This week Superhusband and I are dealing with two separate losses. The first, and most painful, is the fact that it is now late April and even if we got news today that our immigration application was approved, we still would not have time to have an interview in Sydney before my visa runs out. We must leave and come back. We are really excited about the leaving part: seeing my family and Stateside friends for the first time in six months, living in a house (whether or not we're the owners of said house is now just a technicality to us), going to my mother's extended-family reunion...(I know this is another parenthetical reference early in the piece, but let me brag on this family again. My mom is one of ten children born to a church of Christ preacher and his school-marm wife. Each of their children were also believing child-producers, and their children's children equally. I am one of 34 grandchildren. The number of great-grandchildren is now approaching the 50 mark, and the great-greats started up in 2007. The sheer mass of us is amazing. But what's astounding is that of all 130+ people that are invited to the gathering, there are maybe two individuals who I wouldn't choose to have coffee and/or a close friendship with. Families are messy no matter which one you're in; but to have this many people who like each other in one place is truly a blessing. If you're reading this and you're single and of marriagable age, just let me know and I'll provide you with a list of cousins in the appropriate age range and gender categories for your perusal. You should jump on this train.)
Okay--so we're excited about going back, but what we really wanted was to go home. We wanted to come in with the trophy, the greencard, the cutting from which to grow roots. Instead we return again as "temporary," as visitors, as rootless. It's as if we're returning from the State fair to the eager faces of our rural town, only to report that "Well, we could be the winner, but no one ever came to judge our entry. No one knew we were there." That's the painful part--feeling so insignificant in the face of the mighty international immigration machine. And so we'll fly in to Memphis in another month, not knowing when we'll fly out again. We will be excited to be back here in Australia later with the new side of my family, and the beauty and the adventure, of course, but a different kind of excited. The uncertainty, the back-and-forth, the money-hemorrhage continues. The houses, the jobs, the hometowns, the prospective children wait anxiously in the wings.
So what did we do in the face of this let-down? We are on holiday! We decided, rather ingeniously I think, to make the best of being here in the world's favorite vacation spot and see some of the Western Australian coastline north of Perth. Not quite making lemonade, but maybe lemon disinfectant. And it is WILD. We set off on Tuesday and made it from Safety Bay to Dongara pulling our house and our hopes along the dry, red dust of the outback. We made it in about 6 hours, 2 of which were driven by me! Pulling the caravan! If you know me in real life, you know that I've driven some pretty wacky and very lumbering vehicles, but until this week I had never attempted pulling a 14ft house trailer around a roundabout. Everyone should try it. It's exhilarating.
Our first port of call was the beautiful, sleepy town of Dongara and its twin, Port Denison. We slept in, we sauntered around two main streets lined with Morton Bay Fig trees and ate whatever we wanted at whatever little cafe would have us. There were gangs of maurading children celebrating the last day of school holidays by careening their scooters in front of on-coming traffic, but since we were walking, we didn't pay them much mind. Our first and last stops in the town were at the Priory Inn and the 1881 restaurant where were part of a free sausage sizzle in the morning (a weenie roast for my Alabamians), met the local watchdog named Lolly, and ended our evening in style dining on canneloni and steak/roasted pumpkin/chickpea salad amidst exposed limestone walls and wraught iron candlesticks. It was glorious. And we thought we were winning.
Then we headed to Kalbarri, a place of myth in Superhusband's imagination. His family camped here when he was a child, and it's one of the last places he had good, strong memories of his father. There are gorges and canoes, estuaries and lookouts, pelicans and promise. But that was in the 1980s. What he had no way of knowing was that the caravan park is now like a dirty parking lot with power hook-ups, every shop and eatery closes by 6pm and is enveloped into the vast darkness of the terrain, and the highly publicized "Daily Pelican Feedings" have never been the same since the flood of Christmas 2010.
Finally, after wearily driving up and down the one, dark, coastal street in this Superhusband-proclaimed-"Half-horse town," (and after literally being told at a closed gas station that "There would be three choices to buy petrol in the morning, but nothing is open after dark." as if they'd never heard of such a thing) we found the Kalbarri hotel open for service. We were ecstatic. We walked resolutely up to the counter and ordered a "Gourmet meat-lover's pizza on a thick crust." Then we ordered our drinks and sat in expectation. (By the way, Adam, I had a VB. It was nice, and indeed refreshingly B.) Unfortunately, our pizza was a homophobic; it seemed to fear the meats of its own kind like Italian sausage, pepperoni, bacon....it preferred instead meats that couldn't find Italy on a map: diced ham (like for salads), polish kebalsa, chunks of leftover steak, and some tiny ringlets of something that tasted like bologna, all nestled underneath cheddar cheese on a cardboard circle masquerading as crust. While eating it (because we were hungry and angry) I kind of enjoyed the bologna flavor--it reminded me of the fried bologna-and-cheese sandwiches we had as kids. But we knew, Superhusband and I, that Superhusband could make better pizza with one arm and six ingredients tied behind his back. Blindfolded. With a head cold. Our evening came to an abrupt end when, upon finishing as much of the "pizza" as we could stomach, the karaoke started and some guy named Gary began to savagely murder parts of "Rolling on a River." We skulked out, and got in our near-empty sedan to drive the 50 yards back to our dirty little campsite. We were awash in disappointment. I dare say, ennui.
So here we are. Sitting a bit stunned in our caravan on a Friday morning, wondering if anything else is worth exploring. I wonder if Lewis and Clarke ever thought "Another mountain? Let's just map it from here. Once you've seen one loin-clothed native, you've seen 'em all. I want tea." Of course, we'll go to the world-renowned gorges in a while, and hopefully get some spark back, but for now it's a drudge.
It just goes to show, when travelling to even the most famed of locales, lower your expectations. I think if we had EXPECTED to be robbed at gunpoint while being force-fed hot garbage while squirming on a slimy concrete slab, then Kalbarri would seem amazing. AND if you are reading this, and are one of the lucky few to have one of those famed boring lives of home, and children, and legal migration status, cherish it. Live it up in your rut for those of us who take turns conquering and being conquered by our adventures. May your present live up to your past.
Thursday 26 April 2012
Sunday 15 April 2012
Ham Makes Me Hungry
Dear loyal readers,
I sincerely apologize for the lag in writing. It's been quite an April. And as our journey back to Alabama (and, yea, even Indianapolis, the place of my nativity) looms closer, I've been thinking about what "home" means. Not just the place, or even the family, but the specific set of rituals and entanglements that make up familiarity. Of course I will not be able to touch on all of the meanings in a single post, but I'll try getting to the root. But before this, I must write a special note:
Dear Paternal Grandmother--I know you are reading this. I know that well-meaning family members have brought you my posts, and being the sensitive woman you are, you are worried about us and our remote status. Let me assure you that we are not living in poverty, nor do we wish to eat a bowl of anti-depressants for breakfast (at least not every day.) Just to prove we're not in as unfamiliar territory as you believe, I'll give you five reasons that being in Rockingham, Western Australia is like living in Waterloo, Alabama.
1.) People here also have "homes on the water." Here, however, when they say "homes" they mean structures with walls, rooves, and indoor plumbing, and by "water" they mean the pristine beaches surrounding the turquoise waves of the Indian Ocean; unlike Waterloo where they mean a tent in the woods next to a drainage ditch.
2.) Like Waterloo, the mullet hairstyle has caught on with the fire of a first love (to quote the illustrious E.E.) and men walk around in sleeveless t-shirts.
3) The ratio of feet to shoes in public places is remarkably high.
4.) I live in a home on wheels, and my front porch is made of tarps, just like much of Waterloo. But here, there are no tornadoes--a definite plus.
5.) While the land mass is larger, people here still love lounging on porches in the afternoon sun, stopping by and catching up with neighbors, and the local grocery store clerks still stare at strangers with an air of superiority (and don't even pretend that doesn't happen at "The Pig." I've seen that little manager in his elevated office-box.). Just like in Waterloo, a "stranger" is anyone who moved to the area fewer than ten years ago. And in those grocery stores you can ALSO find all manner of internal organs of farm animals meant for the creation of "comfort food." I can't get a squirrel gravy and biscuit, but I sure can pick up some lamb brains, wrap 'em in a nice flaky crust and make a pie--just like you-know-where.
So, dear Grandmother, sleep well. Rest assured that Superhusband and I spend plenty of time with normal people who like us. We drink clean water. We wear clean clothes made of natural fabrics. We sacrifice chickens and smoke tobacco through their hollow bones. Just kidding! Seeing if you were reading closely. We're okay. And we can't wait to get back to Alabama and eat "green stuff" and fried squash and onions and complain about the humidity with you.
All our love,
Blunderwoman and Superhusband
Now that we've got that straight, let's talk about home. For me, the geographical location is Florence, Alabama--a little, old-fashioned, slightly uppity college town on the edge of the Tennessee River. We're fifteen minutes from the Tennessee border, twenty minutes from Mississippi, and always two tourist attractions away from economic collapse. My aesthetic vantage point lies here: magnolia, honeysuckle, rusted cars, red barns, sleepy cattle, buttercups, grey winters, catfish, cotton in fields and clothing, rocking chairs, quickbreads, hunting dogs, victorian houses, hay fever and a "Hey y'all." You get the gist. From this scenery and sensory sorcery I have learned to feel at home in antiques. I love musty books, and have learned to match colors in off-shades of coral and chartreuse. I am not accustomed to the beach lifestyle of sandy browns and turquoise walls; or the Southwestern look of adobe and hieroglyphics--those are from other homes and speak to other lives.
The most deep, gut-level connection to "home" is with my family. From my mother's side I have learned that "home" means no one is left out. No one is uninvited, no matter how tenuous the connection nor how many years since the last visit. Even if we have to rent a convention center to fit us all in. Everyone's offering is cherished. And from my father's side I learned that no matter how far you fall, family is there to catch you. From them I have a deep sense of never ever being completely unknown or unprovided for. I will never be homeless, physically nor emotionally, as long as any of them have breath. This, I suppose, is what gives me the gumption to move all over the world to find things like husbands. And I am gratefull.
But the lesson I seem to have taken most to heart, from both geography and family, is not an entirely positive one. It is the lesson of excess. All things must be in abundance. Two stories, one present one past, illustrate this law of superfluity.
This weekend Superhusband and I were lounging about in the caravan. (Don't worry, this is a family show--not too much detail.) He was gently stroking my arm, and as we often get into impromtu tickle-wars, and I was feeling a bit dingy, I said "Hey, don't go near my armpits. They're....." and I trailed off. I was thinking words of euphamistic beauty like "unladylike" or "not at their best." I was pausing to piece together my string of excess verbage to delight both speaker and spoken to. But this is how it went:
Me: "Hey, don't go near my armpits. They're..."
SH: "Farel?"
If it's one thing the English know, it's efficiency of language. I could not have predicted that exact word coming out of his handsome mouth, nor could I stop laughing for a full ten minutes. I mean, there was snorting and tears. Sometimes, unlike my Southern-charming way of spinning a tale about the least thing, a well-placed word is refreshing. I aim to emulate.
And the second story of my past has to do with food and excess. (By the way, the friendship in the South of "food and excess" has precipitated at least a third of our cultural awareness and all of the health problems.) It begins with the Peking Chinese Buffet.
Mom and Dad and I were planning to go to our personal mecca--the Peking Chinese Buffet accross from Big Lots. We have patronized that particular restaurant building through about four incarnations--it was a Shoney's that boasted a female waitress with bulging biceps and ocean-liner tattoo on her right arm. It was a couple of things in between, but has stuck with the Peking for about a decade; the buffet is set up where the Breakfast Bar used to be. (I know you--at this point you're thinking 'This story should be about WORDS and excess....you're right. But I'm getting there.) So, one fine summer evening the folks and I were planning our pilgrimage to cream cheese wantons. We just had to run a couple of errands first--to my Grandparents' farm.
Dad and I decided to go, and leave Mom to get ready in Florence. It was about 4pm, and we had eaten lightly that day knowing the avalanche of calories that would engulf us at dinner. Dad and I tried to explain this concept to my Grandmother (hope you're still reading, and still laughing Grandmother!) but it didn't get through. When we said "we've not eaten much today because......" all she could hear in her DNA was "My babies are starving! Feed, feed, FEED!" After much protestation, she brought out the ham. A whole, 15 pound ham. She hacked off chunks of the irresistably salty red meat and nestled them in white bread with generous mayonnaise. She couldn't help it. It's in our genetic makeup.
What happened next, I think we could have helped, but we didn't. We caved. We ate the sandwiches. We loved them, and promised to take one home to Mom. We had it packed for us in a
re-used ziploc and dangled in a plastic shopping bag from our retreating arms. And at this point, errand completed, heading home (for the life of me I can't even remember why we went there) most sensible people would say "Well, that was nice. How sweet of her! We just saved some money tonight and we'll eat out another day." But we're not sensible people. On the way back into town, Dad and I discussed how this predicament could only happen in rural Alabama, and how never before had ham been an appetizer to Asian cuisine. In fact, we giggled, "That ham made me hungry." And for a long time we've been holding on to that title as the one for my second memoir. My first shall be called "Zena, Reba, and Me." And of course, I'll tell you why sometime.
But that's how it went. We ate ham AND coconut shrimp that night. We harrangued my mother with tales of our crushing defeat in the face of preserved meat and maternal instinct. And we lapped up the excess--words, laughter, food. Of course indigestion followed, but we have antacids to keep us from facing the consequences of our actions.
Excess. Abundance. Cornucopia of delight, grief, togetherness, meringue. For good or bad, that is my "home."
I sincerely apologize for the lag in writing. It's been quite an April. And as our journey back to Alabama (and, yea, even Indianapolis, the place of my nativity) looms closer, I've been thinking about what "home" means. Not just the place, or even the family, but the specific set of rituals and entanglements that make up familiarity. Of course I will not be able to touch on all of the meanings in a single post, but I'll try getting to the root. But before this, I must write a special note:
Dear Paternal Grandmother--I know you are reading this. I know that well-meaning family members have brought you my posts, and being the sensitive woman you are, you are worried about us and our remote status. Let me assure you that we are not living in poverty, nor do we wish to eat a bowl of anti-depressants for breakfast (at least not every day.) Just to prove we're not in as unfamiliar territory as you believe, I'll give you five reasons that being in Rockingham, Western Australia is like living in Waterloo, Alabama.
1.) People here also have "homes on the water." Here, however, when they say "homes" they mean structures with walls, rooves, and indoor plumbing, and by "water" they mean the pristine beaches surrounding the turquoise waves of the Indian Ocean; unlike Waterloo where they mean a tent in the woods next to a drainage ditch.
2.) Like Waterloo, the mullet hairstyle has caught on with the fire of a first love (to quote the illustrious E.E.) and men walk around in sleeveless t-shirts.
3) The ratio of feet to shoes in public places is remarkably high.
4.) I live in a home on wheels, and my front porch is made of tarps, just like much of Waterloo. But here, there are no tornadoes--a definite plus.
5.) While the land mass is larger, people here still love lounging on porches in the afternoon sun, stopping by and catching up with neighbors, and the local grocery store clerks still stare at strangers with an air of superiority (and don't even pretend that doesn't happen at "The Pig." I've seen that little manager in his elevated office-box.). Just like in Waterloo, a "stranger" is anyone who moved to the area fewer than ten years ago. And in those grocery stores you can ALSO find all manner of internal organs of farm animals meant for the creation of "comfort food." I can't get a squirrel gravy and biscuit, but I sure can pick up some lamb brains, wrap 'em in a nice flaky crust and make a pie--just like you-know-where.
So, dear Grandmother, sleep well. Rest assured that Superhusband and I spend plenty of time with normal people who like us. We drink clean water. We wear clean clothes made of natural fabrics. We sacrifice chickens and smoke tobacco through their hollow bones. Just kidding! Seeing if you were reading closely. We're okay. And we can't wait to get back to Alabama and eat "green stuff" and fried squash and onions and complain about the humidity with you.
All our love,
Blunderwoman and Superhusband
Now that we've got that straight, let's talk about home. For me, the geographical location is Florence, Alabama--a little, old-fashioned, slightly uppity college town on the edge of the Tennessee River. We're fifteen minutes from the Tennessee border, twenty minutes from Mississippi, and always two tourist attractions away from economic collapse. My aesthetic vantage point lies here: magnolia, honeysuckle, rusted cars, red barns, sleepy cattle, buttercups, grey winters, catfish, cotton in fields and clothing, rocking chairs, quickbreads, hunting dogs, victorian houses, hay fever and a "Hey y'all." You get the gist. From this scenery and sensory sorcery I have learned to feel at home in antiques. I love musty books, and have learned to match colors in off-shades of coral and chartreuse. I am not accustomed to the beach lifestyle of sandy browns and turquoise walls; or the Southwestern look of adobe and hieroglyphics--those are from other homes and speak to other lives.
The most deep, gut-level connection to "home" is with my family. From my mother's side I have learned that "home" means no one is left out. No one is uninvited, no matter how tenuous the connection nor how many years since the last visit. Even if we have to rent a convention center to fit us all in. Everyone's offering is cherished. And from my father's side I learned that no matter how far you fall, family is there to catch you. From them I have a deep sense of never ever being completely unknown or unprovided for. I will never be homeless, physically nor emotionally, as long as any of them have breath. This, I suppose, is what gives me the gumption to move all over the world to find things like husbands. And I am gratefull.
But the lesson I seem to have taken most to heart, from both geography and family, is not an entirely positive one. It is the lesson of excess. All things must be in abundance. Two stories, one present one past, illustrate this law of superfluity.
This weekend Superhusband and I were lounging about in the caravan. (Don't worry, this is a family show--not too much detail.) He was gently stroking my arm, and as we often get into impromtu tickle-wars, and I was feeling a bit dingy, I said "Hey, don't go near my armpits. They're....." and I trailed off. I was thinking words of euphamistic beauty like "unladylike" or "not at their best." I was pausing to piece together my string of excess verbage to delight both speaker and spoken to. But this is how it went:
Me: "Hey, don't go near my armpits. They're..."
SH: "Farel?"
If it's one thing the English know, it's efficiency of language. I could not have predicted that exact word coming out of his handsome mouth, nor could I stop laughing for a full ten minutes. I mean, there was snorting and tears. Sometimes, unlike my Southern-charming way of spinning a tale about the least thing, a well-placed word is refreshing. I aim to emulate.
And the second story of my past has to do with food and excess. (By the way, the friendship in the South of "food and excess" has precipitated at least a third of our cultural awareness and all of the health problems.) It begins with the Peking Chinese Buffet.
Mom and Dad and I were planning to go to our personal mecca--the Peking Chinese Buffet accross from Big Lots. We have patronized that particular restaurant building through about four incarnations--it was a Shoney's that boasted a female waitress with bulging biceps and ocean-liner tattoo on her right arm. It was a couple of things in between, but has stuck with the Peking for about a decade; the buffet is set up where the Breakfast Bar used to be. (I know you--at this point you're thinking 'This story should be about WORDS and excess....you're right. But I'm getting there.) So, one fine summer evening the folks and I were planning our pilgrimage to cream cheese wantons. We just had to run a couple of errands first--to my Grandparents' farm.
Dad and I decided to go, and leave Mom to get ready in Florence. It was about 4pm, and we had eaten lightly that day knowing the avalanche of calories that would engulf us at dinner. Dad and I tried to explain this concept to my Grandmother (hope you're still reading, and still laughing Grandmother!) but it didn't get through. When we said "we've not eaten much today because......" all she could hear in her DNA was "My babies are starving! Feed, feed, FEED!" After much protestation, she brought out the ham. A whole, 15 pound ham. She hacked off chunks of the irresistably salty red meat and nestled them in white bread with generous mayonnaise. She couldn't help it. It's in our genetic makeup.
What happened next, I think we could have helped, but we didn't. We caved. We ate the sandwiches. We loved them, and promised to take one home to Mom. We had it packed for us in a
re-used ziploc and dangled in a plastic shopping bag from our retreating arms. And at this point, errand completed, heading home (for the life of me I can't even remember why we went there) most sensible people would say "Well, that was nice. How sweet of her! We just saved some money tonight and we'll eat out another day." But we're not sensible people. On the way back into town, Dad and I discussed how this predicament could only happen in rural Alabama, and how never before had ham been an appetizer to Asian cuisine. In fact, we giggled, "That ham made me hungry." And for a long time we've been holding on to that title as the one for my second memoir. My first shall be called "Zena, Reba, and Me." And of course, I'll tell you why sometime.
But that's how it went. We ate ham AND coconut shrimp that night. We harrangued my mother with tales of our crushing defeat in the face of preserved meat and maternal instinct. And we lapped up the excess--words, laughter, food. Of course indigestion followed, but we have antacids to keep us from facing the consequences of our actions.
Excess. Abundance. Cornucopia of delight, grief, togetherness, meringue. For good or bad, that is my "home."
Sunday 1 April 2012
I am a Ruler Bear!
I am having a bit of an identity crisis. Not that I don't know what my identity is--no, that would be too simple. My problem is that I know too well what I think I should be, how I should act, and what the results of these actions should be. So well, in fact, that I will not accept the slightest deviation. Oh, the tyranny of "should." I am a Pharisee of Pharisees, practically born with a rule book in one hand and a stone to throw in the other. Part of that has to do with being a coC preacher's kid from AL, and part of it is my own darn fault.
I have known this about myself (the whole "toe the line" attitude) since an early age. I'm the kid that pulled an all-nighter at age 13, drinking black coffee to stay up and finish that homework. I had a pretty fierce temper tantrum later that year because I was getting a C in Advanced Algebra I (I had skipped pre-Algebra, you see, and didn't have the foggiest what was going on in that class.) and I was going to get kicked out of Jr. Beta Club! If you know me, you may add your own anecdote here in the "she's a bit intense" category. But it has taken living in a foreign country to bring this flaw into high relief. And I think I've found pattern in my identity paralysis, the skeleton on which hang all my insecurities: 1) How others interpret my actions 2) How my actions match with the rules in place (this means private, interpersonal, judicial, state and national ordinances, you name it) 3) How I judge my provision for those I care about--mainly in the form of food. As Joyce Meyer would say, "I have a hard time separating my 'who' from my 'do.'"
For instance--RIGHT NOW--I'm going outside to the convection oven to check on the Sticky Date Pudding that I've been nursing to health since 6pm last night. The butter for the sauce is warming on the stove. It's 10am. Be back in a minute!
Lucky for this post, the pudding needs more baking. Back to the self-deprecation. Last week I got pulled over for the first time while driving in Australia. Superhusband and I were coming back from Fremantle from a Bible Study, and I was driving. We had just gone through a traffic light and hadn't made it back up to cruising speed when I saw lights in the rearview mirror. KNOWING I was not speeding, I pulled over and thought the worst. Thank the Lord we were greeted by the sweetest, most handsome Welshman you ever did see. (We knew he was Welsh because Superhusband asked what part of the UK he was from (Superhusband is English and knows their accents within a 20km radius of their home. It's uncanny) and he responded "Wales." Then we asked "Where in Wales?" and knew he was a true Welshman by the fact that his tongue was suddenly replaced with a hand mixer dipped in cookies n' cream milkshake. That girgling, whirring sound was the name of his home town. I really wonder if even the Welsh can help but look a little alarmed when their language is spoken. But I digress.) This little Welshman asked me if I had a drivers' license. I replied "I have an international drivers' license and a passport, but my actual US drivers' license was stolen about two months ago." Come to find out, since (to hopefully passify immigration officers) we put the car in my name under a US drivers' license and had not re-registered it in three months with a Western Australian license, the police scanners picked me up as a law-breaker. We explained that I wasn't planning on living here...immigration status....theft...blah, blah, blah. He listened respectfully and sent us away with a warning to get it checked out. No harm, no foul, right?
Not in my little mind! The next day I was pestering Superhusband to take me to the traffic licensing department to clear things up right away! He assured me that I was within my legal rights, and that if I wasn't, he would drive from now on. But I wouldn't let up. At the time I was pestering him we were in a shopping center--about to be heading to another government office to correct yet another issue that I thought was right and good to do--and there was lots of background noise. He asked "Why does it bother you so much? They didn't arrest you." and my response was "I am a rule obeyer!" Of course, in the noise of the shopping he misunderstood. "You're a what?" "A rule obeyer." "Oh--I thought you said Ruler Bear." Hilarity, and my newest nickname, ensued.
By the way, the Sticky Date Pudding is amazing. It worked, and you wouldn't believe how much my self confidence has increased by being able to make English food properly. See Identity paralysis point 3 above.
So, Friday we did go to the traffic licensing and got a piece of paper that says they don't need me to get another license. Then, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, the weekend was over and we headed to church Sunday where I got a much-needed Biblical kick in the teeth. This whole time I had been bewailing my identity. My little combination of cells and ideas and screw ups that I think are sooooooo important. The lesson at Fremantle Church of Christ was about What it means to be a Disciple--this week, "Salt and Light."
You have all heard the Sermon on the Mount (if you haven't, it's Matthew 5 in the New Testament. All the cool kids are reading it.) where Jesus tells his listeners, and us by extension, that they are salt and light. Now I've heard scores of lessons taught on a Christian's seasoning power, the small-amount-big-influence-factor, and the Don't-you-dare-lose-your-saltiness approach. But Garry added a new bullet point about salt's preservative power. Up until one hundred years ago, salt was the only way to keep food from being rotten. Christians are the world's preservative. I liked that, and started thinking about other properties of salt. Then I got it. In order to be effective, the salt MUST dissolve. It must lose its granular identity and liquify into the substance its preserving. One cannot reclaim salt in its exact grain structure after it's been used. Conversely, if salt STAYS in it's grains, it's useless. (Mind you, I then began on a thinking tangent about times when you can still see grains of salt on prepared food, and all I could think of were giant soft pretzels. And while they're tasty, the salt still has to dissolve on your tongue before it's pleasurable. So, just know that if that's what you were thinking, I already thought it. And disproved it. Booyah.)
There my lesson stands. It doesn't matter how many times I have heard "Your life is in Me" from the scriptures, I didn't get it until yesterday. As long as I hold on to my rules and my little idiosyncrasies, that's all I am--a bag of rules and idiosyncrasies that do no one any good, least of all me. I need to dissolve. Let go of the crystalline binding and see how far I can stretch into effectiveness. Of course, as soon as it is learned, the lesson is tested. I attempted making quiche last night which utterly failed after 4 hours of cooking/prepping/baking time all while Superhusband erected a new tarp-roof, finished fixing our antenna for perfect reception, and completely installed a new water system in our caravan. Inferiority complex, anyone? I was barely consoled by the Satay Beef and Special Fried Rice from Golden Harvest Palace at 8:45pm--because it meant I had again failed to perform a nourishing duty. But I must look at it differently, just like everything else here, in order to survive. At 8:45, being salt meant not fighting Superhusband in his decision to ditch the quiche and get take out--dissolve my pride in order for the greater good of getting dinner.
And that's the only way any of us will survive. Let go of your imperfections and dissolve into the Living Water. Perfect, law-abiding, love-washed, eternally-preserved. Just the way a Ruler Bear wants to be.
I have known this about myself (the whole "toe the line" attitude) since an early age. I'm the kid that pulled an all-nighter at age 13, drinking black coffee to stay up and finish that homework. I had a pretty fierce temper tantrum later that year because I was getting a C in Advanced Algebra I (I had skipped pre-Algebra, you see, and didn't have the foggiest what was going on in that class.) and I was going to get kicked out of Jr. Beta Club! If you know me, you may add your own anecdote here in the "she's a bit intense" category. But it has taken living in a foreign country to bring this flaw into high relief. And I think I've found pattern in my identity paralysis, the skeleton on which hang all my insecurities: 1) How others interpret my actions 2) How my actions match with the rules in place (this means private, interpersonal, judicial, state and national ordinances, you name it) 3) How I judge my provision for those I care about--mainly in the form of food. As Joyce Meyer would say, "I have a hard time separating my 'who' from my 'do.'"
For instance--RIGHT NOW--I'm going outside to the convection oven to check on the Sticky Date Pudding that I've been nursing to health since 6pm last night. The butter for the sauce is warming on the stove. It's 10am. Be back in a minute!
Lucky for this post, the pudding needs more baking. Back to the self-deprecation. Last week I got pulled over for the first time while driving in Australia. Superhusband and I were coming back from Fremantle from a Bible Study, and I was driving. We had just gone through a traffic light and hadn't made it back up to cruising speed when I saw lights in the rearview mirror. KNOWING I was not speeding, I pulled over and thought the worst. Thank the Lord we were greeted by the sweetest, most handsome Welshman you ever did see. (We knew he was Welsh because Superhusband asked what part of the UK he was from (Superhusband is English and knows their accents within a 20km radius of their home. It's uncanny) and he responded "Wales." Then we asked "Where in Wales?" and knew he was a true Welshman by the fact that his tongue was suddenly replaced with a hand mixer dipped in cookies n' cream milkshake. That girgling, whirring sound was the name of his home town. I really wonder if even the Welsh can help but look a little alarmed when their language is spoken. But I digress.) This little Welshman asked me if I had a drivers' license. I replied "I have an international drivers' license and a passport, but my actual US drivers' license was stolen about two months ago." Come to find out, since (to hopefully passify immigration officers) we put the car in my name under a US drivers' license and had not re-registered it in three months with a Western Australian license, the police scanners picked me up as a law-breaker. We explained that I wasn't planning on living here...immigration status....theft...blah, blah, blah. He listened respectfully and sent us away with a warning to get it checked out. No harm, no foul, right?
Not in my little mind! The next day I was pestering Superhusband to take me to the traffic licensing department to clear things up right away! He assured me that I was within my legal rights, and that if I wasn't, he would drive from now on. But I wouldn't let up. At the time I was pestering him we were in a shopping center--about to be heading to another government office to correct yet another issue that I thought was right and good to do--and there was lots of background noise. He asked "Why does it bother you so much? They didn't arrest you." and my response was "I am a rule obeyer!" Of course, in the noise of the shopping he misunderstood. "You're a what?" "A rule obeyer." "Oh--I thought you said Ruler Bear." Hilarity, and my newest nickname, ensued.
By the way, the Sticky Date Pudding is amazing. It worked, and you wouldn't believe how much my self confidence has increased by being able to make English food properly. See Identity paralysis point 3 above.
So, Friday we did go to the traffic licensing and got a piece of paper that says they don't need me to get another license. Then, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, the weekend was over and we headed to church Sunday where I got a much-needed Biblical kick in the teeth. This whole time I had been bewailing my identity. My little combination of cells and ideas and screw ups that I think are sooooooo important. The lesson at Fremantle Church of Christ was about What it means to be a Disciple--this week, "Salt and Light."
You have all heard the Sermon on the Mount (if you haven't, it's Matthew 5 in the New Testament. All the cool kids are reading it.) where Jesus tells his listeners, and us by extension, that they are salt and light. Now I've heard scores of lessons taught on a Christian's seasoning power, the small-amount-big-influence-factor, and the Don't-you-dare-lose-your-saltiness approach. But Garry added a new bullet point about salt's preservative power. Up until one hundred years ago, salt was the only way to keep food from being rotten. Christians are the world's preservative. I liked that, and started thinking about other properties of salt. Then I got it. In order to be effective, the salt MUST dissolve. It must lose its granular identity and liquify into the substance its preserving. One cannot reclaim salt in its exact grain structure after it's been used. Conversely, if salt STAYS in it's grains, it's useless. (Mind you, I then began on a thinking tangent about times when you can still see grains of salt on prepared food, and all I could think of were giant soft pretzels. And while they're tasty, the salt still has to dissolve on your tongue before it's pleasurable. So, just know that if that's what you were thinking, I already thought it. And disproved it. Booyah.)
There my lesson stands. It doesn't matter how many times I have heard "Your life is in Me" from the scriptures, I didn't get it until yesterday. As long as I hold on to my rules and my little idiosyncrasies, that's all I am--a bag of rules and idiosyncrasies that do no one any good, least of all me. I need to dissolve. Let go of the crystalline binding and see how far I can stretch into effectiveness. Of course, as soon as it is learned, the lesson is tested. I attempted making quiche last night which utterly failed after 4 hours of cooking/prepping/baking time all while Superhusband erected a new tarp-roof, finished fixing our antenna for perfect reception, and completely installed a new water system in our caravan. Inferiority complex, anyone? I was barely consoled by the Satay Beef and Special Fried Rice from Golden Harvest Palace at 8:45pm--because it meant I had again failed to perform a nourishing duty. But I must look at it differently, just like everything else here, in order to survive. At 8:45, being salt meant not fighting Superhusband in his decision to ditch the quiche and get take out--dissolve my pride in order for the greater good of getting dinner.
And that's the only way any of us will survive. Let go of your imperfections and dissolve into the Living Water. Perfect, law-abiding, love-washed, eternally-preserved. Just the way a Ruler Bear wants to be.
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