Deep Thoughts on a Monday Morning

The sun is out. I don't know how long it will last but the glimpse of blue I see through my window buoys me up in a way all the chocolate in the world can't. June is a bittersweet month for me--so many endings. As much as I may try, my year isn't January to January, it is June to June. Consequently, when school closes, people pack up and move, youth I taught don graduation gowns, suitcases organized and winter clothes folded and placed in the top of the closet, my year ends. I said good-bye to my friend Nancy yesterday. She's been posted to Rwanda. I plan on visiting her in Africa. I can't imagine not seeing her again. Two of my grandparents passed away in June. My Granddaddy Clayton died after many months coping with bone cancer. My Grandma Jay died due to complications in hip replacement surgery. One of my favorite sisters-in-law, who had terminal ovarian cancer, passed away the last week of school two years ago. When I think of summer green grass and children playing in the yard, sometimes I see them in their floral dresses and bare feet playing tag while the exhausted adults recover after funeral services are over. My brother died June 11 2002. I can't remember if I attended RS last Sunday, but I can remember the way the morning light came through the window when I picked up the phone to hear the news. Yesterday I heard that another big sister lost a younger brother. I wish I could say something wise that would make sense of her loss because I've heard every cliche, felt every emotion. I'm confident her brother is fine--it is the aftermath the living experience when a young person dies unexpectedly that no one can prepare you for. Before I was a wife and mother, I was a daughter and sister. Losing a connection to your past, to your most fundamental identity, forces you to see the world through different lenses. There is no way out but through. Sometimes there are no answers. Sometimes there is comfort, reassurance and relief; sometimes it is anger, resentment and loneliness. You reach a place where the hole in your heart heals and you move through the day without 20 things reminding you of him. You pass the anniversary of his death without dwelling too deeply on the event. And then you have a day like today when you learn that another big sister has lost her younger brother. I wish I could give her a hug and tell her I get it. Because I do.

Scrapbooking

This picture was taken after our Relief Society culture group took a backstage tour of the Boshoi Ballet theater workshops. There are some pretty awesome women in this group--women I never want to forget. A few of these ladies are leaving soon--some in the fall to return to the states to have babies. Have I mentioned I hate saying good-bye?

I missed something in the girl genes that makes me interested in scrapbooking. I made one truly extraordinary scrapbook for my husband for our first Christmas together. I made a wedding scrapbook, baby books for my girls and then we had a housefire. My scrapbooks were smoke damaged or destroyed. I took this as a sign that scrapbooking and I were not meant to be which is ironic when you figure my mother was a graphic designer for a scrapbooking materials company! I have files of pictures in storage in Oregon, but none of them are surrounded by stickers, cutouts or floral printed paper. I am in awe of people like my friend Sarah who can turn scraps of paper into magic.

Now I keep most of my pictures in digital files. My sister-in-law Christina swears by digital scrapbooking. If I can get her to teach me something, I might give that a go.

I was thinking about how to remember some of my friends who are leaving, especially since I realize the odds of us ever being all together in one place again are slim. What I realized, as I was whipping up one of my dinners last week, is that these ladies are part of my life because of the recipes that they've shared with me. Their food is part of my family's repetoire and every time I cook their recipes, I think of them. Not quite a scrapbook, but it has given me idea to put thse recipes together and publish them for my family as a way to remember my friends.

Though she isn't leaving Moscow for good anytime soon, my friend Lindsey's Winter Vegetable Soup recipe has become synonymous with combating Mother Russia's meanest Siberian cold fronts. I first had this recipe after I came home from a week in England. I was starving for something that wasn't fast food (after days of on the run, airport food) and her delicious soup satiated my hunger perfectly. I still remember how it tasted the first time I had it.

My friend Carolyn is an extraordinary baker. Alas, she's off to Nigeria. I will remember her by her Lemon Scones. They brighten my mood when I'm knee deep in the grumps--which I've been quite a bit lately. I haven't mastered her delicate touch with the dough, but I will.

I can appreciate gourmet with the best of them, but what I crave is well-made comfort food--somewhere between Paula Deen and American diner food. My friend Kristy's Macaroni and Cheese is legendary. I have been on a quest for a good mac & cheese recipe for years. I have found one and I am in awe. Kristy is off to the Bay Area.

My friend Christine left Moscow for good about a month ago. She is presently in Houston, recovering after the delivery of her second daughter, but may end up in the Palo Alto area. Her Chicken and Artichokes have quickly become one of our favorite Sunday dinners. Her Molten Chocolate Cakes are enough to put us all in carb comas, the kind of carb coma you want every day.

I could go on and on, talking about food memories. The first time I had lasagna at my friend Josie's house after we moved into Rosinka. I didn't know lasagna could taste that good. My friend Andria makes to-die for sweet rolls. Alexandra makes a great Italian pizza dip that is the first thing to go at almost every party she brings it too.

I may not be able to take these ladies with me, but I will bring part of their originality, their flare, their resourcefulness at taking care of their families in this often difficult, strange country we have all called home for a period of time.

Where the rope ends

This is the time of year that I have a schizophrenic relationship with Russia. The sun, green grass, smell of lilacs and babushkas with their bouquets of lilies of the valley soften the crankiest heart. On the other hand...the "midnight sun" (the sun doesn't start setting until after 10 and starts rising around 4AM) makes it impossible for me to get a truly good night's sleep unless I manage to keep my cheap Aeroflot eye mask on until dawn. I have heard that this kind of light exposure can lead to mania. This, I believe. There are nights I take benadryl to force my body to sleep. The girls are inevitably climbing the wall with homework and preparation for finals. Now that Sara is taking university classes, there aren't three of them stressing, there are four of them stressing. The beautiful sunlight means I see all the dust that the dull gray winter light has hidden. And then there is the restlessness. I don't' have the same excuses that the twins do (they haven't been back in the states since last August), but I start to miss home. But I don't have a home. I live out of a suitcase and try not to get in the way of friends and family. I get back to the US and I feel like an alien. I suppose what I miss is everything being easy. I like being able to drive myself, to be able to afford dry cleaning and be able to find the items on my grocery list the first time I try. I miss Chinese food and I miss the mountains. I miss Costco rotisserie chickens and comfortable beds. Europeans have an incredible tolerance for hard mattresses. I had an interesting experience a few weeks back where I heard through the grapevine that some US study abroad students were dissing we expats because our lives are too easy. We live in these cushy compounds and have drivers. We clearly live in the lap of luxury and fail to appreciate the authentic Russian experience. Sounds like a bunch of proletariat rebel rousers looking for a chance to burn out the bourgeoisie. For whatever reason, these off hand self-righteous comments made me angrier than usual. They treat Moscow like it exists for their entertainment and amusement. They walk past the poverty and selectively choose to ignore the stories about murders of human rights activists and pretend that the massive lines outside the US Embassy are for people wanting visas to go to Disney World. On any given week, the modicum of comfort I have in my Rosinka home doesn't approach what these kids have in their university lives in America. I could tell them stories about my courageous friends who have braved the winters here with little kids while living in tiny apartments, of women who now how to manage traffic with the best of the Russian maniac drivers, of men who work 60 hours a week and spend 25 hours sitting in traffic during the commute. I could tell them stories about robberies, miltsia and bad weather. But I won't because I don't really understand Russia since I don't live in a nasty flat with a babushka and her 10 cats. I'm just a spoiled expat. The irony of leaving in Moscow is that just when it starts to get good in May and June, you leave for summer break. And saying good-bye. There are too many good-byes this year. I am terrible at saying goodbye. Most people don't know that I am deeply emotional person that sits and stews for months about things. When I found out that my friend Kristy was leaving, part of my heart broke. The first person who was nice to me when I moved to Moscow, one of the librarians at school, is leaving this year. Next year the twins leave. Sara may go on a mission. I may start to truly feel old for the first time in my life. I'm at a point where I think I'm at the end of my rope and then I'm not. My ability to process and cope with the stress isn't necessarily great right now. I am more testy than usual and my patience with idiots is non-existent. I am sick of reading Cyrillic characters and tired of having to sit in my room with my laptop if I want to watch TV (since the downstairs area is filled with children doing homework). I am tired of cooking meals and eating nasty restaurant food. I can't remember the last time I had a truly outstanding hamburger. I am tired of cooking for all the end of the year events--finals, barbecues, parties. Blah. Blah. And then my hand slips another inch and I realize I still haven't hit the end of my rope.