Please follow me to a new location. The Senior Hummingbird continues to wander, wonder, and write at:
www.zimatravels.com/wordpress
See you there!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
FOLLOW ME
I have moved my Senior Hummingbird blog into my website, so please continue to follow the Senior Hummingbird as I wander, wonder, and write. Find me at
www.zimatravels.com
See you there!
www.zimatravels.com
See you there!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Starting Anew
There's an unusual confluence of events at this time -- Chinese New Year of the Tiger, Valentine's Day, the Olympics, getting my home ready for renters while I'm away, and packing for a 7 week trip to Taiwan, Bali, Singapore, and China. It was easier to travel in the years when I was a nomad in the world. Having a house and regular obligations involve a lot more details to be thought of and arranged for.
I find the Olympics endlessly happy, sad, inspiring, dramatic, and absolutely riveting. I stay glued to the television, trying to imagine what forces are at work during these two weeks. There are so many pure emotions visible to millions of viewers, and so many contradictions. While the athletes have trained intensively every day for years to be able to participate, their whole futures -- financial, personal, emotional, job-related -- are decided in milliseconds. Rejoicing at scoring number 1 at an event can be very short-lived when the next participants may knock number 1 to number 10.
In the Olympics, 30 is already over the hill or pushing your luck. I love the freshness, unwrinkled youth of the Olympians. But then the announcer explains that the 22 year old who just skied down the mountain in record time has had six knee surgeries. While many have suffered serious injuries, it seems their only goal in getting better is so they can strap on the skis or skates again. It's a devotion to that "something" that makes them well again.
At an age where keeping my physical balance is an effort and a concern, I revel in the way their bodies respond to their commands. And, in spite of being televised around the world, the focus these young people have on their faces to perform as well as possible, humbles me. They face fear and danger as few of us "mere mortals" can in the pursuit of their craft. They don't HAVE to be there; they WANT to be there -- and nowhere else.
While all the ills of our world continue -- wars, famine, sorrow, sickness -- the Olympics pulls together nations of the world far better than the United Nations can. Some of the countries marching in had one or two or just a few athletes. But they walked in proudly, happily, and warmly welcomed by all. There are innumerable inequalities in facilities for training, money for trainers, the backing of sponsors, but there is absolute equality in the Olympic arenas for all the athletes who have won the right to compete. The "best" man or woman can win.
For these two weeks, I want to vicariously look at the world through the eyes of these young people who give their all to succeed in their sport, while, at the same time, spontaneously and whole-heartedly offering support, caring, and even love to their kindred spirits.
I find the Olympics endlessly happy, sad, inspiring, dramatic, and absolutely riveting. I stay glued to the television, trying to imagine what forces are at work during these two weeks. There are so many pure emotions visible to millions of viewers, and so many contradictions. While the athletes have trained intensively every day for years to be able to participate, their whole futures -- financial, personal, emotional, job-related -- are decided in milliseconds. Rejoicing at scoring number 1 at an event can be very short-lived when the next participants may knock number 1 to number 10.
In the Olympics, 30 is already over the hill or pushing your luck. I love the freshness, unwrinkled youth of the Olympians. But then the announcer explains that the 22 year old who just skied down the mountain in record time has had six knee surgeries. While many have suffered serious injuries, it seems their only goal in getting better is so they can strap on the skis or skates again. It's a devotion to that "something" that makes them well again.
At an age where keeping my physical balance is an effort and a concern, I revel in the way their bodies respond to their commands. And, in spite of being televised around the world, the focus these young people have on their faces to perform as well as possible, humbles me. They face fear and danger as few of us "mere mortals" can in the pursuit of their craft. They don't HAVE to be there; they WANT to be there -- and nowhere else.
While all the ills of our world continue -- wars, famine, sorrow, sickness -- the Olympics pulls together nations of the world far better than the United Nations can. Some of the countries marching in had one or two or just a few athletes. But they walked in proudly, happily, and warmly welcomed by all. There are innumerable inequalities in facilities for training, money for trainers, the backing of sponsors, but there is absolute equality in the Olympic arenas for all the athletes who have won the right to compete. The "best" man or woman can win.
For these two weeks, I want to vicariously look at the world through the eyes of these young people who give their all to succeed in their sport, while, at the same time, spontaneously and whole-heartedly offering support, caring, and even love to their kindred spirits.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
New Orleans in the Early 80's
I chose New Orleans from all the rest of the U.S. as my training ground before going to live outside the U.S. It was, and I believe still is, the U.S. city that is the most unlike the rest of the U.S. I had only been there as a tourist once before that, and something about the place appealed to me. But I really didn't understand why until I lived there.
I was very curious about a city that was more than 50% black. Whether in the northeast, where I was raised, or in California, I was all too aware of how separate blacks and whites lived and worked. I had gone to extremes in California to put black people into our daily lives after my husband and I had adopted a mixed black/white child. But in New Orleans, I reveled in the daily interaction of whites and blacks -- in my neighborhood, in my job, in my friendships, and in daily life all around New Orleans. Clearly, the black people of New Orleans felt a sense of comfort and belonging to New Orleans that was different from anyplace else I'd been.
Although the crime rate was high, people in everyday life were generally friendly and casual. Waitresses seemed to assume that everyone's name was "Honey," or "Sweetie." Being poor in New Orleans was acceptable, with fewer people out there to gouge money in any way they could. There was music and happiness, even at jazz funerals going down the streets.
And the food -- that was definitely way above the normal fare of any other U.S. city. I once read that the school system in New Orleans bought more spices for their school lunches than any other place. Even the food at the cafeteria of the local hospital around the corner from my home was cheap and delicious. People cared about what they ate and how it tasted. Being poor was no excuse for not eating tasty food -- gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish, po-boys, and on and on.
After the boring cookie-cutter houses of California, I delighted in the architecture of New Orleans homes. I lived in an old big house that had been divided into a duplex. Fortunately, my unit retained the large entryway with a curving wooden staircase to the second floor reminiscent of Gone With the Wind. In fact, a dramatic poster of Rhett and Scarlet on the wall above the staircase was close to a gorgeous old stained glass window. There were several rooms upstairs, none of which had a boring square or rectangular shape. I bought some unusual used furniture that looked like nothing I had ever owned before. A balcony outside the living room on the second floor gave a panoramic view up and down Prytania Street. I once watched a marathon race go up my street from the balcony. The runners made shimmering waves below as they passed en masse.
My choice of walks was often on the streets of uptown mansions, each one individual in design and decor so that you could easily tell it was well loved by its owners. And there was a beautiful park and pond nearby where I tenderly set down my tadpole after he turned into a tiny, air-breathing frog.
Unlike inconvenient California that required cars for even the simplest of errands, you could actually walk to stores and take the quaint trolley either uptown or downtown. Once downtown, I ate sweet beignets and drank incredible coffee and loved to wander around the used bookstores and unusual shops of the French Quarter, and along the river. I learned about the Cajuns and the Creoles, and voodoo. I have always hated zoos, but the Audubon Zoo was a definite exception to that rule when I lived in New Orleans. Not only did it give me the feeling that the animals were well cared for, but it was the only place I could see the Lone Ranger ride by and fire silver bullets since the tv shows of my childhood. I don't remember quite why the Lone Ranger visited the zoo, but it was most likely one of the many, many festivals that New Orleans enjoyed every year.
New Orleans was the kind of city that loved laughter. The Jazz Festival and Mardi Gras were perfect examples. For the weeks leading up to Mardi Gras, there were parades of outlandishly, garishly, overdressed people on floats, throwing cheap, colorful beads in profusion. On Mardi Gras day itself, everyone who wanted to dressed up -- a grown-up's Halloween -- and happily walked up and down the streets spreading good cheer. The televised version of Mardi Gras usually emphasized the overcrowded, bizarre, and sexual sides of the French Quarter's celebration. But up from downtown, the celebrations were family style fun.
The rain could be torrential, the heat blistering, the crime rate unnerving, and the cockroaches very aggressive and territorial -- but for me New Orleans lived up to being the most unusual place I could have lived in the U.S. More importantly, I felt a unique spirit in that city of black and white residents who loved it. And that spirit is showing its power once again as it rises from the tragedy of Katrina.
I was very curious about a city that was more than 50% black. Whether in the northeast, where I was raised, or in California, I was all too aware of how separate blacks and whites lived and worked. I had gone to extremes in California to put black people into our daily lives after my husband and I had adopted a mixed black/white child. But in New Orleans, I reveled in the daily interaction of whites and blacks -- in my neighborhood, in my job, in my friendships, and in daily life all around New Orleans. Clearly, the black people of New Orleans felt a sense of comfort and belonging to New Orleans that was different from anyplace else I'd been.
Although the crime rate was high, people in everyday life were generally friendly and casual. Waitresses seemed to assume that everyone's name was "Honey," or "Sweetie." Being poor in New Orleans was acceptable, with fewer people out there to gouge money in any way they could. There was music and happiness, even at jazz funerals going down the streets.
And the food -- that was definitely way above the normal fare of any other U.S. city. I once read that the school system in New Orleans bought more spices for their school lunches than any other place. Even the food at the cafeteria of the local hospital around the corner from my home was cheap and delicious. People cared about what they ate and how it tasted. Being poor was no excuse for not eating tasty food -- gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish, po-boys, and on and on.
After the boring cookie-cutter houses of California, I delighted in the architecture of New Orleans homes. I lived in an old big house that had been divided into a duplex. Fortunately, my unit retained the large entryway with a curving wooden staircase to the second floor reminiscent of Gone With the Wind. In fact, a dramatic poster of Rhett and Scarlet on the wall above the staircase was close to a gorgeous old stained glass window. There were several rooms upstairs, none of which had a boring square or rectangular shape. I bought some unusual used furniture that looked like nothing I had ever owned before. A balcony outside the living room on the second floor gave a panoramic view up and down Prytania Street. I once watched a marathon race go up my street from the balcony. The runners made shimmering waves below as they passed en masse.
My choice of walks was often on the streets of uptown mansions, each one individual in design and decor so that you could easily tell it was well loved by its owners. And there was a beautiful park and pond nearby where I tenderly set down my tadpole after he turned into a tiny, air-breathing frog.
Unlike inconvenient California that required cars for even the simplest of errands, you could actually walk to stores and take the quaint trolley either uptown or downtown. Once downtown, I ate sweet beignets and drank incredible coffee and loved to wander around the used bookstores and unusual shops of the French Quarter, and along the river. I learned about the Cajuns and the Creoles, and voodoo. I have always hated zoos, but the Audubon Zoo was a definite exception to that rule when I lived in New Orleans. Not only did it give me the feeling that the animals were well cared for, but it was the only place I could see the Lone Ranger ride by and fire silver bullets since the tv shows of my childhood. I don't remember quite why the Lone Ranger visited the zoo, but it was most likely one of the many, many festivals that New Orleans enjoyed every year.
New Orleans was the kind of city that loved laughter. The Jazz Festival and Mardi Gras were perfect examples. For the weeks leading up to Mardi Gras, there were parades of outlandishly, garishly, overdressed people on floats, throwing cheap, colorful beads in profusion. On Mardi Gras day itself, everyone who wanted to dressed up -- a grown-up's Halloween -- and happily walked up and down the streets spreading good cheer. The televised version of Mardi Gras usually emphasized the overcrowded, bizarre, and sexual sides of the French Quarter's celebration. But up from downtown, the celebrations were family style fun.
The rain could be torrential, the heat blistering, the crime rate unnerving, and the cockroaches very aggressive and territorial -- but for me New Orleans lived up to being the most unusual place I could have lived in the U.S. More importantly, I felt a unique spirit in that city of black and white residents who loved it. And that spirit is showing its power once again as it rises from the tragedy of Katrina.
Monday, February 1, 2010
All That Stuff
Renting out my home while I'll be away has enabled me to come up with the airfare to travel for 7 weeks this spring. I'll be going to Taiwan, Bali, Singapore, and China. Most of the time, I'll be visiting friends made and nurtured over 20 years of my nomadic life in Asia. It used to be much easier to prepare for traveling before I owned a home and had numerous obligations. My head and scraps of paper are filling up with "to do" lists related to going away.
I thought that having renters would offer a compelling reason to go through lots of accumulated "stuff" in my house to lighten it up for the renters. That's easier said than done. I have re-connected with old photos, clothes, and souvenirs that I truly no longer "need," but can't quite seem to throw away or give away.
I wondered what it would be like to go back to zero and start again with nothing. But then a friend of mine had a devastating fire in her home and lost everything. The reality of what it would mean to lose 66 years of my material life possessions was sobering. All those pictures I never could throw away? All those English books and papers I saved from my teaching years? All those letters I had saved during the years when people still communicated with paper, pen, and stamps? All those books I saved because they had influenced my life in some way? All those silly mementos I picked up around the world? All those journals and scrapbooks I had poured my memories into? All those old clothes I never got around to wearing? All the flotsam and jetsam I had collected from here and there? Furniture and useful items could be replaced, but it would be the things of no monetary value that I'd miss the most.
And yet, if I decide to live abroad again, I would have to give up all these things.
When I changed countries as a middle-aged hummingbird, I only had what I could carry with me. And I can say I didn't miss much of anything I left behind. Sometimes I imagine I will re-examine all my photos, re-read all those letters, re-look at all those mementos in my really old age to remind me of the details I forgot. But, will I actually ever do that?
For now, I throw out some things, re-package other things, and am thankful I don't really have to make a final decision about how to live without them quite yet.
I thought that having renters would offer a compelling reason to go through lots of accumulated "stuff" in my house to lighten it up for the renters. That's easier said than done. I have re-connected with old photos, clothes, and souvenirs that I truly no longer "need," but can't quite seem to throw away or give away.
I wondered what it would be like to go back to zero and start again with nothing. But then a friend of mine had a devastating fire in her home and lost everything. The reality of what it would mean to lose 66 years of my material life possessions was sobering. All those pictures I never could throw away? All those English books and papers I saved from my teaching years? All those letters I had saved during the years when people still communicated with paper, pen, and stamps? All those books I saved because they had influenced my life in some way? All those silly mementos I picked up around the world? All those journals and scrapbooks I had poured my memories into? All those old clothes I never got around to wearing? All the flotsam and jetsam I had collected from here and there? Furniture and useful items could be replaced, but it would be the things of no monetary value that I'd miss the most.
And yet, if I decide to live abroad again, I would have to give up all these things.
When I changed countries as a middle-aged hummingbird, I only had what I could carry with me. And I can say I didn't miss much of anything I left behind. Sometimes I imagine I will re-examine all my photos, re-read all those letters, re-look at all those mementos in my really old age to remind me of the details I forgot. But, will I actually ever do that?
For now, I throw out some things, re-package other things, and am thankful I don't really have to make a final decision about how to live without them quite yet.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Voice Within
Ah! My Cherie. There you are. I've been waiting for you. I love the way you turn me on. You have the cutest smile of anticipation that roams across your face when you tickle me with your fingertips.
Forgive me. I feel playful tonight. Oh, there's that questioning look that makes your forehead wrinkle and your eyes squint when you're trying to think something out. And - there it comes, your tongue touches your lips in concentration. But, now I can sense the tingle of your growing anxiety.
Oh, your rough tone of voice tells me you're getting angry. But then your eyes look down and I can feel a wave of sadness and even dismay come over you. Oh dear! I think I've gone too far. I can see tears welling in your usually bright brown eyes.
I'm sorry. I was just joking. I didn't really mean to upset you. Really I didn't. Can you forgive me? No, don't go! Please!
Okay, okay. I'll be waiting for you tomorrow -- same time, same place. I know you'll come back again -- just like you do every night.
It isn't my fault you don't understand me and why I do what I do. You humans invented us, but we have become so much smarter than you!
Adieu -- 'til tomorrow night.
**This was written by my computer to me after a particularly trying night when the computer wouldn't do anything I wanted it to. Ever have such a night with your computer?
Forgive me. I feel playful tonight. Oh, there's that questioning look that makes your forehead wrinkle and your eyes squint when you're trying to think something out. And - there it comes, your tongue touches your lips in concentration. But, now I can sense the tingle of your growing anxiety.
Oh, your rough tone of voice tells me you're getting angry. But then your eyes look down and I can feel a wave of sadness and even dismay come over you. Oh dear! I think I've gone too far. I can see tears welling in your usually bright brown eyes.
I'm sorry. I was just joking. I didn't really mean to upset you. Really I didn't. Can you forgive me? No, don't go! Please!
Okay, okay. I'll be waiting for you tomorrow -- same time, same place. I know you'll come back again -- just like you do every night.
It isn't my fault you don't understand me and why I do what I do. You humans invented us, but we have become so much smarter than you!
Adieu -- 'til tomorrow night.
**This was written by my computer to me after a particularly trying night when the computer wouldn't do anything I wanted it to. Ever have such a night with your computer?
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Positive Side of Pessimism
I was raised by a very pessimistic mother. She passed it on to me. As I grew, I realized that being pessimistic made her very unhappy. So, I lived for a good deal of my life as a pessimist in hiding. Most people saw me as very optimistic. I was pretending, but it worked fairly well for years. Then, I kept hearing how important optimism was to one's mental health. Being healthy emotionally and physically is my prime goal in life, even moreso now that I'm a senior. So, for the past several years, I have been making a sincere attempt to be a true optimist.
Today, however, I felt happy that I remain still a pessimist at heart. It's less stressful. While being overwhelmed by the tv reports of the incomprehensible sorrow of Haiti, and the scenes of masses of mud and water gushing everywhere in southern California, I also got a letter informing me I have basically lost a large sum of money in a limited partnership gone sour. This was a much-needed chunk of money for retirement, but unlike an IRA, was all after tax money. My immediate response was not surprise, sadness, anger at my financial adviser, ranting and raving against the rich bankers and the poor economy, or fear for my financial future. It was simply, “I expected it.”
Whatever the problem, I have noticed my distinct tendency, in spite of my optimistic intentions, to think ahead quickly to the worst case scenario. So, when my dividends from this “investment” dropped precipitously in 2009, I told myself that any money I'd ever see from that investment would be lagniappe – a wonderful word I learned when I lived in New Orleans. It means basically “something extra and unexpected.” Instead of taking comfort in the soothing words of my forever optimistic financial adviser, somehow jumping ahead quickly to expecting the worst actually helps to soften the blow.
I have no doubt I will continue to work on becoming truly optimistic, but I'm pessimistic about my chances.
Today, however, I felt happy that I remain still a pessimist at heart. It's less stressful. While being overwhelmed by the tv reports of the incomprehensible sorrow of Haiti, and the scenes of masses of mud and water gushing everywhere in southern California, I also got a letter informing me I have basically lost a large sum of money in a limited partnership gone sour. This was a much-needed chunk of money for retirement, but unlike an IRA, was all after tax money. My immediate response was not surprise, sadness, anger at my financial adviser, ranting and raving against the rich bankers and the poor economy, or fear for my financial future. It was simply, “I expected it.”
Whatever the problem, I have noticed my distinct tendency, in spite of my optimistic intentions, to think ahead quickly to the worst case scenario. So, when my dividends from this “investment” dropped precipitously in 2009, I told myself that any money I'd ever see from that investment would be lagniappe – a wonderful word I learned when I lived in New Orleans. It means basically “something extra and unexpected.” Instead of taking comfort in the soothing words of my forever optimistic financial adviser, somehow jumping ahead quickly to expecting the worst actually helps to soften the blow.
I have no doubt I will continue to work on becoming truly optimistic, but I'm pessimistic about my chances.
Monday, January 18, 2010
A Night in Haitian Hell
One group of people I've always admired are the aide workers who volunteer to go into unbelievable situations at the most critical times. This small piece of creative non-fiction is dedicated to them.
A NIGHT IN HAITIAN HELL
For a moment – just a moment, he knelt down and held his head in despair. For a fraction – just a fraction of that moment, he allowed a wave of helplessness and hopelessness to carry him along. Every facial muscle tensed, and just the tiniest, smallest groan leaked out of his mouth.
He looked around at the flapping walls of this makeshift hospital littered with the barely alive. But there was still some breath of life within the heaps of misery laying on the ground. And he was a doctor, after all. He was also a news reporter for a major tv channel, but that didn't matter now. What these suffering earthquake survivors needed were doctors and medical supplies.
But where were they? The doctors who had operated on and given some care to these patients during the day had been loaded onto buses and taken away because of a security scare – of what, where, why, he didn't know. The only thing he was absolutely sure of at that moment was that the lives of these pitiful patients were all in his hands now, and for the whole night at least.
He sighed, took a deep breath, wiped the incredulity from his face with one hand, then waved his exhaustion away with the other hand. He bent down to check the wounds of a patient. There was no logic or reason that could make any sense of what was happening. The only thing he could truly count on was the medical knowledge in his brain and hands.
I followed him around, filming his lonely vigil. I had no medical skills to offer, but I needed to record the pathos playing out that long dark night. My prying video caught first the pain of the bleeding young man he was examining, and then the grimace of empathy on the doctor's face. There were no words to accompany the scene of him cradling a two-week-old baby boy, holding his tiny body tight to prevent death from snatching him away. My pictures often blurred with the tears in my eyes, especially when I taped a teenage girl touching his face gently in an international sign of “thank you.”
Would the morning light bring the other doctors and supplies back? Would we survive the night from the dangers that had driven them to abandon their patients? Working in tandem, he doctored and I photographed wordlessly through the lonely night, through the absurdity of it all. The only comfort we could offer each other was our physical presence. He saved lives and I visually documented his dogged heroism for millions of you tv viewers to see on the next day's news. The night passed, but the many big and small ways it scarred both of us were permanent. We never spoke of that night again.
A NIGHT IN HAITIAN HELL
For a moment – just a moment, he knelt down and held his head in despair. For a fraction – just a fraction of that moment, he allowed a wave of helplessness and hopelessness to carry him along. Every facial muscle tensed, and just the tiniest, smallest groan leaked out of his mouth.
He looked around at the flapping walls of this makeshift hospital littered with the barely alive. But there was still some breath of life within the heaps of misery laying on the ground. And he was a doctor, after all. He was also a news reporter for a major tv channel, but that didn't matter now. What these suffering earthquake survivors needed were doctors and medical supplies.
But where were they? The doctors who had operated on and given some care to these patients during the day had been loaded onto buses and taken away because of a security scare – of what, where, why, he didn't know. The only thing he was absolutely sure of at that moment was that the lives of these pitiful patients were all in his hands now, and for the whole night at least.
He sighed, took a deep breath, wiped the incredulity from his face with one hand, then waved his exhaustion away with the other hand. He bent down to check the wounds of a patient. There was no logic or reason that could make any sense of what was happening. The only thing he could truly count on was the medical knowledge in his brain and hands.
I followed him around, filming his lonely vigil. I had no medical skills to offer, but I needed to record the pathos playing out that long dark night. My prying video caught first the pain of the bleeding young man he was examining, and then the grimace of empathy on the doctor's face. There were no words to accompany the scene of him cradling a two-week-old baby boy, holding his tiny body tight to prevent death from snatching him away. My pictures often blurred with the tears in my eyes, especially when I taped a teenage girl touching his face gently in an international sign of “thank you.”
Would the morning light bring the other doctors and supplies back? Would we survive the night from the dangers that had driven them to abandon their patients? Working in tandem, he doctored and I photographed wordlessly through the lonely night, through the absurdity of it all. The only comfort we could offer each other was our physical presence. He saved lives and I visually documented his dogged heroism for millions of you tv viewers to see on the next day's news. The night passed, but the many big and small ways it scarred both of us were permanent. We never spoke of that night again.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Stink of Money
My temper flared at the bank today where I went on an errand for a small non-profit organization I belong to. In spite of all their advertising that they were a local bank interested in the surrounding community, the bottom line was that their bottom line expectations weren't being met by the paltry sum and use of our organization's checking account. Their interest in the people of the community was actually in the money of the people in the community. Somehow, this perfectly obvious fact managed to surprise me. I'm sure my anger was not only at the rude clerk, but at how money has managed to become the end all and be all of so much of life today, as well as the yardstick for measuring a person or organization's value.
I've never had a good relationship with money. Mostly during my life, I haven't thought of it much at all. Escaping the United States long ago, where money has long been King, aided my not thinking about money. At the age of 40, with a pack on my back, and holding a bag in one hand, I started more than 16 years of wandering the world. I wasn't penniless, but how I managed to visit so much of the world on the little money I had and the small money I managed to earn along the way, will forever remain a mystery. I'm sure some of the travelers I met had more money than I did, but we were all somehow economically equals in the rooms of youth hostels. Our most interesting conversations were about our travel adventures, not money. When we did talk about money, it was how to stretch our travel dollars.
When I went to China in 1988, I entered a world where just about everyone was poor. There was an underlying capitalistic spirit, but it was muted at that time of China's history. Being poor was okay there, and $5 a night could buy me poor, but decent lodging.
When I went to Bali in 1989, and then again in 1995, I was in a magical place of nature's kindness and beauty. Balinese people lived very modestly. Their joy was a lifestyle of being intertwined with nature. Yes, there was a place where you could pay $100 a night for a luxurious room, but I never stayed in such places. I was happy in simple homestays, sometimes with a cold shower on the roof looking out upon the terraced rice fields and mountains.
China has changed greatly as money became accessible beyond most people's wildest dreams. Bali has changed too, but I hope not too much. The U.S. remains obsessed with money -- making it, saving it, spending it, preserving it. It's hard trying to get through a day in the U.S. when money doesn't come up in some way. I sometimes feel more lost in my native country than I did walking through small villages in China and Bali.
I've never had a good relationship with money. Mostly during my life, I haven't thought of it much at all. Escaping the United States long ago, where money has long been King, aided my not thinking about money. At the age of 40, with a pack on my back, and holding a bag in one hand, I started more than 16 years of wandering the world. I wasn't penniless, but how I managed to visit so much of the world on the little money I had and the small money I managed to earn along the way, will forever remain a mystery. I'm sure some of the travelers I met had more money than I did, but we were all somehow economically equals in the rooms of youth hostels. Our most interesting conversations were about our travel adventures, not money. When we did talk about money, it was how to stretch our travel dollars.
When I went to China in 1988, I entered a world where just about everyone was poor. There was an underlying capitalistic spirit, but it was muted at that time of China's history. Being poor was okay there, and $5 a night could buy me poor, but decent lodging.
When I went to Bali in 1989, and then again in 1995, I was in a magical place of nature's kindness and beauty. Balinese people lived very modestly. Their joy was a lifestyle of being intertwined with nature. Yes, there was a place where you could pay $100 a night for a luxurious room, but I never stayed in such places. I was happy in simple homestays, sometimes with a cold shower on the roof looking out upon the terraced rice fields and mountains.
China has changed greatly as money became accessible beyond most people's wildest dreams. Bali has changed too, but I hope not too much. The U.S. remains obsessed with money -- making it, saving it, spending it, preserving it. It's hard trying to get through a day in the U.S. when money doesn't come up in some way. I sometimes feel more lost in my native country than I did walking through small villages in China and Bali.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
In Retrospect
It's that time of year that makes me look both backward and forward. Where have I been this last year? Where am I going next year? I'm at that stage of life where years are more precious because I have fewer of them left. I feel more urgency to fit in the "have to's" as well as the "want to's."
I spend many hours a week exercising -- circuit training, yoga, cardio work. I can't say I enjoy any of it except for yoga and swimming, yet I do it (mostly) uncomplainingly because it allows me to move with more agility than I could otherwise. It's a "have to" rather than a "want to." And without doubt, it's a habit I must continue into future years.
Although the most exercise accomplishes now is damage control as my body deteriorates, I have seen some increased flexibility in yoga. Surprisingly, I also had a breakthrough in meditation. Stopping one's brain from jumping from thought to thought is a goal in quieting the mind. They recommend techniques like letting each thought fall over a cliff. I've rarely accomplished it, but a couple of times in just the past weeks, I became blissfully aware that my mind wanted to settle into nothingness, with deep breathing my only occupation. It was wonderful.
This year I felt some mental forward momentum that made me more alert, aware, and interested. Starting this blog was part of it because I settled into being a senior hummingbird instead of just an over-ripe middle-aged hummingbird well past my prime. My sincere thanks to my readers!
I also took on two new class challenges -- clay sculpture and fiction writing. In my childhood, I must have missed clay sculpture in school and camp. Because of writing my book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird, I was able to join the National League of American Pen Women, an organization of women writers, artists, and composers. Because of getting to know artists, I wanted to experience a bit of what they did, and why.
Clay sculpture is an organic material that offers a relationship with the one molding it. This semester, I produced several pieces that survived firing, and each one has a special place in my home. I've noticed I smile each time my gaze falls upon them. I doubt I have any special talent for it, but I've joined up for the next semester to learn more techniques, and possibly deepen my relationship with the clay.
Fiction writing also surprised me. What wanted to come out in my stories was me between the ages of 20 and 40, a time of my life I never thought I'd ever write about. But, my years as a social worker, a wife and mother, and what led up to my divorce was more unusual and compelling than any make-believe story I could think up. I followed my muse somewhat unwillingly since painful memories still hurt. Perhaps I can find a new writing direction in creative non-fiction.
Another stand-out memory of 2009 was my getting together with an old friend I hadn't seen in many years. Unfortunately, a very pleasant time ended with my falling in a pretty park and breaking my right knee. Since I'd fallen and broken my left knee in 2007, falling for a second time in two years brought me to the brink of depression.
Fortunately, my 11-year-old granddaughter had long been planning a two-week visit with me. She didn't give me the opportunity to feel sorry for myself. So, I just put my energy into getting the knee back in shape. With patience and exercise, it healed. Now I've added additional reaction time and balance exercises to my routine.
A peculiar side effect of falling was that I lost my sense of smell even though I didn't hit my head when I fell. Five tries at acupuncture didn't help. Of all the senses, I guess the sense of smell is the least traumatic to lose. Occasionally, I get one strong whiff of something before the smell fades away. I most miss the smell of the salty ocean, coffee, and flowers.
But my sense of taste remains, continuing my daily confrontation with food. I've gained some unwanted weight this past year. The solid nutritional advice of Weight Watchers for the past few years helped, but not enough or long enough. I'm back to where I was (sigh)!
I'm a year older. A year wiser?
And on to 2010! What lies ahead??
As I ponder, noises wash over and around me. Gathered in a house perfect for crowds, the many adults speak only Chinese. The innumerable children, my granddaughter among them, look Chinese, but speak only English to one another. The gathering brings together parts of my unusual multicultural life. Once again, I am the only non-Chinese in the group. But rather than my being in China now, these Chinese are living in the United States. The bridges I worked hard to build, and then maintained and nurtured for 20 years, are still strong.
I know that not only in 2010, but for years to come, China, my Chinese friends, the six Chinese children for whom I'm their American grandma, whether here, there, or somewhere else in the world they migrate to, will be in my life. It's familiar and comfortable, yet dynamically changing from year to year.
I'm ready for 2010. Are you?
I spend many hours a week exercising -- circuit training, yoga, cardio work. I can't say I enjoy any of it except for yoga and swimming, yet I do it (mostly) uncomplainingly because it allows me to move with more agility than I could otherwise. It's a "have to" rather than a "want to." And without doubt, it's a habit I must continue into future years.
Although the most exercise accomplishes now is damage control as my body deteriorates, I have seen some increased flexibility in yoga. Surprisingly, I also had a breakthrough in meditation. Stopping one's brain from jumping from thought to thought is a goal in quieting the mind. They recommend techniques like letting each thought fall over a cliff. I've rarely accomplished it, but a couple of times in just the past weeks, I became blissfully aware that my mind wanted to settle into nothingness, with deep breathing my only occupation. It was wonderful.
This year I felt some mental forward momentum that made me more alert, aware, and interested. Starting this blog was part of it because I settled into being a senior hummingbird instead of just an over-ripe middle-aged hummingbird well past my prime. My sincere thanks to my readers!
I also took on two new class challenges -- clay sculpture and fiction writing. In my childhood, I must have missed clay sculpture in school and camp. Because of writing my book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird, I was able to join the National League of American Pen Women, an organization of women writers, artists, and composers. Because of getting to know artists, I wanted to experience a bit of what they did, and why.
Clay sculpture is an organic material that offers a relationship with the one molding it. This semester, I produced several pieces that survived firing, and each one has a special place in my home. I've noticed I smile each time my gaze falls upon them. I doubt I have any special talent for it, but I've joined up for the next semester to learn more techniques, and possibly deepen my relationship with the clay.
Fiction writing also surprised me. What wanted to come out in my stories was me between the ages of 20 and 40, a time of my life I never thought I'd ever write about. But, my years as a social worker, a wife and mother, and what led up to my divorce was more unusual and compelling than any make-believe story I could think up. I followed my muse somewhat unwillingly since painful memories still hurt. Perhaps I can find a new writing direction in creative non-fiction.
Another stand-out memory of 2009 was my getting together with an old friend I hadn't seen in many years. Unfortunately, a very pleasant time ended with my falling in a pretty park and breaking my right knee. Since I'd fallen and broken my left knee in 2007, falling for a second time in two years brought me to the brink of depression.
Fortunately, my 11-year-old granddaughter had long been planning a two-week visit with me. She didn't give me the opportunity to feel sorry for myself. So, I just put my energy into getting the knee back in shape. With patience and exercise, it healed. Now I've added additional reaction time and balance exercises to my routine.
A peculiar side effect of falling was that I lost my sense of smell even though I didn't hit my head when I fell. Five tries at acupuncture didn't help. Of all the senses, I guess the sense of smell is the least traumatic to lose. Occasionally, I get one strong whiff of something before the smell fades away. I most miss the smell of the salty ocean, coffee, and flowers.
But my sense of taste remains, continuing my daily confrontation with food. I've gained some unwanted weight this past year. The solid nutritional advice of Weight Watchers for the past few years helped, but not enough or long enough. I'm back to where I was (sigh)!
I'm a year older. A year wiser?
And on to 2010! What lies ahead??
As I ponder, noises wash over and around me. Gathered in a house perfect for crowds, the many adults speak only Chinese. The innumerable children, my granddaughter among them, look Chinese, but speak only English to one another. The gathering brings together parts of my unusual multicultural life. Once again, I am the only non-Chinese in the group. But rather than my being in China now, these Chinese are living in the United States. The bridges I worked hard to build, and then maintained and nurtured for 20 years, are still strong.
I know that not only in 2010, but for years to come, China, my Chinese friends, the six Chinese children for whom I'm their American grandma, whether here, there, or somewhere else in the world they migrate to, will be in my life. It's familiar and comfortable, yet dynamically changing from year to year.
I'm ready for 2010. Are you?
Friday, December 18, 2009
Stressing Out About Health
I am sick of worrying about health! After living many years in other countries, I'm always struck by how obsessed Americans are about health issues. Often it's foolish and faddish; sometimes dangerous; usually stressful.
Living in a retirement community exacerbates the ever-present specter of health -- mine, yours, the country's. It doesn't matter which tv channel I watch. The commercials are geared for our aging community, so I'm bombarded with ads for caretakers, nursing homes, devices to help you sit down, get up, or an emergency service to call someone to pull you up. There are ads for problems I never knew existed. Drug commercials are sick jokes. People look happy and active, while the voice over explains the possible side effects of dizziness, sleeplessness, numbness, memory loss, and thoughts of suicide. Ask your doctor if it's right for you.
The media coverage of health care reform is definitely scary. The careers of the President, senators, congressmen and women are poised on the brink. This plan won't work; that plan is disastrous.
I had minimal or no medical insurance for most of my life since I never had a job inside the U.S. that provided health insurance. Sometimes it was frightening to know I could be financially wiped out in record time with any illness or accident. However, in retrospect, I owe my general good health to NOT having medical insurance. I didn't run to doctors for most complaints, or annual screenings of this or that body part. From years of traveling in the "less developed" world, I was used to self-diagnosis and treatment, and continued that behavior when back in the U.S.
I've been on Medicare for a couple of years now, but I still don't rush to the doctor. Undoubtedly, I've been lucky, but I've also been careful and have tried to get to know my own body and what it's trying to tell me. Medical care, and the misuse of drugs has always seemed like a dangerous swamp I definitely wanted to avoid getting mired in.
Conflicting advice on how to stay healthy or the options for treating all sorts of medical problems confounds the mind and unbalances the psyche. When I stress out over aches and pains and the "what ifs?" I catch myself and convince myself there's plenty of reason not to panic in advance. Some days that approach works better than other days. But one thing I am sure of is that the stress of worrying over getting sick is most likely the biggest killer of all.
Egyptian rulers spent most of their time, energy, and resources preparing for the afterlife. In our modern world, many people spend more time worrying about their health than enjoying it. My preference is to put my energy into living rather than worrying about dying.
Living in a retirement community exacerbates the ever-present specter of health -- mine, yours, the country's. It doesn't matter which tv channel I watch. The commercials are geared for our aging community, so I'm bombarded with ads for caretakers, nursing homes, devices to help you sit down, get up, or an emergency service to call someone to pull you up. There are ads for problems I never knew existed. Drug commercials are sick jokes. People look happy and active, while the voice over explains the possible side effects of dizziness, sleeplessness, numbness, memory loss, and thoughts of suicide. Ask your doctor if it's right for you.
The media coverage of health care reform is definitely scary. The careers of the President, senators, congressmen and women are poised on the brink. This plan won't work; that plan is disastrous.
I had minimal or no medical insurance for most of my life since I never had a job inside the U.S. that provided health insurance. Sometimes it was frightening to know I could be financially wiped out in record time with any illness or accident. However, in retrospect, I owe my general good health to NOT having medical insurance. I didn't run to doctors for most complaints, or annual screenings of this or that body part. From years of traveling in the "less developed" world, I was used to self-diagnosis and treatment, and continued that behavior when back in the U.S.
I've been on Medicare for a couple of years now, but I still don't rush to the doctor. Undoubtedly, I've been lucky, but I've also been careful and have tried to get to know my own body and what it's trying to tell me. Medical care, and the misuse of drugs has always seemed like a dangerous swamp I definitely wanted to avoid getting mired in.
Conflicting advice on how to stay healthy or the options for treating all sorts of medical problems confounds the mind and unbalances the psyche. When I stress out over aches and pains and the "what ifs?" I catch myself and convince myself there's plenty of reason not to panic in advance. Some days that approach works better than other days. But one thing I am sure of is that the stress of worrying over getting sick is most likely the biggest killer of all.
Egyptian rulers spent most of their time, energy, and resources preparing for the afterlife. In our modern world, many people spend more time worrying about their health than enjoying it. My preference is to put my energy into living rather than worrying about dying.
Monday, December 14, 2009
I Should Have Been a Dancer
The very first time I knew I wanted to be a dancer, I was in grade school and had accompanied a friend of mine to her ballet lesson. While I watched, I wished so hard to be in that class. My parents cut short any thought of a dancing career by simply saying that they didn't have the money for lessons. Instead, I faithfully went with my girlfriend and longingly watched from the sidelines.
In my teen years, I did some Israeli folk dancing and enjoyed teenage dances. In my mid-20s, I took belly dancing at our local YWCA. People said I was pretty good at it, and my mother-in-law and I had great fun making a costume for me. I dabbled briefly with classes in African and Caribbean dancing. But I only stayed on the fringes of dancing. Unfortunately, I didn't have any innate talent for it.
In a time of restlessness in the late 1980s when I was getting ready for another change in my life, I listened just about every night to The Four Seasons and invariably saw and felt myself lighter than air dancing to that inspiring music. Occasionally, I actually got up and tried to dance, but the vision in my head of dancing was far different from the reality, and much less satisfying.
Several years passed, along with my youth and agility. I was 56 and living in a retirement community that offered many classes. I signed up for a Joy of Dance class. The teacher was a former professional dancer who could still dazzle at 88. When she danced, the years melted away. I did feel a joy in dance, but much muted not only by a lack of talent, but also a lack of energy and mobility. Unlike my enduring aged teacher who still dances in her 90s, I was, alas, past my prime.
The older I become, the more interested I am in the mind-body connection. How even more wonderful than I imagined when I was young would it be to feel in tune with my body like a dancer does! That's the truest mind-body connection to me. So, I content myself with feeling my mind-body connection best when I'm doing yoga, or swimming rhythmically and even somewhat gracefully up and down the pool. There's the now long-ago, vaguely-remembered elation of that one time in the school playground Dodgeball game when I easily managed to elude all attempts to catch me. And, yes, there was that one successful attempt at camp to get up on water skiis and fly over the water.
Mostly, I can only content myself watching wonderful dancers do what they do best on stage. This afternoon I saw a taped performance of The Hard Nut, a modernized version of the famous Nutcracker ballet. In this version by a baby boomer choreographer, Mark Morris, there were males in drag, a ballerina dancing sometimes in bunny slippers, and sometimes barefoot, along with unusual twists in costumes and plot. These were top notch dancers who looked as though they enjoyed dancing as much as I enjoyed imagining I was leaping and cavorting among them. Since this wasn't a live performance, there were comings and goings of members of the audience, a lady who just had to answer her cell phone, and a tortilla chip cruncher behind me to remind me I must be, alas, an appreciator rather than a participant.
I usually give no thought at all to the subject of reincarnation. But I have decided that I would agree to be reincarnated only if I could return as a dancer.
In my teen years, I did some Israeli folk dancing and enjoyed teenage dances. In my mid-20s, I took belly dancing at our local YWCA. People said I was pretty good at it, and my mother-in-law and I had great fun making a costume for me. I dabbled briefly with classes in African and Caribbean dancing. But I only stayed on the fringes of dancing. Unfortunately, I didn't have any innate talent for it.
In a time of restlessness in the late 1980s when I was getting ready for another change in my life, I listened just about every night to The Four Seasons and invariably saw and felt myself lighter than air dancing to that inspiring music. Occasionally, I actually got up and tried to dance, but the vision in my head of dancing was far different from the reality, and much less satisfying.
Several years passed, along with my youth and agility. I was 56 and living in a retirement community that offered many classes. I signed up for a Joy of Dance class. The teacher was a former professional dancer who could still dazzle at 88. When she danced, the years melted away. I did feel a joy in dance, but much muted not only by a lack of talent, but also a lack of energy and mobility. Unlike my enduring aged teacher who still dances in her 90s, I was, alas, past my prime.
The older I become, the more interested I am in the mind-body connection. How even more wonderful than I imagined when I was young would it be to feel in tune with my body like a dancer does! That's the truest mind-body connection to me. So, I content myself with feeling my mind-body connection best when I'm doing yoga, or swimming rhythmically and even somewhat gracefully up and down the pool. There's the now long-ago, vaguely-remembered elation of that one time in the school playground Dodgeball game when I easily managed to elude all attempts to catch me. And, yes, there was that one successful attempt at camp to get up on water skiis and fly over the water.
Mostly, I can only content myself watching wonderful dancers do what they do best on stage. This afternoon I saw a taped performance of The Hard Nut, a modernized version of the famous Nutcracker ballet. In this version by a baby boomer choreographer, Mark Morris, there were males in drag, a ballerina dancing sometimes in bunny slippers, and sometimes barefoot, along with unusual twists in costumes and plot. These were top notch dancers who looked as though they enjoyed dancing as much as I enjoyed imagining I was leaping and cavorting among them. Since this wasn't a live performance, there were comings and goings of members of the audience, a lady who just had to answer her cell phone, and a tortilla chip cruncher behind me to remind me I must be, alas, an appreciator rather than a participant.
I usually give no thought at all to the subject of reincarnation. But I have decided that I would agree to be reincarnated only if I could return as a dancer.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Howard's End
A memorial service is not an appealing way to spend a sunny afternoon. However, one of my yoga classmates passed away very suddenly last week. He was 73, and was seemingly in enviable good health. I knew him casually only through yoga classes, but I was drawn to pay my respects because he had been a good guy, bringing a welcome and humor to every class.
This was an informal gathering of friends and relatives with no set service. I'd never been to his home before, or met his children or grandchildren. And I'd never seen family photos of him as a young dad. Going to share the afternoon with some other yoga buddies and Howard's family and friends made me aware of Howard in a much broader dimension. In classes, we only get to know a certain side of someone's life. And, if we meet them when they're old, there is so much about their earlier years we never learn.
In all the classes I've taken, and all the classmates I've had since my college years, only a very few of them became long term friends whose lives I entered in more than a one-dimensional way. Most have been friendly faces to say "hi" and possibly a little more to. But not really friends.
As I looked over Howard's home, wife, children, grandchildren, friends, and photos, I thought of what I knew about Howard and pondered how much I didn't know about his life, his thoughts, what had been important to him. I casually wondered what such a gathering would be like for me -- what people would share about their relationships with me, what they would think of my home, and old family photos. They might wonder why I had more friends than relatives, what had been important to me, and who I had been under the wrinkles of the years.
I've had so many deaths to deal with in the last dozen years of my life, I've become more resigned to accepting its inevitability, my own mortality, and am more curious about what I didn't know about the people who have passed through my life.
This was an informal gathering of friends and relatives with no set service. I'd never been to his home before, or met his children or grandchildren. And I'd never seen family photos of him as a young dad. Going to share the afternoon with some other yoga buddies and Howard's family and friends made me aware of Howard in a much broader dimension. In classes, we only get to know a certain side of someone's life. And, if we meet them when they're old, there is so much about their earlier years we never learn.
In all the classes I've taken, and all the classmates I've had since my college years, only a very few of them became long term friends whose lives I entered in more than a one-dimensional way. Most have been friendly faces to say "hi" and possibly a little more to. But not really friends.
As I looked over Howard's home, wife, children, grandchildren, friends, and photos, I thought of what I knew about Howard and pondered how much I didn't know about his life, his thoughts, what had been important to him. I casually wondered what such a gathering would be like for me -- what people would share about their relationships with me, what they would think of my home, and old family photos. They might wonder why I had more friends than relatives, what had been important to me, and who I had been under the wrinkles of the years.
I've had so many deaths to deal with in the last dozen years of my life, I've become more resigned to accepting its inevitability, my own mortality, and am more curious about what I didn't know about the people who have passed through my life.
Friday, December 4, 2009
A Name for Myself
I went to see a movie tonight at our Film Club called "Brideshead Revisited." I went to see it mainly because my son had changed his first name to Sebastian because of the book of the same name by Evelyn Waugh. He said many of his friends had told him that Sebastian in the book reminded them of him. I had read the book years ago because I wanted to understand him better. He hadn't confided much about his adult life to me. He also changed his middle and last names, but he never explained why.
Probably I had been his model for changing names. After I had separated from my husband and expected to divorce, I decided I wanted a new last name. To my surprise, I found out that changing one's name to any name is legal, as long as you don't use it for fraud. I felt giddy with the possibility of taking ANY name I wanted. I decided I wanted a name that sounded good with my first name, was easy to spell, had a meaning (at least to me), and was unusual. After spending my married years with a common last name that ran for pages in any U.S. phone book, I wanted a name that would stand out in any list. But what name out of an infinite number of names that fit those criteria did I want?
The last trip my husband, son, and I took together was to Kenya. I had dabbled with learning some Swahili for that trip, and returned with a Swahili dictionary. Where to start with all those words in the dictionary? I thought it would take me ages to land on a name I wanted from the swarm of black ink on those pages. But no! It was easy - perhaps fate led me to it. When someone asks you in Swahili "How are you?", the reply is usually "mzima." The "m" at the front shows that you are asking about a person. I knew that "mzima" would not work in western society, but I was drawn to the definition of "zima" which meant "whole or well."
Ah! In 1979, I was neither "whole" nor "well" because of my impending divorce. In truth, I felt less than half a person without my husband. And I certainly didn't feel "well" because I knew I was the one responsible for the divorce. I wanted to feel "whole" and "well," but I knew there would always be a "hole" in me without the man who had loved me since I was a teenager. The technical part of changing it wouldn't be difficult, but would I be able to grow into the name I chose for myself?
In most cultures, changing one's last name voluntarily is incomprehensible. It represents one's family roots. However, I felt I had not lost my roots, but rather gained an identity of my own. Zima, a word rather than a name in Swahili, is unusual and doesn't appear in any great number anywhere I've seen. People with a Czech background think I'm Czech because "zima" means winter in their language. There is a Zima Station in Siberia. And, of course, Zima beer (now no longer made)was popular years after I took that name. But Zima beer's popularity allowed me to buy a t-shirt and a cap with ZIMA printed on it.
In 1983, when I was making plans to become an immigrant in Israel, Zima was a name that made the person processing my application blush. Zima, with the pronunciation on the last syllable rather than the first, turned my simple name into such a dirty word that he wouldn't even tell me what it meant. He suggested I use a different spelling in Hebrew from that dirty word and strongly accent the first syllable. Interestingly, my last name never caused me any problem in Israel because my first name, Suellen, caught every Israeli's attention. Just about everyone in Israel was watching re-runs of the tv program, "Dallas." Sharing a name with a main character in "Dallas" was my claim to fame there.
The years, miles, and experiences since 1979 allowed me to grow into the wholeness and wellness of my name, Zima.
Probably I had been his model for changing names. After I had separated from my husband and expected to divorce, I decided I wanted a new last name. To my surprise, I found out that changing one's name to any name is legal, as long as you don't use it for fraud. I felt giddy with the possibility of taking ANY name I wanted. I decided I wanted a name that sounded good with my first name, was easy to spell, had a meaning (at least to me), and was unusual. After spending my married years with a common last name that ran for pages in any U.S. phone book, I wanted a name that would stand out in any list. But what name out of an infinite number of names that fit those criteria did I want?
The last trip my husband, son, and I took together was to Kenya. I had dabbled with learning some Swahili for that trip, and returned with a Swahili dictionary. Where to start with all those words in the dictionary? I thought it would take me ages to land on a name I wanted from the swarm of black ink on those pages. But no! It was easy - perhaps fate led me to it. When someone asks you in Swahili "How are you?", the reply is usually "mzima." The "m" at the front shows that you are asking about a person. I knew that "mzima" would not work in western society, but I was drawn to the definition of "zima" which meant "whole or well."
Ah! In 1979, I was neither "whole" nor "well" because of my impending divorce. In truth, I felt less than half a person without my husband. And I certainly didn't feel "well" because I knew I was the one responsible for the divorce. I wanted to feel "whole" and "well," but I knew there would always be a "hole" in me without the man who had loved me since I was a teenager. The technical part of changing it wouldn't be difficult, but would I be able to grow into the name I chose for myself?
In most cultures, changing one's last name voluntarily is incomprehensible. It represents one's family roots. However, I felt I had not lost my roots, but rather gained an identity of my own. Zima, a word rather than a name in Swahili, is unusual and doesn't appear in any great number anywhere I've seen. People with a Czech background think I'm Czech because "zima" means winter in their language. There is a Zima Station in Siberia. And, of course, Zima beer (now no longer made)was popular years after I took that name. But Zima beer's popularity allowed me to buy a t-shirt and a cap with ZIMA printed on it.
In 1983, when I was making plans to become an immigrant in Israel, Zima was a name that made the person processing my application blush. Zima, with the pronunciation on the last syllable rather than the first, turned my simple name into such a dirty word that he wouldn't even tell me what it meant. He suggested I use a different spelling in Hebrew from that dirty word and strongly accent the first syllable. Interestingly, my last name never caused me any problem in Israel because my first name, Suellen, caught every Israeli's attention. Just about everyone in Israel was watching re-runs of the tv program, "Dallas." Sharing a name with a main character in "Dallas" was my claim to fame there.
The years, miles, and experiences since 1979 allowed me to grow into the wholeness and wellness of my name, Zima.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Canine Contribution
In grammar school, I convinced my mom to let me take in a dirty, hungry, very tired stray dog. In 1988, at the age of 45, I was taking care of a neglected stray in an Israeli-Arab village. In between, there had been other canine companions in my life. Although they were quite different in looks, temperament, and personality, they were invaluable life teachers. From them, I learned the true depth of a best friend, loyalty, responsibility, loving and taking care of an "other" in the world. They were my first encounters in life with death and loss and grieving.
In 1999, when my father and I moved together into a retirement community after my mother's death, the first home I instantly loved and wanted was one that had a large patio that I thought would be perfect for a dog. My dad had lived in apartments for many years that didn't allow dogs, and he always missed having one. Finally!
However, my dad died only four months after we moved in. I thought about getting a dog, but several aspects of being a dog owner stopped me. First, it means being more tied down and complicates traveling jaunts. Then, there's the potential danger factor. My dad had suffered a broken pelvis by a too-playful big dog that jumped on him. I saw a lady who was badly bruised because her dog took off after something and dragged her behind on his leash. I've met elderly people who were badly injured by falling over their dogs who were underfoot. Since I've fallen twice in the last two years (not because of dogs) and broke a knee each time, I know falling isn't a simple matter as a senior.
Then, there is the high expense of veterinary care to consider. Keeping myself healthy is challenging enough without having to think of what it takes to keep a dog healthy in terms of proper exercise, diet, and care. There are programs for being a foster caretaker to a dog, which means I wouldn't have to pay vet expenses, but that also means having to say goodbye after a brief acquaintance. Of course, there's the nuisance problem for my neighbors if I end up with a barking dog.
But the biggest problem I can't figure out how to deal with is the coyote factor. I live in an area where coyotes live because development has given them no choice. I live on the ground floor, with a patio that has a wall, but is not enclosed. One of my friends had the terrible experience of coming home one day to find her chewed up dog on the bloody patio. I don't have the money or the interest in enclosing my favorite indoor-outdoor patio with an overhang and just enough wall for privacy, but not protection from hungry coyotes smelling dinner.
Still, I think of my adventures with Whitey, Ski, Taffy, Woosha, and Pancho at different stages of my life. Whitey was the beautiful dog I saved. Ski was the golden dog who loved to run free. Taffy was very neurotic and very lovable. Woosha gave me warmth and comfort in a cold trailer on the grounds of an Israeli boarding school. Pancho wanted to be by my side at all times even though such a friendship was not acceptable in the Israeli-Arab village where we lived. They were all strays. They were all mutts. Somehow we found each other. And connected.
Maybe, some day ......
In 1999, when my father and I moved together into a retirement community after my mother's death, the first home I instantly loved and wanted was one that had a large patio that I thought would be perfect for a dog. My dad had lived in apartments for many years that didn't allow dogs, and he always missed having one. Finally!
However, my dad died only four months after we moved in. I thought about getting a dog, but several aspects of being a dog owner stopped me. First, it means being more tied down and complicates traveling jaunts. Then, there's the potential danger factor. My dad had suffered a broken pelvis by a too-playful big dog that jumped on him. I saw a lady who was badly bruised because her dog took off after something and dragged her behind on his leash. I've met elderly people who were badly injured by falling over their dogs who were underfoot. Since I've fallen twice in the last two years (not because of dogs) and broke a knee each time, I know falling isn't a simple matter as a senior.
Then, there is the high expense of veterinary care to consider. Keeping myself healthy is challenging enough without having to think of what it takes to keep a dog healthy in terms of proper exercise, diet, and care. There are programs for being a foster caretaker to a dog, which means I wouldn't have to pay vet expenses, but that also means having to say goodbye after a brief acquaintance. Of course, there's the nuisance problem for my neighbors if I end up with a barking dog.
But the biggest problem I can't figure out how to deal with is the coyote factor. I live in an area where coyotes live because development has given them no choice. I live on the ground floor, with a patio that has a wall, but is not enclosed. One of my friends had the terrible experience of coming home one day to find her chewed up dog on the bloody patio. I don't have the money or the interest in enclosing my favorite indoor-outdoor patio with an overhang and just enough wall for privacy, but not protection from hungry coyotes smelling dinner.
Still, I think of my adventures with Whitey, Ski, Taffy, Woosha, and Pancho at different stages of my life. Whitey was the beautiful dog I saved. Ski was the golden dog who loved to run free. Taffy was very neurotic and very lovable. Woosha gave me warmth and comfort in a cold trailer on the grounds of an Israeli boarding school. Pancho wanted to be by my side at all times even though such a friendship was not acceptable in the Israeli-Arab village where we lived. They were all strays. They were all mutts. Somehow we found each other. And connected.
Maybe, some day ......
Friday, November 20, 2009
Then and Now
Admittedly, the "good old days" had their problems, but, when I compare my childhood to my young grandchildren's lives, I feel I got the better deal. My average day in grade school was to walk to school and back, change clothes, have a snack, and go out and play until dark. There were either lots of kids to play with who were also outdoors, or wiggling under a fence to the wilderness beyond, often alone. The wilderness I explored was a buffer zone between our housing development and an airforce base. We never got close to where the army housing or planes were. There was just swamp and flowers and small wildlife, and what then seemed like a huge hill to run up and roll down. I'm sure that was where I began to develop my lifelong love of nature.
My grandchildren are driven to school and back. Playmates come over by pre-arrangement with parental supervision. Their homes and backyards are their playgrounds, unless mom drives them somewhere else for an activity. There is little, if any, exploration on their own in untamed nature.
My generation was lucky in another way. I've always loved the sea. In my lifetime, I've swum in oceans and lakes all over the world. But today I only go to the ocean to admire its beauty and vastness from the shore. Even if the water looks okay, I know that human pollution has now made it uninhabitable even for fish. I volunteer in a hospital for wild seals and sea lions and have no illusions about what humans have done to their home -- the ocean. Tonight we docents at the marine mammal center attended a continuing education training. The word of the evening was ACIDIFICATION -- how the carbon dioxide of the world's emissions is ending up in the oceans. And the results are being recognized in the scientific world as disastrous.
So, perhaps my grandchildren and their children will never be able to see salmon coming back to spawn, miraculously-colored corals in the seas, find truly amazing living worlds within a small tidepool, or be able to experience one of my most memorable experiences ever -- spending the afternoon in a lagoon in Baja California surrounded by mammoth gray whales who actually wanted to interact with us. They may never be able to see the majesty of blue, blue glaciers as I've been able to get close to.
I was an environmentalist before I even knew there was a word for it. I spent endless hours worrying over the environment, until one day intuition told me that it was humans who would eventually disappear because of their own ineptitude and/or unwillingness to coexist with nature, but nature would regenerate and survive.
And so I have calmed down about the human destruction of nature, but have become more concerned about all that my grandchildren, and their children will miss.
My grandchildren are driven to school and back. Playmates come over by pre-arrangement with parental supervision. Their homes and backyards are their playgrounds, unless mom drives them somewhere else for an activity. There is little, if any, exploration on their own in untamed nature.
My generation was lucky in another way. I've always loved the sea. In my lifetime, I've swum in oceans and lakes all over the world. But today I only go to the ocean to admire its beauty and vastness from the shore. Even if the water looks okay, I know that human pollution has now made it uninhabitable even for fish. I volunteer in a hospital for wild seals and sea lions and have no illusions about what humans have done to their home -- the ocean. Tonight we docents at the marine mammal center attended a continuing education training. The word of the evening was ACIDIFICATION -- how the carbon dioxide of the world's emissions is ending up in the oceans. And the results are being recognized in the scientific world as disastrous.
So, perhaps my grandchildren and their children will never be able to see salmon coming back to spawn, miraculously-colored corals in the seas, find truly amazing living worlds within a small tidepool, or be able to experience one of my most memorable experiences ever -- spending the afternoon in a lagoon in Baja California surrounded by mammoth gray whales who actually wanted to interact with us. They may never be able to see the majesty of blue, blue glaciers as I've been able to get close to.
I was an environmentalist before I even knew there was a word for it. I spent endless hours worrying over the environment, until one day intuition told me that it was humans who would eventually disappear because of their own ineptitude and/or unwillingness to coexist with nature, but nature would regenerate and survive.
And so I have calmed down about the human destruction of nature, but have become more concerned about all that my grandchildren, and their children will miss.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Out of Step with My Lost Son
There was no birthday party for my son today. He died two weeks before his 35th birthday in 2003. It is not natural for a child to die before the parents, and so mourning for a child has a particular pain to it that other deaths in the family do not have.
I once thought of writing something about my son and me. Although I didn't get very far with the writing, the title came to me quickly -- Out of Step -- because that best described us and our relationship. Each one of us was out of step with society's norms and expectations, and with each other.
In the 1970s, there were heated debates in multicultural circles about whether it was better for all cultures in America to merge into a tasty soup, or maintain certain characteristics as in a stew where a carrot remains identifiably a carrot, a potato stays a potato, etc. Which was better for America? For the individual? For the ethnic group?
At the time my husband said he was ready for a child, I was 25. Influenced by the plight of foster children because I had been a foster care social worker, and touched by the dire predictions of Zero Population Growth, I said I wanted to adopt a child that needed a home rather than create a biological child. He agreed, and within three months or our application, we had our beautiful honey-colored toddler. We had asked for a "hard to place" child, and mixed black/white children past infancy was the largest group needing families at that time.
Soon after, black social workers in California felt that transracial adoptions were bad. Even no permanent home was a better fate to them than white parents who, by virtue of being white, wouldn't be able to adequately prepare their black children for being black in America. While not taking back black children that were already adopted, they stopped white adoption of black children dead in its tracks. And there it lay for years during the intense era of black power and fighting for Civil Rights. All of this seems so odd now given the many changes in adoption, transracial adoption, intermarriage, and the significant number of mixed black/white children in the U.S. today.
Time passed, our son grew handsome and tall. None of us was prepared for the divorce. At that time, I did not understand why it was happening, but I knew I was responsible for it. I almost drowned in the guilt of destroying what I had worked so hard to build. And my son never really forgave me. Weakened by the strength it took for me to leave, I accepted my 13-year-old son's decision to remain with his father. It is more common now for fathers to take care of their children after divorce, but it was quite unusual in the late 1970s.
Over the next several years, from Israel, China, and all the other countries I lived in or visited, I kept writing even after he said he wanted no more contact with me. There were occasional uncomfortable visits when I returned to the U.S. or he traveled to where I was. He grew even taller, more handsome, and strong. When I no longer knew where he lived, his dad sent my letters on to him. I was often exuberantly happy in my now worldwide life of challenge, travel, and adventure. But guilt was always my tucked-away traveling companion.
Out of the blue, five years after he had shunned all contact with me, and 14 years after he was found to be HIV positive, he called me. He was cool and detached, and I wasn't really sure why he had called. He said he may or may not call again. A few weeks later, his dad called to say that he was in the hospital diagnosed with the progression of HIV into AIDS. He quit work and became housebound. When my phone sometimes rang at 1:30 a.m., I had mixed feelings. I knew who it would be, but also knew that he would speak to me like a petulant teenager, taking up the relationship from the age I had left him.
He made a last trip to see me. He was still tall and handsome, but far from strong. He was as breathless as an old, old man. Instead of trying to talk, he gave me a page from his diary written three years earlier. It said, "So, now I'm wondering why I've been thinking about mom so much the last ten to eleven months or so. There's no anger there. Actually, I've thought how fortunate I've been. She really was a terrific mother! She taught me to 'see' more and how to be open to the unknown. I have mostly very good memories of childhood (mostly = 85%), so many opportunities sent/brought to me. A multitude of seemingly unimaginable, once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Is it possible there were too many? Find myself acutely aware of constant introspection: Why so much? (So much more?)"
The closest moment on that visit was when I read to him while he was in the emergency room awaiting transport to a hospital better able to deal with his rapidly deteriorating condition. Still, he lived another year and continued to call occasionally. He never gave me his phone number or invited me to his apartment. But, after he died, I went with his dad to take care of his belongings. There, in his apartment, I got a glimpse of the man he had grown into that he had not allowed me to know. Each section of each room was artistically arranged like a series of vignettes of what had been important in his life. I read letters from his friends which allowed me to know how others had perceived him. And, carefully placed on his desk, tied with a decorative string, was a package of all the opened letters I had sent him.
Since then, I have felt closer to him in death than I did for the majority of his almost 35 years. In an old film canister, his ashes travel with me so I can spread them in beautiful places I visit. The little mementos I took from his apartment now bring him permanently into my home. Guilt still mingles with tears for my son as my life winds down.
I once thought of writing something about my son and me. Although I didn't get very far with the writing, the title came to me quickly -- Out of Step -- because that best described us and our relationship. Each one of us was out of step with society's norms and expectations, and with each other.
In the 1970s, there were heated debates in multicultural circles about whether it was better for all cultures in America to merge into a tasty soup, or maintain certain characteristics as in a stew where a carrot remains identifiably a carrot, a potato stays a potato, etc. Which was better for America? For the individual? For the ethnic group?
At the time my husband said he was ready for a child, I was 25. Influenced by the plight of foster children because I had been a foster care social worker, and touched by the dire predictions of Zero Population Growth, I said I wanted to adopt a child that needed a home rather than create a biological child. He agreed, and within three months or our application, we had our beautiful honey-colored toddler. We had asked for a "hard to place" child, and mixed black/white children past infancy was the largest group needing families at that time.
Soon after, black social workers in California felt that transracial adoptions were bad. Even no permanent home was a better fate to them than white parents who, by virtue of being white, wouldn't be able to adequately prepare their black children for being black in America. While not taking back black children that were already adopted, they stopped white adoption of black children dead in its tracks. And there it lay for years during the intense era of black power and fighting for Civil Rights. All of this seems so odd now given the many changes in adoption, transracial adoption, intermarriage, and the significant number of mixed black/white children in the U.S. today.
Time passed, our son grew handsome and tall. None of us was prepared for the divorce. At that time, I did not understand why it was happening, but I knew I was responsible for it. I almost drowned in the guilt of destroying what I had worked so hard to build. And my son never really forgave me. Weakened by the strength it took for me to leave, I accepted my 13-year-old son's decision to remain with his father. It is more common now for fathers to take care of their children after divorce, but it was quite unusual in the late 1970s.
Over the next several years, from Israel, China, and all the other countries I lived in or visited, I kept writing even after he said he wanted no more contact with me. There were occasional uncomfortable visits when I returned to the U.S. or he traveled to where I was. He grew even taller, more handsome, and strong. When I no longer knew where he lived, his dad sent my letters on to him. I was often exuberantly happy in my now worldwide life of challenge, travel, and adventure. But guilt was always my tucked-away traveling companion.
Out of the blue, five years after he had shunned all contact with me, and 14 years after he was found to be HIV positive, he called me. He was cool and detached, and I wasn't really sure why he had called. He said he may or may not call again. A few weeks later, his dad called to say that he was in the hospital diagnosed with the progression of HIV into AIDS. He quit work and became housebound. When my phone sometimes rang at 1:30 a.m., I had mixed feelings. I knew who it would be, but also knew that he would speak to me like a petulant teenager, taking up the relationship from the age I had left him.
He made a last trip to see me. He was still tall and handsome, but far from strong. He was as breathless as an old, old man. Instead of trying to talk, he gave me a page from his diary written three years earlier. It said, "So, now I'm wondering why I've been thinking about mom so much the last ten to eleven months or so. There's no anger there. Actually, I've thought how fortunate I've been. She really was a terrific mother! She taught me to 'see' more and how to be open to the unknown. I have mostly very good memories of childhood (mostly = 85%), so many opportunities sent/brought to me. A multitude of seemingly unimaginable, once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Is it possible there were too many? Find myself acutely aware of constant introspection: Why so much? (So much more?)"
The closest moment on that visit was when I read to him while he was in the emergency room awaiting transport to a hospital better able to deal with his rapidly deteriorating condition. Still, he lived another year and continued to call occasionally. He never gave me his phone number or invited me to his apartment. But, after he died, I went with his dad to take care of his belongings. There, in his apartment, I got a glimpse of the man he had grown into that he had not allowed me to know. Each section of each room was artistically arranged like a series of vignettes of what had been important in his life. I read letters from his friends which allowed me to know how others had perceived him. And, carefully placed on his desk, tied with a decorative string, was a package of all the opened letters I had sent him.
Since then, I have felt closer to him in death than I did for the majority of his almost 35 years. In an old film canister, his ashes travel with me so I can spread them in beautiful places I visit. The little mementos I took from his apartment now bring him permanently into my home. Guilt still mingles with tears for my son as my life winds down.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Friday the 13th
It is that day in American culture that feels rather creepy to many people. Gory horror stories connected to Friday the 13th are plentiful. Numbers are meaningful in other cultures - good luck numbers and bad luck numbers - but Americans generally shun 13. You can't find a 13th floor in some buildings, or even an apartment 13.
I, on the other hand, feel a certain connection to Friday the 13th since I was born on one. It has always felt like a happy day to me even though I must admit I can't remember anything particularly lucky or unlucky happening to me on a Friday the 13th.
But I do remember a very unusual Friday the 13th. I was flying back from Asia. I left on Friday the 13th, and since we gain a day flying from Asia to the U.S., I arrived early on Friday the 13th. I wonder when I'll ever have two Friday the 13ths coming together again.
So, Happy Friday the 13th!
I, on the other hand, feel a certain connection to Friday the 13th since I was born on one. It has always felt like a happy day to me even though I must admit I can't remember anything particularly lucky or unlucky happening to me on a Friday the 13th.
But I do remember a very unusual Friday the 13th. I was flying back from Asia. I left on Friday the 13th, and since we gain a day flying from Asia to the U.S., I arrived early on Friday the 13th. I wonder when I'll ever have two Friday the 13ths coming together again.
So, Happy Friday the 13th!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
To Drive or Not to Drive
I am reluctantly forced to face this question now. My 1993 car needs some expensive repairs. I ask myself, "Do I need to drive?" It is just about a given in California that everyone needs a car. Unreliable and inconvenient bus schedules back this up. I have elderly neighbors who can't see well, hear well, or turn their heads easily who still drive. In their 80s, 90s, and even 100s (yes, it's true), they can't understand why a reasonably fit 66 year old would voluntarily give up driving without a fight. The most told jokes in my retirement community have to do with seniors driving.
I survived very well without driving for many of my nomadic years in China, Taiwan, Macau, and Korea. But, of course, they had significant alternative forms of transportation. My local transportation options around where I live are hourly buses around the community and surrounding stores where I live, and a subsidized taxi voucher service where $40 buys me $100 worth of rides within my county. Then, there is the well-known Bus 11 (as it was called in Israel) which meant walking where one needed to go. I did do a lot more walking when I didn't have a car. And I like walking. Hmm! At this age of my life, would walking as transportation help or hurt my arthritic knees?
I'm not foolish or brave enough to ride a bike sharing the same roads as cars. But what about an environmentally-friendly motorized tricycle that would allow me to carry home groceries? Weather isn't particularly a problem where I live. I could cross the busiest streets and get to most of the places I go rather than riding along them. Or, a popular option where I live would be a golf cart. We have special paths just for golf carts, and our city is planning more. But it wouldn't get me everywhere I regularly go.
Although I got my license at the age of 16, I've never enjoyed driving. My father's words to his newly-licensed daughter -- "Remember, you have a murder weapon in your hands" -- have had a chilling effect upon me to this day. And, although I hear well and can easily turn my head to look behind me, I know my vision and my reaction time are not what they were. Until recently, I was aghast to see night lights radiating like colorful sparkling diamonds. But then, I found out it was a coating on my glasses that had become scratched and was distorting everything. Better now, but still not the sharp night vision of yesteryear. Talking to a friend today about an elderly driver knocking her mother's walker right from under her in a parking lot reminded me once again that I live in the most dangerous driving (and walking) radius possible because of all the elderly drivers who won't give up their keys. I definitely don't wish to be one of the ones who lives to regret not giving up driving earlier.
What to do?
I survived very well without driving for many of my nomadic years in China, Taiwan, Macau, and Korea. But, of course, they had significant alternative forms of transportation. My local transportation options around where I live are hourly buses around the community and surrounding stores where I live, and a subsidized taxi voucher service where $40 buys me $100 worth of rides within my county. Then, there is the well-known Bus 11 (as it was called in Israel) which meant walking where one needed to go. I did do a lot more walking when I didn't have a car. And I like walking. Hmm! At this age of my life, would walking as transportation help or hurt my arthritic knees?
I'm not foolish or brave enough to ride a bike sharing the same roads as cars. But what about an environmentally-friendly motorized tricycle that would allow me to carry home groceries? Weather isn't particularly a problem where I live. I could cross the busiest streets and get to most of the places I go rather than riding along them. Or, a popular option where I live would be a golf cart. We have special paths just for golf carts, and our city is planning more. But it wouldn't get me everywhere I regularly go.
Although I got my license at the age of 16, I've never enjoyed driving. My father's words to his newly-licensed daughter -- "Remember, you have a murder weapon in your hands" -- have had a chilling effect upon me to this day. And, although I hear well and can easily turn my head to look behind me, I know my vision and my reaction time are not what they were. Until recently, I was aghast to see night lights radiating like colorful sparkling diamonds. But then, I found out it was a coating on my glasses that had become scratched and was distorting everything. Better now, but still not the sharp night vision of yesteryear. Talking to a friend today about an elderly driver knocking her mother's walker right from under her in a parking lot reminded me once again that I live in the most dangerous driving (and walking) radius possible because of all the elderly drivers who won't give up their keys. I definitely don't wish to be one of the ones who lives to regret not giving up driving earlier.
What to do?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
CURLING UP WITH A GOOD BOOK
Although I made sure the book I wrote (Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird) is available on devices like Kindle and Sony Reader, I still like to curl up on a couch or bed, or best of all on the chaise lounge on my plant-filled patio, with a good book. Entering the world the book presents to me, I travel vicariously, happily, and inexpensively to the realms of fiction and non-fiction. Sometimes the book presents totally new worlds to me, and sometimes it reminds me of people and places I have personally known.
"Shanghai Girls," the newest book by Lisa See, recently transported me back to China. Having spent so much time in China since 1988, I knowingly nodded my head yes when it described aspects of Chinese culture I have become accustomed to, and it added details of history I had heard of before, but didn't know well. Personally struggling to try my hand at writing fiction now, I was intrigued by the characters she developed to tell her story. Since I had only one brother and no sisters, I could only imagine the strength of the relationship of the two sisters in the book (the translation of the book in Chinese is actually called "Shanghai Sisters") who shared so much love and pain spanning their childhoods and adult years.
But that's what good books do -- they engage us totally for the hours we sit with them. They allow us to enter worlds we can never participate in. They give us ideas we may never have thought of. They broaden our perspective as well as our knowledge, make us laugh, cry, wonder. In contrast to movies, books give our imaginations the opportunity to visualize the people and places in them.
Public libraries are indeed the best buy in town.
"Shanghai Girls," the newest book by Lisa See, recently transported me back to China. Having spent so much time in China since 1988, I knowingly nodded my head yes when it described aspects of Chinese culture I have become accustomed to, and it added details of history I had heard of before, but didn't know well. Personally struggling to try my hand at writing fiction now, I was intrigued by the characters she developed to tell her story. Since I had only one brother and no sisters, I could only imagine the strength of the relationship of the two sisters in the book (the translation of the book in Chinese is actually called "Shanghai Sisters") who shared so much love and pain spanning their childhoods and adult years.
But that's what good books do -- they engage us totally for the hours we sit with them. They allow us to enter worlds we can never participate in. They give us ideas we may never have thought of. They broaden our perspective as well as our knowledge, make us laugh, cry, wonder. In contrast to movies, books give our imaginations the opportunity to visualize the people and places in them.
Public libraries are indeed the best buy in town.
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