Meet my neighbours

As I was getting off my bicycle in front of my house yesterday, I fell down with a loud thump. I was wearing a skirt and it got tangled on the seat. The sound of me landing on my bottom, brought my neighbours to my rescue. It was the mother and her two children.

Embarrassed, I collected myself, and said hello to them, bringing my hands together in a Sawadee. I was trying to laugh at myself, but my neighbour took worried.

"You must be Bea!" I said. "I met your husband Ae, the other day."
She said, "Yes. And where are you from?"
"From Nepal."
"My teacher is from Nepal," said the eight-year-old, standing in her tow. He explained to me that his teacher from Nepal teaches them environmental science.
"Then you have to tell your teacher you have a neighbour from Nepal!" I said. Then I asked him his name and he said, "Tea! My name is Tea."
"Wow!" I said, surprised at how the names in the family come together like a fragrant little nursery rhyme.
Still embarrassed from my fall, I dragged my bicycle inside the gate, as Tea helped me. I forgot to ask Tea's little sister her name, but I told her I have a nephew close to her age and Tea said, but I'm sure she's more naughty than him!
I smiled and then we all said see you later and went indoors.

Bittersweet morning in ChiangMai

I live a good 30 minutes walking distance from the entrance gate to my village. I started walking toward it this morning, as I was planning on getting a grab (the local version of Uber) when I got to the gate. It's cheaper by 50 baht. When I arrived near the lotus, which is a five minute walk from my house, a car slowed down and stopped and the door opened.

A lady around Mamu's age put out her head and asked me something. I said I don't speak Thai and walked closer to the car. She then asked me in English if I was going to the gate and if I wanted a ride. I said she was very kind and I got in.

In the front seat was an elderly white gentleman; frail looking, who smiled.

The lady asked me if I was from Singapore. I said, Nepal. And she said, Oh! Nepal!.

I said she was very kind and thanked her and in the conversation that transpired, she told me they were going to hospital. I asked if everything was okay and she pointed to the gentleman and said, we just found out he has cancer.

My heart sank and I said, I'm very sorry to hear. And she said, we will get through this. He will be okay. When I got off, I had thanked them at least six times and I was already saying a prayer for John, who's frail and for Apple, who radiates with positive energy.
 

I bleed

All morning, it has rained and I have been having angry discussions on menstruation. In case you're wondering where it came from, here is the root:
https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p06zxwq0
All women have difficult relationships with menstruation. We rejoice while we're menstruating, because it is a sign of our fertility. It means we still have the power of creating another human. Imgine, an entirely new person in flesh and blood who can think, talk, poo, pee, shout, litter, clean, breathe, and add more chaos.
We also live in anxiety about the arrival of our period month after month. And live through cramps and mood swings when they arrive.
The long as short of the entire discussion around isolation of women during their period for me is, that this time in women's lives has been used in some societies as a means to psychologically weaken them. As if the physical suffering brought on by nature wasn't enough!

We will miss you

When it rained in spittles today morning, I had felt like something sad was on the way. Kale, who has been with my Nini's family for last 12 years just passed away. As I watched him being drip-fed yesterday, I knew. Sometimes, we know these things.

Kale is the most dignified and the largest dog in our extended family. I'm still using present tense for him. Was. He was. He was calm, quiet, hoarse when he barked and otherwise, content at all times. He's the kind of person I wish I were. Rest in deep peace, Kale.

i want to write rain

we could talk about depression

Andre and I talk sometimes about our respective states of mind. I call it depression. He calls it his lows. Today, he said he tried for a number of years to "drown in wine and women" to get out of that state of mind, until he finally woke up one morning and realized that hurting others wasn't going to help him. He needed to sort his mind out first. And so he did that.
I'm curious which side of the bed one has to wake up on to just wake up to a resolution like that.
Anyway.
When we were having this conversation today, he was talking to me between baking stuffed croissants and shallow-frying meat-balls, and nursing his son, who's down with flu.
When we were having this conversation, I was sitting at home, like I do most Sundays, feeling bloated and allowing the weighing machine to make me feel worse about myself.
The only similarity between his state and mine was that we were both home today. Him, taking care of his children. And me, hanging with my dog and my nephew, and my ageing parents...all children in a sense.
I don't know if this is what it means to arrive at middle-age. You fret over your graying hair, the changing measurement of your waist-line and worry about a mind that doesn't seem as hip as the rest of the world on social media does.
Andre always tries to make me feel better when I'm feeling 'low'. He tells me I'm one of the most intelligent and attractive women he's ever met. And I feel like he's merely being generous with his use of adjectives because he feels like I need help.  There goes my cynicism!
For me, the core struggle comes from having to face the world. I have no courage. And it takes everything out of me to try everyday. I could only begin to think of who I am, once I've managed to get myself out there. 
This has always been my everyday.
  

Yearender yearender

Dear blog,
It's nice to be back on your page. I've always felt like this was my place to hide. although, it has also been my place to be. I came to you in my years of turmoil, when the only way to get it out of my system was to write.
I no longer write.
And I think I might if I kept you closer.
Today, as a tradition of writing yearenders, I felt like I owed you my annual visit. To say thank you. And along with you, so say thank you to every single person who has loved me and let me be. I've been very lucky in friendships. Never lucky in love. But I guess we can never have everything we want.
I hope to keep coming back to your pages in the new year.
Love,
P