Sabai Siam

Facebook has started to reconnect me with some Thai friends the same day that one of the red-shirt government protesters was shot while speaking face to face with a New York Times reporter. The unrest going on in Bangkok, and in several outlying provinces, is hard for me to imagine. Historically, the take-over of the government is hastily, but peacefully, accomplished and a new set of officials are ushered in. But the past few years have yielded violent and widespread protests, far beyond the Bangkok-centered squirmishes that have marked Thailand's independence. For a place that is proud of its creature comforts, tantilizing array of food, and beautiful smiles, the violence of the past few weeks are shocking. Of course it is hard to know what the people in the provinces beyond the big city are thinking. Maybe life continues to be "sabai" and talk of family and feasting dominating the day. Or maybe this latest outburst of violence, in such close range of a foreigner, has awoken everyone to the danger of making change with coups followed by corruption instead of slow gains in honest elections.

Whatever the case, whatever will finally end this round of violence inflicted from multiple sides, I'm guessing people are longing for life to go back to normal, corruption or not. To eat a plate of som-tam papaya salad and lightly fried chicken dipped in naam jim sauce under the shade of a tree near a resovoir. To order noodles at a roadside stand and take a break from driving, dabbing off the sweet and sour juices with a half-sheet of pink napkin. To wait calmly, never a sign of agitaion, for a covered red truck to come by and take you where you need to go, for a fair price. To giggle over the sounds of a newly released Thai rock star at the open-air mall, dressed in white shirts, buttoned down with silver buttons decorated with the university's insignia, pressed slacks, and worn flip flops. I hope for my friend, and her little girl, that something of the normal, the sabai, returns soon and leaves in its wake a government committment to transparency and honesty.

Oil spills and algae solutions

The oil spill is weighing on all of us in our house, even those of us without driver's licenses. When I hear the amounts of oil in gallons, I can only think of it in terms of milk. It is the only thing I've seen in gallons, except maybe laundry detergent, but it is to clear to picture. So I imagine white plastic gallons of milk floating around and gathering up against yellow blockers. Much of the talk is about how this will affect the habitat and coastal areas in the future. But what about now? The hotel proprietors say they are doing better than usual with all the media covering and extra employees working to stop the spill. Spill seems like the wrong term. I again think of milk. And I have on more than one occasion cried or at least yelled over spilled milk (after the third glass, or just after a long day). The accident in the gulf warrants terms reserved for trauma, warfare. But using those terms might make us realize the impact of the now. How many fish, birds, and tiny critters who hold up their end of the food chain are now dead, unable to even decay because of the oozing oil engulfing their habitat? But we are wrapped up in it, too. I pumped the van full of gas at BP tonight, guilt oozing out of me. And it's not just cars. Even after cutting out oil based cleaners and soaps and watching where our food comes from, trying to get it as close as winter allows, I live in oil -- plastic containers, clothes, shoes, furniture, everything has some basis -- in either its contents, production or distribution -- in oil. On the rare occasion I wear hose, I call them my "petroleum pants", and can't wait to peel them off again. At least after we pumped our gas, we were meeting up with Ryan for dinner, who biked to work, biked to dinner, and biked back home, all in 40 degree weather and light rain.

After hearing us talk about the spill tonight, Ryan mentioned that there was technology being developed to make algae into jet fuel. Dietrich may want to get in on this. Here was his response:

"We could get a boat, or just rent one, and then go to Lake Monona, scoop up all the blue-green algae, put it in the boat, and make it into fuel!"

Maybe there is hope to get out of our oil-dependent lives, after all.

We all were there

Today I went for a run in the UW Arboretum while the boys were busy making top-secret projects at preschool (they have something to do with Mother's day, but I have to wait until Sunday to know what they've made). The native plant sale filled the parking lot with cars, but I saw exactly no one on the trails. I went through the pine forest first, which is quite small, then wound my way through lower, leafier trees on a narrow path. As I climbed a mild hill I noticed purple flowers scattered along the trail and their new green leaves tickled my legs. I thought immediately of the ticks we were bombarded by on a walk up north, but didn't see any evidence of them creeping on me. The light came in just enough to touch the undergrowth and something about the scene made me think of birth, that one thing all of us have been through. But it wasn't about the birth we are anticipating. I thought of how we have all been there. Karl Barth has a chapter on how our first "neighbors" are our parents, whether we know them or not. Somehow, we share that it common with one another. We are born, and we have near neighbors, our parents.

I thought especially of Ryan, whose birthday we celebrate tomorrow, and how he was once so small, just born. I obviously didn't know him (I was another 4 months from my mother birthing me and half the country away) but I can imagine him with his mom, his dad looking amazed at him. We get grown up so fast and it is easy to forget how fragile we once were, how dependent on others we needed to be. But just for a moment I considered someone I love as an adult as the child he was, the child that is still there. All the love we're given, all the hours spent on the floor playing with us, all the meals we refused to eat but have since come to love, it is all still there, living within us.

The flowers abruptly turned back to pine needles and the trees towered to the sky as I passed into another part of the arb.

Cinco de Mayo

Fiesta! We had a pinata at a park (never mind it wouldn't crack open, at least the candy could be extracted) and dinner at a new-to-us Mexican restaurant that just happens to have half price margaritas on Wednesdays. I think had I been able to drink one, I would have tolerated the three trips to the bathroom, the refusal to eat anything but french fries, and the incessant kicking from under the table with more grace. As it was, I was a bit grouchy by the time we left. But a meal cooked by someone else is still one less that I had to prepare, right? All is quiet now, as it always is eventually, and I've already forgotten about the kicking. But who doesn't love Mexican food? French fries, really? Oh well. Happy Cinco de Mayo, Mexico.

Belly Flowers

Today at the park Dietrich was surveying the other adults and kids on their experiences of riding monorail trains. He had at least one responder who had been on one. He went on to tell of his recent rides on the Las Vegas monorail, joined in by Elliott who shared the details of wheelchair accessibility for each stop and which hotels were the smokiest. There was no mention of why they were in Las Vegas (we were en route to southern Utah) or why we were in the smokey casinos (there is no way to get to your hotel room but straight through them) or what we did the other 9 days we were away (we explored the desert, mountains, rivers, caves of southern Utah!). Then again, Vegas kind of grabs your attention.

But I have no doubt that someday when they are sorting through the places their parents explored with them they will also remember the lava fields and slick rock and sand dunes and building a snowman while wearing shorts. On one of our hikes in Snow Canyon State Park, Elliott stretched his legs across the dusty trail and brought his chin to the level of a yellow flower. He squinted his eyes in the direct sun which pulled up his cheeks and made him smile. I had for a moment forgotten the page in his autographed copy of "A Walk in the Park" about Snow Canyon that talked about the belly flowers; flowers so small you need to get down on your belly to appreciate them. But there he was, putting all the pieces together. He may have been not wanting to hold a hand on the steep trail or incessantly talking about the functions of a calculator the rest of the day. But at that moment he showed us, right there on his belly, that being in the desert was all coming together for him. And I had almost told him to get up and walk.

So I have no doubt that there is more to life than calculators and elevator buttons for Elliott. That this green abundant world is also in his view. The day we returned he suggested having a hike every week in the Arboretum, which so far we have done. For now, I just have to put up with Vegas.

Garden walk

Every summer shortly after my brother and I arrived at our grandparents house for a week with them (and our parents had a week without us) we would be taken on a tour of the gardens. It usually started with the flower gardens that lined the hillside of the front yard along the alley that led to the garage. Day lilies marked the corners (we would later be searching them for foul balls during a baseball game) and perennials of as many colors as northern Wisconsin would allow covered the space in between. Different plants were pointed out, as were the ones that had deer nibblings but might make it yet. The flower tour oriented me to the way we lived for the week or two we would be in the Northwoods. We would be observing and noting, watching for birds and waiting for fish to bite. There was little TV except for the evening news and more importantly the weather report. The only games to rush off to were the ones we created in the yards with the neighbor kids.

After walking the length of the flower bed, we moved to the garden where years of dedicated year-round composting created a bed of nutrients that not even the naturally sandy ground could turn off. They grew tomatoes, squash, several varieties of peas and beans, beets and carrots. There were rhubarb stalks and feathery dill; a plot of corn and rotating rows of salad greens. Grandma would fill a shallow brown bowl with lettuce each night and top it with sweet onions or spicy radishes. Our tour winded down by the wood pile where we would hear the report of the wood burned last winter, and how much was already piled for the next. Later in the week we would find hiding spots behind the rows of wood, cut and stacked by my Grandpa and his friends.

When we finished the tour, we went to the front porch where we could see the highway traffic pass by and hear Grandma preparing our first meal of the week. We waited for the call to set the table while listening to crickets under the steps and the occasional car crunching over a gravel road. At the end of the week we would take the same walk, this time our parents along with us after they arrived for our return trip. This time, we would tell the flower stories as best we could and show them the compost pile and rows of corn and where we clean the fish and which vegetables were which.

Travels to Deserts and Forests

This is what happens when I miss too many days (weeks) of this exercise of writing something, anything, everyday. The deserts and forests get all mixed up and I end up writing vaguely about nothing. But something is better than nothing at all, and hopefully tomorrow I will be back for more. The daily writing fell to the wayside as I rode the roller coaster of nausea and fatigue, those two nagging but for me necessary, passages of change as my body grows a wee little being. That's right! We're expecting a baby the end of October. Needless to say, I had to let the daily writing go, as much as I hoped to look back on the year of truly daily writing as my friend who inspired this did at the end of her "Mother's Year of Gratitude" blog. So this will begin part 2 of writing something, anything, every day.

In mid April, we traveled to the desert to visit my aunt and uncle, my great aunt, and to experience the desert in the spring. Today, we returned from visiting my grandma and the dried-out forests and prairies of northern Wisconsin. The first is basking in what little rain fall and melt-off it receives and shouting out in its small flowers that speckle the road sides and catch my attention along the trails. The latter is begging for more rain after an entire month of nothing, not a snow flake or a rain drop, falling from the sky. But even there, spring will not be shut down. Next to the fire trucks parked at the ready for a call, impatient dandelions grow out of lawns that are greening up even as the lakes shores are wilting and boats struggle to find a place to get in.