightly submissive way, palm faced down towards the horse, waiting for him/her to catch your scent. I watched a guy on a cell phone today extend his hand abruptly to a stunning black horse. The horse immediately turned, left the enclosure, and galloped away.
Slowly I became more and more comfortable again. Every ride I made progress and started to remember how to squeeze my legs when riding, how to post, how to blend with the rhythm of a horse's cadence. The last time I rode (late June) I rode with another horse whisperer, one of the members of the partnership of families that own the ranch. He is 70 years old but doesn't look a day over 45. Always smiling. Always excited for adventure and whatever life has to offer. Always kind, gentle, and grounded.
I watched as he addressed his horse with terms of endearment like "sugar" and "honey." I watched him lope, not an ounce of awkwardness in his body. He held his right hand out waving in time with the horse's rhythm as I followed behind him.
"You look like you're conducting." I called ahead.
"Yeah," he laughed, "the symphony is in-between my legs!"
After that ride, the summer became much busier, more guests, less time. On my one day off a week, I often wanted to catch up on sleep in the mornings or go into town. Horses faded into the background for me. I still saw them every day and would occasionally stop by the corral to watch them and pet them if they allowed me to but my desire to ride was zero until yesterday.
With only a month left to go at my time at the ranch and this week as the final major week in the summer season, I decided to opt out of riding yesterday morning. I got the impression that I could potentially be more of a hindrance than a help and my desire to have a morning to myself outweighed the desire to get back on a horse. I was happy with my decision. Sometimes in choosing not to do something in the moment, we open a much wider opportunity for passion in the long run.
I spent most of yesterday alone and after having a particularly moving 2-hour phone conversation about the next steps in my life (namely moving to San Francisco), I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon in the pastures, forgetting that the horses are now in the fields I often frequent. Sitting on the upper part of what is called South Alfalfa, I looked at the mountainous skyline and breathed in fresh air and the smell of grass when I heard cowbells.
In order to keep track of the horses and to designate lead horses for that wrangle, many of the horses wear cowbells at night. I looked below me to see the horses grazing. I decided to go to the river, taking the path I normally do. As I walked, there were horses all over. Some were between trees. Others were slowly walking and eating. The little girl within me felt like I was in an enchanted forest. I put my journal and phone down and practiced what the dean had said. The first three horses weren't interested. They didn't run from me by any means, but they made it clear, "leave us be."
I then started to walk towards a horse that looked like a cow with its black and white splotches. He saw me coming and took off in the other direction. "Was it my breath?"
I decided to try something I've been experimenting with lately: surrendering from the result or at least letting go of the idea that something needs to look a certain way. I crossed the small creek towards the larger field and was astonished at what I saw. In front of me were over 30 horses grazing in an open pasture lined with ancient trees. Instead of directly approaching the horses, I chose to go on the outer rim and lie in the grass. When I felt calm and rested, I got up and started to slowly make my way back through the field. Again, I did what the dean had said. This time a horse let me pet him briefly and continued on, but another horse approached me all on his own, letting me stroke his mane, rub the acupuncture point on his forehead, and I walked in between the two horses, taking one step as they did for some time. When it was time to leave I silently thanked them and made my way up the gravel road for dinner.
Horses symbolize "travel, power, and freedom." According to a totem website I found, "It will teach you to ride in new directions and discover your own freedom and power."
It may sound strange, but I know that the horses have been waiting for me all summer, and I don't think it's any coincidence that as I stir from my Montana retreat and prepare for huge life transitions, that the horse is with me.
It's a dark Montana night and a new moon, so there is no light---only stars and cowbells.
totem website: http://www.linsdomain.com/totems/pages/horse.htm
Friday, August 7, 2009
Love Life!
Motion is in my blood. I come from a long line of movement. Like almost all Americans, my ancestors left everything behind and sailed to a new world. Upon receiving land grants after the French and Indian War both sides of the family traveled as part of a long wagon train and traversed difficult terrain to resettle in Kentucky. Both grandfathers were the only sons to leave the farm and yet again resettle. One to start his own body shop business and the other to travel the world and the States in the Navy. Although I do not know all their specific motivations, I like to think that sheer curiosity played a part.
"What's out there?" is a phrase I've carried with me since I had words. A friend showed me 550 year-old trees the other night on a 2-hour walk that soaked us in moonlight. Every day this summer I made sure to go somewhere, do, try or learn something new. That included Yellowstone, a quick trip to Canada (my first), a massage from a Blackfoot Indian, fly fishing by the Blackfoot river, the quest for the perfect skim vanilla latte in Missoula, a chocolate-dipped scoop of homemade white mint oreo ice cream in a waffle cone, running shoes from Tim, and $1 sushi night.
As I was driving my new favorite stretch of highway from the ranch to Missoula this afternoon, I saw a backpacker with a gray mustache carrying a forest green pack with pots, pans, and cans hanging off his bag. One of the reasons I prefer this two-lane highway is because of its sharp twists and turns around the bases of glorious mountains that border the Blackfoot River, the body of water that first brought me to Montana.
The man had just crossed a particularly narrow bridge and had mounted a rather large red and white sign to the back of his pack that read, "Love Life". He waved at every car that passed. I'm guessing most assumed he was crazy and maybe he was, or perhaps from the outer edges, he professed life's secret. I waved back at a fellow traveler.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
A Familiar Face
Last week I took my first trip to Yellowstone National Park. Unfortunately, I only have one day off a week, so the trip was less than 24 hours. A moment is long enough to leave lasting impressions.
My friend and I didn't reach the west entrance until 7:00 pm. The drive was stunning down 287, one of Montana's main 2-lane highways. It was like driving through a postcard with mountains in all directions and grass dancing in the wind. My thoughts went to the Native Americans who used to roam these vast expanses of land and of the pioneers the first time they saw this captivating country. As my friend's 19 month old said, "Ahhhh..." as she let out a deep breath, sighing yogi style at the change from Chicago air. Everything is different here.
Upon arriving outside the gate, I felt jolted by all the commercialism masquerading as a quaint town. Hundreds of people from all over the world were walking the crowded streets, and my friend kept repeating, "I've never seen it like this. I've only come in May or October when there's literally no one around." In the midst of the chaos, my eyes rested on a familiar sight. Not the Best Western. A Chinese restaurant.
It didn't take much to persuade my curious friend to join me for a Chinese meal. He's heard and read many of my stories and has even begun to learn tidbits of 中文 (zhong wen). 50 steps before the entrance I began to feel a little nervous. What if all my Chinese was gone? What if there were no Chinese natives there like my other 2 failed attempts at a decent Chinese meal? Fear alone is not an acceptable excuse to back out of something one's heart truly desires.
Like so many mornings in the classroom, I walked through the threshold and all jitters subsided. I asked the first 服务员 fuwuyuan I saw for a menu using Chinese, and after a few eye blinks of disbelief responded in Chinese, handing me the menu. I then asked him if they served traditional Chinese dishes and gave him some examples. His smile and the relative authenticity of the restaurant convinced me and we took our seats.
"Do you have 西红柿炒蛋 xihongshi chao dan (tomato with egg)?"
"Yes!"
"Eggplant with meat?" "Red fatty pork?" "Eggplant anything?" "Fish?"
"No," he said disappointingly. "We can't get all the ingredients here."
"No worries," I said.
I was just happy that he actually knew the dishes I was talking about. When I was about to leave China, I knew that besides all the names, people, and places, that food would be what I would miss the most. Real Chinese food is phenomenal.
The more I travel and live in various places, the more I have come to value food. Each place has its specialty. When I lived in Boston, I couldn't get sweet tea or decent barbecue, but Atlanta rarely had a truly hearty New England Clam Chowder or cannoli from the North End. Tortilla Espanolas don't taste the same outside Spain. Even in China, the food in Hunan drastically differed from that in Hangzhou. It reminds me on a daily and basic level to appreciate where I am.
My friend melted into the booth and sat back, smiling as if he were watching a great TV show. I continued my conversation with the waiter in Chinese, asking him about his background. Did he like America? Where was he from? I was so excited that I couldn't stop clapping my hands and saying, "I'm so happy!" in both languages.
When the waiter left to place our order, I turned to my friend, "I ordered tomato with egg, green beans, and Mongolian beef, which isn't really a Chinese dish, but it's a good American substitute, two bowls of rice and some tea."
"I figured you had ordered. Whatever is fine." He paused. "I've never seen you like this," he said.
"Like what?" I asked.
"You're just so happy and in your element. You're home."
For the first time, I looked around me at the other patrons in the mid-sized restaurant. It felt odd to be in a Chinese restaurant and see so many others who looked like me. Every time I saw another Chinese group or family enter, I felt more comfortable and at ease.
The food came quickly, and although it was no where near as good as food I've eaten in China, it was the experience that counted. The club sandwiches in Ningyuan (only Western thing we could get) were terrible by American standards. The ham was something akin to spam, but it didn't matter at that time because it symbolized something from home.
I explained to my friend that the host usually orders the food for the guest, asking what he/she prefers. Then, it is polite to serve the guest first, filling up his/her rice bowl and then the guest usually waits for the host to fill his/her own bowl before both begin. I showed him how to hold his rice bowl and chopsticks, and we enjoyed the shared dishes together. It was so satisfying to eat out of a bowl again, with chopsticks, and not have to have to use an individual plate. I explained the customs for tea. Unlike in the States, it is rude to help oneself to the tea first. Instead, he/she should offer the tea to the other person first, and then pour his/her own cup. At the end of the meal, I paid. Going dutch is a somewhat recent phenomenon amongst young people but traditionally the host or the one that invited the other should pay for the meal. The guest should also falsely protest, saying that he/she should grab the check, but this is all in an attempt to preserve face for both parties. Fortune cookies seemed to complete the American Chinese experience as did the line to add a tip on the check. Chinese people don't tip. I settled for over 20% because as my English fortune reminded me, I was in the States.
As I was saying goodbye to the waiter and other waitstaff, I thanked them whole heartedly and wished them 每天快乐 (mei tian kuai le) or wishing you happiness everyday. We stepped out the door onto the cement and walked towards his car. Before we got in, he looked at my face, a familiar happiness across my lips.
My friend and I didn't reach the west entrance until 7:00 pm. The drive was stunning down 287, one of Montana's main 2-lane highways. It was like driving through a postcard with mountains in all directions and grass dancing in the wind. My thoughts went to the Native Americans who used to roam these vast expanses of land and of the pioneers the first time they saw this captivating country. As my friend's 19 month old said, "Ahhhh..." as she let out a deep breath, sighing yogi style at the change from Chicago air. Everything is different here.
Upon arriving outside the gate, I felt jolted by all the commercialism masquerading as a quaint town. Hundreds of people from all over the world were walking the crowded streets, and my friend kept repeating, "I've never seen it like this. I've only come in May or October when there's literally no one around." In the midst of the chaos, my eyes rested on a familiar sight. Not the Best Western. A Chinese restaurant.
It didn't take much to persuade my curious friend to join me for a Chinese meal. He's heard and read many of my stories and has even begun to learn tidbits of 中文 (zhong wen). 50 steps before the entrance I began to feel a little nervous. What if all my Chinese was gone? What if there were no Chinese natives there like my other 2 failed attempts at a decent Chinese meal? Fear alone is not an acceptable excuse to back out of something one's heart truly desires.
Like so many mornings in the classroom, I walked through the threshold and all jitters subsided. I asked the first 服务员 fuwuyuan I saw for a menu using Chinese, and after a few eye blinks of disbelief responded in Chinese, handing me the menu. I then asked him if they served traditional Chinese dishes and gave him some examples. His smile and the relative authenticity of the restaurant convinced me and we took our seats.
"Do you have 西红柿炒蛋 xihongshi chao dan (tomato with egg)?"
"Yes!"
"Eggplant with meat?" "Red fatty pork?" "Eggplant anything?" "Fish?"
"No," he said disappointingly. "We can't get all the ingredients here."
"No worries," I said.
I was just happy that he actually knew the dishes I was talking about. When I was about to leave China, I knew that besides all the names, people, and places, that food would be what I would miss the most. Real Chinese food is phenomenal.
The more I travel and live in various places, the more I have come to value food. Each place has its specialty. When I lived in Boston, I couldn't get sweet tea or decent barbecue, but Atlanta rarely had a truly hearty New England Clam Chowder or cannoli from the North End. Tortilla Espanolas don't taste the same outside Spain. Even in China, the food in Hunan drastically differed from that in Hangzhou. It reminds me on a daily and basic level to appreciate where I am.
My friend melted into the booth and sat back, smiling as if he were watching a great TV show. I continued my conversation with the waiter in Chinese, asking him about his background. Did he like America? Where was he from? I was so excited that I couldn't stop clapping my hands and saying, "I'm so happy!" in both languages.
When the waiter left to place our order, I turned to my friend, "I ordered tomato with egg, green beans, and Mongolian beef, which isn't really a Chinese dish, but it's a good American substitute, two bowls of rice and some tea."
"I figured you had ordered. Whatever is fine." He paused. "I've never seen you like this," he said.
"Like what?" I asked.
"You're just so happy and in your element. You're home."
For the first time, I looked around me at the other patrons in the mid-sized restaurant. It felt odd to be in a Chinese restaurant and see so many others who looked like me. Every time I saw another Chinese group or family enter, I felt more comfortable and at ease.
The food came quickly, and although it was no where near as good as food I've eaten in China, it was the experience that counted. The club sandwiches in Ningyuan (only Western thing we could get) were terrible by American standards. The ham was something akin to spam, but it didn't matter at that time because it symbolized something from home.
I explained to my friend that the host usually orders the food for the guest, asking what he/she prefers. Then, it is polite to serve the guest first, filling up his/her rice bowl and then the guest usually waits for the host to fill his/her own bowl before both begin. I showed him how to hold his rice bowl and chopsticks, and we enjoyed the shared dishes together. It was so satisfying to eat out of a bowl again, with chopsticks, and not have to have to use an individual plate. I explained the customs for tea. Unlike in the States, it is rude to help oneself to the tea first. Instead, he/she should offer the tea to the other person first, and then pour his/her own cup. At the end of the meal, I paid. Going dutch is a somewhat recent phenomenon amongst young people but traditionally the host or the one that invited the other should pay for the meal. The guest should also falsely protest, saying that he/she should grab the check, but this is all in an attempt to preserve face for both parties. Fortune cookies seemed to complete the American Chinese experience as did the line to add a tip on the check. Chinese people don't tip. I settled for over 20% because as my English fortune reminded me, I was in the States.
As I was saying goodbye to the waiter and other waitstaff, I thanked them whole heartedly and wished them 每天快乐 (mei tian kuai le) or wishing you happiness everyday. We stepped out the door onto the cement and walked towards his car. Before we got in, he looked at my face, a familiar happiness across my lips.
Friday, July 3, 2009
A Taoist Observation
The more I move around the world I find that time and space play tricks on our concepts of reality. In layman's terms, I can't believe that yesterday marked 2 months back in the States.
8 weeks ago my primary language was not English. I lived in a city of 8 million. I was a minority. Americans accounted for less than 5% of the people I interacted with on a regular basis. I now live and work on a 10,000 acre ranch outside of Missoula, Montana that's only accessible by several twists and turns down a 6 mile dirt road. Population: less than 100. All American. All English. In China I couldn't go more than 5 minutes without seeing another person, car, or bike. I see more deer, horses, and squirrels here than I do people. I've traded chopsticks and bowls of rice for forks and bowls of oatmeal. Circular tables for rectangular ones. Shared food in the center of the table for buffet style with individual plates. Squatters for seaters. Grey skies for blue. The only thing that is the same is that I can see mountains from my window and bike to water in under 30 minutes.
Am I the butterfly dreaming of Zhuangzi or Zhuangzi dreaming of the butterfly?
A friend that lived abroad in Spain for several years once told me that living overseas is like being pregnant. Everyone always raves about the glowing mom-to-be but neglects to share the details of bizarre cravings, swollen ankles, and watching one's body completely metamorphis into something she can't recognize as herself (or so I've heard). I guess the trick is to realize that a life based on outside reality is one destined for constant confusion and morning sickness.
8 weeks ago my primary language was not English. I lived in a city of 8 million. I was a minority. Americans accounted for less than 5% of the people I interacted with on a regular basis. I now live and work on a 10,000 acre ranch outside of Missoula, Montana that's only accessible by several twists and turns down a 6 mile dirt road. Population: less than 100. All American. All English. In China I couldn't go more than 5 minutes without seeing another person, car, or bike. I see more deer, horses, and squirrels here than I do people. I've traded chopsticks and bowls of rice for forks and bowls of oatmeal. Circular tables for rectangular ones. Shared food in the center of the table for buffet style with individual plates. Squatters for seaters. Grey skies for blue. The only thing that is the same is that I can see mountains from my window and bike to water in under 30 minutes.
Am I the butterfly dreaming of Zhuangzi or Zhuangzi dreaming of the butterfly?
A friend that lived abroad in Spain for several years once told me that living overseas is like being pregnant. Everyone always raves about the glowing mom-to-be but neglects to share the details of bizarre cravings, swollen ankles, and watching one's body completely metamorphis into something she can't recognize as herself (or so I've heard). I guess the trick is to realize that a life based on outside reality is one destined for constant confusion and morning sickness.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Worth Remembering
During my nearly 3 years in China, I had the privilege of living and working in rural Hunan, Hangzhou, and Beijing. I had the opportunity to meet and know thousands of people from all over the world who came from various backgrounds, cultures, and religions. Over 2,000 alone were my students or staff. By the end of my time, I had taught all ages and all levels of English, including everything from preschool, to university, to working adults. All these experiences and people showed me that on of the greatest ironies and beauties of being a teacher is that your students often end up teaching you.
I learned so much in China. Not only do I want to remember all I discovered, but I also want to integrate it into my life and continue to live it and breath it with each day that passes. Having only returned from China a week ago, I'm left questioning: What kind of American do I want to be now? What are the values I adopted in China dn how can I integrate them into my life here? Where does the current "me" fit an dconversely not fit?
Just like no one can ever truly prepare you to live in China. No one can prepare you to return. "Surreal" is an understatement for my experience of the past few days back in the States. In many ways, I feel like a foreigner in my own country and a stranger in my own hometown. In the past 48 hours, I noticed myself confusing worlds, accents, slang. I'm not sure how to navigate American social politics anymore. I'm the stranded piece of driftwood that keeps bumping into things. I'm reminding myself to be patient, but unlike my first months in China, I'm expected to already know how life functions here.
And then I remember that we are the creators of our lives and experiences, so in an attempt to navigate this new terrain I have listed my top 10 additions to my lifestyle in China that I want to continue in the States.
1. True Friendship: My Chinese friends introduced me to a completely different way of being a friend. I didn't realize how often Americans threw around the word "friend" until I started learning Chinese and noticed that relationships are clear. A colleague is a colleague, not a "friend" necessarily, a classmate is a classmate, and so on. Even family members have distinct and intricate titles. A cousin is not just a cousin, it's the father's/mother's side and depending on whether that person is a boy or a girl and younger or older affects the name you call him/her. Just like the Eskimos had several words for different types of snow, the Chinese language has multiple words for family members because it is a core tenant of their culture.
It's not just about the title though. It's about what comes with the word "peng you". Since this word is harder to earn, once I did, I noticed that my Chinese friends showed up and supported me in ways I had only previously expected of family members or best friends. For example, I had a friend stay with me for 2 weeks, helping me prepare to move to Beijing. This including shipping things home, moving trucks, etc. I had another friend take a 3-hour train back to see me just to be able to say goodbye. I'll be sure to write more about this concept of friendship in subsequent posts.
2. International Community: As an Expat in another country, it's natural to meet people from all over the world. Our core group of friends was comprised of Chinese, Australian, British, New Zealand, Polish, Dutch, American, Canadian, and German people. Constantly being around so many cultures opinions was amazing in itself. Luckily, I live in one of the most diverse countries in the world, so it's all about finding the right environment.
3. Speaking Chinese: I've already joined a local group for those who are interested in Chinese culture and language. In my second day, I was in my local grocery store, and I overheard two women speaking Chinese behind me. I mentioned this to my mother, and when the cashier asked me if I spoke Chinese, I explained that I had just moved back from China. Turn out he is originally from Taiwan.
4. Biking: I decided in my first week in Hangzhou that buying a bike was the best option. Chinese buses were frequent enough but super crowded and taxis were incon
sistent and somewhat expensive. I biked everyday for 2-3 hours typically without even thinking about it just in the course of getting around from place to place. I absolutely loved it. There was something about navigating the chaos of Chinese traffic while being outside and feeling the air on my face. It was also much better for the environment, better for my body, and the most practical. I would often arrive at places before my friends would taking taxis when we would leave at the exact same time.Most Americans (unless they live in a bike-friendly location) are not used to bikers. Even though Atlanta is the largest city in the southern United States, there are few bike lanes and most drivers feel nervous around bikers. Moreover, biking is considered a sport here, not a viable mode of transportation, so it will be a challenge to park the car and go 2-wheels whenever possible, but I'm up to it.
5. Eating Healthy: Delicious, healthy, and cheap food is extremely easy to find in China. Most importantly, it's convenient! A 5-minute walk from my apartment got me to my favorite local restaurant, a farmer's market, my "dan bing" and "bao zi" places (Chinese breakfast foods), a grocery store, and two 24-hour convenient stores.
Unfortunately in the US of A, McDonald's is cheaper than buying organic vegetables, so I'll have to cut back on indulgences. I rarely overate because the portions are smaller and using chopsticks helps to eat one piece of food at a time, so your body has a chance to catch up with your eyes. Also, most Chinese people don't eat dessert or sweet things, so the only consistent sugar I got was from my guilty pleasure--Vanilla Lattes. In addition, the processed foods were unappealing to me, i.e. packaged duck's feet and the like, so it wasn't a problem to go off them as well as cheese, which is not a part of the Chinese diet. How many days does it take to make/break a habit again?
6. Conserving Energy: Even the richest Chinese homes I visited did not have central heating or air conditioning and no home had a drier. There was an air conditioning unit in some of the rooms, but it was only used as needed. During the winter, most Chinese people use hot water bottles and wear thick pajamas to keep warm. Since I tried to unplug electronics when not in use and air-dried all my clothing, I used significantly less energy than I did in the States.
7. No TV: College got me out of the habit of TV watching and China kept me that way. Not only were all the shows in Chinese, many of them were period pieces, which even Chinese people I spoke to found boring. Moreover, all the news coverage is restricted by the government and the one sports channel most aired reruns of the Olympics.
Although I have to admit the Food Network is highly entertaining and I'm beginning to develop a weakness for "On Demand" free movies, when I think of all the time I spent connecting with friends, riding my bike, reading a book, learning Chinese, etc. it's more appealing to keep the TV watching to a minimum.
8. The Flexible 20-Hour Work Week: I'm not delusional. I know that my life of making a fantastic salary doing what you love for 20-hours a week on my own terms in schedule is a lifestyle that will most likely stay in China. I can, however, focus on a career I'm passionate about, so it doesn't feel like an endless week. **Note: most Chinese people work at least 40-hour weeks and often work on Saturday and/or Sunday.**
9. Sharing Food: If there are two or more people at a table in China, it's assumed that there will be two or more shared dishes, normally including at least one or two vegetables and at least one meat or fish. What could be better? Granted there are times it's nice to have one's own meal, but as they say variety adds spice to life.
10. Feeling Free: Maybe it's being extracted from one's culture, personal growth, or China itself, but for whatever reason, I felt an incredible sense of freedom in Hangzhou. I sang while biking, wore what I felt like, and lived the way I wanted. Most of this liberty stems from the freedom we gain when we let go of fear, listen and act on our hearts' true desires, and stop worrying so much about what other people think.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Perspective
Yesterday started off being one of my worst days in China, but ended as one of my best because of one person's act of kindness. I have always been a firm believer that one person can make a difference and that the smallest action can restore faith.
As of yesterday, I officially have 2 weeks left in China. It only occurred to me a few days ago when I looked at the calendar and realized I was actually leaving. Up until then, it had been a distant phrase I repeated to others at social gatherings, "I'm moving back to America." I might as well have been saying, "I'm moving to the moon."
Letting go of a place that has become your home and people that have become your family is no easy feat. There is no doubt in my mind that I will come back to China at some point, but at this time, I have no way of knowing in what capacity or when. I could be back in 4 months. I could be back in 10 years. For now, I know that returning to America is the right step for me, just as I originally knew coming to China was right for me.
Having moved on from many places before, I have noticed certain commonalities. It's easier to let something or someone go if one feels removed from it, and everyone has a different way of coping with someones departure. I was confused by this phenomenon at first. I noticed that my closest friends and I would begin to fight as the time drew nearer to leave, or I would notice that someone I would spend a lot of time with would suddenly disappear from the face of the earth without reason. Then there are the friends that want to spend every possible minute together, enjoying and appreciating those last moments.
I vacillate mostly between the first and the third. I tend to think about what and who is really important to me and choose to spend my time accordingly. It was only in the past 24 hours that I realized the biggest relationship I'm leaving is with China, which brings me back to my story.
Lately, I've been mentally cataloging all that I will miss and won't miss about living here. The list of people, places, and things I will miss is infinitely longer than the few things I won't, but since I looked at that calendar the other day, I have found myself focusing on how much it annoys me when someone shouts "lao wai" (foreigner) at me when all I want to do is blend in and go about my day. Or when I hear someone hawk a particularly large loogie as I walk past. "I won't hear that in America," I say to myself.
So, last night when my friend accidentally left my bag in a taxi cab containing my wallet, 500 RMB, credit cards, cell phone, clothing, etc. I used this as a sign confirming my decision to leave. I thought there was no way to get my bag back and began to calculate the money and time it would cost to replace my driver's license, my Chinese credit card, etc. Luckily, a girl with us had the idea to try calling my cell phone on the off chance that the taxi cab driver would hear it, not want to steal the bag, and potentially return it to me.
After having my beloved Hong Long (bike) stolen last month, I had become a bit jaded towards the idea that someone would return the bag, but I had to try. There were just too many valuable items in it. I began to call, and it continued to ring. At first I took this as a good sign. A ring means that the person hasn't turned off the phone. I know this from having my phone stolen in December. If someone wants to steal the phone, it often rings once but the person immediately turns it off. After 20 rings and no answer, I began to lose hope. I figured that he had probably put the bag in the trunk and would decide what to do with it after his shift. All I could do was pray that the driver was a good man and would do the right thing.
My friend and I decided to grab some street food near my house and continued to call about every thirty minutes. At around 2:00 am, a voice answered the phone. I was so surprised to actually hear an answer that I forgot how to speak Chinese for a second. It quickly came back to me, and the man confirmed that he had my bag and said that he would come to find me and return it to me. When he arrived, I thanked him profusely. He asked me to check the bag to make sure all the contents were intact, which they were. He also refused to take a reward.
These past couple of days I had been focusing on the cons, trying to alleviate the sadness I feel about leaving, but in the process I was missing all the beauty around me. This man reminded me of all the other wonderful experiences I have had in China---of all the people who have been so good to me. People who have helped me when they didn't need to. People who have invited me into their homes and treated me like family.
I don't know what went through that man's head. I don't know if he considered taking the bag or searching its contents or not. When I searched the bag, it was exactly as I had left it. He probably was unconcious as to how much his act of kindness touched me, or how small actions like these are what build ties between people and cultures. I am deeply grateful to this man, not only because of what he did, but also because he reminded me that in saying goodbye to my biggest relationship here, that with China, I want to honor it. I don't want to look back and realize that I spent my last days focusing on my grief in leaving. I would rather savor the moments, honoring all that I have learned here, all that China has given me, and all the joy of my last 3 years.
As of yesterday, I officially have 2 weeks left in China. It only occurred to me a few days ago when I looked at the calendar and realized I was actually leaving. Up until then, it had been a distant phrase I repeated to others at social gatherings, "I'm moving back to America." I might as well have been saying, "I'm moving to the moon."
Letting go of a place that has become your home and people that have become your family is no easy feat. There is no doubt in my mind that I will come back to China at some point, but at this time, I have no way of knowing in what capacity or when. I could be back in 4 months. I could be back in 10 years. For now, I know that returning to America is the right step for me, just as I originally knew coming to China was right for me.
Having moved on from many places before, I have noticed certain commonalities. It's easier to let something or someone go if one feels removed from it, and everyone has a different way of coping with someones departure. I was confused by this phenomenon at first. I noticed that my closest friends and I would begin to fight as the time drew nearer to leave, or I would notice that someone I would spend a lot of time with would suddenly disappear from the face of the earth without reason. Then there are the friends that want to spend every possible minute together, enjoying and appreciating those last moments.
I vacillate mostly between the first and the third. I tend to think about what and who is really important to me and choose to spend my time accordingly. It was only in the past 24 hours that I realized the biggest relationship I'm leaving is with China, which brings me back to my story.
Lately, I've been mentally cataloging all that I will miss and won't miss about living here. The list of people, places, and things I will miss is infinitely longer than the few things I won't, but since I looked at that calendar the other day, I have found myself focusing on how much it annoys me when someone shouts "lao wai" (foreigner) at me when all I want to do is blend in and go about my day. Or when I hear someone hawk a particularly large loogie as I walk past. "I won't hear that in America," I say to myself.
So, last night when my friend accidentally left my bag in a taxi cab containing my wallet, 500 RMB, credit cards, cell phone, clothing, etc. I used this as a sign confirming my decision to leave. I thought there was no way to get my bag back and began to calculate the money and time it would cost to replace my driver's license, my Chinese credit card, etc. Luckily, a girl with us had the idea to try calling my cell phone on the off chance that the taxi cab driver would hear it, not want to steal the bag, and potentially return it to me.
After having my beloved Hong Long (bike) stolen last month, I had become a bit jaded towards the idea that someone would return the bag, but I had to try. There were just too many valuable items in it. I began to call, and it continued to ring. At first I took this as a good sign. A ring means that the person hasn't turned off the phone. I know this from having my phone stolen in December. If someone wants to steal the phone, it often rings once but the person immediately turns it off. After 20 rings and no answer, I began to lose hope. I figured that he had probably put the bag in the trunk and would decide what to do with it after his shift. All I could do was pray that the driver was a good man and would do the right thing.
My friend and I decided to grab some street food near my house and continued to call about every thirty minutes. At around 2:00 am, a voice answered the phone. I was so surprised to actually hear an answer that I forgot how to speak Chinese for a second. It quickly came back to me, and the man confirmed that he had my bag and said that he would come to find me and return it to me. When he arrived, I thanked him profusely. He asked me to check the bag to make sure all the contents were intact, which they were. He also refused to take a reward.
These past couple of days I had been focusing on the cons, trying to alleviate the sadness I feel about leaving, but in the process I was missing all the beauty around me. This man reminded me of all the other wonderful experiences I have had in China---of all the people who have been so good to me. People who have helped me when they didn't need to. People who have invited me into their homes and treated me like family.
I don't know what went through that man's head. I don't know if he considered taking the bag or searching its contents or not. When I searched the bag, it was exactly as I had left it. He probably was unconcious as to how much his act of kindness touched me, or how small actions like these are what build ties between people and cultures. I am deeply grateful to this man, not only because of what he did, but also because he reminded me that in saying goodbye to my biggest relationship here, that with China, I want to honor it. I don't want to look back and realize that I spent my last days focusing on my grief in leaving. I would rather savor the moments, honoring all that I have learned here, all that China has given me, and all the joy of my last 3 years.
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