Thursday, May 1, 2008

The Walrus, The Godson, and the Funeral

April 28, 2008

I had a punching bag at home. I didn’t always use it. But I could’ve. I would like to. Very much. And not particularly because I’d like to hit anyone. If I wanted to hit someone, I would say: I want to hit someone. Instead, I want to hit the punching bag. I want to hit it because it’s possible to hit a punching bag in the winter when you’re tired of doing sit ups in your room but when you can’t go outside because it’s…you know…cold.

I want to hit the punching bag because I have two things: frustration and energy. I’ve realized what my challenge will be while I’m here. And that is invigorating but displeasing.

The time has come, the walrus said,
To get up off your tush.
And though I’m leaving to the States
I feel an angry rush,

To get more done that others see,
To show them what I do.
And not pretend I’ve done enough
Because it isn’t true.

The time has passed, the seasons say,
when language-learning reigns
When I can take my time to act
Because of snowy days.

So now they want to know my cause
The reason that I’m here.
Hope that I, as well, will know,
Before we end the year.

The time is up, my conscience says,
For waiting for my cue.
No more doing this half-way
Or waiting around on you.

Let’s jump into some bigger goals
Let’s start them right away
But, of course, I’m leaving soon,
Thus goes another May.


We can find a middle road. We can all be satisfied – at least you and I can be. Except when I mentioned one of my ideas today, I heard: Great idea, but let’s wait until summer. Ok, so I’ll play it your way until then. But I’m going to bring it up every week until you agree. And if you don’t, I’ll change things around. It’s the balance between “waiting you out” and “getting it done” that we volunteers struggle with.

On a happier note, I really enjoyed Romania. I lived the vacation, without letting the worries destroy the adventure. And I hope to do the same in the States. I enjoyed the stress-free company, the mountain air, the gothic architecture, the small-town feel of Old Town, the rich Italian food and the Scottish pub. I enjoyed being legally away from my village. I enjoyed the eagerness with which I returned, the tulips flaunting their bright red vastness. “Do you have these flowers where you are?” I don’t like this question. I feel ignorant when I don’t know. No, I wanted to say. “But I guess there must be,” is my normal sort-of answer, “because the country is so big.” Regardless, I’ve never seen so many, so bright, so magnificent. I tried sketching them but they deserve the richness of paint.

When in Romania, I was told that my accent is more Moldovan than American. “You’re learning, then,” they tell me. I didn’t take it as an insult; I think it’s amusing. In Moldova, I’m Dutch, Finnish, Romanian…and sometimes American. People either immediately guess I’m American or it’s completely confused. Fine by me. I’m never this ambiguous in the States. It’s kind of fun. And if they know I speak English, I’m American, not English.

We were actually only in Romania for two full days. The other two were dedicated to travel. But I thought it would rain the entire time we were there (or even snow). It only rained momentarily and we were inside at that point anyway. It was such a wonderful weekend. It was a blessing. We were going to go two weekends earlier, when it would’ve been gray and rainy anyway. You can’t always plan these things. In fact, you’ve probably read a million time that I don’t think they are planned. They’ve been happening for me. And I want to always remember that. To always be grateful for that.

And Easter was lovely. The two days before consisted of leisurely baking – one type of bread after another, and then some more. At four thirty in the morning I went to church (well, outside the church) to bless the special “pasca” bread. The day of Easter was blue and perfectly warm, with a slight breeze. The following day (today) was gray and rainy. It could easily have been reversed. But it wasn’t. And that just makes me calm with excitement. Perfect. The Easter service apparently took place the night before – starting at eleven and ending right before the bread blessing. Not that I could’ve attended (we were still preparing stuffed cabbage leaves, “sarmale” – yum!) but I would’ve like to. Although there are times when women are not allowed in the church. Actually, there’s only one time when they’re not allowed, and it repeats every month. Unless you’re Samantha, in which case…well enough of my bleeding health. It was a beautiful day regardless of what time the service started that I didn’t know about.

And what a perfect day to baptize a baby! Easter Sunday! I’m a godmother! You will come visit me in America, I thought. And then his father brought it up as well, though apparently his first-born, nine-years-old, said it first: he will go visit Samantha. I’m serious, I said. “So am I,” he repeated. Good, we’re agreed. And you, baby boy, will be my reason for never forgetting Romanian.

And then…

I don’t know why it feels that deaths happen around holidays. Of course they happen every day – multiple times a day actually. But in this instance, you can’t possible look at this last week and not feel the purpose behind it, the unbeknownst beauty of it. Exactly one week ago today, this full-headed baby boy was born. And then comes Easter, monument of the cycle of birth and death and rebirth. And then early Tuesday morning brings the mourning of a loss, a death. Exactly one week after this family celebrated a new birth. But she got to see him.

But the day was eye-opening. How many people came to help and support and prepare food and move tables! The holidays normally have family members preparing food in their own houses, but as this was a one-family affair, it seemed as if all flooded into the house – and it was wonderful. Everyone was busy with something that they seemed made for. You cut this and I’ll chop that. I’ll set up the candles and you can clear the wine. And it kept moving and kept rotating. And there was no stopping. Even as I walked out of my room at nine, there was evidence of emptied glasses, eaten food, and the whole Easter set-up had been turned into a traditional wake. In fact, it’s almost midnight and there’s still been no pause – although all are inside now. I’ve also never seen so much bread in my life. And this is after announcing the pre-Easter bake fest.

The service was hardest for me because that’s when the reality set it. It’s also when the homesickness-that-didn’t-exist decided to exist. “I don’t need to go to the States,” I said, “so it’s a good time to go.” Well during that service, I wanted my family. I came home, cried for thirty seconds, and felt better. Long day, and here is May.