Lesson No. 1000-something in abandoning the quest for my own renown.

In the last 48 hours, I have purchased music from three different independent label artists, dried a load of laundry on a clothesline, and exercised two days in a row. I like to believe that I am continually becoming a more mature and contributing adult, but the truth is that 48-hour periods like this, filled with all this local hero activity as listed above, are rare. 


Motive-check, everyone! : I only bought that music to ease the guilt I feel for listening to music left under my pillow by the Music Fairy, or gained by other means. I only dried my clothes on hangers outside because my Taiwanese dryer wasn’t working, and I was motivated to work out only because I care about what others think of my fluctuating, moving-over-seas-and-back body weight. I wasn’t rebelling against the injustice of media-pirating, or actively protecting the air of my already super-smoggy city of Taipei, nor was I exercising with the Christian virtue of “taking care of my temple.” It was all about me.
 

Why do you the good things that make you a “good person”? Beware. Insecurity, guilt, and pride in their subtlest, most minuscule forms, turn out to be the most dangerous. Those are the kind that eat away at your true compassion for other people slowly and painlessly. Are you at your job just to build your resume?  Are you on the treadmill because someone made a comment under their breath about your weight, or how beautiful a celebrity is? Or are you like me, where when 21st century convenience fails, you’re forced to revert back to medieval peasantry and in doing so, you figure you may as well save a polar bear or two? I take an inventory and find that so many of my actions and decisions are aimed through the scope of what I want, what I don’t have and what I fear. I lack faith in so many of my works.


We’ve all heard the “faith without works is dead” shpeel (shpeal? shpiel ?...nope, still underlined). But my mentor and spiritual mother, Suaysi, always reminds me, and I paraphrase: “Faith without works is dead, but works without faith are also dead.”  It is one thing, and another blog, to believe that faith without action is rendered lame. But to do good things without the belief that there is some sort of eternal impact...Then, what is the point? Eat, drink and be merry, for we all have the same fate, if that’s the case. Or in doing virtue with ME as my main concern, then where does God have any room to come in and use me to heal someone, or do a miracle, or speak to someone’s hurting heart? Our ego's literally take up space in that sense. How can the Church be the hands and feet if we’re constantly just following our own feet? Follow? “And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him,” says Paul to his church in Colossae. Hmm. I do so much of my life in Kelsey’s name, and what’s worse, without a shred of gratefulness. I make my own commandment: “Love Kelsey, and the second is secondary, love God and others if it’s helpful for your cause.”


So, here I am back in Taipei, Taiwan. I’m not pretending to be in some dire missionary, “Oh my word, Kelsey is such a good Christian” type of life circumstance, because I’m not. I’m too comfortable for comfort, actually. But I am learning thankfulness and the truth that everything I do and say has some sort of eternal significance in the lives of those around me. And every day in the comfort of my swivel chair [for which I’m very thankful!] and in my nice little westernized east Asian city, God gives me this opportunity: “Die to yourself, and do everything in My name. Buy music for My glory. Be physically healthy for My sake. Teach French and slave over your syllabi and take care of the ozone layer for the praise of My name.”


So, here’s my parting thought for you to take home, er, to heart: Faith without works is dead, but works without faith are also dead...kinda like a palindrome like wow, mom, or racecar. Now you’ll never forget it! Aww, there’s the teacher in me.

So long, for now!

this poem has nothing to do with Taiwan

Here's a sample of some of my amateur work. I love the sound of a poem just as much as the search for its meaning, and I therefore write my poems with the purpose of being read out-loud. The beauty of poetry is magnified tenfold when read out-loud, and ten-fold again when heard by another, yes? So, if you're not at the library, or even if you are and you're not embarrassed, use your vocal cords and bless someone.

“Swollen Feet”


is it the satiety of a search
to which there is no dotted line
nor a fat red ex to end?
how can her search quell
what dwells in the bowels
of the bowls of cereals
of childhood hopes
or could candy ropes tie knots
that rot not after so long a time on the hunt?

she camouflages trenches
building lincoln log fences
stay out!
her days then spout
open into an argyle itchy sweater
taken off at seven p.m.
with a podiatrists’ swollen numb  mind
too tired to follow that dotted line
that she once scaled into a tree fort to find

one day like a baby tortoise flailing its shell
she fell
from a high syrupy sycamore
into the adult life of a whore
buzzed through a cheep pilsner haze
but only on Saturday.

turns out, the turn taken
wasn’t an overturned turtle on its back at all
but a hurdling bird, hurt wings
but able to leap over things
when those spikes in the back came
and the right to leave the black became
bright all around
and that prowling nemesis was at last tamed


the hunger of her search was filled
only when the boulder rolled over
the dotted line ex, crushing everything
that might vex, like that flesh-colored fence
and arriving at the spot
it was an ex all right, and a blood red one
staked into the ground
with mockers’ spitting all round
“my God, my God,”
but His face could not be found
that’s how He found her, though,
that whore who’d fallen from the sycamore
pulled out of the trenches
the stenches of swollen feet healed
and instead of itchy sweaters
clothed as the flowers of the field

The end.

I'm in Oregon for another 12 days. When I get back to Taiwan, I intend to blog more about God and life and Taiwan and America and to share my poems at Red Room. My stage fright will be conquered!

"I could make three tents."

"I Could Make Three Tents"


Too sad to fight temptation,
we are sleeping for sorrow
then, the most malicious kiss.
through the air the priest's servant
hears my own sword hiss and then
that bloody ear hears no more.
but even with his own torture impending,
Jesus touches his ear.
So the servant surveys, "My God!
This man is about to be slaughtered
in a way so inhumane,
yet he regards
my
problem
my
wound and
my
pain."

My Lord is taken away 
without dragging his heels
but goes ever so easily
as if on wheels.

Then I find a village bonfire
I warm myself
I hide myself
with eyes wide and
thrice from my lips
my best friend I deny.

Now with my own ears,
which never had to be healed by my Lord
or had to listen to spitting scorn
with ears that didn't have to be split open and torn
with a king's royal round of thorns,
I hear a roo-koo-koo-koo-koo.
sob, drop my sword
spitting out the
bitter flu which
caused me to say
"I am not his!"
I bet He's thirsty now.
He is.


Tell the Disciples and Peter that He is, that He lives.

Is your love for me true?
I love you, sure it is.
Is your love for me real?
It is, yes, it is!
Is your love for me legitimate?
My Lord, you know it is.

The Dog Poop Sidewalk finally articulated

I was lounging around with Noel and her YWAM friends this Sunday and related all too well with Carl from Norway, who, while his friends all had their MacBooks open on their own laps, exclaimed "Agh, I need to finish my blog, I'm really struggling here!" There's a silly sense of urgency to communicate with those of you at home who might still think that being overseas doesn't change your life or that this place is really that exotic. ...As if Taiwanese people didn't do normal human things like eat, fall in love, or sit in bookstores reading finance magazines they won't end up buying like the rest of the developed world. Not that this culture doesn't fascinate me, because it does. But it is beginning to tire me to automatically file every cultural nuance in the "blog inspiration" folder, believing momentarily that I will actually enjoy philosophically analyzing the nuance, or that you will actually enjoy reading such bullcrap. I want start writing other things and direct my creativity elsewhere, so at least this journal has played a role in inspiring me to do so. So, whilst my poetry awaits publishing and if you're still on the edge of your swivel chair with your back hurting, dying to know about what's going on in my life, well...I walk a lot.

Taipei is safe. It's been nine weeks, and I have yet to see a scary crackhead talking to themselves as they limp past me. I have yet to hear about violence in schools, or to be advised to "Tell the administration immediately if your art students draw anything strange." And I have yet to read about a murder in a newspaper, because I can't read Chinese. Am I in la-la-land and naive? You bet your rear. But really, what I love most about this society is that I feel safe when I walk around by myself. Suddenly I want to watch Bowling for Columbine again and argue with someone about it.

At 7:20am every weekday morning, I'm out the door to go to work. I walk by a teeny, family-owned white bread factory, stuck right in between two tall apartment buildings. The sweet pastry scent is the best one I smell all day long, reminiscent of France. A couple blocks further down, I begin to walk faster because I'm running two minutes late, as-per-uge. Then I pass the local public middle school whose bell is about to ring. After impatiently shuffling in and around the line of about 50 awkwards crossing perpendicular to my path, I continue my trek through what I call "The Dog Poop Sidewalk," where every local mutt drops a load at least once a week. And I mean a huge loads, steaming loads which counteract the steaming white bread, so pleasant in my nostrils just moments before. Despite their pranks, I like the street dogs, because they keep to themselves, they aren't that ugly, and they so innocently stare at me because they've never talked to a foreigner before.

Sometimes I talk to God out loud while I walk. Who cares? What, with blue tooth's nowadays, who knows why I'm talking to myself? I could be a scary crackhead or a young business professional, or just a Christian who enjoys talking to her God who hears. My best days are the ones where instead of mentally preparing a last minute lesson plan in my head, or wallowing in the woes of long distance love, or instead of huffing irritably at the poor middle schoolers or dogs who don't know any better....I just walk with God. Literally. And those days that I deliberately hang out with Him before I do anything else turn out to be the most peaceful days, with behaving students and with more laughter.

Convicted for the who knows how many-ith time that I need to work on my punctuality, I reach the intersection caddy corner to the Academy with mere minutes to spare before the morning faculty meeting. Now, scooter exhaust in my fresh Almay morning face and my own game of frogger. I get honked-at on a regular basis. In my homesick/slash/movie scene mind, the cab driver yells, "Heya, watch it, yeh dumb broad! Get oudda da road!" in a Bronx accent with a fat cigar hanging out of his mouth. In lieu of the drama, just a polite toot, "mit-mit!" Now, if I could read a blog about a west-coaster's new life in Manhattan, I'd choose to read that one over mine in a second. Because I think in New York, people only eat from food carts (the ones you see on the Food Network) because they're so busy, and that there are too many people--too many potential mates to even meet someone to fall in love with in New York, and that businessmen are rich and busy enough to actually buy the finance magazines they flip through at Borders. When I go to NYC one day, I'll write about the scary crackheads and about the smells I smell there, too, only this time in the form of Dylan-inspired private poems and not blah-blah-blogging.

a different, but more than liveable sugar culture.

The donuts here aren't sweet at all, and the Taiwanese students at my school think Hershey Kisses are too sweet. Hold up one second--about the Kisses: for one, their name is deceiving, which always ground my gears. Secondly, Hershey's chocolate is chalky in texture, namely its "milk" variety, and was therefore long ago, filed alongside those marshmallow peanuts, Necco wafers, and that hard, strawberry candy with the cute wrapper but the gooey middle in my memory's "Ooh, you nasty!" folder. I love candy! And the philoso-foodie in me loves discussing candy! So I tell my high school kids that the sweetness of Hershey Kisses is only a surrogate argument for those concerning the chocolate's much deeper flaws. If my opinions on sweets were downloaded files, I'd need an external hard drive in order to store them all.*

All Geek Squad jokes aside, my love relationship with sugar has changed since moving to Taiwan. Not that we both got busy, or that it facebook IM'd me one day when I was away from my computer and then I was too lazy to ever respond via message and eventually just suppressed the guilt--no, no, none of that. I am still eating and drinking more sugar than my mitochondria (look it up) can handle, I just "don't know" that I am. For instance, I was enjoying a very tasty breakfast pastry on a moderately regular basis until one of my 9th grade students translated the Chinese characters upon my asking of the question: "Hey Ann, will you read me the nutrition facts on this wrapper?" I'm not going to talk about the weight I've gained. Every young American blogging from abroad blogs about that as if it were some strange phenomenon happening to them, and the subject is tired. I will simply take you along on my quest to find sweets that I actually like here.

Asian Sugar Adventure, Part I: Milk tea, bubble tea, or in Chinese pinyin, "jin ju nai cha." There are rumors among Taiwanese women that milk tea makes you fat. Well, the condensed powdered milk I could care less about, and, after two months of being here, God has finally given me the anointing to at least be able to utter "only half the sugar" and "I don't want sugar" in perfect Mandarin. But the starchy tapioca balls are where they get ya on calories, as I've learned from www.nutritiondata.com since writing the sentence before this one. More than worrying about the nutrition facts of my jin ju nai cha, I struggle to understand how the oh-so-satisfying, chewy, yet slippery jin ju "pearls" have not caused enough people to choke to death, so as to have them made completely illegal across the entire continent of Asia. Maybe it'd be a good thing. "'Mongolian tapioca cartel investigations replace those of illicit opium in 2018' -AP, 01/24/2019." No, but seriously, I've come close to inhaling a pearl through my giant straw more than once. Scary stuff, man.

Asian Sugar Adventure, Part II: Fruit. The Grace Christian Academy school cafeteria does not serve desserts, as we Americans know dessert. But there is fruit every day, and biologically speaking (or "The Maker's Diet"-ally speaking), our bodies are designed to break down fructose quite well, whereas table sugar, not so much. Supposedly. But Asian fruit is better, so I don't miss dry cafeteria brownies that much, anyway. Some of you have already been subjected to my boastful exaltation of jujubes, which I don't think are imported into the U.S. They should be, though. They are like apples, but much crispier, not as "mealy," easier to bite into and chew, and the sweet hits a different part of the tongue, and a never-struck chord of an American fruit-lover's heart. Besides the bananas being smaller (yay, GMO-free eating!), I've found that most fruit here tastes better than it does in the States. Some in-Asia-only fruits that I don't care for that much are wax apples, whose name advertises a ballpark idea of their flavor and texture, and certain species of yellow Asian pears whose peels taste like the same cardboard box they arrived to the grocery store in. Bleckh!

Sugar Adventure Part III [Overview]: Taiwanese patisseries are filled with nomnoms, "Glutinous" (pronounced just like "gluttonous") rice balls filled with peanut butter, the Sprite tastes more refreshing here, and yet another breakfast disappointment, to find out that what I thought was a pre-packaged simple white bread and blueberry jelly sandwich, is literally cake, and to find that I liked it enough to still eat it for breakfast even after knowing this information. And "GIANT" Pocky Sticks, nearly a foot long and half an inch in diameter! Not to give you fine folks the impression that I lack self control or something, because I definitely do...but food is one of the biggest obstacles to assimilating into a new culture, so...throw me a frickin' bone, here. That reminds me: remind me to tell you about Taiwanese dogs and their poop in the next blog. (That was to ruin your appetite, in case you were getting hungry reading this...and to use the word poop for the first time in my blog.)

*My classroom and office are right next to the tech-crew computer guys' room, so I am slowly learning words like "terabyte" and colloquial phrases like "deep space nine."


 Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good!
Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him!
 Oh, fear the LORD, you his saints,
for those who fear him have no lack!
 The young lions suffer want and hunger;
but those who seek the LORD lack no good thing.
-Psalm 34:8,9,10.

Transit. And, about the not-sending-any-post-cards-yet part: j/k. I'll send 'em soon.

Hope you didn't mind that I included the prologue in the title. That was a writing first for me.

Five weeks in. My favorite thing about living here remains the MRT, Taipei's subway system. I beep through the automatic gate with my convenient MRT card, head down the escalator, put my headphones in and choose one of my many newly downloaded....what--what's that? oh, yeah--Taiwan has no download laws. But uhhh...then again, what do I know? I jay walk, I stare at strangers, even smile at some. I don't know the laws or the culture, I'm an American! A lot of Americans here get around riding "ghost scooters." They'll buy a scratched-up $500 Vespa with no license plate, no riding license, no nothing. Often the police will pull over a scooter-er for the absence of plates, but once they flash their U.S. driver's license, and kindly say "I don't speak Chinese, I'm an English teacher here," the policeman will usually smile back and let them go no probrem. I've considered getting a Vespa.Whether the Ghost Scooters will accept me after our top secret meeting this weekend is still in question. OH! Back to legal transportation, the MRT. So then I'll put on some good music, sit back, and let the sight of hundreds of Taiwanese people just getting off of work or going to visit their grandfather soothe me. I'm so inspired by this new-found medium of people-watching. Suddenly my journal pages are filling up with people poems, written in my illegible quick cursive.

Most people I know love to people watch. I know where this awe comes from. Out of everything that God created, people are the only thing, or beings, created in his image. And since God is the most beautiful sight, or being--whatever, well, that puts you and me in a very close 2nd, my friend. I heard somewhere that for every male-female human combo (...how's that for Christian high school birds and bees lingo, eh?) there are six billion different ways for their DNA to combine to make up that of their offspring. Six billion. We are "fearfully and wonderfully made." It must take God a long time to decide on which combination of genes would be best for every baby that is born. And we girls think making decisions at DSW is hard.

I haven't sent any postcards yet. But riding on the MRT while my Taipei 101 postcards sit in my desk drawer waiting for me to care about someone back home has caused me to realize something. When the thought occurred to me, it was a WWJD moment--and probably the first moment since 1999 that I've classified a realization as such: If the Lord went to a foreign place and sent you a post card, there wouldn't be a photo of snow-capped cliffs or a white sand coastline, or even an orangey-purplish sunset (although those get me every time, don't they you?) on the front of it. The post card photo would be a snapshot of someone from that country. Of anyone. Not even a pretty person, per-se. Just someone. Because they're created in his image. And they are his most precious possession, his most time-consuming masterpiece. So while we eat Snyder's of Hanover and "ooo" and "wooow" over the Travel Channel's "World's Top 10 Beaches," God is "ooo"ing and "wow"ing over you, and over the short, plump, gray haired lady dozing off on her way home, or to who knows where, on my MRT.

Monday is blue sticky note day, to match the mood and sticky weather.

I hope I haven't deterred you by my boring title. But today is Monday, and I always appropriately bookmark my lessons with blue post-it notes on Monday (...pink for mardi, orange for mercredi, yellow for jeudi, and my favorite color, green, for vendredi!) Teaching has forced me to become much more type A than God originally created me to be. So, while there are too many cups, pens, and random food items on my desk to allow for anything else to be placed on top of it, at least I'm mastering the the art of rainbow organization with sticky notes. Anyone else glad that the fruits of the Spirit list wasn't "love, joy, peace, organization...."? Amen.

"Sticky"! What an excellent transition into my next awesome Monday topic. I have to write about the weather, because every time I call someone back home, each and every person asks "how's the weather there?" Well, I dropped out of Stats 201 at OSU in the Spring of '08, but I know enough to know that the probability is high that others of you readers are asking yourselves the same exact question. Well, here's what you need to know: a dehumidifier machine sucks up about a half gallon of water per day out of the tiny microcosm of an atmosphere that is my 9' x 11' bedroom, and each day I use enough hairspray to start a small-scale forest fire.You see, people of Asian ancestry, like most of the residents of Taipei, tend to have very coarse, straight hair, allowing them to resist the humiliation of looking like Albert Einstein in front of their classes of high school students. 85% of Caucasians* however, do not have this luxury in their genetic make-up, and forge it with John Freida hair products in a humid climate. And you know how when you get out of the shower, you're much warmer when you dry yourself off? Well, I'm sometimes freezing to death, even while clothed, because eeeeentsy-weeeeentsy water droplets are landing all over me at any given moment.

The frequent rain has also disabled me from taking any pictures, with the exception of my facebook profile picture, because I choose not to participate in tourist activities in inclement weather. No one enjoys looking at a photo with blurry dots all over it thanks to rain drops on the lens. This actually reminds me of my favorite video right now (which is also my cell phone ring tone) Julian Smith: Red Eye Flashes Twice. It's rather comical, especially for you photo-taking fiends. Anyhoo, I'll post some more photos of my surroundings within the next coming weeks as the weather improves. Whether or not I assimilate further into this culture and flash the peace sign with every flash of my camera is yet to be decided.



*This statistic is completely falsified and was not an actual homework problem in my Spring quarter Statistics 201 course at OSU and should therefore not be taken seriously.

my young age, with great odds: Week 1 in Taipei

Foreward
I don't truly enjoy blogging. I secretly wish my blog was my personal diary. And I don't know who my audience is, and therefore I don't know how to write something you'll like. Theoretically, I can be candid and talk about whatever like who cares no one cares come on we just want updates on your life in Taiwan, but for me, writing isn't that simple. A lot has to do with my own perfectionism..."should I say "bitter smelling tofu" or "tofu emitting a fragrance of sweaty vinegar socks"? And two hours later I've only written 700 words. Words are too precious to waste. A blog entry should serve a greater purpose for both reader and writer. Anyway, I wrote this blog last Wednesday after my first day at school and saved it as a draft until now. Oh, one last disclaimer: instead of saying "at work," I say "at school," --a habit which may or may not wear off.



I cannot wait for my first-week jitters to go away so that I will stop tearing my fingernails off. It's a habit I've had since I was a kid. But this is the best stress I think I have ever felt in my entire life. This week, I started my first "big girl" job. And I couldn't be happier with it.

I wasn't wanting a teaching job, but I was waiting tables until 1:00 am every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night while my liberal arts diploma was beginning to smell musty. I was living in Tucson, Arizona, and one night I came home exhausted and smelling like spicy calamari. "What am I doing with my life?" I asked myself for the bajillion-willionth time. I googled "French teacher christian school," and clicked on the first search result. What are the odds?

Now, here I am in Taipei, Taiwan, teaching French to bright yet weary high schoolers who have been without a French teacher thus far this school year. Most are of Taiwanese nationality. The school is a Christian private school based on American curriculum and traditions, complete with weekly chapel and the daily teacher's morning prayer meeting. I love this aspect of my job. The only battle I foresee being fought is: the religious, monotonous routine in which the flesh takes so much comfort, versus my spirit, which is desperate to remain sensitive to God's continual willingness to give us more of himself, if we'll have him.

The city has been echoing with fireworks until the wee hours of the morning in celebration of Chinese New Year. But I've been sleeping well, Thank God for my very comfy bed. On Tuesday, when the school and all the local shops and restaurants opened back up, patrons lit off firecrackers in order to scare away any ghosts that may have invaded their businesses during the vacation. The only shops open during my first week were all the 7-11's. If you think there are too many starbucks' in the States, you should see how in Taipei, l-i-t-e-r-a-l-l-y on e-v-e-r-y block, there is a 7-11. There's also a Costco here, and I was happy to see that they sell Tillamook Cheese and Kettle Brand chips. No Stumptown coffee, though.... but one day. One day.

The food at school is pretty good. We sit with the students  in the cafeteria and yesterday two girls asked me "Miss Kern....can we ask you something?" I said, "Of course." They asked "Do you have a boyfriend? Hehehehehehe!" I told them no, and one girl delighted with encouragement and said "Me too!" I wasn't sure what to think of two of my 9th grade students having this much of my personal information in their gossip folders. There is a steep learning curve for me here. I am the youngest teacher at the school, and in some ways I can relate more with my students than with my co-workers. This will probably change as I assimilate more into my grown up life. Next week is Spirit Week, though, so growing up might have to wait until the week after. Monday is Crazy Hair Day, and my homeroom is going to kick ass. I need to get on the MRT (the subway--which is brand new and awesome) right now and search for some sort of party store for my own costumes.Other things on my to do list: Find a hiking group, attend Bread of Life church, learn how to write the characters my Chinese name, Ke Kai Xi, which means "Triumphant, Victorious Hope."


Afterward

Speaking of Hope, I wanted to share my favorite Bible passage lately: Romans 8:24-27 ESV.

24 For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? 25 But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. 26 Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. 27 And he who searches hearts knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.

Lastly, thank you for all that have interceded for me during this big transition. I can feel your prayers and each and every one has been answered. I have been incredibly blessed.