an embarrassing (but kind of cool) thing happened on the way out the grocery store

I returned from Pittsburgh to Carbondale with the two kids yesterday, along with a dwindling amount of cash on hand as Daniel the cash replenisher drove on solo to Indiana. After last night’s Chinese takeout, I wanted to resume my usual cooking for Daniel’s parents today. Even as I still wondered if I had tipped too lightly the shuttle driver that took us from St. Louis Airport back (a two-hour drive), I knew that there’s only around US$20 in my wallet. And I had no credit card.

So it shouldn’t had been surprising when the cashier at the Co-op indicated a price over US$4-5 more than I could pay. I mean, it did kind of surprise me because I had only four items with me (a bag of Israeli couscous, a packet of marinade sauce, a single serving of coconut-based yogurt, and a pound of chicken). So I tried to return the sauce first, then the couscous, but even then I was US$2-3 short. Clearly the one thing to return that would have made all the difference immediately was the chicken, and if I were just cooking for the two kids and myself, I wouldn’t have included it in the first place. It’s hard to imagine other people in the family being willing to eat a vegetarian dinner though.

As I withdrew the yogurt from the to-buy pile, I said, “Declan, I’m sorry, but I don’t have enough money to buy your yogurt right now.” Declan’s face got that sad puppy frown; he was really looking forward to being able to eat non-dairy yogurt for the first time ever. Last night, he watched his sister snack on a chocolate yogurt and lamented his dairy allergy. I figured once I get some more money from…somewhere, I’ll walk back to the Co-op to purchase the coconut-based yogurt in time for his bedtime snack. But then—the woman behind me in line said, “I’ll pay the difference.” The cashier and I looked at her in surprise, so she said again, “Just put the amount she can’t cover on my card.” I think several other people turned around from the other lane to take in the situation, and I was by turns amazed, thankful, and flustered.

“Would you like the rest of my coins?” I offered stupidly.

“That’s okay, just…pay it forward.” She declined with a breezy smile.

As I reflected on what happened once I’m back at the kitchen counter, peeling and chopping carrots, my feelings of thankfulness and chagrin continued their attempts to sumo wrestle down each other. Feeling thankful is obvious; there was no reason for the woman to help me and no benefit aside from any illusory warm fuzzy feeling, but she did it anyway. Feeling chagrined surprised me a little; Do I really have such a pride issue that I cannot receive grace wholeheartedly? I realized the sources for this latter feeling were:

(1) Before I had gone to the Co-op, I had gotten most of the vegetables for the stew I planned to make at another corner store. It was the first time I stopped in, and I may have gotten a little carried away by the discount section (three blackening pears and an overly ripe peach I can use to make popsicles for the kids!) and the lower produce prices. Forgoing the carton of blueberries alone would have enabled me to cover all the costs later. The truth was I impulse-shopped on a pint of crimini mushrooms (that didn’t even end up in the stew), the aforementioned discounted fruits, and extra onions I could have gone without. So my chagrin was over the fact that I could have in fact paid for all of my purchases, and my lack of funds in the end was poor planning. How could I overspend at the first store when I knew that money was tight? Am I really incapable of living within a frugal budget?

(2) When the woman had said she would cover the difference, did she mean the yogurt only? Because the cashier had returned the previously rejected couscous and sauce back to my to-buy pile as well when she offered. I had been so embarrassed at the time that I didn’t even think to give the cashier all of my change rather than offering them to the woman, let alone thinking to just let her cover the yogurt cost. I feel bad about the possibility that she might have paid for a lot more than she had originally offered. Argh, I hope she didn’t feel like I was taking advantage of her kindness.

(3) And in the end, yes, I think I’m still really proud about “the way I am”. “The way I am” is not someone who goes shopping and let someone else cover her expenses for her. Part of me sees how nice it is to see such graciousness, and so to accept it, but still part of me exists that groans about such poor self-sufficiency.

What self-sufficiency? Even if I had enough money, it would still have been grace that I could have them, pay for food, have access to food that nourishes my family. I hope I can pay forward the kindness obviously given to me today, of course. And I’m equally reminded of how many things I don’t deserve or have never earned—which I enjoy everyday anyways.

inspiration

I attended an arts forum of sorts at someone’s home the other day. It was attended by mostly (if not all) Jewish retirees of the surrounding Carbondale area…and me. The person who hosted the event is basically an arts patron, who often provides the space and reception for artists and cultural endeavors. Her house is a cross between an art museum, a community center, a bistro—with a honest-to-goodness small film screening room (which also has a studio space full of musical instruments behind the movie screen). Touring the house was a social experience all on its own and erased the misgivings I had before arriving at the scene.

The luncheon preceding the main event was a tad bit painful as I wasn’t sure if I was crashing the table of old friends or how interested my three table companions were with anything to do with me. We then completely filled all the seats of the screening room and watched a 30-minute-long documentary called “Blue Like Me: the Art of Siona Benjamin”—a crowd-funded, by turns thought-provoking and whimsical, introduction to the Jewish-Indian community in Mumbai (Siona’s community and hometown), the mythological/ethnic/cultural fusion of Indian and Middle Eastern heritages in her art. Siona fielded some questions and elaborated on her artistic process as well as some of her commissions.

One of my favorite artworks by Siona Benjamin:
"Vashti", with elements of Indian and Jewish symbols

The blending of political commentary, sarcastic/sly humor in identity discourse, and appreciation of human nature in Siona’s works really interests me, and I wish—I really wish—that I could be contributing…inspiring…providing food for thought…the way she has and is doing.

I don’t know how to begin. If only I had not fought against the limitations, or so I felt, of me being a girl ergo only being capable in the humanities according to my grandparents and parents. My art teachers and English teachers had recommended me for things that I had turned down in pursuit of more “hard science” focuses, and now I regret not having entered university as an art or creative writing major. Regret is a pretty useless emotion though; I’m so over it. But is it really too late?

the current trend in running

Since our visit to Ann Arbor about two weeks ago, I've started running again consistently with a rest day here and there. When I don't feel like running in the first moments that I wake up, I remind myself how edgy and restless I feel (even more than usual) for the rest of the day. And the suggestion that I'll just run later in the day or at night rarely comes to pass, so the first thing in the morning it is.

Sometimes when I really don't feel up for it, I convince myself to just run for 20 minutes. Twenty minutes is nothing. If I had rolled over in bed or just went about the rest of my morning routine, 20 minutes usually dwindle invisibly in brief email or news checking. So far, every time I convince myself to just run for 20 minutes, I would reach the mark and want to keep going since it's only been 20 minutes and I'm already out the door and now sweaty anyways. Usually around the 20 minute mark, I'm closing in on two miles or more, in which case, why not aim for a 5K? It's just about one mile more, so I keep going on. Then when I hit 5K, sometimes I think why not go for 5 miles? It's just a little less than two miles more. Then when I hit 5 miles, sometimes I still feel pretty okay, so I think why not go 1.2 miles more and make that a 10K? Once, I ended up running three more miles after the 10K, and started thinking I might as well go four more miles and finish with a half-marathon. But then I remembered how I've always gotten feverish for a week after the half-marathon events I've done, and my past experiences told me not to push it for now. Maybe one day when I consistently reach the 10 mile mark on my daily runs, I'll change my attitude towards the half. If I can consistently run 10 miles every day, chances are doing another 3.1 miles isn't going to do me in anymore.

So now a routine, a habit, is being set: at least 20 minutes -> 5K (3.1mi) -> 5 miles -> 10K (6.2mi) -> 9-10 miles... are my various daily run lengths, depending on how I feel that day, how late I went to bed last night, etc. I'm not sure why, but running regularly really makes me feel more sane. I hope I can keep this going.

tucking in a little note

I recant some of my recent comments I made about life in the United States, especially the ones that are critical of the lifestyles and abundance of resources in the US. My most central reason for doing so is that several conversations and observations occurred in the last few days in Buffalo that's made me understand some things about myself that are quite judgmental and a perception based on a worldly culture masquerading as a godly attitude (which makes it all the more insidious and gnarly).

Instead of, I appreciate family, and legacy, and God as the source of all good things a little bit more and more rightly than I have before. Hopefully I can elaborate more when I have more time, so I myself don't forget about these rather important personal revelations.

the allure, the divide

As I spend more and more time in the heartlands of America, I'm starting to realize how deep I'm submerging into the culture of Americana, wherein driving for hours in a van is normal, and so are the twangy radio music I cycled through in Indiana, gigantic supermarkets like the Meijer we stopped in for dinner in Ohio, the almost unbearably cold A/C anywhere we go indoors, and also the public libraries, the fantastically cheap book sales and yard sales full of amazing, new-used stuff, and lots of community events (especially during the summer, it seems).

I don't like the first part, by which I'm starting to remember why it's so easy to get fat in the US, but the second part is seducing me into doubting whether living in Taiwan is better for the kids. At our dinner with Daniel's relatives tonight in downtown Buffalo, NY, Declan spent the majority of meal time investigating the exposed air conditioning system of the restaurant. It's clear to me that my son has an insatiable curiosity about how and why things work the way they do, and it makes me worry about his future encounter with the Taiwan school system, which if I recall correctly or have received accurate testimonies in recent years is excellent at crushing the creativity out of the very marrow of every soul (even the teachers). And being able to check out so many great books for the kids from the public library makes me feel like I've become a billionaire without the responsibility.

Sigh. The larger part of me honestly don't feel that the US is my home. Never had, probably never will. Its abundance and surface tranquility in light of what I know about the rest of the world makes me too uneasy to stay and feel comfortable as a resident. As a visitor, I am enthralled and mildly repulsed by the excess I see. But to stay would mean I need to come to terms somehow with such discrepancy. I am at a loss. And then there are my children... there is clearly so many opportunities for them here. My husband has so many typically American/well-adjusted/full of parental support childhood memories while my pleasant childhood memories are embedded throughout with the turmoil of my mom's mental and physical illness and all the moves and starting over every year; Naturally, it's easier for me to envision happy childhoods for the kids in the style of my husband's childhood. On the other hand, I'm already starting to hear the demanding brattiness growing in the kids' voices as they get used to what seems like free electricity/resources (tv, chauffeur options/destinations, giant fridge, unlimited food...)

I don't know I don't know. God, please remind me.

huge tracts of land

I haven't been back in the U.S. since three years ago, and the first thing I've forgotten and now immediately notice is the largeness of everything. Well, this is not something I've forgotten in abstract, but the sense of vast physical openness has definitely grow vague from removal of experience, much like the memory of being food poisoned. Some things need to be experienced first hand to be truly understood.

There's one house about a block away from Daniel's parent's home which is unlike 95% of the other houses of these cul-de-sacs and street loops. Its front lawn and most of its backyard is covered with ground floras instead of just plain grass. In the middle of the backyard is a small meadow-like clearing--a pocket of neat tranquility with a light shading of thin fir tree branches and bird calls. I like to slow down my running pace as I pass by that particular house to imagine lying down in that pocket of cultivated wilderness and, while lying there, imagine that I'm in the middle of a real forest. It makes me that much more aware of the difference in natural environment between southern Illinois and the Pacific Northwest. Everything here is spread-out and slightly monotonous as a result. I wish there are more trees.

Daniel opined in response to my wondering out loud why all the houses here have such sprawling front lawns with just nothing but grass that it's probably because people want to feel like royalty. The great expanse of land that is not only just for decoration, but which consumes massive amount of labor in mowing and watering in order to look that way, certainly suggests people of almost unlimited means. But I think royalties can/should only be one in a million in order for it to mean anything, or be harmless and not exploitative.

running

My pace during this morning's run from Daniel's parents' home to their city hall was about 20 seconds faster than my usual, mainly because of a pack of high school senior boys who ran past the kids and me two afternoons ago. We were on our (slow, tortuously meandering) stroll to the city park after being cooped up at home hiding from the rain, and as I waited for the kids to negotiate between themselves who get to carry the giant tree branch that got felled by the storm, four figures--lithe, flawlessly smooth skins shiny with sweat--cruised by, each wearing no shirt and a typical cross country running shorts.

My mind went back to a conversation with Daniel right after we saw the US women's soccer team score its fifth goal against the Japan team; somehow we had ended up defending our respective high school sports (me: cross country, Daniel: soccer). Daniel had goaded me by saying that cross country was for aspiring soccer players who've been cut from the team, and I retorted with the fact that cross country guys were quirkier and hence cooler than soccer guys, who tend to be cocky know-it-alls who don't have the endurance to run distance. If Daniel were with us that day (he was researching at UI), I rest my case on the basis of those fleet-footed golden boys. I'm not sure if it's compliments to my sense of fidelity or a conviction of a massive self-centeredness that I really really really desired...to be one of those runners. I know the predictable response according to my description is that I might have lusted after their Adonis physique, but I guess right now my focus is I would really like to admire my own body/athletic ability as much as I admired theirs on an aesthetic level.

In the end, I had to walk a little bit around the 6K mark before jogging the rest of the way home because my pace was currently too fast for me. Envy can only get me so far. As I jogged, another memory surfaced: when the other varsity girls and I would warm up with a slow stumbling jog before a meet, and trace a little bit of the course together, how we had matched strides and chatted about trivial things as we shambled in a tight physical group together. I conjured up our leader, Natalie, then the irascible (but also by turns very sweet) Lauren, steady and self-confident Beth, quiet and classic Catherine. A few of us had gotten in a car together in the dark and watched the sunrise as we travelled together along Highway 101 to run the Race for the Cure as just a fun thing to do together. It's a one-time Saturday morning event that just gets more memorable with time, as is the nature of good memories. I wish I had lived more in the now when I was in high school, instead of having treated it as a prelude to "when my life will really begin" aka college.