Taiwanese Ladies in Cafe Gratitude

Today, I had lunch with my friend Ross at a very Bay Area establishment, Cafe Gratitude. It's a restaurant that serves vegan food (no animal products) with a new age flair. I ordered Pesto Pizza, which on the menu is called "You are Sensational." So when the waitress brought our food to the table, she says "You are Sensational?" and I said "Yes!"

Even though there are some organic restaurants in Taiwan, there's just nothing like Gratitude there. So, while I am here in the Bay Area, I figure I better get my fill of organic-hippie-granola culture.

Ross and I had a great time catching up. Although I answered his questions about what it was like in Taiwan, I couldn't quite convey to him what it was like to live there. I don't know if it is possible to explain it in words to anyone who hasn't been there.

As we were talking, I noticed that a group of older Taiwanese women sat down next to us and began speaking in Chinese. I recognized their accent.

When Ross and I got up to leave, I turned and asked them: "好不好吃?" ("How's the food?"). Ross saw my big smile (and their's) as we started to speak in Chinese. They asked me to sit down and we talked for five minutes.

Outside of the restaurant, Ross and I say goodbye, and for once, magically, one of my friends here gets a taste of my life in Taiwan.

Aikido Time Machine to the Past

While living in Taiwan, a few months ago, I found out that my first two aikido teachers (both well-known in California) were teaching a workshop. Since I knew I would back in the States then, I signed up.

I found aikido just out of college, and I trained instensely with my teachers at least three times a week. I would finish my job in a law firm in San Francisco's Financial District and practice with my aikido buddies. About a year and a half later, I moved to Berkeley and never found a teacher near me with whom I connected as deeply as I had with my teachers in San Francisco, so I stopped practicing. But, aikido and my teachers had already touched me deeply.

For years, I always had the calligraphy of aikido's founder, Morihei Uyeshiba (O'Sensei) on my wall above a small altar I had in my living room. And on the altar I had a book of his sayings. Even though I wasn't practicing on the mat, I remember the lessons my teachers taught me and tried to embody them in everything I did.

I didn't know what it would feel like to practice with them again. Would I want to stay here in the Bay Area to continue my aikido practice with them? Would I feel deeply moved? Would it be an incredible experience, a high?

Fortunately, I have been practicing aikido for the past year in Taiwan, so I was confident that at least I would be able to do all the techniques. I figured my old teachers would remind me of the deeper principles of aikido: being one with your attacker, staying present in the technique instead of trying to "win", allowing ki/chi (energy) to flow through you during the technique. These were the things we practiced so hard in the old days.

My teachers looked a little older, but their words and teaching were the same as they were so many years ago. It has been over ten years since I trained with them, and it felt like I had entered a time machine and went back in time, like meeting an old girlfriend I was in love with a long time ago. My teacher even told me that I hadn't aged, in fact, that I looked younger. (As we say in English, flattery will get you everywhere.)

The workshop was fun, but it wasn't the peak experience that I thought it might be. After it ended, I felt incredible gratitude for both of my dear teachers, remembering what a large influence they had on me at a very important time in my life. At the same time, I realized how much I had changed and grown, how much had happened in my life since then.

I talked to them briefly to thank them, then quickly dressed and left.

On the way home, I went to get a haircut and it happened that the woman who cut my hair was from Taiwan. We spoke in Chinese and she was very friendly. I had visited the past today, and this haircut brought me back to my present, living in Asia, studying Chinese, studying aikido, getting ready to study more medicine.

For the first time that day, I had a big smile and was beaming.

Stop and Take the Time to Listen to the Guitar Music

Today, I am riding my bike on College Avenue to the cafe where I'll check my email. It's getting close to dinner time, but still sunny and warm. I park and lock my bike in front of the produce store with the fruit and flowers in the front and notice there's a musician playing classical Spanish guitar on the sidewalk.

I stand there and listen to him play. I have always loved this kind of music and it hypnotizes me. The way children are always hypnotized by music. There's something essential about it for us human beings, sort of like how dogs are always transfixed by smells.

He is playing something familiar, sounds like a piece I know by a famous Spanish composer whose name I have forgotten. I stand there in the late afternoon sun while highly educated North Oakland professionals rush by, perhaps picking up takeout for their kids or going to a yoga class.

After he finishes the piece, I ask him who wrote it, and he tells me Albeniz. Yes, Albeniz, that's it! "What's his most famous piece?" I ask. He starts playing Leyenda, Albeniz's most famous piece adapted for guitar.

I will go in a few minutes, off to check my email, but not before I put a couple of dollars in his hat, and hopefully he'll continue to do this for a long time.

Practicing Taiwanese at the Supermarket

I go with my mom to the supermarket. A store employee helps us bag our few items. His name tag says "Chen" and he's Chinese.

I can't help asking, "You speak Chinese?"

"Yes, I am from Taiwan."

I start speaking to him in Chinese. I insert the little Taiwanese I know. He starts talking to me in Taiwanese, but I tell him to that I don't speak Taiwanese, just a few words.

I am happy. I tell him I just lived in Taiwan for a year, that I am here visiting my mom.

"Welcome!" he says in Chinese.

I want to come back everyday and talk to him

The US Open

My sister gets us tickets to the last day of the US Open, and on Sunday, we head out to Queens to catch the Men's Finals. When we arrive, the Women's doubles are just finishing.

Taiwan's Chan/Chuang are playing Dechy (France)/Safina (Russian). I see the Taiwanese players in red, and I am rooting for them. I feel like I know them. I feel that if we went out to dinner, we would have a good time, talking about Taiwan.

Every time they score, or every time they mess up, they come together and give each other a quick handslap. I want them to win.

They remind me that I miss Taiwan. Fortunately, I am wearing my sunglasses, so nobody can see my eyes, tearing up a little.

Chinatown New York

In Taiwan, I spoke Chinese every day. Perhaps not the most articulate Chinese, but I was able to tell all my juicy secrets to several Taiwanese friends using the words contained in my textbook, Practical Audio-Visual Chinese, Volumes 1, 2, and the first eight chapters of Volume 3. Oh, I also threw in some slang for effect, taught to me by my hip Taiwanese friends.

However, having been in the States for two weeks so far, I'm afraid I haven't had the chance to practice my Chinese, except for my thirty minute conversation with my friend Michael, who is another Jewish acupuncturist who lives on the West Coast. If you are Taiwanese, you would have loved to listen to our conversation. Two laowai talking Chinese. Very entertaining.

You could say that I have been a little thirsty to speak Chinese. So, when my mother and I went to New York this past weekend, I thought I might have an opportunity to go to Chinatown and practice, quench that thirst a little, perhaps.

We stayed in Tribeca, where many famous, beautiful, and glamorous people live, including: Gwyneth Paltrow, Scarlett Johansson, Kate Winslet, Meryl Streep... oh, and let's not forget my sister, Alona.

On Saturday, my Mom and I took a walk from Tribeca to Chinatown, which is actually only about a ten minute walk, maybe fifteen minutes. I was so happy to see sign after sign in Chinese. Remember, I am still experiencing culture shock after having lived in Taiwan for a year. In the States, there are so many big white people, and so much correct English! I'm not used to it.

As I do in Taiwan, I look up and start trying to read the street signs, the billboards, the Chinese calligraphy on windows and above stores. I really do miss it all, even though it makes my head spin.

Our plan is to get some tea before we grab a cab to meet my sister in the East Village. We walk, and I keep my eyes open for a traditional teahouse.

My mom tells me to wait while she goes into a store that sells knick-knacks from Asia, like wooden reflexology sandals that have small raised wooden "fingers" which massage the soles of your feet while you walk.

The shop is a big stall--there is no door. The shopkeeper sits behind a table. He's in his 30's, Chinese, perhaps my age, and he's facing me. His expression is focused, and as I look at him, he looks straight ahead. He doesn't talk to me even though I am a customer looking right at him. I wonder if he is Chinese mafia and paid to look tough. But as I stand there, I realize there is a tape recorder next to him repeating sentences in Chinese and in English.

"I am studying English" the woman on the tape recorder says. "我在學英文" she repeats in Chinese. I realize that my opportunity to speak Chinese is here.

I smile and ask him in Chinese, "So, are you studying English?"

He is surprised to hear a laowai speak Chinese, and he goes from mafia-face to smile. He tells me he is studying English because he wants to get a green card and become a US citizen. He compliments me on my Chinese ("很表準"). As usual, I reply that my Chinese is actually not that good, but thanks for the compliment.

I ask him where there's a good place to get some tea. He tells me that around the corner there's a cheap place. We say goodbye, and I walk out with my mother. I am so happy to finally speak Chinese!

Later, I go to the tea place and I tell the kid I want some wulong tea. He tells me there are no tapioca pearls (珍珠; zhen zhu) in the kind of tea I have just ordered. I know this. I don't want zhen zhu in my cha. That's for kids. So I say, "不要,不要"("I don't want them!").

In Chinese, he responds, "You want it hot?(熱的嗎?)"

"Yes, 對," I reply, "Hot, 熱的."

My mother is waiting for me outside. We've got to get a cab and meet my sister in the Village, but I'm a little less parched, and am ready for our next adventure in the US of A.

The Food Essay

One of my English students in Taiwan returns from a business trip in the Netherlands and tells me that she is so happy to be back. "Why?" I ask.

If you are Taiwanese, you know the anwer.

"The food. I had to eat hamburgers, sandwiches, and pasta every day" she says, whining a little bit.

If you are not Taiwanese, I will educate you a little now.

If you are foreign, you think, "Taiwanese food, not bad, maybe a little oily sometimes, but sometimes pretty good." A burger or a sandwich every once in a while is necessary to ease the monotomy, but, you know, it's not terrible.

However, if you are Taiwanese, you love Taiwanese food. You could eat at Maxim's in Paris every day for a month, and you'd still be pining for some niu rou mian (牛肉麵, beef noodle soup) with a little manguo bing (芒果冰, mango on ice) for dessert. Such is the nature of human beings.

Food brings us home. We remember those meals our grandmother made us when we were kids. If you feel nostalgic for home, you can always make yourself some traditional dishes, right?

And so, I am home. I spend the weekend with my dear grandmother. She makes me the most incredible food. My food. Jewish food. Hummus, baba ghanoush, borscht, meatloaf, her homemade pie, a Middle Eastern lentil salad, all served with pita.




It's all fresh, simple. A world away from Taiwan. Grandma smiles as I eat all her food, as I thank her profusely.

"I'm going to get fat," I tell her.

"Nobody loses weight in my house," she quickly responds.

I am back home.

Good People Abound, Everywhere

I'm back in the States, as all my fans (!) know. It's strange not to speak Chinese everyday. No old guys on their bin lang (穦榔) buzz talking Taiwanese. No Taiwanese ladies fixing oil-laden dan bing (蛋餅; egg crepes fried in about a gallon of oil) for breakfast, saying "Your Chinese is getting a lot better." And no 7-11s, where I can always pick up a cha ye dan (茶葉蛋; hard boiled tea eggs) or two. Taiwan, I miss you.

My friend Michael, another American acupuncturist on a mission, asks me about my experience of American people since I've been back. I think for a second and realize that I haven't really been spending much time with "American people"--I've been spending time with my dear family, and I am happy to see them. But I do notice that Americans are friendly and willing to talk and joke with you, even if they don't know you, like the flight attendant on the flight back from Tokyo, joking with the passengers ("Oh, you're one of those passengers--difficult!" she joked, with a big smile.)

I must be becoming Asian, as I think, "Wow, these Americans are a little guo fen (過分; too much)." On the other hand, as I told Michael, it's refreshing.

Since I am here in Virginia visiting my mother, I find a dojo (道館) nearby where I can practice aikido. We all know, without aikido, life is not worth living. Right? And so, this evening I set off to the local dojo to practice this noble art. On the way there, I think I have missed a turn, and so I stop at a gas station to ask.

I pull up to a pump and asked the lady in front of me directions, and she kindly tells me that I have one more block to go, in other words, I am on the right track. And so, thanking her much, I get back in my car (actually, my mother's car), and try to start it.

Uh-oh. I find I can't. The battery seemed to be dead. The only thing I can hink about is that I have aikido class nearby in fifteen minutes, and need to get there. And so I decide to just park the car in the gas station's parking lot for a few hours, run to class, and come back at 9 p.m. and deal with the battery issue later.

An Indian man sees me pushing my car into the parking space and offers to help. We get it there, and he asks if I have jumper cables. I tell him no. "Do you?" I ask hopefully. Alas, he doesn't. However, a guy walking by hears us, "Did you guys say jumper cables?"

I am happy. This guy has jumper cables in his truck, and he wants to do a good deed. "Do you have cables?" I ask. "Yes," he says. I'm in luck.

In Taiwan, I always have a lucky star overhead. I find out that she hasn't abandoned me. Thanks, lucky star.

After I get my mom's car's battery charged, I profusely thank this nice tatooed man who just helped me (and his wife, too, who is in the truck) and I am off. I need to get to aikido.

I know that after I park the car and turn it off at aikido, I will have a problem later, but I don't care. I need to get to aikido, and hopefully, my lucky star will still be there during and after practice.

Thank you lucky star.

Since we are near Washington D.C., I find there are a few military people practicing. The teacher asks me where I have been practicing and I tell him I have been in Taiwan for the past year.

"State Department?" he asks.

"No, Chinese Medicine Department," I respond.

We practice, all of us aikido brothers and sisters, and like an old friend, aikido says, "Welcome back, I am always here for you." I meet new friends. I learn some things. I exercise and sweat.

After practice, I know my mom's car will need a jump start. And so, I hang around and ask if anyone has jumper cables. Surprisingly, nobody does, even the military guys. I check in my mother's car. No jumper cables.

The retired Air Force pilot says he lives nearby and would be willing to stop by his house to pick up cables. I thank him, and we head to his place and then return with a flashlight and cables.

Within five minutes, I am back on the road, back to my mother's house. It's a good welcome back to America.

There are good people everywhere.

A Fish in Water

After a long flight back from Taiwan, I am home. I arrived yesterday afternoon, and because I didn't sleep on the plane, was in a daze for most of the day. It's just too surreal to be living close to a big Daoist temple on a mountain south of Taipei one minute and then a few hours later find yourself in the progressive capital of the United States, where the buses run on hydrogen.

So, after four hours of sleep last night (believe me, I tried to get back to sleep after waking up at four in the morning, but I couldn't), I got up, dressed, got on my friend Jono's bike and rode to my old neighborhood.

It's autumn, the air is crisp and in my bones, I can feel the many autumns I've spent here. Climate itself can be like Proust's "madeleines", you know, you bite into a cookie you once ate a long time ago, and the memories start flowing.

It's quite a contrast to Taipei's heat and mugginess.

Walking around my old neighborhood on this cool autumn morning, I remember moving to Berkeley around this time of year (a long, long time ago!), I remember what it felt like to live in my old, beautiful apartment (I walk by it this morning and see the name of the person who lives in apartment 103, my old abode), I remember my community of friends way back when, walking with them on Shattuck Avenue. It's all more than I can communicate in words, but I think you understand.

A fish is back in the water.

At five this morning, I find a bakery (the famous Cheeseboard) in my old neighboorhood that has some benches in front. Even though it's not open yet, the lights are on and the bakers are bustling about. So, I open the book that my dear friend bought me before I left (A Fish the Smiled at Me, by Jimmie), and what else do I do but, of course, study Chinese!

A baker in an apron is pushing a cart of flour on the sidewalk and we start chatting. "You have enough light?" he asks as he smiles at me. "Yes, thanks." I say. I explain to him that I just got back from Asia and am jetlagged, and so am back in my old neighborhood, reminiscing.

"Want a muffin?" he asks. "They're just out of the oven," he says. "Bran, blueberry millet, and I can't remember the other one."

"I'd love a bran muffin," I reply. I've had many of them in my years here, and I might be about to have my own Proustian bakery experience.

So, he brings me my warm muffin, and I get to work on Jimmie's story. It is beautiful, about real love and letting go.

It feels like a few minutes have gone by, but I look at my watch, and it's almost six. That means I can go to my favorite cafe and get a cup of tea. It's on the next block. I pack up my book, and walk to Peet's Coffee and Tea, the original store on Walnut and Vine.

There, I get (what else?) and pot of Tie Guan Yin tea. "I'll give you a big mug in case you need room for cream and sugar," the dian yuan/woman at the register says.

I smile ("cream and sugar?") and say thank you.

I sit down at a table, pour myself a cup of tea (who knows, maybe it's from Maokong!), and get back to work on my story of the man and his fish.

I finish the story, feeling inspired (and happy to learn some new Chinese). The sun is starting to come up, and I need to get breakfast.

I am back home.

Rainy Night on Zhinan Mountain

I've leaving Taiwan on Monday morning, early. This evening, I have focused on packing, and finally, I am done. It's a good feeling.

It's a beautiful night in Muzha. It's been lightly raining for the past few hours. I love when it rains on the mountain. It's a feeling of nourishment, strengthening, release.

I need to take a walk and move my body. I don't mind that it's raining, and besides, I won't be able to take a walk in my neighborhood on the mountain for a long time. So, I grab an umbrella and walk down Wanshou Rd.

It's always good to walk after being cramped up inside. After twenty or thirty minutes, I am done my short hike and am back at the stairs that lead up to my small apartment building. I walk up, slowly. There are big lamps along the path, and their light is reflected on the water as it tumbles over the stairs, which are all made of thousands of small pebbles.

I get to the top of the path where my apartment is. This is one of my last walks here, and I am glad I have slowed down tonight to appreciate this place.

It's still raining outside. A fine moment to finish my last blog entry in Taiwan.

Chinese Studying and Peoplewatching in Taipei 101

I am often in Taipei 101, until last month, the tallest building in the world. Since I am a poor student, perhaps being there makes me feel, well, a little richer. I study on the fourth floor where there are several cafes and Taipei's best bookstore for English books, and in between memorizing new vocabulary and writing sentences in Chinese that are a mixture of both proper Chinese and English grammar (I get points off for the latter, though), I peoplewatch.

There are the grandmothers who knit and gossip at the table next to me every time I am there. They know me well (well, because they see me all the time), and hopefully, they've gossiped about me.

Then there are the business people who are on a coffee break, business people in meetings with their laptops, salespeople making big deals. Students who are on summer break who are either chilling together after a little shopping, or organizing some big activity, like a play. At least that's what it looks to me.

The boys are usually skinny, mostly with tan complexions and funky haircuts, and a few are more plump. There's usually one guy who's really loud, and the girls all pay attention to him. I am sure they go home together afterwards and tell each other how they think he is so cute. They secretly want to marry him.

Usually, there are a few retired couples drinking tea and eating dessert. There is a large TV above our heads on the fourth floor, mostly advertising expensive watches and other luxury products, including mutual funds. Skinny Versace models (mostly blonde) cross their legs in front of each other while they walk on the catwalk (why do they walk like that?; it looks like they are going to pull their anterior lateral cruciate ligament or something), but they don't look that pretty to me. They look forced and mechanical, unnatural. They look like they can't wait for the show to end so they can go out for another night of dancing, drinking, and perhaps taking expensive drugs. And they're not even twenty yet. Poor girls.

So the old men just look blankly at the screen while the wives talk and sip their tea. But sometimes, they look like they are having a good conversation, like they actually like each other after fifty years of marriage.

I notice that the elderly woman at the table next to me with her husband looking over at my table a few times, curious about what I am studying, and then when I got up to refill my cup of tea with hot water, she looks at me, interested. So, when I have a Chinese question, I walk over to her and say politely, "Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you a Chinese question?"

"Sure," the woman responds. She seems very happy to help, and I ask my question. She gives me a confident and clear explanation and I smile and thank her. Her husband smiles at me and says that his wife is a retired elementary school teacher. "Perfect for my level," I say. We all chat for a while.

Actually, the truth is that after you've studied a year and a half of solid Chinese and lived in Taiwan for that long, I am sorry to say, but the large majority of elementary school students are much more advanced than you. I'm talking about writing and reading. If we're talking about speaking, then I would think it would be appropriate to compare us to nursery school kids in Taiwan, all of whom are far more advanced in their Chinese speaking and listening abilities. For instance, most of my classmates (and me), have a hard time understanding most animated movies in Chinese.

The other day, I got up to go for a bathroom break, and as I was washing my hands, I see a little kid, maybe four years old, with his mom, at the door. She is trying to send him in to pee, but the little boy wants her to go in there with him and help. But she tells him she can't.

I walk over and smile at him and say, "Okay, come in, I'll help you, okay?" When I see that his mother hasn't freaked out and called the police (she is actually smiling and looks a little relieved), I take his hand. His mother tells him to go with me and I lead him to the low urinal where young boys can urinate hygienically and accurately. I walk away and wait for him to finish. As he is getting ready to pee, he looks over at me. I smile and make a face at him. During the process of peeing, he looks over at me several times. This might be the first time a foreigner is supervising his peeing process.

He is all zipped up and walks out toward his mother, but I remind him that he needs to wash his hands. So, I take the toy motorcycle in his hand and put his hands in front of the automatic faucet. He's done washing and I can tell he misses him mom a lot--he forgets all about his motorcycle. So, I remind him, hey, your motorcycle, dude.

I walk out with him, and his mom looks at me, thankful.

I am thankful, too. I sit back down, and am ready for some more Chinese studying and peoplewatching in Taipei 101.

A Car Full of Kids

I am walking to class in the morning, and suddenly, I hear a kid call out to me, "Waiguoren (外國人; foreigner)!"

I look up, and I notice the kid in a car that's passing me. He's smiling at me, and I notice other kids in the car. When I give him a big smile back, all of them start smiling and waving at me.

They seem to be around seven or eight years-old. As they move away, I keep smiling and waving, and their smiles get farther and smaller, but I can tell they are still beaming.

A good way to start the day.

Portrait of Young Taiwanese Woman with Bike

I am sitting in a modern, chic Taiwanese tea shop drinking a cup of wulong tea, studying for my final Chinese exam, my final final of the year, perhaps my final final of Taiwan.

This is a beautiful new tea shop that opened a few months ago, near Taipei City Hall MRT station. There are natural wood tables and beautiful, simple white teapots, Chinese teas and English teas, all tastefully displayed, as if we are in California.

I prefer the Chinese teas. Today, it's a Dong Ding wulong. They serve it to me with a bit of honey on the side. I've never heard of Chinese people putting honey in their wulong tea, so I scoop up the honey with the spoon and eat it like desert.

One of the young girls who works there must be done her shift, I see her walk out of the shop in her street clothes, carrying a small paper bag, one that they put bags of tea in for customers. The automatic door, an impressively finished wide wood door, closes behind her. Most doors to stores in Taiwan open and close like this, either with a light push of a button, or with the movement of your approaching body spotted by a motion detector.

Her bike is parked on the street just in front of the stores, in a space between countless scooters. The scooters of Taiwan.

It's drizzling. Most people are walking with umbrellas, but she doesn't seem to mind. She hangs her bag on one of the handlebars, slowly, and takes out a carefully folded handkerchief, which she carefully unfolds. Then she uses it to dry the seat methodically. First the top, then the sides, then a circle around to make sure she hasn't missed a spot.

As I watch her do this, I realize that this is a uniquely Taiwanese scene. There are no 19 year-old girls in the States who carry around handkerchiefs to wipe dry the seats of their bikes, and if they do, they probably do it really quickly and miss a lot of spots. But not this girl.

She slowly pulls her bike out of the narrow spot. She is moving very slowly. She's doesn't seem like the athletic type, but she is not a prissy lamei (辣妹; hottie). More like the studious type, with a bit of a creative streak. Something says she could make you a really creative and heartfelt birthday card.

By the time she pulls it out of its spot and straightens the bike so it is pointed in the direction of traffic, she notices the rain has gotten the seat wet again, and so she pulls out her handkerchief again.

I realize that I need to get back to studying, and so I continue writing my characters. At my current level, all the vocabulary consists of two-word concepts that are really easy to forget, but sometimes, you can figure out what they mean, words like laolei (勞累).

I look up, looking for her, and she's gone.

Say Yes

A wise man once taught me that when you are meditating, you should have a slight smile on your face. This is the proper form in certain types of meditation, I think in the Hinayana tradition in Southeast Asia.

It's like you sit still and face whatever thoughts and feelings you might have--all with that smile of the Buddha. You say "yes" to life, whatever it brings you.

The Buddha had money, a stable family, a wife and son--but he left it all in his quest for enlightenment, to find something deeper. I admire the Buddha (maybe you do, too), and I'm glad he didn't stay at the palace getting massages and signing edicts. His parents would have loved that. I admire his bravery for letting go of the need for guaranteed future security.

I've been thinking about the Buddha lately because I, too, have let go of all that is considered "stable" to follow my dream. I perhaps am not the Buddha, but I know the Buddha would want me to follow my own path. "If you see the Buddha on the road, kill him!" were his words. He wanted us to find our own Buddha, something beyond the conditioning of our personal past and our culture.

The way I see it, we all have the same choice. We can live in fear, or we can move to a place of love. Fear means your little boat floating on the sea gets smashed by the big waves--which if you haven't experienced yet, trust me, you will--and you say, "Oh, shit, I've got to protect myself so this never happens again." Maybe you slowly sail back to shore, tie up your little boat, rent a room at the local motel, and watch cable for the rest of your life. A part of you dies. You never come out again.

The other path is love. The same big, bad wave smashes you to pieces and after a bit of time recuperating, you get back out there. You know that no matter how hard the waves come, you will still be okay. The big waves come back and your little boat gets soaked again, but this time, you know how to deal, you know you'll be okay. And maybe you meet other boats and other sailors, and you sail to some beautiful shores. Sure beats infomercials.

Well, I'll keep it short, if you want to see love in action, you can always watch a Free Hugs video, here's another one, in Chicago. And I'm also including a poem by Oriah, which I like, called The Invitation. Or better yet, give out some of your own free hugs or write your own inspiring poem.

This blog entry is dedicated to you--sending you my love and blessings. You can do it!



The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

我對你的職業不感興趣。我想知道你的渴望，你是否能勇敢依循內心的憧憬，大膽的作夢。

我對你的年齡不感興趣。我想知道你是否會願意冒險，為愛，為夢想，為體驗生命，即使看起來像個傻子。

我對什麼影響你的情緒起伏不感趣。我想知道你是否曾觸及內心憂傷的核心，你是否已從生命中的背叛恢復，願意敞開心靈；或因此而蜷縮封閉，深怕再受傷害。

我想知道你是否可以正視痛苦，與它共處，我的或你自己的，而不需要躲藏、淡化、偽裝或修飾。

我想知道你是否能與喜悅共處，我的或你自己的。你是否能與狂野共舞，讓狂喜浸淫你全身，穿透每個指尖，不再心存戒慎恐懼，不再要求實際務實，忘記身為人類的限制。

我對你所告訴我的事是否真實不感興趣。我想知道，你是否能為忠於自己而讓他人失望；是否能背負他人對你背叛的指控，但求不背叛自己的靈魂；你是否能拋卻信仰，而仍值得信任。

我想知道每一天，你是否能在不美之處看見美麗，你是否能成為自己生命的源頭。

我想知道你是否與失敗共存，你的和我的，而且仍然願意站在湖邊，向天上銀色的圓月高喊，「是的，我絕不放棄。」

我對你住在哪裡，有多少錢並不感興趣。我想知道，在經過了整夜的哀傷沮喪，身心疲憊到了極點，你是否仍能起身，為了孩子，盡你該盡的養家活口的責任。

我對你認識誰，或你如何來到這裡不感興趣。我想知道，你是否會與我一起，站在火的中央而不退縮。

我對你在哪裡，學什麼，和誰學不感興趣。我想知道，當這一切都煙消霧散，是什麼在你內心支撐著你。

我想知道，你是否能與自己獨處，你是否真的喜歡在你空虛時陪伴的同伴。

Yogurt in the Face

Everyone I see, I tell them I am studying shufa (書法, Chinese calligraphy). I am eating in the vegetarian restaurant above 7-11 across the street from the university, and I get into a conversation with the lady sitting next to me. I eventually ask her if she likes shufa, and she says that she had to take it as a kid, just like everyone else.

My friend Chin asks me how I am doing, and I tell her that I am really into shufa. She tells me there is an exhibit of modern Chinese calligraphy at the Taipei Fine Arts Museum. So, last night, I meet her there.

I am like a kid in a candy shop. The beautify and variety of the shufa is overwhelming. We have two hours to view the exhibit and it doesn't feel like enough time, but I comfort myself, saying it just means I can come back and see it again next week with another friend. Each piece is like a new friend that I want to get to know better.

Besides the shufa exhibit, there is live jazz downstairs and a bookstore with lots of books on shufa. Oh my, shufa, books, and live jazz, all in one place. I am already in heaven, and possibly the only way they could make it better would be to fly in some friends from the US and some premium sake (清酒), and I think the beauty would just about overtake me.

Chin and I walk slowly through the exhibit. There are all the main styles, regular (楷書), clerical (隷書), running (行書), grass (草書), and seal script (篆書). Some are large, some very detailed, some which look like classical scrolls from two-hundred years ago, some looking like abstract expressionist paintings. I make a joke to my friend whenever we pass one I really like: "That one would sell for a lot of money in the States."

After we see the exhibit, we make our way to the exit, but we still have thirty minutes before the museum closes and Chin wants to check out the first floor exhibit of contemporary works. We take a stroll around the wide-open space filled with mostly abstract modern paintings and a few sculptures. There is a large cube near the entrance of the exhibit and people are going in, so we walk over to check it out. Inside, a few people are sitting a watching film shorts on a screen.

We watch a short film in which there's a little boy, maybe he's three or four, playing with his Mom. The boy is jumping on her, and she tries to kiss him, and he calls her a "lech" (色狼). It is very playful.

In the next short, the screen shows a close-up of the face of a young Taiwanese kid against a blank wall. She's probably in sixth grade. She is smiling slightly. Suddenly, something white, like paint, or most probably, yogurt, gets splashed in her face. She flinches a bit, but is still smiling, and doesn't move. One after another, Taiwanese kids are shown, waiting to get this white yogurt thrown in their faces.

We see about forty or fifty kids. I wonder, who is throwing yogurt in their faces? Don't kids get enough "thrown" in their faces already? But then, of course, I realize that it's a film. The director says, "I'm going to throw yogurt in your face. Here, wear this white shirt, and before we throw the yogurt at you, don't move too much, and after, don't move that much either. Just let us film you, okay?" At least that's what I imagine.

One after another I see the kids waiting for the yogurt, then getting it in the face, and then their reactions. You see a girl, completely serious, sad, staring at the camera. Suddenly, she get's it on the upper cheek and her eye. Her eye shuts for an instant, but, then she opens it and she is still staring at us, still sad and serious.

Another kid, a boy, is looking tough, his eyes defying, his lips a little pursed. His facial expression says, "Come on, I dare you." He gets it on his hair and forehead, and then after two seconds of recovery, he is back to being tough.

In contrast to tough boy, there is the scared girl. Before the yogurt even hits her cheeks, she is wincing, and after you can tell she is not very comfortable.

And then the kids who make me smile, the kids who are holding back laughter the whole time. I think there are many kids like this in the film. One boy can barely hold himself together. He hasn't lost it yet, but I turn to Chin and say, "He's going to crack up when he gets hit." Sure enough, he loses it and is laughing hard after the yogurt begins moisturizing his prepubescent skin.

I am very moved by all this yogurt throwing. By the kids who, at ten or twelve years old already have to fight the world, who wear a "tough" mask they learned from Dad. By the kids who are completely resigned, who make no movements before, during, or after the whole ordeal. And all those kids laughing, they move me, too.

I realize that by the time we're ten, or more accurately probably, five, we've developed a "stance" toward life. Do we embrace that "yogurt", laughing? Do we decide to be tough guy or victim, or stoic? I watch these kids faces and I can see their whole lives unfolding, I can see what they'll look like when they're fifty. Life is short.

A recorded announcement says the museum is closing and we need to leave, and I get up, still holding back my tears. Maybe for the kids in the film, maybe for all of us "kids".

Chinese Calligraphy

I've been wanting to study Chinese calligraphy for a while, as I have long admired Chinese script, especially when it is handwritten with a brush. Many people in Taiwan, when they find out I am studying Chinese language (and especially when they see my messy handwriting), ask me if I have studied shufa (calligraphy, 書法). I always say that I would like to, but I know it takes devotion and time, and I don't want to rush it, since I am already busy with many other things, not least of which is studying Chinese.

At school, I saw a poster for a calligraphy class, just two sessions in the month of July, and I thought, "This might be my chance to finally study shufa." However, after my initial excitement, I realized that I'm already too busy. In Taipei, the direction everyone needs to move in is doing less. Everyone is trying to be a superachiever, raising kids, working hard, and getting their EMBA at NCCU on the side. And then when you ask them what their hobbies are, they say: "SLEEP!" The pace of life has rubbed off on me.

So, with the detachment of a Japanese Zen monk (or so I would like to think), I said, it's not the right time. It's like when you need to meet a friend later and the mind says, "We could still do laundry...." and, like a good parent, you say, "Sorry, kiddo, we can do that tomorrow. We still have two pairs of clean underwear to go, anyway...."

Then, one day after class a few weeks ago, I walked through the library, and there's the shufa teacher and her student, my friend Marcos, apparently the only one who signed up. I see the ink, the brushes, the kind, middle-aged teacher, and my eyes light up. She smiles at me and invites me to join. I am in a "rush"--I need to go work out, then I have to study and teach, but I know that this moment is the right moment to learn shufa. Again, yuan fen (緣分; synchronicity, resonance) strikes again, and I follow it.

There is probably a hexagram in the I Ching (易經) that says: "Drop What You are Doing" and it looks like it's the one I am getting in this moment. Time to learn shufa.

Like her elementary school students, we start the class with the task of filling a sheet of paper with black ink. Just getting the feel for the brush and the ink. I am left-handed and the teacher says, "You are now going to use your right hand." And so, I am learning shufa, really, from scratch, not even as advanced as those Taiwanese elementary students, who already know how to write.

From "painting" a sheet black, we move onto dots. And by the time I finish practicing my dots, class is over, and I'm looking forward to going home and practicing more dots.

A friend takes me to the office supply shop near school, and we buy a simple brush, or maobi (毛筆), ink, and some paper so I can practice at home. Conveniently, during this time, my laptop breaks down and while it is getting repaired, I use my evening time to practice my shufa. In case any of you haven't had your laptop break down, I highly recommend it. Especially if you usually find yourself emailing or using MSN most evenings, you'll find yourself not only going to sleep earlier (and sleeping more peacefully because you haven't been sitting motionlessly staring at a screen for two hours), but you might even find yourself doing beautiful things like practicing shufa, writing poems, or practicing your violin.

Last week, I take my second class, and we have moved onto straight lines. My teacher starts me on the famous character yong (永), which means "the amount of time it will take most foreigners to learn fluent Chinese".

Just kidding, you know me, I like to laugh, yong actually means "eternal" (so actually I am only half-joking this time), and the reason why it is special is because it is the one character that contains all eight essential strokes (畫筆; see cool diagram above).

When my Taiwanese friends ask me how its going, I tell them lately I've been taking a shufa class, and they all tell me that they took a shufa class as a kid (actually, most every kid in Taiwan does). They usually tell me that their shufa is terrible, but then there a few who tell me their shufa is awesome.

In Starbucks, I bring special "water paper" that allows me to practice shufa using water instead of ink. The water goes on "black" and disappears in about ten seconds. It's better than bringing ink and paper into Starbucks, and I don't have to clean the brush afterwards.

One of the employees walks up to me and stares at my supplies. She says that she took shufa when she was a kid. I can tell she wants to give it a go. "Can you show me?" I ask her. "Sure," she says, and her eyes light up. She sits down and writes her name. She is really good.

Unfortunately, her boss walks in and sees her writing, and fires her on the spot. Just kidding. It's time for her to get back to work, and she thanks me for giving her the opportunity to do shufa again.

And I need to go now, too. It's Sunday afternoon, and I still have some time to practice my brushstrokes.

Wrong Planet

I walk out after eating dinner tonight, past the 7-11 on the corner. A guy, Taiwanese, around 30, walks out of the store. There's a small mutt, a mix of black and white patches, cute, lounging in front. The guy sees the dog, suddenly lunges toward the dog, and stamps his foot, hard, next to him. The dog is, of course, startled, and moves away from the guy, who is now getting on his little scooter which is parked about ten feet away.

I watch the whole thing happen, I see the look on the guy's face. I see the look on the dog's face. As the guy walks by me, without thinking, I look toward him and say to him, in English (it's a gut reaction), "Why?"

He's already passed me and I don't think he heard what I just said. I highly doubt he is or has been in "English mode" in the past few hours, or for that matter, the last 30 years.














Earthrise. For those of you who are wondering, I did not personally take this photo.

I think of confronting him, but I just decide to let it go. What am I going to do, argue with him in Taiwanese while he is opening his pack of Mild Sevens? I doubt it would do any good, although while writing this I think perhaps kicking his scooter over would have given him the message. But I never do that type of thing. That's how wars start, and I am a peace lover.

In the States, my Daoist attitude is definitely not the cultural norm. "Come on, why don't you yell at that guy for cutting in line?" People have shot at each other (with real guns) on the LA freeway.

In English, we say "kick the dog", meaning, Dad comes home in a bad mood, kicks his wife, wife kicks her daughter, the girl then kicks her brother, and then the boy kicks the dog. So, I think, this Taiwanese guy, who kicked him? And this goddamn kicking, when does it stop?

Later, I see the dog as I cross the street. I walk up to him, and pet him. He's happy, he jumps on me, he longs for the attention.

Lately, I've been wondering if I was born on the wrong planet. I think it's possible.

Brave ABC Girls in Taipei 101

I am eating lunch in the food court of Taipei 101 when I spot a gaggle of pretty young Taiwanese girls who walk up to a table where two young Taiwanese boys are eating their beef and noodles. They are about ten feet away from me. To my surprise, the lead girl opens her mouth and says, in girly, teenage English, "Excuse me, could you tell me...?"

I can't hear the rest, but since she is pointing to his lunch, I think she is looking for a food recommendation. She is about 19, looks like a college freshman, and smirking a little bit as she asks him her questions. The girls behind her look like they are anxiously waiting the boys' response, as if they are world-class professors. I hear the lead girl say that they are all from San Francisco.

I feel for her, because your chances of being answered in coherent English by a pair of pimply, basketball-playing, videogame-loving Taiwanese guys in Taipei 101 is about 0.06% (+/- 0.003, p=0.05). Those are pretty slim chances, girly.

Soon, her hot friends get involved. Their Chinese is better than their brave leader. I can see the interest in their eyes, and how they linger, asking what must certainly be further pointed questions.

And as they talk, well, I get it. (You see, I'm slow but perceptive.) They're not asking for food recommendations at all, or directions on how to get to Chiang Kai Shek Memorial Hall either. No, I imagine these young ABCs on summer break are bored, wandering Taipei 101 fru-fru shops, trying on new shades of makeup, buying hot pants for tonight's mission to Luxy. It's either here or at home with their auntie in Neihu who's always yelling at their cousins in Taiwanese because they haven't finished their buxiban homework.

Soon after arriving at the food court, I imagine one of them probably said, "Hey, check out those guys over there, the ones eating the beef noodles. You see the one on the left? Damn, is he hot! Let's go over and talk to them. Marsha, can you do your 'my Chinese is bad, so I will ask you a question in English' routine'?

I must be becoming Taiwanese, because after I figure out what is going on, I am cringing a little bit, as are both of their targets, and the group of five or so Taiwanese girls (real Taiwanese girls) sitting at the next table.

In the US, it's not uncommon to see girls, especially in groups, hitting on guys. And of course, it's quite common to see guys hitting on girls. But, we're in Taiwan. Nobody hits on anybody, at least the last time I checked.

Actually, I love that these girls are bringing a breath of fresh American culture into the B1 level of Taipei 101. Although they look Taiwanese, these are American girls, with an education and a set of cultural assumptions that are completely different from their Taiwanese counterparts.

Finally, their questions answered satisfactorily (or most probably, very unsatisfactorily!), the girls walk away, ready for their next adventure. The boys, for their part, request no phone numbers, and smirk like 18 year-old boys do, relieved.

Time Tested Beauty Tips

I first saw this poem hanging in my friend Paula's bathroom, and I thought I would share it with you, my friends. It is often attributed to Audrey Hepburn, who popularized it just before she passed away. However, the author is the American humorist Sam Levenson, who wrote it for his grandchild.


Time Tested Beauty Tips

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.

For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.

For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.

For poise, walk with the knowledge you'll never walk alone.

People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; Never throw out anybody.

Remember, If you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm.

As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows, and the beauty of a woman with passing years only grows!

i carry your heart with me

Today, I stumbled upon a beautiful poem by e.e. cummings, the famous American poet. Thought you might like it.

i carry your heart with me
by e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Simple Pleasures

It's pretty hot in Taipei, and I figured I better get a new aikido gi (uniform; 道服). The cotton gi that I've been wearing is good for Japan in the winter, not Taipei in the summer.

I do a search* on the web for stores in Taipei that sell aikido gis, and on Thursday after class, I go with my friend Taka, a karate expert from Japan, to a shop near CKS Memorial. They have a low quality polyester gi at a relatively high price. I look around the store, and I realize that it's because they specialize in Chinese martial arts. I decide not to get it, and am disappointed--I have class on Friday night, and don't want to practice in my old, heavy cotton gi.

However, after some more research, I find out about another shop in Ximending (西門丁). On Friday, I go with my friend Chi. The owners happily welcome us, and after I tell them what I need, he pulls out a beautiful gi. It's thin and made of cotton, and not too expensive. I can't tell you how happy that I waited to get this gi, and that I'll have a gi for practice tonight.

I walk out of the store with my friend, beaming. I kick up my feet like they do in commercials in the States, expressing my utter joy and my new purchase.

Perhaps I'm happy because I love aikido and being comfortable while practicing. A simple pleasure. And perhaps because, once in a while, despite what Mick Jagger says, you sometimes do get what you want, even if it is as simple as a comfortable new gi.

*By the way, I just downloaded some cool software on the web so that I can more easily read Chinese websites. If you don't understand a character (let's just say, ahem, there are some I don't), you just put your mouse over it, and boom, the definition pops up. It's an add-0n to Mozilla Firefox, in case you are interested, and you can get it here: https://addons.mozilla.org/en-US/firefox/addon/3349.)

Introducing My Neighbors

Today, I get off the bus and head back home after aikido practice. I am walking up the stairs along the stream near my apartment. It's all green, the cicadas are chirping, and there are hundreds of small crickets jumping on the stairs, which are made of big stones and gray concrete with small pebbles in it.

As I approach the foot of the stairs, I spot a small, stray puppy. He's scroungy but still cute. He's playing a little game with the crickets. It's simple, he's trying to catch them, and if he does, he eats them. His eyes are full of play and joy.

He sees me and gets scared and walks up to another part of the walkway where he can catch more crickets.

This reminds me of a meeting with a praying mantis I had yesterday. She was walking on the wooden railing, on the deck in front of my apartment. Those praying mantis's, they sure have big eyes, and the way they move, they look more like lizards or aliens from Star Wars, than insects. She spots me and slowly alights on a branch of a bamboo plant, slowly climbing the leaves, up, up. She's is a beautiful creature. I am in awe as I have never seen a praying mantis in action.

I decide to leave her, maybe she is scared. I don't want her to be, so I go back to my room.

You know, I think my life can be measured by these moments with animals, insects, children, and old people. It's during these moments that I leave the world of achievement, comparing, money, love and "relationships", even my big dream.

It's during these moments that I get a glimpse of the essence of being alive.

So What

"Do not fear mistakes. There are none."
Miles Davis

I'm in some bookstore and I hear an interesting version of Miles Davis's "So What", one of my favorite pieces of jazz ever. Something in me relaxes and I get into the groove of the music. To me, good jazz takes us to a place where we relax and access that swing.

It hits me, I realize the opposite of Chinese or Taiwanese culture is "So What"!

The Sudden Jerk on the MRT Train

I get on the train today at the Taipei Zoo MRT Station. It's the terminal station, so there's always a train waiting, and always a free seat. Sometimes, the train is about to leave, but Taiwanese people rarely make a mad rush through the closing train doors, like a lot of Americans do. They just wait for the next train, which is in five minutes.

So, if I see the train is about to depart, I learn from my fellow MRT patrons, and relax. I know another train will be arriving in five minutes. So Confucian. So Dao.

Well, after my relaxing, Daoist walk in the MRT station, I get on the train. It is noon and sunlight permeates the car. I sit down and notice a young family of four sitting on my left. Mother and young son are sitting facing father and toddler daughter, who is standing up on the hard, yellow plastic seat near the window. Her father is turned around, staring blankly toward the back of the car. I wonder about him. What is he thinking about?

The kids are wearing greenish stone amulets around their necks, probably Buddhist, that their parents surely bought to protect them.

A high-pitched sound interrupts announces that the doors are closing, and they do. Suddenly, the train jerks forward and I watch, horrified, as the little girl goes flying head first onto the car floor, which is made of hard rubber. She starts crying, and her mother, with the reflexes of someone who is used to picking up crying little children, quickly collects her.

The mother looks at the father. I imagine that in her head she is saying (in Taiwanese of course): "You're sitting right next to her. She's not supposed to fly head-first onto the floor when the train starts moving, you putz." How do you say putz in Taiwanese?

Mom sends the little girl to her father to care and comfort her. However, father astutely notices that after five seconds, the little girl is still crying. With an air of frustration, he turns the little girl around, and says, "Go, sit over there with your mother."

As if to express solidarity, the boy, who has been sitting next to his mother watching the whole ordeal, gets up to sit next to his Dad. He's smirking a little, as you would expect most seven year-old boys to respond in this situation. Is he smirking because his sister just fell, or because he knows his Dad is a shmuck and is pretending that he's not? Kids are pretty smart, you know.

The girl is now in her mom's lap, and mom is now tending to her daughter, comforting her with words, stroking her forehead. The tears stream down her little face.

I look at the Dad. He still looks upset, which I am pretty sure is just a front for his embarrassment. He is looking away from his wife and his daughter. Not at anything in particular, though, just more looking into space. Thinking of his job, thinking of his next vacation.

I am thinking all of the above, when I begin to feel compassion for this man. I realize that it probably isn't easy being a Dad. Working long hours, telling kids to shut up. No time for the hobbies he loved as a young man, like taekwondo or Chinese chess.

Suddenly, as if someone has just removed the battery to the MP3 player in my brain, my thoughts stop. I notice the mom stroking her daughter's forehead, notice the girl still clinging to her mother, still crying a little.

We pass several stations, and there are no thoughts of shmucks or overworked dads, just paying attention to my surroundings. On a train filled with Taiwanese people in Taiwan. I look outside and see the ugly apartment buildings of Taipei. The doors open. A teenager gets on. An old lady gets on.

Finally, the train stops at Zhongxiao Fuxing, the main transfer station, and the family on my left stand up to get off the train. The mother picks the girl up and gives her to Dad to carry her.

The little girl clings to her Dad, and they step off the train.

Peaceful Warrior

On Sunday, a group of us Zheng Da students participated in an aikido conference. What a gift this art is. In case you don't recognize me, I am the dangerous-looking guy on the left, looking like a young Steven Seagal.

In case you know nothing about aikido, it's a Japanese martial art that teaches one to harmonize with attack. We don't try to kill our opponent, but become more sensitive to him, blend with his attack, and ensure that both of us stay safe.

In case your attacker insists on continuing his attack, of course, then you are allowed to snap his elbow against your thigh. Just kidding. Sort of.

To sum it up, let me quote my first teacher, Bob Nadeau Sensei, who would say: "Under pressure, let things flow". I will never forget the hours of training in his dojo and all my aiki brothers and sisters there. To Bob, I send my most sincere thanks for sharing the art with me and so many others.

It's good to be practicing again.

凱元參加演講比賽

Hi everyone. On Monday, I participated in a speech contest sponsored by the Ministry of Health. The theme was health, so my teacher, Gao Laoshi said, "Hey, you're a Chinese doctor, you should partipate." I thought it would be a good way for me to practice my Chinese.

I wrote my speech about how Chinese Medicine can help students take care of their health, and decided to teach them a little about Five Elements theory. Most Taiwanese people have heard about the five elements, but they all know a lot more about computers, business, and KTV than they do about these old theories.

I wrote my speech in English first, and then translated it into Chinese. Of course, I asked a few of my Taiwanese friends to look at what I wrote so that they could help me correct my many mistakes.

Finally, two weeks before the contest, I had my speech written. But, then last monday, my teacher told me the speech was in a week, not in two weeks. I had gotten confused about the date.

So, I had a week to memorize my five minute speech. It was hard, but I did it.

The day of the contest arrived, and I thought the speech was clearly impressed upon my brain, but when I got up on stage, I had to pause because I got a little nervous. I usually don't get nervous when giving speeches.

Despite this, I still got second place. Fortunately, I guess, other students were also nervous, too. As I mentioned in a previous post, as I get older, Rumi's Lame Goat is has become my hero.

You know, worldly "wisdom" says "Be Number One." Spiritual wisdom says the lame goat, lagging behind, leads the herd home.

Here's my speech, if you can read Chinese.

中醫對學生健康的好處

各位評審老師,各位同學,大家好.我是姚凱元,我是一位美籍的中醫師.今天我要演講的題目是中醫對學生健康的好處.

中醫的歷史很悠久並且充滿智慧。因此,在短短五分鐘之內我沒有辦法給你們很完整的介紹,但我可以給你們一些以中醫為基礎的生活建議.

中醫說人的身體是外在世界的反映.中國古代的大師都發現世界有五個最基本的元素:金,木,水,火,土.這個理論就叫做五行.

五行對我們的生活有什麼幫助呢?我們的身體如何反映五行呢?讓我來告訴你們.

哪一個器官反映土呢? 就是你的脾臟,代表你的消化系統.

中醫說「脾主五臟」,是說如果你每天三餐吃得營養,身體就會很強壯.我有很多同學不吃早餐,中午也沒有時間可以吃飯,而且晚上都吃麥當勞,然後才抱怨,「為什麼我這麼累? 」 所以飲食很重要,不要忘記三餐都要吃得營養.

中醫也說「脾主思」,思就是思想的思.這對學生來說特別重要.一方面,思考要花力氣,所以一定要吃得營養.另一方面,如果你想太多或是念太多的書,都會對你的消化系統有不好的影響.所以念書的時候,每一兩個小時,就要休息一下.不要一邊看書一邊吃飯.而且,吃飯的時候不要急.

哪一個器官反映木呢? 就是你的肝.

中醫說「怒傷肝」,怒就是生氣的意思.我們都有過沒有辦法達成目標的經驗,然後覺得很挫折.這個情緒就會傷害你的肝.如何發洩自己的情緒呢?你可以跟朋友傾訴你的感覺.運動是個好辦法.罵妳的男朋友也是個不錯的主意(開玩笑!).

中醫也說「肝為血海」,這對女生特別重要.女生如果嘴唇蒼白,就表示血液中的營養不夠,我建議妳可以多吃肉,也要看醫生.

哪一個器官反映火呢? 就是你的心.

中醫說「心主神明」也說「心惡熱」.為什麼心臟會熱呢?喝咖啡,喝酒,和抽菸都是很常見的原因.如果病人一直都很緊張或睡不好,我馬上就會想到是因為喝咖啡,喝酒,和抽菸.

哪一個器官反映金呢? 就是你的肺臟.

中醫說「肺主外表」,外表是指免疫系統.容易感冒的人要怎麼強化免疫系統呢?第一,他們要吃的營養.第二,他們必須減少壓力.雖然冬天在診所裡常常看到很多感冒的病患,可是身體很強壯的醫師還是不會被傳染,是因為他們的肺功能很好.

哪一個器官反映最後的水呢?就是你的腎臟.

中醫說「腎主五臟的精」,精就是精華的意思.所以我們可以說腎臟是最根本的器官也是最重要的.

在診所,我們常看到很多老年人抱怨他們的腰很痛.中醫說「腰為腎之府」也說「久病及腎」.所以如果你年輕的時候不保養,老了以後就得到診所來找我.

希望我給你們的建議可以提醒你們注意到你們身體的健康.我的演講到此結束.謝謝各位.祝你們健康快樂!

Free Hugs

It's a beautiful spring day in Muzha. I get out of class at noon and walk down the hill to get some lunch. I see my friend Lara, a tall, dreadlocked hippie girl. She's got a beautiful smile and a tattoo on her ear. She could be from Berkeley, easily, but she's from Italy, and I always say a few words of Italian to her. "Come vai?" I ask when I see her approaching the piazza on campus.

I feel at home speaking with her, because I am also a hippie, though without the dreads or the tattoo. I've danced barechested in the desert, jumped out of an airplane, sang my heart out to a big crowd, painted pictures in cafes. We, the hippies, want free love, boundless self-expression, creativity, and freedom.

In Taiwan, I find an old part of me, very comfortable drinking tea and talking about the Dao, even willing to help people save a little face.

But, there's one thing that I miss about the Bay, that I don't tell my Taiwanese friends about. Lara and I say bye, we smile, and then something happens that doesn't happen much in this Confucian land. We give each other a big warm hug.

Yeah, Chinese-like Taipei boy is busted. Definitely homesick!




This is on the Berkeley campus, a few blocks from where I used to live. It makes me homesick. It makes me happy.

Special Note to Foreign Customers of China Trust Bank Taiwan

If You Look for the Fireflies, You will not Find Them

The other day, my friend Jennie invited me to go for a hike on Tiger Mountain, near Taipei 101, to see the fireflies.

We arrive at the foot of the mountain path, where there are loads of parents with their children listening to our guide for the evening. Everyone has brought flashlights to light their way as late afternoon turns to night. We're supposed to bring flashlights covered with a red filter.

"Why does it have to be red, not, say, green?" Jennie asks. I think she has a good point.

I've just had a long day. An obese Chinese boy of about eleven is blocking our way so we can't see our guids and his pictures of the fireflies. The boy is shaking his right leg. "Too much coke," I say to Jennie, pointing to his hyperactive leg.

There's a creek next to us, and I motion to her to let her know that I'd like to get closer to it. It's less crowded over there. I take a look. It is simply beautiful, full of ferns and rocks.

Jennie says we should ditch the crowd, and we start up the mountain by ourselves. I don't think I will miss them.

Finally, after only about twenty minutes, maybe less, we arrive at the top, where there's a beautiful garden. It starts to drizzle a little, and we find a small covered pavillion to sit under.

We're talking and then suddenly I see a firefly. A few fireflies give us a show for the next hour as we talk.

Firefly tourists comes in two's and three's, asking us where they are. Jennie exhibits the typical warm way of the Taiwanese when she gets up and shows them where to look. They look amazed.

"You know," I say, "when I was a kid, in the summer in Baltimore, we used to watch the fireflies, too, sometimes catch them and put them in jars. Except in Baltimore, you don't see six fireflies. You see 600!"

"Yeah," Jennie responds. "It's like snow. We don't see snow in Taiwan, so you can imagine if we saw just a few flakes, it would make the news and get everyone all excited."

More people come and I can hear them excitedly looking for the insects, but they can't find them. They are looking too hard. They want to see them, get a photo, perhaps a t-shirt, too, and then go on their way. Perhaps dinner awaits. They come and ask us where to find the fireflies and Jennie points out one in the bushes in front of us.

By now, it feels like the garden is ours, and I make a joke. "You see one firefly, that'll be 100NT... whoa another one, that'll be another 100NT!"

I turn to Jennie and say to her, in my best impression of Lao Zi: "If you look for the fireflies, you will not find them."

The hordes arrive with their red flashlights and the guide is lecturing. We finally find out what the red filter is for. Fireflies aren't sensitive to red light.

A mother sits down with her two daughters in front of us. The younger one looks at me a few times and when I catch her, she quickly turns her gaze and hugs her mom. Another supercute Taiwanese kid. She looks at me again and I make a face at her, hoping she will crack a smile.

The kids are running around, I don't think they're listening to their guide for the evening. Their parents have already gotten out the snacks and are feeding them. One kid is crying. A few others walk past me to check me out.

Jennie tells me the firefly guide is just repeating the same things over and over again.

Slowly, people trickle back down the mountain, and then they're gone. Only one lone plastic bottle of water left to indicate they've been here.

We keep talking, and an old Taiwanese man joins us to rest in the small pavilion. It's getting late, and I need to go to bed soon. We get up to go.

"No, no, you don't have to leave, the man says," assuming we are leaving because of him.

We slowly walk down, and I'm glad I've taken some time out of my busy Taipei life to see the firefly show.

Slow Walk Up the Mountain

Tonight, after studying at a cafe, I took a long, slow walk home up the mountain. Taiwan's spring is warm and humid, almost pleasant, giving hints at the scorching summer to come. Like a taller than average twelve-year old, giving us hints that very soon, he'll be NBA size.

I've got to memorize a talk I'm going to give in Chinese, so as I walk up the windy street to my house, it's a perfect time to practice. I turn to the lush foliage and the apartment buildings behind them and recite, 「各位評審老師,各位同學,大家好.我是姚凱元.」, waving my right arm oratorically to the tree on my right.

The floodlamps light the street and I look down and notice the most beautiful butterfly taking a nap on the sidewalk. I stop and look. Its wings are birch-colored and look like wood, with some small yellow and black spots. I am afraid it is dead. I have the urge to touch it to make sure it isn't dead. I'm like a kid. But the adult part of me knows better. I shouldn't disturb it.

A second later, I gently touch it's wing, and to my surprise, it starts to flutter and flies up into the bright streetlight above.

I keep walking and reciting and then see the big, scary-looking spider I see almost every day as I walk up or down the mountain. His body is about two inches long, and his legs make him about eight inches long. His legs are black and thin and look like they're made of metal. He's usually hanging out (literally) in the middle of his web when I see him in the mornings. But tonight, he's walking. Maybe these creatures are nocturnal.

He's walking slowly across his web. Is he picking up his day's food? I look more carefully and I see the light as it reflects off the gossamer threads. After looking for a few more seconds, I realize I am watching a spider construct his web. He is walking and spitting out more thread, making his flycatcher more intricate and efficient. It's all perfectly geometric and I wonder, how does he know how to space the threads so evenly?

I think of the experiments researchers in the 70s did with spiders, giving them LSD. Perhaps they wanted to see if the arachnids might express some kind of creativity. I bet they thought the spiders would spell words with messages like, "Make love, not war."

Then I think to myself, that wasn't a really nice thing those acid-licking hippies did to those poor spiders. And I don't know if those pictures of acid-influenced spider webs in psychology textbooks really serve any purpose besides making kids say, "Hey, look at the webs that spiders on acid build, dude."

I think I should let the spider work, maybe he is getting nervous with me watching, so I continue up the mountain, reciting my Chinese: 「我是一位美籍的中醫師.今天我要演講的題目是中醫對學生的好處.」

I am getting close to my little studio on the hill, and I see the neighbor's golden retriever on the lookout in front of their shack where they sell bing lang, drinks, and vegetables that they grow on their plot across the street.

The dog sees me and he's wagging his tail. I've never pet him before, but he's seen me standing in front of his house as I am waiting for the bus. Last week, I was talking to his owner, the twenty-five year-old son of the old Taiwanese lady who lives there, while he was "playing" with the dog. He would tie a small towel tightly on the dog's head and watch as the poor dog tried to remove it with his paws. Then he threw slices of white bread at the dog, which the young dog gladly caught and ate. I didn't know dogs liked white bread so much.

As I walk by him, I say hello, but I don't walk up to pet him, because I've never pet him before and I don't want to freak him out. You have to be careful with some dogs in Taiwan. They'll bite. Maybe they're not living the suburban life of ease that dogs in the US live. Maybe there's a lot of prozac in the water supply in the States, which has a sort of peaceful, sedative effect on those American doggies.

So, I say goodnight to him and smile. He looks aways and then suddenly runs up to me. I extend my hand and he licks it. I know he's in a good mood, even without the prozac from the United States, and I pet him. By this time he is jumping on me, and his older brother comes out and wants to play, too. The younger one wants to play a little rough, and I am happy to oblige for a minute. He must have had a boring day.

Time for me to head up the path to my room. I'm not rich, have no status, a 30ish American acupuncturist studying Chinese with a bunch of 23 year-old Japanese and Korean kids in Taiwan, far away from my home in the States.

But tonight, I feel at home in the world.

Lian Wu Guarantee

This morning on my way to class, I stop at the local supermarket to pick up some fruit. Something tells me I need a little fruit with my scrambled egg sandwich today.

I walk into the supermarket. It is called "Your's Mart". All the foreign students at my university know about "Your's Mart". If you want to buy peanut butter, you have to go to "Your's Mart".

I think they named it "Your's Mart" on purpose, because they want to compliment people in an indirect way. So Taiwanese, always complimenting everyone. So, the message is "Hey, You're Smart!"

Thanks.

I walk to the fruit section and pick up a package of lian wu (in English, "wax apple", but if you don't live in Taiwan, that probably doesn't help).

As I walk to the register to check out, I notice the package's plastic wrap has a sticker that says : 不甜包換 (If they're not sweet, you can return them). The lady rings me up and as she does, I ask her, "If these lian wu aren't sweet, can I return them?"

She looks at me in a very serious Taiwanese face that says, "Oh sheesh, you must be kidding me, Mr. Adoga (that's Taiwanese for foreigner)!" She then notices that I am looking at the sticker on the package and looks up at me and cracks a smile.

Oh my god, this is the second time in two weeks that a Taiwanese employee at a store realizes that I am making a joke. I almost fall over in disbelief.

"Well, everyone has a different opinion of what's sweet, so we can't just let everyone exchange their fruit after they buy them. So, actually, you can't return them," she informs me.

I pay her, get my change, and start walking out. There are no other customers, and maybe she needs to clean the windows or something, so she follows me to the door.

"Oh, I got it," I respond. Everyone has a different opinion. Someone might bring in the fruit and say 'Hey lady, these aren't sweet' and then you might check to make sure they actually aren't sweet, but then maybe, in your opinion, they are pretty sweet. "

I can see in her face that she appreciates that I get it. "That's right," she says, as I smile and wave goodbye.

Welcome to Taiwan.