Romantic with a Capital "R"

I have a doppelganger, a strange and estranged doppelganger. One time I said, "I'm a Romantic, but I'm not romantic." He replied, "you mean, in that train travel and postage stamp way--not in that flowers and chocolate way. Romantic with a capital 'r.'" "Yes, exactly!" I was relieved he understood.

It all makes it fairly easy to please me--I have a husband who's more "r"omantic (luckily, in an effortless, not contrived, way) than I am, so I'm never disappointed in my marriage as some (many?) women are.

However, when it comes to "R"omance, I'm always mourning the loss of it in our society. I'm a fan of postcards, handwritten letters, artifacts/tangible objects, snail mail, used/vintage books, CDs with artwork in the booklets, rocks, leaves, sticks, feathers, bookshelves and photos. I'm not such a fan of digital files-easily produced, dispatched, modified, deleted, forgotten.

Of course, I recognize the utility, practicality, and convenience of technology. I'm not anti-technology; however, I find it preferable to try to preserve some sense of individualism in how we consume media and correspondence. When I was in Mongolia, it was this sense that drove me to send handwritten letters on local paper, using Mongolian stamps, sometimes with a Mongolian bill enclosed as a tangible piece of the place. But if any of the recipients preferred one of these letters to a standard email (all of which looks the same) from the unreliable, slow, sole computer in Bayangol, none commented. I still love to send and receive letters in this way. I have kept, nearly 10 years later, the letters a friend sent me from his Peace Corps assignment in Cameroon. I've kept postcards from faraway places, with defunct stamps, bundled in my desk drawer. The emails, on the other hand, from various people's vacations and stints abroad--they are forgotten and haven't been so much as glanced at since they were read for the first and only time. There's something about seeing a person's handwriting, the pen and paper and envelope and stamp that they chose, that I think reflects upon them and the relationship in a way that the billionth gmail or yahoo message cannot possibly.

Recently, a friend (who also writes letters) and I engaged in a Romantic endeavor: sitting in Anaba Tea Room and chatting for a couple hours over slowly-imbibed cups of tea. One of the things we talked about was whether technology is good/better simply because it's new, whether change is always good, and whether change should be made just for change's sake. US-style capitalism, with planned obsolesence and the creation of desire for "newness" that feeds our consumer economy, seems to have spilled into our outlook on how we learn about and share our our experiences of the world as well.

One of the products we discussed was the e-reader. I can certainly see how an e-reader would be convenient for travel, as well as for magazine subscriptions and the like. But as a bibliophile who is not only enraptured with the act of reading, but the books themselves, the Kindle, Nook, Sony E-Reader, or iPad just doesn't cut it for me. My friend agreed with me: "at the end of the day," he said, "it's stil just pixels on a screen." I know that the e-reader has done its best, thus far, to replicate the reading experience. You can still get cover art; you can even design a "bookmark." You can check out, return, and "lend" books to other e-reader devices.

But still, it comes down to the weight of things. I like the weight of a book in my hand. I have held and paged on kindles and nooks, and it's the same dead weight for every book or magazine you could possibly download. The weight of a book is part of my reading experience. How yellowed the pages are--part of my reading experience. My bookmark collection (gathered and gifted from all over the world, from people whom I remember fondly when I touch and examine these bookmarks) is irreplaceable. To walk into our family's office and be surrounded by my books on bookshelves all around--this matters to me. To be able to take one off the shelf and page through it, as opposed to hitting the same button on an e-reader over and over again--this matters to me.

The weight of things also reminds me to exercise restraint. Never a person to desire being bound by excessive things, the weight of things matters to me as a symbol of how much clutter might be in my life. What does it mean when we have endless digital space to horde and forget about? How do we relinquish attachment to the meaningless items in our collection then?

The issue of Romance came up in the past couple days again, which is why I write this. Some of my friends don't want actual books this year--they would prefer a gift certificate or gift e-book for their e-reader instead. Which, if that's what they want, I guess I will have to indulge. However, it once again makes me mourn the loss of the weight of the book I would give them, the act of paging through it or wrapping it or sending it through the mail, the loss of the handwritten card I would attach to it.

The Mandala

Every year around this time, I feel ugly. The glowing tan of summer is wearing off, my sun-streaked hair is coming in a dun brown at my scalp. Fall's preening display has succumbed to a barren brown landscape; puddles freeze over and the rivers develop icy sheens upon which the lingering waterfowl sit with their naked webbed feet, making me wish I were cold-blooded. The novely of breaking out my fall fashions has worn off as I wear the same handful of sweaters over and over again.

We haven't had our first snow yet, and for the most part, it's actually been rather blue-skied and warm here--relatively speaking. Still, the ugliness of the late fall/early winter season gets to me--a sea of Packers gear and blaze orange, dead deer strapped to vehicles, Christmas trees lashed to car roofs somehow incongruent in the snow-free landscape.

But then--but then. I come to accept the quiet and the indoors. I focus on the little things that have been overwhelmed since the bacchanal summer arrived. I get out the music that makes me reflect and dream on the beauty of the world, such my classical Spanish guitar and Latin harp albums. I notice, and appreciate, the interior--the interior of the mind and soul, the interior of living spaces, the interior of nature where many creatures lie dormant under ice and snow. I come to admire the unique pattern in which the steam rises from my coffee cup; I take in the beauty of people's attempts to celebrate the holidays without the rush and spending--the handwritten card, the visit, the late night discussion in a German bar over a warm winter drink, decorating a tree, hanging stockings...and I focus on these things until beauty blossoms from the feelings of ugliness...this is winter's mandala.

Dr Seuss, the Sunday Paper, and Other Self-Reflections

Recently, someone I considered a pretty good friend told me that he didn't understand me. It's been a wake up call--I've been in disbelief about the statement because I've always considered myself a straightforward person. Someone who is easy to read, maybe deceptively simple, unwaiveringly honest, transparent, and free from subterfuge and games. Is contemporary society really so complicated and insincere that someone genuine becomes baffling? I admit I have some major faults. I can be tactless and even critical at times. At times, I approach most things, including emotions and relationships, as if they were just one more interesting discussion topic, which has caused a few people to accuse me of being cold sometimes, or rigid in my views of fluid feelings. But all in all, I've never considered myself a complicated person.

But maybe I am more hard to read than I realized. Last night I was out with a few friends, one of whom said I was the most "academic non-academic I know." I denied it and said, "I'm a bookish theorist, which can make it seem like I'm an academic, but it's an entirely different thing." Complicated?

This morning, Esposo and I had some errands to run before Himal came home from a visit to his grandparents' house. Since it was a Sunday morning, we decided to go out for espresso first. As we sat down (I with my cortado, which the barrista told me his favorite drink to make because no one--but me--ever orders it), as Esposo and everyone else snapped open their Sunday papers, I opened my latest colorful Dr Seuss picture book and immersed myself in The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. Complicated?! But it seems so simple, and it makes perfect sense to me....

When I saw Esposo reading the headline story on education in America, and we started an intense discusion of my fairly radical views on education...then I remembered the views I expressed on Disney movies at work the other day (how I've never liked Disney, even from a very young age, and I hate how Disney manipulates the viewers' emotions), I stopped.

"Esposo, am I a difficult person to understand? I'm not, am I? I'm the easiest person in the world to understand!"
"Actually...the normal person is not going to understand you."
"What?! That's impossible. I'm completely transparent."
"You may be transparent, but you have too much depth. The normal person cannot see to the bottom of so much depth. The normal person is not going to understand how deeply you feel about things, or understand your position on some issues."

I tell you. My world has been upset.

The Witch, the Whisper, the Scream

When I was really little, I had a recurring nightmare where a witch would drag me into the basement and lock me in a secret back room. In the dream, I would scream and scream, but no one would hear me. My voice would come out as a barely audible whisper, no matter how desperately I tried. People wouldn't look my way; they'd go about their business, and I'd wake up in a panic, panting as I tried to tell myself that such a situation was just a dream and would never happen in real life.

One of the worst feelings in the world is trying to confide in close friends or family, and being ignored, met with indifference or silence or downright lack of compassion. I realize that the competing demands and mundane tasks of modern life make whispered screams all but inaudible to those not paying attention.

Desire

My desire to see the world
has become a cat sleeping in the sun
and when there's no sun
it's curled up in the blanket of my family's love
Only when it's cold and hungry
does it wake up and prowl

Because I've seen enough of the world
to know it's better to expand one's own frontiers,
better to explore the boundaries,
better to unlock the wonder;
it's better to explore one's own province
than to nose in someone else's.

On "not all who wander are lost"

I should write something, and so this is a quick response to an article a friend posted, a friend who may or not be reading this.

I completely agree with the 3rd-to-last paragraph and most of the last paragraph.

I find "happiness" to be a relatively useless word. I don't often worry about it or talk about it, nor do I particularly shoot for it because I don't think it's something you can make happen; it's something you have to let happen.

Is "dissatisfaction" the same as "unhappiness?" I don't think so.

It's interesting to think that when people wanted to talk about the US in Nepal, the vast majority (with some notable, wise exceptions) would tell me that if only they could live in the US, all their problems would disappear and they would be happy for the rest of their lives. They truly had a hard time believing that Americans could be unhappy without some tangible outside source of sadness in their lives.

I see people searching so hard for love, peace, and/or happiness. But I most often see people find these things precisely when they stop trying so hard. Most people are happy and they don't even know it. Most people have love in their lives but some can't even see it. Most people would find peace if only they would stop churning in the tide and just listen to the waves.

When we were kids, weren't we told "if you get lost, stay where you are" (this is assuming you can't find your source, which I emailed you about)? If we frantically cast about, we may get more hopelessly lost, as well as make it harder for others to find us. Likewise, if you meet a wild animal, will you catch it by chasing after it? Or will you sit still, be peaceful, and let it come to you?

Being more fully you now than then is quite possibly a different discussion than the "happiness" question, though. Is "being you" the key to happiness? The article's author seems to admit that it is, if only she knew how. That's the remaining question in my mind, as like I said, I don't really aim for happiness and I just let it happen or let it come to me whenever it will and does.

I still believe if you can go back to your source, you can never go wrong.

Meat: A Big Sham?

I have ventured into new terrain: the meat section of the grocery store. However, I don't think I'll be making a trip there very often. I had no idea what to purchase. I felt like I was in the middle of a morgue; there was a chill in there air and flesh and body parts lay all around me in a relatively sanitary, sterile atmsophere. I was shocked at how expensive the meat was. I'm so used to relatively inexpensive grains, legumes, fruits and vegetables, and dairy products.

I should back up a minute and say that Himal finally started eating meat--sort of. I do not know how to cook or store meat, so I told Esposo that he should be in charge of this area. He's up to the task--my husband loves cooking. Esposo is what we've deemed an opportunistic/non-practicing meat eater. He'll eat if it's around, he might order it once in awhile if we're out, and if I'm going to be gone for awhile, he might cook some at home. But he's not a regular carnivore, and these tendencies pre-date our relationship.

When my brother was living in Budapest and I visited him, we went to his girlfriend's ancestral home in rural Hungary. There, her vegetarian mother cooked a small feast for the family, and picked at a few mushrooms while the rest of us stuffed ourselves (I was eating her chicken dish, as I can be lax with vegetarianism abroad--food offered to a guest should be eaten, as much as possible). I asked my brother's girlfriend about how one can be a vegetarian in Hungary, which seemed like such a meat-based cuisine, and she replied, "oh, she cooks meat for all of us. She just doesn't eat." Glancing at this gaunt woman who was grimacing and picking at her mushrooms, I saw this to be true.

Despite the grim portrait this scene painted in my mind, I thought I would follow her example. After I returned from Hungary, I made the Hungarian chicken dish for Esposo (who was Novio at the time), as a gesture of how highly I thought of him and how I was (symbolically) willing to make sacrifices to please him. But I think my attempt scared Esposo more than anything.

Thus, that was the one and only time I've cooked meat (other than seafood and eggs, which I will cook). Fast-forward several years, and we have a toddler in our midst, a toddler with a heart condition that makes his red blood/iron count on the low side to begin with. I started wondering if Himal was getting enough iron in his diet, as he tends to refuse almost all animal protein. Of course, I've been careful to include iron-fortified foods in his diet, but I still wondered if it was enough. I was relieved when we went to Irish Fest last weekend, and Himal chowed down on a corndog, corned beef, and a chicken strip. I thought this might be the completion of a diet that is otherwise extremely healthy. Until he got sick...along with Esposo. They have since been suffering from stomach "bugs" whereas I've been spared--was it the meat they ate?

Nevertheless, I chugged on in this terra nova--right into the meat section of a local store yesterday. But I ran into immediate confusion--looking at the nutritional information--4% of one's daily iron in this serving of chicken?! What?! When Rice Krispies have 50% ?!!! Why in the world would I spent so much money on chicken if it's not worth the nutritional bang for the buck? Sure, I could splurge on a more iron-rich meat, but what toddler really eats steak? Who dares to eat liver these days, the organ meat that stores all the pesticides the animal has eaten? This is not making sense to me...are people aware of the nutritional value of meats opposed to grains, legumes, veggies? All my life, carnivores have lectured me on the merits of eating meat...but I don't see their views bearing out on the labels.

Esposo also made the point that maybe Himal doesn't like "meat" yet, but the salty taste that imbued the hotdog, corned beef, etc that he ate at the festival. "Hm," I mused. If I remember 23 years or so back, I might be able to recall what a hotdog tastes like, but I've never had corned beef. I thought a nice transition would be to buy some "chicken strips." I baked them last night, but Himal refused to eat them.

This morning, I wondered what to do with the leftover chicken, and decided to make fried rice--a toddler staple around here. It's easy, it includes several food groups in one dish. I fried up some veggies and egges--standard for fried rice. I made the rice. I cut up the chicken...and then I remembered the Old Testament admonition about not cooking a lamb in its mother's milk. I don't know if it's the same thing or not--serving a grown hen in the same dish as an egg, but it reminded me of just how much I was venturing into unfamiliar ethics. I remember reading that verse in high school, when I was dating the son of a Lutheran pastor. I asked my then-boyfriend what the verse meant, and he said, "well, it's just obvious. It's unethical." But it raised so many questions in my mind--did that mean, according to the Bible, that animals have family bonds that should be respected? I still wonder about that verse.

I tend to respect meat eaters who have the courage to raise/hunt, and slaughter and process their own animals. I think if you're going to be a meat-eater, you should be willing to do that--otherwise, how will you have an accurate picture of what meat eating really is--if you always let someone else do the dirty work for you? If you give an animal a good life, and kill and eat it, I think that's awesome. If you go to the grocery store and pick out factory-farmed meat that has been raised in terrible conditions, that an undocumented, underpaid foreign worker has slaughtered and cleaned up for you in dangerous conditions, if all you ever see is the nicely-packaged meat without all the exploitation and sacrifice...I'm sorry, but I don't have a whole lot of respect for that food choice. I don't know how we're going to negotiate getting some meat into Himal's diet...I figured that sooner or later, he would go after it himself, and then we would do our best to supply him with good quality/humanely-raised meats from then on. Maybe he's not there yet. But this has been something of a practice run.