Countdown time

We leave the USA in 13 days. Wednesday, September 8 we fly to Brussels, Belgium where Friday Douglas will meet with local port authorities with whom he will be doing business from Tashkent. I get to roam around Antwerp while he's working! Doug's cousin, David, lives in Rotterdam so we're going to meet up with him Saturday. Sunday we'll fly to Tashkent overnight and land early Monday morning. Our local sponsor, Jennifer, will meet us at the airport to make sure all goes smoothly.



In the meantime it is quite exciting.



I had another medical scare. I had to have another biopsy - benign!!! I had a peace about this but that didn't stop the "what if" thoughts from invading my mind. Worst case scenario, my medical clearance would have changed and Doug would have to be reassigned. I've been praying for discernment the last few weeks since I'll be living in a primarily Muslim country and learnig alot. I say that I had a peace about this because, I believe, God was telling me to settle down and that everything would be okay. I recognized God's 'voice'. I did think through all possible scenarios so I'd be ready for anything - as ready as one can be.

It is hard to keep my thoughts in the present. Obviously, I'm excited to see Belgium and Uzbekistan so that is always on my mind. Doug and I already talk about where we'd like his next post to be (St. Petersburg, Russia). But I know that if my thoughts do not stay in the present that will affect my future. I need to focus on getting everything together that we'll need there or my time in Tashkent will be spent figuring out what to do without certain items. That's not how I want to spend my time there. I'm setting priorities for living abroad. First priority is to keep the foundation I've built here in D.C. strong. I'm speaking of my body, spirit and mind. Secondly, my marriage and relationship with Doug. I want to support him and make his new life as easy as possible. Third is to collect and share folk tales. This, I believe will be a wonderful way to relate to local people in Uzbekistan.



Now I am concentrating on buying two years worth of consumables. Our apartment is about to be stuffed to the rafters with cases of confectioners sugar, tissues, toilet paper, granola bars, peanut butter, canned tomatoes, chickn stock and more. The hardest part is seeing the amount of money we're speding. It's no more than we would spend in an ordinary year or two - it's just that it's all at once. Ouch.



Remember the inventory list I had to make before we left St. Paul? I thought that was so much work. Well, we have to have our things insured so now I have had to put a price on every item. What a job.



Doug is still in training. This week he is finishing his General Services Officer training. This is the training that is most specific to his actual job at the embassy. Next week, he has three more training days then two consultation days.

The packers arrive Thursday to pack three shipments from our apartment: consumables, household effects (kitchen items, electronics, and books we've recently purchased) and unaccompanied baggage (clothing and more personal items we've accumulated).



I am going to post one more entry on this blog then I'm going to retire it. My next blog will be called "Back to the Desert." As I was born and raised in Phoenix and will be living the next couple years in Tashkent (also desert), I like the "full circle" effect. I intend to make the next blog better than this one. This, you know, was my practice blog. I'm going to post pictures. We have purchased a digital recorder I plan to use to post sounds of Tashkent. Maybe I'll even get fancy and post a video. No promises there. You can find my new blog at:

http://morelaurastales.blogspot.com/

Give me at least a week or two after I close "If I can . . ." before looking for any posting at that sight, please.



We can keep in touch through this blog and your comments. You can e-mail me. You can set up a (free) Skype account and we can talk and see each other. There is an 11 hour time difference between here and Tashkent (they're ahead of us) so using Skype will take some planning.

World Peace (or at least inner peace)

A couple weeks ago I came home from a walk and sat down and deleted all the games on my computer. I decided that they were a waste of time. Yes relaxation is important. (Did I mention I just came back from another walk?). I do relax. Plenty. If I want to play a game, I have a pile of old Games magazines in the other room (there are only two rooms here, remember?) and at least when I'm doing a word puzzle I'm learning and figuring things out - stimulating my precious brain. So far I have only thought about the computer games a few times and, honestly, have not missed them. I have only fired up Doug's computer to play his games twice. (So, you see, it was not that much of a sacrifice as I have a back up.)Anyway, this leads me to writing more.

Lucky you, dear readers (all five or so of you).

I'm going to talk about a couple of human weaknesses that I believe to be the root of all evil. (Cue grand music.) I know that's pretty dramatic, but stay with me here. My biggest frustration with people is our selfishness. Because I love a good debate, even if it's with myself, I'll start by defending selfishness. We have to be selfish to a degree. I have to think of my own best interests because few others are going to. I have to put myself first often or I will be left out. This is not to say that many, many, many people have not stood up for me, comforted me, bailed me out (not literally) or done a host of other good deeds for me. I mean that this is my life and I must live it and part of living it is being vigilant to my own best interests - sometimes at the expense of other's. I think we've all heard the analogy about the oxygen mask on the plane - put it on yourself first then the kids because if you go unconscious putting it on a child what good are you to that child? I will add to that. Those of you who recognize this next analogy, I confes, I watched Oprah last week. We need to take such good care of ourselves that our cups run over so we have plenty to share with all those around us. This made me feel better about all the time I've spent going on about myself and my accomplishments in this blog. I am actively demonstrating and sharing what we are capable of.

I believe selfishness leads to nearly all crimes and legal violations: I was in a hurry I had to speed, I didn't see a trash can and I didn't want to carry it, I didn't want to/couldn't pay for it. I didn't want to use my car ashtray so I tossed the cigarette out the window. (Oh, sorry about the forest fire everybody.)Frankly none of us are so stimulatingly interesting or indispensably important that we cannot spare the extra seconds or minutes to do something right. Just think of all the tax money we'd save if we simply obeyed the laws of the road and stop littering. But, of course, it gets worse.

A few posts ago I wrote that I was selfish. I am but I'm dealing with it and have been for years and I'm making great progress. One thing that helps is being surrounded by unselfish people. Generosity and kind deeds truly are infectious. It's almost a paradox; I want to do something nice for someone else because I know I'll feel good and it will rub off on them and then they'll do something nice for someone else - maybe me! (Anyone out there read the Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis? There is a character who realizes he's learned to be humble for which he's proud of himself.) But seriously, when you see the example set by others and see how well it works you can't help but want it. Parents often tell their children to not hang out around the wrong people. Good advice. Let's hope they take their own advice.

Being less selfish would make society more peaceful. If we took (even occasionally faked) an interest in others and what they have to say not only would they feel good but we'd gain a perspective we could not otherwise have. Because people don't know how to talk and listen to each other in conflict - like debate - we are drowning in lawsuits. And, it is my belief, that this practice (there's that word again) of listening to others that leads to companies listening to customers, governments listening to citizens and countries listening to other countries. Thus a more peaceful world. (Cue grand music once again.)

Doug's biggest frustration with people, and I've come to share it, is ignorance, specifically chosen ignorance. Again, I'll begin by defending ignorance. Obviously we can't all know everything. This is why we are all down here together and we have specialists on whom we depend. For instance if we were to know all there is to know about our own bodies that would require years of medical school. If we were to have enough knowlege to read and thoroughly understand legal documents we are required to sign to get loans, make wills etc. that would require years of law school. Who has the time, money and, frankly, the interest for that? Then there's that ever present trap of finding yourself in a tight spot and hearing someone say "Well, you should have asked." Great advice, but what if you don't know the questions?I've had some tough conversations with some people who are worried about my moving to a predominately Muslim country. "They want to kill us, you know." I have worked closely with two Muslim families and neither were the least bit interested in expediating my demise. The people with whom I had these conversations were confusing Muslims with Muslim extremists.

I liken Muslim extremists to "Christians" who kill doctors who perform abortions.
Again, we cannot know everything. It's impossible. What bothered me so much about these conversations is that they could not back up their accusations with facts other than a few news stories. I shared what I knew and hoped it would take root and give them an interest in opening their minds to learn a little bit more.

When I was in college, I chose ignorance. I didn't know it at the time; I just thought I was right. I studied music and Bible in college. I was VERY Christian. If it was not in the Bible then it was wrong. If it was in the Bible then you'd better not argue with it. If the Bible seemed to contradict itself - we just weren't understanding it properly.

I eventually came to the realization that a relationship with God was more valuable then Bible interpretation so that became my focus and, I'll be darned, if the one didn't follow the other! And thanks to years of storytelling and learning about oral tradition I can pretty well understand the contradictions within our holy scriptures. I would be missing out on SO much today if I were still stuck in my chosen ignorance.

Thank God and Darwin for evolution!

Thank You

I am in my final few days in our country and posting my final blog (before I begin my new blog, "Back to the Desert"). I am thinking of the goals I set for this blog. First, I wanted to stay in touch with my friends. Secondly, I just wanted to see if I could write with a deadline regularly. Thirdly, I wanted to share my experiences living this new life and hopefully be an inspiration to you who read this. I think I succeeded in the first goal and did rather well with the second goal (except while my mom was sick and I was a bit of a mess). The third goal only you know whether or not I succeeded.





I think it appropriate, however, to let you know what a difference you have made to me over the years. Some of you I've known since you were preschoolers (or the parents of preschoolers) and some of you I only knew for a few precious months before I moved. I am embarking on a life in which I will make many temporary friends. That can sound lonely but love and friendship can grow FAST and I know that enormous influence can happen in a short time. Here are some of my memories of what a difference you've made in my life.





Many of my students had a lot going on in their lives - school, relationships, family upheaval, health issues, etc. Yet I watched them come to their lesson each week ready to further themselves in music and piano. Some of my students stuck to their practice better than I ever did. I saw some students practice while a well-meaning parent would audibly groan at wrong notes. I saw some students struggling to get principles while being laughed at by a family member for their slowness or inability to understand. I am a sensitive person and either of those would have unraveled me. But these students acknowleged the interruption and, as though to say "I'll show you" went right back to the piano and figured it out. As those strong students showed me, I am learning to tune out the negative voices in my life. By the way, not all the 'negative' voices are really negative. The laugher I mentioned? Sounds terrible, doesn't it? It wasn't meant to be. I know that the laughter was unease and an inability to understand why such a 'simple' principle would be so evasive. So watching you work through it helped me to gain that perspective. Thank you.





I would occasionally have the 'lesson of the week'. This was some exercise that I had discovered (often at my pedagogy classes at St. Thomas) that I was excited about and wanted to share with everyone. Some were more difficult than others. One was playing a short piece of music by sight memory. Meaning, the student leaves the piano, studies the music, and, when ready, puts the music down and plays it at the piano by memory. That is daunting. For those of you who don't play the piano, try reciting a short paragraph you have only just read a few times. Anyway, the spirit with which some of my students did this was beautiful. I am remembering Laura Nelson right now. She was about 8 or so and was wearing a long skirt. Many of my older students reacted in horror when I told them what I wanted them to try. She shrugged, put down the music she had been looking at the almost danced over to the piano bench, sat down and played it. Some students got it right the first time, some missed, went back, restudied, played a little 'air piano' then got it right at the piano. For me, seeing the casual spirit of adventure in Laura and the determination in so many others is a motivating memory in my life while I am facing new situations. I shrug and dance right in. If I fail, I try it again. Thank you.





Many of my students wanted to take on songs that were levels beyond where they were capable of playing. Many of those students succeeded. One of those students would play so many wrong notes at the sight reading, I was very discouraged and thought "I should not let her play this". But week after week we'd plod through just a few measures of new music, one hand at a time and when I returned the next week she'd have it down pat. I always told her that I wish I could become invisible to watch her practice. Many students learned complicated rhythms, four-note chorded songs, pieces with five flats or sharps or lengthy pieces simply because they wanted to. There was something about THAT piece of music that made them want to learn to play it. It is that tenacity that helped me through the Russian classes I took. We had to learn a lot in a short time. I never gave up. I (seemingly) never tired of it. I know that alot of that was inspired by my memories of my students. Thank you.





Parents, your turn. I think that parenting is the most selfless act of love there is. It is an overtime job often on top of another full time job. I am still amazed at how much my own parents actively love me. I am dumbfounded at how much they care for me with all that they are going through. I don't know how they remember all the good things and seem to forget all the #*&$ing crap (excuse me, please) I put them through when I lived there. I saw such good relationships in my teaching years. I was in a unique situation in that I went into people's homes - very intimate, indeed. I remember being confronted (kindly) by one parent who wanted me to ease up on her daughter who was not practicing much. This student could play fairly well and I, frankly, expected more from her. It turned out that school was particularly demanding that semester so her mother spoke with me privately and told me to just teach the lessons and that the practice would fall back in place when it could. We had that talk privately but I knew that the daughter knew we had talked. In her lesson that day, I said "You probably already know this, but you have a great mom. She really loves you and cares for you." "Yeah." The girl said. "She's really good to me, too." I told her. "A lot of people would have just been mad at me and fired me." I could go on and on here. You are all doing fabulous jobs being moms and dads to your kids. Thank you.



You have been open-minded with my teaching methods. Many times you have walked through during a piano lesson to see us juggling or prone on the floor doing push-ups. Once when a mom came home from work during her daughter's lesson the daughter was reading her diary to me. She summed up the faith I believe you all put in me. When I assured her that we were having a piano lesson and that I would be sure to get in 30 minutes at the piano, she said, "Laura, I don't think you could do wrong in this house." Thank you.

The sign at the cemetery entrance reads: Dead End

One of my favorite walks is around the cemetery that is adjacent to our parking lot. I have made no secret as to my opinion of this tiny apartment with the puppy-poop brown walls and dog-caca station out our 'picture' window but at least the neighbors are quiet!

When I told my class (in Russian) that I like walking around the cemetery, my teacher was horrified. She told us that in Russia no one would even build a dwelling next to a cemetery because no one would buy it. They are considered very depressing places. I can see that, certainly. But I see more.

When I walk I see how many gifts are left at the gravestones. I have seen a tiny toy fire truck and race car on one, an empty box of cigars on another (there's a story behind THAT one I'll tell in a minute), on others a rosary, spent candles, burning candles in lanterns at night, folded notes that I have resisted reading, pictures, flags and fields of flowers. That is not depressing to me; it is uplifting. To think that I may be remembered long after I die with items that remind the visitor of me or that have a special meaning to them is heart warming - not to mention the time and thought spent coming to the graveside.

When I last walked there management had posted a sign that they were going to begin enforcing rules regarding what can be placed or planted near the gravesites. There are many, many people who are going to be disappointed to lose their little shrines.

I'll pursue the tacky for a moment. There is a grave that has been outlined (against the rules) in painted rocks. It has a solar powered lantern by it. There are several solar powered lanterns scattered about the cemetery which, if you think about it, is a little unsettling. This grave holds the record for ceramic figures. The most prominent is of a cherub making bunny-ears and face at a rabbit. The others include a few frogs, birds and other animals and angels. This is right next to another grave that has faded, cracked plastic Easter eggs hanging on a dead rosebush.

This is when I can understand management stepping in and enforcing the rules. Note to everyone who wants to grace someone's grave with something: give it a little thought. Remember that unless the wind blows it away or someone takes it, it will be there for a long time.

There are the ubiquitous flowers at many of the graves. Some real and some made from anything under the sun. I've seen beaded flowers, "silk" flowers in the most brazen colors not found in nature, fabric (or leather - I don't know; I didn't touch them) flowers and plastic flowers. I guess whoever puts them there figure they'll look better longer than real ones. True, it you like the look of fake flowers. However when they are past their prime they don't disintegrate nicely into the earth like those real ones. Seeing the old, faded, splitting plastic flowers near a flowering tree or shrub is, to me, like seeing a bones scattered about the graves among the living.

The shrines are interesting, though. One grave has a small basket with the following items: a garlic press, softball, 3 baseballs (one sealed and signed), a pizza slicer, spoon and a shell. Leaning on the headstone are a couple of newpaper articles, bottles of various spirits (no pun intended), small, polished stones engraved with names of herbs, a lantern and a fairy. The entire plot is otherwise covered with flowers - real, planted flowers. The rule is nothing outside of one foot distance from the headstone.

One more. There is a native-American looking wreath on one grave that has a dream catcher on it, feathers, a carved wooden flute and a glitter-covered "I love Dad" sign. Okay, but is it art? Mixed media, I guess.

I like reading the names on the headstones. Persis Proudfit is one of my favorites. Who hears names like that any more? Another is Icey Lucille Johnson. Icey Lucille. If ever there was a name begging for a ghost story, this is it. Icey lived to be only 19. Some more interesting names: Talmadge Thorne, Dicey Rhodes, Gladys Bean Sasscer, Minnie Munger, Hattie Shreve and Luttie O. Tapp. I noticed one name for the first time yesterday. It is carved on a narrow headstone, one with not much room for proper spacing. It reads: Albert L. Ives which, at a glance looks like Albert Lives!

I've saved the best for last - the party plot. This belongs to a Hispanic family that loves each other - those still alive and those passed. They gather regularly at the grave and it looks like a tailgate party complete with lawn furniture, barbeque, food, ice chests, liquor and cigars to party with the deceased. They leave the empties (one bottle of nice Scotch and carved wooden cigar box) behind not as trash but as a gesture of love and remembrance. I'll bet some of that scotch was poured into the ground. Next to this same grave is a Christmas tree with tiny pool balls hanging as ornaments. It has had balloons flying from it and still has a plaque and blue #1 Dad ribbon. Tacky? Yes. Loving? Oh, yes. They are always happy and greet me when I pass them. One day I'll stop to talk to them; since they don't strike me as the reverent type I don't think they'd mind.

I have a great uncle - Uncle Max - who doesn't want a sad, depressing funeral. My Uncle Max has a handle bar mustache and laughing eyes. He loves to sing Danny Boy. He wants to be buried with on eye open and a smirk on his face. He has left instructions that there will be no crying and no dirges at his wake or funeral; people are to laugh, tell jokes, jump up, click their heels together and fart. Now that's celebrating life.

Time on My Honds

I smell like a chicken. A cooked chicken - which is better than smelling like a living chicken (right, Hamers?). I've been preparing chicken and noodles for two days now. Just what are you supposed to do with that sack of junk (giblets) you pull out of the poor deceased chicken? They must be there post mortem for a reason. It's things like that that make me understand just driving to KFC and ordering out. (That and those yummy biscuits!)

These days have been like the first couple of months we lived here. I have no one to answer to so I can squander my days or use them. I'm still studying Russian though I'm not speaking with anyone - that's bad. I'm still exercising and having quiet time - that's good. My mind is turning to writing again. As I walk or relax I think of story ideas and I'm ready to get back to that part of my routine.

I was taking a walk the other day and thought how satisfied I would be if I loved noise. I was walking down a major road with lots of traffic. About half way home, I turned off to walk the rest of the way (a little longer) through a park with an ornamental tree garden - lovely. The first thing I heard was running water, ahh. Very soon was the sound of a buzz saw. Harrumph. Then I thought that perhaps I could tune into my other senses and not be as bothered by the noise around me. It was overcast, dark and there was no wind so what I felt on my skin was only the motion of air when my arms swung. It wasn't cold but there was no heat from the sun. I wasn't walking fast and hard enough to sweat (I know, I know). It smelled fresh and moist and sweet near the flowering trees. My eyes were teased as to whether or not they could make out the faintest shadow on the ground before me. All this I do because when I get to Tashkent I'm there for two years. Whatever is there is my world and I must live in it. I hope I like it but if I don't I want to be able to adjust. I'm grateful for the time I have to give attention to things like that.

Here's an update on Doug and I. (I hope I'm not repeating myself.) We are leaving the country on September 8th. We fly to Antwerp, Belgium so Doug can meet with our port authorities with whom he'll be working from Tashkent. His responsibilities in Tashkent as the General Services Officer are customs, shipping and motorpool. After we spend a few days in Antwerp (where I get to relax!) we fly to Tashkent and our new life begins.

In the meantime, we are (slowly) making a list of consumables to take with us. We are allowed 3,000 pounds to last us the two years. This is tough. Exactly how much toothpaste do YOU use in a year? Toilet paper? Anyone? I don't really want to run out of either of those goodies. I'm not planning on taking very much food with us - I want to eat locally. However, I must have ingredients for my favorite Christmas candy (yes, Caleb?) as well as these yummy chocolate covered raisins I've discovered. It is because of those little guys that I lost several pounds. Hey! At least half of them are good for me.

Then there's the issue of clothes. Most of my clothes are in storage and, at this point, I barely remember what I own. I have been hard to fit in the past. It's easier now, but it's still a challenge. I am told that the seamstresses and tailors in Tashkent are quite good and affordable. That sounds good. They suggest, however, bringing fabric with us. Hmm. That sounds complicated.

We have our housing assignment. We will be living in the compound near the Embassy. We really wanted to live away from the Embassy in another neighborhood where we'd be more immersed in the culture but there are advantages for both locations. We'll probably be safer nearer the Embassy. I will have to push myself to get out and experience Tashkent. I don't want to turn into one of those people who lives in another country and hangs out with Americans all day. Nothing personal. We are about a mile from a metro station and we will be bringing Doug's car. We will be living in a 3-bedroom house not an apartment (Yay!). We will have a garage and a yard. There is a common pool and gym plus tennis courts for our use.

Well, now the entire apartment smells like chicken. It's getting a little old now, if you know what I mean. Time to bring out the insense. (Proud of me, Caleb?) I guess I should let the rest of my readers (all three of you?) in on this. Caleb burned insense at our piano lessons. It was a great mood for good music. Unfortunately it occasionally overpowered the smell of the fresh-baked chocolte chip cookies - but, at least, I got to eat some of those!

I'm still here

I dropped a bomb in my last post and I'm ready to clean up now. In brief, my mom is back in her home after several weeks in a hospital and rehabilitation and maybe I'm not quite as selfish as I feared.

My mom suffered a low blood sugar diabetic episode which left her unconscious and, for a time, unrevivable. For a week or so she was in and out of consciousness (mostly out). She was thrashing around a bit trying to pull all the foreign objects that had been inserted into her out so they tied her to the bed. The day after I found out about my mother, my class had a field trip to a Russian grocery store planned. I decided to say nothing to the class until after the fun trip was over. I was fine with that until we passed an ambulance on the way and tears welled up at the thought of my mother being rushed at three in the morning unconscious to the hospital. When, at the end of the day, I told my teacher and classmates, they were very concerned and understanding. I was able to leave my phone on during class in case I got a phone call from my father. It was very difficult at times focusing to study with that picture of my mother in my mind. I kept imagining how scared and uncomfortable she was. I also kept thinking that I should be at her side so she could hear my voice (if, indeed, she would have heard me). I felt guilty for not being there for her and my dad and I felt guilty with the thought of walking away from my Russian studies early. For not being raised either Catholic or Jewish I sure suffer the guilt.

One of the foreign objects in my mom was a breathing tube down her throat. Even when she regained consciousness, she could not talk. To make matters worse, she lost motor skills and could not write. So there she lay unable to communicate. Furthermore, the breathing tube had irritated her throat to the point that it was too swollen for her to breathe on her own. Eventually she was given a temporary tracheotomy. When she could whisper her first word to my father was "Abby", their dog's name. Thanks, mom. I felt a bit like the father of the famous football players who yell "Hi, mom!" to the camera after a touchdown. Oh, well . . . Her next words were, "Why am I here?"

My heart was breaking. As I moved forward from chapter to chapter, my mother was in a dark, frustrating place in a state of confusion. I spoke with my father every day, often twice. He passed on any news which was too often during the first two weeks 'nothing new, no change'. To his great credit, he did a good job handling all he had to handle. My mother is the social secretary of their household. Now my father was answering calls from my mother's sisters, her Daughters of the American Revolution (D.A.R.) Chapter, the church, nosy neighbors, you name it. And he answered each one of them. Unfortunately my mother is also the tech support of their household and the answering machine quickly filled and he didn't know how to erase or retrieve messages. Nor does he know how to use e-mail. How he arrived at this place from his former life as an engineer I do not know. A very kind woman from the D.A.R. visited my mother and, with my father's permission, got information about her to forward onto my Aunt Katy. Unfortunately the information she passed on and the information that my father passed on didn't always agree. It was very frustrating not being there to know the truth. I had a code word (Abby) to get information over the phone about my mother but even that didn't always jibe.

One evening I had a message to call the hospital. This, I should mention, was before I was given the secret code to receive information about my mother. They needed my permission to remove or change or insert a feeding tube. Why didn't they call my father, I asked. They said they had a few times and he was not answering. Uh-oh. Now, of course, I'm picturing my father laying on the floor unconscious at home. I called him. No answer. I called again since sometimes he doesn't hear the phone or is outside. No answer. I knew none of their neighbors by name. The whole neighborhood has changed since I lived there - that's another story. My sister, who lives in Tempe, has nothing to do with my family so calling her was not an option. The only person who finally came to mind was my former vice-principal from elementary school who was also my mother's boss for some time. I found his number, he was home and he remembered me. He drove over to my parents house and found my father asleep in bed. He simply hadn't heard the phone. All was well.

All this, however, added to the urgency I felt to be in Phoenix. I was still plodding through a chapter a week looking forward to the blessed 'review week' when we do not take on a new chapter but review the past three. I remember being able to study, though. I didn't do as well on vocabulary as I had in the past. Partly, I think, because one of my times for vocabulary had been just before bed. The first week my mom was in the hospital, I was at the gym until midnight a few times because I couldn't sleep. But I was studying. I was pushing myself by signing up for "Walkie-Talkies". This is when one of the Russian teachers (not our own) takes about 45 minutes and chats with us about anything - in Russian. It's great practice. As my mother made more progress, I felt better about waiting to see her. I was hoping to be in Phoenix when she was finally released and sent home.

In time, my mother had her first meal - one of the requirements for moving into rehabilitation. The other was breathing on her own which the temporary tracheotomy provided. I will advise all of you readers to learn all you can about the human body. I paid just enough attention in school to pass the required tests. The amount of misinformation and miscommunication that I saw during my mothers ordeal was astounding. It is said that we know more about our cars (or televisions or Blackberries) than our bodies. I know this to NOT be true in my case but it is a good lesson.

I don't know if I've mentioned this before so forgive me if I'm repeating myself. As I sought the ability to carry on my life here as my mother and father suffered I recalled the tsunamis, earthquakes and other disasters that we humans have survived. I know this is dramatic but stay with me please. The tsunami really affected me in my thoughts. Here were people who lost everything and everyONE they had and yet they go on. That's strength. They probably didn't know they had it in them. We humans are capable of so much more than we realize. We just get soft because our troubles usually revolve around a malfunctioning car (or other technical thing which we own) or a missed payment on a house (which we were privileged to buy) a lost job (from which we may have severance or unemployment) or divorce (which may be ultimately for the best or even brought on ourself). Some of these are big problems but we are bigger. We are smarter. We are stronger. Especially together.

My mom did get released while I was in Phoenix and it looks like life is headed back to just about the way it was. My sister visited my mother several times and we had dinner together after my mom's release. Good medicine. To those of you who called or wrote your thoughts and support, thank you.

Have a great Fourth of July. I hear this is the BIG event in the embassies and consulates overseas. Lots of hotdogs! There is a story circulating about Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth who visited one of our embassies and was given a hotdog. She took it in her white gloved hand and inquired as to how it shoud be eaten. One of our diplomates took a big bite of his to show her. She then asked for a plate, knife and fork and commenced eating her hotdog. Oh, well . . .

An old demon revisiting

Hello. My name is Laura Rose and I’m selfish.

For alcoholics there is help to be found in Alcoholics Anonymous. For overeaters, there is Overeaters Anonymous. For people who talk too much there’s On and On Anon. (Hee-hee! Sorry I couldn’t resist.) Often there is nothing anonymous about being selfish. Selfish people tend to be obvious; they are greedy, self-centered, unconcerned with following rules or laws, they don’t listen to others and may talk a lot and the most obvious of all – they don’t share. Some of us are more closeted. The selfishness lies within our thoughts and rarely manifests itself outwardly. Some of you know me well and may (or may not) be surprised to be reading this about me. I love people. I loved teaching piano and being a part of your lives and making a difference. I often bent over backward for my students because they deserved it and I wanted to and we all relished the results. So outwardly I probably did not appear to be particularly selfish. And, frankly, compared with who I was in my 20’s I have stepped outside of myself considerably. Well my old demon is alive and kicking this week.

I got some bad news Thursday night. My father called to tell me that my mother is in intensive care in the hospital. Briefly, this is what I know. She lost consciousness. He could not revive her nor could the paramedics. She was admitted into one hospital, transferred to another, put on a respirator and is now stable (though sedated and in and out of consciousness) with little to no help from an IV. They suspect an embolism and want to do a CAT scan or MRI on her but she is not breathing strongly enough on her own for that so we are, at this posting, waiting. This is not something selfish people like to do.

I was pretty stunned when he told me but, given my mom’s weakening health over the last several years, I was not caught completely off guard. Reality is rarely what we think it will be. My first reaction was getting all the facts I could from my father and asking him how he was doing in all this.

My second reaction? Brace yourself. ‘Oh, I don’t have to study tonight because I can say I was too upset.’

Poor me.

My dear mother is in the hospital and I’ve found an out to doing homework. Lovely.

Now, the good part of this is that I immediately recognized what I was trying to do and, after making a call or two, I studied. A little. I perhaps should mention that my class was scheduled for a field trip to a Russian grocery store the next morning and I had specific vocabulary and phrases to learn and use.

I had a little chat with myself about how I was capable of being worried and studying at the same time. I told myself that if other human beings could survive earthquakes and tsunamis then I could be scared and sad for my mother and learn a few Russian words and phrases. I threw in the old “she would want that.” I told myself to not tell my class about it until after the field trip. Holding news inside is easy for me if it is confidential but difficult for me if it is not.

On the way to the Russian store we had to move and stop for two ambulances. This made me teary because I realized that my mother had to be transported to the hospital in an ambulance. I realized as the tears welled up that I could stop them or let them flow. I considered the others noticing and half hoped they would. I did stop the tears because we had all been looking forward to this trip and I didn’t want to spoil it on any level. It just bothers me that I have been so fixated on myself.

Now, so I don’t paint too horrible a picture of myself, let me say that I have been thinking about my mother. I’ve called and spoken to the nurse, I’ve written my mother, I’m praying a lot for her, etc. I’m debating whether or not I should hop the next plane to be by her side. Even that decision is fraught with selfless and selfish thoughts:

- What good could I do there? Support my dad. This, of course begs the question, could my dad and I live under the same roof without my mother refereeing? Do I really want to find out? Does he? Show physical support for my mother – be there when she wakes up. I don’t think she’d want me to see her full of tubes. Then again, she always wants to see me. She has a living will so I don’t want to be this far away from her. This is scary.

- I’d miss Russian class. This would bother my mother and me; it would make us both feel guilty.

- I’d be away from Doug. This would be hard on us, though he is busy with Russian classes and our time together is often spent in silent studying.

- And the question that no one in my position can answer: When should I go there? If I go now and she gets sent home with a clear bill of health and I return, what if something happens the next week. Not to be real crass but flying back and forth gets burdensome and EXPENSIVE. Selfish.

- If I fly there now, I’ll miss the yard party at Jean and Ed’s Saturday. This was a doozy for me. I am so ashamed that I actually weighed missing a yard party with being at my sick mother’s side.

I hate this.

Anyone out there been through this and have any advice.

As I write I wonder if I'm making too big a deal out of all these thoughts. Maybe I'm just a little paranoid of reverting back to the old me so I latch on to any potential sign of it. I hope that's all this is. My mom reads my blog - when she's conscious - and I don't want her to think she raised this selfish thing nor do I want her to think that she has caused any of this.

It could be that all this intensive self-examination may be my way of not finding myself thinking about my mother laying in the hospital bed with her hands tied (so she doesn't pull the respirator tube out of her throat).

I guess this is why we (I) write.

The learning process

Since I became a student again, I've been noticing some things about the learning process. I decided they were worth writing not only for you to read but for me to return to just in case I find myself in Chinese or Arabic language school in a few years. (Please, God - no.)



When I began classes in January the learning came relatively quickly and easily. I think this is partly because I had a little headstart (I already knew the alphabet, basic pronunciation and a few words.) I also believe that the newness of it all helped; it was exciting. It didn't hurt that our vocabulary lists were apx. 75 words per week whereas today we are looking at 120 or so plus many, many phrases. After a while (an hour?, I don't know.) it got more difficult. Words started to resemble each other - not just in their strangeness but in similarities and they were difficult to keep straight in my mind. They still are. Now I'm learning more about prefixes and suffixes and can pull the words apart to know them better.



It's just another rollercoaster I guess. It's easy. It's difficult. It's easy. It's difficult.

The support we receive from the staff at the institute is inspirational. When you have something to learn it often feels like you are alone in your mind trying to get information to become clear and permanent. Every teacher and staff member in the Russian department cares about each and every student to the point that they will stop me in the hall on occasion and ask me what I'm working on and offer help. They do this randomly and on the spur of the moment. This is a strong reminder that I am not in this alone. They each love to teach and they love their native Russian language and this is apparent in their spirit. There is a lab where we do listening and computer exercises. Nikolai is in charge of the lab so he interacts with and is responsible for dozens of students, not just four or so like the teachers. Nikolai likes me and I like Nikolai. When I first asked him for help he asked me why I was so shy. He listened to me read my narrative, took it from me and made corrections, explained it then recorded it for me to listen to. This took about a half hour. Now, every time I'm in the lab he comes up to me to see how I'm doing. He knows I'm a singer and storyteller so he's on the hunt for songs and stories for me. The teachers offer "walkie-talkies" during their "break" time. Apparently no one in this institute has a proper concdept of what a break is. The students sign up for a 50 minute chat with a native speaker (not your teacher). This gets you out of the classroom and is open to any topic, any level. I overheard one and signed up for one this Friday. The student stumbled through sentences and the teacher gently corrected.



I still believe that the load they present for us to learn is humanly impossible. Our new teacher (#3) said that this morning. It was strangely comforting. Instead of sitting back and thinking "Yeah, this is impossible" and worrying. I realized where her expectations lie and I am set to work as hard as I can to get everything even though I know I won't. I also remember the words of our first teacher who told us that we will always move ahead and we will always review. I also act like a teacher with myself. If I remember a word or figure one out I praise myself. When I find myself looking up a word for the 19th time this week (which happened this morning), I have a small day of reckoning. Either I give up on the word (brown, for instance - I will never know the Russian word for brown) or I say it and spell it ad nauseum the rest of the day.

Sometimes I just feel like I can't study any more. At least when I was in school we changed subjects every hour or so. I keep in mind the variety of study there is within the Russian language. Exercise time in the morning is devoted to vocabulary and short phrases. The bus ride to the institute is spent reviewing endings from flashcards. Both of these are easy to do amongst distraction. Hall time in the morning before class is spent either reading our current text or reciting my own narrative for the day. "Break" time is spent on assignments, lab and lunch. Right when I get home I dive into one of the big assignments - workbook pages, writing my own text, reading and translating new text etc. When Doug and I watch a television show, I keep my computer on with vocabulary drills and I run to it during commercials to work. When I know I need to work but just can't make myself I either take time off or look at the variety pool I have before me and pick one. There is usually something I can 'force' myself to do. Usually (thank you, God) after I start I really get into it and I make progress which feeds my energy to work. It's funny that way: the less I work and progress the less appealing the work is. Hmm . . . I think I'm on to something here.

The taboos

A post or two ago, I said that I believe that we need to learn how to discuss the taboo topics of politics and religion. Ooh, where to begin . . .

I guess the place to begin is to realize the importance of being able to discuss these hot-button, important, scary topics. War. That's why. People turn to violence and nations go to war over these issues. That's why we need to learn to discuss them with our neighbor, friends and our mother-in-law.

Why are these issues so scary? I can only speak for myself. In my judgemental days (any time before I was 30ish) I could not discuss these topics with civility. I could argue them but I could not discuss them because I was not knowledgeable enough. I knew what I believed religion-wise but I did not know why and I was unable to articulate my beliefs well. All I knew politically was I hated our government. Not much has changed in the latter though I am working on it and BOY am I in a good place to work on it. I made huge progress when I was able to say to someone "I don't know." I made enormous progress when I learned to (nothing new here) listen. Not just to hear their point of view but to hear how they reasoned out their beliefs and articulated them.

There are people in my life who I love dearly with whom I cannot have any conversation if we do not agree 100%. So we wind up talking about the weather and food. Part of this is my fault or, more accurately, the fault of my past. I was an unreasonable arguer. I no longer am but they may never know because as soon as an opposing viewpoint surfaces 'My isn't it sunny!'

Why are these issues such hot-button topics? Because they are so important and they are so intensely personal while they are also so vitally public. We are passionate about them because we should be. We need to remember that there are many ways to show passion outside of anger. There are many who say that people who are so angry are really scared. That's probably true some of the time. Try telling someone you disagree with how frightening a situation is to you. This gives them a chance to either comfort you with their reason or realize the gravity of their own views.

Now I'm going to get hypocritical. If we wrote a constructive letter to a congressman for each time we complained about the government we could hold our head higher in any political debate. I, for one, would have huge blisters on my fingers and little time to study. Writing that letter forces us to articulate our opinion and the results can be staggering. If we sought out conversation with a Muslim friend or acquaintance every time we heard someone railing against 'those Muslims' we'd have a much more accurate perspective.

I have entitled this blog "If I can . . ." Please remember why I chose that title. If I can then anyone can. I have told Doug that I am so glad he did not meet me in college. He'd have had no interest in me at all because of how naively and ignorantly close-minded I was. I've come a long way. I think I mentioned this in an earlier post but it's short and worth repeating. I am trying to set my mind for the unknown in Uzbekistan. Part of that is preparing to see our differences as just that - differences, not wrong or right, just different. Now, I don't want to go out into the world accepting everything that lands in my path as just different. Certainly there are wrongs out there and I hope to recognize them. However I believe there are many more differences and many people's reactions tend to be negatively judgemental towards differences.

I haven't travelled alot but I'll share an example of different versus right and wrong. When Doug and I were in India in 2000 I remember standing in a few lines only to be blatantly cut off - even pushed aside by someone who wanted to go ahead of me. I meekly tolerated this a few times. One day, I pushed back. The man then just moved behind me. That was it. In America we would consider it very rude to cut into a line and more rude to push someone. In India they apparently don't think it's a big deal. It's different. No one got hurt. I got miffed, but I got over it and learned how to react. Either wait or push back. Pretty simple.

Not every difference is going to be that simple. Uzbekistan is run by a dictator who has overseen mass killings of those who disagree with him (that's wrong, not different). Uzbekistan is a predominately Muslim country. I hear that to hold religious discussions one must apply for and receive a permit. I realize I need to approach the subject very carefully however to gain their trust and a level of comfort between us. If any of my readers have had any experience living in a different culture, I'd appreciate any advice you may have to offer. I also solicit your prayers. I was close with two Muslim families in Minnesota and, since I've lived here, I've sat through two very interesting lecture/debates on today's issues between our cultures. Here's an interesting item I remember an Imam teaching us. I hope I get this right. Jihad is what we hear the extremests claim against us whenever they blow someone up. As we sat in an auditorium at the Foreign Service Institute, the Imam addressing us said "We're having Jihad right here, right now." Jihad is an exchange. I don't want to misquote anything so I'll quit there. I look at these Muslim extremests as I do Christian extremests who kill abortion doctors. In my opinion they are not behaving in a Christian manner. I hope deeply in my heart that no one judges my Christianity by the actions of some abortion doctor killer.

I'll be in a good position to learn while I'm in Tashkent. As a spouse of a Foreign Service diplomat, I must guard my tongue (thus the solicitation of your prayers). As I understand, I cannot publicly contradict the United States Government. Since I don't know their stance on everything I'll be doing alot of listening and little opining.

If you've ever been on a debate team, you must realize the importance of understanding the opposing side's viewpoint in order to successfully debate them. I encourage all of us to treat our differences like a formal debate: civil, well thought out and courteous. Then if we could just get the nations to follow suit. . .


I'm not saying that if we learn how to peacefully debate politics and relgion around the dinner table that we'll achieve world peace. I am saying that if we here in America cannot sit around the dinner table (or over the backyard fence) and debate politics and religion peacefully then the Israel/Palestine issue will remain unsolved along with Christians' ignorance of Islaam (and the Taliban's and Al Qaeda's ignorance of our hearts and their actions against us).

Your tax dollars at work

When Doug was hired by the State Department and we were put on the government's (read - YOUR payroll) I told you that I was taking that very seriously. So here's an update on how (some of) your money is being spent.

Doug is doing very well in his new job. He worked what is called a bridge assignment after he finished his initial training. He worked in the Bureau of Near East Affairs as the Strategic Planning Officer. Near the end of his five months working there, his boss's boss nominated him for a Meritorious Service Award. He won. He worked very hard for good people who recognize the efforts and successes of others. Needless to say his review from his work at that bureau was glowing.

He has now joined me in full time Russian classes though he is in a higher level class. This is interesting because it is the first time in our lives together that we are doing the same thing. We both work quite hard. Next week Doug will be in an emersion week that takes place at an Army b ase of some sort in Maryland. I'm hoping to use the undistracted time to catch up (if that is possible) in my own studies. Although I am working hard I am weak in understanding the spoken word and very slow at forming sentences. I can rattle off grammar rules and am pretty strong in vocabulary but I do need to be able to communicate!

Our housing is paid for while he is in training. It is not extravagant. (Read my December entry entitles "Our Apartment".) We are given a per diem for food that started higher than it is now and has periodically decreased over the months. I am still buying store brands (the ones I can stomach) and don't eat out much. Some of you may also be happy to know that I no longer (okay very rarely) buy stuff like Spagetti O's and Velveeta shells and cheese. I was cooking like a pro in the first few months. I do not have time to do that but I try to make something good for us once a week. Otherwise we survive on peanut butter and oatmeal (not together - Doug has the peanut butter, I have the oatmeal) for breakfast and turkey sandwiches for lunch. Dinner is always a surprise.

I know you don't need a run down of how we spend our money but I do want you to know that we are very conciencious of how we spend our (your) money.

In other news, you may have read or heard the news of Kyrgyzstan's president was ousted - he escaped to neighboring Kazikstan. This makes the general area in central Asia unsettled. There is talk of whether other countries will follow suit. The people of Uzbekistan tried a peaceful protest. The government's response was to send in the militsia with machine guns to shoot them. They then piled the bodies and burned them. This was in 2005. The same leader is still in office. Folks, we need to learn how to discuss religion and politics without anger being our only reaction to differing opinions. We need to do this now.

The doomsday gang must be having a heyday what with all the earthquakes, changes of leadership and volcano eruption - this following the swine flu epidemic or pandemic or whatever is wound up being. They are probably stocking up on pesticide for the locusts.

The power of story

Years ago I started attending the National Storytelling Conferences held in various cities in the U.S. It was life changing. Two other things have impacted my life so intensely - realizing God exists and I can sense that in my life and meeting, loving and being loved by Doug. Pretty dramatic, huh? Well, read on, dear readers -

At the storytelling conferences I heard such a huge variety of stories I was high and excited to learn to tell them. I heard stories that were funny, scary, sad, thought provoking, cautionary, religious, true, impossible and stories I could not categorize. They ranged in length from under a minute to three or so hours long. As I spent that first week in my first storytelling conference, I felt a change happening within me.

Fast forward. It's a few weeks before Easter three or four years ago and Lydia, our priest at St. Anne's Episcopal church, has asked me to deliver the homily one Sunday morning. This was exciting for me because I had a chance to share the power of storytelling with all ages. (People tend to think of stories as being for children.)

So that Sunday morning I stood before our well-read, professional, intelligent congregation and told the story of the Three Little Bears. It was met with several amused, tolerant smiles. When I finished I said the obvious, "I know. You're wondering why I'm telling you the story of the three bears shortly before Easter." I then told them why.

In the story of the three bears, Goldilocks invades their house, helps herself (wrongly) to their food and furniture. When she is caught she runs away. (I'll take a minute to tell you that there are different versions of this story. In one version it is an old woman who enters the bears home. When caught, they grab her and hang her from the church steeple as a warning to others to stay out of other people's homes.) I asked the congregation how they thought Goldilocks felt when she woke up and saw the bears standing around looking at her. "Scared" was their answer. Yes, and why? Because she didn't know the end of the story. She didn't know that she'd jump out the window and run home safe and sound.

I then made my way to my point. "How do you think Christ's diciples felt the day he was executed? How do you think his mother, father and brother felt the day after?" Scared, sad, angry were some of the responses. Yes, and why? Many reasons, of course. But they didn't know the end of the story. They didn't know that Jesus would have his life again not only for a time here on earth but eternally in God'd presence.

Flash back to the first storytelling conference. I found myself looking at everything in my life differently. No exaggeration. Everything. Irritations still upset me but I was able to see them as part of the story of my life. They will pass. Nothing new here - we all know that tomorrow is another day and blah blah maxim, blah cliche. At this time, however, I REALized this. I lived according to the FACT that whatever I was going through (from traffic annoyances to being mugged) would be passed, gone in time. This doesn't mean that I was unaffected. This does not mean that I smiled through it. It does mean that it didn't possess me. (Well, the mugging did, somewhat, that was a hard one.) It means that I knew the page in my story would turn and something else would happen next.

I also realized that I was in a huge part the author of my story and I could make things happen. So, I ask you, what are you going through right now? Financial problems? Illness? Heartbreak? Bad grades? Poor job performance? Try to see this as a chapter in a novel. Yes, it's happening. Yes, it's ugly, or difficult or whatever. Keep turning the pages. Keep moving forward through it looking for the way out and the next chapter. It works and it's powerful.

Do I still get crabby? Yes. Do I still overreact? Yes. This attitude does not fix everything, it makes everything an experience necessary for the story.

I'm ending this more abruptly than I want to but my parents are on their way over and I must study some Russian today, take the self-study take home test and learn about 5,000 words today. So . .

Same rollercoaster - different operator

My class has a new teacher. She is very different from our last one which is both good and not so good.

Good: she will not accept "нет" or "да" as an answer she wants complete sentences first thing in the morning as well as walking out the door at the end of the day. Whether or not you know the word you want to say does not matter.

Also good: we spend part of our day holding (or trying to hold) a conversation with her. At times we need help. Pretty much all the time. Sometimes it's funny because she just feeds us a word at a time either because we got an ending wrong or it is a new word for us. When we get to the end of the sentence she says "Now repeat." Like we are supposed to remember it! This feeding us and our regurgitating it goes on until we can make the sentence unassisted. We are a patient group. She sometimes is. Sometimes she'll take one of our sentences and play "The House the Jack Built" with it. For instance. "I read a good book last night" will become "I read a good, long book last night at 8:00". This will go on untile we are reading a good, long, fiction book last night while laying in bed listening to the crickets chirping and mating. It's like awaiting execution when you realize you are the last in line.

She corrects our tests swiftly and goes over what we missed, she took some sentences from me that were not assigned and not only corrected them but typed them up for me. Very helpful.

Not so good. She seems bewildered that we do not recall every word that has passed our ears and eyes. "We just had that!" she will say referring to one of the words of a two-page dialogue we read earlier. I think she gets frustrated but does not show it. "Please remember." She will say. I used a new verb conjugation this morning. "Now, will you remember?" she asked. "I'll try." I answered honestly. She looked so disappointed. It's really funny. I have to keep a lid on the sass.

She gives us a LOT of homework. (so did our last teacher - coincidence? I think not.) We knock ourselves out doing it and she (so far) has not been too interested in it after assigning it. One day I specifically asked her for priorities in our assignment; what will we do in class Monday? She told us that we would do our narratives. I spent a good deal of the weekend memorizing and practicing delivering my narrative (poor Douglas). It's Wednesday and she still hasn't asked for it. Yesterday, she prioritized our homework 1,2,3 . . . This morning we did #7, 10 and one that wasn't even part of the assignment.

It's surprising that I am keeping a good attitude throughout all this. I figure this is all part of moving forward and building on what we know instead of waiting for everything to be solid. The institute has a fabulous reputation for turning out good speakers of languages. The Russian departmens specifically gets much praise and respect. So I'm trusting it.

I think of when I taught piano. I realize that I used some of these techniques with my students. The good and the not so good. I remember playing a game with students where I would play a note or two (depending on their level) and have them play it back. If they did it correctly I'd add a note or two to that. We'd go on until they couldn't remember. It was fun. (For me anyway.) Sometimes I would show up for a lesson with a piece I wanted the student to learn. "But I didn't practice that!" They'd worry. I told them that I knew that it was a new piece. I assured them that there were no new notes, just the same notes in a different order. I did that because I knew they could do it. I'm wondering if that is the motivation behind the way these classes catapult forward every day.

This last paragraph is purely for sympathy so you may skip it if you can't stomach it. This week we have 91 new vocabulary words to learn and 17 phrases (some of which use words NOT on our vocabulary list). In addition to that, we have lists of words from the reading portion of our day which I just found out they actually expect us to learn!!!! You may be laughing at me but we are talking about apx. 50 words PER DAY. Does anyone out there besides me think that humanly impossible?

Blood and some of my favorite words

I'm on a rant this morning. I tell you this so that if you are not in the mood you can skip this long paragraph. I am distressed at hearing the news of our American and Mexican consulate employees (and the husband of one) shot to death in Mexico supposedly by someone in the drug cartel. Here is what needs to be said. If you are doing any illegal drugs their death is your fault. If you smoke the occasional joint - even if you did not purchase it with your money - if you snort the social snuff of cocaine their blood is on your hands. Shame on you. We all know and agree that these people should not have been killed leaving grieving friends, co-employees and family behind. We need to talk up the fact that if Americans were not so d*&(d addicted to instant pleasure and escape this may have not happened. Part of me feels like I'm probably saying this to people who would never consider illegal drugs. I fight that because I know that drug users are all over the place - driving our children to school (I have a former friend who regularly drove a school bus after a night of snorting cocaine), working in our legislature to pass laws against these things and some of them even sleep next to us. We do not always know who has a drug problem. I want it to be known that even occasional use is a problem even if you are never late for work and never show outward signs of usage, it is a problem because it is illegal and leads to greedy drug wars that kill innocent people. A baby is orphaned because of your habit and another baby will never be born because of it. Shame on you.

Okay, I'm through. If you totally disagree with me, I'd like to hear your side. Please write me. If I sit here stewing in my own opinions I'll never grow.

I want to share a couple of my favorite Russian words. The first is ГУби which sounds like "gubey" as in "kiss my 'gubey'". 'Gubey' means "lips". If I get frustrated with Douglas - not that I ever do living in this 400 or so square foot apartment with the puppy-poop brown walls - I tell him to "kiss my gubey" which he does and everything is alright. Aahh, love. The other favorite word I'll share with you is Дай which sounds like "die" as in dead, gone. It means "give" in its imperative form. Дай! It really puts the urgency in my desire for something (say, chocolate) when I can put my hand out and shout "Die!" Russian can be fun!

I'm learning to love this rollercoaster

My first posting after starting language class was a bit frantic. I had some regret at committing to seven months of this intense study. I felt that I may have gotten myself in for more than I could handle. The next day - THE NEXT DAY - I was excited. I loved it. I was inspired. I was energized. I can do this! A few days later, I was back down again, defeated.

This trend has continued and has somewhat fallen into a predictable pattern. Take this past week, for example. I was uncomfortable heading into class Monday because we had to interview a native Russian speaker. I had not spent too much time practicing the questions because of all the other homework. To save time, our teacher had each of us take turns asking a question which took the pressure off asking 10 questions in a row. It was much more relaxed. I was down; I was up.

I am always nervous on the shuttle at the end of the day because I have just been given a load of homework. I often start it while riding home. I try to keep working until Doug comes home so I can spend a little uninterrupted time with him (which, truth be told, is dinner while we watch a program - oh, well, can't talk with food in our mouths, can we?). I always finish the work in time for class and we review it together for clarification and reinforcement. Also, the answers are in the back of the book - I just keep forgetting that they are there so I can check my own work. My nerves are settled again.

Another panicky time is just before lunch. Again, we are given a load of work to accomplish during our two hour "break" (which, we have pointed out to our teacher, ceases to be a break once we are assigned two hours of work; this does not matter to her). My stomach is growling and I have priorities. I also have responsibilities and the two fight each other. I wind up eating while I work and often finish with time to spare.

The peak of panic is Wednesday/Thursday. This is when we are assigned to memorize the dialogue of the week and deliver a narrative on a given topic to the class. Last week I had to describe the airport in detail. This was not easy - not because I had to do it in Russian but because I don't pay too much attention at the airport. I read signs and I follow them. Or I follow my nose to Cinnabon, my travel treat.

Friday was the day all this had to be done. The dialoge was easy, I did fine. My narrative was actually quite good. Whew! I had a (rare, lately) glass of wine when I got home Friday night. I was high (not on the wine). I boasted to Douglas. I called my mother and told her. By Saturday, I remembered the take home test. Yikes! So back down I went.

I'm surprised I don't have motion sickness all week long.

I am learning to appreciate and be okay with the 'downs' of my weeks. Sometimes my reaction to them is to forget Russian and read or watch a movie; needed time off. Sometimes my reaction is to study more, breathe and try to relax. I never neglect exercise and I'm keeping up on praying because, as I said in the past, I believe this is a package and, in keeping it complete, I will succeed.

When I'm riding on the highs, I have, outwardly, the same reactions. I'll take some time to relax since I'm feeling good about things or I'll study to keep the highs coming or to get ahead.

If I ever return to teaching piano, I'll be such a better teacher because of my being a full time student now. I will better recognize the panic in my students and be able to ease it. I will teach them to remember the highs when they are low to know that they will rise above this challenge. I will teach them to remember the lows when they are high so they aren't blindsided by them.

I like the mood of our classroom. Everything we do is for progress, not a grade, not to be judged (not yet, anyway, though judgement day IS coming, I'm told). When we want to stop and better understand something, we take only a little time for it. "We will keep moving forward as a class." Sophia tells us. That brought on another panic in me a few weeks ago. Now, I see the wisdom of continually moving forward even when I may not FEEL completely ready. We never leave anything completely behind, there is review along with new material. There is freshness in new material. Knowing we are moving forward regardless is oddly comforting. Today I took the take home test and I was lost in a great deal of it, I'm sure I did poorly. But instead of soaking myself in that feeling of failure, I'm moving on to this week's new chapter assignment and practicing the interview questions. This I know I can do well. I'll be high again pretty soon. (No wine.) If these highs and lows get to be too much I can always duck my head and scream.

What I'm about to write is gross. So if you gross out easily consider this the end and skip the last paragraph.

I had a drama teacher who gave us some good (though gross) advice once. He gave it to us after a particularly bad rehearsal. People were forgetting lines and blocking and didn't know what to do. He told us, "If you have a brain fart don't stand there and smell it - keep going, move ahead." He's right.

Perspective

One of my favorite things to explore as a reader and a writer is perspective. I love when known tales are retold from another viewpoint (like in Wicked or The Mists of Avalon). It can bring about sympathy and understanding where bitterness and anger once ruled. Or it can bring to light shock and disgust where apathy and acceptance once were content. This is, I believe, one of the many reasons we do not each live on our own little island. This is why we must live amongst each other - the good, the bad and the please, God, no; tell me you didn't make that.

I was recently given a perspective of the earth that I find intriguing. This is scientific and is being written by a (former) piano teacher so procede with caution, a sense of humor and give it a chaser of a conversation with someone who knows what they are talking about. Okay.

I was walking today and watching the tall, bare trees being blown against each other in the wind. I love the clickin sound that makes. I thought of how spiky and sharp they make the earth. I thought of how spiny and ridged the mountains make it. Then I realized that (according to what I heard) that if some enormous being were to hold the earth in it's hand like a marble, the earth would feel as smooth as a marble does in our hand. (Think Horton Hears a Who.)

Some of you may remember that I broke a finger several years ago and had it in a splint for a month or more. When I finally took the spint off I was amazed at how much I could feel with that fingertip. I could touch my hair and count individual strands by feel. I wondered at how textured paper was. Disappointingly, this lasted only about a day.

Did overuse numb my senses or was I so used to the feelings that I didn't notice them? I really tried hard for days after that to feel the pores of my skin that I had felt for the first time that day, but I could not.

We may not be able to physically feel everything; we may not be able to emotionally feel everything. Maybe that's another reason why we aren't here alone. What makes me laugh makes you shudder so, if we don't reject each other for our differing reactions, we can experience something from multiple perspectives. If I don't get too caught up in my own way, I can see one situation turn into a spiderweb of stories full of characters bringing in their own life experience to what may be mundane or terrifying to me.

I'm not in charge for good reasons. I have a list, if you ever want to see it. But one of the reasons is that my ideas are so simplistic they would be laughed at rather than tried. Many disputes happen over misunderstandings (duh, I know). It stands to reason that probably some wars have misunderstandings at their roots. If we do not practice (there's that word again) gaining perspective as individuals, how can we expect the same of a nation? Here's my Oprah show idea that I've never sent her: If adults had pen pals (text pals? e-pals?) from countries between which relations are tense I believe most misconceptions would be brought to light and possibly eliminated thus bringing about a better chance at peace.

I'd better quit, I'm starting to sound like Miss America. Mrs. America. This is what happens when I have a half day off. Any thoughts?

Snowmageddon/Snowpocalypse - A Rose By Any Other Name . . .

That is how our circumstance is being referred to by local columnist Petula Dvorak. We aren't in Minnesota anymore. As I understand it, six inches of snow cripples this area. Last week we got over 20 inches of snow and, as I write, we are getting another 10-15 inches. I was in the gym tonight studying on the treadmill when part of the ceiling fell in.

It's going to be a long week.


So how long do you think two people can share 500 square feet of living space before playing hide-and-go-seek sounds like a great challenging pastime? (I know - I could hide in the oven! It's nice and warm and he'll never find me!) How many days in a row can one spend looking out the window at the dog poop station without turning into a - GASP, CHOKE - cat person? How much longer before I "accidentally" confuse the gin with the bottled water? I'll let you know.


I'm trying to be creative. I practiced Irish Jigs on my recorder today. Poor Douglas. I will NOT let the closure of the gym get in the way of maintaining all the progress I have made. So tonight I exercised during a program we were watching. Doug held up his hand to block the view of my lunging and flapping my arms throughout the show. Poor Douglas. We have some pistachios left over from our gathering the other night. We could throw the shells on the kitchen floor (wood) and host Country Western night at the Rose's. Yee-haw!

I remember learning about the fish at the bottom of the ocean in science class. Some of them glow since there is no light down there - they compensate. Some have no eyes since there is nothing much to see. They supposedly lost them through evolution. Maybe it's kind of like long term atrophy, I don't know. Here's my concern. How long will it take before Doug and I start losing things that we still consider important like the ability to walk more than 12 steps in a row? When I get out of here, will I still be able to interact with others? Will I awaken in the morning with my legs sealed together like the Little Mermaid in reverse? If I ever get out of here, will my lungs reject the fresh air? Or will they remember what breathing was really like? I haven't mentioned the hallucinations have I? The carbon dioxide build up in here is THICK let me tell you. I lay in bed wide awake as Douglas slept and I swear it was snowing on him. If I ever leave these walls again, will I be able to stand the excitement? Right now taking out the trash means drawing straws - the winner gets to go to the trash room! Or will I continue living life in thought only; vicariously, so to speak, via myself.

I have taken a couple of walks through the cemetery in the thick of the blizzard. It was eerie. Friday night I walked over fresh, smooth, blowing snow. As I rounded a loop with in the cemetary, I noticed footprints in front of me. I thought nothing of it then stopped. I looked behind me. Nothing. Where had the come from? I followed them. The led to a tiny structure of some sort and circled directionless then continued on the road. I continued to follow them until the disappeared. No kidding. They just vanished. I don't mean the snow blew them away 'vanished'. They were there, deep, and then they were not. Eerie. Today I walked and more snow had fallen and drifted over the headstones making Whoville-like shapes all around. Once in a while just a name would be peeking out from the pile: "Hummer" "Small" "Whistler". The ground claims the headstones over the decades; the snow can claims them overnight.

Tube-o-dough

I'm late with this posting because of the incredible amount of studying I've had to do to keep up in my Russian classes. Forgive me.

I have been experiencing something that has my attention. We all know what it is like to crave something (like chocolate - I, personally, know THAT one well). For about two weeks I have been fixated on painting and drawing. Let me say, for those of you who have never seen me draw or paint (and I don't mean the rooms in our house) that I have no talent in those areas. None. So why this urge to paint and draw I have been wondering. It's been such a strong pre-occupation that I mentioned it to Doug. Finally, the other morning, it occurred to me that, since the turn of the year I have done nothing buy study Russian. I have done absolutely nothing creative. My piano has been in storage and I have no access to one. I have done painfully little writing except this blog which is somewhat creative but quite factual and more like a report sometimes. I sing around the apartment a little (not much) but I guess that's not enough. I'm guessing that the artistic side of me is getting rather anxious and is begging for an outlet. I may need to pick up a pencil and sit and sketch (when no one is looking, of course).

We are supposedly in the middle of the STORM OF THE CENTURY now. People (including our own government) are going CRAZY. School was cancelled before the first flake fell (which was microscopic and not until about 10:15 this morning. By the time the kids could have had a full day of school about 1/2 inch of snow had beseiged the city. Good thing they were home watching TV. I had to go grocery shopping yesterday because we had been out of bread for a day and we are trying to be conservative and pack our own lunches. I finished early and walked to the store where there were no carts available since the entire city was there in a panic. Shelves were being literally emptied. I had to buy crappy bread. I decided that if this was indeed going to happen (the STORM OF THE CENTURY) that I was going to enjoy myself while holed up. So I bought what I lovingly refer to as chop-chop cookies (rolled, plastic-wrapped cookie dough - half of which MUST be consumed raw) and whack-'em rolls (cardboard tubes of dough that you smack on the edge of the counter to open - scary). When I showed Doug it all looked pretty disgusting even though I was (am) thorougly looking forward to indulging in it. I said something like "We're going to be eating tubular food this week like the astronauts. Tube-o-dough." Maybe it was funnier when I first said it. I don't know.

Well I must quit and study. Tonight I learn the days of the week and the months of the year. I am reviewing to take my first take-home quiz. I have learned to count (slowly) and tell time and cost. I have learned three cases in Russian (Nominative, Prepositional (or Locative) and Accusative). I can write them pretty well since I have time to work and figure. They haven't all worked their way comfortably into my speech. This week we learn past and future tenses. Anyone who wants to hear some Russian can call me. I would be good for me to be put on the spot to speak. Apparently I'll not be going anywhere anytime soon. STORM OF THE CENTURY, you know. . .

Limitations and Freedoms

I had a piano/composition teacher in Phoenix who told me one lesson that, "Through our greatest limitations can be found our greatest freedoms." That seemed incredibly oxymoronic to me. He told me this just before assigning a 12-tone table and composition to me. I'll briefly explain 12-tone to those who are not familiar with it. Within one octave of our scale there are 12 tones: C, C#, D, D#, E, F ,F#, G, G#, A, A# and B. To compose in 12-tone you must use all 12 tones before returning to a tone. The result is an atonal sound. The act of composing was not completely new to me but, in my past, I had only occasionally been inspired to write or found a melody resounding in my head which I would transcribe. Being assigned a composition meant that that week I must write something. Pressure. He greatly calmed me by telling me how much freedom I had with all the 12-tone rules. Imagine, he said, my telling you to use these 88 keys and write a song. That would be overwhelming. But when I tell you that you must follow these rules that gives you a starting pointas well as guidance as you compose. You cannot just choose any note to write next, you are limited. But while total freedom can be exhilerating, it can also be stifling. I have often sat at the piano to write or improvise and been so overwhelmed with the 88 keys that I just sit there picking around. But when I choose a scale to base my piece on then the music comes more fluidly.

I share this because my parents and Doug's parents are going through typical old age sufferings these days. It's difficult to know what they are going through. It's difficult to not be with them and, therefore, be more supportive. For Christmas, Doug and I gave his parents colored clay. Why? Because, while his father's eyes and ears are failing him, his mind and hands are sharp and well functioning. The idea was to focus on what you can do and broaden those horizons. And have some fun.

My mother has painful arthritis and moving around is difficult and dangerous sometimes. She knits and crochets which is good. I've been encouraging her to write more. I should encourage Gordon (Doug's dad) to share memories in the oral tradition into a digital recorder. There is a lot of life in these people that we don't know about.

So my question to you, dear readers, is what are your limitations? Can you find freedom in them?

Is one of your limitations financial? Those of you who have attended any of the piano gatherings know what fun can be had for very little money. For the mere cost of showing up and maybe bringing some food to share we have entertained each other for hours. I like that better than turning to strangers on the television.

Is one of your limitations your job? Or do you feel limited because you are still in school? Can you take your job new directions? Can you rise to the next level? Can you get something going on the side like special studies or an art practice?

To my teen readers, do you feel limited by living at home? The freedoms you have include the fact that you can save your money or spend it as you like and you have relatively few responsibilities - you don't have to provide for yourself, for instance.

Without realizing it, I took advantage of my limitations of moving to Falls Church. My limitations included my being among strangers, not knowing my way around and not working while awaiting Doug's first paycheck which took about 30 days. I wasn't stuck in the apartment but my great dislike of driving was a limitation that did keep me here alot. As many of you know, I spent alot of time caring for myself and writing both of which I only did sporadically in St. Paul. I brought only three or four books with me so I actually finished . . . er . . . no I didn't. I went to the library and distracted myself with more books. Well it was a well intended act on my part.

To the extreme, how many people have at in prisons and changed the world? The Apostle Paul, Nelson Mandela, Thoreau and one of my favorite writers, O'Henry.

I wonder what will come out of Haiti as we sit here and whine that we don't have enough money to buy this or go there. I wonder who will be able to arise from that distress and make a difference in the world while we sit here and complain about our job or our teacher. I mentioned in an earlier post that I look at disasters like the tsunami that hit Indonesia and realize how strong and resilient and capable we humans are. We all must remember we are just as strong and resilient and capable in our own homes as we are facing dramatic situations like those we, thank God, only read about.

So far so . . .

Week two of Russian has passed. I have noticed something that may shock some of you. My recall has been excellent. Normally, you know, I have no functioning memory. I spend probably two or three hours studying between classes during the week. I always review just before bed and always awaken with a few new vocabulary words that have stuck. But what I really think is going on here is the whole body/mind/spirit package has been prepped and is, therefore, functioning well. It certainly helps that I can focus on Russian with few distractions. But I had plenty of time to focus on teaching piano yet I still would forget music that I promised students. That happened with great regularity. I have had a poor memory for as long as I remember. Ha-ha-ha! I'm soooo funny. But seriously folks, I have always had a poor memory since I was a kid; this has nothing to do with age. So the fact that I am doing as well as I am in Russian is a pleasant surprise.



This makes me think. Often times in lessons when a student would have a problem with a dynamic marking, say, I would get them up to juggle. When they sat back down they were able to better play the dynamics. Sometimes I think we try to fix the problem by focusing too much on the problem itself. Sometimes caring for one thing leads to better functioning of something seemingly unrelated.

I wrote those first two paragraphs Monday. Today (Tuesday) I had the most difficult time yet in class. We began learning adjectival endings -all 99 or so of them. Okay, there are only 10 or so. But they're confusing. And I have to learn how to count and tell time and make purchases and give change - in RUSSIAN. Doug had me marching around the living room tonight chanting the numbers 1-10 in Russian in rhythm. I love my Douglas.


Once a week (Thursday afternoons) I attend Area Studies. This is usually a lecture by someone well studied in a topic related to Russia or a central Asian country. Last week I could barely stay awake - I practiced my penmanship. This week we met at the Uzbekistan embassy. They bought this building from the Canadians years ago. It's got some quite striking wood carvings throughout it - mythological characters around a fireplace, vines and flowers and such around a door. It also has a good representation of Uzbeki artwork as well as a small museum. Our hosts were most gracious answering any questions we had and offering us gifts of books.

Now, I'm going to do something that I rarely do. If you are considering donating money to aid the Haitian relief efforts, I have a suggestion. That State Departmens hires many locals to work at the Consulates and Embassies. These people are indispensable, often very long-term dedicated employees who, depending on their government and society, often are at risk for retaliation for working with us. The State Department has a fund that is used to aid these people when the need arises. It has been exhausted. I am very skeptical when it comes to giving money. Doug and I are going to give to this fund. If you want to donate, make a check out to the U.S. Department of State, designation for the FSN (Foreign Service National) Relief Fund. Send your check to me at 505 Roosevelt #B119 Falls Church VA 22044. Doug will take your checks into the office. Thank you.

Wow

Some would call it a coincidence. Others would call it positive energy, good mojo or zen. Some (me, in this case) would call it God at work. I asked for your prayers last week because I was a bit freaked out from my first day at the Foreign Service Institute. I came home completely overwhelmed. The next day - the first real day of class - was long, full of hard work and I came home high and exhilerated. I worked in my Russian books for a couple of hours after I got home because I was so excited. That continued the rest of the week. Let's hope it can last for seven months.

I was easily able to fall into a nice routine last week. I got up as I alway shortly before Doug leaves, ate breakfast (the most important meal of the day) then went to the gym right away. I set the treadmill for an hour during which I pray and review vocabulary and dialogues so it's fresh in my head for the day. By the way, I'm using one of the suggestions I gave my students. I study briefly just before bed so I can sleep on the new material. Some new words always survive the night.

I read a fascinating article today about difficult languages (difficult from an English speaker's perspective). If is online at Economist.com: http://www.economist.com/world/international/PrinterFriendly.cfm?story_id=15108609

It's not long, read it. Here is a sample of what you'll see:

When we speak, air leaves our mouth (duh). There are languages that have consonant sounds in which you inhale.

Our words carry the same meaning whether we pitch our voice high or low. In Mandarin Chinese there are four tonal levels; 6 in Cantonese; 7 or 8 in Min.

Some African languages have clicks made similar to the way we "tsk" to get a horse to go. But it sounds more like the loud, hollow sound you make when you click your tongue. (That last comment was mine because I have heard it in some music I have.)

Here's a word for you, it's a Turkish word: Cekoslovakyalilastiramadiklarimizdanmissiniz. It means, "Were you one of those people whom we could not make into a Czechoslovakian?" One word means all that!

It has been proposed that your thoughts are influenced by your language. there is an aboriginal people in Australia who have no word for left or right. They are very specific, "Your southeast shoe is untied." Ask any of us to point east at any given time and we'd probably spin around a few times, orient our selves and either guess or figure it out. These people always know the directions accurately. Always. It's in them from their language.

I'm really glad I'm learning Russian. Last week I learned a tongue twister in Russian. Tomorrow I get to tell my first story in Russian. It won't be very good. I only know three verbs.

I Don’t Know About This . . .

Day one of language training and I am drained, spent, devoid of any desire to think about anything. Except you, my dear readers, except you. Today was not difficult at all. I had to be at the Foreign Service Institute at 9:00 A.M. - not too early. There is a shuttle service from our apartment to the Institute so I didn’t have to drive. Good, good. I was on the student list so I got my student security badge with no problems. I even (eventually) found my way around.

All language students met together for a short orientation. We were then dismissed language by language to meet the department heads. From there we were divided into classes and introduced to our instructors. I was put in the later starting class:

10:40-12:30 classroom, speaking
12:30-2:30 lunch and one hour lab work
2:40-3:30 classroom, speaking
3:40-5:30 classroom, reading, writing

I am in a class of four. Our teacher showed us briefly around the building and we got library cards and non-classified system access codes. We then had about two hours break before we were tested. We were given the Meyers/Briggs test along with three other ‘How Do You Learn’ tests. I was the last one to finish. This was interesting because in my past I can remember taking tests and feeling very anxious when people started turning in their papers when I was barely half way through. Today, it absolutely didn’t matter to me. I’m glad I was so relaxed about it.

The day ended at 3:30. A short day. Why was I so (and I quote) “drained, spent, devoid of any desire to think about anything”? I think I have myself worked up into a nervous knot about learning Russian so intensely. I am actually quite calm now that I’m writing to you, dear Readers. Thank you.

I am worried that I won’t be able to sit still and concentrate long enough. But I know that these teachers are the best and they tailor the classes as best they can to how we learn. I’m worried that my memory is not strong enough. I, however, am in a fortunate position to be living with a Russian speaker. I can go home in the evenings and practice, even though it means he’ll correct me. I’m worried that I’ll be the slowest learner. I’m used to this. I was the slowest swimmer in all the YMCA trainings I attended. I was the lowest level player in the piano pedagogy classes I took. I’m really used to it. I guess I’m worried I’ll be too slow and hold the class back. I spoke with a man in language training who told me that he was quite slow. They wound up pulling him out of the class and giving him one-on-one tutoring. I’m worried that when I hear the Russian words I’ve ‘learned’ that they’ll come flying out of someone’s mouth so fast that I won’t understand them. This morning the head of the department stood at the door and as I walked in said good morning in Russian. It took me a few steps (too late to say it back to him) but I got it!

This is like a cheap psychotherapy session! Cheap for me. It’s at my reader’s expense, I’m sorry to say.

I’ll finish with please – oh, please – pray for me. Send me encouraging words. I’d love to know from you when you last challenged yourself whether intellectually, physically or otherwise. How did you get through it?