Dumpster reflections

There he was.

Shoulder length greasy black gray hair combed neatly away from his face in order to reveal the maximum amount of dirt. Charcoal suit jacket wrinkled, collar bent, too long in the sleeves but at least it matched his suit pants which were cinched around the waist by a cracked belt. His hands were black with grime but his face held an expression of absolute calm. A breeze ruffled the leaves on the nearby trees but didn't even budge the stiff filth of his hair.

There he was reading a newspaper.

He held it open wide. He scoured the pages. He shook it when the wind put a wrinkle in the wrong place. He turned the smudged pages carefully and didn't seem to notice that his own dusty hands were making the biggest mess of the paper.

There he was reading a newspaper in the middle of a garbage dumpster all by himself.

Slimy half eaten instant noodle remains, paper cups, napkins with outrageous stains, shreds of cloth, broken glass, and plastic debris completely concealed his feet up to his ankles. It was impossible to tell if his shoes also matched his suit. It was impossible to tell if he realized where he had chosen to stand to read the news. It was impossible to tell if anyone else on the street noticed it either.

I stopped to watch the man read. My mind fluttered around and landed haphazardly on this thought: Here is a filthy man reading a newspaper in a filthy place. Who gave him the newspaper? Was it good news? Was it good enough to make him clean? Perhaps, in another time, I was that man.

I looked up. The sky was so blue I shuddered in the Lhasa afternoon heat. The man remained standing in the garbage dumpster reading the newspaper all by himself as I walked on down the street.

Bones

Yesterday I walked down the street, shoulders slumped, heart aching, just wishing that someone would throw me a bone. Then, right there in the middle of the dusty street taxi horns blaring, there was a bone. A yak bone, scant meat left on it but a little bit of hair. I nearly tripped over it. And then I wrote this...

I can feel it in my bones.
The eager urge to go home.
America's national anthem and a variety of patriotic songs hummed unintentionally in stressful situations.

I can feel it in my hair.
The dry crackle of things not there.
Words and languages which I'm desperate to catch pass like a breeze through the open window of my mind.

I can feel it in my skin.
Patience wearing thin.
The slightest distracted student in the most clumsily planned class feels like the fury of untold hoards of utter defeat.

I can feel it in my eyes.
A tangled web of lies.
A change in plans which sends the universe reeling but actually only betrays a shocking state of exhaustion.

I can feel it in my hands.
So many shifting grains of sand.
The list of things to do expands and shrinks and is forgotten and remembered ad nauseum.

I can feel it in my heart.
The way things fall apart.
Needs so deep and complicated look like empty hands tickling filthy street children.

I can feel it in my soul.
A longing to be whole.
Such completion only found at the majestic throne and merciful cross of the One who is complete.

I can feel it.

What's in a name?

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

But at least, dear Juliet, the rose has one.

We had just washed down her far too salty vegetables with my far too sweet brownies and settled in for a lengthy conversation. By conversation, I mean her rendition of a Tibetan fairy tale, which she clarified as history, happening in India a long time ago... a story that would last over thirty minutes without the slightest peep from me. But stories are what I love and listening is my thing and I couldn't have been happier with such an indulgence.

Once upon a time there was a prince. He was very generous, so generous in fact that he had the strange perchance of giving away anything anyone asked for. Anything at all. One day he asked his father, the king, if he could invite all the beggars to the palace and give them anything they asked for. The king realized that his son had a generous heart and agreed. Except this one very valuable diamond, everything in our house you are free to give away- said the king to the prince. But if you give that diamond away- warned the king- you will be punished.
So the big day came, the palace was full of beggars and anything they asked for they received from the prince. The pantry was cleaned out in minutes, the royal dressing rooms had scarce a piece of cloth left in them, the walls were bare... in short there was not one thing left that anyone wanted. The prince was so pleased that he had been able to give people everything they asked for. Then, just as sun was setting, a old grisly man appeared at the palace door. The generous prince, never being able to turn anyone away, asked him what he wanted. The man grinned slyly, knowing the prince's weakness, and said: I want the diamond.
The prince thought and thought. All things he gave away but not this one. It didn't seem right to the prince, so he went upstairs and gave the very valuable diamond to the wily beggar and wished him luck.
The prince slept well that night, but the next morning when the king found out his son had given away the one thing he specifically asked him not to, he was furious. In haste and anger, he banished his son to exile in a remote and fearsome place for twelve years. The prince, understanding the price of his generosity for the first time, packed up his belongings to set out. His wife and three children also prepared to come with him. At first the prince refused to take them. However, when he saw their earnest desire to accompany him in his punishment he gave them this ultimatum. If you come with me- said the prince to his wife- you have to understand that if someone asks me for anything I will give it away. Even if they ask for you or the children. The devoted wife readily agreed and off they went.
On their journey the met many beggars and it wasn't long before everything they carried had been given away. The children's feet were blistered, they hadn't eaten in days when three beggars crossed the generous family's path. What do you need? asked the prince to the beggars. Really, we need three servants to help us carry our things because we are old and tired- replied the beggars. The prince looked at his three small children, up at his teary wife, and gave the children away. He had never refused anyone, and he never would.
The prince and his wife carried on. But, though he didn't know, the extremity of his generosity had come up before the gods. The gods wanted to see just how generous he was willing to be. So they transformed into beggars and went to the prince. What do you need? asked the prince when he saw the three false beggars in his path. Your wife- they answered shortly. He squeezed his wife's hand and agreed. And he carried on his way.
The gods were so impressed by this that they allowed his wife to return to him, though he had nothing they provided for him as he made his home in the cave in the remote and fearsome place. For twelve years, he and his wife always had enough to eat, they were never attacked by animals, and their clothes never wore out. When the twelve years was finished the prince and his wife returned to their home, on the way they found their children, now all grown, again. The king had long forgiven his son and there was much rejoicing throughout the land. Even the sly beggar who had caused all the trouble by asking for the valuable diamond in the first place showed up to give the diamond back.

The light was dim by the time the story finished. Storm clouds promising snowy mountain tops in the morning rolled through and concealed the sky. I stretched. She said: what do you think of this story Ms. Kelly.

I: In the story, there are three gods. What are their names?
She: Names? They don't have names Ms. Kelly.
I: Then how do you know they're real?

How does that visage languish...

I have a story to tell but no ability to tell it.

It begins with a monk, with a car accident, with a broken leg that even a month of rest wouldn't heal.
But it doesn't begin there at all.

It unfolds with a conversation, with a deep conviction for healing, with a chance missed, with another one gained.
But it doesn't unfold at all.

It ends with this:

In a small cell only three: a teacher, a student, a monk. A teacher with visions of a man who gets up, picks up his mat, and walks out of the monastery forever. A student with his own story to tell. A monk in absolute misery and fury at the hand he's been dealt. I only saw three. Only three. But really there were more... maybe thousands. Legions battling it out for possession of a soul.
For forty-five minutes the abuse and scorn which issued forth from the monk's mouth, now blasphemous, now bitter, now ridiculous, now resentful, left no room for more than a handful of other words from anyone else. It was like something obnoxious and bent on destruction had taken over his mouth and made a game out of interrupting. He began interrupting himself. He told me there was no god and our gods were the same. He wanted me to point to Hawaii on a map. He agreed with me and called me stupid. He told me that his leg was healing perfectly even as he looked at the x-rays showing a complete gap between the pieces of bone. He assured me of the most blatant lies. When he began to make accusations of homosexuality, I knew there was no healing going to take place that day and I rose to leave.

But it didn't end there at all.

As I walked out of the door, my heart shattered and my stomach sick, he nearly threw himself from the bed to say to me: Your face lady... it's so strange today. And my student, the shocked witness to the whole horrible visit, paused in the doorway to tell him in Tibetan: Really you need to go to the hospital, you are wrong to say those things to Ms. Kelly, she really worries about you and wants to help. And, though by now well outside the room, I heard that man say: I know.

After all the things I'd heard him say, that was perhaps the only thing I'm convinced that he, himself, actually said.

My face was pale when I walked out of the monastery that afternoon, but I was seeing only another face... one that had filled with anguish, sore abuse and scorn, a visage that had languished... And I remembered that all that He had suffered was all for sinners gain...

So before that face, underneath that suffering... I place this story and all of the characters. He can end it better than I. He is, after all, the Author.

Count 'em

Count your many blessings, name them one by one... Count your many blessings see what He has done...

I went for a walk in an alarmingly difficult effort to find a noodle shop that wasn't crammed full of hungry customers like a stomach lining with packed with butter. In my haste, and distracted by the rumblings of my own empty stomach, I nearly stepped into a lone little boy with big watery eyes teetering in his too many clothes and only one yellow shoe. I stopped. I picked up the missing shoe, still bright yellow despite the obvious wear, and handed it to the boy... whose grin of utter surprise and gratitude outshone the brightness of the shoe.

Blessings like lost yellow shoes.

I found a noodle shop undergoing renovation by two obviously new owners. It was deserted, typically a bad sign. I managed to completely fool the couple into believing that I spoke Chinese when all I really know how to do is order a bowl of noodles. As the wife dashed upstairs to make the noodles, the husband, a man whose eyes got lost in wrinkles and underneath a shock of dusty black hair every time he laughed decided to keep me company and carried on a conversation nearly entirely with himself as my only contribution was a nod of assent every time I thought I understood a word. When he discovered the truth about my Chinese fluency he retrieved two apricots from a ripped plastic bag and gave them to me to keep me company instead.

Blessings like apricots from a generous hand.

Belly full of noodles, I made my way to meet a friend for tea. Realizing that though I drank all of the soup from the noodles and some paper cups of hot water for lunch I was probably dehydrated... the expectancy of tea was welcome. Until she ordered. My Tibetan being infinitely better than my Chinese I knew immediately that she had ordered butter tea... Not awesome in the best of circumstances, this particular thermos gave off that mildly revolting aroma of sickly bland butter. Within a cup I was sure I wasn't going to drink more. Until my friend suggested to the waitress to take it back and add more salt. To my delight, a few additional teaspoons of salt being the difference between undrinkable and refreshing.

Blessings like gratuitous salt to bland butter tea.

The effect of the tea was drowsiness to my weary self. We were both so tired we were silly. I half moaned half laughed when I remembered that I had promised to go and teach a night class on English idioms to some former students... wondering if I could discretely pinch myself to prevent passing out at the chalkboard I wandered into the classroom amongst students I haven't seen all together in a year. The lesson began, the enthusiasm of the students was overwhelming and before I knew it the idioms were through and I was just telling them stories. Stories about places I had been, things I had seen, people I had met, stories that made me laugh and stories that confused me. At the end of each one I made for the door and was brought back to the front by a room full of imploring faces, hands with one finger raised, and lips which said "guchi guchi tell one more..."

Blessings like requests for stories and students with one finger raised.

The next morning I taught a lesson wrapping up everything we had studied about teaching this term. Closing remarks being motivational sayings and the assurance from my heart to theirs that they could be great teachers. The rumblings in my stomach portending an afternoon over the squatty, I took a breath and glanced up before declaring class over. What I saw was forty-one silent students whose desperation to believe the words of affirmation they had just heard was slowly welling up in their eyes.

Blessings like eighty-two watery eyes.

Sure enough my stomach went on hiatus for the remainder of the afternoon. With an hour until my afternoon class I made the imminent decision to cancel class or have my bowels cancel it for me. Moments after sending the declarative text message, two students from the canceled class knocked softly shyly at my door. One carried a bag of mystery fruit, the other a liter of sprite. They came in and sat with me for about ten minutes whispering that they were worried and that I should take medicine before disappearing softly shyly back out the door.

Blessings like soft knocks at the door and liters of sprite.

The truth is our Father blesses. He does it all the time. You couldn't count them even if you tried. It's only a matter of receiving.

The perfect fit

Little is more inspiring than being nominated by students to be a judge at an English movie dubbing competition... and perhaps nothing more hilarious than Ice Age 3 clips rendered in heavily accented fumbling English... unless you count the Forest Gump clips... and the Titanic ones...

That was yesterday evening, totally unplanned.

When the votes were cast and the microphones blessedly turned off the ever too formal Mr. Wu rose to the occasion and invited me to join him and the other teachers to "enjoy shrimp" with them. Although the thought of eating shrimp in Lhasa, the single most landlocked place in all the world, gave my stomach visions of food poisoning I was loathe to refuse and so I hopped in the car instead and promptly complemented Mr. Wu on his dolphin dashboard ornament... a pleasant contrast to the Mao rear view mirror decoration.

We dodged the thousands of Tibetan faithful doing laps around the city for merit on this most sacred evening of the year and entered a restaurant crammed with Chinese customers. The waitress shuffled around handing out plastic gloves and wet naps and I knew I was in for something. So, when the bowls of spicy, boiling shrimp and pig foot soup came out I wasn't even surprised. Into the bowl went cucumbers, two kinds of tofu, potato noodles, and bamboo shoots. Into our stomach the like. And out of the red splattering mess came shrimp eyeballs, oil, and the most striking compliment I have ever received in this city... and straight from the mouth of the hapless one himself...

Mr. Wu: Really, you've been so short time... but you fit perfectly here.

And I looked at my oil saturated glove and into the bowl where fatty pig feet brushed up against shrimp antennas and around the room to conspicuously Asian clientèle spitting shrimp tails out onto the floor and my mind rewound through my day past the lunch of potatoes and rice washed down with butter tea and eaten while squatting on a foot tall filthy plastic stool speaking in a conversation of mixed languages and through the class where forty five minutes was spent entirely on the pronunciation of the 'th' sound back to the morning when the cool urine scented breeze floated through my window bearing the Chinese breakfast hawkers bullhorn which woke me once again to the highest mountains in the world...

Me: Do you really think so?
Mr. Wu: I think so.

And so I praised my Father and unpinned the two year old bright badge strapped to my chest labeling me "foreigner" and fished a pig foot out of the soup with my chopsticks.

Because, despite all of my misgivings... and probably because of the Holy One's zest for using the foolish to shame the wise, I fit perfectly here.

A stick, some line, and a hook...

A stick, some line, and a hook... that's all I have. They don't even recognize my bait. But I live in an ocean of the most desperately hungry fish I've ever laid eyes on... if only I had a net.

She was the most troubled student in the whole class... she was also the most talented. Her face in class was as black as death, her participation was finessed by the most smart alack tone of voice she could muster, she searched to find ways to make the fact that she was clipping her turquoise painted fingernails the main attraction. Her eyes rolled so many times there was a real fear they might become stuck that way.

I sent her a text message: do you have free time? I want to have tea with only you.
It was the most ridiculous text message I'd ever sent. I nearly gave myself a bruise for doing it, because she was in fact free.

She was chatting on the phone, twirling her curled and dyed hair on her finger, and nonchalantly leaning on the wall near the school gate where I was supposed to meet her. Other students milled around, asked mild questions, parted, bought potatoes. The sun boiled. Prying herself from her cell phone she asked where I wanted to go. On a whim, I pointed to the bus trundling down the street.

We ended up at some random little tea house where you could blessedly buy tea by the cup and not the thermos. Thus my getaway plan if things got nasty: one cup and split.

As the tea arrived, I glanced at her face which was as deceptively calm as the eye of the hurricane. Before I could muster my courage to turn the talk away from the inane comments about weather which had populated our conversation thus far, the storm broke. Her hard as nails expression melted and she said: I know why you wanted to have tea with me.
Stunned. Really?
I know this term I have been a bad student. I missed your class. I don't study. I know my English has become worse. She looked down... and the rest of what issued forth was a story of friendships crushed, tensions high, hopes and confidence floating away like balloons from a clumsy child's grasp. I rushed to gather all the pieces I could as they scattered from her mouth to the table between us. Nearly an hour and a half later we got up to leave.

Ms. Kelly, do you have time? Come to my house. Now? Yes, it is very close.

And literally a block away from the random teahouse of my choosing was the small four bedroom first floor flat that her family shared. We spent the afternoon looking at all of her family's photo albums together, listening to her mother ramble about what Lhasa used to be like, looking at all of the idols in their household temple, eating rice mixed with fresh yogurt, and dashing to catch the next bus back to the school so that she wouldn't be late for the evening class.

What can I do but marvel at timing of such wonder that against all of my habits and desires would place me at a tea house with a troublesome girl turned dear student over two cups of tea less than a block from her house? What can I do but gasp knowing that there are one hundred and thirty one students in my classes combined, plus those whom I've formerly taught, who also have needs to be heard, valued, affirmed? What can I do but read and answer in some minute way the letters they write and hand discretely to me during the break with heartache? What can I do but correct their homework in which they share that all their hopes are in vain and make simple notes of encouragement vowing to find a time to speak to them later? What can I do but trust in One who is far more powerful and gracious than I to rise up in this rickety boat and throw out a net on behalf of such need?

He is the fisher of men. If all he's given me are simple tools and the most precious bait in the world then I know it's sufficient for this ocean squirming with fish.

Today I was hug jumped from behind as I walked down the hall. One look at the turquoise fingernails and I knew exactly who it was.