Where am i?

I'm losing patience. Last week after Ultimate, I got on the freeway in the wrong direction and had to drive a few miles until the next exit came up and I could head west on 80. This week, I realize that I made a big circle around the block (again) because I didn't realize the ramp was right around the corner.

This morning I got on yelp and Google maps, looking for a nearby Asian market, a Marshall's, and how to get to the current top-coffee shop (no, not my favorite yet). One of the frustrating things is even figuring out what direction I want to go: north to Arden? west to midtown? What's close, what's far? Which Target is my closest?

When I quickly typed a memo on my phone to get to the coffee shop, I skipped the first turn after the freeway. So I drove along the street I merged onto, but after awhile I had a feeling that the turn I was looking for didn't actually intersect the street I was on. I pulled off to the side, pulled out my AAA maps for the tenth time in the past month, and figured out my mistake.

I'm tired of this: feeling directionally lost, having to look up everything, pulling off to the side to look at a map yet again. These are minor things, but in the middle of transition, you're just a bit more raw than usual. And nothing feels quite right: the Target is set up different, you're driving on one-way streets, and you almost make a U-turn where one is not allowed.

These are the verses that guided my time when I finally settled down to a raspberry Italian soda (for which I had to specify whipped cream because they make it with creamer here):

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul (Ps 23:1-3)

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever (Ps 73:26) 

The part that made me feel better was when I made it to the Asian supermarket. It's a very small one with narrow aisles, yet it was enough to make me feel at home. Taro, water chestnuts, tofu. An aisle of crackers, biscuits, and cookies. Another of sauces: dark soy sauce, black bean sauce, Siracha. I let myself stock up on some of the things I have put off getting (eg, Siracha) and happily picked up a big pack of rice noodles, dried shitake mushrooms, and fresh veggies needed for zha chiang mein. I think I'm going to try and make it sometime next week.

Sacramento...I think I'll like you. But today, today was just a little tiring.

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Then, there’s the weird neutral zone in yourself. You don’t know who you are anymore or how you relate to God in this new weird place, you don’t know who you hang out with or where you like to eat, you don’t know where you go on walks or retreat to when you want to be alone. The neutral zone is like the desert of moving. And it doesn’t feel like home at all. -Relevant, How to Move to a New City

Pencil

A hundred questions have filled the past ten days as the plans for D this upcoming year have unraveled, come apart, exploded, etc (the verb depends on our mood, really).

My planner is no longer accurate. Tomorrow has his departure date to Macau penciled in--not happening. Mid-September we celebrate four years together, and now that he's in California, it's a bit more disappointing that I'm out of town for work that weekend. And most difficult of all: I had written in commencement for May 18. In orange pen. Ink.

Shouldn't I know by now? That in life, few things are set in stone. Nothing is really guaranteed. And that in our walks with Jesus...in our walks with Jesus...there are so many ways to finish that sentence. He doesn't have to do what we ask. He is not the Messiah we expect. He promises a life of abundance by his qualities, not by our standards. He is the Good Shepherd. We know his voice.

And yet it's painful, it's painful, Jesus. In this situation, it's like we had no choice, that you clearly have a plan that's exactly what we didn't want to happen. But if you gave us the option and gently whispered that this is the way you had wanted it to go: would we listen? It's easy to say we follow you and your will, especially when 99%, things go rather well and, when they don't, the consequences seem minor. But shoot, things really changed this time around.

Part of me hates the part of me that wrote on May 18, 2013 in pen, the part that was believing this would work out--and by work out, I mean go the way we had intended/planned/expected. Each day has enough trouble of its own? Shall I write everything in pencil instead?

After much pestering, Steve gave me back the letter I wrote to myself in Mark 2, where one of the biggest themes for me was the expectations we have of Jesus and what he will do for us. Dated March 13, 2008, I write, "Losing my life means losing the expectations I have of Jesus to receive the life and love he gives."

On hosting and hospitality

Even though I remember these memories most as a 16-year-old, I know they began before my childhood days and continue even now. Routine. Tradition. Home.

The ring of the doorbell as a guest arrives. Whether the guests are expected or unexpected, all family members who are at home come out to greet. Small talk, smiles, handshakes. Dad sits with them on the living room couches. Mom steps into the kitchen, preparing cups of tea and small plates of biscuits, cookies, or fresh fruit. I'm there with her: finding teabags, pulling out spoons, looking for matching plates. I serve in multiple trips, first putting the snacks out in front of the guests while the tea steeps. When it's ready, I take the tea for our guests and place them on the coffee table first, then use two hands to give one to the male guest, then his wife (typically). Dad gets the next one, and I leave one on the table for mom. Always two hands. Uncle and Auntie, please drink, please eat. Depending on the relationship, the siblings and I may join them in the living room for awhile. Otherwise, we smile and slip back down the hallway with as little noise as possible until mom calls us back to grab another round of munchies from the fridge or pantry.

Years later, I'm in an apartment of (mostly) my own. A stream of friends are coming in today from near and far. I take out our pitcher of cold water and a few cups, pour Trader Joe's popcorn into a glass bowl. Ask each individual if they'd like some water, place the snacks in the middle of the table. We're on the carpet because the futon is a bit too hot, and since I don't have our other couch yet, we're a little short on seating. An hour later, everyone gets some ice cream. After dinner when we return, and a few extra folding chairs are pulled out so everyone has a seat. The pitcher comes back out, plus a pack of Keebler cookies. When the pitcher's empty, I slip out of the kitchen and refill it with tap and ice cubes.

In the student days, I was a bit lax on hosting. Student visitors were frequent and occasionally unexpected, and in busyness, the most I would offer was a cold glass of juice. Large groups were particularly difficult, so usually I just let down my standard and reminded myself that college students are used to wandering in a house to plop down and enjoy the company. They didn't expect refreshments. Still, I baked many a batch of brownies and often felt torn between simply opening my door and actually playing hostess.

But today, I'm proud to host. The room full of non-Asian friends know at least theoretically about our hospitality culture, but it pleases me to share it with them. I'm breaking some of the rules by not having enough cups, serving just water, and making our friends sit in a toasty apartment (I didn't have enough foresight to fix our air conditioning before today). Still, in my home, you should be comfortable, never thirsty or hungry. Maintaining this is intuitive: you're aware and in tune, filling the pitcher before it gets empty, bringing the napkins over because someone will need it. Set the snacks out because if they're there, they'll get eaten.

Perhaps one day, I will serve my guests hot tea in cups and saucers and biscuits from the snack section of the Asian market. But more likely, I imagine my hostess life to resemble what life as an Asian American always is: a hybrid, a merge of cultures, the best of both worlds. Sweet tea instead of ginseng, berries instead of oranges, pita chips instead of crispy egg rolls. But principles apply: serve your guests well, be prepared for them. Refill without asking, set up elements that are ready and present so they can enjoy the company and home without even thinking.

Today was a privilege, and I'll stock my apartment well to be prepared for this: cold juice and ice for the summer, a kettle and tea options for the winter, and always cookies, chips, and other snacks.

Unsettled

What's the word for "homesick" when you've moved away? All those cliche quotes about home, what is it? My mailing address, places with people I love, somewhere to sleep? If Sacramento is to be my new home, does "homesick" still apply to missing the things I love 45 minutes southwest of here? I used to use "going home" to describe San Jose, but now when people ask where I moved from, all they know is Stockton. So what is home these days?

I had one of those moments in Safeway on Friday when I realized I didn't quite know where everything was. I have never been here before, and this isn't normal yet, so instead of a mere run of errands, I was now facing a sudden pang of sadness. And then my shopping list on a post-it note had fallen, so I felt silly trying to casually look around for it.

It's weird having to look up directions to Target, ask someone where the nearest gas station is, and have to consciously figure out where you are. Kinda makes me feel disoriented and vulnerable.

Speaking of directions, today I emptied out the compartment next to my driver's seat. It held three years worth of Google map printouts and other address scribbled on papers, including three different addresses to my college roommate, documenting the house she grew up in, her first apartment with her husband, and her new house. I didn't need to keep all of these addresses, but it became a habit to stash them, and it prevented me from having to re-look up directions a few times. But chances that I'll be visiting those places now is even less, now that I'm 45 minutes away. In ways, moving feels like I'm having to sort through which memories are actually important. Even so, I read every address, piecing it together with the event or home--FD training in Sac, a friend's new apartment in the Bay, an Ultimate tournament--before putting it through the shredder.

I went to my first church in Sacramento today. Didn't plan in advance enough to go with a friend, so I google'd a church and walked in, sat by myself. Spoke to a few kind members, but otherwise, felt like I slipped in and slipped out. What a change from having a place to be at Quail for so many years.

To say this week has been rough is an understatement. Not because of Sacramento, which I find myself starting to like: driving on freeways, my room, our apartment, the American River, good ultimate and running trails. But life has thrown a curve ball that has left a zillion questions in its trail with no answers. My default ways of processing: running (I can only think one thought at a time when I run) and journaling in a coffee shop. Except I don't have a favorite coffee shop, and I miss Empresso. Once I find a coffee shop with high stools in a corner that let me peer out to the street, I may be sold. I can't count how many times I've sat in my favorite spot at Empresso, churning thoughts while gazing out at Miracle Mile...

home, when you close your eyes
and you feel in your heart
how your soul’s alive

Home:Word, Magnetic North

Poison and Wine

July 13, 2012

For the first period of time I listened to it, it sounded like a painful choice. Choosing love amidst much hurt and distrust. But perhaps what it is, is hope. The choice of love and waiting for the better of your other half to come out. Despite the selfishness we find ourselves operating in, we choose again to love. "I don't have a choice--I still choose you." As if the commitment has been made so technically, your "I do" has sealed it and you don't really have a choice. But you do, you do, and you still choose him. And this is why the song is so beautiful.