Elephant Rides, Risk-Taking, and Big, Big Mistakes

Before my son left last August to study abroad, we were surprised that whenever Thailand came up in conversation with folks, they generally seemed to want to talk about one of two things: riding elephants or tattoos.  It got to be a bit of a running joke in the family.

(Okay, a few mentioned AIDS and the sex trade, but tentatively, because, you know, I am The Mother.  And, turns out, when the topic did come up, I was thoroughly informed — and informative! — as my son had already given me quite a lecture about the whole issue, touching on various medical, social, and human rights aspects.)

Tattoos.  So many people immediately said to me, "Tell him not to get a tattoo!  The needles aren't clean."  As if, a) it's my job to "tell" him what to do or not do — I mean, at this point his decisions are pretty much his to make, and if he can't be trusted to make good ones, then I have already failed, and b) ...hello?  Have you met the guy?  Not to be a profiler or anything, but he really doesn't seem the tattoo type.  

In a glorious you can't make up shit this good twist, the first thing that happened in Thailand was that he was collected by his host family.  And host dad happens to be covered in tattoos.  And seven-year-old host brother's name is Mohawk.  And host dad rides a Harley.  And also is the most dear, kind man, who wept when they said goodbye, and told my son that he was part of their family now.

As for riding elephants, that's come up in other posts.  It seems that many see the elephant riding opportunity as something not to be missed, the thing one does in Thailand, a sort of litmus test for adventure managed.  Except when he was out in the field, I spoke or corresponded with my son regularly, and elephant riding just never came up.  Toward the end there, as time was running out, I was asked so often about it, I finally wrote him, "Dude.  Elephants?"  He replied:

I was really interested in doing it, but after I had become integrated, it just seemed more and more touristy and kind of cheesy. Also, many of the places that let you do elephant rides don't treat them very well. I didn't want to contribute to the abuse of them.

Well, then.

We have ideas about risks and adventure, but real life is just a shitstorm of unpredictability.  We can open ourselves to adventure, or put ourselves in its way, or try to avoid it, but adventure happens, and what shape it will take, who can ever tell?

I've been pondering all these things in the last week, talking with him, watching him, and noticing how happy he is.  Last night at the alumni concert for the choir he sang with all through high school, others noticed, too.  "He's blossomed!  He's so happy!"  He does not seem different to me, but more, more fully himself.  This has been a pleasant surprise, since I'd been warned about reverse-culture shock, and how hard it is sometimes for returning students to reintegrate into their old lives, their small world.  

That year-end choir concert has become one of my favorite traditions.  It seems the right way to close the year.  I like seeing the changes, seeing how these young adults are growing into themselves.  And not only do I not have to be responsible for any aspect of that performance, I get to see my "child" singing again.  And nothing puts you back together again like the human voice in song.

* * * * *

The turn of the year is always quiet around our house.  This morning for a long while I sat on my bed in my jammies sipping coffee, gazing out the window at the wreckage of my garden, wondering if three or four hours working outside would be "as good as" a run.  I didn't want to do either.  But the sun was shining; there was no reason not to deal with the garden.  

The apples were the main issue, so I put on my bicycling rain pants, which I use almost as often in the garden as I do on the bike. ("Mother.  That is blasphemy.")  They're handy for crawling around under the apple trees.  No matter how many gallons of applesauce and apple butter I make, there is still a smooshy, moldy, vinegar-smelling mess to deal with.  It's my least favorite gardening chore, but the most satisfying, once it's done.  

Our winter has been so mild that the hellebores and sarcococca are starting to bloom, early, and the slutty tulips are already coming up.  Nota bene: never trust the image on a package of eleventy-billion Costco tulip bulbs.  It was pleasant outside, not too cold.  I learned that my new neighbors' dogs are called Philip and Gus, but other than their escape and the panic that ensued, it was quiet.  For the last half hour or so a squirrel dropped fir cones on the car and a hummingbird visited, a thrumming, whirring little flash of green.

I have mentioned that I sometimes feel that my little urban homestead is a collection of irreparable mistakes.  And I felt that today, recrimination and shame simmered low in my belly while my brain radio played every little mistake-theme tune in the archives.  (Thanks!)  That annoying "you're my favorite mistake" song, I forget who sings it, was first up and I had a hard time shaking it.  Seriously, people.  If you can call a mistake "favorite" you either aren't very good at taking risks, or your mistake really wasn't one.  And the gardening mistakes resonated with others, deeper, less visible, but every bit as real.

I will remember 2012 as the year of the Big, Big Mistake.  It turned out to be useful, so even though I'd prefer never make that mistake again, hell to the no, I'm not especially sorry I did.  Err boldly, I say!  Of course, I thought at the time it was going to be an adventure.  In fact, the year began with more hope and promise and tenderness than I've ever known.  It middled with betrayal and deceit and subsequent terror and hatred and grief — not necessarily in that order.  (Fuck you very much.  Not that I'm still bitter or anything.)  Very unexpectedly, the latter half of this year has been ridiculously productive and, again, hopeful, but not in a giddy, joyful way.  It's a quiet, small-stirring, tentative hope.  And these last months have been full of very real and exciting possibilities, which, best of all, have moved me out of feeling so very suffocatingly trapped, by my job, my house, my responsibilities, my mistakes.

So while I scooped up the decaying leaves and fruit, thinking about adventure and mistakes,  I felt gratitude for the usefulness of that Thailand adventure for my son.  He has that story now.  He had an actual transformative experience, not one that was canned, or safe, like riding an elephant.  And it could have gone badly.  The risk could have tipped over into mistake territory in the blink of an eye. One night a fella in my son's group approached a Thai woman, ostensibly with no ill intent, and was cruelly beaten by her companions.  I saw that young man's picture; the damage to his face was severe and disturbing.  

It wasn't until the enormous yard waste toter bins were filled and the garden started to look a tiny bit less disheveled that I realized: I've been so eager for 2012 to be over, I'd almost forgotten that it would be.  Over.  Really, really.  And the coming semester at work seemed less daunting, somehow, with that one task accomplished.  Or, I could think about it without feeling overwhelmed.  The five and a half months until graduation are not interminable; they are navigable.  And then?  Who knows!