Sweet Mint

Last night, I e-mailed my students some handouts to help them study their vocabulary. I opened my inbox this morning to find this precious note from a student in response.

It is the time to Leave from u.

I'm so sad

I'm will miss u, my teacher.

I hope u have lovely students who won't make u feel bad.

Take care...


Some of them really are sweeter than I could have hoped for. This one is, anyway. Her nickname is Mint.

(It's Friday in Thailand. 17 days till I hit the road, Jack.)

you are 17, going on 18

Probably, if I were older and wiser, I would tell myself not to take myself so seriously.

I know that He's for me.

I’m actually starting to tear up a little bit here, which is surprising to me. On Monday, I was remarking to myself on the fact that I haven’t really cried in awhile. There was that moment in class last Tuesday—last day for one of my sections—when I was so frustrated with the students and my inability to control them that I nearly cried, but was able to hold it off completely. I’m sure that’s a good thing—that I kept myself from crying in class—but I can’t help but think that I have become more calculated with my emotions since coming to Thailand and that it doesn’t seem fitting with my natural character. At the beginning, or during the middle of my time here, when I still wasn’t sure what to make of the place and didn’t quite feel good or happy (when do we truly feel those things anyway?), I felt as though I were lying to people when they asked me how I liked Thailand. “I like it,” I always answered. Could I really say that I didn’t like it? I mean, when is the point where we just break everything down and tell it to each other straight? Do I have to know you for a long time before I can trust that you will not try to force me to feel something different than I currently feel? If I’m unhappy now, for example, can’t I just say that and have someone listen. That’s it? Trust that God is working in me—and that my honesty signifies His work already in progress?

I guess I feel out of touch with my true feelings. On Monday, my first official day off from teaching, I made some vague, sweeping statements while on the phone with a friend about “patterns of behavior” as well as patterns of thought that I think I’m falling into (again, as before—because I’m so redundant). The vagueness may have been linked to my seeming lack of connection to my actual feelings. Maybe even my lack of connection to reality. After talking with my friend, already feeling down about myself, I went to FBT, a local sporting goods store, in search of a few clothing items. The employees there sent me to The Mall (which is actually the name of a department store) when they didn’t have what I was looking for. As soon as I got in the taxi, the driver said, “Madam go The Mall everyday.” For some reason, this statement—or maybe, assumption—made me feel worse than before about myself. Days like that are days when my whole foreignness overwhelms me: my inability to communicate with the taxi driver—except to tell him to go to The Mall and to respond to his statement—, the isolation of being alone in a crowded shopping center on a work day when I already feel a little guilty for not working and not knowing what to do with myself, the fact that I was one in a handful of Westerners and ripe for staring Thai’s, the disorienting experience of low blood sugar in an unfamiliar place, the desire to stay away from my place of residence for as long as possible and the other fear of having to get back to that place all alone, etc. It kind of seems as if I just got here, doesn’t it? That, and I seem a little paranoid or anxious or both.

Anyway, during one of those low blood sugar moments while I waited for my lunch to be ready at a restaurant, I decided that I wanted to process my feelings—and the best way to do that would be to go see a movie, where I could stop moving for a bit and stop appearing in the light among people who I would suspect were wondering what I was doing in Thailand anyway. Where, perhaps, I could even cry without anyone noticing. What delusions. I mean, sure, part of it was true—part of my feelings of disorientation and fear of leaving The Mall alone with the combating and simultaneous fear of staying in the mall walking in circles without aim were calmed in the 2 hour movie period—but trying to process anything is rather futile while watching a film if you’re actually going to pay attention. And crying? Come on, not with a movie like Jumper! Can you believe that was my best film option at the time?

I know this post has been ultra-self-focused and I’m not pleased with that; but I think I just keep trying to avoid reality and that this is one of those times where coming clean about my feelings and my confusions and about my sins—my addictions, even—is something that I need to do. I believe that confession is necessary. Confession in some way, shape, or form is a necessary step in finding wholeness in the Lord—the only one who can make me whole. Truly and forever whole.

I want to be real—but I keep feeling as if I somehow have to keep concealing things about my use of time, about my thoughts, etc. Keep secret, for example, the fact that I also can’t remember the last day that I DIDN’T watch a movie. My mind is full of garbage—or so it feels. I mean, I know I am covered by the blood of the Lamb. He has already made me whole. He alone can purge my mind like I need it to be purged of all the garbage that I keep shoving inside—but recently I haven’t felt as though I could be this open about my sins—even my addictions (really what this movie thing is)—with those around me. Most of the time, I can hardly communicate. And otherwise, these things don’t seem like as big of deals as they really are to me. I mean, even if a bit dramatic-sounding, I feel ill about these things—if I feel that I am not quite in control of my behavior, am I not a slave to something? [Am I going crazy? I don’t blame you if you haven’t made it through reading this post.]

Maybe you won’t agree with the latter part of this, but I know my salvation is not something to be taken lightly and I believe that every action means something--every action is also not to be taken lightly. And I know I am not bound to laws of holy living or any of that, but that grace and grace alone has redeemed me. I know that I cannot earn anything, that there is no need to try; but these are all things known in my head. My heart right now is distant—and I want to believe that Jesus takes me seriously and that He too takes my concerns and my feelings of enslavement to unholy things seriously. He doesn’t judge me, which is remarkable. I also want to know that when I take this stuff seriously, I'm not deluded. He doesn't judge me. He hasn't judged me. If God is for me, who can be against me?

Thanks for reading, if you made it.

A poem from today, minus all the spaces between lines.

(TIME-MIRRORED MIRACLES)

as children of blue

over-alls, syrup- and honey-dark hair,

each one clasped with stems and a sun beam barrette

—chinny up, dimpled cheeks; keep

lips open for this

is life, choice, and when

your thoughts leak from the shingles

(rain upon rain as you open the skies)

our jaws fall ajar, so

we sling back the secrets:

sweet-tasting, water-wine mirrors time

(miracles mirrored in time)—

at midnight we sing of the daylight allowed

when we disallow your absence to brew—

and it goes or so can be gone (in time) in

One

—now

to know it forever: these secrets

of love and how to receive it

(as children in time-

mirrored miracles,
we do)

DESPITE ME, HE IS.

zzzzzzzzz.

Evaluating seems more difficult than I had imagined. Evaluating the 9+ months I've been here; evaluating my teaching experience (one teaching day to go!); evaluating my growth as an individual--spiritually, mentally, etc. I'm beginning to try, realizing that there will be questions upon my return of what this experience has meant for me. Beginning an answer now is better than having none when I'm back, despite the fact that the answer will undoubtedly change as time goes on.

Life goes on.

Today my friend received her first word of acceptance for a graduate program in the US, so we must all congratulate her. If she's reading, here's a big sweeping congratulations from the other side of the wall and the world, perhaps. And I'm SO happy for you, N! Congratulations again!


Onto other news: I injured my knee for the seventh or more time over the past month in my attempt to become a runner. I succeeded with four miles, but later found my limp too hard to conceal and today's training too ambitious. Drats. I thought I was really onto something with the running thing. Please, please, your suggestions for knee pain remedies are welcome! Home remedies? Hit me.

The other thing, because this is starting sound like a journal entry anyway, is that I got my first letter of non-acceptance to a graduate program in the US tonight. One down, four more decisions to wait on. I picked up the letter just before dinner this evening with my aforementioned friend and another friend. I, of course, neglected to mention the non-acceptance (which, as you may have noticed, I am refusing to call a rejection, hence the terribly difficult job it would be to select applicants) at dinner. I'm posting the news here perhaps because I am wanting to stop with all of the silence. I am wanting to start talking again and to start living, or resume living. I am wanting someone to tell, though also to have that time with my own reaction before I can listen to the world.

I am wanting to rejoice in the Lord--His goodness--His perfect plan for my life and yours, which is not to harm us, but to give us a hope and a future. I am wanting to become His vulnerable servant--I am wanting to pierce the silence that lingers within conversations of hopelessness, where I have good news to share. I am wanting to know that this has meaning. That these moments are not utterly meaningless, though perhaps in the Ecclesiastical view they really are.

And it feels as if I have been running away, or running alone--trying--for some days, some weeks; that I am needing to learn, like every year before, the faithfulness of the Lord. His presence in my life despite my feelings or lack thereof. Despite my rebellion; my apathy; my inertness.

Despite me, He is and always is.
Always was, always will be.

Don't say that later will be better; now you're stuck in a moment and you can't get out of it. -U2

I'm up--planning to stay up--past my bedtime because this is the last week of classes, and I'm so behind in grading.

I just read Stephen Bryant's The Story of the Internet, whose language was made simpler by Penguin Reader's Series for language learners. The internet and the world wide web are fascinating subjects to learn about, I'll say. Now I'm ready with questions for tomorrow's fifth, last, "Reading Journal." But will the students be allowed to use their books?

Now, only not just now, I feel like I've been a poor respondent to the readers of my blog--presuming I still have at least three readers.

Feel like I've been hiding some; feel like this is part of the pattern I live out day to day/month to month.

If you find yourself here on your Sunday in the States, or even anytime throughout your week, please pray for me regarding the work and things that haven't been mentioned. And for teaching: it's the last week of classes, but there are still assignments we're behind on, some of which I'm not even sure we can complete before the week is up.

Two classes finish on Tuesday. Oh boy. Holiday, Thursday. Two more finish on Friday.

Four weeks left in Bangkok.

And I have surprises waiting!

Much love and appreciation for you all, to you all.

wheels

................................SOMETIMES, FALLING, I FIND THAT...

I’m snagged in the spokes of a Works mentality.

Guilt motivates deeds, which motivate guilt, which is never enough.

With legs immobile, wheels keep spinning.

I’m not sure—is this rebellion? Lying here with my pants still hinged?



With legs immobile, guilt keeps spinning.



I'm snagged in the spokes of a Deeds mentality.



I'm not sure--is this rebellion? Lying here with my wheels still hinged?

........What do you think of the one-line stanzas? Are they strong enough lines to stand alone?

V-Day

There's a gang in one of my classes.

I guess these four girls are only a few in their whole gang, but the fact that they think of themselves as a gang, just a clique, a non-violent group of girls in college, seems foreign to me. The Pink Gang (their name) is probably much like a sorority, only without dues and organized events, parties, charities, etc. Nonetheless cliquey.

My Happy Valentine's Day greetings, after my Filipino friend May sang her "Happy Heart Day" to me at 5 this morning, came largely from the Pink Gang.

They each gave me a little, wilting red rose with a pink ribbon tied around its stem. Another of the girls in my class left and reappeared to hand me a big red heart balloon, probably purchased right outside the classroom. When this girl said it was from her, each of the Pink girls chimed in, "It's from me. It's from me, too."

Then came the batting of the eyes and the pleading: "Teacher, I want to pass Eng I. Please, teacher. I want to pass." Cheeky smile.

Happy V-Day to you, too.


One week of classes left with a Thursday holiday. What?

i'm considering using footnotes. think it'd be too weird?

MEDITATION / how far removed
from me, you, the Body

if (that far stretching) skin over a body
—what body?
of knowledge
—then what knowledge?
east – Pacific – west – Atlantic – east – Indian – waves
of difference, to which we ask, what differs?
from what to what
do we choose to differ? or do we choose
to be Chosen? different

for skin, then,
ours—have we chosen
this pigment? to wield possession over
a color, the body of which – knowledge –
who can own?

where
the accepting?
excepting? on what
do we meditate?
about what our mumbling?
on whom?

if fear
firing neurons
beneath skin-capped silences:
as lepers and crippled, we wait
at a gate for the promised
angel or god of healing
to dip just a toe or a heel:
then to touch our own stagnant bodies in the pool and be —

as far as the east is from the west, that’s
how far striving
until my leprosy limbs and skin can’t
get me any further; I come to
know my nothing
state, this nothing-good-state
where the accepting?
excepting? on what / on whom
do I meditate?

and down to the river, slipping
bodies, skins: melting these into the ravenous
waves. skin – skinnnn - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - nnnnny dipping this old man
body to death;
I meditate off my wrinkled, old
colorless skin. Now, new

I as far as the east is from the west, that’s how far
have been made /
have been made clean /
have entered His Body /
He has removed my transgressions
from me, you, the Body…