Our Stories

“Share your story here…”. Share your story here.  Share your story here?  What is my story?

Tonight, my story is that I am like Rapunzel, locked on my own in a tower, merely dreaming of what life could be if only I weren’t stuck in this tower.  I want to cuddle up and cry with my despair and loneliness.  The earth just shook long and low beneath me, deepening my unease for a handful of seconds.  I don’t want to turn off the light – there seems to be a certain power in its being illuminated (and I do not mean the electricity), a power to keep me safe and okay and able to handle things.

Tonight, my story is that I am lonely and alone, and, though I am so close to being in a place I could and do call home, I feel as though I am in the point A to point B race where you constantly only go half the distance, thereby making progress toward the desired destination, but never actually arriving there.

Also, that just reminded me of how much I love Patrick Swayze.  I wish I could have been in the film “Dirty Dancing”.

Anyway… I want to cry tonight, and to let it all go, leaving me to wake up refreshed and excited and capable in the morning.
Post-a-day 2017

The power of words

Today, I was told that something I had done was “really scummy”.  The truly unfortunate parts of this statement were the actions it was describing and the fact that they were falsely linked to me.  Put another way, I did not do what the person claimed that I had done (the action that was then, by that same person, declared to be “really scummy”).

As I absorbed the words, I felt a sort of shock and denial.  No, this person couldn’t be thinking straight – this must be coming from a state of panic of some sort.  It makes no sense otherwise.

And yet, here I am, hours and hours later, still with an underlying desire to cry desperately.  I did not do it.  I did not do it.  And I even took extra efforts ahead of time for the situation to go across as the exact opposite – I asked for help from all over to make sure what I would do would be fair and reasonable in every way possible.  I did not behave in a “scummy” fashion, and I did not do what I was declared to have done.

That person’s words affect me nonetheless.  To my dearest insides am I filled with a sense of desperation, sadness, shock, smallness.  I was helping freely, voluntarily in a situation that desperately could use some help from me in particular, and the one being helped spat on me.

I do not know if I will remove the help from the table.  Perhaps.  I merely know that those words hurt and were inaccurate, making them hurt even more, making their effect last.

I already cried on the phone to my mom, which was a somewhat unexpected occurrence.  While that cry was helpful, I still have an uneasy tightness within me, welling up, and dripping on my pillow in the form of salty water droplets.
***Oddly enough, this was in my bedtime reading tonight.  How coincidental, right? ūüėõ
Post-a-day 2017

A spontaneous lesson

Today, my mom and I helped with an English class while standing outside.  Literally outside, out-of-doors… we were having lunch in a sort of courtyard, and one of the class that had its windows all open happened to be an English class, and with one of my favorite teachers, to whom I had just introduced my mom.  

When we first sat down to eat, all the kids were super excited, hanging out the widows, waving and saying hi to us (it was barely the beginning of class at that point).  After I had eaten well enough, I went over to check out what they were doing.  The teacher, the amazing teacher she is, took it in stride, and had me verify correct sentences and pronunciation as students were giving answered aloud for their homework exercises.  Eventually, my mom came over to the window, too, shocking the students yet again – I had given them an unintentional, yet really good shock when I had suddenly appeared next to one kid by the open window.  At that point, instead of using the CDs after which the students typically repeat to practice English, the teacher brought a copy of the books to my mom.  She and I traded back and forth reading aloud, slowing the students to repeat the phrases of the text after us.  The English, of course, was quite awkward , however, it sounded great coming from the students.  I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard them so excited to be using their English as they were today, desperately attempting to communicate with my mother.  After that class, my mom and I officially attended a class, and helped expose kids to our Texas words and foods and thoughts on Japan.  That teacher is also completely awesome, and decided to take full advantage of having such a visitor.  The class happened to be some of my favorite kids, actually, and so it was extra-exciting for me.  The kids, naturally, were totally in love with my mom, and especially the fact that she was completely willing to be in photos.  Way-to-go, Mom!
Post-a-day 2017

“Domo arigatou, mister robato…”

Talking to a group of students, I, for whatever reason, broke into song, specifically “Mister Robato” by Styx.  (I imagine there was some tie to the fact that we are in Japan right now…). The girls thought I was adorably ridiculous, of course, as is totally usual for that group and me.  A few handfuls of seconds later, my mom walks over and asks what we’re discussing.  I mention the song to my mom, and she instantly breaks I to sing herself.  Naturally, I join her, and we have a sort of duet going, robot-esque dancing and full background vocals included.  Clearly, we’re related.  And, of course, the girls totally loved it. ūüėõ
Post-a-day 2017

The Yellow Rose of Texas…-ish… sort of

Tomorrow, I will see my mother.  For the second time in the past five years, I will meet her at the airport, and bring her to my home away from home for an extended stay.  Both occasions have been so unexpected – in the sense of reasonable likelihood – that I had difficulties in fully believing that she was coming to visit me.  And yet, both times, she has crossed a good chunk of the world to share in my newest world, and to adventure alongside me.  For this and for much else, I love my mom dearly.
Post-a-day 2017

Cowboy Church

Just as I was going to bed on Sunday night, I ended up on the phone with my mom.  She was on her way to Cowboy Church, the Church services offered for all the cowboys who are in town to participate in the rodeo (though it is open to all, of course), and so, even though it was long past my bedtime, it being near midnight my time, I asked her to call me back once she had arrived and settled in at the service.

I rushed to finish my bedtime routine, reading and all, and had just finished everything when my phone was buzzing with the FaceTime call from Church.  Therefore, I found myself attending Church for the first time from the comfort of my own bed.  But it gets better.

The passage on which the pastor focused mainly was the one from Luke 10 where Jesus ends up at the home of Martha and Mary, and Mary sits and listens to and dotes on Jesus, while her sister, Martha, is preparing the meal.  (Martha eventually comments to Jesus about the situation, and asks him to tell Mary that she needs to help Martha, and not just sit around, and then Jesus talks about how Mary has actually picked the better and more important of the two options, and all that jazz.)

You know how there’s always the discussion over Shakespeare’s works, whether they are too old-fashioned to be fully understood to people today, and would do best being re-done in a way that people can actually relate to the various situations and circumstances, as people had been able to do in Shakespeare’s time?¬†¬†Now, typically, we think of the biblical figures as following a certain type of diet, based on historical information on the region, as well as various notes within the Bible itself. ¬†However, seeing as this was Cowboy Church, the pastor definitely took it upon himself to speak to his audience, and to make the story more relatable for his listeners.

How, you ask, did he do that? ¬†Well, Martha wasn’t cooking seeds in the oil, making¬†bread, or anything like that. ¬†She was in the kitchen chopping tomatoes for the salsa, cooking and slicing the meat, heating the tortillas… in short, she was making fajitas for Jesus.

After that image, all I could see was a Jesus eating fajitas next to a jar of Pace Picante, while wearing a tunic, a cowboy hat, and boots; and then riding off on a horse, while swinging a lasso in the air. ¬†Or perhaps I just kept flipping back and forth between a sort of Chuck Norris and a Jesus image. ¬†Not sure – it’s a difficult thing to imagine, Jesus eating tacos and fajitas.

All in all, I had a wonderful time at Cowboy Church, and for various reasons.  i also had several firsts in that attendance.  It was, of course, my first time at Cowboy Church, and I was thrilled to be in attendance.  It was my first time to attend Church while in my bed and PJs.  it was my first time imagining Jesus easting fajitas and salsa.  And, perhaps the oddest of them all, it was my first time spending the entire service using my phone.  It was a way cool sort of bedtime story slash activity.  So glad to have such an awesome mom.  Thanks, Mom!

 

Post-a-day 2017

 

 

Speed Runner

Once, when I was little (maybe still in elementary school), my mom let me out of the car near the end of our street.  We were heading home, and I don’t know how it came up, but I wanted to know how fast I could run.  So she had me get out to run next to the car, and she would measure my speed by driving next to me.

I didn’t even have shoes on, as I recall, but we went for it anyway.  Perhaps I made it to 17mph.  That number stands in my memory as connected to the incident.  Whatever the speed, though, it has always stood as a favorite memory of mine.  I love the nonsense that my mom and I get up to, and it hasn’t been until recent years that I have begun to notice how much so we really are ridiculous, and how we have been so all my life.  I love my mom.
Post-a-day 2017