And the final tally is ...

Now that we finally, for the first time in our marriage, have everything we own in one place, we have made the startling discovery that some 80% of our possessions are either books or dishes. Which is not that surprising, really, given that reading and eating (and feeding people) are the things we most love and value, and are at the heart of our two professions. But still, unpacking the 29th Blue Willow dinner plate last night--even I started to feel like maybe it was too much (maybe? he says kindly, with a sidelong glance). 3 full sets of dishes (More than full. 29 plates counts as more than full, right?) here, with more coming in the shipment.

Which goes a long way towards explaining why we are not yet even close to settled, much less organized. When you have this many dishes, and lots of books and clothes besides (in short, lots of stuff) but not lots of places to put things, then you just have piles. Piles waiting for shelves and dressers to show up at garage sales, piles waiting for clothes hangers and baskets to arrive in the shipment. And little else makes me as crazy as piles.

Luckily I have these kiddos to keep me sane (who am I kidding?) smiling.

where we are right now

After a day spent playing "mover," carting empty boxes all around this house, piling them on the first on the futon, then on the floor, first driving a moving truck, then driving a ship, Finn and I had this poignant bedtime conversation:

Me: So what are you thankful for tonight, buddy?

Finn: I'm thankful for Ohio.

Me: Oh, me too. I'm thankful for Ohio too. Anything else?

Finn: I'm thankful for Hong Kong. Do you love Hong Kong, or not?

Me: Oh, I love Hong Kong.

Finn: But you love Ohio.

Me: You can love more than one place, Finn. You can love both Ohio and Hong Kong.

Finn: (pause) Ooooooooh, ok.

And that was that. He turned over and went to sleep. My heart aches a bit--and is proud at the same time--at how early he is learning that the heart can expand to love so many places, that the idea of home can be big and wide. And now, my dearest hope is for some stability to give him a deep rootedness as well. Deep and wide. Like that fountain of old, may the waters of our home be deep enough for love and joy to take a strong hold and wide enough for grace to pour through, welcoming others to come on in, and not afraid to look outward.

Summer wrap up

Clearly, summer, blogging and I don't mix. Somehow the travel, the change in schedule and the lack of routine just nix any desire to sit in front of a computer. Perhaps gorgeous summer weather plays a part as well?

It's certainly not due to a lack of beautiful images or simple pleasures. Our summer has been chock full of things like homemade fishing poles, one-man parades, playing in sprinklers, visiting farms, eating as much bbq and as many cherry limeades as possible, acclimating our girl to grass (not a Hong Kong baby anymore) and introducing her to all sorts of lip-smackingly good foods. And a wedding! Did I tell you there was a wedding? With a cake ... that I made. Nothing like getting back into the baking with a bang. Oh, and boxes. So many boxes. Boxes in Hong Kong (yet to arrive), boxes in both Minnesota and Kansas, all those boxes now in Ohio, more boxes coming.

It's not due to a lack of reflection, either. In fact, these summer visits home offer such contrast to our HK life that I am almost too full of thoughts, and at the same time, too full of gratitude for the simplicity of life here to want to dissect it very thoroughly. Add in the jetlag and the exhaustion from helping children sleep in unfamiliar beds and I guess I just don't have the energy to try to articulate it. So there you have it. A third straight summer of near blog silence.

But we're here now. Hudson, Ohio. We've arrived and unpacked (sort of). We have a car and OH licenses and we've even got a bit of a routine. Which means that my desire to share all these experiences is returning.

I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do with this blog. I've got a few more HK Alphabet posts in the pipeline along with a few parenting things from the spring that I want to post, mainly for my own archival tendencies. But after that ... these clearly aren't "Notes from an escalator" any longer. Notes from a sidewalk, perhaps, given how much walking we can do in this little town of ours. Notes from a village? They refer to it as "the village." We'll see.

Leaving

It's official. It's happening. We're really leaving. As if all the farewells and parties and the constant lump in the back of my throat weren't enough to convince me, now I know it's true. They came yesterday to take away the boxes, others come today to pick up donations and freebies, and then on Friday morning they will take away our keys. And we will pay the taxi fare with our last bits of Hong Kong cash, we will pass through immigration with our Hong Kong identity cards for the last time, and we will board a plane.

All these "lasts" are killing me. Really now, to choke up over the last time I wash the mugs we've drunk tea out of for three years, the last time I fold Finn's bright red sheet? --(all of which are getting donated.) It's silly, I know, to get so attached to physical things, but attached I do. These items hold memories for me so profoundly that I have to remind myself over and over that letting go of the object doesn't mean letting go of the memory.

I have been a mess of mixed-up emotions for weeks now--sometimes (surprisingly) fighting panic as I think about leaving here and returning to the states. The panic stems in part, I'm sure, from all the newness, all the transitions facing our little family in the next few months. But in rereading early blog posts, I found something that explains it even more. You see, we talked a lot about this move (to Hong Kong) as a chance to step off the escalator (ironic, I know, given the blog's name.)

Despite the fast pace and direction of Hong Kong culture, it very much was a slow-down time for us. We took a sabbatical from any volunteer commitments, and simply tended to our child, ourselves, our discovery of a new city and culture, and our own thoughts. It was a chance to think and discern and figure out our life's direction, and it was wonderful. We have learned so very much about other people and other ways of doing things (parenting, teaching, living) and so very much about ourselves. And slowly, slowly, a dream has emerged for us. A sense of call--though it's scary to name it as such. A life vision.

And so going back to America? Yes, there is excitement about all the good things awaiting us--family, a yard, a new community, an oven. (An oven!) And yes, there is excitement about starting real work on our dream. But there's also that panicky anxiety about stepping back on the proverbial escalator. Will we just get so caught up in everyday life that we stop noticing the beauty around us? Will we still have the luxury of so much time together? Will we stop thinking and talking about our dream once we have to change the oil in the car and vacuum a whole house and mow the lawn?

Part of this has to do with the difference between living somewhere temporarily and living there on a long-term basis. When you are temporary, you notice more, you see all the strange and wonderful things, and when you get into a rut (as we all do)--there's always something to shake you out of it. Some new island to hike, a new restaurant to discover, a new street to explore. But while you may make friends quickly, you also don't engage on quite the same level. It was easy to not volunteer, to not seek out opportunities, knowing our time was short.

 And though I feel a pull towards the depth of knowing a place (not just noticing it) and of involving myself with people and putting effort into issues that matter to me, I'm frightened, too. I'm frightened of the time it will take, frightened by the barrage of volunteer requests that come from joining an organization. A little frightened of boredom, knowing that we hope to stay in Ohio a good long time.

So all of that is very real, yes. But mostly right now we feel confident that we are making the right move, at peace with the transitions required, so very grateful for our time and lives here, and profound sadness at leaving. This is Willa's first home, after all. And where Finn has lived most of his life. My mama friends here have helped me grow into motherhood, have prayed with me when things were tough and celebrated the little victories with me too. So I expect that little lump will be with me for a few more days yet. And that's ok. As someone once told me, feeling sad about leaving just means you lived well there. And that we have.

HK Alphabet :: T :: Tea-drinker, tailor, trams go by ...

T :: Tea
Our first year here, I found myself in an enormous, industrial-sized lift, going up to the 12th floor of an old factory building on Shipyard Lane. Next to a noisily functioning printing press, I found an oasis of beauty and quiet, all dedicated to the art of tea. I was at the time--and still am--a tea amateur, knowing very little about what makes for artisan-quality tea.

(photo by Chip Smith, my brother!)

And yet, I have become sufficiently enamored with the process of brewing and enjoying tea, Chinese-style, and I have enough respect for anyone with this much dedication and passion for a gustatory pleasure, that I was instantly in love. Vivian, the owner of said oasis (Ming Cha teahouse), trained as an artist in Chicago and lived there for awhile before coming back and pouring all that training into the harvesting and sharing of good tea. And now, hers is the first tea to be included in a Slow Food Convention in Italy.

I drank tea with her, and we talked. I eventually took a class, learning how to taste and evaluate the aroma, color and flavor of tea. I learned about monkey-pick tea (it's a myth) and discussed the pairing of chocolate and tea. We even discussed my making pastries for the tea shop, paired to match the teas. (Which would have been great, but the logistics just never worked out.) 

And while I'm glad for the knowledge--what little of it I've retained--it is still, for us, all about the simple pleasure of making and sipping tea. We have a favorite tea house, and the gentle, calming rituals of the servers never fails to soothe. It's the attention to small details that is so comforting, I think--the precise temperature of water, of cup, of tea; the washing and rinsing of the tea leaves, of the cups and the pots; the abundant pouring of water ("filled to the brim and even over the brim"). And then, of course, the tiny cups, so that all that work and attention is magnified instead of lost, as it would be in a mug. The whole process focuses and magnifies our attention as well, so that it is impossible to continue in a conversation or send a text or even read. It is, quite simply, a wonderful way of being together with another person--the pouring, steeping and sipping of tea. 

T :: Tailor

Hong Kong is famous for its tailors, particularly for men, and many advertising the famous 24-hour suit. Even though having a suit made is considered a "must-do" for tourists of a certain stripe, it's something the locals do as well. We've sent visitors out to experience it before, but we've only just now gotten around to doing it ourselves, since Matt will be sporting a coat and tie daily in his new job.

He tried both the tourist version (pricy, good English, comfortable storefront and ample discussion of the options) and the local version (minimal English, little discussion, hidden away and cramped storeroom, much less expensive.) We don't know the final results yet for the suit and jackets, but Matt is a convert on the shirts. Even though it's no less expensive than buying shirts off-the-rack, I'm not sure he'll be able to go back. No matter, since a feature of all these tailors is that they retain your measurements indefinitely, allowing you to call and order more to be shipped overseas. Some even take worldwide "tours"--stopping in New York and Paris and Rome--for measurements to be updated. Which means that I think we have future presents for Matt all sewn up.

T :: trams

The tram is yet one more slow form of travel in Hong Kong that we love, particularly for all it's anachronisms: the little bell, the wood, the slow, slow pace, and the low, low price. It's easy and direct, though, and if you can ignore the fumes from all the traffic below, it's a very pleasant way to see the city.

T :: 23
I know, I know, "T" has been epic. Enough already, huh? But I need to give at least a slight nod to the 23, our favorite busline in all of Hong Kong, the one that has shuttled us back and forth to church, to HK Park, to friends' homes in the mid-levels, and to all those baby classes Finn and I took our first year here. He has logged many hours of naps on this line, and looking out the second-floor windows, with a sleeping child on my lap, is how I discovered this city. 

HK Alphabet :: S

S :: Star Ferry

To get from Hong Kong Island over to Kowloon, you have several options: road (underwater tunnel), train, or the Star Ferry. Guidebooks regularly call the Star Ferry "one of the most scenic ferry crossings in the world" or some other such superlative description. I don't know if any of that's true, having little basis for comparison. But I do know that any chance I get to ride on the Star Ferry, I take it.

First, some geography. Not everyone realizes that Hong Kong proper is actually an island, while Kowloon and the New Territories are on the mainland. (Mainland China, that is.) Lantau, Lamma--these are also islands, and there are some 200+ more. Which means that there are lots of ferries plying Victoria Harbor and the South China Sea, along with sampans, junks, and yachts--all of which we have had the great pleasure of enjoying in our years here.

But the Star Ferry is special. Perhaps because it is not primarily a pleasure boat, but simply a means of transportation, a commuting vessel. (Once upon a time, of course, it was the only option for commuting across the harbor.) And what a way to commute! A few minutes of slow travel, a few minutes of gentle lilting and a beautiful skyline.

It is, unfortunately, but a few minutes. It used to be longer--20 minutes, at least, when my dad used it for his daily commute 40+ years ago. But they've been reclaiming land like mad, growing Central out into the harbor, and so consequently the ride has gotten shorter and shorter.

The boats themselves are lovely too, as from a different, more gracious era, from the stars on the seats to the wood floors. But my favorite feature on these iconic green and white ferries? The seat backs that flip back and forth, so that you can always face front, no matter which way the boat is going. And while there is certainly value in a rower's claim that you can only steer your course by watching where you've come from (as this blog, in fact, helps us to do) there is equal validity in facing the future boldly. And perhaps for me now, in these days of nolstalgia and farewells, facing front is what I most need to do.

A trip

Two weeks ago, I got back from a trip. It was a hard trip to take--at least, a hard trip to leave for. I had to be talked into it, by my husband, my family, my friends.

Because, you see, I was leaving them behind. Traveling with a fellow mama-friend, leaving the kids with the dads, and going to Beijing.

It was, honestly, as much about the getting away as the going. Getting much-needed sleep, letting Willa bond with Matt, simply being my own person again for a few days.

But we were surprised by Beijing--it's a pleasant, attractive city. Tree-lined sidewalks, wide avenues, and low-rise buildings all contribute to a welcome feeling of spaciousness (welcome compared to Hong Kong. Though after a few days it just felt like sprawl.)

Beijing is full of beautiful architectural details, serene gardens, weeping willows along the banks of lakes, and brightly lit red lanterns. There are babies with split pants toddling around, men with their shirts rolled up, and lots and lots of young adults (though noticeably few young children and pregnant women.) We saw very obvious plainclothes policemen all over Tianenamen Square and the Forbidden City (we were there on June 4), and security cameras everywhere.

Heaps of gorgeous cherries are sold from carts along the road, all sorts of foods are sold on a stick (MN State Fair, eat your heart out). Meat mooncakes made me take back every mean thing I've said about a mooncake. Haunting flute music drifted through the parks, luring us time and again to find the source. (We finally did, and were convinced to buy not only some recorded music but even a flute.) Tea taken under a mulberry tree with songbirds in bamboo cages overhead was the perfect restoration after hiking the Great Wall.

But of course, when one is a mama, especially a nursing mama, you never completely leave the kids behind. We were, both my friend and I, attached to our breastpumps multiple times a day, both to relieve the pain and to keep up the milk supply for our return. And while it certainly made me anxious to watch the supply dwindle day by day, now that it has returned I can exult in how amazing our bodies are, adapting so quickly to whatever is asked.

It was a short trip, and we didn't even see all the highlights of Beijing, much less the hidden, tucked away sights. But it was good, in the getting away, the going, and the coming back. You can't ask for much more than that.