Leven is zo zoet

At this Church we've been attending here in Canada there is an Octagenarian who sometimes preaches. And I must confess: The first time I heard him, he put me right to sleep and I cozily recalled all those naps I used to take growing up in sleepy CRC Churches. Those Sunday mornings when I'd scrape out all of my eye boogers during the loud post-sermon hymns.

But. Lately this guy has been growing on me. In kind of a sneaky way, like my boys' fingernails.
He surprised me today (because today in Canada is Thanksgiving Day) when he sermoned about being Grateful. Somehow he weaved in how awful it is to use a credit card and how you need to say "no" to your kids sometimes, but his main point was how important it is to live a life of gratitude. Not a real shocker on Thanksgiving Day.

And I was cynical because his mandates sounded more like pull-up-your-bootstraps gratitude: Even if you've been dealt a raw deal and everyone around you has more, be grateful for what you do have, as in "at least you have a face." A very Dutch kind of gratitude.

And I wasn't buying it. It sounded to me like a cheap way of assuaging our own desires when we don't have what we want. Something my rents tried desperately to teach me and my three siblings because we really had barely more than nothing when we were growing up. They would say things like, "Look! We have brown sugar to put on our rice! They don't have that in Africa!" And then we'd scowl at them and they would call us ungrateful.

Somehow being grateful for things that suck seems like an attempt to play a trick on our own brains. Or something akin to what coaches did at Penn State: What shower scene?

Faking it. It reeks of deception. And I can deceive a lot of people, but I've always struggled with deceiving myself.

I could try it now; watch this little exercise: I'm so grateful that I live 1500 miles away from my mom and my sister and my baby nephews and so many of my best friends. I'm so grateful that I don't have a high-paying job and that I'm still paying off my student loans. I'm so grateful that my body is aging at the same rate as gas prices are hiking in California. I'm so grateful that no one is remotely interested in publishing any of my writing. I'm so grateful that my almost-dead dog keeps pissing on my new carpet.
This sounds ridiculous at best. Horribly fake at worst.

But then this pastor told a story about his father-in-law who had lived a tough life (poverty, wars, horrible illnesses, the deaths of two of his own children and then his spouse of 60 years, etc. etc.) and on his deathbed at 98 years old was asked if he was looking forward to heaven. And I was waiting for this ancient professor of God's truth to finish the story with "Yes! I can't wait to be with Jesus! And sing hymns with the angels and carry a harp and prance around on clouds like a Care Bear."

But instead the dying man responded, "Leven is zo zoet," in English: "Life is so sweet."

And in my soul, this comment resounded and banged on the edges of my heart in a way that only stories from my ancestors can.

Then I looked at this picture that I always have on my desk (though I don't recall the event). It captures me as a child being held by my Grandfather. This is a man who created a divot in a wooden bench in his Church with his wedding ring because he sat in the same place for 50 years.

And I believe that my pose captures the questions of youth, perhaps even the fear and insecurity and the displeasure of youth. And I see in his face, gratitude (and a big nose).

In this life I do not have all that I want. No, in this life I am not without trials and struggles and many things that suck ass. In this life I do not have people I love at my disposal. I do not have the dream house I desire, or the well-behaved children I desire or the flawless skin or LV bag or Hunter boots or kick-ass, perfectly healthy bod or peaceful sleep at night or a plethora of vacations ahead or a smaller nose...

But, still, I agree with the dying man: There is much sweetness in this life.

Life is so sweet.

And I wouldn't even recognize an ounce of all the sweetness if I hadn't tasted the sour.

And in this posture of gratitude I wish you all a joyous Thanksgiving Day.

May you find sweetness in the life-giving end of gratitude instead of the life-sucking realm of desiring more.

Gangnam Style Yoga

Good Mooooooorning, fellow Insecure Writers! Welcome to my world of insecurities. Writing has recently topped that lovely list as I've submitted several essays to The Publishers, and I've not received any nibbles. It's like fishing in my bathtub; all I'm catching are hair and fake Army guys. Why the hell do I bother? There are so many good writers, great writers, out there...who needs me? The encouraging logic that sustains me: If every person who decided to commit an act of service didn't bother because they're just not Mother Theresa, we'd live in an even more hellish world than we already do... so, I still write. Mostly about the random, the mundane, and how I'm trying to be a Canadian. And I try to look for a little Jesus and humor in all of it.

You know when you hear a song that sounds like it was written just for you? The beat and the feel of it seem like they've been missing from your life? And now that you've heard it you're finally fulfilled? You've discovered the purpose of your existence? Where you belong?
That is precisely how I feel about Gangnam Style.

Even though I have no idea how the lyrics translate. Or understand remotely what the song is about.
But. The dance moves are like giddy-up square dance meeting hip-hopping gangstas. And when my three boys and I bust it in our kitchen, it feels like I've arrived.

But, I haven't. Instead I've become "that mom" who embarrasses her children because she says words like "bust it" and it doesn't work; even typing it feels and sounds so wrong. The same way I look when I put my hair in a "side-pony." Or wear makeup.

I am proud, however, of my 8 year-old who self-censored after showing me the music video to Gangnam Style:

Smug 8-year old: "I didn't think you'd approve of it, Mom, and you actually think it's funny."
Me: "I can laugh and dance but still not approve. Moms reserve the right to self-contradict."
(This likely came about after I held a large object in his view last week while we were walking by the Victoria's Secret Store in the mall. Good Lord. No child needs to see that.)

Then. I accepted an invitation to go to yoga a few nights ago. I accepted only because I am desperately trying to find a friend. After this woman texted me the Yoga Invitation, I thought: Shit. And then I thought, Shit again, this is going to hurt. But. I am not in a position to turn down any invitations right now.

I forgot what Hot Yoga was. It is a torture session with an excuse for well-figured folks to wear tight clothing. My only previous experience with this twisted torment, however, has always involved a kind, soft-spoken, earthy woman with a tender forgiveness for those of us in the crowd who struggle, as in: "If this pose is painful, listen to your body, do a pose that feels right, like Tadasana, Mountain Pose" (where you try to push the crown of your head toward the ceiling while standing up straight, with your arms at your side. It's my favorite. I'm really good at it.).

This demon teacher at Canadian Hot Yoga (seriously, it was 110 degrees 43 degrees in the room, Damn Celsius just doesn't add drama like good ole Fahrenheit did, but at least it's easier to spell) did not show this love to the not well-figured of us in the midst of the crowded room. It was hot, folks, hot, hot. At one point I was dripping sweat on the floor and creating a pond; I was worried that my neighbors might need life preservers. I hadn't even brought a towel. And I couldn't do Downward Dog because my mat was too slippery; I kept sliding on my face and thinking of the Bon Jovi album instead of "focusing on my practice" like the demon told me to. And then, during "Pigeon Pose" (which is like childbirth plus eyebrow waxing plus toe-stubbing) I so missed my nice teachers of the past. But no, Canadian yoga is Bitch Yoga. The Demon said: "If you're in pain, then you are RIGHT where you need to be. Don't give up! PUSH through it! And right at the moment when you think you can't take any more, and you want to get out of the pose, DON'T GIVE UP! Remain in the pain. And then, and only then, you are finally practicing [Canadian] yoga."

I am so sore I can barely reach the toilet paper.

But she was kinda right about the whole pain thing. These Canadian Bitches may know what's going on. It does suck to stay where it hurts. Enduring pain and not bailing is worthy of an award, or at least a cheap certificate that I could put on my fridge.

Which, my 6-year-old got the other day from his school for... "Displaying Wisdom." It is laminated. AND signed by the Principal. WTF? My guess is it was either a sympathy vote, a joke, or a random draw out of a hat. This child has about as much wisdom as a frog. But he told me that wisdom is "being nice to others." And he claims that he does that. At school.

So, MY fantasy laminated, signed certificate says:

Newly Relocated Endurance Award

Given to:

Kim R...

For exhibiting grace and patience and humor during a drastic life transition

(even though you drank too much Vodka)

Signed by your husband and Jesus.

On a side-note: I am tallying the hugs that I now receive (from people other than my family). In October thus far, I have received THREE. Yes, folks, three. Now, one or two of them may-or-may-not-have-been wimpy, awkward side-hugs, but we have to start somewhere. My goal is to creep out of my current hug deficit by 2013.

What award do you deserve lately?

Fantasy Buttons

I upgraded my iphone the other day. Yes, I'm so fancy, I know (it was FREE). I'm also...so incompetent. Today, a student of mine showed me how to turn my ringer on (oh ya, I'm recently out of retirement, I just can't stay out of the classroom, mainly for technology guidance, clearly).

So my most noticeable upgrade--my Sudoku (which is what justifies this ridiculous Smartphone cost, and takes up more of my time than I care to admit) has a new feature: Validation. Yes indeedy. At any point during a game of "put-the-#s-in-the-right-damn-spot" I can request to have my game "validated." Which means the God of the Game will descend upon It and tell me if I'm putting each number in the correct spot, or not. This is an insecure person's worst addiction. And a control-freak's best friend. And I am both, so I find myself fantasizing often about the potential joy of adding this button to other facets of my life:

My two best friends (Aby and Caby, I call them for short) and I hang out each night. Sometimes we walk together. Sometimes we go somewhere, though I would never drive. We make each other happy, and help ease each day's pain and frustration. Sometimes we even go to wineries and talk to random strangers.
Validate, please?

My sons are attending the Catholic school, yet I keep meeting fascinating, seemingly wonderful people that attend the public school. Even people who adopt Asian children. Asians in Grade One. Shit.
Validate, please?

I accepted this teaching position. A fantastic opportunity to teach Grade 12 in a private setting. All boys, all being recruited by D1 Universities (in football) in the states. They are awesome young men. But the pay is low.
Validate, please?

The last few meetings at my new Church, I've been thrown in with the older ladies. And not by choice, though I don't object. I usually meander to a lonesome chair and this particular population must feel the most sorry for me. Or perhaps the younger crowd truly thinks I belong with the elderly, with my grey hair and all. Sorry for the lack of updates on it. Here:

This is white hair, folks, not blond. Look at those freakin' forehead wrinkles! Awesome!

Anyway, I like it. And it has earned me a place at the old-lady table. Should I stay with this crowd? I mean, I have missed this population in my life; they're so wise and so confrontational. And all of my grandparents are dead. And I haven't hung out with many people over 40-ish in several years. True story:

Elerly woman, JoAnne, while eating dinner: Yum. So good. I'm going to get more. Are you?

Me: Well, maybe. I'm not quite done yet. But yes, it is good.

She: I'll wait for you. Eat up.

-one minute later-

She: Bottoms up. Let's go.

It was like I was 21 again in a bar. I am quite partial to JoAnne. You know she learned that lingo somewhere. I feel like we could connect.

Validate, please?

Oh, and I just moved to a new country. Validate, please? 

I believe the litmus test for validating my new citizenship is when I stop gasping over a possible exciting connection when I see someone with a CANADA shirt on. I have to stop myself from approaching with the words: "Oh! You're from Canada?!?! Me too! Well, I was born there, and then I married a Canadian... and, well, I go there every summer..." And OMFG I live here now.

What did you think Fantasy Buttons would be about?!?!

Ai = Love

A few weeks ago I watched a film called Mao's Last Dancer. It is about a Chinese ballerina who leaves his parents at 11 years old to train as a ballet dancer, and then travels to the US from China and defects. Only to realize afterwards that he will not likely see his parents for quite a while, if ever. Several years later, he is performing at a premier ballet in the States and his parents have (unbeknownst to him) arrived from China to see him. Cue sappy music: The cameras show two primitive looking elderly people sitting in the audience in shock while gawking at their son's dancing (something they had never witnessed in their poverty-stricken village); they are crying while watching their uber-talented son, and wondering why he is not wearing pants. When they go on stage after the production to greet him for the first time in several years, the son crumples to the ground.

While I was watching this scene, I was sobbing in that shaky way that happens when your body wants to bawl, but you don't want it to, and then I was surprised when my youngest son came to watch it with me. He was curious what ballet was all about and wondering what could make mommy as crazy as he sometimes does. At one point, the hubs had to ask me if I was okay, and this little 5-year old said, "It's okay Daddy, they're happy tears." I wonder how he knew.

Yes, happy. But. Also curious tears. Curious about what my child's birth mom and dad would think of him if they could see him now. I long to show him off to them, and I wonder at his response--I confess I am partly terrified that he might like to return to them instead of me. Because he does accuse me of being "mean" sometimes often. And no doubt he has fantasies of a better life he could have had anywhere other than here.

You see, about five years ago the hubs and I went to China to pick up our son Thys. Every year on his birthday, I write a little cyber-note to his rents, even though I know that the likelihood of them ever reading these notes or actually meeting him is the same as me suddenly becoming a 22 year-old again.

To the birth-parents of a baby boy with a cleft lip born in late September, in or around Chongquing, People's Republic of China:

Your son is healthy, thriving and well.
He reads. He plays hockey. He is Canadian now. He is in Grade One.
He laughs as loudly as he cries. He is passionate. Fiery. He is a Dog, you know this. He loves action figures, especially knights and swords. And lions and pandas. And puzzles and ipods. He's freakishly good at Temple Run and Plants and Zombies.

He turns six today. You know this too, I know you do. You are thinking of him today and wishing him well. I know it in my bones. And I know you must sometimes ache in your core while wondering and questioning and missing and loving. You must feel the reminder pangs of delivery...how could a mother forget? When a human comes out of your body, you can never pretend one did not. It is as if you deliver a part of your soul. And it lives on with or without you.
I long to reassure you. To show you: Your curious souls inhabit his little body, birth mom and dad, and is one I sometimes do not recognize. It is not mine or my husband's. It is yours. It exists. You exist in him.
And he reminds me often that we as parents are only a temporary gig. We will expire with the sun. Our job is calculable. Then he returns to the universe. To God knows where. To look for you? To find his soul?
Right now, we do our best around here. The most anyone can do as a parent on duty. He keeps us laughing... and crying... and cleaning... and he keeps us honest.
His memory is impeccable.
We talk of you often. He even prays for you sometimes.
I'm sorry you do not get the pleasure and pain and expense of raising him. But I'm glad that we do.
He is our son too.
Nothing but Ai, Ai, Ai.

Behold: Random Friday

I used to see an old man with an ugly face whenever I ran around the park at 4 p.m.
I often tried to smile and say hello, but he never returned my eye contact.
Eye contact is meaningful. It can mean everything. Or sometimes nothing.
I used to get at least ten hugs every Sunday morning at my Church
It will be some time before I receive another hug from anyone other than my family.
But. Hugs from my family are better than a clean house, Greek yogurt, and sunsets.
Sometimes my husband bribes The Children
to hug me and tell me that they love me.
They don't know I hear him do this.
And even though I know it's a paid deal, I still love it.
I used to know where everything from liquor stores to the DMV were located,
and the back routes to get there.
Now I need to program everything into my phone's GPS,
and risk getting an expensive ticket for having my phone out while driving.
I need to leave it in the trunk.
I used to sit on my back patio most evenings,
And within five minutes I would usually have a visitor or five.
And these evenings would often turn into late nights of laughter and music and stories.
Now I watch all of the strangers walk by and I hope that someday I will know them.
I used to check my phone several times a day to see what was going on.
Now I barely need to charge it, no one likes to make international calls.
I used to get my mind all tangled over all I had to do in one day.
Now after I get the boys to school, I read Julian of Norwich with my coffee.
Slowly.
It's nice being retired. But it's scary too.
As in, how are we going to afford my 40th birthday party/vacation of the century scary.
Julian of Norwich was a genius. She says things like,
"In God's voice I never hear a hint of blame."
And. She uses the word "behold" often. And I like that word.
I also like the word colloquialism. Say it. I feels good. And kinda sexy.
I used to think about writing often.
Now I write.

Myles bumped me when I was taking this shot (this is mere feet from our new home) and I liked the crooked.

sister, let me

The particular community in which we've chosen to reside in Canada reminds me of 1982.

As if I've been away to college for the past few decades, and have just returned to my childhood. Particularly at Church. And since I'm retired, I have time to go to Coffee Break. This is a CRC (my childhood denomination, one that we're considering re-entering) staple. It is a weekly meeting for women that meets throughout the school year. In it, women socialize, study the Bible, sing, and drink coffee (duh). One of my new friends invited me to her Church's Coffee Break (well, okay, actually it was my Realtor who invited me, and I suspect that her motive was an effort to introduce me to other women so I would stop bugging her twice a day for recommendations for everything from dentists to hairdressers). I read the "invitation text" to my husband and his drink got stuck in his throat. It was like telling him I got invited to a Tupperware Party, or a Sewing Club. And then he said, "You're going to go, aren't you, for fodder for your blog."

Yup.

So. I did. I went. Even though I texted my Denver girlfriends and asked, "should I shoot myself or go to Coffee Break?" And they recommended the former.

And my Realtor/only friend in Canada was thrilled to see me. It was sweet really. It was like she had just won the Bring-A-New-Person-To-Church Award. I had to write my name on a sticky Name Tag which an old lady stuck on my boob. And then we played Bingo Name Games. Sure did. I didn't win, but we all clapped for the person who did win. Clapped so loud like she had just won the Nobel Peace Prize. I think the woman next to me may have been crying. And then we drank coffee out of real China--cups AND saucers. And then the Lady In Charge told us that we should bring our own cups next time and that we should also help with dishes after the meeting. And then an older lady handed me a Bible Study book and said, "Here you go. You can pay us for it next time. Read it and be prepared for the study next week." And I said, "Bite me." No, really, I just smiled and kept my hands in my lap, waiting to see if she'd actually drop it on the table. She didn't. I simply said, "I'm going to need to think about this."

The only person with a penis, The Pastor, made an appearance. He congratulated us all for being "women who care about and study the word." To me it felt like he was saying, "Thank you for understanding your diminished place in the world. You are best at dishes and fill-in-the-blank Bible studies. You are best at holding babies and mopping floors and giving blow jobs. Leave the real study and teaching to us men."

I am not making any of this up.

The singing: A woman in stripes went to the podium to lead us in singing (she had complimented my dress during the Bingo game, so I was a bit partial to her). She stood behind the podium and her little blond head barely bopped up and down to an old hymn. I'm not sure how she "led" us other than she was something we could look at while we sang. Because when you sing in a room with 80 other women and you're sitting at circular tables, that deeply awkward feeling creeps into your gut. You have nowhere to look except the words. And you desperately want to look up. But when you do, you catch someone else's eye and you both look down quickly. Because you're supposed to be worshipping. It's like trying not to notice when someone is naked. This happened to me once when I was enjoying a long walk along the beach with a dear friend, deep in conversation. Suddenly we realized that we had entered a Nude Beach because we saw a man with visible jangles approaching. And I tried so hard to act as if the ocean soaked up all my attention, but when I faltered, I happened to look right at the wrinkled jewels. And I said hi.

The second song that Stripes led us in she called, "Number 91 in your Coffee Break Song Book."

And it went like this:

Sister let me be your servant, let me be as Christ to you; pray that I may have the grace to let you be my servant too.
We are pilgrims on a journey, fellow travellers on the road; we are here to help each other walk the mile and bear the load.
I will hold the Christ-light for you in the night time of your fear; I will hold my hand out to you speak the peace you long to hear.
I will weep when you are weeping; when you laugh I'll laugh with you. I will share your joy and sorrow till we've seen this journey through.
When we sing to God in heaven, we shall find such harmony, born of all we've know together of Christ's love and agony.

And even though I was disgusted at the awkwardness and cheesiness of the whole business, I was crying. Real tears. The words of this debacle reminded me of all my girlfriends who are far away. The bring-me-a-bottle-of-vodka, call-me-at-2 a.m. friends that I don't have in Canada. The ones who held my hand when I was scared of a diagnosis, and laughed with me after I claimed to know how to parent, and held me to a high standard when my marriage began to show signs of crumbling... And maybe I was also crying because I am just not ready to be in public yet. Or maybe I got smacked in the face, once again, for my own arrogance. As if I'm any better than this collection of women simply because I may be used to more progressive worship or teaching. As if I can condescend to them because they still have feathers in their hair and I can't tell if they're trying to be stylish by wearing high-wasted pants or they have been wearing them for the past 20 years.

In truth, they are on a journey, like I am. And in truth, I think some of them could hold my hand. If I can find the grace to let them.

stripping to sermons

Now that I'm retired and my kids are finally in school, I am finding things to keep me occupied during my lonely days. Most recently, I have taken up...stripping. I know, it's a stretch at 38. And even though I'm not very good at it (I'm rather clunky) and it's tough work (I almost fell off a high surface twice today) and I get really sweaty (it really is a lot of work), and the hubs interrupts me often (though he's totally okay with me doing it, as long as I only do it in our house), I enjoyed it immensely.

I enjoyed demolishing WALLPAPER into shreds today because I listened online to my former pastor's sermons that I've missed over the last few months.

And I found my soul nurtured in a most ironic position. While scraping, I re-learned all about the Apostle Paul and his battles with the early Church... while soaking down walls with Dif, I was reminded that I am loved by the Creator of the world, and that there's not a thing I can do to make him love me any more or any less... while reaching up to high corners of my ceiling with a sharp object, I was challenged to let go of my misconceptions about a God of judgment and fear and instead embrace a life of adventure and devotion.

And then I missed my old pastors desperately. The new ones I've found here don't hold a candle or even a dim-lighted alarm clock to them. But maybe I need to give Canadians a bit more of a chance. Maybe I listen differently to people who know my soul like my old pastor's did. When someone holds your hand through the depths, you tend to listen to them.

Things can happen in the most unusual places.

And no doubt my biggest reader and fan will be slipping one dollar bills into my g-string sweatpants when I'm back at it tomorrow.

*correction: My hubs already read this and gently informed me that Canadians do not use one dollar bills, they were replaced by the one dollar coin, The Looney, long ago. Now he is quietly tapping my behind and saying, "clink." Clearly, I am not Canadian yet.