Father's daughter

I saw her sitting there in the soft armchair, with her shoulders squinted. The setting sun was playing with her blond hair making it look golden.

When we were small we played with dolls together and ran on the streets, telling people that we were sisters. I felt very protective of her because she was younger to me. She was her father's baby girl when she was born but later as the years passed he was very possessive of her that he would not let her play with others.

Now its been over five years that she left her parents house and worked in a foreign country. She could earn the money and provide a decent life, she decided which man will stay in her life.

And today she sat and told me the story of her grown up adventures, her demanding job responsibilities and broken marriage.

With all the success and failure she had, I noticed her voice shake when she told me about her father, whose words still ring in my mind. He told her that she was his disappointment and that she never fulfilled his desires for her. He had his dream but he never shared them with his only daughter.

My heart ached for her because the Father's words cut the heart deep.

Social Vaccuum

There is no one to blame for the social vacuum one finds herself in upon the return to her home country after 4 years; after all, relationships are maintained better when face to face, over a cup of tea, through the long phone conversations, weddings, evening walks, birthday parties and many other tangible ways. For the last five years I was not able to be a part of it because of the distance, except letters exchange with just few that are still interested.

This time when I went home I discovered that it is not as cozy as it used to be. It is true that the central square looked beautiful with the petunias blooming, but something was missing behind all the expensive Mercedes and Land Cruisers, inside the glittery and full of sham supermarkets and malls, and in city's marshrutkas with glassy looks.

Imprisoned

In anger we slam the doors so loud that it echoes many years down the road;
we put a lock that no one can find a key to it, we remain the captives of our own offense and hurt.

Sun

I did not notice the storm outside the window because the sun was shining in my heart.

What is your inspiration?

Many great things inspired by these two great forces - either love or hate.

Which one of these inspires you?

Ficus tree

I am a spontaneous shopper. I went and bought a ficus tree. Now it sits in a pot on our balcony. So much nicer with the green around!

YOU

I look back at the 5 years together, I know it was a right choice I made.
I told my son that I made choice for him as well, because now he has a very good father.

I loved you in the five years we spend together, giggled and laughed, cooked meals and washed dishes together, comforted each other, shared the very intimate of love, challenged and reminded each other of God's faithfulness and together took journeys in faith.

As I think of you now, you are that special man my heart loves and I feel thankful for you today.

Liberty

There is liberty in being honest, when we face the world without the pretense. Most of the time our culture and experiences teach us the tricks and we lose our true selves, in a race of competing with others, in longing to be accepted.

We cant always afford ourselves to be just what we are, and we often get stingy to offer grace to others. There is that place for the change, when we have to learn new things, when we have to improve the things we already learnt, and always we have to strive for the better - but honesty should not be our price.

Honesty is not only to tell the truth about our feelings and matters of life - it is also a defining position from where I stand equal without demeaning the other and say that she had failed me but there is another chance, it is not finished, there is always hope, there is always spring after the cold winter. It is also ability to accept my own failure, to mend the broken trust and bare the consequences.

Life waived in with honesty is liberating, I don't have to be frightened that I might loose my step and get confounded by the puzzle I have created. I walk and breath freely, when I remember the three core-values: love, honesty and forgiveness.

Ears That Hear

We all need someone in our life who can listen to our story, some days we are ready to tell our story to a wall. The deep desire is more than just narrating to a person; we look for compassion, understanding and acceptance. We also look for a companion on our journey, and some lucky of us find it in our spouse, who is both a friend and a partner, who can hear our heart, who is strong and able to stand with us when we are weak and fearful.

May we never find ourselves so lonely that we have to talk to a wall.

Me and My Spiders

I have spider webs in my kitchen, on the window grid, between the rice-cooker and a cup, in the dish rack and near the stove. Take a wild guess:

a) I don't go to my kitchen too often.

b) Spiders build their webs over night.

c) I breed spiders and sell them during the festive seasons to raise money for my further education.

New Year

May it open up the unexpected mercies and goodness,
May wisdom guide us in the decisions we come to make,
May joy and laughter fill our hearts and mouth,
May health be an extra gift,
May compassion and grace flow from us,
May God be our focus,
May we trust in Him.

As we add up one more year to our lives, may we count the favors of God and may our hearts remain thankful.

Let the New Year come!

Eucalyptus Walk or Surviving Among the Ten Million

Our family discovered an eucalyptus grove not very far from our neighborhood. It takes us quick twenty minutes to reach the place in a car along a well paved road.

I love the surrounding area - it has vast areas of vineyards, fields with carrots, cucumbers, pumpkins, wheat and ragi, and some flower fields. A small beaten up road curves and leads into a small hill, going further through the village and the chicken farm. It was quiet a surprise to discover this place - a treat- being in such proximity to the stuffy and overcrowded city.

We walked along the road, admired the pink and yellow flowery bushes and the chameleons hiding on the branches, little lizards sneaking out and jumping on the grass and away from our looks. I could hear the birds twittering and my sons' happy voice and singing. I think even this little child of mine finds it refreshing to run through the mud, find a centipede, splash the rain puddle and rush away into the grove between the lean trunks of the eucalyptus trees, chasing after the dinosaurs.

I am enchanted and disarmed. I think my heart grows cold in the city, I build up the walls to protect my inner city, that feels like a little town, shanty house, a tent, and I am scared that the mega buildings will crush me, squeeze me and ask me to vacate, and once again I will have to pick up my suitcases and move to search for a place to settle. I like the word 'sedentary' because at this point in my life it gives me a sense of security, rest, stability and comfort. At the same time - it seems I am on a move to reach that state - in my five years of marriage we changed four houses, shifted between USA, Kyrgyzstan and India. It was all fine and now I need that rest and peace. I want to settle, even if it is for just a short time.

On the left side of the road, close to the orange temple, I saw two graves, probably that of the priests who attended to the temple. Nearby was another fresh grave covered with garlands of flowers. Usually I am not 'encouraged' or inspired by the death markers but today it also brought some sense of peace, in the landscape of all that surrounded me and I was not troubled or disturbed, on the contrary, it gave me some food for my thoughts.

We reached and as I walked through the grove I breathed in the tang of the soil mixed with the pungent eucalyptus scent. I lifted my eyes to the grey evening sky and felt my cup was full to the brim, I stood in that quiet moment, to connect with myself and strengthen the poles of that little tent of my inner self. After a short time, as it was getting dark, I could leave to go home to continue in a crowded city.

I am glad I found my hiding place, a sacred place where my cup can be filled, a sanctuary where my soul can rest and recoup.

Hopeful for a friend.

It is proven I am not a party type – I get giddy from the loud music, shimmering lights and many faces. Moreover, I am not a crowd type either, even if it is in a slow motion. I love different faces, the expressions, even the opinions and worldview, but rather in a different setting – in a movie or a book, in a story well told, in a picture, in ethnography.

My personal preference has always been one individual at a time – and usually I am a sticky type – like I don’t like to change my dresses too often, I prefer to eat at the same restaurant and order the same meal, so I also like to stick to people: to get to know her, to spend time sitting on a beach or in a park on a bench, to take a long bike ride along the water canal, to take a casual hiking to the waterfall and have homemade sandwiches. I like to take time to listen to the person’s music and try and hear what she likes to hear in the composition. So I am a sticky type. I like to stick through the years, through the misunderstandings and through the birthday celebrations, through the divorce and re-marriage, through the laughter along the way and through the years we have to stay apart, through the long distance and fewer phone calls, through the gossip and through the dew.

I still think friends can’t be many and a friend is a blessing from God.

Hopeful for a friend.

If I Ever Could I Would

I fell in love with this world - its brilliant and vibrant sounds, resounding in the life around, so vivid, so colorful, so precise and yet full of mystery, filled with surprises, at times predictable and yet with unforeseen turns, that can break my heart, make the head spin, loose my breath...

If I ever had a chance again to go back to the many instances of moments lost in my indecisiveness, if I ever could redeem the opportunities I deemed far of my reach, if I could ever get a chance to once again walk in that field - then I would- walk as if it was the sacred soil, would fill my lungs with the air of that moment and I would soak up the every little bit of sound that surrounded me that beautiful summer evening, right before the sun kissed the sky its last goodbye for the night, spilling its red and orange and purple over the green hills.

If I ever could I would, talk over that last conversation that we had unfinished; not because I want to prove that I had a point and it was best, but because you matter to me;

If I ever could I would...

Loss

We lost so much when we could have had it all.

YOU HAVE GOT MAIL

There are few memories that make me feel butterflies in my stomach - a postman and letter mail era memories are one of it.

I remember the lady but not her name, who carried newspapers, journals and letters for us. I remember her huge brown leather bag hanging over her neck down the shoulder. Some days she came by the bicycle. Sometimes our neighborhood dogs chased her and other times they did not bother.

I ran to her each time it was around the time to bring "Murzilka" for me. It first was published in May 1924 and Soviet children around the Soviet Union could enjoy its illustrations, stories and poems. I loved to read the stories about nature and cultural practices of other regions. I also enjoyed the puzzles and other entertaining tasks."Kolokolchik" was also one of my favorites. Later when I was a little older I educated myself on "Sem'a" magazine and laughed at "Krokodil".

I loved to receive letters from my extended family in Belarus, cards for the New Year, the 8th of March, the 1st and 9th of May ,and the 7th of November and the 23rd of February. I liked to collect the postcards and in summer with my friends we sat on the grass and looked at each other's collection, sometimes we exchanged it.

I also was very expectant to hear from my brother who was in the soviet army in Hungary and managed to send me chewing gums along with the letter! Sometimes we had only the letter inside with the smell of the chewing gum - someone on the way -in the post office- took the gum. That was a tragedy for me!

I loved to take a 30 minute walk with my mom to the post office, in the snow with the slide, to pick up the parcel from my aunt and uncle and cousins. They would send us dried blueberries and dry pork and few Belorussian dresses for me. I still can remember the smell of the parcel on my dress. I loved it!

I remember one summer when I went to a pioneer camp for three weeks six hours away from home, and I received at least two letters from my mom saying that she missed me a lot and hoped that I had a good time and updating me on the neighborhood kids. I cried as I read and kept the letters for the longest time.

I also remember that when I grew a little older and was around 9 or 10 years old I had a correspondence with a girl whom I met in Issyk -kol resort. She lived in Bishkek, the same city, but those days we did not have a phone and so we wrote to each other and it was also special. Near our house we had a big blue postbox, where our boys through the rocks and stick too and I felt so bad! I even had a fight once, trying to protect the safety of the letters.

My mom also was a post-woman. I heard some of her stories. It was not an easy job and one had to walk for many kilometers. One day mom told, another post-woman was discovered to dump the letters into the canal because she was too tired to carry the huge bag. So not everyone got their letters.

I feel nostalgic of the post-man era. These days communication is so much faster, so much easier and so much casual that sometimes one does not bother to open the letters because there are just too many to read.

Do you think we still have the hearty letters these days? And what are your memories of the post-man era?

YOU

You satisfy me.
Let us take day at a time.

I think I started to get to know you better.
You opened up your world to me.

I do not feel lonely because your presence fills me in.
You make me laugh, the important part of my day.

I love you.

I so miss you, Dad.

20 years.....

I still remember it so well the day I felt very lonely knowing you wont be there for the tomorrow and the rest of my life.

Many times through these years I thought of you. I wondered how it would be and what you would say when you knew I graduated from the university, went to CO and other places, got married and gave birth to my son, I think you would like my husband and would spoil my son. Many times I thought you would smile and would be proud of me.

Even though some of my memories are fading away, I still remember the warmth of the relationship and love we shared.

I so miss you, Dad.

Character, Tastes and Colors

I am convinced that Indian exquisite garment -sari- is not for me, such a foreigner. It proves that one has to possess a patient, non-resisting character, which the Indian garment requires for its care. It is a piece of cake to wash it, but it is tricky to dry it on a line (unless one just drops it down from a wall to hang) and it certainly time consuming to iron it. I love watching Indian women wearing this fine piece of clothe, but for now, I personally reserve to wearing pants and shirts, and western style dresses.