Super Slow Stretchy Dancing

That's about the best way I know how to describe Tai Chi. Take two good stretch routines, one warm up and the other cool down, insert dance steps at every bend and turn, and do the whole thing as slowly as possible. And name it something obscure like Form 24.

Tai Chi!

I also call this Tai Cheeseburger, which is what I was craving about half way through our session. In fact, I got so locked on the "Tai" part of Tai Chi that we ended up having Pad Thai for dinner last night. But I digress ...

Last Christmas, Matt got me a membership to the Orlando Museum of Art, and added on a deal-ee-oh called North American Reciprocal. What that means is that we flash our OMA cards at participating museums (and there are hundreds) and we are ushered right in like VIPs. Such was the case when we walked into the Asian Pacific Museum. The building itself is a gorgeous specimen of Japanese architecture, and in the center, a wonderfully serene garden complete with a pond of lotus of flowers. Standing in the midst of this courtyard, you forget that there's a California Pizza Kitchen and a Starbucks right outside.

Every Saturday morning, Michael, Irwin, and Jane host a Tai Chi class in this garden. Beginners are welcome, thank goodness. So a motley crew of 15 of us assembled there yesterday morning, many for the first time. The leaders are beautifully skilled in the crafts of dipping, weaving, and stretching their bodies into lovely postures with poetic names, such as Play the Lute, Single Whip, and (my favorite) Stroke the Peacock's Tail.

One of the leaders told us early on to turn off our minds and let our bodies just follow the rhythms. Nice. But totally unrealistic. My head went into overdrive as I tried to match all of the dipping, weaving, and stretching.  Many times, I realized that although I'd gotten the arm motions correct, my feet were nowhere to be found.

Thank goodness for You Tube. I'll doing a lot of lute playing and peacock stroking in prep for next week. Perhaps there's a book called Tai Chi for Morons -- or better yet, Tai Chi For Type A Personalities. After all, Tai Chi literally means "supreme ultimate fist," which sounds far more like something you'd see on reality television than experience in a Chinese garden.  Proponents insist that it's designed to balance the body into meditative relaxation. Today, my forearms and thighs do not feel either meditative or relaxed -- but I do feel a supreme, ultimate need to tackle Form 24.

Lean Back

One day when I was in Africa, our hosts took us to Lake Malawi. Part of the chain of Great African Lakes, this deep, skinny body of water is bordered by Lake Malawi, Mozambique, and Tanzania (and, in fact, there are disputes as to who "owns" various parts of the water). Although I tend to think of Malawi as a completely poverty-stricken land, the lake reminds me that there are flourishing resorts in the country, many of them populated by wealthy tourists from all over the world. In fact, during our visit, the cast and crew of the reality show Amazing Race were there filming the 2011 season.

But that's another story.

By some accounts, Lake Malawi contains the richest variety of life of any body of water on Earth. One such species is a fish called either chombo or chomba (I forget which, but it's an important difference because one of those words means marijuana -- so I let our hosts order my lunch).

Our visit to took place on our last day in Malawi. My team was tired. Although they'd found our work incredibly fulfilling, they'd been stretched into spiritual shapes beyond their imagination. Plus, I think they were craving dairy and the faces of their families. So when I suggested they spend 30 minutes in silence with their journal, I got looks that said, "Yep, mmm-hmmm, I'll get right on that."

I found a shady spot where I could lean against a stone wall, spread out my chitenje, and opened my journal. I looked up and down the beach, noting that one group of my peeps were rock climbing, another dipping their toes in the water, and a few stragglers had collapsed in chairs nearest the resort and were sound asleep.

What caught my attention next left echoes that I've heard every day since. A young man was trying to wind surf. He had all the right equipment: a surf board with an enormous pink sail attached, friends who loaded him back onto the board every time he fell into the water, and plenty of wind.

The young man was strong. And tenacious. I watched him for a long, long time.  He climbed onto the board, carefully placed his feet at just the right spots, gripped the sail, pointed into the wind -- and pitched headlong into the water. His friends stayed with him. Yet despite all of his efforts, he never sailed for more than a few feet.

It took me a while to figure out what was wrong. Instead of leaning back into the wind, the man hunched forward over the sail.

He clung to what he could see rather than trusting what he could not.

So as I continue to look for a job and find my place in this city, I'm trying to figure out what it means to lean back into the wind. Now and again, I think I've got the right idea -- just before I fall face first into the water.

My teacher is patient, and my friends are many.

This really is an amazing race.

Pink Parasol

I stand corrected.

Evidently, even a pink parasol can possess Fish Kill Quality (not to mention alliteration). Clearly, I haven't a clue what Fish Kill Quality actually means ... but I'm on it.  I don't think it's related to movies, although the topic often comes up in conjunction with them (as in, "That was a fish kill movie!" which, incidentally, was not stated after Jane Eyre or Julie and Julia).  Plants, pumpkins, and pets can have Fish Kill Quality (Matt's spitfire cat -- yes, but my cuddly dog -- no).  Clothes, too, including pink parasols.  I'm stumped for an exact definition, or even a vague one, but I'm not giving up.  My next question is, Does Pasadena have Fish Kill Quality? I'm betting certain aspects such as the Metro, Rose Bowl, and The Huntington Botanical Gardens and Library will be a hearty YES, but tiny parking spaces and our ever-empty mailbox will get a sad shake of the head.

More news at 11:00 ...

Watch your cork!

Last week, Matt and I took Joanna to Longboat Key for a few days. Seems we've spent the majority of our time since we moved to California in time zones nowhere near Pasadena. But no matter.  We continue to learn that home is a place we pack up and take with us.

The highlight of the trip was trout fishing in St. Petersburg. Our friend Captain Tim, whom we've fished with many times before, has never let us down, and this time was no exception. Every time I think I've mastered fishing with Tim, he teaches me something new. The first time we went out, we fished for Spanish mackerel, and that meant, as soon as I felt a little buzz on the line, I had to snap up the pole to do something called "set the hook." The next time we went out with Tim, I was all set to do some serious pole snapping and hook setting, when instead, he taught me how to use lures rather than live bait. That involved him injecting something into the rubbery bait look-alike that I called fish goo (I still don't know what the stuff is actually called because Tim was too busy laughing at "fish goo" to tell me). That day was all about fishing in mangroves for reds and trout -- reds off the stern and trout off the bow. So the third time we went fishing with Tim, I figured I'd either be pole snapping or dealing in fish goo ... but alas, I should have known. Instead, we fished with shrimp and tiny weights attached to the line. The trick was to let the bait settle on the floor of the bay and every once in a while, give the line a little twitch. Although this yielded very few fish for me, I learned a great deal of patience, not to mention I had the biggest catch of the trip. That day, I rightfully became known as Fish Killer (not to be confused with Matt's designation of an activity possessing Fish Kill Quality -- which I think means "sufficiently manly").

So last week, off we went with Tim for another fishing adventure. All morning, Tim said three words over and over: "Watch your cork." After a lot of "Huh?" "Cork?" and "Watch it do what?", I finally got the gist. Tim would cast my line about 40 feet off the port side of his boat, and the bright orange ping-pong ball sized float he'd attached about three feet north of the hook would, after a moment or two, give a little bob. I felt nothing. So I did nothing. But after the millionth, "Watch your cork," I figured it out. What Tim should have said was, "Reel, woman, reel!"

We caught 50 or so trout. We're vegetarians (well, Joanna is more like a pescaphile), so 49 of them survived. Number 50 was snatched up by an osprey who was so delighted by his catch that he made a victory lap around the bay before wolfing that sucker down. Fish Killer indeed.

As we got near the end of the bait, I sat down in the back of the boat and turned my face to the sun. Tim asked, "Don't you want to fish anymore?" I gestured to Matt and Joanna, standing side by side on the fore deck of the boat, both of them gazing intently at their lines, sweat running down their calves, and their heads tilted to the right at exactly the same angle. The moment did not have Fish Kill Quality ... but it filled me with peace.

I said, "Tim, I'd much rather watch those two than my cork." He smiled. And, for a moment, turned his face to the sun, too.

Just a typical weekend in Los Angeles ...

Matt got home from China on Thursday night. I thought he'd be comatose most of the weekend, and I'd be a little emailin' and bloggin' fool. Er, not so much.

Friday went like this ... we watched the Tour de France. I'm learning all about the Pelaton and the mules and the sprinters and the mountain climbers and the jerseys. Mr. Forbes, his brother, his sister-in-law, and I are considering watching a bit of it in person in 2017, so I figure it's not too soon to get smart about the race. Plus, anything that puts me in France is oui-oui.  Next up, we went to the Los Angeles County Museum of Arts (affectionately known as LACMA, and affectionately pronounced as LOCK-muh). We are now members of four area museums, and let me just say, they are not getting a good deal on us.  In the continuing theme of France, we closely inspected a visiting exhibit called the Tomb Sculptures from the Court of Burgundy, listened in on a talk about a half dozen Monets (wait ... I'm detecting more Francophilia), and sat for a lecture about two incredibly impressive Greek sculptures (oops ... France au revoir).  We also strolled by the La Brea Tar bits. Umm ... they are pits of tar. They smell like pits of tar. Did I mention, there's a lot of tar? But a really funny thing across the street ... a long, long line of food trucks, each one food- or ethnically-themed. Too bad we'd just had a picnic, or I would have made a deposit at the peanut butter truck, for sure.  Next time ...

So Friday night, Matt was actually up for a concert at Memorial Park. We took our fifth train ride of the day (I still don't get why trains make him so happy, but I'm in) to see March Forth.

Oh.
My.
Goodness.

This band ... okay, imagine a post-apocalyptic future, a la Hunger Games or The Book of Eli or The Road. Now imagine a marching band got lost in that future ... until they came across trunks full of circus clothes and sheet music ... in New Orleans. That will give you some feel for their hellish cheerfulness.  They were seriously bizarre ... but free! Oui-oui! And they had a crowd of several hundred folks of all ages clapping and dancing, including the man who'd just returned from China.

And that was just Friday. More about Saturday and Sunday later. Right now, it's time for a cup of tea and lemon cake.

Nine thousand, one hundred, and twenty-six

That's how many days my dear friends Sunni and Dan have been married. In celebration of their joy, here is Elizabeth Barrett-Browning's Sonnet 43 from her collection Sonnets from the Portuguese:


I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


And in other numbers ... Matt and I have been married for 40 days today. Not quite enough to make a full sonnet, but maybe a couplet? Here's Shakespeare's closing couplet from Sonnet 23 (and in the words of Hogget to Babe, "That'll do, pig; that'll do"):


For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Ambient Light

A friend asked me today if my trip to Malawi had changed me. When I opened my mouth to answer her, my throat closed and nothing came out. And then this memory came ...

One evening, Jackie and I spent some time with the girls at House of Purity, the home of a pretty typical group of teens.  As my friend Dallas would say, they were looking for themselves in a window rather than a mirror. After sharing devotions with them, we walked back to our guest house for our team's evening debrief. No one else had arrived yet, and since Adam had the key, we wandered about in the yard, arms linked, and looked up.

The stars in Africa ... well, let's just say, they appear so dense and close, the only way to respond is to reach up and try to touch them. It's as though God pushed the sky right down to our faces, and said, "Look!" I know different stars are visible in the southern hemisphere than in the north; the thinking side of my brain registered that, but the feeling side of my brain wanted to stick out my tongue and lick their sweetness. They were that close.

One of the Chiwengo guards stepped off the dark porch of the house and asked why there are fewer stars in America. I asked, "Oh, do all the American visitors oooh and ahhh over the stars here?" He said yes, and affirmed how blessed Africans were to have more stars than Americans. And then in his rich, beautiful, broken English, he gave Jackie and me an astronomy lesson.

I've thought a lot about the guard, Jackie, and the cold night the three of us spent with our chins pointed up. What I could not explain to our African friend (although I tried) was the concept of ambient light. It's not that we have fewer stars, I wanted to say.  It's just that we can't see them.

And this is one of the many, many ways Africa changed me.  Just as surely as it's tougher to see the stars here in America, it's tougher to see God. The ambient light (also known as "distractions") makes it difficult to reach out and touch him as closely as I could in Africa. There, materialism, competition,  and insecurities were rare. Without those getting in the way, his presence shimmered -- in the dancing of widows and the sweat of men building a school and the mud of the floor of a hut, carefully applied by the worn hands of a woman making a home for her family.

God is here, too. I think I saw him yesterday in the leopard skin tattoo inked down the leg of a woman named Yazmine. I had to look a little harder, but I think I saw him again when I was choosing from among a pile of pineapples; rather than seeking the one, I gave thanks for the many. I know for sure I'll see him again tomorrow in my husband's precious smile.

God is surely here. All I have to do is stick out my tongue and taste the sweetness.

My hair smells yummy

I think it's a combination of lavender, eucalyptus, and something else that seems expensive, like maybe French perfume.  In any case, I can't stop pulling clumps of it to my nose to sniff.  Yep, just did it again. Mmmmm ...

I was long overdue for a haircut, and the water in Africa (in addition to giving some of my team mates cholera) wasn't exactly nurturing. About the best I could muster up was a 'do Robyn calls a "snot knot," which is when you pull all of your hair up to the top of your head and twist it into a not-so-smooth scrunchie ... and then quickly walk away from the mirror.

Here was my other clue it was time for sharp scissors and salon-quality products. One evening last week, as we scarfed down big plates of pasta out on our tiny patio, Matt asked, "Are you getting your hair done next week?" I chose to think he was simply expressing interest in my schedule.

So today I went to see Vanessa at the Orpheum Salon, and experienced a morning I will affectionately refer to hereafter as Orpheum Bliss (on second thought, that sounds like an inappropriate film set in ancient Greece). Whatever.  I love the way my hair smells.  And the provencal decor of the salon, too -- boudoir chandeliers, enormous mirrors framed in ash-colored oak, and turn-of-the-century pharmaceutical cabinetry. Charmant.

And Vanessa?  I want to go over to her house and bake cookies. She has tremendously thick, curly hair, and she blogs about being organized. To commemorate the royal wedding, once a week, she writes Monarch Mondays.  I took one look at her blue toenail polish and knew I'd found a friend.

Never mind that I spent $6 on parking to be pampered for a couple of hours.  When Matt gets home on Thursday, he'll say something sweet about my hair. I will say, "Thank you."

And we'll leave it at that.

Learning each other ...

Sometimes I forget that I've only known Matt for 28 months. As we settle into our new world together, we're still very much learning each other.  Surprises for me: the depth of Matt's love of classical music and his commitment to keeping farmer's hours regardless of the previous night's bed time. Perhaps my favorite is this: when he opens his eyes every morning, he looks genuinely astonished to see me. And quite pleased.

A couple of days ago, Matt saw a side of his wife that was new to him, too. Every morning, some time between 4:30 and 5:00, we walk down to the lobby to get the newspapers. He reads the Pasadena Star News first, as he is completely charmed by all things local. On this particular morning, I glanced around his elbow to see the words "Vermeer," "on loan," and "Simon Norton Museum" on the front page. Well, let me tell you, he didn't get that newspaper back until I was finished devouring the story and had moved on to the Internet to learn more.

Yesterday, Johannes Vermeer's Girl with Lute was installed in the Norton Simon's 17th century European Paintings gallery. She'll be there for the summer, and I plan to visit her often. In fact, I went yesterday to hear Dr. Walter Lietdke, the Met's Dutch and Flemish curator, speak about the role of women in Vermeer's world, and today, Girl and I spent a bit of time together -- both of us contemplating the whereabouts of our men in distant lands.

I don't remember when I became a Vermeer groupie, but I'm sure it was long before The Girl with Pearl Earring craze. I think it was Matt (brother, not husband) who turned me on to his extraordinary treatment of light and his preoccupation with the middle ground.  Something about Vermeer's paintings stops me in my tracks and insists I look.  In person.  If there's a Vermeer anywhere near, I completely commandeer the conversation of everyone within earshot until plans are settled for a visit. A few years ago, I was in Edinburgh with a teacher friend; when I discovered there was a Vermeer at the National Gallery, my poor friend's plans to visit Sir Walter Scott's and Robert Louis Stevenson's homes were indefinitely put on hold. She was really kind about that (as well as my obsession with Charlotte Bronte -- God forbid a Vermeer should ever show up in Yorkshire).

All this is to say, Matt saw a new side of his wife, one who inexplicably adores the three dozen or so paintings by a seventeenth century Dutch dude. And I saw a side of him that is not new to me but makes me smile -- he made sure I knew how to get to the museum by public transportation.

Only in L.A.

Okay, this place is just WEIRD! You won't see this in Orlando, my friends ...

1. Many places have preferred parking for vehicles with low emissions. And, of course, the spots are super compact.

2. There are restaurants that serve nothing but boba milk tea. Boba, it seems, are little tapioca balls suspended at the bottom of the tea cup.

3. A huge block of the 110 was shut down today for a police investigation. Seems that during a high speed chase, a gun was thrown out of a car window. Three arrests followed.  The upshot (no pun intended) was that it took me over two hours to get Matt to the airport, which is only 15 miles from our apartment.

4. It's often impossible to make a right hand turn in downtown Pasadena because of the throngs of pedestrians. When Matt says, "Hey, why don't you just head down Colorado ...," he gets a look from me and then says, "Oh, yeah, I forgot. Bad idea."

5. Grocery stores have entire refrigerator sections dedicated to organic Greek yogurt.

6. Matt and I are almost always the only white people on the train or bus. I don't get it.

7. I can't seem to get out of the grocery store for less than $200 a pop, but free concerts, plays, tours, and lectures abound.  That gets the Forbes stamp of approval.

8. Magnolias and jasmine are blooming in July. JULY!

9. You can get a ginormous lunch at pretty much any Mexican restaurant for about $5 (assuming you can read enough Spanish to order with confidence). The food tastes incredible, and you leave wishing you had a second stomach.

Totally unrelated note ... I saw a hummingbird this morning during my run. He hovered over my head for a few seconds before heading up the hill. Another goosebump moment.

The Story of A Fierce Bad Rabbit

Yesterday, I was perfectly content to sleep and sleep and sleep.  While this may have been understandable, it wasn't terribly helpful. So my sweet husband offered a carrot he knew I could not resist -- an outdoor children's play.

During summer months, there are free concerts and events at the Leavitt Pavillion in Memorial Park, a one-stop train ride from our apartment. Last night, hundreds and hundreds of children gathered in the park to see two Beatrix Potter stories animated through live puppetry. Oh, my goodness, giggles for everyone! First, we watched Jemima Puddleduck narrowly escape being made into a stew by the crafty fox. And next, we saw The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit. I was still in the Africa fog, so I wasn't quite certain what was happening, other than the toddler in front of me had a fierce, bad desire to drink out of her mama's cup, and the bad rabbit, for reasons that are still unclear, kept losing his tail (I choose not to consider the potential symbolism of this event).

Today, Pacific Standard Time and I are playing together nicely.  I'm going to spend the day looking for a job -- and hope not to lose my tail in the process.

Crash Landing

What do organic coffee, the F-bomb, and a heat wave have in common?  They all figured prominently in my return to Los Angeles, this our new home.

Okay, so LA is nine hours (NINE!) behind Malawi, which means that 2:00 a.m. seems like a great time to make waffles, and 6:00 p.m. renders me barely conscious. That meant a lot of false starts yesterday, punctuated by naps and big-eyed staring out the window.

When the room stopped spinning, my man took me to Urth Cafe for some Baby Gorilla coffee and hand-holding. Getting there involved a train ride to Little Tokyo, sketchy-looking alley-ways, and a rather unsettling number of junkies and homeless folks who thought it fitting to shout obscenities as we passed. At one point, I looked up at Matt and wailed, "Where are you taking me???"

The original location of Urth Cafe (now a small chain) is housed in a super-chic brick loft a block away from the California Department of Social Services (hence the local flavor). We'd been to the Urth in Santa Monica a couple of times on the recommendation of a dear friend of Matt's, and just adored it. It's a wonderful breakfast-lunch-brunch place that uses only organic products and draws a funky crowd of road bikers, yuppy families, cops, and beatniks. A little slice of heaven. But we're already ruling out places to visit based on location, as the rumors you hear about the traffic are too true. "Better to drive north or take the train than brave anything in or below downtown."(That's our new motto. I know, it needs work.) So rather than drive to Santa Monica, we checked out the original Urth in Little Tokyo.

After Matt recovered from the shock of spending $52 on breakfast and a pound of coffee, we had a lovely, lovely day. We later walked all over South Pasadena, catching each other up on the hundreds of moments that touched us during our separation -- and sweat like the Floridians that we are in the heat wave that has struck southern California. I kid you not; temps reached the upper 90s yesterday.

Now for some LA reflecting ... Springfield, Illinois this place ain't. We've both been smacked squarely between the eyes by the reality of our new home. Millions and millions of people live here, and let's just say, it's not easy to love every single one of them (or even a half dozen). So we just keep holding hands, talking about how we feel, and looking for joy in each moment.

And the next place I'm sure to find it is in the percolator. Time for some Baby Gorilla.

All this for me?

As Matt drove me home last night, we headed north on the 5 to the 110. Two thoughts struck me: one, that all these highway numbers as multiples of five do not bode well for my ability to successfully navigate LA, and two, "Gosh, are all these for me?" We saw hundreds (nope, not exaggerating) of phenomenal, expansive, over-the-top fireworks displays. I felt like I was floating in the center of a fishbowl, and all around us, both near and far, burst thousands of lights silently singing their welcome.

It was a goosebump moment, only the most recent in an avalanche.

There's something of a fireworks display going on in my mind right now. No sooner do I register an "Oooh, ahhh" moment, than another memory flashes in to replace it.  I feel as if I look too closely at one image, I'll miss the next one ... and the next, and the next.  They're all bringing tears.

For now, all I can say for certain is this: my heart is full to bustin'. If God gives me one more blessing, even a tiny one, I will have to acknowledge, once and for all, that heaven is not someday. It is now.