Hablando Solo

Started to host people. German friend here this week – he brought a load of chocolate, setting the bar high for future guests! Buying furniture with hosting in mind – it’s forcing me to stop being picky! My goal of having an apartment that feels like the inside of a ship, lit by candles to write books by, may have to wait. There will be a Bible study hosted here soon – I don’t know from where, or with whom, but I prayed to find an apartment for that purpose, and so it will happen. Friendships are being built at the church I’m attending and by the end of summer I’ll be part of an assembled crew.

This weekend I’m heading to Macau to meet a Catholic father I’ve been put in contact with by an acquaintance here in Hong Kong. He works with lepers in the mainland. My hopes are raised for this meeting. My local ‘Casa Hogar’, if you will, has been a long time coming, and I need to be proactive.

Personal status is cloudy. No rain, but a solid melancholy which is heavy, if not altogether unwelcoming. Rather, it sits calmly on the shoulders, not complaining, passive, but lingering as fog likes to do.

Gotta keep it short. Too many words gets noisy sometimes.

I don’t agree with what I just wrote, actually. Does that ever happen to you? It’s easy to say things you don’t agree with, or don’t actually think, because somewhere between 5% and 80% of what we say just slips out and can be pretty thoughtless. But you have less excuse with writing. In writing, you can pretend you have it all together, and are somewhat intelligent, and you don’t make the same stupid mistakes everyone else does. (I know this is indefensible, but sometimes I even feel sorry for politicians. I know, I know… it’s just I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t say offhanded things like ”I wonder what the White House would look like with graffitti on it” or ”Texas is the best country in the world” or “Oklahoma sucks”. And what Texan doesn’t say those last two things often? Just kidding, Oklahoma..)

I’ve just finished a book by Alexander McCall Smith, and I think he disproves that above statement in marvelous form. It was a book which consisted mostly of conversation between characters observing basic, everyday, seemingly commonplace happenings, and yet it pulled me in, magnetic, and was massively entertaining. I wondered at this, why he was putting in things which, in some limited sense, had little argument for inclusion in the story. The characters would observe and state things which a director would have cut in an instant if it were a movie. But books are not movies, and you can include those things, even when they don’t add much color to the characters or the story (on the surface). And I wondered at why he would include these things, waste the time and attention and consideration of the reader, in a sense. Wasn’t it a gift, a privelege, this attention of a reader to a writer’s crafted tale? Wasn’t it under-appreciating said readers to include things which were not, in any sense at all, central to the plot? (Don’t get me wrong, I was loving the book, but I did idly wonder at these things.)

There are two responses I had to that jarringly insensitive thought of mine. First, even these minor things do in their own way add to the story, in layers and layers. The author is deliberate in the journey he crafts for us and I’m not one to arrogantly question this. Second, a main friend of mine once said that when people let us inconvenience them, it shows that they care about us. I was confessing to her my reluctance to inconvenience people with a personal choice of something as insignificant as what one eats (I’ve been vegetarian-diet for about two months now and encountered the situation many times already). In response, she recounted that lesson to me, learned from a dear one of hers.

It is a curious custom of smiling Wisdom, that her words extend much further than the singular context in which she presents them. Which brings us around to words as noise. The author could include these things because the author and the reader are on a journey together, and it is up to the reader to grant the author their trust, knowing that there is a purpose to even those things which are loosely connected. In the end, it is those exact things which made me feel so attached to the story – it felt real, at times random and disconnected, just like a day in the life. Sometimes, words are too many, and they become noise. But, other times, it is the small, random moments we disproportionately enjoy most; the small, random observations that tell us who people are, and, out of all of it, what they are drawn to care about; the small, random memories that show us, ‘with all the certainty of hindsight’, what is truly valuable to us now. Sometimes, we may favor the stories told by the scenes that wouldn’t make the movie. The main story going on at any one point is seldom the one which is truly most important. In other words, the story happening is rarely the story happening, do you know what I mean? That main story lies under and over and inner and throughout, like the eternal roar deep underneath a waterfall.

I’ll put up an analysis of the Iceberg Rule at some point; it’s something which I think can apply to many things. The basic premise is that, sometimes, you need the 90% in order to have the 10%. That is, you need the 90% of under-the-surface, or background work, or clutter, in order to produce the 10% which is worth seeing, which is beautiful, which is there for someone to take away and accept into their lives. You have to write 90 crappy, cheesy songs to come out with 10 good ones (maybe, in this case, 99 to get one!). Think about a few books which have really affected you, or conversations… some hit you hard with every page and every phrase, but those were by far the exception to the rule. In most, you read through a hundred pages and found a paragraph that you’ll never forget. You scoured a hundred streams to find the first few flakes of gold, go through a hundred conversations to find a few that matter and deeply impact you, live a hundred days to appreciate the one that comes along when, truly, you look about and say (to God, more than anyone else present):

“It is entirely possible that today is the best day which has ever been.”

It’s like Shanghai was this oasis, and now I’m in the desert, but God wants me to learn to thrive in the desert. – William le Bleu

I’m very bad about holding onto things. At certain points we’re supposed to head out, hit the water, and move on. I tend to connect very deeply to people and to the places where they are. It is the best way to do life, I think, but it makes it difficult to leave. I wouldn’t have it any other way, don’t get me wrong; I don’t want easy goodbyes. I don’t want there to be little to miss, because that means nothing noteworthy transpired. One of my favorite things about Paul is how deeply he connected to people, how intimate he was in his friendships. Note the many times he writes longingly to the people in the communities he addresses, talking about how badly he wants to see them and catch up with them. In one instance he even sends someone over the river and through the woods just for an update from the people he is missing, how they are doing! And it’s not like it was easy to get to grandma’s house back then. (The guy he sent was probably super irked when Facebook came along!)

But there is a shadow to many good things. When the proper time comes, for a while, I live with one foot on the dock and the other on the ship. Then, even once I board, I find that, curiously, I am still tied to the dock. While the rest were sleeping, and perhaps even while I myself was in slumber, I’ve tied ropes to the shore. As we move farther out into the water, each time one is cut, or frays, or I have to cut one myself, I find another, and another, letting me out only so far each time. I clutch them, my hand hidden behind my back so that no one can tell. Often I hide it even from myself. We must embark, we must proceed, I know this; but, still, I hold on. It’s difficult to say if I have ever truly let go of the shore and trusted myself to God’s breath which guides the ships to and fro upon the waters while Leviathan plays underneath. Even now, I’ve found that I’m still connected to the last stop, and I’ll never make it to the next one as long as these ropes remain.

Treasure is best kept stored safely in the heart rather than bound to the end of a fraying rope, grasped white-knuckled. It settles inside, more true to itself, and in being left behind becomes more beautiful. My way would watch each rope fray until I am left to drift, the rudder and wheel and sails long ignored, the destination further than it should have been. (Think also – when the proper time comes, we must leave that there may be room in the harbor for the new guests to dock, and that our sails might not block out the sun which is due to shine on the others in the bay!) There are a couple of very dear ropes which I am hesitant to let go of, sad to watch float away as they meld slowly into the line at the blurring of the waters and the skies. There, the lights of the old town still flicker. I can still smell the flowers, sweet as the spring rolled in, lighthearted and merry, caught in the romance of the air. (Smells are the first and last pages of memories.)

If my heart is heavy, it is because the treasures soaking it are rich, and dense. I’ve heard rumors of the lands which lay ahead. There are wonders of which I cannot speak, lands so beautiful that upon seeing them the air itself breaks into song, and the music is so true and beautiful that it can only be heard as echoes in the dreams of deepest slumber. It was a wonderful harbor; in fact, these last few have been magnificent. But it is the proper time, and across the sea, a beautiful sunrise is on its way.

“So, being sent out by the Holy Spirit, they went down to Seleucia, and from there they sailed…”

“and all were baptized… in the cloud and the sea…”

“There the ships go to and fro, and Leviathan, which you formed to frolic there.”

“For the coastlands shall hope for me, the ships of Tarshish first, to bring your children from afar, their silver and gold with them, for the name of the Lord your God, for the Holy One of Israel, because he has made you beautiful.”

I ride around on these little tram things in Hong Kong all the time, and they don’t have windows. There’s a picture of one in the previous entry. When it’s hot, you sweat, and when it rains, you get wet. It really makes me feel like a part of the summer. It’s not that bad, really; it kind of reminds me of Houston a little bit. I have this Texas-pride thing that denies that there is any weather, anywhere, that can be worse than Houston summers. Sure, we complain about it all the time back home, how hot and humid it is, but I think deep down we’re just proud. Nowhere can beat our bad weather, we’re convinced. You’ll find us thinking along this same thread when it comes to pretty much everything that has to do with Texas. Hong Kong is nice, though, because I can remind myself that the beach is just around the corner, and I’m in a tropical paradise. And that makes the heat and the humidity not so bad.

I ran into this crazy fish last week, in a tank at a design firm I was visiting. It would just rest on the bottom of the tank and then jump up and chase other fish, and it could rapidly change from dark gray to light gray. It looked a bit intimidating, as far as fish go; it reminded me of a bulldog, in a way. There was an amazing pink one, but it was very elusive. If there’s one thing that blows my mind here, it’s the marine life. The first time I came, I saw animals I never even knew existed, the strangest crabs and lobsters and shrimp. I’ll try to find pictures of some of those soon. The trees, too – those blow my mind. There is a little park which has trees with orange flowers all in bloom, and they scatter their petals all about the sidewalk. It would be a good place to think romantic things, I would imagine. Other trees are gnarled and twisted with roots and vines, the real jungle trees, constant reminders that we’re in a tropical place, and we should probably go hike soon. They are polite reminders, because they were trained in etiquette while the British were here. Subtle, but appreciated.

I’ve been going crazy over this Gaslight Anthem song this week, their new single. Aestival is how I’d describe it. That’s one of my favorite words. I didn’t know what it meant when I first read it – ‘of, or pertaining to, summer’, is the definition. An inspiring topic with a main friend recently has been finding words which perfectly describe something you’d really like to express (German has a lot of good ones, incidentally). Of, or pertaining to, summer; summery. Aestival. What a perfect word – how often do you need to express that precise idea?! I use it all the time. Very aestival, that song. I’m going crazy for it. Going crazy, in its different forms, has a common thread; you can explain one aspect of it by comparing it to another, and in this way express what you are trying to say. I’m going crazy for this song, listening to it all the time. There’s no one here who shares my love for Gaslight Anthem, no one I can gush to about it; it’s this kind of lighthearted-torture, wanting to go on so badly about this music-crush, but there is no one to receive said gushing. Nothing to do but listen to the song over and over and wait for the cd to come out in a few months. Waiting, waiting, waiting. I’m so impatient. The discipline is good for me. Trying to learn patience…

I was talking to one of the designers at the afore-mentioned firm about taking junk-boat trips, going out to excluded beaches, finding crazy fish. The little water-bulldogs were actually caught and brought back on such a trip. It’ll be a good summer for adventures. The surface-world here ripples with them. The air is thick with wonder, just around the corner, waiting for those who go even two streets out of their way searching for it.

It’s been one year since graduation. I’ve been thinking about that a bit lately, I guess. My, my, my. It feels like more than twelve months have passed. Twelve dozen, more like. These last four seasons, for all their busyness on paper, have been leisurely about it, and taken their time, like a breeze in the South. I don’t mind slowing it down a bit. So much has happened, but it doesn’t feel like it’s rushed by, like cities next to the highway. There has been time to stop and do something meaningful, and memorable, at each stop. It’s been one of the more cheesy-style road trips where, at the end, you forget where you were going and miss your turn, because you’re having so much fun talking to those you’re with. Dear friends, in many places… and it will continue into the summer.

Another totally aestival song from Gaslight is The Backseat. One of my favorites.

Summertime!

Hallo! Hier sind einige Fotos that can tell you about my day-to-day in Hong Kong.

A daily part of the journey to and from work. Love these trams. Fantastic transportation.

A daily part of the journey to and from work. Love these stairs. My hidden entrance.

Hang Tak Building. 40-50 years old. I’m on the 9th floor. There is always incense burning… the smell that tells me i’m home.

entering. i love these gate doors.

my&guest bedrooms, mirrors, kitchen, bathroom. with its own hot water heater… made sure to look for that.

my room.

the gallery.

enough space for guests and groups to talk, eventually.

Here in Hong Kong, and especially back in Shanghai, there is always construction going on. Down most streets and on many corners you’ll find areas blocked off, crews demolishing something or other and building something new. It’s common to see sparks flickering like phoenix down, brief flares descending from dozens of stories up as workers tirelessly weld in skeleton buildings. The noise and the motion is everywhere. In a way, it is frustrating, because none of it can be done immediately; there is only to wait. The end goal is clear – you know there will be a new, beautiful building, after an old one is refreshed or renovated or demolished and rebuilt. It’s disillusioning, when you know so clearly what will be, in all its grandeur, to then bring your eyes down from the clouds and see what is, the whole grueling process of it all, and know that the only thing that will push the process along is to get in another day of work and accept that it will take time. The problem with waiting, at least if you are like me, is that all you can do is think. This type of thinking, the kind I do when waiting impatiently, is seldom of great benefit. It usually just reflects my impatience and inability to do anything, frustration that I can do nothing to bring morning except to wait calmly through the many, many hours of the night. Sometimes this thinking can become dangerous, because it will lead to the desire to hasten the process, which means cutting corners and finding solutions which are obviously not quality and not going to last and not beneficial.

It is pleasant to watch as the skyline changes every few months in these cities which live and grow. It is a reminder that growth comes, even if not on our desired, Hong Kong- or New York- or Fast Food-minute timing, for those who hope, and wait, and expect. We get told a lot to wait, to be still, to watch; while this does not mean to do nothing (I hope you recognize how badly I want to use that Jackie Chan quote again), it does require us to accept the process, and then to embrace the process, and even, eventually, to rejoice and glory in it, as a friend recently helped me to understand. For what else is there in which to rejoice, but in the reconstruction, the renovation, the Regeneration of the world, of our souls? It is the creating of the stage (both in the world and in our hearts) on which the beauty of God will be, and is, put on display!

The skyline is always changing in the City of God. However, we aren’t to just admire the view; buildings are built from the ground up, and cities begin in the streets.

Is there a method for precisely determining that point at which you hit ‘Too Much of a Good Thing’? I’m not sure of the conversion rate, but I generally think of it as the One-and-a-Half-Subway-Sandwiches Rule. One half is great, but not quite enough. The whole footlong is enough to fill me up, but also just sufficient to make me think I really should have saved half for dinner. One-and-a-Half can translate to giant New York pizza slices as well; one of my Top 5 in the World pizza places is right near my apartment here, and I’m sometimes tempted to cross the line and get the second slice, but I know there is only regret on the other side. With cookies, I think there is an initial sub-rule of pairs, since I can’t eat just one fresh-out-of-the-oven piece of heaven. Usually, the first two are spectacular, the second two are incredible, the third two are okay-by-association-with-the-first-four, and the fourth two start to directly remove percentage points from my self-esteem. Five is probably ideal. Laffy Taffys have the incredible ability to almost immediately cross the threshold, which unfortunately doesn’t stop me from eating them. Recently, I found a huge tub of them in a church office here, and none of the staff liked Banana flavor, which just happens to be my favorite. Halloween-style-crazy, I stuffed my pockets, and even though the full amount of total potential joy was met and exceeded approximately twenty-five seconds after eating the first one, I still blazed through six or eleven of the deceptive little things.

Don’t judge me; I haven’t had good candy in a while, and I’d forgotten what it was like.This is especially true after being over in Shanghai and Hong Kong for some time, where candy tends to make a whole lot of promises with bright happy wrappers but immediately disappoints you upon putting it in your mouth, where you discover that it’s made out of sesame seeds, or fruit-medicine-leftovers, or some insane variety of red beans.

We see right through your lies.

So, it’s rare to find the good stuff from back home, the nice man-made, synthetic, last-through-a-full-washing-machine-and-dry-cycle goodness. However, even with all that being said, there are few pleasures which exceed eating good candy with chopsticks. They are arguably the world’s greatest utensil ever. I use ‘arguably’ in the same sense I would use it when saying that Raphael was just ‘arguably’ the coolest Ninja Turtle by a mile times the distance between the Earth and the Sun, or when saying that bears of the gummy variety are ‘arguably’ the most delicious and easy-to-mix-with-ice-cream form of bear.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit B.

Exhibit C. Aaaaaand lawyered.

I only bring up this ‘too much of a good thing’ business because I don’t want to ruin what may be perhaps the best food item I’ve ever experienced. In a lot of ways, the Christian life is a walk from glory to glory; I am so very sorry that I’m about to connect these two things, but expressed in a curious microcosm, I find this idea perfectly displayed in my steady march from revelatory dessert to revelatory dessert.

There have been many which have come and gone and left their indelible mark, most notably the Snocones of Allen and then the gelato of Buenos Aires. But this present goodness?

Taiwan Ice.

My first encounter with it was by chance on my first visit to Hong Kong. It was found by the one person I’ve ever met who blows my love for ice cream out of the water. It was explosive in my thoughts even back then, before I knew I’d soon be moving here. After arriving, my mind’s eye remained at attention through every meandering day and exploring night, certain that in my wandering I would eventually happen upon that glorious little ice shop. Just over a week here, after dropping an old friend off at his hotel, I walked a new way home, through a neon street. With a start, I was suddenly certain that I was on the same avenue which housed the incredible ice shop. I found it after a brief search and walked inside, taking it all in.

The street where dreams come true.

It was surreal, like a silly dream. That first visit led to one of the most intense experiences of my life, in a less hyperbolic sense than I may be implying. I won’t ever forget that first ice, a Strawberry with Kiwi Syrup on a bed of Pineapple and Passion Fruit & Strawberry gushers.

Since then, I’ve returned a handful of times, never without a companion to accompany me on the magical journey. The amount of ice is just right. It’s the perfect equivalent to One-and-a-Half-Subway-Sandwiches, or Five Cookies, or One-Half of a Laffy Taffy. The composition, though I can’t give it a fitting description, is flavored ice, shaved from a circular block and delicately folded into a dramatic little mountain sitting on top of juice gushers and fruit, with a shot of flavored syrup drizzled on top. It’s the perfect balance between creamy and icy, and you can play food-Jenga with the way you carve away at it. For those of you who are visiting soon, prepare. For those of you who are visiting later, be forewarned.

The renown of this little ice shop will spread across the land.

In Heaven, this is probably what Alaska will be made of.

A beautiful thing,

it is indeed,

to read between the lines;

to discover a message

meant just for you,

hidden between the lines.

?

No taunt nor jeer,

nor rust nor grime,

can ruin what you’ll find;

no dust of time

nor doubts in your mind

can obscure what’s between the lines.

.

Wonders to discover,

treasures to recover

yours, between the lines.

As in the streets of Hong Kong

these enigmas belong

hidden, between the lines.

!

Incline your ear now and then

(if you’d like to hear it again);

a murmur, between the lines.

A cup and a string

a message will bring;

a whisper, between the lines.

?

When word cannot reach you

nor lyric beseech you,

I’ll carry on, between the lines.

And if nothing goes through

(for my aim is untrue),

yet, I’ll abide;

here, between the lines.

My recent hike to one of Hong Kong’s outlying islands was uneventful and I didn’t feel engaged by it. I think this is because hikes, without companions, do not usually have stories attached to them. I walked into the middle of a hidden park in Hong Kong the other day, entering by way of old carved steps littered with debris and disuse, esconded behind a temple on a busy street, and something clicked. It immediately felt right. There were old ruins that told of something which once was but now was not, and there were stories everywhere, surrounding me. Right in the middle of a city, that a place like this could exist – I was mentally speechless, elated! A sudden inward contentment, like a sigh from the soul. I didn’t have to take a ferry or conquer a hill – it was right here all along! There were worn old staircases and crumbling banisters, the sweet smell of fallen flowers, the buzzing of insects and the sting of their bites, moist trees to duck under and vines to maneuver through, arches to support the weighty history this place surely contained. It whispered, longing to tell its stories and to have them be heard with awe, yearned to be part of new stories and to join in the mirth, a character in some young exploration, an expedition led by a small one, who probably wore a funny hat.

What were you, the young one would ask, when you were not ruins, but were grand?

It is a foregone conclusion, to the young inquirer, that such a place would be made for grandeur, designed for some special part in the beautiful story. Lately the idea has been refreshed to me that it is not a bad thing to go back to the years when imagination had the reigns, when what Was dutifully and joyfully submitted to What Could Be, and supposed reality deferred to what the eyes of a child saw. What place would not submit to such a wonder, not long for it, when the eyes of a child so effortlessly adorn the world with a beauty that is at once matchless and breathtaking, and yet of an easy, unassuming spirit? A beauty that cannot be matched by even a thousand artists or dancers, architects or musicians, poets or writers? For the eyes of children see something of kingdoms, and adventures. (Does not the kindgom itself not belong to the young ones?) If we were to look at pictures of our old places, the playgrounds and the trees and the woods and the waters, what would we see, now? Tired old creeks, crumbling shells, simple playthings, knotted and stubby trees. And that is why these places care little for us, show little to us, we whose eyes are hazy. Such majestic places are made for children, who see them for what they truly are - places for wonderful stories and hidden treasures and laughing together. Places which are a piece, an echo, a shadow of a beautiful kingdom that sings, like the eternity set in the deepest part of our heart, as a murmur in the silent, still cave behind the roaring of a waterfall. The kingdom, O! that sehnsucht, for which we long without ever having known, of which we thirstily hear news from the whispers of beauty and her sisters; that country for which we yearn and deeply know as home though we have never been, though our eyes have beheld only the thinnest shadow of its wonder and majesty, and our ears have only just caught the briefest echo of a single strain of its eternal chorus.

In that old place my eyes were wide like they were when I was young. Hong Kong had unexpectedly told me something of the faraway lands to which I am heading, and in doing so, the city had begun to feel more like home.

The other day I walked into a park in Hong Kong that made me feel like I may be in the right place, after all. In a very short time, I came here hoping to make Hong Kong feel something like home. Wherever home was, I always had a place where stories lived, and where I could go to live my own. When I was young in St. Louis, there was a forest, and old mysterious steps, and a dark area, and train tracks, and a rushing river. In Allen there was a creek, with winding trails and an old ramshackle dam, and little rivers for rafting, and a rope swing. There were hills, and trails, and bridges, and massive concrete drainage pipes, and more railroad tracks. These places were the setting which made me feel that everything was a story, and everything that didn’t seem to be, could be. I’ve known how important these places once were to me, but I had half forgotten that things which were once important usually still are, though they’ll put on different clothes as time passes. Many things change, of course, but often it seems that what changes isn’t the heart of the matter, the core, it’s simply the context. What we seek in most things, like fun and friends and treasure and romance, I think, will probably end up looking pretty similar, once you strip away the outer layers of age, stage, season. We don’t stop loving the old things, like the joy of climbing into a treehouse for the first time, listening to everything creak in the wind; the excitement of wondering what candy we’ll amass after trick-or-treating, and what laughter is in store; what treasures we’ll find in an old attic, dignified and grey with dust; the soaring feeling of flying out on a rope swing and the way it hurts your hands; the awe of finding an old building or ladder in the woods, knowing that some person, many, many years before, had existed, and perhaps once had an adventure here, too; why we’re smiling so stupidly after that girl or boy smiled at us, or teased us back, and how we’re pretty sure sunshine just got invented, after that telling smile and the glinting eyes. The heart of it doesn’t change, but the context does, the clothes. Perhaps it is clearer back in the early days what is precious, and the more time goes by, the more need arises to dust it all off and consider it again, smiling as, briefly, a pure ray of sunlight bursts out while we unwrap an old memory, just like the old sunlight from when we were running through the woods, and we were small.

I went on a hike the other day, and I tried to write about it, but I found afterwards that I had little to say. It was foggy, as dense as you can imagine, surreal, like wandering in the mountain’s dream. I didn’t disturb it, I know, as I am far too small to perturb a mountain dreaming. I pondered what they may dream about, but their whispers are far too large for little humans to hear, rushing like wind. I wandered in the mountain’s dream and wondered if God might have something to talk to me about in there. I asked him about things, but I don’t think he was talking back in any sort of way I was expecting. I didn’t mind, because I felt like we were hiking together, and I knew he was there with me. I knew he was wanting me to be here, Hong Kong, for something; he’s pretty clear about having his purpose for me, and I’m actually okay not knowing what it’ll look like for a while. I like to watch things unfold and ‘get it’ slowly, especially stuff he does.

It was a long hike, and difficult because I’m out of shape. There was a soft mist falling the entire time, and a driving wind, and it soaked me slowly. When I had finally exited the cloud enveloping the mountain’s sleeping mind, the world was new, drenched in a clarity that made every blade of grass, bush, rock wield an astonishing contrast. I didn’t know how clear everything became after fog slept on it. On the descent there was a small place to rest, a little clearing. I stood on the top of a rock, a massive one, craggy and easy to climb, and felt the wind push me. It was strong like the beginning of a hurricane, strong enough that, if I were still in Texas, I would be expecting something momentous coming. It would’ve meant a storm that brought lighting and sheets of rain, and I would have watched the tempest in awe. Instead, there was just wind. It drove the clouds past the islands at an incredible speed, and it looked like the edge of the world, bits of jungle and mountain jutting out of the blue sea, the wispy clouds hurtling by, all the discarded thoughts of a bustling earth. Eagerly they rushed ‘headlong into the abyss’, and the wind pushed so strongly at my back that, had I wings, I could have easily lighted and joined them. But, instead, I just watched as the wispy colossi danced by. The world was grey, but they seemed to me inexplicably merry. I thought perhaps God was telling me something after all, though I wasn’t quite sure exactly what it was.

My first day in the new office began slowly. It was a Thursday, and Wednesday and Friday were both holidays, so by 9:30, when I was one of four people out of thirty present, I started to guess that most had prudently taken the day off.

There was little to do but sit and think about things, which I wasn’t at all opposed to (y’all know me!). The view is great, from the Hong Kong office; the water to the north is right there, welcoming you to glance over for a quick dose of refreshment.  

I stood to look out and noticed on the window a small reflection of myself. It was coming from a big leaning mirror on the opposite wall, a large design piece we have in our showrooms. It was strange to be able to examine a little picture of myself, as close and real as if I was being projected out of R2-D2. Usually we look into our own faces, and making eye contact, recognize each other easily, quickly, without ceremony. Looking at the back of our heads, or our silhouette, from a distance, is different. It makes it easier to detach and examine from all different angles. I was no longer that young man I saw; I was another, observing him, more objective. I was no longer in that fresh season, just getting a new beginning in the next town, with the weight of it all; I was instead wondering to myself how this young one would traverse it all, how he would triumph and how he would fall. I wondered at the beautiful things which, by Providence, he would be granted to see, and the marvelous things which lay ahead, patiently awaiting their proper time to be revealed. I wondered at who he would become. He was so small, in that little square, and I thought it might relieve him, to tell him how small he was, when he really looked at himself. It is easier to be carried, when you know how small you are, and easier to ask for help, knowing that the true, heavy burdens are not for you to carry. When you are small, you must depend on others to take care of you, to guide you, to pick you up, to save you; it is easier, perhaps, to know that you must be given things, and easier to appreciate them and smile a big thanks when they are given. In a strange way, being small can sometimes feel less lonely. Being small makes it okay to look at things with wide, adoring eyes, like the water just to the north, already tired from carrying a heavy fog, though it was just morning. Many of the boats were still, sleepy, and others ambled along. None seemed to hurry. Kowloon looked back at us on the island, familiar friends, brothers. This was one of those mornings when there is a silence between dear friends and it is for the best, for no words are necessary, like moments you may share as the sun peers up over the world’s edge, and you drink something hot with someone you love, just looking. Or, perhaps, like those moments when you finally arrive at the place you have only heard of, or when you drive into a view of the ocean, or when you stumble across water crashing in the forest and fall to your knees at the sight of something you can only guess is called Majesty.

That morning I saw only one bird, and it was lazy, drifting in circles, looking for something, or perhaps just resting its wings in soft thermals.