One of the oddest things about getting married is calling someone else “dad,” when all your life, you’ve only called one person by that title. But I am grateful that the second person I call “dad”–my father-in-law–clearly is worthy of the endearing title. And today, he celebrates another year of life.

My father-in-law is caring, clearly wants the best for his kids, generous, and thoughtful. He’s the one I sought for advice on cooking a whole fish, and it never fails that he buys me chicken feet (the cold white kind–just the way I like ‘em!) whenever we’re back in LA.

I wish him the best on a new year of life. Happy birthday, dad!

We almost named her Phlegm, but for reasons I can’t remember, we ended up naming her Charisma. She joined our family nearly 16 years ago, when I was 14 years old. Auntie Mimmy brought over Charisma and her sister, and we blocked off the kitchen area so the kittens could run around. They were so tiny back then; Charisma fit into my cupped hands. At first, they were so scared that they wouldn’t even come out of their carrier. Charisma’s sister, later adopted by Auntie Mimmy and named Samantha, kept hissing at me whenever I tried to put my hand near her. Meanwhile, Charisma huddled in the far corner, while Samantha was being overprotective. I remember putting on oven mitts to get the kittens out, trying to protect my hands from being scratched.

I immediately favored Charisma because she seemed so scared and helpless. When my parents allowed us to keep one of them, I chose Charisma right away. We kept her in the backyard, and brought her into the garage during cold nights. Sometimes when we opened up the door to the backyard, she’d dash past us and immediately start clawing the furniture. After playing with her, sometimes she’d bite our ankles when we tried to go back into the house. Sometimes while petting her, she would bite my wrist. I would swat at her or scold her, and she would stop with her mouth open around my wrist.

Most people will tell you if they are dog people or if they are cat people. As much as I like dogs, I’m definitely a cat person. They can be moody, and they do their own thing. They never feel like they have to please you. In a lot of Charisma’s pictures, she looks like she’s glaring at you. She definitely was her own strong-willed character and did whatever she felt like doing. But she also enjoyed being near us. Whenever I’d go into the backyard and call her name, sometimes it would take her awhile to wake up, but eventually, she would come out of the hiding place where she was napping, and saunter over to me.

Sometimes if I was quiet or still enough, I could observe her from inside the house without her spotting me. She often sat by the little pond, dipping one paw into the water and then cleaning her face with a wet paw. She also liked to sit right in front of the backdoor if she knew we were inside, or if she expected someone to come out to feed or play with her.

And don’t let people tell you that you can’t play with cats. Charisma never liked to be held very long, and she was not the type of cat who sat in your lap for more than a few seconds. She was restless and liked to do her own thing, but she did like to play. We used to hide in the yard–around the corner, behind the pond, behind shrubs–and call Charisma’s name. She would creep ever so slowly, and then pounce at you when she was nearby. I also liked shaking branches and long leaves at her, which she would swat at. She also like rolling grapes around the floor with her paws.

When I was still living at home, I remember many nights when I’d hear our neighbor’s cats in our yard, chasing Charisma. I’d hear her screeching, and either my mom or I would dash downstairs, throw open the backdoor, and try to chase the mean cats away. Once they were gone, we’d find Charisma cowering in a hiding place, and we’d try to comfort her. The neighbors who used to live behind us also had a few big Rottweilers who used to bark through the fence at us and Charisma. I really like animals, but I hated those pets who picked on Charisma.

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In the past few years or so, I knew it was just a matter of time before the call came. And when the phone rang late at night or early in the morning (which seems to be the case with bad news), I always wondered if my mom was calling to tell me that Charisma died. I even wondered if my mom would ever not tell me that Charisma died because she wanted to tell me in person the next time I was home.

But on Sunday, January 18, right before Puzzle Master came on the radio, the phone rang. Matt picked it up, and I could hear my mom on the other end saying that she wanted to tell me that Charisma died. By the time Matt passed the phone to me, I was already crying.

My mom had gone out to the garage that morning around 8:15 a.m. and saw Charisma sitting in the litter box. She described her as “sitting like a roasted pig,” and Charisma didn’t respond to my mom’s call. My mom had just spent time with Charisma the night before, brushing her hair, and Charisma seemed fine. But that morning, Charisma was stiff when my mom touched her. She called my dad to the garage, and he confirmed that she was gone. My mom said she looked peaceful in her sitting position, and she hoped that Charisma didn’t suffer as she breathed her last breath. (When I told Matt this, he said, “She died how you would want to die–on the toilet.” I laughed through my tears, and for some reason, agreed with him, although I had never once told him–or even considered–that I would want to die on the toilet.)

Charisma was still doing well considering her old age. She had some thyroid issues (which ran in the family on my mom’s side, so it was only fitting that Charisma had it too!), but the issues were under control with medication. Her teeth and gums were healthy, and she was still able to chew crunchy “special treats,” as we called them. (Every Christmas, I would buy bags of “special treats”–tartar control snacks–to put in Charisma’s stocking.) The last time I saw her, which was in July 2008, she was unable to jump onto the bench in the backyard when I sat down to play with her. In the past, she would always jump up there when I sat there, and then nudge my hand to pet her. She still liked drinking water from a hose (as opposed to from a water bowl), and she would eat food from my hand.

When my mom and I hung up, I could not stop crying. The longer I laid in bed, the more I cried. Matt suggested we skip church and head out of town. We drove to Portland on a whim, listening to a “This American Life” CD from Na. If I listened to music on the radio, my mind would wander and eventually, I’d end up in tears. My parents, Na and Christopher already had plans to go out to SF that day and, fortunately, they did not cancel their plans. The distraction was welcome for all of us.

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A close neighbor of my parents suggested they call a pet cemetery to pick Charisma up for burial or cremation. But my dad felt strongly about burying Charisma in our backyard, just like we did with my rabbit Oreo at the old house when I was in elementary school. My dad dug a hole about three feet deep and placed Charisma in a Macy’s box, closing her eyes completely since she had died with her eyes half-open. My mom touched her for the last time.

The grave is on the side of the house, visible from the piano area. Charisma often sat in that area, with the warm rocks underneath her. Her favorite spot actually is in the corner of the yard, under a large redwood tree. In fact, she spent so much time there that all the plant growth was matted down–and no weeds have sprung up there. Because of the dense planting in that area, my dad was unable to dig a deep enough hole there. Instead, my parents bought a small statue of a cat and placed it there. On her grave, they placed a marker that reads “Our Beloved Pet,” and placed a ceramic cup that I made in high school, so flowers could be placed there.

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When my family went out to SF that day, my mom saw many toy cats in Chinatown that reminded her of Charisma. I imagined it was even harder for my mom, who had been taking care of Charisma every single day since I had moved out of the house in 1997. Although I still referred to Charisma as “my” cat, she was really my mom’s cat. I imagined it was difficult for my mom because she was the one who found Charisma (and Oreo, for that matter) when they had died. My mom said in SF she tried very hard not to visualize Charisma’s dead body, but instead, tried to remember the happy days they had together.

My mom recalls Charisma sitting on her lap when she was very little, playing hide-and-seek in the backyard, watching Charisma lick pieces of watermelon during hot summer evenings. My mom enjoyed talking to Charisma–and Charisma listened back. Even my dad, who often grumbled about Charisma pooping among his plants and who often playfully sprayed her with the garden hose, grew to have a soft spot for our cat. And Charisma liked my dad, too, often rubbing her nose on his feet when he sat outside to read.

Now that Charisma is gone, of course I wish I had spent more time with her. That is always the case when a loved one dies. You regret that you didn’t make more time for them. I know I could’ve stayed in the garage longer with Charisma, petting her as she sat on her kitty bed, or playing with her longer in the backyard. But there were always things to do back in the house. But even so, we had many, many years with her–and many fond memories that we are trying to focus on, rather than the fact that she is gone.

I’ve finally been able to talk about Charisma without crying, and I’m surprised I’ve gotten through writing this with dry eyes. Aside from Matt, I only talked about Charisma’s death face-to-face with two girls in my church small group. Of course, I started crying, and asked them to keep us in their prayers. One girl asked how she could pray for me, and I said, “Pray that I won’t be sad anymore.” She responded in a way that surprised me. “You sure you want to pray for that?” I didn’t understand why she said that then, but I think I do now. Sadness is a sign that Charisma meant a lot to me, and that’s something I don’t want to change. And if I prayed for joy or some other happy emotion to cloud my sadness, I wouldn’t really be dealing with the grief.

So right now, I’m feeling the emotions well up again, but there’s a stronger sense of overcoming the intense sadness and only remembering the joy it was to have Charisma as part of our family all those years.

“Love? Beyond the small, intoxicating fury which dies away to leave the body unfettered, the body sweating, the mind appeased, it is perhaps a profound sharing, a feeling of trust, and the same sense of walking toward the same horizon.”

Claude Roy, The Agony of Love

“Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Honor one another above yourselves.” Romans 12:9-10 (NIV)

“Love from the center of who you are; don’t fake it. Run for dear life from evil; hold on for dear life to good. Be good friends who love deeply; practice playing second fiddle.” Romans 12:9-10 (The Message)

(And for something on the lighter side…TMNT Valentine’s day cards! I actually remember these, specifically the Bebop and Rocksteady one, because I handed them out to friends back in the day.)

Happy birthday to my mom who celebrates another year of life today! She is a strong, sweet, beautiful woman who is dedicated to being the best wife, mom, daughter, sister, and friend that she can be. I love you mom, and I hope you have a great birthday!

It’s been a long time since I’ve been this physically worn out from a weekend–but also more energized than ever.

My capoeira group had a weekend-long workshop that began with a three hours on Friday night (after our regular class on Thursday night), two more on Saturday, and then another two hours on Sunday morning. I almost felt like I was out of town, having spent so much time out of the house. Matt graciously was fine with me staying over at a friend’s house on Friday night (”Stay all weekend, if you want!” he told me, eager to get me out of the house.).

A high-ranking capoeirista from Canada flew down to teach us, along with a couple of students from San Francisco who came to help out and participate in the workshops. The training was demanding, forcing me to focus more than usual on new sequences. The bottoms of my feet, which are accustomed to only one night a week of barefoot activity, soon became sore. Last night’s workshop reminded us all that, yes, we have thigh muscles and, no, we don’t use them nearly as much as we should. Mine will probably be sore for another few days. After last night’s workshop, sighs and groans could be heard throughout the room as we stretched or tried to sit down to rest. We had all suddenly aged 40 years.

But it was so much fun. The first night, we all went out to eat, breaking all the rules of not eating certain things (or anything at all) late at night. I can’t remember the last time I was out at a restaurant after midnight. The second night, we had a potluck that began at 10:30. Yes, that is 10:30 p.m. I didn’t get there until almost 11:30. If it were any other group or social setting, I would have just ditched the potluck and went home. Who STARTS a potluck at such an ungodly hour? I don’t think I have any other group of friends who hang out that late at night.

I tend to be quite rigid with my schedule, especially my bedtime. If I know I can’t sleep in the next day, I get uptight about making sure I get enough sleep the night before. But when I’m with this group, that seems to go out the window–probably because they don’t operate any other way. I was quite proud of myself that I broke out of my rigidness, and had a blast. I don’t always feel totally comfortable around people–even people I would call friends–but there’s something about this mix of people that really puts me at ease.

During the potluck, we presented our capoeira instructor with a thank you card. He said a few words, talking about how far the group has come since the days when it was just him, his fiance, me, and another guy, and also how the group has attracted such great people. One thing he mentioned was how, at last week’s Chinese new year dinner at our house, he looked around and realized that none of us would have ever met each other, had it not been for capoeira. And here we all were, sitting around, laughing and eating together–some people only having been in the group for a few months. I know I’m biased, but I’ve visited many capoeira groups, and this one is definitely the coolest that I’ve come across. I was reminded once again about how fortunate I am to be a part of this group, and how thankful I am for capoeira because otherwise, I probably never would have crossed paths with these people.

Other things I was reminded of this weekend…
1. Life doesn’t always have to run on a schedule. I don’t know what it is about capoeira groups. Just like the Brazilian culture, capoeira groups like to plan at the last minute. We learned that in SF last year. Mel and I had no idea how we were going to get home at 2 a.m., but no one else was stressing, so we just sort of let the situation play out (and we got home safely that night).

And again, this past weekend, the schedule was loosely set, but there were times when we got to the community center at the specified time, but the workshop didn’t actually start until a little later. For some reason, I could be more relaxed in this situation, where I normally would be more of a stickler about time. Or even the potluck last night. I didn’t buy any food until the last minute, where usually, I would have scheduled making or buying something into my schedule in the days leading up to the potluck. Did I need to be at the potluck right when it started? Naahh…I could clean up a bit, hit up Safeway, and then get to the potluck whenever I got there.

Don’t get me wrong. I still favor my tendencies to plan ahead and stick to a schedule, but I’m learning to chill out a bit more when it comes to capoeira schedules…and hopefully that will trickle into other areas of my life.

2. I don’t always need to get things right. I have a hard time enjoying activities that I don’t do well. And capoeira is sometimes frustrating for me because while there is a sense that the general movements flows naturally in my body, I feel like I should play better than I do. I have a hard time picking up routines, and feel flustered a lot.

Throughout the weekend, the instructor reminded us that the workshops were focused on introducing us to new sequences. We shouldn’t expect to perform them perfectly. He emphasized that we should relax, have fun, and just give the moves a try. As great as that sounded, my instinct still was to want to do things well and not mess up. And with my belt/cord, I feel like expectations are a little higher–and I can’t live up to them.

I can’t say that I ended the weekend just having fun and not caring about messing up. I did have fun, but I still wanted to do well–and I was disappointed with myself when I messed up (which was often!). But it’s something that I’d like to try to continue telling myself–not just with capoeira, but life in general.

And 3. Did I mention what an amazing group we have??