Tag: family

a cherished empty box

I think I’ve started every writing of the last two weeks with some version of “gray day.”  And rain this morning, like so many others.  If this was snow, we’d be up to our eyeballs.

But it is not.  

I do like waking up early, before Julia (which is rare), making coffee and sitting down to write. And admittedly, the gray, rainy days make sitting in front of the usually over sunny front-of-the-house window easy on the eyes. 

I started a Christmas post late on that day. Intended to be mostly pictures with a few words.  When I looked at the result, I laughed at myself.  The pictures were of the darling boy. Almost all of them, a few glimpses of Justin, his dad, and Julia but only because the two of them were helping Wilbur unwrap something.

And I thought, what a besotted grandma I have become! Not really like every other grandparent, but like many that I know. Not like my own parents—they had their hands full raising one grandchild and had another three who lived closer than we did and were more to their liking.  

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process & peace

Another eve. Gray today. My christmas lights, sweet during the dark nights, don’t light up a day time room, even a gray day. I’ve finished the work of the days before—tree decorated, presents bought and wrapped, times for visits and choir and gift opening and dinner set, even cards signed and sealed even though not yet delivered.  Yesterday, with only little bits to do, Julia and I drove around to deliver cookies to those who were not where they were expected earlier in the week.  We stopped once and chatted and that was good. The car needs packing for this afternoon at Ed’s family, for tonight at choir, for later tonight at Cheshire’s and for tomorrow morning’s gift opening. 

And what to anticipate watching someone at 16 months on Christmas?  He is all eyes and questions . . tat? tat? with arm outstretched and fingers pointed.  Last night, I dreamed that he was walking around the living room, secure and proud of himself. In reality, he is taking a few steps  between two sets of arms when he forgets his caution. 

He tasted and liked my yearly baking of poppy seed rolls on Friday at lunch.  A new person to bake for is my own delight. I can hope that he remember my baking like I remember my grandmother’s Easter bread—white, not moist and perfect with butter.

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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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bits of Ha Noi

Surprises around every bend.  And always good to be just a little prepared. Perhaps a little open and curious.

Case in point: this morning’s iced coffee—expresso with almond milk and fresh milk (no skim or 2% anywhere in sight) and I’m sure a little sugar—contains little coffee “jellies.” The first jelly slips up in the straw and surprises me.  A worm?  Okay, it is nothing like a worm but  . . . and it is just one of many of these exquisite jellies.  Julia’s chocolate soda drink has chocolate jellies.

Also, a find from a few days ago—tiny and perfect cream puffs. Oh, to die for!  We are walking and sweating so much that a few cream puffs at the end of the day is of no consequence.

It is a balmy 80 degrees this morning and boy, it feels like autumn. Or early summer. Just something lovely.  And a breeze!

We have been very lucky with the air conditioning in all of our lodgings.  It is neither too hot or cold and adjustable.  This has saved us over and over—mid-day naps when the sun is unbearable—and then, out again when the sun goes down.  The sun goes down pretty early or rather, we are experiencing fall sun sets with summer temperatures.  

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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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adulting

Friday.  Sheets of rain are falling outside my living room window.  Julia is in New Hampshire at sleep-away camp and I am so glad I packed some warm clothes, her rain jacket and a long poncho for her!

I has been lovely being a grown up for the week.  I’ve not really cooked a single meal—lots of breakfasts out and left over freezer stuff popped into the microwave.  I’ve eaten supper at 10 at night when I finished my work, and I’ve written long overdue emails although I’ve just gotten to a few today that I thought I’d write a few days ago.  

I’ve printed out about half the memoir pieces I’ve written and pinned them up on a wall in my study with the hope of finding some order for them.  Right now, the pieces are in rows but I am imagining changing that to be a winding path up the office wall.  Pretty appropriate considering my story—absolutely no straight lines! 

I’ve booked places to stay in Tokyo and the first week in Hanoi.  I need to get serious about making notes of places we can visit and restaurants we can go to. 

The rain, as quickly as it began, has abruptly stopped.  And for a moment there is a breeze.

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this is my brave

Last winter, I was part of Flourishing Families, a 6-week program supporting caregivers of young adults who live with mental health and/or substance use conditions to heal and build sustainable, health-promoting relationships. The program is part of Boston University’s Center for Psychiatric Rehabilitation. In March, our BU facilitator announced that This is My Brave would produce a storytelling night based on stories from Flourishing Families. I submitted a story and spent a bit more than a month rehearsing via Zoom with seven other storytellers.  We met in person the afternoon of May 23, and that evening we told our stories. It was wonderful to tell and listen, and most of all, it was an honor, a blessing and so cool to meet and spend time with these marvelous women plus our BU facilitator and our My Brave producer. 

The full show can be found on YouTube at: 

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unpacking

“It’s Wisconsin,” Julia said Friday morning as she stepped outside.  As if Wisconsin was a season or a a weather description like sunny or cloudy.  It was cold yesterday and overnight and this morning it is colder—cold enough to run a bit of water in the kitchen sink to make sure the pipes don’t freeze.

But it is hardly Wisconsin.

And I check myself to see if I miss those brilliant sunny and frigid days in Madison.

Yes, somewhat.  What I miss is my people, my community, my chalice circle, my Quest group, Julia’s teachers and therapists and some very good friends.  

I do not miss the cold.  I could feel nostalgic for every one of those people if temperatures there never once dipped below freezing.

We are a week in the new house.  There are fewer piles of boxes in the corners, there is a somewhat comfortable arrangement of furniture in the living room, there are some books on shelves.

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cook, talk, laugh, eat

I’m up before the alarm, that I turned off last night, would have sounded and ready to . . . back in some old day, I would be . . . um, I wonder how far back I should be going to say what I mean to say today.  This is the traditional time of gathering beloved souls together for cooking and eating and hopefully taking a walk before falling asleep in front of some movie on a cushy couch.  And this time has been hard won.

I cast the net far enough back to state that my mother’s traditions did not fit me well; and during our East Village days with baby Cheshire in tow, we started to cook for ourselves and our friends. Cooking and talking and laughing and eating.  Sometimes too many people crowded into our tiny apartment on First Avenue and sometimes we all went to Park Slope and celebrated in Carolina and David’s sprawling apartment.  On a marble topped coffee table with one chip out of the wood frill frame, Carolina served glorious antipasto and David made margaritas.  And we got to the turkey much later.  Cooking and talking and laughing and eating. 

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