Odi et amo

"I hate and love. You question "How?" I lack an answer . . .

- Catullus

We all have our love/hate relationships, and as my dearest friends know, mine is with television. A close second is any carbonated beverage. Yes, I confess, I have been watching a lot of television lately, and not witty British sitcoms or gourmet cooking shows, but ridiculous, almost asinine programs which involve unrealistic surgical procedures. Every week I rise from the sofa cursing myself for yet again falling into the clutches of these bad actors, and even worse writers, but then I find myself reverting to sunken body and brain status the next week. I am always disappointed and I am always ashamed of myself.

For awhile I actually plunged into the addiction, telling myself that I was simply overwrought and I deserved a break from everything, but if it was truly a break, wouldn't I return from my viewing retreat refreshed, invigorated, not more overwrought?

What we love about television is that we are able to escape from the world completely, but more, we like to be voyeurs, somehow getting a taste of the fast-paced and sexy life without bearing the consequences of it ourselves. At least, this is what I seem to love about television. But, after awhile, it loses its glamour, because I realize I am being deceived. This kind of drama cannot possibly happen to the same group of people in the same hospital, neighborhood, etc. But, of late, I have realized the biggest deception is how easily these characters get over their drama - a death, a divorce, loss of a friend or lover. Soon, everyone is laughing again as if tragedy did not enter their lives only a few weeks ago.

Laughter - it is humanity's gift - Don't take life so seriously - lighten up - it's not that big of a deal. As an over sensitive, over-the-top dramatic romantic, I have always taken offense at this mantra, but now, I think perhaps it's just a case of being too emotionally engaged in everything I confront, which makes the world's influence a little more dangerous for me in particular. Of course I'm not going to start a "Kill your T.V.!" campaign, but I am going to try not to watch any more sitcoms.

Day One: I will not watch ABC tonight. I will sing to myself - Be braaaaave, Piglet! I will ignore the bottle of Crush luring me to the ice box with its tantalizing orange glow . . .

Okay, Katya, one thing at a time.

Oversize Load

On a recent trip to California, I discovered what real traffic is. I had forgotten one can sit for forty-five minutes on a bridge, and not due to an accident, but simply from an overabundance of cars. Because I was in no particular hurry, I scanned the people in the cars surrounding me - they drank coffee, ate muffins, applied mascara, talked on cell-phones, even read the paper. No one looked all that distressed. I exhaled - Ahhh, I'm home.

Here, I have found, traffic is getting stuck behind a slow-moving vehicle - a horse trailer, a tractor or front-loader, or just a lost car from Kansas or Nebraska driving twenty miles under the speed limit. Because most of the highways here are two-lane with bad visibility, it can be the most aggravating thing in the world, much more than city traffic, because in this case it is one car that is delaying you with no sign of an intention to pull over. The feeling is more akin to something being against you than - Akkkkh! Traffic.

Today my traffic happened to be a house. Yes, a house - a rather big white house with green shutters seated on the back of a truck. Two trucks preceded and followed it - lights blinking, orange flags waving, and the larger than life yellow sign - as if it wasn't already obvious enough - OVERSIZE LOAD.

I sat back and turned up the radio, residing myself to the fact that I would be even later to the appointment I was already running late for. I watched the house, somehow balancing itself on that little panel of truck. The wind was heavy that day, and as much as houses are able, it swayed with the elements. It became almost a performance - with the red lights, orange flags, the yellow sign, all seeming to accompany the somber rocking of this one white house.

I have been angry lately, and for no reason that I can think of other than I'm a little overtired. I'm short-fused - tiny things set me off - and I feel that, at times, my emotions are out of my control. No one has suffered more from my outbursts than my husband, but probably strangers in society as well, as I have not any smiles or kind words to offer of late.

It was, in that moment, behind that house, that I realized my anger was the oversize load. That I was the truck, carrying a burden too cumbersome for me. Christ's yoke is light, but sin is heavy, and affects those around you. There are little lights flashing, flags waving, signs reading - Ostorozhno! Be aware! We literally teeter back and forth, back and forth, until we completely tumble over. Yet we continue to sin, preferring our own load to that of Christ's. After all, what would we do without our anger, pride, envy, greed? We would be naked, at a complete loss.

I decided then that I would try not to be so angry, as I really have nothing to be angry about. Perhaps anger isn't even the right word, but an inability to be thankful to God for everything that I have. I'm too busy looking for that which I do not have, and this search has become very, very burdensome.

So today I say - thank you - for my family, for my friends, for my health, for my Church, but most of all, thank you for the ability to see, for a moment, into my own soul.

Obviously I failed BIO 101

Last night I was feeling rather persnickety, probably as a result of being in the house all day without any human contact other than young children, so I took it upon myself to go visit Nightingale as she finished up with her milking. She was joyfully taken aback, as my visits to the barn are rare.

"Well, hello!" She said, all smiles.

Though Nightingale would adamantly disagree, I find she is the most beautiful when she is out in the barn - boots covered in mud and manure, iodine stained jeans, and hair swept messily into a ponytail. I imagine it is because she radiates a certain calmness - she is fully in the moment, not thinking of anything else except taking care of her Holsteins.

I presented flower-shaped chocolates, wrapped in shiny green foil.

"Oh, yum! But you have to have one too." Nightingale is the most delightful to give treats to, because she enjoys them so much, whether it be homemade enchiladas, eclairs or beef lo mein.

We must have been a sight, standing in the barn between the two rows of cows, nibbling on our chocolates. I always am somehow dressed inappropriately for my visits - that night it was a black short coat with fur collar and chandelier paper mache earrings. When am I going to finally admit to the fact that I no longer live in New York?

"So, how are you today?" she asked.

"I'm feeling persnickety."

"Any particular reason?"

"I don't know." And then we talked about the possible reason for my persnicketiness.

At one point I heard a great rush of water, and I thought some sort of pipe line had broken, but it turned out to be merely a cow dispelling fluid.

"My goodness - did he just go to the bathroom?" I asked.

"Yes, she just did," she laughed out.

Yes, of course, when was the last time someone was able to milk a male Holstein? Obviously, I need some reeducation on the facts of life, but when I left that night, I was no longer persnickety. In fact, I was quite exuberant. I saw Nightingale, and I was able to laugh at myself.

The First Snow

It was a lovely Sunday. We had our first snow, and not the kind with 60mph winds and the rebirth of the Abominable Snow Monster, but a light blanket of soft, white snow. The autumn leaves were still on the line of silver maples across the way, so that it seemed winter had arrived and yet had not yet gained entrance.

Nightingale commented laughingly - "Hopefully all the snow will melt tomorrow, and the ground can soak up all that niiiiice moisture." She was smiling, but I also know she was serious. The snow is an aesthetic thing to me, but for her, and most of the people out here, it is life. To not have enough moisture means that the ground will not necessarily yield a good crop, or a crop at all, which means thousands of dollars lost, because they have nothing to sell, or they have to buy feed for their animals. Never before have I understood so clearly the petition during the Great Litany - "For seasonal weather, for abundance of the fruits of the earth, and for peaceful times, let us pray to the Lord. Lord, have mercy!"

I really do not know much about the farming life, and I have made little effort to know more, but I do know this - It is both a hard life, and a rich life, and it is one that takes much faith, because working really hard does not necessarily mean gain. Ultimately you must depend on the earth, and on God to send rain and snow, for your animals to be kept from sickness and death, so that every time moisture comes, you find yourself saying - Glory be to God for all things! But you must also, somehow, when it does not rain, still say - Glory be to God for all things!

I find I spend a lot of time looking up at the sky here, much more than I have ever done in my life, both because out here it seems limitless, but also because it is the promise of what is to come - will it bring hail, snow, rain, heat? And every time I ask this question I think of God, that everything we have comes from Him, and it reminds me to be faithful.

Jean-Luc not quite Laduree, but close

Jean-Luc did arrive safely, which I'm sure will be a great comfort to my readership. The FedEx employee was a little taken aback, I think, at my overzealous gallop to her truck, but when I explained it was a package of French macaroons, she understood my eagerness.

Of course, I did have to exhibit a little self-control, as Sasha's already big, brown eyes, upon seeing the box, widened still more, and his cute, petite voice asked - what's that?

-Special Mommy cookies.

-May I have a cookie, please?

-No-o-on! C'est le mien! (Actual tears began to form) - Okay, you may have one and I will have one. (And we indulged - he had a chocolate-hazelnut, I, a pistachio. It was lovely.)

After sampling all six flavors, I realized that the genius of the macaroon is its balance of flavors and textures. A candy, meringue-like top, then soft, chiffon cake, and in the middle, flavored almond paste. Almond paste - the ingredient that intrigues every time.

They were delicious, divine, but what I missed was a certain amount of complexity, which I tasted with Laduree macaroon - noticeably absent was a rosewater aftertaste.

I think I can accept Jean-Luc, as he has traveled so far, and I don't think it is the most practical for me to fly to Paris once a week, as it is just a cookie - but a marvelous cookie at that.

The Traveling Macaroon

At times I know I am a chronic procrastinator. At other times I wonder if I have taken procrastination to a whole new level.

My everyday life consists of the same, monotonous tasks, which never, ever reach completion. Sometimes, though, a rare, wonderous moment occurs - a spotless laundry table (Olivia, my comrade!), a sparkling kitchen, a bedroom chair sans shoes, hairdryer and clothes, but these moments, as I said, are rare, so I live for the little firework celebrations I create for myself. Mostly, I am ashamed to say, I find these on the Internet - like checking friends' blogsites several times a day, or, going to Amazon.com and looking at $3,000 espresso machines - I mean, how good of a cappuccino can you get?

My most recent procrastinatory indulgence was the search for the Laduree macaroon. Last year, I was blessed to be able to vacation in Paris, and it was while there that I discovered these jam-filled, meringue-like pastry Xanadus. I brought several boxes home, consumed all of them in a few days, oblivious to the fact that I could order them from a gourmet shop in New York.

My discovery of L'Epicerie.com could be my ultimate downfall, but, right now, I am pleased to report that my very own box of macaroons is on its way. I probably should give this box a name, considering the amount of time and emotion I have put into acquiring it - Jean-Luc Pierre Francois de Guisse seems fitting, I think. (Perhaps this is the right place to mention that my shipping cost for this long-sought Jean-Luc is almost as much as the illustrious Jean-Luc himself.)

As if acquiring the macaroon wasn't enough, I have actually been stalking it by regularly checking fedex.com. Jean-Luc Pierre Francois de Guisse was picked up in Brooklyn at 5:45pm on Tuesday, and left Brooklyn at 10:06pm, where he traveled to Newark, NJ for a short stay, and then departed Newark at 11:03pm. Wednesday and Thursday his wherabouts are unknown, but I have discovered that this morning at 7:04am he arrived at the FedEx facility in Nebraska only 45 minutes away, and at 7:08am, he boarded a FedEx vehicle for delivery, meaning he should be arriving sometime today.

I have done nothing since I received this rapturous news, but, with palpitating heart, pressed my nose to the living room window like a captain's wife looking out at the sea from her widow's walk. It is only hours until I will be united with my Jean-Luc!

I would like to think that, as Proust forever transformed the madeline by glorifying it in his Remembrance of Things Past, perhaps I will transform forever the macaroon.

Or, perhaps, more likely than not, I'm just crazy.

The Great Line

"The terrible thing, the almost impossible thing, is to hand over your whole self - all your wishes and precautions - to Christ. But it is far easier than what we are all trying to do instead. For what we are trying to do is to remain what we call "ourselves," to keep personal happiness as our great aim in life, and yet at the same time be "good."

-from Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis

Orthodoxy is to follow the middle way, always balancing yourself between one extreme and the next. Even in Orthodoxy it is easy to forget about Christ, when you try to over-theologize, or, in my case, justify my actions to make myself believe I have not sinned when my heart knows I have sinned.

Sunday I attended a Czechoslovakian version of Oktoberfest, which is the main fundraiser for the Church I attend. The weather had turned suddenly cold, so that I had to wrap myself in a heavy jacket, and run from one heated building to the next as frostbitten easterly winds twirled over my ears and face. I ate pierogi and kolbasi, halushki and halupki, which is the Slovak way of saying potatoes, cabbage and meat, prepared in various ways. These warm Slavic foods felt good in my mouth as I listened to the wind outside and watched shivering, red faced men and women scatter in, slamming the doors loudly behind them. I danced the polka and waltz to the haunting, melodic accordion. I had two shots of a Slavic whiskey called kolitsa, and I felt really happy. I laughed a lot. My children were with my husband and I felt a heightened sense of freedom, of being able to do anything in the world.

I would not consider any of these actions sinful in themselves. To enjoy life, to find joy in the earthy blessings that God has bestowed - this is holy - but looking back at a picture of myself, of a certain moment when I leaned over the bar and sipped from a shot glass I saw my soul. I was extremely aware of my ability to appear sophisticated, witty and sexy, and I took much pleasure in drawing a small audience to myself. Now I realize,that during this time, I did not think about God once. I did not consider those around me and how my behavior affected them. I only considered myself. If Christ had come in all his glory, in that moment, I would not have recognized Him, and this realization fills me with extreme shame and sorrow. I understand how very attached I am to this world. How I want so much to be accepted by it, that, more often than not, I am serving the world and not Christ.

I think about the saints, those great men and women who gave up everything to serve Christ. They were not of this world, even while living in this world. I know this is also what is required of me if I am to enter into the Kingdom. At one point I must cross that great line between knowing what I am supposed to do and actually doing it.

What Would Be Would Be

There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made. I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man's jurisdiction. I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of heaven, all there was of it. Between the earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: here, I felt, what would be would be. - from Cather's My Antonia

What would be would be. It's a difficult concept - to accept where we are right now. I'm approaching my fourth year on the high plains of rural America, and perhaps I have only now begun to understand that God has a purpose for me here. I do feel erased, blotted out, as I sit at my window looking out at the great expanse of golden colored grass rolling away from me like the sea. I have not heard a sound in two hours. But this is what I need, for my ego and all its presumptions to be blotted out so that I can come to love and serve God. At this moment I am content. I know I am where God wants me to be and I understand what will be will be.