A Word in Defense of Metaphorical Pigeons Who Don't Like Being Stuffed in Holes

Recently, when asked by some of my parents' friends what my blog was about, I had to stop and think pretty hard about what to answer. I ended up describing it as a "thoughts blog." Granted, that makes me sound like a total narcissist..."Oh, I don't need a theme (nose slightly upturned, sniff). My thoughts are so wildly entertaining, I simply post them unedited! The peasants love it!" Ok, so my imaginary snotty self is perhaps a little exaggerated. I know people don't really see that in me. In fact, being self-deprecating about narcissism is its own kind of narcissism. Point is, I think I have an automatic resistance to pigeonholing. Don't get me wrong, I love mom blogs and cooking blogs and craft blogs. One of my favorite blogs in the world, written by a dear friend of mine, consists mostly of posts about her garden and the chickens and ducks she's raising with her precious family in their backyard in Chicago. It is absolutely fascinating; I never thought I'd say this, but I can't get enough of the chicken stories. If I had beautiful daughters and a backyard full of green goodness and poultry, I'd probably write about that too, though not half so entertainingly as she does.

My life feels like a patchwork. I work in rhythmic cycles of obsession with different interests and ideas. When I first got back to Mexico City I spent a couple hours every day on my piano. I still try to play daily, but that obsession has waned a little, replaced temporarily by my love for Arthurian literature. I spend probably the same amount of time reading Arthurian material as I spent before on the piano. I've been captured by needlework lately, and bought an embroidery hoop and floss and started learning embroidery stitches. I've no doubt the kick I was on just before coming to Mexico City, learning French, will recapture my interest at some point.  I have more interests than I could possibly remember all at at once, and they come cyclically back into my life unbidden. I just want to be able to post whatever is simmering on the brain burners. Sometimes that's deep-ish stuff, like doubt and tragedy and beauty. Sometimes it's just daily stuff, like cooking and crafts. The type of blog that my stage of life would most naturally pigeonhole me into would be that sort of "Trendy Single Girl" blog. Which would mean I'd feel compelled to post recipes involving goat cheese, or a tutorial about how I used mason jars to make something brilliantly original, or (heaven forbid) makeup or fashion tips. I'm not knocking the people that do. They're wonderfully trendy single girls who are living life on purpose, and I like that. I just don't feel like narrowing this to one area of interest, because that interest will wax and wane, and sometimes I just won't feel like posting about crafts or Arthurian literature or food. I realize I could have several different blogs, but something in my unity-loving soul recoils in horror at the thought. The best choice for me, then, is my conglomeration.

I've mentioned some of my current obsessions. A couple more: Bach's Invention No. 13 in A minor; the incomprehensible grace and ease that comes so naturally to cats (perhaps it's because I've been away from her for two years, but I just can't get enough of watching my cat's behavior); my parents' walled garden in the back of the house, which I can see out the window when I wash the dishes, or to my right when I'm playing the piano, or out the sliding glass doors from where I'm sitting now at the bar between the kitchen and the dining room; my friends in Mexico City, with whom my time is so limited and so incredibly precious; helping people find books that they will love. I recently found a quote by Joss Whedon (brilliant man that he is) that fits quite nicely with the philosophy that we find our niche in life when we're creating (more on that, perhaps, at a later date). Anyway, I think it's a good way to end this post. Take it and do what you will with it.

Missionary Kid Moments

I've been in Mexico for a week and a half now. Before coming I thought, "Surely I'll find plenty of things to write about for my blog." I've come to the realization that it's hard for me to write about Mexico. From that was born the knowledge that it's hard for me to talk about Mexico. I don't mean hard in the "painful" sense. I just mean that words do not come easily. When people ask me about Mexico, I stumble along answering as best I can, but I don't ever feel like I've answered well. That's not to say I don't like being asked; when people take an interest in the place I come from, they take an interest in a vitally important aspect of me, one that all too often feels like it has no bearing on my life in the States. Even with my close friends, the things that are unusual about me are attributed to the fact that I'm a quirky, idiosyncratic person. Of course, this is just as often correct as incorrect. Even I can't always separate the things that come from being me and the things that come from growing up in a different country. I know it's easy for people to forget that my childhood was radically different than most of my circle of friends. I don't have an accent or a different ethnicity to remind people that I am Other. I struggled a lot in college with the knowledge that if I did anything socially unacceptable, no one would make excuses for me because I grew up in a different culture. Most people didn't know I had. If I made cultural mistakes, I'd come across as awkward and socially ill-adjusted. That thought was detestable and humiliating to me. There is little more frustrating and embarrassing than saying something completely in earnest and having your friends find it hilarious (and I've always felt thunderously angry at those people who say, "Aww, you're blushing!" People who think blushing is cute are clearly not blushers themselves). But that wasn't what I set out to talk about. I was talking about the difficulty of verbalizing Mexico. Some people, I know, just aren't particularly interested. That's fine; I don't spend a great deal of time asking them questions about their hometown or upbringing either. When I am asked questions, though, they are usually some variant of "What's it like?" The simple answer, which the asker already knows, is "Different." And what he's really asking is, "What's different about it?" How do you describe something someone has never experienced? But it's so important to try, it's so important to who I am to try.

So here's a try. I'm sitting in a little hotel in a city called Oaxtepec, where my parents are having meetings with some other missionaries who work with indigenous people. The courtyard I'm sitting in is surrounded on three sides by two floors of rooms. The third side is the parking lot. There's a swimming pool. I don't know all of the plants in the garden surrounding it, but there's oleander, and little roses, and palm trees. I'm at a cast-iron patio table sitting just outside the hotel restaurant. It's quiet and a little warm and breezy. This is the source of my frustration: what I've just described could be anywhere, and I struggle to find the details that set this in Mexico. The building has a sort of Mexican colonial look. Painted bright yellow, with a dark green scrolled railing around the second floor. Heavy, dark wooden doors. Arched windows. Red tiled roof supported underneath by heavy wood beams. Although visually this area is completely isolated from the city, I can hear buses rumbling by on the street just outside the courtyard. The waiters in the restaurant speaking Spanish to each other (a no-brainer, I suppose, but it's the most comforting sound). The clicking of the lighter as they're getting the gas stove lit for lunchtime (which, by the way, is preposterously late here...I used to eat on that schedule, but now I'm ravenous by lunchtime, which is at about 2:00), and the little whoosh as the gas catches fire. The smell of tortillas heating. The generously applied perfume of the lady sitting at the table next to me, which reminds me of how dearly Mexican men love their cologne. To this day, a whiff of strong cologne stops me in my tracks because American guys hardly ever put on enough for me to smell it. There's a secret look into the mind of Emily you probably weren't expecting. I laugh at myself every time it happens.

Anyway, there's my best attempt. It's time for me to get my stuff put away and go to lunch, where I will eat delectable food that is different from American Mexican food in ways that I will never be able to describe. That's a feat I won't even attempt. I told my mom the first day I was back and she took me to the street market for lunch, "Eating real Mexican food is a quasi-religious experience." Why not? Every good and perfect gift is from above, including Mexican food.