Don't Get So Full of Yourself Auntie

I'm not much into jewelry. However, I do own a few pieces I treasure. A couple of them are pins and pendants with hand-painted designs by Russian artisans. There's a bouquet of flowers, a portrait of a young girl, a troika galloping through snow and a firebird in flight.

On the rare occasions that I wear them, I do so proudly, not only because they are truly beautiful but also because they ground me to my past, my origins. Nor does it hurt to hear all the nice comments I get about them.

Today I wore my firebird pendant. It's a tear drop shape with the firebird worked in vibrant oranges, reds and shimmering gold on a black lacquer background. I was curious if my 2 year old niece would ask me about it. But she made no mention of it as we played at playgroup. Even when other adults asked me about it, Missy didn't say a word.

I shouldn't have worried or even been too curious. After a couple of hours she finally made her comment - "What's that? A Chicken?"

There's nothing like a 2 year old to keep one truly grounded.

Immigration 9: Lost and Found

    I love the holiday season. Though the winter chill and I aren't friends, for a few weeks during its grasp there's a warmth that spreads through me from within. I love seeing wreaths decorating the doors in my neighborhood,  Christmas trees strapped to car roofs on their way to their respective homes and catching the classic "Miracle on 34th Street" or the more recent "Season of Miracles" on television.

     This sensibility isn't unusual and I won't claim to be the only person out there who cherishes the season from the corniest carol to the sappiest TV special. What I will claim for myself is a memory, a memory that goes back many years, one which above all the trappings of the season provides me with the most inner warmth. And as most of my stories do this one begins in Russia.
   
    New Years is and was quite an affair in Russia even when I lived there back in the 70's.  I grew up anticipating the arrival of January 1st with the same ardour as my American kids anticipate the arrival of December 25th.   Growing up, I never even heard of Christmas for although pre-revolutionary Russia was a Christian state the arrival of Communism and the principles of Karl  'religion is the opiate of the people' Marx put a quick and decisive end to any celebrations that had religious origins.

    However as with most cultures that are trampled neath the boots of supposed progress certain, more tolerable, aspects of said culture permeate into the progressive one. And as the pagan Winter Solstice was absorbed by Christmas so it was that in Soviet Russia Christmas was absorbed by New Years.

    Every Soviet home continued to be decorated with evergreen trees. And with the exile of St. Nicholas, the kindly,  white bearded Grandfather Frost came into prominence along with his grand daughter, the Snow Maiden.   Children would go to bed on December 31st and awake the following morning with gifts that were magically delivered by the chilly duo at midnight.

    Neither exile nor trampling boots of progress mattered to me. I loved New Years and in 1976 was shivering with as much anticipation as ever. I welcomed 1977 with my usual enthusiasm never suspecting that life as I knew it was soon to end. But it did and in May of that year my parents and I emigrated from the USSR leaving behind all that was near, dear and familiar to us.

    By September of 1977 I had crossed an ocean and many borders to finally alite in New York City, New York.  But even then my travels weren't over as we moved again and again until finally a couple of months later a modicum of stability was reached in a Section 8 apartment in Jersey City, New Jersey. 

    The cold and snow soon arrived heralding my beloved holiday. But although there was a hint of familiarity all was wrong.  There were images of a kindly old man who brought presents but he was fat instead of slender and he wore bright red instead of classy ice blue.  This jolly old man traveled alone whereas I ached to catch a glimpse of the lovely, flaxen haired Snow Maiden.  And the crescendo came too early, by December 26th many decorations were being taken down and spent evergreens were already being piled on trash heaps.

    Even though it was all wrong my parents tried to make it alright.  Our apartment was decorated for the season and on December 31st we dressed up and went out to celebrate New Years with other Russian immigrants. But for as much fun as I had, it was with a touch of sadness that I walked back into our apartment and made my way to bed.

    My room was dark, illuminated only by the hallway light behind me so all I could see were shapes. There was my dresser and my night table and there was my bed. But what were those funny shapes on it? My heart leapt to my throat - it couldn't be - could it?  Were those packages - packages that weren't there before I left - packages that could only have been brought by a magical old man with a white beard clad in ice blue robes accompanied by his grand-daughter?

    I have no true memory of what happened next. Perhaps I sat in shocked amazement on my bed as my fingers caressed the presents or maybe I squealed in delight and jumped around my room, the gifts clutched in my hands.  What I do remember though were the words I spoke when I realized what those odd shapes were : On Nashol Menya - He Found Me.

    What a beautiful thing it is to be found.  For to be found one must have been lost and I had been; traveling for months in foreign lands unsure of what the next moment could bring, the ground constantly shifting beneath my feet.  To be found one must also have been sought and I had been; although this was the domain of the jolly old elf, Grandfather Frost made his way across many borders and an ocean to make sure that my transition was less painful, that at least for a moment all was right.

    It took me a few years to realize who Grandfather Frost really was (were) and many more years to be able to adequately express my memories of that night and to say thanks.  It is said that one of a parents many jobs is to help their child through the tough patches.  Many are successful but few accomplish it with such a deft and gentle hand.
   
    In that magical instance, for the first time in a very long while, all was right and  I was happy . Though the packages on my bed were presents, my true gift that night was the return of such joyous feelings.  It's a gift that has remained with me all these years. Since then the arrival of the holiday season brings with it not only the cold and snow but also this precious memory and all the warmth and happiness that goes with it.

Let's Dance

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Fun in the Snow

I've often dreamt of having a convertible, however, the thought of having only canvas between me and the frigid temperatures and heavy snows that come with living and driving in the snow belt of North East Ohio make it a fairly unpalatable proposition so as a compromise I set my sights on getting a car with a moon-roof. And a few years back my husband surprised me with just such a car. But occasionally, I still pine for the experience of driving with the top down.

I am however totally in love with my car and in the spring, summer and fall, if the weather is nice, the first thing I do when I get in is hit the button that automatically removes the barrier between me and the sky.  During winter, however, the same said moon-roof remains closed.  That changed yesterday.

The past few days have been mildly snowy with the temperatures hovering right around freezing, sometimes a little above, sometimes a little below. All these temperature fluctuations have caused, as anybody who's lived in such a climate knows, a thin layer of ice to build up between the slowly accumulating snow and my car.

Yesterday, as is my habit, I turned the car on first and then began brushing it off, paying close attention to all the glass and much less to all the hard surfaces (hood, roof, trunk) leaving a little snow and all the ice still covering them.  Satisfied with my job, I climbed in and turned around to put my purse in the back seat and as I was turning back to get settled in my seat, I felt my elbow hit something.  All of a sudden there was a quiet, continuous whine that I was familiar with but hadn't heard for a while. I turned my gaze upwards to be met with the sight of, not the regular tan upholstery, but with white, a solid "roof" of white.

The ice-roof remained solid though my composure at this point was not.  I was not having a full on "freak-out" but I was not thinking all that clearly and instead of reaching for the button to immediately close the moon-roof my hands went up to grab the sliding apparatus. Not surprisingly my bumbling created enough disturbance that the entire crust of white collapsed into my lap and passenger seat.

At this point my daughter came out, ready for me to take her to practice. And that's when this whole fiasco became fun!  Her face, at first, contorted with confusion slowly developed a huge grin as she realized just how much of a "duh" her mother had just perpetrated. Her laughter ricocheted around the neighborhood as she started brushing snow and chunks of ice out of her seat. Her laughter has always been infections, and this time was no exception, my sour mood melted almost as fast as the snow in my lap and I too began to laugh. 

More so now than ever, I wouldn't exchange my moon-roof for any silly full blown convertible!

Immigration 8: The Letting Go

It's a cool morning for mid May, the sky is a little overcast and the breeze a little biting.  I make my way through the familiar courtyard, almost as familiar as my own and pause at the entry way to the apartment building and truly let sink in that this will be the last time I will walk up to their door.  I've had several months to prepare myself but somehow I still don't feel ready to say goodbye.

I just stand there for a moment and let the thought develop.  Tomorrow they're leaving Russia, emigrating.  Misha, Marina and their little Anechka are packing up their meager belongings and flying to Austria then somehow on to Italy and then, hopefully to America, leaving everything they know behind, severing all bonds in an effort to find a better life. A cold shiver runs up and down my spine as the enormity of what they're undertaking hits me for what seems like the hundredth time - and I still can't fathom it. 

I take slow steps into the building and as my eyes adjust to the dark, I catch the form of the elevator repairman in his pristine uniform standing in the corner, smoking a cigarette.  He's been around for a few weeks, "working" but his uniform is still perfectly white. I smirk as I walk past him. We all know that he has probably never held a wrench in his life - his expertise lies in identifying and noting the comings and goings of people. He's not ever trying to be covert - intimidation is another one of his objectives.  We know that you know and we want you to know : we're watching you.

I grab the railing of the old staircase and start jogging up the steps up to the fifth floor but by the time I reach the first landing I slow down as memories start invading my thoughts. I tuck my hands into my pockets and allow the slower gait to trigger more detailed recollections.

I remember that when I first met Misha he was still on his own, living on coffee and cigarettes,  a literal starving college student.  His apartment was bare of food but never of people for his door was always open. I remember how Marina would come over and bring sandwiches that he would immediately turn around and feed to all his friends, also starving college students.  And then, when they married and had Anya how their door remained open. 

Through the years, along with countless others, I have come here, to this apartment, almost nightly.  Memories flood my mind in the forms of images : Watching hockey games in winter, screaming at the tops of our lungs while Marina brought more food to the table. In the summer, leaning out their window trying to catch Voice of America on their tiny radio, gingerly manipulating the dial in an attempt to catch the elusive station.  Gathering here, to read banned books such as Bugakov's Master and Margarita that were typed on what seemed like cigarette paper and then spending hours discussing them.

We weren't just visitors, we weren't simple friends, we were part of theirs lives, part of their family and as such were witness to many aspects of their lives. I laugh quietly to myself as I climb another flight and remember the first time Marina left two year old Anya with Misha for the evening.  We were all there, playing cards, drinking a few beers watching a game on their tiny black and white TV and there was little Anechka bouncing around from one knee to another.  At one point she toddled over to where the guys were playing cards and in a blink of an eye swiped a mug of beer and downed it before anybody could stop her.  I suppress a snort as I recall how amazed Marina was, the following day, at how well her little girl slept that night!  The "brotherhood of the beer incident" kept the secret of that good sleep for 3 years until finally, fairly sure of his safety, Misha confessed.

I reach the fifth floor with a smile on my face, though still lost in thought, my feet take me automatically along the well worn path to their door. I hear sounds from within and realize I'm not the first to arrive, to bid farewell and to help.   I enter the commune apartment and am immediately hit by the smell of acrylic paint and acetone.  The neighbors workroom door is open where she has been hand painting Olympic rings on souvenirs in preparation for when The Games come to Moscow three years from now.  I peek in and see that in addition to the paint paraphernalia and normal furnishings, a cot and four suitcases are tucked in the small room, their suitcases.

Vera, Marinas mom and Anna, Misha's mom are in the kitchen cooking.  Their faces are drawn and though they smile at me as they give me a kiss, I can tell that there's already been a lot of crying and that a lot more is to come.   A few other friends are here, figuring out the logistics of getting the furniture and other things that are being left behind to their new owners.  I join in and the day seems to fly.

There's a constant flow of visitors some staying for minutes, some for hours and yet others who just stay. Watching this stream of people, I consider the spy downstairs and smile to myself when I realize that none of us give a damn about him, our friends are so much more important to us that the consequences of having our names in his file.

As day turns to night only family and the core group of friends are left. We have dinner, we talk, we take final pictures and little Anechka is sent to the cot in the workroom to sleep at least a little. It's going to be an early morning tomorrow. However, the nervous energy permeating the apartment won't let anybody else sleep a wink and as I take a walk down the corridor from Misha and Marinas room to the commune kitchen I overhear "It's gold, in the worst case, you can sell it." It's Oleg, Marinas brother, talking to Misha and I notice, Oleg's no longer wearing a wedding band. 

Marina and Oleg never had a great relationship, it's been more adversarial than fraternal; he's never been one for doing the right thing by his family but this test of his character he passes. My eyes tear up a bit as I consider all the different and sometimes surprising forms gold takes. 

The poignant moment shakes me a bit and to take my mind off it I check the clock to see how much time we have before we must leave for the airport and realize that it's none. Three thirty in the morning came too quickly. 

Anya is woken, dressed and fed. The suitcases are taken down to the cars and we hustle downstairs.  I hold back a little and walk back to the door, place my hand upon it and offer up a simple thanks and goodbye.

The drive to the airport is quiet except for Zorkas sniffling in the back seat.  She's one of Misha and Marinas closest friends and has experience with leaving. Year's ago she came to Russia to be with her husband, leaving her home in Bulgaria, so she knows the pain of homesickness, the feel of isolation that our friends are going to suffer and so she weeps.

When we finally arrive at the airport and unload the four measly suitcases that are supposed to support three people for an unknown period of time in foreign lands, I wonder at my friends' sanity. However, as I peer around I see other families getting ready to do the same thing.  As my eyes continues to study the milling crowd I see that the emigres share a look that is a mixture of exhaustion, hope, fear and determination. 

Misha disappears into the sea of people to deal with paperwork before the three of them can head into customs and then .... well .....  and then to the skies.  Little Anechka is pale and doesn't seem to be actually awake, she's sleep-walking more than anything else.  She's passed around from grandmother to grandmother to uncle and finally to me and as I take hold of her little hand, her grip surprises me.  I kneel down to talk to her and realize that her eyes are not only tired but scared as well.
"What's the matter, sweetie?" I ask.
"There are too many people, I don't wanna go there." Her weak voice answers, pointing in the general direction of the tarmac.
"It's OK." I say thinking that she's afraid of flying "It's safe, those are great planes, look at all these people, they aren't afraid!"
But she shakes her head "I'm not afraid, I just don't want to be naked in front of all these people" she says, her eyes filling with tears.
Totally confused, I ask "Why in the world do you think you're going to be naked?"
"Dad said that I might have to take my clothes off before I get on the plane" she answers between sniffs.
My breath hitches in my throat as I realize that Misha must have warned her that there may be a strip search at customs - we have all heard the stories of cavity searches being performed on young and old as a final indignity. The poor little girl must think that it will happen in the open, on the tarmac, right before boarding the plane!  So I ease her worries and explain that if it comes to a search it would be done in private. That seems to ease her a bit and I can see her shoulders relax a little and a smile come more easily to her face as her grandfather comes over and takes her hand.

Freed from babysitting duties I go in search of Marina to tell her about Anyas concerns, I catch her face in the crowd and start moving in that direction.  As I push through the swarm I overhear Misha's mom talking to another friend saying "Marina's not doing too well, she asked me for a sedative to help keep her calm".  This gives me pause and I think that maybe Marina doesn't need to hear about her daughters fears, she's got enough of her own.  But I keep going and hope that in one way or another I can be of some help.

When I reach her she's standing with her back to me, facing her mother whose eyes are brimming with tears and as I get closer, I hear Marinas shaky voice repeat the same phrase over and over again "Please, Mommy, don't cry, just don't cry." 

Realizing that I'm not wanted at that particular moment I veer off and go in search of something to do and for a little while stay busy with the suitcases, standing with them here, carrying them over there but when I'm free again I make another attempt and spending some time with Marina. 

I find her, still with her mother, still uttering the same words and I figure that in a way, it's her mantra. She's completely focused on the separation, the goodbye is all she sees and all she fears. So I say a silent prayer that her mom will be able to keep it together. Vera is a very strong willed woman and I have faith that, for her daughter, she'll be able to keep her tears in check and her private agonies private.

Finally, it's time for customs and after all the final hugs and tearful kisses are done those of us left behind, hold on to each other and watch our beloved trio make their way into the corded off area.  We continue watching them as the  line slowly makes its way to the tables where customs agents will scrutinize their luggage.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass and all of a sudden I see some sort of commotion and then we all catch sight of Misha making his way back with a suitcase.  Anna, breaks from our group and expertly greasing the right palms appears in the customs area and stops Misha in his tracks - he tries to give her the suitcase but she shoves it back at him, they exchange some words and finally Misha, suitcase still in hand, walks back to the customs table.

Anna returns, a little shaken up, saying that the customs agent was refusing to let that suitcase out, but it was the one with Anyas medications and other basic survival necessities, so when Misha tried to give it to her she yelled at him that "blood through the nose" it had to go with them and sent her son back into the fray.

She's in tears now and I hug her tight as she wails "Oh my God, I yelled at my Mishenka, oh my God, my last words ..."   I try to soothe her with soft mutterings but there's nothing I can say to ease this mothers pain, I can only hope that time will find a way to heal her and at the same time I think all of us hope against hope that we won't see Misha or that suitcase again.

Thirty, forty minutes pass and there are no more attempts to return luggage and all of us breathe a sigh of relief. Our threesome is now invisible, lost in the customs crowd, so we move to a different spot hoping to catch a glimpse of them as they make their way upstairs where they will board the plane.  It takes time and I worry that they might have been detained or put through that horrid search but finally we see them.   The three of them turn when they get high enough and seek us out - they grin and wave and I hear Marina yell "Till we meet again!"  I know she's being hopeful but the way Misha looks at her and the way I feel my own heart skip a beat, I know we are thinking the same thing - If things don't go right, we could be meeting sooner than you think! So I chant my own mantra - May it all go well, May it all go right.

Thankfully it does and with a stabbing realization my mind forms the words they are gone.

Slowly the energy of the airport changes, returns to normal.  I stand there, still a bit shell-shocked, not sure if I can get my head around what I just lost. And as we make our way back to the cars I look down at my hands and think I just hugged them; I touch my lips and think I just kissed their cheeks - for the last time.

This time I sit in the back of the car. I lean back, letting my head rest and close my eyes. Again I think back to the elevator repair man and the consequences of being seen as a supporter of my friends' emigration.  If anything happens it'll be pretty minor - perhaps a loss of a vacation stipend or a verbal dress-down at work or maybe I'll be brought before some board or other to be humiliated before peers for not turning my back on the people who turned theirs on Mother Russia. None of that would surprise me. 

I sigh, thinking Nothing will change, it'll all stay the same - except they won't be here.  It's then that the tears finally spill from under my lashes, though I'm not sure if they're tears of joy for them or tears of grief for me and all of us left behind. Tired of holding myself together, I let the tears come and just cry ...

Balance

What does it mean to be "Hard on yourself" and is it a bad thing?

The other day I wrote a blog post about having difficulty making decisions. I received a bunch of supportive comments ranging from "I know exactly what you mean" to "relax" and "don't be too hard on yourself". And as I was going to sleep that night, pacified with the knowledge that I wasn't alone, a thought struck me - was I being "hard on myself" and was it wrong?

First things first, I needed to define the concept.

What I found was basically the same everywhere: Being hard on myself meant that I was holding myself up to a higher standard than anyone else.  OK, that did sound pretty foolish but was that really what I was doing? 

My post talked of two things : Indecisiveness and Perfectionism.

Indecisiveness is not a pretty thing but I can't say I'm harder on myself than anybody else where it's concerned. I don't like the characteristic in anyone: stranger, friend or self.  So that doesn't fall into the "Being Hard on Myself" category. Score one for me!

On to the next -  Perfectionism.  The American Heritage Dictionary defines perfectionism as "A propensity for being displeased with anything that is not perfect or does not meet extremely high standards." That sounds pretty bad too but a part of me wondered if it's truly that bad.  Without a desire to do things well wouldn't we all be stuck in mediocrity?  If I didn't set a high standard for my writing there'd be nothing driving me to practice and I'd never improve. The same goes for anything I do: Knitting, swimming, parenting etc.  The more I thought on the matter the surer I became that there's nothing wrong with Perfectionism, if anything, it's a desirable quality. Those of you who disagree, answer me this: Would the Mona Lisa be in the least bit memorable if Leonardo had not worked on it for almost 17 years - perfecting it?

Yet determining if Perfectionism is good or bad doesn't answer the main question : do I expect more of myself than of others where it's concerned?  The honest answer : Sometimes, but not in this case. Score two for me!

Now that the definition of "being hard on yourself" has been addressed it's time to see if the behavior is wrong. The answer is yes, if one goes by general perception but I'm not one to do so. Therefore I decided to look to myself for the answer.

My parenting skills is the area where I can honestly say I'm hard on myself.  Specifically in trying to keep my temper in check.  The results of this self imposed pressure have been two-fold.  On the one hand I'm a lot gentler and more tolerant of my kids' occasional feistiness yet on the other hand when I fail, and throw a temper tantrum, I carry around a lot of guilt.  For me, however,  this is an acceptable side effect.

I also put a lot of pressure on myself when it comes to social situations.  Here the side effects have been disastrous.  My phobia of doing something "wrong" in public has shut me off from people and made me a prisoner of my own fears.  My perfectionism and the pressure I put myself under have worked hand in hand to isolate me from the very people I want to get to know.

One person, one attitude and yet, two completely different outcomes.  Why?

In the former the self generated internal pressure makes me a better parent although a bit hampered by guilt but in the latter the same attitude incarcerates me in a private prison.  The only difference between the two is that the objective of the former is to fix an existing problem (bad temper) whereas in the latter, no problem exists  - just an irrational fear (embarrassment).  

Based on this I say that "being hard on yourself" is not inherently bad.  It is so only when the desired outcome is outweighed by the undesirable side effects.  And so it seems, as with all things in life - balance is key.

Now I wonder what would happen if I began being hard on myself about being hard on myself in social situations?  Finding the balance in that one should be fun!

 

 

Twenty Two

I like to do a lot of things. There are people out there who're primarily into one thing, they're crafty, sporty, techie, booky or writey. My problem is that I can't choose ... I like to do it all. I like to swim, read, knit, write and keep updated with technology. I have another problem - I like to do things well.  And my major difficulty lies in that to do something well practice is a must, meaning it should be done on a regular basis sometimes to the exclusion of other things.

So what happens when I have a free moment to pursue one of my hobbies?  Oh joy, I get to make a choice! So I sit there wondering - should I sit down and read more "Dune" which has sat untouched for weeks on my nightstand or should I get back to writing the "Immigration" piece I've been working on for over a month or better yet should I finish up knitting that sweater etc, etc, etc.

And this is where I become my worst enemy.  My perfectionism tells me that I knit better than I write, so I should knit. But my mind tells me that if I want to write well I need to practice, so I should write. Then my perfectionism tells me that I've not finished anything I've started in the past few months so I should finish my knitting because that's the closest to being done but my mind tells me that I should read because "Dune" has been ignored for the longest time and is the most likely to be abandoned. And I end up doing nothing, having wasted my precious free time arguing with myself.

I hate Catch 22s. 

I guess the best way out of them is to avoid getting into them. In other words I should heed the words of Nike commercials .....

Just Do It!