December/January Photo Recap

For those of you who care what I’ve been doing with my boring life (I actually don’t consider it boring, but I won’t pretend it’s interesting to anyone but myself!), here’s a photo recap of the last couple months. 

We Christmas-ed in Maine and traipsed through Portland after a snowstorm.

More of Portland in the snow

We returned to Taipei just in time to enjoy all the pollution being blown in from Beijing. If you look at the top middle of this picture, you'll see a small vertical line. That's all you can see of Taipei 101 through the smog and dreary weather. 

We did a lot of walking. But that's pretty normal for us.

We took a selfie.

 I skipped across a plaza. Why? Because skipping is fun.

I got directions to where all the dancing singing people hangout. That was a relief. I've always wondered how I could find them.

On the last day of January, the hubby kindly cut my hair.

That's the end of my recap. What about you? What have you been up to lately?

Holywell Cemetery, Oxford—Reflections on Life

Call me morbid, but I love a good cemetery. Ever since I was a child, I would get excited when, on road trips, we passed one I hadn’t explored yet. Needless to say, I was overjoyed that during our time in Oxford last summer we found our way into a few beautiful old cemeteries.

I’m actually really not all that morbid. In fact, horror movies, or anything even mildly reminiscent of them, leave me profoundly shaken afterward. I avoid them at all costs. 

Cemeteries, though, are different. It’s not so much about death. It’s life they remind me of. Lives lived, people loved, stories created—every tombstone has a tale. 

One of the cemeteries we visited, Holywell Cemetery, was filled with graves of famous Oxford men.  There’s something humbling in realising that even the greatest amongst us end the same way. To dust we all return. That sameness in death reminds me of our sameness in life. All these men, no matter how great or little, were just men. They had joys and sorrows, faults and virtues. To borrow a colloquialism, all of them put their trousers on one leg at a time.

One of the most poignant stories told in the tombstones at Holywell is that of Kenneth Grahame, author of The Wind In The Willows. His stone is hard the find (I've included a picture of it at the bottom of this post). The writing is worn-down by time. Grahame was buried there in the same grave as his son, Alastair, who had committed suicide at age twenty about twelves years before.  

Grahame’s epitaph reads:"To the beautiful memory of Kenneth Grahame, husband of Elspeth and father of Alastair, who passed the river on the 6th of July, 1932, leaving childhood and literature through him the more blest for all time.”

A life was lived. Joys and sorrows were experienced. Stories were left behind.

(If you're ever in Oxford, you can find Holywell Cemetery next to St. Cross Church near the intersection of St. Cross and Manor Rd.)

St. Cross Church

Kenneth Grahame and Alistair Grahame's Tombstone

I Am a Mother

I am a mother. This statement might confuse those who see me often. I don’t have a baby in my arms or a child clinging to my hand. I don’t have a rounded belly. I’m not likely to have any of those things anytime too soon either.

Still, I am a mother. I’ve joined the ranks of an often misunderstood, even more often silent, group of women. I’ve joined the ranks of childless mothers. We smile. We hope. We live our lives. Inside, though, we bear a pain that will never leave us. It’s the pain of a child we never got to meet, a smile that never filled our hearts with joy, and a heart that stopped beating far too soon or maybe even never beat at all. 

We are mothers. The world may say we didn’t lose much. It was a clump of cells, that’s all, not even a stillbirth. We know this isn’t true. We know what is true. We are mothers.

On October 26th, I broke a promise I made to myself. I took a pregnancy test before the six week wait was up. Every month for nearly a year I had promised myself I would wait. Every month I had broken that promise. Every month the answer had been “no.” This month, my hands shook as I saw the two lines promising a baby. 

I was so excited I couldn’t wait to tell my husband. I hurried to his school and found him during one of his planning periods. I remember the way his face brightened into a slow smile as he realized what I was telling him. He had become a father.

We found out we were parents that day. One month later, on November 26th, I lay on a cold examination table in a cramped dark room as a doctor coolly told me my baby had no heartbeat. She shuffled us out and moved on to her next task. She moved on to the living, and I left carrying death inside of me. 

Many people would tell me that I’m still young. I still have time. They are probably right. Truthfully, though, I don’t care. I care about this baby. I lost our baby at 8 weeks but carried her for nearly 3 weeks more. During that time, I would place my hand over my womb and remember how I used to make that same small gesture while dreaming of greeting a new life this summer. Instead, I now thought of how that life was replaced with a death that was slowly leaving my body. Yes, I may get another chance, but I will never get this chance again. I want this baby not all the other chances. 

I want to know what shade of blue her (or his) eyes would've have been. Would they have been greenish-blue like mine? Or would they have been dark blue like her father's? Perhaps they would have been bright, dancing blue like her paternal grandfather's. What color would her hair have been? Would she have had freckles? There are so many questions I'll never get an answer to.

Recently, a friend who lost her husband a few years back posted a meme on Facebook. It was one of those pithy saying on a supposedly inspirational backdrop about how if God takes something away from us it means he has something better in return. She questioned the truth of this statement. She trusted God's providence and goodness but also didn't believe that he took away her husband because being without him was better.

The Bible promises that God will never withhold good things from us. Within our finite minds it’s a struggle to reconcile that thought with the loss of a loved one. I don’t understand why God took away my child. I do though, know that he wasn’t surprised at my baby’s death. He is in control. My baby’s life wasn’t a bad thing. God created it. He doesn’t necessarily have something better to give me in return. He does, though still have good gifts for me. Even our child's life, as fleeting as it was, was a good and perfect gift from him. Any living children God might bless me with in the future are additional gifts, not a better replacement for this gift.

I suppose that’s where I rest right now, in the knowledge that I received a wonderful, blessed gift from God. I surrender that gift to his hands and trust his infinite mercy, but, like my friend and her husband, just because God took it doesn’t mean it was never a gift. And just because he has future gifts for me doesn’t diminish the beauty of this gift. 

We found out our baby had died on Thanksgiving day. I expect that day will always be shadowed by the memory of our child's passing. But I also think it was a good day to find out such horrible news. It reminded us to be thankful for the gift of this child.

I recently read these words from another mother who had gone through a miscarriage, “It's going to hurt a lot for a little while,” she wrote. “And then it's going to hurt a little for a long while. And there's another side of this where you are OK again - not the same person you were, not "over it" - but OK again.”

Right now, I’m the first two of those things. Eventually, I will probably get to the last. I will be OK again, not the same, but OK. Loss has changed me. Motherhood has changed me. 

I carried this baby alive for less than two months. I never felt a kick. I never was able to share the joy of her life with anyone but the closest friends and family, but she was a gift from God.

And that's why, in the midst of a pain I can't understand, I choose to focus on and thank God for one simple truth.

I am a mother.

Rag Curls and Plaid

Whenever I think of rag curls, I think of sitting on my mom's bed at night as she tiredly tied up my hair. My hair was thick, as it still is, and stick straight (it has a big more texture these days). It never held a curl for long.

A few days ago, I decided to give them another try. The results were much better than those early efforts. The only problem? I put them in the night before a rainy day. They held up a bit better than I was expecting, though. The last picture is of my curls at the end of a drizzly day running errands around the city. The curls have definitely fallen out some, but they aren't stick straight like I would have expected.

I followed Solanah's tutorial here for a refresher on how to do rag curls. 

Outfit Details

Dress: LL Bean Signature Collection
Handkerchief: Borrowed from the hubby
Jacket: LL Bean
Rain Hat: LL Bean

287 Steps to the Top. Exploring the Scott Monument in Edinburgh.

No trip to Edinburgh is complete without a trip up the treacherous steps of the Scott Monument. And when I say treacherous, I do mean treacherous. The monument was built in 1844, although I have to imagine it was a pretty tight fit for the people then, even if the average person is bigger now. It's 287 narrow and winding steps to the top. The staircase becomes only more narrow and winding the higher up you get. By the end, we were practically bent over double, especially the hubby! 

We chose to visit on an overcast weekday. This meant our view at the top wasn't quite so clear, but it also meant the monument was less crowded. Plus, dreary days (and Scotland has plenty of them!) have their own magic. I've heard the monument can be quite dangerous on a clear weekend. Even on a slower day, it required some fancy footing to pass anyone going the opposite direction. As we were coming down, we passed a Scottish gentlemen and his girlfriend. We were near the top where things were narrowest. I had to stand awkwardly to one side with my body stretched across the hallway, my hands on the opposite wall for balance and support. The couple had to duck underneath my arms like we were in a game of London Bridges and then squeeze past the hubby who was above me where it was even narrower. With typical wry Scottish humor, the man commented, "It's a good thing we all know each other so well. Otherwise, this would be awfully awkward." 

The monument is located at E. Princes St. Garden. It's open April through September from 10-7 on Monday through Saturday and from 10-6 on Sunday. It's open October through March from 9-4 Monday through Saturday and from 10-6 on Sunday. It includes a museum with information on Scott's life and works as well as sculptures of characters from his novels. The trip to the top might be long and a bit tiring, but it's worth it for that beautiful view!

Rotten Chicken and Peking Duck - A Very Late Anniversary Post!

I wrote this post August 20th. I realize this is a bit late to post it, but the sentiments still hold true, even if it isn’t our anniversary anymore!

Yesterday was our 4-year anniversary. Well, actually, it was the day before our anniversary back in the States. But here in Taiwan, it was our anniversary. Living in a different timezone than the one you were raised in and got married in gets confusing sometimes!

I had a simple but nice meal planned: panfried chicken (one of the hubby’s favorites), sweet potato greens (pretty much the best thing ever!), and rice with mango sorbet for dessert. Then, the evening fell apart. First, the hubby came home sick and tired. Next, I discovered that the chicken I had bought only the day before smelled as foul as, well, rotten fowl.   

Not to be daunted, I went out to buy our favorite fried chicken from a local street-side vendor. This stuff is amazing! Fried chicken, sweet potato fries, shoestring fries, fried green beans, fried mushrooms, fried cauliflower—it’s delicious!

As I was walking to the chicken shop (unaware at that point that my plans would need to change yet again), I considered how much like marriage this anniversary was. Sometimes, you have perfect, beautiful days when everything falls into place. Sometimes, you don’t.

We’ve had our share of lovely moments. There’s the dinner we had just this summer at an out-of-the-way, family-owned Italian restaurant we stumbled onto on our last night in the UK. The restaurant was in Slough, the unwanted, ugly suburb of London. Despite its location, it was a perfect, romantic evening that neither of us will soon forget. 

Going further back, there’s the first breakfast we shared as a married couple. We sat out on the porch at our Bed and Breakfast. It was a working farm on a long, private, dirt lane in the countryside. The farmer’s wife served us homemade buttermilk pancakes, and we enjoyed the good food and sunshine, excited for the journey to come. 

Even further back than that, there’s our first date, tea in the park. I still remember the way he leaned his back against my shoulder while he talked about poetry and life. For a moment, I lost my breath. I couldn’t focus on all the wonderful, insightful things he was saying. My universe consisted of three things—him, me, and the sunshine.

We’ve had many lovely, perfect moments throughout our time together. We’ve also had unlovely, imperfect ones. Here are a few: the time we got lost and fought on our way to Biltmore, rainy days on our honeymoon when I got very grumpy, years of searching for a better job, an anniversary last year that wasn’t even celebrated because we were too exhausted and jet-lagged to think much beyond bed and the next exhausting school day, heartaches, frustrations, fights, hopes deferred and deferred again, and now an anniversary seemingly ruined by rotten chicken and an exhausted husband. 

Our anniversary evening continued in its imperfections. When I got to the chicken place, I discovered it was inexplicably closed. There was a dumpling place nearby, but when dumplings are a dime a dozen (actually they are more like $2 a dozen), that hardly seems special. Thankfully, a favorite Peking Duck place around the corner saved the day. We hadn’t visited it since coming back from the UK. To be honest, it was probably a better idea than the supper I was planning on making in the first place. 

So I got home. We ate our Peking Duck, curled up on the couch together, and watched a movie (something we hadn’t done in awhile). The evening wasn’t perfect, but it was our evening. We were together.

I can remember grumpy days as a child when my dad would tell me to straighten out my attitude. “But I’m having a bad day,” I would complain, expecting him to understand my excuse. “Your day is what you make it,” he would respond, expecting me to do right no matter my circumstances. 

Sometimes we can’t change those circumstances but we can change our reactions to them. Readers of this blog know that I liken imperfections in life to freckles, a mar on the face of perfection but a mar that can be beautiful. Marriage has its freckles. It’s up to us to make those freckles beautiful. If we look for marriage to perfectly meet our needs and make us constantly incandescently happy, we’ll probably be constantly unfulfilled and unhappy.

In conclusion, I guess the theme of this post is this. When life hands you rotten chicken make Peking Duck.

Ok. That just sounds disgusting. Let’s try again. 

When marriage hands you freckles, go out and buy some Peking Duck. 

Still not quite right. Let’s try one more time. 

My marriage is what I make it or what I allow God to make out of it. 

Note: I realize that saying “My marriage is what I make it” can seem insensitive to those in harmful, hurtful relationships. I’ve witness enough of the heartbreak that stems from these relationships to know you can’t oversimplify the response. Any advice that I offer here is primarily advice I’m offering myself. I don’t pretend to have insight into the married lives of others. 

I do believe, though, that no matter the brokenness and heartache, God can make something beautiful out of your life. 

A Day In Jiufen, Taiwan

Last Spring, during Chinese New Year break, we took a trip to Jiufen, a magical mountain town about an hour outside of Taipei. About a month ago, we took some visiting friends on the same trip.* It's a trip worth taking, full of history, shopping, food, hikes, and magnificent scenery.

History

The village dates at least back to the Qing dynasty. During its early years, just nine families lived there. When shipments were sent in from the larger towns, they would order nine portions, one for each family. Thus the name Jiufen (Jiǔfèn) which literally means "Nine Portions."   

Around the turn of the 20th Century, gold was discovered in the area. This led to a gold rush as well as a Japanese POW work camp which held allied forces during WWII. The mine was closed in the 70s. In the 90s, the town began its new life as a tourist destination.

Jiufen in the Movies

In 1989, the Taiwanese movie A City of Sadness was filmed in Jiufen. Although the hubby and I very much want to watch it, we haven't at this point, so everything I say about it is hearsay. From what I understand, the movie is set in Taipei during the 228 Incident of 1947 when the Republic of China came over from mainland China to Taiwan and, in the process of taking over the former Japanese colony, killed thousands of Taiwanese civilians. By the time the movie was filmed, Taipei had modernized beyond the 1947 setting, so filming was moved to Jiufen. 

Many believe Jiufen is also the inspiration for the market streets in the Studio Ghibli film Spirited Away. 

Getting There

The first time we went to Jiufen, we took the MRT to Nangang Station and connected to the TRA there. We took the TRA to Ruifang and connected to a bus in Ruifang. This trip, we discovered we could take the 1062 Bus directly from Taipei to Jiufen. Much simpler!

What to Do

If traveling from Taipei to Jiufen for a day trip, I recommend taking the bus past the popular Jiufen Old Street stop and riding up to the gold mines at JinGuaShi. It just takes a few minutes longer. Up there, you can visit a gold mine museum, walk through restored mining tunnels, tour the grounds of the former Japanese Crown Prince's home, see old homes built for Japanese gold mine workers, visit temples, and visit a monument at the site of the old Japanese POW camp. From one of the temples, you can take stairs further up into the mountains and enjoy breathtaking views of the coast below. You can even see old chimneys from the gold mining days. They travel up the mountainside rather than standing straight up and are a bit hard to spot at first but are apparently some of the world's longest chimneys.

On our first trip, a local Taiwanese man, a recently retired engineer from GE, stopped us and offered a personal tour. He took us around to these different spots and showed shortcuts to some of the beautiful views. He also provided us with a fascinating yet sad perspective of the Republic of China takeover and the 228 Incident. Some of his own uncles were shot during the events. His tour has been a highlight of our time in Taiwan. He wasn't looking for money or favors. He just wanted to share his world with us.

Once you're thoroughly exhausted with all this education and sightseeing, head back down to Jiufen Old Street. On our first trip, we took the bus back down the mountainside. Our second trip, we walked back. Rather than taking the main road, our Google Map directions took us through little side streets, terraced roads with steps, and even through a traditional Chinese cemetery.

Those little buildings with flat roofs are actually grave sites.

Jiufen Old Street is, in and of itself, worth the trip. Really, you could take several trips to the general area to fully experience its delights--one for hiking, one for shopping, and one just for eating. In the market, we enjoyed peanut cilantro ice cream rolls. Apparently this is "Taiwan's Number One Special Treat"! It's really quite delicious, as odd as it sounds. We also munched on food from a number of vendors and explored handicraft booths. We ended the day with a lingering tea at sunset on the rooftop veranda of a traditional tea house.

A beautiful day. A perfect ending.

*The pictures in this post are a hodgepodge from both trips. Photos courtesy of the hubby (as usual!).