It Works by Scaring the Migraine away . . .

I spent most of the weekend with a migraine, just taking a bit of time out for a Sunday school lesson that did not go so well as planned (when you plan for nine kids aged 6-10 and instead get about twenty kids, aged 4-10 . . . things fall apart).  I suspected that the origin stemmed from my neck, which still has not recovered from that car accident two years ago.  Unpleasantly, my migraine enjoyed its comfortable life in my head so much that he even stuck around for Monday.  So, after school, my friend Maggie insisted upon taking me for some good ole Torture Treatment (my special name for Chinese medicine).

It works . . . but oh, does it hurt.

I've done this type of treatment many times before and although I hate it while it's happening, it actually does improve things.  For example, when I had a very serious flu (might have actually been pneumonia) last October, I simply could not get better.  I had all kinds of Western medicine to deal with symptoms, but none of it was even touching the real problems.  When I finally did three days in a row of even-more-intensive-than-last-night Chinese medicine, I radically improved.  In three days time, I went from feverish and miserable to all the way better.

When I went last night, the lady who treated me was able to tell exactly what was wrong with me from just touching certain places on my back.  She knew all sorts of details like exactly where the migraine was, where my blood was not circulating well, etc.  She said that my neck was badly jammed and spent a long time working on it.  According to Chinese medicine, the darker the purple left by the cupping, the more serious your problem is.  If your body is doing well, the cupping actually only leaves light red marks (I have in fact seen and experienced this).  As you can see in the picture above, my neck turned VERY dark purple, in exactly the areas that were hurting the most over the past few weeks.

Today, I am quite colorful:  covered in dark purple marks from last night's cupping therapy, some areas are red from scraping treatment, plus I am also nicely be-spotted with bruises from the heavy massage treatment.  There is a bit of swelling, too.  It did actually end my three-day migraine.  Of course, I am quite sore everywhere else today!  I feel a bit like some hamburger meat that got beat up by a gang of bullies.

My left arm is a work of art:

I have my own theory about how and why Chinese medicine works, though I am at a loss as to how to prove it scientifically:  I believe that the pain or illness, upon personally witnessing exactly what you are willing to go through to rid your body of it, becomes horribly frightened and flees the scene.  Judging by the amount of pain I went through last night, my former migraine currently is probably huddled in a fetal position somewhere in the middle of Canada, whimpering as it self-consoles to recuperate from its abject terror.

No Longer Seeking Mr. Right

The 'M' word seems to come up more and more these days.  "So, are you married?"  "Why aren't you married yet?"  "Don't you want to be married?"  "Oh, don't give up — I am sure that many men would be interested in you.  You should be married!"  "But you're such a nice girl — aren't you ever going to get married?"  "Don't shortchange yourself; you would make a wonderful wife."

The thing is, I have given up on the idea.  And there just is no way to admit that in a conversation without people jumping to all sorts of assumptions and offering all sorts of unsought advice.  The biggest objections seem to be:

1. You're too young (I'm almost 29, so yes, I admit I am still young).
2. How can you just give up??  Don't you trust God at all?
3. Aren't you putting yourself in the place of God making this decision?
4. Oh, you poor thing.  You must really have been hurt.  But don't let a few hurts make you give up on marriage!
5. You must be bitter.
6. You can't possibly know the future.
7. You know, I used to feel the same way and then one day I met my husband . . . 
8. Have you prayed about this?
9. God wants you to be married.  He has someone out there for everyone.
10. Maybe you just have standards that are too high.  (I like to joke that my standards are "Christian, male, and breathing" — if that's too high, there is no hope for the human species.)

People mean well.  The ones bringing up the subject of marriage are, almost always, loving and dear people who wish to see me happy.  They want the best for me, I'm sure.

I spent my entire teen years and the first eight years of my adult life praying for God to send the right man.  When you add it all together, I'd say I spent at least thirteen years of my life praying for someone who never showed up.  I joined dating sites.  When you add those endeavors together, I'd say it adds up to about $500 total (multiple attempts throughout multiple years).  It all seemed worth it if I found the right partner for my life — because where marriage is concerned, no sacrifice is too great, right?  What is money in the face of love and a future?  But the money couldn't find "him" either.  I just wasn't the woman men were seeking.

And then one day, I said, "This has gotten ridiculous.  I am an intelligent, capable woman of God, and I have more important things to do with this priceless time that has been entrusted to me!"  I didn't stop because I doubted God — I do not doubt God at all.  I do, however, recognize three concrete, unchangeable facts:

1. Sometimes God says no.
2. If God wants something to happen, He is omnipotent enough to see that it comes to pass.
3. An endeavor that wastes time, energy, and money without results is utterly foolish.  At some point, it is no longer faith; it's waste.

I awoke one day to the realization that it just wasn't worth it.  If you added together the insecurity and the hurt from feeling unwanted and rejected by every man who sent a message and then faded into the electronic void before meeting me or every man who never returned my hopeful smile . . . well, I could certainly do without the weight of it, and what idiot would pay good money for that sort of baggage?  If you added up all those prayers for the non-arriving man, it would total so many hours that it would, in fact, make up entire days out of my life spent in pursuit of this one object.  If you added up the daydreams and the hopes and the plans and the furtive glances at men who just might be "the one" and the six months spent dating the "the one who wasn't The One" because I thought I couldn't do better — I'm sure all that could fill a year or more of my lifetime.  

What might I have instead accomplished with all that time, energy, and money?  What could I have learned?  Most importantly, what could I have contributed?  Instead of praying for someone who likely doesn't even exist, why not instead pray for those who do exist, those people I see and hear of day after day with needs that I am insufficient to meet — needs which God is fully sufficient to meet?  Couldn't the money instead have been given to someone who needed it, rather than a website full of snazzy photos of smiling couples with flawless teeth and skin (and, of course, a kindly looking fatherly figure reassuring you that true love was only a click away)?  What acts of kindness went undone because I was too busy in a fruitless quest? 

I may be lousy at math, but I can still see in every place I have lived, the trend within churches and within Christianity itself is increasingly that women outnumber men, particularly among singles.  The odds are just not in the average single Christian woman's favor.  Among single Christian women with higher education, it becomes even more difficult.  And when you throw an overseas calling into the mix, it just no longer makes any sense to waste resources on such an endeavor.  The fact is, there is simply no way for every single Christian woman to have a partner — unless we start sharing.  So, the simple and unavoidable fact is, that unless God is so weak that man has thwarted His will for our lives, there is absolutely no way that it can be God's will for every Christian to marry.  That means that for some people, the answer has to be no.  And if the answer for me turns out to be no, I cannot live with the guilt of reaching the end of my life and realizing that I wasted that much in a quest for something that God never planned for me.  

I am not saying that I do not believe in marriage, or even that I would oppose marriage.  Truth be told, if I could be married, I would be.  But, no one ever came along.  And I couldn't risk throwing away my life on what might be when I can instead spend it on what is.  I was bought with a price beyond value by Christ.  I cannot squander that.  And so, I made a decision that was not flippant, bitter, selfish, or anything else of that ilk.  It was a mature acceptance of the fact that I have to place God above my dreams — and that means giving some of them up, and moving on.  Making the decision hurt a little, though far less than the rejections had; carrying it out was painless and surprisingly peaceful.

I don't pray to find a husband anymore — I pray for people with needs or I pray to be more effective, or sometimes I just praise God.  I don't search for a husband.  I never knew how to flirt or had the nerve to try, so in that area there was nothing to give up.  I'm not bitter; I don't blame God or men; and I don't fault other women who are still searching (hey, maybe I made the odds a little better for you!).  Accepting singleness while I'm still young means that I can do more now; I can live my life making and carrying plans (and accepting that God often changes them).  I don't have to stop and say, "But wait, how will I ever find a husband if I do that?" or "Maybe I should wait until I'm married to go there or do that." I'm not filling my life with substitutes while waiting for the 'real thing'  — this is the 'real thing'.

Candle on the Window

Today, I worked hard to create a lovely space in my bedroom for lying on the floor (on my very soft rug), studying or perhaps enjoying a pleasant novel.  All that was needed for the perfect ambiance to add to my most recent Kindle acquisition was a nice lavender-scented candle, in its pretty glass holder.  I spent a very happy interlude with my book on the floor, then went off to the kitchen for a glass of water.  When I returned, less than two minutes later . . .

The candle somehow reached a temperature hot enough to send flames leaping from the glass holder.  Concerned for the safety of my bedroom, I tried to blow it out, but the flames happily lapped up my expelled breath and grew larger.  Thinking rapidly, I became aware of the glass of water in my hand.  Now, I am smart enough to know that pouring the whole thing on the fire would have likely ended badly, so I instead opted to slowly dribble a bit of water on the fire, hoping to shrink it down gradually and calmly.  What happened next was a massive sizzling, followed by some spitting and hissing (it sounded not unlike an angry stray cat), followed by an explosion of glass, wax, and fire.  My glasses and window were splattered by the wax and the glass had enough force to send some of it more than three feet away.  As I opened the window to release the billowing smoke afterwards, I observed a moment of silence for the ten years of my life that fled in panic during the explosion.  An hour later, my hands were still shaking!

Who knew that cheap candles could be so dangerous???

All that remains of my dearly departed candle.

Here's What I Was Eating:

Without further ado, here are the answers from my previous post about odd comments made during mealtimes:

• "So, do I eat the whole foot in one bite, or am I supposed to eat it one toe at a time?" - This was during my first encounter with chicken feet, in a recipe where they are served hot.  I can report that although the texture made me a little squirmy, it was actually quite tasty.  Not much meat, though.  I will add, however, that I was NOT in favor of chicken feet when I had them served to me cold on another occasion.  
• "I don't swallow the toenails, right?" - Also from the chicken feet incident.
• "How on earth do I eat this animal??  He looks like he could fight me to the death before I can even get him in my mouth!" - This was my second time seeing but first time eating an odd little sea creature called a 'pipa xia'.  The best English translation I could find called it a 'slipper lobster'.  He was so delicious that I consumed many of his friends and relatives as well as him.
• "So you suck the brains out?" - Also from the previous creature.
• "Hmmm, I think this one was pregnant when she made it into the pot." - I was eating a shrimp whose egg sacs were still intact.  
• "And you said this was what part of the cow?  . . . . . Oh." - Yes, your first thought was correct.  I did consume a bull's, er . . . yeah, THAT part of the bull.  Ew.
• "Sorry, his body armor got caught on my lip." - Those pipa xia really fight back!
• "Maggie, I'm pretty sure Diana was pulling your leg.  I really don't think you're supposed to serve them frozen." - My dear friend/adopted sister Maggie prepared shrimp . . . and served them frozen.
• "Wow, judging by the leg, this one was the Marilyn Monroe of the species!" - My friend Linda and I had decided upon rabbit legs for our lunch.  Quite possibly my new favorite meat!
• "It's a very handy animal.  All that labor, and delicious, too!" -  I really love donkey meat.
• "Wait, I'm not sure if I understood you correctly.  Sorry, my Chinese isn't always so good.  Did you say this was fish brains or some kind of vegetable?" - It was not, in fact fish brains (although I have eaten those, too).  It was a taro, and the Chinese name for it sounds almost the same as the Chinese for fish brains.
• "You know, I really thought this part of the body would taste bumpier, but actually I really like it!" - First and definitely not the last time eating cow tongue.
• "It's sort of like poetic justice eating him, considering what his relatives have done to me in the past." - My salad included some jellyfish in it.
• "You're sure you're not pulling my leg?  Civilized people actually eat that and enjoy it?  It's not just a fun trick to play on a foreigner?  You're going to eat it, too?" - This was when my friend invited me out for fish brains . . . and yes, I really did eat them.  Odd, but not awful.
• "Once you get used to the sliminess, it's really delicious." - This was a special type of fungus that I had never tried before.
• "I'm pretty sure that corpses smell better than this.  How did anyone ever get the initial desire to find out if it was edible?" - Durian smells absolutely dreadful, but is quite delicious . . . if cooked.  It's horrendously disgusting if not cooked.
• "Yeah, the tentacles really add something to the texture of the dish." - Just your average dish of octopus noodle soup.
• "Do you realize, I have never once eaten ___ cooked?  I've only ever had it raw!" - Salmon!  Someday I'll find out if I like it cooked as much as I like it raw.
• "Well now I've got a tail stuck in my tooth . . . " - There are hazards to eating very small shrimp.
• "So the poison has a lot of health benefits?" - Ah, scorpions.  Yummy!
• "I just wish he wouldn't look at me with quite so much pleading in his eyes as I'm getting ready to start tearing into him with my chopsticks." - This was from the time when I ate fish brains.
• "The fungus just adds so much flavor to the dish." - Black fungus and eggs, one of my new favorite dishes.
• "This smells like dead feet, but it sure tastes good!" - My first time eating aptly named 'stinky tofu'.
• "Oh, you're right — the texture is a lot like mashed brains!" - One of my favorite tofu soups translates into English as 'tofu brains' . . . although there are no actual brains in the soup.

The long, long list of other foods I've eaten, either in China so far or in Korea includes such delicacies as:  Fried silkworm larva, a grasshopper, a cricket (both adult and pupa), sea worm (I thought it was a weird type of noodle), sea snail (I thought it was beef), raw beef, "thousand year old egg," and sea cucumber (the most revolting thing I have ever put in my mouth -- although the fried silkworm larva is a definite contender for that honor).  Sometimes I eat things just to be polite, other times out of a sense of adventure, and still other times because I have no idea what it is.  Life overseas is definitely an experience that broadens your horizons!

Twenty for the Twenties

I realized today, courtesy of a wretched friend with far too good of a memory, that I have a birthday coming up in two months.  And it's the last birthday of my twenties.

I need a pause so that I may suck in my breath dramatically.

Thank you.  I think that helped a little.

Yes, I know that 29 is not old, that I have plenty more years ahead of me (well, probably — I mean, I've cheated death so many times now that I'm starting to think that I might be part cockroach), and that birthdays are not the enemy.  But, I still am having a hard time realizing that the twenties are almost over.  I mean, where did the time go?  And how did it go so quickly?

I used to make lists of things to do each year, and I got out of the practice after completely failing at the list I made before turning 26.  This year, however, in honor of 29 being the last year of my twenties, I have made a list of twenty things to do before my twenties are over (sort of a 'bucket list'):

1. Go to Ireland.  See the original Book of Kells, Skellig Michael, Christ Church Cathedral, Trinity College, and about a dozen other sites.
2. Go to 桂林 (Guilin), one of the most beautiful places in China.
3. Go to 云南 (Yunnan) province.
4. Pass the HSK 4.
5. Pass the HSK 5.
6. Learn to crochet.
7. Get a dog.
8. Finish editing and publishing Sidhe Eyes.
9. Write my second novel.
10. Start my second master's degree (an M.Ed. this time).
11. Write a textbook.
12. Read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in Chinese.
13. Figure out Evernote.  
14. Try a hobby that I've never tried before.
15. Eat a fruit that I've never seen before.
16. Lose the weight that I gained in grad school.
17. Decorate my next apartment.  (I have avoided this in the past two apartments.)
18. Make my own cookbook of recipes that can 'easily' be made in China.
19. Start keeping a journal again.
20. Have a qípáo made.

Game: What Was Stephanie Eating When She Said This?

The following are actual statements said by me while eating, most within the past four months.  I feel that, better than anything else, these comments vividly illustrate just how much I have changed since I was a child (I was an incredibly picky eater until I moved out on my own).  Many of these comments were originally made in Chinese, but since most people who read my blog speak English, I've translated everything into English.  For fun, try guessing what I was eating when each statement was made (I'll post the answers next week).

1. "So, do I eat the whole foot in one bite, or am I supposed to eat it one toe at a time?"
2. "I don't swallow the toenails, right?"
3. "How on earth do I eat this animal??  He looks like he could fight me to the death before I can even get him in my mouth!"
4. "So you suck the brains out?"
5. "Hmmm, I think this one was pregnant when she made it into the pot."
6. "And you said this was what part of the cow?  . . . . . Oh."
7. "Sorry, his body armor got caught on my lip."
8. "Maggie, I'm pretty sure Diana was pulling your leg.  I really don't think you're supposed to serve them frozen."
9. "Wow, judging by the leg, this one was the Marilyn Monroe of the species!"
10. "It's a very handy animal.  All that labor, and delicious, too!"
11. "Wait, I'm not sure if I understood you correctly.  Sorry, my Chinese isn't always so good.  Did you say this was fish brains or some kind of vegetable?"
12. "You know, I really thought this part of the body would taste bumpier, but actually I really like it!"
13. "It's sort of like poetic justice eating him, considering what his relatives have done to me in the past."
14. "You're sure you're not pulling my leg?  Civilized people actually eat that and enjoy it?  It's not just a fun trick to play on a foreigner?  You're going to eat it, too?"
15. "Once you get used to the sliminess, it's really delicious."
16. "I'm pretty sure that corpses smell better than this.  How did anyone ever get the initial desire to find out if it was edible?"
17. "Yeah, the tentacles really add something to the texture of the dish."
18. "Do you realize, I have never once eaten ___ cooked?  I've only ever had it raw!"
19. "Well now I've got a tail stuck in my tooth . . . "
20. "So the poison has a lot of health benefits?"
21. "I just wish he wouldn't look at me with quite so much pleading in his eyes as I'm getting ready to start tearing into him with my chopsticks."
22. "The fungus just adds so much flavor to the dish."
23. "This smells like dead feet, but it sure tastes good!"
24. "Oh, you're right — the texture is a lot like mashed brains!"

Summarizing Four Months in One Post

It has been such a long time since I've been able to blog.  Four months . . . and actually, it feels in some ways like four years.  There's been so much to come to terms with and so much to take on, and frankly, there are times when I question absolutely everything . . . except for why I'm here.  I can honestly say, I never question that.  I question my abilities, my effectiveness as a teacher, how I'm viewed by others, some of my decisions in the past.  But in spite of everything, I still know I'm supposed to be here.

I had a conversation several days ago with two friends whom I regularly help with their English.  One of them asked me about my decision to come to China.  Well, I call it "my" decision, but in all frankness, it was not.  It was His decision, and I accepted it and I have never regretted accepting it.  My friend asked me how I knew it was the right choice, and I struggled for a moment as to how to explain the inexplicable certainty that I felt and still feel.  I have never in my life, other than when I accepted Christ, felt so certain.  Finally, I found the right words for it.  I answered her with another question, "How do you know that the sky is blue?"  That, I think, is the best explanation I shall ever have for how I know.

Obviously, I can't go into too many details of some of the struggles of the past four months.  Some things would be distasteful to air in as public a forum as a blog, others unprofessional, and other details would merely serve no constructive purpose.  Suffice to say, there are a lot of struggles that I battle through emotionally; sometimes I almost feel inclined to succumb to temptation and blame Satan by labeling it all a 'spiritual attack'.  Some mornings, when I've felt so overburdened that I've wanted to hide away from life, from people, from everything one can hide away from, I've had that very thought.  And, because I know better, I eventually slap on some common sense and pull myself together.

The truth is that every trial I face boils down to being a flawed human working with other flawed humans in a world riddled with further flaws.  Satan doesn't have to lift a finger — he can merely recline in his lair and watch bemusedly as we all do his work for him, many of us claiming all the while to be doing the Lord's work.  In fact, I sometimes speculate that we Christians do an awful lot of Satan's work for him — all with the best of intentions, of course.  We shut people out and call it 'community'.  We work ourselves to exhaustion and call it 'service' without actually serving anyone.  We pat ourselves on the back and feel holy because we did one simple task that's expected of us; all the while, the truly important tasks are left for someone 'more qualified'.  I believe that nothing demonstrates the unfathomable scope of God's love so much as the fact that He deliberately chose the most inefficient, whiny, insufferably arrogant creatures and called them His children.

Knowledge Litter

Ever have one of those days where your brain functions only slightly above "imbecile" level?  Lately, I fear I've been abusing that privilege.

Mostly I've been demonstrating this through loss of prior knowledge.  For instance, in my past few Chinese lessons, I keep forgetting characters that I learned ages ago, or suddenly going blank on how to use a particular grammar pattern that I previously drilled myself on.  I find myself forgetting other knowledge that I should know well, too, like how many electoral votes there are total, or the US presidents in order (I memorized this years ago and used to be able to whip through them in 28 seconds), or major features of various ancient empires.  Yes, I realize that for most people those things might not be the most common of common knowledge, but when you take into consideration that I majored in history for both degrees, teach history, and have been researching history for fun since I was seven years old, you come to see just what a frightening load of information is dropping out of my head lately.  I have a mental image of my brain actually strewing facts and thoughts across the streets as I walk, leaving a path of knowledge litter behind me wherever I go.

Knowledge acquired less than a week ago is particularly vulnerable lately - it slips through my mind like water pouring over my hand.  This would be why I nearly threw The Arabian Nights across the room in frustration - the intricate web of story within a story within a story tied my beleaguered brain into a series of successive, dizzy knots.  It got to the point where I couldn't figure out where the plot had gone.  Only the fact that the book is in electronic form on my iPad saved it from hurtling through the air!  That's another thing - I seem to frustrate easier lately, too (and no, it has nothing to do with merely being female).

I think the two flus in succession is what did me in.  I feel like my body finally recovered, but forgot to tell my brain.  Here's hoping that the two finally agree to synchronize once again - China is littered enough without the contents of my brain falling out!

The Stomach Flu: We Shall Call It a Cultural Experience

Just two weeks had passed since my lengthy bout with flu, and I thought all was well.  Aaaaand then, the roommates both toppled over with stomach flu.  I knew my days were numbered.

The vomiting actually started on Tuesday evening, but I thought I could just forego eating and thus make it through school on Wednesday.  With many, many teachers down with this thing, I was concerned that we would not have enough subs to cover my classes.  However, the low blood sugar from not eating had me so dizzy on Wednesday that I finally gave in and ate a decent lunch . . . mistake.  After I vomited up my lunch, I agreed with the other teachers that it was best to head home, rather than help spread the disease further.

Heading home was not such a simple matter.  Our dreadful dirt road that leads up to the school building is at present being paved, which means one cannot walk down it to the main road.  Fortunately, the guards were helpful (and my Chinese is good enough now) so I was able to get directions to the main road via a very rustic, "scenic" route through the local village.  Nothing like getting raced at by a bedraggled chicken while holding your heaving stomach and attempting not to trip on VERY narrow alleyways!  A few locals chatted with me pleasantly as I wound my way through the never-ending maze of tiny ramshackle buildings in search of the main road that I was beginning to question ever being able to find.  I was quite delighted when my path finally deposited me on the correct road - albeit a bit further down than I had anticipated (I guess the chicken distracted me a bit).

I had initially planned to taxi home but, ditz that I've been lately, I forgot to put money in my wallet and only had a few kuai with me.  So, 104 bus it was for me - my least favorite bus, but the only one that goes from way out where the school is to my home.  The main trouble with the 104 is that it never comes!  I waited more than 30 minutes for that wretched contraption, while suffering the indignity of having THREE  301 buses arrive in succession, within less than five minutes.  I was, in my present nauseated and dizzy state, rather embittered against the 104 bus.

When the bus finally came, I breathed a sigh of relief - and after the second stop, realized that that breath might well be my last.  A man sat in the available seat next to me, hauling a basket full of very fresh, very fragrant fish.  It may have been the fever, but I am convinced that I saw some wiggling tails . . . and I also earnestly believe that one of those fish winked impishly at me.  The smell was pretty damaging to me in my state, but the other options were stand in the back or get off and wait forever for another 104.  It was only the beguiling image of my oh-so-merciful bed playing across my mind that kept me in my seat, holding my breath next to the fish-man.

As soon as I got off the bus, I began to heave and soon discovered, to my surprise, that there were indeed still some contents left in my stomach.  The gutter received them all.  I was relieved that, for once, there were very few people around to see the show, "Remains of the Lunch."  As I finally recovered myself enough to head home (the 104 doesn't go all that close to my home, so there was still a decent walk after disembarking), I became aware that the Korean business behind me was merrily blasting "Gangnam Style" on its loudspeakers . . . and I just happened to be vomiting right during the line "Hey, sexy ladies!"  I stifled a chuckle, then headed home, mentally composing my own version of the song, containing the memorable line "Upchuck Gangnam style!"

It was with considerable relief that I entered the front door, ghostwalked to the bedroom, and collapsed facedown in the welcoming embrace of my bed.

Into the Magnet . . .

It's been one of "those" weeks.  The entire world's weight is stacked on my shoulders in concrete blocks, I'm juggling twenty things that all happen to be on fire, and all I really want some nights is just to curl up and have a good cry.  Everything always seems to fall due at the same time.  People choose the same weeks to be undependable, or to guilt me into taking on extra work.  It's like bad weeks are a magnet that collect chaos and stress unto themselves.

My flu is finally gone, although the cough is still lingering a bit.  It left quite the path of destruction in its wake, as I was incapable of accomplishing anything for a full two weeks.  It's good to have my health back, but I feel like all that piled-up work has just body-slammed me to the floor.  I started trying to pick up some of my old "releases" again:  started planning a new story, got out the jewelry supplies, bought a bike, even tried to find a new novel to hold my attention.  But, honestly, I think my usual stress relievers really just added more.  My mind is devoid of inspiration for writing or crafting, I need to buy a lock before I can use the bike, and the books I started all frustrated me with tedious plots that simply could not captivate me.  What I really want, even need, is the wet nose of a dog pressed up against me.  But that will have to wait.

I don't want to give the impression that life is dreadful, or that I regret being here.  It isn't that way at all.  I have found that when life goes well here or when it goes poorly, it all seems to clump together - one thing piled onto like thing piled onto another mirror image of the thing before it.  I think back to when I was a child and used to enjoy scooping up pins, thumbtacks, and such with a large magnet my mother gave me.  The entire magnet would be so covered in the silvery-colored metal objects that its blue hue was quite hidden to the eye.  That's life here, expressed in one image.

Feed a Cold, Starve a Fever . . . Torture a Flu?

I had big plans for my week off (October Holiday, a lovely Chinese creation):  I was going to climb a mountain with friends, get all of my grading done, spend some time with a few friends, and, naturally, take a ton of extra Chinese lessons.  In short, it was going to be the perfect week.  I even planned out a special help session for my sophomores, just because I thoroughly enjoy spending time with the rather nutty creatures.

And then the flu happened.

On the very first Saturday of the break, I climbed the mountain as planned.  As a cheery group of Chinese and Westerners, we took on Fu Shan, a rather pretty and pleasantly small mountain near my home.  We had an utterly glorious day for it: perfect blue sky, cool air, invigorating-without-overpowering wind.  And, I only fell . . . well, I think 5-6 times (the first time was within seconds of boasting loudly about not falling, of course).  But no real injuries other than a few cuts!

We ate a picnic lunch together up there, then split up, with a few of us going down one way and a few choosing the opposite way.  My group of 6 paused for a bit, under a canopy of Buddhist decorations (Hannah called this spiritual warfare), to sing a hymn together in two languages simultaneously (I LOVE doing that with Chinese friends) and then to pray together . . . simply beautiful.  After climbing down, I had the chance to do something I have always wanted to do:  I drank water straight from an old, deep mountain well.  A very sweet group of locals filled our water bottles for us from the well, laughed at how thirsty I was, gave me a refill, and then complimented me on my Chinese.  I came home exhausted, but merry.

Really exhausted, actually.  I took a nap — something I very seldom do — and when I woke up, I noticed that my throat was starting to really hurt.  I chalked it up to a day of mountain climbing, then joined a friend for a massage and dinner . . . I got to eat donkey meat soup for the first time.  Surprisingly delicious, and now I can mark another hooved animal off the list of those few remaining that I have not eaten.  By the end of dinner, my sinuses were starting to feel heavy and full.  By the time I got home, the fever had arrived:  102°.  I made my way steadily up to 103° the next day . . . and except for a few isolated times, spent most of the next week in bed, weak as a newborn calf.  My body ached as though a tank had rolled over me a few dozen times.

By Wednesday, I was enjoying the added features of vomiting and nausea with rampant dizziness.  The fever enjoyed our time together so well that it stuck around for a week.  I eyed my dying plants that I keep forgetting to water with marked envy — at least their suffering only consists of dehydration.  I kept mechanically trying to get grading or lesson-planning done . . . but the words would start spinning on the page within minutes, and my fuzzy head just couldn't take it.  I found that doses of The Mentalist were about all that my fevered brain could focus on.  I survived mostly on crackers, cough syrup, NyQuil, Chinese cold medicine, Halls cough drops, and Sprite.  Definitely not my diet of choice.

On Monday, after more than a week of flu, school resumed.  That first day just about killed me — I honestly have no idea where I found the strength to stay on my feet.  Since my flu seemed so pleased about taking up residence in my body and showed no particular inclination to leave, I named him Irving and contemplated enrolling him as a student at our school.  My concerned Chinese teacher and adopted older sister, Maggie, insisted on taking me out for traditional Chinese medical treatment after school.  In other words, she wished to torture me.

The treatment consisted of this:

• Step 1:  The woman who treated me gave me a very hard pressure point massage, using some special type of salve.  Maggie explained to me that the massage has the same principals behind it as acupuncture.  It felt as though my neck and back were some stubborn bread dough that was being kneaded by an angry Soviet housewife.
• Step 2:  Using an animal bone, my neck and back were scraped with great diligence and pressure.  Known as 刮痧, this treatment, quite frankly, hurt like hell.  I felt like a deer being field-dressed.
• Step 3:  Using fire (held scarily close to my bare skin), the woman burnt the oxygen out of a glass, then suctioned it to my back and moved it, with super-human pressure, up and down repeatedly. Then repeated. And repeated. And repeated.  Known as 推罐, this treatment put me in the appropriate frame of mind to sell out my country.  I offered to share state secrets, but unfortunately could think of none.
• Step 4:  The woman treating me took what is called a plum blossom needle — a delightfully sinister contraption with nine super sharp needles — and, quite literally, beat my back with it.  Maggie graciously explained the technique to me, but I was too distracted with whimpering to hear her explanation.  After about fifteen blows, the woman (and witnesses) were satisfied.
• Step 5:  Once again, the oxygen was burnt out of glass jars, which were then suctioned to the now-bleeding areas on my back:  拔罐.  I soon resembled a feverish glass-backed turtle (as Maggie gleefully observed . . . she does claim to love me).  The jars syphoned out blood that, my practitioner informed me, was "bad".  Feeling more than a little bit like a medieval plague victim, I lay still on the bed with the jars in place for about 15-20 minutes.
• Step 6:  After the glasses were removed (each giving a rather satisfying ploop! as it came off), I received a harsh rubdown/massage with a rough towel.  I was slightly startled to observe the amount of my blood that now stained the sheets . . . and slightly lightheaded as well.
• Step 7:  Hygiene first!  The woman sprayed my entire back with alcohol.  She then stepped back and declared, “好的!"

My back, after the first day of treatment, was quite picturesque . . . I like to think that I resembled either a chemical warfare victim or the loser of an intense bar fight:

Yes, it was painful . . . very, very, very painful!

I had a harrowing experience on the way home:  I discovered the dead body of a person laying amidst some trash.  For a horrifying, dreadful five minutes, I frantically thought through my options.  Check for a pulse?  Run for help?  Phone someone?  Scream?  Since China has no Good Samaritan laws, I panicked that I might somehow be held responsible for the death, whilst simultaneously feeling extreme guilt for my own selfish self-preservation and grief for the human life cut short.  Was it natural causes?  Was it murder?  What if the murderer was still there, lurking in those dark bushes, waiting to cut my own life short . . . you can well imagine my slightly hysterical relieved laughter when I discovered that my dead human body was actually a few ill-positioned bags of trash.  Apparently, The Mentalist and fever should not be coupled together for prolonged periods of time.

On Tuesday, Maggie took me back for another round of the same treatment on my back, and my front and upper arms as well.  Although I at one point begged Maggie to mercy-kill me, I did appreciate getting to miss a meeting.  推罐 and 拔罐 over my breastbone felt as though ravenous demons were tearing into me and sucking the breath from my quivering body . . . Maggie found the imagery amusing (although she did sympathetically pat my head through it all).  On the way home, I had a violent nosebleed that thoroughly terrified about three dozen Chinese people.  It startled me a bit as well — I wasn't sure how much more blood my body could afford to lose!

On Wednesday, Maggie took me in for the third and (thank God) final treatment.  On the way there, she amused herself by making me tell a story in Chinese to the entire bus full of Chinese coworkers . . . I promptly began my story by informing them, in Chinese, that I have a sadistic teacher who enjoys torturing me.  The entire bus applauded.  (Although a bit embarrassed, I was flattered when Maggie explained later that she just wanted to show off her student.)  The final treatment had me writhing in agony on the bed — Maggie cheerily observed that I quite resembled a worm.  Indeed, I did feel rather like a smashed one there at the end.

I have this to say about all the torture, however; it did actually bring about a turning point in my flu.  Maggie gave me a very thorough explanation of the entire process and theory/history behind it, but I have my own theory on why traditional Chinese medical treatments actually work.  I believe that the flu, observing the lengths of torture that you are willing to undergo in order to purge it from your body, becomes so terrified that it packs up its bags and flees.  Irving, being my own tailor-made flu, is, naturally, quite clumsy, so he keeps tripping on his way out.  Thus, I still am left with the emphysemic sailor cough, exhaustion, gnawing headache, and a bit of physical weakness.  Other than that, I am definitely getting better, little by little.  Today I cheered to see the first non-colorful drainage from my sinuses.

Ah, China.  Land of new experiences and new knowledge.

And Then You Smack into an Ironing Board . . .

I often suspect that many people believe if they were to cut me open, they would locate a Chinese book where a heart ought to be, a sheaf of history monographs where a brain ought to reside, and, most definitely, clumsiness in place of all the other essentials . . . and I bristle about it.  Perhaps I ought to switch to decaf.

After 28 years of it, I'm used to my clumsiness and the oafish way in which I walk/stumble about . . . but lately, it has really irritated me.  I'm tired of being that person, the court jester of bruises.  Ordinarily I laugh or shrug those stumblings and bangings and tumblings away . . . but lately, I've gotten annoyed instead.  I don't want to see those antsy looks on Chinese friends' faces each time I approach a staircase, or a crack in the sidewalk.  I don't want students to hold their breath every time I walk past an extension cord.  I don't want to approach the steps getting off the bus with trepidation each day, wondering whether or not I am about to plummet to the ground in an unladylike heap.  I don't want to fear the rug that gleefully lies in wait for me in front of the main entrance of the secondary school building.

"Why," I ask the walls, the sidewalk, the sea, or even the trees (those wretched, ugly new ones that were controversially planted months ago at great expense and still can't stand up straight), whichever inanimate or animate object that happens to witness my latest escapade, "Why is it always me?  Can't someone else do the tripping and slipping or the smashing and crashing for a bit?  Can't I just have a moment of gracefulness in an entire lifetime of black eyes, sprains, scrapes, burns, scratches, inexplicable harm from seemingly-innocent objects --"

Yesterday, the universe replied.  As I reflected on my own clumsiness, I tripped over the doorway whilst carrying an ironing board and got hit in the eye with the leg of it.  Second black eye of 2012 . . . I'm choosing not to count the almost-black-eye back in July.  As I commented to my roommates, "Usually when I get a black eye --" one of them interrupted, remarking, "Very few people would start a sentence that way - I don't think black eyes are usual for most people."  I sighed, and chose to force a laugh, though inwardly I just wanted to . . . well, punch myself, but that would only have given me another black eye.  It's tiresome being me.

Today I fell down the stairs again.  I guess it's nice that now my left eye and my left ankle can color-coordinate.

Photos from Spring and Summer Travels

I am in no way artistic, so I make no apologies for the complete lack of artistry in my photographs.  I see something that pleases me, and so I push the button and capture it.  I just don't think that some things need added embellishment.

长白山 （Chang Baishan, Jilin Province)  - It can only be seen two days out of every year (in a good year).  The side I am on is China - the mountains across from where I am standing are in North Korea.

长白山

长白山

景山公园 (Jingshan Park), Beijing

景山公园 (Jingshan Park), Beijing

At the Ming Tombs.

At the Ming Tombs.

长城

天坛 (Temple of Heaven, Beijing)

I just love all the vivid colors.  天坛 was probably my favorite part of Beijing, despite my massive migraine at the time.

Soul-Weary

I feel so tired sometimes — soul-weary might be a better name for it, perhaps.  As though I were ceaselessly running, running, running; fighting to live selflessly, and better, and more wholesomely and guided by Someone other than myself . . . but sometimes I just want to sit and stare into space and envelop myself in nothingness.

I suppose I'm still working through grief.  And my way of handling grief is, well, to work.  Sitting and dwelling on loss doesn't bring anyone back, and it certainly does not restore what is broken.  It merely makes you more aware of the gap that used to be filled by someone — or, in my instance, someones.  In my estimation, it's the only healthy response.  "We can never go back to Manderly", as du Maurier immortally penned — so we've nothing left but to move forward.

But sometimes, alone, at night . . . Oh, how I miss them.

A Few Thoughts from Dorothy Sayers

“It it is worse than useless for Christians to talk about the importance of Christian morality, unless they are prepared to take their stand upon the fundamentals of Christian theology.  It is a lie to say that dogma does not matter; it matters enormously.  It is fatal to let people suppose that Christianity is only a mode of feeling; it is vitally necessary to insist that it is first and foremost a rational explanation of the universe.  It is hopeless to offer Christianity as a vaguely idealistic aspiration of a simple and consoling kind; it is, on the contrary, a hard, tough, exacting, and complex doctrine, steeped in a drastic and incompromising realism.  And it is fatal to imagine that everybody knows quite well what Christianity is and needs only a little encouragement to practice it.  The brutal fact is that in this Christian country not one person in a hundred has the faintest notion what the Church teaches about God or man or society or the person of Jesus Christ."

"I admit, you can practice Christianity without knowing much theology, just as you can drive a car without knowing much about internal combustion.  But when something breaks down in the car, you go humbly to the man who understands the works; whereas if something goes wrong with religion, you merely throw the works away and tell the theologian he is a liar."

"We have very efficiently pared the claws of the Lion of Judah, certified him 'meek and mild,' and recommended him as a fitting household pet for pale curates and pious old ladies."