CITY MOUSE, COUNTRY MOUSE . . .

I'm not often stirred by cheesy nature photos of sunsets, breaking ocean waves, eagles soaring through the air. Even Ansel Adams, at times, fails to move me. But when I'm face-to-face with Creation, it's a whole other story.

This evening, we went for a drive up to Angeles National Forest, the entrance of which is a mere 15 minutes from Ha's home. It's hard to believe we went from plain old suburban paradise to flora, fauna and endless horizons in such a short period of time. The winding road lifted us up through dry brush, eventually leading us to the fluffy variety of trees able to grow in the cooler, more temperate climates of the mountains. Ears gently popping, I leaned my forehead against the passenger seat window so I could nervously peer over the edge of the road into the canyons dropping off below. The horrible prospect of falling and rolling down into that canyon made my stomach lurch just a little bit, but made me more eager to see just how long I could keep looking down -- we humans are such strange, masochistic beings, aren't we?

I tilted my head back and looked up, but the view of the mountains and trees was just as endless as the deepest valleys falling behind us. And then, all of a sudden, I discovered that our car had crawled its brave little way up to the top, and there was just . . . sky and us and a chirping Baby. Oh, there were mosquitoes too, and they loved, loved, LOVED my juicy East Coast legs, but . . . bygones. We took a mini-hike -- gentle, because two of us were wearing sandals -- on a gravel trail near the top. We threw pebbles off the edge of the path to see if we could hear them hit and bounce and keep on hitting. We bounced Baby in her back-pack carrier and listened to her yak at her surroundings. We ran, sort of scared but not really, through a dark and mercifully short tunnel. We posed for glamour shots against strong mountains and glowing sunsets. And then we made our treacherous don't-ride-the-brakes way back down and home again, talking about our parents' immigration experiences, marriage, in-laws, second-generation Korean-Americans, baby talk.

It was stunning. It occurred to me that some knucklehead had paved a road through all of that, and that we, now, were driving around on that road. Still, helpless guilt aside, I remained in awe of what stood in front of me. Sure, sometimes I take a moment when I return home at night to look up at the stars and take a deep, refreshing breath. Sometimes I open my sunroof on a glaringly sunny day and let the wind take my hair. And sometimes I open the windows at home to let some freshness fly through. But there's nothing like being smacked in the face with the wonder, glory, hugeness and untouched wildness of God's earth, even if it is in the middle of L.A.

***

I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR . . .

My friends go to a relatively new, still-struggling and still-developing church. It started with a core group of young Korean-Americans, and now has a healthy regular group of about 50 Asian-Americans and other-Americans. They're all cool people -- very friendly, truly welcoming, and of course, mostly tan and healthy-looking. (I look pastier white than usual standing next to them.) And just as I normally enjoy going to other churches and seeing how they mix things up, I also enjoy going to church with Ha and Dr.Y.

But one thing -- the same thing -- gives me pause. The teaching at this church takes a more conservative bent than I'm accustomed to. No, it's not as though the men and women worship separately, or the women have to wear head coverings, or stuff like that. But one thing that I've heard more than once concerns the role of Christian women: their work is inside the home, they must be submissive to their husbands, they must be good role models to their children as mothers and wives.

That's all fine and good, and it is Biblical, for the most part, I think.

I'm all for women doing work inside the home -- we do it better than most men, anyway, and many women take great pride in how they maintain their home. I mean, who am I kidding -- Bed Bath & Beyond is one of my favorite stores, and I put almost as much thought into my cleaning products purchases as I do on my new fall wardrobe! And yes, in most cases, women and/or moms who stay at home work waaaay harder than I do most days at my office. But doesn't it always sound like disapproval of women who work outside the home?

I'm all for women being submissive to their husbands -- as the church is submissive to Christ, and as Christ is submissive to His Father. I think that second phrase is not sufficiently emphasized, and Lord knows, certain religious factions have latched onto that precept as an excuse to make their wives stay at home, barefoot and pregnant. Icky, icky, icky. Of course, I'm on the prowl myself for a good man who will be a strong and worthy spiritual leader in my home -- I wouldn't have it any other way and I will have no less a spiritual role model for my children. But intellectual, emotional and physical servitude -- even implied (or misinterpreted by me) -- just ain't my cup of coffee.

I'm all for women being good role models to their children as mothers and wives. Even now, as a single, childless woman, I worry about whether I'll be a good mom, whether I'll be able to raise my kids in faith, with a good and steady moral barometer, whether I'll maintain a healthy and loving home, etc. But I'd also like to be a good role model to my children -- and to my daughter(s) in particular -- as a conscientious lawyer, as a world-aware citizen, as an always-curious learner, as an independent person always seeking to serve others, not because I'm a woman, but because God tells me to.

So, why do my hackles rise when someone else tells me to be and do these things? Why do I read the relevant Biblical passages again and again and wonder and mull and argue with myself and with God and try to justify my reactions? Why are my traditional and contemporary selves always at war? Why do I immediately become defensive and argumentative, and scowl at the pastor as he delivers his message?

I have no idea.

***

DR. JANE GOODALL . . .

I am a voyeur. I love people-watching. I love listening in on people's conversations. I love seeing how people interact and react. My few days here in L.A. have been no different. Daily, I've been meeting new people: Ha's mom, dad, little brother; Dr.Y's mom, dad, older brother; their church friends, work friends, extended family members. Each drive through portions of the city exposes me to the L.A. community of Latino-Americans, African-Americans, Korean-Americans, other Asian-American, and white Americans.

And without going into too much gory detail, my ground-breaking innovative thesis is as follows: we all have our own unique issues and personalities, but myopically are unable to recognize this fact most of the time, much less accept it gracefully in others. One man's adorable quirk is another man's pet peeve. One woman's easy-going nature is another woman's laziness. One child's brattiness is another child having a good day.

You know what, folks? That's just the way it is.

Okay, so where's my Pulitzer in sociology?