let snow fall.

Where did my writing days go? My brain is now 30 years old and has lost much of its energy and the creativity that once felt so effortless. I used to write and write, and probably most of it was drivel I'd rather burn than read again, but at least I wrote. For every 500 words there were a few good ones strung together nicely, so it was always worth it. But now. But now, but now...

It's April and there are still bits of snow left on the grass, below the bottom-end of the fence where the sun doesn't reach. There's a small pile of cat poo that confirms my suspicions he's the culprit behind my dug-up daffs. I'll have to plant some more lemon thyme and hope that keeps him at bay. The lavender pots are also waiting to be planted, but I'm asking them to be patient. I'll wait until the thermometer creeps past 0 for good, and then I'll plant them in a neat little row. Come summer I'm expecting bees and some good scents wafting through the air (assuming we're still at West Royd Avenue - the landlord has put the house on the market).

I'm disappointed none of my spring flowers have made an appearance yet, apart from the three crocuses (only one surviving after an incident with a ladder). I planted 200 bulbs in the autumn - could it really be that none of them will come up? Do I have grounds to request a refund? Do I just accept I'm a poor 'gardener' who grew up in LA and actually has no idea what she's doing? I have soaked apple seeds chilling in the fridge (the instructions told me so), tomato seeds in a small tray that are definitely NOT coming up, and a few pathetic lavender plugs that I was too impatient to nurture indoors and so have suffered the consequences of my shortsightedness - ie, the harsh winter which has left them stunted and scraggly. Oh, and my orchid is discoloured and not blooming anytime soon.

I'm reminded of two things. First, God is an unfathomably creative and powerful creator. I try with all my might to grow these things to no avail. Yet He has created an entire natural world that is beautiful and happily exists - grows, dies, grows and multiplies again - on its own without any effort from us (obviously without taking into account human interference, agricultural innovations, etc - you know exactly what I mean). Second, people > plants. Like Jonah pouting over the kikayon I oughtn't to get so worked up over my plants (as good as it is to enjoy them). I should be caring for and loving people with even more energy and compassion than I give to my plants. People, not plants, are bearers of God's image and are so precious. Huw and I went for a walk yesterday in the Southern Washlands Nature Corridor and there was a young boy sitting by himself, right by the weir over the rushing water. We were both really struck by the sight of him looking miserable (perhaps he wasn't - he might have just been thinking or wanting some fresh air). Huw wondered if he should see if he was okay, but the boy pulled up his hoodie and looked like he just wanted to be left alone. We left him in peace (we weren't worried he was in danger - the weir wasn't that steep or fast-moving), but he brought to mind many of the people, young and old, we've come across in our time up here who have been lonely, angry or just plain sad. We need to look up and out of ourselves and our comfortable home and nice-ish garden to the people around us. 'And the Lord said, “You pity the plant, for which you did not labour, nor did you make it grow, which came into being in a night and perished in a night. And should not I pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than 120,000 persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?"' Jonah 4:10-11.

prague once more.

 Back in Prague for 48 hours, I wonder if Europe has at last lost its magic. I remember the excitement of those early adventures - seeking out every last lane and footpath in Durham, hearing Welsh with delight as Phillip and I ended a long car journey in Caernarvon, gleefully dodging buckets of rain in Barcelona and wondering if my camera's memory would last the day, let alone the week. The details were overwhelming - the beauty, the history, the languages, the people (NO a la guerra!), the food, the secrets that seemed to be around every corner. That day in Provence Bryan and I stopped by a farmer's market, then drove until we found some rocks by a clear blue river to have a simple but gorgeous meal of fresh bread, cheese and olive oil (he had salami too - I was still vegetarian then) - nothing seemed better and as things 'ought' to be.

Footage of Greek riots and endless news - no longer news really - about the recession and demise of the Eurozone drive it home that Europe has had its heyday. The buildings are in constant need of repair, the water mains are antiquated and these beautiful old city centres have become entire wonderlands catering for tourists who arrive by the coach-load. Horse-drawn carriage tours, caricature artists on the bridge - the whole lot. Overpriced restaurants and souvenir shops abound, and I wonder where the 'real' people are.

But I guess this is reality now - tourism is a reliable source of income, so why not bend to that? To what end should we resist culture becoming commodified? Marionettes, garnet jewellery and Kafka postcards - they lap it up so they keep getting produced. Fair enough. I shouldn't be so arrogant to think that they have sold out - everyone has to make a living. It's nothing but pride that makes me shudder when I hear loud Americans - oh I'm so much more cultured, I'm so sensitive and tuned-in - they don't really understand or even try to. I'm not a tourist - I'm a traveller! You know exactly what I'm talking about :o) What is it about aesthetes and intellectuals that make them (us) so proud?

Because the fact is I'm sitting in a lovely little cafe in the Staroměstská (because Prague IS beautiful! Why would I wander around the bleak suburbs?), it's full of Brits and Germans and all the staff speak English. And I'm glad they do because I don't speak Czech and they make really good hot chocolate.

So I'm going to pay, put my sunglasses back on and wander through the streets discreetly taking photos on my phone and trying to blend in as much as possible (good luck to little Asian me!). I really must stop being so cynical and just enjoy being here.

By the way, the photo above is of the escalators in the metro. I liked the colours and starkness of them, and every fifth step was numbered. I don't know why.

grace

As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. Psalm 103:15-16

Elizabeth... went to a window to enjoy its prospect... Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight... 'And of this place,' thought she, 'I might have been mistress!' Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Odd pairing, but both came to mind this weekend. Huw took me to see the house that he has found for us to live in after we're married, and it's not easy to be humble and thankful for God's grace toward us. Of course we have a house! We can afford it. We need space and comfort. We want to entertain. We forget that we don't inherently deserve anything, and that the very word 'gift' assumes a giver and receiver – whilst enjoying good things, we must remember that we are the latter and not the former.

What does one look for when searching for a home? A good location (convenient, quiet, safe, good neighbours), space (spare room, storage, front and back gardens) and aesthetics paired with convenience and comfort (paint colour, wallpaper if applicable, condition and cleanliness) – including, of course, a nice view if you can afford it. Now Mirfield is not the rolling hills of Derbyshire, and 30 West Royd Avenue is certainly not Pemberley. It sounds obvious, but it's surprisingly easy to forget. Already I have my eye on a wall that needs repainting, a bit of front garden that needs replanting and other such visions crowd my mind.

How easy it is to make a building a castle, and to crown yourself mistress. We must naturally have a longing for belonging and permanence – eternity even – perhaps knowing instinctively that death was never part of the original plan. But Christians are aliens on this earth – I must keep knocking that into my head daily – and we must remember that our true home is yet to come and isn't in green English countryside. Huw and I will only be in Mirfield for two years, and that will be good for us. Good for me especially – I get so attached to things and enjoy being queen. But it will be good for us to learn not to be rooted in things that don't last.

The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever. Isaiah 40:8

So rather than dreaming about a lulling, pleasing picture of a green lawn and bright blooming flowers, perhaps I should spend more time looking out of our lounge window now. We have a clear, unobstructed view of the Royal Free Hospital and we hear sirens half a dozen times a day. I always think what a nuisance they are, but really I should be grateful! A daily reminder that our days on earth are few, and that not one should be wasted or taken for granted.

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12

yayoi kusama @ the tate modern

i've been seeing a lot of depressing art these days. above: a letter from georgia o'keeffe to yayoi kusama, on display at the tate modern. i love kusama's passion and commitment to her art - if i were half as committed to my so-called 'art' i might actually call myself a writer. but as someone once said, baking a cake once a month doesn't make you a baker so i guess i can't call myself a writer anymore/yet. the thing that made me sad about kusama's art was that it felt so obsessive and escapist. maybe most art is? maybe her need to escape japan and the various ways in which she felt repressed helped to feed her art - in fact, i'm sure it did. but can art ever replace human relationships? we're all born with holes in our hearts, and i'm not convinced art, in and of itself, can fill it. not that she didn't have meaningful human connections, but her alienation from her family and her self-admittance into a psychiatric institution kinda got me down.

the last bit of the exhibit was a blacked-out room covered - walls, floor, ceiling - in mirrors and filled with thousands of tiny little hanging bulbs that slowly changed colour. it was beautiful.

home.

april 2012 update: maida vale is no longer home! it was a good year. alice moved over from new york, and we shared a lovely flat with a strangely dark blue carpet. she's since moved back stateside, and i've relocated back to nw3.

maida vale was: quiet, anonymous mansion blocks. sometimes i'd sit on our little grated balcony four floors up and watch the lives being lived through the windows of the [posher] block behind ours. hundreds of windows, hundreds of souls eating, watching tv, ironing, trying on hats. we named some of our neighbours and made up the stories of their lives. ben and danielle lived across from us for a few months, then mysteriously disappeared and were replaced by a family with a little girl and a cat. the cat came over to visit a few times and reminded us of our last home together in irvine. there's something so wistful about saying goodbye to an animal.

maida vale was: canals. i loved running up the canal as far as i could, imagining if i kept going i would get to birmingham and beyond. the houseboats were so brightly painted, and spoke of an entirely different world with its own language, inhabitants and secret places. i occasionally exchanged words with them, and wondered what it might be like - coming and going and mooring as you please, making homemade jam and chutney to sell from your deck, learning how to fix a motor. they inspired a story of mine once.

the water is murky now, and hides all sorts of discarded rubbish. it's sad to watch it flow slowly under the bridge, and remember the life vein it once was. thousands of miles of canals still criss-cross the uk, and the paths alongside them where the animals pulled the boats are used now by cyclists and joggers in their lycra and nike tops. no more horses, no more 'legging' through tunnels. why is nostalgia so appealing?

maida vale was: olives and other bits of deliciousness you could find in the local delis and bakeries.

i miss our place and the quiet, leafy streets of w9. but it's good not to have to depend on the 46 bus anymore.

goodbye putney.

you've stuck by me through it all: the recession and numerous closures on the high street, the emergence of a mexican burrito stand (only one more and i would've had a free one...) and the opening of a tk maxx! oh yeah. bargains galore.

i will miss the writing on the walls. the bricks above foxtons muse: 'time like an ever rolling stream,' and near the thames you can spot 'time and tide wait for no man' above eye level. i'll miss watching the tidal patterns as i cross putney bridge, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. i'll miss counting the carriages on the district line trains running across the next bridge over. i remember well my lunches in the graveyard behind st mary's, the grouchy librarians and the always-crowded-no-matter-what-time-of-day pavements.

goodbye putney. it's back to hampstead now with its yummy mummies and baby gap sales!

venturing south.

if i had an endless pot of money and my choice of neighborhood, i might very well pick rotherhithe. something with exposed beams that overlooks the thames.

there is something mysterious about the old wharves and faded paint on the bricks. something that goes back centuries, to a time of exploration and discovery and slavery and shame. a time when pineapples were seen for the first time, the squawks of tropical birds echoed through the fog on ships coming up the thames estuary, and subdued lions and bears were brought to jamrach's emporium. rusted pulleys droop empty and useless, beams that might have once extended to docks or ships now hang in the air, vulnerable and shiny with a recent coat of paint.

imagine the river hundreds of years ago. the heartbeat of the city, the country. a lifeline of ships, goods, food and artifacts from abroad. the starting point of so many voyages and explorations. now it is neatly banked by high walls. boats full of tourists zip up and down, from westminster to london bridge.

still, i bet there are hundreds of stories still waiting to be discovered under those waters.

RIP Walthamstow Stadium (1933-2008)

The other day I was on the bus heading out to Chingford in East London to visit my friend's mum, when I saw this outside the window. So this is it. I remembered all the uproar two years ago when the closure of the tracks was imminent. Radio shows interviewed pensioners who remembered the old days before the national lottery when they would go to 'the dogs.' David Beckham - or was it his dad? - grew up in the area and worked at the track as a boy. It was the death of an icon, a tradition, a certain nostalgia that softens the edges of memory. We choose to forget the ugliness of gambling and absent parents. Instead, dog racing - like fox hunting for the upper classes - becomes something for which you must take a defensive stance. You see its plight, you defend it as a part of your identity and you mourn it when it's gone.

castine.

the house sits high on the peninsula, and down the hill past the birches and pines you can see the inlets of water weaving in and out of the coastline. the snow is falling thickly now, and it begins to obscure the view of the water. the world outside becomes a composition of grey and white and we sit inside, cozy and warm. a purple mug of tea, barack obama next to the Bible, and each of us in our own world. one with a book, another tapping at a laptop, and me at this table.

i imagine buying a house here, an old shingled victorian house. a porch extending all around, columns supporting a second floor bay window, seven gables dotted on the roof. i could let it out in the summer, and spend winters here writing. the town of castine is small. no traffic signals, no police. just several hundred people who all know each other, living and raising children in this quiet place. there is a small school with just 60 students from age 5 to 13, a small town hall where meetings are held and votes are cast. a harbor that has known a vital and staggering past, but now sees only summer yachters and students from the local maritime academy. the local children play baseball on the remnants of an old english fort that has known bloodshed and death.

but could i? i could stare at this landscape for hours at a time, watching it change before me. every second it changes, the snow becomes too heavy on on a branch and it drops with a fat plop onto the ground, the harbor vanishes behind a silver screen of snow, the sun is obliterated in a grey sky. only the single birch tree set on the hill below the house stands firm, tall, unchanging.

and in that time, i wonder if my imagination and my mind have also been working, churning. probably not. i still struggle to write. i like to imagine a little ramshackle cottage at the edge of the sea somewhere. somewhere where i can be quiet and still, but my fear is that i'll enjoy that stillness so much that i won't write and that is my greatest fear: that my wish for the place and time to write will be granted but that it will have proven useless. that i may as well have stayed in london and sat myself in a quiet pub somewhere with my laptop and not wasted the time and money getting to wherever i got to.

though of course that isn't the reason why i'm in maine. i've come to sit and talk with darla, and it's been such a good time of conversation and reflection. this house seems to sit at the center of a giant snowglobe, but luckily we haven't had to be turned upside down and spun around for the snow to flurry down like it's doing now. i'll be sad to leave tomorrow, but there are so many things i look forward to, this christmas not the least. all this talk about years past makes me eagerly anticipate the years coming.

on not knowing everything

it turns out it can be useful not to know everything, and it's a skill to be able to resist google-ing or wiki-ing something you don't know as soon as you realize you don't know it. yes, i have an iPhone. but sometimes it's just nice not knowing.

on the train from putney to waterloo yesterday afternoon, i found my eyes were too tired to read (john stott's 'basic christianity') and there wasn't enough time to listen to the latest 'this american life' podcast (an hour long program). so i started thinking about the word 'edible.'

edible. edible, adj. edible...ness? edibility? n.

is something edible because it can be eaten, because it is meant to be eaten, or because it is beneficial to be eaten?

i wondered about this because i was doing a stationery order for the office. usually i wait to order stationery until there's a 'free chocolate box if you order over £100!' offer. i'd successfully done this last week, so i thought i'd try again yesterday. the small print, after all, only said '1 per order' and not '1 per customer.' but alas, sam informed me that it was 1 per customer after all. sensing my disappointment, she tried to cheer me up: 'i could send you some free batteries! how about 50 batteries, aa and aaa?' i told her the aaa's might come in handy, but not the aa's. 'sorry, i'd have to send you all of them. that's all i can offer you - nothing edible, i'm afraid.'

on the contrary, i thought. surely batteries are edible. they're narrow and slick enough to swallow. but then i thought no, edible means they are made for eating. but not everything is made - mushrooms can be edible, but lots are poisonous (my friend jon and i discussed this at great length during a walk on the heath last weekend) - therefore, inedible.

so by the time the train was pulling into waterloo (only 15 minutes from putney) i was satisfied that edible means (as merriam-webster confirms) 'fit to be eaten' or, as my brain put it, 'meant' to be eaten.

in general, thinking about precise denotations, subtle nuances and etymologies of words makes for fun entertainment when you're passing 15 minutes on a train.

adventures in korea

day 1: land. rent mobile phone. take bus to bun-dang. get picked up by my aunt who - after asking after my health, the flight, etc - asks me if i want to go shopping, cos if i want to go shopping we must go now! i say i don't need to but she asks if i'd like to so i say sure and we stop by her friend's shop. acquire two dresses. back at auntie's house we re-heat some delicious miyeok soup. so, so good.

day 2: get up to alarm at 8am, fall back asleep. auntie wakes me up at 11, saying mummy's friend is going to pick me up for lunch at 11.30! time to get up. mummy's friend and her daughter yunji come by and we go for a yummy lunch. not typical korean food, but korean nonetheless, and good too. nambu bus terminal. one ticket for namhae, please. don't get on the wrong bus! my mum warns on the phone. on the bus i'm sat next to a frail man who can't stop weeping, but i can't do anything about it. mummy picks me up from the bus station and she looks great :D

day 3: drive to nearest big town, jinju (pearl). get my hair done. shop. pick up some big sticks. go home and use the sticks and some yellow string to try to prop up the corn stalks that fell over in the heavy rain the night before. ama makes it look effortless while i'm standing there on the uneven soil just trying to keep all the bugs off me. i'm sent off to weed the grass around the putting green. demoted.

day 4: weed some more, fighting off the giant ants, spiders, grasshoppers and whatever else is lurking in the grass... help mum clean the guest rooms upstairs. drive over to the german village and house/garden land next to it. strange place - each house supposedly has a different national theme, and the appropriate kind of garden. we passed french, dutch, korean, japanese and finnish houses, but they all sorta looked the same... my dad came home in the evening with a new lawnmower, so we started mowing the grass and doing some more removal-of-unwanted-plant-just-cos-they're-not-pretty-enough-or-because-we-didn't-plan-for-them-to-be-there. then we visit a couple my parents know fairly well in the german village to give them an apple pie my dad picked up from the new costco that's opened up in busan. they have a new kitten.

beginning again

i stopped blogging when i realized i'd stopped writing in my journal. i assumed i was diverting all my sophisticated, abstract thoughts to the web rather than paper.

then i realized i just wasn't writing full stop. i've since begun journalling again - though not as faithfully as i was a few years ago - and i thought i'd have another go at blogging.

first blog: i leave for korea on sunday. i'll be there for ten days, visiting my parents and going on a blind date that my aunt set up for me. i might as well humor them, i think.