Category: Journaling My Days

I journaled for years on paper and I expect to be doing it in some form until my last days. In short summary, I teach mindfulness to parents of kids with challenges; I garden as often and as much as I can in Wisconsin and I am working through the threads of grief six years after my husband’s death. I am very grateful for finding and chasing the joy in this unexpected life.

coming home

Coming home: Get on a bunch of planes. Watch a bunch of movies and eat the weird combination of what is airplane food—My favorite food during our longest flight today from Tokyo to San Francisco was two saltine crackers with a pat of cream cheese. Exactly like something I’d eat when there was nothing else to eat in the house. Try to sleep mostly unsuccessfully and ultimately stumble from plane to plane to immigration/customs to plane and to a lovely friend who drove us home.

After thirty hours traveling, those beds in Newton were incredibly comfortable!

But to back up —

On our last night in Hanoi, we had a hot pot supper—various kinds of meat and vegetables that are brought to the table raw along with a pot of boiling broth on a heater.  It’s good and I’ve liked the idea both back home and in Hanoi.  We’ve eaten it a number of times in Vietnam, but truthfully, when I go out to eat, I’d much rather have the cook do the cooking instead of one of us at the table. Still, it seems like a favorite with the people of Hanoi, including our friend, Tra My. 

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Hoi An in the rain

And I am missing home stuff.  After a month and six days, I will allow myself such feelings.  Mostly missing is of three varieties: First, I miss Cheshire, Justin and Wilbur, and being a small part of their lives.  Pictures of Wilbur attests to six weeks of him growing.  Even at home, I don’t have an independent relationship with Wilbur—yes, he is one—and so it follows that so far away feels like I will be a stranger when I return.  Or at least, I believe so right now.

Yes, a bit of self-pity. Even during high adventuring.

Second, I miss my church community.  I get the emails!  The list serv with announcements.  A few weeks ago, I felt like I was keeping up with the goings on.  Now, I feel cut off and missing—the Ferry Beach weekend, a special choir concert, the early November Music Sunday music, the 175th birthday of the church lunch.  And lastly, I miss my HILR community—course work, lunches, special concerts and lectures.  I am grateful and happy that I’ve kept up with the one zoom class that I have—those late night class meetings have been an interesting comfort.

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riding the night bus

“It’s all in your head.”

I can hear my father saying it. My mother didn’t correct him even though she suffered the same ailment as I did. Often. I don’t remember him saying it to her but he said it to me. Often.

“It’s all in your head.” He said whenever I got car sick.

On a city bus from Bloomfield to Newark in New Jersey, sometime during the last years of big department stores clustered around Market and Halsey Streets, my mother and I set out to have a shopping day. I was accompanying my mother because I was the oldest girl in our family; however, I was not the best shopping companion. As a short, fat, rather plain child who leaned towards play pants, never  dresses, I didn’t enjoy department stores. My younger sister would have been the better choice.

Still, Mom and I boarded the number 128 bus bound for Newark and chatted amiably as we passed Bloomfield Center and headed down Bloomfield Avenue. The 128 was not a local bus and did not stop at every corner, but there were still plenty of stops. The bus slowed down, pulled over to the right to the curb, stopped, then started again, pulled out into traffic and took on as much speed as city streets allowed.  I was always queasy on buses but I was too young to take one alone and the family usually travelled by car.

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dinner party

I read my posts from the beginning of last month, days before we left for Tokyo, and I feel like they were written by a person from another time.  Not another person.  I am the same in many ways.  Still mothering Julia with a lot of resistance, still looking for what she will do when we get home (You can email from anywhere although responses are no quicker from far away), still bickering with Julia which is doing neither of us much good, still trying to figure out how to deal with her body dysmorphic perseverations, still trying to inspire her to desire to do something, anything.  

But there are other “stills.” No, perhaps, still is the wrong word, the wrong idea.  

Three weeks into this journey and I acknowledge that I feel challenged on many fronts.  In these wee hours of a night time becoming morning, I acknowledge that watching Julia fit into our Asian adventures brings a certain amount of pleasure.  I have not technically brought her home, not yet anyway, but we are somewhere where she is much more related to the dominant culture than I am and that feels right.  I’ve found a way to get her drawing and painting, at least somewhat.  A few days every week we trade a very small notebook back and forth, taking turns drawing and painting.  Not great masterpieces but some simple pleasure.  It is also wonderful to have a traveling companion who likes to do so many part of travel that I love—long and sometimes multiple visits to museums, days when we are closer to just living here than sightseeing and being tourists, and reveling in the unexpected which lies around almost every corner.  It has meant that I have to give up control of everything but there is comfort in that too.  Not that releasing my killer grip on travel plans has been without discomfort.

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Van Mieu-Quoc Tu Giam

We spent a long morning, not as hot as many of the ones that came before but still sweaty hot, at the Temple of Literature, in Vietnamese, Van Mieu-Quoc Tu Giam.  This was my favorite place 22 years ago when I came with my friend, Jennifer, to adopt her daughter.  And it remains a favorite—now, with an excellent audio tour.  It is a place of calm and peace in the middle of the chaos of Ha Noi.

Van Mieu-Quoc Tu Giam was founded in 1070 as a temple to worship Confucius. A short 6 years later the next Emperor established the Imperial Academy on the Temple grounds as a royal school for nobles, and bureaucrats. Other students were accepted based on competitive exams as a way of filling the civil service.  It seems it didn’t take long for the prestigious academy to diversify their student body.  I wonder if those nobles and bureaucrats didn’t get bored of their own company.  Maybe they just needed some smart guys.  The last exam took place around 1919.  Of course, candidates were only considered if they were male and sons of landowners, sons of singers, performers and criminals were not allowed into the exam.  The school was strict and too many violations of the behavior code could result in expulsion or loss of a head.

For all its restrictions, Van Mieu-Quoc Tu Giam is a magical place of learning, a place that has valued education and right living for more than a thousand years and for that I love it.

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moving house

It was my plan to keep up with my online activities and possibility even attend a few Sunday churches via zoom.  So far, I’ve made it to last week’s HILR Memoir Class.  I have a Writer’s Group tonight (Boston Friday morning) that I am missing to take the night bus to Sapa.  We are going for the weekend with Tra My and family and I was somewhat confused about the conversion of days and times when I agreed to tonight’s transportation.

I emailed my group of writers in their early morning, apologizing for my bad planning, and almost immediately got a reply that I should “Have no regrets. You are growing and exploring larger worlds. Lap it up- and take us with you. Have a super time!”

In many circumstances these days, I feel the lift of community under, above and all around me.

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Ha Noi

After the pristine guest house and ways in general of Tokyo, we plunge into Ha Noi’s old quarter.  I was here 20 years ago with Jennifer who was adopting Mai how was a mere 6 months old at the time.  Ha Noi is both insanely busy and chaotic and daring and completely unknown, and then, it is like coming home.  I recognize the chaos, the grittiness of a place build over and over upon itself.  The layers of history, of living, of what is decaying underneath what is thriving.

And we’ve been here since 2 a.m.

We are staying in a very funky place—the absolute opposite of Guest House Wagokoro in Arakawa.  

Autumn House is down a very deep and dark and narrow alley.  A house of three narrow floors—one room per floor—the only “window” in each room is a floor to ceiling french door that opens to a tiny balcony and another back alley.  Right now it feels a bit unnerving, but give me a few days to see how I feel.  

20 years ago, I stepped out of our hotel and a shot of terror ran through me at the idea that if I was not careful I would could make an unthinking turn and never find my way back to the hotel.  This morning I am not as fearful, but I do carefully take a picture of the entrance to our alley and note the building across the street.

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food

The food is wonderful–feeding body and soul. I’m sure there is some exceptions somewhere here but we have not found them yet. We have not been able together into our neighborhood sushi restaurants for supper. They are full or ready to close when we are ready to eat. We will try harder. Ramen, however, is an easy find.

Ou first ramen restaurant:

And more last night:

My food photography needs work. If I promise myself to post more, I may get better.

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taking up the . . .

Taking up the . . . Like in “the slack.” 

The direct opposite of what I scribbled one day in November 2014.

Rarely do I wake up before Julia these days and get to plunge immediately onto the page.  Into the page?  Okay, so I washed my face, brushed my teeth, made a latte with three shots of espresso—the third a treat for the day—made the bed and then opened the laptop.

The morning light streams into the living room making it almost difficult to type.  I haven’t lived in this house in the autumn but I am almost sure that this is what autumn light will be like.  The angle of summer light coming into the living room has shifted. This new light is gentler, smoother than what has shined in since late May.

Everywhere.  Everywhere all around me, the season is changing.  A few days ago on a walk, Julia and I spotted some brown leaves on the ground.  Very early victims of the transformation or just unfortunate late summer victims of overwatering?  No matter they are the harbinger of change.

Facebook posts aplenty of children being driven to move-in days at their colleges and parents feeling the first sting of empty nesting.  Oh my friends, you will endure and prosper very soon.  Younger families posting pictures of first days of many, many grades. Smiling faces, new sneakers, expectation galore. And hope.

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tasting failure

Very rough day. Somewhere around 10 a.m., I received this email from a program director:

“It was great to see you and meet[] Julia this week. Our team felt that what we provide and the environment could be over stimulating for Julia. We think a smaller size structure program will be a good fit for her. I did reached out to Nancy from DDS with feedback. I am sure you will be able to find a program for Julia.”

That last sentence — “sure you will be able to find a program” — really stung.

Julia and I visited the program, Delta Projects, on Tuesday. Julia’s behavior was not perfect but by the time that we left, she was in conversation with some of the staff and a few of the participants. I was hoping that Delta Projects was a possibility for her. The director’s email quashed that hope.

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