Voice

Today, I walked down the trail, looking up at the pines, unable to express what was happening inside of me. “Give me a poem, God,” I pleaded.

 

Pines, amber and green, slanting upward

Light spilling into gleaming bars

Silence steals from heart to mind, silence whispering;

Hush—for even the forest has a voice.

 

And across the blue and golden ranges

Forests lie unrobed in light’s un-aging glory

Rolling, far-flung, and rolling, further and rolling

Hush—for even the mountains have a voice.

 

Twilight lies low on the mountain’s edges

Pinks and blues, outlined on the ridges

Gray and blue; and gray fog rolls, sealing the night

Hush— for even the dusk has a voice.

 

The forest and the mountains cry out day after day

The dusk and the night shout of glory

The mind grows silent, the silent heart alive;

Hush—hush! Even your Maker has a voice.

 

Photo credit: pixabay.com

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Remember

I live in a world where vehicles crowd

Each other in unending race;

Streetlights outshine the stars at night

And smog smothers the young moon’s face;

The air is heavy with the scent of fumes

Even at night the din rarely dies;

Yet I find my way in this rush of life

Where myriads of sound from the city rise.

 

And sometimes they ask me, do you remember

The elms in the winter night?

The falling of snowflakes in the muffled dusk

And the way they dance in the light?

Or the way the mountains look in the rain

When cat-footed and gray comes the mist,

And one by one the lights blink on

Solitary beacons, alone, fog-kissed.

 

No, I have not forgotten, and the memory

Comes quick and gold and keen,

And I know when wind shakes the elms with snow

For I feel a stirring, a glad unseen;

And when the mist comes creeping up the mountainside

And the lights gleam on, a pain,

A beautiful pain, chokes, and I can forget

Only as the wind can forget the rain.

 

October 3 (for Creative Writing class)

featured photo credit: pixabay.com

I Am From (A Tribute to Bravery)

“What is poetry?” I asked my ESL students, leaning on the desk behind me. (featured photo credit: pexels.com)

The answers varied.

“Good thinking and writing.” “If someone loves someone.” “It has points like a song.” “A way to thank someone.” “You want to say something, and you find another way to say it.” “A short sentence that has much deep meaning.”

And then for the next few weeks, we worked on writing poems. Personalities kept on peeking through, as some of them grinned to themselves and laughed gleefully every now and then. Others pursed their lips and puckered their brows, while carefully penciling in the words, or gazing into space with a faraway look in their eyes. Today we read them off and made a few final touches.

My students are only “my” students for an hour and a half each week and even less than that since they are split into two groups and I teach each group for 45 minutes. Each one is first year physician’s assistant in training, a program at Earth Mission Asia (EMA). They will study  in Chiang Mai for about 8 months before leaving in December to continue their training in Karen State. Earth Mission Asia is a program that works to provide medical training and care for the people of Karen State, Myanmar. For more information, visit the above link and consider supporting them financially or in prayer here.

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Above photo credit: Earth Mission Asia

I met these students in August and have seen them almost every week since then. And I just like them. Some people you have to work to like, but there’s something about these students that is so easy to like. Many of them come from mountain homes in Karen State and some of them have spent time in the refugee camps along the Thai/Myanmar border. English is their second or third language.

I don’t know all their stories, but the poems they wrote opened a door into their lives.

Looking over them tonight one last time, I think I know a bit more of what poetry is.

It is a glimpse into the tapestry of life itself. It is a tribute to bravery.  It is embracing heritage and past. It is realizing that the person that God created you to be is in fact a beautiful person. It is hope.

Below are a few of them. They are based on the “I Am From” template, found here. I posted my own poem like this in August, here. For this activity, I adapted the template slightly, and also encouraged them to deviate from it if they felt like it. With their permission, I am posting the poems here.

While I know that posting ten poems all at once is a whopper, I can’t bear to cut any of them out. I love them and I love their bravery.

(Because of security reasons, I needed to remove some phrases here and there from the poems. While this makes me sad because I know how much these experiences played a part in their lives, I do not want to endanger any of them when they go back to their home country.)

Based on the poem “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon.

I Am From

-by Saw Hsar Eh Say (Year One EMA Student)

I am from the white cup on the table, from the guitar on the wall.

I am from the wooden house near the mountain and from the aroma of coffee’s sweet smell.

I am from dogs playing under the house, from the mango tree whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from praying before meals and from eating noodles.

I am from “where will you go?” and “when will you come back,” and singing gospel songs.

I am from shy and quiet. I am from Ye and Man Aung village and betelnut.

I am from my mom and dad talking a lot to each other.

I am from studies at the school with friends and my grandmother dying and God’s picture on the wall.

I am from happy and talkative.

I am from hot windy summers and cold and raining.

I am from all these and more.

 

 

I Am From

-by Pa Tall   (Year One EMA Student)

I am from Shan Dot village and from axes and machetes.

I am from a small bamboo house in the mountains of Karen State, from the aroma of flowers.

I am from cows and oxen, from bamboo, jack trees and mango trees, whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from inviting villagers to eat together and from eating chicken boiled with rice.

I am from “go to work” and “what are you doing.”

I am from shy and talkative. I am from Shan Dot village and Him Ma Wa village, and rice and soup and pounded chilies.

I am from my brother falling down the tree and breaking his right hand.

I am from Christmas concerts and fleeing from my home and bamboo baskets.

I am from noisy and sensitive and serious.

I am from hot and raining.

I am from all these and more.

 

 

I Am From

-by Kaw Tha Blay   (Year One EMA Student)

I am from pots, from pictures.

I am from a small bamboo house surrounded by mountains, from the aroma of fresh wind.

I am from cats, from the banana tree whose long gone fronds I remember as if they were my own.

I am from Karen tribe and from eating fish paste.

I am from “Ta blu” and “Ta po” and “Oh My People”.

I am from sensitive and hilarious. I am from village and rice.

I am from wanting to fly by plane.

I am from trucks and knives.

I am from noisy and quiet.

I am from hot, cold, and wet season and trees all around.

I am from all these and more.

 

 

I Am From

-by Naw Moo Hsar Paw   (Year One EMA Student)

I am from a hot place beside the dam.

I am from the wooden house beside the mountain and water, from the aroma of bananas.

I am from cats, birds, chickens and dogs, from the banana tree, betelnut tree, and mango tree, whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from praying before meals and Christianity and I am from rice porridge with meat.

I am from “ta blut” (thank you) and “see you next time.”

I am from talkative and noisy. I am from Ler Wah and Hsa Ti township and soup.

I am from being born in the bamboo house near the river.

I am from praying with my siblings, and from not enough food, and my parent’s wedding picture on the wall.

I am from talkative and hilarious.

I am from very hot in the summer and not too cold in the winter.

I am from all these and more.

 

 

I Am From

-by Pa Chit     (Year One EMA Student)

I am from the small village of Kaw Thoo Lei in the mountains of Karen State.

I am from the bamboo house beside the river in the jungle, from the aroma of flowers and tree flowers.

I am from goats, from banana trees and betelnut trees, whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from Christianity, and from eating fish paste and betelnut.

I am from “gaw ler gay.” (good morning)

I am from no education and poor education. I am from Dawe Loe village and rice and vegetables.

I am from my grandfather dying in front of my eyes.

I am from riding buffalo with my cousin, and from guns.

I am from quiet and shy.

I am from hot, cold and rainy.

I am from all these and more.

 

 

I Am From 

-by Paw   (Year One EMA Student)

I am from Lah Kyo Koe.

I am from the bamboo and wood house in the jungle around the mountains, and from the aroma of flowers.

I am from cats and dogs and pigs, from coconut tree and flowers, whose long gone petals I remember as if they were my own.

I am from eating together every time, and I am from eating rice.

I am from “sleep” and “eat” and singing God songs.

I am from shy and quiet. I am from villages and mountains and smoke and betelnut.

I am from singing in the church with my family.

I am from playing games with my friends as a child, from my father having to go to the clinic, and rice.

I am from happy and loving.

I am from hot weather.

I am from all these and more.

 

 

I Am From 

-by Poe Baw   (Year One EMA Student)

I am from the worship room, and from an old bicycle.

I am from a wooden house in the rice fields, from the aroma of my mom’s curry smell.

I am from pigs beside the house, from the teak tree whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from Karen New Year, and I am from eating Ta Ka Paw.

I am from “gaw ler gay” and “ta blut,” and “eh na.”

I am from talking nicely and funny speaking. I am from Kwee Lay village and rice and soup.

I am from having severe asthma as a child, until my mom gave up on me. But I know God loved me and He saved me so I can live until now.

I am from bicycles and hats, from the book store, and from the Bible.

I am from noisy and talkative.

I am from weather that is too hot.

I am from all these and more.

 

 

I Am From 

-by Poe Dah   (Year One EMA Student)

I am from Kaw La, from Lay Ther Kou.

I am from a wooden house in the mountains of Karen State, from the aroma of rice cooking.

I am from horses, from coconut trees whose long gone fronds I remember as if they were my own.

I am from saying good night and praying, and I am from eating rice porridge.

I am from “I’m hungry” and “let’s eat” and God songs.

I am from normal talkative and funny. I am from Lay Ther Kou and Kaw La and betelnut.

I am from people singing a gospel song and Christmas songs and mortar and pestle.

I am from happy and loving.

I am from cold places.

I am from all these and more.

 

I Am From 

-by Soe Thein    (Year One EMA Student)

I am from rice, from red shirts.

I am from wooden houses in the mountains, from the aroma of flowers.

I am from cats and dogs, and coconut trees and betelnut trees whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from every week going to work, and I am from eating rice, fruits and vegetables.

I am from “ka nah mo pa ka kluh” and “mee sae” and country songs.

I am from shy and talkative. I am from Mae Wai and Dwan Le town and vegetables and rice.

I am from my mother getting sick.

I am from buying a football and Karen shirts.

I am from noisy and some quiet.

I am from rainy.

I am from all these and more.

 

I Am From

-by Yuu Yuu       (Year One EMA Student)

I am from one table and two chairs on the ground and a jar sitting on the table.

I am from the wooden 16 foot house crowded on the plain, from the aroma of beautiful white flowers.

I am from a group of oxen passing by the village, from the fairly big mango tree whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from children first for meals and from rice and green foods.

I am from “ka na moe” and “pa ka lu” and “mee soe soe” and “Pa Ka Sa Ah Blu Ah Poe.”

I am from talkative and quiet. I am from Wai Swe and Yaung Houng and bananas and tea.

I am from a day when I traveled to a big city, and the family pictures on the wall.

I am from normal people and kindness.

I am from dry summers and wet raining.

I am from all these and more.

 

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photo credit: LH

Confessions of a Feeler

One of the hardest things about being someone who processes through writing is when the words simply don’t come. Last evening, as I sat beside the pond at the university I study at, I begin journaling, trying desperately to put into words what I was feeling. But it felt impossible.

This is what I wrote.

“There are moments these days when I find myself supremely happy, almost delirious with joy at the way the clouds pile up over the mountain at sunset and the way the light shafts over the ragged edges of the clouds and the way the birds soar high in the face of the sunset. Or when I find myself walking through the market in the evening when the cool of the day is beginning to set in and I listen to the traditional Thai songs playing over the loudspeakers and greet friends I happen to meet there.

“And then there are moments these days when I am sick to my stomach with a heaviness and sadness, loneliness carving at my soul, curling up deep inside my stomach somewhere. Unexplainable, yes, but still there, something deep and aching inside of me that simply won’t go away that brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. And after the tears, the heaviness remains, and a fragile exhaustion.

“And then there are times when those moments of happiness, loneliness and deep, deep sadness all collide together in one lump inside of me.

“It’s not that I am not happy. I sometimes feel like this is one of the happiest times of my life? How could I be unhappy with the God I love, the family I have, the rich diversity of friendships I can claim, and the joy I feel of being alive in this world?

“It’s just that I am so sad, too.

“For a while, pain and sadness and loneliness can be embraced, and almost welcomed. It’s going to leave you a better person, you know. But after a while the challenge leaves and you simply hurt. And it’s exhausting.

“What is it actually? Some kind of mixture of homesickness and missing all the people that make home home. It’s loneliness when I see a man and woman sitting at the picnic table, talking and laughing in an intimate conversation. Some of it is a longing for something deeper and more, something beyond this world that nothing here can satisfy. But mostly, I am starting to think that it is the burden of a feeler that “catches” the sorrow and sadness that coats this world like a fog.”

That’s what I journaled last night as I sat beside the pond and cried and wished I could somehow turn it all into a poem because if I can express myself, I can find relief. But no relief came. I wracked my brain, trying to think what I ate that could trigger that effect, and wondering what kind of chemicals were at work in my brain.

Does it sound weird? Catching other people’s feelings?

The cloud hung over me today as I journaled and prayed this morning, and as I listened to scripture recordings and baked pizza dough for tomorrow. It stayed over me while I baked some cupcakes and stirred together pizza sauce and swept and mopped the breezeway. Only tonight as I begin to talk with some of the others about their day, and left the house for the market, and talked with some friends I met on the way, did I begin to feel it lifting. Its going left a relief not unlike the relief you get after a nagging headache begins to lift once you take some painkillers. And only now am I able to begin putting it into words, even though this feeling still sits in my stomach, not as heavy as before, but still tugging at my tears every now and then.

I’ve felt this before, but lately, it’s been harder. It’s been harder to remember who I am really am, and sift through these feelings of what belongs to me and what I am experiencing from the environment around me. Sometimes I can keep on going on the outside as if nothing is going on on the inside. Other times I simply need to get away, yet I have realized that I need to be careful not to simply be alone too long, because sometimes it can also increase the depression, if I don’t have answers yet on how to deal with it.

I’m only now expressing it, but I’ve felt it often, sometimes in crowds of people like the night market, when I watch the hundreds of people walking and begin to feel an inexpressible sadness. I felt it as a teacher of a student with deep anger and pain issues. I found myself crying after school, deep in pain myself. Thinking back, I’ve experienced it more times than I can count.

Being a feeler, or an empathizer, means that you can easily see someone else’s viewpoint, enter into their pain with them, feel what they are feeling. This is a gift, this ability. It lets you walk beside others and have a window into their world.

It’s also dangerous.

I talk with someone who is cynical against my faith and the core values I embrace. I begin to feel cynical.

I read a book about someone who doubts everything he grew up thinking and believing. I begin to doubt.

I wash back and forth between two opinions, unable to decide on just one of them because I can too clearly understand and feel the pros and cons of both.

A friend is struggling and I am plunged into a gray mood, like a cloud is on top of me and some kind of giant tongue depressor is on top of the cloud.

For a long time, I didn’t write about it. Mostly because I didn’t understand it, or because it sounded weird and witchlike.

Sometimes I realize that it is a call to prayer for a certain person. But sometimes it takes a while for me to catch on who I am supposed to pray for.

I am still wrestling through it, trying to figure out what it is that I am feeling. But simply knowing that I have a tendency to do this has helped me tremendously in being able to stand in the presence of books and people with whom I don’t agree, instead of slinking away for fear that I will be swayed with cynicism or doubt. I can differentiate better what I am feeling and yet, what I still believe. I can also realize that sometimes I feel a certain way through no fault of my own.

Does any of this sound familiar? I have researched it some, and found some answers, however, not much.

I’m curious. What do you think? Have you ever felt this way? Have you ever felt like you overfeel everything?

Kaleidoscope

Close to a year ago, I wrote a poem about my world being on my desk, here. This is a similar poem, now a year later, and this time, it’s in my backpack. 

Photo credit: Pexel

 

My world is in my backpack

Stuffed into pockets and corners and zipped compartments

Crammed until I can hardly close it.

 

Every now and long forgotten items surface

Like the chicken bones my friend found in a pocket one day

Or the little bag of sticky rice I forgot for weeks,

Not unlike the skeletons in the proverbial closet.

 

My world is in my backpack, or at least a ¾ part of it.

 

Crumpled on the bottom is the linguistics quiz

With the mysterious .5 marked off of it,

Several baht coins scattered about unceremoniously

With one lone Abraham Lincoln penny still holding its ground;

Flashcards from aforesaid linguistics prep,

Harmonica that helps release the ache on lonely moonlit nights,

And a long-forgotten packet of fisherman’s friend lozenges;

Socks for when the air-conditioning becomes too much for me

(And when I need the comfort of something cozy again).

Notes from doing a movie analysis needed for my final paper,

And my faithful Kindle which is to me what Friday was to Crusoe;

Crumpled up paper about faith with a chocolate smudge

With a list of children’s names on the back from VBS, reminding me that yes, I was at home this summer.

Breathsavers that I think must have come from my sister’s dresser drawer

From back home in that creaky second story that turns frigid on cold winter nights

(And I really should give them back to her because I completely forgot I had them.)

A crumpled-up business card for a souvenir shop that I can only think came from that Thai lady

The one I met at the airport in China when my flight home was canceled

And she made me cry with her kindness  when we heard the news at 2 AM.

My phone, my key ring that holds 7 keys (of which only 2 I use),

2 USB sticks, eyedrops for when the long drives on my bike are too much;

A receipt for a latte at Start Up café, and at the same time, one crumpled up receipt from

Dunkin Donuts at the Dwight D. Eisenhower airport in Wichita

When I bought a latte on my way back and drank it while reading the card from my mom,

And crying while I ate the cookies that the little blonde boy brought over for me

Just before I left, and he asked me matter of factly,

When the airplane was coming to pick me up?

A lone key that used to be for the old lock on the gate,

A leftover paper from English class with a list on the back

Of items I need for my residency papers.

A flashlight, a pencil a friend gave me just before exams

And a post card my Japanese friend gave to me of a cityscape from her trip to Hungary.

A scissors, a set of watercolor pencils, and a pad of watercolor paper

Just in case, you know, I ever find myself somewhere with nothing to do.

Sunglasses for those long drives to IGo at 5:15 PM,

And two energy bars to sneakily eat at coffee shops when I am too stingy to buy food with my coffee;

Two packs of cards to play games with my English students;

Crumpled and folded and fingered notes from the presentation on nonverbal communication,

When I bent and crushed the papers in my hand, no, not nervous at all.

The planner my friend gave to me at Christmas

That says “The Best Year Ever,” and I think I believe it

Even though the year has been thrown into a backpack

And juggled around through customs and airports and classes

From farm world to city world, from one life to the other.

 

My billfold with 3 different drivers licenses, 2 Thai and one American,

My blood donor card I haven’t used for years,

Along with my student ID and my Bangkok Bank card

And about 10 others I rarely use.

My little catch all bag from a Thai friend for Christmas, full of pens

And a spinner, and highlighters and pencil sharpeners and sticky notes,

With the keychain that has the word “Jesus” on it,

From my friend who has left for the cornfields of Indiana;

A paper left over from Aj. Tony’s survey about how many languages we speak

(And I still can’t decide how many it actually is);

 

Then finally the little miniature airplane I made out of the gold foil

That wrapped the chocolate my friend from Ho Chi Minh City gave me last weekend.

I finger it and lift it up, give it a whirl,

Watch it glimmer,

And wonder.

If I Would Tell You…

 

If I would tell you what a river was like

If you’d never seen one before,

Then I could tell you that it is water

That runs between two shores;

And how it starts with being a spring

And ends with being a sea,

But I am afraid I cannot explain

What a river means to me.

 

If I could explain silence and strength and song,

Paint it with brown and gold and blue;

Mold peace and heartache into a bed

For this wide river to run on and through;

Then weave a scarf from the moonlight’s beam,

And capture the life-strength of a tree,

Then maybe, just maybe, I could explain

What a river means to me.

Currently for my creative writing class at Payap University, our homework is to write an hour a day. About anything. Today as I sat beside the Mae Ping river, this is one of the things I wrote. 

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*Photo credits: Melissa Weber

 

words

they are

locked and no one

gives me the key

 

they have lived there for a thousand years

(as old as my soul feels)

pulsating, alive, fluid

 

they are wild and lonely

words

of mountain summits,

love,

somehow light–

and

dusk

 

life and death

so close together

when life rises glimmering,

knowing

death comes

 

I will die

if I do not have

them

 

but though they live,

burning inside me

I do not

understand them

 

and somehow death comes

again, and again.

 

words,

oh these words!

 

light slips through my fingers

 

*author’s note: sometimes I write things that I barely understand myself. But if I really could understand this, it would never have been written.

Gifts of Summer

I was looking through my folder of updates that I send to people at home and found the one I wrote just after I got back to Chiang Mai from my summer at home. 

I cried. 

It was hard for me to adjust back into the swing of things here in Chiang Mai after my colorful summer at home. But once I was adjusted, I almost forgot about it. And that makes me sad, that I would forget something that beautiful. 

So I decided to share it on here. 

I miss them. 

Gifts of Summer

(May 12-July 28)

Lights from the Chinese airfield are bright in my eyes at 4 AM. The floor is hard, yet not too hard to sleep. Something bites my feet and I wonder what kind of insects would inhabit the carpet of Guangzhou airport. 11 hours down and 6 more hours to go until my rescheduled flight leaves. The night has been long, but the people who befriended me have been kind. We have our own little Thai corner in this Chinese airport, these disappointed travelers and I, and we dream our troubles away.

Home feels just right. It is Monday morning and I wake up to a drizzle on the roof. A robin’s rain call echoes. Dad comes striding in over the lawn after fetching the newspaper after the morning’s milking. Smells of breakfast drift up to my jet-lagged body. Life feels good.

The little blonde boy holds the strawberries in his hand and laughs with delight. We sit on the west porch and first munch our fruit, then wash it down with “coffee” which is flavored milk in Grandpa’s mug. He is quite pleased that he uses Grandpa’s mug. “Now we have to watch the birds,” he says, meaning the swallows that swoop over the lawn in the morning.

The night is soft and cool. The train whistle splits the evening air. We run laughing, breathless and barefoot to meet it at the crossroads. Its thunder drowns our heartbeats and we savor the power harnessed by man.

The fork clinks onto the plate of pie. One coconut, one peanut butter chocolate, one apple. The pie case door thumps as it shuts. Ice tinkles as it is scooped into a glass. Someone laughs. The smell of French fries and a thousand other fried things drifts up to the front. I clear the leftover pie plates from the table. Put the tip in my pocket. Scrape the food into the trash. Scoop ice. Fill waters. Grab silverware. Smile. “Would you like anything else to drink besides water?”

The volleyball thumps onto the cement floor before hitting the fence with a “ching.” In. Next serve goes into the net. The spicy smell of evergreens pervades the air, the air is cool and the moon is bright tonight. It is late. I should be in bed. But tonight I am 16. And I am having fun.

The motor throbs in the early morning. The sunrise glows in the east. Cows crowd into the barn. Wipe the dirt from the teats, dip them, strip out a stream of white milk, wipe them clean, put on the milker, dip them, open the gate. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

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They come streaming onto the benches that squeak under the weight. 28 bare feet wiggle as 14 mouths sing the old German songs of Summer Bibel Schule. I relive my childhood in those days, remembering how the big boys used to sing the refrain of “Nur das Blut das Lammes Jesu,” and how deep and scary their voices were and how awe-inspiring they were to little first graders. Then we sing, “Herr ich Komm” and I remember the little jumps we liked to add to the chorus, and wonder how exasperated our teachers must have gotten.

Thistles blow in the wind. The wide sky touches the green world around me and grasses wave. Thrust the spade down. Dig up the roots. Clip off the pretty purple flowers and put them in a bucket. Breath deeply and stretch. The air is medicine.

“Sing it again!” she says fascinated, her eyes bright. I sigh and launch into the 31st rendition of “Boom di ya da” in Thai. “Chan chaub du pukao, chan chaub du talee yai…”

The wheat field sighs. It is pregnant with its harvest and only awaits the teeth of the combine. Elevators seem dominate the horizon, even though there aren’t any more than before. Tractors, trucks and combines drone late into the night. The harvest lures me, calls me, fascinates me.

5:00 AM. June 20. My sister’s cell phone rings and I hear her answer it sleepily from my room. It is my older sister, Susan. “Happy Birthday,” she says.

9:49 AM. June 20. I answer the phone at my sister’s house. “Happy Birthday,” says my brother in law. Evan Samuel, born June 20. Yes, happy birthday!

The bean row is long. Longer than I have ever seen before. And there are 6 of them. Stretching all the way from Pleasantview to Yoder. Yet a feeling of satisfaction fills me as I wipe the sweat off my face and look at the fruits of my labor. It feels good.

Mozzarella sticks. Onion rings. French fries. Mountain Dew. We are not eating healthy this afternoon. Two excited boys share the booth seat in front of me. We eat our fried things with relish, laugh at ten year old boy jokes and sing the worm song as we suck the onions out of the breading. Happy Birthday, Davon.

Creak of the saddle. Sunflowers in my horse’s bridle. Laughter of friends. The night is soft. Lights create crazy silhouettes of rider forms running through the dark and dust. We gallop through the dark, and gallop and gallop and gallop….

Itch….. itch……. Itch…itch… Itch..Itch.Itch.Itch.Itchitchitchitchitchitchitch. The red rash reminds me that I am not immune to poison ivy after all. Itchitchitchitchitchitchitch…..

The cravings come at odd times, late at night when people on the other side of the world are eating their spicy, mouthwatering, lime-juice laden, cilantro-decked food over fluffy white rice. I eat an egg sandwich. And munch cereal.

Cancer. The word splinters the joy of summer with shock. Breast cancer. Brain cancer. We discuss the implications with furrowed brows and hushed voices.

We cram into the cabin as rain drums outside. Twenty-five Hershbergers in one cabin is quite a feat. And quite noisy. The left-behind ice chests finally arrive and we eat the creamy ice cream it contains, savoring the cool before we sing some songs. We have this moment to hold in our hands.

Colors go wild. The wake of the boat swathes white into the blue of the water as we skim along the surface. Red bluffs and blue sky, bluer water and white foam, green grass and white gulls. A gull follows us for a while. We do a loop in the water and I put my hand out to feel the spray. The little blonde boy falls asleep.

Six of them. I count heads again to make sure, make sure none of them bobbed beneath the water too long. We splash in the water and laugh, chasing sticks bobbing on the surface, savoring life.

It was summer. We lived it. It was good.

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I Am From

My friend, Tina, introduced me to “I Am From” poems, which were introduced to her by her housemate, Anita, who blogs about it here.

Every Monday night, the 6 ladies I share a house with and I have our “family night.” Two weeks ago, was my turn to choose an activity, so I brought the templates for writing “I Am From” poems.

It was hard, but rewarding, and fascinating to catch a glimpse into the fabric of what my friends’ lives were made up of.

While I won’t share all of them, here is what I wrote.

(Based on the poem “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon. here)

I am From

I am from Tupperware, from muddy chore boots, and the yellow rotary phone on the wall of the kitchen.

I am from the trailer house under the Osage orange trees on the dirt road, and from the brick and wood and gables two-story house, from the aroma of fresh-baked bread and the scent of cow manure.

I am from the amber expanse of wheat in June, from frail May lilacs, and kittens on the windowsill, the scarlet maple tree whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from reading Luke 2 on Christmas mornings, and pancake breakfasts on the west porch on Memorial Day. I am from eating slow and arriving late, from Daniel and Verna, and Mark and Mary, and Abe and Katie. I am from books and newspapers at the breakfast table, and eating bran flakes at midnight, and popcorn and apples on Sunday afternoons.

I am from “nigh-night” and “luf ya gansi bunch” and “Gott ist die Liebe”, and Laura Ingalls Wilder and Hardy Boys. I am from Thanksgiving dinners with pumpkin pie, and aunts and uncles with whole-hearted belly laughs, and tears running from laughter.

I am from quiet and reticent, from talkative and blunt, from Hutchinson and Kalona and the Alps of Switzerland and somewhere in the northern part of Thailand, from chocolate chip cookies, and from fried cornmeal mush with cane molasses, and from sticky rice.

I am from stormy nights on the way to the hospital when labor pangs seized and trees fell across the street, from shotguns fired by curious boys while guardian angles hovered above.

I am from combine rides and Pepsi on breathless summer afternoons, from barefoot in church singing slow German hymns, from the unvarnished dry sink against the kitchen wall from Great Grandma Nettie, from cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate on snowy mornings.

I am from silent and sensitive, from noisy and hilarious, from dreamer and homebody.

I am from still summer nights, and far away train whistles.

I am from all those and more.

Cha Kiow Yen (Green Tea Lattes)

There are times when writing ideas pop into your head willy-nilly, without being beckoned or called, and they seemingly write themselves in your brain before you even sit down to type. But then there are other ideas that seem to bubble and simmer beneath the surface for ages before they shape themselves into words. These are the things I hesitate to write about, deeper things, because I am still trying to formulate convictions about them.

So when that happens, they will simply have to simmer for yet a while longer. And you get the more light-hearted posts like this one.

I got terribly distracted on Saturday afternoon. I had a deadline for a group project due at midnight, and I was the one responsible for the final revisions to the project with the rest of the group getting their work to me at 8 PM. At 2:00 PM I wasn’t even started with my part of the project. But I kept on getting distracted, and oh, so sleepy.

So, I decided to fix my sleepiness with a cha kiaow yen fix. “Cha Kiow” in Thai means green tea. Green tea lattes are a cheap commodity here, with good ones easily bought along the street for about a dollar. Green tea has amazing healthy properties and are  rather addicting, and I find myself drinking one almost daily. While they contain some caffeine, it is less than that of coffee and gives me energy without making my hands shake. To cut down on expenses, as well as make them a wee bit healthier than what you find on the street, I went on a mission last spring to find out what goes into those green drinks and how to do it yourself.

I was rather surprised at the ingredients of a cha kiaow drink. Gigantic amounts of sugar go into them, which explains why I have found only a few select places that I can get the drink “unsweet” enough to suit me. I toyed around with the recipe until I found out what suited my taste buds and my conscience. Below is the result.

 

Here’s what you need.

1 cup of hot water

1.5- 2  TBSP of green tea leaves (Cha Tra Mue brand)

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1 tsp of sweetened condensed milk

1.5 tsp of creamer melted in a small amount of hot water

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Around .25 cup of evaporated milk (more or less)

.75 cup of milk

Boil the water.

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Steep the tea leaves in the water for at least 3 minutes (I often do longer).

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Strain the water and pitch the old leaves.

Mix the small amount of hot water with the creamer and add the sweetened condensed milk first and then the evaporated milk.

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Pour the milk mixture into the tea.Watch the poetry of the colors mixing.

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Froth the milk (if possible) and pour it on top.

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Add ice if you want some. I tend to be quite jealous of my green tea and don’t want to give any room for ice and the result of its melting, so I like to cool my tea or even partially freeze it before mixing it together.

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You can change up these drinks to suit your taste. I have made them with ice, without ice, with cream instead of evaporated milk, etc. Cream is harder to get here, so hence the Thai substitute of canned evaporated milk.

Not too long ago, I realized that part of what makes the tea such a lovely green is additives and coloring. So much for being healthy. I still drink it, but sometime I do want to experiment with a loose leaf green tea of a higher quality. Especially for those without the Cha Tra Mue brand available, that would be something to try.

I’ve started to reuse the plastic cups and caps and straws that the bought drinks come in. This is very handy and saves on money as well. 🙂

After my cha kiow making, I finally went back to work. It really did help, by the way.

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*thanks to Melissa for letting me borrow her camera again.