On the town with the Leafy boy.

A couple of weeks back we had a community dinner at the Shekina Garden. A family joined us, and I was very inspired by their practice of making one minute videos of their days while they traveled. I'm always a bit daunted by all the video I take and never use, but my new friend showed me what he had done, and he made it look easy. 

So, when my Leafy boy and I went to Chiang Mai together to visit the dentist, I made a short video. This is what it feels like to be out with Leafy for the day. 

(I'm still learning about Youtube and copyright, so if you can't see the video, please let me know.) 

Seasons.

I love to know a place and its seasons. We're in the rainy season now, and I love it even though my kitchen floods every time there is a heavy rain, because the farmers are planting the rice and when the sun comes out all the world seems to be a reflection of blue sky and white clouds and the purest, infant green. Lush is too mild a word. 

Today Chinua left to play music at a festival in Sweden. His good friend asked him to come play and flew him out there, so off he goes to the far north, to play music late at night when the sun is still up and after it sets. When he gets back we'll have a few days before we all leave for our big trip back to North America. 

Since he is away and I will be traveling, I took the opportunity to make the largest edit on my book last week. I went away for a day and a night, stayed in a lovely bungalow (it may be my favorite place in the world) and dove straight into my book. To do an intense edit like that I needed to surround myself completely in the book, so it was excellent to have the complete focus that going away gave me, in a room that had nothing but my computer in it. I did go out for papaya salad with Leaf halfway through the day, a breath of fresh air (and she helped me with a few Hindi words in the book) in the middle of peering over words and ideas and plot and pacing.

And it was good to come home as well. To be attacked by a fiercely loving toddler, to cook again, to settle into being mom.  

 

Still life with ants and dog hair.

We’re home, after a red eye flight and a night bus and a couple of leaky pocket days in Bangkok. (Leaky pocket? Bangkok seems to turn our wallets into funnels.) The night bus and red eye flights confirmed what I already know—the only part of traveling I really dislike is sitting in any sort of upright position while I try to sleep. On the night bus (which was luxurious for a night bus) my legs rebelled from being in a weird position and flooded me with sneaky aches and pains. I’m eighty. I also travel on night buses with a huge teddy bear named Isaac who has to sleep on my chest the way he did when he was a newborn, only several kilos heavier/head sizes larger. Oh I love that baby, though. I’m alight with love for him.

I’m washing all the curtains and wiping down all the walls and ledges because dust would like to take over our world. Dust or ants. We returned to a large population of ants that had moved into Kenya’s collection shelf with all their ant babies and particularly into her tiny Calico Critters (Sylvanian Families) living room set. (“Someone’s been sitting in my chair!” said the father bunny. “Someone’s been moving their ant baby eggs into my tiny plastic refrigerator!”) These ants also enjoy congregating in our toilet bowls. I discovered this on a dark groggy night run to the bathroom.

It’s home and at home we attend to the myriad things we need to do simply to keep living, and we attempt to do it in a way that gives us comfort and welcomes others in. In travel we watch and we let go as we move on. At home we stay and stay.


I read this on Brown Dress With White Dots yesterday:


Home is the invisibles, the take-it-for-granteds: The tarnished brass hook where you hang your keys, the spot low on the white porch wall smudged a hundred times by bicycle tires. The bent fork in the drawer, the half-filled bottle of cologne in the bathroom… Things you know by heart, things you never pay attention to.

Jonathan Carroll

Wookie was so excited to see us and come home. She was happy as a clam with her dog-sitter, who was very sad to give her back, but she seems particularly joyful to be with us again. Her fur was long and it is very hot here now, so I bought a pair of clippers and gave her a haircut yesterday, after watching a few Youtube videos about grooming Shih Tzus. The videos were great! What they failed to reveal was that if one has bad allergies to dogs, and one has a hypoallergenic dog, the fur of the hypoallergenic dog will cease to be hypoallergenic as soon as one releases it from the dog with clippers in a white storm of seizure sneeze-inducing hairs. Perhaps the video makers took it for granted that one would think of these things. One did not.
I suppose I’ll send her back to the groomer next time. I was hoping to save money as well as groom her in a slightly less Japanese doll-dog manner. Maybe I can bring a picture and say, “Like this. Just… a dog, not a teddy bear or a luck dragon or a piece of cotton candy.”

In other news, I’m scheduling a week or more of kid letters. For whatever reason, I haven’t written a birthday letter in a year and it weighs on me. I’m catching up with some letters to my kids in a grand letter festival. If you like the kid letters, you’re in for a treat. If you don’t, tune back in after the storm.

Things I've observed, part 1.

Since this is sort of a random items post, I thought I'd include this photo. I took this in a Bangkok mall. Is this not the worst design of a bathroom sign that you have ever seen? Why is the woman so small? Why is she being crushed by the elevator? Why why why?

Since this is sort of a random items post, I thought I'd include this photo. I took this in a Bangkok mall. Is this not the worst design of a bathroom sign that you have ever seen? Why is the woman so small? Why is she being crushed by the elevator? Why why why?

I just opened up a page of notes of things I’ve wanted to remember to write about this week. The page says:

Chinese tourists dressing in matching outfits and coming to our house
Stomach trouble
Racism bikes
Cha chas
Getting on buses with my kids
Pink hijab
Dentist glass tables bikes
Middle aged dancing man
Spanish people durian

Do you want to know? Are you ready? Are you afraid? Because I’m going to tell you about all those things, one at a time. Today I’ll tell you about Chinese tourists, Stomach trouble, and Racism bikes.

Ever since a Chinese movie called Lost in Thailand came out, there has been quite the influx of Chinese tourists in Thailand, which is often very comforting to me, especially when I see women of a certain age in hats, walking with their hands behind their backs, slightly stooped. It reminds me of growing up in Edmonton (going to a school that was partly Mandarin immersion) and near Vancouver. It feels like a big, hearty sigh of relief, like the way I feel when I meet Canadian people my parents’ age, it is so pleasant and familiar.


Because Eastern cultures typically have less rigidity around the concepts of personal space and privacy than Western cultures do, Asian tourists are particularly gleeful in the role of tourists. This is increasingly evident in the advent of our “everyone on the globe has a camera” times. It feels wrong to generalize the concept of “Asian” anything, since the differences between say, Thai and Japanese cultures, or Chinese and Korean cultures are so very striking. But it’s true that while I have NEVER had a European tourist ask to take my family’s photo (Wait, maybe there was one photographer in Goa?) we get requests (or non-requests—just photos taken) from Indian, Chinese, Thai, Korean, and Japanese tourists frequently. It’s something that would feel like a rude request in Western culture, but in Eastern culture is not considered the least bit rude.


Lately I’ve taken a lot of joy from something new I’ve noticed from Chinese tourists—it fits into the gleeful tourist category. I keep running into whole large groups of people walking around wearing the exact same thing, some kind of Thai tourist outfit bought in a night market somewhere. For fun! Let’s all get red elephant print pants and white Thai shirts and wear them at the exact same time! It looks amazing. Yesterday I saw two women wearing the exact same outfit, a black and white print dress with a large white hat, espadrilles, and black sunglasses on. I love the fact that other people do this—something that would never occur to me as a thing to do—in this world there are so many options for fun that I don’t know about. I’m going to see if Chinua and Kai would like to try it. (Ah ha ha ha ha ha.)


Chinese tourists in Pai often mistake our house for a guest house. Sometimes they stop at our house because the guest house they have a booking with is just one more building down the street. The funniest example of this was the girl who was holding out a sheet of paper to ask me if she had the right place, but was terrified of Wookie and hopped backwards on one foot all the way out of our courtyard and into the street where she hid behind her friend, all because Wookie sniffed her leg. When she was gone the kids and I just looked at each other. “Did that just happen?” I asked. “That was like a movie,” Kai said.


But sometimes people are still looking for a room, and they come and peer into our windows. It happened the other day. A girl came and held her hands to her face as she looked in the window, then walked back out to the road. “I think she got the point,” I said. I mean, there are toys all over the floor and sometimes dog food dumped out where Isaac has been trying to eat it again, and maybe somebody’s half finished lunch has still not been cleaned off the table. But she came back to look in the windows again.


“It’s not a guest house!” I called to her. “It’s just my house!”


Then Kai told me about a day when he was working on his math at the table and a man came into the door and began speaking to him in Chinese. After a few minutes, when it became clear that Kai didn’t understand, the man said, “One room please.” It would be weird if it happened once or twice. The fact that it happens often, like really often, just makes it hilarious.


You darling readers think I should be chill about housework. What you do not realize is that not only do I have friends in and out of my house, and landlords in and out, but I also have the whole world looking into my windows, my neighbors stopping to pull kafir lime leaves off my trees and ask me what I’m cooking for dinner, random people taking pictures of me as I’m walking up my stairs, men yelling “Hello!” at Solo, who, Solo-like, disdains to answer. I am a hippie foreign mother poster child. I hope that I’m doing okay.

*
The stomach trouble thing is small—it’s just that I got sick with a terrible stomach ache and that brought a lack of appetite so complete that every kind of food I think about sounds distasteful. It makes cooking hard. Shall I make green curry? I think. No, because green curry is the most disgusting thing in the world. How about fried rice? Fried rice is clearly foul. Pasta? Pasta tastes like worms. I have to force myself to cook. Hopefully I’ll get my appetite back soon.

*
That brings us to racism bikes. This is a long story.


When I bought my bike I bought it from a place I’d been eying in town that had a few used and new bikes sitting out for sale. I walked in and fell in love with the purple city bike. The man who ran the shop immediately pulled it out, adjusted the seat a little, and told me to take it for a ride. I rode away with it, I was smitten, I bought it, and the whole exchange was the kind of fairy tale shopping experience that I dream about. I’ve been riding everywhere and it feels amazing. (Bicycles! You get places fast and get exercise!) Chinua borrowed my bike a couple of times, and started thinking he should get one. So I told him where the place was (down that road on the right hand side) and he went off to look around.


When he came back he told me the guy at the shop had gotten really upset when he wanted to adjust the seat of the bike he was looking at. He asked him if he could test drive the bike and the guy refused. What?


“He must be racist,” I said, kind of joking, kind of not. It was the only reason I could think of that his response was so different. Let me clarify that in the years since Chinua and I have been married, our life has been charmed, race wise. We’ve never had hurtful things said to us about being married to each other, and living in Asia provides a special buffer. (Although if I hear someone express shock that I think dark skin is beautiful one more time I will scream). But it has happened (mostly in the States) that when I walk into a particular store, people are friendly and relaxed, while if I walk into the same store with Chinua, people are different- tense, guarded, less chatty. It doesn’t happen all the time, or even very often, but it does happen. I thought the bicycle story was this kind of phenomenon, and it made me sad.


Chinua bought a bike and it broke on the first day, obviously flawed. He replaced it with the same type, and it broke again. He returned the second bike and said he would take more time and find a better quality bike. The man at the bike place had been a bit of a jerk about the crappy quality of his bikes, saying that it was because they were only made for Thai people, not big foreigners.


Then the other day, Chinua said, “I found another bike place, directly opposite of the stupid place, but great! With a really friendly owner and really nice bikes.”


“On the left hand side of the road? With the fridges?”


“The fridges are on the other side, that’s the stupid bike place. This is the left hand side.”


“That’s your right hand.”  (We get left and right mixed up more than we used to, and I think it had something to do with the fact that a right turn in traffic is essentially the same (crossing the oncoming lane) as a left turn would be back in North America, and vice versa.)


It turns out that Chinua had been at a different bike place the whole time! My bike guy hadn’t snubbed him at all. In fact, as Chinua looked at the most expensive bike in the shop (just for looking, not for buying) the guy insisted that he take it out for a ride! Bike guy isn’t racist! Hooray!


Whew. I didn’t even realize how stressed out I had been about bike guy being a completely different person to my husband until it turned out it wasn’t the case. Bike guy is just a nice guy.
 

Also, when given a choice of candy or fruit, choose fruit.

 I rode a rental motorbike from Pai to Chiang Mai over the weekend. It’s quite a ride— taking anywhere from three to four hours by bike (the way I drive anyway, which is safely, thank you very much—besides I don’t have a big motorcycle, only a little automatic) and I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to drive back or not. I thought maybe I’d turn the bike in and take the bus back- much more comfortable, less cold, less tiring.

But I felt indecisive. I stood in the bus parking lot for a while, going back and forth in my mind, putting myself in each situation, going over the details. Finally I needed to reach for another source, I was too indecisive. So I reached for a life rule of mine. I’ve formed a few of these for times when I’m too paralyzed by my tendency to think that no matter what I choose, it will be the wrong thing— a result of anxiety.

The one I reached for was “When given a choice of comfort or adventure, choose adventure.”

The thing is, if I knew what I wanted I could do it. If I was desperately tired, I would choose that bus in an instant. (Not that the bus is so refreshing, but it is a little less tiring than the motorbike.) But sometimes I don’t know exactly what I need, and I know that I never regret certain things. I never regret adventure.
 (Another good rule that I use is “When given a choice of isolation or connection, choose connection. Sometimes I’m desperate for solitude, but if I’m on the fence, I try to choose to stay with friends instead of a guesthouse, or invite people over, or bring a kid along with me.)

*

Things I saw on the road on the way to Pai:

-Three monks hitchhiking in yellow robes
-Pines that smelled like heaven
-Around twenty-five Mini Coopers (mini coop coop cooper)
-Nearly three hundred Vespas (I lost count at around two hundred)
-Two Lamborghinis, three Porsches, three Audi sports cars, and various other luxury cars
-A few Harley Davidsons and numerous other motorcycles that I don’t really know about, including big ol’ Hondas and dirt bikes. Apparently there was a ginormous car festival going on in Pai over the weekend.
-I was shivering on my bike in a sweater and a down jacket, but I saw a man drive by with only a short sleeved shirt on, then I saw a Canadian flag on his backpack. I’m not a real Canadian anymore. Khon Thai leow, as they say here, when I mention my love for chillies or Som Tum. I’m Thai now.
-A couple of Hmong men in gorgeous embroidered pants, pouring water into their radiator to cool off their little old truck that was filled to overflowing with neatly stacked cabbages, and overheating on a hill.
-A guesthouse called “Road View.” Who needs Hillview, Seaview or Greenview when you can have RoadView?” I’m asking you.

*

It was the right choice. It was warmer on the ride home and the trees whispered to me.

I want to see everything, to live on every hill everywhere, to come alive with the strain of travel, to be sweaty in train stations, to ride across India with Chinua when we’re old. We have never been flashpackers- we stay in the simplest guesthouses, we ride buses and trains, we don’t plan ahead (we’re not so good at it) we walk long distances, we squeeze all of us into rickshaws and tuk tuks, we eat street food. Sometimes I’ve needed a lot of recuperation time after particularly difficult travels but do I regret them? No, not one bit. I’m glad for every moment, for every difficult thing. We’ve been building a life of adventure, and it’s hard, I’m not going to lie. It is very, very hard with children, 37 hours on an Indian train is no picnic, but it is so worth it. (They love it too- they’ve been begging to go somewhere. A plane! They say. A train! What are we doing? We need to travel!)
I can’t wait to see where we go in the future, and in the meantime, I’ll choose adventure wherever I can get it.

*

Below you can see about a minute of the drive. (I apologize for the terrible vertical video- I attached my iPod to my backpack, and this is what it captured.) The drive is about two hours of curves like these, and one hour of straight road.

Maybe convoluted, but not leaky.

Solo and the sticky rice.jpg

We love Thai street food.

Sometimes I pick up little sticky rice treats for breakfast, but this morning I walked down the street to the place where the morning vendors have their doughnut carts. The vendors make Chinese doughnuts, breakfast food that is eaten with soy milk or condensed milk here. (They seem to be eaten in the evening too, but they're only sold first thing in the morning or in the evening.) They aren’t sweetened—they’re even a little salty, and have sesame seeds on them—and fresh out of the oil they are amazing with coffee. Every once in a while I pick up a few for breakfast, and this morning I looked at the cup of coffee in my hand and thought, “A doughnut would go great with this.”

I went to the man who always seems to be singing as he works. When I arrived, he didn’t have enough for my large order, so he told me to sit down and wait while he cut up and fried ten more doughnuts. There happened to be a woman already sitting and chatting with him, and the only thing odd about her was that she was holding a large rooster under her arm, stroking him to calm him down. We sat; the lady with the rooster and I, while the friendly man cut dough into long strips and threw it in oil so I could bring doughnuts back to my family.

*

Yesterday it rained steadily all day long, which means that the river has certainly risen and I’m concerned about the bridge that leads to our space. It was already damaged. It’s a simple bamboo bridge, built by the guesthouse owners across the river, and this year it had been fortified with iron to get it through the rainy season, but still, it wasn’t doing so well. I’m hoping that it will be replaced soon.

The rain brought snails and worms into the open, and Kenya showed me a chart she had made. The title was: Saving Worms and Snails Club. Underneath were two columns. Worms Saved: 1 / Snails Saved: 3

It was a very exclusive club, with just one member. Kenya is very proud of her worm and snail saving abilities, she tells people about all the worms she saves often. This morning she asked me if she could start a project about birds around our house, and was soon busy with the iPad, looking up birds of Thailand. Her love for animals of every kind shows no sign of waning.

*

The day ahead is a typical Saturday, with cleaning and organizing and work in the plans. I need to make this weeks meal plan and go shopping, sort through toys and get my room in order. I need to see to the gardens at the meditation space. I’ve been working hard on the second Journey Mama book and it’s nearly ready for publication! The only thing we need is a title, and the search for the perfect title has my brain in knots. The arc of the book is from traveling and arriving in India (and panicking) all the way through that first two years of living in India (and learning to love it) until getting ready to travel to North America for a visit.

Some contenders are:

Shores Wide as the Earth (follows the formula of the first book)
Falling Into Flying
Moments of Truly Flying
A Different Way of Walking
Greener Than You Can Imagine
A Home as Wide as the Earth

What do you think? Have I overwhelmed you yet? Chinua and I were tossing ideas around, and with a couple of them, I said, “These are too positive. I mean, it’s positive writing, but it’s still me, you know?”

So he suggested, A Convoluted and Leaky Black Brain.

Well. There’s no call to go that far.

I’d love for you to weigh in. Comments ahoy!

Today. Now.

9831375583_c36545bfe8_o.jpg

I'm doing better, the last few days. It's an up and down journey, life, especially in this web of emotions. I won’t forget to hang on,  to hold tight, even when I feel like I’m slipping. But the air is doing something to me these days, and it's a good thing. The rains have stopped. The sun is around all day, rising through the fog in the morning, warming up the streets so that when I go to buy apples and coconut in the market, the breeze is still cool but the sun is warm. In places where we have such a strong rainy season and such a long dry season, the first rains are always welcomed with joy, but the first days of sun are also cause for rejoicing. All around me it seems as if people are waking up; repainting, putting concrete down, cleaning out the weeds, freshening up for the sun.

Thailand, I say, I will meet you. Somehow Thailand is at once more accepting of me than India, and keeps me farther off. It’s been more of a journey, getting to know this place, and I think it’s because while India is in your face at every moment, forcing you to pay attention, Thailand is quieter, softer, forcing you to lean in if you really want to hear it. I’m learning how to listen.

Thailand is fragrant drafts of air from hot woks, food stalls on the street, tiny alleys, and snacks everywhere. It is the sound of small motorcycles, birds and monks in the morning, people calling to one another on the road, "Bai nai?" Where are you going? A ubiquitous question that I have encountered in India, Nepal, and Thailand alike; here it means something like "What's happening?" or "What's up?" "Bai tee ow," you might say. "Just going to hang out." Or you might get into more detail. Today, when my neighbor asked me, I told her I was going to the papaya salad (som tum) place.

I go to a certain som tum lady because I think she makes the best som tum in town. It’s a simple food to make, but you have to get the right balance of fish sauce, palm sugar, and lemon. Plus, you use sticky rice to soak up the juice, and we all hate it if people skimp on the juice. Our som tum lady makes som tum that is swimming in juice—she’s no skimper.

Today the lady who usually makes it was gone and her daughter was there instead. I could tell she was her daughter because they have the same cheekbones, high and round, like apples under their skin. Their restaurant is a long, airy bamboo stall, open on all sides except the kitchen side, which is closed with more bamboo. There are wood tables, ten or so, that are never completely full, giving the impression of a lot of space. At the front is the glass case filled with tomatoes and green beans that signifies som tum. I have been known to drive through neighborhoods in Chiang Mai slowly, searching for one of these glass cases. My som tum lady doesn’t keep her case filled with tomatoes anymore. Perhaps she doesn’t need to advertise what she is making, because she is always busy. In the glass case there are instead some discarded bamboo baskets that are made for holding sticky rice, but don’t at this restaurant, because they put the sticky rice in plastic baggies. To the left of the glass case is a faded pink electric fan, positioned to cool the person who is pounding the som tum in the large wooden pestle. Off in the back of the restaurant, pots and pans are strewn hanging on the walls or piled in the sink.

Lately I’ve been trying to soak everything in, when I go there to order som tum. This is here, I tell myself. Feel this. I sit on a worn wooden bench while the lady throws garlic and green beans into the pestle, squeezes lemon, slices tomatoes. I would normally ask for just one chili, but I’m still not eating it, for Isaac’s sake. The ground is dusty under my bench and I draw shapes in the dirt with the toe of my shoe. The lady keeps one eye on her work and another on the karaoke show that is playing every time I visit. It seems to be some sort of karaoke competition, and she loves it. Why, I couldn’t say. The show is comprised of one fancy-dressed woman or man after another approaching the microphone to sing wildly off-key to the praise of all the people in the audience. I am starting to equate som tum with off-key singing.

The sun is directly overhead and the tamarind trees cast their shadows beneath them. The air is bright and dry, and when I look through the covered restaurant to the field beyond, it seems brilliant and hot. Out front, chicken and fish are grilling on a metal grate stretched over charcoal. Another lady is making something in a wok and I cough as frying chili oil enters my lungs. I stand and pull small bags of sticky rice out of a container that is keeping them warm and pile them beside some whole grilled fish that are sitting on the counter.  An elderly lady calls out a list of what I am buying, just for the sake of it. She gestures at a pile of fried pork rinds. “Do you eat this?” She asks me in Thai. “It's good.”
“I don’t,” I say, and she laughs. The som tum lady’s daughter is now packing up my food. She puts whole cabbage leaves and pumpkin vines in the bag, to be eaten with the salad. I pay, get back on my scooter, and drive away.

At home the across-the-street neighbors are laying bricks in the new entry-way to their little house. They’ve covered half in concrete and half in brick and have made a shade covering with sheet metal, hammering it until my brain rang in my skull. While they’ve been doing this building, other neighbors come and go. They sit for a while and watch the workers, who do not stop. They chat, and call out helpful advice. The down the street neighbor who always feeds her scraps to stray dogs, yelling for them in the evenings. The Muslim neighbors who have three kids. The new across the street Muslim neighbors who have one ten-month-old baby whose cry sounds exactly like Isaac’s, fooling me almost every time. The aunties from next door, who are my landlord’s sisters and who come to talk often. The whole street has come by, at one point or another.

I nod at the brick laying neighbors and walk into my house. It’s clean today, shady after the sun. I call the kids to the table, and we eat.

5 Things Day Four: Table

I love to eat with friends. There is nothing like opening up the table and eating together, and right now I feel chock full of the goodness of eating together after this little run of birthday parties (Solo and Kai, more on that later) and guests. Five notable tables:

Reserved.jpg

1. I already spoke of this one: a night when we were invited to go to a beautiful restaurant. I didn’t mention that when we arrived, the table was all ready for us with a sweet little Reserved sign on it. It felt very special.

Carrot Juice.jpg

2. Chinua and I went away for a night for our anniversary. This is the second time that Leaf and Brendan have made this possible for us (once was here in Pai as well, two years ago). We took Isaac, but warned him, “Enjoy yourself, because this is the last anniversary get-away that you’ll be invited to.” We were able to leave him with Leaf and Brendan for a few hours on Saturday and a few on Sunday morning. I didn’t take pictures of all the tables or all the goodness on them because I was all wrapped up in my Superstar Husband, but there were smoothies and cheesecake, carrot juice and coffee and late at night, another cheese board with some wine. Good tables in and of themselves, but mostly because of the company (and lack of company, if you know what I mean).

Solo and Brendan.jpg

3. When we got back, on Sunday, Leaf had made a beautiful sweet potato, pumpkin and carrot soup, so we settled around the table again and heard the stories of all the fun things they’d done since we were gone. But we weren’t jealous.

Thai table.jpg

4. And then, on Sunday afternoon, I had invited some friends over to teach me some Thai cooking. I’ve gone to a few Thai classes, but they always teach the same things: curries, pad thai. That stuff is useful, but what I want to do is crawl right inside the philosophy of cooking in Thailand, the same way I was able to in India. I want to be able to wear it, to walk into my kitchen and cook blindfolded. It’s a tall order, but I simplified it by asking my friends to show me the usual things: the things that people cook everyday. So we started yesterday. They have young children, so there were three babies and four preschoolers, and all my older kids.
We cooked and I tried to learn the Thai names for different foods. And then we laid it all on the table and ate:
We made fried rice, mushrooms with basil, egg tofu soup, and fried tofu and green beans. My friend Su made pumpkin in coconut milk for dessert and that blew my mind. I am always looking for ways to improve my table, to understand cooking and food and this endless business of keeping my family fed. It’s a long project. And I hope to begin writing some more food posts soon.

Kitchen.jpg

5. And the last is not table but kitchen. My Superstar Husband has taken on the reorganization of our kitchen and he’s rocking it with all these hooks and pails. I passed on the pail idea to him for the random sauces that we need to use all the time, which I got from Pinterest, making it a completed Pinterest idea! Whoo! But only because he ran with it. The bottles of soy sauce and fish sauce and everything else were cluttering our countertop and therefore our life and our brains and our universe. Now they are nicely put away. I am very, very happy with him.

All of them, off into the night.

One white egg.jpg

(Our hen's one white egg, mixed in with some larger store bought eggs.)

When we started our chicken project, (that's putting a bigger name on it than it deserves-- really, we thought "we should get chickens!" and then two days our landlord brought us some chicks) we had no idea how much drama would be rolled up in the tiny balls of fluff that Thanom handed to us. First there were the chick diseases picking babies off, the night waking, then the young chicken mystery disappearances. There were tears and burials and being generally flummoxed. Goodness.  
 
These are jungle chickens—they are chickens that fly off into the sunset if they so desire. You can’t pen them in without a full roof. So when our landlord brought us three nearly grown chickens after much of our chicken drama, we had a carpenter build a bamboo pen for them, and we kept them in it. They lived in there, growing and being domestic, until one day when I decided it was enough like home for them and they'd probably return again and again.  I wanted to open the door—let them be a little more free range.

But they are not a little more free— they are extremely free range chickens. Our two hens and a rooster cruise the neighborhood, hanging out with their friends, playing video games, drinking coffee and eating scraps. They mix it up. They check out the government buildings, listen in on meetings, check on their favorite trees. Occasionally they come home to eat, change clothes, brood, lay an egg, and then leave again without washing their dishes. Urban extreme free range jungle chickens. Leave it to us, I think. Only us.

Our hen.jpg

In other news, I wrote about another, more important new project on the Shekina Community website. We're building! And we're so excited.

What's that called? Perspective.

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I got sick on Saturday morning as swiftly as two truckers speeding by each other on the highway. There’s almost no way you can recognize who’s coming. The first time that I got out of the house, or far from my bed at all, was to creep my way to the hospital on Tuesday. The second time was to take the kids to 7-11 to spend their allowance.

“No candy,” I said, as we entered the store. When I said “No candy,” it sounded like someone had replaced my throat with a jar of snails, that’s how big a mess my throat had become, no longer good for normal throat things like drinking, swallowing, breathing, eating.

 Kenya picked a pack of gum and some good chocolate (chocolate is okay), Leafy picked a little container of ice cream, Kai bought a muffin, and Solo bought a pack of gummy colas (that is candy, but my brain was addled—did I mention I was sick?). Solo handed his ten baht coin over to the teller very seriously. Whenever he buys something and gets change for it, he runs up to one of us and says, “She gave me more money!” with the most excited voice ever in the history of the world.

Kai and Kenya biked home and the little boys ran ahead of me. I can really barely call Leafy a “little” boy any more. These last few months he has stretched out and smoothed out like crazy. Seven has been awesome to Leafy. Still, he was wearing backwards pajama pants, I noticed as I walked slowly behind them with Isaac in the stroller. Which is fairly typical for Leafy—I believe he gets clothing on the right way 20% of the time, which doesn’t even make any sense, because that’s not how the odds of backwards or forwards works, but it’s true. Usually, though, I catch it before we leave the house.

As we walked home I saw a man on a motorbike, carrying a flat of eggs on the open palm of his hand, which faced outward, head height, like a waiter in a fancy restaurant. He was driving the motorbike with one hand, holding the eggs with the other and what can I say? I love this place.

The reason I took the kids to the store was because I sent Abby away on a little scooter ride. She and my Superstar Husband ran Baan (you need to know this word: it means house, and I will probably use it a lot more) Crazy Town for my three fever addled days, and I felt like Abby was getting a little more than she bargained for when she decided to come and help us here. And then I thought, hey, I can walk, I should try doing it with everyone. Mostly I wanted to get the morning of sitting on a bench in the hospital (waiting in this queue, waiting in that queue) out of my pores.

No one but a crazy woman shows up at the small hospital in our town on Pregnant Tuesday when she is not pregnant. It was a long wait, because on Pregnant Tuesday, everyone who is pregnant in villages for miles around Pai comes in for all their routine pregnancy needs. It’s colorful, which is wonderful. Of hill tribe women, I counted Keren, Lisu, Lahu, and Hmong. I was there because I was concerned that I had dengue fever, which is endemic in Thailand. There were two young Chinese women there for something else that has become endemic in Thailand, which is young Chinese tourist motorbike accidents. I’m not pulling this out of the air, a friend of ours who rents motorbikes out told us that the Chinese consulate sent him a letter explaining the problem, saying there were over a hundred injuries last season, or something like that, some number large enough to send a letter out. Mild, because people here drive so slowly, but banged up arms and legs and things. The reason is that most young tourists who come here from China are from big cities and have never driven before. So this motorbike in the hills in Pai is often a tourist's very first driving experience and among hundreds or thousands of unaccustomed drivers, you will have a few casualties. The other motorbike rental place has apparently responded to this letter by replacing their sign with a sign that now says “Motorbikes for rent” in Chinese as well as English.

At the hospital I sat for a long time while Isaac napped at home. When he woke up I went home and picked him up, brought him back to the hospital to nurse him and hang out with him, and he acted shy for the first time ever as people tried to talk to him, swiveling his torso back to me to hide in my shirt. One very tiny lady approached us. Her left hand was missing and her right arm ended at the elbow. When she squatted down in front of us, she was so tiny she was about the size of Kenya. Isaac liked her. He flirted with her shamelessly.

I was there because I thought I had dengue fever, but it turned out to be Strep throat, misdiagnosed by the doctor as tonsillitis, but taken care of by a round of antibiotics, just as it was entering my ears. It’s a long story and involves a lot of my own googling, and finally a check of my own throat in the mirror with a flashlight and a butter knife as a tongue depressor. White streaks. Strep. Okay, then, we can take care of that. (There was also a night that I woke up with Isaac and was in great pain, so I took some more Paracetemol, (Tylenol) only to find that it wasn’t time to take another dose yet, upon which I calmly handed Chinua the baby and made myself throw up. If you’ve ever googled Paracetemol overdose, you will know why. Liver failure, people. Liver failure.)

The funny thing about a throat is that you give it almost no thought at all, all those nonchalant swallows you do all the time, merely for the smallest bit of saliva building in your mouth. You don’t even think to yourself, “I should swallow this sip of water, you just do it. But when it breaks down and becomes knives in the back of your mouth, knives that feel like they reach your heart, you do. You do think it. You think, “Rachel, swallow the water.” And you steel yourself. And you swallow it. For five days like this.

When I think of throats hurting, though, I think of my friend Ian, who has gone through quite a lot of chemotherapy in his fight against leukemia. I think of the “misery charts” that his doctor makes him and the days of mouth sores that he gets to look forward to, and I think, how? How? I don’t know. (Did I ever tell you that that’s where Chinua went? He went to be Ian’s caregiver for his third month in quarantine after a bone marrow transplant— that’s the only reason, really, that he would leave for five weeks when Isaac was only three months old. When he came back I felt sad, knowing how Ian would miss him.)

But it’s the same with a fever— you just don’t walk around thinking about how non feverish you feel. You accept your lack of chills or weakness. You strut around easily, not ever thinking about the possibility of tossing and turning in a messed up bed.

Except. Except there is one day that you notice, that you really really think about it—the day after being sick. Or even the last days of sickness, throat hurting but not feverish, toddling down the street to 7-11, feeling like the whole world is singing and that the man holding a flat of eggs and riding a motorcycle is the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.

Adventures in eating.

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(Photo by Kai)

I've discovered by experience that Isaac is really, really sad if I eat chillies.
This is tricky in Thailand. If we're out eating at a market stall type of place and I ask for food that's not spicy, people think, "Sure, of course she wants it a little less spicy," and give me only one chili. So then I ask for no chillies at all, and somehow, there are still chillies in my food. I think it's reflexive... the hand reaches out for the chillies right after the fish sauce. The hand is putting the chillies in the pan! There's no calling the hand back!!

My new plan is to only order food that never has chillies included, ever, not ever.  Food like fried rice or pad thai or stir fried kale. It means that a lot of my favorite foods are dead to me (dead to me!) at least for the time being, but it will cut out days like the horrible one this week, when Isaac couldn't stop crying and I walked the floor with him for hours.

This is what my kids are like: They had no help from me, I couldn't do many of the things we were supposed to do, they got themselves ready for bed and waited for me patiently, they dealt with my grumpiness and tiredness from walking a screaming baby, and at the end of the day they all said, "Poor Isaac," as they stroked his face and cooed to him. They don't get annoyed with him, or jealous, or frustrated because his crying is loud. "Poor Isaac," they say. "Poor, poor Isaac."

Since that bad day we haven't had any more, which is wonderful because when Isaac isn't gassy he is an angel. He is a happy, jolly boy who is growing like crazy. He smiles and drools and wriggles. To keep him ungassy, I have dropped milk, eggs, almonds, and chillies from my diet. I also haven't been drinking coffee, ever since he was born, although in the last three days I've had a cup of tea in the afternoon.

I notice immediately if I've eaten something that is bothering him. So it is mind boggling when I go to health or parenting sites and they say that it makes no difference to babies if you eat certain things while breastfeeding. ("It does!" I shout at the computer screen. "It does!") Even here, chili capital of the universe, when I told my landlady one day that Isaac's tummy was hurting, she asked if I ate chillies. And frowned at me. "Yes," I said, and begged her forgiveness.

The only problem is that I am so very forgetful these days, and I feel that I need to tattoo my diet restrictions on my hands. A while back I was at a friend's house and we were eating spicy Mama noodles. I looked at the noodles and thought, why is there something lurking at the back of my brain, telling me I shouldn't be eating these? That's silly, I love spicy food. Huh. And then I ate them, and Isaac had a hard day the next day. Doh!

This is the way my brain is with me lately. Yesterday it was almost scary, as I read through my to do list and found something that didn't make sense to me AT ALL. Right in there with things that did make sense was a line that said,

Send book to Mom.

But I have no book to send to my mom-- not even a dream of a book to send to my mom.  And I couldn't figure out why it said, in my own writing, send book to Mom. What book did my subconscious brain think I have? This morning, a whole day later, it clicked. She said she would do some proofreading for me. There is no physical book to be put in the mail, Rae! You're talking about a book file! Doh!

Why is my brain standing back and withholding information from me? I can only assume that it's mad at me because I have too many things going on, as well as nursing brain. I turn thirty-three on Friday and this is too young for dementia.

On the day that Isaac was screaming I had promised the kids I would make them mango sticky rice, so, tenderhearted mother that I am, when I couldn't get him to sleep in the evening, I put him in the baby carrier and made the sticky rice with him riding around on my front, burrowing his head into my chest.

There was a box of coconut milk in the fridge-- a brand that I never felt comfortable with, as it was called "Scented Candle Coconut Milk." I believe the box appeared in the fridge at the same time I was on my retreat with Leaf. Which is to say that I didn't buy it. I didn't trust it. Really lost in translation, thought I, briskly stirring ingredients together. That name makes it seem as though the coconut milk will taste like scented candle. They need to hire a new marketing expert. But, there it was, and what better way to use it than making this coconut rice.

Oh, but Thailand never stops surprising me, because I was wrong and the marketing people were right. I tasted the sticky rice and it tasted exactly, I mean, exactly, like a candle. Because dessert that tastes like candles is a thing in Thailand. Because this is an alternate universe where people like to eat things that taste like candles. I mean, really. The coconut milk is placed over a smoking candle to infuse it with the delicate taste of smelly floral wax.

It makes total sense. Who wouldn't want that?

You know, especially after a long day of walking a sad baby, when one is lovingly trying to make a treat for one's children, one would certainly like to make it taste like the bottom of a candle holder. Of course.

Retreat

My friend Leaf and I went on an art retreat last year in Kerala, India and it was beautiful. Over the last few months we've talked about whether something like it would be possible this year and happily we decided yes.

I traveled down to South Thailand by bus.

Next, the VIP night bus.

Leaf flew from India. In her home city she waited for a train, but it still hadn't come after five and a half hours and she only had a six hour window. So she jumped on an express train and barreled across the country, hiding out from the conductor's eyes, jumping in a taxi and racing across Kolkata to reach her flight in time. (On her way to the airport in Kolkata, she witnessed a car crashing into a bus and lighting on fire.)

She literally fought her way to us.

Isaac is getting to know the reason for this trip: his beautiful Auntie Leaf.

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We knew this trip might not take the shape of an art retreat completely, since we have a little friend with us. (Leaf says he is just our kind of guy.) But it is a rest, a time to grow our friendship, to believe in each other and this crazy inter-country friendship we have.

And I have to say that he is the perfect age for this, just between sensitive newborn and active land, when nothing is safe. Of course you can travel with older babies, but it isn't exactly restful.

We came to Koh Samet, a little island not far from Bangkok. We've watched people posing in the surf, lying on their stomachs like mermaids while their friends or husbands take pictures. I've considered posing like this myself, I'm sure Chinua would like a mermaid picture of me as a souvenir.

A boat, and an island. And after a full day of travel we found a guesthouse and are settling in for our art/friend retreat. I'm so thankful.

There are many many tourists here in our little cove, and truth be told, I'm not sure that I would recommend this island. The coves are small and when it's crowded there's not much of a way to get away from the crowds.

But it has been beautiful for us. It's all we need-- some space to sit and talk, some food to eat and a little room for dreaming and writing or singing. There's nothing like writing in the morning while Leaf is singing.

This forested, jungly island is so different from the coconut trees I know in Goa.

I take Isaac for walks in the early mornings, since he is a six-o'clock kind of baby. The sun is already hot, since we are on the eastern side of the island. The sand is very white and the jungle comes right down to the beach. There are no coconut trees. It's very different from Goa, with turquoise water.

I find that I am sad. Sadness runs underneath everything like a stream these days. And I'm dealing with more anxiety than I like. The postpartum time is no joke, for me. So I worried a little about coming here with Leaf, not sure if I'd be pleasant to be around.

Detritus.

I'm messy now, and as we talk and talk, my eyes often fill with tears.

But Leaf doesn't mind. We talk about sad things and then we're laughing again and deep down I'm anxious but I know it will pass. How can I express how thankful I am for my friend.

She has had her own sorrows and there are times when her eyes fill with tears too.

But in no time at all, we are laughing again. Laughing and cooing over the little friend.

I love swimming with my baby.

You get used to being told what to do.

The day after I gave birth to Isaac, I got a surprise visit in the hospital. Just minutes before, I had finally taken a shower and cleaned up. I had new, clean hospital clothes on. I was all fresh, and just then the door opened--  it was my landlord and landlady, from three hours away, in Pai.

"Hello!" I said. Surprised would be an understatement. I was shocked out of my socks. I had been meaning to call them to let them know why we were taking so long in getting back (remember, we were in Chiang Mai for two weeks) but kept putting it off. In my mind, we were still in a tenant/landlord relationship, so it wasn't really necessary, because we had paid the rent ahead of time and nothing was wrong with the house.

What I learned was that our relationship had moved on, into something more like family. Khun Ampa, my landlady, was so worried about me (and couldn't reach me by phone since she'd lost my phone number) that she told Khun Thanom that they needed to drive to Chiang Mai to find me. I had told them the hospital I was giving birth at, and just minutes before they had gone to the nurses station and asked for me. Which is why they were now coming into the room.

Chinua, my parents, and the kids hadn't come yet that day, so I sat with Ampa and Thanom and we chatted. We exhausted every topic we could think of in our limited Thai and English combination, and we sat. It was a true Asian visit, which is not short, and neither should it be, considering their long drive from Pai!

At one point Ampa decided that she really wanted to buy me some milk, so she left with Thanom and a while later they came back with about sixteen milk boxes (like juice boxes, but with UHT milk) and some Thai sweets. (This was not the last time Thai women bought me milk. I ended up with many, many boxes of milk. I have to believe it is a Thai thing, to feed a nursing woman milk. Unfortunately, I'm not drinking milk, since all my kids have had a sensitivity to me drinking dairy when they are breastfeeding. My older kids have had a lot of milk boxes, all except Solo, who turns his nose up at UHT milk.)

Eventually the nurses wanted to move me up to the recovery floor and Thanom and Ampa packed my stuff together and walked to the elevator with me so we could go to the fourteenth floor. They chatted with the nurses about me and I followed along as much as I could, the only non-fluent Thai speaker in the room. While I was changing Isaac's diaper, he peed and it sprayed over his head and onto Ampa and Thanom, which set off hilarity among my landlords and the nurses. When Chinua and the others showed up a little later, Thanom and Ampa and I were all still sitting and watching Isaac. All in all, they stayed and soaked in our newborn with us for about four hours.

*

Just a couple hours earlier, the head of the nursery had come to meet me. She told me everyone in the nursery loved my baby and he was so cute. At the moment I was trying to get him to wake up a bit-- he had fallen asleep while he was nursing-- but she wanted to clean his cord, so she took him. He turned his head to the side and rooted a bit (as they do) and she told me, "Mama, your baby is hungry! Let me see his latch." And she watched him latch on. (Remember, this is my fifth baby, something that makes me feel that I don't need help with nursing, but sure.) "His latch is okay," she said, being a bit too dismissive of his superpowers for my taste. "Could be better, you want his mouth wider." She unlatched him, because obviously I needed that. "Let me see how your milk is coming." And she reached in and gave me a squeeze and whizzz!! Milk and colustrum shot almost to the end of the bed!

She apparently had her own superpowers.

*

The morning after we reached Pai, just a few days after Isaac was born, a few neighbors came around to have a look at the baby. Ampa was there, and she and the neighbors chatted about me. I can catch bits and pieces, but I don't know all the words. They talk quickly-- I can tell that they are comparing Thai mothers to foreign mothers, but some things elude me.

One of the neighbors was holding the baby and at one point Ampa surprised me by reaching over and pushing hard on my stomach, like she was trying to push it in. I was mildly embarrassed.

"It's just because he's so new," I said. "It will go back in a month or so."

But then she did it a few more times over the next weeks, and I found out, with some research, that Southeast Asian women bind their bellies for the first forty days after birth. It helps support the uterus, causes the contractions needed to fully get it back to shape, and holds the stomach muscles in after they've been so stretched. I didn't get the memo. It's too bad, because Ampa is fairly distraught about the state of my belly. She and other women still eye my tummy whenever they're around. I know they wish they could get their hands on a piece of cloth and just wrap me up.

We really do follow a path, leaping from stone to stone.

Thailand House-10

I often reflect on the ways that certain times of my life have so well prepared me for other times, and I've been thinking about it today again, feeling thankful. A part of my brain registers this would be difficult if you weren't already used to it, when I'm going about very normal, but strange, business in this global life.

For example, before we lived in India, we lived in a community on land in Northern California. The first three years of writing at Journey Mama were capturing life in that place in the forest.

(Sidenote: I'll be publishing a compilation of the best of these writings very soon. I was inspired to do so by several people who told me that they read through all of the archives here, and I thought, All that clicking! I should really collect these thousands of words in an easier format. The title of the book is Trees Tall as Mountains, and I hope to show you the cover soon.)

At the Land we had frequent power outages and sometimes we had no water, or we had to be careful of our water (spring-fed) because something funky was in it.

Later, dealing with daily power outs and lack of water in India, I was glad that I had been well trained in the art of being inconvenienced.

In Goa, I often felt like I lived in a fishbowl, because our house was in the middle of a busy fishing village, with people in every direction. I'm glad for all those moments of being stared at, now that we live in this old (gorgeous) house. We live on a oft-traveled street in a two story house. The only stairs to go up or down are on the very front of the outside of the house. There are no indoor stairs. Not only that, but the kitchen is outside, and I have to cross the little courtyard/driveway to get to it. It doesn't have walls, only bamboo which goes about three quarters of the way up on one side, and it is also right on the street.

I can't get from one part of the house to another without seeing people. I walk downstairs and make eye contact, regularly, with passing strangers. I walk to the kitchen and have a conversation with a tourist from Bangkok who wants to know about my kids. I was charmed the other day when a village woman who had seen me once, pregnant, passing on the street, made a beeline to Isaac and I, wanting to know about the birth. (In Thailand, one of the first questions people ask is how you did it. C-section? Or naturally? I think it is an old/new thing. The older generation of women all had babies naturally, but the C-section rate is 90% or something now, so older women especially like to know.)

One man in the neighborhood (He's maybe in his late fifties, and I think he is from Germany, though I haven't asked him) has engaged me in conversation a few times about how much rent we pay for this house. He talks about it loudly, on the street. This makes me very uncomfortable as talk about money= arghh embarrassing, and my neighbors are listening. Sometimes he whistles to get my attention and smiles kindly as he walks by, if I'm cooking in the kitchen.

I was in 7-11 the other day (do you know about Thailand and the ubiquitous 7-11?) and he was in there too, and he smiled at me as I passed him to get my milk. I was just thinking, man, that guy is getting annoying, when he left the store. I was standing in line, waiting to pay, when he popped his head back in the store to talk to me. He had apparently been weighing himself on the one baht scale outside the store. (It plays a little song when you're finished, so everyone around can see that you've been weighing yourself.) "I lost 10 kilos!" he called into the store. "In six months!" And he lifted his fists like someone who's been handed an olympic medal.

I laughed, and then I didn't find him annoying anymore, because quirky oversharing about weight in a public place?= awesome. He went radically up in quirk points. I think we're BFF's now.

Yes, so many things, so many frustrating, wonderful things, have prepared me so well for this public, friendly life I'm now living. I'm glad for all those times in India that I felt like I was living in a fishbowl. They helped prepare me for a time when my kitchen wouldn't have walls and my lower floor would be entirely made of windows.

The other baby around here.

We have another baby. She's a chicken with impeccable roots that go all the way back to the very dawn of chickendom, and her name is Bear Grylls.

But everyone calls her Beary.

Solo and the chick

She earned her name because she was dropped in the wilderness of our backyard by her jungle chicken mother, yet she survived. The whole story is a little more complicated.

We've been thinking of raising a few chickens for eggs, so we asked our landlord, Khun Thanom, whether he knew of a place where we could get some chicks. He was very enthusiastic about the idea and told us that he had chickens! He could give us some!

"They're jungle chickens," he said. "They fly, and they sit in the trees."

We know about jungle chickens, because Chinua has been telling us for a while that chickens are originally from this part of the world. You see the original ones all the time- they have blue skin and look like they could beat your fluffy chicken in a boxing match. They look like Rambo chickens.

Solo and the chick.

So Khun Thanom brought over one of his Rambo hens and six babies late one evening. Chinua wasn't at home because he had run out to get something, but he and YaYa had already run out to buy a large chicken basket, earlier that day. A chicken basket is what people use to keep chickens in here, as well as in India, and it is a large upside down basket. Technically it's a chicken upside down basket. So Khun Thanom set up the basket and put weights on the top. All was well and everyone settled down for the night.

Solo and the chick.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of the excited voices of my children, who were running down to see the chicks. I could hear every word they said, including the bit of panic that crept into their voices when they realized that the chicks were escaping through the holes in the basket, and the more developed panic in their voices as the Rambo hen lifted the whole basket, weights and all, gathered her chicks, and ran off.

That's when my two-weeks postpartum self popped out of bed and turned a bit of a chicken scuffle into a melee.

"Chinua!" I shouted. "The chicken is running away! The kids don't know what to DO. THESE CHICKENS WERE YOUR IDEA! You have to look for them and I had a new baby and new baby new baby and panic!"

He may have given me a fairly exasperated look, but he shook the sleep off of him and started on the search through the neighborhood. What followed was a lot of searching for chicks and chicken, as the Rambo hen flew onto the nearby government building roofs and into trees, clucking all the while, calling her chicks. Chinua and the kids managed to catch four of the chicks and attempted to make a little trap for the hen with the basket, hoping she would come to catch her chicks and they could pull the basket back over her. What she did, because she's apparently a Rambo hen with a brain of genius, was sneak back in, collect her chicks, and scuttle into the distance with them. Now they roam Pai happily. I hope.

All except Bear Grylls. She got lost in some trees, my mom heard her calling, and YaYa found her and brought her back.

Chicken and Tintin.

She hangs out with us and reads, and listens to music, and sits in the brooder Chinua and the kids made for her, and she runs around in the garden, and eats the ant larvae that Chinua buys for her. (The ant larvae that we buy for her is not ant larvae for chickens to eat. It is ant larvae for people to eat. Because people do that, they eat ant larvae.)

In other small town/urban homesteading news, I have dirt! I have been obsessing about dirt for months and months and months, drooling through the windows of the bus as we pass everyone in the world who has dirt except for me, because I only had sandy gravel. But Khun Thanom brought me some good soil from his land not too far from her, and now I can plant things, and I can watch them grow.

Finally! I have soil in my garden and I can plant things. I'm such a blissed out girl right now.

The funny thing is that the kids seem to mix the two babies up, calling Beary "Isaac," and Isaac "Beary." But of the two babies, Isaac is certainly the quieter.

Turning again.

Leafy and Isaac.

I'm writing this post on a hot Saturday afternoon, with the knowledge sitting behind every word that at any minute my baby could wake up and need me to stop writing and come to him. These are a few snuck moments at the end of his nap, on a day when I said "I will write a post this morning" as soon as I got out of bed. But here it is 2:30 and I'm just getting around to it.

Untitled

Time is funny, and all of life is some kind of cycle. The biggest, most langorous of course is the life cycle, the one that Isaac is just now embarking on. A slow, slow turning. We barely feel the spin, it's as ponderous as the earth on its axis.

My mom like a light.

Then there are other, smaller but still large cycles. The year and the seasons. Here in Thailand, we don't have seasons like I grew up with. In Canada the seasons are the type that justify snowflakes on Christmas decorations, and it was only when I came to Asia that I realized that so much of the world looks at a snowflake as a pretty decoration, but perhaps has never had their nostrils freeze over because of the cold, or that intense ache of thawing fingers, crying and running them under the tap. (Was it only me who cried over that? I was a rather dramatic kid.)

Still, we have seasons in Northern Thailand. We have the cold season, which never reaches freezing, and the hot season, which is also called fire season because the fields are filled with the flames of farmers using their traditional field preparation, and the forests are burned to allow the hunters to find animals to hunt. And then we have the rainy season. A cycle of three, turning on itself again and again. It repeats so consistently that people are nervous when rain comes in the cool season. "The world is changing," one taxi driver told me, in the middle of an unseasonal storm.

Better now.

In Newborn Land, I have to again get used to the shortest kind of cycles. Isaac and I do the same things again and again all day and night long, in short, rapid sessions without a lot of space between. He wakes up, I nurse him, he uses his pot (we do EC, or diaper free), we talk to each other, I give my mom some Isaac time, and it's time for him to sleep again. Sometimes he spits up, or we introduce a new concept, like bathtime. But this is the way it turns for us, again and again and again.

The biggest yawn.

With my first child, I was very impatient with these short cycles. I was used to full afternoons of painting, to sitting and mulling over my coffee like an old man on a red padded seat in a diner. I squirmed against the coils of my new life even while I tried to understand it. Of course, by the time I had YaYa, I knew that this cycle of eating and sleeping gradually loosens into a long, curly tendril and I would get hours that had more space in them again. I began to enjoy the short cycles, the way my baby and I met up, as if for a date, again and again. "Well, hello there," I say. "There you are, beautiful. I've missed you, while you were asleep."

We meet and it's passionate and needy and I feed my child, I have fed my children and I have kissed every inch of their faces, if only for a short while. 

First bath.

These cycles are not like a life cycle, or the slow turning of the earth. It's more like the wheel of a bicycle spinning through a tree-lined neighborhood, the sun glinting off its spokes. We ride quickly and the wind on our faces is like the gentlest touch, it's full of the scent of flowers.

How it goes.

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You guys are so picky. I give you photos of pillows, and it's not enough. You need a baby.

I'll kill the suspense and say, nope. There won't be pictures of a gorgeous baby in this post either. I know. I've adjusted and moved on. I really thought it was going to happen quickly, that I would arrive in Chiang Mai and boop! Out comes a baby. But we're playing the waiting game.

Here's where I'm a lot more mature than I was ten years ago, waiting for Kid A at the tender age of twenty-two. I cried about it. I barely restrained my irritation with our housemates when they would breathe too loudly or talk or exist. I got my hopes up and then dashed innumerable times. Because I putz around for weeks, having contractions, ceasing to have contractions, and so on and so forth. It's how I do labor. Everyone has their special way. This is mine. (Grrrrrr...)

Of course at the end it doesn't help that one gets daily more uncomfortable. I was telling my friend Leaf that it feels like I have the opposite of a corset. My ribs hurt, they're being pushed out from the inside. My back is out and by the second half of the day there is no position in the known universe that feels comfortable.

But I'm calm about it. That's what it means to be thirty-two. In my life anyways. My new line of logic is that there's no cause to get dramatic. "Don't get dramatic about it," I tell myself as I drive along on my scooter (which I'm still driving). "It's a baby. It will come out."

Speaking of being over thirty, the other day I was on the bus from Chiang Mai to Pai (of course- I spend a lot of time on that bus) and I was talking to a couple of girls who were twenty-one and twenty-two, respectively.

"Just wait till you hit thirty," I said, probably for no reason. "You'll love it. All your angst and self loathing will disappear."

They looked at me like, Who said we had trouble being twenty? We're having the time of our lives, traveling the world, you wrinkly-eyed mad woman.

Is it too much to assume that everyone struggles with anxiety disorder and many babies in a few years and too little money and self loathing in their early twenties? Yes? Hmmm.

So anyways, here we are, and I was telling Chinua that the place where we're staying is such a perfect place to be when you are expecting a baby. There are two families, one with four children and the other with a children's home, so they have ten kids. Then there are ours, and this is just child heaven. The trees are ripe with children, they are falling from the branches.

The couple who are fostering eight kids were commenting on my kids the other night. Everyone had cake and my kids asked for more. "Oh I get it," they told me. "Your kids come from a small family, so have the idea in their minds that there's a possibility of seconds."

It's nice to be staying in a place where my family is considered small. Especially in Asia.

I've been going for walks. Looking at flowering trees, my most favorite things. 

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This one is a night-blooming fragrant tree and it smells sooooo good.

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And of course, bourgainvillea. God's perfect shade of pink.

I went for a walk with the little kids, and my big ones.

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Other than one boy accidentally dropping his five baht in the sewer, it went perfectly.

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The boys showed us how certain seed pods explode when you drop them in water.

And then one day the radiant ten-year-old girl who lives here turned all the little girls into princesses.

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The ten-year-old declared it dance time, but the princes were skeptical and reluctant to dance.

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"Not us," they said.

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In conclusion, it's been beautiful. We are blessed. But I realize I still don't have a picture of a baby for you, so I'll give you this: A picture of me with birds on my head.

I love these birds.

(I was very happy, this was the most fun I've had in a long time.)

Still no good?

How about my kids holding a seven-month-old tiger? No?

At Chiang Mai Night Safari

I'll do my level best to get you a picture of a baby very soon.

 

Being intense about nesting.

 

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This photo has nothing to do with this post, except to remind me of blue and orange, a lovely daughter, a wonderful day. It's here on this page to be something lovely, nothing practical at all.

I feel as though I have to have every single thing perfect before the baby comes. Do they call this nesting? And here's a confession: It's not easy to get every single thing perfect in a new country, where I am speaking a new language that makes me feel like I'm a very small child with moths in my ears. Also, when I have practical things to do, I sometimes have to get on the bus and take the three hour ride through the curves to the big town, and then I have to rent a motorbike and go from appointment to appointment, from shop to shop, until I am sitting on the side of the road, calling my husband, asking him to give me a pep talk because I can't walk another step.

Would my husband be willing to do these things?

Yes.

Would I be willing to let him?

Probably not.

But perhaps I have it in my head that I will not be able to do anything else at all after the baby is born, because the enormity of an infant has expanded in my imagination in the four and a half years since I last had one.

I must protect that week of babymoon time. My mental health depends on it.

Still, maybe we don't need a washing machine right away, and I don't have to try to fit it in the budget, or figure out how to get it home. And maybe I can continue without an oven, as much as I would like to make granola bars for all those breakfasts coming up. And we need a storage solution for YaYa's constantly overflowing art table, but perhaps stacking things in a somewhat orderly way can continue to work for a while.

I need to let things go, I find, after a trip to the consulate and the doctor and the markets and a curvy bus ride back, on a day when I'm headachy and finally, finally, crashed into bed with my Superstar Husband doing everything for everyone, just like I don't want him to.

In truth, I'm well set up in a cozy home with kids who can get breakfast for themselves. There are shops nearby and fruit just down the street. The baby will come (a baby! a baby!) and will happy with being kissed. He won't care at all if half the curtains are white and the other half are still a sickly orange.

Babies don't need perfection. They only need love. Just like the rest of us.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel.

I've been running and running. Buying things, cooking things, cleaning things. A burning bush in my ribcage. Love and hope and sorrow. You know, the usual.

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This year's tree was my favorite ever. We potted it, so we can keep it. What will it look like next year? We planted our Christmas tree in Goa in the garden after we got it and now, three years later, it's almost as tall as the two-story house. It was a tiny Charlie Brown tree that first year, so how surprising when it grew and grew, grew and grew, till it was a giant, ready to pull up roots and go stomping down Goan streets. To keep it happy, we decorated it every year outside, rather than having an indoor tree.

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This year's tree was a Dr. Seuss tree. The kid's loved it on sight, dancing around the plant shop where we found it, hopping from one foot to another. "Can we get it? Can we get it?"

I love that they have no "normal" for the shape and size of a Christmas tree.

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Then there were the lanterns, a whole river of them, on Christmas Eve. They went up just before midnight and Chinua and I stood and watched and wished we could capture how beautiful they were. They swirled into air currents like a ribbon of smoke.

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There was Sufjan on the computer, singing "O Come O Come Emmanuel," bringing tears to my eyes. And the Messiah by Handel. A swelling in my heart like the lanterns rising.

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Carrien's husband Aaron and their oldest son stepped off a bus yesterday, here to visit for a couple of days. We went to meet them in the chariot. Hopping from foot to foot.

In the evening, Chinua bought us our own lanterns, and we released them on our street (YaYa overwhelmed by anxiety over each one until it was safely into the sky.) The very last one was heavy, as Carrien's son said, with our prayers, carrying our burdens.

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That very last one was for our dear Ian, brave hero fighting a valiant fight against stupid cancer. Our prayers and love for him growing and growing, while the poor little lantern had to struggle along with all our carefully whispered and shouted words making it bob until finally it found its way through the low air and headed straight for the moon.

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YaYa hopped from one foot to the next, willing the lantern to fly. I hop from one foot to the next, willing Ian to be well. And I know that deeply, truly, he is well. And all is well. And our prayers will stomp their way through the heavens. They are heard.

Catching Up.

Lotus

I'm sick, sitting in bed with a mound of scrunched up pieces of toilet paper beside me, a little dizzy from sleep deprivation due to the sick kids in and out of my room all night. There is a tiny angry man pounding on the inside of my left sinus cavity, the one behind my cheekbone. Perhaps it is a good time to write a little about what we've been up to in the last week.

YaYa in the restaurant.

On the weekend we took a little trip to Chiang Mai for computer repair, dental work and brie. Well, no, we didn't take a three hour sick-making bus ride for brie, but it was handy that it was there because my Superstar Husband and I happened upon the eleventh anniversary of our wedding day. We're in those lovely mid decades, not newlyweds by any stretch. We know each other well, we're still learning about each other, and we're in a season of life I never could have predicted, living in Thailand, married for eleven years with a ten-year-old, a few other kids, and a pregnancy that is halfway through. I think my twenty-one-year-old self would have been a little afraid, had she known the future, but as it turns out, this isn't scary at all. ( Well, maybe a little.) I can say now that Chinua has been a husband who has exceeded all of my expectations. He's ridiculously wonderful. On our anniversary, we didn't have a babysitter, so we had an after-the-kid's-bedtime picnic date, cross-legged on the guesthouse bed with the kids sleeping in the next room, warm brie and crackers, a few tiny sips of red wine for me. It was perfect.

Very relaxed cat in a market in Chiang Mai

In Chiang Mai I was already run down. I had expected a day out with some of our new friends but I ended up staying at the guesthouse by myself. It was wonderful rest, I slept for hours and then woke up and read a whole book. By the time I was finished with the book, though, I was ready to not be alone anymore. It was an emotional book, and that thing happened, that sometimes happens to me, where I felt like I was the girl in the book, with all her sorrow and tragedy and failure at being a parent. Some tears happened, but then Chinua called and wondered if I felt up to going to a family's house for dinner. I did!

What people here eat for breakfast.

I hopped in a tuk tuk and guided the driver with my broken Thai. Speaking broken Thai is such a milestone in my whole language learning journey, after arriving knowing nothing except a few numbers and Hello and Thank you. I vacillate, in this journey, between feeling elated that I can brokenly communicate, and feeling like I'll never, not ever, get it right. In what order do the words go, again? It is not like English, French, Spanish, or Hindi. It's not like any language I've ever had a rudimentary grasp at. (Don't get the wrong idea- I'm not fluent in anything but English, but I understand the grammar of French and Spanish and a little bit of Hindi grammar.) In Thai, I feel like words are repeated several times in a sentence and I don't know why.

 

Just keep studying.

Cycle rickshaws and pigeons

Anyhow, we had a nice dinner (or a lovely supper, as I might say if I was in Canada) with the family we recently met. They were sweet and made us pizza, and after it all, when we were ready to go, they drove us out to a good spot to catch a songtao- a type of Thai taxi which is a truck with benches in the back- to the city. (The family lives in a nearby suburb.) After we were dropped off we stood on the side of the highway for a while, a little worried with one feverish, sleepy boy (Solo was just starting to get sick) and waiting for the yellow songtao to come by, like it should, every fifteen minutes. There were a couple of angry barking dogs who were near us, protecting their property, and I wanted to get some children's ibuprofen into Solo, but no songtao came. A couple of ladies kept poking wandering out of their house and having a look at us, until one lady approached. "Pai nai?" she asked. Where are you going?

I whipped out my broken Thai and told her we were waiting for the yellow songtao to take us to Chiang Mai. "Mai mi!" she said. It's not there. It was a holiday, apparently. And that's when she told us her sister would take us to the city in her car. I protested, she insisted, I protested (not very hard, just to be polite) she insisted.

Her sister, a perfect stranger, drove us all the way to the city, and wouldn't take any money from us. It was one of those moments when I wonder what country we've come to. How is it that people are so kind?

So the weekend went on and there were dentist appointments and a computer appointment and I ended up coming back to Pai with Kid A and Solo, a day earlier than the rest of the family. When I got to the bus station, the last van had just left for Pai, so they set up a special van for us. It was only the three of us, with one other lady. Another act of grace for us. The driver was lovely and careful on all the curves into the mountains, so I didn't get car sick like I have been on that drive ever since I've been pregnant.

Mor Paeng waterfall with the boys

We got home late, and the next day Chinua ended up being a lot later than he thought he'd be. I had the boys who were both moping a bit because being split up from the rest of the family, (tears! And it was only one day!) so we took a drive to the waterfall. I thought we could look around and walk and let the waterfall breathe on us, but as soon as we got there, Solo waded in.

Mor Paeng waterfall with the boys

I was kind of hoping not to get him wet, but it was too late. Ahhh.

Mor Paeng waterfall with the boys

We stayed for a while, until I felt that we should really get back and get Solo dry. But the drive out to the waterfall, and the drive back as well, was filled with such grace and beauty that I felt like I would float off the motorbike. It was the fresh (not humid for once) air and the sun on my back. Feeling the sun on your back is so different from merely being hot. The smell of the trees and the grasses and the road, warm in the sun... everything felt summery and light. We're coming to the end of the rainy season, after a couple of months of mostly clouds, the sun is so welcome. There were fluffy clouds and I had two sons that I love on the bike with me and it was amazing.

View on the way to Mor Paeng Waterfall, Pai, Thailand

It was a high moment.

Since then I've been doing one thing at a time, trying to do things like cleaning and writing in short chunks, saving energy, sneezing and coughing. Everything is a blessing, I'm reminded that I am beloved, and even silly colds and coughs and sinus infections only remind me of our usual good health.

Let's just hope that everyone sleeps all the way through the night tonight. That would be nice, considering that everyone is over four years old. I'm not always as sarcastic as I sound there, I actually prefer having feverish little ones in bed with me because I worry about them and have to keep getting up to check them anyways. But the middle of the night restlessness from the ten-year-old and the eight-year-old? Wha???