Dear Readers, hello!
I would like to ask you the same question I asked a stranger recently. What is one thing you do that brings you joy, not work related?
(smile)
And then I will offer you the same sentiment I gave to this sweet individual when he replied anything sports.
Good, I’m glad you have [fill in the blank with whatever you answer]! Because your joy matters!
Doing things that bring you joy matters!
Recently I was paused at the stop light of a busy city intersection, cars preparing to or actually turning left, right, and two lanes heading straight, in all four directions. As I sat stopped several cars back from the intersection, I was also observing those holding signs requesting someone’s generosity. One particular individual was smiling as he walked up and down the sidewalk, displaying his brown cardboard sign with his hand-written message. Unlike others also walking the sidewalks, the largest letters of his sign didn’t request financial assistance. His sign read, please at least give me the finger.
An individual who simply wanted to be seen. He was choosing that even if how he was seen was unfavorable, at least he had still touched another life.
I ponder how many people noticed this gentleman. I am choosing not to put energy towards wondering how many people act on his message. I hold intention that people pause and look long enough to see his smile and be positively impacted by it. Like I was. And am.
A couple of days ago I stood waiting for the airline ticket agent to call our boarding group, when my ear began expanding to hear the conversation taking place next to me between an elder woman in a wheelchair, the woman with her that I learned was her daughter, and the two gentlemen ready to assist them to their seats on the plane. I listened to the joy, pride, and love in the elder woman’s voice that she has been married sixty-five years. When one of the gentlemen asked her if she still loved him, without hesitation she replied absolutely.
Then I heard the purpose of their trip. The elder woman’s son was asking his sister to bring their mom to him and to hurry. That the trip they had planned the next morning needed to be moved to as soon as possible. He didn’t know if he would make it until they arrived if they waited to leave the next day. The specifics not shared but the reality that a son and brother were dying was present as we all stood in this space waiting for the flight.
The plane was delayed in reaching our next destination by approximately twenty minutes. I heard the daughter inquire with the flight attendant what their connecting gate was and how long the travel from our arriving gate to where they needed to go. A gracious inquiry with only a slight nervousness in her voice, focused more on knowing a plan of action in her tone as she engaged in dialogue with the attendant.
When we began deboarding, the elder woman and her daughter were in front of me and as we reached the doorway, the daughter turned to the flight crew and thanked all of them for their help. Gratitude flowed from her being. If I didn’t know the part of their story I did, I would have thought, such kindness. Knowing their story, I was inspired by their graciousness and how they were flowing with a travel that I could only begin to imagine what feelings were present every step they were taking.
They exhibited a light in the presence like the gentleman with a smile and a cardboard sign in his hand.
It is always choice, isn’t it? In how we choose to see. Others around us and our own stories.
And now for those of you who are starting to connect to the characters in The Creases Now Speak (smile), let me introduce you to Bian.
Thank YOU. Thank YOU for being the readers YOU are. Because of you I am inspired to keep listening to a story that is finding me.
-Christine
The Creases Now Speak
Bian
Mỹ named her first born child Bian, pronounced Bee-Anh. In Vietnamese, this girl’s name means secret.
When Bian was six or seven, she asked her mom why she chose that name, Mỹ cupped Bian’s face gently into her palms, and whispered you hold the secret password to my heart. Mỹ then took one of her palms, cupped it around her daughter’s tiny hand, and placed it between her breasts. Speaking her favorite nickname to Bian, Người quý giá của tôi, my precious one, many think the heart is on the left side. It is here, in the center.
Mỹ then gently turned Bian to face the window. Leaning close to Bian’s left ear, Mỹ went on to say those branches represent the movements of life. Life delivers and you must choose. You will make choices that move you left of your center, and right. Know this, my daughter, if you always place love as the center in your choosing, you will not be wrong. All branches make that tree whole.
As Mỹ wrapped Bian in a hug, Bian felt her mom’s wet cheek. As your grandfather once told me at your age, always choose well. Người quý giá của tôi, may you always choose well.
Bian recounted this memory as she sat in the three-season porch overlooking Lake Michigan, cupping the mug of warm tea between her palms, preparing to watch the sun rise. This was Bian’s favorite way to begin each day, a ritual she had been doing since the home attached to this three-season porch was only stud walls on a poured basement. Her husband Andrew laughed at her when she insisted on driving to their dream home construction site every Saturday and Sunday for her sunrise tea.
His laugh echoed adoration for her. As if she needed any further proof of his love, it was because of her husband that Mỹ was now occupying one of their guest rooms. Or maybe it was time Bian called it her mother’s room. Mỹ had been staying with them for eight weeks now. As Bian set her mug on the end table next to her and placed her right palm at the center of her chest, she felt that knowing current course through her body that Mỹ’s stay would be permanent. The forms of her stay would change, but Mỹwould not be returning to her own home.
Bian watched the brim of the sun’s orange and yellow hat start to rise. She sat exhausted as she watches the sun’s promise of a new slate in which, this coming evening, she would be able to create and splash with colors from this particular day in her life. Her mother had taught nothing was meant to be held onto, so Bian didn’t keep a journal, nor did she keep many photographs. But she did keep a secret art studio that only Andrew knew about. Her children thought the windows they could see from outside were simply part of the master bedroom.
Each evening Bian reflected on the day, and then painted. She didn’t keep every picture she made. It is enough for her to express her gratitude and love for the day she had been given, and then let go. She stacked the used paper in a small bin, unused side up, and then once a month, when volunteering at Lurie Children’s Hospital, Bian would give the bin to the volunteer coordinator who made sure the paper along with crayons and markers were available for young children fighting not to lose innocence against the enemy of terminal disease. If a child were to look closely at the painting on the other side, they would see the words you can and you are loved.
The words Bian repeated continually to her cousin, Binh. Before he would teach Bian the truth of her mother’s words. Nothing is meant to be held onto.
Bian watched the cheeks of the sun now reach eye level with the horizon and she wondered. It was a more restless night for Mỹ. A symptom of her early stages of dementia, Bian heard her mom cry out no, please don’t, followed by deep sobs. When Bian hurriedly entered her mom’s room, and rushed to her bedside, Mỹ opened her eyes, cupped a palm against Bian’s face and softly said “my secret child. You gave me life he tried to take. As quickly as she had been sobbing, Mỹ closed her eyes and began snoring.
What did her mom mean you gave me life he tried to take?
Bian grew up the oldest of three in a small village in Vietnam. She thought about her two younger brothers. Both obedient, respectful, hard-working. They adored her mom. Neither of them had given her mom rebellious attitudes. Both took good care of Mỹ before Bian and Andrew brought her to the United States a couple of months ago.
She thought about her father. The kind and humble man he was. She was certain he never hurt Mỹ.
Who is he that her mom spoke of in the night? Why did her mom cry out please don’t?
Bian watched the sun’s full face looking back at her.
Should I pursue this? Or let this go? Bian pondered as she heard her mom’s words that were placed permanently in the center of her chest. My precious one, may you always choose well.