单独

I’ve learned, through a series of scientific experiments, that bosses prefer for you to get to work on time.  They don’t usually like it if you show up around 8:30; they want to see your butt in the chair at 8:29.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Anyway, Tuesday morning I was on track to be in the office on time when I rounded the corner in view of Lake Michigan and a gust of wind tried to knock me over.  There was a tiny little lady standing at the top of the driveway to the apartment building next to our office, and she waved me towards her.  I walked up and asked if she needed help.  She wordlessly reached out for my hand and grabbed it tightly.  I supported her as she walked down the driveway and expected her to release me; instead, she motioned for me to turn left and she shuffled forward, occasionally pointing where she wanted me to go, keeping a wiry grasp on my hand the whole time.  She spoke a little English so I got to know some of her background as I walked her to Metropolis Coffee where she let me go, pointed at the door, and said, “I go here.”  We had spent fifteen minutes walking to the coffee shop and I was very late for work, but I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it.  Instead of being frustrated, my heart was warmed by the demands she made of me.  That is the second time in a month an old lady has stopped me and asked for my help walking, and as I walked back towards work I thought about what I would have done had I been her.  I almost certainly wouldn’t have asked a stranger for help.  Or even a friend.

I’m so proud.  I would have tried to make it on my own, even though the wind would have probably introduced my face to the sidewalk.  Just two weeks ago I carried a 50lb air-conditioning unit across town by myself, even refusing help when a stranger stopped and offered it.  My back hurt for a week afterwards, but I couldn’t allow myself to ask someone for assistance.  When I do, I feel as though I shouldn’t.  I think I must do everything on my own.

Is that really the healthiest society?  One in which each person is capable of achieving only what they can achieve alone?  Weren’t we meant to give and receive help?  It may just be my personality, but I’m never happier than when I’m helping a friend.  So why do I feel as though I’m a burden when I ask for help myself?  What is this disease that makes us think we are islands, though we are surrounded by land?

“Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey.

At other times, it is allowing another to take yours.”
―Vera Nazarian

一定漂亮

A couple of weeks ago I had one of those days.  One of those days that make you wonder if humans are capable of goodness.  One of those days were you can’t remember what beauty is.  One of those moments where, because someone you trusted has turned out to be the complete opposite of what you thought, you wonder if all other relationships are false too.

The day followed me, leaving traces of itself on each day after and I realized it wasn't going to go away on its own.

So I decided that each day, I am going to find something beautiful.  I am going to look for the thing that brings tears to my eyes because it’s so wonderful and that day won’t bother me anymore.

Here is today’s:

That's definitely beautiful.

To a mouse

"Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face."

-Mike Tyson

I'm allergic to planning.  Usually when I go on a trip, I don't care to decide ahead of time at which restaurants I will eat, which buses I will take, or even which sights I will see.  I find it infinitely more enjoyable to be enticed by the smell of garlic to a tiny restaurant with better food than I'd ever dreamed of, when I didn't even realize we were near Little Italy, or even the awfulness of a tripe-filled hot-pot I hadn't planned on trying, but had to laugh about for years after.  I've always enjoyed the unpredictability of traveling without an agenda.

Since certain shocks have left a bitter taste in my mouth, I've had a recent attack of pragmatism.  I've tried to wipe away any uncertainty.  I don't want any more surprises. Ever.  So I've begun planning my life, including my trip to New York City last week.  I had every minute of every day planned.  I bought travel books, did research online, and printed off subway maps, itineraries, and necessary tickets for my traveling companions.  There were to be no surprises.

Those "best laid plans" lasted about fifteen minutes into the trip.  Our flight was delayed 3½ hours due to the kind of thunderstorm that only March in the Midwest can produce.  We missed our second flight but all in all it was a minor speed-bump.  I've done enough traveling in situations where delays are the norm rather than the exception, to let that faze me.  We adjusted our schedule and got ready to go to Broadway.  The carefully planned schedule grew hazier with each passing hour.  Rather than being delighted with each new scene, I was frantically trying to figure out how to get us back on schedule, back to the place we were supposed to have been.  I didn't enjoy anything when I had mapped out exactly what the day should look like and it didn't resemble my dreams at all.

It became apparent to me that this was no way to travel around day 3 of New York City.  We arrived in Central Park with three specific goals.  The first was the literary walk section of the Mall, the oldest and prettiest pathway through the city's enormous haven lined with statues and quotes from literary masters.  Upon approaching the beautiful literary walk, we were halted by large white vans, bright lights, and two scrawny guys standing in the middle of the walkway.

     "Excuse me, but we're filming right now, so we have to ask that you turn around."

Normally, this would have delighted me.  I would have asked countless questions and been immensely interested in the TV show being made right before our eyes.  Instead, I was frustrated that I wasn't going to see one of the things I'd researched and looked forward to.  I considered my options:  if I ignored the guys and walked right past, I was pretty sure I could out-muscle either one in a scrap.  I was also pretty sure my sister and roommate wouldn't want to explain to the police why I had gotten in a fight in the park.

We turned around dejectedly and searched for Strawberry Fields.  At least we would be able to pay our respects to John Lennon.  Strawberry Fields wasn't hard to find, since there was a crowd gathered around the mosaic where a man in a Hawaiian shirt with too few brain cells was explaining his carefully crafted shrine of flowers, an apple, a hand-sewn strawberry, a walrus, and a variety of other chintzy knickknacks.  He had made an intricate peace sign over the "imagine" mosaic with roses, and was telling stories about the late Beatle that grew less believable with each breath he took.

This was an interesting fellow—a fascinating specimen of humanity I should have been entertained by.  Instead, I was fuming that he was ruining yet another of my plans:  a picture with the artwork.

In an even worse mood than before, I turned towards my last hope for Central Park:  the Great Lawn.  When we approached the beautiful lawn upon which so many artists had performed concerts, so many New Yorkers had lounged in the sunshine, I was looking forward to settling down for half an hour with one of my newly-purchased books and feeling the bliss of soft green grass.  Instead, a fence encircled the entire lawn with a warning sign that the grass was freshly planted and couldn't be walked on for a few more weeks.

It was after I left the park in a foul mood that I realized none of this would have upset me if I hadn't built up expectations in my mind.  The way I normally live, I just let things drift to me and enjoy them as they come.  

There's a certain poetry in finding life to be a pleasant surprise rather than a disruptive deviation from your careful plans.

Certain areas of our lives must be planned.  Without goals and dreams, we would wander aimlessly and accomplish little.  That does not mean that I should hold rigidly to those plans as though they are the only possible way to enjoy life.  An unexpected turn of events can bring with it joys I'd never dreamed of, even if it completely ruins the careful map I'd drawn.  Thank you, New York, for reminding me to be flexible.  Just because I didn't get the job I thought was the only possible avenue to happiness doesn't mean an equally wonderful opportunity isn't out there waiting to be discovered.

可能，我疯了有关书籍。

Fully furnishing an apartment without spending a dime of your own money is not an easy task.  I challenge anyone to do a better job than Sam, Rachel, and I have.  So what if our kitchen table rocks so much that setting a drink on it could be hazardous to your clothing?  I maintain that the uneven kitchen floor is the culprit, not our rickety table.  So we only have one chair to use at the table?  We sit on the floor around the coffee table and eat family style, like the happy Egyptian family we are not.  Free coffee table with only one leg?  Easiest of them all.  Behold: the majesty of the stack of books.  It's functional and cute.  Adds a whimsical touch to our apartment.  What happens when you break two legs off the microwave stand in the process of sweeping the kitchen floor?  Why, books are the answer to that question as well, just as they are the solution to nearly every problem in my life.  I use books to prop up my table and I use books to prop up my broken spirit when I cannot stand.

"Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them."
-Lemony Snicket

我会写一本书。真的。

I don't make new year's resolutions.  I think they are doomed from conception and can serve only one purpose:  that of a guilt-factory.  I was once told by a very dear friend of mine (one of the three blessed people who happen to read this blog) that this is a character flaw and something I should focus on immediately.  Perhaps my new resolution should be to make resolutions?

I justify my disregard for the collective starting-over period by saying that I do decide to make changes whenever the need for one happens to hit me in the face, no matter what time of year it arrives.  The problem is that whether it be on January 1st or August 20th, the intended change usually fades within about the same period of time.

Until now.

Some time ago I stumbled upon a wonderful little website, www.onepageperday.com, on which you can type exactly one page, which it will save for you.  If you haven't written yet when the reminder fairies wake up, they send you an email called your "gentle reminder" to write your page that day.  Those emails are very easy to delete.  If they stack up in your inbox and you suddenly have fifteen of them, there is a magical button which blocks them from ever showing up in your inbox again.  New year's mumbo-jumbo defeated!  Then I remember that I asked them to infiltrate my inbox, so that I would actually be productive with my otherwise wasted life and I beg their forgiveness.  This new-found discipline lasts another couple of days until I get annoyed with the "gentle" reminders yet again.

That cycle might continue indefinitely if I hadn't made the mistake of telling that same nagging (and very beloved) friend that I was going to write a book.  Now, for some reason, he keeps asking me how that book is coming.  It's not that I don't want to write a book--I very much do.  It's that working 40 hours a week has got to be the surest way to suck all the creativity out of a person and leave them a dry shell of a human.  By the time I get home I'm so tired of listening to the insane ramblings of our needy clients that all the creativity I can summon is depleted when I add a jalapeño to whatever I'm cooking for dinner.  That little addition is all I have left to contribute to the world.

Peer pressure is a lot harder to resist than an electronic reminder, so I've begun writing my book for the third or fourth time.  If it lacks the spark of humanity that makes literature worthwhile, I blame this system of slavery we expect adults to join in order to be considered "responsible."

"Each person's task in life is to become an increasingly better person."

-Leo Tolstoy

研究生院

"Sometimes decades pass and nothing happens; and then sometimes weeks pass and decades happen."

-Lenin

I'm in love with adventure.  I've spent most of my life chasing recklessly after it, and it's led me all over the world.  In the last nine months; however, adventure been conspicuously absent from my life and I'm almost grateful.  Since I got back to the States my days have become somewhat monotonous and for the most part I've been glad for the respite.  Adventure itself is a wonderful thing, but it can be synonymous with turmoil.  It's good to have a rest from the whirlwind that the last two years have been.

I'm still enjoying my job more than I imagined I would, but in the last few weeks I've felt the familiar stir of restlessness reawakening.  I need to have a goal, a purpose, something to bend my life towards.  So, I have started taking steps towards getting myself in grad school in the next few years.  I signed up for the GRE this week, and am researching schools and programs related to English.  While on OU's website trying to learn about their Master's program, I clicked on the link to Frequently Asked Questions.  Check out the answer.

Here is my blog post for the asking

Americans are good at being everybody's friend.  They want to talk to you, even if you're a complete stranger. From the waitress bringing their steak, to the cashier at the grocery store, they will always ask, "How are you?"  I love this about Americans.  We want to be friendly to everyone we meet.  What I never realized before I left, was that it often only goes ¼ inch deep.  I can talk to a stranger for 10 minutes about the movie that came out last week or the crazy weather we've been having, but I'd better not start to tell them about about the year I've had.  The look on their face turns to fear if they think they'll have to emotionally invest.  Keep it casual folks!

I just came from a place where you don't smile at people you don't know.  You don't stand politely back and let them go ahead of you--you shove them out of the way and jam your elbows into ribs in an effort to give yourself the 30 second advantage.  The difference is, when you break past those barriers and get to know someone, you go straight to the heart.  Once someone becomes your friend, they are there for life--whether you like it or not.  It is not a casual thing.  Soon they're coming over uninvited, eating your food, asking you all kinds of personal questions you never wanted to answer, and borrowing your things.  They are no longer your friends, they are your family and it's forever.  I love the deepness, and the closeness those relationships contain despite the lack of personal space or privacy.

It came as a shock to me that the American way seems so foreign.  I grew up in this land.  I should know how it works.  Yet I was annoyed and surprised as people asked, "How are you?" as they walked past without pausing to hear the answer.  I am used to my friends coming over without calling, when I'm in the middle of eating dinner, plopping down on my couch, and not leaving. They spend 6 hours finding out how I am, instead of 3 seconds.  They know all my quirks, from my habit of using hyperbole in every sentence to my crazy need to be better than everyone else at speaking Chinese.  They know that "How are you?" can't be answered simply.   It can't be boiled down to 2 words.

Great relationships take time to build.  So though I reminisce about the deep friendships I left behind, I need to keep in mind the fact that it was almost a full year before those friendships were born.  But like Tom Petty said, "The waiting is the hardest part."

"How poor are they that have not patience!

What wound did ever heal but by degrees?"

William Shakespeare

我讨厌这个问题

Everyone asks The Question, but in an expectant way.  Like they know what your answer is going to be before you give it.

They don't really know.

It's finding yourself in the middle of the grocery store staring at 1400 different kinds of Earl Grey tea feeling like you've just won the lottery and then somebody called you to tell you that your great uncle's wife also left you a fortune.  All you can think about is the irony of wanting just one tiny thing for so long and suddenly having more than you could ever need.

It's being captured by the kind of sunset that makes you pull over to the side of the road, roll your window down, and gape.  You decide to quit your job and paint so you'll never again forget that the sky can have color.

It's pushing a button to clean your dishes instead of bending over the abnormally short sink for what seemed like half your day.

It's feeling like you're on the outside of an inside joke.  Everyone gets it but you.

It's the sheer bliss of eating Mexican food whenever you want.

It's talking to somebody you've known your entire life and realizing they don't really know you at all.

It's feeling like a stranger when you are surrounded by old friends.  You aren't sure if you're one of them or an alien.

It's knowing that the people you love still love you no matter how much you've changed.

It's a Friday night in a coffee shop, that doesn't feel complete without people around you speaking Chinese.

It's a jumble of feelings fighting for priority inside you, and not knowing which one is real.

It's cursing every time you have to fill up your gas tank, because you no longer have the option of putting a coin in a slot and taking the bus downtown.

It's the welcome truth that people are people no matter where you go.  Some are sweet, some are annoying.  Some smell bad and some always know how to make you smile.  That doesn't change when you leave the hemisphere you grew up in.

No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow.
-Lin Yutang

假的眼睛

I opened my eyes to a pink dawn today.  Yesterday it was a blinding yellow.  Each time morning comes it looks a little bit different.  I was throwing away my old contact lenses today, and replacing them with new when I thought about all that these lenses have seen.  It hasn't been a remarkable length of time since I first bonded with this particular pair of synthetic eyes but they've experienced so much.  I probably remember less than 10% of the wonders they captured and funneled into the sensors inside my head—then I threw them away.

These contacts were the first object to receive the light rays when I saw my sister for the first time in a year.  They flooded with tears when we summited Mount Antero together, as we thought about the day, 3 years earlier, when we'd stood on top with our brother.  They watched as clouds hovered, and gathered, and threatened to wipe us off the earth with their fury.  They wondered at the rainbow that completely encircled the sun like a halo.  They were still and silent as a herd of 23 mountain goats passed in front of them on the wisp of a trail overlooking our camp.

The most remarkable change in my eyesight comes--not from a new pair of contacts, but from the paradigm shift from behind.  These contacts didn't aid directly in that change, but they were witness to the constantly evolving that takes place in determining my perspective.  Every day I discover that something that I thought was black or white is actually grey.  I learn that from someone else's point of view, my way looks terribly wrong.  I learn that my eyes can make mistakes, and that things aren't always as clear as they seem.

Soon my contacts will be in a landfill somewhere, no longer enabling me to see.  But the changes that have taken place while they were with me will remain, and I'll remember what I learned with their help.  I can close my eyes and recall the exact color of terror the sky turned as the wind whipped a storm out of nothing high in Colorado.  I'll remember the sunlight on the note we left for Clifford as I folded it and put it in the register on top of 14,269 feet of rock and dirt.  I'll know that there is beauty on this earth and it's there for a reason.

Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now.

-Bob Dylan

新的工作！

I was thinking today, about what my life would be like if money actually grew on trees.  To begin with I'd buy a lot of those seeds and save them up in case there was a famine and all the money trees died.  Then everybody would come to me to rescue them and I'd be the money-tree-seed empress.  Of course I'd sell them at an inflated—but not outrageous price and everybody would thank me for being so generous and I'd be known all over as a philanthropist.

I would also live in a different country every year and not have to wish that my student loans would pay themselves while I was away.  I'd learn the language of the country I was in and then promptly forget it the next time I moved and start on a new one.  I would try a new career with each new country until I found one that I loved with all my heart because I wouldn't have to worry about being able to eat while I figure out what I really want to do with my life.  I wouldn't feel any of the pressure that comes with finding a career because if I got tired of my work I could just quit.  The relief from the burden of commitment would make me feel so immensely free that I'd probably hug everyone I met just for the joy of life.

I would never feel the fear that comes with not knowing where your next meal is going to come from.  I would read every book I could possibly think of and some others besides, because I wouldn't have to fill my free time with earning a living.

I would also never discover that I actually love a job I thought I was going to hate, because I wouldn't have been forced to take it to make ends meet.  I would miss out on the fun of creating culinary wonders from leftovers in the fridge.  I would never have felt the excitement I get when I find clothes at Goodwill for $2.  Being able to read whenever I wanted might rob me of the satisfaction of a stolen hour alone with a book.  It would cease to be a rare treasure and become the norm.

While I can't say that I actually am glad money doesn't grow on trees, I have to admit I'm finding out that the things in life that seem like curses are not always.  I started a new job two weeks ago, and at first I was revolted by the thought of doing the same thing every day, and no longer having my summers free, and all the shackles that come along with adult life; but after two weeks on the job I've found that I love it.  I'm a legal assistant at a law firm downtown and it doesn't seem so terrible to go to work at the same time every day and see the same people.

I promised to update my blog readers when I landed a job but I got distracted by climbing mountains with my sister during my last two weeks of freedom.  They were as glorious as two weeks could possibly be, but life in the low country is plucking along dandily too.  That doesn't mean that I won't keep my eyes out for the faces of dead Presidents on the trees I pass as I drive to work…

 

"So you think that money is the root of all evil. Have you ever asked, what is the root of all money?"
-Ayn Rand

Things I Miss About China

Okay let's be real...I've only been gone for a week, I don't actually miss China yet.  But eventually I will and here are some of the reasons:

 

Spending 5 hours getting my hair done.

 

 

七月七号 直到永远

July 7th was 37 hours long.  When it began I was in Yichang, China.  I was lying on the grass of the football field at Three Gorges University, trying to comprehend how two years was already over.  My two best friends were beside me, listening to Chinese pop music and making up a love story about the lonely star in the sky.

 

6 hours later I was frantically shoving my belongings into an over-burdened suitcase and holding back tears as my friends silently watched.  Together we greeted the dawn on my last morning in China.  With 45 minutes of sleep to strengthen me through the next 47 hours of travel I was feeling far from prepared.  We loaded into the car and I watched my home slip behind me through the rearview mirror.

 

Each hour imbedded itself in my memory with agonizing slowness.  Some were spent relishing the somewhat Western food in 广州's airport.  Some were spent praying for mercy from the airlines when they weighed my bags, and for strength to leave.  Others were spent in that place that's not sleep but not awareness, where we aren't sure what's real.  I spent a few of them flipping through the three channels on the TV provided by China Southern Airlines, trying to decide if I wanted to watch The Blind Side for the 4th time or the Chinese war movie I'd switched to after hour 7 on that flight.

 

When I landed in America it was 6:50pm on July 7th though more than 31 hours had passed since the day began.  I stumbled off the plane unable to comprehend I was finally in the land of internet freedom and horizontally challenged people.  An immigrations officer gruffly questioned me about the contents of my suitcase and I couldn't remember which language to answer him in.  After trying a sentence in Chinese I realized why he was looking at me like I'd lost my mind.  The next sentence seemed to pacify some of his inner anger and he waved me though the line.

 

I found a book store and subsequently remembered one more reason to be grateful for this transition.  July 7th mecifully ended with a chicken ceasar salad and Three Cups of Tea to comfort me.  I had 30 minutes before my flight to Houston and I was determined to enjoy every bite of food that didn't taste Chinese.

 

Descending from the plane in Houston at 5:40am, I envisioned meeting my parents at the airport in Oklahoma City.  I could picture their smiles and hugs and I felt like one more minute was too long to wait.  I approached the Continental Airlines desk hoping I could sweet talk my way onto an earlier flight.  What I heard seemed to come from far away.  "I'm sorry ma'am, your flight has been canceled due to the weather.  We've got you scheduled for a flight at 9 tonight."  Tears sprung unbidden to my eyes yet again and I angrily shook them away.  I implored the man to try something else.  He found a flight to Dallas/Fort Worth and told me I could try to get on standby for a flight from there to OKC.  I called my parents and they decided they'd rather drive the 3 hours to Dallas than wait for me to fly in late at night.  Thus began my transition back to American life.

 

 

"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on on's own country as a foreign land."

-G.K. Chesterton

The end

It's 2am, and I'm still cleaning before my 6am departure.  I'm still cleaning because I had the perfect last day.  I didn't spend a minute of it at home.

Home is sweltering hot.  My air-conditioner's been broken since the day I switched it from heat, so when I'm here I feel like the main course of some cosmic barbecue.  I went downtown with Zhang XiaQing, my best friend here, to exchange money today and while we were shrinking my pile of cash we found the world's best dumpling shop.  I'm telling you, food doesn't get any better than that.  After running all my last-minute errands we went over to Zack's air-conditioned oasis.  Our sister Han Lu came over and taught us all how to make baozi.  When all of our appendages were sufficiently covered in flour the doorbell rang, and it was Zack's neighbor, bringing us cake in celebration of her birthday.  We went over and sang Happy Birthday and shared our fresh baozi.

When I couldn't eat another bite we watched the World Cup for a while, then XiaQing, Kuang Yu, and I went for a walk.  It was sufficiently cool enough outside to make it worth braving the prowling ground of the mosquito hordes, and we stayed out til 12:30, talking, singing, and laughing.  XiaQing has been staying with me for the last few weeks, and Han Lu for the last few nights, so we headed home for the evening.  Han Lu reached out, took my hand and XiaQings, and began to pray for us.  I was overwhelmed with gratefulness at the opportunity to know these amazing people.

I couldn't imagine a better way to end my time in China, than to spend it with my closest friends…my family.  I've been blessed.

Things I'm going to miss about China

Tofacos

Things I'm going to miss about China

Talking to my family via the internet.

...okay some of these posts may be a tad facetious.

Things I'm going to miss about China

The presents people give me

Things I'm going to miss about China

Street food

Things I'm going to miss about China: 柏林

I learned two things today.  Firstly, just because you used to be good at swimming does not mean you can retain that ability without practicing for 8 years.  Secondly it is possible to swallow gallons of Yangtze River water and not die (immediately) from the pollution.  Though there’s a possibility I may develop some kind of deformation in the future, only time will tell.  It’s even more likely that I’ve contracted Giardia.  Honestly the 长江 is not nearly as polluted as many rivers I’ve seen, but I couldn’t help but cringe as I waded in.

The leader of our swimming crew today happens to also be the owner of the coffee shop on campus.  His shop has been declared my favorite place in Yichang and because we both have a love for all things outdoors, we’ve become good friends over the last two years.   If he had asked me to swim across the river a few months ago, most likely my answer would have been, “Are you crazy??”  But as I near the end of my time in China I find myself jumping at the chance to spend time with my favorite people, despite obvious risks of say, growing a third eye.  The only complaint I have about the day was seeing far too many middle-aged men in Speedos.  Doesn’t anyone in this country know that there are swimsuits that don’t scare people?

 

“It's a good idea to begin at the bottom in everything except in learning to swim.”

Things I'm going to miss about China: 我的学生

 It's probably not the hallmark of a good teacher to cry in class, but as I said goodbye to my students today I couldn't help it.  Today was my final day as an English Professor at Three Gorges University.  Right before the exam started my students crowded around my desk with a vase of flowers, a card, and a notebook in which each of the 70 English majors had written a page to tell me how much they'll miss me.  As if I needed another reason to be sad about leaving.  Here is a sampling of their messages:


"Hi.  Guess who I’m.  Yes.  It’s Heather, who admires you.

Er.  I have so much to say that I even don’t know where to start.  First of all, you’re the most beautiful and loveliest foreign teacher I have ever met.  Yes.  It’s the truth!  The most beautiful decoration on your face is your shinning smile!  I liked you when the first time I saw you.  Do you know why?  That’s your sweet smile that impressed me most.  But the more I know you. the more I like you.  but when we have a test.  we are afraid of you.  Because you can be very secrious about the exam.  So you told us the high mark should be got by you hardwork.  Not by cheating.  I really like this.

I scream, You scream.  We all scream for ice cream  西西…I like it very much.  You can’t believe it.  I always speak out it even today.

Time really flies.  You have taught me for one year.  I really love thise course.  Maybe I still remember clearly what you did during each class to make the atmosphere more vivid and interesting.  That really move me a lot.  Anyway, what I wanna say most is Thank you!  You made us feel at ease when learning English.  You are a good girl.

May you find your Mr Right and be happy everyday.  To be honest, I really don’t want you to leave.

Give you a sentence I like most:  “you never know where you are going until you know where you have been.”

It seems that where there is (are) you there is smile.

(Tell you a secret:  I have always been fond of seeing your earrings every class.  They’re really beautiful =) !!)

(find a  ideal husband early)"

哥哥

It was a year ago today t hat the world fell apart.  I'm not just talking about my world.  I mean the whole world, in general.  Every piece of it stopped working the way it was supposed to.  It forgot its purpose and spun out of control.  Most of you probably didn't notice.  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary for you.  But I'm telling you that it broke that day.  It still hasn't been put back together.  Someday you'll realize it too.  And when you're telling your story, you'll think it fell apart on a different day, in a different place.  But you're wrong.  This is where it happened.

For 365 days now I've tried to be normal.  At least half of the time I put on a good show.  I look and act like your average messed up human.  But at night, I close my eyes and relive the nightmare.  I've tried everything short of doing drugs to be able to sleep when I lay down, but it's fairly elusive to this day.  The second my eyelids shut I'm transported back in time; to a time when my phone rings at 4:30 in the morning.  Nobody with good news ever calls at 4:30 in the morning, even if they're calling from America.

I hear my dad's voice on the other end and my heart jumps into my throat.  He keeps saying my name.  It's like he needs to be reassured that he's talking to me, that I'm real.  I hear my mom's voice too and breathe a premature sigh of relief.  Then he asks me if I'm alone.  That's when I know this is going to be one of those phone calls that changes your life, and not in a good way.  Panic has gone from a little seed to a full-grown monster inside of me.  He keeps asking me who is there with me and I'm practically screaming for him to just say what he needs to say.  The suspense is choking me.  Then when he speaks I feel the urge to throw the words back.  I can't accept them, I refuse.

After I got home I drifted in and out of awareness.  I was numb.  I was surrounded by family and overwhelmed by people who all wanted to tell me that everything was going to be okay.  Those people and their love mean a lot now, but at the time it was like putting a band-aid on a cancer patient.  I couldn't feel the effects; I couldn't feel anything except agony.  I was dealing with the shock of being back in the U.S., and being around my family again, and the enormous, gaping hole in my heart all at once.

My thoughts whirled in and out so fast I couldn't grab onto one before the next flurried in my vision.  I lost control of my feelings completely.  Things seemed to be the opposite of what they should be.  I'd be crying in the middle of the grocery store and laughing when someone told me a story about my brother.  I felt like whatever my reaction was it was the wrong one.  A lot of the time I convinced myself that it wasn't real.  The world really didn't work this way.  It was all a mistake.

That's when the questions came.  Why now?  Eleven more days and I would have gotten to see him and tell him that I love him.  I even had a countdown on facebook until I got to see my sister again, and he had written on it, "What about me?"  I changed it so that it counted down the days until I saw him too, but I found out later I changed it two hours after he died.  He never saw it.  I told myself he must have thought I didn't love him as much as I loved her.  Logic has little to do with grief.  No matter how ridiculous the accusations are we still point the finger at ourselves.  I counted the number of times I'd talked to him over the last year.  It was pitifully small.  I managed to make myself feel guilty for everything I'd ever said or done to him.

Maybe that's partly why now I feel like sharing what losing him has meant to me.  Maybe I hope he'll read this and know how much he means to me, because I never told him while he was alive.  I never told him just how much I love him.  We don't always know how much we love someone until they aren't there to hold the world together anymore.

In a way I was glad to escape Oklahoma and head to China again.  Friends felt like strangers.  Every relationship was different and I wasn't sure how I was supposed to act around people.  Everybody wanted to show their concern by asking me how I was doing and every time I wanted to react by screaming, "How am I supposed to be?"  It felt like such a cruel question.  I know they were trying to show their kindness, but every time someone asks how you are doing, you have to stop and analyze how you are doing.  When you're in pain, the last thing you need is to be reminded of it.

Some people hugged me and told me that they loved me.  With those people I felt safe, I felt like they each took a little of my hurt on their shoulders to help me carry it.  Some people told me that everything happens for a reason.  I tried really hard to see beyond their lack of tact to their good intentions.  I often failed.  Some friends brought me a cup of tea and said nothing at all.  I knew they'd be there when I wanted to talk.  Some people think they need to defend God and explain why Clifford died.  They try to put a positive spin on the fact that sometimes life sucks.  I try to be patient with these people but it's hard.

Since that time there have been days—months even—where I felt as lost as I did at the very beginning.  I've also had periods of relative normalcy and even joy.  Slowly life is reclaiming my affection.  For a while I didn't know if I'd ever be the Katie I used to be again.  I worried that I'd changed forever.  In part, I have.  I'm sure there are pieces of the old Katie I'll never see again, but I'm learning that the essential core is still me.  And whatever I've lost won't keep me from being happy permanently.

I often haven't been able to stop the anger inside me from seeping out, and I let it take over my ability to care about other people.  I'm sorry for all the people who have had to put up with me this year, as I try to work through my pain I tend to neglect anybody's feelings but my own.

My questions haven't been answered, and a new one finds me every day.  All the things I used to be so sure about have gone fuzzy around the edges and I don't understand the world at all anymore.  Maybe it's supposed to be that way.  Maybe things don't really make as much sense as we pretend they do.

I'll never understand why pain exists in this world.  God doesn't even try to explain it so my feeble attempts are doomed to failure.  It makes me question God.  It also makes me need him.  I cry out to him, begging him to exist, and to do something about this awful void where he ought to be.  Then I close my eyes and realize the sun will rise soon.  And when it does it reassures me that this is about something bigger than me.

I know there are a lot of people who have dealt with far more loss than I have.  I'm lucky by the world's standards.  This post isn't meant to generate sympathy or to wallow in self-pity.  I don't need affirmation about how much I'm loved, I already know that more people than I deserve love me.  I just find it therapeutic to write my thoughts out, and decided that in honor of my brother I should subject the internet to them as well.  I also don't want you to worry about me, or call a counselor on my behalf.  This is all part of the process and I'd be inclined to worry more if I didn't have this much pain, or if I wasn't overwhelmed with questions.  I don't hurt every day but this is June 20^th.  This is for him.

I love you Clifford John Marshall.

 

"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break."
-William Shakespeare