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?

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!).

My heart, being hungry

It’s no secret that I love Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poetry. There are many poets I admire. Dickinson makes me smile and cry in turn. Frost makes me pause and think, ponder whether there’s a deeper meaning behind the straightforward rhymes even my poetry-hating father enjoys. And Donne . . . Well, I’m pretty sure I was once in love with Donne. By in love, I don’t just mean his poetry, I mean the man himself (but it was all because of his poetry, of course).

Those are just a few of the poets I love. There’s Hopkins and his pied beauty. There’s Eliot and his etherised patient. There’s Shakespeare, the bard himself. These are all wonderful poets, many of whom were movers and shakers of their time, blazing new paths for verse. No one, though, can match the emotional connection I share with Millay. 

Perhaps it’s geographic. She was a Mainer. I’m a Mainer. We both understand the hold that such a magical place can have on your soul. Perhaps it’s personality. Not everyone can write or want to write poetry about the beauty of frogs as she does in "Assault."She wrote the poetry I long to write, the poetry I would write had I her gift.

Recently, I was walking into town to pick up some groceries. I was soaking up the way the light glanced off the city balconies and the poem of hers below came to mind. 

My heart, being hungry, feeds on food

The fat of heart despise.

Beauty where beauty never stood,

And sweet where no sweet lies

I gather to my querulous need, 

Having a growing heart to feed.

It may be, when my heart is dull,

Having attained its girth,

I shall not find so beautiful

The meagre shapes of earth,

Nor linger in the rain to mark

The smell of tansy through the dark.

The buildings I was admiring were hard, angular city buildings far away from my beloved country houses framed by evergreens, yet here I was seeing beauty where "beauty never stood" or at least where I never would have seen it in the past.

Sometimes I fancy fear in Millay’s last stanza, a fear of being so full of beauty that she no longer values the “meagre shapes of earth.” Maybe I’m sensing my own fear. I don’t ever want to be so full of the big things that I pass by “the smell of tansy through the dark” or the slant of light on a city building. Because of this fear, I sometimes wonder, “Should I cultivate a hungry heart?” 

I’d like to think that a satiated heart can enjoy these simple moments, that Millay and I don’t see “beauty where beauty never stood” but that we are instead attuned to the beauty in the nondescript and that anyone, no matter how full they are on beauty, can learn to appreciate the nondescript. 

Maybe, though, that’s not even an issue. Our hearts are continually drained by the busyness of our lives. They’re always hungry. We tend to get so caught up in that busyness, though, that we don’t realize our hunger. It’s sitting there, waiting to be filled.

I suppose that’s the way it is with God, too. We become spiritually drained through everyday life. But we let that everyday life so overwhelm us that we never stop to feel our hunger. We forget the joy and restoration of a quiet talk with God or a moment gazing at the shifting light. 

I often like to satiate both hungers at the same time. C.S. Lewis talks about something similar in Surprised By Joy. He recounts spending his whole life searching for joy and then realizing, at the end of his search, that those moments of joy on earth weren’t the end goal but “signposts” pointing him on to the true joy in Christ. 

This world, I’ve come to learn, at the ripe old age of 27 (yes, I realize that I’m really quite young), is full of beauty and magic. It’s our own Narnia given to us by a loving God for our enjoyment. That beauty, though, shouldn’t stop at our eyes. It should seep into our hearts and lead us to true beauty, redemption and peace in Christ. 

The sad thing is, we don’t enjoy his gift. We’re full of looking for the next exciting experience, forgetting that the moment here and now is beautiful. Because we ignore our hunger, we keep missing those signposts pointing us on to the most exciting, beautiful, joyful “experience” of all.

For the beauty of the earth, 

for the glory of the skies, 

for the love which from our birth 

over and around us lies; 

Lord of all, to thee we raise 
this our hymn of grateful praise. 

-Folliott S. Pierpont (1835-1917)

In Whatsoever State I Am

Last Monday morning, I got up early. Actually, if I’m honest, I never fell asleep. We live in a high-rise apartment complex with a few stores in the courtyard below. That morning, we were out of coffee, so I hurried down to 7-11. It was raining. It wasn’t the warm, humid rain we normally have. In fact, the air was surprisingly cool for Taipei this time of year. As I stood at the counter listening to the coffee machine whirr, smelling that fresh coffee scent, and hearing the cool rain drizzle outside, I was transported.

Our apartment complex from the ridge in a nearby park

Transported sounds like a word some cooler-than-thou writer with pretensions of grandeur would use. In fact, it reminds me of my sophomore creative writing teacher adamantly warning us to avoid the “lure of the obscure.” “Don’t talk old-fashioned just because you think it sounds cool.” I can’t think of a better word, though, for how it felt. For a moment, I wasn’t in Taipei, standing at a 7-11 counter. I was in Maine, on a rainy morning, grabbing coffee at a local cafe and chatting with the shop assistant, probably a longtime friend since this is Maine after all.

The moment was fleeting, but it was there. I was transported.

Longterm travel is a funny thing. When you first arrive at a new place, a new home, you are enamoured with that newness. It’s not that you don’t love home, but home is old hat. You can have that back whenever you want, right? You want to try new foods, new places, new adventures. The longer you stay, though, the more you seek the familiar, something that feels like home.

Our first year here, I was too busy to feel much homesickness. Granted, there were moments when I really wanted a good piece of bread or a bowl of mashed potatoes slathered with butter that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. At Christmas, too, I wanted snow and family. But there was also something enchanting about the newness. I learned to love rice even more than I already did. I fell in love with a simpler Christmas free from cultural expectations. I missed home, but I treasured the new.

Christmas Eve 2014

A sleepy Christmas morning 

This year, though, it’s a bit different. Perhaps it’s the length of time I’ve been away. We’re nearing 13 months since my feet last hit American soil. Maybe it’s the life changes I’ve gone through. I’m not teaching this year, so I have more time on my hands, more time to long for that one place that’s always felt like home—Maine. Or maybe it’s the recent agony of a long-sought hope deferred. If I can’t have this one thing we long for, then can’t I at least be home?

Maybe it’s one of these things or maybe it’s all three of these things in combination that make me miss home so I much. I don’t know. I just know I miss it.

I miss the changing of a sunshiny summer into a crisp fall. I miss the smell of apples fresh-picked from a tree. I miss long drives in the middle of nowhere just to run errands. I miss friendly but reserved people. I miss living in a town where I’m known by my lineage, my parents or my Dad’s parents or even my Dad’s parents’ parents. I miss being known as an Andrews girl just by my looks.

I’m a small-town girl with a loving family from a beautiful place, and I miss it all. 

But I’ve found these moments here to get me through. Sometimes it’s something small that reminds me of home. It could be a drizzly morning getting coffee or it could be searching out and finding a long-missed food. Other times, it’s not so much something that reminds me of home but something that feels like home in a new, surprising way.

Let me explain. When we left for the UK this summer, we went knowing we would return here but not anticipating that return. We’ve enjoyed our time in Taipei. It’s been an adventure, but it’s never felt like home in the way that Maine or the UK does. When the plane touched down at Songshan Airport, though, we were both surprised at how we felt. It was like returning to an old friend. A puzzle piece slipped into place. 

Arriving at Songshan Airport

Since returning, I’ve had two contradictory emotions growing. I miss home, but this place continues to feel a bit more like a new home. It’s the familiar walk through the park into town. It’s fresh watermelon juice from a roadside stand. It’s buying flowers for a pittance at a traditional, undercover market with a weird smell. It’s looking at Taipei 101 from my apartment on a clear morning. These aren’t things that remind me of home. They are things that I’ve learned to love for themselves and have consequently begun to feel like home, a new home. 

I’ll continue to miss home. Taipei will never replace Maine in my heart. There are many things I don’t like here: the weather (especially in the Winter), the lack of good quality bread, MSG in everything, not being able to communicate freely. 

I’m learning to be like Paul, though, and treasure where I am. Paul says in his letter to the Philippians that he has learned in all things to be content. By our standards, Paul had every reason not to be content. He went through unjust imprisonments and shipwrecks. He knew hunger and want. He should have been unhappy, but he wasn’t. 

By that comparison, I have it pretty good. I have a 3-bedroom apartment, plenty of food (especially after our trip to Costco the other night!), air conditioners in almost every room, friends, income, and plenty of creature comforts. 

The only thing I lack is that one place I would prefer to be. I have to imagine that Paul had a place he preferred. Maybe it was his childhood home. We don’t know. We do know that not only was he content to be away from that place (if he indeed had such a place), but he was also content to be in the midst of all manner of hardships. Why? He had Christ, and being in the center of Christ’s will is always home.

God allows hardships and longings in our lives for a reason. We should always come back to the same question. What does God want me to learn? In this case, the answer is laid out pretty plain and simple by Paul.

“I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.”

At the hot springs in the mountains outside Taipei