Giddy-yup

Hello again.

It has recently come to my attention that 2014 will be the Year of the Horse.  As in the Chinese and Japanese Zodiac.

I am rather fond of Horse years, largely because I was born in 1966, which was also a Horse year.    This equine connection pleases me and puts me in the mind-set of upcoming good luck.  I'm not saying this has worked for me in the past, but hey, there is a first time for everything.

It should be noted here that my idealistic belief in good luck solely based on zodiac horses runs directly contrary to  tales in a number of Asian countries (Japan included)  of the usual fates of people, and most notably women born  in 1966.

In the Chinese zodiac (upon which leans the Japanese zodiac beliefs), in addition to the 12 cute animals dashing around the calendar, there are also elements (fire, wood, earth, water and metal).  Combined with the 12 animals, this means that each combination of element and animal repeats itself every 60 years.

And 1966 was the year of the Fire Horse.  Element, Fire.  Animal, Horse. In Japanese, this is called  hinoeuma.

Which especially  for a woman, evidently, is not a good thing.  In fact, I have perused a number of population graphs detailing births in 1966....and on each chart there is a sharp downward spike centered on 1966.

It seems that people just were a  wee bit afraid of having a Fire Horse child, and especially wary of that child being a daughter who would grow into a Fire Horse woman.

And considering the beliefs surrounding Fire Horse women, I can rather understand the hesitancy.  We Fire Horse women are supposed to be serious bad luck, capable of destroying finances, being utterly terrible mothers and driving the men in our lives to ruin and early deaths.

Before writing this, I spent quite a bit of time searching the Internet, skipping from site to site,  reading newspaper articles, astrology websites and blogs, looking at population graphs and a wide variety of graphics.  Predictably I found varying levels of belief in the terrors of Fire Horse folks.  

In the end, all I can really rely upon I suppose is how I live my own life.  And I am pleased to say that while we are not rich, our lack of millionaire status is not utterly my doing.  Likewise, Patrick and Aya are healthy, happy teenagers (well, as happy as teenagers can be I suppose).  As for the bad luck prediction, I'm not going to make any judgements on that for fear of jinxing myself.  However the evidence points to our periodic bouts of normal bad luck being less the fault of me being a Fire Horse, and more due to the ebb and flow of life itself.

So as I sit here in our icy kitchen, huddled in layers in front of a tiny space heater, I only have one lingering question about being a Fire Horse.....

if I'm a FIRE  Horse, why am I so darn cold?!  

Sheesh.

Until next time....

The Power of being ever so slightly uncomfortable

Hello all,

I think I approach the world in a very weird way.

Most people live their lives seeking comfort.  They want the money that will buy the lovely squishy sofas and the luxurious blankets, the bubbly bubbly hot tubs and the first class airplane seats that include sips of wine and elbow room.

I, of course, love all these things too.  I don't necessarily get all these things, but I love the idea of these things.   I too have bought into the whole concept of earning money earning money earning money towards my someday comfort.

But overall I don't approach the world with little dollar signs (or in my current situation, yen signs) dancing in my eyes.

I approach the world with a specific philosophy:   living with slight and steady discomfort is good for us.

I don't mean physical discomfort.  I don't choose to sit in a chair with sharp spikes on it rather than a regular chair.  I don't start my day walking over hot coals or drinking straight vinegar.  I don't go to sleep at night on a bed of ice cubes and hydrochloric acid.

I mean discomfort in a broader sense.  

In my humble opinion, we live in a world of complacency.  We get lulled into daily routines, monthly obligations, Monday through Friday zombie movements followed by weekends of either exhaustion or excess.  Or both exhaustion and excess, depending on the person.

And what is the remedy for complacency?  Discomfort.  Shaking things up a bit.  Going outside our comfort zone, in ways tiny and huge.

For example, this is our third time living in Japan.  At this point we have lived a significant portion of our lives in a state of slight discomfort.   By this time there are aspects to our lives in Japan that have taken on a whiff of that dreaded complacency.  Now that I'm teaching again, I get up at the same time every weekday morning.  I eat pretty much the same thing for breakfast (because I hate eating breakfast but need to do it, so I eat what seems palatable, even if it isn't logical).  I take the same bus. I walk the same streets.  Once in the classroom I maintain the same daily schedule because young students need their immediate future to be reliable and fairly predictable.

But there is a huge part of our lives that we cannot take for granted.  We cannot be complacent when it comes to navigating long train rides to new destinations.  We cannot take for granted that we necessarily will know how to navigate the Japanese tax system, or know what that besuited man at the door is trying to sell to us.

I won't lie to you.   Living on the edge of comprehension is not for everyone.  And there are many MANY times when we find it exceedingly tiresome and annoying and downright discouraging.  But hey, at least we can't be complacent.....which is my point.

I think it is important for us to choose to do things, to see things, to explore things that make us slightly uncomfortable.    Feeling unsettled, needing to take the time to explore our own feelings and beliefs, challenging ourselves keeps us humble and helps us stay open to the diversity of the world.

So when I hear about a news commentator, or a politician or anyone spouting off what essentially amounts to hatred, I just think "Well, there's a person who is way, way too comfortable."

Ain't it the truth.....

Mini-Jig: Somewhere between 18 and 78

Hello there,

Yesterday in Japan (still today in the U.S.) was my birthday.  And of course, if one is a teacher, especially a teacher of small children, the first question asked once the tots get wind of a teacher's birthday is "How old are you?"

To which teachers everywhere answer "How old do you THINK I am?"

Because we want to encourage critical thinking and inquiry, you know.  

So yesterday I was asked the question "How old are you?"

And I responded, as required with "How old do you think I am?"

Let the fun begin.

One of my students yelled out "18!".  

I said "I love you.  However I am older than 18." (disclaimer:  I tell my students I love them and love being with them multiple times each day.  So no one went away thinking that I only bestow my love upon one child.  But come on...I mean, they guessed 18.)

Another student hollered "75!  My grandpa is 75!"

Before my eyes could finish rolling back in their sockets another student said "No way, Ms. Christina has no gray hair.  She can't be 75.  She's 62."

The first student scowled and said "Maybe she paints her hair.  Ms. Christina, do you paint your hair?"

I let the question pass and  said "I am younger than 62.  Guess lower."

The room filled with the numerical joy of 5 and 6 year old voices.

"21!"

"One hundred thousand hundred million!"

"29!"

"41!"

I   cut in "41 is getting close. Guess higher."

Everyone seesawed between one hundred thousand hundred million and 41 for awhile until one of the students intoned, with utter solemnity "Ms. Christina is 47."

I gave her a thumbs up as everyone began trying out that number:  "She's 47."  "47" and from our class mini-mathematician, "Forty plus seven is 47. Forty two plus five is 47.  Forty six plus one is 47....."(he continued on in this manner for  awhile, as is his habit when confronted with numbers.)

But the madness did not finish there....because for the next fewminutes everyone switched their number guessing fervor for frantic comparisons of how much older or younger I am than their parents.

"My dad is 45."

"My mom is 42.  Ms. Christina is older than my mom."

and my personal favorite

"Ms. Christina is the same age as my dad, but my dad looks  way better."

By the time the yelling faded away and the students had drifted off to other pursuits, I decided that I would file this most recent episode of Kindergarten madness under "Math".  Of course. 

Now excuse me while I take my one hundred thousand hundred million year old self off to the grocery store....

Until next time.