Well, in defense of breaking my once a week resolution...I've actually written a few things on Facebook, and write at least twice a week to my Hawaiian (Hawaiian as a resident, not a native) cousin, Stephanie.  And my emails to Stephanie are quite lengthy.  I seem to purge the writing bug through that outlet.  Then when it comes time to write a post ideas flit in and out of my head like tiny homeless birds.

I've been thinking, though, that I would like to try to put into words how music has affected and shaped my life.  Talk about lofty aspirations...how hard is that?  How does a person attempt to describe emotion, revelation, change?  To discuss the merits of Huey Lewis vs. Sting vs. U2?  To make another understand how I felt when singing Mozart's "Requiem" in college or when leading worship in the present day?  To convey the frustration of having dozens of poems and lyrics at the ready but lack the understanding of theory and composition to finish them?  

Maybe...slowly but surely, I'll let the words find the way.  Perhaps in the midst of all of this sorting, shaping, and revelation...I'll figure out how to finish those songs.  Perhaps I'll find the music hidden somewhere, deep in the memories of my past or in the hope of the future.  

Perhaps all I have to do is to simply give everything to God and try again.

Silencing the Inner Critic

Today on my walk with Cheswick I saw a sign taped to a streetlight on which was messily scrawled-"garage" "sale".  Yes, both words were in quotes.  I had to laugh to myself.  The misuse of quotes was readily apparent, and yet there the sign hung, drooping sadly on itself. 

As we continued our walk I reflected on other times I had seen quotation marks misused-mostly as attention getting devices ("huge" sale!).  Then I was reminded of some recent comments I had read on Facebook...usually with one person stating a pet peeve ("I can't stand the misuse of there/their/they're!") and another person agreeing ("I know!  How hard is it?")

One ironic post was of someone complaining about the incorrect use of "its" and "it's".  The comment stated boldly, "How hard is it too learn?" or something to that effect.  Hilarious, and yet so irritating.  I saw myself in those comments, quick to judge and yet as imperfect a writer as you could find.  The only person I would vent to when I noticed the occasional misspelled sign or poorly written article, however, was my husband.  And I was always careful to read and edit anything I wrote for fear of a misspelled word or misplaced quotation mark.

Seeing and reflecting on the garage sale sign helped me realize just how imperfect I am when it comes to punctuation, grammar, and sentence structure.  After all, a typical junior high English teacher would probably run out of red ink correcting the misuse of parenthesis and quotation marks in this short rumination.  Nowadays I'm careful about criticizing that with which I struggle myself, especially in a public forum.  I also have ceased wasting energy noting and commenting on other people's mistakes.  Don't we all struggle with something when it comes to the written word?  Whether you're feeling "good"or "bad" (are you going to give to the poor or torment a cat, then?) or telling your child to lay on the rug and lying the book on the table (I'm still not sure which is correct) or asking who or whom this pair of pants belongs to.  

When I achieve perfection in all I write or say I might resume being irked by other's mistakes.

Until then, I think I'll keep my inner editor to myself.

May I Ask You a Question...?

Two of my favorite questions to ask people are the quintessential probes into one's being.  The answers might reveal an abundance of useful information including clues to a person's personality, past, childhood environment, and degree of risk taking.  These two questions are, in order, "What's your favorite food?" and "What's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?"

I love these questions.  I love to ask them when in casual conversation with a person I've known for a while-after the superficial details of hobbies, tv shows, and books have been explored.  Usually the questions are met with a slight furrow of the brow but this quickly changes to thoughtfulness.  Then the answers are given with an enthusiasm bordering on passion...love, hate, nostalgia or even a detailed reminiscence of traveling in a foreign land.

What's your favorite food, and why?  What's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?  Some answer the first question with, "I don't know.  I don't have a favorite food." And I always wonder...is this because of the person's hesitance to make decisions?  Or does she just not know herself very well?  For me, food is such a deep-seated subject, rooted in the very fabric of our being.  It encompasses childhood comfort and sustenance, it gives us the very elements needed to survive.  But beyond that, our favorites and the risks we might take when trying new foods bring to light aspects of our personalities we might never know were there.

Have you ever had menudo?  For a lot of us "menudo" conjures up images of the teenybopper boy band of the eighties...five Latino adolescents with winged hair and fancy shirts that sold their brand of pop around the world.  But the REAL menudo...the classic Mexican tomato based soup of tripe, hominy and spices is one of my all time favorite soups.  Spicy, rich and complex, this dish defines a region of the world to me.  The chewy tripe, grainy hominy, and the classic accoutrements-cilantro, white onion, sometimes the bite and sharp heat of jalepenos.  I love the salty broth, the tender hominy.  

It would seem like an odd choice for an Americanized Asian woman.  But living in Fresno, one does not want for great Mexican food.  

And this brings another memory to mind.  One of tasting a spicy sauce so full of complex flavor that I couldn't get enough.  I was teaching in Madera Unified School District at a little school called Ripperdan.  The student population was predominantly Hispanic, and a majority of those were second language learners.  There were also several Hispanic teachers and aides who worked at the school, some for decades.  It was in this environment that I got my first taste of chicharrones, or fried pork skins, simmered in a dark red sauce.  I believe it was meant to be an accompaniment or a filling for a burrito but I found it to be so tasty I ate mostly chicharrones for the entire meal.

It's memories like these that make us who we are as humans who buy, create, cook and consume food.  Our favorite meals usually consist of great food and people, laughter and sometimes, tears.  Breakfasts of pancakes and sausage in the late morning light of a Saturday.  Eating turkey and stuffing off of fine china in a formal dining room or from a reinforced paper plate teetering on a lap.  Backyard bar-b-ques with sizzling German sausage and burgers mixed well with Lipton soup mix.  Rice porridge soup with soy sauce, white pepper and raw fish to be mixed into the steaming hot liquid.  The fish cooks as it sits in the soup and adds a delicate flavor.  Scrumptious.

So what's your favorite food, and what's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?  I can claim chicken feet, black fungus, and jellyfish as some stand outs.  And I've never even traveled off the continent, unless you count Hawaii, where I've sampled fish jerky and seaweed, shaved ice with red beans, poke and puu puu.

Think about what you eat, what you've eaten, and what you hope to eat next.  Be adventurous.  Try something you thought you never would, then see if it becomes a fixture in your life.  See if it makes a memory or becomes a family tradition.  See if it takes you somewhere you've never been and makes you constantly wanting to go back.

Ah, the memories.  Mmmm...the food.

Resolution

Hopefully posting the link on Facebook will encourage me to write more.  Once a day, once a week...I think the exercise will do me some good.  Of course, I'm only writing this now so I can have something posted for January.  I'm already one week behind!  But I am resolving to write once a week starting...NOW!

Poems-95

For Tony

There is nothing luscious as the sleep

all black and white surrounds

but for familiar darts of flash

and naked violet sounds

unless the stirring of the larks

sing praises in the sky

then nothing is as precious as

when tiny flutters fly

unless a looming stand of green

does bend in violent strain

then I'll not hope to see no more

of pine in winter rain

but what about my living love

he of transparent eye

the one who pleases while he's pleased

and gathers me to cry

I know I'll never more than want

himself so close to mine

much more than thousand roses red

or perfect rhyming line.