I’m hoping. Yesterday morning I sent an email to friends of ours who live in London. We haven’t yet heard from them. I’m hoping. I’m hoping they are okay. I’m assuming that if they weren’t, we would have heard something from someone in our common social network through email or phone call.
My heart has felt heavy and weighted these past few days. I’ve read blogposts until I don’t feel I can read any more. I’ve prayed. My condolences and sympathy to all who have been hurt, to all who have lost someone, to the friends, families and residents of London who are grieving, to the British and the world.
I’m grateful Euan, Koan, Jean, Lenn, Suw and others are okay. And I’m grateful for the reminder of love and life.
Euan posted Jamie Cason’s thoughts:
My son, Alfie, was bawling for me not to leave this morning. Not to get the train to Liverpool Street. I decided to get a later train. To stay and comfort him awhile. Knowing that the BBC could spare 20 minutes for me to give my boy a cuddle and play cars. If not for that delay, I would have been there at the time; not on that train, that line, but close enough to feel the reverberations through the station. It’s a sharp poke in the chest. Don’t take any of this for granted. Don’t part from those you love on a cross word. The next chance to say “I love you” can be snatched away in an thoughtless instant. Always remember to ask yourself “Did *you* give the world some love today?”
Koan:
Why do I post this today? Because of all of us who were affected by yesterday, however peripherally, may leap to focus on the horror of the day. But I believe that moments of beauty will also occur as a result; even if they are not apparent until much later. I hope so.
I’m hoping too. Now it’s time for me to go and give the world some love today. Or at least the three wee ones who will soon be tumbling downstairs for breakfast and hugs.
Yes, it’s taken me a while to write this post. This piece has suffered from technical and emotional difficulties. I didn’t know what to say. I struggled with words. I had written more but I think this will suffice for now. Blessings, hope and peace to all.
Update 6:45 pm:
due to a crazy schedule and cooler weather, we decided to stay home tonight instead. But we hope to see everyone next week…:-)
Waterfront Park, at Eagle Harbor, near the ferry dock, 7 pm for eight Wednesdays, starting tonight.
Next Wednesday July 13 is the date planned for Bainbridge bloggers to get together at the concert.
I’ll try to update this post later or write another one with more info – sorry for the sketch but I just wanted to post this soon, in the midst of a busy day.
We Leungs will be there with a big yellow blanket – it’s one of our favorite island activities – see you then!
Articles on Bainbridge Buzz and Bainbridge Review have more info about the concerts.
What my two-year-old said last night while watching fireworks for the first time.
I was tired from a long day of parade and picnic, legs aching, but it was worth staying up late so I could hold Elisabeth in my lap and hear her say “wow wow wow” as the colored lights burst across the darkness.
Fireworks don’t last long. Look away for a moment and you’ll miss the arcs of bright against black. You’ll miss the brilliance and beauty. Parenting has its own ephemeral moments of fireworks, brilliance and beauty that can be easily missed if I’m not looking and listening closely, if I’m not willing to hold a wiggly toddler in my lap at the end of a long day and listen to her wow wow wow….
Last week the girls and I drove to GraysMarsh Farm on the Olympic Peninsula where we picked strawberries, raspberries, logan berries and blueberries. The last two varieties were not quite ready but the girls wanted to try them. Logan berries are larger and darker than raspberries. Unlike raspberries, they are not hollow on the inside. The prices were reasonable – around $1 a pound for strawberries and $1.25 for raspberries. I wish it was an organic farm but that would be my only complaint. We all had fun, coming back to the van with stained fingers and buckets of berries. The farm also offers lavender for picking, in season, and has views of the mountains on clear days. Friday afternoon and Saturday morning the girls and I made jam (I recommend the low-sugar Pomona’s Universal Pectin: my first time using it was excellent.) So we hope to be enjoying these berries months from now when they are only memories…
It’s America’s birthday today but I have only become fond of the Fourth in the past five years. As a child, Independence Day meant we might get together for a potluck with friends, someone almost always contributing a patriotic dessert of whip cream, blueberries and strawberries in the shape of the American flag. Maybe we’d be given a sparkler or two to hold in the driveway. From our house, we could see for miles across a valley, so we would often stay up late and watch the fireworks. But fruit desserts and fireworks didn’t excite me. It wasn’t until we moved to Bainbridge Island that the Fourth of July meant more to me.
This season has its own indicators in this time and space of Kitsap County, west of Seattle. I know Independence Day must be approaching when I start to see the firework stands sprouting along the side of the highway between the island and Poulsbo, on the land that belongs to the Suquamish tribe. Fireworks now remind me of the Treaty of 1855, emphasizing the fact that the native peoples were taken off of Bainbridge and moved onto a reservation. I take my children to see an island midden, a buried pile of clamshells left behind from the families who camped on the shores of Eagle Harbor, where we picnic and listen to concerts on summer nights now. My daughters want to know what happened to the people who once lived here.
Strawberry season starts before the Fourth. Island berries appear in the T&C, the local grocery store. I bought a couple boxes this week. They are smaller than the ones often sold at the grocery, red and tender, delicate and fragile and flavorful. Berries have a legacy on Bainbridge. Strawberries remind me of the strawberry farms that were once abundant here, the remains of the canning factory that can be seen, and the families of Japanese descent who owned them and worked them, the people who were taken off of Bainbridge Island due to Executive Order 9066 and sent to internment camps in March of 1942. Flags made of fruits remind me of an American story I wish I didn’t know.
Bainbridge is a place ripe with history, as I discover significance in strawberries and fireworks, as I find the past affecting the present in ways I can see, taste and touch. It’s a history that’s alive. It’s a history that doesn’t make me proud of America. Why are the Suquamish living near Indianola and not on the island? Why did the Japanese farmers and others have to suffer and lose their land?As a child, at least as I grew older, I didn’t dress myself in red white and blue. I remember feeling frustrated with President Rambo and the various invasions our country seemed to sponsor. Being American meant covert operations, bombs and desire for domination. Or so it seemed to teenage me.
Even as an adult, I’ve had doubts. Reading books last summer, I began to question what I had been taught. Was Columbus corrupt? Did Lincoln care about racism? What is this land I know as my own? What is the identity of America, both here and abroad? What does Old Glory mean to me and to others?
Yet at the same time, other changes have happened in my life since I’ve lived on the island. We moved here as a very young family with our one year old daughter. Two more children have been born as we lived on Bainbridge. Most of our years as parents – five of seven – have been spent in this community. We’re now a family of five, homeschooling and exploring this place we have been given in time and space.
I’m grateful for our girls. They are growing up, becoming more like Ted and me, and also less like us every day. We see pieces of ourselves reflected in their faces and physique, in their psychology and personalities. They are a combination of their parents. Yet they are themselves, individuals the world has not yet seen, as all children are. Each one is different. Each one is her own.
The three individuals share a common heritage. Earlier this week, while trying to explain aunts, uncles and cousins, Ted and I started drawing the family tree, using the triangles and circles I learned for diagrams in school. I’m amazed to look at the history and to remember the stories represented through the geometry and lines scribbled on a piece of paper. The culture Ted and I have for our family is a combination a diverse past across three continents and our own ideas from this time and place. His family came to America to escape Communist China, with different tales of adventures and providence from each of his parents. One side of my heritage came to this country from a nation devastated by World War I, a nation that would next become Nazi Germany. The other side of my family traces its roots to New England settlers and French-Canadian pioneers centuries ago. Our daughters can claim their heritage across Europe, Asia and North America, across multiple languages and cultures, times and places.
It is here in America where Ted and I met. Here where our families came to find hope, shelter and freedom. And it is here, in this mix of peoples and nationalities, in this individuality and diversity of our family that I find what America means to me.
Since moving to Bainbridge Island, the Fourth of July has also meant more to me due to the community celebrations. Later this morning we’ll take the bus to watch the parade. The small town holiday traditions are treasures. Anyone can participate. Basset hounds and baseball players, neighborhoods and nonprofits, stores and students, environmentalists and corporations all are represented. We’ll see hip hop and hula hoops. Tribes dance down Winslow Way in their regalia and the Munro family bagpipe band march along in their kilts – both also reminding us of our history, of the island’s nobility, power, present and past. Maybe the kids will catch candy or other treats tossed from floats. I’m sure we’ll see people we know passing by in the parade. Fancy cars, fire trucks and politicians bring out the noise. It’s a snapshot – or rather a photo album – of who we are in this moment of time.
Puppets on Parade will be joining the celebration. For this group, the parade will be the final fun day of many spent creating aquatic creatures from paint and paper mache. Visiting Puppets on Parade earlier this week, I was amazed by the fun and freedom. Paint, pipes and paper mache turned into faces and fish. Old umbrellas and a backpack were transformed into a forest of jelly fish and a hermit crab. It’s a celebration of community and creativity.
What I saw at Puppets on Parade and the parade itself epitomize what America means to me. We can be ourselves. We can make what has never been seen before in the world, using our imagination and freedom for innovation. Liberty and generosity give us grace. We come from many nations and groups, bringing with us the treasures of history and stories to share with each other, unique and precious, contributing character and culture to our sense of unity. Together we can redeem the past and turn it into something beautiful in the present. Each of us has a part to play, a song to sing, a creation to share, a voice to be revealed. We have one history and many. We celebrate each individuality and our common group identity. We are America.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. – The Declaration of Independence
in a few hours, we’ll get dressed and out the door. This year, to my own surprise, I bought festive shirts for the girls to wear to the parade, ones decorated with stars and sequined flags. Why? I think as I watch my girls grow and watch our community grow, I’ve become more enthusiastic about what America means to me. As I watch the parade each year, I am also grateful for our country. I know that we are who we are because of the land where we live. I know this in a personal sense, as a mother of children who have a rich heritage, as a wife happy her husband’s family made it here, as a woman enjoying the opportunities and freedom she would not have in other nations. And I also know this in a larger sense, for the island, for this piece of land in the Pacific Ocean with its tragic past and transforming present. We are who we are because of the land where we live. We are who we are on Bainbridge because we are Americans. Because we are part of the United States, with its history and legacy, with its innovation and creation, with its future and freedom. We can have hope. We can speak. We can agree and disagree. And we can have fun coming together one morning each July, celebrating the diversity of our voices and visions.
Happy Birthday America!
I love you.
A picture of my daughter’s desk this morning showing her collection of dolls, some with blue eyes and red hair and others with black hair and brown eyes, her clothes to wear to the parade, a flag (inaccurate number of stars though) we made after 9/11 (when we couldn’t find a flag to buy), and her Bible.
