Not so long ago, I came to the realization that I’ve lived more of my life in the United States than I have in the Philippines. And for the most part, when I think of “home,” my thoughts immediately go to wherever it is I lay my head at night: next to my husband, not too far from our son, and within the general vicinity of our local congregation. It is no longer this tropical country that instantly, naturally comes to mind.
But when the rain falls, all bets are off. Continue reading Let It Rain
Hospitality is a strange word.
Strange, at least, for someone like me who has spent a good deal of her childhood in and out of hospitals. Back then, I always thought it seemed strange to associate such an admirable quality with a place that meant sharp needles, stark walls, and cold rooms with a distinct antiseptic smell. Hospitals usually shooed away visitors, sometimes discouraging them from staying too long by rationing the number of extra chairs in a room. Why then, wondered my eight-year-old brain, does “hospitality” mean the friendly and generous reception and entertainment of guests, visitors, or strangers?
English can be such a curious language sometimes. Or so thinks this non-native English speaker. Continue reading Fudgy Flourless Cookies
I learned quite a bit about patience this morning. Patience, heeding warnings, and moving on. All before finishing my first cup of coffee.
Disclaimer: I realize the previous paragraph makes it sound like I experienced a monumental epiphany this morning. On the contrary, this post is not deep, profound, or philosophical in any way. It is about memory cards and coffee. If you manage to extrapolate something more from this, that would be entirely accidental on my part. But yay for you! Continue reading A lesson in patience
One gray summer day, in a part of Connecticut I’d never been to before, I took my mom hiking up a mountain.
We drove up to Mt. Tom State Park, saw a sign pointing to a trail, and started walking. It was a cool morning and we explored the woods, happy to be alone together. I gave myself permission to feel and act like a three-year-old, happily going anywhere at all as long as Mama was holding my hand. I may have even skipped a little. Continue reading Yellow blaze
I think I’ve been wanting to write a book since I was six years old.
(I almost said five years old, but I’ve been noticing that five seems to be the default age my memory coughs up when I want to replace the tired “as far as I can remember” phrase with an actual number. Not that nothing ever happened when I was five. I know for a fact that I began playing the piano at five. I probably also told my first lie when I was five. “Yes, Mama, I practiced piano today.” Five is a safe age to use because it feels believable to have been at least marginally self-aware at that age. But if I keep using five for all my “since I was a child” stories, I’m afraid I’ll wear it out. Only so many things could have happened when I was five, I know. No kid could have been that busy. So today, I’ll say that I’ve been wanting to write a book since I was six.) Continue reading Roots