Friday, March 13, 2009
I would be like a flower, a rose, so beautiful and graceful, a staple in a love scenario, a pleasant gift, a get-well, thank-you, drive-carefully kind of present.
I would be like kosher salt: a must-have seasoning, reduces sourness, enhances flavors, any chef can't do without.
I would be like a tight rope, a willing prey to circus and its walker, teetering between carefree and flight.
I would be like the morning sun as it slowly creeps up the sky and splashes yellows and orange and pink and sometimes lime green and makes an early riser smile.
I would be like a wave that walks and runs and stampedes ashore, licks the sand and combs the bank free of colorful shells and corals and more sand.
Snorkeling in Moorea, I would marvel at how friendly the slimy manta rays are and thank God for letting me float safely among them and providing an abundant supply of tuna and mackerel.
Vis a vis a cuddly dog, I would make myself twirl like a baton on busy wheels and watch how my furry friend's chubby tail speed up its rotation.
While on a hike with my friend Rose, I would play hide-and-seek, plant myself firmly next to a boulder and cause a search and rescue mission aired on CNN and Nancy Grace while my rock-heart aches for Rose's tears.
Living in a tropical island, I would settle my pumice bottom near an alabaster-sandy beach and muster a sexy whistle everytime a sunkissed local pair of sturdy, hennaed legs saunter by.
When in New York, I would prop my weightless form on a Manhattan apartment's rooftop balcony, perch on the rail and catch my breathless life while watching the city sleep and toss.
Aboard a plane to Asia from the US, I would check myself in a luggage snug enough for me not to roll around and flop back and forth through umpteenth hours of fly time.
Once in Sedona, I would quickly divulge that my race is purely pumice, but that I am open to the possibility of some pink and red rock cousins.
Next to Elvis Presley's star in Hollywood, I would play serious dead with ketchup and larger craters on me just so some paparazzi would take a snapshot and splash my photo on People magazine...so that maybe one day CSI would take notice and hire me as a victim.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
I live it in some kind of daily format now:
Oma, my 99-year old German grandma-in-law lives with us and she seems to breathe the 'im' in my patience every two minutes or so, as long as I'm at home. Over the phone it has become quite impossible, because she hardly hears anything unless it's being screamed at her. She had disposed of two pairs of hearing aid and then, just the other day, reminded my husband to buy her another one. She forgot why she hated her hearing aid in the first place: "The sound gets all mumbled up together...I couldn't understand anything."
What we found out after having her tested was that no hearing aid would have done its job on her, after all. The doctor said that, though her hearing has deteriorated quite significantly from her last test, her comprehension has gone down the drain even worse. Besides she never liked the transition period with the equipment; the adjustment period between the scrambled hearing, to a controlled volume, to where she could easily isolate one sound from the other and combine sounds that make sense together.
Oftentimes, we had to grin and bear the 'im' a lot and learned how to go with the flow and enjoy the other sweeter moments when Oma couldn't hear, much less understand, when we fool around with words or gestures or when we even berate each other over some kind of you-are-wrong and I-am-right, husband-wife back and forth. Sometimes my husband and I could talk three yards away from each other and have some sort of privacy, even with Oma as the third person and a curious black dog with the busy, wagging tail.
It's not even just the hearing: Oma's eyesight, with traces of healing glaucoma on both eyes, is displaying signs of her ninety-nine years. There were times when I had to re-wash the spoons, forks, dishes, pot and pans because they're not quite properly cleaned. [I know, we should already ban her from dishwashing, but she usually insisted and we always complied.] It's easier not to argue much with Oma, because it could be a lot pointless and stupid to even go there. Fortunately, we won the laundry battle twice, two years ago, when she thought bleach was actually the regular detergent and my husband’s ivory-blotched clothes proved that they weren't.
So with her hearing and eyesight on red alert, we learned how to have sharp-like attention despite walls and floors in between. Just yesterday, I watched her move around our eight by twelve kitchen space. [You have to remember that Oma's kitchen is her own little world and it is where she feels the most special. And if you've tasted her banana bread and her chocolate chip cookies, you know she masters the oven and baking these yummy dishes is her forte.] Well, while she moved around with the fridge door open and her slim, pale face halfway in, she had also left the hot water faucet running and the oven turned full on. I waited five minutes to see if she would notice. She went back and forth the fridge, leaving it open, to the sink left of the fridge, wondering what she had to do next.
Can you imagine what just dawned on me while I closely watched? Oma couldn't see the steaming, running water, let alone hear it; nor hear the oven heating up; nor remember what she needed to do next; nor even notice that I was a few feet away from her peripheral view. She moved around the small, square kitchen with her gray eyebrows furrowed and her skinny lips quenched, probably from her own 'im' trying mercilessly to get out.
And perhaps, on one of those rare moments, my own 'im' settled back and hesitated, then stayed way away from the forefront. This time, patience ruled and kept itself exposed, vulnerable and relaxed. I don't know where the 'im' set in a lot of times, but I am beginning to know when and where patience shows up: It is always when the heart is open and where time begins to shut up.
I could almost hear the docile horse quietly tapping its heels, cautiously slow-trotting back, barn ward.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
where does this list end?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Friday, January 09, 2009
Just the other day I watched the movie "Becoming Jane" and became quickly enamored at how Jane demonstrated persistence and courage in her time. She was clearly vocal in her opinions and had a strength of character that ignores gender and vocation. Interestingly, her desire for anonymity cries irony: She was like an open book with her thoughts, but she never quite opened up with her heart. Or else, couldn't she easily have let herself be undisquised in the pages of her book?
I don't know if Jane inspired me to peel myself off, or not. But here I am peeling off and claiming space after blank space to put not enough words to fill.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the desert
and streams in the wasteland.
I haven't watched Pastor Rod Parsley for a long time, but I woke up especially early this morning. He gave this word: Isaiah 43:19. I went to my page in the Bible right away, because the scripture was just what I wanted to hear. After all, I have been consistently praying for His wisdom and strength. When I turned to the page in my Bible, there it was: underlined is the exact scripture, none preceding and none after it.
This brings me back to God's love and faithfulness. He reveals to us what our hearts desire, if we listen carefully and if we trust Him completely. He wants only the best for us!
I must have shut my ears for a long time until this morning when I got His answer to my prayers through Rod Parsley. I keep forgetting that my timing and His timing aren't usually on the same page. I keep forgetting that His ways, though mysterious, are higher than mine. In other words, all I keep thinking is how reliable my own strength and my own wisdom. It's really twisted thinking on my part: To actually ask and pray for wisdom and then rely upon my own strength and smarts to arrive at the answer. It's so unadulteratedly human, if anything.
So there, I hang onto this truth. He is certainly doing a new thing these days! As for me, I'm holding onto His promises which had already been revealed in His Word. Like He said, "It is written."
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Everyday we are bombarded with temptations that look like enhancements or some better way or someone better. It seems that, as we grow in faith, we become more in tune with detecting the difference between a disquised temptation and a real blessing.
I know this much: I am learning, everyday, how to say no to small, confusing temptations.
It is still a bit startling whenever I realize that I can actually turn down a good, old confusing, irritatingly delicious temptation. It sometimes comes as a seemingly minor or trivial desire to buy something that is not even a need, but more like an unnecessary want; or to invite and ignite the lurking horns of office gossip and the luring ways of ignorant tolerance or its ally - the calculating, purposeful, know-it-all arrogance.
Really, His Wisdom embraces even in the littlest of details. The Holy Spirit nudges: It's not for you, my dear! Because you are His and not of this world...
Always, at the peak of it, one temptation, I ask: Who do I choose to be now, to become what I choose to be tomorrow and the next day after and the next day after? Who am I in Him, when all is said and done?
Simply, I don't advertise it, I don't really share it with just anyone, I don't even tell my immediate family about it. I don't even talk about what I really do on a day-to-day basis, or what, quote-unquote, achievements in the bubble-world out there I snag, or how much I do for this and that which, ideal-worldly, merits accolade and, yes, some kind of vertical trophy or something thicker than a cardboard to stuff into some Office Depot certificate frame.
So what is the purpose of this? At first it was just my way of exercise: a sort-of platform to air out what bogs my head when I think, or when I want to say something to someone close but couldn't because it's not appropos at the time or that it's simply immature to even utter, or when I feel like the flow is within me and I want God to be in the know like I am in the know of what's going on in my head, or just to be in the same page with God, because as we all know we aren't always in the same page with the Almighty. It is my own quiet place to be me - suddenly, internally, vocally, artistically, whimsically, stupidly, spiritually - from all adverbial vantage points thesaurus has already, previously factored as a word.
Besides I just am done with the ex-crap, for lack of a better noun, that came with my in-and-ex-baggage I now refer to as pride. It was the stupidity of pride and the ingenuity of embellished prejudice that prevent one's lowest self to be thrown in the air and left to be picked up by a Power stronger and higher than itself. Holding tight to a configuration of self, or the idea of self, is plain stupid in my spiffed-up notion of wisdom, which happens to be the kind that originated from my Maker.
See, I am nobody special to a lot of human beings, but I am special especially to my Maker. This alone, now, gives me peace. He knows what I am doing at all times. I don't really have to announce to Him what my heart's desires are, because He knows me inside and out. But when I blog here, when I use this platform to cry out to Him, it's as if He is right there, ready with His keyboard, ready to respond and comment, or not respond and comment, ready to understand everything I say, ready to forgive me for the foibles that I say in-between-the-lines, ready to decipher the in-between-the-lines before they even come out of here. He is ready for me at all times. He always says, I'm basically yours, my love.
Many times I ask myself: Why do I bother or not bother? Why is it that I am compelled from the deepest recesses of my heart to talk to Him? I don't even seem to exist for any other reason, but to exist for Him. But there is where I could be wrong: He made me for something and that something is so close to me now, just as far as I could stretch my arm. I could smell the purpose. I could even feel the static that creates a whizzing noise when the thin spark implodes. It is here, my purpose. Tapping on my heart, it is here. I am to do what I am supposed to do.
You know what I say to my Maker? Now I say, I am basically Yours, my Maker! Do with me what You will for me to do.
--June 11, 2008, Year of New Beginnings
- ▼ March (3)