Identity.

Who are you?  When the moment comes, will you help or run?  Will you have mercy or no?  Will it depend on the day you have had?  The year?

When I was a teenager, I struggled with trying to figure out who I was.  It is a strange problem, kind of a first world problem maybe, but it was like missing a fundamental link in the ability to make up my mind for anything or make decisions at all, and I had arrived at a time to make decisions for myself.

Was I a stoner?  Was I a straight-A student?  Was I kind?  Was I realistic?  Was I artistic?  Was I a high achiever?  Did I value telling the truth always?  Was that a good plan?  Who was I?  Would I be alone if I did tell the truth?  What do I do about boys?  What is important to me?  Do I matter?

I am so glad that I am done with all that.  It was a weird, hard time.

Now with little ones of my own, I wonder if there is a way I can raise them to have more certainty about themselves.  To like who they are and be determined in who that is.  How does one do that, anyway?  Most of the time I am just plucky and proud if their clothes are clean, so this bigger question is out of the ball park.

So, truthfully, this has been one of the areas that I was really rescued in.  And when I say rescued, that is my language for, why I chose to follow Christ.  Before that, I had no reason to be good, no reason to be honest, no reason to be gentle, no reason to think of anything but myself.  It took a good looooong time for me to ease into not only knowing I could be better, but knowing how to get the strength to be better, and then, actually doing it.

Without having the compass of Christ’s teaching, I pretty much had a “if it feels good, do it!” compass.  And then I could never figure out “Why isn’t this making me happier?”  Like the party last night, I mean, that was fun, my friend set her hair on fire and we had to go home, but I mean, it was fun while it lasted,”  (yeah, that happened).  Why wasn’t dating people more satisfying, in fact, it was more like a roller coaster ride that wouldn’t stop?  Isn’t having a super good looking fellow who has a fun car, a job and an apartment, what was missing, why am I still not really happy?

That was where I was circa 1991.

Since then I have realized that much of my youth I permitted the culture at large to define to me what the world was all about.  If it was in music, on TV in magazines, then I was there, I knew about it and I was one step ahead of all of it, because it was important.  Why weren’t the things in the culture really making me happy?

Our culture does nothing for showing to anyone what real joy or real sorrow looks like.  Much less how to deal with it.  For example, new music that I liked made me as happy as I ever got.  Freedom in my car listening to my music was about as good as it ever got, outside of that was reality which looked confusing and not fun.

When my first child was born was at the peak of my happinessometer.  It was and still is the defining joy of my life.  But does popular culture talk about that much?  About the satisfaction of that experience, or does it help us to understand how to cope with the death of a close person young or old?  Culture, particularly our American culture, does very little for our young learners who are trying to comprehend who they are and this world they are in.  In fact, it tells quite a lot of lies.

How do you do one of the most difficult and important things in real life, how do you help someone facing death?  Where does American culture help guide us here?

It tells our young ones that their happiness or success if dependent upon their looks, their fashions, their wealth and their popularity.  It doesn’t inform us of relationships, how to cultivate or keep them by honoring people around us, it shows us how to make ourselves happy.  With things.  Like fancy boots or cars or jewels.

Culture focuses on the constant parade of temporary happiness.  How long before a person figures out that these things, feeding the appetites, is just a treadmill? Culture speaks not at all to the spiritual side of a person, unless of course it wants to sell them crystals, TV evangelism or an addiction to feed.

There are so many big topics I am just glancing on here, but the main point is that American culture is pretty unhealthy.  And I know I am stating the obvious here to an adults in the room, but for young folk, they look to the outside world from their homes to tell them what is real outside what mom told them and the messages are pretty shallow.  Big boobs, plastic surgery, making money, self-oriented satiation of appetites.  Sex.

In a deeper look, I believe that our American culture sends some pretty damaging messages to people.  A message that they aren’t that important, that they are disposable if they aren’t hitting a certain standard of wealth, beauty or popularity.  Our culture doesn’t equip us in any meaningful way whatsoever to know how to deal with reality.  The best we have are reality TV shows.

As a mom, I have wished often that what kids saw outside of what mom and dad said was something more healthy, something more whole, more real, more relevant, more true than the barge of trash that parades across the TV screen.  But I suspect that it is the price that is paid with a capitalist culture that what sells is what will fly, and what sells is usually the stuff that appeals to the most people.  And what appeals to the most people I suppose also depends on the age and education level of those people, perhaps.  With a popular culture that largely purveys junk, I hope for a time when collectively as a nation we will detox.

And in all truth, it makes me hope that the steady flow of junk will help people to acknowledge that none of this really brings any joy, and that they will go looking, and in looking, they will find enduring joy.

So from about June of 2012 or so until about April of 2013 Chezwhat? has been down because it was hacked and it was just really time consuming to do all the things necessary to get it back to where it was. 

This week I have gotten it reposted because of my awesome husband J and his technical wizardry, but all the photos disconnected from where they belong so I suppose at some point when I am feeling really flush with time, I will go back and reconnect all them.

In the meantime, I was writing and posting pictures at Elisha’s Bones, and I am happy with what came out there, though it was not overly much.

A re-post from 2006.

The nice thing about travel is that no matter what mundane activities life brings, a meeting, sitting in traffic, walking to the grocery store, on hands and knees cleaning the kitchen floor, I always have these memories of places I was. Sometimes, if the right song
comes on, or if I catch a smell that reminds me, or the face of a stranger, I remember these places and go back there in my head. I remember that I wasn’t always the teacher/mom with a mortgage and a station wagon. I was once a vagabond in Costa Rica, or a visiting teacher in rural areas of some out back far away country, or on a bus in the sleet going to the Andean cloud forest to soak in hot springs.

I can go to how I felt and what I saw, what I ate, how people acted, and for that time, I am not doing the mundane activities that occupy my days. I can go back to being a lazy traveler in Costa Rica for 5 weeks, walking trails or streets that went God knows where, because I had all this time, and I was in this place, a place that when people say the name of the country now, it seems idyllic. In this, I know that in my mundane existence now those places are only ever just a plane ride away, but I am happier still here, for now.

Five days after I arrived home from living in Russia for two years, to my father’s fury and to my family’s dismay, I was headed back to the airport. Five weeks in Costa Rica. To them, it seemed like I had evaded the workaday world not only the four years of college, but and additional two in Russia and now this? Was I ever going to try to make money, settle down, get married? I was 29.

And in my head I knew, I had my whole life to pay bills, go to work, and worry about maintaining the accumulation of material possessions that come as part and parcel of stateside life.

Sade and I planned to find a jobs, so we had planned five weeks to do this. However, right before we left, she told me she had found a job stateside. So the plan to get jobs lost steam. I didn’t want to be there alone, I was tired of being surrounded by strangers. So we just traveled up and down the west coast of Costa Rica, we did not go to the east coast mainly to avoid the anti-malaria pills. So we had five weeks to kill in this tiny country. We could have ventured out to say Guatemala, but we did not. For my part, because I was living on a shoe string and could not afford to venture into the unknown that Guatemala represented.

I had less than a thousand measly dollars to last me 5 weeks. That’s 190 a week for bus fare, accommodations, food and any entertainment. Accommodations alone were the better part of 100. Food was cheap, but it still ran about 12 dollars a day. After food and accommodations, I had a measly 25 dollars a week to spend to travel. I must have been insane. I came back skinny, to be sure. We dined on papaya, gallo pinto and an occasional empanada. One night we bought a pitcher of margaritas that had precisely zero “rita” in them. The pitcher cost me five dollars. I was irked. This was a theme for the trip: I was strapped.

These were the things I learned 1. I was 29 and too old to stay in stanky hostels with my own sheet to cover the bare mattress. They were places with bare bulbs over head and lovers who carved their names in the walls. An occasional roach and a view of a brick wall. 2. Traveling poor is akin to getting the experience of being a native, except there is no family to take care of you, and you aren’t a native, you’re a gringo. In fact, most of the natives have more money than you.

But c’mon now, I was in a beautiful country, and after having emerged from what at times felt like the Arctic tundra in Russia where on cold wintry nights we sat around and tormented each other with remembrances of how much we missed tater tots and tacos, Costa Rica was heaven. Russia, where we all had to wear five layers of clothing for 9 months of the year to Costa Rica, a tropical paradise. That is, as soon as I could quit saying “Da and Nyet” the the taxistas. I had forgotten most of my Spanish in Russia. This broke my heart, it was like forgetting my first love’s name. I had made a commitment to Spanish, that luscious romance language had been replaced by the razor sharp, subtle and cruel tones of Russian. For five weeks I was to speak as much Spanish as possible and retrain myself back to my first love.

I was determined to not let my lack of funds drain the beauty out of this luxurious trip. Sade and I traversed from coast to orient up and down the west side of Costa Rica. If I could sum up the trip in one word, it would be unhurried. We had time to burn, things to see, mountains to climb, waves to play in and beaches to doze on and we did everything on the cheap. We would be up early to catch the bus outta town with enough time to catch a meal at the tortilla factory, sitting on a mottled wooden bench next to an old lady with her hen, and some kids dressed up to go see a family member. Enjoying a slushee thing from a plastic bag and straw under an awning at a street cart while the rain pelted the streets that were filled with bicyclists trying to wrap up their leisurely evening ride with boyfriends, sisters, brothers. Unhurried to watch lightning shows dazzle our eyes for an hour while we laid in a patch of soft grass. No rush to make it to the museums, the restaurants or back to the hostel. We had time and sunshine and plenty to see.

I got my Spanish back and was back yelling at the taxistas to not take us the long way around. We skinny dipped in a pool with some other young people, we watched the full moon rise over the ocean, we walked and danced and napped. We met a band from Portland and played pool with them, we stayed out all night till there were no taxis to take us back home and stayed in a shed where our friends were. I could hear the monkeys of the rainforest of Manuel Antonio screeching all night, and watch the little line of ants crawl on the perimeter of the mattress, underwear soaked and zipped into my goretex shell from the unprepared late night swim. In the morning I remember the people we were with, one of them read from the bible in the morning. I remember that seemed so unusual, like the bible came from another planet. A different one than mine, which was all about me.

The places we stayed, the things we did…visiting college campuses for fun, walking the hallways, imagining what it would be like to be a student there. Sade would go out photographing and I would occasionally just stay back (I had some tummy troubles) and read. The rainforest, the mountain, the beach rainforest, mountain beach rainforestmountainbeach. By the time the last weeks were upon us we were both done. We were ready to go back to a normal life. Our days were filled with random trips to wherever to see whatever just to do something. Sucking down shakes, eating enough black beans and rice to kill a goat, considering rollerskating, taking pictures inside a panaderia. I can hardly imagine now, the hours that just slipped by as we walked down paths just to see where they went.

Here stateside I always feel like my days are a frenetic push to be productive. I can’t just sit around, I have to get things done. What things? Pay bills, buy a card for so and so, take gifts to someone’s house, clean the floor, make the bed, clean the tub, correct those papers, plan up the week, go grocery shopping, fold the clothes, buy this thing or that that we need. In Costa Rica, the evenings were filled usually with the sound of rain or thunder, someone playing samba, and the ticking of the clock. There was nothing to get done, nothing to buy or clean.

I cherish knowing that this is now, and what is elsewhere is always within my reach, no matter what it is.

So, for quite a few months now husband and I have been battling issues with my wordpress site.  I am moving to do my writing elsewhere.

I am reviving an older place called Elisha’s Bones.  I am looking forward to writing again, and hope to see you there.

Before having kids, I was clueless as to what it was all about.

But I am understanding and enjoying all of the kid-having proposition, am propelled by good relationships, fresh ideas about how to foster the closeness I hope we can keep.

I wish that I could claim to have been one of the many people that have some sort of intuition or instinct about what children need. Anymore have a basic clue, after having 2 I am getting better.

I used to think it was really cool that I even figured out that if I just put sprinkles on the food, they would eat it. Now I am learning even more about just the enormous quantity of comfort and love these little ones require.  Constantly. And happily, my instincts are all to happy to make the time for the hugs (even when I am about to pass out from fatigue), the sitting with, the accompanying… even if it means I sneak a nap on the floor of the bathroom while they play in the tub. I still have a lot to learn, I am sure.

If they weren’t so delightful, I might not be as into it as I am, but they fill my days with giggles, activities and joy.  We have an elderly neighbor couple who have taught the girls to have “high tea” with all the proper settings. Yeah, a little girly is ok.

When Addy started first grade, I wondered “Now what’s going to happen? What will she do now?”  I recall a doctor telling me about how 4 months was really just one of the best ages. So far, I haven’t found a bad age.

The first day of the first grade September 2011.

Every time my first starts a new benchmark, I am embarrassed by a flash flood of emotion that seems to appear out of nowhere. Somewhere inside of me is a rational person thinking “What is this? Where is this water in my eyes coming from?”

I wish I could pack it as effectively as I packed my backpack when I was doing my traveling in my 20′s (man I could fit a lot of stuff in there), and then unpack it at will (but no).

It is probably confusing to teachers as tears fill my eyes as I discuss consonant blends and reading effectiveness scores.

Turning seven.  Every now and then I get a glimpse of something I can’t articulate.  Something very beautiful.

First grade is a marvel. She is full of love, loves everything.

She recreationally makes books for us telling us how much she loves us.

She writes stories telling her grandparents how much she loves them.

She loves school, and if you ask her what she did, she told me most of the year they had a party that day.

She loves her family and tells us all all the time. She gushes. I almost want to freeze frame this and hold on to it.

I have learned to give up entirely on the “perfect smile”.  I take whatever they have to offer and hope for the best.  And they are happy, and isn’t that what counts?

This year she got a cat, learned to read like a pro, got her ears pierced and lost her 2 front teeth and the newbies began to come in.  She told me that when other kids point out that they are not perfectly white like pearls, she tells them to “back off,”.   Her resilience is pleasing.

She told me she wanted to be a vampire bat for Halloween.  Hmm.  When I found the cupcake outfit, I took it out of the bag announcing that we will have to give it away because she won’t like it.  My plan worked.

At Christmas in a park in Portland after seeing Santa.

I have been surprised by the perpetual joy she brings to our home.  She elicits cascades of round, bubbly giggles from her sister and they play well together with joy that I love to overhear from another room.  And yes, we are normal, sometimes there are shrieks too.

Is there anything better than 2 kids happily doing chores?  Our Sugar Maples offer us an annual family ritual of months of leaf raking.  I sometimes wonder if having her jump up and down inside the yard debris container to squish the leaves down might not be somehow dangerous, I mean after all, it is fun.  And all fun is dangerous almost (unless it is a board game).

These scenes make everyone happy.

She is the willing explorer, not squeamish or only a princess, but a little bit of everything.

She has grown to be a responsible, capable, happy and fun person to be with.  I love cycling with her.

First grade curiosity seems to know no bounds.  She enters in with me on all our activities to find the fun and learning.

Before loosing the two front teeth.

Margalo the cat, so named for a character in Stuart Little which we read this year.  My job got so busy this year I lamented the time lost for things like reading a couple of chapters per night before bed.  Yay for summer!

She loves to dress fun and creatively.  Since kindergarten she does not want me to pick out her outfits.  This motivates her to get up in the morning, and I love her sense of style.

This past year they have begun to play more together, and still sometimes separately.  But the smiles here tell a good story.

I am glad I get to watch her grow up and be with her through her days.

Yes, first grade is very, very good.

I am an Oregonian, specifically a Portlander.  If you have ever seen the show Portlandia, you know it means something sort of odd.  I jaywalk unabashedly, I wear sandals as long as I can, I recycle and feel guilty if I don’t.  And when it gets cold most Portlanders are mostly oblivious.  Some have nice coats, like the professionals, or the outdoorsies, but most get by most of the year in a windbreaker and sandals.

Hippy Portland.  Why am I wired to like it?

Because here, for whatever reason, we can kind of get away with shorts and sandals and a jacket even when its cold.  Sometimes someone puts on a sweater, or wears pants.  My husband for instance, who wears his sandals even to walk in subzero temps, mostly because his sandals are comfortable.  He never wears a sweater.  Or a turtleneck, or a hat or a scarf or anything like that…

But if LEFT AMERICA, and if you went to a cold place, where the cold is pretty much a part of the culture, like, say, RUSSIA,  something strange happens.  If you don’t wear a hat, you are likely to die in the fetal position in a pile of snow waiting for your bus to come as it grows dark.  Next to an old woman properly bundled and selling garlic, scolding you.  All because you could not tell if it was a 2 layer day or a 5 layer day.  And because you didn’t eat your kasha.

And for 2 years, one of the more important choices you made daily was to ascertain by sunlight or cloud cover, hoarfrost or snow or rain just how much clothes was necessary without the aid of a weather report or a thermometer (no, Peace Corps volunteers didn’t carry cell phones even 10 years ago)

This is how Babushki dress when it is warm, so perhaps you can imagine cold weather.

So when you return to Oregon, and it gets cold, like say, it is below 40 degrees Fahrenheit (because these numbers make a lot of difference), a little bit of Russia somehow nostalgically also comes with the cold weather.

You might not wear a shapka, but you darn well better have a decent coat that looks respectable on the street.  And if you haven’t got a decent sharf to wrap round yourself, well that is just irresponsible.

And you must look put together.  Even if you aren’t wearing deodorant, because really, they don’t in Russia either, so that is sort of just normal.

So you can be fragrant, but you must look sharp.  And for God’s sake, you must have a decent hat.

But, reality check, we aren’t in Russia, we are here in here in Oregon–the Willamette Valley no less.   Hats aren’t really necessities, they are more like fashion statements.  It never gets to 10 below, (all the cold temps are measured in CELCIUS, of course if you lived in Russia and have PTSD related to very cold temperatures for long stretches of time).  Even if it did get that cold, in Oregon, people seldom walk anywhere near as much as Russians, any outdoor activity would be purely recreational.  So the hat you can skip, in Oregon anyway, which is a relief, especially if you have enormous hair.  Ahem.

This is what Portland people think is cold weather, notice, no snow, her jacket is unbuttoned and gloves? hat?  Hello?  This is not cold.  She will die at the bus stop in this.

And here is the Russian Babushka part.  If you see a person who is dressed inappropriately for the weather, that is a basis on which to judge them to be foolish.  But here in Oregon, people just don’t get it, they don’t CARE.  So, by the measuring stick of a Russian Babushka, every Oregonian is a fool.

It is hard to adapt to, seeing so many people improperly dressed for cold weather, the former Peace Corps volunteer might just be inclined tsk tsk the lack of proper pants, shoes or warm weather attire.

However, it is not at all beneficial, useful or otherwise productive to wage a war of disgust at improper weather preparation against your fellow humans.  Nor is it going to add a minute to one’s life to imagine superiority because one’s fellow Oregonians don’t know what it is like to live for months in the enduring cold where the weather never gets much above -15 Celsius.  And, they don’t care.  Insert Miss Piggie sound here.

And as an Oregonian, you have only learned because you were foolish enough to volunteer to be sent to Russia and because you believed sincerely in your heart you might just die in the dark next to the old lady selling garlic at the bus stop on account of not wearing a decent scarf.

Somehow, the volunteer must slowly learn to let go of a sense of superior knowledge because they know what it is like to have their nose filled with ice and shake uncontrollably (forgot to eat the kasha).

Oregon’s mild climes simply don’t create the opportunity to stand in mock superiority at the obscure knowledge of how to dress properly in the cold.  Hmph.  Proper cold weather dressing might have saved one’s life on the steppe, but it will not get one a job, and it will only make ones children embittered by being forced to wear a snowsuit when it is only 50 degrees out.

“mom, why can’t I wear my flip flops like the other kids?”

Because they are fools!  Fools!  I bet they haven’t even eaten their cream of wheat!

Well, proper cold weather dressing and a knowledge of golden age Spanish literature I suppose are 2 things I might never get paid for, but might look for every opportunity to cash in on.  Wish me luck!