Room 4 Dessert

I have a problem. Well technically, I have several problems, I suppose, but there is one in particular I wish to discuss. For some unfathomable reason, I am unable to remain clean while I eat. I could understand this if I was careless or lacked decorum, but I am generally a polite and conscientious eater. All right, in full disclosure, I may occasionally talk with food in my mouth. Oh, and I also eat off of other people’s plates, but only with an invitation and just to steal a couple of french fries or something like that.

But other than that, very polite and conscientious. I mean, I do not chew with my mouth open. I ask my fellow diners to pass me things rather than reaching over them. I do my best to avoid drips and dribbles. I tend to use the correct silverware for its intended purpose. Most people would find me a decorous, non-embarrassing dining partner.

Despite all this, I almost always manage to get food on me. Usually my blouse and/or my hair. Of course, if I drip sauce on my hair, it eventually touches my blouse leaving a stain. I am baffled, because I honestly make a conscientious effort to eat neatly (ever since I noticed my propensity to stain my blouses). I try not to splatter sauce if eating noodles; I endeavor not to drip soup or some ooey, gooey dip; and I am focused when eating salad with dressing.

It has made me paranoid and distracted. When eating out, I continually look at my shirt and hair to see if I made a mess. One minute I am fine, clean and pristine. The next minute . . . glop. Pass me a napkin and an individually packaged “Shout” towelette. So, if we ever happen to eat together, please do not be offended if I seem to be looking down my shirt rather than listening to your scintillating conversation. It’s me, not you.

I saw a Japanese movie recently called, “Gu-Gu the Cat.” The main character kept getting rice in her hair. I could totally relate. I remember eating a teishoku meal at Sushi King (teri chicken and shrimp tempura with sauce, of course). I had to ask my friend to drop me off at home before going to the movie so I could change my shirt! I had speckles of sauce and other debris on me and did not want to go to the movie theatre (aka out in public) like that. Yesterday, as I was hanging up my blouse I noticed some red/pinkish dust near my top button and lapels. It was remnants of my lunch which included Flaming Hot Cheetos.

So what is wrong with me? I could understand if I was a total slob or unconscious of any of the social graces related to eating. (Makes me think of the Friends episode in which Ross is dating a well-put together woman whose apartment is disgustingly slovenly). It is to the point where I am putting off cutting my hair (to donate it), because a part of me fears losing my ability to cover my uncomely splotches and splooches.

I am seriously thinking of creating some kind of quasi-fashionable bib to wear when I go out to eat. It’s either that or only eat at lobster shaks. Of course, I have no idea what this quasi-fashionable bib would look like. I am even calling it quasi-fashionable, because I already recognize the impossibility of wearing any type of bib while I eat and calling it fashionable. 

Has it come to this? A plastic parka as my signature fashion statement? *Sigh* Guess I better go to Longs and stock up on Shout towelettes.

Like a siren’s call to unsuspecting sailors, so is movie popcorn to me. That roasty, toasty smell of freshly popped corn. The bag, overflowing in its bounty. The “butter” coating each kernel so it catches and reflects the light just so. The satisfying crunchy texture. The salty goodness tantalizing my taste buds. Yes, it is difficult to resist movie popcorn.

So I eat it. I munch and I devour. My fingers become slick with oil, with a touch of traction provided by the salt. My lips glossy with butter-flavored goodness. Somehow it is easy to lose track of how much I am eating while I am being entertained by the action and dialog on the big screen in front of me. Watch, grab, chew, swallow . . . repeat.

 Unfortunately, by the time the credits are rolling, so is my previously happy belly. Somehow, the light, fluffy kernels have turned into rusty lead pellets working their way through my intestines – and not in a nice, orderly way, but in a not nice, disorderly way. The unholy combination of fibrous popcorn absorbing liquid and butter-flavored product greasing my insides serve to disrupt the delicate balance of my gastro-intestinal tract.

 roan tonight. I shall toss and turn, in a vain attempt to find some comfortable position. A position that will quiet the quite-irritated-on-the-verge-of-being-quite-angry stomach of mine that is rebelling against my movie popcorn indulgence. But alas, alack! No position exists and as I lie curled in a fetal position at the mercy of my aging innards, I will ponder how they no longer possess the ability to take the abuse it would literally have sucked up in its younger years. That is, if I am able to ponder anything at all.

 One would think that an intelligent, well-educated individual such as myself would spare myself the agony and skip the movie popcorn. But no, like the true siren’s call, it bids me to chomp anew. Each time, like the first time, I am compelled to answer the call. I settle into my seat in the cool, dark room, snuggling my bag of popcorn close to my heart. I smell the familiar smell and I appily begin stuffing my face . . . four, even five kernels at a time. Like movie popcorn had never upset my stomach before. Movie popcorn amnesia. I’ve got it. I’ve got it bad.

Some friends and I were having a chat and the Myers-Briggs personality test came up. The real Myers-Briggs test is an extensive questionnaire, but there are shorter versions on the internet that you can take for free (http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes1.htm). I am not sure how accurate these tests are, but it’s fun to take them and read about one of my favorite subjects…me. 

I do not think that I am alone in this. I mean, isn’t everyone interested in the inner workings of me? Yeah. Seriously though, everyone likes to read about themselves (except for famous people when they get bad press, and even in those cases, there are some from the no-press-is-bad-press school of thought, but I digress). I feel like I am pretty self-aware. I know myself well; and am committed to being honest with myself, even when it would be less painful or easier to believe a little white lie. Still, I enjoy taking these tests and seeing if I concur with the results.

The Myers-Briggs test measures you in 4 areas:

1. How you relate to others: (I)ntrovert vs. (E)xtrovert
2. How you take in information: I(N)tuitive vs. (S)ensing
3. How you make decisions: (T)hinking vs. (F)eeling
4. How you put your life in order: (J)udging vs. (P)erceiving

Taking a closer look at my score, I notice I am very close on the E/I line, which I think is accurate. It’s also accurate that I fall on the “I” side of that line, because I really do need to re-charge internally and not with a bunch of people. I get my energy from within and not from without. While my E/I score was close, I am definitely an “N.” I am way on the “N” side and very far from the “S.” My friend commented that I am the opposite of a lawyer’s profile. I guess that’s why I do not practice anymore, although there is still a small part of me that may want to practice again one day.

According to the on-line test, I register as an INFJ. Apparently, there are not too many of us INFJs around…only about 1% of the population. My immediate reaction? “A-ha! My Mom always said I was a unique and special child. This proves it!” Which was quickly followed by, “Geez, I hope that does not mean I have the propensity to be a serial killer or something awful like that.”

INFJs are labeled “Protectors” “Dreamers” “Mystics” “Healers” or “Idealists,” depending on which site you favor (http://www.geocities.com/lifexplore/infj.htm).

Of course, all the good stuff is right and all the bad stuff is rubbish! Ha! Seriously though, they mention something about desiring harmony above all, and that is something I have been working on…sacrificing a little bit of harmony to advocate or present another point of view. The cliché “a work in progress” is definitely apt!

My hair is thick and has a little wave in it (thanks, Dad); therefore, when my hair gets long, it does not fall straight and silky down my back. Nope, it twists and turns whichever way it wants at the moment, not taking into consideration that some of its neighbors are going in a completely different direction. It looks quasi-bushy because of all the fly-aways (as if I were a repository for static electricity…not quite as bad as the Bride of Frankenstein, but you get the idea). And it does not matter how often I brush my hair, it looks the same…messy.

Once, a stylist flat-ironed my hair after cutting it. I am sure it was because she saw how unwieldy it was when it was long. While my newly perfectly straight hair felt great, (silky soft as I easily ran my fingers through it, as opposed to getting my fingers stuck in snarls every few inches); unfortunately, it was not a good look for me. I looked like Professor Snape from the Harry Potter movies. I remember the stylist asking the requisite question, “Well, how do you like it?” I believe I smiled and made all the right noises, then as I walked back to my car, I began frantically shaking my hair out…desperately trying to create some kind of body so my hair would not look like it was crazy glued to my scalp.

Anyway, I know it is time to cut my hair for three main reasons: it is getting noticeably heavy; I am frequently slamming it in the car door and other inconvenient places (like while capping my highlighter!); and it is becoming more difficult to sling my bag over my shoulder, because my hair gets awkwardly stuck. Plus (okay, four reasons), when it sheds (as it is wont to do) it seems like there is a huge amount of hair in the tub, on the carpet, etc., simply due to its length. Kinda yucky, even for someone with as high a tolerance for messiness as I possess.

Of course, when I actually cut my hair I will miss it. Not the messiness or the heaviness or the way it would get stuck in things and yank and hurt; but rather, the protection it gave (for blouses with food drips on them), the ease of putting it up in a twist (once it’s shoulder length it will be too short to put up with a chopstick), and the security it provided (like a blanket, but less obvious). 

The past few days I was in mourning. Kind of. 

Let me explain. Earlier in the week, a friend sent me an e-mail asking how I was coping due to recent events. Confused much? Absolutely! I quickly shot back an e-mail with one word: “Huh?” He replied: “Didn’t know? Haven’t you seen the newspaper or read your tennis magazine? MC got married.”

“Wha-a-a-a?” Dah-duh-dum…and there it was. The death knell on nearly two decades of on-again-off-again crushing. Michael Chang is married. And it’s not to me.

I had to pause to let the reality sink in, then I googled it. Sure enough…married. To someone with Hawaii roots! Seriously?!

(For more of my past feelings for Michael Chang, see my post dated, July 29, 2008, infra.)

The next two days I wore predominantly black dress in keeping with my mourning…the death of what could have been. As I spoke with friends that weekend, it seems a great many people knew about the wedding and did not tell me. They either assumed I knew or did not want to be the bearer of bad news.

I read a few of the articles about Michael tying the knot and I discovered I never stood a chance. First of all, he (and his mother!) were looking exclusively for a Chinese girl. My response: diversify and strengthen the gene pool! Add some Japanese into the mix. It could only be good for the families. Could I convince him to abandon this “qualification” in a bride? I guess we’ll never know.

Also, the woman he married is quite young. About 9 years younger than him. I think maturity has a lot to recommend it. I am definitely more grounded, more insightful and a tiny bit more patient than I was when I was in my Twenties.
I was bemoaning the unfairness of it all to a friend while we were in the movie theatre watching previews for upcoming television shows. One preview came on for a new show called “Castle” starring Nathan Fillion. He was great in the movie “Waitress” as well as the cumbersomely named sitcom “Two Guys a Girl and a Pizza Parlor.” But I loved him as Captain Malcolm Reynolds in “Firefly.” (See previous entry dated: June 23, 2007, infra.)

In mid-whine, I said, “Wow, he is still hot!” 

My friend (quick to follow my tangent) commented, “It looks like he’s gained some weight. His face looks fuller.” 

I replied, “Yeah, I like it!” 

And thus, the mourning period was over.

So congratulations and best wishes to Michael Chang and his young Chinese bride. May you both have many years of happiness and prosperity.

And Nathan, if you happen to be reading this...I'm available!

I finally did it. I took my Christmas tree down to the curb.

Now, this is a major accomplishment. I convinced myself (rather easily) that keeping my Christmas tree up past Christmas was whimsical as well as practical. I mean, it still smelled good…why shouldn’t I enjoy it past December 25? But it became more and more difficult to convince myself that keeping the tree up past January 25 was more whimsical than pathetic and downright lazy. So, on January 23, in the dead of night (so my fellow apartment dwellers wouldn’t see), I unscrewed my tree from its stand, awkwardly wrapped it up in an old bed sheet and winded and wielded my way down the hall, down the elevator, through the lobby, across the parking structure, then out to the curb.

Despite my efforts, those dry needles were everywhere. They provided a trail (better than breadcrumbs) of my midnight antics...right to my front door. I used the sheet in the lobby to “sweep” out as many needles as possible; however, I couldn’t run my vacuum at midnight. That would get my neighbors even more upset. Unfortunately, I had to leave home early the next day and was busy all day, so proof of my laziness languished there, mocking me of my laziness for at least 24-hours. Finally, on the following day I hauled out my vacuum and vacuumed the hallway and waiting area in front of the elevators as best as I could. I had to call the elevator three times in order to get the one I had used that night to come to my floor (we have two elevators in my building), so I could take a couple swipes inside with my vacuum.

If one cared to look carefully, one would find needles here and there. A prickly cluster in the corner of my kitchen, a bent one in my front doorjamb, and along the building hallway some crispy brown needles stick out irreverently where the wall meets the carpet. A reminder of my strength of procrastination…er, whimsy.

Well, the New Year is well underway and I feel like time is beginning to fly. I mean, seriously, can it be February already? While the days and weeks seem to inch along, why is it when I look at the calendar, I am so surprised to see the month of January is already gone? Perhaps one reason is because I turn 40 this year. Yikes. It’s such a mile-stone type of year. Forty is supposed to mean stability and accomplishment and strength in sense of self. Well, at least that’s what Oprah said. Or was it Hallmark? I forget. In any case, there is meaning in attaining your 40^th year.

When did I start to get old? Last week, someone wanted to pass me on the sidewalk and he said, “excuse me, ma’am.” Ugh. In the last few years I have noticed that the number of salespeople and wait staff have been calling me “ma’am” have steadily increased. I have caught myself using terms such as, “…kids nowadays…” and “back in the day…” My oh my. I am thinking old as well as getting physically older. Bleh.

This is difficult to wrap my mind around, because I have always been the youngest. I am the youngest sibling in my family, by far (the next sibling is 11 years older).   When I would hang out with them or their friends, I was always the youngest. I am born in October, so even amongst my schoolmates; I was one of the younger ones. One of the last to get my driver’s license or go to a “real” bar. Even in work, (except for my previous job) I have always been one of the younger staff. Currently, I am the youngest in my office of 5 people).

It is even worse to think of it as mid-life. For some reason, “forty” sounds better than “mid-life,” probably because mid-life intimates that you are in the second half of your life. The sun is no longer rising in your life; it is setting.

Age may just be a number, but numbers do hold some significance. I do not like to think of myself as almost 40, because “almost 40” sounds old. I do not think of myself as old. If anything, I very much have a child-like spirit. My inner child gets free reign, probably too much of the time. I guess I face 40 with some trepidation because of social convention. I will act as I normally do and people will say, “oh my gosh, isn’t she 40?” which would be fine if they said it in an admiring, amazed way rather than in a scandalized, she’s-old-enough-to-know-better kind of way. Oh well, I guess time shall tell...

After reading my previous entry, I am struck by how maudlin and self-indulgent it sounds. I felt somewhat embarrassed by it, but then I thought, where better to be maudlin and self-indulgent than in my own on-line journal? Better to write it down and get it “out of my system” than to subject friends, co-workers, family and others unlucky enough to be in my vicinity to all of that.  The less-than-generous are piping up, saying “it’s too late!” Hmph.

Oh well…

I have not written in awhile because I have not felt compelled to do so. No impetus. No desire. But, one of the purposes of me doing an on-line journal was to force me write. There are actually a lot of things I would like to write about: my experiences working at a poll station for the primary and general elections, about some things I’ve been reading and watching about sustainability, about some of the awesome live performances I’ve attended lately…the list goes on.

So, why haven’t I written?

Lazy. Tired. Unmotivated. I feel a bit like I’m in neutral, just coasting along allowing gravity to work its will on me. And this is not a way I want to feel going into Christmas. This is supposed to be a magical time. Not magical as in abracadabra or mysticism, but magical as in having a sense of wonder and feeling a deep abiding joy and peace to celebrate the Savior’s earthly birth. Not the commercial hype of gift-buying, but the fun in gift-choosing and gift-giving.

I have begun with the outer trappings hoping it will trigger inner motivation. My Christmas tree is in its stand waiting to be decorated and smelling wonderful. I put a Christmas carol CD in my bedside clock radio. I have not gone to the mall to shop yet, but that might be counterproductive right now. Now, I would be grouchy looking for parking, impatient waiting in line, and getting outraged at other people’s rudeness, etc. I’m trying to get to the point where looking for parking is no big deal, because I can finish singing the Christmas carol on the radio as I drive around. When waiting in line gives me the opportunity to talk to others in line with me or contemplate how lucky I am that I can afford to purchase gifts. When I do not even notice that other people are being rude.

Yeah, I’m not there yet.

But I will be. Hope springs eternal, I guess. 

I hope the beginning stirrings are occurring. I get teary eyed listening to some carols on the radio. Especially “Mary Did You Know?” I am totally digging that song right now. It speaks to me. There’s also a “Joy to the World” song that I love but have not heard yet this Christmas season. It’s a little boy singing and the chorus goes something like:

Joy to the World
Peace for every boy and girl.
Hope when life is hard
Light when everything seems dark...

Yeah…perhaps I may be able to go shopping this weekend after all...

Barak Obama is the President-Elect of the United States. 

Wow.

Honestly though, it is not quite as great as, “Hillary Rodham Clinton is the President-Elect of the United States!” However, it is almost as great. 

Listening to Obama’s galvanizing, gracious, and pragmatic acceptance speech, I can almost dismiss the ever-so-faint whiff of regret that America is not celebrating the election of its first female President. Almost. It remains, just a shadow of an aftertaste, but it remains. What if a woman had been elected President of the United States?

We came close…closer than we have ever come before and perhaps that is good enough…for now. Another rung placed on the top of the ladder…one step further. But it hurts, still, to have come so close; and yet that proverbial glass ceiling, for all its cracks, remains relatively intact. It functions as it always did: as a barrier. 

Many people of color are thrilled with Obama’s win. They feel they can “really” tell their kids that in America, you can be anything you want to be. I am a person of color. I, too, feel a sense of pride and the hope that comes with newly open doors. But, then I think of the little girls. Will their eyes shine as bright? Will they inhale that confidence, the same way as little boys…so it becomes their truth? So intrinsic that it becomes part of their very being? Or will there be that tell-tale whiff (or did I just imagine it?) that intimates, “But maybe not you. You’re a girl.”

Why must I work harder, better and faster than my male counterparts to get to the same level they inhabit? Will it be all the sweeter to reach that level? To surpass it? 

I realize these are not new questions. All minority groups have gone through and continue to go through this morass of questions. Women, people of color, people of a different religion, political party, of different abilities, that speak different languages, of different sexual orientation, people that hold on to a different value system than the majority of their neighbors.

Does the opening for one of us mean an opening for all? I wish…I yearn that this is true. That we can build on one another’s successes. The 15^th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution gave black men the right to vote. The 19^th Amendment gave women the right to vote. But then I see Proposition 8 passed in California, thus making it illegal for people of the same sex to be married. And I wonder, “Are we almost equal? One step forward, two steps back?” And it hurts my heart. 

So this election victory of Barak Obama’s and the agents of change who envision a better world and have reached out to grab it with both hands…your victory…our victory…it is bittersweet to me.

And part of me wonders why I cannot enjoy the fruits of this victory? It means a great deal regarding how we see ourselves, how we identify ourselves as a nation. Why dwell on the negative? The “almost” of it all? Will there always be this sense of emptiness? This feeling that no matter how much is accomplished, that it is never enough? That does not sound healthy. 

Then the other part of me argues that it is this part – the one that remains unsatisfied, that strives for more and for better, that will keep our nation and its people on the right track, moving forward. Progressing. So perhaps what is perceived as “negative” is not really negative at all. It is the refusal to rest, because we know we can do better. We can achieve more. It is the part that will ultimately crack that ceiling, made of glass but dense as concrete, into a million shards. And the daughters of the generations who follow will live as if it had never existed. But each will have her own shard, an heirloom reminder of what their grandmothers and great-grandmothers fought, sacrificed, and lived for.

Congratulations, Barak Obama. Congratulations, America.  

We’re almost there.

Almost.

What is it about writing that makes it so personal even when the content itself is not remotely personal?

I understand the feelings of ownership and protectiveness when writing something that involves some kind of intimate insight, experience or feeling, like poetry or a story, or the authorship of anything that took a lot of time, resources and creative effort. But what about writing something as impersonal and mundane as committee minutes, an audit report or policies and procedures?

I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, who welcomes, nay embraces, constructive criticism, and uses it to grow and improve. I do not like to think of myself as the kind of person who becomes protective when challenged, and automatically (i.e., unthinkingly) becomes defensive upon any hint of others correcting my writing.

Notice I said this is the way I would like to think of myself, rather than this is the way I actually am. Just when I am buying into the delusion that I am sincerely open to critical suggestions, something happens to remind me that I have yet to reach that pinnacle of self-actualization. 

One example is a script I wrote for a church cantata. Some kind of narration was needed to tie the seven or eight chosen songs together and I was asked to do it. I spent some time writing a script to make the flow of songs cohesive and meaningful. While I did generate effort to write this script, it was not like this was my life’s work and that I sweat blood and poured all my artistic juices into crafting it. I probably wrote two or three hurried drafts before handing it over.

In most cases, I realize that once a script is “handed over,” the writer ceases to have even a modicum of control over it. Various people can change your words, your stage directions and your meaning without your consent, much less consulting you. I thought I was okay with that. I thought I would be fine even if there were massive changes to the script. I was fooling myself. When I actually saw the performance, I mentally noted every change. Some characters were lumped together; lines were deleted, modified or added; blocking, stage direction and other nuances were altered. I realized that for the most part, I did not like these changes. 

Then, I realized I liked it even less when one of the people in charge of the cantata mentioned offhandedly to me, “I hope you don’t mind, but the Director made some changes to improve the flow of the skit.”

“Oh no,” I replied gritting my mental teeth, “as long as it makes a better performance.” What a big faker I am. I desperately wanted to mean those words as I felt them leave my mouth. Alas! Alack! I hope wishing to be a better person counts for something.

More recently, I was the lead writer for a Report at work. My co-workers contributed, but I did a significant amount of the writing. Today my boss wants one of my co-workers to “tighten up the language;” and the way he made it sound (and from his expression), I do not think these will be minute changes. I said that was fine, but I preferred the changes be made on the side (as comments) rather than to just change the text, so I would know what parts did not work for them. I may be paranoid, but from their furtive glances to one another, I think they want to do some major over-hauling.

The professional in me wants to be fine with all this, but rather I feel annoyed, irritated, somewhat insulted, and frankly, petty for feeling this way. Despite my best efforts to feel and be otherwise, I am taking this personally. 

But why? Why am I taking this so personally? Maybe because this was the third draft and I really felt it was ready to go (albeit with some minor tweaking). I mean, if they wanted some major changes, then why did they not bring this up earlier? Or did they mention it and I failed to appropriately address it in the report?

Perhaps the root of this comes from my core belief that I am a good writer. I am self-aware enough to realize that I am a bad, even horrible speller, as well as a poor grammartarian and punctuationalist (I know they are not words, but I am taking some creative license here), but despite these handicaps, still a good writer. And when I say good writer, I know I am not great, but good, as in better than over half the population (which would be “average.”)

Now, an uncharitable (e.g., discriminating) reader may think at this point, “nothing I have read thus far convinces me that this person is as good a writer as she thinks she is.” Ahhh, therein lies the problem. Maybe that is where I have gone wrong. I have an inflated view of my abilities.

Who knew it would be so difficult to find an opportunity to do some good?

Saturday, September 27, 2008 was the national Day of Action. It is a day to highlight community service and volunteerism as change agents in our nation (legislatively as well as on the community level). A friend mentioned that his church helps paint over graffiti in the Kalihi area. I thought this would be a great project for a few friends – get together in the morning and paint over graffiti.  

Well, we arrive somewhat bright-eyed and quasi bushy-tailed, ready to paint our little hearts out. But what do we find? Actually it is what we did not find that was the problem. No graffiti! It would have taken longer to open the paint than to cover the small patch of graffiti. Now please, do not get me wrong. It is wonderful that there was very little graffiti there. It’s just that now we had to think of something else to do.

As we stood around and forced our brains to find another idea, it was suggested that we go deep into Kalihi Valley (Kokua Kalihi Valley) where they plant and care for native species. We drove up there and I must say, I had an attack of the girly-girl attitude and winced at the ankle-deep mud and plethora of thirsty mosquitoes that were immediately attracted to me. My friend looked at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I wrinkled my nose and answered, “I think they have enough people to help here. Let’s do something else.”

But what would that something else be? 

Then, two other friends unexpectedly join us and we prove that four brains are better than one as we finally decide to pick up rubbish at a nearby park. We drive there only to find a bustling Farmer’s Market, no parking and a clean park. At this point, I am beginning to feel a bit thwarted and my earlier enthusiasm begins to flag after facing no graffiti, mud, mosquitoes and a clean park. My friend half-jokingly suggests we shop at the Farmer’s market to support our local growers. I think that’s a great idea, but we determinedly trudge on (as well as one can “determinedly trudge” while in a car) to find another park that may need our services.

We drive to Lanakila Park . . . and there is a softball game being played. I am about to cry to the Heavens when my friend says there is a park above the softball field and a school. The four of us grab our industrial-sized trash bags and set off in search of unsightly garbage. At first there is very little garbage, which gives us an opportunity to talk and catch up with one another. Then, as we get to the elementary school, there is a fence. The stopper and catcher of all blowing garbage. At last, some real work to be done!

As we fill our trash bags, I tell myself that I should have brought some gloves (because rubbish can be icky) and I definitely should have tied my hair back, as it kept blowing in my face, impeding my ability to spot more garbage as well as holes in the ground I tried to avoid stepping in. I begin to notice how the gentle warmth of the sun has slowly become a laser beam of intense heat as my brow literally sweats. I am a bit ashamed to realize that I would not have survived a generation ago in the plantation fields, as the repetitive bending to pick up rubbish causes some twinges in my back. I am a weak, soft product of the couch potato generation. Yet, my compatriots seem fine and I realize that it is just me who is having difficulty.

We cross the street to the Lanakila Health Center where free TB tests and other services are provided by the Department of Health. The parking lot and surrounding area is a cornucopia of garbage. Our trash bags runneth over. Well, not quite. But they did get quite heavy.

There is immediate satisfaction in picking up rubbish. An area that looked disheveled, messy and neglected is suddenly “clean” and free of debris. Just looking at the expanse of grass or parking lot clear of garbage lets you know that you accomplished something.

In addition, a nice woman walking by thanked us for picking up rubbish in her neighborhood. She said that sometimes the area looks terrible and that she appreciated our efforts. I looked up, wiped the sweat falling into my eyes, and smiled at her in thanks. We did not do this for acknowledgement, but it was nice just the same.

So, was it really so difficult to find something good to do? Not really. If we actively look for opportunities, they will “suddenly appear.” If we pay attention to the needs around us…the needs of our environment, the needs of our family and friends, the needs of our neighbors…there are so many opportunities for us to serve. In small ways and large ways and in-between ways. We just need to open our eyes and see with our hearts. I realize I am channeling a little Dr. Seuss here, but who better to illustrate that child-like wonder and experience those warm, fuzzy feelings?

Day of Action. I like that. Not only realizing that there is a need and that we may have the resources to address (at least a part) of that need, but taking the next step. Action. To recognize a need is insufficient in itself. It’s a first step, and first steps are important. But we need to go beyond that. To act. In love, in humility and wholeheartedly. I have a modest proposal: how about a Life of Action? How truly transforming and wonderful that would be! 

“Of course, this means I would have to start with me,” she thought warily and not without some apprehension. *Sigh* “I guess my couch potato days are numbered.

There is just something about a live performance.  Whether it be music, a play, or a poetry slam, there is something about seeing it live.  And it is not the “tightrope” feeling that something may go wrong at any moment.  That’s unsettling to me.  Rather, I think it may be the palpable energy, the interaction between performer(s) and audience and the audience with each other that raises the bar.

This weekend I saw Carlos Barbosa-Lima in concert at the Honolulu Art Academy.  He was amazing.  He has an interesting style that I would not have known about if I had just heard a recording of his work.  His right hand looks stubby, because he really curls his fingers in when he strums and picks.  You can only see up to the middle knuckle.  Yet his left hand looks like a long-legged spider traveling up and down a fret board web.  Sometimes dancing joyously and unfettered, other times picking its way daintily.

The last number he performed (not including several encores) was called “One Note Samba.”  There was such a pure innocence and vitality about they way he interpreted the music.  A joyful, unselfconscious exuberance that immediately had me picturing children playing, running across a meadow, laughing with faces shining.  Another song he played was called “Conchichando.”  In my program, I just made a one-word notation next to the title:  “Wow!”

Something happens when art is performed live in front of me.  It could be the result of hundreds of rehearsal hours or an impromptu session.  Either way, why does it seem so good for my well-being?  Why do I miss it . . . feel that something is lacking?  Why does my “creative side” (whatever may be clinging to life there) get fired up when someone shares their art with me? 

Part of the reason I love live music is it gets me to think abstractly . . . in colors, scents and movement, something that does not convey itself as easily when I’m listening to a CD.  It’s like my creativity suffers from narcolepsy, and once it goes to sleep, it can slip into hibernation for long periods if nothing wakes it up and I end up sort of just drifting along.  I’m afraid one day it will just never wake up.  Definitely time to wakey, wakey!