The Tale of the Teal Peep-Toe Part Deux

I'm sure my dear friend in Portland will be happy to know that I made the decision to return the stunning-to-look-at shoes. Because they were so stunning to look at I put them on my desk so that I could have some company while I worked on the computer.

My husband, who usually doesn't notice my shoes all that much, unless they are really outlandish, like my Holstein print kitten heels that I actually wore to church on Christmas for Nightingale, looked at these shoes and exclaimed.

-"What on earth are those?"

-"Shoes . . . (I thought about explaining that they were made in Italy and came with their own dust bag, but decided against it, as he immediately commented on the color).

-"They're ocean blue. They look like doll shoes. What would you wear those with and, the more important question is, why would you wear them?"

-"Black. They go with black." I tried them on. He put his hand over his eyes and said.

-"Honey - those are not you. And they look too small. Your toes are all squished. Maybe for Madonna, but not you. Stick with your pointy black elf shoes." (Is it good or bad that my husband thinks I dress like an elf?)

Whose opinion could matter more - even Olivia's elongated gasp of envy and the way she says "Oh, those are super cute" and not in that Southern California way that it is so atrocious, but in a distinct Olivia, I work for Barneys New York as a personal stylist way could convince me otherwise.

Fate has its hand in everything. And this was as clear as it could be. My stunning ocean-blues had to go back to New York (actually New Jersey) from whence they came.

I remarked to Maria last night on the phone that I do not participate in pop culture. I think all this agonizing over a pair of "in the moment" shoes shows that I indeed do participate in pop culture. (But I still have no intention of reading Harry Potter)

So, I'll have to think of what to wear to Anna's party now that these are no longer an option. Maybe my signature elf shoes. It is Christmas, after all.

I've learned my lesson . . . perhaps

So, I bought a pair of blue satin, open-toed party shoes with a 100mm heel because I really needed them and have so many cocktail dresses with which to pair them and because I go to so many cocktail parties I thought it was best to add them to my otherwise drab and uniform shoe collection (collection being the name because I don't actually wear any of the shoes I buy, they just look elegant on my shelf). They were also on sale - reduced from $745 down to $109 - now that's a steal, even if I don't need them and never wear them. And I'm sure they're reduced so extremely because everyone was so excited to buy them and not return them that they decided to put them on sale for the common man who, perchance, had a sudden black tie event to attend . . .

Well, as I was trying them on, trying to convince myself that they really went with a few of my outfits that I'm going to wear to this imaginary cocktail party, even though they really went with none, I scraped my knee, which was already dry, with that beautiful 100mm heel, and blood came gushing down my leg (it was not elegant at all). I managed to press a towel to my knee so as not to get blood on the shoes, which by then I had contemplated returning.

Sasha came running in (now very ecstatic about blood wounds and such) wanting to see just how bad Mommy's wound was.

-You may borrow a band aid of mine if you would like. (He was quite concerned about the blood) Pavel, on the other hand, took no notice, picked up my shoe and walked away squealing with delight.

So I am limping, a towel pressed to my leg, after Pavel, blood dripping on the floor, and Sasha is running after me continuing to ask if I need a band aid.

-My blue satin open toe party shoe made in Italy with its own dust bag! Nooooooo!

At one point I had to ask myself if I was absolutely out of my mind, and, unfortunately, had to admit, at that moment, I was.

I rescued the shoe, put them both back in their lovely dust bag and into the box so that I could return them. What I really did was spend over $100 on a pair of uncomfortable shoes that I will never wear.

But then the lovely Anna called to invite me to my first ever cocktail party since I have been living in the farmland desert! And Olivia and Maria were going to be there as well, and I should dress up, because when do we ever have an opportunity to dress up, so I took the shoes out of the box and thought about which dress they might go with, because what an event - a cocktail party, Italian shoes, my dearest friends all in one place, and, most importantly, free canapes!

Onionism - those who scowl at the leek

I have recently been told by my husband that there is an abundance of leeks in our refrigerator. I told him that he was being silly, overly judgmental, and that he obviously has an issue with leeks, which he should take up with the vegetable itself (are they considered vegetables?) instead of scowling every time I mention they will be part of our evening meal. Of course, he is not the only one to practice onionism. I have noticed that each time I check out at a grocery store there appears that same scowl on the checker peering at me over the belt as if I am mad - what are these? Leeks. What do you use leeks for? Cooking. Okay (sigh) give me a second (sigh) while I find the code (sigh).

Why do I suddenly feel like a bad person for buying leeks?

So, quite angrily, I opened the refrigerator door and noticed, to my husband's credit, there was quite an abundance of leeks. About nine just on the bottom shelf alone, and then I opened the vegetable drawer and realized there were another six. I suppose I kept buying leeks, thinking I needed them for a particular dish, and immediately forgot about them the moment I put them away, thus, the fifteen leeks in my refrigerator for the dish, of which I do not yet know the name, I am going to prepare this weekend.

I started to think about leeks and all the dishes that call for them. I can make roasted root vegetables, and use leeks instead of onions. I know risotto also calls for them, and the kabocha squash soup I keep meaning to make. There is the lovely vichysoisse - potato leek soup, and then there is Devonshire leek pie that I learned about from the crazy dutch (very scrumptious - the leek pie, that is), though it might be a little difficult to make a leek pie sans eggs, butter, cream and bacon. There are braised leeks with fennel, and an Alsacian galette which uses leeks for the base, but I also know none of these dishes are all that appealing to my husband or to my children. But, what I do realize is that my family, if not immediately presented with the word leek, actually is not that adverse to them. In fact, only today, I prepared sauteed carrots, leeks and parsnips, and everyone ate them right up. Leeks are also the basis of my corn chowder, which my husband adores, thinking of course, that those translucent things swimming in his bowl are yellow onions and not the infamous leeks.

And my point is that onionism is not just about leeks, but about our set opinions in general, and that often we scowl at that which is different from what we are used to. I know I am a tad bit paranoid, but I do know I have received many looks of curiosity and even disdain when I have gone into our local grocery store. (Our local grocery does not carry leeks.) But I have scowled back as well many times. No thank you. I don't eat that, do that, listen to that. After over five years in this rural countryside, I have not learned to bend more than buy a pair of wellies, albeit Hunter wellies, so I don't know if that really counts.

I have come to the conclusion that I like to be different, not just here where it is so cut and dry city mouse country mouse, but everywhere I go and the manner in which I interact with people. I like to be in my own world, always an air of mystery to my demeanor. But a lot of this comes from fear too - what if I do try with all my might to become part of this culture and I am just as quickly laughed out of it. I imagine those individuals who consider me aloof and unwilling to become part of this place are just as afraid of change as I am, or would they not recognize that our differences are actually just a tool by which we can both learn? But then, what have I learned? Perhaps I am exactly what I appear to be.

If such simple things as leeks and, in my case, flats, can be so fearful, then how can we expect to be open to God? I often think of St. Gregory of Nyssa and the deeper and deeper darkness we must enter to find the light of Christ. To know God is to first understand how incomprehensible God is, and, ironically, we must first enter the unknown to even begin to know anything. We have to admit that perhaps our formed opinions are not necessarily correct and that we will not lose our character by questioning our own personal dogmas about life.

Today I had the unfortunate experience of witnessing a rather animated argument in the Narthex between two groups of people. Things were said that probably should not have been said, and several walked away in tears. And here we are, having just received the Body and Blood of Christ, and where there should be peace, joy, love, forgiveness and communion with one another, there is enmity, strife, jealousy, bitterness and malice. The devil hates above all else the Eucharist, and that we come together and partake as one body in Christ. I am convinced this is why that when we make the effort to pray and come to church to participate in the Sacraments, we are immediately lambasted with a world of temptations. As humans it is very often hard to see beyond our own shadow on the ground, to see beyond our own understanding of the world, and almost impossible to understand those around us and why they do things differently than we do or would even consider doing. Christ came to save the world - not just the Orthodox, not just the Russians or the Greeks. Christ came for those who are like us and for those that are not.

Today I want to begin anew. I want to shed this skin of mine that cannot forgive, that cannot put myself in my neighbor's shoes, and perhaps by my forgiveness, something good can happen. It is time for us to stop speculating about our neighbor, gossiping and being offended. It is time for us to stop considering ourselves always the wronged in a situation, but to remember that we sin and that our sin can penetrate the cosmos. And isn't this the point of the Nativity Fast? To fast from sin as we fast from food, to prepare ourselves to meet Christ who has taken on our human flesh so that we may one day join in His Divinity? Milk can be discarded from our body in a matter of hours, but what about sin, what about what we let fall from our lips? That stain is written on us in a way no animal product can.

So, reaching God is peeling away all the layers, like an onion, to find the heart. And then, there is the story in The Brothers Karamazov of the woman who could have been saved by her gift of an onion, so this post, now rather long, is about more than an onion (or leek).

I just want peace in our community, in our Orthodox Church, for if we are at enmity with each other how can we be the Body of Christ? I can't change any one's mind or heart by anything I can say or do, but I can, from this moment, serve Christ, and repent, really repent - change my heart, and thus my repentance can affect the cosmos even more strongly than my sin.

How can I be lonely?

The Elder (St. Herman) was asked: "How do you live alone in the forest, Father Herman? Don't you become lonely?" He replied: "No! I am not alone there! God is there, as God is everywhere. Holy Angels are there. How can one become lonely with them? With whom is it better and more pleasant to converse, with men or with Angels? With Angels, of course!"

I have been thinking a lot about loneliness of late, particularly because the demon of loneliness has been pursuing me relentlessly, and thus, the demon of self-pity. The winter days, full of icy winds and heaps of snow, certainly make me feel more isolated than usual. The fact that it is not always possible to take the hour-long drive to civilization and that I often can go the entire day without any adult contact makes the feeling all the more acute. Sometimes I think I am doing well, but sometimes I look out the window at the snow covered plains and wish for the sound of a truck and horse-trailer rumbling past just so I know I am not the only person left in the world. It is so quiet and I am bombarded constantly with thoughts - both benign and damaging, and some good. When UPS or FedEx pulls in to deliver a package there is a certain flutter of happiness - novelty has entered my closed world.

I have been asking myself if loneliness is the desire for human companionship or simply for distraction. Is loneliness a label we give to dissatisfaction in general? I always have someone I can call on - whether it is a girlfriend or my husband or a spiritual mentor. And if there is no song of traffic outside my house, there is certainly the song of Sasha, his questions and new discoveries, and, of course, Pavel, who is always gurgling out something in an attempt to participate in the language he hears. Why then am I so often struck with a feeling that I do not even exist, or that I alone exist, and that there is no one else?

Reading the above quote by St. Herman I must question whether my loneliness is the symptom that my heart has given me as a reminder who it is I should seek first. Without Christ there is no peace. Without Christ there is no love. Without Christ we are alone, even if we have thousands of friends and family members around us. So I am alone, not because I live in the farmland desert, not because I am lacking in people who love me, and not because I can't go to a cafe and see strangers across from me reading The New Yorker, because New York also can be the loneliest place on earth. And I know - how many times did I stand in Grand Central Station staring up at the gilded Zodiac images, sounds and images coming from every direction and yet feel so alone? Loneliness is a state of the heart. It is not a state of circumstance.

I find it providential that I remember St. Herman's words on this particular day, which is so quiet and so seemingly empty, and that I can find joy in celebrating his memory on Saturday. The desert is terrifying, even unbearable at times, but the desert is often where we find God.

". . . from this day, from this hour, from this very moment we shall strive to love God above all . . ." - St. Herman of Alaska

The Reason Behind

I just got off the phone with someone I have known for about ten years now, though, because I consider him very much a spiritual father and a mentor to me, it feels as if I have known him all my life. I also have been blessed with a wonderful Confessor, but somehow I am able to tell this one person, who is not a priest, everything that goes on in my soul in a way I often do not in Confession. It is a gift from God. Without that accountability I would often be lost.

I called him on this occasion to report a rather trivial matter - a shoe purchase - a pair of black, patent-leather d'Orsays, because, of course, these are highly practical in the rural terrain in which I live, and, because, no where in my closet do I have another pair of black patent-leather d'Orsays, pravda? Don't forget the pinching pointy-toe shape which makes me look so much taller than I am, yet is, if I keep it up, bound to land me a cripple in my later years.

As I spoke with him about the shoes and the chocolate that I ate for breakfast I quickly became aware of what lay behind my purchase and my chocolate - besides the much sought release of dopamine. It made me feel that I had accomplished something (I purchased a pair of shoes) and that I was being, just a touch, rebellious (it's the Nativity Fast where I try to avoid not only shopping but chocolate). The rush came and went, but in my heart I knew I had fallen. Most people would say I was being too hard on myself. It's just a little chocolate. It's just a little splurging. But each time I use the word "just a little" and "just this once" I know I am, in part, trying to justify myself. The path to Christ is narrow and difficult - "just a little" too many times can put us off the path completely. What do I want more than anything in this world? I want to be in Communion with God and I know that there is purpose and reason behind every word I utter and every act I take. The motivation is not always good. As I said to my mentor - "I participate in seemingly innocuous activities, but I know inside I am often full of malice."

I am glad I ordered shoes from Zappos because it precipitated my calling him. It was a type of confession, because I spoke the truth and revealed my darknesses without justification. In everything we do, there is a motivation. Why do we say this, do this, etc.? I can think of no better time than the Nativity Fast to really examine our lives. To ask ourselves if we are truly following Christ, or are we, in fact, playing at Orthodoxy, while we remain fully engaged in the world?

I hope one day I won't need to buy shoes to brighten my day. I know this will take a lot of time and work and prayer, but in the end I shall find that one thing needful.

Glory be to God for all things!

Faith is an easier word to throw around than to understand

I have always been one not to use the word faith too much, not as a conscious effort, but because for me its meaning is so limitless, so past understanding, that I have feared, when I wanted to use the word, minimizing it. It is a word, though, that I often use in my writing, especially in my private journal entries as an admonishment to myself - Have faith, Katya. Have faith.

Living in the rural countryside I tend to forget what is going on in the rest of the world. I forget poverty, I forget war, and I forget the fierce struggle that many Americans are going through. Only when a relative of mine said, in much distress, that she had taken a huge loss because of the stock market plunge, and that her portfolio had gone done a third, did I begin to understand how much fear pervades our society.

Our country was, at its founding, built on the honorable ideas of freedom - freedom to think the way we chose, freedom to worship as we chose, and freedom to speak as we chose. And, most importantly, God was on our founders' tongues and pens. Now I see very little of God. Many talk of God, but how many truly are faithful? I find, and I am no exception, that what concerns most of us is money and what it represents - security. I have this particular job and this insurance plan, and I have so much in my savings account, therefore I am safe, I am secure. With the state of our economy at present, this security has been shaken.

My husband and I have never been rich, nor do we expect ever to be, but I also knew, if only subconsciously, that we had someone to turn to always, and that never would I have to worry about losing everything. No longer is this the case and I am confronted with a certain fear that I have never had to experience, but I also am thankful for my fear because it made me realize how much faith I do lack. I also realize that much of my identification, which I want to come from God, actually comes from my maiden name, my family and my education. I have made many decisions not to go a certain way, but have chosen a more strenuous one for which I am grateful, but I also knew somewhere, as I was making those decisions, that I was not, in fact, giving up everything. There was an entitled dignity that I have carried along with me that is based much more on where I come from than who I am in Christ.

Who am I without my possessions, without my knowledge, without my bloodline? Who am I stripped to nothingness? I am rather superficial actually, and I am not a woman of extreme faith. But, glory be to God, that today this has been revealed to me, so that I do have the time to repent.

Many Americans are waiting for our President elect to fix things, many anxiously flip through the newspaper to see how many points the DOW fell or rose, but this hope for better times is not necessarily rooted in Christ, and our fear is not for our soul but for our "security."

The bridegroom will come like a thief in the night and will we be ready? Will our souls be in such a state that we can receive God's mercy? Do we really have faith? When we say - Thy will be done - do we understand what we are saying?

"Just have faith!" We say - the bumper sticker cliche that is so easy to repeat. But it isn't just have faith. Faith is a grace given, not something we can obtain by talking about it or thinking about, but something we must ardently strive for at all times. And I think the proof of our faith is when we wake every morning, crossing ourselves, our first thought being to lift up our hearts to God, and not to fear this world. There is no place for fear if our faith is in Christ.

So, thank you God for these uncertain times, thank you for stripping us of all that which is unnecessary, and for taking away our worldly security, for hopefully, in this we will learn to put all our hope in You.

Perhaps it comes as a surprise

I haven't written anything in a long time and for no particular reason other than that I deemed blogging, for the summer, somewhat self-indulgent. I have been trying to pay more attention to my children. I have been trying to pray more. I have been trying to figure out who I am and not what I am considered to be. All that matters is who I am in the eyes of God, does it not? I think this is the hardest realization to get my mind around. God loves me. There is no reason for it - it is who He is. He is love. But how do I respond to that love? Do I live my life for Him or for myself?

I remember reading in Pushkin that Autumn was the time he wrote the best. I cannot remember now which poem this was, but I tend to agree with him. There is something about the difference in the air, about the crisp, vibrant leaves crunching under our shoes and the satisfaction of wearing a sweater for the first time, putting our babies in wool caps with knitted animals on them. I love the fall. I only wish it could last a little longer where I live. It enters very quickly, like a burst of wind from our dusty roads, and then, a few weeks later, the first snowfall comes, and our red and orange leaves are buried under the heaviness of winter like discarded candy wrappers.

I did not expect the fall this year, and suddenly it was before me. The ash trees outside my window now gold. The evening comes earlier - I must remember to turn on my porch light before I leave for Vespers. Though the midday is still hot, and it seems like a paradox. These stunning tree lined streets, the bales of hay dotting the fields, and yet the need for an abundance of liquid, the sleepiness that comes from too much heat on my face.

But I think about this, and how all of us as human beings are a sort of paradox, a living battle between what our mind and flesh wants, and what is good for our soul. My paradox is perhaps always trying to be something I'm not, trying to fit into my imagined idea of what a good woman is like a dress two sizes too small. Today I want to be myself. I want to love more, to feel less alienated from those around me and I want to nurture my relationship with Christ. But the fact is, I am broken. I will never be loved or even liked by all those who surround me. But then, Christ took on the Cross - can I not bear being falsely perceived, and perhaps rightly perceived. I, like everyone else, do not want to admit to having flaws.

In all of this, I know, there is salvation, and that I am never alone even when I feel completely alone. God is everywhere and fillest all things, and where there is God there is life, joy, light, communion, holy silence. How much we have been given. Our job is simply to respond to the gift - to be thankful, and to, above all things, love.

Grief Arrives in its Own Time

Florence called me today to tell me it's about time I updated my blog. Yes, it is about time. To say I've been busy is just one excuse that usually suffices, but I have also been sad. I realized these past few weeks that words sometimes can be utterly useless. My dear, dear friend Olivia lost her father unexpectedly, and, as I watched her suffer, watched my usually exuberant friend go silent and see the tears, seemingly without end, fall from her eyes, I suffered with her and for her - because the world had lost a great man and because I could do nothing to take her suffering away. I sat in vigil with her at the hospital, I prayed, but words were not her or my comfort that day.

As I was going through old issues of The Sun Magazine I came across this poem by Stuart Kestenbaum and I thought immediately of Olivia and her sister Maria, two wonderful women who are the product of their God-fearing, honorable parents.

It doesn't announce itself or knock

on the door of your heart. Suddenly

it's right behind you,

looking with great pity

at the back of your neck

and your shoulders on which

it spends days placing a burden

and lifting it. Grief arrives

in its own sweet time, sweet

because it lets you know that

you are alive, time because

what you are holding becomes

the only day there is: the sun stops

moving, the sky grows utterly quiet

and impossibly blue. Behind the blue

are the stars we can't see and beyond

the stars either dark or light,

both of which are endless.

To Olivia and Maria-

I promise one day the grief with subside. It will not entirely dissipate. You will always miss your father, but, at one point, the grief will not seem endless. I love you both very much.

Your Katya

The Key to Happiness - Mud

Yesterday it rained. It was a cool, light rain, which the earth soaked up gradually, turning our otherwise dry, dirt roads into wet, muddy roads and our yellow fields to English pastoral. Having just returned from a trip to San Francisco, where my mother complained of the long winters where it can rain for months at a time, it occurred to me how two places in the same country can be so different. Here the rain is cherished, every drop of it, because it dictates the livelihood of its people.

On this rainy Wednesday, we happened to be burying a one-hundred year old woman, Lina, who has lived in this place all of her life, and has seen more changes than one can count. The priest, during the sermon, spoke of her simplicity and what a impact her simple life had on so many people. I looked down at her still, small body from the choir loft, and thought about all the things she must have seen and experienced in her life from 1907 until her last hour on Bright Friday of 2008. Our culture does not revere the elderly as it used to. The infirm and aged are now a burden, something to put away in a home that deals with them so that we do not have to. They may be frail in body, but what wisdom they have, what stories they carry. They are like buried treasure, something we must search for to find. The way the priest read the absolution prayer over her, stopping between phrases because he was beginning to cry, I realized he had discovered that treasure, while I, too occupied with my own life, had only visited her a few times. I did not know her, but he loved her, and felt acutely the loss that her death brought about. I felt loss at that moment too, for a life I never knew.

After the service, while I was making my way back to the car, the mud was so thick that I began to sink into it in my high heels, trying to carry a stroller, a rather large diaper bag and a squirming one-year old. I felt very silly in my impractical dress - why didn't I just wear boots? Part of me was quite perturbed - Damn this mud, I thought to myself. But just as I was about to bring the heavens down on my head by cursing its fruit, I watched Baba Anna lower herself carefully into her car. Oh, what beautiful, beautiful mud. Our Bozhe has not forgotten us. He has given us this beautiful mud. What a sweet Bozhe we have. I stopped and smiled at her, suddenly feeling quite superficial and childish.

That evening most of the mud had hardened, but there were a few puddles for the taking - Sasha's favorite activity, especially when in his church clothes. We put on our wellies - mine, the signature black, his, green with froggie eyes. We jumped, we stomped, we ran through, so that there was hardly an inch of skin that was not covered with mud. Pavel squealed with delight from his stroller seeing us gallop through the water and laugh out loud. I cannot remember when I felt so free and so full of joy. And it was so simple - my children, a few mud puddles and the willingness to play. I imagine for Lina as a child and a mother it was not much different, only that the mud signified whether or not a crop would grow to its fullness. So many things pass away, but the simple joys do not.

Yes, what a wonderful Bozhe we have. He has rewarded us. He has not forgotten us.

To endure until the end

I remember Father Thomas Hopko once saying that if you do not believe in evil, just try to be good. I have tried to be good, and I have seen the evil one try to bring me to the ground. I have been slothful and self indulgent, and felt very little struggle. Good does not come naturally except to children and those who have the minds of children. To be good takes courage, great effort - to be good means to step into the arena, ready to fight, ready to endure, to be defeated, and then rise again.

Anne Frank writes in her diary that she believes everyone is, deep down, good at heart. This shows tremendous goodness and compassion on her part, as she tried to understand what kind of world allowed such terrible things to happen, and how human beings could treat other human beings in such horrendous ways, but I would have to disagree with her statement. Our framework is from God, is good and holy, for we are created in His image and likeness, but we choose to either build on this framework or to tear it down. We can become so bound by Satan that Christ becomes unrecognizable in us. It is a terrifying image, but it is a true image.

I often fall into an argument with my mother on this very subject. She does not believe in evil, and she finds Anne Frank's statement true and one she lives by. I commend her for this, as she often tries to explain people's behavior not from the stance of good and evil, but from her psychologist's perspective. There is a psychological reason for everything, but she would adamantly disagree with me that we are in the midst of a great warfare for each of our souls.
This is not to say we are to be the judges - only God can judge - or that we can always blame our sinful behavior on the devil, but we are to recognize evil so that we can properly combat it.

I write this today on Great and Holy Tuesday, as I have found, starting with the Bridegroom service on Sunday night, that many circumstances have made it almost impossible for me to have a good and prayerful Holy Week. I came to the service expecting a choir - not one member showed up. I tried to cut a few things in order to save my voice, and by so doing, disrupted what the priest was supposed to do, thus making him perturbed and frustrated with me. A cell phone went off during the reading of the Gospel. Sasha threw a fit. Pavel threw up during a reading from the Kathisma. Yesterday he was diagnosed with an ear infection and I couldn't get to Presanctified. My husband and I have been fighting. I have not attended to my personal prayer. In the midst of all of this - at one point I sat on the steps of the church in tears, so angry I was prepared not to attend any more services for the rest of the week - I see that the evil one is truly at work. He does not want us to be in Church. He does not want us to pray. He wants us to be at enmity with one another, and to walk away angry and in despair, to not partake of the Risen Christ. My realization of this does not excuse my behavior, but it makes me aware that if I am going to attend to the week, I must be vigilant, armed with prayer and asceticism. It is right that I suffer, for by so doing, I am partaking of Christ's passion. As I sit on the steps outside of the church angry and frustrated, I understand only a small part of how Christ must have felt going to His voluntary Passion. But what I have that the disciples did not, is the knowledge of the Resurrection, that all of this will end in victory, even if it does not feel like it at the moment. I must endure to the end as Christ did, knowing Satan will lay out temptations every step of the way. I know I will fall, grow weary. I know I will despair, but my goal is not to despair utterly. Each time I fall, I must rise, pick up my cross, and continue along the way of Christ.

On the Other Side

When the day descends
and the wind blows too strongly,
so that I lose my breath
when I step out of the car,
and the smell of fire sits
in the air like evening mosquitoes
swarming in late July,
I try to remember - Lord, have mercy!
Lord, have mercy!
Lord, have mercy!

I try to remember that on the other side of despair is joy.

The Anticipated Light

Today, when I started my car, I accidentally mistook a selection from Mozart's Requiem on the radio for Christos Voskresi. It was strange, as I am very familiar with this piece of music, and never before had my mind confused the Latin with anything else. But there it was. Christos Voskresi sounding out through the car under the guise of Mozart.

My son Sasha doesn’t quite understand the cycle of the Church yet, so he keeps arguing with me that it is not Lent, but Pascha, and about twenty times a day I am instructed to sing Christ is Risen. It seems odd, my voice carrying throughout the house in high festal soprano on a Friday during Great Lent, but then I realize it does make sense, for the whole point of Lent is to ready ourselves to see the Risen Christ.

So often I find myself falling into the superficial aspects of the Fast, like mourning chicken korma and beef tenderloin, or trying to reason whether it is or is not appropriate to go to the Symphony. The exercise in will-power, to gain control over the desire of the flesh, is good, but I also need to remember why I am doing it. I am putting away all that is unnecessary, so that I can concentrate more fully on Christ, and with this comes great joy. On the other side of doubt, struggle and darkness there is always joy.

I wish I could have remembered this yesterday as I sat on the floor of my office munching away at a bag of Doritos, and then sipping, not so elegantly, the ever-notorious caffeinated, carbonated beverage, feeling very sorry for myself. Most of the time I am fully content. I play with my children, attend to their needs, I prepare the music for services, I write, I clean, I pray. But yesterday on the floor I wanted nothing. Sasha came up to me and asked me to read him a book and I could not even find the energy to stand up. The darkness was so heavy I could not cry, but continued to stare out into the emptiness of my own mind. After a few hours my husband came home. I sat glumly at the table, picking at my lentils and he talked about his day. Both children fell asleep just after six, and he suggested we sit in my office and read together. And there was joy. My listlessness did not completely dissipate, but there was joy. I could see beyond my own shadow on the floor.

We pray for the Lord to take away the spirit of despair, something that I pray all the more fervently for during the prayer of St. Ephraim. I know now despair and darkness will always pursue me, but I also know the despair is part of the joy I feel later, the darkness part of the light.

I understand Lent this year in a way I have not in the past. It is not about what we do and do not give up. It is not about breaking or following the rules. It is about being in a state of anticipation always. We stand, like the wise virgins, waiting for the bridegroom to appear. We eat less, we stop watching television, we stop listening to the radio, so that we can be vigilant, so that nothing distracts us from our vigil outside of the tomb of Christ. We need not wear mournful faces, because we know He is coming. We know He will rise again.

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

This sentence is taken from the title of one of Adam Zagajewski's poems, which I happened to find on the last page of The New Yorker from September 24th, 2001. I saved this particular issue from The New Yorker because it was put out in the wake of the 9/11 tragedy. At first glance, the cover looks like it is entirely black, but holding it up to the light I see it is the black outline of the Twin Towers against a charcoal black background. For a moment I feel that I am free falling as I remember the day the world went dark.

I have mixed emotions about The New Yorker. I feel I ought to be blown away by every story and poem I read in it because, after all, it is The New Yorker, and the editors at this magazine are so much more sophisticated and illustrious than I could ever hope to be. But then, I must admit that I am not blown away by most of what the magazine publishes because what most of the fiction and poetry acutely lack is a sense of vulnerability from the author. The fiction is cleverly written. It is well-written, and the pacing is almost always flawless, but I am rarely able to lose myself in it because I feel that I am reading a story written for The New Yorker, and not seeing into someone's soul. In the case of Zagajewski's poem, though, I was able to feel his vulnerability. I read the poem aloud four times in a row, letting his exquisite language dance off my tongue. I have not read something so beautiful in quite some time.

My eyes then were caught up by a full-page advertisement from the ACLU opposite the poem. It screams out in bold letters: WHAT WOULD YOU RATHER LOSE? a. CONTROL OVER YOUR DAUGHTER'S REPRODUCTIVE DECISIONS b. YOUR DAUGHTER In the center is the grave of Rebecca Bell: 1971-1988. She died from an illegal, botched abortion. My immediate reaction was one of horror and sadness - for Rebecca and for her parents. I didn't even think of the baby that had been aborted, for that was not the advertisement's intention. Rebecca Bell's grave stands at the center, but why does it not read: Rebecca Bell: 1971-1988 and the unborn child of Rebecca Bell: 1988-1988? The child is not mentioned, it is not even an afterthought. It is Rebecca Bell who matters, and more important than Rebecca Bell, Rebecca Bell's reproductive rights.

Today is the Sunday of Orthodoxy and Father gave a very heartfelt, powerful sermon about our responsibilities as Orthodox Christians - to proclaim the truth always, just as the defenders of the Icons did. Too often we do not proclaim the truth, and, in fact, nod our heads at falsehoods because we are afraid to offend, while the saints who we commemorate each day lost their very lives.

There are two falsehoods that are being propagated today - 1. That we all believe in the same God, and 2. That abortion is a right and not an atrocity. We tread lightly around these issues. In fact, very often we are ashamed. Someone at the takeout restaurant says - It doesn't matter in the end what church you go to. It's all the same. I nod, smile, and pick up my orange chicken and rice. It's inconvenient to enter into a discussion. I want to eat my orange chicken. I don't want to have any awkwardness the next time I come in for takeout, so I agree to something that I know is not the truth. At dinner with an old friend, I complain about my experience with Curves, the workout center for women. She exclaims - Did you know they donate a huge amount of money to ProLife groups? - Oh, I didn't know, I respond. Why did I not say - I'm ProLife. I didn't want to spoil the meal. I didn't want there to be an uncomfortable silence, or an argument. I, in a sense, agreed with her that ProLife is wrong. Now I am ashamed of myself. I too, who claim to have the truth, the one, undivided Holy Catholic Apostolic Church, am afraid to speak the truth because I have been conditioned to be polite at all times. But today I am putting this away. I will speak the truth always, because it is my responsibility to speak the truth. It is not a suggestion from Christ. It is a command. The priest and bishops are not the sole guardians of the Faith. I am a full member of the Church. I too must be a guardian of the Faith.

Yes, try to praise the mutilated world. Say it is a good thing for women to have innocent lives torn from their very flesh. Say Rebecca's rights are more important than the innocent child's. Be polite, nod. Say - Blessed are the wombs that never bore and the paps which never gave suck. Call good evil and evil good. Yes, try to praise the mutilated world. But also remember. Yes, remember, we will have to give an account for it. We will have to give an account of what was given to us and how we protected it.

Shattered

A few days ago I accidentally broke a glass pitcher that belonged to my Grandmother. I remember the day my mother, my aunts and uncles and I went to participate in what they all referred to as "The Great Divide." My Grandmother was moving out of her apartment to a nursing facility and so she was giving her belongings to her four children. As a newly married young woman, I thought little about anything but supplying my kitchen and home with useful pieces of furniture and kitchen supplies. The glass pitcher was something no one else wanted, but I really took to it. It has been, almost nightly, the pitcher I set on the dining room table with water and freshly sliced lemons, limes, and, on occasion, cucumbers. At brunch, it holds orange juice. When I make Spanish food, it is filled with Sangria.

When using this pitcher, and serving dinner in general, I think of my Grandmother and feel that she would be proud of the refined manner in which I serve my family, but the feeling is very much akin to what a little girl might feel giving a tea party to her stuffed animals, that, in a way, I am play acting. The pitcher may be beautiful, the plates I use Tiffany, but they have been given to me, something that belongs to a life my Grandmother and her parents lived. Under my elegantly set dinner sits a table that we found at a rummage sale. As far away as my Grandmother now is physically, so is the world she came from. I realize I did not really know her, but the pitcher was something tangible, something that connected me to her in a way I could not perhaps emotionally.

More striking was that Pavel was sitting only a few inches from where the pitcher landed and broke into pieces, and that not even the minutest piece of glass scratched his skin. As I swept up the shards of shattered glass, I felt sad that I had lost one of my favorite serving items, and sad that I had lost what it represented, but I glorified God that He protected my child from harm.

Last week Florence and her children were in a terrible accident on a country road. She hit black ice and the vehicle went out of control, fell into a ditch and rolled over, caving the entire roof in. They all walked away without a scratch, so that looking at her yesterday, I could not even tell she had been so close to something unimaginable. The car was totaled, items pierced into the front seat by the roof, but the Icon of Christ on the dashboard, which flew from side to side in the past when she simply made a turn, didn't even move. God protected her and her children as He had protected Pavel.

Today is the first day of Lent, which I am embracing with much joy. I look forward to stripping away all the usual busyness of my day to day life, of not listening to the radio or watching television, of being in church more often, the beauty of the evening services, the prayer of St. Ephraim, how it feels to receive Communion at the Presanctified Liturgy after a day of fasting. During Lent, we "break" ourselves and we let God break us, so that we can arise from the pieces different, hopefully human beings more attuned to Christ. My breaking the glass and Florence's accident are representatives of new beginnings, of cutting off the old man and letting in the new. Both of us are changed. Obviously she is more changed, as her accident had the potential of being much more tragic, but both of us were given a window to the Divine. Both of us recognized God in our lives.

He gives us these moments because we are weak. We cannot see him dwelling with us at all times. We cannot see the angels processing through the royal doors at Liturgy. All He does is think of us, love us, and yet, in our daily routine, we can go many hours, even days without calling Him to mind.

The greatest gift He gives to all of us today is the Great Lent. Today He is continually in my mind, as I try to fast, to pray, to avoid temptations I would otherwise ignore like talking too much or flipping through a catalog. I look forward to hearing the first part of the Canon of St. Andrew tonight, to the dark church, the smell of beeswax and rose-scented incense, the Kontakion in the Sixth Tone. I look forward to my legs being sore from the many prostrations. But most of all I look forward to the journey, the struggle even, because when I struggle I know I am not completely lost.

A New Song

"I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the Lord." Psalm 40: 1-3

Tonight the wind is heavy. Through the vent in the laundry room I hear a continual, almost angry tapping. Outside it is bitter cold. The mud I sloshed through yesterday under a bright sun has now frozen, sealing my footprints in the earth. Yesterday I put on the black ropers Nightengale gave me to wear to a County Fair dance two summers ago. The mud had hardened to the boots' heels and left little pebbles of dirt all throughout the entryway. At times I despise the mud, slippery and impossible to keep clean of. I love to wear long city coats, high heels and dress pants. None of these items are fitting for this kind of landscape, yet I continue on, fighting God every step of the way. I will not let go. I will not let go of who I am and where I come from! But who am I? Where did I come from? I, of course, came from God. And I am nothing unto myself. I belong to God.

It isn't as simple as the clothes I prefer to wear, is it, but an overwhelming fear to really change? Yesterday, for a moment, I let go. I walked across the length of the snow covered lawn, across the mud filled lot to where my husband and son were eating oatmeal cookies brought back from Church. I walked quickly, breathing in the warm air, full of the smell of the earth, of cattle, of hay. I wasn't thinking about myself at all, but glorifying God for the beauty He had shown me. I felt full of life, but also free. I felt the same way today when I put on boots and my husband's old college sweatshirt to take the uneven walk out to the mailbox. In the distance I saw the cupolas and three bar crosses, the bells. I thought of how much this image reminded me of village churches in Russia, how I am not quite so far away from everything as I thought.

Yesterday we commemorated the New Martyrs and Confessors of Russia, and yesterday, by utter coincidence, I finished a biography I have been reading about Tsarina Alexandra and I watched the documentary on the return of the Tikhvin Icon. I was filled with so much emotion, both sadness at the tragic history of Russia, and also joy at seeing thousands of faithful lined up outside of the churches in Riga, Moscow and St. Petersburg, some for up to twelve hours, to be able to bow down and venerate the Holy Mother of our Lord in this miraculous Icon. Unto her final breath, the last Tsarina called upon the Lord, assured of His final deliverance. Oh, how faithless we can be here in America. How we forget how many suffered and died for those very privileges we so take for granted today - to go to Liturgy, to venerate Icons, to speak the name of Christ.

I do not want to forget. I do not want to forget what the faithful of Russia did for me. I do not want to take for granted that moment walking through the mud, stopping to look at the church in the distance. I do not want to forget that I do not have to fear for my life in going to the services, or baptizing my children, or having Icons in my home.

Tonight I try to sing a new song. I fight not to fall into loneliness and sadness looking out into the dark, silent night. I try to remember I am surrounded by the saints. I try to remember I belong to God, and that if I wait patiently for Him, he will draw me up, He will set me upon a rock, making my steps secure. He will put in my mouth a new song.

Crystallized Nostalgia

(Photo by Florence)

It is very cold today, but the sun is strong. The snow is clear, except for a few tire tracks and animal prints. Everything that can hold a bit of ice, holds onto it, as if suspended in time. I think of "The Nutcracker" but can't quite hear the music like I used to. Nutcracker music always makes me a bit sad because it reminds me of when I was a dancer, and I think back on the December rehearsals, sewing ribbons on pointe shoes, theater lights and hair pulled back so tightly it hurt. Nothing but ballet existed for me then, and I wanted the dancer's life so much that I would sacrifice everything to have it. But then, God had other plans for me. A stress fracture ended not only my perhaps career, but vigorous dancing forever. I still remember when the doctor called. I was standing in front of the Christmas tree staring at the red and green and blue lights, how I was silent and without somewhere to rush off to for the first time in years. Oh, how menacing that silence was, so that I couldn't even cry until days later. And then I cried for weeks.

When I came out of it, it was as if I had woken from a heavy sleep. I slept in on Saturday morning. I ate something besides yogurt and Macintosh apples. I really read John Donne, and not to just to answer the section end questions. I took up piano and started writing again. I had time to socialize.

I try to remember this - that on the other side of despair is unexpected joy. This morning, Pavel and Sasha were still sleeping, and I made myself a latte, crawled back into bed and savored my coffee as the light streamed through the blinds onto my face. Fourteen years ago I stopped dancing. Never did I think this would be my life all those years ago. For a dancer, thirty is when one's career is coming to an end. Today I feel life is just beginning - that I finally know who I am and that my identity is no longer dependent on what I can list beside my name. It is a good feeling. As much as I miss dancing, I wouldn't trade that moment this morning for the title role in Giselle with ABT.

Again - Glory be to God for all things! I'm glad I can say it and mean it.

Why not a llama?

As my friends have commented, my posts of late have been quite melancholy. Yes, melancholia pursues me quite ardently, but I also recognize what a good life I have. Sometimes I am struck, as with melancholia, with unanticipated joy. Today was one of those days - Sasha had poured all his toys out on the ground and was building towers and train stations, Pavel was napping and I was drinking my morning coffee, listening to Schubert on the radio and watching the wind blow serpentine-like snow across the empty road. Crystallized ice in the form of wild flowers sat on my window. I was warm and comfortable and I needed nothing in the world.

My drive to and from town is one of stunning beauty and desolation. Perhaps it is the emptiness of my landscape that brings me the loneliness I often feel. But in the emptiness, things are more vibrant than they would be in a populated and greatly foliaged area - like a single oak tree, a farm house, or a llama.

I have begun to look forward to my llamas as I come up the hill on my way home. They stand out to me more than the horses and cattle, as they are often looking out in a searching manner, their pose regal. Rarely do I see them, necks bent to the ground, munching away at the barren pasture like the other animals. I feel a certain comradeship with them. Like me, they are different, they stand out, as if they belong to a different time and place, and their long necks strain to find something they can grasp on to that reminds them of home.

Many have dogs and cats, even rabbits! (my goodness - don't all rabbits have rabies?), for pets. But why not a llama? I certainly have the acreage for it. I could build a little barn and buy them hay, or whatever it is that they eat. We could talk of Bolivia, the great civilization of the Incas and our melancholy. We could go on long walks together. She would be called Lima or Lena. He would be La Paz or Simon. It would be grand.

Yes, a llama. I think that would bring much joy to my life. I will look into it.

The Last of a Great Generation

My great uncle died yesterday, peacefully, in his sleep, at the age of ninety-five. My mother called to tell me, her voice cracking a little. I imagine it is difficult for her, that now only her siblings remain, that the generation of adults who cared for her is now gone.

I am happy for my uncle, though I know for my cousin, his son, it will certainly be hard. Yes, he was ninety-five. He lived an incredible life, but my father is still gone. We are given one father and one mother in our life, some better than others, but that is the blood that bore us. Their absence is felt terribly, because for us, there was never a time, until now, when they were not.

What I remember about my great uncle most is that he had a sharp mind. Thanksgiving at the family house in New York eight years ago he recited the entire Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - the entire poem, only pausing to give more dramatic interpretation. He had perfect grammar, understood the word presently as it is supposed to be understood and didn't have any inhibitions about correcting those who used it incorrectly. His little room in the retirement home was filled with old, dusty books in German, Latin, Greek, French. I remember he had my husband read to him from the Gospel of St. John in Greek, patiently nodding as my husband struggled through it. I remember the last time I talked to him was two years ago - he called to wish us a Happy Anniversary. He traveled all the way across the country to come to our Wedding - he noted that the Orthodox do everything three times. He really paid attention. He came to my graduation from college. He came to my husband's graduation. He took me to the Orthodox Church in Hartford following my Grandmother's death. How devoted he was to her, to everyone in the family. He loved with a full heart.

He never said a bad word about anyone - never - he didn't even allude to perhaps even being disappointed with a family member, though I am certain he missed nothing. He was not the kind to miss anything. I'm sure he had a fierce world of inner struggles and deep pain at times, but he stood upright and alert. One would never know.

I loved the way he pronounced words, especially "at all" - ahtall. I loved how confidently and yet how kindly he remarked that my husband would be more comfortable in a jacket for dinner at the retirement home. He didn't think he was better than anyone else, but he also knew the way things are done. He never was ashamed to speak the name of Christ. He was a very faithful man, the quality of man that is extremely difficult to find these days. This is what makes me the most sad, that with him died a great generation, so many stories, so many moments in History that he witnessed with his own eyes.

I know I am not doing him nor his life any justice with this post, but I wanted to say something, to say that I am glad that I knew him, to say that I am proud to have been his great-niece, and that I am very sorrowful he is now gone.

I Have No Titles Today

I have realized in the past few months that the thing I struggle with most is loneliness. It is not momentary, but a set weight swinging back and forth on my heart. What makes me feel more alone is the fact that I do not have a lot of ways to overcome my loneliness. I have two small children who depend on me for everything. I live forty minutes away from the nearest commercial espresso maker, fifty-five minutes away from a bookstore, and sixty-seven minutes away from a French restaurant - three entities that, when I lived in New York, could bring me out of a slump in a matter of seconds. This physical isolation includes not being able to simply meet a friend for a quick glass of wine, or dart off to a dance class, movie, writing group. My entire existence and emotional well-being is tied up in these four white walls that surround me. It is only by the grace of God that I have not, at times, despaired utterly.

Yesterday my melancholy was heavier than usual, and it carried itself over to this morning, so much so that I could hardly enjoy my coffee like I usually do, curled up in my hideous, but wonderfully comfortable orange chair looking out the window. I called Olivia and I called Lucy, and I had the most edifying talks with both of them. What I realized is that I have two incredible women in my life who love me, but more importantly, I saw that they are struggling just as much as I am, but those struggles are not felt any less just because their location is different. Their fight is just as straining as my own, for God works with all of us, chiseling away at the stone in order to one day uncover something worthy of being called His own.

I am alone, but then I am alone by my own choosing. I have chosen a life not many can really understand nor accept, and this isolates me. Perhaps God has allowed me to be isolated so that I can cling to Him even more. I am alone, but I am never really alone if I am with God, walking in His way. I am being chiseled, bit by bit, day in and day out, by the great artist and it can be excruciatingly painful, but the knowledge of what I will become strengthens me, makes all of this somehow bearable. I am alone, but I am not lost. The path is uncertain, but the final end is certain. It is more certain than anything else in this world.

Glory be to God for all things!

The Painted Veil

A little over a year ago I remember reading Maugham's The Painted Veil and, soon after, saw the stunning movie with Edward Norton and Naomi Watts. I saw the movie with my husband - I was pregnant with Pavel at the time - and we decided to just spend an evening together. We ate at a Vietnamese restaurant before and then walked up to the movie theater. It was cold, the ground was icy, but I felt warm walking beside him. When the movie ended, I looked over at his profile, so thankful that we were together, that we had no betrayals to overcome like the couple we saw in the film.

To this day, I have no idea what Maugham meant by the title. I imagine I am missing some very obvious literary or mythological reference, perhaps even Biblical - that somehow it refers to Jacob, Leah and Rachel - that Walter, like Jacob, was tricked into marrying one woman believing her to be another, and then had to labor to finally be able to call his wife the woman he really loved.

I think about how we, as humans, are constantly covering ourselves with veils, deceiving those around us. We have a picture in our mind of who we want the world to see us as. We hide our true thoughts and desires. We let those closest to us believe us to be something, someone else. When the veil is lifted, we either love more or are sickened. And then we ask -was there indeed a veil, or did we deceive ourselves? Were we the ones who placed the veil over our loved ones -that they were true to us, but we were not true to them?

I do not know how many veils I have put on and taken off in my life. The veil of holiness, which is hypocrisy, the veil of sophistication, which really is self-doubt, or the veil of nonchalance, which becomes self-destruction. Many times I have tried to veil myself and could not. I have tried to make my emotions opaque, and yet everyone around me saw right through me. Only once, I would like to be hidden, for people to not know what I am feeling. But God didn't make me that way, and my closest friends have thanked me for my honesty. Many times, though, I end up getting very, very hurt. At this point I am not sure what God wants from me. Certainly He does not want me to wear a veil before Him. What is the point anyway - God sees and knows all. He is the one who we aim to be unveiled before.

But how can I be unveiled before God, and veiled before society? How can I be vulnerable and protect myself at the same time? Perhaps it is more that I need to be more Christ-like, more humble, that when people see me, hopefully they see something good, and not the forced illusion of something that is good.

"Preserve me, O God, for in thee I take refuge. I say to the Lord, 'Thou art my Lord; I have no good apart from thee.'" - from Psalm 16:1-2

The Crazy Dutch

Last night my family and I traveled out of our zip code for the first time in ten days, and initially, I must admit, it felt like we were undertaking an expedition through the North African desert. Do we have the necessary items - water, diapers, a change of clothes, non-perishable food in the event we become stranded? What about a thermometer? Eventually we managed to get out of the house, into the car, and onto the long highway that would lead us to the dwelling place of, what I refer to as, the Crazy Dutch.

At first one might assume by my descriptive crazy that I am not fond of this family, but really it is quite the opposite. I use the term crazy quite a bit, more than someone would with a more heightened sense of vocabulary. But there it is. Crazy, for me, is to be very talented, witty, and above all, possess that joie de vivre that is so rare today in America - a great willingness to laugh and be laughed at.

This might be the right place to mention the time Viktor, while reading the Hours before Liturgy, chanted out in place of God loves the just, God loves the Dutch, sending the entire choir into a crescendo of giggles and snorts. The fact that this happened over a year ago, and that I'm still talking about it raises question about my level of humor, but we do get a giggle or two still out of this anecdote, though perhaps no longer a snort.

The purpose of our visit was dinner - and what a marvelous dinner it was. Anya, who has quite a bit of English in her - how I love the way she pronounces neither, tomato and controversy - made not only roast beef, roasted potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, but a chocolate mousse and summer pudding as well. I was quite a glutton and helped myself not twice, but thrice, to the Yorkshire delight. At table we talked about various things - Church life, literature, physics, Australia, music, education of children, Tiffany lamps and wine. I tried to add a remark or two between deciding when it would be somewhat polite to ask Viktor to pass, yet again, the Yorkshire Pudding.

After dinner, we were presented with a variety of gifts - a wooden book of farm animals for Pavel, Tinker Toys for the feisty Sasha, The Dangerous Book for Boys for my husband, and, for me, the soundtrack to Les Choristes (and some Swiss chocolates, bien sur). I was quite touched by their generosity and thoughtfulness, as I was really expected nothing.

A fire was crackling in their wood-burning stove, Choral music was in the background, and we nibbled away at our desserts and drank coffee with hot milk. At one point, Viktor, Anya and I went to the piano and played out and sang some new music for the Liturgy - Viktor jumping back and forth between Tenor and Bass, and Anya - Alto and Soprano.

Seated back around the fire, Viktor began talking about Christmas Day, and how we had celebrated it. I remarked it was one of our nicest - snow on the ground, a good dinner, just sitting around together with our children listening to Christmas hymns.

"Yes, we did a similar thing. Sat around the fire, all five of us reading books, listening to music -" I was not taken aback at this picture, but then I was. To sit around a fire, with your three teenage children (now no longer children), and just read together, listen to music. I could ask for nothing more, that my two sons, when grown, would want to spend time sitting with their mother and father on Christmas Day.

I think this very much attests to the kind of people these crazy Dutch are. It was a delight to be in their company, and it was one of the best evenings I have had away from home in a long time.

Have I told you?

The lovely Florence suggested that I start posting my poetry and short stories on my blogsite, so that not only she can read them, but others as well. I have to admit the idea of posting my writing in a more orthodox form is somewhat daunting. There is a certain vulnerability that I have not allowed, even in my incredibly personal posts. But here it is, my first poem, because, as Richard Rodriguez said in his keynote lecture this summer at a Writer Conference in Taos - You cannot be afraid as writers. You must speak the truth at all times, even if it opens you up to the most terrible criticism, because we as writers cannot be silent or we cease to be writers. And when we no longer write, something inside us dies.

To Pavel

Have I told you today how much

I love you?

Have I told you about that one long,

red-blond hair that sticks straight up on your head like a Who?

Have I told you about your feet -

those two little entities kicking furiously

as if you were riding a bicycle?

Have I told you about your laugh,

your smile, your small hand reaching

up for my cross?

Have I told you about the joy you bring

to this family - there is nothing else

when my eyes are on your face.

There is no need for my thoughts to be carried

away or consumed,

because when I look at you

my heart is full.

Under the Ice

I have been having trouble concentrating lately, and in all my attempts to bring order to my life, I have only added more disorder - like completely rearranging my office, so that I have neat, little piles everywhere, but, of course, I cannot find a thing.

I cannot remember what day it is, nor what the date is. All I know is that the Theophany services are upon me, and I do not know where to begin looking for my January music in all this paperwork stacked all about my desk. Yes, Theophany is upon us, and my reaction to this is tightening all of my muscles, from my jaw and neck all the way down to the toes of my feet. It is eleven thirteen at night, and I should be sleeping, but I more want to remember, remember where I am, remember all that I have to accomplish in the next few days.

One of my projects has been retyping the Royal Hours from the Menaion, inserting the Troparia and Kontak, so that everything flows flawlessly, and there are no post-its or book markers cluttering the pages. When this doesn't seem worth it, I remind myself how much easier this will be for me next year, and that, on Friday night, there will be no long pauses between readings. My head should be clear, but, of course, it is not.

While typing the reading from Acts, I came across this particular verse - In those days, as John fulfilled his course, he said, whom do you think that I am? I am not he. But, behold, there comes one after me, whose shoes I am not worthy to loose." It occurred to me I have lost Christ in my quest to put together the perfect service - a service whose purpose is to draw us closer to Christ. "Whose shoes I am not worthy to loose" - it sends shivers through me. I don't understand. I don't understand the first thing about how awesome and powerful all of this is.

When I look at this picture I think of the many hailstorms we had last summer, and how many times they came without warning. I would be staring at the clear sky, the evening sunlight over the fields, and suddenly a great rush of ice thundered down onto the earth. Hail has a particular sound when it hits, like a thousand shotguns going off at the same time. It is both violent and beautiful, and I watch it with heightened emotion. When the storm is over, there enters the most quiet, calm, stunning moment, but it is filled with a certain fear too - is there a tornado brewing in the clouds?

Under that layer of hail there is soft, wet, sweet-smelling earth. Where the sky has cleared there is light, double rainbows, green maples made even brighter from the rain. I suppose if I can endure the storm, if I can comb away the ice on the ground and put my fear away, I can find something beautiful. I can perhaps even find Christ.