The Ox's End is a Tiger's Beginning

Happy one year anniversary to American Peach in China! It seems fitting to write a long overdue post as the year of the Ox comes to a close. February 14th initiates the year of the white metal tiger and promises changes within every sphere of life, including love, politics, and career.

This will be my first Chinese New Year in 3 years away from China. I normally go back to Ningyuan, the rural Hunan town I taught in my first year, to visit what has become my second home and family. As with all of life, there are cycles, and I'm left with the irony that the same sadness and nostalgia I felt at missing out on my first Christmas away from home in Ningyuan is similiar to how I feel now---a world away from my loved ones during the biggest celebration of the year.

One of the benefits of my recent move to San Francisco, however, is an abundance of Chinese people and culture, so I will ring in the year of the tiger with new friends in a fresh place. Forget Valentine's Day chocolates--I hope to eat copious amounts of jiaozi (dumplings), pork, and maybe even some kao ya (roast duck). Moreoever, between the Mandarin groups I've joined and new friends, I have abundant opportunities to keep up and continue learning Chinese. The real challenge will be to read one of my favorite books, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, in Chinese characters. I figure if I do a page or two a day, my character base will grow exponentially.


I encourage you all to check out the link above to the website. It offers a great deal of information about the year ahead, and even provides an opporunity to couple your Western astrological sign with your Chinese one. Allow me to be the first one to wish you xin nian kuai le!

It's Time...

...to do what you were born to do! When I look at key promises I made in life, they were not to friends or family. They were to myself, and every time I followed through on a promise I made to myself, it was an acknowledgment and honoring who I am.

My mom bought me a book for my birthday this year called Five. It's a interactive book filled with quotes and guiding questions for one's goals and dreams. The entire book is all about deciding what/how you will accomplish your dreams and goals in the next five years. It's a fantastic book. I highly recommend it. It reminds readers that this life is about you and what you choose to make it. My favorite page in the book is a time line of how old people were when they accomplished amazing feats. It spans from Mozart's first symphony at 7 years-old to Cal Evans on his 104th birthday. The caption reads, "Forget your age. Clearly it's what you do---not when you do it---that really counts." It's never too late and it's never too soon to follow one's dreams.

In the spirit of Five, here are five ways I have found to realign with my heart and its purpose(s):

1. Gratitude. Every morning when you wake up give thanks for 10 people, events, moments, etc. in your life. Every evening say 10 more.
   
2. Allow yourself to dream. Buy a notebook, journal, or moleskine (my favorite) and write down your deepest desires. On the front of my small notebook, I wrote questions that inspired me such as: "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?" "What would you do if you knew you only had 5 years, 3 years, 1 year, 1 week?" "What would you do if money was no object?" "What would you do if you could do anything?"
3. Start small. If you're anything like me who makes 50-point "To-Do Lists" every morning but only accomplishes 5, it may be time to cut yourself some slack. Instead, try making manageable lists that not only reflect the "must do's" but more importantly, the "want to's." Why not put on today's list, "I listen to music for 20 minutes and do nothing else" or "I take a nap" or "I eat a piece of triple-tiered chocolate cake?" With each item you check off, it is actively demonstrating to yourself that you can follow-through on your promises.
   
4. Encourage those you admire. If someone is living his/her dream, acknowledge and learn from him/her. If someone is making changes in his/her life, honor them. If someone is living your dream, praise him/her all the more, for he/she is showing you in present time that it is possible!
   
5. Be gentle. Imagine the most adorable, loving baby you've ever seen, or if you're not a baby person, imagine the cutest puppy you've ever seen, or a baby crocodile---whatever works for you. Whenever you start feeling yourself going into hyper self-critical mode, imagine yourself as that cuddly reptile and remind yourself that you're human. An affirmation I recently heard is "I love myself as I am, as I am changing."
   

My favorite Filipino cowboy said something this summer that stuck, "Life is not so cruel as to give us eyes to see our dreams and not let us achieve them." I will include that quote in my 10 items of gratitude before I fall asleep and also give thanks in advance for my ability to follow-through on all my suggestions! I hope this helps others honor themselves. As always, please feel free to comment on any of these ideas.

Five: http://www.amazon.com/5-Dan-Zadra/dp/1932319441/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255425731&sr=8-1

Mutton Bustin'

What in the heck is that? I discovered mutton busting at the local Labor Day rodeo. Helmville is a Montana town so small that the United States post office shared the same building structure as the local church. Past that turn was a dip in the valley where hundreds of cowboys/girls, cars, and farm animals gathered for quite the event. I've only been to one other rodeo in my life (this summer in Missoula), but this was definitely my favorite.

Mutton busting consists of a child being placed on a sheep, which is then turned loose into the arena. Since sheep are herd animals, they have one or two sheep 20 feet away, so that the sheep that was just released will run towards something. That kid hangs on for dear life, and I have never seen anything like it. Once the kid (all wear a helmet) falls off, the sheep runs and leaps to find the rest of the herd. Several of the sheep lept 3 or 4 feet in the air, happy to be free of the extra weight, and then immediately ran to find the rest of the herd, grouped by the small patch of grass in the corner on the other side of the arena.

"Cowboy Eric" was pretty tough. He wore a white cowboy hat, wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and a flannel snapshirt. Don't let the fact that he's 7-years-old fool you. "I hope I get a mean one," he said with a squint in his eye before the event. That kid was born for rodeo.

The only man I've ever heard talk faster than the announcer yesterday was the guy on the commercial for micro machines that used to constantly run on TV in the 80's. The announcer knew his crowd, and made the joke, "Here in Montana. We get together on a nice Labor Day afternoon and entertain ourselves by puttin' our kids on large farm animals." The crowd laughed good humoredly.

I watched each of these kids get placed on a different sheep one at a time as the sheep ran into whatever it could find of the herd. Most of the children immediately fell off, jumped off, or ran off. Not "Cowboy Eric." He wouldn't let go until his dad and the other adults told him he could. He would have ridden that sheep all over the arena, even over to the far corner of the arena with the rest of the herd. When the competition was over, "Cowboy Eric" swaggered back, wearing his prize, a blue camouflage baseball cap that read "Helmville Mutton Busting 2009" in white lettering. I shook my head and said to his mother, "'Cowboy Eric's' gonna be a heart breaker."


Micro machine guy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TzbUPfoveok
Mutton busting: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mutton_busting

Respected People?

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.

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

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.

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.