music in the mail.

i have a favorite thing
about my new apartment here.
on this side of the
ocean.


it's the mail slot.

{often the simple things

right?}

it's charming.
it's old.
it's from the 1920's.


but you know, sometimes the mail

gets a little stuck

in there.

so you have to tug.

and sometimes

the mail

takes an unfortunate

hit for this.

{oh well}.

today.

something new happened.

a package.

held my name.

propped nicely beneath

#106 mail slot.

that's strange,

no cyber monday

shopping done here.

i tucked the package

under my arm with the

rest of little victories 
from the tug-o-mail.

hands full.

i set the loads in my arms

down and promptly 

forgot all about

this little brown package.

until later.

when i finally stopped 

for a minute to remember.

how can you forget mail?

and a package at that!

{still unsure.}

i opened the brown paper 

to find

two CDs:

one christmas. and one not.

and a note.

from a kind gentleman

that i met once.

once.

we had chatted and connected 

on our mutual love for 

the beauty only choirs

can create.

here he was

sending me some of 

his son's choir tunes.

wondering if i might

enjoy them.

might i?!

oh yes i might..

and i'm going to try

my absolute best

to perhaps see the famous

land of lakes choirboys

this december 9.


any joiners?


come.
we can sit and
rub our goosebump-ed arms
together.




-n.

rub your arms moments: are you listening?

i once had a teacher
who would rub her arms 
full of goosebumps and implore
her class,
"shhh! shhhh!!
did you hear it?!
weren't you listening?!"

she was not everyone's favorite.

she gave us B's.
sometimes C's.

shook her head
and told us we weren't trying hard enough,
just when we thought we were.


she marched out when we were

impossible.

she pursed her lips, piercing 
us with silence, when we

didn't listen.

she moaned when we couldn't

hear our own faults.

and worse...
she made us do it 
again & again & again.


we would say, i'm no good.

she would say, you can be.

we would say, i can't.

she would say, you can.

we would say, i won't ever.

she would say, you will.

but we loved her.

when she was absent for even a day,

we begged to have her back.

she stole our hearts.

we might not have known.

she might not have known.

regardless.
it didn't matter.
because she taught us
what she was.

 

melody.

rhythm. 

movement.

moments.

music.

she taught us these things.

but most importantly
she taught us

to listen.

to listen to 
our own voice.

to the voice beside us.

and the voices all around.

she taught us to love beauty.

beauty that we

all

standing together

working toward one thing...

created. 

together.

she taught us

harmony and perfection

could come into a single moment.


she taught us to
notice the moments.

she would gasp.
and glow.
her excitement
and wonder penetrating the room,
rubbing her arms.


"did you hear it?!
are you listening?"


the body knows beauty.


but she taught us to listen for it.
and appreciate it.


this teacher
she doesn't know. 
she can't.
of how often my mind wanders to her.
to her classes
where she would push and push us.
bubble with pleasure
rubbing to her arms...


because of her,
there is always something for me
about a choir...
those moments.
only envoked by voices
working together.
to create
those moments of perfection... harmony
and utter beauty.


hmmm...
it touches something deep inside.


do you hear it?
are you listening?


may choirs find you.
or 
may you find them.
and may you notice
the moments.
and rub arms full of goosebumps.


let the season begin,
natalie.

ps beautiful images found here. here & here.

squids & trains.

i stood on the other side 

of the security tape. 

watching as my lovely mother 

extended her passport 

[with two hands]

to the security guard. 

she flashed the peace sign. 

her shoulders signaled 

a deep and slow sigh. 

a final goodbye was mouthed. 

and then my lovely mother 

disappeared behind the security barrier.

i stood very still.

the people bustled around me.

the giant clock hanging high over head 

moved on.

i felt convinced she might reemerge 

from behind that barrier.

but she didn't.

she journeyed on.

breathed in. breathed out.

and i realized i must too.

i caught the express subway.

from incheon international airport 

to seoul station.

and just like that, we pulled away.

we were moving.

the ever-prompt and informative

korean public transportation system 

with the flashing screen 

in multi-languages 

informed me

this ride would take approximately 

54 minutes.

and i realized...

i'd stayed too long at the airport.

and i was going to miss my 5:00 pm [17:00] train,

bound for my Korean home.

but as luck would have it.

i stepped onto the KTX train

car number 12.

seat 14D

at 4:59.and a half...

just as the doors were closing.

just having sprinted up four levels of escaladers.

from the very deepest depths of the world

of seoul subway systems,

my breath was heavy 

as i approached my seat, 

"아줌마..??" 

adjumma...

i addressed the older woman who would be 

my seat-mate for the ride.

she smiled kindly and stood to move

so i could slide between her 

and the window

into 14D.

and just like that, we pulled away.

we were moving.

the Korean country side

blurred in and out of my distracted attention.

i tried to read.

i tried to listen to a "this American life" episode.

my seat-mate slowly and methodically read

her newspaper.

without warning.

a few tears settled themselves into my eyes.

and they would not be blinked back.

my face.

it was turned from her [my seat-mate],

out the window

to the rolling rice patties

perfect in their twists 

and playful, deliberate turns.

the next thing i knew.

my seat-mate adjumma

was offering me half the package

of her snack,

dried squid.

with a little wet-wipe even

for my assumedly dirty hands.

she wouldn't even look at me

as i fumbled through my feeble polite-Korean 

language attempts.

she pushed the squid into

my hands with serious force.

her face barely hinted at a smile.

her act was done out of necessity.

not for her.

but for me.

how could she tell?

was it the few measly sniffles

that made their escape from my tight throat

into the wide wide world?

or was it something about her mother's heart,

that just knew?

i hate dried squid.

but this one.

went down brilliantly.

and i never tasted something so sweet.

and just like that...

we kept moving.