Beginner's Heart

Beginner's Heart

‘it’s just stuff,’ or, the important things ~

A very nice man hit my little bluebird car Monday… <very sad face> It was an honest accident. He wasn’t moving when I began backing out of my parking space — he didn’t even have his back-up lights on when I looked in my rearview mirror. And when he did back up, my little sports car was too short to be seen over his truck’s TALL tailgate. Neither of was going fast (exiting a parking space in a shopping mall??), but he still managed to totally crumple my left rear fender… Sigh… But no injuries, of course, and it’s just a car…


Have I mentioned how much I love my 11-year-old car? It was my Ph.D. present from my extravagantly romantic husband. I had seen it parked in a Borders parking lot once, and said it was my dream car. It still is. Like me, it has mileage (more than 100,000 of them!). But that’s okay w/ me — she’s still the best car in the world.

I’ve only had two real accidents in my whole life. Plus one tiny fender-bender where someone hit the car behind me, pushing it into this same car’s black rubber bumper. It was such a small thing I never even bothered to get it fixed. So I’m kind of vague on the whole ‘what to do when you have an accident’ protocol… I got out of my car, looked at the rear end — where I thought Mr. Truck had hit me — and was (for one brief happy moment) delighted to see no mark. Whoohoo! Then I saw the fender… :(


It looks like crumpled tissue…:( The wheel well is cracked on the inside, and the fender no longer seals against the door. But this isn’t really about my poor little car. It’s about the fear nice Mr.. Truck  showed when he came to check on me & my car. It’s about his concern for me, and my concern for his fear…

Mr. Truck is Mexican — possibly Mexican American, but most likely not a citizen. Probably (he had no driver’s license to give me) not a legal immigrant. His English was sketchy, and he had an insurance receipt from a group I’d never heard of (nor has my insurance company). I’m betting nice Mr. Truck was driving a company car. Lucky for him, there’s barely a scratch on it. I make this leap of faith because Mr. Truck looked absolutely terrified when he first engaged with me: middle-aged white chick in crumpled Beemer… I can’t be sure, but I’m thinking he didn’t anticipate that I would pat his arm and tell him things would be okay…


Note: my sister asked me, when I recounted this story, ‘Did you pat his arm? I bet you did.’ And I had to confess: yep. I patted the poor shaking man’s arm. Sheesh. But I also wrote down the tag on the truck, his phone number, his address, and his name. I’m not STUPID, just worried for his shakiness.

Yesterday, when my husband called Mr. Truck’s phone number (at an apartment in our neighbourhood, known for not being picky about who or how many live in the apartments), a man w/ even less English expertise than Mr. Truck answered. Glen tried to tell Mr. Truck’s friend that we were going to pay for the repairs on our car, and not report the accident. I was worried about Mr. Truck, and Glen was worried about our rates going up. As usual, we’re a match made in heaven! Mr. Truck’s friend kept telling Glen: Mr. Truck working; Mr. Truck working. No matter what Glen said, Mr. Roommate responded ` Mr. Truck working. 


And I’m sure Mr. Truck is. And I”m also sure he’s worried, wondering what will happen next. We had hoped that we could spare him uncertainty, let him know he was off any hook he might be worrying about.

I don’t tell this story for approval. I tell it because I cannot imagine being adrift in a country that uses your labour but affords you no measure of security or protection. A country whose economy depends in large part — as Arizona found out when it enacted its heinous anti-Mexican laws — on the flow of bodies across our southern border. I can’t imagine it; I can only pat Mr. Truck’s arm, and be glad we can afford to fix my little blue car.

It’s only a car, right? It’s not freedom, or my youth, or my native language or culture. It isn’t leaving my home to go to work to help my family. It’s only a present, commemorating an accomplishment. And it’s not nearly as important as any of these other things…




a ‘sunny’ disposition: love, warmth, & beginner’s heart ~

I absolutely adore sunlight. Don’t get me wrong: I also love rainy, foggy, and cool wet days. Not sleet, so much, or ice (especially on roads!). But the sunlight — it make me want to stretch out like a lizard on a flat rock and just bask…

It’s no wonder, then, that to have a ‘sunny’ disposition is a compliment. No one made a song called ‘You are my thunderstorm,’ even in droughts…

When I was a college student, my two old ladies — Grandma & Aunt Bonnie, who lived together only a few blocks from my dorm & later college apartments — used to call me their sunshine. “Here comes our sunshine!” Aunt Bonnie would say when I came over (practically daily!). I loved them dearly; they were my lifeline while my parents lived overseas. I would sit in the tiny living room, on the scratchy horsehair sofa, and feel as though the room was full of sunshine. Not mine, but theirs ~


Something there is about love: it warms almost physically, like the late  fall sun on the deck this afternoon. I’m thinking that’s what it means to have a sunny disposition ~ to offer love easily, to all of those we meet. That kind of accepting, joyful love relaxes us the same way the September light leaves me drowsy & happy.

I’d like to believe that Grandma & Aunt Bonnie could feel the heat of my love for them, as I felt warmed and comforted by theirs. I’d like to believe that I brought them as much happiness as they did me. But somehow, the love we take seems always more than what we feel we make…



red state/ blue state ~ what-to-do state…?

Here’s the thing about sanity in an election year: We always have it. They never do. And yes: lately that seems far too often to be the point. We are always the ‘good guys.’ They are always the bad, or at least the sadly misinformed…

Don’t misunderstand: I’m NOT non-partisan. Not when to be a “moral” person means to deny women access to choices about their own bodies and lives. Not when it means to enjoin from a pulpit the death of people unlike you. I need to get that up front, as a disclaimer. This is defiantly not a neutral plea. As a woman, as a teacher, as an American, politics is personal. Especially this election.


But as a kid growing up in the 60s & 70s, politics has always been personal. It’s always been about real people, not simply ideals. I became political – as many of my generation did – with the Việt Nam War. But saying that invokes adolescent dissatisfaction and rebellion. That wasn’t the agenda for me. I grew up in Việt Nam, and the people dying had names & faces. They were our cook, her husband, the amah and her family in their small village, farming. They were the beautiful students at the Việtnamese American Association, who spoke French & Việtnamese to me when I walked up to check out a library book. Later, they were my boyfriend, an African diplomat’s son, who was run off the road in the South, for driving an expensive motorcycle while black. Or a girlfriend, who drove off to an abortion in an unmarked car, hiding in the floor so no one would see her.


Even as a child I read. Everything. I’ve always been a closet scholar, well before the doctorate came out of the woodwork. I want to know how everything works, the why  of the two-year-old taken to extremes. My father & mother would talk about anything – politics, religion, world events; anything except ‘personal’ things – in front of us. And I listened.

The point is that I had a rich resource context. I could look stuff up: in home encyclopædias, at the library, at the Việtnamese American Association. I could ask my folks, or the big kids on the bus, or the house help. And I did. I wanted lots of sources, even then. I wanted to know what everyone thought – that all their voices be heard. I didn’t think of it that way then, but even as a young child I knew that what Daddy thought would be very different from Chị Ba, my sister’s amah. And both vantage points were necessary.

I questioned, even as a child. Perhaps one big difference between a red & blue. Every blue I know questions everything. Reds? If it’s faith, usually not. And faith bleeds, for most of us, into all we do. Me? I questioned even faith.


bees, chocolate mimosas, and attachment ~

If you’ve read this blog more than a couple of times, you know I’m crazy about bees. Actually, about most wildlife (and yep, bees qualify). Starting next month, my patient, long-suffering husband & I are taking a beginning beekeeping class. I’m very stoked… :)

In the meantime, given the changes in local climate (a LOT hotter & drier — today it was 107˚, and it hasn’t rained but drops in ages), I’m replanting a lot of our yard. We’ve always had a habitat-friendly yard: no insecticides, lots of feeders for birds, and many butterfly plants. But bees don’t always ‘get’ butterfly plants: they lack the long tongues that make the tubular flowers work for butterflies.


Anyway, I’m in that lovely gardening stage called ‘dreaming.’ Looking at catalogs, combing websites, and re-reading the zillion books I have on gardens, bees, habitat gardening, etc. It’s a great summer pastime.

A few years ago, one of the nurseries I buy from featured something called a ‘chocolate mimosa,’ basically just a dark-leaved hybrid of the usual Southern mimosa. Now, if you’re a Southerner (and Okies really are, despite what Mississippians think…), you either love or hate mimosas. My sister’s best-beloved calls them ‘trash trees,’ but she still managed to talk him in to one. I adore them — their pink feather flowers are one of my favourite fragrances, and they’re a boon for bees, hummers, & butterflies. Couple that w/ a lovely red-brown, chocolatey leaf colour? You’ve got an impossibly wonderful combination.


The only catch is that this is a  HYBRID. Meaning, somebody ‘invented’ it. And so it’s terribly expensive. Rats. And remember — we just retired? Wellll, my own best-beloved isn’t too excited about totally re-landscaping. Or even buying one $100.00 tree (well, the smaller one is less, but who wants a teensy treeling??).

Friends, this is Buddhist attachment in its purest. :) I am sooo attached to this tree idea. And to the replanting of the garden and yard… And of course I can ‘justify’ it (it will save water! we won’t lose plants! it will feed wildlife!), but at least I’m still sane enough to realise: it’s attachment. Pure & simple.


That doesn’t mean I don’t still dream of my re-designed, newly planted beds… W/ the (totally NOT cheap) wooden hive to one side, and a small water feature to provide 24/7 water… And echinacea, and buddleia, and coreopsis, and.. and… and… Bees. Lots of happy, drowsily humming bees.

I do think there ought to be something to do about this other  than get past it, though. Any great ideas? How do you combat attachment? What are you attached to these days?

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