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 Sweet And Tender Moments|Actual

Even from my own backyard, the clouds present an ever-changing story.

In the past few months, a lot has changed between me and my mom.

My mom is battling advanced dementia. No, not Alzheimer's; she has a lesser-known memory loss disease called Lewy Body Dementia. The best way I can explain the difference is to say that Alzheimer's is a heavy, wet, wool blanket that smothers the brain's most recent memories and pushes the sufferer's mind deep down into memories of the past. In contrast, LBD is an erratic pendulum that swings unpredictably back and forth between reasonable coherence and utter confusion marked by anxiety, hallucinations, and paranoia.

This past winter, her symptoms worsened with shocking speed. Though she was still living in her home, Mom now required 24-hour care and her dementia-trained caregivers needed to help her maintain her most basic routines, including her daily phone calls to me.

Then, as winter turned to spring, my mom fell and broke her knee cap.

Technically, she split her patella right down the middle, with a three-cm gap. Surgery was required to wire the pieces together, then she was suited up in a soft cast and sent off to rehab to heal.

When I caught up with her in mid-April, the surgeon had bad news. The bone fragments were not healing properly, and sure enough, by May, she needed a second surgery to reset the knee cap. That meant a full reboot to the recovery process and a move to a different care facility.

The physical distress of the broken bone took a huge toll on my mom's mental abilities. While I was with her in April, she would scrutinize me, confusion written all over her face, and say, "You're the mother."

"Look at me," I would say. And when she was looking straight into my eyes, I would point at my face  and gently remind her, "I'm the baby." Then, shifting my finger toward her,  I would add, "You're the mother."

Her eyes would soften. She would smile. And then she would always say, "That's right. You're my daughter. And I'm your mother."

These were sweet and tender moments.

They reveal an infinite variety of white puffs, wisps and streaks,

A week after my visit with Mom, I flew off to India. Thanks to the miracles of Verizon, I set my phone up with an international calling plan that allowed her to call me in India using nothing more than my basic American digits. During my three weeks in Hyderabad, my mom reliably called me three or four times a day; predictably, our conversations ranged back and forth between calm, coherent discussions of my work with the Indian princesses, and paranoid hallucinations.

Half a dozen times, during those middle-of-the-night-in-India calls, my mom would demand angrily, "I looked out my window today and saw you getting out of your car. Why didn't you come to my room? "

"Oh, Mom,that wasn't me. I'm in India, remember?" And I would hold my breath, wondering if she could possibly retain the details of my wild adventure to tutor Indian foster children.

"That's right!" she rationally recalled each time. "How are those girls doing with their reading? Are they enjoying the books you brought them?"

And these were sweet and tender moments too.

Surprising and unpredictable.

Two days before I left India, her phone calls suddenly stopped.

During the next few days, as I flew back to the US, picked up my daughter in Arizona and drove her home to Seattle, then jetted off once again to Vietnam, my mom and I talked only once or twice. I wrote off the irregularities as a short-term blip, and figured that once I settled down again, our phone calls would get back on track.

On my second night in Danang, Mom called me and we talked briefly. I don't recall exact details but I remember she was upset about something, and I did my best to soothe her as I stood on the noisy sidewalk outside Luna Pub, where I had been enjoying a scoop of Bailey's gelato. After she abruptly hung up, I consoled myself, "She'll be alright and I'll talk to her again soon."

But this, too, was a sweet and tender moment, though I did not know it at the time.

But the sky which holds them remains constant and forever blue.

Because that was the last time I talked on the phone with my mom.

She has never called me again.

And though I still ring her several times a week, she no longer picks up.

I don't know why. I can only assume that the disease has crept further and deeper into her mind, corrupting the place that remembers our phone calls, that knows she can call me any time, and that I will always listen to whatever she wants to say.

This silence has left an enormous hole in my life. I've struggled to figure out how to accept this void, to trust that she is alright, to believe that there is nothing I can or should do for her now.

And that is where I stake my claim.

And this the only thought that brings peace to my heart:

My connection to my mother, mysterious and profound, is in transition. She is leaving this world; I daresay that even though her stubborn body ticks on, her soul has turned toward heaven. This distance between us now is painful, yes, but only temporary.

Like shifting clouds in the sky, the circumstances of our relationship are blown about by winds that neither my mother nor I can control. But as sure as the sun will eventually break through the gloom and shine in a clear blue sky, I know without a doubt that we are destined for eternity together.

And I trust not only that everything will be okay someday. I trust that everything is okay right now.

Every day challenges me to hold to this promise. And when I get my head wrapped properly around this truth, and feel in my soul that my mom and I really are okay; well, that is the most sweet and tender moment of all.

News Trend Hello, Wanderlust...Do You Deliver?|Actual

Pure white walls, stretching wide and clean in every direction.

Substantial shelves placed here and there, creating interesting partnerships with the tables and chairs, but allowing plenty of room for humans to move.

Dazzling sunbeams filling the space with light.

During my mornings in Vietnam, as I sat in Wanderlust Cafe and sipped my blended mango smoothies for breakfast, my mind and soul found peace and contentment in this refreshing room.

If I can't take this room home with me, what can I do, I puzzled, to capture this feeling in my own dining room?

The vision came to me in a flash.

So once I got home, with a bit of furniture reshuffling and some carpentry work from my husband, my dream became reality.

^ Out with the big red cupboard that once stood in this corner, and in with a new shadow box.

^ Crafted from odds and ends of pine lumber that have been squirreled away in the garage, and finished with an old can of light walnut stain, we managed to capture the rustic feel that I had in mind.

^ Wide enough to house at least small pots of cacti and succulents, the lower shelf perfectly suited for an endless stream of kecil-garlands.

^ And the top shelf offers limitless options for plate propping.

^ Best of all, when I sit at my table now, I feel the same sense of spaciousness and light that I enjoyed so much at Wanderlust Cafe.

^ If I could only get someone to bring me a glass of fresh blended mango, my life would be pretty much perfect.

News Trend James' And Jiyoon's Wedding|Actual

I was too busy having fun to take photos. But my daughter managed to grab this shot of the fabulous ceiling as we were settling into our seats.

I went to a wedding this week.

Dreamy summer night.

Brick walls and twinkle lights.

Dancing groomsmen.

Bouquet- and garter-tossing.

And plenty of bumping tunes.

Every element of the traditional yet updated wedding fell perfectly into place.

Chivalrous groom.

Sweet bride.

Proud parents.

High-spirited friends.

And a best man with a speech full of jokes.

Each person there, both my long-time friends and the new acquaintances I made, warmed my heart.

I was unreservedly content, completely at ease, and genuinely grateful to celebrate this special day with the happy couple and their guests.

And while this fact matters not at all to me, this was a room full of Korean-Americans. Tparents and their peers had mostly emigrated to the U.S. In the 1980s; most of the young adults were full-blood Korean, born and raised in mainstream American culture, but accustomed to keeping company with their ethnic homies.

I was one of maybe ten straight-up whiteys in the room.

Some may see that as odd or extraordinary or slightly bizarre, but I can only say how fortunate I feel to have been part of James' and Jiyoon's wedding.

News Trend Design Dilemmas|Actual

Last fall, I started two simple projects:

1) Using cast-leaves from my own dearly loved succulents, I undertook a science experiment in propagating new plants.

2) Having outgrown our longstanding family dining table, I dove into a woodworking task to build a new one.

Strong starts spun both ventures into play.

However.

Until this past week - nine months later - both tasks were still dissatisfyingly incomplete.

The dilema, as often happens in creative enterprises, revolved around making difficult decisions.

When faced with too many options, my mind got muddled, my momentum ground to a halt, and nothing got accomplished for a long, long time.

Let me explain.

My succulent seedlings were going great guns but desperately in need of more permanent homes.

So I bought a handful of clay pots. That was the easy part.

But how to spunk them up?

Certainly these precious newborns deserved a worthy nursery. My plan was to paint or otherwise embellish the pots. But the more I poked around on Instagram and Pinterest, looking at countless ideas, the deeper my design paralysis grew.

Finally, after an obscene amount of hemming, hawing, and weighing my options, I gave myself a stern lecture about seizing the day, chose a project for which I already had all the supplies on hand, and pulled the trigger on a simple color blocking scheme.

At the moment, the pots are a bit roomy. But the darling green infants will grow quickly, just like their human counterparts, and soon enough burst beyond the limits of even these spacious digs.

Then I'll have a new persoalan on my hands.

But for now, a few more of my propagated offspring are properly launched. And as I wiped the last of the potting soil from my hands (and counter and floor,) and surveyed the happy row of pots, I knew I had made a good choice.

Now. About that table.

Constructed from planks of solid oak, my as-yet unfinished table was sorely in need of stain and polyurethane.

Somewhere along the past few decades, I've picked up an odd sense of guilt about oak. I mean, come on, who doesn't love to hate on that scourge of the eighties? Relentlessly awful oak cabinets, coffee tables and shelving units still haunt my decor dreams and even though I intentionally chose to make this table from oak, my post-millennial inner design snob was now trying to convince to hide that shameful fact.

Light walnut.

Golden pecan.

Colonial maple.

Maybe with the right stain, this oak table wouldn't look so...Oaky. My mind puzzled over this question for months, and I bought and tested a half dozen different finishes.

But there on the workbench, my can of golden oak stain mocked me, amused at my ridiculous attempts to run from reality.

"It's an oak table," my nemesis chuckled. "Why would you pretentiously try to hide that fact by staining it a different color?"

Seems so silly now, but it wasn't until I found myself literally holding a paintbrush dabbed in light walnut stain over my pristine, perfectly sanded tabletop, one swift swipe away from casting my destiny, that I finally came to my senses.

Before the haunting echoes of the design hipsters' disdain could ring in my ears, I pried the top off the can of golden oak stain and brushed it boldly across the bare wood.

Glorious grain popped into definition and lebih jelasnya.

A deep golden glow sprang up from the timber.

The oak angels burst into song.

And I knew in an instant that I had definitely made the right choice.

Maybe I needed three-fourths of a year to resolve these simple design issues.

Maybe I got distracted by surgeries and trips to Asia.

Maybe I just procrastinated like a champ.

But whatever the reasons for my painstakingly slow decision-making process, I embrace them. Because both of my design dilemmas turned out just fine.

* * * * *

In my opinion, you can never have too many succulents, and you can never have too many stories about succulents. Here are a few to choose from:

Court And Kylee's Succulent Party

Succulent Season

Franklin Park Conservatory

Confessions Of A Crazy Plant Lady

Pallet Possibilities

Another Rainy Day

Growing Things

This Is War

All In A Day's Work

Design Dilemmas

Wait For It

Shopping Spree

Saturday Spring Satisfaction

Sprouts

Tiny Tinsel Tree

Biology 101

Little Things

News Trend All In A Day's Work|Actual

Sitting on the patio together after dinner, my second-born leveled her gaze at me and calmly threw down the gauntlet. "To be honest, I'm surprised that you've never made a vertical succulent garden in a pallet."

Flustered and maybe a little defensive, I scrambled to respond. "You mean the kind where you drag a pallet out to the patio, prop it up, and then attach little buckets full of flowers to the side? Not really my jam."

"No," she patiently explained. "I mean the kind where you fill the pallet with soil and the succulents grow sideways."

Hmm. That did sound pretty cool. Clearly, some midnight research was in order.

My vertical garden still has a bit of filling in to do, but she is upright, happy, and filling this corner of my backyard with endless charm.

By the time I dragged myself off Pinterest at tiga a.M., I was completely committed.

As I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, my whirling mind was building a grand scheme.

• An extra pallet had been kicking around the garage for months.
• I had a ton of baby succs that needed a home, thanks to some successful propagation experiments.
• A quick trip to Home Depot would quickly and economically supply all my other pallet garden needs.

Right then and there, I pledged to myself that before another day passed, I would indeed be the proud owner of a vertical succulent garden in a pallet.

These baby succulents were raised by yours truly, grown from discarded leaves of their mother plant. I am very proud of their determination.

Next morning, I hopped out of bed, tracked down my husband, and announced the new item on the Saturday agenda. Agreeably, he got to work.

The process of converting a run-of-the mill pallet to a garden-worthy succulent chamber was not complicated. We rearranged a few of the planks to create the desired openings on the front, and then stapled a double layer of landscape fabric to the open back. To ensure that my pallet garden will stand strong in case of nuclear attack, we nailed a series of planks over the top of the landscape fabric.

This wooden beast now weighed about five hundred pounds.

Creating a pleasing of shapes, textures and shades of green is my idea of fun.

Laying the pallet on its back, we poured in two bags of garden soil and packed it firmly into every nook and cranny. Potting soil is too fluffy for this vertical business - only the firm, dense character of proper garden soil can properly defy gravity.

Now the monster checked in at somewhere around a ton.

Time to pop in the plants, which was by far my favorite part.

After a gentle watering, we carried the contraption to a shady corner of the yard and laid it on a bench, still on its back.

And clearly, the final weight of the completed planter was roughly equivalent to the mass of Jupiter.

I have a major plant crush on this oversize, geometrically pristine, blue-gray beauty queen.

For two weeks, my vertical pallet garden lay in this peaceful horizontal state. As I shooed away curious pets, my little garden grew a strong and stable network of roots; after two weeks, we finally tipped her up and introduced her to vertical living.

* * * * *

In all my DIY days, I have never tackled a more enjoyable and satisfying project. Knowing full well that good things usually take time, I rarely pressure myself to get something done in a single day. But this happy endeavor came together on time and under budget.

So thank you, dear daughter number two, for spurring me on. You were right; a vertical succulent garden in a pallet is exactly what I need.

And if you, dear reader, have a few extra hours on your hands tomorrow, please allow me to suggest that you consider building one for yourself.

But if you don't want to make your own, you can always come visit mine.

* * * * *

In my opinion, you can never have too many succulents, and you can never have too many stories about succulents. Here are a few to choose from:

Court And Kylee's Succulent Party

Succulent Season

Franklin Park Conservatory

Confessions Of A Crazy Plant Lady

Pallet Possibilities

Another Rainy Day

Growing Things

This Is War

All In A Day's Work

Design Dilemmas

Wait For It

Shopping Spree

Saturday Spring Satisfaction

Sprouts

Tiny Tinsel Tree

Biology 101

Little Things

News Trend My Dryer Is Taking The Summer Off|Actual

Cotton rope.

Wooden clothespins.

And a row of white tees drying in the sunshine.

The world today is full of new and improved gadgets, emerging technologies, and killer apps that fly far beyond our dreams of even a decade ago.

But sometimes, the old ways are the best.