The Punchline

Wednesday, 4pm. A group of five to six year old girls sit facing me, looking crisp in their starched uniforms, white belts tied snuggly around their waists. “Eyes closed, take a deep breath”, I say, peeking out from under my lids to see if they are listening. Giggling at first, then sitting attentively, backs straight. A few seconds later – silence. Ten more seconds as they feel the stillness… “Okay, eyes open, meditation finished.”

We begin class, and each girl begins her journey. They don’t know it, but in this hour, they are picking up much more than how to kick and punch. Like it or not, by studying an ancient martial art steeped in the ‘ways of the warrior’, they’re getting a little taste of some life lessons.

Katherine skips into the room, her brown curls bobbing energetically around her smiling face. Dressed in black lycra shorts and a bright pink shirt that says ‘run like a girl’, she says ‘hello Sensei’ as she goes by.
“Where’s your gi Katherine?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t want to wear it because it’s too hot”, she replies non-chalantly. She’s right of course. I think of how I sweat wearing the long-sleeve, long-pant uniform in this tropical weather.
“Sorry, but wearing your gi is a ‘must do’. Your gi is a special uniform just for practicing karate, and you have to wear it, hot or not.”
“But I get all sweaty and itchy”, she moans.
“That’s okay” I deadpan, “you’re supposed to work hard and sweat in karate, and do it without complaining.”
For a second, she looks at me with surprise, as if I’m from another planet, then quickly changes into her uniform without another word.
Self-discipline.

Ayu R. is quieter than the other girls, and appears shy at first. But towards the end of just our second class, she runs over and gives me a big hug around the waist, then flops down on the floor playfully. Initially pleasantly surprised by her show of affection, then curious about why she is suddenly so playful, I hang onto her hands, helping her up. Is she simply genuinely happy, looking for a little extra attention, testing the waters for what comes next, or all of the above? Up on her feet again, she plonks down at the side of the room, not wanting to participate in the last round of the ‘big ball game’.
“What’s up Ayu?”, I inquire.
She glances over at me, but remains silent.
“You don’t want to play the game anymore?” I suggest.
She nods. She already had her turn, and now wants to sit out. Is she tired? Bored? Tuning out?
“Is it fair that when it was your turn everyone joined in, but now that it’s someone else’s turn, you’re sitting out?” I continue.
Silence. “Did that register?” I wonder.
A few seconds go by, as if she’s processing what I just said. Turning the words over in her mind and making her decision about how to react. Then she looks over at me, grins, and jumps in to join the last minute of the game.
Participation.

“Ready to do a kata?” I ask the group. “Okay, let’s line up. Three people in front, and three behind”.
“Feet together, stand up straight, hands by your side. Bow. Step forward and punch. One, two, three, four…”
Ratu confidently repeats my instructions and corrects the other girls during class. “Not like that, do it like this…” she instructs, her brown eyes wide and wavy black hair moving from side to side across her bony shoulders. She is used to being a big sister. She is used to being the boss.
“Who’s job is it to be the teacher?” I ask gently.
“Yours”, she replies softly, glancing down. She is quiet for about five minutes, until we move onto another exercise with a new set of instructions which she repeats again. She just can’t help herself. I remind her. Again. Old habits are hard to break, even at age six. By the end of class she’s got it. She listens quietly, attentively, eyes fixed on me, as I talk to the group. She doesn’t repeat a thing.
Restraint.

Hanna is the smallest girl in the class. She has great technique already, after just two lessons. Standing straight, her blond hair tied back in a cute ponytail, she turns her hands just before the punch reaches its target, thumb tucked in to make a tight fist, first two knuckles hitting the bag square on. One, two, three - “hit harder”, I urge her. Four, five, six - she turns it up a notch, her mouth pursed with concentration, spunky bright blue eyes focused like a tiger on its prey. Seven, eight, nine – her little hands pound the white circle in the middle of the punching pad. Ten! “Kiaaaaaaaiiiiiiiii” she shouts at the top of her lungs, releasing the energy from her body and letting her punch Rrrrrrrip. A big smile spreads across her face. She knows she punched as hard as she could, and it felt good.
Focus.

Tara is tall and lanky, her long limbs and skinny frame discovering the meaning of co-ordination. I roll the big exercise ball towards her and she kicks it back to me, her delicate brown eyes fixed on the moving target in front of her. I roll it to another girl, she kicks it back, and on we go. The pace picks up, and the ball flies quickly around the room, girls jumping here and there. Suddenly there’s a crash and I see Tara on the floor. “Is she okay?” I worry. She gets up slowly, brushing herself off, flicking her sandy brown braid behind her again. Seeing that she’s fine, no one says a thing. Seeing that everyone simply continues with the game, she joins right in again without missing a beat. Falling down and getting back up again. The cycle of life.
Perseverance.

Ayu S. is a rambunctious girl in constant motion, hard to contain, like a shaken bottle of coke, desperate to fizz out of the can. At the end of class, her body twitching with excitement and concentration, her black bob-cut locks sticking to her sweaty round face, she sits still, legs tucked underneath her in seiza, hands on her lap, eyes closed, meditating with the rest of the group for a full minute. Sixty seconds doesn’t sound long, but to a five year old sitting quiet and still with eyes closed and five friends beside her, it is an eternity.
Willpower.

Class over, we kneel down again, girls in a straight line, facing front. We bow to each other, closing class with a simple show of respect.

As they chatter excitedly while putting on their shoes, I smile to myself, knowing that with every punch they throw, with every kiai they shout, these girls are becoming stronger people, physically and mentally. Self-discipline, participation, restraint, focus, perseverance, willpower, and respect all add up over time to confident young women. There’s something intangibly empowering about hitting a target with all your might, then adding timing, technique and speed to the equation when you thought you couldn’t do any more, and exceeding your limit. Call it what you want, it’s the stuff about yourself that feels good, not in relation to anyone except yours truly (and maybe the punching bag). A lifelong journey, beginning with a first step – er, punch.

“the ultimate aim of karate lies not in victory or defeat,

but in the perfection of the human character.”
- Gichin Funakoshi, Founding Father of Karate

What is Love? A pig, a protestor, and a flood have something to say

Love is overrated. Western romantic love, that is. This year, Valentines Day, Chinese New Year, and a disastrous flood occurred within days of each other. Together, they illustrate how Indonesians celebrate that ubiquitous thing called ‘love’.

On February 14th, even on the ‘other’ side of the world, I expected to see young couples pronouncing their undying commitment to each other, clasping red roses and heart shaped balloons, dreamily feeding each other chocolates with be my valentine scrolled across the top. Instead, I was shocked and bemused by what appeared on the front page of the Jakarta Post.

Anti-valentines day protestors. Yes, young Muslim women, covered from head to toe, carrying signs reading Valentine Days = Kapitalisme taking to the streets to protest a holiday celebrating…love, of all things. What exactly are they protesting? Public displays of affection? A western-created institution? An un-Islamic holiday? All of the above? Are there not more important things to protest than red roses and chocolate hearts? Nevertheless, these women marched the streets, rejecting what they viewed as a western holiday that conflicts with their faith. Think of the conviction it takes to protest publicly. More than the personal cringing and silent rebellion I feel at the thought of celebrating love en mass, as per Hallmark’s suggestion. These women protested based on their beliefs and were unafraid to display them. That conviction, in all its conflicted, ironic, non-sensical glory, is love. Love of ones’ beliefs.

Chinese New Year arrived a few days later. Who would have thought a pig and a dragon could tell us something about love? In Plaza Senayan, under a sky of red and gold umbrellas and paper lanterns, I stood in awe watching barongsai (liondance) jump to and fro, pouncing on the angpao (red packet) at the culmination of the performance. But it wasn’t the lion dancers I stood in awe of. It was the crowd. Native Indonesians, Chinese Indonesians, foreigners watched in fascination, soaking in the cultural spectacle. Hard to imagine that only ten years ago Chinese Indonesians were banned from celebrating their culture in public, speaking Chinese and holding Chinese names. Only ten years ago, racial tensions were so high that rioters burned Chinatown, killed thousands of Chinese and destroyed their businesses. Now, with those bans lifted, those same people stand side by side celebrating Chinese New Year together.

But where are the pigs? Ushering in the Year of the Golden Pig, I notice a suspicious absence of pig decorations adorning the mall. In fact, you can’t find the fat little golden creatures anywhere! Suddenly I get it. Muslims revile pigs. They are considered filthy creatures not worthy even of eating, and the Chinese (who adore barbequed pork) are sensitive to this fact. Not wanting to offend, in a country where almost 90% of the population is Muslim, they display dragons instead. Dragons symbolize power and wealth, harmony and health. Almost as good as a pig for bringing in the new year. When one group extends their hand to embrace another culture, and the other group responds in mutual consideration, that’s love.

The third event in this love triangle is the flood. Jakarta suffered the worst flood in years on February 1, and on Valentines Day, the clean-up continued. Over a quarter million people rendered homeless in less than 24 hours. Soldiers helped locals sweep mud and debris from their homes, companies donated wares to help return normalcy to daily life, citizens gathered food and supplies for flood victims, hospitals accepted the influx of disease-ridden children who treated the flood waters as swimming pools. I was simultaneously horrified and amazed as I saw photos of kids jumping off overpasses into pools of flood water on streets below. Don’t they know this water is mixed with sewage, and other filth? Don’t they care?

One thing is clear. They care about each other. Despite the disaster, or perhaps because of it, the Indonesian people’s essential nature came shining through – resourcefulness, community embrace, and playfulness even in the face of extreme hardship. These people who have next to nothing have the most of all. Love.

Love of one’s beliefs, love for each other, love for one’s culture and its peaceful coexistence with another. Who would have thought a protestor, a pig and a flood would have so much in common, especially on Valentines Day?

The first and last picture are from The Jakarta Post.

Jakarta Flood: There and Back Again

Day 1 – Thursday
Tropical storm. All day and all night. Bolts of lightning reach down, grabbing the earth like goblins fingers – thin, white and jagged. A thunderous orchestra of drums plays before our front row seats. Heavy rain drenches everything. Unrelenting. Our four year old son Bodhi awakes and comes into our room to sleep – he is uptight. Two year old Meijin, on the other hand, sleeps all night. I am awed by the intensity of this tropical monsoon, but remain oblivious as to what lies ahead.

Day 2 – Friday
The phone starts ringing at 7am. It is Ibu Ati, our cook. She sounds desperate. She cannot make it through the streets to our place. I tell her not to worry about coming in. Later, the school calls – it’s closed. Bodhi is thrilled. A playdate, previously arranged for today hangs in the balance. Are the streets passable or not? We don’t know. I suggest we stay home, but Bodhi has his heart set on seeing his friend and underneath my concern, I am curious as to the effect of the showers on the city. Although the concierge of our apartment warns against it, we decide to go out. Driving slowly on Jalan Sudirman we spot people paddling kayaks down the city’s main drag. We squeeze by the water – just. Hours later, on the way home, we see the pond, now turned into a lake, with traffic backed up for miles. Luckily, we are going the other way. One wrong turn, and we could be stuck for hours. I decide to stock up on food and water.

Day 3- Saturday
Curiosity turns to awareness, then alarm as we read the papers and learn of entire neighborhoods under water, of hundreds of thousands of people flooded out of their homes, electricity and water supply disrupted. I SMS friends to see how they are doing. Many have moved into hotels. They are the lucky ones. Others, in low-lying parts of the city, have seen all their possessions float out of their homes, onto the streets. A pang of guilt stabs me as I think of our life, uninterrupted, living in a bubble next to such despair. I collect clothes and supplies to contribute to the relief effort.

Day 4 – Sunday
The flood waters are rising. We live by a canal which is overflowing. As we head out to meet friends, I am shocked by the flooded roads around our apartment. The main gate is closed, piled high with sandbags, but the back gate is still passable – barely. Cars surround the building as people have moved them out of the underground garage, up to higher ground. Alarmed and upset, I chew out my husband for taking such a laissez-faire attitude towards the flood. With just a little more rain, our apartment building could easily become an island, with no access in or out for food and water. Then, if electricity shuts down and tap water is unavailable, what will we do? I have visions of swimming through the flood with the kids on our backs. Bodhi hears all, and sucks in my fear like a sponge. I have always known that living here, we are a just mosquito-wings-breadth between paradise and hell, but I have never felt the precariousness of our existence more than I do now. That night, the rains continue. As I lie awake, listening to the sound of water pouring everywhere, my mind is attacked by negative thoughts.

Day 5 – Monday
After a sleepless night, I feel exhausted. I cannot keep up this level of worry, physically or mentally. Fatigue numbs my sense of danger until a sense of adventure arises. The kids and I walk to the back gate to view the flood scene. People and ojeks everywhere. Someone has built a mud crocodile on the edge of the flood waters. A smile creeps across my face as I witness the essential nature of the Indonesian people. Warm-hearted, resourceful, playful, even in the face of disaster. We spend the day at home, school being closed again. Bodhi is behaving strangely – clingy, whiny, not wanting to play with his friends. Highly unusual. By mid-afternoon he becomes insufferable, so I suggest we go out for a haircut. It is no longer raining, and cars can still pass through. We take a detour on our way to the barber shop, avoiding the flooded roads. Weaving in and out of the small streets, we come to a horse cart filled with kids. Crawling behind, unable to pass, we watch the jovial, loud, happy bunch on their way. A glance down a side street reveals a horde of kids, perhaps home from school, (or maybe they don’t go to school?) playing in the flood waters. A group of boys balance carefully on the edge of large gutters, presumably looking for frogs and snakes. I am awed again, by these kids who find opportunity in the most unlikely places.

Day 6 – Tuesday
The sound of rain awakes me. It has become a foreboding sound now. Yet despite nature’s tears, the flood waters have receeded around our building. A feeling of pleasant surprise, followed by relief, washes over me. Perhaps the city sluice gates were opened? We venture out to school, despite Bodhi’s vehement objection. He is worried about being left behind, about the flood separating him from those who protect him. I make a mental note to be more careful about revealing my anxiety in front of him. “It’s okay Bodhi, the flood has gone away”, I reassure him. But he knows my words are only partly true. Only half the class shows up. Many are still out of their homes or unable, unwilling to come in.

Day 7 – Wednesday
Life seems to return to normal. Our staff show up as expected. Karate class is on. School in session. Even the underpass below Jl. Sudirman is clear. I meet up with friends for playdates, finding comfort in conversation. I feel shaken by the whole experience, the closest we’ve come to falling off the edge of our precarious paradise. Driving home after yoga class that night, it starts to drizzle lightly. “Oh no, here we go again”, I think to myself. Having gone through the flood once though, this time I will be simply stirred, not shaken.

pictures from the Jakarta Post

My Bio - Life As A Dog

According to the Chinese zodiac, I am born in the year of the dog. And yes, I do exhibit dog-like traits. I am fiercely loyal, like to explore new territory, and love being cuddled by those I hold dear. But the reference to the 12 year Chinese calendar really begs the question…‘what kind of dog am I’?

A German Shepherd - Chocolate Labrador cross, I would have to say. German Shepherd describes the side of me that’s a go-getter, hunting for opportunity and moving aggressively toward my goals. This energy propelled me through law school, World Karate Championships and allowed me to survive as the third of a quartet of daughters raised as sons on a farm in Northern Canada to a Chinese father and Scottish mother.

Chocolate Lab describes the more mellow, introspective, and creative part of me developed as I experimented with different careers – law, management consulting, action movies, motivational speaking – to discover my passion for youth development. The lab in me loves the rejuvenating arts of music, meditation and yoga, and stands me in good stead as we raise our two preschool ‘puppies’.

Like any dog though, I’m quite content with good company, a full belly, and the opportunity to bark once in awhile. Yes, happiness can be that simple. Less is more. Maybe I’ll be a poodle in the next zodiac cycle.

Keras Kepala! A disastrous sunday gives a glimpse of a future to behold

Meijin, you are so full of joy and life, but what happened all of a sudden? In the last week, you’ve become keras kepala! (hard headed). Uh oh, are you entering the terrible two’s early?

The other day was a big wake up call. Sunday, usually a lazy, relaxed family day, turned into a crying marathon. And for what? Because I wouldn’t let you eat your raisin bun in the bath? It all started in the morning when I asked you to eat it at the table and you wanted to munch around the house, a big no-no. Determined to reason with you and not just grab the bun from your hand, we worked it out, but you gave us a glimpse of your iron will - oh yeah, watch out baby!

Disaster averted, we had a fun day swimming, napping, eating Dad’s home-popped popcorn in front of the tube, and going to Nino’s birthday. But by 5.30pm it all started to unravel. Our first mistake was staying too late at the party. Our second was not bringing your dinner with us. Our third was digging into the party favors bag in the car. A tired, hungry two-year-old on a sugar high is not a pretty sight!

Home at last by 6pm, we rushed to get some food into you, but it was already too late. You ate a bit, but then came down from your chair to follow Bodhi into the bath, raisin bun in hand. No matter what I said, I could not wrestle it from you. A river of tears poured out of your beautiful brown eyes. You became hysterical and totally unreasonable! Aaaaaargh!! I had to put my earplugs in.

Finally, I took the raisin bun from your tight little fist, lathered you with soap, and changed you into your night clothes. You screamed at the top of your lungs for Daddy the whole time.

When you finally got to Daddy, he calmed you down by showing you how to cook an egg, and I retreated to my office to calm myself down. I didn’t dare go near you for fear of triggering another crying episode! Fifteen minutes later, I came out. Throwing my hands up in despair, I asked Pawan what he would have done. He came up with these 3 great ideas for dealing with Miss Iron Will:

keep your cool
add a dose of humor
change the game

After making some jokes about the fruit at the table, (you giggled when we pointed to a pineapple and said it was a watermelon – that’s 2 year old humor!) you looked me in the eyes, and calmly said “raisin bun”. Ah, almost two years of caring for you daily summed up by a pastry!

That night, we pretended we were all going to bed to get you into your room without a fight. Lying down on the sheepskin and pillow, I read books with you for almost half an hour, had heart-to-heart talk about the events of the day (you repeated “dada hit piñata, M-bay watch” several times), and said good night to every item in the last book. Only then did you say “mama, bobo” with your dodo in your mouth and other two soothers and milk clutched tightly in your palms. In bed, I rubbed your exhausted little head and stroked your velvety soft brown curls for a few seconds. When you said “bye mommy, bye”, I knew you were finally ready for day to fade into night. I crept quietly out of the room and shut the door behind me with relief. Phew. Only a week earlier, bed-time routines were a cinch, not to mention a joy. Tip-toeing around your moods, on the other hand, is a nerve-wracking ordeal.

People often say about their spouse that ‘the things they adore them for when they first fall in love are the same things they can’t stand after years of marriage.’ Perhaps the opposite is true with kids! I suppose we will appreciate your will of steel when you’re a teenager making decisions for yourself, but at 20 months of age, it can make life difficult. The things we find hardest when you’re two we will love most later on. You go girl! Iron will and all. I’ll keep my earplugs handy.

A Green Christmas

You wouldn’t know it’s Christmas here, except for the sign over Jalan Sudirman, the city’s main drag, that says Selamat Hari Natal.

There is no snow. No foggy Christmas Eve. No houses decorated with lights and glowing reindeer in the front yard. No Christmas carols playing at the mall. No ice to scrape off the windshield after a long evening spent with family at Grandma’s house. No bundling up in scarves, hats and toques for the annual park walk, then coming inside to warm up with a cup of hot cocoa by the fire. No Turtle chocolates, homemade Christmas cake, or shortbread. No wonderfully chaotic Christmas dinner with all the extended family - young cousins excitedly tearing open presents and gorging on holiday treats, then burning off their sugar highs wrestling with each other.

Out here, near the equator, snow tipped evergreens give way to broad-leafed palm trees. Friends become family as almost no one has relatives who live in the same hemisphere. And snowy walks through the park are replaced by plunges in swimming pools surrounded by green foliage and brightly colored tropical blooms.

What to make of this new, green Christmas? I miss the familiarity of a white Christmas, surrounded by family. Of the same events and traditions occurring every year since I can remember. I don’t miss the holiday stress - the need to be prepared, to buy presents for everyone, bake lots of treats, remember to send out Christmas cards, and help with or host one of many large family gatherings.

In the largest Muslim country in the world, where December 25th is of no particular significance to the vast proportion of the population, Christmas is what you make it.

Friends make a big effort to celebrate together, morphing December into party season. Kid parties, cocktail parties, dance parties, office parties, pool parties, and Santa parties sprout up, often at the last minute. Without the trappings of Christmas all around the city and family to celebrate with, we create our own festivity with friends, feeding off the initiative taken by each other. Eager to feel grounded while living in a foreign country (especially during the holidays), we share the diversity of our Christmas traditions: Gingerbread cookie decorating, snowball fights with tissue balls hiding a marshmallow in the middle, Scandinavian dancing and carols around the Christmas tree, worn out horse carts transformed into Santa’s sleigh pulled by elegant reindeer. Many old traditions from home survive the journey across continents… stockings brimming with treats, a tree topped with a shining star, presents for the kids, time together as a family, a Christmas prayer.

Christmas morning comes early as Bodhi jumps out of bed and runs to see if Santa filled his stocking. It's 6 am.

“Mommy, Daddy, Santa came!!!!” he shouts with the overwhelming excitement and complete lack of conflicting emotion that only a four year old can exude.

Bodhi is awestruck by the arrival of a day long awaited. For a month he has steadfastly followed the calendar with his school-made bell and links. Each day he cuts off one paper link until reaching the bell at the top signifying Christmas day.

His eyes glisten with wonder as he dumps out his stocking to see if Santa brought the items he asked for: candy cane, chocolate, marshmallow, lollipop, and gum. Yes, he inherited my sweet tooth. The look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face as he does his happy dance with little legs and arms pumping up and down, is the reason Pawan and I stayed up late wrapping presents and stuffing stockings. Well worth the effort.

Soon Meijin joins the fray. It’s impossible for her to sleep in with the decibel level in our apartment nearing rock concert proportions. We open presents, dance, sing carols, take pictures and drink in the chaos and wonder of Christmas morning. Bodhi is thrilled with his spiderman suit, and MJ with her puppet theatre. After the initial excitement wears off, we sit down to a breakfast of fresh tropical fruit, raisin toast and oatmeal with honey.

Without the big family gathering to prepare for or anticipate, the day stretches on. MJ goes for nap, and the rest of us catch some tube. By mid-afternoon our quiet day as a family seems almost too quiet. Bodhi and I head to Starmart to pick up some milk and stop at the cash machine, bringing home a pile of crisp, blue Rupiah notes. The normally busy garden and pool is empty, as most friends have returned to their home countries to celebrate Christmas with loved ones. As we walk home through the subdued tropical oasis, I think of the noisy, messy Christmas dinner back home that will soon begin. Chairs packed around Mom and Dad’s antique dining table, everyone passing around plates of turkey bursting with stuffing, mashed potatoes with thick gravy, pungent cranberries, steaming brussell sprouts, and buttery carrots garnished with fresh parsley. Oh, and Mom’s deliciously decadent black forest torte for dessert! A pang of melancholy washes over me as I think of what we are missing - both the food and the company.

Night comes, and with it the four B’s. Bath, books, bottle, and bed. The kids down, Pawan and I head over to the 5 star hotel across the street to enjoy a lavish Christmas buffet and some time together to reflect on a year gone by.

“What are your highs and lows for 2006?” I ask.

An animated three hour conversation ensues - one that would never happen amidst the activity of a day with the kids.

Returning home, talked out, bellies full, we take turns having a full body rubdown by our favorite massage lady in the comfort of our bedroom. Hours later, relaxed, content, smelling of sandalwood and lavender, we turn to each other against the backdrop of glowing Christmas tree lights.

"This is bliss" I say softly.

Pawan nods gently, eyes closed. The absence of holiday stress and the new traditions we’ve created with our family and friends here are meaningful and precious. Christmas in Jakarta has its own charms after all.

A Life Worth Living

Before we moved to Jakarta, my primary concerns about living here reflected the things I’d seen on CNN. Tsunamis, riots, and bombs mostly. Enough to make a mother tread carefully anywhere. But after we arrived, these things became the least of my concerns. Neither were the deadly mosquito and water-born diseases at the top of my list. In Canada, a mosquito bite was an annoyance, but here it could mean death or severe illness from dengue fever or malaria. The daily slathering of mosquito repellent on our kids bodies before they ventured outdoors became an urgent routine, not taken lightly. Our baby’s baths also adopted a gravity of care not seen before. Her bath water had to be boiled to guard against potential typhoid infection, for which she would remain unprotected until age two.

These life threatening diseases were a worry, but hey, I wasn’t the first person to arrive here with a baby. If they could do it so could I. After two months of scanning the Jakarta Post, bird flu catapulted to the top of my list of things to fear.

Each week, new cases of bird flu were discovered in Indonesia, headlined across the front page of the local paper. Soon those cases started to appear in Jakarta, the city where we lived. Whole families were dying because of contact with infected poultry. I wasn’t worried about any of us contracting the near-certainly fatal bird flu from chickens. We lived at the Four Seasons Apartments after all, not exactly your backyard poultry farm in the kampong (village). What gripped me with fear was the thought that if bird flu mutated and became easily transmissible between humans, we would be stuck on this archipelago of 18,000 islands in the middle of a pandemic. Airports would shut down and other countries would not accept flights from Indonesia. We would quickly go from paradise to hell as drinking water shortages occurred, food became scarce, and security broke down. True, no place on earth is safe from a bird flu pandemic, but I would much rather be in a country with functioning hospitals (and toilets) than one without.

Week after week, reading the morbid reports in the newspaper, my concern mounted. I attended a meeting with a medical expert from World Bank headquarters who had come to Jakarta to speak to field staff, warning of the “serious threat and potential evacuation” that would be necessary in the event of a bird flu pandemic. I remember the moment I received that news. That was the last straw. I didn’t sleep for days.

Fear and worry ate away at my adventurous spirit like termites at a cedar tree. Unable to cope with my feelings, I went to the gym, my usual therapy when I feel lousy. On the treadmill, I picked up the pace, hoping to ‘burn out’ my negative feelings. With each stride I could feel the stress and worry that had built up over the past two months draining away, as if the black rubbery surface of the treadmill were drawing it out of me. I pushed myself to run faster, drinking in the feeling of release.

As the treadmill neared its maximum speed, I jumped off. Bowing my head in part from physical exhaustion, in part emotional exhaustion, I gasped to myself.

“I can’t live like this. “I’m miserable, yet we live in this amazing, interesting place.”

I stood grasping the rails of the treadmill, sweat dripping from my forehead, with my chest heaving, sucking wind. Slowly, a calm came over me. I looked up and caught a glimpse of something moving in the wind outside the window. It was a small, pink, flower, floating away in the breeze, framed by broad palm leaves against a blue sky. Sunlight poured in through the gym windows, bathing me in its warm glow.

Suddenly I was filled with a sense of gratitude. Gratitude for this moment, seeing the beauty of my surroundings, a tropical paradise. Gratitude for the chance to have a break from our kids and time for myself to workout. Gratitude for all the mothers who had come before me and raised their families here. Gratitude for being alive! In a country where children the age of mine begged for food in busy traffic intersections, I was reminded daily that life is not something to be taken for granted. I felt gratitude for the chance to live this adventure. In Indonesia I didn’t understand the street signs or the culture; four seasons gave way to two – monsoon and dry; and mangrove forests replaced evergreen trees. In this strange land, I experienced a sense of trepidation yet excitement that made me feel alive.

Gratitude flowed inside me, filling in the places where fear and worry had sat. In that moment, I decided to make the most of all that Jakarta had to offer. The thought that we might be evacuated at any time only added urgency to the opportunity. What had once fueled my fears would now fuel my passion.

In that moment of transformation, everything changed and nothing changed. The risk of a bird flu pandemic was as high as ever. Malaria, dengue fever and typhoid continued to exist, and bombs were an ever present risk. Yet suddenly these dangers were no longer my focus. They had moved to the periphery of my world and been replaced by thoughts of things that filled my life with joy. Time with our kids, teaching karate, playing jazz piano, yoga, meditation, running. With my change in focus, the whole world looked different.

With renewed energy, I left the gym and went home. The next day, I started teaching a kids karate class, bought a piano, joined a yoga group, and started meditating again. Now, well into our second year here, Jakarta has become a home we love.