I choose to believe that there is nothing more sacred or profound than this day. I choose to believe that there may be a thousand big moments embedded in this day, waiting to be discovered like tiny shards of gold....The big moments are in every hour, every conversation, every meal, every meeting. - Shauna Niequist
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It's a Monday and I've just squirted soap on 25 little pairs of hands. Everyone is taking out their lunches and digging into containers of rice, fried chicken, and hot dogs. Vallerie runs back to my desk with gusto and squeals, "Teacher! Guess what I have?!" I fiend confusion, "Hmm, I don't know. What?" "Uht sukasuk! [mashed bananas with coconut milk] Lets eat, teacher!" She knows it's my favorite local dish, so we have this exact conversation every time she finds it in her lunch. But who can say no to that smile? "Yes, Vallerie, lets eat!" She laughs at me and we walk to the green picnic table outside our classroom. The table is full of children eating, sharing with their neighbors, talking about those things that 6-year-olds talk about, and I join right in. We squish little bits of banana and coconut milk into balls with our fingers and pop them into our mouths. "So yummy!" I say, and Vallerie just laughs.
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It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting in a third floor apartment with some of my community mates and our Japanese friends. Once or twice a month we meet up with the young JICA volunteers at a senior JICA's apartment for food and conversation; she cooks a delicious lunch for all of us in exchange for some English tutoring. The best part of the whole arrangement is that everyone thinks they're winning - we get a great meal and enjoy answering their English questions and the young volunteers are excited to eat Japanese food and practice English. We're all excited to be together. It's like we're a little family, our own ragtag Pohnpei family. Some are young, some are old, some are Japanese, some are American. But we're all here, on this island. And we're all together, in this moment. Between bites of Japanese dishes, we share stories from our childhood and our culture's customs. We linger over dessert and keep talking, keep laughing, keep asking a few more questions to delay our departure. This apartment, right above Imelda's Shoes, if you peeked inside it on a Sunday afternoon you'd see people full - of life, of friendship, of food.
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We only eat at tables on Tuesdays. We eat dinner on the floor in our apartment - we don't own a table - but Tuesdays we eat with the priests. The evening starts with prayer in the chapel at 6:15 sharp, followed by drinks and chips on the porch. We soak in the setting sun, the view of Sokehs Rock, and the silhouettes of tropical trees. I fix my normal drink - guava juice with a shot of triple sec - and head out to the porch. Between nibbles of chips and chez-mix we regale Father Dave and Father Ken with our latest teaching stories until it's time to go downstairs and eat dinner. Tonight it's salad, rice, and a beef stew with vegetables. Once we're finished with our meal Father Dave grabs the ice cream and insists we indulge. I collect some plates and start doing dishes. We switch off who does dishes every week and tonight I crave the warm water and rhythmic washing and rinsing, washing and rinsing. After a little ice cream we bid the priests thank you and farewell and start the walk back to our apartment.
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It's Saturday night and I'm sitting with my host family at their house. Normally we stay in a house right next to the church since my host dad is a deacon, but tonight we're at their own home. It's about a 10 minute walk from the road, across 2 small rivers, and is perfectly peaceful all day. It's dinner time and in the cool of the evening everyone settles in for the night. I'm sitting with a handful of host brothers/sisters and their children. There's a huge plate of rice, some leftover fried fish, and ramen in the middle of us. We all dig in and help ourselves. First I use my fingers to make a little ball of rice to pop in my mouth. Then some leftover fish, back to the rice, and a little ramen. Kids are coming in and out to get food and there are anywhere from 6-9 people sitting here together, on the floor, eating dinner.
After the meal the kids go into the other room and I stay with the adults. A bottle of sakau is brought out and it's time to drink. Sakau is a traditional drink made by pounding the roots of the sakau plant and squeezing the liquid through a large hibiscus leaf. The resulting mixture is a muddy-brown color and the consistency of troll snot. While we each take our sips we touch many topics, tonight specifically homelessness in Pohnpei versus America or other places. This conversation never would have happened on its own, but sakau offers a space for adults to be together and talk. In this moment, drinking sakau, sitting on the floor of their porch looking at the trees, surrounded by my host family, I feel like I belong.
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It's Saturday night and I'm on my way to the docks with The Kwaks, a Korean family I started tutoring over the summer. Mr. Kwak works for a Korean fishing company and tonight they invited me onboard one of the vessels to have dinner with the captain. We climb up and over two boats, climbing on boxes and up tiny stairwells to find the gangplank that finally takes us to the Korean vessel. The Captain eagerly welcomes me, the new guest, onboard and talks excitedly with Mr. Kwak, Mrs. Kwak, Eunice (a junior in high school), and Kristin (a 3rd grader). They are all old friends and as we're ushered to the dining room I imagine the exciting stories the Captain might be telling them, wishing I could understand even a bit of Korean.
We all sit down and soon slabs of meat sizzle on the grill in the middle of the table. I'm introduced to the Captain's wife, who just flew in from Korea to visit her husband. We eat the tasty meat and other Korean dishes paired with a sweet white wine that I enjoy immensely (a feat, for my friends who know that I don't like most wines). My chopstick skills from Japanese lunches come in handy and I fit right in: grab a slice of meat, kimchi, and sauces. Everyone is speaking Korean and I don't know a thing that is going on, but I sip my sweet wine and know I'll remember this moment forever. These are the moments I live for: new cultures, new food, new customs, and above all the notion that I was welcomed in, warmly invited, to be a part of this moment. I feel wanted, known, and accepted. Isn't that how we all want to feel? Wanted, known, accepted.
We all sit down and soon slabs of meat sizzle on the grill in the middle of the table. I'm introduced to the Captain's wife, who just flew in from Korea to visit her husband. We eat the tasty meat and other Korean dishes paired with a sweet white wine that I enjoy immensely (a feat, for my friends who know that I don't like most wines). My chopstick skills from Japanese lunches come in handy and I fit right in: grab a slice of meat, kimchi, and sauces. Everyone is speaking Korean and I don't know a thing that is going on, but I sip my sweet wine and know I'll remember this moment forever. These are the moments I live for: new cultures, new food, new customs, and above all the notion that I was welcomed in, warmly invited, to be a part of this moment. I feel wanted, known, and accepted. Isn't that how we all want to feel? Wanted, known, accepted.
I pour myself a second glass of wine and keep sipping, wishing this moment could last forever.
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May we embrace every meal we have this week as a sacred opportunity, a big moment, to be present with our food and our family, and may we never forget that some of the greatest moments in life happen around the table.
