Sketching a Twisty Path on the Globe

Halloween in New Zealand came and went fairly uneventfully.  Basically a holiday with no cultural connections whatsoever, China has brought in the plastic costumes and a few kids craving “lollies” have talked mums and dads into buying them.  But according to the Monday morning stories, this weak interest has created real little monsters, grumpy kids with skinny bags, demanding money and making threats. Luckily I didn’t see a single kid at my flat since the only sweet treat I could have offered would have been a spoonful of honey thrust into their painted pucker.  

In contrast, despite the gusty wind and rain outside, tonight I hear fireworks blasting from every direction.  “Guy Fawkes Day” I’m told is the biggest fireworks celebration of the year (and also includes the jolly burning of replica “Guys” as well).  Since a celebration of an attempt to blow up British Parliament in 1603 really holds nil significance to me, I think I’ll give these sparkles and booms another meaning. 

For me, the fireworks celebration is for the US Elections.  I guess you could wonder why someone who’s barely been in the States for the past two years and who isn’t even living there now should care about US politics.  Well, with surprising sentimentality, I found that with Obama’s election I feel sincerely optimistic.  I feel that maybe for the first time in years as an American away from America, maybe, just maybe I won’t have to feel ashamed or apologetic.  Maybe I will even be able to feel…..gulp…..proud.  For those who haven’t left the states and for those who are maybe not feeling internal fireworks tonight, this probably makes no sense.  It doesn’t have to.  Time will tell.  All I know is that I surprisingly found many Kiwis nearly equally as excited as I about the results of the American election.  Does that seem strange?  Hardly.  Even if America is resented, hated, avoided, or envied, the fact remains that it’s a country with a huge profile and influence.  Maybe this time it can be a clever profile and a positive influence.

Bang, kabzoom, yippee!!

Labour Day weekend doesn’t vary too much the world over,

although here marking a different season and intercepted with a “u.” 

Seemingly for all….

Watching the forecast, anxious that it’s deserving of a long weekend.

Groans and protests when it isn’t.

Roadtrips mapped, accommodations booked, plans shared eagerly on Friday.

Alarm clocks silenced, computers shut down,

Expectation for 3 days impregnated with equal parts relaxation and fun.

For me…

Freedom of a rental car–“Rent a Dent” so endearingly reminiscent of my US “Rent a Wreck.”

Roadtrips mapped, and remapped, and written (since directions aren’t my strength).

Weather forecasts proved gloriously wrong as never-seen mountains make themselves seen.

Beach combing, inhaling green through the windshield, wind and a new sunburn,

All expectations are met. 

Alarm clocks reset, computers booted up, events shared eagerly on Monday. 

[P.S.  Finally a few new pics on Flickr; sorry for the laziness.] 

The obvious foot-freedom in New Zealand isn’t really a new observation, but it still kicks me nearly daily.  Today I visited another beautiful country school (they are kind of all “country schools” once you drive out of Hamilton).  Even though I was supposed to be observing one of my kids, my eyes kept drifting downward:  every one of the students in the classroom was barefoot.  In fact, every kid on the field outside was also barefoot. IN FACT, the teacher that came out of his classroom to collect the newspaper was ALSO barefoot.  A whole school full of naked, dusty, thick-skinned feet.  Amazing. 

My mind drifted as my kid just sat and read, and I remembered a poem project in the 5th grade.  I wrote a mundane poem about shoes that I read while in the background a recording played of a loud, jerky march played on the piano:  “Clip, clop as they walk down the hall; some falling off, some way too small….”  I would never have composed that poem if I grew up a Kiwi.  Instead, maybe it’d be something like this:

 Thwip, thwap as they slap on the path,

Bare piggies and feet, bare their soles to the street,

In a country where shoes are more likely found on a horse,

and socks are kept safe for tourists in stores.

Hee hee.  Its not just the kids who shun shoes.  I have been amazed walking in grocery stores to see grown men, either barefoot or padding around in their socks.  I thought this was completely laughable until it was explained to me very practically:  “Well, their boots were probably muddy so they took them off and left them at the door.” Of course. 

Lack of footware is not just for sunny days, but I’ve also seen schoolyards full of barefoot kids on rainy days, cold days, even frosty days.  “Shouldn’t they be covered up?  Aren’t they going to get sick?!”  I had this exact conversation with a mum from Holland today.  Both of us coming from our sheltered-foot upbringings decided:  “Absolutely, it MUST be bad for their health!  Children should wear shoes!”  Well, despite our conservative musings, I also have to wonder if a whole country can be wrong.  Or sick.  Maybe they’ve stumbled across something very deep, like…..”free feet make free thinkers.”  …….Or maybe they just don’t like shoes.  : )

From election coverage to caseload coverage to wondering if/when wisdom will alight on my skull—“experience” seems to be the theme of the moment.

When it comes to electing politicians I must vary quite a bit from most people in that I think it’s a fantastic thing when a candidate doesn’t have extensive political experience.  Why?  Because this is one area where I’m a curmudgeonly skeptic, convinced that the longer a decent person holds political positions, the more likely they are to get twitchy over power and money and the more distanced they become from the ideals that may have nudged them into the public arena to begin with.  Bah. 

When it comes to my job, I’ve decided that there comes a time when you need to try to wipe out what you’ve so proudly called your “experience” in the interest of making sure that it’s not just habits guiding your decisions.   After so many years of working on my own, learning on my own, trusting myself, I’m discovering that this self-imposed knock-down is not easy, but may be necessary for getting to the next level.

Ah, and life experiences.  What have I learned here in New Zealand, now that I’m 2 bikes, 2 refrigerators and 3 washing machines in….(an odd new way to measure time):

• Fresh lemons plucked from behind the clothesline do taste better in shrimp scampi….and mojitos
• On a windy day, put more than 2 clothespins on your sheet or you’ll be searching for it later
• If you ask someone for “yarn,” they’ll start telling you a story
• If someone wants to “give a shout,” don’t flinch, it may mean little yummy treats on a plate
• Finding yourself grounded with no money and no car is a good way to awaken dormant domestic skills…..like cooking, tidying, and obsessively fighting aphids

 “Men are wise in proportion not to their experience but to their capacity for experience.” 

Dr. Samuel Jackson

Almost a month in Hamilton and I realize with some surprise that I’m still far from “settled,” more like “muddled.”  But, with new internet access via a tangle of cables and boxes, I finally have the chance to meekly admit my muddle and share some giggles and eye-rolls at the moving pains. 

I signed my first apartment lease that specifies “no wearing stilettos inside,” an easy requirement for a comfy-shoe clad girl like me.  I shop like the Kiwis via online bidding but realize that actually I’m terrible at digital discrimination.  A fridge/freezer that only freezes, a washer that peed on my floor, a coffee table that’s a miniature model of its zoomed in online photo—I learn that I’m a sucker for phrases like “good working condition” and “tidy.”  Luckily, I’m quite fond of my funky watermelon-striped couches and don’t mind my $10 “poetry” painted table as long as “kill the bastards” faces the wall.  Even though it’s admittedly eclectically colorful, I do love this $270/week “flat” that’s walking-close to all the best of Hamilton—the lake, the river, downtown, and cheap groceries.  I also thoroughly enjoy my daily walk to work with city and lake views, even on the rainy days that require a “brelly.” No car, no bus ticket—bipedal transport insists that you relax and look around.

I’m trying my best to adopt that as a work attitude as well, as the pace of my job is so far also a slow saunter.  Beginning my fourth week, I’m trusted tomorrow to see only my second Kiwi-kiddie.  As a person who loves being thrown in, busy, independent, I’m doing my best to nurse my thousand cups of tea and coffee and be patient—observing, reading, meeting.  Overall, I’m still confident that it will be a great work experience. My new jobsite seems perfectly ideal in the world of pediatrics:  one building, one department, that houses the entire team for each child.  A group of pediatricians, psychologists, speech/physio/occupational therapists, social worker, and the support staff all sip their tea and work on equal and easy terms.  I love it.

So, basically, here’s where I think it begins:  the end of shopping and unpacking and organizing and ordering.  The beginning of training my ear to new jargon and my internal pace to a new metronome.  

I had a tradition to keep up:  leaving for a trip with a sachet of nerves and sadness, excitement and procrastinated packing.  Hauling too heavy bags that make onlookers in airports ask: “How many bodies you have in there?!”  The strange disorienting flights, sipping Quantas hot cocoa in my complimentary slippers while watching Kung Fu Panda.  Then, HERE I AM.  I arrive in Auckland airport and the immigration officer says:  “Welcome back Cynthia. Cheers, Mate!” I know that I am in the right place after all and casually collect my complimentary tea while I wait for my bodybags.

Since my flight arrived at 4:45am, I had the treat of watching the sunrise, cornily symbolic, on my way in to Hamilton.  A gorgeous transition—streaky dawn bits, fog crouching down through the hills, sheep tumbling down into it.  I could even see the cows’ breath as we drove by and somehow that served me a bit of peace. 

I was told it’s been raining here for the past 5 weeks.  A cold, flooding rain.  But, for my first day, I had sunshine.  As I biked from potential apartment to potential apartment I marveled that this looks like no winter I’ve ever seen.  Really.  Flowering trees, green grass, and they say the snow in the mountains a couple hours South is FANTASTIC.  Good thing I paid for that 70lb snowboard bag to come with me!

However, as I swapped cellphones today—cheap American Nokia for cheap Kiwi Nokia—I was reminded again what’s painfully missing from the Southern Hemisphere.  I just hope that they all know how much I love them.   

I spent 12 years in Mississippi my photos albums tell me. I SHOULD have become a damn good Southern belle in that time—sweet buttercream accent, impressive make-up collection, able to bake and fry anything for a last minute pot-luck. But, unfortunately my accent, a patient tells me, “is more like the Northeast somewhere,” my makeup could fit into a snack-size baggie, and I don’t even own a deep-fryer.

When I first arrived in Arkansas and told my co-workers I grew up in Mississippi, one of them let out a giant sigh of relief and said, “Thank Gawd yer not a Yankee!!” But, after it became obvious that I’m more North than South he amended, “Well, we’re gonna have to Southernize you!”

Despite daily, rigorous study in the areas of speech, religion, and gastronomy, I’m afraid that what wasn’t accomplished in 12 years also wasn’t accomplished in 2 months. BUT, what a restless high schooler’s eyes couldn’t be grateful for, I can now appreciate as some of the more unique points of the south:

Cuisine: In the OT Gym, the Food Network plays daily. While patients pedal, lift, bat and loaf, Paula Dean (who matches her outfit to her kitchen to the theme of her meal) whisks and sprinkles and tenderizes. Fittingly, last weekend for my going-away party, my coworkers threw a huge Southern Feast: fried porkchops, fried chicken, fried okra, country-fried steak, corn, baked beans, red beans and rice, CheezWhiz crab bites, apple cobbler, and cherry pie. Actually, come to think of it, we’ve been celebrating my “going away” with two weeks of eating, culminating (so I think) with chocolate gravy and biscuits for breakfast tomorrow.

Wildlife: This may refer to the snakes, armadillos, deer, or the turtle on my doorstep. Of course there’s also The Razorback Hawgs that have people “sooueeeing” with pride. Guess it could also be my glimpse of The Electric Cowboy nightclub that plays songs like, “My Baby Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.” Truly though, it’s most fitting to describe my co-workers during a game of pool, Guesstures, or a late-night footrace in the street. Either way, my image of the South as being a bit “too well-behaved” is humorously crushed.

Language: I stifled a giggle when I heard myself slip “reckon” into a serious discussion with a patient. I’m fixin’ to get myself into a pickle when I cain’t stop talkin’ like this and the Kiwis look at me cock-eyed. But ma’yonnaise a heap of fun things to say down here.

Weather: Everyone is amazed that I could stand Alaskan winters for so long. But, for the last month it’s been so hot outside that the seatbelt buckle burned my hands, “Max AC” didn’t take effect for 15 minutes, and I actually considered driving my car across the street once. Isn’t that the same thing….but inverse? Well, now the incredible heat has been washed away by rain. In fact, it’s even raining INSIDE my apartment (a puzzle since I live on the bottom floor). I think that’s my sign that it’s time to board my raft like an ark (with two of each bug life?) and make my way out of Ft. Smith. I certainly will never forget though these two months, the people, or, of course, the food.

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that our breath is taken away.” 

This was quoted to me last week by a 93 year old patient, affectionately “my Renaissance man” as his history includes being a ballet dancer, poet, and Las Vegas bartender.  Ironically for him, his breath is taken away multiple times each day as he dies from COPD.    

Today one of the other OT’s told me about turtle races in Mississippi and said the article described them as “breathtaking.”  A smirking patient next to me says, “I’m from here so I can say this:  There ain’t nothin’ ‘breathtaking’ in the South.” 

So I mulled over the number of times my breath has been grabbed here:
— just now at the grocery store when the checker rang up $403 of cantaloupe
— each time I climb into my crockpot of a car that’s cooked to 120 degrees
— both times I almost stepped on a snake on my running trail before I realized the branch was alive
— the time I saw a cockroach in my apartment and realized with horror what that meant for a girl sleeping on the floor
— when four BANG!’s woke me up at 2:30am and I tried to convince myself that it was tardy pyros, not a drug deal gone wrong like my co-workers say

Hmm, that’s several times, but I certainly don’t want to “measure my life” with cantaloupe and cockroaches.  I wonder if this is why last weekend what I wanted most to do was ride down to another State Park….after renting a motorcycle.  Hours spent on the phone instead may well have saved my life, even if they robbed me of what may have been my only legitimate “breath-taking” experience in Arkansas.

Sometimes I have 3 to 4 patients in the gym, similar hissing tubes snaking from their nostrils, winded after I ask them to reach over their heads.  For them, just breathing “in through your nose, out through your mouth” provides the only life they have.  Breath, as it turns out, is not always in unlimited supply.  Maybe sometimes it’s OK to just hang onto it.  Keep it steady, meander slowly, days run in like a “crick,” out like molasses.  

So, my reply:  “Life may not be measured by the number of breaths we take, but if it’s all taken away, guess you won’t be gasping at any more turtles.”   : )   

I walked through the woods for 5 hours yesterday.  Using my hiking guide to wave away heat, bugs, spiderwebs that wanted to stick to my sweaty skin.  Mt. Magazine—the highest point in Arkansas at 2,753 feet—on a hazy day wasn’t stunning, spectacular, or breath-grabbing.  But, what it was, is pleasant.  A very pleasant chance to “just sweat and enjoy the small stuff.”  So I walked for 5 hours through the woods.  I took 97 pictures, most of purple flowers and butterflies that colored the forest floor of Mossback Ridge.  I stepped through thoughts about now about then about later, then left them behind.  I made regular cursory checks for ticks as I somehow had a belief that they were a condition for hiking here.  (My thoughts included how to remove it if I did find one:  do you really have to burn it out like insisted when my cousin had one lodged on her rear cheek, or can you just “make it drunk” like my Elementary School principal did when we found one on my 4^th grade leg.)  I remembered, well, the only memory I have of our family vacation in Arkansas when I was 8—sitting in the campsite with my sister, holding our hands over our faces to keep bugs from flying into our noses and mouths when we breathed.  I remembered this less than 20 paces into my hike when I noticed my grey musical orbit.  I turned back to the car for my one and only Off! wipe and then restarted with a superhero protection bubble (which lasted another 20 paces until the sweat dissolved it). 

I thought about my patients.  Maybe partly because only for them would this hike truly qualify as “Moderate to Strenuous.”  But also because they are the stunning and spectacular parts of being here.  I didn’t actually come to Arkansas for the outdoor life (especially since “97, feels like 100” isn’t my preferred temperature).  I came strictly for money.  But, since the two nickels I played at the casino didn’t pan out, and my paychecks so far have gone in different directions from my bank account, maybe I’d better shift my attention to other reasons for being here.  Learning how to live with less, much less.  Continuing education that being the most unusual thing around isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Learning how to cook for a potluck (cheese, ground meat, deep fried, ideally all of the above). And learning a whole new language. 

Quotes of the week:
“I cain’t forgit to wash ma straddle!”  (said by a patient in the shower)
“There ain’t enough room in here to cuss a cat!”   (unstated but understood:   “…without getting a mouthful of hair”)
“Why, you’re as handy as a pocket on ma shirt!” 
“I’m gonna make like a baby and git out of this mother!”  (said by exiting coworker)