Finding Serenity in Shock, Storms, and Stretch Marks

written: July 27, 2008

Another energy-consumed-by-calm feeling has come over me, signaling only that I’m ready to write again. And while I feel this is a necessary time to write, I don’t know where to start. So I will begin with something I wrote over a year ago:

“The world is blooming in front of me. Some flowers bloom and perfume the air while others turn ugly. But I want to see it all happen. I want to see the world at its ugliest. I want to be shocked and horrified. Surprised and emotionally connected to a world that isn't seemingly my own. I want to be challenged. Before I had wished for a middle-of-the-road experience as my first Peace Corps project. Now I want the hut. I want to be as far away from all crutches as possible...”

The world is blooming literally here – fresh and lush gardens combined with a widening world view. And I do want to see it all happen. I still want to see the ugly and the angry. But I needed to remind myself of that. Because I have been getting angry; I have been feeling disconnected from the world that is still my world, instead of feeling gratitude for this eye opening experience. I have seen generosity and humanity, but I have also seen selfishness and pain – from both fellow countrymen and from strangers.

In addition to the “shocked and horrified” I’ve also been impressed with my own unintentional prediction that one of my biggest goals and challenges would be in maintaining self-discipline throughout the self-defined schedule. Both ideas were written before I even knew I would be coming to Moldova, before I knew specifically what my challenges would be. And they have come to be spot-on-accurate.

One of the biggest difficulties is finding balance, and it’s not just one type of balance, but quite a ridiculous number of opposites that I’ve been trying to equalize: time in the village and time in the city, responsibility to the point of guilt or acting like a volunteer to the point of indifference, not caring what people think and not wanting to offend anyone, productivity or cultural integration, frustration for change or acceptance for the situation.

Listening intuitively is something I seem to remind myself of only randomly. Sometimes it seems to carry more pressed importance to me than others, but it’s a growing process – though I may forget to listen to the greater will of things at times, when I do listen, my faith and trust grows exponentially so that the general growth is positive…and powerful. You have to try it to feel it; you have to feel it to trust it, to believe it. I’m saying this entirely to myself because I know what darkness feels like. I know what little sense “blind faith” can hold when you are shrouded and deaf. That’s the word: deaf. It’s not so much “sight” as “hearing,” as “listening.” Simple things such as: what do I want at this simple moment, where do I want to be? Then getting up from the bus stop and walking to the river so that I can see some glimpse of water in this ocean-deprived country. And so instead of waiting for the I-don’t-know-when-it-will-get-here bus, I sat somewhere more enjoyable and got up only when I was ready; no looking at the time. Then as I get back to the bus stop, I wait only five minutes before the bus comes to take me home.

Home. Yes, it’s “home” because it is where I felt most comfortable after the three consecutive nights in different places. It’s home because it’s where I was heading when I finally felt relieved of the eggshells I had been walking on for ten months.

At first, I defined that “relief” as the spontaneous readiness to stop caring about what other people thought (while admitting to myself that it had been a silent source of steady stress since coming to country). Though, I now realize that my spontaneous transition is greater than just eggshells. It’s the readiness to listen at every moment. To close my eyes and ask where I want to be, what I feel, where I’m being led at each moment, so that I let things work out the way they are supposed to work out instead of trying to fix everything all the time – instead of thinking that I know what’s best. I don’t. There is a cycle, a purpose, a harmony to things when we let them work out, and I want to let them work out. I don’t want to ignore the obvious. And I’ve said this to myself for the last two years but I don’t always act on it. I feel wholeheartedly that by getting down to the gut-of-the-matter, all of the “Peace Corps balances” will be found.

But I need to acknowledge the others that lead their life this way. There is something necessary in my reading The Meaning of Life and The Tao of Pooh (and, sure, The Alchemist, too) that reminds me that someone else is thinking the same thing. And, yes, that’s nice…but to know the PEOPLE, to see their lives and to feel their energy, their peace, their lightness of step…to know the people who lead their lives on a regular basis based on the subtle “this is where I need to be” feeling…well it’s awesomely inspiring. When we ask ourselves simply: what would I miss most if I couldn’t have it in my life? And then following that, regardless of how weird or scary that path may be… I’m not ready for that question yet, let alone the answer, but I am already grateful for those that I have seen make that step. Ideally, when I get there, I’ll be able to take that jump too.

In one year and four months.

Backing up to tell you a story:

I didn’t know how long I would wait for the minibus, I knew only that there would be nothing between 5:00 and 6:15, but it was not yet 4:00. I took my time, knowing that the 6:15 would still be there, assured and trying not to rush (I loathe that feeling). I went from here to there, forgetting something, going back, saying goodbye, saying it again, and then leaving when I was ready, regardless of time. I got a few fresh apricots out of it (yeah!) and some lovely walking company. And as I arrived at the Gara, there was the exact surprise minibus that I needed to take, leaving at just that moment. I hopped right on. The last seat was the one next to the driver. A coincidence, I said to myself, since the same thing happened last time and the driver bought me ice cream. This time was not as sweet. Different driver, different day. Grateful as I was that it wasn’t raining when I walked to the station (because it probably would have convinced me to stay another night), the downpour that followed while we were driving was scary enough to make up for it. It was brain-rattlingly scary. I had a front seat view of the speedy passes the driver made around other cars through the curtain of rain on the windshield, the turns he raced around blindly while driving on the opposite side of the road. Forget the fact that our side of the road looked dryer and flatter… Knowing perfectly well that he’s not the only driver that drives this aggressively made the threat of blind corners even more insane. And this, remember, is a two-and-a-half hour drive. The lightning shot down in solid bolts straight to the ground around us and the thunder mirrored my sick stomach. I don’t remember ever being scared to the point of sickness. I didn’t throw up, I was too mesmerized. I didn’t have a heart attack, either, though fainting would have eliminated the eye-witness view. The driver was anxious and stressed, rolling his shoulders every few minutes as he pressed them towards his ears during his evasive steering. And it got to the point where I was so sure that I would watch helplessly as we collided with another car that my body relaxed and I went numb. I realized that if this were to happen, I would be looking at it spot on. “I’d rather see my death coming,” he said as we walked across the country by foot, “so I walk on this side.” But I didn’t have a choice as I sat in this seatbelt-less seat, flinching at the sight of every oncoming headlight. And I prayed. “When you’re tense, you’re more likely to get injured during an accident,” she told me, “so the girls were fine in the backseat because they never saw it coming.” Well I let my muscles go, and I prayed…slowly but continuously. But as we were ten minutes from our destination, the storm lightened and our surroundings looked greener, a little less gray. And as I got out, umbrella-less, I thanked God for my life.

As I reread this entry, it sounds unintentionally serious. I want to shift slightly to talk about something ridiculous – stretch marks. To me, the name implies that they should come when something stretches, so why then are they popping up by the hordes as I have been shrinking? I expected them to come…like, you know…during the winter…when I stretched. I’ve done enough up-and-down ridiculousness to my body to know that they were bound to make their appearance. It’s the timing I don’t get. But yes, so summer and some larger sense of serenity have brought a natural (and unintentional) return back to normalness – productively and in weight. But it seems like every week there are more little red lines that join the crowd. “Hello to the summer season of shorts and swimsuits,” they say. Lovely and illogical.

And today I was back in Soroca and I saw how much the river has risen in the last few days – it’s incredible! It’s only about a meter from the top of the wall. We used to see cattle grazing on the river bank, but now we see only half of corn fields and the topmost leaves of trees. The river is speeding more steadily, but the rumor is that the storm has been the worst in 100 years! (No wonder I was scared for my life!) The other “word on the street” is that it will flood. And we have no drainage system. Already the bus station in Soroca is blocked by a street’s worth of water.

But summer has also been filled with multiple BBQ’s – the majority of which involve getting rained on. Last summer was a drought, this summer a swimming pool. It’s also involved seminar series and more time reminding myself that I like being in that educational setting. Business plans busted out in too short a period of time, but business plans nonetheless. Less time was spent writing, but I think I made up for it with the length of this entry. And now that I have my new shoes (thank you!) I’m running again, I’m active, I’m outside. I’m punching-bag-less but I’m burning adrenaline, I’m doing something productive with my emotional antsiness. Hallelujah! Another way of relieving stress: cutting your hair…yourself. Three-to-four inches of dry hair chopped off with loose scissors and my own hands. The process is just as refreshing as the fresher and “bouncier” result. A lot of time has been spent thinking about post-Peace Corps endeavors, but I can’t spend the endless amount of time internet-searching grad programs because I don’t have an endless amount of internet time to do so. But I think about it. A lot. I think a lot. Maybe too much. But now it’s time to listen.

Sunday's Sudden Want

I don't know what it was about today. It was a while in the making, but perhaps the cool lazy breeze on this rainless summer day was the catalyst. Perhaps it was the lack of desire to get on a bus and realizing instead that what I wanted more than anything...what I couldn't stop picturing in my head...was that California back yard on a summer afternoon, with my easle set up under the shade of the walnut tree and a cool glass of water in my hand, a paintbrush in the other. I wanted to be painting. I wanted to be outside. And I wanted to be in a comfortable, home-like setting - someplace I knew where all I would think of was the canvas in front of me, the stroke of the brush, the mood, the world I was painting. It wasn't so much that I didn't want to be in Moldova. It had nothing to do with wanting to leave. I just wanted to have that same feeling with me - and I didn't. It was the strength of that wanting and the subsequent disappointment that surprised me. I know that I can't paint on my bedroom wall anymore, but I wanted to. I wanted a big, limitless canvas. And I wanted it immediately. I bought some paints instead, plus a handful of brushes and some paper. And I will paint soon and I will love it.

Sweets and Sweating

May 26, 2008

I came back to the village last evening since leaving for the States 18 days earlier. I noticed that the roads were bordered by lush green trees and vines overflowing into the roads and I smiled at the semi-rainforest-like appearance. But the biggest excitement was seeing my house, surrounded by natural, fresh greenery. Walkways are smaller as the plant-life reaches out in all directions. Our front door is almost blocked from street-view and when I look to the East I can no longer look directly at the primaria because natural curtains have sprung up animatedly. It’s the speed of this lush development that surprises me, but it’s the natural aesthetics that excite me. I’m living in my own little rain-sprung forest in the middle of Eastern Europe.

I haven’t unpacked yet. It’s almost noon. I slept around fourteen hours last night, trying to catch up from a month of evaporated sleep time.

June 10, 2008

I just picked fresh red strawberries from the garden, washed them and ate them. That was after walking forty-five minutes from the main road where the minibus dropped me off. Which I can do now because it’s still light at 6 p.m.! In fact, it’s light until ten. Which is just lovely. I love Spring! The stress of traveling is reduced considerably by the extended presence of daylight. The ability, as well, to stay over night somewhere (rather than being on “lockdown” as in for the first three months) also makes travel less stressful. But those are two different, if related points, because one implies being able to travel to and from somewhere within the same day and the other involves being able to take my time and stay longer. And I treasure having a choice between the two.

My nails have never grown this quickly and I’ve never had so many split ends – due to the lack of conditioner use probably, considering the less frequent washing makes it unnecessary. “Just condition the tips,” they tell me. Still, the irony: less frequent washing + less frequent hair dryer use = more split ends?

This week we’re officially starting the “I’ll lead classes in exchange for your community involvement” stuff. To be specific: an English class and an aerobics class. The benefit? All are welcome because they’ll be helping out and “demonstrating responsibility.” Yes, I am going to lead an English group. Yes, even though I said I was done teaching English. But I am okay with it since it will only run as long as the community activities keep getting done. Example: this week, after the aerobics group, we’re going to clean up outside of the center for twenty minutes or so. One week we’ll clean up the park, the mayor’s office, the elderly center. Another week each participant will bring a piece of clothing or a toy as payment and we’ll distribute the collection to needy families. This was my condition. And so far, it’s being met with great interest – as long as the “bait” classes are catching attention. English classes tend to do that, so there you have it. In addition, I’ll use the English classes as “project-related seminar-like” time, meaning I’ll teach vocabulary that’s necessary for grant proposal writing and tourism and daily communication. Thus, I’ll use this as an outlet to get some other unofficial trainings in the mix.

Out of all months that have passed – nine now – June has snuck up the most sneakily. I know that has much to do with my significant absence from the village during May, but that time was still filled with goings on and events…hence the speed, probably.

I don’t want to talk about my time in the States, and don’t ask me why because I don’t know. The only possible answer I’ll give you is that I’m tired of talking about it. But I can say wholeheartedly, with neither doubt nor obligation, that I love my family more than ever. And that includes every so-and-so’s wife or cousin or brother. I don’t, however, get tired of saying that the only cultural “shock” was having to remind myself that I could put the paper INTO the toilet…and then subsequently reminding myself NOT to when I got back. That’s what buckets are for. That’s not “shock,” though, just habit-breaking.

Life and work are starting to pick up as summer comes a-callin’ – as everyone said they would. But even as I start taking on more responsibility I still enjoy the free time. I don’t want the high-paced 12-hour work days, 7 days per week. It was a hard adjustment to make from busy to slow, but I rather like it now. It’s probably going to make the reverse transition even more frustrating, but I don’t plan on jumping into a working world anytime soon anyway.

I want to re-iterate my much abused articulation that I love when things get decided for us, when we stress and worry about decisions that tend to work themselves out. And what I love is that it doesn’t only happen for me (of course it doesn’t), but I LOVE that it is also obvious to others. It is a relief to me; it sustains faith and trust in how things work. It’s not blind faith, it’s visible blessings. I’m not talking about things that go “wrong,” although that has its own process of “rightness,” but I’m talking about when you know deep down in your gut that the right decision was made FOR you (or sometimes in conjunction with your choices). No, not when some peer or boss was trying to decide your life for you; I mean the complete opposite. It’s a gentle nudge in the right direction. We don’t always see how we affect other people, but I believe (and I witness!) that when we make the best, most honest and most true-to-heart decisions, they ripple onto others in the most beautiful of ways.

Unfortunately, this weird half-language life we live makes most of us passive aggressive. I don’t like saying “no” to the girls who want me to teach them English. They’ll pay me, they say. They want to work in tourism. They want to find a good, legitimate job. I don’t want to teach them from scratch. First, I don’t really know how. Secondly, I can’t possibly teach everyone that asks (and that’s five now) so how do you say “yes” to some and “no” to others? Slippery slope reasoning tends to come from some rational fear. The trick is having a reaction that’s more rational than the reasoning. Maybe if I teach you English, you can teach me Russian? We also don’t want to offend anyone. But talking to my host mother about some of the interpersonal occurrences that have plagued some volunteers, I see that such things are not “normal” here either, even if they are more frequent.

Here I am fully acknowledging that Saying-No-To-Too-Much-Work was a highlighted issue in my American life, too…as it is for many of us. But language and “cultural sensitivity” combined with wanting to feel useful all tend to exacerbate the dilemma.

I went back and read some of the letters and emails I’ve written to individuals. I think those, more so than my public journaling, will be quite monumental to read when I look back on this in a few years. They’re not necessarily filled with award-winning philosophy or writing, but with experiences that I catalogued in more detail, with more candid reactions.

Blisters, by the way, can eat my feet alive but they’ve got nothing on me! Wearing glasses in the rain, however, is not my favorite thing to do. Although I’ve found that since traveling through rain last summer with broken rolling luggage, I don’t mind being in the rain – as long as I’m not 1) wearing glasses because then I can’t see 2) cold or 3) ruining anything valuable, but seeing as I’m low on that category of belongings…

Besides, when you walk for half an hour in a DOWNPOUR you get to enjoy the “stare at the crazy Americans” faces and the warm clothes you change into. Coming home to someone eating the majority of your remaining PRECIOUS dark chocolate covered almonds, however, is NOT one of my favorite things.

This season is already starting to test my “I’d rather be hot than cold” theory. See, I could always roll down the windows of my air-conditioning-less car, but in Moldova, I’m not always allowed to do that. (You’ll get sick.) And even if I am, the windows don’t reach the back of the bus. There are only the driver’s window and (sometimes) the front passenger window. Think of the lack of window opening as the still prominent “don’t go outside with your hair wet or you’ll catch a cold” idea. It’s deep rooted and much abided by, but scientifically unfounded. The result is Samantha sitting in a minibus with sweat dripping down the side of her face and landing on her shirt, fogged-up glasses sliding continuously down her face. But I still don’t like being cold. And I don’t mind sweating as long as I’m not in fancy clothes. I’ll just keep my hair off my neck, where my contacts, and dress in less clothing.

And I have a camera again! Hoorah and thank you! So hopefully I will be able to share more visuals-that-aren’t-displayed-through-figurative-writing. Here’s to extended daylight, fresh fruit, and being able to go outside in shorts!

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.

Writing and Whining

It's been about a month since I've last updated. I've been postponing another entry until I got back from Romania, maybe after Orthodox Easter, and then after D.C. Maybe I would just put it off for another couple of months, eh? No. I'll tell you now.

I'm going out of town at a time when: 1) Things are blooming in my village - the trees, the youth, the sun, our motivation; 2) I was getting so tired of hearing myself complaining about rain, uncertainty, and spending too much time in the capital. I was just about overdosed on laying in my bed and catching up on movie watching. I was tired of writing, believe it or not, because it had so consumed my time - which I'm glad for because I love it and it was a great comfort...but it's time for other things. Let me rephrase. I wasn't tired of writing, I was tired of writing about the same things.

I had been whining. That's what it comes down to. And now everything is ripe and I'm going to enjoy myself in Romania and then prance around America. I'll give my family some heartfelt hugs and then I will come back to Moldova and will be propelled into action. That happens. Sometimes you get so disgusted, angry, excited, or nervous that when the door opens, you sprint forward at unstoppable speeds. Reverse motivation. The last sling-shot propelled me a good twenty months or so. It's gotten me to Moldova for goodness sakes. So the next one should carry me through.

I feel...liberated. And quite grateful to those who heard me complaining for the last few months.

When it comes down to the faith of the matter: I have unquestionable faith that you end up where you're supposed to end up (even if you spend "too much" time here or there). The random decisions I've been making within this little country have brought spontaneous and beautiful surprises. There are things that we will never know. But when it's time for you to know, you'll know. And knowing THAT is a comfort. Of course I mean this in the first person. I forgot that. I ha been so built up on defining my theory that I didn't trust it or live it.

And there's a difference between guilt and shame. No shame. No, sir. You can take responsibility without being a cynic. Optimism still reigns!

I burned my tongue on tea (twice). I can't wait until I can bathe in the summer shower. I love natural honey (who knew there were so many colors?).

I am capable. I don't want my service here to be filled with fabricated exaggerations about my community successes. Most importantly, I will be honest with myself and I will be surprised.

And, yes, I am frequently thinking about what I want to do next. Not that there's a rush to decide. I won't even pretend to decide. And even if I did, it would change. It's just an example of my excitement.

Capable and Courting Uncertainty

I wanted to write on Wednesday the 12^th to mark my six months in Moldova. I didn’t. But the day was monumental. At least, the change was – I have noticed an anxiety, only evident in its lessening. While I wouldn’t have said I was anxious then, I can say I am less anxious now – at least where other people are concerned. As productive as my language learning might be, it definitely led to a lingering uncertainty and separation from those around me who speak a language I only newly understand. Fact is, if I’m not focusing on your every Romanian word, I’m likely daydreaming. Sorry.

As our six months came along, I found myself both more comfortable in my village and more eager to get away for the weekend – not, as theory goes, to party hardy all the time…but to be around peers who speak English and don’t yet have children. I get along well with the people in my community, but there’s still that absence, that connection, that friend that doesn’t quite exist yet. But it’s quite lovely to just be away from the village, to rest and hide from the still ridiculously uncertain role I have in my village.

Ah, yes, uncertainty. Like all dirty mistresses, its attraction also brings my disgust. “Moldova is like my husband,” she told me. “The same things that intrigued me in the beginning now drive me crazy, but I love it, because it’s my husband.” While I am not in the same place to talk about my love affair with Moldova, that is exactly how I feel about uncertainty. I’m not married to it, but it’s my dirty lover. As sick and frustrated, annoyed and impatient it makes me, as wrong as it feels, it’s exciting and invigorating to be courting uncertainty – in all aspects. The noncommittal abundance of opportunity breeds ideas and passion, but it also flirts with insecurity and stomach aches. And I have enough stomach problems as it is for anxiety to be taking its turn as well. But to have too many options – what a wonderful dilemma this is!

I’m talking about every form of uncertainty – my future, my role in my village, the Eggs Benedict quest. Yes, about that…I suppose one of my frustrations with “uncertainty” is that the Eggs Benedict Quest seeks certainty and not having it seems to undermine the process – even though it is a necessity in the journey.

So to end at least some of this vagueness, point is I don’t know what I want. And that’s ok. Yes, I know, you really do not need to convince me. I’m merely expressing the multitude of categories that fill the Uncertainty Box. It makes decision making exciting when all options are intriguing, like when all doors lead to a different foreign adventure. But when you actually have to make a decision, well I don’t like that. I tend to procrastinate until the choice is clear and necessary. In the past it was easier to act when I knew something was NOT for me. But now it’s the opposite. I need to find out what IS for me.

What do I miss? What passion did I previous take for granted? Where’s that “trust your gut” and “listen to your daydreams” feeling? It’s here. I’ve just been too preoccupied with worry that I haven’t been listening. Ok, so now an hour into this letter let me get to the worry-free part.

I miss theatre. Quite painfully. There’s that heart-swelling feeling that makes me want to burst into song when I come out of a performance. Not that bursting into song is all that rare (it’s pretty darn common), but normally it’s spontaneous and subconscious. This post-theatre performance feeling is powerful and uncontainable, it builds up ravenously until I explode, or dance, or smile so wide that you’d think I’d just fallen in love. I probably did. I have a tendency of falling for at least one actor per performance. So what does that mean? Does that mean I go back to school for theatre? For writing? Maybe. We’ll see. And it’s totally possible that I just need to find a way to bring more theatre into my life, to attend performances in Moldova, or to bring a love for theatre to the youth in my village. It doesn’t necessarily mean I need to ignore everything else and leave the Peace Corps to pursue theatre. I’m just excited to miss something this much. To have a feeling so strong for something.

I have also woken up wanting to open a school. Not to teach. To open the school. I think I would enjoy that process, the ability to use my creativity in the development of a school. In fact, I see myself being quite giddy during that adventure.

And then there’s the language love. Even on frustrating days, the “you think you know more about America than I do because I can’t express myself in your language” days, or the “please stop saying ‘you don’t know, you don’t know’ because I do know, it just doesn’t make sense in Romanian” days. Repeating what I said in the last post: learning languages makes me happy. In fact, I’m glad I didn’t end up in a French-speaking country because I love learning this NEW language, adding one to the list!

I’m not trying to define life. I’m not even pretending to assume that I will be a master of universal knowledge by the time I head stateside. Or that I want to be. But how exciting is this so far?!?! All my written worries are only mental ponderings. And they are normally the firings that result in great discoveries and adventures.

On a non-thought-involved note, I’ve never snored so much in my life. My apologies to those I’ve woken up, to those who I’ve scared because I sounded like I was drowning. I’m going to have a cold until summer, so I will probably snore at least until June. Buy earplugs.

Bathing is much more efficient. “You learned how to have a Moldovan bath.” Indeed. I can heat the water, get something accomplished, and then bathe in five minutes as opposed to the twenty it took before. That might have something to do with the weather heating up a bit; the tile in the bath room is less biting.

And one of my favorite games is Let’s Talk About How Wonderful So-And-So Is. And what’s better is when that person comes around the corner at just that moment. Man…really…I love when that happens. But I also love that I’m surrounded by people who like to play this game as well. It sure beats the Let’s Talk About the Bad Things game. I don’t like that game. And I don’t like being around the people that like that game.

This is where I am: balancing being somewhere that got decided for me, doing work that other people have requested, simultaneously discovering what it is that I’d rather be doing instead. It’s quite lovely.

“You’re a capable girl; tell them if you don’t like it.” I’m not bothered, I said, just curious. And I smiled. And then she laughed this spontaneous laugh, not from her belly, but honest, more than a chuckle. And I didn’t think I was being funny, just trying to explain my story. But her lightheartedness mirrored my own and that’s when you know that nothing is as serious as we make it seem.

Egg Quests and English Questions

February 27, 2008

I am eggs benedict. More precisely, I am the search for eggs benedict, the effort of the Runaway Bride to find out which type of egg she personally prefers rather than siding along with the will of her fiancé-at-the-time. Not that my taste in eggs has changed drastically based on my fiancés-at-the-time, but this is where I am. Even if it means deciding not to pick a favorite. The choice will be my own.

I don’t want to write about all the self-discovering I’ve been enjoying because, frankly, I don’t want to hear “I told you so.” Secondly, it’s still in the process. And while avoiding “I told you so” should not be my motive, I’m enjoying this bit of privacy. Yes, Daddy, if my time here involves learning something significant about myself, it’s time well spent. In that case, it’s already well spent and I’d like to continue spending some more emotional cash. Preferably on something more than eggs.

Fortunately, however, there’s also been some international development sprinkled into the mix. While international development of other nations is not the same as my self-development that happens internationally, both matter.

I’m going to start with the basic up-to-do’s because the second portion of this entry will be jumbled and probably quite boring for those who aren’t interested in the most complex of my mental adventures.

Work: We just submitted a (quite small) grant proposal so that my partner can start attracting first-time voters to next year’s election. Why do we need money to do this? For a civic participation expert to come run seminars. And for paper. (Hence the “quite small” label.) I say “so my partner can” because I’m not supposed to be related to anything political, even if it’s nonpartisan voter outreach. Peace Corps is one of the only governmental orgs whose representatives are (supposed to be) consciously un-political. But I’m happy to be involved through noninvolved means – helping the people who help inform other people of their voting rights.

Teaching: I love it. But I’m not an English teacher. I’m ESPECIALLY not an English-as-a-Foreign-Language teacher. To be honest, I wasn’t actually sure about my inability to teach the language to people who have no previous knowledge of English. It was more the principle of not wanting others to assume that I would do so that kept the “NO” spilling out of my mouth. I am now quite convinced of my current lack of qualifications. I am, though, grateful for the simultaneous confirmation of my enjoyment of being in a classroom. Let’s hope, folks, that next time it is out of my own will and accord. Especially if I’m on my egg quest.

Speaking of which, I don’t remember why I haven’t eaten mayonnaise for years. Well, yes I do. Does it really taste better here or am I only ignoring the caloric factor? I do know that French butter tastes better than American butter and Moldovan butter tastes like French butter. I embrace the French-famed “don’t eat anything that doesn’t taste good, even if it’s healthy” philosophy. So yes, I eat butter here. I like the butter more than the oil and the mayonnaise better than the sugar. In moderation, of course. Moderation, said the man with the black hat. As did the prince under the tree. The Middle Road.

The Middle Road works in forms of Buddhism, in pacifism, in shortcuts, and in peace treaties. It works for controlling your appetite and relieving yourself of unhealthy indulgences where abstinence isn’t plausible. But it doesn’t work in the find-out-what-I-want-out-of-life process. Gung ho! All aboard! Yada, yada. But while uncertainty continues to bite my heels, the Middle Road is my best friend.

People really do learn English from films. Real people have spoken to me with the English they’ve learned from films. This is a subconscious form of language learning that I am jealous of. I’ve also realized that I quite appreciate English. My appreciation for English richness, for the detailed say-exactly-what-I’m-trying-to-say-ness…it’s flourishing. English is born for those who take too long to think of the right word (Sam). It performs for people who don’t like being misunderstood because they’ve put such care into how they phrase themselves. That, by the way, is the main reason for my sometimes paused-filled speech. It is not, contrary to belief, a desire to tip-toe over delicate feelings, but my preference for being understood.

What is more important at the moment is my realization that the person who is in most need of understanding is Samantha, herself. Thus the Romanian Frustration becomes almost obsolete. The lack of satisfying brainstorming, even in English, becomes inconsequential. Because, at this point, my articulateness (or lack of) is only as important as the thoughts it conveys.

Sorry for the vagueness. I’ll elaborate. I realize that not only do I appreciate this language’s ability for me to express my new discoveries, but I appreciate this language for the discoveries I make about the language. I like languages. I like learning languages. I LOVE learning new languages. For some people, political science is their grasp on reality, their relation to other countries, to an understanding of history. Perhaps science does it for you. Perhaps sports history is your cover-all. I think language is my eggs benedict. I wrote awhile ago (to my own amusement) of the ways in which being bilingual impresses me. I realized that it’s not just the ability to speak multiple languages, but the cultural understanding that comes with it. There truly ARE concepts that do not exist in other languages. (This coming from the “Just tell me what it means!” girl) So a person who has a fluid grasp on more than one language also understands the flexibility of concepts that comes with each. And so, now, I am not only possessed with the almost insane desire to speak 50 languages, but to understand them as well. Slight difference, big change.

I don’t need you to read my words; I just need to say them. I don’t need you to understand them; I just need to understand my own motive. Motive. That’s the key.

So when I say something in Romanian when trying to say something entirely different, I can live. As long as I didn’t insult anyone when talking on the village “radio” three times in one week, I’m good.

There is a reason for all things. There is a reason why God brought me to Moldova and why this is the only place where these eggs benedict adventures will unfold precisely as they will. But it’s a relationship. We are given circumstances and we can indulge ourselves in them or we can put them off. I am here because I don’t want to put them off. I want to hear them when they call me and I want to come to honest and enthusiastic discoveries.

So here I am: not writing the emails I should be writing because I’m enjoying watching eggs scramble. And I’m surrounded by a deceptively warm day and a constellation-filled night. And I love it.

P.S. I think the once-a-month instead of once-a-week journal entry is a good sign.