Purim

In the biblical story of Queen Esther with my son at bedtime. In the tale, Esther has been quite incredibly hidden within the most intimate folds of the royal Persian court, drowsed in perfect security and privilege at a time when her exiled people were a vulnerable minority in the empire. When a bitter nobleman succeeds in having the Jews slated for public annihilation, Esther’s decision to own and make public her identity, was laden with risk. Her boldness could have cost her her life with nary a blink from King Xerxes. True, within hours her immediate enemy Haman is hung on the grisly gallows he himself erected – as my son said, “That was a twist.”  But interestingly, what Esther gains from the king when she lays her life on the line is NOT peace or victory or security. Rather, she wins permission to fight on the approaching day of massacre. This is Purim. It is kind of a story about permission to fight, permission to violently break against the edicts set against you. What do you need to fight for? Who do you need permission from? Sometimes even in just asking to fight, we face death. What is worth perishing for?

Lean on Me

Life is interdependence. Each of us came into the world attached to another human being by an umbilical cord. Right now, I’m inhaling what the bushes outside my house exhaled and they’ll take in that CO2 and give me more of what I need. On Thursdays, I drop my son and a girlfriend’s daughter off at tennis; then she picks up these kids and brings my son home to my husband while I drive her daughter and mine to choir on the other side of the island. Life works better together.

Move

As a veteran human being (I was born before 1980), I accept that to live is to move. It's how well we anticipate, relish, and sometimes recover from the push and draw of this motion that largely influences our quality of life.

I have two small-sized human beings living with me. They look like my husband and myself, but they are their own giant entities. They blow my mind with their creativity, fry my circuits with their energy and push me into the turbulent unknown. They are a daily tide that I’ve learned to anticipate, ride and recover from. Three cups of Peets coffee a day, baby.

Upon the home going of Kim Darrough

The days visit us too long, too short,

like relatives with much more to say, 

unbearable and precious even as, finally, they go.

So time to spend, to sow, to change, 

floats on our hands like just picked flowers, strewn about and fancied.
Or engraved into memory by action, scented by sacrifice, collectively treasured.

Take heart. Forgive the pain, the strain.  The out of sync.

Good work and love, hand and glove, bring hope.

Tall souls, the sighted eye, and children spilling in the door for dinner.

While it is day, do what you can.

The night will come when all is rest.

Laugh hard in labor, sing quiet against the wind, till strength finds you with his kiss.

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Kim Darrough was a leader with Youth With a Mission together with her husband Kevin, having been students together at YWAM's first Honolulu training school. The Darroughs loved on street children in the Phillipines, demonstrated the story of God's mercy in India, and danced with the Uygurs in Xinjiang. They impacted thousands of people with their personable passion, humble faith, and embracing joy. Kim endured Kevin's passing from cancer in 2009 with steadfast love, after which time, she herself battled the disease with dignity and grace. What an honor to have known her and be counted a friend, and rejoicing in her reunion with Kevin. Well done.

"And now, Li Li has her moment,"

the director looks at me confidently. I have been dreading this all day. I knew it was coming. There on a steel bridge over the smudgy Chicago River, the camera is about to roll. This film will be distributed internationally, I'm told. My Russian-spy kidnapper (actually his stunt double) has just been popped into the water by my rescuer's bullet, and I, in my blue, lace lingerie and heeled, black boots, am in a crumpled position on the grated, metal road, head cocked listening to the director's game plan.

on the set of March in the Windy City

Alright, I say behind my over-made-up eyes, "Li Li", it's show time. Think of your village back in Guang Dong, of the fantastical, horrifying life you have led in the Chinatown brothel and have just now been allowed to live for a bit longer. Think of the cold gun just recently dropped from beneath your chin. Think of your depressed husband back in the university apartment, writing his depressing dissertation on nuclear destruction. Think of last night's dishes waiting for you in the very small sink in that apartment kitchen. Think of how fake this anguished, mental breakdown is going to look when it gets broadcast worldwide. Action. "Aaaaahhhhh!" 

Eyes Bigger

We crane to see, need to solve, grope to find. A multitude of mirrors bouncing back to expand our jittery, blinking lense:  the oracle of others, shining with praise or checked with opinions, the Hubble spacecraft hurling sights over the humanoid fence line, the dentist unmercifully angling his cold, circular plane to publicize my shy molar crevices. We are purveyors within and without. But still we look, rummaging through the inventory.

Makeup companies, furnishing empires on jet black mascara and velveteen shadow, know the power of the eye. The lady dons these wares and captivates the frame, inviting mystery and a plummet into secrets. How short or long the fall, one chances to find. But depth is seeking depth, and can't rest until it is sufficiently lost in its sea. So many jump and are disappointed by the painted shallow.

Time to See

I have no time to see
the bridges
the graven dates
the rivers leaning against the town
like a dog at your knees

but I see them in a bookstore 
as I pass after work
a thousand miles away, no, three
 “Best Towns of... “

I miss you, America