As I left you last, I had just come back from a week out of the village, working on the children-designed greeting cards. I had planned to stay in the village for the following three weeks, and, as I mentioned, that was confirmed for me when I found out that we would hold the one-year-since-passing funeral for grandma the following weekend. Immediately after, though, I found out that we would further be required to stay out of the capital after the April 5th elections were followed by protests and riots. But I loved the timing and was once again grateful for the spontaneous decision to spend that first week preparing for the expo so that I could enjoy the following three weeks without worry.
The three weeks were full with the Easter holiday season:
April 5 – elections followed by protests and recount requests
April 11 – 50-person “funeral party” for the one-year-since-passing. This year I was able to help make the stuffed cabbage leaves with the women, participated in the post-stuffing meal and toast, and received the “thank you” bread and decorative towel. I feel so much more prepared for these long days of giant meals when some people eat straight out of the serving plate. It comes down to three things: eating slowly, paying attention to which plates/sides to avoid, and eating the vegetables one at a time to take up time. Hoards of bread, but no where near as many as last year – though at least 80 people has passed through then.
April 18-19 – Orthodox Easter. This year we still had a boat load of food from the following week but we had more plates to make. At 11:00 p.m. I headed to the church with mama’s cousin who I love. Her husband chuckled as he wrapped my head in a scarf and “made me a baba.” We walked in the dark slowly to the church, arm in arm over the dirt roads, slipping occasionally on the different levels of dirt. As we got to the church, she bought us each a long white candle and we waited with the others, all standing. As I waited, the priest came in, made a double take as he saw my face and expressed audibly that he was so glad to see me and glad to know that “the Americans are with us too.” I felt uncomfortable, but I smiled and nodded. This is a holiday about equality, not about singling out the American. I felt awkward enough as it is, standing around with a scarf wrapped around my head, the only one in eyeglasses, and taller than most. I followed mama’s cousin as she went to each altar, crossed herself and kiss each portrait. As I bent over the first, I froze about 6 inches from the table and realized I didn’t know what I was doing, so I stood there, bent over the frame, with people watching the frozen American, and just put my hand to my lips and then touched the frame. I stayed in the middle of the crowd after that.
But as we waited for the priest, crowded together in this small, beautiful space, I felt overcome with heat. Blood rush to my head and I felt the urge to throw up. I loosened my coat (the one I said I’d never wear again now that it was no longer winter), excused myself, and rain outside. I took deep breaths, walking around the others standing outside whose faces were hidden in the dark. I heard some “hello” here and there and couldn’t tell if they were playing with me. I went back in and within another two minutes, I was overcome once again with immediate heat and nausea. So we both went outside and waited in the cool spring night air. The priest came with a candle that had supposedly traveled from Jerusalem to Chisinau, to Soroca and then to us. We all lit our candles and proclaimed that Christ has risen and then walked around the church, guarding our flames and stepping on each other. Then we walked around the church again. And then one more time. Then we made our way back to the house, slowly and still cupping the flames, which didn’t give much light on the dark roads, but we made it back and went to bed. I thought I might get up for the sunrise bread blessing that I went to last year, but I stayed in bed and semi-acknowledged the sunrise through my window. Unfortunate, as I love Easter sunrise.
There is this flower with long green leaves on the bottom, with a long stem spouting from the middle, a green tuft of leaves on top and orange petals hanging below towards the ground. It’s called “Jesus has risen” or “little pasca” (a special sweet bread made on Easter). It blooms around Easter. Last year Easter was at the end of the month and that’s when it bloomed. This year Easter was the 19th and it bloomed the 17th. Wonderful. At 9:30 a.m. we ate the blessed food, napped, I practiced a little ukulele, and ate a large meal in the middle of the day. It was a beautiful day with a great mood that continued throughout the week. The week following Easter was vacation for students so the family stayed with us.
April 22 – the one year birthday of my godson. He is walking and trying to talk, smiling, and playing. He seems less uncomfortable with me and I seem less uncomfortable trying to baby-talk with him in Romanian. It was wonderful for me to experience these occasions the second time around. Last year this season was just as busy with Easter, the birth and baptism, and then the funeral. This year was similar but different and it was momentous for me to realize that I’ve been here long enough to witness this cycle again.
April 24 – Art Expo “Night of Art” in Chisinau. We rushed into Chisinau to put together the new sets of cards, frames, etc. then hurried to the expo to set up at 4 where I was overwhelmed with nerves. Perhaps it was because I had no idea what to expect and found myself once again in a very cosmopolitan setting – and international art exhibit with wine and food and Natalie Cole playing in the background. I could barely sit down and I certainly couldn’t keep my mouth shut from 4 until 10 when we left. But it worked out and I remember why I DO love these things. There were a handful of volunteers who came by as well to enjoy the night and support the causes (the night was ultimately a fundraiser for the International Women’s Club of Moldova that supports small projects around the country). I don’t know what I expected. Our nerves flip-flopped between feeling like we wouldn’t sell anything and feeling as if we didn’t bring enough. Turns out that we sold enough to make back what we invested in the night and still have enough stock to continue to raise profit for the art school. Most importantly, our partner seemed to really enjoy the night and luckily there was no negative balance to diminish her enthusiasm for the project. While we would ideally like to help her establish a long-term sponsor, supporting her current efforts through non-grant-writing means is rewarding enough. But this could be something I would like to do with all of my day’s hours. There could be so much more we’d get done if it was fulltime. And yet my energies are divided up between a lot of “possibilities” both in my own village and outside of it.
April 26, 2009 – I rushed back to the village to celebrate “Easter of the Deceased” which my family didn’t participate in last year because of grandma’s recent passing (but I believe I was out of the village or on my way to American at that point either way). I made it too late for my village bus but waited instead for the one that goes to a neighboring village. It’s a smaller bus and it gets full quite quickly on holidays, so I stood in the packed bus as it made its way without hurry. The majority of people were packed in the front by the door as those in the middle found reasons not to move along. And of course we shouldn’t open any of the windows even as we are packed in as sardines. As I started to get nauseas I realized that the season of overheated minibuses is now upon us. And then I just hoped that the woman near me would feel better before she threw up on my jacket. Of course this was followed by extreme guilt because I understood her pain and wished that we BOTH had enough time to make it to our stop (which happened to be the same one, of course).
I made it home without losing it, only to find host dad waiting solo at the house. “The plane has left,” he told me. “The others left?” I asked, having been told they would wait for me but knowing I probably should’ve come back the day before anyway. I changed into a skirt, cooled down, and then their son came back to meet me and we headed off to the cemetery, the road of which was packed with cars all trying to get to the same place. We found our way through the crowded cemetery, covered with grass, crosses on top of crosses, and people blessing those who have passed. Blankets were laid on graves and covered with breads, candles, wine, sweets, and flowers. Some set up full meals on small tables and had what seemed like a picnic. We toasted (from the same glass) to those who passed and those who still are and took a sweet for each toast. Strangers came around offering their own wine and sweets. Host mama was sitting on the grass by the family’s gated lot where five people were laid in a space that we would consider for two. And she was smiling. She looked so at ease. And as I looked around, most all people were smiling, this day of remembrance, not of grieving. The sad images were only of the random single old women who stood lingering by the crosses of their loved ones, wearing layers of old hand-made clothes, with no one to celebrate with. Strangers (and maybe distant relatives) shared wine with them as they walked around. But soon we packed up our picnic basket, left the flowers and headed back to the house where we sat outside under the wooden canopy and had a casual spring meal.
And now it’s Monday, the official day of the holiday that we celebrated yesterday and tomorrow it’s back to business. We are working on three main things in the village at the moment that all need to get down within the next two weeks. And while I’m glad for the work, I sometimes find myself again with the “afraid these won’t work out” feeling, knowing fully well you have to try in order for it to work at all. And ANY success will be better than none at all. But I’m nervous. Nervous because these are the opportunities I’d hoped for in DOING something worthwhile (and tangible) in my village.
This reminds me of the Friday before Easter when the program director came to visit my village and talk with my mayor about his request for another volunteer to come in August. It might be unlikely, as I will still be here and we have too many locations for the smaller number of volunteers, but of course now people keep asking, “So another volunteer is coming after you leave?” And I find myself frustrated with claims of certainty that may or may not just be a tone of translation (and third-party hearsay). But this optimism is only frustrating to me because I will feel responsible for whatever doesn’t work out…as with the three possible projects that we’ll be working on this week: tables and chairs and training seminar at the kindergarten; a bus stop/trash can/anti-littering campaign; windows and doors replacement at the kindergarten. In addition, there was talk before the holidays that we would hold an “American night” at the local one-room library to promote the books that were donated that no one knows about. And the English group is doing a clothing drive that will finish up soon.
So there are things to do. And this is a great time to do it – before Summer starts.
But I still find myself trying to balance so many items that haven’t been determined yet, trying to find the best possible balance between events that haven’t occurred yet (and the budget, logistics, and benefit it all involves) – both for my remaining time in Moldova and the time that will follow.
All in all, April has been a great month and I look forward to the period that will come in May and all of the things I’ve wanted to do in Moldova before I leave in 6-or-so months.
I do NOT, however, look forward to overheated travel, but that’s life and I complained just as much when it was too cold.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Seasons and Showers
Spring is here! It surprised me a couple times, snuck away again, and then came back with determination.
I noticed my mood change when we had to hitchhike to the art school on Monday afternoon, lucky that the weather was walking-permitting. And then as we catch a bus after waiting only 10 minutes, it started going at a snail’s pace for the potholes that surprisingly didn’t merit the caution. But I found myself amused instead of impatient. What were we going to do about it at that point? We had actually planned on arriving at 8 a.m., so the difference between 12:30 and 1:30 didn’t much matter. But what I liked most was that I didn’t mind…that I was, instead, grateful for the weather and the sudden freedom over my travel schedule, no longer dictated by snow, biting wind, few hours of sunlight, or heavy winter clothes. Lighter clothing, lighter spirit. It also turned out that the minibus we were on goes to the mysterious Ukrainian camping spot I had been wondering about for months!
Tuesday was gray and rainy again, as was Wednesday. But Thursday through Sunday have thus far been phenomenal. And I’m enjoying a day back in the village, having been gone for over a week.
I also find myself thinking: I don’t think I feel guilty about being gone for this week. And then: I thoroughly enjoyed the productivity of this week as I had been screaming of boredom for so long that I need to appreciate the fatigue that came from a fast-paced and surprisingly productive week doing something I enjoyed.
And this was all brought about by surprising coincidences. I had only planned to be gone for the weekend, but the start of a joke got me thinking about what we COULD get done during the week….and boy were we lucky. We ended up with a lot to get done before the art expo on the 24th where we will promote the greeting cards we’ve been designing from the children’s artwork (website almost ready!)
Then as I think I can leave on Thursday, I wasn’t sure if I could make it home before dark. (I now need to walk every time I get dropped off at the main road since a) the car isn’t here and b) I should be able to do it solo, without bothering my host dad to pick me up.) The 45-minute walk is much easier when the sun is out and I’m not carrying armloads of bags. I’ve yet to start the walk at dark, though I have arrived at the edge of the village as the sun set and I slipped over icy roads in the dark. Regardless, I decided I would have enough time to make it home, but then the minibus broke down, assuring my post-sunset arrival. I made my way as far north as possible and stayed with another volunteer, sure I would make it home the next day. Of course I woke up with a health annoyance and ran back down to Chisinau for meds, which was much easier to do from her village than from mine – another lucky coincidence. I then had to stay the night to check the improvement in the morning and was finally on my way Saturday at noon. I made it to the main road on a beautiful sunny afternoon and made it home around 3:00 – 7 days later than I had planned and wearing the same grungy clothes, but satisfied at a fulfilling week.
And as I first entered the village, something smelled different. It was familiar, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. But it brought a warm nostalgia and an excitement. And today as I went for a long walk, exploring areas I never realized were connected, I smelled the sunny Moldova aroma that I never noticed until it returned.
I told myself that I would be able to stay in the village for at least three weeks after this productive week, but I knew that was partly out of guilt and partly out of a fatigue of travel. But then the sun came out and I didn’t mind anymore. I felt at ease with whichever direction next weekend went, knowing the summer would make either one enjoyable. But I came home to find that next weekend we would hold the one-year-since-passing funeral for my host mom’s mother. I am glad that happenings have determined that I will stay home next week…and as the following week is Orthodox Easter, I will be home that full week as well.
I’d like to say that my change in disposition is more than just weather-derived. Rather, I feel that it is fascinating timing between my ever-changing outlook and the change in season.
I had seen the door to the outside summer kitchen propped open. I peeked inside but couldn’t tell if it wasn’t getting prepped for approaching use or if it was just being aired out. It got me wondering when we would switch to eating and bathing outside. Then today, as I started typing this entry, my host dad walks by with a towel on his head. “Where’s Samantha?” he asked. “I’m here,” I said, half worried. “Go wash.” “Outside?” I asked with a smile. “Yes! Use all the water.” And we both smiled at the simple excitement of warm weather. I rushed outside and sang praises as I bathed, knowing that even if we hit a couple more mud-plagued rainy days, the warm season is pushing in.
I noticed my mood change when we had to hitchhike to the art school on Monday afternoon, lucky that the weather was walking-permitting. And then as we catch a bus after waiting only 10 minutes, it started going at a snail’s pace for the potholes that surprisingly didn’t merit the caution. But I found myself amused instead of impatient. What were we going to do about it at that point? We had actually planned on arriving at 8 a.m., so the difference between 12:30 and 1:30 didn’t much matter. But what I liked most was that I didn’t mind…that I was, instead, grateful for the weather and the sudden freedom over my travel schedule, no longer dictated by snow, biting wind, few hours of sunlight, or heavy winter clothes. Lighter clothing, lighter spirit. It also turned out that the minibus we were on goes to the mysterious Ukrainian camping spot I had been wondering about for months!
Tuesday was gray and rainy again, as was Wednesday. But Thursday through Sunday have thus far been phenomenal. And I’m enjoying a day back in the village, having been gone for over a week.
I also find myself thinking: I don’t think I feel guilty about being gone for this week. And then: I thoroughly enjoyed the productivity of this week as I had been screaming of boredom for so long that I need to appreciate the fatigue that came from a fast-paced and surprisingly productive week doing something I enjoyed.
And this was all brought about by surprising coincidences. I had only planned to be gone for the weekend, but the start of a joke got me thinking about what we COULD get done during the week….and boy were we lucky. We ended up with a lot to get done before the art expo on the 24th where we will promote the greeting cards we’ve been designing from the children’s artwork (website almost ready!)
Then as I think I can leave on Thursday, I wasn’t sure if I could make it home before dark. (I now need to walk every time I get dropped off at the main road since a) the car isn’t here and b) I should be able to do it solo, without bothering my host dad to pick me up.) The 45-minute walk is much easier when the sun is out and I’m not carrying armloads of bags. I’ve yet to start the walk at dark, though I have arrived at the edge of the village as the sun set and I slipped over icy roads in the dark. Regardless, I decided I would have enough time to make it home, but then the minibus broke down, assuring my post-sunset arrival. I made my way as far north as possible and stayed with another volunteer, sure I would make it home the next day. Of course I woke up with a health annoyance and ran back down to Chisinau for meds, which was much easier to do from her village than from mine – another lucky coincidence. I then had to stay the night to check the improvement in the morning and was finally on my way Saturday at noon. I made it to the main road on a beautiful sunny afternoon and made it home around 3:00 – 7 days later than I had planned and wearing the same grungy clothes, but satisfied at a fulfilling week.
And as I first entered the village, something smelled different. It was familiar, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. But it brought a warm nostalgia and an excitement. And today as I went for a long walk, exploring areas I never realized were connected, I smelled the sunny Moldova aroma that I never noticed until it returned.
I told myself that I would be able to stay in the village for at least three weeks after this productive week, but I knew that was partly out of guilt and partly out of a fatigue of travel. But then the sun came out and I didn’t mind anymore. I felt at ease with whichever direction next weekend went, knowing the summer would make either one enjoyable. But I came home to find that next weekend we would hold the one-year-since-passing funeral for my host mom’s mother. I am glad that happenings have determined that I will stay home next week…and as the following week is Orthodox Easter, I will be home that full week as well.
I’d like to say that my change in disposition is more than just weather-derived. Rather, I feel that it is fascinating timing between my ever-changing outlook and the change in season.
I had seen the door to the outside summer kitchen propped open. I peeked inside but couldn’t tell if it wasn’t getting prepped for approaching use or if it was just being aired out. It got me wondering when we would switch to eating and bathing outside. Then today, as I started typing this entry, my host dad walks by with a towel on his head. “Where’s Samantha?” he asked. “I’m here,” I said, half worried. “Go wash.” “Outside?” I asked with a smile. “Yes! Use all the water.” And we both smiled at the simple excitement of warm weather. I rushed outside and sang praises as I bathed, knowing that even if we hit a couple more mud-plagued rainy days, the warm season is pushing in.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Neither Winter Nor Spring
March 17, 2009
A couple of weeks ago I found myself very irritable, stuck within some frustrating combination of apathy and anger. I would cry at unnecessary moments, snap at those who were trying to help me, and get frustrated at the simplest of questions. I felt significantly disappointed by those around me and I didn’t really know where it came from. The answer, though, always almost comes from within.
We were told from the beginning to reevaluate our expectations. Every step of the way, a sign of frustration is followed by someone questioning our expectations. Lowering expectations is not something you can say to a group of overachievers who have crossed great ponds to meet their high standards. And if my “unrealistic expectations” had been replaced by something more appropriate from the onset, perhaps I wouldn’t be where I am. But no one can give you a correct set of expectations while simultaneously telling you that each experience is unique.
My current frustration came from the shock of another awkward transition from the dead depression of winter to the unexpected wake-up call of not-quite-spring. You see, I have reassessed my expectations on a continual basis, trying to find ways to match any worthwhile outcome to existing opportunities. And yet, it keeps getting redesigned, new expectations keep getting thrown out at me, and what I once threw out as dead or dying has been resurrected and thrown in my face.
As of the 12th, I have been in Moldova for a year and six months. And the first of us will Close Service in 7 months (excluding those who have/will leave early for medical, educational, personal, or additional reasons).
I think, ultimately, it’s fatigue. It’s not homesickness; it was an overall lack of energy and a reluctance to take on more responsibility because I don’t want to be disappointed, to fail.
“Many volunteers feel they need to create a monument,” he told me. And I didn’t get it at first. “Like a statue?” I said. “No, like a monument project: one concrete accomplishment to signify their service.” And I got the impression that he was either judging them or trying to persuade me into not relying on that same evaluation of my service: based on one concrete accomplishment. And I do agree that the perspective I’ll gain in ten years will shine light on the significance of each of these daily activities, but I also understand the longing for something solid…at least until the time of great perspective has washed over me.
Purging expectations is not the same as lowering standards.
When March came and I noticed the grayness, I remembered two stories. In Moldova, spring starts on March 1st and there is a story that starts on that day: the story of “Baba Dochia.” (doh-kee-ya) In this story, a woman ventures out with the first sign of spring on March 1 and as the sun slowly comes out, she gradually undresses. First her scarf, then her hat and gloves. Next come her large coat and sweater. And once she has taken off all of her clothes and the sun has warmed her whole body, the winter wind whips back and freezes her to death. This is the warning of the first week of spring: it’s a tease, keep your clothes on. What a depressing story. But I definitely remember to keep well-clothed and to not be tricked by the sun.
The second story is actually a memory. I forget the reason (probably that same intestinal parasite), but I stayed in the medical apartment last March. I was in the kitchen with a volunteer who would finish up that summer and we were both looking out the window at the gray March sky. I was wondering why it didn’t look like spring yet. “I remember it being nice by April,” she told me. True enough, I remember the Romania trip taking place on the first sunny weekend, the second week in April. So my shock at the March grayness was mitigated this time around and, knowing that spring truly is around the corner, I feel more patient.
Some of the girls that I had been working with have just let me know that they are going to be too busy to continue our weekly English meetings because they’ll be studying for their graduation examinations, etc. I understand, but I’m saddened; these were great girls and I enjoyed this source of consistency. I had also hoped that the relationships would develop. There’s still time. And that’s not the full extent of my activities in the village, but I looked forward to it. And it was an opportunity. The fewer people I meet with, the fewer opportunities there are.
As grim as this letter might sound, I actually feel a lot better. I feel calmer and I try to remember to stretch and pray more frequently, to say my mind, and to not take things so personally. And I feel like a have come through another transition and am now in a new (although unchanged) part of my service. I still have no doubt that I want to finish – and part of it is simple curiosity to see what will come of the full experience, what might come at the end. I’m also just not ready to leave.
A couple of weeks ago I found myself very irritable, stuck within some frustrating combination of apathy and anger. I would cry at unnecessary moments, snap at those who were trying to help me, and get frustrated at the simplest of questions. I felt significantly disappointed by those around me and I didn’t really know where it came from. The answer, though, always almost comes from within.
We were told from the beginning to reevaluate our expectations. Every step of the way, a sign of frustration is followed by someone questioning our expectations. Lowering expectations is not something you can say to a group of overachievers who have crossed great ponds to meet their high standards. And if my “unrealistic expectations” had been replaced by something more appropriate from the onset, perhaps I wouldn’t be where I am. But no one can give you a correct set of expectations while simultaneously telling you that each experience is unique.
My current frustration came from the shock of another awkward transition from the dead depression of winter to the unexpected wake-up call of not-quite-spring. You see, I have reassessed my expectations on a continual basis, trying to find ways to match any worthwhile outcome to existing opportunities. And yet, it keeps getting redesigned, new expectations keep getting thrown out at me, and what I once threw out as dead or dying has been resurrected and thrown in my face.
As of the 12th, I have been in Moldova for a year and six months. And the first of us will Close Service in 7 months (excluding those who have/will leave early for medical, educational, personal, or additional reasons).
I think, ultimately, it’s fatigue. It’s not homesickness; it was an overall lack of energy and a reluctance to take on more responsibility because I don’t want to be disappointed, to fail.
“Many volunteers feel they need to create a monument,” he told me. And I didn’t get it at first. “Like a statue?” I said. “No, like a monument project: one concrete accomplishment to signify their service.” And I got the impression that he was either judging them or trying to persuade me into not relying on that same evaluation of my service: based on one concrete accomplishment. And I do agree that the perspective I’ll gain in ten years will shine light on the significance of each of these daily activities, but I also understand the longing for something solid…at least until the time of great perspective has washed over me.
Purging expectations is not the same as lowering standards.
When March came and I noticed the grayness, I remembered two stories. In Moldova, spring starts on March 1st and there is a story that starts on that day: the story of “Baba Dochia.” (doh-kee-ya) In this story, a woman ventures out with the first sign of spring on March 1 and as the sun slowly comes out, she gradually undresses. First her scarf, then her hat and gloves. Next come her large coat and sweater. And once she has taken off all of her clothes and the sun has warmed her whole body, the winter wind whips back and freezes her to death. This is the warning of the first week of spring: it’s a tease, keep your clothes on. What a depressing story. But I definitely remember to keep well-clothed and to not be tricked by the sun.
The second story is actually a memory. I forget the reason (probably that same intestinal parasite), but I stayed in the medical apartment last March. I was in the kitchen with a volunteer who would finish up that summer and we were both looking out the window at the gray March sky. I was wondering why it didn’t look like spring yet. “I remember it being nice by April,” she told me. True enough, I remember the Romania trip taking place on the first sunny weekend, the second week in April. So my shock at the March grayness was mitigated this time around and, knowing that spring truly is around the corner, I feel more patient.
Some of the girls that I had been working with have just let me know that they are going to be too busy to continue our weekly English meetings because they’ll be studying for their graduation examinations, etc. I understand, but I’m saddened; these were great girls and I enjoyed this source of consistency. I had also hoped that the relationships would develop. There’s still time. And that’s not the full extent of my activities in the village, but I looked forward to it. And it was an opportunity. The fewer people I meet with, the fewer opportunities there are.
As grim as this letter might sound, I actually feel a lot better. I feel calmer and I try to remember to stretch and pray more frequently, to say my mind, and to not take things so personally. And I feel like a have come through another transition and am now in a new (although unchanged) part of my service. I still have no doubt that I want to finish – and part of it is simple curiosity to see what will come of the full experience, what might come at the end. I’m also just not ready to leave.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Masa Hypocrisy
To add a little humility to my seemingly “I know how to live life correctly” entry below, let me just say that I’m humbled by my own realization that I have not been invited to nearly as many meals as I assumed I would’ve. I’m not normally the “I can’t believe I wasn’t invited” person, but this is supposed to be a culture of inviting everyone over, of spontaneous meals that come from nowhere for the guest who just popped in. And even my host mom commented that it was weird that none of the students I work with invited me to their house for one of the millions of holiday celebrations. Or my former partner (ever). But that’s the weird line between teacher and friend. I’m neither I guess.
I am perfectly aware of my hypocrisy; I want to be with my host family. Having spent so much time running back and forth to Chisinau, I like to just be at home, especially during the holidays, when we have family here as well. And there has been a friend of the family who has invited me to her village on innumerable occasions and I have turned her down repeatedly because of the rarity that I am actually at home and thus prefer to stay home. And the spontaneous “you need to come to my house to eat loads of food” hospitality can sometimes be stressful instead of flattering.
But now that I realize that I’ve only been to one spontaneous evening (which included two houses – and that was one year ago), well I feel a little disappointed. Am I just not warm with these people? Is my village just slightly less tied to this tradition? I do know that the various traditions of saying “good morning” also vary from village to village. In some villages I should only speak to women. In other villages, anyone older than me (as in my current village now). And the frequency with which young children (and teenage boys) say hello to their elders varies greatly. It is then my hypothesis that the “open doors, big table” attitude parallels the variations in “good morning” frequency.
And yet, I still feel a bizarre combination of rejected, guilty, and disappointed.
I am perfectly aware of my hypocrisy; I want to be with my host family. Having spent so much time running back and forth to Chisinau, I like to just be at home, especially during the holidays, when we have family here as well. And there has been a friend of the family who has invited me to her village on innumerable occasions and I have turned her down repeatedly because of the rarity that I am actually at home and thus prefer to stay home. And the spontaneous “you need to come to my house to eat loads of food” hospitality can sometimes be stressful instead of flattering.
But now that I realize that I’ve only been to one spontaneous evening (which included two houses – and that was one year ago), well I feel a little disappointed. Am I just not warm with these people? Is my village just slightly less tied to this tradition? I do know that the various traditions of saying “good morning” also vary from village to village. In some villages I should only speak to women. In other villages, anyone older than me (as in my current village now). And the frequency with which young children (and teenage boys) say hello to their elders varies greatly. It is then my hypothesis that the “open doors, big table” attitude parallels the variations in “good morning” frequency.
And yet, I still feel a bizarre combination of rejected, guilty, and disappointed.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Going in Circles
February 8, 2009
I recently wrote an email detailing my marathon experience. I wanted to post the whole thing, but it wasn’t entirely publicly appropriate. In fact the details that are the most emotional are simultaneously the most personal – but isn’t that normally the case? I can say, though, that I was surprised once again by the strength of my own body. I have not experienced anything as motivating as the confidence that comes after completing a marathon, especially after not thinking you would and wrestling an angry stomach with an absence of toilets. I finished. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t doubt it. It had gotten to the point pre-race when I just accepted that it would be painful, but temporary. Muscularly, it felt much better than anticipated. Emotionally/stomach-wise…not so much. But the resulting high that came from emotional stress rather than muscle fatigue was more satisfying.
The trip to Morocco was fantastic. I enjoyed each moment of the trip and was continuously impressed by events that worked out for us. When I first got back to Chisinau, I felt invincible. I was sure that I would be able to battle the remaining winter weeks with style and energy. It turned out that the week of my return was much harder than I imagined. I succumbed back to habits of Office-watching and pajama-wearing. Knowing that a bath would help me only added to the frustration; I didn’t want to start heating water again. There was no longer a marathon routine. No scheduled run, shower, or activity. But there was definitely still winter.
Except yesterday it was a shocking 50 degrees – almost as warm as when we were in Morocco.
February 21, 2009
Well that warm-ish weather left as surprisingly as it showed up. It’s back down to zero and there is snow once again upon the ground. I want the weather to start heating up, but that means mud. I forgot how much I disliked the mud – especially as I was complaining about the ice. The fact was that if I had worn my Yak Traks the snow/ice wouldn’t have been as much of a problem.
They don’t work as well with the mud which is ridiculously slippery. Sometimes the thicker stuff is better – just trudge right through it with those cheap Moldovan boots that you’re going to throw away in a few months anyway. But the thicker stuff acts like a plunger, sucking in your foot and making the same sloppy, popping sound when you pull your foot out.
I’ve gotten back into a semi-routine now, but I wouldn’t mind being able to run again (it’s too cold for pleasure walks). And I remember why the February wind was my enemy; it bites. Unfortunately I left my running stuff in Chisinau before leaving for the race and I haven’t been able to bring it back yet. It’s barely been three weeks since I’ve been back (seems like ages). And I’m already back contemplating what I’m still doing here – or what I’ve ever been doing here.
The mental perception of November-March seemed longer last year. But this year it’s still too long. I’m tired. Tired of heating water for a bath (but I am oh-so-efficient now). I’m tired of washing laundry by hand (so sometimes I just don’t). I’m tired of carbs (and how I usually love them). I’m sure this is all exaggerated by winter. Once things get moving again, when everything starts warming up and I can be outside in the sunshine, I will likely cheer up. But I will be ready to go when the time comes. I can’t wait for the summer sun-heated shower that drips over me bucket-free. I guess, then, it’s not just Moldova…it’s winter in Moldova.
When April comes, I’ll tell you that I didn’t gain 15 pounds this winter. March was the peak of last year’s winter weight. I’d never had a winter weight before. And that will be Marathon Goal #1. Check.
No this experience has not been what I expected but I think that is a factor of my expectations. I don’t want to hypothesize on my final Peace Corps recommendations as I’m not done with the experience yet. But I am more solidified in my belief that each person needs to follow their own direction and that following the advice of people who have different intentions will only end up in frustration and disappointment.
Ironically, this also means that I’ve shifted gears slightly when it comes to graduate school planning. I’m still planning on getting all of my applications ready by the time I leave Moldova, but my expected direction has morphed again. My interests (numerous as they are) haven’t gone away. They haven’t narrowed themselves or changed drastically in any other way as I expected them to do during my two years in Moldova. Instead, they’ve become more unified and magnified as a whole. Thus it’s become more essential to find a program, a field that would allow me to study the relationship between each of my interests. And, funnily enough, it leads me right back to the place I started. Every step, every degree idea I’ve researched (and on dial-up, each “idea” is a month-long process of researching schools, courses, and options) has led to the next, more specific program. It follows the same theory that discovering what you don’t like (or “what you’re not writing about” as the metaphor started) leads you to what you DO want. And it’s taking me in a circle, which each turn more educated than the last.
It’s funny too, that one small green book continues to echo in my mind, telling me something I knew even before I read it. Isn’t it interesting, too, that my “favorite little book” is one that agrees with my own thoughts? Do what you love. If you have the chance to be where you want, to do what you want, take a leap and do it and things will end up where they are supposed to end up. Follow your gut. Get down to the simplicity gut-driven heart of the matter. Me, who has been so lucky in the past…how could I not trust that? I have seen the way that life leads ME in the right directions. And I’ve spouted this to friends and family, so why not follow it myself? It’s not a matter of what you are good at but what makes you feel good. (I’m writing this to myself now.) And the scariest part is sometimes feeling that you aren’t supported in your bizarre interests, your unorthodox desires. But if there’s a natural gift within you for something, if it sparks a fire…that’s the type of motivation you want to follow! And I’ve have been so phenomenally supported by friends and family (especially throughout my Peace Corps experience) that I can almost throw out the “what if I don’t have support?” whopper.
And so when I think about what I’ve actually taken my precious dial-up time to read about, to argue about, to research and discuss…well that’s as simple as it gets. The things that interest me most about the youth I work with, for example…the idiosyncrasies that may not stick out to someone else. Or perhaps they are frustrations to someone else and, in this particular interest, they are curiosities to me…something I want to get to the heart of. Simply put, this is what I want to study and if I can find a place where I can explore each of these (I can) then why not? Why choose one and feel incomplete?
Perhaps this is the most time I’ve devoted to talking about a program I’m not naming (but I’ve changed my mind so passionately so many times).
So I’ve come around the circle once again, both with my feelings about being in Moldova and my ideas about what to do when I get back. Undoubtedly I’ll flip around a dozen more times, but there is something reassuring in the fact that it’s brought me back to the same spot each time.
I recently wrote an email detailing my marathon experience. I wanted to post the whole thing, but it wasn’t entirely publicly appropriate. In fact the details that are the most emotional are simultaneously the most personal – but isn’t that normally the case? I can say, though, that I was surprised once again by the strength of my own body. I have not experienced anything as motivating as the confidence that comes after completing a marathon, especially after not thinking you would and wrestling an angry stomach with an absence of toilets. I finished. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t doubt it. It had gotten to the point pre-race when I just accepted that it would be painful, but temporary. Muscularly, it felt much better than anticipated. Emotionally/stomach-wise…not so much. But the resulting high that came from emotional stress rather than muscle fatigue was more satisfying.
The trip to Morocco was fantastic. I enjoyed each moment of the trip and was continuously impressed by events that worked out for us. When I first got back to Chisinau, I felt invincible. I was sure that I would be able to battle the remaining winter weeks with style and energy. It turned out that the week of my return was much harder than I imagined. I succumbed back to habits of Office-watching and pajama-wearing. Knowing that a bath would help me only added to the frustration; I didn’t want to start heating water again. There was no longer a marathon routine. No scheduled run, shower, or activity. But there was definitely still winter.
Except yesterday it was a shocking 50 degrees – almost as warm as when we were in Morocco.
February 21, 2009
Well that warm-ish weather left as surprisingly as it showed up. It’s back down to zero and there is snow once again upon the ground. I want the weather to start heating up, but that means mud. I forgot how much I disliked the mud – especially as I was complaining about the ice. The fact was that if I had worn my Yak Traks the snow/ice wouldn’t have been as much of a problem.
They don’t work as well with the mud which is ridiculously slippery. Sometimes the thicker stuff is better – just trudge right through it with those cheap Moldovan boots that you’re going to throw away in a few months anyway. But the thicker stuff acts like a plunger, sucking in your foot and making the same sloppy, popping sound when you pull your foot out.
I’ve gotten back into a semi-routine now, but I wouldn’t mind being able to run again (it’s too cold for pleasure walks). And I remember why the February wind was my enemy; it bites. Unfortunately I left my running stuff in Chisinau before leaving for the race and I haven’t been able to bring it back yet. It’s barely been three weeks since I’ve been back (seems like ages). And I’m already back contemplating what I’m still doing here – or what I’ve ever been doing here.
The mental perception of November-March seemed longer last year. But this year it’s still too long. I’m tired. Tired of heating water for a bath (but I am oh-so-efficient now). I’m tired of washing laundry by hand (so sometimes I just don’t). I’m tired of carbs (and how I usually love them). I’m sure this is all exaggerated by winter. Once things get moving again, when everything starts warming up and I can be outside in the sunshine, I will likely cheer up. But I will be ready to go when the time comes. I can’t wait for the summer sun-heated shower that drips over me bucket-free. I guess, then, it’s not just Moldova…it’s winter in Moldova.
When April comes, I’ll tell you that I didn’t gain 15 pounds this winter. March was the peak of last year’s winter weight. I’d never had a winter weight before. And that will be Marathon Goal #1. Check.
No this experience has not been what I expected but I think that is a factor of my expectations. I don’t want to hypothesize on my final Peace Corps recommendations as I’m not done with the experience yet. But I am more solidified in my belief that each person needs to follow their own direction and that following the advice of people who have different intentions will only end up in frustration and disappointment.
Ironically, this also means that I’ve shifted gears slightly when it comes to graduate school planning. I’m still planning on getting all of my applications ready by the time I leave Moldova, but my expected direction has morphed again. My interests (numerous as they are) haven’t gone away. They haven’t narrowed themselves or changed drastically in any other way as I expected them to do during my two years in Moldova. Instead, they’ve become more unified and magnified as a whole. Thus it’s become more essential to find a program, a field that would allow me to study the relationship between each of my interests. And, funnily enough, it leads me right back to the place I started. Every step, every degree idea I’ve researched (and on dial-up, each “idea” is a month-long process of researching schools, courses, and options) has led to the next, more specific program. It follows the same theory that discovering what you don’t like (or “what you’re not writing about” as the metaphor started) leads you to what you DO want. And it’s taking me in a circle, which each turn more educated than the last.
It’s funny too, that one small green book continues to echo in my mind, telling me something I knew even before I read it. Isn’t it interesting, too, that my “favorite little book” is one that agrees with my own thoughts? Do what you love. If you have the chance to be where you want, to do what you want, take a leap and do it and things will end up where they are supposed to end up. Follow your gut. Get down to the simplicity gut-driven heart of the matter. Me, who has been so lucky in the past…how could I not trust that? I have seen the way that life leads ME in the right directions. And I’ve spouted this to friends and family, so why not follow it myself? It’s not a matter of what you are good at but what makes you feel good. (I’m writing this to myself now.) And the scariest part is sometimes feeling that you aren’t supported in your bizarre interests, your unorthodox desires. But if there’s a natural gift within you for something, if it sparks a fire…that’s the type of motivation you want to follow! And I’ve have been so phenomenally supported by friends and family (especially throughout my Peace Corps experience) that I can almost throw out the “what if I don’t have support?” whopper.
And so when I think about what I’ve actually taken my precious dial-up time to read about, to argue about, to research and discuss…well that’s as simple as it gets. The things that interest me most about the youth I work with, for example…the idiosyncrasies that may not stick out to someone else. Or perhaps they are frustrations to someone else and, in this particular interest, they are curiosities to me…something I want to get to the heart of. Simply put, this is what I want to study and if I can find a place where I can explore each of these (I can) then why not? Why choose one and feel incomplete?
Perhaps this is the most time I’ve devoted to talking about a program I’m not naming (but I’ve changed my mind so passionately so many times).
So I’ve come around the circle once again, both with my feelings about being in Moldova and my ideas about what to do when I get back. Undoubtedly I’ll flip around a dozen more times, but there is something reassuring in the fact that it’s brought me back to the same spot each time.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Walking on Ice
Here we are as close to the holiday season as we can get without already being stuck in the up-and-down-ness of winter blues, gray skies, and knee deep mud. Unfortunately, we’ve already met Mr. I-don’t-like-the-cold, Mrs. The-skies-are-still-gray, and their daughter Ms. I-wish-I-was-still-on-vacation. And instead of mud, they’ve brought ice with them. I don’t remember there being as much ice last year though. I’ve already fallen three times on the ice and yesterday I stood in the middle of the frozen road because every step was ice skating. I was 1) too scared to move seeing as I already have a 4” diameter bruise on my leg and 2) hoping the boys who were sliding around would leave and grant me the honor of falling in privacy. They didn’t leave. But my director called, giving me a reprieve from decision making and a reason to stay put for the duration of our conversation. She brought good news: I would still be able to leave in January for the marathon though it conflicted with a program conference. But once the conversation was over I had to get back to the business of walking on ice.
I never thought I’d say this….but I’d prefer the mud…even the slippery, you-think-you’re-going-to-fall-with-every-step, so-ubiquitous-that-there’s-no-way-around-it, everything-is-covered-and-clothes-are-ruined type of mud. But the anger at risking falling in mud is nowhere as nerve-wracking as not being able to put a single foot down because each step slides underneath you and your aching knee is too stiff (or sore or temperamental) to help you stay up. (Mommy, I have a new found empathy for what I used to think was just your humorous clumsiness. My apologies.)
Yesterday, after my run, I tried to take a bath. A real bath. I heated up what I thought would be enough water to fill the tub once I mixed it with an equal amount of cool water. It wasn’t enough, but I sat in the water and poured it over myself anyway. Either way, I had used up all the buckets of water in the house, and, trying to be a thoughtful host daughter, I decided that I would go to the well to refill at least one of the two buckets. First mistake: I didn’t wear gloves and the handle of the well was solid ice. Second mistake: I wore slippers. Don’t ask me why, but I did. Though my only other pair of possibly appropriate shoes was the same Nikes I was wearing when I was skating to work, frozen in indecisiveness in the middle of the road. I filled up the bucket and made my way slowly back to the house until, just in front of the house, the slightest of inclines brought me down, spilling all of the cold water I had just filled. I could’ve gone back and tried again, but I didn’t. I settled with a half-hearted attempt at being responsible and thoughtful only to find that as I left to work I also left the door unlocked.
But while I grumble at the cold and curse the ice, I don’t feel nearly as gloomy this December. I’m more homesick for holiday traditions, but not as depressed. It’s an odd balance. Part of my sanity is most likely due to three things: a semi-regular schedule, having people I enjoy talking/brainstorming with, and running. I’ll take them apart: the semi-regular schedule is only possible because of the new arrangement made after last month’s conflict, so for this, I’m grateful; the people I talk with has helped salvage my idealism and optimism in being able to accomplish something during my time here; both the schedule and the people have led to a feeling of regular productivity – or at least the hope of it; the marathon, though proving more painful than I imagined, has kept me more active, as was the intention.
We volunteers have set out across seas toward adventures that we knew would be “challenging and rewarding” but we could not have guessed what the challenges or rewards would be. The beauty though, is that this has been the reoccurring case with all expectations I’ve been setting thus far. It does not only refer to my service itself, but also the individual goals and ideas. We didn’t expect that moral dilemmas, persevering through boredom, and resisting a pessimistic outlook would be some of the major challenges. I know that I didn’t expect to tire so quickly of boiling water and washing my clothes by hand. I thought the adaptation would only become more established, not that it would drop after its peak.
I knew that training during the winter would be a pain in the butt and that I would need major moments of self-motivation and discipline to keep myself going (and wasn’t that the goal?); however, with about 5 weeks left until warm-weather running, I’m realizing that the challenge is greater than just wind and rain. I’ve tried to be honest with myself. I’ve tried to keep to a regime that would be realistic and still allow for community involvement (and marathon completion). (And when you have to heat your own water, an hour run turns into a three-hour process.) I’ve also tried to be realistic about my expectations while simultaneously recognizing pains and balancing the need for pushing through them and holding back. My goal for the race has changed three times over and each adjustment is an inner struggle to discern between laziness and realities. While the right knee is more upset during these iced-road runs, I have to remind myself that this was the exact same pattern in Sunny California: knee in the beginning, shin splints in the middle, knee at the end…only more exaggerated. Last time the knee kept me off the road for 4 weeks before the race. I used bikes and stationary exercises instead. But that’s not an option right now. But the clincher is that I don’t remember my everyday walking being affected. Do I stretch enough? Surely not. Have I been strengthening my calves enough? No.
But this training – getting outside, staying active, having a goal – was supposed to help reduce stress and stabilize my winter emotional-ness. It wasn’t supposed to add to pressure, worry, and pain. And yet, wholeheartedly, deep down in the heart of the matter, I know that this surprise challenge will make it all even more worth while. And that is one of the reasons why I’ve no doubt that I will get through this, that I will finish and that I will have a much better winter – both than last winter and than would’ve been possible otherwise.
I’ve also re-acknowledged my frustration with people who are supposed to represent me. Yes, frustration with people we are conflicting with is a continual aggravation regardless of the person, but frustration with those who are supposed to represent us is even more deep-rooted. When someone tarnishes something that I’ve been working on, I am more angry than discouraged, especially when they ruin the effectiveness of a whole, well-intentioned group. This isn’t a new realization. Just rare enough for me to need to comment each time.
But here is a wish for all of you: that whatever surprises have come your way, that you have the love of those around you to help see them through. I’ve been blessed enough to have enough clear days to run, to have enough people to talk with, and to have enough coal to keep the fire warm this winter. I hope that each of you has something for which you are grateful this holiday season and that you have others to share it with.
I never thought I’d say this….but I’d prefer the mud…even the slippery, you-think-you’re-going-to-fall-with-every-step, so-ubiquitous-that-there’s-no-way-around-it, everything-is-covered-and-clothes-are-ruined type of mud. But the anger at risking falling in mud is nowhere as nerve-wracking as not being able to put a single foot down because each step slides underneath you and your aching knee is too stiff (or sore or temperamental) to help you stay up. (Mommy, I have a new found empathy for what I used to think was just your humorous clumsiness. My apologies.)
Yesterday, after my run, I tried to take a bath. A real bath. I heated up what I thought would be enough water to fill the tub once I mixed it with an equal amount of cool water. It wasn’t enough, but I sat in the water and poured it over myself anyway. Either way, I had used up all the buckets of water in the house, and, trying to be a thoughtful host daughter, I decided that I would go to the well to refill at least one of the two buckets. First mistake: I didn’t wear gloves and the handle of the well was solid ice. Second mistake: I wore slippers. Don’t ask me why, but I did. Though my only other pair of possibly appropriate shoes was the same Nikes I was wearing when I was skating to work, frozen in indecisiveness in the middle of the road. I filled up the bucket and made my way slowly back to the house until, just in front of the house, the slightest of inclines brought me down, spilling all of the cold water I had just filled. I could’ve gone back and tried again, but I didn’t. I settled with a half-hearted attempt at being responsible and thoughtful only to find that as I left to work I also left the door unlocked.
But while I grumble at the cold and curse the ice, I don’t feel nearly as gloomy this December. I’m more homesick for holiday traditions, but not as depressed. It’s an odd balance. Part of my sanity is most likely due to three things: a semi-regular schedule, having people I enjoy talking/brainstorming with, and running. I’ll take them apart: the semi-regular schedule is only possible because of the new arrangement made after last month’s conflict, so for this, I’m grateful; the people I talk with has helped salvage my idealism and optimism in being able to accomplish something during my time here; both the schedule and the people have led to a feeling of regular productivity – or at least the hope of it; the marathon, though proving more painful than I imagined, has kept me more active, as was the intention.
We volunteers have set out across seas toward adventures that we knew would be “challenging and rewarding” but we could not have guessed what the challenges or rewards would be. The beauty though, is that this has been the reoccurring case with all expectations I’ve been setting thus far. It does not only refer to my service itself, but also the individual goals and ideas. We didn’t expect that moral dilemmas, persevering through boredom, and resisting a pessimistic outlook would be some of the major challenges. I know that I didn’t expect to tire so quickly of boiling water and washing my clothes by hand. I thought the adaptation would only become more established, not that it would drop after its peak.
I knew that training during the winter would be a pain in the butt and that I would need major moments of self-motivation and discipline to keep myself going (and wasn’t that the goal?); however, with about 5 weeks left until warm-weather running, I’m realizing that the challenge is greater than just wind and rain. I’ve tried to be honest with myself. I’ve tried to keep to a regime that would be realistic and still allow for community involvement (and marathon completion). (And when you have to heat your own water, an hour run turns into a three-hour process.) I’ve also tried to be realistic about my expectations while simultaneously recognizing pains and balancing the need for pushing through them and holding back. My goal for the race has changed three times over and each adjustment is an inner struggle to discern between laziness and realities. While the right knee is more upset during these iced-road runs, I have to remind myself that this was the exact same pattern in Sunny California: knee in the beginning, shin splints in the middle, knee at the end…only more exaggerated. Last time the knee kept me off the road for 4 weeks before the race. I used bikes and stationary exercises instead. But that’s not an option right now. But the clincher is that I don’t remember my everyday walking being affected. Do I stretch enough? Surely not. Have I been strengthening my calves enough? No.
But this training – getting outside, staying active, having a goal – was supposed to help reduce stress and stabilize my winter emotional-ness. It wasn’t supposed to add to pressure, worry, and pain. And yet, wholeheartedly, deep down in the heart of the matter, I know that this surprise challenge will make it all even more worth while. And that is one of the reasons why I’ve no doubt that I will get through this, that I will finish and that I will have a much better winter – both than last winter and than would’ve been possible otherwise.
I’ve also re-acknowledged my frustration with people who are supposed to represent me. Yes, frustration with people we are conflicting with is a continual aggravation regardless of the person, but frustration with those who are supposed to represent us is even more deep-rooted. When someone tarnishes something that I’ve been working on, I am more angry than discouraged, especially when they ruin the effectiveness of a whole, well-intentioned group. This isn’t a new realization. Just rare enough for me to need to comment each time.
But here is a wish for all of you: that whatever surprises have come your way, that you have the love of those around you to help see them through. I’ve been blessed enough to have enough clear days to run, to have enough people to talk with, and to have enough coal to keep the fire warm this winter. I hope that each of you has something for which you are grateful this holiday season and that you have others to share it with.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Many Words and Miniskirts
I just need to give credit to Autumn. It’s beautiful and mysterious. It reminds me abstractedly of California Fall but it’s more surprising. The dry wind still signifies that Thanksgiving Day is coming, but the difference is the proximity of all colors together. Sure, trees change color in California too, but there’s no one to sweep the leaves away here. And the narrowness of the roads brings all the leaves together, so with the above-and-below of auburn, yellow, and orange, I’m surrounded in Fall – and I love it. And Los Angeles doesn’t have the sweet, fermenting wine smell. I have that here.
My stubbornness against the cold won’t hurt anyone else, but I’m a walking contradiction: I hate being cold, but resist layering up in loads of clothing. So I wore a skirt today. A denim miniskirt. (I haven’t worn a miniskirt of any kind since I was a cheerleader, meaning I wore miniskirts every Friday – woohoo!) But I want to soak up all bits of sunlight before I turn pallid, bundled in clothing I don’t want to be wearing.
In 18 days I’ll be testing my English on the GRE. My verbal and math skills had normally been about on par with each other, but studying English words in a Moldovaneasca-speaking country means I speak JUMBLISH. Words I thought I knew now look intimidating and, more often, annoying. Before October hit, I started really missing English, missing my understanding of nuances, missing the richness of our vocabulary. And then I started studying that richness and now I’m not so sure that we need scores of words for “criticism” or “bad-tempered.” And why does there have to be a separate word for “the support structures of measuring instruments”?
When I’m done being tested on my English-language vocabulary, I’m sure I’ll appreciate it once again. But for the time being, I need to start living the “don’t be afraid to aim high” blabber I’ve been exclaiming to those who have dared it before me. Ironically, last week was quite emotional and, frustratingly, without a specific stimulus. All the richness of two languages couldn’t describe my mood. Not that I’m new to the random desire to “cry it out” but an extended inability to sleep hit a head when I was reintroduced to shin splints. Part of aiming high means getting your hopes up – something I haven’t let myself do for a while (maybe that’s why it’s more exciting for me to “leave things to fate”). Trying to do everything you can to “do it right” means that you’ve put energy and hope and faith into it and you risk losing that when it doesn’t work out. But the biggest thing I’m remembering is that keeping your chin up is more important than not getting your hopes up. So I guess this is me saying: I’m not afraid to want something.
Of course this random entry is an example of my need to 1) clarify the previous frustration-filled “I hate winter” entry and 2) procrastinate from studying. But I’m going to get back to my vocabulary enhancing because I 1) see progress and 2) really want to go to graduate school. Since deciding spontaneously about a month ago that I would take the GRE, I’ve since increased my graduate school enthusiasm tenfold. Of course I have a tendency to change my “future plans” spontaneously and radically. I didn’t go to the college I accepted, I didn’t finish grad school applications one month before they were due, I left the Peace Corps decision up to destiny, and I still think about art school – but this is where my heart (and mind) is at the moment.
Not surprisingly, that enthusiasm has come hand-in-hand with a specific program direction. Perhaps if my interest for the program wanes, so, too, will my urgent desire for grad school. But no other program has ever gotten me so eager and motivated. You can’t ignore that spontaneous YES feeling. That’s what I always hope for – the unquestionable desire for something, the lack of uncertainty, and the ease of decision making. In fact, it’s one of the things I pray for on a reoccurring basis – the ease of decision making. But I also know myself well enough to never say “it won’t change,” just that it’s one more factor pointing me in the right direction, and watching it happen is captivating and reassuring. Of course, the other irony is that it’s the one program I scratched off immediately two years ago. Funny how it works out. I have no doubt that my experience here was necessary and that it is truly setting me up for everything that will follow…even if I “abhor pompous words” for a while.
My stubbornness against the cold won’t hurt anyone else, but I’m a walking contradiction: I hate being cold, but resist layering up in loads of clothing. So I wore a skirt today. A denim miniskirt. (I haven’t worn a miniskirt of any kind since I was a cheerleader, meaning I wore miniskirts every Friday – woohoo!) But I want to soak up all bits of sunlight before I turn pallid, bundled in clothing I don’t want to be wearing.
In 18 days I’ll be testing my English on the GRE. My verbal and math skills had normally been about on par with each other, but studying English words in a Moldovaneasca-speaking country means I speak JUMBLISH. Words I thought I knew now look intimidating and, more often, annoying. Before October hit, I started really missing English, missing my understanding of nuances, missing the richness of our vocabulary. And then I started studying that richness and now I’m not so sure that we need scores of words for “criticism” or “bad-tempered.” And why does there have to be a separate word for “the support structures of measuring instruments”?
When I’m done being tested on my English-language vocabulary, I’m sure I’ll appreciate it once again. But for the time being, I need to start living the “don’t be afraid to aim high” blabber I’ve been exclaiming to those who have dared it before me. Ironically, last week was quite emotional and, frustratingly, without a specific stimulus. All the richness of two languages couldn’t describe my mood. Not that I’m new to the random desire to “cry it out” but an extended inability to sleep hit a head when I was reintroduced to shin splints. Part of aiming high means getting your hopes up – something I haven’t let myself do for a while (maybe that’s why it’s more exciting for me to “leave things to fate”). Trying to do everything you can to “do it right” means that you’ve put energy and hope and faith into it and you risk losing that when it doesn’t work out. But the biggest thing I’m remembering is that keeping your chin up is more important than not getting your hopes up. So I guess this is me saying: I’m not afraid to want something.
Of course this random entry is an example of my need to 1) clarify the previous frustration-filled “I hate winter” entry and 2) procrastinate from studying. But I’m going to get back to my vocabulary enhancing because I 1) see progress and 2) really want to go to graduate school. Since deciding spontaneously about a month ago that I would take the GRE, I’ve since increased my graduate school enthusiasm tenfold. Of course I have a tendency to change my “future plans” spontaneously and radically. I didn’t go to the college I accepted, I didn’t finish grad school applications one month before they were due, I left the Peace Corps decision up to destiny, and I still think about art school – but this is where my heart (and mind) is at the moment.
Not surprisingly, that enthusiasm has come hand-in-hand with a specific program direction. Perhaps if my interest for the program wanes, so, too, will my urgent desire for grad school. But no other program has ever gotten me so eager and motivated. You can’t ignore that spontaneous YES feeling. That’s what I always hope for – the unquestionable desire for something, the lack of uncertainty, and the ease of decision making. In fact, it’s one of the things I pray for on a reoccurring basis – the ease of decision making. But I also know myself well enough to never say “it won’t change,” just that it’s one more factor pointing me in the right direction, and watching it happen is captivating and reassuring. Of course, the other irony is that it’s the one program I scratched off immediately two years ago. Funny how it works out. I have no doubt that my experience here was necessary and that it is truly setting me up for everything that will follow…even if I “abhor pompous words” for a while.
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