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Day 86: Bug Cemetery

6/30/2015

One day my brothers and I captured a praying mantis in a jar.

We decided he’d make a good pet, so we added grass and dirt into the jar to create a home for him. Then we covered the jar with tin foil. None of us thought to poke any air holes in the foil, so the praying mantis was dead by the next morning.

I suggested to my brothers that we have a funeral and burial for him, and my idea was met with enthusiasm. We found a clear area of dirt in the backyard, and dug a praying mantis-sized hole. On a small rock, we carved the words, “RIP beloved bug.” Someone said a few words honoring the memory of our day-long pet.

After the ceremony ended with a prayer, my brother said, “That was fun.” “Yeah,” said my other brother, “Let’s find more bugs to bury!” The rest of the afternoon was spent searching for more creatures, dead or alive, for our cemetery.

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Day 85: Music Man

6/29/2015

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I’m holding a koa wood ukulele, running my fingers over the smooth, golden brown finish. It is one of my most valuable possessions, given to me by my deceased grandfather, Wah Tim.

My Goong Goong was known for his love of music, especially the ukulele. He never seemed to be so happy as when he was strumming an ukulele, singing in a gentle, smooth voice. If there was any gathering of family and friends - birthday parties, potlucks, even dinners at Chinese restaurants - it was a certainty that at some point, Wah Tim’s ukulele would make an appearance. His most frequent song to perform was, “How Much Is That Doggie In the Window.” It always struck me as a strange song choice, and I could never tell if Goong Goong was singing the lyrics in an effort to be childish and goofy, or if he genuinely loved the song. Either way, he sang every line with gusto, inserting dog barks with particular flair.

“How much is that doggie in the window? The one with the waggly tail. Arf, arf, arf! How much is that doggie in the window? I do hope that doggie’s for sale.” The “arfs” were the best part, guaranteeing a laugh from everyone.

From the time each of his grandchildren could hold an ukulele, he taught us simple chords and strums so we could accompany him. I think he secretly dreamed we’d be the Asian version of the Partridge Family.

One year he took lessons in ukulele making, spending hours upon hours crafting one for each of his grandkids. As the eldest, I received the first one. It was beautifully designed, marked by a gold nameplate labeled “Larissa.” When Goong Goong handed it to me, he pointed out that it had not four, but six strings, for “better quality music.”

I haven’t played the ukulele in years, since it has been stored in my parents’ home. The other day, my dad brought it over, saying that it was newly strung and finished, ready to be played again. As I look at the ukulele, I think of Goong Goong’s love of music, and strum the strings gently with my thumb. I think I’ll teach my children the words to “How Much Is That Doggie In the Window” tomorrow.

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Day 84: Tales and Stories

6/28/2015

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My third grader teacher, Mrs. Welsh, taught me the power of a good story.

Every week we sat on the floor as Mrs. Welsh got out a book. She chose chapter books, from which she’d read several chapters every week. This rhythm created in me a sense of anticipation, much like getting immersed into a riveting television show. And better than a show on a screen, we relied on the power of our imaginations. She read Where the Red Fern Grows, which made many of us cry. She made us laugh with the colorful dialogue in James and the Giant Peach. She expanded our minds with fantastical imagery from A Wrinkle In Time.

Those afternoon story times became a fertile foundation in me wanting to become a storyteller. Later, I would go on to acting and directing in theatre, using storytelling to shape college students, spinning tales for my children, and writing my own stories.

Thanks for the gift of storytelling, Mrs. Welsh. I’m forever grateful.

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Day 83: Broken

6/27/2015

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The school bus was scheduled to arrive at the stop sign down the street in a few minutes. I knew that I had to hurry if I was going to make it there on time. Grabbing my backpack, I rushed out the door, and ran down the hill. What I didn’t notice was how damp the ground was, and suddenly, I slipped. My legs flew into the air, and I landed with all my weight onto my left arm. I felt something in my arm jolt out of place, and I knew that I had probably broken a bone. As I lay there for a moment, I considered several inconveniences of a broken elbow. First, I’d have to miss school to go the the doctor. Second, I would probably need to wear a cast for who knows how long. Third, and most annoying, I would have to create a story explaining my broken arm to my friends that didn’t involved me falling onto my ass.

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Day 82: Embracing Failure

6/26/2015

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My husband has said on multiple occasions, “If you’re failing, it means you’re trying.”

One of my greatest fears is the fear of failure. I’ve always struggled with being a perfectionist. I’m an oldest child, so maybe it comes with the territory.

When I was about 6, my parents enrolled me in gymnastics. I loved it - the somersaults, the handstands, the balance beam. But then I saw some of the older and more skilled gymnasts. They were swinging on the uneven bars, doing spectacular flips. As I observed them, I automatically compared myself to them. I felt overwhelmed, afraid that I’d never be as good as they were. The fear of failure caused me to quit gymnastics a few weeks later, without really giving myself the chance to try it.

Throughout my life, there were many other moments like that day in gymnastics. I avoided or hid from failure at whatever cost. I preemptively quit things so I didn’t fail. If I ever made any mistakes, I covered up those mistakes and hid them as best as I could.

Later, in my early twenties, I learned about the Enneagram, a personality tool that identifies 9 different types of people. My test results revealed that I was a Type 1, called the Reformer. Reformers are principled, purposeful, self-controlled, and perfectionistic. I read this description, and thought, “Yup, an accurate description of myself.” The more I thought about my perfectionism, the more I wanted to kick it to the curb. I was tired of being so afraid of failure. I wanted to be the kind of person who is courageous and risky.

Now, I think of myself as a recovering perfectionist. I intentionally choose courage rather than fear. For me, this means I try things, even if I know failure is a likely part of the experience. And when I fail, I tell trusted people about it so I’m not hiding in shame.

A few weeks ago, I had to have a conversation with a family member. I knew this conversation would be awkward and unpleasant, but also recognized that it was something I needed to do. There was lots of potential for failure. Instead of shying away in fear, I chose courage, and initiated the conversation. Afterward, I shared about it with my husband, “Well, it was kind of a failure. The person responded pretty negatively. But I did my part.” He gave me a high-five.

When all is said and done, I’d rather be a person who tried and failed, rather than being stuck in fear of failure.

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Day 86: Bug Cemetery

Day 85: Music Man

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Day 83: Broken

Day 82: Embracing Failure

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