Tag: Life reboot

Floored

Floored

There is no other way to put it.  I wandered down the road just above my apartment building and found this:

Hîncești Lake

I don’t know what else to say.  (Of course, I always have more to say.)  I wrote in my journal:

What did I do to deserve this?  I finally, finally found the place where I can be completely at home here.  The language, the culture, the buildings, the corruption, the sadness, the confusion, the disparity, the discomfort – none of that intrudes here.  Though I did have a half hour conversation with two seemingly homeless, mentally ill folks who sat down on the bench next to me and shot me questions in Ruski-romanian .  They really wanted to know when we could hook up again…

Friends at the Lake

I appreciated the opportunity to converse really slowly and repetitively with people who were happy to play along.  I am blessed.

As I was soaking up the last of the afternoon rays I got a text from my site mates, Matt and Lindsey.  I made my way to the bar next door to my apartment and spent a relaxing couple of hours with them, comparing notes on how lucky we are to live in Hîncești.  Patty was walking by and heard my laugh (mom, are you listening?)  and then we were four.  Patty just moved to site today, having completed her 10 week English Education Training.  Took her oath this morning.  Now the whole M27 group are officially Peace Corps Volunteers!

Matt
Patty and Lindsey

I don’t know what these adorable little girls were doing in the bar, but they certainly provided a whimsical touch:

I felt a bit like her, finally having put on my tutu and ready to dance for the world.  I have some good friends, a great host sister, an energetic work partner, and a bustling village in which to live for the next two years.  The Peace Corps is proving to be everything I wished it would be…I am so blessed!

Back in the kitchen again…

Borscht verde, otherwise known as fresh from the garden veggie soup

So here I sit in sick bay while all the rest of my compatriots travel on to their new sites and volunteer service, taking their first steps into their new lives.  I have been watching FB all day, tracing their footsteps through their new villages, comparing the size of their bedrooms with my own, lusting after the masa (feasts) wherein their new host families celebrate their coming by spreading a multitude of wonderful dishes across the table.  Hey wait a minute, I think.  I have a kitchen…and some veggies from Nina’s garden…and some odds and ends in the cupboards left by former inhabitants of this den.  I can cook something…

One of the less positive effects of Pre-Service Training and living with a host family is that it slammed the trainee back into the experience of childhood again.  We relied on the Peace Corps staff or our host mother or our Language Training Instructors or even the M26’s and M25’s to script our lives for us.  Almost every waking moment was defined by language lessons, tech training, homework, studying, self-directed activities or field trips or traveling back and forth to hub site or cluster site.

When I knew I would be here, on my own, at TDY for a week or so, I actually felt a bit of trepidation.  No Nina to prepare my healthy meals?  How will I eat?  On Friday, I ventured into Everest, a pseudo-supermarket (everything is almost, in Moldova,) like a 10 year old given the responsibility of cooking some dinner for her siblings while mom worked late. All the labels are in Russian, so one must have a pretty good sense of what the picture on the packet might be in order to feel confident in making a purchase decision.  The produce section was sad and empty (most everyone grows their own or buys in the piața.) There was an entire shelf of white rice (no brown) and pasta (all semolina,) supplemented by hrisca and lentils.  They do like their carbs here.  I ended up with a carton of mushrooms (haven’t had those since I left the States,) some Activa yogurt (same label as the States,) a miniature loaf of black bread and some carbonated water.  Yea for me.

Today, after seeing all those masa spreads, I remembered the bag of veggies that Nina pressed on me as I was leaving Friday morning. Well damn, I don’t want another yogurt and I polished off the jar of peanut butter someone left in the cupboard (sweet!) for breakfast.  It was strange at first, peeling the onions, mincing the garlic, chopping the dovlece (like a squash, only seedless…even sweeter!)  Like maybe I wasn’t old enough to be handling sharp knives. I felt Nina hovering over my left shoulder, clucking disapprovingly. While she made some good, healthy soups, they tended to taste very much the same.  She had a limited repertoire of herbs – parsley and dill – and used only salt and pepper to flavor.  And, in characteristic Moldovan style, one did things the same each and every time.  She cooks the way her mother taught her, the way her mother taught her before that.  Nothing changes. Tradition holds.

Now that I was on my own, I went through the cupboards and pulled out mysterious packets of Russian-labeled spices and had at it with impulsive America style.  Then I threw in some habanero sauce I brought from home – this was verboten in Nina’s house as it was way too hot for any Moldovan who tried it (mild by our standards, mild!)  With a small handful of egg noodles to thicken it up, I had myself an aromatic concoction burbling on the burner in no time.

Let me tell you, the succulence of vine-ripened tomatoes and the sharpness of fresh plucked garlic make for amazing soups – I surprised myself!  I had two bowls.  But it wasn’t just my body being nourished: I felt like I had slipped right back into my age-old soul, wielding that knife on the chopping board.  I’m back in the kitchen again, self-sufficient, creative, and all grown up again!  Thank you, dear Hestia! And let me keep enjoying while the vegetables are ripening…

My Peace Corps pause

A pair of lovely sisters- good friends of my daughter – posted/reposted this on Facebook.  It gave me pause:

the area of pause

you have to have it or the walls will close
in.
you have to give everything up, throw it
away, everything away.
you have to look at what you look at
or think what you think
or do what you do
or
don’t do
without considering personal
advantage
without accepting guidance.

people are worn away with
striving,
they hide in common
habits.
their concerns are herd
concerns.

few have the ability to stare
at an old shoe for
ten minutes
or to think of odd things
like who invented the
doorknob?

they become unalive
because they are unable to
pause
undo themselves
unkink
unsee
unlearn
roll clear.

listen to their untrue
laughter, then
walk
away.

–Bukowski

I had never read this before, but it’s startling how clearly Bukowski pinpoints the underlying emotion of “what fifty feels like” for me.  I needed a “pause” from my life, a way to look at it from a distance, examine its contours and facets and weigh its true value on the scale of my soul.  My Peace Corps experience is a means for me to do this.  I have definitely taken a step back and out.

 

Diva Knee

The Diva

In that way that a niggling irritant will steadily blow itself into obnoxious proportions in seeking the spotlight, I have had to bow down before the increasing tantrums of my left knee and allow it take center stage.  Through weeks of humping back and forth to school along rocky roads slogging sixteen pounds of paraphernalia, coupled with boogie boarding the aisles of careening rutieras, compounded by an ambitious hike up the crumbling, Soviet-era, one hundred and seventy three steps (I counted) linking my home and a picturesque lake in my new village, I’ve managed to create quite a diva out of this joint.  It sends shooting pains up my thigh at night, rumbling into a dull throb in the morning that climbs to a screeching glissando of pain after ten or twelve hours of the above listed activities.  I finally went to see the PC doctor, who set the wheels in motion that will all but ground me for the remainder of Pre-Service Training.  I did not see this coming.

What I did know was that I would be walking.  And walking, and walking, and walking, everywhere while in the Peace Corps.  So I began walking, almost from the moment I began filling out the application.  The furthest I ever went in a day was 10.12 miles; I routinely went four to five without breaking a sweat.  I was hiking rough trails in the Fullerton and Tustin hills at least four times a week. (Okay, I will confess to slacking off slightly towards the end when it got up into the upper 80’s in Fullerton, which is quite balmy weather for me now.) Not one knee problem through it all.  I did not see this coming.

My second week here I tripped on the tiled stairway inside the PC offices and went down smack on my knees.  (One of the stairs is slightly higher than all the others causing one to miscalculate in clearing it going up and land heavily when going down; everyone knows this and many people have taken their own spills.  The HR professional in me wants to run screaming through the halls at the liability potential. Oops.  That’s right, I’m in Moldova.  No one cares.)  According to the PC doctor, this “triggered” an underlying problem with cartilage wear and compressing space in the joint.  What’s this: a pre-existing condition that I did not note on my medical application?  Mostly because I didn’t know about it, Doctor. (I guess the Peace Corps needs to take precautions against the middle-aged uninsured who sign up for two years of service in a sweltering country without pay with the sole aim of getting their blown out joints fixed for free?)  The pre-existing clause causes an issue in gaining authorization for any kind of expensive intervention, like arthroscopic surgery, for example.  What is authorized is three weeks of house arrest, a strong anti-inflammatory, a hulking knee brace that mysteriously increases my overall body temperature by at least five degrees, and a combination of physical therapy and ultrasound to excitedly anticipate in the coming weeks.  I couldn’t be more thrilled.

The thing about my situation that sucks the most is that I’m stuck in the middle.  All the older folks (60 and up) have already HAD their knees done, so they are all springy and sly with surgically-conferred youth.  And of course the kids still have their knees, which they torture quite regularly with the blithe disregard of youth,straining and popping them in strenous soccer matches only to appear dewy fresh and mysteriously healed the next day.  Me? I am just beginning the long, slow decline into better acquaintance with orthopedic surgeons, MRI’s and Latin terminology, which I’ve quite creatively managed to accelerate in my forever ambitious manner.

Oh well.  Perhaps it is my devious little daemon taking action, zealously guarding my thirsty need for time. Time to read, time to write, time to sit and gaze dreamily into space; time that isn’t filled with the recitation of new nouns and verbs and propositions or downloading safety information, rape prevention tactics and other obviously, DC-formulated policies and procedures or listening to PCVs and administrative coordinators and program managers prepare us up down and sideways for any anticipated occurrence which could rattle our now somewhat tenuous hold on the idealistic convictions that landed us here.

PST is lasting too long and the diva knee is asserting her potent will.  Other than mornings spent in language class (which I am insisting on attending for my own sake) I have now gained about ten hours per week back for ME.  Perhaps my joints are not so bad, after all.

Undercover angel

 

Sofie at the bar with Leslie and Jan

 

So it suddenly occurred to me that I may have been spending too much time in a huddle.  Perhaps that’s what’s making me suddenly weak in the knees.  I’m not really that social, after all.  Oh yes, I enjoy my friends – hugely, mind you – but we tend to get together in delineated doses.  For sporadic adventures that are time limited.  We know when enough is enough and we all go home to our separate, largely tranquil domiciles (not those currently raising children, granted, but you all should have started earlier like me.)

 

I just recognized that I have been conducting my life amid a cacophony of other people’s noise – wending my way through their random thoughts, spontaneous opinions, toxic complaints, silly exuberance, and fill-in-the-blank musings.   I’m not used to it.  For the last eighteen months I’ve been largely alone or with one other being at most (Zoe and Mike alternating as my sidekick, depending on the hour of the day.)  I haven’t had to make small talk or be accommodating or smile for no reason in particular in a long time. It’s tiring.  On top of all the other challenges presenting themselves for attention at my doorstep.

 

For the last few days I’ve been bowing out.  Going home instead of hanging out, skipping the mentor picnic today, bailing on the US Chambers of Commerce All American BBQ tomorrow.  I just don’t feel like chumming up with more Americans.  Time to meet Moldvenii.  Become part of a new culture. Lose my all-too-American identity.  I want the culture and the differentness to wash over and engulf me.  I didn’t come here intending to bring the US with me.

 

Assimilating a new identity and taking on a new mission soon…

 

 

A beautiful meditation

Sylvia Plath

I ran across this on Brain Pickings today:

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love’s not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person.* But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time…

Sylvia Plath was 18 years old when she wrote that in her journal.  What a beautiful meditation on resiliency, curiousity, and embracing life whole heartedly.  It inspires me.

Moldova – at Last!!!

Image
This is Moldova

Since Monday, I have spent over nineteen hours folded into the cramped seat of an airplane, shuttle or bus and more than sixteen hours hanging out (mostly on the floor) in various airports.  I’ve had less than five hours sleep in the past thirty-six and only two of those were consecutive. Yet at this moment – 4:30am on Friday morning, June 8 – I am the most energized and clear headed I’ve been in many months.  I made it: I’m finally in Moldova!

Last night we debarked the two shuttles that brought us from the airport at 11:30pm to a cheering mob of current Peace Corps Volunteers: our program mentors, training and safety coordinators, the country director, and various other Moldovan Peace Corps staff.  It was just like the Lakers returning to Los Angeles after a stupendous playoff sweep; we were every bit the victorious team lifted up by adulatory fans.  After the grueling travel itinerary of the past couple of days, I could easily have burst into sobs of exhausted elation (I didn’t, thank god – not wanting to be labeled the emotive freakazoid the very first hour of my arrival, but a couple of other trainees said they felt exactly the same way.)

After a celebratory greeting, a very brief safety summary and assurances that we would cover – ad nauseum – all of our raging questions today, we were sent to bed with the admonishment to snatch what sleep we might before beginning our 8-10 weeks (depending on one’s assigned program area) of training this morning.  There will be no rest for the weary, it seems.  Assimilation begins in four hours.

Apparently, I have ended up in one of – if not the –safest countries the Peace Corps operates in.  There is very little danger – apparently roving packs of (maybe rabid) dogs, easily dissuaded with sticks and stones – pose the largest threat.   Not counting our incoming group of 67 trainees, there are currently 102 Peace Corps Volunteers serving in Moldova.   It being a relatively small country, no one is posted more than five hours from Chisinau and Peace Corps headquarters, or more than an hour or so from a fellow volunteer.   Everyone sees each other a lot; no worries about being isolated or lonely.  According to everything we’ve heard so far, it is a verdant, beautiful environment populated with welcoming, friendly people.  And, much to my surprise and delight, just about a third of our trainee group is older than me.  I am the youngest of the “seniors,” so I do get to feel (comparatively) young again!

Today’s agenda includes another safety briefing, a health briefing, administrative paperwork and immunizations, distribution of cell phones and other equipment and our first language class.  At 6:00 this evening we travel by ‘maxi-van’ with our training groups (6-8 people) to our respective training sites in the surrounding suburbs of Chisinau, where each of us will meet our individual host families with whom we will reside for the next 8-10 weeks.  Tomorrow, more training.  Sunday, thank the lord, a day of rest.

I can’t convey how astounding it feels to finally be here, to have this long-awaited goal finally materialize into a place and people and activities to fill up my brain and my day.  I feel absolutely at home in this experience and couldn’t be more confident in my ability to navigate the road ahead.  Wow.  Gee whiz.  I’ve actually seen one of my longest-held dreams come true.  Amazing!!!

Stay tuned – wonderful things to come…

It’s Not Over til the Fat Lady Sings, Oh Lord!

My once seemingly boundless months of self-imposed limbo are just about to end.  From that day in February 2011 when I impulsively clicked the “Life is calling…Where will you go?” banner on some long-forgotten job site, my life has been suspended as if sheathed in amber.  I perfectly preserved my past by not making any forward movement.  Life has been frozen in time, having been effectively iced  that unforgettable day when I was “sent home” from my job of twenty years by a newly empowered board member ensconced in the driver’s seat who disapproved of my professional style (or lack thereof, according to her.)

In retrospect, a bit of the impetus for taking the leap and actually completing the mind-numbingly detailed and protracted Peace Corps application was an acrid bitterness that was poisoning my perspective on just about everything in my world.  I was bitter about politics and the crushing disappointment of an Obama presidency that didn’t deliver on the promise of hope.  I was bitter about diligently and painstakingly constructing my own professional sand castle only to have it swept away in the tumultuous wake of fallout swirling after the former CEO’s decade of mismanagement and neglect.  I was angry about my husband being fired by a pompous, self-aggrandizing fool who couldn’t admit to making a mistake.  I was frustrated by suburban exile masking itself as upper-middle class success; I was alone in my house and most days on my street with little sense of community or even partaking in the human race.  I couldn’t find a job opening that piqued my interest; the only roles I seemed (on paper, at least) qualified to fill involved sitting in an office staring at a computer screen.  I was furious at the arrogant greedy bastards raping our economy on one hand while delivering lectures on entitlement and the meritorious class with the other. I had ten years of mortgage payments remaining on a condo that was sliding into disrepair while my daughter was graduating from Berkeley into an apparently limitless blue sky that had disappeared from my radar decades ago.  Yeah, I was bitter.

So I clicked.  And here I go.  Amazingly enough, though, just by taking the leap I have been immersed in a powerful new radiance, an continuous, serial affirmation that is the best reward for having faith in my ability to remake my world .  In urging us to take that first step to follow our dreams, Goethe reminds us that “boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.”  Every step of the way on this journey, I have been sustained and propelled by the encouragement and excitement and validation of friends, family and even strangers.  It has been as if every single person whom I encounter is there to encourage me, reassure me and celebrate the journey upon which I’m embarking.

Since the first weekend of May (just about five weeks prior to my scheduled departure date,) I have been showered with gatherings of love, laughter and cheers .  So – just so I never, ever forget even one moment of this precious time that is so quickly slipping through my fingers – let me shout out my fervent appreciation and bottomless affection for (in order of memorable event)

All the beautiful, wise and generous women who attended the Pilgrim Pines Retreat: Some of you I have grown incredibly close to over the past four years; a few of you I met for the first time.  All of you were integral to the peace and energy of that weekend in that sacred space.  (Not to mention the belly laughter in the circle on the cabin floor after 10pm….)

My serene hippie soul mate, Rhonda who finally lured me back to the stupendous northern coast and sat me down amongst those majestic redwoods and breathed life back into my gypsy yearnings.  Thank you so much for reinvigorating my inexplicable attraction to that land and resurfacing what I’ve neglected within myself for too long.

Charlaine, my mother-crone, my bridge who gifted me a weekend on a cruise ship, all expenses paid, with a generous helping of wisdom from the perspective of her years.  There is nothing in my life as clear and uncomplicated and absolutely unconditional as your love.  Everyone woman in the world should have a mother like you.

Bart, the soul-searching poet whose poignant verse gives voice to the restless longings of my heart; our three day conversation is still resonating within me.  You and I have been there for each other through so many cycles of life; we have always recognized each other’s true face.  It is so damn good to be your friend.

My savvy sister (ok, in-law) Andee who shared my last plate of sushi: You WILL NOT let me get away with one iota less than what you assure me I deserve, sweet thing.  I love you for having my back – and front and bottom and top.  No one can cut through the rapids and navigate the swirling eddies of emotional helplessness more deftly than you.  I may be older but you are sneaking up on wiser, sis.

The Canyon Acres Crew Susan and Tracy and Jill and Mo and Diana and Mike and Gina (and Gigi, inabsentia,) who took over the Fullerton Crowne Plaza and sang “The Piano Man” with gusto and downed kamikazes and tequila shots in memory of the crazy counselors we once were.  You all are a living testament to the love we poured out for abused kids and a worthy cause and a beaucolic five acres “nestled in a canyon;” we have been through thick and thin and gone to hell and back for each other.  You are my forever posse and will be there for me raising the roof and your glasses high until I die.  (And I expect to be there in cardboard cutout for every single camping trip!!!)

My stunningly beautiful grandmother, Lorraine who reminds me to breathe in every moment, to appreciate the richness of sitting in the Ritz Carlton’s lobby just to people watch, who never fails to bring me back into the powerful experience of ‘now’ through the gentle refrain: This Is A Good Moment. All my life, you have been the guardian angel of my soul.

Anne, my icon of incisive wit and poser of confounding conundrums, your relentlessly probing questions, the hours and weeks and months (is it years, now?) of sustained conversation, the virtual universe of our digital exchanges (can’t forget your declared preference, my dear!) have brought me – finally – to a place of unwavering resolution.  You have believed in my quest from the beginning; you know every twist and bump and ditch and detour of the path I’ve traveled to get here.  I couldn’t have asked for a wiser, more compassionate fellow sojourner.  A big hug to you and Edward for ALL the wonderful meals.

My spiritual guides, inspirations, and cheerleader, thank you ladies for a beautiful evening: Teri, proudly 70 mother of nine, who joined AmeriCorps at 62? 63? You continue to amaze me with your ability to hike faster than me, live so exuberantly and passionately, embrace new experiences and always find the silver lining; Sarah, for being so damn wise and adventuresome (and for already having joined a circus) at twenty-one years of age – world, watch out! Here she comes; Elizabeth, for being my original inspiration for joining the Peace Corps. In the desert of Orange County, through the example of your life, you presented me with a startling whirlwind of new options.  I wouldn’t have imagined this, without meeting you.  And Robinmarie, you are always out in front of me, leading the way.  Your flowing spirit has given solace to my stormy soul; thank you so much for your willingness to cry with me, laugh with me, and imagine new beginnings for us both.

Despite having been unemployed for 20 months now, letting go of my home and possessions and now, at last, my country, my life is crazy full of abundance. Bitterness, anger, frustration, and fury are a distant memory. I feel like one of the luckiest people in the world with the love and blessings of all of you buoying me up as I fly away.  I can never hope to convey what a beautiful gift you all are to me.

And wow,

does the road uphead look promising…

Twinkle, Little Star

This morning I opened my email and discovered a 41-page document from the Moldovan Community Organizational Development (COD) Program Director outlining the goals, strategies, and outcome measurements of the Peace Corps relative to its in-country community collaborative partnerships.  It is a comprehensive, coherent and detailed document that goes a long way toward clarifying what I will be doing for the next 27 months.  With all the excitement and bustle of shopping, packing, and making the rounds of goodbyes, I almost forgot that I will actually be working for the first time in almost two years.  Predictably, the insidious doubting of my own abilities and skills started snuffling round the perimeter of my thoughts: “Can I really be of service to a community of people with a completely different culture? Political and social environment? Economic obstacles? Language?”   I slap down this unwarranted disbelief in my own experience and history as the debilitating and ennervating soul-sucker it is – I must believe that I can or I have no business getting on that plane next Monday.

My good friend Stacy, who worked alongside me at Canyon Acres as the CFO for almost 15 years, recently began working at a new agency.  I remember how nervous she was, thinking that her experience at Canyon Acres had been so insular and particular that she might not have anything substantive to offer her new employer.  After her first two weeks, however, I received an email from her detailing the many meaningful tools and insights she was bringing to the table and how appreciative her new employer was.  Most of all, however, she surprised herself at the true value she was able to impart to this new organization.  I always believed in her – I knew how much I relied on her wisdom and experience in my own professional endeavors.  But, like her, I have a hard time acknowledging the gems in my own treasure chest. I keep the lid shut tight and refrain from assessing my own worth.

Why is it that we women, especially, tend to minimize our effectiveness and value outside the realm of our immediate comfort zone?  Most of us refrain from blowing hard on our own horn, downplaying our particular gifts and skill sets in favor of deferring to the overall effectiveness of the team or group or department that garners our allegiance.  While this quality girds our ability to integrate easily into collective endeavors, it can also detract from our individual sense of self-esteem and cause us to shrink from challenges that may highlight our own specific talents and abilities.

Of course I don’t want to generalize this observation too broadly: in my professional capacities I have worked with a handful of women who were very self-assured and competent and not at all reticent to shine a light on their own accomplishments.  Interestingly enough, however, these women tended to rise quickly to the top of their organization and color the very real successes of their collective efforts solely as testaments to their managerial, mentoring and leadership abilities.  There seems to be too few of us able to comfortably reside in that fuzzy territory between acknowledging our own contributions and celebrating the accomplishments of a group.

I look to my Peace Corps service as a vehicle in helping me reach that place.  While the Peace Corps itself is a bureaucratic  governmental entity drawing on multiple resources and capacities to accomplish its goals, its particular structure lends itself to identifying, clarifying and focusing the individual skills and experience of its volunteer work force.  There are no standard jobs that PCVs are slotted to fill; each posting reflects the assessed, time-limited needs of a particular community being matched with the skills and experience of a particular volunteer.  Usually, we do not replace or repeat a former PCV’s role in any given project (English teachers are one exception;) each one of us is expected to discover and define a unique service, defined by our own histories, talents, and accomplishments, that we can offer a public administrative body or non-governmental organization collaboratively seeking to build its capacity or strengthen its infrastructure.

Admittedly, our individual stars will be mere pinpricks in the spangled firmament of US foreign aid and intervention, but I hope, after my two years is over, I can feel confident in the genuine light I’ve brought to one little corner of this world.  While I will have a great deal of support and guidance in accomplishing my goals and objectives, in the end the measure of my effectiveness will be largely attributable to my own creativity, motivation, and efforts.  I will be on my own a great deal of the time, working within a strange environment to facilitate the goals of a foreign community to capitalize its internal resources.  In doing so, I hope to accomplish much the same for myself.