be still

when christmas break began, i made a mental to-do list full of posts, projects, and other fun things. i completed a few of them (a fox print, a friend’s blog makeover) before succumbing to a nasty cold. i spent the bulk of time on the couch or in bed nestled under layers of blankets. i read the hobbit again, watched movies, drank tea, and coughed all over my sweet family (sorry michael and sophie).

all the while it seeped in— restlessness. it’s the feeling i get when i’m doing nothing, not so much a feeling of guilt or boredom, but an expectation. the expectation that what i’m currently doing (even if it’s blowing into a kleenex) isn’t what i’m supposed to be doing. i should be tending the blog, making crafts for school, drawing awesome pictures, planning a spectacular wedding, etc. there is never enough time and surely less time to be still.

but if i make any resolutions or pinky swears this year, being still should be one of them. being still isn’t the same as being idle, being silent, or being lost. being still means remembering a line you’d forgotten from your favorite book, smelling needles on a fir tree, noticing the hum of the wind in the car, and listening to a pug snore. being still means taking a couple minutes (when you don’t have any) and enjoying a simple moment. being still means inhaling a slow, steady breath and realizing that above working, above blogging, above “things i should be doing” is a meager and warm threshold called living.

so in 2013, i’ll be busy. i’ll be creative. i’ll be loud. i’ll be mischievous. i’ll be happy. when i need to be, i’ll be still, and then i’ll be back to myself.

happy new year.

the lost world

take attendance, recite the pledge, read, write, do math, eat lunch, play, work a little more, and go home. rinse and repeat. this is the life of a typical elementary school teacher.

but beneath the cloud of a seemingly monotonous schedule, there is more— every morning, we step into a very special world. it’s a world where we all belong, and even on days when we feel like we don’t, our name tags and cubby labels tell us yes, you do. when we venture out to gym, library, or recess, the world patiently waits for our return. it’s a world that forgives whatever happened at home and forgets whatever troubled us at night. it is a world where boards, slates, dates, and spills are always wiped clean by the last bell.

it’s a world i know well, and you may know it, too. we all have worlds. they are our bubbles, our sanctuaries, our safety nets, our escapes. we enter them at home, school, and work. as much as we shield them with our love, faith, and sheer will, they are as fragile as a moth’s wings.

when a bubble shatters, we immediately ask, why? how? we feel angry, sorrowful, confused, and frightened. we might point fingers, name names, and cast blames. we will mourn publicly and privately. some of us will move on quickly while others will meander, lost in their grief.

there are two candles in our living room window. the first one burns for newtown, connecticut in memory of the heroic teachers, staff, and students who died on friday at their school. the second one burns for anytown, anywhere as a reminder that life is precious. talk more. care more. listen more. help more.

home is wherever i’m with you

before M— hereafter called michael— and i bought our house, i fell in love with a different house. i named her “little blue”. she was a craftsman style home with a serene paint scheme, small rooms, and a doggie door leading to a quaint yard.

michael liked little blue, but he said she wasn’t the right one. after hearing his remarks, i pursed my lips a bit. we saw more houses in more neighborhoods, and i proceeded to compare every house with little blue. she was perfect for us, i told him. she’s just perfect. other houses were too large (5 bedrooms, really?) or too grand (20-feet ceilings, no thanks). some were too small (where will people sleep during christmas?) or too plain (think of all the things we need).

after several weeks of homes-to-homes and heart-to-hearts, it struck me. i realized that i wasn’t looking for the “right” house. i was looking for a “right-now” house. yes, little blue was cute and modern, but in a few years, we would outgrow her. she was wonderful for a couple, but eventually, we wanted a family.

we discussed making an offer on little blue the day that we found our house (up the street from her). he had been on the market for two days. i didn’t like him at first. his owners painted the rooms shades of yellow, orange, green, and royal blue. his rocky backyard, unfenced, led back to a wooded area. his fireplace, topped with a maroon mantle, looked awful.

but he seemed like our house: calm, quiet, comfortable. i could picture us cooking meals in the kitchen, playing games with our friends, chasing sophie, or getting up in the middle of the night to comfort a child’s bad dream. we could paint him and make him look the way we wanted him to look. he already felt the way we wanted him to feel.

he is our home, and with great joy, we’ll share with you how we keep his heart beating.

where are you from?

growing up, kids and adults often asked me, “where are you from?”, a question that puzzled me because i was from, well, virginia, like everyone else. i realized they asked me because i looked different, and my family looked different. in first grade, i clearly remember being pulled for ESL testing with nelson, a classmate who parents immigrated from puerto rico. we both spoke perfect english but spelled imperfectly like most six-year-olds. we sat in a small grey room with pencils in our little hands, looking at each other and likely thinking, these people are bonkers. (note: nelson and i ended up not needing any language services)

in college, i met friends who were asked the same questions as kids, and i met friends who had done the asking. but i didn’t feel under interrogation. we openly spoke of our childhoods, whether they took place in small town pennsylvania, india, or korea. we took each other home for lunches and dinners for the sole purpose of trying someone’s mom’s you-gotta-taste-it food and later comparing spice levels.

i told my mom that i wished i’d known girls and boys like them all my life, though i did have several amazing, hilarious, and kind friends from high school. i would have felt better about my eyes, dark hair, and skin that ranged from being golden to brown through the seasons. i would have felt better explaining where my parents used to live, why they came to the united states, and what languages we spoke. i would have felt like i wasn’t as alone as the girl in the mirror said i was.

but i’m glad i experienced those emotions and memories, especially now that i’m a teacher with a diverse classroom. we speak about our families, traditions, and foods.

when we complete self-portraits, i pass around small mirrors and watch them giggle at their reflections. sometimes they goad me and say, “now you look in the mirror.” then i proceed to make exaggerated faces, and we laugh. it’s the sound of happy children who belong with me, with each other, in texas, and in america.

beyond the blog

in 2011, i attended the texas style council for the first time, feeling a lot like an awkward kid going to a middle school dance. i showed up alone to brunch (we ate before the symposium that year), but julie quickly befriended me and invited me to eat breakfast with her and a few other bloggers from dallas. during the panels and breakout sessions, i met incredible bloggers and business owners, and i made a core group of friends that i would keep in touch with through email, twitter, and girls’ dates like shopping trips or events. as strange as it sounds, i couldn’t imagine my time in texas without these women.

here’s a perfect segue: the 2012 TxSC focused on life beyond blogging. it boils down to this three-syllable word: connection. as blogs continue to evolve, encapsulating small-town writers, part-time-models, haute couture muses, and countless others, we easily forget that real life exists offline. by real life, i mean laughter, sorrow, mistakes, stumbles, jobs, spouses, boyfriends, girlfriends, kids, colors, smells, meals, and drives. life is everywhere, and it’s much more beautiful when your monitor is asleep or your phone is silent.

when indiana asked me to join the TxSC staff, i immediately said yes. if you’re reading my blog for the very first time, i’m linda from the registration desk! i met indi through our style blogs; i emailed her in 2010 asking if she wanted to exchange links. we quickly discovered that we both loved thrifting, cheeseburgers, and quirky printed dresses. we bonded over growing up with asian tiger mothers who hated our fashion choices. i thought of indiana as my blog mentor. now more than ever, she’s also a dear friend.

i can tell you similar stories of how i met sydney, grechen, sharon, kendi, laurel, or kelsey. i can even tell you about friends like rosa and angela who live back east that i’ve never met in person, but i feel like i’ve known them for ages. the list goes on. as c.s. lewis famously said, “friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘what? you, too? i thought i was the only one.’”

last year, my biggest takeaway from TxSC was finding and nurturing a voice for little tin soldier. i added moments from my day to outfit posts, and i published short stories when the words felt right. i joined twitter, sharing life (and pug news) in 120 characters or less. twelve months later, i’m still as happy as a clam, and i owe that glee to simply being proud of who i am, and being thankful for the genuine friendships that i’ve made.

i know this year’s conference wasn’t perfect. we misplaced people’s badges, experienced a few moments of sheer frazzle-ness, and welcomed a group that doubled in size from last year. rachel (indiana’s assistant) and i survived by sneaking snacks behind the counter, greeting everyone with a texan smile, and pretending our heels and platform wedges didn’t hurt our feet after standing in them for hours. we hope you disregarded the rainy weather, learned a lesson or two (or ten) from our impressive line-up of speakers, and made connections of your own.

at the end of the day, we are all the girl next door who has awesome shoes.

p.s. thank you to our co-organizer elissa for her help and hard work, and a big toast to our 2012 sponsors.

ghost writer

my mother believes in ghosts. she lost her father as a teenager, and years later, when my grandmother remarried, she vividly remembers waking up in the middle of the night hearing footsteps on the back porch. they sounded like her dad’s steady climb, but the yard remained empty.

i heard these stories along with others from my parents, their friends, and my own friends of different faiths. some attribute spooky incidents as coincidences and others take them as signs. i never took a stance in either direction, but the tales intrigued me.

in october of 2011, M’s grandfather passed away. we reminisce about his faded denim shirts, leathery skin from the florida sunshine, and fondness for barbecue. we usually saw him when he visited M’s mom, staying in a room that appeared in all of her homes as she moved around pennsylvania and later to texas. pop’s room always contained two twin beds with cornflower blue comforters, a mirrored dresser, and a television with cable or at least one channel showing sports. he slept in one bed and put towels on the other.

a few weeks ago, pop would have celebrated another birthday. M’s mom woke up in the middle of the night to the overhead lights going on and off in pop’s room. she flipped the circuit breaker, but they continued to dim and brighten, brighten and dim. after more fiddling, the lights turned off and stayed off.

i wanted to write this post the night she told me about it, but i didn’t know what to say besides i knew it was pop. it was pop’s room, it was pop’s birthday, it was pop’s sign. she asked me, “if you’re right, why didn’t pop visit your house?”

good question. but pop never saw our house. i wish he did. he would have told us that tile floors are too slippery, sophie is too greedy, and the yard is too rocky. he would have asked about my children and M’s job. he would have done a lot of things.

so pop, in return for your flashing lights, i will share your story, not as a skeptic or a staunch believer. i am just someone who misses you.

loss and hope

since i’ve known pop, there have been whispers about his time left on earth. he was sick on and off, and he always seemed to bounce back. he worked part-time at a bait shop, watched every u.s. open, and became a great-grandfather. he drove a small SUV (albeit slowly) and lived alone in a pretty house decorated with photos of his wife, children, and grandchildren.

he passed away on wednesday in his sleep in hospice. the doctor had given him one more week, and being an optimistic fool at times, i thought he might give us one more christmas and one more summer.

now, what can we give pop? there will be no more sunday phone calls or gossip about the williams sisters, nadal, and federer. there will be no more playful quips about pop’s denim shirts or fondness of red lobster.

i believe the afterlife is for both the dead and the living. those who pass cannot share details on their journeys, but those who live can dream that they find peace, redemption, or joy. hope is never quite lost.

so pop, i hope M is right. i hope you’re bowling. i hope you’re driving around in a convertible. i hope you’re eating barbecue sandwiches. i hope you found her again. i hope you know we miss you.

lost in translation

talking to my mother involves a series of hits and misses. i speak to her in perfect english and broken lao, and she speaks to me in perfect lao and broken english. then we become frustrated with each other. i sometimes tell her, “mom, you don’t understand what i’m saying,” to which she replies, “i don’t understand what you’re saying.” we both grumble and sigh deeply, a gesture equivalent to but more polite than rolling one’s eyes. after a few minutes, we patiently resume our conversation.

for those of you with bilingual parents or friends, you may relate to my story. yes, words often become lost or misunderstood. we correct people (even strangers) because we believe in a “right way” to speak english. occasionally we feel angry because time— months, years, decades— failed to improve their prose. but the most important question remains: are we truly listening?

there are three things that my mother treasures: family, mr. B (her black, mischievous cat), and twenty-four karat gold. in her mind, twenty-four karats are the real thing: pure, valuable, and beautiful.

years ago, she gave me gold bracelets for my birthday. the delicate chains, flanked with small charms, felt cool and light. she put them on my wrist saying, “this how you wear it. you wear two. it’s good luck.” she meant, don’t lose them. they belong together. i love you very much.

her charm bracelets will always be my prized possession. when i wear them, i remember family, mr. B, and twenty-four karats. i remember to be patient and hear what others have to say.

*this post is my contribution to the IFB project. for more information, click here.

20/20

thirteen years ago, my mother took me to the eye doctor and i grudgingly picked out my first pair of glasses. the frames were simple and translucent. i wore them as seldom as possible. in college, i chose another pair (skinny, black, and hip) and slowly warmed up to them. i sat in the back during most lectures and copied notes with ease. but after class, i put them away with a small twinge of embarrassment.

in may, jen (of jen loves kev) introduced me to warby parker glasses. i checked out the WP site and instantly fell in love with sinclair, a pair of navy blue frames.

love /l/ /u/ /v/ n. a state in which i keep mentioning sinclair to M, recapping my updated eye exam, and stalking the UPS truck.

my best friend said, “welcome to the four eyes club!” you know what? i feel welcome for the first time. i truly have four eyes: two eyes that see the world clearly, and two eyes that finally see i’m the same person with and without glasses.

in her bag

in college, my friend laura and i worked at a small boutique toy store. we sold groovy girl dolls, ravensburger puzzles, and all the playmobil a child could ever want. for mother’s day, we always promoted a pink plush purse for girls called my mommy’s purse or my first purse. it included make-believe lipstick, a soft phone, and a set of plastic keys among other mom things.

when i was a little girl, my mother’s purse contained different curiosities: tiny chinese silk pouches hiding earrings or necklaces, large packs of mint chewing gum, tiger balm, and a wallet brimming with a checkbook (remember those?), cards, worn slips of paper with people’s telephone numbers, and terrible school pictures of me and my brother.

i enjoyed sneaking in her purse and removing a single check. i was seven and had no plans of cashing it for money. i took a ballpoint pen and scribbled nonsense across it, signing my own name in a messy flourish. i continued to pickpocket lone checks and hide them in my room until she noticed check number discrepancies in bank statements. “hmmm…” she said to no one in particular (which meant someone in particular).

her purses themselves were usually hand-me downs or “louies” from friends’ trips to bangkok or vientiane. when my brother and i grew older and needed her less, she worked part-time and bought herself a classic dooney and bourke bag. at thrift stores, i now see these bags with their raised brown duck logos and fondly think of her.

i called my mother and wished her a wonderful mother’s day. we talked about mr. B (her overweight cat), dad’s home improvement projects, and my brother’s inability to return borrowed items (she loaned him her car two weeks ago).

thinking she would enlighten me with a witty response, i asked her, “what’s in your purse?” she said, “my purse? oh, i don’t know.” nevermind, mom, unless we can go back in time and give my second grade self a check for three zillion dollars.

thirteen going on thirty

at thirteen, the world wasn’t much bigger than the covergirl compact stashed in my backpack. i dressed like a hot mess (along the lines of claudia kishi’s capsule collection if one existed), dreamed of attending FIT or parson’s, and hacked my magazines to pieces, only to create new magazines (thanks to looseleaf paper, gluesticks, and ballpoint pens). at thirty, i would be a fashion designer. i would own a chain of boutiques around new york called coalition and sell frothy chiffon gowns, oversized sweaters, and stretch pants.

i turned thirty over the weekend. bad news for thirteen-year-old linda: i have no boutiques, no pre-fall collection 2011, and no fashion degree. in college, fashion turned into a hobby, and i majored in art direction, only to realize i thrived as a schoolteacher. this happened conveniently after graduation, of course, causing much tsk-tsking from my mother. i left behind the great I-95 corridor and moved to texas because i fell in love with a guy— a dude who didn’t skateboard, play guitar, or wear baggy jeans (although his thirteen-year-old self did).

but i’m happy with the twists and turns of my life, and i’m happy with myself. and i am really, really happy with cupcakes.

the big dance

over the weekend, i attended the texas style council conference. i felt a little bit like thirteen-year-old linda going to the middle school dance without a date! but the butterflies subsided, and i met so many wonderful, kind, and helpful people. i took notes, sketched some friends, and most importantly, listened.

jennine jacob (of independent fashion bloggers and the coveted) served as our keynote speaker. i met jennine on sunday at our brunch. she wore a flowy, ivory silk dress by phillip lim. she told me that years ago, she contemplated being a schoolteacher!

during her speech, jennine touched on three important facets of blogging: honesty, truth, and humility. people start blogs for various reasons— to share outfits, network, swap ideas, or even get freebies. but hopefully we all share the goal of creating something fulfilling. we wake up each day and tip tap type on our computers because we’re happy, not because we’re supposed to.

the panelists also shared their thoughts on being authentic and finding your own voice. i was surprised to hear different opinions on it. i previously believed that being authentic meant sharing everything about your life, and little tin soldier isn’t very genuine under those standards. i share insights into my family or career occasionally, and i’m sometimes shy and awkward. at the conference, i learned that being authentic is based on your own terms. the only person who can give you props for keeping it real is yourself.

all of my favorite blogs have a voice that reflects its writer. for example, kendi is well-known for her funny stories, and indiana writes in a cheerful way like she’s excitedly letting you in on a secret. the easiest way to find your own voice is writing to someone you know (pugs not included).

years ago, when my mother dropped me off at the eighth grade dance, i wore a black and white striped dress, white over-the-knee socks, and black suede mary janes. at that time, i matter-of-factly believed i was the best dressed girl ever (á la claudia kishi). but i didn’t see any of my friends, and for a brief moment, i panicked. but i knew they were there; i just had to find them.

when i arrived home from austin, i felt inspired to do three things: be true, be real, and be myself. and the most rewarding part of little tin soldier has been discovering all of you— i knew you were there; i just had to find you.

eat it or wear it

in january, we shared our closet resolutions. i promised to buy clothes that i love. no more trendy shoes, no more impulsive dress, blouse, pants pick-ups, and no more wishy washy wardobe choices. i also made another promise that i did not reveal to you. i kept it a secret because i doubted my own strength.

judy blume, one of my favorite childhood authors, wrote a series around a boy named peter hatcher and his unbelievable brother fudge. in tales of a fourth grade nothing, fudge refuses to eat, stressing out their poor mother. she bribes him with snacks and elaborate meals. mr. hatcher finally grows tired of his nonsense, dumps a bowl of cereal on his head, and tells him, “eat it or wear it.” fudge learns his lesson.

when we moved into our house and unpacked our belongings, i was appalled at the amount of clothes, shoes, belts, and trinkets in boxes and suitcases labeled “linda”. i owned stuff that didn’t fit, stuff i’d forgotten about, stuff i kinda already owned (fraternal clothing twins), stuff i wore once, and stuff i’d never wear. the voice of reason told me, remember fudge hatcher. eat it or wear it.

i can’t wear them, and i really can’t eat them. so i made a second resolution: i promised myself (and M) that every new purchase equals one donation of the same caliber. if i buy a new dress, i donate an old dress, not a pair of socks or a tee shirt. if i buy a new skirt, i get rid of an old skirt. eventually i will end up with a closet full of treasures instead of wants, a closet i cannot bear to lose.

to my surprise, i easily let go of many pieces without replacing them. i’m finally grown-up enough to realize i don’t need to.

p.s. i saved the good stuff for you gals. stay tuned for the first (and last) little tin soldier blog sale!

fur-ever

my kindergarten children love clifford the big red dog. clifford is a children’s book series about a girl named emily elizabeth and her dog clifford. clifford begins his life as a regular sized puppy but grows into a giant dog because of emily elizabeth’s love.

sophie arrived in our lives unexpectedly. like many pug-less parents, M and i wanted a pug more than any other dog. we filled out an application with dallas-fort worth pug rescue and waited for the right pug. a year passed by, and on a whim, M completed another application, including a little story about his beloved childhood pug, suzie.

in a few days, there was a call. not just any call. a pug call. a pug puppy call. they rescued a female pug, and she delivered a sickly brood. one of them even lost his curly tail to the infection. but they were recovering, and if we wanted, we could have one. there were two boys and two girls. M called them back right away. they told us the girls were taken, but we could choose a boy. M sent me a link to the website and asked me to pick between “baby” and “fella.” baby was the runt, and he would always need extra attention. of course, i chose baby.

to my surprise, the organizers mixed up their names, and baby turned out to be a girl. we picked baby up at her foster mom’s house in mesquite and drove home to our modest apartment. she was small and sweet, and she was ours. we named her sophie.

earlier this week, my friend indiana (of adored austin) lost one of her adorable daschunds. her grief and grace touched me tremendously. like many of her readers, i cried over jimi. i thought about a lot of things— my own puppy, my students, and my life— and how precious moments pass by everyday. instead of coming home and heading straight towards my laptop, i played tug-of-war with sophie and chased her around the house. at school, i gave extra high-fives, read a favorite detective story, and played along when the class told me a ghost lives in the closet. M and i took a small break from the blog and finished chores around the house.

today is sophie’s third birthday. i got home a little later than usual. we went out for our daily walk, and her soft black ears jiggled in the cold wind. for dinner, i topped her kibble with extra wet food, and she watched me cook ravioli with spinach and sweet onions. i tickled her and talked to her in a fussy and doting way as mothers do with children. and like a mom, i began my life as a regular person, but i have a giant heart because of her love. thank you, sophie.

one way to begin a sunday morning

1. stir from slumber at six because something with fur and paws decides to sit on top of your pillow.
2. think about getting up and making coffee.
3. fall back asleep and dream that prince william is getting married.
4. remember how your best friend dana treasured pictures of wills during high school because he was so much cuter than harry. embarrassing!
5. then remember that a few weeks ago, you and dana swore to watch “the royal wedding” at the same time so you can quip back and forth. you are only doing this for dana, of course.
6. call her, just because (because that’s what friends do).