JulieLeung.com: a life told in tidepools

The girls and I will be at the January East Side Weblog Meetup tonight (Tuesday) from 7 to 8 pm or so. We need to take the ferry over to Seattle one day this week and it fits our schedule to stop by Crossroads Mall for the Meetup too. Hope to see you there!

Anita Rowland has the details on her blog.

And here’s a snippet from Meetup email:

What: January East Side Weblog Meetup

When: Tuesday, January 3, 7:00 PM

Where: Crossroads Mall Food Court

Event Description: Weblog folks who live and/or work on the

East side meet at Crossroads Mall. Look for us between the main

area by the stage and the giant chessboard — there will be a

sign.

This Christmas was one we will remember. From our bed, early that morning, above sound of the heavy rain, Ted and I heard the beep of the smoke alarms and knew we had lost electricity. We went back to sleep hoping it would return soon but had Christmas morning and much of the day without power. So did many others on the island.

Sleep-deprived (as Santa always is?), I felt frustrated by the additional complications brought by the darkness. Most of my dilemma centered on a piece of pork. What would we do with the meat marinating in the refrigerator without our electric oven? The former microbiologist in me had her concerns. In the afternoon, I ventured into the refrigerator and grabbed the ham in its brine (Coca-Cola, salt and herbs, as we did last year). Hacking off pieces, I fried bits of meat in our wok on top of the gas range. It tasted chewy but was better than losing the roast. By 4 pm the power had returned again and I was able to cook the rest of it in the oven. We had ham with potatoes and beans, the same meal, twice on Christmas.

Yet there was a beauty and simplicity to the day. When the girls and I got up, we got out candles from the cupboard. Instead of the busy breakfast of waffles, bacon and eggs we had planned, we ate cake and sparkling cider by candlelight.

In a sense, it seemed appropriate to celebrate Jesus’ birthday without electricity.

And there was peace in the darkness and stillness.

Last year the girls and I composed and recorded (via speaker phone and Audioblog on Blogger) a short Christmas Kitty Cat Carol describing why we won’t find under the tree, any present that is purring.

This year my best attempt at a successor to last year’s endeavor was never fully finished and the lyrics involved a happy capybara running down the street in search of gardens. It was derived from my 3 year old’s attempt to sing Feliz Navidad which came out as Feliz Boppy Bop which then reminded us of the fun book Capyboppy….Yes, you can tell already that you don’t want to hear this tune…

However, we are not at a loss for animal holidays songs this year, thanks to HadashiWorld. I often agree with the writer of this fun and fine blog, however, I must take issue with her post from a week ago in which she claimed that the Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer sung in Latin was far superior to I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.

Obviously hadashi has never met my middle daughter, the hippo aficionado we happen to call Michaela (see “hippo” tag on my flickr page or search for “hippo” on my blog). I had not heard of this holiday hippo tune but I knew immediately I had to play it for her that morning after reading hadashi’s post. Has there been a song that expressed my daughter’s desires in a truer fashion? I am sad to say that there will not be a hippo hero standing in our living room munching on the furniture when she opens her eyes tomorrow morning. Or at least Santa hasn’t brought it over yet.

But Grandma did give her a toy hippo on Christmas Eve and so I had to play the song in celebration. Hippopotamus for Christmas – at least a small stuffed version – hurray!

What do I want for Christmas? Not a hippopotamus. Too much work. (Actually my daughter might even say that herself – when we last discussed getting a dog, the girls were all convinced, on their own, that it was too much responsibility).

All I want for Christmas is time. Two days would do it. One day to spend resting, reflecting, meditating and reading, restoring myself spiritually. Another day to spend writing on this blog and putting the stack of paper notes beside the Powerbook into posts. Well, maybe three days would be enough…

Time. How I need it. Maybe Santa will leave some in my stocking…

I hope to write more about holidays soon. In the meantime, I want to say thank you to everyone who stops by this blog. May your holidays be a refreshing and fun time! May your deepest dreams and desires be fulfilled! May you know childish joy!

Sideways. The tooth hung sideways in her mouth. And backwards. The smooth white curve that presented itself front and center in her smile was now facing her tonsils. For days it had dangled in place. Abigail had enjoyed pretending she was an alligator, a reptile with teeth that poked through her lips in her smile. The tooth could be pushed into a 45 degree angle. The tooth became a toy. Her jaw widened in preparation, creating extra space in the area awaiting adult dentition. I was certain the dentist would help remove it at her visit in November, but he left it there. Each night we’d encourage her to wiggle the tooth, but she would resist, reluctant, claiming she didn’t want to lose it. But then one night in December, immediately after Ted returned home from his trip, she turned it sideways. And backwards. Ted and I ran to grab our cameras. I knew she would lose it before she went to sleep. The laws of physics and biology declared the impossibility that tooth would be able to return to its proper position without detaching. Abigail did not realize this herself but in the moment it happened her eyes widened and she smiled. A smile with a gap where her front tooth once was.

“How do you feel?” I asked her.

“Unique.”

“You were unique before you ever lost a tooth.”

I didn’t tell the girls where we were going. Two of them were asleep anyway, napping in their carseats on the afternoon drive through commuter traffic from Seattle to Bellevue. As I pulled into the parking lot, I told Abigail we were waiting. We each read books by the street light. The sky darkened. Soon it was time to walk out into the night and see what we would find.

The first time I went to the Bellevue Botanical Garden and its Garden d’Lights was the first Christmas after my brother had died. Ted, Abigail and I had flown up from California to be with my family, as we had planned for months, before the discovery of my brother’s brain tumor. Jim had died days earlier. I don’t think we had his ashes yet. I had flown to Seattle to say goodbye to my brother, then back to San Jose, and returning to Seattle, within a week. For me it was a strange transition, going back and forth between the family where I was born and the one Ted and I had created together, surreal, like a dream world, or rather a nightmare one.

What do you do when you are mourning someone at Christmas? It was an awkward time. We didn’t know what to do together. No sense in pretending happy holidays when our hearts were freshly raw and ripped. Sometimes we would laugh to avoid the tears, hanging onto the hilarity for sanity’s sake. Abigail, then a toddler, provided welcome distraction, her existence an excuse for silliness amidst sorrow. The season was strange dance of trying to give each other freedom to feel and grieve while being careful not to hurt each other out of our own insensitivity and intense emotion.

Someone suggested the Bellevue Botanical Garden, and we went, the six of us walking slowly through on the paths in the dark, wandering among the public outside while carrying private sorrows inside.

At that time, Abigail was not yet two years old, and she had not seen the lights in the six years since Jim died. So it was a complete surprise when I took the girls out of the car. Although they were impatient to wait, once they had woken from their naps, they were also reluctant to go out into the dark and cold.

I too had forgotten the treasures that awaited us. All I remembered was the awkwardness and ache, the walking and wondering what Jim would think, the longing and loneliness we felt that night, the lethargy, numbness, missing him. But last week I discovered again the beauty and creativity hidden in the Garden.

Butterflies and sunflowers greeted us. As we walked down a path, we could see a frog reflected in a pond, as well as lily pads and all kinds of flowers, from allium balls to foxglove heights, and also a turtle. The flowers were often fashioned in sprays, as if with extravagance and celebration. Going back up the hill, we enjoyed blooming bushes, gasping to see the fantastical line of flowers, birdhouse and butterfly set on a lawn, in pinks, purples, yellows and colors of brilliance and warmth. We stood and stared, amazed, none of us caring about the cold or dark. Despite my attempts, my camera failed to capture the wonder of the lights.

My brother’s death marked one of the darker times of my adult life. If I had to categorize the years, I would distinguish at least four sets of difficulties. The first one would be the early years of our marriage, when we discovered who we were and whom we each had married, the ugliest glimpse of myself in the mirror I’d ever seen. The second hard time for me was wrestling with infertility. Jim’s death ushered in the third phase of difficulty, which would include our transition from Silicon Valley to Bainbridge Island during an intense two years of multiple changes. Yet I’d also say that the past two years, from 2003 to 2005 were also painful times of crisis and growth, dancing with doubt and disillusionment. I feel we are finally emerging from this wintry season.

I don’t like the dark times. But as I’m living, I’m learning they will be there. I will have troubles and transitions. There will be sorrows and struggles. I can’t prevent pain.

But what I can do, is to be brave. I can walk into the darkness. If I’m willing to walk into the dark and cold, if I’m willing to explore the night, I will find beauty.

There are treasures hidden in the darkness. You have to hunt to find them. But they are worth the work, brilliant and breath-taking, surprising and inspiring life with light, beyond what you can imagine.

(my three daughters against the lights)

dedicated to my brother Jim… and to all who find themselves in a dark time