On The Woman-Who-Rhymes-With-Witch and Learning How To Move On

Shit happens in threes.  Everyone knows this.  Our run with bad luck started back in December.  We received a call.  The police arrested one of the two who robbed our home two years ago.  If we were still pressing charges we would need to fly home for the trial and testify.  Or, we could drop the charges and she would go free.  We called and said, "We need time," and "We'll get back to you."  They said, "Fine."  Fine.  We would deal with this later.

Then David flew home to a house with burst pipes and water damage.  Floorboards warped, walls and ceilings damaged, the place was a mess.  Because two is a stupid number there was more.  We received another letter from the government agency that starts with an I and ends in a S.  Shit happens in threes.  Indeed.

This was a bit much.  Where do we start?  How do we move through these events?  Why was this happening to us?  We're good people.  We don't deserve this string of back-to-back life-glitches.  What did we do to deserve this?

Frantic transpacific calls ensued.  We split the work.  I would handle the robbery case.  David would handle the water damage.  We told our accountant to fix the other problem.  In the mean time we complained about these undeserving injustices and railed against the conspiring entities who tried to bring us down.  This served to raise our blood pressure and little else.  Wallowing felt good but only briefly.  We soon found this negativity got in our way of moving forward and making plans.  That said, I found denying my anger at this woman-who-rhymes-with-witch did me little good.  David found living without water utterly horrid.  Neither of us were happy.

Happiness.  This was the answer to a question posed to me by my brother years ago.
"What do you want out of life, sis?"
"Happiness," I said.
He paused.  "That is so Princess Diana."
I took this to mean my answer was not one I would be wise to repeat elsewhere.
Years later I reminded him of this conversation which, of course, he did not remember.
"Sorry about that," he said.  "Yeah.  We all want to be happy.  There's nothing wrong with that."

How do we define happiness?  What makes us happy?  The simple answer is, "The opposite of what makes us sad."  The past month aside, for the past 30+ months I have been surrounded by people who experienced a deep and profound sadness.  Whoever said "time heals all wounds" should have added "and for collective pain, this doesn't apply."  Three years is evidently not long enough for pain to disappear.

How we process pain differs for us all.  I need laughter.  With very little in my professional life, I rely on those around me:  my husband, our son, my sister, my boarding school buddies.  I watch the New Zealand All Blacks do the Haka because while it's not funny, it makes me smile.

Learning to move on is a skill few of us learn and develop thus making our difficult times seem longer, deeper, and more intense.  I am in no position to tell those who have experienced loss to move on.  I do encourage the grieving to laugh.  Often is good.  Once a day is a must.  For your dose for today, read these answers given by a child whom I would be proud to call my own.

As I lash out in my imaginary conversations with the thief who is the woman-who-rhymes-with-witch, I feel my heart pound as I say things to her privately I will never have the chance to say out loud.  I feel very little relief. 

Shit happens in threes so we are clear for the rest of 2014.  We're certain we are correct in our assumption.  This is most excellent news.  It's not three weeks into the year and we're good to go.  This makes us happy.  We will get through this string of bad luck.

In the mean time, we will laugh and will encourage others to do the same.  Pain is not funny.  Deep pain takes longer to move through.  That said, there's plenty of humor in life and some of it is simply too good not to share.

In the spirit of locating our own personal funny bones I share Jonathan's art and poem.  Good boy.

On Vulnerabilities, Power in Numbers, and Traveling Companions

Sebastian is German.  His parents moved his family to the UK when he was young, and then onto Japan where he spent most of his growing up years with us in a boarding school filled mostly with Americans.  This means his accent is all his own:  part German, part British English, part American English, and the rest uniquely Sebastian.  I decide his background is part of what makes him who he is.  All of him.  Truly one of a kind.  At one of our recent boarding school alum gatherings he spilled a secret.

It all started when Jilly came back into town on one of her whirlwind business trips.  We've long since told her the "I'm back! Let's get together!" last minute e-mails left us nonplussed.  With our collective "knock it off" she now gives us a heads up, albeit that usually means we have two days to plan something as opposed to that night.

Jilly is one of these people we would hate if it weren't for the fact her ridiculous and genuine smile along with her bubbliness makes her lovable.  She's simply adorably irritating because she is a professional hobbyist.  The list of what she does in her "spare time" is what makes us want to hate her.  If her life were a pie chart large slivers would be taken up with quilting, knitting, sewing, pottery, gardening (rose bushes, fruit-bearing trees, vegetable garden, herbs), building houses, raising llamas, cooking, baking, and traveling the world.  She does this all with plenty of room left on her pie chart.  Most people make money doing what she does in her spare time; she's really that good at everything.  Her quilts are works of art, her cakes could be sold in bakeries, and the clothes she makes would compete well in Milan.  The simple version is that she makes us all look bad--which is why we want to hate her.  The truer version is she's a professional craftswoman extraordinaire.  Add to this she's never tired or cranky and we want to hate her all the more.

On one of her trips to Tokyo, Masa, also a boarding school classmate joined Jilly for dinner.  I popped in, too.  Throughout the evening, Masa and Jilly who sat across from me kept the conversation flowing exchanging hobby-related information while I ate their food.  Seeing the dwindling array of dishes in front of them the two finally realized they were essentially having a private conversation.

"What's your hobby?" Jilly asks me, because of course, everyone has a hobby and after years of being apart she wants to know mine.
"Well," I pause, and this is where everything went bad.  As in, really bad.
"You don't have a hobby?" Masa says to me, almost an accusation.  I paused too long.  My answer, my list did not pop out the way theirs did.
"I do," and I think, "What do I like to do?"

Herein lies my problem.  My hobbies were lame compared to their exotic collection of awe-inspiring feats.  "I like to read," I finally say and they both went off on me right then and there.

It seems reading is not a legitimate hobby.  Their joint argument, "everyone reads" meant the fact I read a lot, often, always didn't cut it.
"Now if you read something obscure," Jilly says, "like medical articles about a specific skin condition..."
"You've got to be kidding me," and now I am defensive.
"Picture any web page of anyone even slightly well-known in Japan," I say.  "The page where their biographical information is listed.  Date of birth, blood type, home town, their astrological sign, what they're good at, and hobbies are listed, right?  Now tell me how many people say on their page that reading, shopping, listening to music--that those are their hobbies.  Power in numbers, baby.  Reading is definitely a hobby."  Confident I've made my case and well, I'm shocked at the way they both talk over each other, equally confident and secure in how wrong I am.

So, when Sebastian and Masa (the same Masa) and I are out to dinner I lobby Sebastian, all while trying to convince Masa he and Jilly were wrong a few weeks back.  When two minutes later Masa grins in victory and I glare at Sebastian for betraying me, I'm confused all over again as to why my these friends who've known me since I was a pup can all be so completely dumb.  Reading is most definitely a hobby.
"Fine," I say, sitting back and folding my arms across my chest.  "You figure it out then.  What should I do?  What should I do for a hobby?"

Sebastian gives me examples of his hobbies and finally decides any legitimate hobby needs gear.  He shares stories of how he bought all new camping gear only to spend the night up in the mountains with a giant spider, furiously batting at imaginary spider threads every hour after he finally got rid of the one in his shirt.  He talks about his watercolors.  Sebastian follows up with, "Masa plays bass.  And builds things.  And plays baseball.  It all requires gear."
Defeated, I'm about to accept I am a hobby-loser when Sebastian pulls out his iPhone and starts flipping through photos.
"I have to show you this.  My other hobby."  Masa and I wait.  Finally, Sebastian thrusts his phone out at us.  "Look.  Onsens."

Japanese hot springs are truly beautiful places, tucked away in the mountains, on a cliff overlooking the ocean, along a lake with lapping waves.  Sebastian has a book of off-the-beaten-path onsens and travels around Japan tracking down these gems, resting in mineral-rich waters.  I don't get it.  It's a bath.
"Honestly," Masa says.  "You'd never know you grew up here, not liking onsens."

And then Sebastian drops the bomb.
"Look."  He points to the corner of his photo.  Masa and I stare at what seems to be a ... stuffed animal?
"What the..." Masa starts, but Sebastian cuts him off.  "That's my eagle."
"Is that a stuffed animal?" I ask.
"Yup.  I travel with it everywhere I go."
Sebastian keeps flipping through photos.  "And here, and here.  See.  He's in all these photos."
"Wait," Masa stops him.  "Back up.  You travel with a stuffed animal?"
"Yeah," Sebastian looks at us as if this is no big deal.  He continues scrolling and now shows us a moose, a penguin, and a small bird all lined up in bed, tucked in, propped up against a pillow.
"Let me get this straight," I say.  "You travel with these things?"
"Hell yeah," and again, it's as if Masa and I are the ones who are missing out.
Masa and I alternate between giggling and guffawing and Sebastian joins in, completely unfazed.  He completes his photo exhibition with a "they're really good traveling companions" sermon and Masa and I have to agree.  That's that.

"Wait.  There's more," Sebastian is back typing on his iPhone and this time when he holds it up I see a headline reading, "One quarter of grown men travel with stuffed animals."  I grab the phone from him and read the article.  I'm half-impressed, half-horrified.
"Power in numbers, baby," Sebastian says, chest out and proud.
"At least he has hobbies," Masa says looking at me.

At the end of the night the conclusions reached by power in numbers (two against one) is that there are so few people who do not have a legitimate hobby, this vulnerability is far worse than Sebastian's interesting choice of suitcase-buddies.  "At least he's one of four," Masa says again.  Sebastian waves good-bye, "You really need a hobby."

I come home feeling only mildly defeated, vowing to pursue my fight to overcome my "vulnerability" while proudly standing by Sebastian, strange bedfellows he might have.