Gogovivi

Waiting for Carmen

It doesn’t smell like I thought it would here, nor is the sound quite right. On my first morning in Africa, I rise to a smell reminiscent of my hometown  after a spring rain, and a sound distinctly that of my current home in Qingdao, China: a syncopated symphony of construction complete with the pounding of hammers, the buzzing of power saws, and the sporadic voices calling commands over the din. I must confess that my expectations were something more stereotyped; I wrongly expected smells akin to an Indian spice shop: pungent and exotic, and sounds more quiet and peaceful, more Karen Blixen, more bird sanctuary, and less like a city on the rise.

I spend a long day waiting for my friend to arrive. I haven’t seen her in more than 20 years. Not since the birth of her first child have I looked in her eyes, unless you count those few moments at our 10th high school reunion when in a fit of moral superiority, I made an unjustified judgement. Perhaps she remembers my transgression or maybe she never noticed, but 20 years later I still feel guilty for my intolerance and for the assumption that I knew better than she. I am not the same person I was twenty, or even ten, years ago, and I have an apology to make. I have traveled a long way to make it.

I breakfast in the atrium, discomfited by the banality of it all. After living in Asia for more than six years, I am unaccustomed to blending in, as I am typically one of the few fair-headed blues in a sea of wiry-haired browns. Today, though, I am one among many Westerners in this most African of cities. At the table next to me is a salt-and-pepper professorial type nearing the final pages of a scholarly thousand-page book. Scattered around the perimeter of the room are the singles like myself, the ones here alone on business who seem accustomed to breakfasting alone in far-flung places. Nearer the center of the room are the groups of four, eight, even ten, who are clearly colleagues, NGO development wonks, judging from their chatter. I feel simultaneously invisible and out of place. I look no different from any of them, but I am suddenly painfully conscious of my career-less status. I, who left a career in public health to trail my husband to the life of a housewife living overseas; I, who six years ago suffered the painful loss of professional identity, and subsequent recovery, only to relapse amongst this group of enthusiastic and idealistic international professionals.

Breakfast begins a long day of waiting, a day in which I have plenty of opportunity and cause for reflection. I remember the first time I met her. It was my first day at a new school, in a new life, a transfer student in 11th grade. Then, as now, I didn’t fit in very well with my community; I wore my hair short and spiky, dyed a vibrant red, wearing heavy black work boots with my fringed suede jacket, a confused yet bold small-town blend of punk and hippie. She was nothing like me; tall, confident, and a rare beauty, she made her mark on me for her looks as well as her kindness, for on that day, she became my first new friend. She sought me out across a crowded cafeteria, for reasons I have never questioned, and made that first day bearable.

We became close friends and confidantes, but we were not destined to share our lives for long. With her looks, poise, and intelligence, she was on a trajectory to the life of a beautiful person in New York City. For my part, I was on my way to university and I aspired to the life of a smart person: scientist, doctor, wonk, I didn’t really care as long as it made me look smart. She made her mark in the fashion world then I lost her as she created a life and a family somewhere far from me. I built a career, only to abandon it for the transient life of an expatriate in Asia. The passing years intervened.

I sit under the dappled shade of the acacia tree and order a White Cap Lager as I think of our reunion, more than a year in the making and now only moments away. Tomorrow we will travel south, to a region near the Kenya-Tanzania border, and start digging a well to serve a community in need. I get to witness my friend's vision first-hand, and the good she has done in the world. She has seen a need in Africa, and garnered all her resources to help fill it. Somewhere along the way, perhaps through shared toil in the blazing African sun, twenty years of lost friendship will be redeemed.

You can learn more about Carmen's vision and work at A Voice is Heard. Please consider making a generous contribution to this organization and help us make a difference for a community in need.

Procrastination Means Love

It has taken me four months of procrastination, but I have just finished editing the photos from a newborn baby portrait session from last September.

Four months of forgetfulness, avoidance, and indecision. I couldn't decide which photos I liked, which I wanted to edit, or how I wanted the final shots to look. I was too busy with other things, and just too burned out with photo editing to bother. The mom even had to come to me and say..."uh, Kiley, I know you're busy, but remember those photos you took...?"

This isn't my normal professional behavior. I usually turn around my clients photographs within two weeks. But you see, this wasn't my normal "client", either. These photos were of my friend Rebecca and her baby Marty(pants), and these photos were special. They were the last of a long series that I started taking of Rebecca when she was 15 weeks pregnant, a series that documented her changing body and journey into motherhood, a series that grew as our friendship grew, and resulted in some of the best photos I have ever taken. These photos were also the last ones I had the privilege to shoot of this beautiful pair, before they left Qingdao to repatriate to the U.S.

It seems obvious to me now the putting off finishing the photos was my way of denying that this chapter is over, that Rebecca and Marty have moved on, and that an ocean and twelve time zones now separates me from my good friend. Although we only knew each other for two years, her influence remains. It shows most clearly in my photography, for which she patiently sat still over the course of eleven different sessions while I tested new techniques, new lighting, and new locations. But it also shows in other, subtler ways. Rebecca taught a 40-year old me to shake my booty, Latin style, as my Zumba teacher. As a devoted and confident Christian, she suffered through long discussions about faith, what it means, who the faithful are, and the loss of all faith I experienced when Miles died, all without defense or judgement. She got me hooked on Chinese massage, to the point that for a time, she and I were getting two massages a week. She is a business woman, a fashionista, a fitness instructor, a Christian, and a true friend.

I want to share some of my favorite photos from these sessions. Like this one, which I took while lying in the pool in my bikini, when Rebecca was so pregnant at 39.5 weeks that she could barely float.

Here, she is 30 weeks pregnant and still teaching Zumba 4 times a week.

Or these two, which I love for their simple beauty, taken as I was learning to wrangle off-camera flash, before her baby bump really even showed.

The photos are finally done, Rebecca. These are the last of them. I procrastinated because I miss you and didn't want our time together in Qingdao to end. With all my love.

Naked in Half Moon Bay

Although I have been to California a time or two, somehow I didn't expect our winter holiday to end with a mini-beach vacation. Perhaps I would have been more prepared if our itinerary took us to San Diego, but San Francisco? The last thing I expected to be doing in January in San Francisco is chasing a naked kid around the beach.

My best friend and honorary sister Julie is living in Half Moon Bay (she claims its not a permanent situation, but I'll believe her when she moves back to PDX). I suppose San Fran lifers would argue that Half Moon Bay and San Francisco are not nearly the same place, but to this Oregonian, close enough is close enough. The last time I was in San Francisco was in August of 2008, and I remember quite well being so cold that I had to go out and buy a warm scarf and hat. So you'll forgive me for expecting that January would be a little colder than August.

And you'll know that I am wrong. Naked kids on beaches do not lie.

I'm practicing with a new camera, the Fuji X100. Remember it? I have been lusting after it for more than a year now. Its my new backup/travel camera and after a few days of buyer's remorse, I am starting to think that we might get along ok. More on that later. In the meantime, Zai Tian Half Moon Bay, we are returning to Qingdao tomorrow!

 

Around our Thanksgiving Table

• Eight adults and ten children under the age of 8.
• Americans, Chinese, Israelis, Dutch, British, Australian

• Turkey, cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, ginger carrots, spinach salad, sweet potatoes
• Pecan pie, pumpkin pie, and homemade cheescake ice cream

• Chilled Prosecco, Cabernet and Merlot
• Milk for the kids

The worst part of expat life is being so far from home for the holidays. But the best, absolute best, part of expat life is sharing our holidays and traditions with these amazing people we have grown to know and love, people who come from such different backgrounds, cultures, and parts of the world. I am so grateful for these friends and the opportunities we have had to be part of their lives. Happy Thanksgiving.

 

The Mad Hatter's Tea Party; brought to you by Pinterest

I don't know what came over me this year, but for the two weeks leading up to Vivian's birthday party, I was in a frenzy of creative productivity, thanks, in part, to my favorite new web tool, Pinterest*, and the world of inspiration I find there. It all started with this pin showing off the simple, fun brilliance of party invitations delivered inside of helium-filled balloons. The "pop me" directive was a launching point for a Mad Hatter's Tea Party, and I planned much of the party around the ideas at  B.Nute's Mad Hatter party page. I ordered printable party invitations from B.Nute, and Vivian delivered them to her friends inside of colorful balloons, tied up with a Alice in Wonderland playing card tag I downloaded for free.

I thought the tea-party theme would be simpler to manage than a broader "Alice in Wonderland" theme, so I focused primarily on a tea party with fun and games thrown in. And seriously, almost every idea I came up with was inspired by Pinterest. First, I removed our dining table and replaced it with two outdoor picnic tables placed end to end. I covered the table with colorful cloth that was already in my stash, and instead of using paper, I picked up cheap and charming, mismatched kid-sized teacups and saucers for pennies at a neighborhood market stall, and then I tossed playing cards all over the table. After reading a cookie-decorating tutorial, I baked and decorated simple heart-shaped sugar cookies for the tea party and larger ones marked "Eat Me" for the take-home goody bag.

I used B.Nute's free Eat Me and Drink Me labels throughout the party, to adorn tiny bottles of juice, cookies, and treasure hunt clues. I also bought inexpensive artificial flowers and pasted each one with "googly eyes" to make them come to life.

For the kids, the highlight of the party was the treasure hunt, for which I hid Alice-themed clues around the yard to lead to the treasure box of goody bags, which was hidden on the center of the table, underneath the cake, in plain sight. Isn't my "Drink Me" bottle cute? I used free apothecary graphics for the label. I made the Mad Hatter's hat using a perfectly brilliant little tutorial and thick wool left over from a coat I made for Vivian.

By now you must have noticed the cake. Oh, that cake. It was truly a shame to destroy it (though it tasted as good as it looked!). The cake was made by my very talented and creative friend and neighbor Lawanda,** in a trade for my photography services at her daughter's recent birthday party (I think I got the better end of the deal!). The cake was inspired by this one, among others, and I gave Lawanda full artistic license to come up with a cake that fit the theme.

Needless to say, Vivian was dressed as Alice for the party, in a sweet blue dress with white pinafore that I had made for her at the tailor. She's a natural Alice: a little bit bossy, a lot clever, with an added dose of cheeky. She really looked the part, too, with her peaches-and-cream complexion and her long golden hair (which we curled in ringlets for the occasion). The photo of Alice reading the book was inspired by this Alice in Wonderland photo shoot.

I made dozens of huge tissue paper flowers, using these instructions, and hung them from the ceiling along with organza ribbon and vintage-style glass Christmas tree ornaments.

The party activities were pretty simple: a coloring activity using a pocket watch graphic, a game of Pin the Smile on the Cheshire Cat, and White Rabbit Hop races using sacks I made from leftover fabrics.

The Happy Birthday banner was downloaded here, I made vintage playing card banners using free downloads, and I made a "Vivian" banner using this free downloadable alphabet banner.

Oh my goodness, even though I had a great time and it was a delight to see Vivian so blissed out as Alice, I realize now why I was so tired. I think I deserve a nap.

*Almost all links via Pinterest.

**Lawanda's husband Jerry blogs about life in China and the mysteries of cultures at The Culture Blend. Read it; its a brilliant blog.

Making Memories: A Day in the Village

Vivian was eating breakfast a couple of weeks ago when she announced to our housekeeper (in Chinese), "Xiao Li, Mama and I are going to meet your family!" Xiao Li nearly dropped the plates she was stacking, choked a little, and stuttered, "really?" The backstory is that Vivi and I had spoken, in the abstract, of how nice it would be to meet Xiao Li's family. The next possible moment, Vivi was making arrangements.

Xiao Li is nothing if not gracious and kind. She called her parents and made the arrangements. She gathered her family, made a bunch of food, and waited for us on the street corner at 8 am. Her husband Zhang helped navigate the backroads to her parent's village, and her little niece Jia Xuan came along to play with Vivian on the long drive.

We drove to Xiao Houzhai, taking 2 1/2 hours to drive the 100 km on often bumpy dirt roads surrounded by scrubby pine trees and rocky hills, beautiful and dusty scenery that in many ways reminded me of the place where I grew up. We passed village after village, orchards of fruit trees, fields of potatoes and taro, and vast stretches of land made colorful by ripe hot chili peppers ready for harvest. We passed cows and goats, chickens and dogs, and truckloads of pigs.

This is a land of farmers, who, unlike city dwellers, live in traditional Chinese village houses. Each house is a small walled compound built around a courtyard. Courtyards are multi-functional spaces that are shared by people and their livestock alike. This is the home where Mr. Zhang and his wife raised four children, and the home where Xiao Li grew up with three generations around one courtyard. Xiao Li lives in the city now, but her family remains in the village.

I have dozens upon dozens of photos of this day, of Xiao Li's generous family, of the feast they provided, of the fun the children had, and of apple picking. Far too many photos to share here, sadly. But I will share some of my favorite moments on this unforgettable day of abundant smiles.

clockwise from top left: beef and onion dumplings made by Xiao Li's mother, Xiao Li's brother cooking lamb stir-fry, Xiao Li's mother gathering wood for the stove, Xiao Li cooking dumplings in a giant wok.

clockwise from top left: the feast, Xiao Li's mother, Xiao Li, and Jia Xuan, some of the food, and Mr. Zhang, Xiao Li's father. 

Mr. Zhang in the orchard

Clockwise from top left: Jia Xuan, Mr. Zhang and Vivi, windfall apples, Mr. Zhang and Vivi, the group walking to the orchard.

Xiao Li and her husband, (Young) Zhang

Clockwise from top left: Corn drying in the village, Vivi using a gourd basket, Vivi inspecting an insect, Vivi and (Young) Zhang, apples and insects.

For these layouts, I am trying out some free storyboard templates generously provided for download by The Coffee Shop and Pugly Pixel. Linking up with the weekly Simple As That photo challenge.

 

When in Austria, go to the Circus!

Imagine its your birthday, your special day, and you just happen to be in one of the great cultural cities of Europe with your family. Aside from feeding your child, you have no obligations, and the city is at your disposal. You can do whatever you want. So what do you do? Visit museums, take in a night of dinner and world-class classical music, or go shopping?

If you are an A number 1 dad like Bruce, you spend your special day making memories with your kid. Enough of museums, palaces, and cathedrals. After two weeks in Europe, and more high culture than we can swallow, it was high time we went to the circus.

Circus Roncalli happened to be on tour through Europe when we rolled into Salzburg, and instead of visiting museums and cathedrals on our one full day in the city, we splurged on circus tickets and made an afternoon of it. We started with refreshments in an old-fashioned railroad dining car (the circus still prefers to travel by rail), then moved into the big top where we sweated in the afternoon heat and bought souvenirs, waiting for the performance to begin.

Circus Roncalli is a small, one-ring circus performed in a big-top tent, just like in the old days. There are no lions or tigers, no bicycling bears, and no trapeze artists, just clowns, acrobats, strong men, strong women, and horses, lots of horses. Vivi could hardly stand the wait, and Bruce and I kept our expectations low. Ultimately, we were all satisfied by this little circus. The assortment of black Friesan horses and smaller Arabians performed amazing displays of high-speed choreography, the clowns kept Vivian and the entire audience laughing, and the traditional acrobatics and feats of strength kept me and Bruce on the edge of our seats.

Going to the circus wasn't on our agenda. When in Salzburg, we thought we would see Mozart's birthplace, tour a cathedral, see a palace, and otherwise indulge in culture and bask in history. But again, as I have found previously, keeping our itinerary flexible and our expectations vague led to a fantastic European experience and hopefully, a memory that will last many, many years.

Please join me in wishing Bruce a happy birthday, only two days late.

Good things come

I have a best friend* who reminds me from time to time of my resourcefulness and ability to make things happen for myself. I am glad she takes the time for these little reminders because sometimes I lose sight of my potential and forget that the world works in a certain way. The way it work is: good things come when I turn off the voices in my head that say I'm not good enough, and let go of the fear that the outcome will be other than I want it to be.

"Things" does not actually equal objects, of course. I am speaking of the other "things" = people, love, luck, work, accomplishments.

Not long ago I blogged about wanting to do good with my photography, and how I decided to start learning portraiture now so that I can be qualified to join Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep next year or whenever I return to the States with my family. Well, my modest, long-range plans were great. They were ambitious, incremental, and left a lot of wiggle room should I need to reconsider. It seems, however, that the Universe had other plans for me: when I wrote to NILMDTS to ask a few questions about qualifications and where I should focus my preparation, I was encouraged, based on a review of the work shown on this blog, to go ahead and apply.

Now.

Not next year or whenever I get back to the U.S., but now. Yes, now.

What else could I do but apply? I shot the additional photos they asked me to, filled out the application,  and hit "send." When the response came, the Universe told me that I can stop worrying about whether I am good enough, and whether a selective organization of professional photographers that does very, very good work, would want someone like me in their ranks. Because the answer was "yes," and now I am an affiliated NILMDTS photographer.

One of the light studies for my application

So what does this all mean for right now? Not much, because there is no NILMDTS chapter in China (and I am not sure that starting one is in my future, although I have considered looking into it). It does mean that I can relax and enjoy my work without this particular added internal pressure to make it "good enough." It also means that I can take advantage of the online training materials offered by NILMDTS to affiliated photographers, and that if and when I am in the States, I can attend live trainings.

Most importantly, it means that there is a way for me to make lemonade from those particular lemons life gave me six years ago.

*Thanks, Julie, for sticking with me for 15 years. My life wouldn't be the same without you.

How to Make My Monday

Send me a message like this:

           Good Happy Easter Morning to You Kiley,

Please do not cease your writing and photographic endeavors. You posses great talent in both fields. It is my wish that you write and photograph a book or many books. Your skill would be enjoyed by many and you will leave a legacy of fine work which you enjoyed compiling. I take snapshots-you give pictures life-a beautiful and appreciated gift. Hope you have a fine day.

A fine day, indeed. A Monday, no less. Grey, foggy, and decidedly downbeat. I am missing my husband (he has been traveling for the past 10 days), I have been uncharacteristically in conflict with Vivian for the past few days, I am feeling like a poor specimen of a mother, and I am feeling overwhelmed by potential and possibility and the work it takes to get from one place to another.  

Then out of the blue comes a little bit of magic that helps turn the day around. And what's more, the sender of the magic isn't even related to me. He likes my work just because he likes my work, and I deeply appreciate the moment he took out of his own day to tell me so.

From molehill to mountain and back again

Just ten minutes ago I was sitting here, crying a little as I wrote a tear-jerker of a post about how this is our last visit to Korea, and likewise, our last time with our beloved Park Sunsengnim, Vivian's first teacher. Vivi was at school with Mrs. Park from age 18 months to 3 years, and since we have been in China, on average one two days every six months.

Vivian spent yesterday and today at school with Mrs. Park, just like she had done every other time we have visited Busan. Mrs. Park comes by at 9:15 in the little yellow school bus, picks Vivian up, and together they wheel off to school. As if nothing had ever changed. As if we still lived here, Vivian could still understand Korean, and Mrs. Park could still speak English.

But back to that post: it was poetic writing. For sure you would have cried had you had the chance to read it. It was about love and loss, about a young child's life spent far from family, and how some people touch your life so deeply that they become family.

But you're not going to get the chance to read it, because I deleted it. I was writing and feeling all this so deeply, relishing the bittersweet, and then suddenly my head stopped whirling, and out of it I snapped. I realized I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

Again.

Sometimes I do this, make mountains. I believe strongly in the adage that "life is what you make it," and sometimes what I make is more internal drama than I need. My life is simple and it tends to stay that way until I impart more meaning and significance on things than they need to have. This trip, this good-bye, is a perfect example.

Objectively, this is nothing but a visit. Just another visit among many, and it does not have to be a forever good-bye. Just because our friends (the ones we always stay with in Busan) are moving home to Norway, just because most of our other friends have left, does not mean we can't come back to Busan. Our next visit will just look different. It may be shorter, and we may stay in a hotel, but we do not have to say goodbye, not yet.

As Mrs. Park drove away today in the little yellow school bus, she asked if she will see us again next year? I told her yes, thinking that it was a lie. But as it turns out, its not going to be a lie. We will see her again next. As long as we have proximity and means, we will be back to Busan again next year.

You can see other posts about Mrs. Park here and here. Oh yeah, and here and here. I guess I've been moved to words by Mrs. Park before.