A different kind of Christmas gift-giving, I suppose

I’m not sure when or exactly how I stopped the regular giving of Christmas presents, but it feels like it has been a long and slow progression from standard present-giving to no present-giving at all.  This is not to say that I do not give love to my loved ones – I certainly do.  It is just that I give my love in the form of concern, interest, and time.  I plan out things for us to do together, and I get us to go do them together.  I find a way to get myself halfway across the country to be with the family members who have been on their own in recent years, missing the family.  And I make things like this seem like they are only natural, and why would anyone not do such a thing.  Not as a way to show off or anything, of course, but because they are just so easy to me.  Kind of like the ends justifying the effort, and therefore making the effort almost no strain at all.

And so far as giving physical presents are concerned, I do still give those from time to time in life.  However, I give them, because there I something I want to give to someone, there is something I want to do for someone.  It usually is not tied to any particular holiday or day.  It is tied merely to the fact that I care about the person, and there is something I want to give to him/her.  I re-made an acquaintance a few years ago, and, after only two meet-ups and discussions, I left a present at the person’s front door in secret.  It was a book I felt sure this person would love, and that I wanted this person to be able to experience, after our discussions together.  (Turns out that it was a total hit.) I’m not sure we ever saw one another again, due to various circumstances, but that was okay.  That is life sometimes.  The point was that I gave the present freely and genuinely, and expected and wished for nothing in return.  My only hope was that the book be enjoyed, and it was.

For me, that kind of thing is normal.  I give, because I want to give, and there usually is a something specific that I want to give.  At Christmas, I used to feel a need to give to everyone I know.  And I would be almost frustrated at being unable to do such a thing.  I guess this is how that situation has evolved over recent years, with last year, alone in Japan and with very little income, being a rather large factor in how Christmas looks this year for me.  When I accepted that it really wouldn’t work to do most anything physical for people, I suddenly noticed how I didn’t really like the whole situation in the first place.

It’s like how I made strong efforts to figure out what kind of scarf a friend of mine would use, and made one for him for Christmas.  And he gave me some socks from home, that were socks for a type of shoe that I never even wear, and were a color that I definitely don’t even own (and on purpose).  We definitely discussed this all after the fact, and even laughed about it.  We just had totally different attitudes toward the gift-giving.  I had thought about giving him a good scarf a long time before Christmas.  Due to my laziness mostly, I believe, I didn’t end up making it until the week before Christmas, using Christmas as my back-up plan for giving him the scarf (kind of a no later than this date thing for giving him the scarf, because i might never do it otherwise).  But I had found out material and color and style and everything that would be appropriate and most helpful for his scarf.  He, on the other hand, had wanted to give me a Christmas present, and so looked for something that would be suitable for a Christmas present between new friends.  His gift was totally appropriate for such standards.  Quite frankly, though, spending time together would have been much more valuable to and appreciated by me than a pair of socks that have nothing to do with me.  Plus, it’s a better way of life, being less wasteful with our resources.  😛

Anyway, this all just has to do with the fact that I don’t like doing the mandatory or obligatory presents for holidays, and might even dislike it.  Yes, I like that it gives a specific opportunity to consider something special to give to another.  No, I don’t like how often we give/receive things no one seems to want or to find useful in life in our society right now.  And so I have let go of participating in it.  I think my dad’s side of the family will struggle for at least a few more years with the idea, still wondering why they should give to me, if I am not giving to them – hint: I have told them that I do not need anything given to me for Christmas or my birthday, but, if they desperately want to give me something, they can give me a pony.  I think a pony is the only thing for which I have asked for my birthday since I was around 13 or 14.  Not that I expect one, by any means, but it would be spectacular to have a pony given to me for my birthday.  Otherwise, there’s nothing that comes to mind without feeling wasteful in the world.

It kind of takes away a bit of the feeling of Christmas, not exchanging presents with everyone.  However, I currently am happy without the presents – all I ever really want is time together with the ones I love.  The presents are almost upsetting to me, considering my background with stuff and feeling incredibly wasteful if I ever get rid of anything.  I usually prefer receiving nothing, so I don’t have to feel bad at either not using it or at wanting to give it away or throw it away, when its time has really come to an end.

Post-a-day 2017

Something in your teeth?

Have you ever considered your opinion on the matter of what to do when someone has something stuck in his/her teeth?  I often fall to the scene from “The Emperor’s New Groove”, in which Kuzco listens to almost nothing that Yzma is saying, and is, instead, staring at a tiny piece of what looks like broccoli, which is stuck in Yzma’s teeth, as he wonders, ‘How long has that been in there?’

I have considered my position on the matter, and several times.  The most recent discussion I had with others on it was at my birthday brunch last year.*  We – a somewhat large group of ladies – discussed earnestly what we felt would be the appropriate way to respond, when someone has something stuck in his/her teeth.  The unanimous agreement?  Tell the person.  No, there’s no need to be rude about it, or even to be weird about it.  But do tell the person, and in a kind way, simply informing him/her of the simple fact that something is stuck in his/her teeth, providing him/her with the opportunity to remove said something, if desired.

Almost immediately after we finished our discussion on this, and we were somewhat quietly beginning new topics of discussion, we overheard a person at the table next to ours calmly point out to the guy across the table from said person that he had something stuck in his teeth…  We silently chuckled… deeply and to our cores, in an almost pain, so as not to give away that we had overheard the exchange, nor that we knew the person had clearly been listening to our own discussion.

 

*Well, some discussions in life happen alone, you know?

Post-a-day 2017

Handing it off to a better expert…?

Do you ever wonder about the appropriate time to pass something on to someone else to do?  Not that you are feeling lazy, and just don’t feel like making those copies, and so you give them to an assistant to do.  But like, in high school, when a friend of mine’s trumpet teacher told him that he had taught my friend everything he had to offer him, and so it was time my friend went to a different and better trumpet teacher.  That kind of situation.  Do we know when to do that in our own lives, when it is time to pass something onward to someone better at whatever it is?

I especially wonder if it makes a difference on the task.  If we want dinner in a certain part of town, we might easily call up or message a particular friend for recommendations.  For an appropriate computer purchase, we might consult someone we know who is into computers.

And if we are the one consulted for something similar, we typically do our best to help out, and, I believe, recommend someone else to ask, if we feel our thoughts aren’t sufficient help.  Do I know where to go eat around there?  Well, there’s this and this, but they’re usually packed on this night of the week.  I would check with so-and-so – they probably know several better options.

But do we do this with difficult things?  Do we ask ourselves, regarding the harder things in life, if we are the one best suited to handle the question or situation?  Do we let other things get in the way of asking for help, of asking the right person?  Things like embarrassment, pride, fear… do they win in the short-term of the situation, and a mediocre result is the best we find in the long-term outcome of the situation?  I suppose this ties in perfectly with the question of Do we ask for help when we need help?  Do we even ask ourselves often and honestly enough – and then answer honestly enough – if we need help?

 

Just some thoughts in my space tonight…

Post-a-day 2017

Family times

Good family is like good friends… so far as I described good friends before, anyway.  I have good family.

When we are together, there can be silence, if so desired, but there is never want for something to discuss.  There are no awkward pauses.  The space is open for discussion of just about anything we’d want.  At the end of an evening together with my family, if someone were to ask what we discussed, my answer likely would be something to the effect of, ‘Uuh… I have no idea… all sorts of anything?’

Yes, my memory is quite functional, and I could sit down and figure out almost every topic discussed and most comments said throughout the evening.  However, that isn’t what someone would be wanting to have happen with such a question.  ‘Oh, we talked politics,’ or ‘The stock market and country clubs, mostly,’ are examples of family conversations I hear regarding the families of acquaintances.  Not my family.  We might have a brief chat on politics, but it is equally likely that we will discuss dog breeds, logical fallacies, and farts.  And it never will be just one, but many topics of discussion, and usually knowledgeable discussions, too.

Whenever I leave time with my good family, I feel very conversationally and informationally satisfied.  It is always a good, loving, and fulfilling social interaction.  Yes, I have good family.  And I am grateful for them all.

Post-a-day 2017

Forgotten Decaffein

Trembling from my stomach outward, I place my hands on the keyboard.  They move as though shuddering, convulsing ever so slightly, unable to remain still.  They do not know what stillness is.  None of me does right now.  It is something of a vague memory, floating casually in the background, commenting, “How odd,” at the body that cannot pause in this sedentary position…  It is resting on this bed without rest.

Post-a-day 2017

Cultural Pants with Mom

Have you ever gotten creative with your clothing?  I certainly have.  Tonight was just an average ‘work with what you’ve got’ kind of night with clothes.  For tomorrow, I’d chosen to wear an Indian tunic – I think the actual name might be kurta, but I’m not sure.  However, I don’t have any pants or leggings that really go with the colors of it, and black is totally not an option, because its bright colors are just too happy for black.

So, I asked my mom if she had any leggings or pants I could wear with the top.  At first, she brought me Vietnamese yellow pants, which almost look Indian, but the color combined with the style was just not passable.  The tunic is a sort of reddish pink, with orange and green embroidery and stitching.  Bright yellow, baggy pants just weren’t the look I was going for.  I wanted the focus to be the top, not the bottoms.  I will wear said pants, however, on a different occasion, you can be sure.

After checking greens and purples, all to no avail, my mom brings in a skirt that is the exact color of the green embroidery and stitching of the tunic.  The fabric is different, but the color is darn near exact.  “But it’s a skirt,” I declared and repeated, somewhat laughing.  I tried it on.  My mom said it looked all right, but it totally was not the look I’d wanted.  ‘This is what we call “cultural confusion”…  I was going for “cultural fusion.”‘

We both laughed and stared at the perfect match of color and utter clash of styles.

And then I saw it.  “Aha!”  I bent over and grabbed the center of the skirt, both the front and back of it, through my legs.  As I stood up, my mom knew exactly what I was doing.

Five minutes later, we had it.  I eventually had to take it off and turn it inside out to make it all balance properly, but we knew it would work after the second knot I made while still wearing it.  We tied the skirt in a few places in the center to give the illusion of one type of traditional Indian pants (think Indian yoga pants), and it worked marvelously.  No, they don’t look exactly like the real thing, but they do look like what I’d wanted: cultural fusion and fabulous.

I wonder how it will go off tomorrow, in a world of latino heritage.  I look forward to the opportunity to respond to something like, ‘Cool pants!’ with a, ‘Oh, thanks.  I’m not wearing any.’  Or something silly like that.  We’ll see.  Whatever the case, though, I’ll be in an outfit that I love and that has been created with love from me and my mom.  I think that’s the best part, as usual, of course.

 

P.S.  I’ll see if I can get a photo of it all tomorrow at some point.

P.P.S.  Okay, so it turned out that I wore the yellow pants to bed, because it was so cold, and they were soft and comfortable.  Not what I’d had in mind when I considered wearing them soon, but oh, well…  😛

Post-a-day 2017

Nighttime Window

I open my window at night… late, late at night, when I am awakened to heat by the sounds of someone climbing the stairs to go to bed in the middle of the night, though I never know it at the time, and neither does the stair-climber.  My room is hot, too hot for comfort, especially in the middle of winter, even though it is Houston.  I crawl to the edge and climb out of my bed, down to my shoes, and stumble to the bathroom to relieve my suddenly compressed bladder.  When I return, the heat hits me like a physical wall of warm fabric floating just inside my doorway.  I stumble back to my bed, letting my shoes fall as I climb into it.  I sit for a moment, considering…  The lights are off, so it is all right.

I lean forward on my hands and knees, and I slide open the large window a few inches, before sitting back and relaxing, waiting for the cool air to stream firmly into my room.  I always consider going to sleep with the window left open.  I always close it after only a minute or few, so that I may go back to sleep, at ease.  I want the cooling air, but nothing else is welcome.  In Houston, many a thing might aim to make itself welcome through an open window at night.  And I really don’t want to wake to a rat diving between a stack of boxes.  I want to keep this room clean, please.  And so, I shut the window every time, even though I’m never quite cooled off enough for good rest.  Each night, I silently wish for a screen for the window, while disregarding the wish, because I wasn’t to see the world clearly through the window, whether closed or open, just free of screening… so it cannot be.

So, I open my window at night, out of practical reasons, but silently wish to experience the magic I feel is waiting just outside, waiting in that cool, crisp, winter wonder air.

Post-a-day 2017

Unpaid, at last?

I realized today that right now is the perfect time for one of those necessary unpaid internships designed to get into a field of work.  I have a place to live, and am mostly provided food and water, and all without immediate cost to me.  And I have support from family to pursue what I feel is best.  I just need to keep up my end of the semi-agreement for the next toward a half (-ish) months, and I expect that the food and shelter will remain available to me at the same cost for quite some time… giving me the perfect opportunity to test out those jobs that have intrigued me, but would not offer money for the first little while of working in them.

We shall see..

 

Post-a-day 2017

Mortification after Consideration

While on a summer symposium in high school, I had a very upsetting and memorable experience.  See, we had a presentation-turned-almost-meeting one day with a man who had done highly valued things with his life so far, – it was a world youth leadership symposium – and he started off the presentation by asking us as a group, ‘Who are you?’  I was near the back of the room, and that was how the trouble occurred for me.

The first kids answered by the standard social behavior of giving his name, etc.  I instantly commented mentally that he hadn’t answered the question.  The man had asked who he was, not what his name was or where he lived.  The talking went along, one by one, around the seats in the room, heading back towards me.  Occasionally, the man repeated his question, asking who people were, but not always.  No one strayed from the name-giving routine.  I grew anxious about how to answer.  Was the man being the way so many people seemed to be, unaware of the actual words he was using, really only want to know our names and ages, and a bit of our backgrounds?  Or did he mean what he was asking?  Was he genuinely asking who we each were?

Considering how everyone else had responded and reacted to his question, I was leaning toward the former.  Taking into account that my mother and I were not exactly normal, and that we would have meant what we’d asked with such a question, I leaned even more towards the former.  I determined that I would answer his question, should he ask it to me directly.  ‘Who are you?’ he would ask, and I would reply nervously with an honest, ‘I don’t know.’

My turn arrived.  I waited a few moments before speaking, waiting for his question.  But it didn’t come.  Thrown, I faltered and defaulted, stumblingly, to my name.  However, I was very specific with my words.  Rather than everyone else’s phrase of, “I’m [insert name here],”  I said, “My name is Hannah.”  No, it was not an answer to the original question, but it seemed to be the expectation.  And I had answered honestly and consciously.  I was not carelessly declaring that my name was who I was, but consciously stating that my name was, in fact, my name.  I didn’t want to be any more isolated than I had already felt in the group of the symposium, by giving an odd answer.  And especially when the person asking the question hadn’t wanted such an answer.

I never liked my answer, nonetheless.

After we finished going around the room with the lame (in my opinion) introductions, the man took up speaking again.  He stated how it was interesting that he as asked us ‘who we are,’ but everyone had automatically answered with their names, as though he had asked their names – we had all unconsciously answered a question that wasn’t even asked, but assumed, instead of answering the question asked.

I still feel a huge sob within me, whenever I think about it, actually.  I was simultaneously inwardly mortified and furious.  I had made the incorrect assessment of the situation for one thing, and my conscious care of words had gone seemingly unnoticed.  I felt scolded, and angry, and I just wanted to spit at his assumption and leave.  And I still respected him and his work.  I just hated how he had tied me to being unconscious.  I’m not sure I have ever been unconscious about such things…

The things that stick with us…

Post-a-day 2017

Church, bras, and tangled hair

I was discussing with a co-worker this evening a church that my family attended when I was a baby, and it brought to mind the last time I attended Mass there.  We had moved elsewhere for church when I was still quite little, but occasionally still went to Mass there for a while.  Eventually, though, we had stopped altogether going there, and always went to one of two other nearby churches.  Therefore, it is easy for me to remember the last time I attended Mass at this particular church, because it was a singular event, with no other occurrences within years of its happening.

My youngest brother and I were tasked with going to church together on our own.  He was probably 16 or so, making me 12 at the time.  I remember how we were hanging out at home, and how he was playing games on the still-new PS2.  And I eventually finished getting dressed at the last minute, and we rushed off to Mass.

We ended up having the Mass time incorrect, so we weren’t just a little bit late to Mass.  But we stayed, anyway, and attended what little was left of it once we arrived.  When we arrived back home, a very unique experience happened, and one which I feel shows how loving we are, my brothers and I.  I had worn this top that went on like a tube top – yes, there were sleeves of some sort, or else a sweater that I wore over it, but it went on like a tube top.  However, it wasn’t the usual stretchy material of tube tops, but rather a somewhat set-size material with elastic around the top piece to help it stay in place.  (I’m almost certain that it had wide-ish straps, but nothing like actual sleeves to it.  I remember specifically that I had to wear a strapless bra with it, because of the strap situation, but that is all of which I am certain about the straps – strapless bra required.)

When I went to remove my top, changing out of the nicer clothes and into comfy, regular clothes, I got myself stuck.  You know the feeling… pulling it upward first, and, at the pivotal point, feeling the fabric stop sliding and suddenly hold tightly to the width of your currently-expanded shoulder blades… and being incapable of pulling the top back down, because your arms are now stuck up in the air, because the fabric really just doesn’t give almost at all.

So, what could I do but get help?  I remember having the slight concern of going to my brother for help, because he would see my bra! my thoughts shouted in whispered tones.  It took almost no time to accept the social standard as just that, and then to let it go.  I was beginning to panic at being stuck, when I was walking back out into the living room for help from my brother.  He easily stopped immediately what he was doing, and came to the rescue.  I think it might have actually taken us a good bit of effort to free me, but we eventually succeeded, and I was grateful for his help.

And, what is amazing about this, really, is that neither of us was uncomfortable with the situation.  Sure, it was an odd situation – I was already at the point of having been able to dress myself alone successfully for years.  But it was still easy for us both, because of our love and care for one another.

 

As another brief anecdote, I remember a time my oldest brother was babysitting me, and I went to use my mom’s rounded brush, typically used for curling hair while blowdrying, to brush my hair.  I did it in a sort of hurry, and somehow twisted the brush while it still had my hair running through it (I had long hair at the time), and began brushing a new spot on my head… ultimately knotting a big chunk of my hair into the brush.

My brother was able to reach my mom on the phone, and she said to check with the neighbors, because the mother there might be able to help unknot my hair.  A good, long while later, the neighbor was convinced that my hair had to be cut, in order to remove the brush.  I remember my mom’s voice on the phone declaring, “Do not cut her hair,” to my brother.  I think it took over an hour, possibly longer, and I don’t remember who finally did it (though my brother, the neighbor, and I all worked on it at times, and my mom might even have had to finish it up when she got home later), but my hair eventually was freed.  And I was concerned about ever using that kind of brush in my hair again.

Obviously.

You know, I think those were the worst that ever really happened when my brothers were in charge of babysitting… not bad, I think.  🙂

Post-a-day 2017