Ashes for beauty

The first week of classes is barely halfway over and my fingers are already cracked and bleeding. A dim mirror of the state of my heart.

Miss Kelly, I have other news for you. Dawatashi is dead. Self died. From a tree. No one was at home and we only know yesterday.

Ashes.

A thousand torments from such news. Like being hit by a train, having the breath ripped from every corner of your body, and drowning all at once. On his name card, in order to help me learn names, a hastily scribbled reminder of who he was: Crazy boy always smiling

Ashes.

The students are expressionless. Their culture refuses to accept public displays of grief. But through my own tear marbled eyes pain is obvious. The boys from his dorm room are silent at night there are eight beds Miss Kelly, but one is empty. All they can mutter is the, now increasingly meaningless, Om mane padme hum chant as they ponder the sure fate of their classmate in Tibet when someone self dies it will take 500 lives to be human again. And the only thing in my mind is: He didn't know the Truth... and neither do they.

Ashes. Pile up and are swept away ingraining themselves into your skin.

In the teacher's office polite chatter and news years greetings, sick and bland, get caught in my throat. Do they know? As I share the news with a fellow teacher my heart finds a voice in her bewildered visage and we spend the break between classes in the school cafeteria eating meat pies and consoling each other. Faces to the floor, other teacher's acknowledge the event with only silence.

Ashes.

Ashes shift through my fingers and blow in my face as I raise them up before the One who has promised beauty in exchange for them.

He has sent me... to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and freedom to the prisoners... to comfort all who mourn... to give them a crown of beauty instead of ashes...

And it is with a renewed urgency and desperation, in the face of or because of a broken bleeding heart, for the 79 remaining students, for the 34 new ones, for the 80 returned from their practice teaching, for the thousands of others on this campus and in this city...that I do just that.

Ashes...
Ashes...

Beauty?

The second time...

Today I only left the apartment twice.

The first time was for about fifteen minutes after I realized that the gas for the stove was sputtering to a full stop. I had to walk down the street to find the gas lady (who is conveniently also the rice, oil, and flour lady) so that she could drive her moped to my apartment building and come get the empty can...

The second time was later.

After a day which had mostly been spent resting, cleaning, doing menial unfinished tasks, preparing some food for tomorrow's meeting, reading, waiting for the return of the gas can, and sitting in the sun which chanced to escape through the looming dust clouds and claw through the grimy windows to warm my eager lap.

The second time I left was to grab some dinner with my teammate. We went to a small noodle shop tea house combination, not too far not too close to our school. We were greeted by not one single staff member but a couple of monks in one corner and a grandmother who's body was bent into a permanent ninety degree angle at the waist shuffling around the room. My whole body ached watching her and my spirit could sense the hand of oppression which held her there so we decided to wait only a little while to see if anyone who could cook noodles would show up. I casually regretted the absence of Dawa, the girl who worked there a year ago and had disappeared over the summer.

Within moments the owner/chef/waiter showed up and greeted us with a "tashi deleg" (good wishes) of recognition. We greedily slurped the bowl of noodles, vegetables, and meat that he brought to us. We had no idea what we were getting into.

A mostly covered girl slunk through the door directly to my side. At a glance, I drop my chopsticks and half rise half stammer: Dawa!?!

The song of the next hour can only be sung in fractured Tibetan, smiles, and cups of tea. She paid for our meal, grabbed our arms, marched us less than fifty meters down the street to the room which she had divided in half with a large piece of cardboard. The front half served as a small shop selling drinks and snacks the back half served as her entire existence. Had she been here the whole time? What had she been doing? No chance to find out. She forced plates of candy and raisins on us, she set to the work of making sweet tea, she invited her two friends (one of whom was a bus cashier who insisted that twice she had called my name and twice I hadn't heard her... she makes the second bus cashier that I know by name), and in a room the size of most American bathrooms covered with posters of the most famous idol in Lhasa and Amdo Tibetan singers we chatted... we tried to chat. The only English word that was exchanged the entire time was 'jellybean', but Dawa's Tibetan is slow and accentless and she is patient. She pulled out a picture that I had taken with her a year ago and given her as a gift before going to America last summer. Your face becomes so thin she remarks... and then bursts out laughing when I delcare No no, I have become a pig.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains and began to cast long shadows on the stained street outside we made to leave but not before Dawa insisted we drink another cup of tea and demanded that I come back to visit her tomorrow and often. I stepped out of her room, mind reeling with Tibetan words remembered and used and wished for, and memorized the number spray painted to the tin grating over her home and hugged her, to the astonishment of her neighbors playing snooker two yards away.

That was only the second time I left today. Our Father wastes nothing.

Imagine if I had left a third time?

Presence...

When I was a baby, You held me close.
When I was just a child You showed me the way I should go.
When I'm old and gray You'll never leave me... You're right by my side.

When I was a baby, I was bathed in a plastic bucket like the one I bought for seven yuan yesterday and then filled up with copies of assessment tests to give my students when classes begin next week. When I ran into my boss on campus, he was confused about the copies I think the school should make them and about my new cell phone number this is your third phone I think but he totally got the bucket nice bucket.

I know that You saved me, but I don't know... I don't know, how far You had to reach.

When I was just a child, the first number I memorized was my age and the second was the house phone number. I never dreamed of owning a cell phone. I never dreamed of owning one (or three) in China. But I still had to wait in a line of dirt smelling farmers from the nearby valley to put more money on it. I even had to help a few of them with the automated machine which is all in Chinese, a language neither of us speak. Upon exiting I was greeted by a former student who ushered me into her family's house/nicnac shop where a stool materialized from no where and ice cream on a stick was thrust into my hand. I met her whole family including her dog the stomach has babies and happily took the opportunity to share my new phone number with her, and the two other students I chanced to run into, with hugs and smiles, that day.

I swam in Your deep love, but I don't know... I don't know, how wide and how deep.

When I'm old and gray, I can't imagine that I'll be more careless than I was when I showed up at the stationary store and asked for 85 notebooks for my students without the appropriate amount of cash. Friendship with one of the salesgirls proved advantageous as she forked over 50 yuan to make up for my shortage, and then threw in a few extra notebooks free.
And I can't imagine that I would forget being accepted shortly after around a large square table covered by a stained, striped cloth and littered with thermoses of sweet milk tea, metal bowls of soupy noodles, small dishes of pickled radishes, and English and Tibetan notes. I couldn't be more different than those girls who shared the table with me, but you wouldn't know it from the way I was treated.

I know that You're good too, but I don't know... I don't know, why You're so good to me.

A phone call: Kellyla I'm in Xining, travel is so bad... the train give me headache. I am halfway to Beijing. I call you. I love you. We must be connected.

A handful of package slips: Here are you boxes from America.

A day spent in awe of what the Father can do.

How'm I gonna thank You... when I can't get my arms around You?

Riddle me this...

The ability is even to permeate the root of hair to the hair smallly slightly, from inside arrive the outside to moisten, lock the nourishment composition that tight hair need availably.

so says my shampoo bottle. In English. I think.

But what about the fireworks outside my window all evening? And why is it that the cell phone can do everything except receive text messages all of a sudden? And where are all the 60 watt bulbs in this city hiding?

And what do I do when one of my dearest local friends, who I met by crashing haphazardly into her on a bike a windy day a year ago, and have since been alongside her for all of her firsts (first day out of the nunnery, first time finding a job, first time getting a haircut), and have developed a closeness that counts for true friendship (one of the very few in this city), calls me to say: You are so bad, I try call you for a long time... I'm going to Beijing tomorrow... maybe I will stay forever.

Do I attempt to explain that I lost my cell phone and had almost no way to get her number? Do I immediately take a bus down to the tea house where she is sitting with her luggage and three cousins? Do I accept the huge bag of dried yak meat from her hometown that she has brought for me? Do I go with her to help her pack her suitcase better at her cousin's house? Do I share a bowl of yogurt with her? Do I help her carry the entirety of her personal belongings to her brother's house from which she will leave the following morning? Do I sip another cup of butter tea with her? Do I dash back to my apartment to make her the muffins that she loves from muffin mixes that were sent to me from the states? Do I put together a bag of snacks for her to eat on her three day train ride to another planet? Do I walk back to her brother's house and ring the doorbell to give her one more hug before I, potentially, never see her again? Do I hold back my tears?

Yes... yes to everything, but the last one.

She says: don't cry. Learn more Tibetan.
The truth is I'm confused. I'm confused about the fireworks display haunting what has turned out to be a lonesome heartbreaking day. I'm confused about the cell phone which can do everything except the one thing that I most need it to do. I'm confused about the presence of every wattage of light bulb except 60.

And though I understand every word on my shampoo bottle, I'm confused. I don't understand it at all.

At all.

What I don't deserve

A confession:

What my time in Thailand gave me a chance to do (besides be cheated, sweat, and pet tigers) was to become worn out in such a way that brought me face to face with my own depravity. I found that one cannot be possessed of the Spirit and spend an entire vacation frustrated, impatient, and generally awful and not experience a certain amount of conviction. The letter to Thailand was harsh, but if I had to write one to my own heart... it would be unpostable for its vileness.

So here's a story for you:

Once upon a time there was a worm. The worm was cold. Dirty. Tired of eating and drinking the same things. Tired of living in the same crumbling hole. Tired of digging all day and seeing so little progress, nevermind that the worm was blind. The worm wanted a vacation. The worm dreamed of being renewed so that it could go back to being an even better worm. So the worm went to Thailand.
In Thailand the worm was hot, too hot. Still dirty. The worm got tired of all the Thai noodles and curries and western food day in and day out. The worm went from one hotel to the next, traveled all around the country by train and bus and car looking for a place that wasn't a crumbling hole. The worm, rather than relaxing, spent most of the time planning for the next day. The worm became angry, had no vacation, and quit dreaming.
The truth that the worm couldn't escape was that it was a worm. A worm at home, a worm in Lhasa, and a worm in Thailand.
The truth that the worm had forgotten was that it was a worm that was loved, undeservedly so, by a Holy One. And in that truth the worm could find vacation, the worm could find renewal, the worm could be more than a worm after all.

I am the worm.

Perhaps the reason Thailand was so frustrating for me is that I got what I deserved: discomfort, poor treatment, lack of rest. Because what I surely don't deserve (especially after meeting myself in that ungrateful, unholy state) is the limitless joy that comes from knowing that my name is written in the Book of Life and the realization that I get to live it out in the place where the land rises to catch the airplane out of the sky and among a people who are generous with their whole lives.

I'm not worthy, but I am back in Lhasa.

Never again Thailand.

Dear Thailand,

We need to talk. But since you're a country and I'm only a wayfaring stranger a letter will have to suffice.

I have been with you nearly six weeks now. Thank you for hosting me such a long time, I will happily disregard the way you sent me with an incompetent driver into neighboring Malaysia for nine minutes just to renew my visa. I am grateful for your abundance of tropical fruit trees decorating every street corner and daily bath of sunshine. Thank you for your vast array of decent western food and for providing an opportunity for me to spend time with other American friends. I really enjoyed your rare citizen who, bright as a jewel, included me among their friends. Oh Thailand, I have drank deeply of your coconut milk, I have timidly pet your tigers, fed sugar cane to your elephants, swam in your turquoise waters, dined on your various curries, learned your children's songs, made much of your impeccable laundry service, and for all these things, thank you.

But Thailand, who are you trying to fool?

I have also sweat to the point of dehydration and you made me pay for every drop. I have spent sleepless, horrific nights of swarming cockroaches and pulverized knees on your trains and buses, I have dodged human refuse in your streets, have watched your citizens moved like cattle in the back of dump trucks, have witnessed your men become ladies, have seen the blackened, pussy feet of your street vendors... for these things my heart breaks for you.

But that brokenness is only matched by my fury towards you. I have been ripped off, taken advantage of, mocked, and disregarded by you. Thailand, the way that you treat my language, learning only just enough to make me insane and using even that much poorly, should be illegal. I would rather you force me to learn yours. The way you put your swollen, rashy hand over tourist eyes is enough to make me sick. You have sold yourself Thailand. You have capitalized on your beaches at the expense of your people who play barefoot and mostly naked in the dilapidated streets or sit sweating and glassy eyed in the sweltering shade of the three walled homes you provide. You have taught your people how to cheat, confuse, and steal yogurt out of fridges in places we have paid to stay in.

And do you think, Thailand, that I am fooled by the glitter and flash of your golden buddhas and colored spirit houses? Do you expect me to find them exotic? No Thailand, you and I both know that they are just another way that you seek to ensnare your residents and when that doesn't work you leave your women to melt under the head scarves of Islam as their men sell roasted corn on the cob to topless foreigners on your beach!

Enough Thailand! You can't tempt me with your perfect postcards of palm trees as you attempt to ignore the spittle running down the toothless angry van driver's chin. Do you think you are being generous by showing bootlegged English versions of movies in your theaters? Do not think that I will give money to your ancient monk in mustard yellow robes sitting still as a stone in your food courts. I won't. Do not imagine that I am deceived by the bright orange clothing of your novice monks walking the streets and waiting for ATM's. I'm not. And if you thought that a little extra sweetened condensed milk in my tea, or a few nights in a hotel nice enough to make me forget that I'm still with you, or a moment taking a picture with a monkey, or a ride on your incredible ThaiAir is enough to make me forget the way that you stuff clueless tourists into hot vans, the way you overcharge me three hundred percent because you see my white face, the way you think I won't care about or notice your legions of beggars and prostitutes... well Thailand, you are wrong.

You are Asia at its worst because of all your tourist friendly lies. Last year I regretted that I had not given you a chance... but this time I worked hard to love you...

So Thailand, this letter is to inform you that we are, quite irrevocably and finally, through.

No need to write back, though the bulkhead seat on my flight out was a nice touch.

-Kelly

Small eyes, glasses, an oily face: 8 Poems commemorating my trip to Wuhan

For Trisha: whose heartbeat for her country, her people, and her past is the eternal ripple on a lake otherwise placid as glass.






THE CITY WHERE THINGS HANG

The city hums and bustles

Tall buildings fool and flashing lights glare

But from balconies above another truth hangs

Articles of life dangle in air...

Sausages in snaking links, pink sweaters, mops, bras, large fish split open wide...

A street of breakfast, a bridge honored by Mao

Gui Bei Lu and forgotten pagodas in quiet decay

But above it all swaying in the breeze slight

Hang things left to dry for use another day...

Chicken stretched unnaturally, mystery meat on rusty hooks, long underwear,

socks, rags a million shades of dingy....

An intense vegetarian with an agenda to share

Gives way to a museum: no psychopaths allowed

A story of musical understanding: Zhi Yin

And above things hand, damply, but proud...

Frayed jeans, empty plastic buckets, fatty pork, gloves, a hat, tan brooms made

of splintered sticks...

Dangling, Draping, Fluttering, Flapping... Hanging above the city.

GO

Warm soy milk and deep fried breakfast wrap: two hands full in a taxi go

A bus station, and a bus ride, and a city where things hang slip by a foggy

window

Tall buildings shrink to small ones space out like a gapped tooth grin

And a man sings: I moved heaven and earth

Why can't I move you?

Dirty ducks in a dirty dirty creek, women cleaning cotton on a broken sidewalk

go

Why doesn't she speak? Asks the aproned male chef to the Chinese girl with

foreign one in tow

Children giggle wildly, wooden chairs become their fort

And freshly killed fish swim in a spicy soup

Filling expectant stomachs

A walk through town past pebble piles in heaps to view a sludgy river go

Chinese couples in the grass and the unaccusing sunset watch the mucky river

flow

A boat, a bike, a man with fishing pole

A poem remembered and then

We become the scenery

In a clean home waits king baby and a tired grandmother quick we go

The baby night life has begun and we fear to miss the show

Endless high pitched children's songs, toys scattered on the floor

The baby entertains until

We can take no more

A TRIP BACK IN TIME TO A YELLOW DOOR

The taxi breaks we disembark

The present and the past collide

Thin dogs in crowded cages tight

Above them hangs their fate belied

Off the main street steps become mud

A peeling green door and metal latch locks

Out curious girls who hear whispers of pain

And through a small hole a family's history talks

A sideways glance: we were on your mother's side

Shouts a time puckered Nai nai shaking her cane

Her weathered face can count back the years

And memories and chickens appear in the lane

The sun shifts pale through a blue gray sky

A scroll of images revealed

Black cats and kettles and levees take rest

While carrots and cabbages sleep in the fields

Stories are told and a vision unfurls

Of a city which changes but some parts may never

The bicycle repair man has been there for years

But the weasels which hang are impermanent as weather

A walk near a river overflowing with trash

Proves relatives are always around the next bend

A raspberry allergy lovingly remembered

And a home where soybeans are ground to their end

And then...

Posted on a yellow door

A Chinese sign claims: For Rent

The broken dusty street outside

Speaks of lives all but spent

The house with the yellow door

What past could it hold tight?

The house with the yellow door

Dare future dreams alight?

TERMINATOR

Faded moldy photos in a worn album turn

A torn and yellowed slip of paper lists

Five birthdays but only four names labeled

The sister was given away: whispered

The swell of difficult decisions past crashes on the undulating shores of now

The dusty old bus away from the city shudders

Hotels and shops and street vendors fade

A slumped old man with holes for eyes in a broken chair sleeps

Outside fields and lakes appear and inside Terminator plays

The American movie like a phantom haunts the sparse Chinese countryside

Back in a cheap hotel room the word 'scuzzy' is defined

Old Chinese cartoons and theme songs remembered

La Ta Da Wang: Big King Scuzzy introduced

The coral colored room with shaking laughter fills

A history of sadness and joy like intersecting strokes of a Chinese character

THE ICE AGE COMETH

Black rice pudding in a thing plastic up

Cool instantly: chilled sweet sludge

The museum a prayer for warmth unanswered

Relics from tombs at home in the frosty museum air

Five sections reveal a rotten corpse forgotten

Surrounded by cambers of time destroyed riches

The east of ritual vessels; the mundane occupies the west

The north plays music; but the south screams for blood

Perched in a glass box awaiting curious onlookers

A tall bird with curved antlers grins

Stepped out of another world and froze to bronze in this one

Feet stamped, hands rubbed, the sky outside pregnant with snow

Snow falls and falls and falls and falls

The white silence descending brings hush to the city

Breath hands like low fog in a hotel room of ice

Snow drifts and sleep; dreams become vegefables

ASIAN SNOMAN ADVENTURE

There once was a girl

She walked out into cold

And onto a bus

The number unknown

Assuming circular routes

There once was a girl

Watched the city slip by

Piles of dirty snow

Soon alone on the bus

Driving into wilderness

There once was a girl

Soon alone on the street

Again in the cold

The driver walked away

And she found a new bus

There once was a girl

On another bus

All assumptions shattered

Watched a city appear

And a frosty lake fade

There once was a girl

On a strange warm bus

In a strange cold city

A stranger seeking heat

Only found in a Starbucks

There once was a girl

Observed the melting snow

Chinese snowmen

Being surprisingly distinct

From American ones

SICK: AN ODE TO HEAT

Hovering, shaking, shuddering over a porcelain hole

Your insides ooze out and your knees give way

Pondering reality as you stare at stained black and gray tiles

Outside frozen temperatures are matched by those within

Tension in all muscles and a numbing fatigue

Heat unable to hold

Every thought, every movement a vain effort of warmth

Remembering life before shivers a challenge

Mindful only of frozen fingers and cramped body

Insist on a room with heat

And the Sakura Castle looms majestically through discomfort

THE RIVERSIDE OF A DESPERATE WORLD

Mucky water shifts over dull mud like the haunting realization that your mother

has never complimented you.

A rusty boat glides into view like too many failures noted too frequently.

The gray sky above a paler version of the gray river below like a glance at

society that is dark becoming darker.

And a pink kite dances on the damp fishy air...