clarahsu – Page 33

Angel At The Sidewalk

Dore and I don’t like to make plans when we travel. As a result we get stuck sometimes in foreign places without a place to stay. In the fall of 2006 we were on our way to Ayder, a mountain resort, but needed to change bus at Pazar, a seaside town in the Black Sea region of Turkey. The connecting bus never came, and we were stuck standing at the bus stop watching an approaching storm.

A group of men gathered around us but none of them spoke English. A couple of them ran away and came back with someone who did. He explained to us that the nearest hotel was quite far and we needed to find a taxi to go there. As we hesitated a young Kurd stepped forward. The man who spoke English told us this man, Fuat was offering his home to us.

“Yes. Thank you.” I said immediately, and we followed Fuat and his friend up the hill to a big apartment complex. Fuat lived on the 8th floor. There was no elevator.

Bustling activities ensued as soon as we entered Fuat’s apartment. His mother started making rice. His wife showed us their newborn twin babies. His friend went back down to the market to buy milk and cheese and bread. With a mixture of English, Turkish and Arabic and lots of hand gestures we managed to communicate through the evening.

Fuat showed us a little room with two beds. I listened to the babies during the night and the gentle creaking sound of the wood cradles.

“I have to give something in return.” I told Dore in the morning. I had nothing meaningful to give, so I wrote a poem for Fuat.

I read it to Fuat after a hearty breakfast. He took the poem with a big smile. The window panes were wet with rain. The storm had arrived and we were on our way.

A Crow Comes Back

I hear him cawing outside my bathroom window. It’s the first time I sense life in our backyard since the trees and shrubs were brutally hacked away a few months ago by an insensitive workman. The caw—AHH, AHH, AHH—always three times, as if the crow insists that I should come out.

“Hello.” I call. Then surprisingly, a string of musical notes runs up a scale. Is it by the same crow? He caws again. Yes, it is.

The air outside is warm and balmy, rare for us who live up on the San Francisco hill. My black and shiny feathered friend hops down the street when he finds me watching him. I say hello again. He cocks his head. I wish I know bird talk.

The Good Bread

I used to bake bread, especially on cold wintry days. The smell of yeast had a way of making the slow waking sun tolerable. Sticky dough made pliable from kneading—flour, water, flour, water—then rest. Watched it rise in the warm oven, a miracle every time, rise high so that I might punch it down. When the bread was baked the aroma wafted down the hallway into other people’s apartments. I shared my bread with my neighbors.

Somehow a change of lifestyle brought bread making to a stop. The process is too slow. The attention span required is too long. Neighbors are not down the hall but across the street. They can’t smell the good smell.

Not that there is a lack of good bread in the bakeries. They are fanciful, delicious and available in many complex flavors, far superior than the simple wheat or white breads that I made. Only that something is amiss, and I don’t think about it too much, except once in a great while.

At the Wheel

It takes at least one accident for a beginning driver to snap in gear. My son ran my car into a tree. My daughter totaled her father’s car. Luckily neither of them sustained any physical damages. The experience jolted them out of reverie and into reality. No amount of preaching on their parents part can do such an effective job.

I must have been dosing when my car scraped against a big rig. It woke me but it didn’t stop me from being reckless. I liked my solo trips down I-5, driving in the fog, seeing only a faint hint of red in front. And in the pouring rain, and on windy days when tumble weeds flew across the highway.

A young friend fell asleep at the wheel and was killed on the road on her birthday. I have stopped going to LA a long time ago.

The Power of Wishing

Be careful of what you wish for because it might just come true. When something is realized it does not necessarily contain what you have imagined it to be. When we wish we have an extremely narrow focus. What we get comes in a package with dynamics that we might not be prepared for and when that happens, we’re in for a surprise.

Wishing is transmitting a thought, like putting a message in a bottle and throwing it into the ocean. In the sea of humanity it drifts until someone catches the sight of it. In this unseen paradigm channels open up and gifts are given. Am I speaking in tongues?

The infatuation in a new relationship and the expectation of having a perfect child are two examples that come to mind. Perhaps wishing is a continuous lesson, that what we receive is never of a single dimension, but always in abundance.

Mom of the Tattoo Expo

On my daughter Julia’s 18th birthday we went to the San Francisco Tattoo Expo. She wanted to have a butterfly on the back of her neck and I was to have a tattoo done on my arm at the same time to commemorate her coming of age. We were the first ones to arrive at the Cow Palace. We wanted to check out each artist, compare prices before we made a commitment.

Some of the artists were burly big guys. Some looked like punk rockers and others seemed tribal and shamanistic. I looked at the tattoos on their bodies and just couldn’t connect with any of them. After making a complete round Julia and I settled on a Japanese lady. She was young and beautiful. Her long black hair reached below her waist. Her arms were covered with the most delicate and gorgeous designs. Her husband (also had long black hair) was working on a client. The artwork on his body had a similar style. We fell in love with the couple.

When the Japanese lady started working on Julia more people began to come into the venue. Some stopped to watch and chat. Many gasped when I told them I was there for my daughter . They pulled up their shirts or pants and showed me their tattoos. They told me stories of how furious their mothers were and some to the extent of disowning them when they found out about their tattoos. There were tears, still, and sorrow, and anger, and resentment after decades; all because of a permanent design on the body.

I was hugged and kissed and congratulated all day by strangers who seemed to have found some comfort in my presence. They didn’t care about the intricate butterfly that was slowly emerging on Julia’s back. They wanted me to be their mom. And I was, for a few moments in their lives.

I Can Read This

missingpiece — The Missing Piece by Shel Silverstein

My sister Gloria ran a child care business in Perth, Australia, for over ten years. When my children were small she came back to San Francisco occasionally to visit. One time, instead of bringing them stuffed platypus and sheep skin slippers, she bought them a book of poetry.

“Poetry?” I asked, skeptical about her gift. No one in my house had ever read poetry.

“Yes, the kids in my center love it.”

It was Shel Silverstein’s The Missing Piece. I don’t remember my children’s reaction to the book, but I was completely drawn into the page-turning story and the simplicity of the illustrations. After taking the whole book in one gulp I paused to take a breath.

“Amazing.” I told my sister. “I can read this.”

And a seed was planted in me.

Ingesting Happiness

Dore once asked me how to buy vegetables. I gave him one rule: they have to look happy. The state of happiness is not to be confused with largeness in size and uniformity. I’m dubious about bloated apples and giant beets. I wonder why all the eggs in my carton look the same. What kind of hens lay eggs that are so consistent in size and color? How are tomatoes manipulated during their growth so they can be fitted into plastic trays like buttons?

Happiness is defined by the presence of an energetic pulse, not the lack of blemish on the appearance. Happiness does not stack well. It tends to stretch out and take up space. It has individuality and it is contagious. When I find myself smiling in front of a vegetable I must consider taking it home and eating it. Ingesting happiness? Yes, why not?

In the Moment

As I sit thinking, each moment passes me by. I’m blessed with many moments. Some are dramatic, productive and creative. Most wither away without me giving them a thought. I don’t think one can add all the moments in one’s life and average them out to see if it is a life well lived. And if I keep asking myself whether in this particular moment I’m living to the fullest, I’ll have a nervous breakdown.

The mind makes decisions and accesses situations. The body is dictated by the biological clock. Even if the mind is sharp, the body deteriorates. To accept each moment of being to be totally whole without the baggage of the past is something I find myself working toward.

“We cannot go back.” My step-brother Richard and I discussed over dinner. “Conditions change and we change with them. You cannot put things on hold. It has to be now or never.”

Image by Jooli.