Ode to a Proboscis: a photo essay on noses

The nose is often overlooked, but I think that ought to change. The nose is a most charming feature that adds character to the face. No one’s nose (or scent, interestingly enough) is just like anyone else’s. Upon some research, I found that:

The average human being is able to recognize approximately 10,000 different odors.

Your sense of smell is stronger in the evening than in the morning.

People recall smells with a 65% accuracy after a year, while the visual recall of photos sinks to about 50% after only three months.

Slugs have four noses.

The nose is such a wonderful organ that many countries have dedicated proverbs to the nose. The English advise,

“Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”

I was confused when the Thai instructed, “Don’t borrow another’s nose to breathe with,”

until the Vietnamese clarified, “You cannot breathe through another man’s nose.”

The Russian generously says, “Let everyone pick his own nose.” (These quotes have nothing to do with the persons picture they are under...just fyi)

One of my favorites, however comes from Tibet:

“Don’t notice the tiny flea in the other person’s hair and overlook the lumbering yak on your own nose.”

Several countries cite ways of testing your luck with your nose.

In Israel:  “An unlucky man falls on straw, but splits his nose from a hidden stone.”

In Germany: “He who is born to misfortune stumbles as he goes, and though he falls on his back will fracture his nose.”

In Poland:  The real unlucky one will sprain his thumb when he blows his nose.

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“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” ~Psalm 139:14

In This City

I meant to post a facebook note while I was in Singapore, so I wrote this early in the trip. I never got a chance to post it though, so a month later, here it is:

While I stirred the gumbo a little bit ago, I glanced out the open window at the canopy of trees in the Singaporean park across the street from the Vosburg’s condo. Who would have guessed that I would be in Singapore the first time I made gumbo? Sure, Louisiana and Singapore are somewhat antithetical, and yet, in some way, it doesn’t seem entirely uncharacteristic of Singapore to mix the two together. It seems like a city that absorbs any culture that makes its home here. People tell our team we should visit China Town and Arab Street, and we’ve already visited Little India.

For the first couple of days, we were ridiculously busy teaching and getting ready to teach. The part of the city I’d seen appeared remarkably Western. As for the students, teaching them felt about the same as teaching American students. The fruits are fantastic and exotic, but other than that, I could easily forget that I wasn’t in America.



Me and one of my 6th gra- ders, Nat- alie  <3

Left: Pomello- one of many new fruits I tried. It's like a less flavorful grapefruit




Last night, George, our Singaporean van driver drove us downtown to witness kavadi in Little India, the Indian section of Singapore. At first we just saw streams of people flowing down the sidewalk to the right of our car, but then we noticed a feathery pavilion sticking up above the mass of people. When the feathery pavilion passed us, we could see the whole contraption. A man inside carried the heavy, intricately decorated, metal cage. Hundreds of needles protruding from his skin connected him to the cage, and he walked. George told us that the man had been fasting for one month, eating only one vegetarian meal every day, so his friends and family walked around him to help him if he fainted. His goal was to reach the temple, when he reached the temple, his sins, he believed, would be absolved—for one year. We watched a dozen men pass by us in these cages, and additional men with rods stuck through their mouths or walking on shoes of nails also made their way to the temple.






At one point, one of the bystanders was beating a drum, so one of the men with the needle cages danced and spun. As he spun, some of the metal protrusions came loose, so his friends buried it into his skin again for him. My heart breaks that all of these displays are useless. Christ died once for all, and I am unbelievably thankful that I know Christ as my savior. I ache for those whose metal rods pierce their back, their sides, and their stomachs, to understand, that the nails that pierced Jesus paid their way, not for a year, but for eternity.

After that sobering scene, George found a place for us to park and get out in the masses of the Little India. If at any point I had felt I was in America, last night certainly alerted me that I am in another country. I’ve never been in such a huge crowd. It felt like I was swimming in a river of people. With an almost exclusively Indian demographic, I was feeling pretty conspicuous. The sights, the sounds, the smells, and the tastes were simply exhilarating.

We got to eat in an authentic Indian restaurant. I love spicy foods, but our team members who don’t like them didn’t fare quite so well, unfortunately. George recommended that we stop and buy coconuts from a street vendor (don’t worry, the Vosburgs said it was safe). They were absolutely delicious. The vendor lopped the tops off and put straws in the coconut, then after we drank the coconut milk, he used a huge butcher knife to slice the coconut in half, so we could eat the meat out of the inside.

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I’m excited to see what God is going to continue to do this week. The Bluetree song, “God of This City” keeps floating around in my head. The chorus goes something like:



You’re the God of this city.

You’re the King of these people

You’re the Lord of this nation.

You are,

And there is no one like our God.

For greater things are yet to come,

And greater things are still to be done

In this city.

The students we’ve been talking to have begun to seem as though they are catching a vision of what it means to communicate with their culture effectively for Christ. For greater things have yet to come in this melting pot of a city. In the mean time, the gumbo in the kitchen is starting to smell really delicious.

So now I’m blogging? / Awakening

I'm still not entirely sure what I think about this whole blogging thing. I've contemplated blogging for a while, but always decided I don't have enough time. Time disappears constantly and business only escalates.

With that said, I think better when I'm typing anyway. Somehow, my thoughts just reorder themselves and become coherent when I can see them in front of me... I guess I'm just better at thinking with a keyboard than inside my own head. I probably won't post as often as I should, but then, if people really want to know what's going on in my life, they should just ask me.

For the moment, I'm setting myself the goal of blogging about the ICC Masters Conference and Singapore... we'll see what happens with that. I'll kick off this mini-series with a poem I wrote on the Institute for Culture Communiticators Theme for 2010:

Awakening:

Who is she?
This silent girl
Who wanders
Through the halls of another's mind

Looking for herself
But finding
No one

Coming to a room of mirrors
Looking
She'd see both
Herself and another

Afraid of finding
Cataract filmed eyes
She prefers
Her own imagination

Blinded by the night
She musters
Courage for the morning