Get Up Eight

The air is crisp

But what’s striking is the silence

The platform, mostly faded, darkened concrete, slowly decaying and deserted. It calls for bustle, yet is met by none.

A flock of whirling visitors alight briefly atop the rain cover and dance together through the air. Darting, flitting guests who make this concrete, metal latticework their weigh station

Four tones indicate an announcement. It heralds the arrival of an oncoming train.

Scheduled to arrive at 1747, I peer at the decades-old analog clock suspended above the rails. This one is three minutes late.

Not bad, all things considered

A solitary black motorbike perched on the platform juxtaposes itself against the blue, blanc, et rouge of the carriage across the way.

Perhaps the French legacy found the railways too

Sitting in patient slumber

Nary a passenger in sight

Đường sắt Hà Nội emblazoned on the side, and Fanzipan express, indicating that at some point it is (or was) bound for Sapa.

My context for train stations is so much skewed.

And, it would stand to reason that if you’ve seen one train station,

you’ve seen them all.

Being train stations, the ones that come to mind in are similarly laid out, parallel platforms, row on row.

But here, there’s no one around. And it’s a bit disconcerting

Is this the right spot?

I wonder, but only briefly.

Regular announcements begin and build in frequency, confirm that we’re in the right place. The train steadily fills

I take a breath and peer into our carriage, soaking it all in. Two boys perched on the top bunks, chatting about what’s to come

and what has been.

They’re such amazing travelers

Not a whinge in site

We are so lucky to have these two

When my reverie is interrupted, and the darkness slashed by one emphatic blast from the train horn

A sudden jolt starts the carriage in motion.

We slowly inch forward, journey in front of us.

We leave our jungle of concrete behind,

And urge forward, steady and gentle

into the night

Cough

Hack

Cough

Cough, cough

Cough

I’m somehow on a sandy golf course. Hit a couple nice shots, but the next hole is a short pitch, seemingly not even 10 meters. Some sort of Funhouse golf course (Maxi Golf?), sandy gravel all around and a sheer cliff behind me. I peer over and feel a sense of imbalance. I look back to see the rest of my foursome, they are calling me to come towards them.

When I realize that I’ve left one of my clubs behind.

Cough

Cough, cough

Suddenly my consciousness shifts, and I realize that I’m not really golfing

And Elephant is up in the middle of the night

He does this, from time to time. Any bug goes straight to his chest

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and see that J is awake

I’m gonna go rub his back

Do you think you can stay home tomorrow?

Yeah, we have our team health check so I don’t feel good about that

Yeah, me too. I see you.

We’re conscientious teachers, and know it’s not uncommon to feel guilt for being out. We have to give ourselves a pep talk

Family first

We are not the center of the universe

And we remind one another that being out for one day isn’t going to matter in six months,

but being there for our son absolutely will

---

I sneak into Elephant’s room, hoping that by some chance he’s asleep.

Hi papa

Hey bud

Sorry you’re not well

I really don’t want to miss fun night

Yeah

I see you

Try not to suffer twice, it’s three days away

Our whispers slice the stillness

I place two fingers on his back and apply gentle pressure on either side of his spine. My other hand cradles his neck and scratches his head.

Lie on your stomach

Can I have a tissue?

Yeah

The air is cool and crisp in his room. Somewhat ironically, we’ve had a spell of amazingly pristine air. Shifts in barometric pressure and a breeze goes a long way.

So that helps.

It’s so dark

Tissue

He requests

Sits up, gently blows, and tosses

That went in

Yeah

Nice shot

Now try to let yourself go to sleep. It’s the most important thing you can do for yourself

OK papa

I continue rubbing his back until he coughs less frequently

Try to sleep

Plant a gentle kiss, just above his ear and whisper

Love you bud

Love you too papa

We sit in silence for a couple minutes

And my bare feet pad across the cool floor

Receding into the night

What are we entitled to?

There’s more than three people here tonight.

But these ones stand out.

The Butcher is contemplative, his body coated in white bubbles, the plastic stool and wash basin to him part of the most sacred ritual.

He’s done this before.

The Baker kneads his towel, methodically, ridding it of the soap that he knows must not enter the bath. His hands are sturdy, powerful, well used. These same hands fold this now clean towel into a perfect square, and balance it on his head as he dips into the steaming pool.

He needs this.

The Candlestick Maker is already in the sauna. Heat is his playground. Hissing water hits the rocks and blasts what may as well be pure fire our way. But he, being familiar with fire, is undaunted, unbowed.

A statue.

We are entitled to nothing

For these men, this is a daily ritual. They make their way here every day. And I imagine that, for the entire month of March, they have devoted time to this.

Imagine, showing up every single day for an entire month

We are entitled to nothing

But we deserve to care for ourselves

Because at the end of the day

That’s all that is left

The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker are here every single day

A gift, they give themselves.

The gift of clean, of heat, and of time, to simply be.

Tonight, I’m their guest.

And, so.

Imagine, showing up to give yourself a gift. One that you weren’t entitled to, but in the end remember you deserved

Here we are, yet again. And you showed up, even if only for a couple of these days

Finding heat, and care, and time to simply be

Who knew that words, and art, and energy could offer so much that is good for our soul

I remember now

and I am grateful for the company.

---

---

Hustle up, let’s make the light!

We scurry across, between shade and patches of sun. It’s just Rhino and I, as Mama and Elephant skirted ahead to avoid the wait.

Transitions can be challenging

For me

For us.

Still.

An ongoing frustruation of not leaving enough time, or deliberating on the balance of what items to bring

and which to leave

this feeling, paralyzes,

numbs

Deer, meet headlights.

But, as we do, mercifully, we make our way. Enter the station and snake our tickets into the automated gate.

Automated, as most things, here in Japan.

Yet still so many employees

We sprint up the steps to find our train 30 seconds away

Perfect timing

We find a spot in this uncrowded carriage, heater quietly stowed at our feet, working its magic. Sunshine and blue greet us up as the train pushes onward.

I’m glad to be here with you

It’s pretty intense – this place is such a big part of who I am

It’s all here, though.

Memories flood, but not the big ones.

It’s never the big ones that touch you in the heart.

A creak of the train, announcements of stops, a tiny, perfectly arrayed farm nestled into the hillside. The sun beams as we nestle between the mountains.

I’m finally back

Or at least to a place that once was

a place that once was home

So much the same.

Yet how in 25 years could things not have changed.

Like news of a dear friend, of endless drive, energy, determination, who suffered a stroke and now, in hospital.

Sunlight, meet deer.

---

---

I first noticed the group of monks because of their robes

They stand out.

And today, these outstanding gentlemen have some work to do.

One of them is in charge of the saw

And today is a climbing day.

Two of them balance precariously on top of the fence surrounding their temple.

They perch to clean the sign, prep it for a new coat of paint.

While three others are obscured, stuck in the tree.

Until the saw moves

Back

Forth

Back

Forth

Until

<CRACK>

And the green falls to reveal from underneath, perched precarious

Two saws and three oranges appear

And the work continues.

The birds are the most active

I think, on first impression.

That is, until I wander by the monastery and see it’s time for the morning sweeps.

The two young men seem to be attempting to outdo one another.

Both arrayed in their orange robes, one shoulder with cover and the other without. Singular in focus, their bamboo and straw brooms, both shoulders doing the work.

It’s the early morning hour, but the day has begun.

Birdsong everywhere signals we are past the dawn. And it’s time to get going.

So, this industrious community of monks has taken on the task.

They’ve just finished almsgiving, a daily ritual, in which single file processions of monks march streets, and residents gather, lining with donations.

It’s a sacred walk, and there is light in it.

A couple stray dogs join the fun.

Shopkeepers have prepared sticky rice, and a pair of elder monks dole out crisp bills as these young gentleman make their way, silver containers, ready to receive, strapped around their shoulders.

It’s far from a spectacle, measured and reserved, but it is certainly spectacular

And, once the tithing and morning ritual is taken care of

The day’s work begins

---

---

Oranges come to mind

When you live in Southeast Asia, AQI is just a thing

And the air is thick today.

We take for granted, that, yes, it might be a day for a mask, and we might not be able to see across the river, or across the lake.

We manage expectations, live inside our circle of control, let go of influence, and concern. But sometimes those things bleed over.

We make the most of it, generally. But some days, it ventures into oppressive.

Laos is home to the exceptionally striking and charming town of Luang Prabang.

It’s a wonder – amazing architecture, orange clad monks mesmerizing, ornate temples, tree lined streets. Anachronistic, slow-paced, good for mindfulness

and the soul.

But today, there’s a bit extra. The AQI has ventured into unhealthy. We’re out for a bike ride, even the view across the Mekong is obscured by haze, and our eyes water.

Papa

look at the sun

It looks like a kumquat!

And as we cruise these beautiful streets, appreciate the history, the energy, and charm, I reconsider

Nah

That’s a blood orange

We round yet another bend

So the route goes:

right, left, left, right, right <straightaway>, left, wiggle-waggle, right, left, right, left, woggle-wiggle, left, right, left, riiiiiiigggghhhht, left, right

Sometimes as writers, we’re able to recreate our daily commute in our minds

No description, none needed. It’s there, I promise.

Such is the nature of routine.

Usually it’s Rhino behind me, silent as usual. Lost in thought.

He does that.

We’re on the home stretch of our daily route now, and a bit earlier than usual due footie practice.

And despite the early hour, this spot is hopping.

On the left, the Qigong practicioners, following the lead of the grey gentleman. He tends to bark out orders, pushing his crew to find balance, to move in rhythm

I wonder why he’s so loud, so early in the morning. But his crew responds, and moves

In harmony.

On the right, it’s zumba class. Every morning, mostly women, shaking and waking their thing. Moving in harmony.

In unison.

It’s common here, this sense of ‘we’, not me.

A commitment to being, being well, and above all

being together.

There is joy in these streets, goodness, and wellness. And I’m grateful for a chance to pass it by

without letting it pass me by.

---

---

I look for her every time we come around the bend.

She is as constant as a clock, all parts, moving in rhythm, in the same direction.

Her conical nón lá shading her from the nonexistent sun, beige coveralls signaling her role, bamboo woven straw broom in hand.

But it is her silver, dented, 20-gallon trailer/cart/mini garbage truck that is most remarkable, perched upon three wheels, three axles, it carries the story of this adorable street.

Stretching from ‘sewage smell corner’ some 500 m to the ornate dragons that make up an iconic photo op, this street is her responsibility.

And she owns it.

By the time we pass her every morning, she has been hard at work. Her dented silver trailer/cart/garbage truck is full. A collection of leaves and branches, plastic garbage bags, the morning’s trash is all here.

Good morning

Each piece of trash says

Hello

I imagine she responds

I don’t know whether the relationship is an adversarial one

But I like to imagine her accepting it as all part of a day’s work.

And whether she likes her Trash friends or not, it’s clear she accepts and loves her work.

Each piece, every leaf, a testament.

Vietnamese do not shy from effort. When there is work at hand, they get it done.

We pass this way often. So often that we take it for granted.

It’s a charming street, dotted with restaurants, coffee shops, lined with trees. And in a city of 9 million people it has no right being as clean as it is.

So, this woman, who does her job so well each day, probably has no idea to whom her work matters,

and perhaps doesn’t even care.

But we can assure her that she is seen,

and it does.

---

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I didn’t expect this

I didn’t expect to have so many conversations with strangers on the three minute walk back home

But every other person flashed a grin

And for some reason felt a connection

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t us, but maybe that’s part of the equation

I am by nature affable

I like to say hi

Get that from my Dad

What’cha got there

Looks like dinner eh

We had just finished, in fact, at one of our fave neighborhood spots. We’re super blessed to have a lot of options right around the bend.

And rather than scoot home to grab a container or even ask for a bag, this takeout dish comes with its own bowl.

Pineapple fried rice is one of our favorites, but tonight our eyes were bigger than our stomachs. So rather than a doggie bag, or even a paper sack, Today I’m taking the hollowed out pineapple, packed to the rim with a delicious combo of seafood, veggies and rice.

It nestles perfectly into my hand, the spiny sections warming my grip.

Elephant and I make our way home, and are stopped three times along the way

And R reminds me

You know what they say

If you want to meet new people, carrying a pineapple full of fried rice through the streets is the perfect way to do it