News Trend Imagine|Actual

My daughter in Vietnam She is not the bride.

Imagine that your third-born baby girl lives all on her own on the other side of the world, 7028 miles away from you.

[I know. That alone is a legitimate mind bender, am I right?]

Now imagine that her employer somehow neglected to arsip the necessary paperwork, and her visa has expired.

Imagine that her boss calls her to inform her of this fact, and tells her that as a temporary condition of the renewal process, she must leave the country immediately.

Imagine that she takes this in stride, figuring that in her considerable network of Southeast Asian friends and acquaintances, there must be someone who could take her in for a week.

But as phone call after email is sent and returned, all her options fade away and her employer suggests she wait out the week in Laos.

Laos.

[You do not need to imagine this part because you know for a fact that Laos is not a reasonable place for a young white American woman to visit on her own.]

So imagine that you step in and say to your daughter, Wait. Are you comfortable with that plan? And she says No. Not at all.

So you wrack your brain trying to imagine another solution and then bingo. You come up with a brilliant idea.

Me in Malaysia.

Now, imagine messaging your best Malaysian friend and two-time host out of the blue on a Saturday morning, saying I need your help. Please Skype me ASAP.

And he calls and you say, Hey, would you please let my daughter come and stay with you for a week...Starting tomorrow?

Imagine watching his face as this request settles into his brain. Deep in thought and justifiably bewildered, he rubs his head, blinks hard a few times, takes a deep breath and says, Yes. Of course. Don't worry.

Imagine the overwhelming relief that immediately floods your soul.

* * * * *

And now remember, as you rarely do, that

he is Muslim and you are Christian.

He is from Malaysia and you are American.

His skin is the color of coffee with cream and yours is pale white.

But you know that none of those differences affect this situation one little bit.

Because this is not a matter of

religion or

culture or

racism or

white privilege or

global terrorism or

violence in the Middle East.

This is simply a matter of two friends who share one world and help each other out.

And please, imagine with me how amazing our world would be if we could always live this way.

You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope some day you'll join us

And the world will live as one.

News Trend Rumble In The Jungle|Actual

I've been lucky enough to travel the length and breadth of the little country of Malaysia, and one of my favorite adventures was swimming at a secluded island beach in Langkawi. Surrounded by nothing but the silent Indian Ocean and untold acres of wild, untamed jungle, I spent hours bobbing in the silky waves as my eyes drank in the undulating green sea of tree tops, and my ears rang with the high-pitched and never-ending cacophony of insects and birds that is known as the scream of the jungle. Later, I learned that the interior jungles of Malaysia are roamed by marauding packs of elephants who will knock cars from the roadways with a single swipe of the trunk, and even a remaining population of elusive, endangered tigers.

So strange and unearthly different from my beloved Pacific Northwest fir forests, so foreign and incomparable to anything I had ever experienced before, the tropical jungle has since earned a place in my imagination, and made a home in my heart.

 ^ To build a jungle, start with some big, leafy basics. Shove the couches to the middle of the room, and let the forestation begin.

^ Add a plant table to boost up the little guys. Mine is homemade from pallet lumber with a few coats of polyurethane.

^ Buy only the plants that you adore.

 Like half the universe, I've been obsessed with fiddle leaf figs, and keep a giant specimen next to the table in my office. But when I discovered that they - or something much like them - grow luxuriantly along the roadsides of Hyderbad, India, I let go of all restraint. I've added two more of the beauties to my collection since I got home from my trip and I don't promise that I'm done.

^ The leaves on this philodenrom selloum please me beyond reason. They're just so big and bouncy and ridiculously whimsical that I suspect Dr Suess must have had a hand in their propagation.

^ Transplant every specimen into a clay pot (nine out of ten plants prefer them over plastic), water and feed conservatively, and give everyone a chance to settle in and get growing.

Along with a beloved ten-year-old jade tree and a deep green scheffelara, just like the one in my childhood home, my baby jungle has just begun.

* * * * *

In gaji of my newfound love for the jungle, here's my latest decorating philosophy:get rid of all the furniture and fill the house with plants.

Okay, so that's a little extreme. I'll settle for keeping a few couches around as long as I can heap up the sunny spots with greenery galore.

My current goal is to turn one end of my living room into my own private tropical jungle. Lush, leafy greens of every shade and texture, heaped on my rustic homemade table, clustered together in pots, and straining toward the ceiling. When I walk in this room, I want to feel like I just wandered into the deep, green mystery of the Malaysian interior.

Minus the bugs. And the stampeding elephants.

But I wouldn't mind a well-mannered tiger or two.

News Trend At Home|Actual

You know the feeling.

You're absent-mindedly scrolling through your feed, glancing at this and that, when suddenly a blast of familiarity hits you like the proverbial ton of bricks.

You've stumbled upon an image that resonates within you - a loved one's face, a beloved place - that instantly makes you feel at home, at ease, at peace.

Here's a photo that popped up in my feed yesterday, giving me that same powerful rush.

Here we have my friend, Aleesya, a young woman of many, many moods. I haven't seen her in over a year, but that sideways glance and determined posture takes me right back to the roller coaster ride of living within her emotional universe. I smile just to see her sweet and temporarily stormy face.

The pointing finger belongs to Aleesya's grandmother, who is just as determined and feisty as her granddaughter, and only marginally more reserved in her expression. Mak does not mess around and even though her face is far off-camera, I can easily imagine the angle of her eyebrows and the purse of her lips.

(Little Auni was just a baby when we last met, so this leggy toddler is a new person to my eyes.)

I know those pink walls. This is the family home, beautifully set in the countryside where the wild boar pass by each dawn and dusk. I've stood on this porch during a wild tropical thunderstorm and felt the hair on my arms stand up in the charged atmosphere, and smelled the sharp scent of ozone stirred up by the storm.

I've wandered in circles around the house, taking in the shapes and colors of the garden: mango and coconut trees, bougainvillea in pink and purple, lush green leaves in all variety and texture. I've felt the sun beat down on my back as I pinned clothes to the line in the side yard, and come back to find them dry in an hour's time.

I have lounged in the shade of the back porch, watching motorcycles be tuned and coconuts chopped open with machetes. I've helped the grannies clean tiny dried anchovies for the day's meals, and despite the language gap, worked and laughed together with them in great companionship.

To my delight, I've helped out in the kitchen too, stirring pots of mysterious sauces and tossing thinly sliced potatoes in great woks, always following the orders of Mak, our commander-in-chief. And once. I was given the honor of head chef when we prepared, under my direction, a double batch of lasagna, just the way I make it at home.

And I have eaten many meals at the big table in the dining room. Curries and fish dishes, spicy breakfast feasts, endless bowls of nasi (rice) washed down with ice cold fresh coconut juice. I've met new friends around this table, and gotten to know my older friends on a whole new level. I've laughed there, feeling comfortable and safe; I've cried, feeling utterly alone. I have been completely and totally myself.

* * * * *

If you haven't already guessed, this is a scene from the other side of the planet. Melaka, Malaysia, lies some 8055 miles away from my house, but the instant this photo meets my eyes, those miles disappear in a snap and I feel at home once again.

News Trend Mighty Mango Juice|Actual

Mmmm.

For my money, there is nothing so nourishing and revitalizing as a glass full of mango juice.

It refreshes my DNA.

I don't even know what that means but I'm sure it is true.

But my mighty mango drink is more than just food for the body. My mind and soul are strengthened too, as I remember one particularly special glass of this fine juice.

* * * * *

The date was Friday, June 27, 2014; the last full day of my second trip to Malaysia.

I'd happily bounced around the country for four weeks, visiting a succession of endlessly generous Malay friends in their homes, and adapting to my ever-changing circumstances. The whole experience was rich and rewarding beyond words, but here's the thing.

If anyone tells you that it's easy to be a white, Christian, married yet brazenly unescorted, American woman traveling in an Islamic nation, well, let me just set the record straight. It's not.

By this fateful last day of my visit,

my emotional reserves stood severely depleted,

my nerves were jangled and raw.

And I felt as vulnerable and exposed as that dream where you show up naked for group in high school.

My primary host's mother-in-law, the venerable Mak, had invited me to lunch. Per her instruction, I sat at the table and listened to her whipping up our meal in the nearby kitchen when all I wanted to do was put my head down and cry hot tears of frustration and shame.

As I struggled to hold myself together, Mak's arm appeared from behind the refrigerator door.

Here.

Drink this.

The fruit is from our tree in Melaka.

In her hand, Mak held out to me a huge tumbler full of fresh-squeezed mango juice. Golden, thick, and chilled to perfection. I took the glass in both hands, raised it to my mouth, and began to drink that sweet nectar in uncontrollable gulps.

The first glass was gone in record time.

I asked for a refill.

Before the meal was over, I think I tossed back three and a half rounds of that goodness. Killed the whole pitcher, as I recall.

Okay, so maybe I went a bit overboard, but the magic of the mango went straight to work on me. Slowly, inexorably, my calm was restored not in waves or even swells but in gentle ripples, and my confidence returned to help me face not only that day but also the emotional round of goodbyes that lay ahead.

* * * * *

Now, every time I take a sip of mango juice, I feel the same surge of goodness and light shoot through me, mind, body and soul. Can't say for sure if this is a medicinal quality of the fruit or perhaps the lingering effect of a friend's kind hospitality, but the power of the mighty mango lives on.

News Trend Among Muslims|Actual

My tried-and-trues sending me off at Kuala Lumpur International Airport.

Can you guess which one is me?

Seven years ago, an extraordinary thing happened in my life.

I, an American Christian woman, was befriended by a pack of Malay Muslims.

You can read all the details here, but the short story is this:

What started out as a chance meeting on Facebook with a Malaysian Mob Wars buddy grew to ever-expanding circles of friends, now numbered well over one hundred. Right off the bat, we discovered that we all had very much in common.

We listen to the same movies and music.

We laugh at the same jokes.

We love our families and friends with the same commitment and abandon.

We share the same hopes and dreams for our lives.

Exploring ancient Portuguese forts in Melaka, white legs and all.

In the intervening years, especially during the two visits I've paid to their motherland, our relationships have deepened and grown beyond anything I ever could have dreamed. I've been accepted, adopted and very well loved by people who are quite a bit different from me.

And make no mistake, as much as I share in common with my friends on the other side of the world, there are many differences between us too.

Differences in culture and custom,

Differences in dress and social mores.

Differences in religion.

Especially in the early years, those differences frustrated me and confused me.

During my four months in Malaysia, when my dear friends took me into their homes and cared for me like one of their own, those differences sometimes left me feeling overwhelmed and vulnerable and very much alone.

But that is not where our story ends.

Blurry selfies during rush hour.

My friends and I keep talking.

I've asked literally hundreds of questions which my faithful friends have patiently answered. They have asked a fair share of me. We care about one other enough to trustingly work through our differences rather than letting them come between us. Interestingly, as my Malaysian Muslim friends and I open new doors of understanding, I find that our differences actually make us closer.

Girl talk at the beach.

* * * *  *

In a world today that is torn apart with understandable fear about terrorist attacks, jihadist extremists and suicide bombers, differences between Westerners and Muslims have become an ongoing topic of conversation, often invoking confusion and fear.

But I hope that is not where our world's story ends.

Let's keep asking questions.

Let's listen to one another's answers.

Let's see if maybe, just maybe, we can open new doors of understanding between two remarkable but markedly different cultures. And maybe, in the end, those differences may actually make us grow just a little bit closer

My favorite Malaysian playmate and Malay language instructor.

News Trend Hijab|Actual

Hijab. The covering of the female body from head to toe, with only the face and hands revealed.

Before I met my Malay Muslims, hijab was for me the most irreconcilable of all the differences in Islam.I could not accept that such a restrictive code of dress was reasonable, and honestly, the fact that Muslim women were pressured to dress this way made me angry.

Now, seven years later, I still find hijab to be a bit at odds with my world and my faith. But I'm no longer mad about it. I finally understand why Muslimas dress the way they do, and I can happily accept their way of life

My journey to understanding was not easy or fast, and I did a lot of kicking and screaming along the way. As it turned out, my mind, heart and soul each needed to stretch and grow so that I could accept what hijab truly means.

Headscarf styles vary widely, depending on age, event, and personal sense of style. This bride is rocking a glittery headband over a sheer veil atop a snug lacy headscarf, and the grandmas are totally old school. I personally love them all.

Intellectually, I struggled to understand why Muslim women should spend their lives in shrouds. My heart broke to see the young Muslim girls at our school, wild and free in their childhood, suddenly withdraw from playground games as they grew older and were expected to keep head scarves in place and ankles covered at all times. During our annual trips to the water park, while the Christian girls enjoyed the slides and swimming pools in reasonably modest one-piece swimsuits with board shorts, the Muslim girls either sat around and watched, or jumped into the water, hoodies, jeans, headscarves and all. Emotionally, my heart ached for their loss of freedom and I felt my first pangs of anger at a religion that demands a sacrifice of playfulness for what seemed to me like a never-ending campaign to stamp out their innocent sexuality. And my soul deeply desired that Muslim women could understand the joy and beauty of their own bodies, not hidden away as a secret but confidently shared with the world.

My journey toward understanding began in earnest when I met my Malay Muslims.

I began to ask questions about hijab.

A lot of questions.

And I tried to be tactful but sometimes I was just angry and pestering and persistent.

Why do you wear hijab?

Doesn't it make you angry?

Do you assume western women are all sluts because of how they dress?

Why is it fair that women have to cover from head to toe when men can wear almost anything?

I listened as my new friends patiently explained.

Wearing hijab cuts down on unwanted attention from strange men.

We don't waste as much time and money on our appearance as you Western women do.

Covering up is what we Muslim women do to help our brothers avoid temptation.

Modest dress ensures that rape is not a dilema in our world as it is in yours.

Hijab isn't just for women; men are required to dress modestly and cover their aurat as well.

But my overactive brain picked apart every rationalization offered to me, and my frustration grew.

Until one day, when I was ranting away on the topic to my first and best Malaysian friend, Jurie.

"How would you like it," I demanded, "if you had to wrap yourself from head to toe in cloth every day, never to feel the sun on your arms or the wind in your hair or the waves lapping at your bare legs?"

And he answered in a way I never expected: "If I was a woman, I would be glad to do it because that is what God asks of me."

All my angry push-backs melted away in an instant.

Of course. The Muslim dress code is not an intellectual requirement - it is an act of faith. Muslim women dress as they do for one simple reason - to please God.

And that is a choice that I can truly understand.

The number and variety of headscarves available for sale at Kuala Lumpur's largest pasar malam - night market - will blow your mind. Trust me, I think we looked at each and every one.

When I made my first trip to Malaysia, I couldn't wait to see how hijab habits play out in real life. Do the Muslimas don their headscarves in drudgery, suffering through their public day and yanking them off again in great relief when they return home? Will they be embarrassed and shy to show their hair to me? What will they think of me, with my head brazenly uncovered and my pale American legs bare in the tropical heat?

Now, all Muslim cultures are not the same and that is particularly true when it comes to customs of dress. Malaysian women do not wear the solid black burkas of the Middle East nor the somber tones and heavy fabrics of many American Muslim women.

Like the tropical birds that they are, Malaysian Muslimas cover themselves

in all manner of brilliant colors and bright prints,

intricately folded and ruffled headscarves held in place with bedazzled pins and clips;

high heels flashing under their skirts,

designer handbags on their arms.

Their headscarves are just one more element of their stylish ensembles and honestly, just one more fun reason to go shopping.

And while it's true that my Muslim women friends do usually pull off their headscarves as soon as they walk in the door at the end of the day, they are no more or less eager than I am to kick off my shoes and put on yoga pants. Shaking off their scarves and straightening their pony tails, my friends did not seem to wonder for one moment about what I thought of all this - headscarves are just a part of life, unworthy of comment or consideration.

Did the Malaysians judge or shame me for my code of dress? Well, that's a complicated answer. My friends didn't blink an eye at what I wore, but some members of the older generations did look a bit uncomfortable. Jurie came to my rescue once again, suggesting that I certainly was welcome to wear whatever I wanted, but I might avoid some stares by covering my legs.

That did not offend me. We all respond emotionally to how others dress, and if a woman from the Amazon showed up topless at my house, I would probably offer her a tank top to wear around town.

Sure enough, a pair of leggings worn under my skirt seemed to calm everyone down and that was an emotional response I can truly understand.

My favorite Malaysian playmate sporting her favorite fashion look.

One of the great joys of my visits to Malaysia has been getting to know Jurie's daughter. Aleesya was three when I first met her, sassy and playful and full of high spirits. I silently mourned to see her heading off the preschool dressed in her proper little Muslima uniform complete with a chin-choking headscarf, and I felt sad for what I assumed to be the burden of hijab that her little soul must bear.

One of my happy privileges during my visits has been giving Aleesya her baths. Just as with my own baby girls, this simple task grew into great rituals:

making gravity-defying shampoo hairdos,

playfully dumping buckets of water onto the waterproof floor,

wrapping her up in her towel like a little burrito and singing Rockabye Baby,

powdering every little wrinkle and fold of her sturdy brown body,

and brushing out her tangled hair.

But Aleesya added a special twist of her own. Each time, as I attempted to wrangle her into her fresh clothes, she would put her underwear on top of her head, adjusting it so her face was looking out one of the leg holes, and proudly exclaim, "Tudung!"

Tudung means headscarf.

Oh my gosh. Just as my little girls pulled white socks over their hands and up their arms, pretending they were wearing fancy long gloves, Aleesya was play-acting at being a beautiful woman by donning her underwear tudung.

She did not see the headscarf as an object of oppression. To this little girl, the tudung represents womanly beauty, and she was already itching for a piece of the action.

And that is a sweet dream that I can truly understand.

They don't look too oppressed to me.

Now make no mistake, I am still not quite completely on board with the concept of hijab.

As a westerner, I consider my arms and legs to be fit for public display and will always cringe at the idea of giving up the personal freedom to dress as I like.

And as a Christian, I struggle to wrap my head around the idea that my God is one and the same as the Muslim God, Allah, yet He asks such extraordinarily different things from us.

Those ideas are not likely to change any time soon.

But now, thanks to my Malay friends, I totally understand that Muslim men and women alike view hijab as an obedient response to God's will, and to them, that manner of dress seems acceptable and normal and downright fun.

I'm not mad about hijab any more.

I love and accept my friends' differences without fear or frustration.

And I might just be a fan of the underwear tudung.

News Trend My Friend, Yusoff Bin Ali|Actual

Yusoff and his lovely wife, ready for hajj.

The first time we met was over breakfast. After a tedious overnight drive through the Malaysian countryside, I'd arrived on his doorstep just in time for the morning meal. His wife hustled me in to dining room and sat me down in front of a packet of nasi lemak. That's when the man of the house came into the room to join me, no doubt curious to see how this pale American would handle her spicy breakfast.

"Eat, eat!" He sat down on a nearby couch to watch me. "You like?"

I'd been warned he couldn't speak English.

Between ravenous handfuls of rice and sambal, I nodded and said, "Yes. I love it." He grinned from ear to ear, and with the motion of his hands, encouraged me to keep going.

I'd been cautioned that he would be reserved around a strange woman.

My new friend sat and watched me wolf down that fiery feast. I ate every bite with my right hand, Malay style, and smacked my lips with pleasure.

He beamed his approval and I knew that Yusoff and I had just become friends.

At the wedding of his eldest daughter, Yusoff holds down the back row with his two sons.

Our last encounter took place a year later, at a housewarming party. Though the event was still in full swing, I needed to leave and so my grand exit was orchestrated.

Family members came at me fast and furious - Yusoff's wife, four daughters, two sons, and too many in-laws and grandchildren to count - to say goodbye. Sweet salams from the children, hugs and kisses from the women, and even handshakes from the young men, who only on rare occasions greet a strange woman with a physical touch. Older men never do.

Entirely overwhelmed by this rapid-fire show of emotion, I could barely keep up with all the greetings. Whirling this way and that, trying to extend each person the courtesy they deserved, I quickly found myself operating out of my American instincts.

And so it was that when Yusoff stepped out from the nearby tent to say his goodbyes, I automatically offered him my hand.

Uh oh.

Our eyes met over my extended hand, and I knew I'd gone too far.

Yusoff's eyes softened with a smile, and he made a playful gesture of refusal, simple enough for me to understand and subtle enough to be our own private exchange. Gently, wordlessly, Yusoff reminded me once again that, handshakes or not, we were friends.

A family portrait from several years ago, with four of his six offspring and ten of his twelve grandchildren represented. The man has been busy.

But my all-time favorite moment with Yusoff happened on the night before that party. A year since my nasi lemak breakfast at his home, I flew back into town during a late evening thunderstorm. Caught up in an entourage led by Yusoff's eldest daughter and her family, I stopped by his second-born daughter's home to say hello. We tiptoed in the door and found the front room dark and heaped with sleeping children.

Before I could follow my class to the back of the house, I heard an excited whisper in the darkness from another direction. "Hello, Diane! Salam."

A small light came on, and there, sitting up on an improvised floor bed, was Yusoff's wife. I was delighted to see her again; I hugged her and sat down for a quiet chat. We talked for several minutes when something most unexpected occurred.

The shadows beyond my friend began to shift, and suddenly, a big, brown, entirely bare chest rose up from the darkness. The faint light fell on this person's face, and there was Yusoff, in all his half-naked glory, with a smile the size of the Pacific Ocean and a steady stream of cheerful English greetings for me.

We laughed together and somehow this incongruous reunion felt effortlessly friendly and entirely natural.

* * * * *

I'm sorry to say that my friend, Yusoff Bin Ali, passed away this week. His wife and family - including each one of his six beloved children - gathered at his bedside and so Yusoff spent his last days surrounded by those who loved him most. I'm so thankful for that.

Still, I wish I could have been there with him to share

one more smile,

one more flash of his sparkling eyes,

one more exchange of hand gestures and simple English,

one more sweet moment of friendship.

I might have even held his hand.