Discussing Love on a Lake

We discussed love while rowing on a freshly painted boat on Phewa Lake in Nepal.

He rowed. And I pretended I knew how to.

In the far distance, we could make out the faint outlines of the Annapura, the more accessible mountain range of the mythical Himalayas, which stood proud and silent on that hazy spring day.

Alex steered our boat around the small island that held the non-descript Hindu temple, dressed up like a blushing schoolgirl for the tourists, while we gazed upwards towards the pearly white Buddhist stupa planted up on a neighboring hill.

Sandwiched between the two symbols, we talked of love in the abstract. In the practical. In the religious.

I asked Alex what he knew about Buddhism. He shared with me the few tenets that he knew, most notably that of non-attachment.

I leaned back and frowned at a memory of a dear friend who recently embraced Buddhism. A year ago, she was bitterly and vocally unhappy with her marriage because of a void of understanding, touch, love, and common ideals.  She had dreamed of something different and contemplated divorce. Now, with the smile of the recently converted playing on her lips, she preached non-attachment to me in a crowded, cheap Italian restaurant. While her rambunctious 7 year old son screamed and kicked for his mom's iPhone, she patted him absentmindedly and explained to me why she was happy now. The key was letting go. All couples, regardless of the quality of their relationship, would end up apart at the end of mortal life. So why obsess about the journey? If she stopped hoping for love, then she would not despair over the deafening silence between them. Or the late nights she waited up for him to come home. Or the lack of gentleness.

If she stopped being attached to her husband, then she would be happy.

I swirled around my cream of mushroom soup with the tin spoon, hiding the torrent of anger behind my masked attempt to understand her sentiments. I wanted to scream that she was giving up. That she was settling for a shell of a happy life. We ended our lunch early because her son whined about going to the arcades and snatched my spoon to drum out his demands. I also grew weary of my curious burst of anger.

Alex listened quietly to my story and disillusionment with the concept of letting go.

I passionately argued that at least for myself, I either cared all the way or didn't care at all. Despite my parents cautioning temperance and 'it's just a job' whenever I cried on the phone because I wasn't sure how much more I could physically/ emotionally give to my work, I would still dip into my bank of inner reserve and drum out more energy to find solutions to never-ending problems. Or how I kept reaching out to a family member with a hopeful tentativeness even though she's hung up on me multiple times.

Isn't that what love is? I asked urgently. Not letting go?

In between a few more gentle paddles to maneuver us to a quiet alcove, Alex mused that love, in its ultimate form, is one of letting go of expectations of outcomes. It is the unconditional love that Christ spoke of, because He still loves us eternally regardless of our actions. He brought up the example of a proverbial modern mom who became angry because despite repeated reminders, the daughter was not practicing her instrument. The motive was love and hope that the daughter would develop her talents. But the anger arose because the daughter was not conforming to a set image the mom had crafted. Love, within the context of our conversation, would be for the mom to let go of the story she had weaved in her mind about her reality and instead persevere in love through the difficult, messy, and wonderfully unplotted life she ended up sharing with her daughter.

On our way paddling back to the muddy shores, I scanned the lake for the attachments in my life and saw them splayed out across the rippled surface of the the deepening water. Tangled in my thoughts, I decided to throw my stories, chained to their imagined endings, overboard and just let them sink to the bottom of Phewa. I decided to try to love in the best way I knew how and let things happen as they may. I would let go but not give up.

Across the lake, a proper Nepali storm was rolling in, a harbinger of the monsoon season.

Don't Play the Victim

I once loved a boy.

People thought we were really cute together. We thought so too. We would both get so pumped about the same things, volleying our excitement back and forth with wild gestures, and yet get so incredibly mad at completely different things, scattering confusion and hurt in our wake.

Sometimes he would make an offhand comment that would sting in the tender and secret places. I loved him so I didn't make a big deal out of it. I knew he didn't mean it that way so what was the point of brining it up? Since I cared, I would brush it off.

But the comments would continue - not because he knew they hurt, but because he didn't know they hurt. He was just being funny.

Meanwhile, I swallowed one and another and another till I was ready to burst with resentment. Even though I knew that he didn't have bad intentions, I started to question why he wasn't sensitive enough to figure it out. I wondered if that's what he really thought of me. I instinctively flinched every time the topic came up because I was mentally expecting to be hurt. I started to doubt whether we were good together. And so we weren't so good together anymore.

A few years and some growing up later, I realized that I had purposefully played the victim, even though I didn't realize it.

Ironically, in the name of love, I jeopardized our relationship. I wasn't fair to him because I judged him more and more and he had absolutely no idea. When you play the victim, you are turning your loved ones into attackers. That is not fair to them or to you because they didn't even know they were in the arena in the first place.

Sometimes, being faithful to somebody you care about means not giving yourself an opportunity to be a victim. If you really want a meaningful relationship, whether with friends, family, boyfriends or colleagues, you have to be ready to teach others how to love you.

Take the time to carefully explain why a certain comment bothers you and how you prefer they rephrase it. Bring it up (lovingly) right when it happens so it's a low risk conversation. Here are some phrases I try to use:

'Hey, by the way, can you explain to me why you said that? Right now, it makes me feel X" 

"I don't think you mean it this way, but it makes me feel a little judged. Do you really feel that way about me?"

"That kind of hurts. I think it's because I'm having a hard time with ____ right now."

"Honestly, I need some time to process it alone and then I will love to discuss it with you. So can you not ask me about it in the mean time? I feel pressure when people ask me about it."

Hint: it helps when you're saying these things while smiling or touching them reassuringly (except when it's a colleague)

Most of the time, the other person will be genuinely surprised that her comment has that effect and if she cares, she will do her best to change her future approach.

And yes, it will be easier to brush it off this time. But how about the next time? You need to take a stand for your relationships and fight for them. Taking the initiative to have those tough and awkward conversations. Show how you want to be loved. Don't play the victim. You and your loved one deserve more than that.

Give Said the Little Stream

In between Shanghai and Provo

"Happy birthday!!!" we sang into the phone, shrieking out our last off key note for maximum thematic flair.

My brother Casey squinted at the camera through his half sleepy eyes.

Then I spotted the all familiar Y banners floating in the background. "Wait. Are you on campus already at 8 am . . . on your birthday?"

"Yeah."

"So what fancy plans do you have for your big day?"

"Umm. Well I'm building houses today. It'll probably take the whole day, but maybe if I'm done early then I'll go hang out with some friends."

"Build houses? You know these people?"

"Nah. I just signed up to volunteer."

"But . . . it's your birthday! Why choose this day out of all days to volunteer?" I wailed while fiddling with the phone to make sure I heard him correctly.

"Well, I can't think of anything better else to do than helping other people on my birthday."

The reception faded in and out and his voice crackled. "Ok. Love you! I've got to go."

Girls, those dramatically coursing veins aren't photoshopped.

-----

Palawan, Philippines

They flashed their thousand watt smiles at us, volleying question after question about where we're from, what we loved about Philippines, and what our boyfriends looked like.

The three girls giggled non stop, covering their mouths in moments of barely contained teenage excitement and self-consciousness. Their eyes widened when I mentioned that I happened to be the president of our church Young Women group back in China.  They wanted to know what church activities we did and whether we made dumplings all day long.

A church leader got up on the pulpit and cleared his throat. I signaled that we should stop chatting and concentrate on the speaker.

After ten minutes, the girls on my row started fiddling. The three of them unzipped their mini purses and emptied them out on the bench, sifting through lip balms, hand mirrors, and forgotten mints. Kids will be kids. I thought, smiling inside, sitting more upright to show how real adults stay reverent during the Sacrament.

The girl with the long silky hair tugged at my elbow. She cupped her hands, as if protecting an injured little bird, and hovered over my open palms.

"Sorry, this is the only thing we have." She dipped her head apologetically and deposited her hidden gift in my hands. It was a mangy candy land pink teddy bear keychain. The fur was slightly caked with suspicious stains and the rust on the keychain indicated its love worn status.

I knitted my eyebrows in obvious confusion. "For me?"

She nodded enthusiastically and leaned in and whispered, "We want you to remember us. Tell the girls in China that we said hi. And let them know that there are other girls in Philippines who also like going to church as much as they do."

I swallowed. The other two girls peeked behind in the first and nodded their joint excitement at the gift. I turned back to the speaker, simply overwhelmed.

----

Vatican City

The crowds spilled out of the Vatican City, running mindlessly towards the first shelter in sight. The storm clouds that had hung threateningly all morning finally made good on their promise and poured down vengeance on those unprepared with sturdy umbrellas.

So we started running too. We ran past the guards dressed in anachronistic courtly uniforms, tripped on centuries old cobblestones, and jetted across the large square where the Pope makes his official addresses. The crowds streamed past the crooked old gypsy woman who tried to lift her head to make eye contact while feebly holding her hand out for a spare coin.

I had checked my purse before I reached her and was disappointed that I had only Chinese money. My mom always reminded us to bring a few extra coins for the needy but I was simply out of Euros. Apologetically, I avoided her gaze and rushed past. After reaching a dry spot, I looked around for my little brother, Cody. I anxiously scanned the crowds and saw him standing out there in the rain, hesitating. He had seen her too. He stuck his hand into one pocket. Nothing. Another pocket. Spare gum. Some burly guy ran past Cody, knocking into his left shoulder, and shot the gypsy a disgusted look. Cody walked over to the old woman, bent down slightly, and held out his umbrella. He nodded briefly at her to let her know it was ok, threw on his hood, and sprinted for the columns where I stood watching.

All around, hundreds of Christians who had just glimpsed in awe God and Adam's near touch at the Sistine Chapel ran past, barely noticing the huddled figure and her new umbrella near the fire hydrant.

Lining up for the Vatican City

Little Questions for Little Girls

Yesterday as I was performing my sisterly duties of straightening Jody's hair, I asked her about the dress she was getting tailored for the big school dance. We gossiped about the tailor's poor quality and lack of responsiveness while brainstorming hair styles that would go well with her outfit.

Then I looked into the mirror at my favorite 13 year old who grinned back at me, curving her dancing brown eyes into crescent moons shaped like mine. She was growing into a beautiful young woman, alternating between exaggerated confidence/ aggression in basketball and poetry composition and the fidgety awkwardness of figuring out how to smooth out her naturally bouncy locks, checking off yet another intangible prerequisite of popularity.

All of a sudden, I remembered a Huffington Post article that Mike sent me a few days earlier about how we should engage little girls in conversation about what they're thinking rather than what they're wearing.

So, carefully avoiding burning my fingers on her straightening iron, I asked her what she was reading.

Oddly, I was hesitant.

What if she wasn't reading anything at the moment? Did that question make me sound "mom-ish"? Was it too serious for a girly getting-ready-together chatter? Who (apart from book club ladies) would ask that?

She fiddled with her hair tie. I picked another piece of hair to straighten.

Oh, I am reading the Hobbit, but really I'm loving Greek mythology right now.

She told me about the differences in Greek and Egyptian mythological structural patterns. I learned about her favorite Greek Gods and heard some stories with seemingly dubious morals.

Then, she turned around and asked What are you reading?

I shared with her a little about The Innovator's DNA and how I had always wondered if successful entrepreneurs were simply born and not made and whether I could teach myself to become more innovative. As I build our startup, I always felt insecure about being a more delivery-driven nerd and not necessarily the wild hippie innovators that were featured on Time magazine.

In between my little brother walking in to show us his toned abs and asking for an opinion on his tie, we discussed how we could be creative not only with art, but also with processes, people, product, sales, and team building.

As I added the final touches to her hair, Jody turned around and hugged me. Tight.

With Jody at a Palestinian market.

That conversation could have been a forgettable no brainer had I not asked that simple question what are you reading? 

In fact, now I wonder how many such missed opportunities I've had with my sisters and my friends.

Cute dress. Love your hair. OMG I hate you - you're so skinny now! Where did you get that?

Us girls tend to resort to these types of compliments and conversation starters when we see each other. Even though I try to consciously compliment behavior rather than looks (and achievement), I often catch myself falling back into the familiar pattern with the group of teenage girls whom I teach at church.

How we compliment each other matters, regardless of the gender of the recipient, because that's how we communicate what we care about. We send the right message to our girls by first asking the right questions. We can't tell them to ignore what the world tells them about their waistlines or their hair when that's what we point out first with our admiring eyes.

I won't lie - I can never suppress a smile whenever a boyfriend whispers into my ear that I am very attractive to him at that moment. Or when my parents look up and tell me that I look beautiful in that church dress when I walk down the stairs.

So, I'm not saying that we should refrain from noticing and complimenting each other on physical attributes. But we definitely should be more aware of the balance of compliments and conversations we generally have, particularly with our little girls. Because little girls like to please and they please based on what we tell them is pleasing. So please tell them that it's wonderful they are trying so hard to work through those complicated Math questions, or inviting the new kid at school to eat lunch at their table, or signing up for the competitive debate team. Tell them things that matter even if you only have five minutes. Because those five minutes add to 35 minutes every week and 1820 minutes every year - all precious minutes of helping them become the strong, kind, and intelligent women this world needs.

A History of Kindness

He ran his fingers through his hair, shiny with grease, and brandished his practiced smile. Let me be your tour guide. Your bodyguard. Your little brother. Just follow me, I'll take you to the best shawerma places.

The teenager bounced along, constantly hovering next to Mike, protectively guarding us away from other begging children and shooing them along to find their own foreigners. He could hardly contain himself, his bits of English phrases spilling out of his lop-sided mouth and his hands always patting, edging, pulling, beckoning us constantly into dark alleys and overpriced cafes.

I hung back with our German friend, Nina, and watched. Even though I had flown into Bangladesh with wads of US dollar bills prepared to hand out to begging children on the streets, I was vastly unprepared for the overwhelming want. At every stoplight, hordes of the previously invisible swarmed the vehicles, peddling books/posters/maps/tupperware/giant baskets and cupping their fingers together at the mouth to indicate that they were hungry. I tired of putting my wallet back into my purse because I would be pulling it out again five seconds later. And beggars could be choosers. Often, the hand that took would shoot out again and ask for some more. A lot more.

So at the end of a sticky, dusty day, I ran out. Out of small bills. Out of patience. Out of get-out-of-skeptism-free card. And I watched carefully and felt anxious the more Mike clapped his hands on the little bodyguard's shoulders and asked about his family and laughed at his jokes. I mentally starting calculating how much each extra minute would cost me.

Am I a good bodyguard, no? You be my bigger sister, yes? 

And at the end, I steered Mike and Nina towards our actual destination, paid the little bodyguard, told him no, we wouldn't pay you three times more and relaxed.

Little bodyguard telling Mike about his music.

As I kneeled at the edge of my hotel bed that night, smelling the cheap laundry soap from the white-grey sheets, I realized I was in the box about the whole situation (re: "Leadership and Self-deception"). Even armed with good intentions and a seemingly bottomless wallet of small change, I did not pause to engage with them as people. I saw them as objects that constantly needed something from me and that by giving, giving, giving, I was merely fulfilling a social obligation and justifying a personal moral high ground.

When I paused to give freshly-picked strawberries and a little pocket change to the old man on the street in front of my China office, I felt genuinely happy and fulfilled. I talked to him about how nice the weather had been. I smiled and felt what it meant. But somehow, when I was in Bangladesh, perhaps because of unfamiliarity or a sense of being overwhelmed, I was acting charitable but not feeling charitable.

So that night, I prayed for true charity. I begged for an open heart. I pleaded to see the goodness of the people around me and let it change me.

The next morning, Mike and I cruised around on our rickshaws down the forgotten alleyways and looked out for good places to buy some local garb. Then, in the midst of a sweaty crowd of onlookers, in one of the densest countries in the world, our little bodyguard waved to us enthusiastically. Hey! Big sister, remember me?

Something whispered in my heart - This was the second chance you asked for.

I got off the rickshaw looked at him in the eyes, and smiled.

How's your family, little bodyguard?

Ah man. You're my family now. Come, come. I'll take you to buy a beautiful dress. 

They were forcing a little fluffy yellow chick to open its beak.

And they were dripping clear liquid through a plastic syringe into its mouth.

It was a street exhibition but I couldn't figure out what

 they were doing with the poor thing. 

Can't wait for spring so I have an excuse to put flowers in my hair again.

"Are you formed yet?" 

Bangladeshi tailors often marveled at my lack of curves.

A Pillar of Salt and a Floating Cat

At the start of every new year growing up, we would prop our short legs up on the engraved chest in the living room and scratch out our New Years resolutions in our diaries. To minimize the angst we felt, our parents advised us to divide out into five main categories: Academic, Spiritual, Physical, Social, and Personal.

I switched from a Chinese Catholic girls school to a British international school in seventh grade. So for my goals that year, I had something like this:

Academic - Keep getting those grades

Spiritual - Pray every morning and night. Don't fall asleep during them.

Physical - Walk more. (Which meant that I walked a ton around my dining room table while I was talking on the phone)

Social - Stop being a nerd ball.

Personal - Fall in love.

I had to make up for those lost co-ed years. We learned a lot about taking baby steps and tracking progress in goal-setting so I was prepared. I picked five boys to maximize my chances. A hello here. A smile there. All documented. I practiced winking and clicking my tongue simultaneously in the mirror (yeah. I actually did that. A lot.). But mainly, I just observed Chelsea and noted down how she flicked her hair, shifted her weight, while rolling one shoulder in as she cracked up at the boys' jokes.

Fortunately for my parents, I failed miserably at flirting.

Fortunately for me, I got a lot better in college.

---

While Alice got lost in her Wonderland, she asked the psychedelic Cheshire cat which path she should take. He replied lazily, "That depends where you want to go. If you don't know where you want to go, it doesn't matter which path you take."

My previous resolutions were very check list-esque. Ask more questions in early morning seminary. Make more eye contact. Learn Spanish.

My boss at work goes crazy if we ever submit performance targets that are activity-oriented and don't actually contribute to an important business outcome. Create three power points this month. Have a great attitude towards customer complaints. Similarly, I have let easily measurable quantitative goals satisfy me enough that I'm not demanding progress in what really matters.

Who do I want to become in 2013? In five years? Ten? Who do I want to be ultimately? Purpose in life determines what one does with her time, energy, resources, and ways of asking directions from the floating cat.

So now I am accountable in a whole different way. The ancient Jews not only sacrificed livestock to praise God, but they offered up their choicest lamb. Have I similarly given Him my best 20 minutes of the day, when I am alert and thoughtful in my alone time with Him? Or did I just check God off my to do list?

----

New Years is seen as a cut off point for change. People are filled with hope for the better in January and guilt for the lapses in February. But in some way, every day constitutes an opportunity to do better. Even Jesus improved, between 12 and 30, and "increased in wisdom (academic) and stature (physical), and in favor with God (spiritual) and with man (social)" {Luke 2:52}.

The whole Christian religion is about change; not about where we have been, but where we can go with the help of Christ.

My uncle had always considered himself unlucky. He was born during the Great Famine when China starved in idealistic communes. He joined the military right before China reopened its universities after ten years of Cultural Revolution. He didn't drink, but he often exploded. During those lazy summer afternoons, my cousin would come scurrying down and hide underneath our beds while my uncle pounded out his string of failed marriages and businesses on the wooden door. A good man underneath, he searched desperately for change. Behind his locked door and papered window on the second floor were stairs that led to a small shrine dedicated to and smelling like whichever religion he was exploring at the time.

We invited him to church when he stayed with us for an extended period of time to help out with incoming baby Cody. But he would always prefer to hammer more nails into the elaborate storage system that he built for us while we were getting ready for church. One day while waiting at a stoplight in Central, the busiest district of Hong Kong, he pointed to a pair of young missionaries across the street and asked my mom who they were. She pulled him over to meet them and he was baptized shortly afterwards.

Young as I was, I couldn't miss the new light in his face and the genuine happiness in his eyes. He walked as a younger man, no longer bent over with regret and bitterness. He had found the change he needed.

We cannot stay the way we are and hope to become who we need to be.

If we have the hope that we can change, are we allowing the same hope for others to change? To say sorry? To grow?

-----

In the Bible, Lot's wife was warned not to look back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah and was turned into a pillar of salt because she didn't listen. When I was younger, I used to think that God must have needed a whole lot's wife of salt (bad pun), but I suppose it's really because she looked back longingly.

President Holland gave a fantastic talk about how faith is always forward looking. Lot's wife was not ready to put down those things she needed out of her life and she was stuck facing the past.

And finally, some words from the apostle Paul, a man who epitomized change. He switched from being one of the most adversarial persecutor of the early Christians to their most fervent teacher and advocate. In Phillipians 3: 8, he says,

"Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ."

He must have lost everything important to him. His prestigious position in the orthodox Jewish community. His friends. His family. His conviction of what he thought was right. They were all things, but yet counted as dung, when compared to his newfound faith.

"Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before.

I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus" (Phillipians 3:13-14).

And that is what a man who understands clearly his individual purpose in the grand plan, armed with his faith to move forward and courage to not look behind, can win.

{Excerpt from church talk on goals and resolutions}

Choice

There were a lot of pathetic apologies from my end (I wasn't sure what I was supposed to apologize for). There were a lot of swearing and phone smashing from her end.

Around half a year ago, because of a series of miscommunication and misunderstandings, my friendship with a dear friend went up in flames, disintegrating in a very dramatic fashion.

Last week, during Thanksgiving, in between serving my first turkey with its odd patches of skin still barely attached and whipping up a banoffee pie, I felt prompted to call her and tell her how thankful I was for her friendship. She was my first friend when I arrived in China with my college life packed up in 8 suitcases, overwhelmed and underprepared. She was the reason why I could tell my mom that no, I really wasn't lonely, when I spent my birthday sans family and friends a week after moving here.

But eating the turkey did not give me the courage to call her. I wasn't joking about the flames.

Yesterday, while blow drying my damp hair, there was a more insistent tug at my heart to call her that day. I shook my head. Sure, I missed her, but I had moved on and it was best to leave it alone.

Then my mom called. Sisi, you need to check your email. Right now.

A mutual acquaintance, extremely protective of my friend, had felt obligated to write my mom a lengthy, passionate email and ask her to tell me to apologize.

Instantly, hurt, anger, disappointment, incredulousness formed a toxic mix in my heart, churning, wrenching it tighter and tighter, fueled by my feelings of being misjudged and mistreated. My parents spoke love and support to me and advised humility and faith, seeing this as a chance to act on the promptings I had received earlier.

I ate nothing all day, filling my hands with meaningless tasks so they would have yet another excuse to avoid the phone. My pride was equivalent to seven hours of pacing around the house.

Finally, I had to unclench my fist, actively choose to not be offended and recognize that this was the push I needed to call her. She picked up immediately. Hey, it's me. My heart, previously wrung tight and hard, literally softened at her voice. I told her how I was really grateful for her and that I had really missed her. As I started apologizing, more sincere this time because I actually understood more of her own hurt and disappointment from the email, she cut me off.

She had hit rock bottom recently. She really needed a friend. She also felt strongly that she should call me the last two weeks, but was afraid of my indifference. She said that my call had meant more than I would ever understand.

We both cried on the phone while telling the other how amazing she was. An hour later, we were still laughing and reminiscing about my terrible falling-asleep-in-awkward-places habit and her crazy colleague stories.

We both healed on this call. We chose to forgive and so we were forgiven.

All it took was a little unclenching of the fist.

Even the pricks can be beautiful.

Taken in Sahuarita. 

Alley Cats

We begged. We smiled. We reasoned. We flirted.

We did everything to persuade the gatekeepers to put out their cigarettes and sneak us into Tiger Hill after closing.

In China, where there's a will, there's always a way. And we willed our way in.

Playing host to my brother's mission companion, Shelby.

Tiger Hill at dusk.

The dark finally kicked us out of the park. We prowled around the underbelly of the bridges to the rumbling din of traffic overhead; our conversations of US military presence in Iraq echoing. The pedestrians had all pointed us to the same direction to the tourist lanes, straight down the cobblestone path, but we faltered mid way because we were unsure of all the run down houses with screeching doors that lined our sides. There was so much life, raw and unadorned, in the dinner time TV gatherings, in the butcher's call of end-of-the-day prices, and in the giggling children as they ran out for fresh air once last time before being tucked into bed.

But some lights were not dimming, probably not until late into the night, because the ladies inside were busily sewing beautiful evening gowns for those who would buy them without a second thought, threading through their exhaustion and stitching together hopes and possibilities for the little ones.

We also looked up and paused. While the sun illuminated all to show harsh reality, the moon was kinder, softening the rough edges of the crumbling rooftops, casting warm, rich halos on tired bridges.

Nights like this gave romantics of old more courage to write poetry. I relied on my lenses instead of words.

Guardian lions. I need one of those.

Shelby + Lesley. Best wandering companions.

After traveling to Mexico, Cambodia, and the US in the last month, switching desktops for backpacks or presentation microphones, home -- Suzhou -- still reminds me what catching my breath feels like.

True Story

J always jokes and says that I "never let the truth get in the way of a good story."

Most of the time, it's because I am talking about our awkward first semi-date, which he asked me on in his excited good-interview after glow (he interviewed for an internship at our company). He mentioned that he would be in Shanghai, a neighboring city, that weekend and it was too bad that I would not be there otherwise he would love to take me out for dinner. I thanked him and accepted as I pushed the elevator button for the second time. His smile froze. He stammered. He didn't know that I normally headed to Shanghai to see my family for the weekends.

We had sushi. I suggested an exploratory walk around the colonial neighborhoods afterwards. He wanted a plan and directions for my "aimless stroll". I talked about loving visits to Kenya's Masai villages but being appalled at the female circumcisions performed. In between checking GPS for our location, he told me that he was fine with that lifestyle choice. I blanched and gave him a fiery human rights speech. He was similarly horrified when he realized that he misheard me and thought I meant women choosing to have operations to prevent having babies in the future.

His cheeks flamed under the yellow street light. I did not offer to help as he fumbled around for words. He finally mumbled that going to dinner with me was exceeding his "one date a semester" quota - his usual flimsy exercise to appease matchmaking bishops. Smirking, I asked him if I made him nervous. He avoided looking at me the rest of the night.

(That's what made his later confession so much more surprising.)

------

Anyways, I was thinking a lot about the truth in story telling today. I absolutely love stories. Hearing them. Reading them. Making them. Telling them. There's something special about sharing common experiences through words that, when strung together beautifully, become transformative.

If I can captivate you with the story of eating snake meat Lady and the Tramp style then later realizing it was sheep penis, does it really matter if I said it was this long or that long? Or if I made your eyes go wide at my story of being bitten by a copperhead snake and not knowing it at the time (and hence revenge through snake meat quest), who cares if I mentioned all the details of the three nights in ICU?

But today, I questioned myself. I had blogged about a dear friend and her family's move across the country, filling in the descriptive blanks with my romanticized notion of her story. Except, I shockingly found out, that there was no basis for the story at all. No moving van. No family camcorder. No pouting mother.

I sat there at my office desk, deeply confused and bothered. If I didn't hear that story from her, how on earth did I pull that from the recess of my mind? For better or worse, that story had shaped my perception of her upbringing for the longest time and now I scrambled around to "fact check" against myself on what I knew about her.

And because I could "remember" the exact spot in Beijing where I thought I had heard that fantastic story, I now doubt myself. What if all the stories I have ever told are tainted with my overly active imagination? What if I have been dressing up my truth until what's left is a darn good story and I've forgotten the original? What if my mind automatically selects the interesting, shaves off the accurate and presents the sensational?

What does that say about me as a story teller? What does that say about me?

That was my excuse

Jody, recently joined Model United Nations (MUN) at school, a club where kids apply their knowledge of current issues in simulated UN settings. MUN was my big college obsession, so I cannot help but hover a little bit. To help her get started, I send her links for foreign policy articles and set up weekly calls to discuss them.

Yesterday, after a spirited discussion on China and Russia's vetoes of the draft resolutions regarding the Syrian crisis -

Jody: Thanks, Sisi. I really like these calls.

Me: So, is there a particular topic that you want to cover next time? Balance of power in Asia? The differences of peacekeeping, peacemaking, and peacebuilding? A little Security Council background?

Jody: Or you can just tell me how work is going.

Me: . . .

Jody: Sis, you do know that you don't need an excuse to call me right?

Me: What do you mean?

Jody: It's simple. We're sisters.

---

Wow. She's eleven and she takes charge of her relationships. I need a little more of that.

Similar height. But not for long. 

The Story That Didn't Make It Here

I was going to tell you a story of a battle with my mom where I had fought hard, ultimately won, and constantly regretted.

But instead, I'm going to squirrel that story away and stay up late this Christmas weekend so I can spend hours figuring out how to do justice to some hazy adolescent memory. And that will definitely be one for the private blog or future boyfriend.

One thing I will tell you is this: I think I found it tonight when I was gingerly dipping my toes (with Santa red polish) into the bath. For some reason, it finally hit me - why I had always tried to do everything Sisi-possible to try to make my parents proud (and still felt lacking) even when I had known all along that they were already proud of me simply because I was their daughter.

Too bad that there is already a Jung Chang, an Amy Tan, and now an Amy Chua*. I can definitely write volumes on Chinese American mother-daughter dynamics and spin stories so that readers will believe that I am simply 'principled' and not stubborn.

Well I guess that's what blogs are for.

* Chinese American authors who wrote about their relationships with their mothers and left children like me obsessed with how much my childhood resembled 20% of character X, 35% of Y, and 45% of Z.

A Chinese Girl Learning Chinese

When I first got here, I couldn't make a joke without a resultant awkward silence reverberating around the office cubicle walls. At first, I just thought that my colleagues couldn't hear me. So I told my jokes louder. Still nothing. Then I realized that I was no longer witty. I had lost my gift to talk and connect to people, because I couldn't find the right words and inject them with the proper nuances to express myself.

After I finished my first week at work, I called my dad and cried for two hours. I should leave. I couldn't do this. I couldn't speak Chinese. I should had taken my so-called dream job and stayed on the predictable and secure path where I knew I could succeed.

Things did get better. I jotted down every new word. I tested out unfamiliar words, which my colleagues found endlessly amusing. I was soon considered one of the funnier people at the office. Four people even patted my shoulder and told me that my Chinese had improved drastically.

Two weeks ago, our board chairman visited us as part of his latest round-the-world business trips. He decided to give an impromptu speech, as a rousing gesture, to the entire company. Of course I translated. Of course I squirmed. At that moment, I fancied that #20, #23, and my perfectionist self were best buds, pointing fingers and hating on me when I couldn't think of the Chinese words for "Bolivia" and "Chief Information Officer." It didn't matter that the CEO told me that I got rave reviews for my translation - I hid miserably in the bathroom, once again questioning, berating, and despairing.

Why do I put myself in situations day after day, where embarrassment is merely one South American country away? I have worked hard my entire life to salvage the remnant shreds of Chinese learned from grade school and nurse and strengthen it through Chinese trade law internships and language TA jobs despite growing up in an English dominant environment. Why am I not satisfied with the hard-earned fluency? Why do I keep beating myself against such a soul crushing language, dreaming of crossing over the celestial threshold of native mastery?

----

I was sitting at Church yesterday when I got a glimpse of the answer. A large man with gold rimmed glasses bore his testimony about his belief that someday, China would be open to missionary work. And I cried. Because I sensed, no I knew, that I will be a part of that work. By then, I will know how to be a friend to the Chinese people. I will know how to use their language - my language - to share something that is so important in my life.

At that time, there will be no more awkward silences.

In the mean time, all I can do is to print out the world map in Chinese and learn the countries one by one.

Dishwashing Days

One miserably hot summer day before my freshman year, I stayed home and read while Chelsea and Casey went out to check out the BYU campus. They came home, excited because Chelsea apparently got the three of us jobs at Legends Grille ("Where the champions eat!"). Casey and I were designated dishwashers. And Chelsea was tasked to watch the football players eat during their lunch in case they couldn't find the forks or ketchup.

And so began the 8 hour days of standing, loading, rinsing, sliding, unloading, and stacking on constant replay. The football players never stopped eating. I had never felt such intense emotions against a group of guys.

The emptiness inside my head threatened to fill my mind as I did dish after dish after dish after dish. 

But then Casey and I worked out a system. We did job rotations to stay alert. We sang songs and competed against each other. As kids who grew up with a maid, we did pretty well for ourselves. We challenged Chelsea to bring us the dishes down faster than we could wash them. We probably even broke the dishwasher union's record for amateurs.

I loved busing and collecting dishes outside because it seemed like a treat to be released from the kitchen. And it was fun being around the other freshman whom I would be a part of in a few weeks.

Then a guy sporting way too much gel stopped me one day because he wanted me to pass him the pepper on the table next to him. I accidentally grabbed the salt. He gave me one look then did an exaggerated demonstration, in super slow mo, with dragged out English to show me the difference by pouring both on the table and playing around with it. Then he asked me if I could understand him.

That's when it hit me: He thought I was stupid. That I couldn't speak his language. That I somehow was not at his level because I was holding a bus tray and washing dishes. I wanted to tell him about my upbringing, my scholarship, my English, my fancy stuff  . . . but instead I nodded slowly and walked back to the kitchen.

I think I cried while standing, loading, rinsing, sliding, unloading, and stacking that day.

Then I realized that I was very good at what I did. This coming from the spoiled girl who felt self-conscious with a broom in her hand at closing time on the first day of work because she's trying to remember what she learned about sweeping from movies. I was trying hard to do my best. And I would not let Mr. hair product and his few pinches of salt and pepper take away the pride I had in my job.

----

This is why I love talking to the frontline workers at the factories. They file into the cafeterias, exhausted and emptied, past some of our staff who think that micro-credit is a fancy Western concept that doesn't matter because the working poor don't matter.

But sometimes, when I ask if I could sit next to them while they eat - and they smile shyly behind their bowls and chopsticks - they tell me things. Just rarely, I would share my dishwasher story. And then we smile because we understand what it is to dream of ingenious things even when our bodies are on constant replay.

Where They Say Jambo Jambo

I groped around in the dark, trying to steady myself on the wooden stool that was supposed to be in the corner. I wasn't sure what disarmed me more - the swarm of eager flies demanding a toll fee at the door or the suffocating wall of smoke that hit me while my eyes adjusted to the weak light streaming through the window dug outs in the hut. The man with two wives told us about his village, his women, and his way of life while stroking the hot charcoal that would cook his dinner that night.

The men hunt, in packs. Sometimes barefoot, armed with only a machete and a wooden stick that has a wooden knob on the end. And yet they can make impressive kills. When they are hungry, they eat fruits on the trees. They then brush their teeth with a stripped branch, which when chewed, spreads out like thistles. When they get yellow fever, they dig up the roots of the yellow acacia tree and drink the boiled concoction. They are proud of their thin, springy forms, and often jump against each other for manly recognition. And it's official: Casey could jump higher than the Masai's highest.

The women bring the water to the village, the wood to the fire, the food to the table, the house to stand, the babies to life. They get married at around 18 to a man chosen by their parents. I asked a man what happened when a woman refused to marry the chosen one. He didn't even understand my question. The women are circumcised before marriage, a cruel way to ensure their virtue in marriages to polygamists.

In some ways I didn't know how to reconcile my feelings. I was impressed that they slap fresh cow dung on their walls and roofs to keep the rain out. I was appalled that female circumcision was forced upon these women whom I see suckling their babies around the village. I was in awe of their stretched out ear lobes, swinging freely in the wind. I was shocked by the hundreds of flies that covered children's faces and how they played with these buzzing insects like favorite pets.

And then I realized that I don't need to reconcile anything. I have no right to judge them against any measuring stick. The Masai are some of the most open people I have met. They are born to be in the wild, killing impalas for fun, ostriches for meat, and lions for bragging rights. They seem happy in the cities with cars and in the villages without electricity. And all I should do is to cast away my ethnocentrism at their door and leave it to the flies.

Safari

The safari was amazing. I don't think I can really describe it. So I'll just resort to photos.

 

Inevitably, my parents drew plenty of dating analogies from the safari patterns. "See, those bachelor impalas are so pitifully hanging out together because the females are all snatched up by more aggressive males." Casey's answer? They just need to hit the gym even more.

The bad animal jokes didn't end there. We came up with a lot of really lame why-did-the-(animal)-cross-the-road jokes. We made up names for animals whose bodies we mashed together in our heads. Like giraffant. Or antebra (sounds like a 70s feminist initiative to me).

In order to keep it PG, I won't repeat what was said when the lions were mating. Parents can be so embarrassing sometimes. We told the kids that "action" meant preparing for hunting . . . with sound effects.

When I'm standing up in the moving van, with my arms dangling out of the roof and the wind whipping my hair into a frenzied mess, I think that this is what we're made for. To anxiously look for a creature tucked away in a bush that you might have used as an emergency bathroom. To admire the sleek coats, the cracked hides, the colored ruffles. To marvel at the stripes and spots. And to wonder how you fit into this whole Lion King episode.

It's funny, but I felt so alive and aware of who I was among these beaks, horns, and tails than I did near the arms and legs in the cities. I wonder if I would ever feel the same way again. I just have to go back.

Workaholic Anonymous

I had only worked at the office for around a month when a guy on the sales team teased me about being a workaholic.

I was instantly confused. Mildly resentful. Slightly flattered.

Me and my work. My work and I. Kind of sounds like a bad holiday blockbuster about a master and his dog. Not quite sure which one I am though. I am often entangled in an emotional relationship with my work. Too much passion, self-esteem, guilt, obligation, and pride involved. So much so that sometimes I just don't have much left over energy for my family and close friends, let alone myself.

But since graduation, I've tried to reorient my life. I stop waking up at 5 am to start plugging away at a project. I only stayed at the office till midnight once. I'm hopping on trains to other cities every weekend. I'm reading again for the sheer love of words. I'm even enrolled in a yoga class where they make me slap my butt for five minutes ("to stimulate blood flow!") and close my eyes while the teacher forces me to lay still ("Relax your toes. Relax your knees. Relax your uterus!"). 

And now I'm making skype dates with all the friends I've been neglecting. So um if you get an email from me about skyping and catching up, please say yes? I need a good excuse to take a break from that yoga class. My butt is kind of sore.

Ole to you anyways

Growing up, I would watch Chelsea stain our floor with paint as she fleshed out the sketches in her head. I noted where she dabbled playful specks to capture life and where she rubbed graphite to build contrast. It was absolutely bewitching. I even practiced scribbling on the corners of my homework, hoping that some whimsical design would miraculously materialize. Then I finally realized my problem: Even scribbling didn't come naturally to me. So I gave up and tamed my longing to be creative.

But on occasions, I think about it. That beast, that desire to make something that people can resonate with, still lurks. And sometimes, I do wonder how it would be to let go of that overwhelming classification of "creativity" . . .  and just create.

Today, watching this video, was one of those times.



Gokce - I really appreciate you for sending this to me. I think our dinner the other night was the first time I truly tried to verbalize to someone how emotionally tied I am to writing. So thanks for not laughing.

Packing up

Packing up and moving away to another country is a pain. I can't believe how much stuff I've hoarded. It almost makes me want to quit my job and just stay and bum around Utah.

And um I just realized that I have a lot of clothes. I used to think that people were exaggerating. I packed 53 skirts + dresses after DI-ing four to five garbage bags full of clothes. And I haven't even counted the winter skirts yet.

If I were a tragic heroine in a comic book series, a love for skirts with crazy patterns will definitely be one of my debilitating character flaws. Luckily dad and his frequent trips from China to US this summer plus his high roller flyer status means that my pieces of luggage will all be taken care of.

Spoiled much?

---

p.s. I don't think I'm ever going to be ready to say goodbye to all my friends. I don't know how people do it.

How would you answer this?

If somebody asked you to complete this sentence, what would you say?

"I'm beautiful because  . . . "

Well, as part of their Recapturing Beauty campaign, BYU Women's Services and Resources is asking just that. And offering a free photo shoot of women with selected entries.
 
I initially took it up because it sounded like great fun and it seemed to be an amazing way to empower women to think positively about themselves, especially with the emphasis on inner qualities. And how hard could it be to come up with a sentence - or just half of it?

I've always considered myself a very confident, outgoing girl, but somehow I couldn't find the right words by the end of the day. Then it dragged out to two, three days. Nothing I came up with fit.  Because to be honest, being good at planning events, writing papers, making high-calorie desserts don't exactly make me feel beautiful. Then I rationalized that not every girl has to feel beautiful. But that's not true.

And for a moment, I felt a little lost. And unsure of myself. 

I'll spare you all the emotions involved in this exercise but I think I've finally come up with something:

I'm beautiful because I'm working to embrace my weaknesses and learning to love myself even more for them.

And that sounds about right.

What is your sentence? Men?

What Friendship Means to an Eleven Year Old

Have I ever bragged about my sister Jody before? She's eleven. Smart. Beautiful. Sassy. And she is an amazing writer.

She wrote this poem about friendship the other day:

A friend can be anyone,

Anyone who respects you.

A friend can be your next door neighbor,

A person who did a kind favor,

Or even your enemy.

Having a friend is like putting batteries into a clock,

Or sailing a boat in a dock.

Take this away and what do you have?

A clock that doesn’t work and an empty dock.

A person who doesn’t have a friend is like a book with no pages,

A sky with no sun,

 A pen with no ink,

Or having no blanket in a cold, windy night.

Give a good fight?

‘Tis is wrong.

-----

Essentially, a friend is "anyone who respects you," even your enemy.  

I've never thought of that before. That forces me to wonder --  am I a true friend? Am I patient with those around me when I am stressed? Do I listen to their ideas, and really think about them, even if I don't agree? Can I love my friends the way they are, without trying to mold them into somebody I think I might like better?

When an eleven year-old teaches you about life (beyond the fact that boys have infectious diseases), it's humbling. And reminds me of these wonderful people who somehow want to be my friends:

 We have fun being awkward together. 

I look up to these girls so much.

My best friends. I could not have made it through college without my siblings (+ JC).

I don't think they will ever know how much they mean to me.

 Kenji. Sticks with me during those stressful moments. 

He teaches me how to have fun (that does not involve econometrics).

I am still working on that.

 We love each other. Enough said.