Thinking of my Grandma Hiu
I forgot to say yesterday that the doctor also mentioned the importance of stress management as part of healing and being healthy. I protested that I feel like my life is remarkably stress-free and she looked at me, knowing there is no such thing, and said that multi-tasking is hard on the body and brain. Oh yes, I have heard that. She said that every single one of us is working against ourselves when we multi-task. Taking regular time to focus on the breath, to clear our busy minds, to patiently sit with our selves, is important. So all the practice of meditating that I have managed to fit in, it's all part of the treatment. For all of us. Sit up and take notice, friends. It's not just about cancer.
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Dear Grandma Hiu,
The other day when Brian's girlfriend was sitting on the other couch, facing me, I thought of you. Something about her beautiful face and her expressiveness conjured your beautiful face and the way you moved. Naturally that got me thinking about what you taught us all, in your contrary and tenacious and humorous and cranky way. You were a piece of work.
I was lucky to have a chance to know you better than I might have, since you lived in Hawaii most of your life. I got to interview most of your 11 siblings and find out more about you and them. Even though my mother is not exactly like you, I could see where she came from -- her strength of mind, her capacity for work, her doggedness and discipline, her wonderful laugh. Unlike my mother, though, you were known for going your own way, doing what you wanted, not being a good girl when you were little. All your siblings described you as the tomboy. This probably had a lot to do with your place in the line-up, as older sister to a string of close in age brothers.
But when I was a young person and you were an adult 55 years older than I, you were kind of crabby sometimes. Strict and fierce, standing about five feet tall, with your painted on eyebrows and your shoes with heels. You never wore flat shoes and you almost never were seen without make-up. Your vanity was so endearing. I remember once in California, standing in Uncle Babe's kitchen, you complained to me and Lani about your "spare tire" as you pinched your little belly. Spare tire, huh. You were tiny.
You had infinite opinions about everything -- how people raised their children, frugality (you were the queen -- you taught us to wash out the kitty litter and re-use it, drying it in the sun at your house on Pepeekeo Place), what we should eat. But the part that made you the most scary, almost, was your commitment to your Jehovah's Witness self. We could never escape that. And no one else in your family was going that route, which added to the stress of being with you. You believed so, so deeply that we all needed to learn and believe. The whole time we were growing up, we got a weekly copy of the JW publication (Awake, I think? or something like that) delivered to our house on Q Street. It was always around but it never rung any bells with any of us. You tried so hard.
As you got older and more mellow, you became more easy for us young people to be around. You relaxed that JW vigilance and you sat quietly amongst your offspring, with that little Grandma Hiu smile on your face. Your lips would purse like you were drinking from a straw and your eyes would twinkle -- you really did have twinkly eyes, I don't know anyone else really with eyes like that -- and you would say in your pidgin English, "eat more jook, Hana." In your later years, you were a vicious dominoes player. We are all sure that you cheated but we don't know how.
A few years ago my mother had a scary episode where she had a high fever and she lost her capacity to speak, and she reminded me of you, instantly. The benign way she looked around, her smile, her look of distant wisdom. I saw that she could easily be you, when she gets old. And maybe I will too.
There are many ways that our lives have been completely different from each other, even though we started off with the same name. You allowed people to call you Hannah, even though you were Hana. Me, not so much. You were a naughty child, I was a good one. You expressed your need for freedoms, I never did. You lived in a small world, I live in a bigger one. You believed in a punishing God with lots of weird rules, I don't.
But of course there are so many ways that your life is a model for mine. You stayed close to your family. You took care of everyone. You had OPINIONS. You were full of energy and spunk. You were not riddled with self-doubt. You were funny. In the end, after you got past the angry, over stretched phase of your life, you were forgiving and patient. Or in any case you couldn't hear well enough to be so engaged and bossy. Oh yes, you and I are both bossy.
The last lesson, the one I really treasure, is the way you died. You died of the dwindles, your doctor said. And that is just what I want to do. No drama, no long drawn out muss and fuss, just dwindle away. I don't really need to get all the way to 102 years old, but we will see how that goes.
Grandma Hiu, your influence flows through all of us who knew you. So when I meet someone who reminds me of you, it makes me happy to have another chance to remember you. And to think about all the people we are both related to. It is pretty dang great.
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Dear Grandma Hiu,
The other day when Brian's girlfriend was sitting on the other couch, facing me, I thought of you. Something about her beautiful face and her expressiveness conjured your beautiful face and the way you moved. Naturally that got me thinking about what you taught us all, in your contrary and tenacious and humorous and cranky way. You were a piece of work.
I was lucky to have a chance to know you better than I might have, since you lived in Hawaii most of your life. I got to interview most of your 11 siblings and find out more about you and them. Even though my mother is not exactly like you, I could see where she came from -- her strength of mind, her capacity for work, her doggedness and discipline, her wonderful laugh. Unlike my mother, though, you were known for going your own way, doing what you wanted, not being a good girl when you were little. All your siblings described you as the tomboy. This probably had a lot to do with your place in the line-up, as older sister to a string of close in age brothers.
But when I was a young person and you were an adult 55 years older than I, you were kind of crabby sometimes. Strict and fierce, standing about five feet tall, with your painted on eyebrows and your shoes with heels. You never wore flat shoes and you almost never were seen without make-up. Your vanity was so endearing. I remember once in California, standing in Uncle Babe's kitchen, you complained to me and Lani about your "spare tire" as you pinched your little belly. Spare tire, huh. You were tiny.
You had infinite opinions about everything -- how people raised their children, frugality (you were the queen -- you taught us to wash out the kitty litter and re-use it, drying it in the sun at your house on Pepeekeo Place), what we should eat. But the part that made you the most scary, almost, was your commitment to your Jehovah's Witness self. We could never escape that. And no one else in your family was going that route, which added to the stress of being with you. You believed so, so deeply that we all needed to learn and believe. The whole time we were growing up, we got a weekly copy of the JW publication (Awake, I think? or something like that) delivered to our house on Q Street. It was always around but it never rung any bells with any of us. You tried so hard.
As you got older and more mellow, you became more easy for us young people to be around. You relaxed that JW vigilance and you sat quietly amongst your offspring, with that little Grandma Hiu smile on your face. Your lips would purse like you were drinking from a straw and your eyes would twinkle -- you really did have twinkly eyes, I don't know anyone else really with eyes like that -- and you would say in your pidgin English, "eat more jook, Hana." In your later years, you were a vicious dominoes player. We are all sure that you cheated but we don't know how.
A few years ago my mother had a scary episode where she had a high fever and she lost her capacity to speak, and she reminded me of you, instantly. The benign way she looked around, her smile, her look of distant wisdom. I saw that she could easily be you, when she gets old. And maybe I will too.
There are many ways that our lives have been completely different from each other, even though we started off with the same name. You allowed people to call you Hannah, even though you were Hana. Me, not so much. You were a naughty child, I was a good one. You expressed your need for freedoms, I never did. You lived in a small world, I live in a bigger one. You believed in a punishing God with lots of weird rules, I don't.
But of course there are so many ways that your life is a model for mine. You stayed close to your family. You took care of everyone. You had OPINIONS. You were full of energy and spunk. You were not riddled with self-doubt. You were funny. In the end, after you got past the angry, over stretched phase of your life, you were forgiving and patient. Or in any case you couldn't hear well enough to be so engaged and bossy. Oh yes, you and I are both bossy.
The last lesson, the one I really treasure, is the way you died. You died of the dwindles, your doctor said. And that is just what I want to do. No drama, no long drawn out muss and fuss, just dwindle away. I don't really need to get all the way to 102 years old, but we will see how that goes.
Grandma Hiu, your influence flows through all of us who knew you. So when I meet someone who reminds me of you, it makes me happy to have another chance to remember you. And to think about all the people we are both related to. It is pretty dang great.
That is a sweet set of memories Hana. Thanks.
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