Adult Content

Welcome to the world of an introvert. A lot happens inside an introvert that the public eye is unaware of. The public eye is practically blind, as our culture and society only cater towards extroverts, but alas I digress. You can pick that fight with my Human Development professor, I have too many other things to write about. Have you read those Flashback posts yet [parts one and two]? Yea...this happened in the midst of that. I started writing this, and then found that the whole China-thing was much more heart touching so I decided to post that first. Yet, I still realized the emotional and life-era importance of these events as well, so I wish to give them their time to shine.

"Wow, Kayla, you're an adult"

It started with the fact that we had a little party at work, due to the fact that our property earned a prestigeous gold award for being in the top 10% of the company. As with any celebration no matter from which culture you hail from, we ate food. Lots of food.  I was particulay drawn to the sausage-pepper-onion combo in red sauce because, well with parents who work full time, dinner was often from the crock pot, and this was a family favorite. But there was something special about this sausage. It was rich. It was Dee-licious. Another coworker of mine picked up on this as well and asked Chef Rick what he did.

"I soaked it in beer"

Upon hearing his answer, it made perfect sense. I chuckled to myself and said "wow, Kayla, you have such an adult taste." As I progressed through the rest of the days work I began day dreaming about what other things I could cook with beer. [If you haven't been able to pick up on it yet, I've been trying to make up for my year-abroad-without-cooking by ravenously cooking anything I can concoct.] This is a kitchen endeavour I have never personally tried, but it intrigued me.

Now, I live in Pennsylvania. I grew up in New York. I'm still growing accustomed to the variety of differences in the laws regarding alcohol between these two states (and absentee voting, but that's a rant for another day). It still baffles me that I simply can't go to a grocery store and buy alcohol. One could easily do that in New York. But here, in Pennsylvania, you have to go to a special store. Oh. And there's differences between beer and liquor stores. Luckily for me, the closest beer and liquor outlets are 6 miles away from me, each in opposite directions. I have to work really hard if I want to be an alcoholic.
I have been to the liquor store, but never have I been to a beer outlet. I walked in and was first shocked by the sticker prices [I'm cheap]. I then realized that if I was going to buy some beer, I was going to have to buy in bulk. As I picked out a decent brand that was reasonably priced I chuckled to myself as I carried the 24 count box of beer out to my car. I live with two roommates, one who cant consume any gluten (wheat) products, and one who doesn't like beer. Never, in all my life have I felt more like an alcoholic. They're still sitting in the trunk of my car.

After the beer store, I made the next most reasonable stop: the library. Mind you, the week I moved in I stopped at the library to register for a library card. Apparently to obtain this pass to goodness, one must posses a  valid PA drivers license. Most unfortunately, the lady across the desk wasn't taking my batting eyelashes and adorable dimples.  In case you've never gone through the process of moving from one state to another let me tell you a little bit about the process: it's madness. It's like officials somewhere with nothing to do sat around one day and thought of the most difficult process that they could to inconvience the most citizens they could possibly muster. So, at the time, I did not have my new drivers liscense.
Well, yesterday I walked into the library, valid drivers liscence in hand and before I knew it I added a country library card to the stack that is growing in my wallet. I was amazed at the options that my library had. Seasons upon seasons of every TV show you could think of [thats going to be dangerous...]. Levels upon levels of books and books on CD and all around literary goodness. It may become a new haven.

I walked in the door with books, movies, and beer [a few individual bottles for the nights movie marathon] and crashed on the couch under a heaping pile of blankets. This adult life has potential to be just swell.

Flashback [Part 2]

The China-ness continued with the return of my roommate. A woman of equal working craziness, she was also feeling the desperate need to vej out on the couch. We opted to pop in a movie, one that she had never seen before, and one of my all-time personal favorites: How To Train Your Dragon. 

Together the sofa ate our bodies, and we were drizzled in blankets. As the movie played I floated back to another time, the last time I had seen the movie. I felt like Harry Potter floating and falling into the pensieve potion. One large classroom, 80 curious faces, me and my movie and a projector. It was like having one eye on this side of the planet, the other far far away.

As images played on the screen before me, my roommates laugh echoed back 80 fold in my mind, as I remembered the students giggles and outcries and gasps at the dragon scenes before them. Me, being a lover of the movie, would chuckle along by my lonesome, only to be joined 7 seconds later as the English sunk and registered in the minds of my companions in the room.

I thought about ClubMOVIE some more. Every Sunday night, two classes would gather and watch a movie of my choosing. Of course, the movies were themed, planned, and previewed for content and appropriateness. They would follow along with English subtitles, and for once, I would have the complete attention of all individuals in the room...at least the screen behind me did. Together we would laugh, gasp, and I [knowing what was to come in the movie] would scan their faces for delight, surprise and content that I knew the film would stir inside of them.

"Thanks for nothing, you useless reptile."

Back in America, the following night was no different. The roommate and I decided to watch, yet another movie that had been crucial in our English curriculum a year ago. Tangled. I managed to rummage through a few emails. I thought I would share something I pulled from an explanation I was trying to give to friends and family exactly a year ago: 

"The following statement is going to sound incredibly bizarre, I know, but it’s true: watching a movie in class with my students gave me a wonderful glimpse of what being a parent is like. Now, please note, I know that I don’t physically know what being a parent is like…but man oh man I have never experienced anything closer. There is so much joy and greatness in watching your students find joy and happiness in something you present to them. When you watch them draw conclusions from the movie, or get excited, or pull out there tissues [as 5 of my women did], you cant help but to be excited with them, laugh (or even cry) along with them. This is not just confined to the movie aspects of class. When you can watch their faces illuminate when they understand a concept, or when they run to you so proud of something they have achieved you can’t help but to feel like a parent in some way."

As we were watching Tangled I was reminded of all the headaches Laura and I went through to show this movie and justify it's educational significance. I don't ever, for a second regret showing a movie in class. Tangled became a platform for the remainder of the school year. It was a constant example that everyone could draw from and relate to, and assisted in creating the heart-warming and traditional adieu between teacher and classroom.

"I love you."

"I love you more."

"I love you most."

Security Blanket.

Sorry guys, this is going to be one of those posts that gushes about some really important people in my life: my siblings. I'm thinking about them hard core as my roommates and I and the remainder of the northeast prepare for this Hurricane Sandy [which I truly believe is going to amount to nothing, at least for our area]. Earlier tonight, as we were closing storm windows and gathering flashlights, batteries, candles, water and other essential supplies, I jokingly commented about how we were kind of 'camping out'. Mind you, I am no where near an outdoorsy, woodsy person. I slept outside twice in my entire life: once on my front lawn, once on a beach in Delaware that just so happened to be in record heat. Notsomuch my cup of tea.

All of this hurricane preparation got me thinking about how I would lead my siblings in camp outs. We would cover the entire family room with blankets and pull up my brothers "football tent" from the basement. It was a kiddie tent with every NFL team logo on it. We would stay up late [10 pm] and huddle together inside the tent [yes, all three of us would fit]  under layers and layers of more blankets, just giggling, being in each others presence. One of us was bound to twitch, which would spur on more giggles and maybe even tickling. Occasionally we would talk some nonsense or show some type of affection for one another, a goodnight hug or forehead kisses, and eventually we would all cozily and comfortably fall asleep.

Camping out was much different than just sharing a room with the sister. Sharing a room was sterile. We each had our own side, our own stuff, and our brother was all the way down the hall. Camping out, being surrounded by blankets and siblings [and knowing that mom and dad were upstairs to ward off any monsters] felt safe. It was secure. It felt like nothing in the world could harm us. 

What I wouldn't give for another one of those camp outs. To hear my brother giggle again in his little-boy voice, not his deep manly grunt.

Hurricane Sandy is coming, and although I feel safe, and although I love my roommates, there is a depth of security that is void in me: and it's not just because the hurricane is coming. It's a void that I walk around with everyday. It's times of trouble that draw attention to it; it's the lack of these two precious beings in my everyday life. And for some strange reason, I think I just figured out what a deeper sense of family is.

My spuradic memories jostled me to check out the depths of my external hard drive. This is what I was able to find. I'm laying here now, cuddled up under three blankets. Though none of the images I could find really capture the age range I'm specifically remembering (I'm talking when I was about 8 and the bro was 4), simply looking at these pictures brings me a warmth as this cold front is moving in, colliding with Sandy. It's a deeper warmth than just the blankets could provide; it's a heart warmth.

2004

2009

2011

2011...a better representation.

Flashback [Part 1]

There are things for me that I think will forever be 'ruined' because of China. There will always be things that I associate with China, now and forevermore. Some are simple, like any combination of red and yellow, any type of plumbing problem I may ever encounter, and of course, any of the seven outfits that I rotated with for an entire year (I'm pretty sure they will always and forevermore have a funky China smell attached with them as well). Others, I think, will end up striking me at odd random times, blindsiding me when I least expect it. Although I can't say that it's happened yet, I know that it will, and chances are it's not going to be pretty.

Yesterday, feeling ultra introverted, I came home from work and errands and plopped on the couch to indulge myself with mindless television [circa DVD's due to the fact that me and my household refuse to pay for TV]. Though I usually don't endorse this kind of behavior, it is something that had to happen for my own mental health, coming after a solid two weeks of no alone time, no down time, deadlines, raging customers, and educational endeavors.  A night of mindless TV and just "being" was desperately needed.

Sorry, that has nothing to do with China. This next part does though. For dinner, I made myself some homemade dumplings, complete with soy sauce, vinegar, and la jiao jiang (辣椒醬) as a dipping sauce. In case you don't know, la jiao jiang is a traditional Chinese paste/spice that usually accompanies a variety of foods, most notably dumplings or soups. It's sheer goodness. I promise. I may or may not have developed an addiction to the spice/paste and consume it with everyday foods.

Dumplings, dipping sauce, chopsticks, and pomelo. I know some of you are like "pomelo? What the heck?" I had never even heard of pomelo until I went to China. The street vendors were selling these bowling ball sized fruits at the stands.  My teammates and I bought one out of sheer curiosity. Within two bites, I was hooked. Let me give you the basics. It's a fruit native to South and Southeast Asia, kind of like a cousin of grapefruit, similarly sour, but you can eat it like an orange. It's made up of particles like a pomegranate  I explained it to my curious roommates as such: "Pomegranates are made up of eggs. Pomelos are made up of sperm. They're both great on their own, but together they'd make a happy fruit baby."

Last week as I was perusing the fruit section of the grocery store I came across the giant yellow things. I just about did a cartwheel [as they're not always in season and therefore not always available at the local grocery store]! Granted, in China pomelos were about 75 cents on the street, and here I'm paying about $2.50 per fruit, but it's so worth it. I was that girl on team who always had a pomelo in her fridge. My students would buy them for me for gifts. It's a perfect midnight snack. There is something about me and acidic fruits. I love them.

Anyways, curled up on my couch I sat under a blanket, eating away at my dumplings and fruit. I thought was struck by how much "China" was on my mind while consuming the food. As I pulled the skin off of my pomelo, I flashed back to breaking apart the same fruit on the other side of the world with three other wonderful women as we sat up late and giggled, swapping stories, opinions, and encouragement. I flashed back to my classroom as I walked up and down the aisles between the students, them handing me the food from their desks, sometimes a sliver of pomelo. Other times, I wasn't so lucky. As I ate my dumplings, I thought of Lauren's first encounter eating dumplings, ruining her shirt with the dipping sauce as she struggled to hold the slimy bundles with her chopsticks. I flashed back to our school cafeteria and the "Dumpling Man" who was always trying to strike up a conversation with the foreigners who ordered dumplings, as he advised us not to put in too much 辣椒醬. I flashed back to my favorite restaurant, a hun dun place (混沌), with a student named Haily who had decided to confide in me about her new boyfriend and all the excitement that she felt in her new relationship. Memories, so vividly clear, yet so far away. 

They're from the other side of the world, but they're not removed.

Judgement Day

I think I've already confessed this on here but for the sake of today's story I'll restate the facts.  As a child I would slowly make my way up and down every isle of the school library, judging books by their cover. Oh the shame! But it's true! It had to have a lot of color to capture my attention. Usually the protagonist had to be a girl (but boys were sometimes acceptable...sometimes). The text couldn't be too big, as I was an avid reader and didn't want to be considered a cheater. Chapter books were best. If it had anything to do with abandoned children or someone getting kidnapped that also earned the book some points [weird criteria, I know]. Any swirls or funky writing would seal the deal and that puppy would be in my backpack to be read at home.

As I've grown older this lesson has come to be more inclusive than just books. 

• Don't judge an outfit by how it looks on a hanger. 
• Don't judge the taste of the food by how it looks or smells.
• Don't judge a house until you've seen the inside.
• Don't judge a couch until you sit on it.
• Don't judge a device just by the name brands (or lack there of).
• Don't judge a guy by...well... I'm still learning that one. I'll get back to you.

Today, another one hit me in the face. More so, it scalded my taste buds.  You see, upon my arrival to America I was astonished that there were other flavors of tea. China has green tea, and more green tea, so seeing the vast array of berries and spices and teas of the rainbow before me in the grocery isle I was a very happy camper and decided to try a few boxes for my sampling. As the temperatures have decided to take a turn for the worse, I decided to wrap myself up in a few sweatshirts and blankets [no joke, we haven't turned on the heat yet] and make myself a cup of tea. I busted out the box that sounded as though it was going to be the most satisfying. Madagascar Vanilla: come on, does that not just sound delightful? It even had a royal lion perusing the box. The title is adventurous, bold, and leads one down exciting mental trails of happiness to come.

I opened the box, and a great aroma filled the surrounding area. I boiled the water and let the tea soak through the hot liquid and I used the mug to warm my hands. Everything was perfect until I tasted it. Yea... not so good.

Just so you know, there is no resolution to this story. It just wasn't good. I mean, I'll drink it anyway because I spent three dollars on the box of tea (or was it two-fifty?) but I thought I would just tell you as a public service announcement. 

Good friends don't let friends drink bad tea.

Home Is Where The Stomach Is

For so many years, I've challenged people on their use of the term “spoiled”. To me, spoiled is not a state of being, spoiled is an attitude and mindset, a true belief that one needs or possesses something that makes their life complete. Just because a person has nice possessions does not necessarily mean that they're spoiled.

Well, friends. I confess before you here today that I was just blindsided by the realization that I have been so spoiled in one crucial way: my momma's cooking. Maybe it's something genetic within Italians, but my mom knows how to make various foods come together to make the second coming of Jesus on a plate. Like, Snape, the potions master, she could throw in a dash of this, a flask of that, stir it three times and produce heavenly, steaming magic, while (in the meantime) keeping her kitchen essentially spotless. Magic, I tell you.

So last night I decided to be brave and adventurous and to whip out one of Momma's recipes of Tortellini Soup. Fall is in full swing, folks, whether you like it or not, which means [at least in my mind] that soup season is ready to be embraced. [Note: thats one thing I really appreciate about China. It's soup season all year round!] Tortellini Soup: always a classic in our family, usually accompanied by some leafy greens and some fresh hearty bread of somekind. To reminisce of those golden childhood years I chopped up some celery sticks and popped some frozen biscuits into the oven.

Things seemed to be going okay, until I came to the part with the liquid. This is where momma's directions took more of an abstract approach and didn't completely guide this little piggy all the way home. I poured in reasonable amounts of crushed tomato and beef broth. Two-thirds through the container I knew something was dreadfully wrong. This didn't smell like mommas cooking! This was remnants of cow. How could I claim to be my mothers daughter if I had a liquid calf boiling on the stove?! Although I was internally depressed that things were not going to taste how I imagined, I was also too cheap to go buy new materials. So throwing in a few extra carrots, extra green beans, and a couple extra dashes of Parmesan cheese, I did my best to make it edible.

As I sat at the table with my soup, funfetti cookies in the oven, I sat and reminisced about our family days at the kitchen table. Depending on the day, the other siblings provided their own entertainment show, or sat in silence and spoke in hisses. Dad always cleaned up the plates of the kiddos who couldn't finish, and momma always kept the conversation aglow. I always merrily laughed along. But now... now that I think about it... Momma, that master magician of all things edible, never seemed to be struck by the magic of her own cooking, always deflecting compliments with shoulder shrugs and throaty noises of mediocrity. A realization dawned on me, and in that moment I knew that there would never be a way for me to recreate my momma's cooking. I was missing something crucial, that one invisible ingredient that my soup so severely lacked, and no store within 200 miles would have it stock piled on their shelves to satisfy the goodness I was hoping to concoct on my own: Momma's love. You can't bottle that sucker or compact it into a bullion cube.

So alas, here I sit fully realizing my state of spoiledness towards the foods that I hold so near and dear to my heart stomach. I fully realize now that I will never cook like my mom, and it will never, ever taste quite as good as I want it to. At least theres funfetti cookies to make it a little better.

Helicopter Cooker

In case you don’t know me personally, I’m all about creativity. Whether that include paper and crayons, photoshop and web URL’s, food, or a bucket of paint or sidewalk chalk, I basically live and breathe creativity. One of the things that was definitely lacking in my year abroad was the ability to expound my creativity in the kitchen. Cooking in China was basically impossible, and so not worth it (as the food from the cafeteria satisfied any and every hunger craving…except pizza). Thus, the one thing that I really have enjoyed since being back in the states has been becoming a creative cooker. But I've realized that it's come with a price (and no, not just the grocery bill).

It’s not that I’m a control freak. I can wear mismatched socks. I'm comfortable with ambiguity. I lived in China for a year (land of the ambiguous). I'm definitely not a gossip queen either. I just like to know what’s going on. It's not that I'm nosy. It's just that I genuinely care.

It's not that I can't follow directions (although rice and I have had our misfortunes a time or two...or four). I can assemble things from boxes,install new programs, and get myself from point A to B when mildly guided by Google maps. I understand that so often in cooking comes the instruction “allow to simmer for 5 minutes” or “let stand for 5 minutes”, or the worst "set on rack until cool". It has something to do with flavors and tasting delicious (but really, who wants to wait an additional 25 minutes for the banana bread deliciousness to "cool"?). These instructions emphasize the part of the process where one allows the food to just be. But inside of me there is this impulse to lift that lid right up and give whatever is in there a stir. Just to make sure. I can't leave my cooking food alone until it has reached it's fullness of potential. It's kind of like a mother who can't leave her baby, and opts to sleep on the floor instead of returning to her own, much more cozy bed. Due to this impulsive behavior of mine, I thought I would take the liberty of classifying myself into the category of Helicopter Cooker. That's right. It drives me absolutely crazy (yes, Kuh-RAZY) that my current oven has no window. How am I supposed to know if my cookies, or bread, or cake, is rising properly!? It's almost a catastrophe every time.

It's not that I'm obsessive. I can let things go pretty easily (most of the time). Where for most working mothers, these 5 minutes of simmer time would be used for washing up some dishes, setting a table, or wiping up a snotty nose. But these five minutes for me are super unproductive. No matter the pile of dishes or piles of books, that simmering food and I make eye contact every 15 seconds, allowing my mind to be severely distracted from the secondary task at hand. It's just me and the food.

This can't be healthy behavior. Maybe it's really a big metaphor for how I'm physically unable to let my life just simmer, how I have to be constantly on the move. I refuse to stick to a pot, and therefore will not allow my food to be the same way. Oh gosh...thats deep.

Let's just pretend it's because I don't want my curry to burn.

Good thing I have a long time until I have to worry about being a helicopter parent.

Grown Up Goggles

I did what I told myself I wouldn’t do.


Of course, this is part of being human. How many thousands of people tell themselves that they’re going to lay off the cookies around holiday season, only to realize they’ve gained 10 pounds by New Years? How many people vow never to smoke, and then yet end up doing so anyway? Having expectations for ourselves is part of the human condition. Some people have too many, some people don’t have enough. Either way, we are all guilty of not meeting some of the ones that we set.

I guess in the grand scheme of things, it’s not too bad. It’s not like anyone got hurt. I just haven’t updated this puppy in a long time.
It’s not that I’ve stopped writing. I haven’t. I just haven’t published any of it. It seems too fragile, too cloudy and wispy. Essentially what I’m saying is that there’s no meat to anything that comes forth from my fingers anymore. Living a life where everyday you know that you are making a difference in the peoples lives around you, and coming back and sinking yourself in the isolated, crazy-hopping fastness of the American lifestyle: if makes life feel not as purposeful and thoughts not as…meaty.
I’m in the process of rediscovering the small joys in life, however insignificant they might be. It sounds strange, but I feel like I’ve lost my perspective. That’s like saying “I think I’ve lost my fingerprint” Isn’t a perspective something that is completely and uniquely your own? Well mine is missing. It used to be kinda quirky, somewhat insightful, and usually childlike in nature. Upon re-entry to life in the states, I feel like someone has hot-glued on some “grown-up goggles” to my face (no, no, no, not beer goggles…those are different).

Bills, rent, weekly grocery shopping, meal planning, two part-time jobs, full time grad school, exercise, general wellness?!?! what is this life?


Maybe they’ll crack.
Maybe I’ll sweat enough for the hot glue to lose its stickiness.
Or maybe someone or something will come along and just rip them off my face.

Dear Pappy...

I'm a teacher now. I told my students about you today. I passed around this picture of that time you and Grandma came to visit for my high school graduation. They all said that you look like a very friendly man. I told them about your love of gardening, and that you were a coal miner. They really identified with that as many of their parents are coal miners too. I told them about the peppers in your garden and all the vegetables and how we would pick them and eat them. I told them about how you built the house that you spent so many years of life in; they couldn't believe it. I also told them about how you would always take us to McDonald's, and how we would always come home from your house with a Beanie Baby, even though they were the stupidest things ever. I think you would really like my students. I know that they would adore you. Sometimes I daydream about what it would be like if you walked through the door while I was teaching someday. You'd probably have your picture taken more than you could handle, but I'm sure you would distribute the greatest free hugs they would ever receive in their lifetime.

I remember how you fell in love with Messiah the first time you came out to visit me. You were super impressed with the brickwork along the walkway. You, of all people, would know how that's done. You were genuinely impressed with the place and genuinely happy for me and I knew then and there that I was going to be ok: it had Pappy-approval.

Sometimes, it makes me really sad to think that my whole experience with China happened after you left. I never got to run it by you {although now that I think about it, you probably would have killed me} or share with you how much China means to me. I'm a really different person than who you last remember me as. I recognize now that I had so much to learn from you. I kinda blew that opportunity, I guess. I always did enjoy talking to you, more so I enjoyed listening to you. You just knew everything. Those early mornings at the breakfast table I'd watch you get fired up about politics or the latest happenings in town, and I knew that people should never mess with you. You're tough, Pap. I know we'd be great friends.

You would never admit this, but you're a hero. In fact, if I told you that you were a hero you'd probably tell me to "keep my trap shut" and punch my arm in the kindest and most loving way possible.

I still think about the last conversation we ever had. Granted, you were in a hospital bed, and I was on the other side of the state curled up in a fluffy chair. I think about that conversation every now and then, and you'd probably roll your eyes at me from all the drama that's ensued from that. You were never really one for drama, quite the king of keeping things real; it's a gift that you had. I'm growing into that, too. Maybe it's a genetic that just needs time to reveal itself. I want you to know that I'll never forget the last words that you said to me, and if anyone tries to mess with your granddaughter I'm pretty sure you'll come haunt them from the grave. I wouldn't put it past you. And I would hope that that threat would scare the shit out of whoever they are, because they don't know who they're dealing with.

Every once and awhile I write you a letter, just to let you know what's happening in my life [as if you don't know]. I know you'll never get them, but it makes me feel less crazy than just talking to you.

Just so you know, Grandma is still madly and deeply in love with you. We're taking care of her as best we can, but you seem to be the only thing in this world that truly made her happy. I guess it goes to show what and awesome and respected man you were. You two lovebirds…

I just wanted to remind you that I love you and I always will. 
There will never be another man like you in my life.

Always,

your Kayla Marie

Electrifying

Contrary to popular belief, I actually do have a little spare time on my hands while being in China. So I have this love of reading. My Kindle has been one of the greatest investments I ever made for myself for being abroad, and for my life. I'm currently in the process of reading a book entitled "Barefoot Church". I recommend it. I recommend reading Shane Claiborne's "Irresistible Revolutions" first, then read "Barefoot Church". You may not agree with all the points made, but it will certainly give you a lot to chew on.
I could go on and on about reading, but I won't. I just love it. I also have this love of being creative. The cool thing about blogging is that they incorporate both. Reading the writing of others inspires creativity, and admiring others creativity spurs on more creativity and all-around goodness. So I've spent some time recently browsing blogs and the writings of others, those who are my age, those who are in different areas of life, in different areas of the world. I couldn't help but notice a few things.

1: there is such a huge emphasis on possessions, things that people want that are on a "wish list" for the future or things [physical things] their lives will be incomplete without.
2: there is such a huge emphasis on self-empowerment and self-promotion.
3: there is such a huge emphasis on dating, finding true love, and giving anyone and everything a try.

1: I think the reality of how different my life is just hit. In fact, looking at these blogs and looking at these themes makes me nothing but sad. It makes me want to grab people by the shoulders and shake them in the most kind and loving way, awaking them to a greater reality and richness to life. Really? A wish list for the top ten purses you hope to own some day? This is what consumes your mind and your thoughts? I have a friend who is currently working in Palestine, witnessing modern-day Apartheid first hand. I guarantee you that purses are the last thing on her mind.
I understand that people have different values. Even here, on team, it's evident that we each have different priorities and values in our lives, which when working together compliment each other well. There is a richness in living life with people who are willing to give up everything they have for serving others. Yes, we have possessions and things to get by, we certainly do not go without, but people always come first. Our wish lists consist of opportunities to have significant conversations with students

2: In all honesty, I haven't been in a Barnes & Noble in 9 months, but I know that if you do go there it's clear to see that a primary focus of publishing companies is to feed into the narcissism of society and the betterment of self.  Again, I think about this and it makes me nothing but sad.  Who are you trying to impress? I would so much rather be looked upon with favor by the homeless population than any boss I ever work for. True greatness comes from humbling yourself but that idea and mindset is so against the norm of what we're told to believe it makes no logical sense. Society is telling and people are believing that they are the only ones who can help themselves. I know I would be laughed at if I piped up to say "that's not true", but the reality is that they probably wouldn't even hear me because their heads are too deep in the get-yourself-ready-for-a-boyfriend-without-needing-botox books. Unfortunately so many of them (mostly women) are trying to to prepare themselves for #3.

3: I don't really want to touch this one because I still have so many questions and moments of simply shaking my head, but I feel like I have to, so I'll be as brief as possible. How is that society has twisted our thinking to believe that you're not successful if you're single? How is it that in order to be deemed as worthy of having something to say, you must have a significant other in order for your voice to be heard? Most importantly, where is this pressure coming from? I'm not a hippie [although i do love me a good tie-dye shirt], but I proudly proclaim "let go and live". I simply cannot understand why so many women and men for that matter are simply consumed with finding a partner in order to fulfill their place in the world. The truth is that you still have a place in this world without that significant, so use the place that you have!  Sorry, that's my two second rant.

Culture shock is going to be electrifying.
Oh society, I have a bone to pick with you when I come back.

Long Story Short

My original thought:
"Surely I can have one blog that is devoted to purely China, and one blog that is about being a young adult."

That's just the issue. I cannot simply be "China" and be a "young adult" as two separate things. I originally thought that China would be an adventure, and though it certainly is that, it is not just a stand-alone adventure. It is an intricate and meaningful part of the story of this young adult. It will forever continue to be a a crucial chapter, causing significant turnings in the story of "life". To separate the two would be a complete disservice to both, creating a catch-22 of sorts. Neither story would be completely satisfied without the other. The person in China and the young adult need each other to best serve and interact with the surrounding people, both in China and in America. Now looking in hindsight, i realize the ridiculousness of the original thought as I truly had no idea how these 11 months would be changing me and my story.

Speaking of story, I recently read a phenomenal book that I highly recommend everyone to read. Pronto. You see there is this famous author named Donald Miller who wrote a famous book. People then wanted to make a movie out of it so as they are going through the movie-making process, he writes another book about the things he learns along the way. It's really quite intriguing and he does a fabulous job at articulating parts of humanity that we all intrinsically know, but have never spoken. The book is called "A Million Miles In A Thousand Years". It's a quick read, it'll probably take you four hours total. Just a chapter a night [well, you'll want to read more than one at a time…].

It's got me thinking a lot about story, which seems to be a major concept of life in this semester. You see, we're building a curriculum based off of story, teaching second language learners to tell their story, incorporate story in their everyday lives, and recognize the story of others. The theme of each class is illustrated in another story, usually [well, always] a parable from the books of Matthew, Mark, or Luke. It's been a fabulous opportunity for me as a teacher to re-evaluate these stories and tell them in my own way, and it's served as a wonderful teaching tool in class to have students engaging with language they rarely use.

Anyways, you'll be hearing more about that at another time I'm sure. Long story short (haha), read the book and tell me what you think!

Dream Story: Romance & Escalators

So a friend of mine has some occasional blog entries with dreams that she has had. Literal dreams. Very rarely do I remember my dreams, but I told myself, “Self, if you happen to remember one, write it down.”

It was a weird one. But I told myself I would.  So that’s what I’m doing.

I was going to teach my pronunciation and phonetics course. In my hands I carried a lesson plan and a romance novel. I had an entire lesson planned, talking about vowel sounds, the international phonetic alphabet, and activities for them to do. I got to class and instead chose to read to them from the romance novel [mind you, I’ve never read a romance novel in my life…]. The class began with them fully engaged, but as fifteen, thirty, forty minutes passed they lost interest, throwing paper planes and texting on their phones. Even though I was aware of this I didn’t stop them or try to get their attention… I just kept reading. The bell sounded for a 5-minute break and something snapped in me, remembering the original lesson plan that was prepared.

“Class”, I said, “use this 5 minutes to prepare. When I come back, you’re going to have a little quiz”. And with that I darted out of the room.

I “remembered” that I had left their quizzes and their homework on my desk in the office. I was running down the hall to grab it, but my legs were an extra twenty pounds heavier. No matter how long of strides that I took, I couldn’t seem to reach the office. I tried to take a different route. I hung right. Instead of the corridor that is usually there, I entered a shopping mall, complete with people of all ethnicities, ages, and languages. I had to get to the office. I rounded corners, dodging babies in strollers and people with bulging bags.

I came to an escalator. Something in me told me that what I really wanted was so close. Something familiar and something that I needed was nearby. I quickly glanced all around, frantic, and hoping to find it. I wasn’t satisfied. In a panic I hopped on the escalator going down. I rode it for a long long time. Getting impatient, I began charging down, hopping over babies and diaper bags. I was still in the mall, so I chose an ally of stores to pursue. As I kept looking the crowd became less and less dense. I came upon my team leader, Dan, who was window shopping at what seemed to be a medieval sorcery store [which, if you know Dan, is not surprising at all.]. Panting and weak-legged I asked him in a super desperate manor “Dan, where is God?”

Super casually, Dan pointed upstairs. “Oh Kayla, you just missed Him. If you go up the escalator and hang right, His place is right on the end of the hallway.”

…and then I woke up.

Whats gotten into me?

I told myself i wouldn't do it. I told myself that I wouldn't let a month go by without updating my personal blog. Not while in China, because China is personal.

But I did it. I slipped up. I failed my personal expectations. It wouldn't be the first time.

But then I was looking upon some other writings and things of the like, and I realized that they are more personal in nature. And my mommy always tole me to share. So I figured I would do just that. In case you haven't gotten a chance to read up on what's happening on this side of the world, THIS is my life from January, and THIS is my life from February.

I'll do better next time, I promise.

It's just funny.

“It’s just funny”

That’s something those closest to me are accustomed to hearing, as it is often my excuse for bursting into a random fit of giggles.  Caught up in the world solely visible to me, replaying humorous events or envisioning possible interactions and encounters, out of my gut bubbles noises of delight. Of course, these bubbles overtake my being and entrance me to continuously laugh to the point at which I can’t remember the original entrancement. When left to explain myself, I often end up with a lack of words, and wonderful ‘memories’ that never happened.

It’s just funny.

How is it that you can be somewhere, but feel like you’re somewhere else? Caught in the purgatory between darkness and dreamland, my mind can take me to dozens and dozens of places, as rapid as film in a movie player. How is it that I can be laying in a bed in China, but feel my father shuffling down the hall? How is it that I can smell the kitchen on Old Ivy, or feel the cool counter tops in the tips of my fingers while laying in a bed, 7,000 miles away? What does it mean when I can feel someones hand in mine who is on the other side of the world? It’s just funny what our memory allows us to remember, and what it makes us forget. I am continually surprised by the vividness that is created and experienced, trapped behind my eyes, electronically firing through neurons.

It’s just funny.

My mind, when left to wander, will come up with completely ridiculous and unrealistic scenarios on its own. It is not a dog, it cannot be taken to Training School. It is not diseased and Ritalin won’t do a thing. My mind quickly and efficiently creates its own sagas and soap operas, most of which end in tears exploding from my face in needing to say goodbye to one whom I hold dear. Some of which involve re-living instances of the past and changing a thing or six. Still yet some of them involve achieving, reaching for a particular goal which the figment of my imagination wanted, but not me. Once in a leap year, they end with a happily ever after.

It’s just ...funny.

A Little Hint

Dear men who would like to date me,

If you’re looking for a way to steal my heart, let me give you a hint: take me to a place with water and lights. Preferably to a place where one could see the reflection of lights on the water. Deal=sealed.

Theres something purely magical about lights and water. I don’t know if that’s something that years of Disney has installed in me, or it it’s actually something so beautiful that it makes us as humans want it and crave it.

Our team found ourselves wandering the streets of Guangzhou and we came across lights and water and a skyline that made our jaws drop and makes cooing sounds escape from our mouths. Entranced would be the proper term to describe exactly what happened. We were captivated by the artistic and mystical atmosphere that was created by lush palm trees, pods of water that sprouted lanterns and lights, illuminated greenery, and a warm and gentle breeze. Together we joked that our hearts were stolen and never going back to the frozen tundra that we came from.

…don’t worry, we will.