My dear friend,

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I actually began writing this on the last morning of 2025, sitting there with a swollen hand that reminded me very clearly of that unforgettable day when I made chili paste, rubbed my eye without thinking, and immediately regretted every choice that led me to that moment. That was exactly what crossed my mind around 10 am on New Year’s Eve. I was half useful at best, staring at my right hand like it was an employee filing a formal complaint. This was the same hand that spent days pressing heavy wet mud onto bamboo walls, determined to turn earth into shelter, until it puffed up and refused further negotiation.

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And when a hand goes on strike, the mind suddenly becomes dramatic and reflective the way it does when life slows you down without asking for your permission. It wandered so far that it returned carrying the entire year in a bundle and dropped it at my feet, insisting that I pay attention. I could not finish it that day, but now that it is 3 January 2026 and my hand has forgiven me, I can look back with even more clarity and affection.

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So I thought that if I cannot build walls on that day, perhaps I can build a story as I begin this new year.

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The first accomplishment of that morning was simply waking up. It sounds ordinary, but here it feels luxurious. I opened my eyes, realized I was still breathing, and felt strangely lucky just to have another 24 hours to work with. My husband and I even started the morning laughing because our pee bucket was nearly full, and as you know, we treasure everything nature offers. Mixed with banana peels, it becomes powerful fertilizer. So yes, the day began with admiration for a bucket and a warm breakfast for our beloved animals, cooked with the same affection most people reserve for family members.

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Then I stood and stared at the bougainvillea like I expected it to answer deep questions about life. You would have laughed if you saw the intensity on my face. Yet the longer I stared, the more it taught without saying anything. It blooms brightly, drops its petals quietly, returns to the soil without ceremony, and then feeds the next flower. The circle is perfect and easy to miss. It reminded me that problems fall into our lives the same way petals fall from branches. They look inconvenient at first, but in time they break down into something nourishing. Wisdom grows from what once felt like trouble. That morning, staring at a plant felt like the cheapest and most effective therapy session I have ever given myself.

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And then came the miracle of miracles. The patio was clean. Not one dropping from a duck. Not one creative surprise from a goose. Absolutely nothing waiting for my bare feet. We invented a method that worked, a rope with plastic bags tied to it. For reasons far beyond human understanding the birds respected it as if it were a legal boundary. For the first time in weeks, I walked across that patio with the confidence of a queen returning to her kingdom. This is exactly the kind of victory that makes a year feel complete.

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The animals taught us more than any book could have. The ducks taught patience by ignoring every rule. The geese taught humility by decorating the exact spots we had just cleaned. They taught unpredictability by sprinting across the road without warning, and they taught perspective by making even our most difficult days feel manageable compared to their daily chaos. Every morning they marched out like tiny government officials inspecting their territory, with confidence that made no sense but was inspiring nonetheless.

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And then there is the rooster. Not the dramatic one who behaves like he owns the province, but the gentle yellow and green rooster who walks proudly beside his hen and their 4 adult children. Every sunrise he announces the day to the entire village whether anyone wants him to or not. Somehow he became the spiritual alarm clock of my year, reminding me that life moves forward even when I am tempted to move backward.

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This land fed us in ways that felt ancient and generous. We ate banana flowers, morning glory, hyacinth beans, bamboo shoots, and tamarind leaves. Every dish tasted like a conversation with the land itself, a reminder that food is not only sustenance but a relationship with everything that grows around us.

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Then there was the anthill. We did not destroy it. We asked the termites politely to relocate, we thanked them for their tireless work in collecting all of the clay in one spot, we thanked them for giving their lives so we could build a home.

 

Then we mixed mud with sand until the earth softened in our hands. Sawdust from planning the soon to be floor boards was blended in and that mud became walls. Those walls became a home. This taught me that building with the land is not about forcing anything. It is about listening, patience, and respect.

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The village taught us even more. Neighbors brought coconut husks for compost, branches for soil building, and advice passed down through generations. Through the Woodstock Vermont Rotary club we were introduced to  V.S Industry from Malaysia. They organized over 10,000 employees to gather and send more than 100 boxes of clothing for the children and families here in Chong Lom. We spent Christmas afternoon with children at school. We created a game where each student needed to answer a question and then they could pick an item that they wanted most. The children were all excited about choosing clothes with laughter that filled the air like music. One boy put on a sparkling Superman shirt immediately, the front of his chest glowing in the sunlight. The girls adored the sweaters and pajamas and dresses. The boys took jeans like they had found a treasure. 

 

On New Years day we loaded the truck and drove from home to home, and my 87 year old grandmother joined us. She knew exactly which houses needed help because she has lived here all her life and remembers every family’s story. She insisted that we reach the homes of the poorest families first. ​Adults took clothes for themselves and for siblings who could not leave their beds. A mother asked for an entire box for her 30 year old twins who live with disabilities and cannot care for themselves. My grandmother, with her sharp eyes and soft heart, guided us house by house, ensuring that every family who needed comfort would received it. We only scratched the surface and will have more stories next month as we open more boxes and deliver more clothes.

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This year also held grief. In April my stepfather passed away. In December after Christmas we quietly said goodbye to Meme. Grief arrived gently and stayed beside us until we had the strength to look at it. Even then, life tugged at my sleeve. The rooster still crowed. The ducks still argued. Children still laughed. Neighbors waved as they rode by on their motorbikes. Life refused to let me disappear into sorrow.

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When someone asked what the hardest part of the year was, I realized I could not choose. The difficulties stretched us. The losses deepened us. The mud turned into shelter. The land nourished us. The people held us. Even my swollen hand began to heal because the body remembers how to mend when we let it.​