Asia in Pictures: Vietnam (part 1)

The boats form ribs along the breastbone of this river, boats that widows in their conical hats have rowed to the Perfume Pagoda for as long as anyone can remember. Their thin arms and stooped backs propel boatloads of visitors forward with surprisingly strong, rhythmic lurches, while the limestone cliffs around us cup sound with the wrinkled fingers of their peaks, amplifying the muffled silence around us until the static in our heads dies down. And the widows row, and the paddles slap the water in a constant rhythm, and believers and tourists and fishermen fix their eyes on the peaks and the plants and the fish and the flame trees, and the widows look at it like for the first time, every time, because that's the only option that's left when the world is so stunning it hurts. My tour guide stops the boat along the way to gather leaves for a home remedy. The Canadian man's camera clicks and whirs, its huge lens looking ostentatious and awkward in front of this backdrop of slowly sloping beauty. The Dutch couple behind me speak in heavy syllables, unconsciously adjusting the rhythm of their speech to match the rhythm of the oars. And the widow's eyes crease against the blinding gray of the cloudy sky as we draw nearer to the river's end and the path to the Pagoda begins to reveal itself to us. This sacred site for believers, hidden deep in the mountain. The prayer flags sigh in welcome like little, fluttering eyelashes and all around us the earth seems to just hold still. Like the pupil in the center of the iris. Like breath held in anticipation.

Introducing Leatherface

There's just so much on my mind right now. And really, it's pretty much impossible to stay focused and present right now. I just keep thinking about Peter and his parents and counting down the days when I see him again and sending internal rays of love to him in the meantime. I have a to-do list a mile long, and I can't quite bring myself to get going on it.

And, in this time of great enormity, all I can seem to do is focus on tiny, minuscule things. These frustrations that are so, so, so small in physical size, but arouse such large feelings.

Like the ants in my condo. No matter how many times I spray, or how many of those ant trap thingies (y'know...where they bring the poison back to the nest) I set out, they always reappear. Always in a different location. And I keep spraying and setting out more traps, and the next day they are lining the door of my shower, or following a chemical path along the edge of my kitchen counter, or swirling in their erratic functions around the base of my new apsara, and even finding their way into my teacher bag and laptop bag and gym bag and purse. I even bundle myself up at night--long-sleeved t-shirt, socks, sweatpants, with the comforter wrapped like a tortilla around this sweltering cotton burrito. If the ants found a way to penetrate this last barrier, I would just have to surrender and move my stuff to a small corner of the hallway outside, since they will have won fair and square.

The other little things that are bothering me? The tiny lines and freckles that have started to invade my face in the last few months. I am very obsessive about my sunblock, and never leave the house without SPF 55 slathered everywhere (and reapplied throughout the day!). Now, granted, I have very fair skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes, and must therefore adopt the lifestyle of a vampire in order to keep my complexion happy. And though I have been very careful with my skin since the time I lived in Phoenix, and I always made a conscious effort to stay out of the sun when I was in high school and college, I wasn't always as careful as I should have been. If I could go back in time, I would hand my 16-year-old, porcelain-skinned self a bottle of SPF 8,000, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and some bug-eye glasses with 100% UV protection. And while 16-year-old me would have whined and protested and totally rejected 28-year-old me's oppressive (and probably somehow sexist) authority, man, while self-righteously tossing my blue hair over my shoulder (I was INSUFFERABLE as a teenager, can ya tell??), all 28-year-old me would have to do is point to the spiderweb of facial lines, and the freckles that were maybe adorable back when I was six, and 16-year-old me would dutifully apply sunblock to every exposed part of her body.

The thing is, though, that I think the sun out here is merciless. Most Thai people, while they are unbelievably wrinkle-free, have TONS of (soooo light and adorable) freckles. My hair has taken on the texture and color of someone who has given it entirely too many color treatments. Even the moles and freckles that I had already have gotten, um, bigger and darker (and yes, I do recognize that it's time to give the dermatologist a call). The fact that my skin has changed pretty dramatically in the last six months does freak me out quite a bit. But what is also freaking me out is my reaction to all of these changes. I always rolled my eyes at people who got Botox or lipo or spent a gazillion dollars on anti-aging creams. "Good grief!" I thought, while putting a hand to my youthful, wrinkle-free forehead, "Embrace your age! Who the hell wants to be 18 forever? Why can't people just freakin' grow old gracefully???" And who knows? Maybe if I had gotten my first wrinkle at the age of 38 instead of 28, I'd still stand by that perspective. But, HOLY CRAP, this is completely unhinging me.

It's hard watching the people we care about grow old, get sick, and die. And it's even harder when we start to see that we are also ants marching in our own mortality. And it's hard to grasp all of these life and death notions, the unpredictability of life, and the ultimate frailty of our physical beings. So while I am a little nervous that my boyfriend will catch a glimpse of me and go running in the opposite direction (as the last time he saw me was pre-wrinkle), I think it's pretty safe to say that my crazed, obsessive reaction to the appearance of wrinkles goes a little deeper than my vanity.

That said: does anyone have any fantastic suggestions for, um, minimizing these facial annoyances?? I am currently rockin' the retinol and the vitamin C and all kinds of other stuff....

I realize that I am coming off as sounding horrifically glib and superficial. And even rather self-absorbed. I think it's just the best I can do at the moment.

In Loving Memory

My beloved boyfriend's parents passed away on June 19th and June 21st, 2008, roughly within 48 hours of each other. They both died peacefully, finally resting after long battles.

The pain of this sears.

The funeral for Peter's mother, Marcia, is today. She fought her battle with lung cancer with grace and determination, and the beneficiaries of the many hats that she was able to wear (the hats of a beloved mother, wife, friend, aunt, sister, daughter, volunteer, teacher) are grieving the loss of this truly thoughtful, truly generous woman.

In the short time that I knew her, I think what most stood out for me was the fact that, in my experience, she was always quick to let you know when you had unfairly judged someone, jumped to an inaccurate conclusion, or failed to give the benefit of the doubt. And she did it so gently, with that lovely little half-smile of hers. I know so few people like that. She didn't appreciate jokes at the expense of others. She was genuinely and deeply kind. It was a constant kindness without any sort of self-indulgent fanfare. Her humility ran as deeply and abundantly as her kindness. I will miss that.

She was very actively involved in the community, focusing her attention in the last 12 years on Milwaukee's Lake Park. When she was recently honored with an award for her contributions, she simply had these words to say:

Smell the flowers
Look up at the birds
Be kind to fellow volunteers
Enjoy Lake Park!

Her beloved Lake Park with its trails and benches and trees and summer concert series and juicy mulberries and warm, woody scents will stand as a living memorial to her, as will the North Point Lighthouse. She worked tirelessly on the restoration of this lighthouse--this quaint little artifact of a different time. I think she believed deeply in the power of symbols. She lovingly fought to preserve these structures and spaces that tell the story of Milwaukee's history like messengers from the past. These symbols that remind us of all of our blessings.

Count your blessings. These were words that she said to Peter near the end of her life. They are words that I carry with me every day. Her words were always succinct, well chosen, and left a considerable impact.

On the morning of her death, the lighthouse's bell was brought from its display case in the public library to its rightful place in the restored tower. About an hour after she passed, the bell rang exactly one time. The sound was recorded for posterity, and I can't help but think that it was a sound full of gratitude and mourning for the woman who loved this project, who literally gave a community its beacon, and who brought this piece of the past to life so that the future could have it. I'd like to think that she heard the sound of that bell as she slipped soundlessly from this world, becoming one with her trees, her birds, her lake, like an exhalation expanding into wind. Encompassing and embracing everything.

Gone from this world, but never from our hearts. You are loved and missed.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!
Mary Frye (1932)

Asia in Pictures: Myanmar, part 3

Me in front of Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon.

This picture gives me conflicting feelings. On the one hand, true, AUTHENTIC, responsible tourism in Myanmar does NOT include a visit to this pagoda. The money from the entrance fees goes into the hands of the evil government, and tour groups who visit Myanmar see this and mistake it for a realistic picture of the state of things there, like it's some kind of gold-plated manicure that the country waves around to seduce visitors and illustrate its florid wealth. THERE'S NO TROUBLE IN BURMA, THAT PLACE IS FREAKIN' COVERED IN GOLD! However, even though I WAS extremely careful about my money distribution and responsible tourism, I chose to go. The pagoda called to me in its twinkling bell voice wherever I went. And when some teenage girls--with their cheeks covered in a powder made from tree bark that is part make-up, part sunblock--convinced me that I have to go see their "number one pagoda," my mind was made up. Shwedagon Pagoda is a place in which the people of Myanmar take a lot of pride. People urged me to go all day long until finally I did. Yes, I felt guilty as I hired a tour guide (whom I annoyed to no end with my zillions of questions, and my constant requests to take pictures of me here here here here here kthanksalot), I poured water over the Buddha that corresponds with my birthday, and I rang a temple bell three times, as is the custom. However, after the tour was over, I sat there, surrounded by hundreds of devotees who had come to the pagoda to pray, socialize, and even eat--spreading out a blanket and a delectable picnic on the marble platform that slowly began to cool after the sun started to set. And that's when I was approached by two university students, and we began a three hour conversation. We talked about the animistic beliefs in Burmese Buddhism, The Godfather, and books they had read. They loved their country, but they got the faraway look in their eyes that most people did when talking about it. They weren't allowed to tell me their grievances, the things that angered them, the things that had been done to them. To do so could cost them their lives. I posed for pictures with a group of young girls from the countryside who had never seen a white person before. I didn't want to leave. To be honest, it was nice being in such a bustling place with very few tourists.

I exchanged e-mail addresses with the two students I had met. It was strange saying good-bye to them. I was sad. I loved the energy of the pagoda in the evening, I loved the feeling of being a (welcome) outsider, I loved this sharing that was happening. They walked me to the exit where I could claim my shoes (and, um, there are, like, a zillion exits there, so I was grateful for their help!!). They left me at the elevator and walked back down the long corridor leading back into the main part of the pagoda. After they had walked a ways, I looked back over my shoulder at them, at the two young men cloaked in green sarongs, and felt a strange pang of sadness. They must have sensed that I was looking at them, because they also looked back over their shoulders at me and waved one more time.

I e-mailed both of them after the cyclone and haven't yet heard back from them.

This pagoda has been a witness to so much.

Asia in Pictures: Myanmar, part 2

Yangon, you have the elegant pride and glistening cleanliness of European cities without the pristine edges. You sag in places and peel in others and you have a weary look about you, like you want to spend your days knitting for grandchildren instead of trudging, trudging, trudging through minutes and hours, afraid to exhale. You, Yangon, are swollen with air, swollen with silence, swollen with a tension so thick that I'm afraid of treading off of the sidewalk for fear of you bursting. And Yangon, your people look at me with curiosity and a strange pride and an inexplicable warmth, but most of them are afraid to ask me. They're afraid to talk, to touch, to know. But you do not move in your quiet dignity, your weary tolerance, and a slight grin tugs at the corners of your lips somehow. It's been there so long that it has caused a wrinkle all the way across your entire expanse. You are just waiting. Just waiting and hoping. I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream and tear my hair out and gather everyone together and start marching and hitting and clawing and fighting. You just shook your head at me. No, no, no. That is not how this is going to work. So I took this picture instead. I took this picture while your people walked around me, greeting me, asking, "Where you from?," and telling me, "America is greatest country in the world." Yangon, your quiet hope, your warm patience, your unspectacular suffering, your weathered beauty rest at the very root of me like lead seeping into groundwater.

I won't forget you.

Asia in Pictures: Myanmar, part 1

I apologize for my absence. I haven't had Internet access at home OR at work. So....instead of using this time to claw my eyeballs out from Internet withdrawal, I figured it would be best to finally shove the eighty million pictures from five different memory cards into my computer. And now I need an external hard drive. Anywho.....it made me relive my travels. Asia? YOU'RE FABULOUS.

I thought I would spend the next few posts waxing poetic about the things I've seen here. This is mainly so that I can look back on all of this when I'm an old lady and remember exactly WHICH monk I'm looking at from WHAT country.

Enjoy.



Monks' sleeping areas and robes drying.


My time in Myanmar was brief--exactly 24 hours--and I had a lot to see. My very first stop was to see a reclining Buddha with glass eyes who was housed in a simple structure with a corrugated tin roof. A sweet old man approached me and offered to take me to see where the monks lived. It was during the time of the day designated for resting, which is right after they eat their last meal of the day (just before noon). I expected to feel like persona non grata, given the fact that I am a woman. My feet felt loud and clunky as I walked into their very simple sleeping areas which were still peppered with dishes from the afternoon meal. I was afraid to breathe, afraid to look at anything. The monks sat up as I entered, smiled, and gestured for me to come in. Some of them giggled at my shyness. Some just stared, having not seen many pairs of blue eyes lately. One monk woke up and insisted that my guide bring me over. He chanted something in a tired, parched voice. He blessed me with a long life and lots of luck. He was 79 years old. He smiled and allowed me to take his picture. Another monk limped over to me and encouraged me to follow. He had been rubbing oil on his sore legs and it made the entire room smell like mint and lavender. He showed me the eightfold path of the Buddha that was hanging in a special place of honor. Another monk showed me the paintings he had made. A third monk set out leftover rice for the stray dogs. The energy was quiet and subdued with function, with repetition, without anticipation or projection or aggravation.

Myanmar, I have many unwritten love songs for you.

Happiness!

B. and C. and I were just in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, for a few days. As I've mentioned before, I looooooooove it there. The flowy curtains and the wicker and the tuk tuks and the elegant architecture (with balconies galore) and the articulate street lamps and the breeze from the river and the frustrating bargaining experiences and the smoky smell and the history and the resilience and the good energy and the relaxed feel and and the kramas and the pirated Lonely Planet guides and the Buddhas and the gemstones and the silks and the silver and the "beach town" vibe going on and the massive quantities of people who just hang out in the verdant expanses of urban lawn and the open air restaurants with music pouring out of them and the fairy lights everywhere and the monkeys that hang out in the trees by Wat Phnom and the things that people manage to carry on motorbikes and the children that make my heart ache with compassion and sadness and a pang of gratitude for all of my blessings and the long, slow, deep breaths that I manage to take when I'm there.

I don't even mind the acute intestinal infections that I seem to get every time I return from there. I've been willing it away this time, but the bubble guts are a-churnin'........(was that tmi???)

It was really nice showing Cambodia to two such wonderful people. They've even helped me start a new travel tradition!! C. has a tiny stuffed monkey (complete with tiny jeans and a tiny Hawaiian shirt) named Aloise that he (and various members of his family) takes with him whenever he travels internationally. Aloise even has a tiny little passport :). The whole concept is a little like Flat Stanley, as the monkey has to be photographed at each of the sights that he visits. C. is pretty creative with the Aloise pictures--riding an elephant statue here, posing in front of the Grand Palace there--and I thought the whole idea was just so kick ass that B. and C. went ahead and bought me a little elephant (whom I named "Chang," which is the Thai word for elephant) in Chiang Mai to have as my very own travel companion. Aloise has been to (just to name a few): Spain, Turkey, Belize, Mexico, Ireland, Italy, Cayman Islands, various countries in Eastern Europe, and has just added Thailand and Cambodia to that list. I'm looking forward to having many more adventures with Chang (who is rather photogenic and can strike many varieties of poses). Cambodia was a great maiden voyage for him.

I always feel a little sad when I leave Phnom Penh, but this time it was multiplied by a thousand due to the fact that B. and C.'s visit is almost over. I love my life in Asia, but it has been so nice to be around true friends who accept me in spite of my flaws (even when I misplaced my hotel keys for the zillionth time), and we can still enjoy each other's company at the end of the day when everyone is a little hot, a little cranky, and a little tired.

On the upside, though, I know that this was the first of many outings for the dynamic duo of Aloise and Chang.

I have a cute picture that C. took of the two of them in Cambodia. I'll post it tomorrow once I have a chance to upload my pics.

In the meantime, though, I have a special message for B. and C.: DON'T GO!!!!!!!!!!!

Does it hurt when I do THIS?????

In case we're not clear on this, the time that my friends B. and C. have spent visiting me in Bangkok has been the Best Time Ever. They're in Chiang Mai right now, probably having the time of their lives, and I am stuck pining for them in Bangkok :(.

Anyway......they had been exploring some of Bangkok's main sights the other day when they stopped in at a charming--and quite delicious--restaurant that I had recommended. B. told me that in the restroom there was a (rather long) tale written on the wall. It goes a little something like this:

There once was a young boy who would lose his temper and do/say hurtful things to other people. Each time he lost his temper, his father would make him pound a nail into a fence until he finally accumulated 75 (or so) nails. Eventually he grew out of his temper tantrums, and his father told him that he could remove the nails from the fence. Upon finishing he took a step back and saw that the fence was completely full of holes. His father told him that when you do something hurtful to someone, that person becomes like the fence where you have driven a nail. Sure, you can remove the nail, but the hole will always remain. When you do hurtful things to people, the damage is permanent.

Now.....my life recently has been a chaotic hub of comings and goings. Most importantly, though, I've reconnected with various people from my past--people who have "nailed" me, and people whom I have "nailed."

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh yes I did!!! But just so we're clear (because my mom reads this), I only mean that in the metaphoric, hurtful-things-drive-a-nail-through-the-soul way.

Anyway, all of this reconnection has happened at the exact same time that other people have, in one form or another, exited my life. In fact, in one case the timing and circumstance of the person leaving and the person re-entering have been absolutely eerie. And it's all just made me pause and reflect (as, hey, that's what my time in Thailand is all about).

DO these holes really last forever??? As I had mentioned in my list of 100 things, it takes me a long time to cut people out of my life. Once I do, that door is closed forever. But now that is no longer true, and it actually hasn't been for a long time. I don't know if my heart is the steel trap that it used to be. Once you're in, YOU MUST STAY THERE FOREVER. If you manage to escape, SAYONARA. But I don't think that's a fair way to travel through life. I guess I would like to envision my heart as a revolving door. A revolving door leading into a big, fabulous shopping center. A person can enter when the circumstances are right for both of us, when there are lessons to be learned and gifts to be given and company to enjoy and solace to be sought and geography in common. But if there comes a point where circumstances are no longer right for one or both of us, then that person can pick up his or her recyclable canvas shopping bag full of parting gifts from me and be on his or her way. And should that person decide to return one day, well, he or she will just have to look for the revolving door. It's the one that's bright pink and smothered in glitter.

Now, I realize that this is a rather Pollyanna view of human relationships and the human heart. Because the fact of the matter is that the "going" part of coming-and-going can be tremendously complicated. Now, a great majority of the time paths just diverge, geography changes, life stages take us off into different directions, and people just plain ol' lose touch. However, sometimes people are not satisfied with the parting gifts and decide to take more and more and more--even resorting to stealing. Sometimes people decide to burn the place down before they go, or put cherry bombs in the toilets, or spray paint profanity on the walls, and never feel even an ounce of guilt, sadness, or remorse. THOSE people are forever banned from the premises. But even still: if someone who has hurt you (whether in a small way, or in a significantly life-altering way) truly apologizes, and truly asks for forgiveness, AND, most importantly, TRULY proves to you that he or she HAS learned from the mistakes and will never repeat them again, can a wound really be healed?

Now, I've done some SHITTY things in my time. Small, large, it doesn't matter. I look back on those things and I STILL get all flushed. I've also had a horrific tendency to make an absolute ass outta myself (which I wish I could attribute completely to alcohol consumption, but sadly, no.....), and therefore have made some indelible impressions on people, and NOT in a good way. I also have this horrible habit of putting my foot in my mouth. In my self-reflection time, all of these things have been brought to the glaring surface light of my memory and conscience. And it SUCKS. I know that I would take all of that back in an instant if I could. I know that I have made some HORRIFICALLY bad decisions and harmful mistakes. I know that it is good to look at all of this, even if looking into the eyes of the Brooke in my memories is a bit like looking into the eyes of Medusa, except instead of turning into stone, the very earth around me feels as though it is melting into a hot, firey mess.

Anyway.......yay for the melodrama.........

The fact of the matter is that I CAN'T take any of it back, nor can anyone take back the things that they have done and said to me. But when someone asks for forgiveness and offers a sincere apology, I think it's a bit like taking some plaster and patching up the holes. And while in some cases the trust may never return, and that person may never again be granted an all-access pass to the fabulous shopping mall (yay for the mixed metaphors), and there ARE some things that can safely be classified as unforgivable (e.g. the killing of self or others, infidelity, physical or emotional abuse), I think forgiveness--both the granting of it and the receiving of it--is the most powerful act that we can perform as human beings.

I'm not one for grudges. I never have been. As of today I am going to change that item on my list of 100 things from, "that door is closed forever," to, "I believe in second chances*." Because I do. I can only hope that other people can forgive me my mistakes as well. I'm trying, and I'm learning from them, and I am truly sorry. I will most definitely be more careful with that hammer in the future.

Peter, I just want to assure you (and anyone else who may be wondering) that this statement does NOT, in fact, apply to ex-boyfriends. Only friendships. There is only room in the fabulous shopping center/fence/revolving door of my heart for one guy, and YOU AND ONLY YOU shall occupy that spot for all eternity.

PUNishment

My friend C. has a way with words. Puns, in particular. Now, my father being the big joker that he is raised me to be a pun connoisseur, so I have a rather educated palate when it comes to sampling these humorous delicacies. Case in point:

Me: Dad, um, I think you're using the wrong fork. You should be using your salad fork for the salad course [and, no, I don't really care if someone uses the wrong fork. I was just being a snarky teenager].

Dad: Well, fork you!!

Anyway, C. has certainly been filled with the puns since arriving here in Bangkok. I thought I would go ahead and share some that made me groan with alacrity:

Me: So this is an old historic fort.
C: We should come back at night.
Me: Why?
C: So we can have a fortnight
C: And if the King lived there when he was younger, would that make him a fort-teen?

*****************************************************

Me: Do you think there are any other wats [the Thai word for "temple"] that you would like to visit?
C: Sup Dock.
Me: Hmmm....I don't think I've heart of Wat Sup Dock......oh.......

****************************************************

.....and my favorite thus far:

We have been talking a lot about durian, which is a fruit that you either love or hate. I happen to love it, C. happens to hate it. It is frequently pronounced several different ways, but most commonly dur-ee-ON, or DOR-ee-an.

C: Durian [DOR-ee-an] turns a gray-ish color when it starts to go bad. It would be nice to find some right now and get a picture of it.
Me: Why is that?
C: So we can have a Picture of Dorian Gray.

I'm sure there will be plenty more where that came from :)

In other news, I think this is the funniest thing ever (this entire website makes me want to simultaneously die laughing and claw my face off). There's a small part of me that would like to be like this when I'm older. Most likely, though, I'll probably just spend time in broomstick skirts dusting my crystals and Buddhas, humming Dar Williams songs to myself, and crocheting enough scarves to outfit the entire globe.

Yay!

My friends B. and C. are visiting.

Yay for visitors!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am enjoying the love parade that they have thrown in my honor.

That sounds kinda strange, now that I reread it.....

All I'm saying is that it is so nice to feel loved, to see Bangkok through fresh eyes, and to be around two fantastically phenomenal people. I am savoring every second, so forgive me if I neglect my blogging for a few more days :)

We're off to Cambodia next week!! Yay!! My favorite place with two of my favorite people. Life could not be better!!