Thoughts of a Vegetable

The New Year is very nearly here, and not in the way that your mum says when you are actually two and half hours away from your destination on a trip to visit relatives… it’s literally around the corner. And?

And, actually, I’m not sure. What you are reading now was written only after four false starts.

I grew up in an environment that focused a lot on the big picture, the span of existence from birth to death. And even though I could take a stab at the meaning of existence, or what I would consider a successful life, I can hardly think of what to fill my life with. Having been in school for the past thirteen years it actually a challenge to try and sort out what to do on a daily basis. I’m not a total loser though, it’s not like I just sit about every single day. But there is a fair amount of vegging in my life right now.

It’s not just that I like big picture, in many ways it’s what keeps me going. The big picture is just a synonym for Meaning, or Purpose or Understanding, all in capitals because they are the Why’s of your life, well, at least of my life. Although we can make plans, for the next hour or day or week, or even year and decade, what we will actually accomplish by the end is almost completely unknown, how we will feel is totally unpredictable. I have mentioned my anal tendencies before and the more I let them go the more I think that my life is almost living itself, which makes stressing out, about almost anything, pointless. So we (I) have lowers points, times when it seems like nothing is being accomplished, and other times when we (I) are so busy busy busy we can hardly remember to brush our teeth. All these things make up life and to not have had a little of everything is to have led a life that is, strangely, lifeless.

It’s a funny combination of grabbing every moment of joy from the moments we (I) have on earth and allowing things to come to you and dealing with them from there, I think.

For last year's words belong to last year's language

Ans next year's words await another voice.

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

~ T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

Just like every single day, New Years is an opportunity to take another breath and try again. Like every day, New Years can, or can not, be a marker or the turning of a leaf, a line in the sand. Last year as my family brought in the New Year together I cried and cried, because even though I knew how screwed up so many days of 2009 were because of me, I felt like I could leave them behind, like I was given another chance. And I was.

2011 is another chance. Another try. God bless it.

May God also bless you in this new year.

Kika

Everything

After today I am tempted to start an argument in defense of the United States over the issue of size. Outside the US there is a general notion that all things in the US are big. Their size is sometimes a very good, cool thing, for example in the case of New York City, and sometimes (more often than not) it is not a good thing, for example in the country’s issues with obesity and consumerism. The reason for my temptation towards belligerence comes from the shopping trip I took today with a couple of friends in preparation for Christmas.

Our first stop was at El Rastro, the famous Madrid flea market held every Sunday morning, rain or shine. Not that I’m much of an expert on flea markets, but I feel confident in saying that El Rastro has everything…one booth sells new age-y clothes, another has a table staggering under the weight of countless cd’s, another sells lovely head massager things and nice smelling fragrances, there are stalls with underwear, outerwear, bags, plants, jewelry…you get the picture. One stall was memorable if solely to me. From a distance it looked a bit like a few other stalls that sold heavy metal belt buckles, t-shirts with skulls and motorcycles on them; generally a silvery- black selection of wares. A friend of mine needed a belt buckle for her brother so we made our way over. There wasn’t much for variety, but they were interesting to go through; a revolver, a hand of cards and a sparkly revolving dollar sign were among the fancier of the buckles. There were the usual, dark and creepiest, supposedly badass icons as well: motorcycles, skulls (with and without crossed bones), emblems of various metal bands, Confederate flags…wait, what? What on earth is that doing there? I mean a lot has made it over the Atlantic from the States to Spain; it’s confusing how much junky American paraphernalia I have seen here. But a flag of the Confederate State of America? Never mind that it was never an officially recognized State, but it’s got a rather bad reputation hasn’t it? I can almost understand Confederate flags waving south of the Mason- Dixon line, or at least be slightly amused by it, but what on earth would a Spaniard, even a very, very, badass Spaniard find in that flag to make them want to buckle their pants with it, or carry a wallet with it emblazoned on the side? I’m not even sure how many Spaniards, hell, how many non- Americans know what that flag even is!

Anyway, moving on…

After lunch we proceeded to the largest department store in Spain, El Corte Ingles. Large seems too small a word for this place; it is absolutely colossal. It’s so big it had to be split into three different buildings on one street and yet another around the corner. Each building has about four or five stores and one of the buildings has its own Metro access. My feet began to hurt just to look at it. To be honest, I did freak out a bit; really even as an American, I had never seen anything so big in my life. The term ‘department store’ never seemed so appropriate. There were the usual departments that I am familiar with, men’s, women’s, make-up, cutlery, etc. But then it got crazy: electronics, books, office supplies, sports, bread, insurance, insurance, kitchen tools, weddings, groceries…and on and on and on.

Some of my most interesting and amusing moments here in Spain is learning the Spanish view of the grand United States of America. When I tell people my nationality their reactions are generally divided into three categories. So, in response to the statement: “Soy Americana”, I either get a “Really! Que Guay, have you ever been to New York, tell me about New York!” The contrary reaction is “ahhhhh…” with a look that clearly shows they are thinking of every newscast and article that ever showed the US in a poor light. The reaction settled between the two is: “mmmhmmm” along with the look: who cares where she’s from, this is the slowest conversation I’ve ever had…honestly, and how hard is it to learn Spanish?

Maybe it’s the fact that the Spanish, non-American version of grand scale consumerism is rather classier or cultured or they take it more seriously and therefore put more effort into it that there isn't so much negative focus on Spanish consumerism. But, really, I don’t want to get defensive or rude about it. America is what it is. The rest of the world is what it is. Yes, jokes on America can, and do, get old, but it's an easy target. Okay, a very easy target.

It’s too late in the day to get into arguments, so subjects like the role of patriotism and ex-patriotism, consumerism, America’s global image and all the rest will have to wait until I am rather more well- informed…perhaps in about 30 years or so?

Hope your holiday preparations are bringing more joy than stress, or at least enough joy to make up for the stress…remember, a little goes a long way, if you let it.

May the love of those around you hold and keep you.

Kika

Decisions.

“Good decisions come from experience, and experience comes from bad decisions.”  ~Author Unknown

When I was younger decisions would really make me nervous. Maybe it was due to paranoia about how I would look to others or perhaps because I took myself a bit too seriously. I eventually came to the conclusion that having an aneurism every time I buy clothes, or choose a direction to go in when semi-lost perhaps wasn’t the most efficient use of my energy. I also realized that often it was the decisions I didn’t think about much, or at all, that got me where I needed to be, or helped me realize something I wasn’t expecting to believe or understand. Often it was these decisions that allowed me to begin to move past the paranoia and my over-serious attitude.

One such decision occurred a little over a year ago, a week before Thanksgiving. For the past three years I had been working to grow my hair out into luxurious locks that I could swish around with a graceful swing of my head. My entire life and personality makes that last sentence entirely oxymoronic. Not to say that my long hair wasn’t very silky and swish-able. Rather it was the head that it was attached to that made swishing and graceful tossing impossible. I will be honest: I was, at times, a bit vain about my hair, even though I was well aware of exactly how far I was away from a career with Garneir. Anyway, about a year ago I decided, for some reason, that I wanted a haircut and I needed a change. Just to make it very charitable and justifiable, I decided to also donate my hair to Locks of Love. I have a friend who used to be a professional hairdresser and so, as usual, I went to her to get it cut. In order to donate one’s hair it is required to send strands at least ten inches long, and although my hair was long and lovely, it was that long. But I was determined. So when my friend, holding a pre- bundled bunch of hair and  showing me with her fingers exactly how much of my hair was coming off, asked me if I was sure I just said ‘yes’ and closed my eyes. When she finished I put my hand up to feel my head and met only air. My head felt light, I felt different. I looked in the mirror and had to check twice to believe I was looking at myself. All my hair was gone.

For the next week or so I received a million different comments on my new style, some appalled and others ecstatic. Honestly, it did take me a couple days to get used to it myself, but by the third day I realized that, nearly by accident, I had made the decision that helped me see what I looked like, the image that reflected who I was and my personality the best.

Who we are, our intrinsic ‘I’ that makes us beautifully unique isn’t something that we create, rather it is discovered over a lifetime of experience. I figure that if everyone was themselves, their true selves rather than the images we project to others, it would be a helluva lot easier to get on in this world. You are wonderful, why make it harder for others to see that by projecting an image that, somehow, the world has generally agreed is cool or acceptable?

Because of this experience, and others like it, I began to try and put aside my self-image or the opinions of others when making decisions by not really thinking too hard about them. It’s not really a perfect system and it has gotten me into a sticky situation or two, but I wouldn’t exchange that for what I have now…an amazing haircut!

Where ever you are, I’ll send you a bit of our 58 degree (Fahrenheit) weather from here in Spain to keep you warm this week. Have a great week.

Kika

Nerves

12/3/2010

You gotta sing if you Spirit says "Sing!"

I love singing; there really is no two ways about it. Anyone who has had to live with me for any amount of time knows this. Unlike many, I do not restrict my singing to the shower. My singing seems to spill out into every room, and sometimes even the streets. Here in Spain is no exception. When I was not as settled in my singing was quieter and less often, mostly restricted to little ditties for the nine month old baby. As I became more and more acustomed to my new home the singing, predictibly, became louder and more frequent. One day I was in the kitchen with the baby, cooking or cleaning or some other such productive task, when I began to sing, as is my habit. I really got into it, belting out the notes as passionately as I could and hitting the high notes with all my confidence. Then I looked at the baby (his name is Bruno). His brow was furrowed, his bottom lip stuck out and trembling and a piteous whine of anguish was issuing from his mouth. I was confused at first, but didn’t stop singing until his whine had escalated to a wail and I realized what was wrong. I stopped singing and scooped him up, trying not to drop him because I was laughing so hard.

I told his dad about the incident later on and he offered the explanation that both his sons were sensitive to loud noises and thus it was my volume, not my pitch that frightened Bruno. That made sense...after all, he didn’t seem to mind my little lullabies before. What was I to do? I can’t just sing lullabies all the time! Yesterday we were in a similar situation in the kitchen and I began to sing, but quieter and with less force. Whenever he seemed to begin to crumble I would distract him with a toy. Eventually I was singing and he was smiling…at the same time! I certainly doubt it was because I was singing that he was smiling, but I’ll take what I can get.

I’ll add this bit, just because Bruno’s brother, Leo, would feel left out if I didn’t. As of right now, with my level of understanding and competence in Spanish, my speech is punctuated with correction from whatever native speaker I am conversing with. Leo decided to get in on the fun today when I asked him “Que tal?” and he immediately replied, “No, Que tal”. That’s what I said!

May there be thousand reasons for you to laugh this weekend.

Kika

"Duermete Sin Temor"

I am an au pair here in Spain for a family of two little boys, one almost three years and the other just nine months old. I mainly care for the baby during the mornings of the weekdays and once a week I babysit so the parents can go out. Mind you the term ‘babysit’ is used loosely here. By the time I come into the picture as an authority figure the boys are already asleep. I am mostly there in case they wake up, which they do rarely. Tonight I went in to check on them, pull over kicked off covers and just listen to the soft breathing a few times before I went to sleep myself. Tonight there was only one soft breather. The baby has a bit of a cold and was snoring, the deep, adorable snores that only cherubs and babies can make. I went to his crib to check his covers and then went over to his brother’s bed and covered him up, gently patting his head before I went out the door. There was something so magical about the feeling in that room, the essence and innocence of being a child swirling around and into my heart from the little hearts of those boys. All I wanted to do was watch them sleep. I remembered how nice it is to have someone watching over you…

Feliz Día de Acción de Gracias!

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, "thank you," that would suffice.  ~Meister Eckhart

When I first introduced the national American holiday of Thanksgiving to my Spanish family the first, and most obvious, question that arose was: why?

The typical and idyllic picture of the “First Thanksgiving” has long been banished from my mind and I am aware and sensitive to the atrocities that the white man, my ancestors, did to the peoples of this land. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, but I do not believe any of us should turn a blind eye to that fact. Naively celebrating a romantized, highly embellished story of a harvest feast is untrue not only to those who were, and continue to be, wronged, but those who committed those acts against them. The days of skits and picture books of such an event is over.

I explained to my Spanish family that it was more of a family event now, a reason to meet and remember all that we have to be grateful for. I do not, for one moment, feel that the origins and realities of “The First Thanksgiving” should be ignored, but my thoughts and understanding of that is for another post, with a different title. I feel that my explanation is not inaccurate.

As I have been added to the rotation for cooking at home here, I volunteered to switch days with my Spanish host mother so that today, Thanksgiving Day, I could cook up a mini, simpler version of the feast that my family participates in annually with as many as 20 other family members and friends. Normally cooking isn’t really my scene, having been discouraged by the disasters that my first few attempts undoubtedly were. My sisters still laugh themselves to tears when they think of the smoke alarms I have set off and the pots and countertops I have ruined. Because of this I was rather under the impression that I wasn’t much of a cook and, in various times of my life, that I really didn’t like cooking much.

Thus, every time I am asked to cook I get a bit nervous, and more than a little self-conscious. I am pretty sure that does not really help with the cooking much. It was this nervousness that woke me up a half-hour early this morning and I stumbled downstairs uncharacteristically early. I began, probably a little too early, to clean the kitchen in preparation for cooking I began to think of the grand event that would be taking place tonight in the United States, 3407 miles or, rather  5483 kilometers, away. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to leave, but I really would have loved to be there, just for Thanksgiving…but it wasn’t quite time to salt the potatoes so I fought back the occasional tear by naming all the things I was grateful for. My family, the roof over my head, the clothes I wear, the family that took me in, the incredible opportunity to be able to come to Spain, the fact that this list is so very long. That seemed to work well. As preparations for the meal began to finish up the feeling slowly leaked away and the work of cooking didn’t feel so burdensome.

The food was ready…an hour early. My Spanish family trickled back home from errands, school and work and, finally, we sat down to eat. It was nothing like the angel- food my grandfather makes, but it was most definitely Thanksgiving. Maria, my Spanish mom, and I made an apple pie yesterday and we added this to our very full bellies. Muy rico! It’s my first Thanksgiving away from home, and certainly one to remember. While cleaning up, staggering a little with our big bellies, I realized that I didn't mind cooking so much. With time, experience and energy it becomes a pleasure to cook for others.

Although food seems to get the spotlight today, I hope everyone remembered to take at least a moment to think of the blessings in our lives that we have to be grateful for. Come to think, why stop after today?

God Bless you and your families, and Happy Thanksgiving.

Kika

Mas despacio por favor!

A different language is a different vision of life.  ~Federico Fellini

Whoever happens to have the misfortune of falling in love with me has to accept one thing: my first love is the English language. Like many, or few, writing and speaking and reading, the English language creates for me a feeling of right-ness in the world. Nothing I have encountered on this earth gives me the same feeling or takes me to the same place as English does. It has nuances that I can almost see and when I finally get the right combination of words to express both fact and feeling when I am writing I almost hear a clicking noise.

Although I am half Japanese, half caucasian American I am, rather sadly, only fluent in one language…English. I came here to Spain, in part, to remedy that.

When I first arrived here there was a lot to adjust to. From the size of the highways to the food I ate, I encountered differences everywhere I looked. But the hardest, and most complicated, to get used to was, and continues to be, the language.

But the more I get to know the language of Spain the better I am able to understand her people, her culture and another perspective of the world and of life as a whole. Just as English is the language I would choose to express my soul, so Spanish is for those who grew up in it.

I realize that to those that are perhaps better traveled, or smarter than I am, this might seem obvious. I should tell you that sometimes, in my more discouraged moments, I feel resentful toward the people on television because I feel like they’re showing off their perfect Spanish while mine is only just above that of a cave man, and only that good because I am cuter than a cave man.

I’m not sure what it says about my global perspective that it was not until I came Spain that I even considered how my own Spanish must sound to those fluent in it. I guess that, in many cases, the need to communicate took precedence. But now a lot of my life is centered around learning to speak the language fluently and it I find two elements of language, communication and structure, sacrificed to one another in the struggle.

I just joined a local chorus in the pueblo I live in and on my first day (last Tuesday) we sang from an enormous collection of Christmas songs in preparation for, well, Christmas! It wasn’t the tunes so much as the words that I kept tripping over as both unfamiliar melodies and words kept jumbling themselves up in my mouth.

I was a bit relieved when we turned to “White Christmas” or “Whyeet Krrreesmas” which the chorus was singing in English. It was also then that I began to smile, then chuckle. Honestly, it wasn’t just the chorus I was laughing at, but myself a bit too. That must be what my Spanish sounds like to them!

So you might have gathered that my Spanish has a rather long way to go before arriving at fluency, but nonetheless I find myself almost enjoying the trip. The similarities between English and Spanish are all well and good, but the differences show me more of the culture, and grant me an inkling of a completely different perspective, a whole other world view. That, I think is the hardest part of language to learn and get used to.

I have been thinking of that the newer, the harder, the stranger the experiences one has, the more a person’s heart and perspective must grow. That is what I hope to accomplish here in Spain.

Have a great weekend,

Kika

Kika: The Girl From New England, USA

Two days ago marked one month since my plane touched down in Madrid, Spain where I got a job as an au pair for the Dominiguez family. Two hours ago marked the moment I finally decided to get my arse in gear and do what I've been tempted to do for years: start a blog. To be honest, nothing I've ever done has really been worthy of blogging...but I figure packing up and taking off to Spain for ten months instead of going to college as planned is at least close to worthy... and so I begin!

As I have never blogged before, please forgive the occasional slip-up in various departments, although I promise you right now that I, as a crazy and often emotional teenager, will try and stay as far away as possible from any whiny or adolescent rants that remind one of nothing less than an open and awkward diary.

To say that my initial transition into Spanish society was a challenge would be the understatement of a lifetime, but true to my word I won't go into the messy details.

Maybe I wasn’t quite prepared for the obstacles and struggles I would have to face coming here on my own and knowing no one. As a gal who, I now realize, has been spoiled rotten with love and care from her family her whole life, it was a bit of a shock to suddenly feel alone in a strange country. Sometimes I think that if I knew what I would experience in my hardest moments here before I left I would have never left at all. In many ways this trip is a product of my stubborn, if untried and unproven, opinion that I am capable of making my own way in this world.

“If you don't jump, you'll never know if you can fly” (Miranda Lambert, New Strings).

So often it is that fear of the unknown that keeps us from speaking up and getting out and making our lives adventures, inside and out. More than I fear the unknown, I fear becoming a bench warmer in my own life, talking and talking about dreams and the way the world needs to change, but never getting off my couch or away from my computer long enough to do so. And even though in the beginning the jump makes me feel a bit more like I'm falling than growing wings, I, in a random moment, realize how much I have accomplished, how much I have changed and grown…and all the pent up anger and tears and frustration seem to lessen a bit.

So it hasn’t been a cake walk, and maybe if you had asked me in my first week here if all this was worth it,  to do something crazy because if you don’t you risk bench warming your whole life I would have said no, it hurts too much and I am tired of feeling so alone. But there was a moment, last week, when I realized all that I have felt in my last month here: love, a lack thereof, pain, loneliness, discovery, fear; everything was all a part of a great thing called Life and to be human is to have the good with the bad, the joy with the tears and I can honestly say that I would not trade the last month for one at home. This is what living is.

Now I feel almost like saying I am settled in wouldn't be a lie. The house feels more and more like a home every day, the family I live with closer and closer to my heart. Still so far to go, but look! How far I have come!

So, I hope I have stuck enough to my promise to keep you from being irritated with me. If not, remember, this too shall pass…

Have a great week,

Kika