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.