dinner with grandma

My grandma made a special vegetarian dinner for me last night. We sat around, eating and talking, for over two hours!

Earlier in the day I had told Zach that I wanted to print off my blog and let her read it. Not because I wanted to shock her or disappoint her but because I want to understand and also be understood by her. When we talk, I always know what she thinks and believes but to explain what I think or why, I would have to play catch up for two hours--explaining many things that have brought me to where I am now. Her reading my blog would just be easier; then we could start in the same place—now.

While we were talking though, she mentioned how she had fallen off her bike in Italy and she believed an angel had gently lifted her to the ground. Also, for over ten years my grandma had a dog named Sugar and she died last year. The dog had became an extremely close companion for her. Last night she told me that Sugar has appeared to her three times since she passed. She also said, in her own little way she used to tell Sugar about God and Jesus. She would leave the Christian radio on every time she left the house and tell her to listen to the songs about Jesus.

Sitting across the table from that white-haired grandmother of mine, I saw very plainly her sincerity. She wasn’t making those things up. She wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. She was floating along, on the island of her own paradigm, speaking her truth (which is based on the combination of her life experiences so far). Does everyone have their own versions of the truth?

My grandma sincerely believed what she was telling me just as sincerely as I didn’t believe it. I realized it felt like we were speaking different languages. I understood her because she was speaking the language I grew up speaking—believing in God the father, miracles, Jesus as my savior, etc. But I wonder if she could possibly ever understand me…

Maybe I don’t really need to be understood. Is it really necessary to push my grandma into the tumult of worry and fear for my soul? It’s probably just easier to let her think I’m a good little Christian girl. The only problem is that’s what I’ve let people assume for years and it has felt suffocating! Last night though, it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like I was able to interact with my grandma in a peaceful way and observe her beliefs without threatening them. I knew within myself that I felt differently and it was okay that she didn’t know.

I don’t care at all that my grandma and I differ so completely in our beliefs. I don’t feel the need to contemplate if one of us is right and the other wrong. It seems to me we’re all working on our own part of a giant puzzle--one the size of a football field. Who am I to tell anyone the pieces they have put together don’t fit?

not afraid to share

With five minutes each and instructions to share a story, each person climbed the steps to the stage and attempted to sum up their summer. What a clearly impossible task! Tales of triumph, misfortune, laughter, and love spilled out into the ears of the audience.

Two girls drank full glasses of juice concentrate because nobody mentioned that they should add water. Two attempted to sing a slow hymn with the wrong chords and a techno beat being pounded out on a keyboard in the background. A few experienced the unrestrained love and adoration of children; they told stories of a three-year old with alcoholic parents in Ukraine, a five-year old whose mother abandoned him in Canada, and endless numbers of AIDS orphans in Zambia. One girl left a clinic in the pouring rain with a borrowed umbrella, only to have an old man come to her home a few minutes later, in the middle of the downpour, to retrieve the umbrella so somebody else could use it.

As I listened to the stories, my heart wept, laughed and felt deeply for each person. Only the most miniscule portion of their joys and sorrows would I ever know about. I’m continually blown away by the magnitude of the human experience and what a small part we are able to communicate to others.

The room was filled with family, friends, a few apostles and even the president of the church. But as I mounted the stage, it didn’t matter whose faces I was seeing; I’m not intimidated or impressed by power or position. Given five minutes, I would share the same thing with any person on earth. This summer I’ve been given a gift: I’m not afraid!

Not afraid to say what I think,

Not afraid to be wrong.

Not afraid of being judged or not liked,

Not afraid to share who I really am.

Not afraid to speak or listen.

Not afraid of not fitting.

Not afraid of disappointing or offending.

I’m not afraid!

I’M NOT AFRAID!

It’s hard to pinpoint who the giver of the gift was. I’ve been yearning for my own liberation for a while now but was never able to quite attain it. I’m grateful for the internet for letting me communicate myself, to Zoe for being so affirming, to my loving community for loving me with real love, to myself for taking the first step to sharing all of myself with other people, and to all the young men in Gorlovka because they listened in person and provided a safe place for me to share.

While I stood up there, painting a picture of my summer for all those people, I cried. How could I recreate the myriad of colors I saw, felt, tasted, and heard each day for two months? Can anyone paint a rainbow in black and white? So I confessed my former fear (of being judged or kicked out of my loving community because of what I did or didn’t believe) and focused on the beauty of the gift of having that fear released, and that was enough.

Afterwards, the father of a guy I dated for two years came up to me and bear-hugged me. He thanked me for sharing. He and his wife both work for the church and the whole two years I knew them closely, I was never able to say what I really thought about God or the church. He said, “Man Allie, you must have just been terrified of me.” And I cried again, soaking his shoulder, because it was true. I just feel so glad that it’s not true anymore.

I really am not afraid.

home again

It’s six am and I’ve been awake for two hours already…

A 3:50am I woke-up, lay in bed and listened to the voicemails that have accumulated while I’ve been gone all summer.

Some were old messages that I had saved because they bring me joy:

two raps from friends on Christmas day,

one from my mom that doesn’t have any words-- just hysterical laughter (which I think was response to a funny message I had left her…),

one from my boyfriend sounding like a giggly school girl and telling me he loves me,

one from my step mom asking if I’m pregnant and then laughing for a long time at her own joke,

and two from my six year-old sister Faith saying, “Hi Allie. I just called to say hi so…Hi Allie.”

 

At 4:30am my brother made me blueberry pancakes since I hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. He works the night shift and didn’t have to work tonight but stayed up anyways to try and keep a normal schedule.

At 5:45am Evan went to bed and I’ve been sitting alone in the dark by the window, listening to the thunderstorm outside and thinking about my summer.

 

So here I am.

I’m home.

Not because I’m in the United States again but because I’ve returned to a place where many hearts love me.

I was at home in Ukraine,

I was at home in Spain last March,

and maybe, wherever you are,

I have a home there too.  

a poem I wrote today...

Don’t think I am brave,

For I am loved.

Whisperings of praise and support have filled my ears for years.

And I am cherished.

The wind itself tells tales of my treasured place in the hearts of hundreds.

 

Don’t think I am brave,

For I am heard.

Many loving hands do wait to catch the words that leave my lips.

And I am respected.

My ideas land like seeds to be tended by many gardeners.

 

Imagine me unloved,

Then decide if I am brave.

I am like a child with a hundred parents.

Would I so freely cross the street without a hand to hold?

 

Imagine me uncherished,

Then decide if I am brave.

I am like a book, carefully read a hundred times.

Would I think myself so important if I lay discarded in the gutter?

 

Imagine me unheard,

Then decide if I am brave.

I am like a storyteller with a hundred listeners.

Would I bother to speak at all if every ear was closed?

 

Imagine me disrespected,

Then decide if I am brave.

I am like a medicine-man among a hundred villagers.

Would I even attempt to heal if every person laughed at my aid?

 

Don’t think I am brave.

For I swim in pools of your love, adoration, attention, and respect.

But who would I be in the desert?

 

I know not what I am without you.

I confess arrogance.

For feeling trapped in a hotel room that my friend Jon’s wheelchair wouldn’t even be able to access.

For feeling controlled by someone whose intentions were only to protect me.

For feeling constrained at having to call for an escort every time I wanted to go outside when really those escorts were my friends whom I love to spend time with.

For feeling upset at not being listened to during one conversation with a man who wasn’t heard by his government for thirty years.

For feeling like I knew better the safety of a street than the man who has lived here twice as long as I’ve lived on the earth.

For feeling angry that someone else’s fear (well-grounded and logical) outweighed my fearlessness (theoretical and irrational).

For feeling like someone else’s feelings were separate from my own and forgetting for a moment that we are one.

 

I confess arrogance and through these confessions I purify my heart.

And my last five days in Ukraine, I walked in peace.

I refuse to live my life in fear. Instead of being concerned that people will physically harm me, judge me, or do any number of bad things to me: I expect to be loved. When I walk down the street and view each person as a friend, likely to love and support me if given the chance, the world is a beautiful place.

Maybe my perspective is skewed because, when I look for goodness in my life and in other people, I see it easily. I don’t search for faults or anticipate impending tragedies. I prefer to be surprised when treated badly rather than expect it. This is the way I want to live. I refuse to live my life in fear.

I have lived for twenty-four years and this is the conclusion I have reached about humankind—that I choose to love people instead of fear them. None of those years have been lived in Ukraine. Only a few scattered months, during the last couple years, have I occupied other countries. I realize that terrible things happen daily around the world but I don’t choose to be a disciple of the fear/tragedy based American media. Love is my teacher, my master, and myself. Not just on paper but in the deepest parts of my soul.

I am not so naïve as to think that nothing bad will ever happen in my life. I expect and welcome difficult experiences that teach me how to love more deeply. Real love isn’t written in pencil, to be erased when things get tough and you don’t feel like loving anymore.

I read a poem (The Prophet by: Kahlil Gibran) a few days ago that took my breath away with the truth of its’ statements:

“When love beckons to you--follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

…And when he speaks to you--believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

… All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.”

The word, “Yes,” in a thousand different languages, echoes through my body when I read that poem. To love is the easiest and hardest thing I will ever do in my entire life. My dreams will be shattered, my strength will be tested, and my ideals will be questioned as I push myself into the depths of my soul looking for the true ability to love. Love is not just a verb; Love is my identity. Love is our identity.

When I recognize each person’s identity as Love, how can I fear them? When we encounter people who are intentionally hurtful, mean, annoying, or frustrating—we have an opportunity to increase our merit by loving them. Another radical idea from my favorite Buddhist book: ‘We should feel thankful to our “enemies” for teaching us how to forgive and be patient.’ I agree wholeheartedly!

I’ve lived with this truth for about a week now. I tried to explain it to the guys last night and only partially succeeded; maybe due to the Russian/English language barrier or maybe the radical-ness of the idea. Here’s the example I used: what if someone beats me up very badly. On the spectrum of understanding our oneness, this person is obviously on the opposite end from me. If he or she knew that we were one, they wouldn’t ever consider hurting me. Knowing this, I will forgive them—understanding that their actions are a result of what their life experiences have taught them. I will also feel grateful to them for giving me the opportunity to understand the depths of forgiveness and love. If I can forgive even someone who physically beats me, how much easier will it be to forgive other offenses?

We struggled for a few minutes with this topic, with the guys sort of shaking their heads at me, then one guy suggested that maybe I am a masochist. Laughter exploded out of me, and everyone actually. I suspect this won’t be the last time someone thinks this about me. Like in the poem, I want to learn all the parts of love even if it crucifies me.

Later during our discussion last night, one of the guys asked me what I believe. The words, “I believe in love” danced out of mouth without hesitation and I discovered there wasn’t any more to say. That’s the whole story: beginning, middle, and end. 

Topics ranging from practical jokes to abortion and from feminism to family have been thoroughly discussed during our morning English conversations so far. It’s amazing how quickly you get to know people when you spend 4 to 6 hours a day talking to them! During the evenings, Ephim (the man who is coordinating our stay here) has assigned more religious themes and I’ll admit I felt nervous about our first couple.

The reason I felt nervous about this is because I didn’t know what to expect or if it would be a safe place to share what I really thought. Here’s the deal: I’m not a great debater. Some people get all riled up about controversial things and relish a good argument/discussion. I, on the other hand, would just rather share my opinion and listen to the opinions of others. I would gladly skip the drama of people trying to convince everybody else they are wrong.

Turns out, my small fears sprouted and withered all in one day because they didn’t have fertile soil to take root. These young men are so open-minded and respectful. Today during our discussion about other religions, I shared about the Buddhist book I’m reading and the meditation I did on the beach to expand my love. One of the guys shared a Sufi story about many different people were climbing a mountain, some seeing desert, others green forests, and still others snow. In the end though, despite how differently they had seen the journey, they all ended up at the same place. I love this story!

Another guy shared that he thinks Islam and Christianity are equal. Zo expanded on this with some things she learned in a religion class. Basically she explained that Christianity was a like a re-mix of Judaism with some extra verses and Islam did the same to Christianity. All three religions are different versions of the same original song, so what’s the big fuss and why all the conflict??!!

As the discussion went on, they asked us what it was like in our home congregations and I told a story that made me cry. One Christmas break, I shared a testimony at church about how many new questions I had and that I didn’t know what to believe anymore. It was a difficult thing to share because before I left, I had been so solid in my beliefs and the things they had taught me growing up. I felt like I was letting them down but I was just trying to be sincere.

After church, a woman pulled me aside and said, “You really scared me in there. I just kept thinking, ‘That’s not Allie. That’s not Allie.’ You need to remember who you used to be and be that person again.” I can’t un-see the things I’ve seen! I can’t un-know the things I know! I can’t un-experience the things I’ve experienced! And no, I can’t be who I used to be before.

I cried for a few hours about what that woman said to me because it affirmed the feeling that had been creeping at the edges of my mind for months. I didn’t fit anymore! I didn’t fit with the people that had loved me the most my entire life!

How beautiful that today, surrounded by these no-longer strangers, I found a place where I fit again within the church. In the US, I’ve collected a group of friends with whom I fit and feel safe. But being here has made me realize that my place in the church isn’t a small corner in the back of a storeroom…I no longer have to wedge myself into the back row: yearning just to be close to my loving community and hoping that nobody notices my skin is blue and theirs is yellow. No! There’s a place for me, even bigger than I imagined!

Today, I realized I’ve been colorblind. So scared of the drastic change in my own skin that I didn’t notice the real colors around me. 

Is there room enough for me?

Even when I say exactly what I think?

Even if I’m more parts Buddhist than Christian?

Even if I share the private parts of myself that other people don’t like?

Even when I question and criticize everything?

Even if I change my mind about what I believe a million different times?

Even if I hurt your feelings?

Even if I call your values into question as I examine my own?

 

Can you still love me?

Will you love reach far enough to include me?

Even when I’m not perfect anymore?

Didn’t you love me for more than just my beliefs?

Do you still love me even when we don’t share as many similarities?

If the fill-in-the-blank after religion is different for the two of us, does your love remain the same?

Can your love remain the same?

Isn’t real love always the same?

For a period of time in my life, I didn’t believe in love. This feeling can’t be attributed to a lack of people who professed love for me because, to my memory, there have always existed plenty. Neither was it the bitter consequence of a failed relationship. No, this feeling came about after my own careful thought and analysis of love concluded that free love didn’t exist. All the love I had ever received had been earned. Some people loved me because I possessed a certain number of positive attributes: sweet, funny, caring, thoughtful, smart, endearing, etc. Love from others developed because of proximity. Had I instead been born in India to a different family, it isn’t likely the current family that I have would currently love me.

I don’t know why this upset me--to find out that human love is usually circumstantial. We like people who are nice, beautiful, witty, make us feel good about ourselves etc or who just happen to interact with us more often than others. It makes sense but, it disturbed me because it made love seem so shallow.

I don’t remember how or why I stopped being upset by this. Was it some new insight? Did I simply write it off as one of the things I would never be able to figure out? Or did I say to myself that even if human love was circumstantial, God’s love wasn’t? I really don’t remember but last week, this inner struggle about the true nature of love came rushing back into my mind.

We stayed at the Black Sea for six hours one day and for a portion of that time, I lay on my towel and practiced one of the meditations from my book (How to Expand Love: Widening the Circle of Loving Relationships by: HH Dalai Lama). I’ve tried several times to write what the book saying and I can’t do it justice. But basically it talks about relationships and that you like people who earn your love by making you feel good and you dislike people who don’t (basically the love struggle I had) and you feel nothing for neutral people whom you’ve never interacted. Through meditation and practice though, the idea is that what you feel for your best friend can be extended to people you aren’t as close friends with. The extension can be taken even further to include people you feel nothing for and also people you even dislike a lot! I love this idea. It brings such harmony to my soul, like finding a puzzle piece I’ve been looking for an hour. It’s okay, normal and even a beautiful thing to love people when they haven’t done anything to earn it!

The next part of the book is very different than the cookie-cutter Christian beliefs I used to have. It talks about having lived endless many lifetimes as different people and how everyone, at one time or another, has been your mother. There was a meditation reflecting on the kindnesses shown to you by all your different mothers: how she carried you in the womb, all the pains she experienced, the fullness of her joy at your growth, the many sacrifices she made (not just for a few months but for years), the care she gave freely when you could not care for yourself and the depth of her love and endearment towards you. When you recognize these kindnesses, “…there is no way to be unimpressed.”

For the meditation, you consider different people and all the unknown kindnesses you’ve received from them. Not just people who are your friends, but neutral people and enemies as well. Again, I love this idea! I loved thinking about the different people in my life and feeling grateful to them for things I could never specifically name. I also began to feel a closeness with the people around me.

Cross-legged on my towel, I sat and looked around at the people who filled the beach and sea. I saw a boy throwing a fit and his mother speaking sternly to him. I heard peels of laughter exploding from a small child who was bouncing in the waves holding her grandmother’s hands. I noticed a couple in their 50’s, asleep and spooning close together on a blanket under the shade of their small umbrella. A very frail old man walked by slowly, two teenage girls giggled and whispered, a woman squeezed her way through the throngs of people while carrying a bucket of sunflower seeds and calling out her prices—the beautiful human experience was surrounding me on every side. I tried to generate feelings of gratitude towards each person I saw and it felt so beautiful, natural, and good. My heart flooded with love! I saw all the people around me as my brothers, grandmothers, lovers, best friends, aunts, fathers…and I saw them as myself. I can’t express the beauty of this moment. It just made me cry thinking about it.

And if I could sit on your lap,

with your arms wrapped around me

and tell you about this experience myself…

my tears would express more than these words ever could.

a new truth

While in Odessa, Volodya mentioned to me that one of Natasha’s friends was interested in coming over to talk with Zoe and I. A few years ago, she became pregnant. She wanted to have the baby but her husband didn’t. He forced her to have an abortion and now she has internal medical problems. She feels very angry and sad and wants to ask us why God would let something like that happen.

An overwhelming wave of empathy washed over me when Volodya mentioned this to me and my eyes filled with tears. He continued talking about something else but my mind had come to a screeching stop. I couldn’t stop feeling deep sadness for that woman. I also felt completely inadequate to help her. There are libraries of books written about why bad things happening to good people and I’ve never read even one! I didn’t even take the class at Graceland called, “Suffering and Meaning.”

This probably seems ridiculous but I thought about that woman for days. My heart felt such sadness for her situation and feelings of anger and anguish. I also was bothered by the question she wanted to ask us. Why would God let something like that happen? My immediate response is another question: “Why does everything that happens have to be attributed or blamed on God or whatever?” I have found peace in understanding there are many things that I won’t ever be able to know or explain. But what do I say to this woman?

When I was running up and down the stairs for exercise a few days ago, I thought about her again for maybe the thousandth time and then began to realize a new truth. It sent goosebumps up and down my arms.

What if I move that woman’s question into the “unanswerable questions” pile and ask better questions like: What has this experience made her feel and what do those feelings say about her? She feels angry and hurt, why? Maybe she deeply values human life, even if that life is unborn. Maybe she was looking forward to loving and caring for a child and is sad about no longer getting that chance. Maybe she values her own freedom and liberty to make choices about her own body. If these things are the case, then she knows something new about herself.

The next step is for her to live in a way that exemplifies those newly recognized aspects of herself. Maybe she could volunteer at a school, babysit regularly for a friend or adopt a child, not to replace the one she lost but to recognize the fact that she feels the desire to love a child or children. Maybe she has wanted to get her hair cut short for a while but hasn’t because her husband likes it long. She should get her hair cut, not to anger him or get revenge but just to exercise her own freedom to make choices about her body.

Sometimes when bad things happen, we hit a roadblock and stop at the place filled with the angry asking of unanswerable questions. Instead, I think it would be better to examine the situation and our feelings, learn all that we can about ourselves, life, and other people and then move on. It feels better to learn, grow, and move than be stuck in the same place, with the same awful feelings and the same questions that don’t have answers.

The truth is, I’m not a psychologist and I don’t really know what she was feeling or why. She has to figure those things out herself. Also, I realize that this is a really wordy, intellectual answer to her question and sometimes people just need you to cry with them or feel for them. Demonstrated compassion and empathy sometimes help more than words do.

We left Odessa without having ever met that woman. The conversation never actualized. The hours I spent thinking about her and how to respond to one of her life experiences weren’t wasted though. I realized a new truth and I’m sharing it with other people.

I used to be afraid to share my truths. I didn’t want to offend anyone or be embarrassed if I discovered a new truth that trumped my old one. Now I don’t want to hide what I believe and I don’t mind being wrong. Peace blooms more plentifully in my heart this way.

With the train in constant lurching motion, I tried to keep the contents of my stomach inside but failed miserably. My first and only 17-hour overnight train trip turned out to be disastrous! Ironically, the only time I’m sick this entire summer is when we are cramped into the tightest space with the worst restroom facilities.

I’m pretty sure I had food poisoning, which felt like a mixture of baking soda and vinegar in my stomach. The toilet was also a circular metal thing with a hole straight down to the tracks, which was oh-so-easy to use considering how much the train rocked and swayed the entire time. There are many things I’m grateful for: no lines for the restroom, plenty of plastic bags available next to my bunk when I needed them and the fact that my vomiting didn’t cause Volodya and Zoe to follow suit (which would’ve been horrifying by the way). I did survive the night and got to rest a few hours the next day in our hotel. Phew!

Zoe and I are spending our last two weeks in Ukraine in a town called Gorlovka in the western part of the country. It’s located 17 hours by train and forty minutes by car from Odessa where we’ve been staying for the last few weeks. We have two missions while we’re here: to teach everyone in the congregation how to speak fluent English and basically to pick up chicks. The church here consists of about ten young men, aged 20 to 28. I’ve never been to a congregation that had such little diversity. No children, elderly people, women, or anyone of different ethnicity.

Yesterday we met them all and had our first two-hour English conversation at the church. The plan is to do this twice a day for the next two weeks. I’m not sure yet what the plan will be for picking up chicks. If the guys can’t seem to talk to girls about church, I don’t know how Zoe and I will when we don’t even speak their language! We’ll see how it goes though; I’m a pretty friendly person so maybe I could finagle a few girls into hanging out with some nice church boys.

Without question, today has been the saltiest day of my life. Having spent the last several hours at a miniature “Dead Sea,” I feel like ham: thoroughly salted and baked. Apparently this small body of water used to connect to the Black Sea but became land locked a few years ago and has been getting saltier ever since. It’s fairly large: my guess is about one mile wide and two miles long, though I’m a very bad estimator of distances. At the deepest point it’s only waist high so you have to walk forever for the water to get even past your ankles.

This miniature “Dead Sea”, called Leman Kuyalnik, has several spas and places of healing built on its shores because the water and mud are supposedly very good for you. When we arrived there today, we layed out our blankets and towels on the salty ground (it wasn't like sand at all) and then headed into the water. For the first several feet, the ground was packed and dry, then it became like walking on really large corn flakes but it was salt. As we got closer to the water, the ground became even more white, covered in old footprints that collected salt crystals. Our feet sunk a little and the mud underneath the salt was rich black. When the water was ankle deep, the ground had a crusty top layer of salt--which your feet sank through immediately to the mud, which was about six inches deep. Looking back towards the shore, you could see a string of black circles in the water behind each person, where they had stepped and stirred up mud.

Eventually we got tired of walking and lay down in the water. The mud felt cool and clay-like, so we reached deep--grabbing handfuls, and started smearing it all over our arms and tummies. Before Zo and I came here, I found a few things on the internet about the healing qualities of the mud... so one of our goals was to have a mud bath when in Odessa. After today--mission accomplished! We covered out entire bodies with that crazy black mud! The kids didn't like it so they ran away from Zoe, Natasha and I as we made our transformation from girls in swimming suits to monsters from the deep.

After that, we made one trip back to shore for Volodya to take photos of us, then we walked far out and stayed in the water for an hour. The water splashed in my eyes once and it felt like fire! The concentration of salt in that water is incredible. I couldn't open my eyes for a few minutes as tears streamed down my face. Thank goodness my body had a natural defense mechanism to save my eyes before they burned out of their sockets because my salty fingers were no help!

We were just deep enough to float on our backs without touching the ground, so I let the wind drift me for awhile with my eyes closed. What a peaceful moment...

Back on shore, the salt crystallized on our skin. Everyone looked like they were covered in glitter! Little salt crystals collected on our arm hair. The drips down our legs dried as chunks of salt and when I scratched my skin--my fingernails filled with salt! Everyone also appeared to have bad dandruff--which of course was more salt. Our legs and arms also had lots of small scratches from floating and crawling around in the water and the ground being made of slightly sharp salt flakes. These wounds felt wonderful with all the salt...not!

One of Natasha's friends lives on the ridge directly next to this sea so we walked to her house to rinse off. As we walked up the trail, the novelty of our saltiness wore off quickly under the baking sun. I have never been so ready for a shower in my life!

A short taxi ride home, dinner of noodles and salad (which consists of: cabbage, chives, tomatoes, cucumbers, dill weed and oil), and now I'm off to finish watching a Russian movie from the 70's about a man who invented a time machine. What a beautiful life I lead :)

The first indication of how interesting our evening would be was probably the pregnant drug addict on the bus. She got on, sort of twitching and acting strange, then pointed right in my face and said something very loudly in Russian. Volodya (the pastor guy I was sitting next to) translated for me. She had said, “Give me your water!” So I did and she drank the whole bottle.

We were on our way downtown where Volodya had a meeting at the church apartment. Afterwards he promised to take me around to an older part of town to take photos of the buildings. I had mentioned my attraction to old crumbly things before. Natasha (his wife) and Zoe were going to come also but turns out, everybody got sick! The complaints included neck and back aches, fever, nausea, constipation, diarrhea, vomiting, sore throat, coughing, kidney pain, and headaches. Like some sort of strange pandemic, no two people had the same symptoms! Luckily, Volodya and I felt fine so we left the sick to tend the sick and headed downtown.

The first strange thing that happened was the woman on the bus taking my water. Then we walked by two people screaming at each other. Right as we passed, the guy grabbed the girl’s purse and started dumping it out, throwing things in the air, ripping papers and then stomping everything into the ground. Needless to say, I began to question the safety of the neighborhood.

Next came a dogfight that erupted, of course, when we were directly between the territorial canines. I don’t know why they waited until we walked in between to notice each other. Don’t worry, I leaped forward several steps with Volodya walking calmly behind me and we both escaped unscathed. I might have been a tad bit jumpy.

A few minutes later, we saw a dead cat--which I morbidly took three pictures of. Then we walked by a coffin factory, with heaps of wood and of course, many “boxes for dead people” as Volodya explained to me. I also took pictures of this place. Might as well sign me up for the Adam’s Family.

As Volodya talked about the history of Odessa, I continued taking photos of the dilapidated buildings. He told me not to walk underneath the old balconies because he had seen in the news that some girls had been killed when their balcony broke off from the building, with them in it. I heeded his warning and avoided the under areas of balconies but also thought to myself, “Really though, the likelihood that a balcony will break just at the moment we happen to be walking under it, isn’t very high.” A few seconds later, we heard a violent crash behind us and there, on the sidewalk, lay a very large piece of the building we had just walked by. The extreme coincidence of this moment blows my mind. I don’t even know what else to say about it. We both sort of giggled nervously and walked a lot closer to the street but things like that, you just can’t prevent! Life is so fragile. One minute you’re walking down the street and the next you’re in the hospital or maybe taking a visit to the coffin factory!

When we got to the end of the street we decided to take a tram to a Ukrainian restaurant for dinner. We’ve only been riding buses, trains and taxis so I felt excited to try some new type of transportation. This enthusiasm waned quickly when Volodya told me a story while we waited. When he was in college, he was waiting at that very stop and saw an old woman’s legs get cut off when the tram ran her over. I’ve never been so horrified by any story anyone has ever told me. My stomach actually felt queasy.

The last part of our evening adventure turned out much better. We went to the Ukrainian restaurant and had ice cream for dinner. Both of us are very partial to sweets, so that was the most delicious dinner ever! Then we saw a few more sights, told funny stories and laughed hysterically. I got a feel for his sense of humor and told him a few stories about my childhood. His favorite story was one about my dog.

I lived in the country and my mom would drive to our bus stop to pick us up because it was a mile from our house. Our dog liked to come along and his favorite thing was to ride on the very front of the hood--wind in his face, ears flappin’, I’m sure you can picture it.

One day, on the way back from the bus, my dog saw a gopher, jumped off the front of the car and my mom ran him over! Everyone in the car started screaming and she slammed the brakes hard. Luckily, my dog only had a broken leg and just had to hop around with a cast for a while. Volodya thought this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his life. Both of us laughed until we could barely breathe.

We took a taxi home and passed a limousine with “Oregon” license plates. I was pretty much the happiest ever about that, though I have no idea how it got here. When I arrived home, poor Zo had an even higher fever and felt awful. I curled up on her bed next to her for a while and asked if she had taken Tylenol, needed water, etc but she didn’t need anything. So I went to bed. Currently, it’s 1pm the next day and she still hasn’t risen. I might go check if she’s still breathing…

Peeling an orange and looking out the window of our apartment, I saw a man burrow into some weeds. He approached the back of an empty lot full of weeds taller than himself, pushed his two suitcases into the plants and then followed them in, disappearing from my view for a few minutes. He then appeared in the middle of the plants, thrashing around and clearing a little bit of space. Next, a stick rose up with some cloth over it, creating a tent. That was three days ago and today, despite the rain, he remains.

I feel a deep affinity towards this man. I don’t know anything about him… but I want to. I could assume he is poor and hasn’t any other options but I like considering the possibility that he is neither. What if he has a job and enough money but likes to sleep under the stars? What if this man is like me and doesn’t see why people need such big spaces to live in? What if the definition of freedom, to this man, is living in a different place every few weeks? What if he’s extremely claustrophobic?

My plan was to live out of a car this next year during film school in Canada; to get a membership to a gym for showers and live the simple life. I abandoned this plan when my aunt informed me it was way too cold for that. Now I’m not even sure if I’ll do the film school thing but some day I would like to try living without a house or apartment. When I mentioned this to my aunt, she told me that my other aunt had moved to Washington to be a teacher and lived at a campground for the first year. I thought, “Aha!!!! So, I’m not the only one thinks being house-less is a good idea.”

So I think I will try house-less-ness for some portion of my life. And if I ever have kids, I love the idea of house sharing, as in living with another family in one house. Why do we all have to be so separate, like expensive chocolates with their own little sections of a box? I want to be part of a chocolate bar--the kind that everybody can afford and is good for smores!

When I walked into the biggest party I’ve ever been to, everybody started cheering. It was packed—nowhere to sit, barely any room to stand but as I made my way through the crowd, face after face lit up and yelled, “Allie Petrie’s here!” Then people started chanting my name so I stood up on a chair and pounded my fist in the air, which of course brought an uproarious cheer.

I’m not sure why this happened. Maybe it’s because I waited until my last semester at Graceland to ever drink or party and even then, I only did so a handful of times with close friends. This one big party was like…my coming out. No longer some “holier than thou” saint, I walked into the room the same as everybody there and they were glad to see me.

That night, some people taught me how to play a game called “quarters,” I had a few good conversations, cheered on some “ping pong” players, used an ipod with speakers to play dj and then left when the cops came because of the noise. I walked home with some friends to their house, lay on their roof and talked about life. It was a beautiful night. I’m sure nothing like that party will ever happen again in my life because, well, I’m done with college and moving on. I’m not opposed to big parties, I just only experienced one and now, I don’t see why another opportunity would arise.

The year after I graduated from high school, I baptized one of my best friends. She and I became good friends after I got back from a semester abroad in Venezuela and I invited her to some church things. After the first caravan huddle (a sort of weekend youth retreat), she was hooked and came to church almost every Sunday, senior high camp, reunion, and Spec. It was beautiful how fully she became part of the loving community I had always known. She asked me to be the one who baptized her and I felt deeply honored.

It happened under the cool shade of Myrtle trees, at the bottom of a green valley in a small creek at Camp Remote. We both felt so happy as we stepped into the water. I felt a little nervous because I had never done anything like that before. She came up grinning and we walked out of the water hand in hand. As we stepped onto the bank, the first thing said to me was, “You did it wrong. You didn’t lift up your hand when you were saying the words.” I experienced a moment of panic because I knew it was true but there was nothing I could do about it. I was embarrassed that I had done it wrong.

The comment repeated in my mind for several months afterwards. I was bothered but didn’t know why. Then I realized it was because that woman was so caught up a ritual being preformed a certain way--she became blind. She didn’t see the beauty of the moment, the sincere desire in my friend’s heart to become part of the community or the joy that emanated from both of us. The procedure took precedence over all else. This is sad to me.

I’m tired of fill-in-the-blank services. The “hymn sandwich” (i.e. hymn, prayer, hymn, scripture, hymn, sermon, etc) isn’t working for me. Problematically, I don’t know what does work for me.

I also understand that not everybody is me. People experience life in different ways so if the hymn sandwich works for everybody else, okay. I respect that but in an effort to be true to myself, I know that I need something different.

When I go to church it’s for the community and my two favorite parts are harmonizing with the hymns and after the service is over when everyone talks for ages. I think that’s why I like church here in Ukraine. We sit around in a circle, sing and talk about life and God.

A poem I wrote last night

And there was born a generation of love
With hearts full of fertile soil
Many seeds of various religions were scattered within these hearts
And these seeds took root and grew

The lovers tended their heart gardens
They could see the value and beauty of each plant
They could see the expanse of their heart soil
Room enough for many plants
No need to uproot
No desire to tend only one

The eyes of the lovers could see into other heart gardens
And these eyes wept at the beauty they saw
Innocent tears of appreciation for the respect and love that had been showered
on each garden

And this generation of love
Found great truth
And felt great peace
All of their days

And this generation of lovers
Filled the world
With a love it had never known before
And the world was never the same.

More of my current life experience…

I swam in the Black Sea today. Before I left for Ukraine, my friend Josh gave me a swimming lesson. My swimming skills have experienced serious decline since the summer I took lessons at the Redmond Aquatic Center when I was a child. Having reduced my repertoire to the illustrious “doggy paddle,” I was in serious need of a refresher course. The pointers Josh shared with me have been as valuable to me as all the Russian lessons I completed combined! We have swum almost every day here. In Kiev, we walked through the woods to a fresh water lake near our house. Here in Odessa, we take “marshukar” (the bus) several stops to the sea. The beach is always packed with people, even on cloudy days with sporadic showers! The reason we go to the beach on those days still eludes me.

Today some words I read swept my heart across the sea! Lying on my towel in the sand, I picked up my book and felt peace seep into my soul. Even just now, when I re-read the passage, I am gripped by how soundly the truth of these words feel. I have to share this truth with you. Below are the words I underlined until the end of the particular chapter that I wrote “yes” in all caps, with three exclamation points and underlined twice.

“All religions teach a message of love, compassion, sincerity, and honesty.”

“…if we put too much emphasis on our own philosophy, religion, or theory, becoming too attached to it, and try to impose it on other people, the result will be trouble.”

“Each one of us is responsible for all humankind. We need to think of each other as true brothers and sisters, and to be concerned with each other’s welfare. We must seek to lessen the suffering of others. Rather than working solely to acquire wealth, we need to do something meaningful, something seriously directed toward the welfare of humanity as a whole.”

“This is my simple religion. No need for temples. No need for complicated philosophy. Your own mind, your own heart, is the temple; your philosophy is simple kindness.”

So maybe this doesn’t seem like heart being swept across the sea material but it is to me! Job searching this spring was so painful! I didn’t want to sell out and spend any life energy doing a job that didn’t fit just to earn the almighty dollar. I don’t have the same checklist as everyone else: college, career, husband, babies, and retirement. After college, I hadn’t filled in the blank for “next major life goal” and this was extremely disconcerting. The reason the words I read in that book speak to me is because, that’s what I want. However ambiguous doing “…something meaningful, something seriously directed toward the welfare of humanity as a whole” sounds, it’s what I want.

AND…the other reason this book spoke to me is because a few years back, I lost my religion. I lost my belief in god. I lost the trust I felt for the human organization that is my church. This was extremely painful because those things were all buried deep in my heart. It felt like having limbs amputated when I realized the precious things I believed didn’t fit anymore. I can’t tell you how many church services I’ve attended and felt completely empty and alone. There isn’t a very easy way to explain it all--the story of how Allie lost her religion is a long one. For now it suffices to say that when I read the words in that book today, I felt the stirrings in my heart of some truth that I could believe in. And I can’t even explain how very good that felt.

Oh and the book is called, “How to Expand Love: Widening the Circles of Loving Relationships.” By HH Dalai Lama.

About nine months ago I was sexually assaulted. I was at a Halloween party with 8 of my close friends, all of whom I had known since my freshman year at Graceland and a few even longer than that. The party was at my brother’s apartment and it was a lot of fun: a bunch of friends, talking, laughing, eating and playing a few games together. I had a few drinks but quit by 9pm, it was only my second time drinking and I wasn’t interested in a hangover. Growing up, I was taught that drinking was bad. At some point I didn’t believe that anymore, but I still never tried alcohol; maybe because I wasn’t supposed to for my job as HP or maybe because I was scared. When I did try it, my previous thoughts were confirmed. Alcohol isn’t inherently evil. When abused it can cause really bad things but drinking it occasionally and not getting out of control doesn’t make me or anyone a bad person.

Anyways, a few people started falling asleep around midnight, others around 1am but I was up until 2 talking with a guy who seemed to kind of distant from the group all night. He had a girlfriend who wasn’t there and he missed her a lot. I asked him questions about her, their relationship, when he would get to see her next and we had a really good conversation. I had just recently broken up with my boyfriend of two years so I told him a little about how hard it was.

While we talked, he was lying on the floor and I was on my brother’s giant queen-size bed. When I started falling asleep, I told him there was more than enough room for him if he didn’t want to sleep on the floor. He agreed that it would be more comfortable, got up and laid on the other side of the bed. I was lying on my side, facing away from him and after a little bit, he moved over and held me in his arms from behind. He had mentioned, when we were talking, that what he missed most about his girlfriend was holding her while she slept. I had this thought, “I’m not attracted to this guy at all but I do love him as a friend and I can do this loving thing for him.” I think a sad, lonely part of myself wanted to be held too.

I fell into a fairly restless sleep. It felt like every two minutes he would move a little bit and I couldn’t get any solid sleep until finally, I did. I zonked out for who knows how long until I woke up gradually and when I realized what was happening, I was stricken and it felt like me heart stopped beating in my chest. I was lying on my back and his hand was between my legs. A million thoughts rushed into my mind in the space of one second, like, “Why is this happening? What should I do? He’s stronger than me. This isn’t okay! Why would he do this to me? I don’t love him like this! I DON’T LOVE HIM LIKE THIS!” I feigned a startled awakening, and said in a sleepy voice, “What are you doing?” and he jerked away and pretended like nothing had happened. I told him I was tired, and moved over to the other side of the bed. I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. It felt awful to be in the same bed with him but I knew there wasn’t anywhere else to sleep. If I moved to the floor, he would know that I knew and for some reason, I didn’t want him to know.

The next day was hard. All the friends from the night before woke up and we scrunched onto my brother’s balcony together, drinking coffee and talking. After a while they all left but my brother, his roommate and I and I told them what happened. I had never been so violated before in my life. I felt deeply embarrassed and hurt and sad.

When I got back to Graceland, I told a few close friends eventually and they expressed the appropriate anger, disgust and sadness for me. I received a facebook message from the guy who said sorry for keeping me up so late. I responded by telling him I could never trust him again and that I felt disappointed in him as a person. Luckily he had graduated the year before and I’ve only seen him three times since that night.

The end of this story is that I’m okay. I felt a lot of negative things for a short while and then didn’t anymore. My life is better when I let go of anger. Holding on to it might feel falsely good for a while, but ultimately, peace comes with forgiveness. Everyone makes mistakes. This guy who treated me so disrespectfully, messed up but that mistake is his, not mine. I won’t make the mistake of harboring negativity and letting it infect other parts of my body like my heart and mind.

I write this in an effort to share all my life stories, not to beg pity or encouragement or admiration or anything else. I just want to share.

The Beginning

The more my courage grows, the more I want to write about more than just the physical and emotional realms of my life. What about my spirituality and my sexuality? What about all the other things that make me human? Today I will begin to share everything.

It isn't like that any monuments will be made to commemorate this life of mine. No books will be written or movies made with me as the main character. I will fade into eternity as a woman who once walked vibrantly on this beautiful earth and then, after I have lived long enough, I will die and the memory of my life will fade like an old photograph. Most of the people that have lived aren't remembered after all.

Hence, I will share my life in it's entirety while I'm living it. I don't know why I would want to keep it to myself.

Is anecdotal a word because if it is, that is what best describes my blog so far. A bunch of different stories, most to make you smile and know a little bit more than you did before about what's happening in my life.

Sometimes though, sometimes I wish I could share my life here with you like I do with Zoe. That I could blurt out everything I see, feel, think, experience, imagine, dream and ponder. That I could do so purely, without sensor or fear. Is anyone able to do this?

I mentioned the desire to a friend before I left and she said it probably wasn't the best idea. That maybe some things should be kept to ones self. I don't know if this is good advice. I understand that it's natural to share more of your heart with people you trust. I would usually share more with my best friend than with a stranger; but as my list of life experiences become longer, I've realized that it's just as safe to share with stangers. I met people all the time while I lived in Spain and it always seemed like when I showed my courage (by being frank, open and personal to a new acquaintance) that opened the door for them to respond in the same way. Most of my best conversations happened because I didn't try to make myself seem any better than I was by hiding things that I thought people would judge me about.

I haven't been hurt. I haven't shared something personal and it come back to bite me. I've never been blackmailed or seriously embarrassed or reprimanded or denied a job or had any negative reprocussions from laying my life out as an open book. Maybe that makes me innocent...maybe it makes me invincible.

I think I can attribute this invincibility (of appearance there of) to my loving community. I believe in their love so deeply that I don't believe anything I say or do will make it end. And if anything I say or do does make their love for me falter, then it wasn't real love. Maybe I don't want fake love anyways. Can I handle the fires of human judgement and share every part of my existence with anyone who happens to be interested? Hmmm, I don't know that I know yet...

From midnight til two am last night, I laid in my bed with my legs on fire. I can’t remember the last time I was that uncomfortable. It’s a bad idea to play soccer in a forest full of stinging nettles! For those of you who have never encountered this particular type of devilry: it looks like any other leafy plant except when you brush up against, it your skin feels like fire and swells almost immediately! From the knees down, each leg looked like a hundred mosquitoes had massacred it. Daniel and I played soccer for an hour and then for another hour after Zoe and Maxim joined us! We ended up dripping with sweat and covered in dust/mud. Best soccer games ever…well except for the part when I couldn’t sleep because my legs were so swollen with nettle welts.

When I lying, sleepless in my bed, trying to pretend I didn’t have any legs so I wouldn’t have to feel them, Zoe started making some interesting noises in her sleep. It sounded a bit like she had peanut butter stuck to the roof of her mouth and then like she was chewing a hard candy. I giggled for a while then finally called out her name and she stopped. Ha, it’s been a while since I had a roommate or went to camp and got to experience other peoples sleep noises. I figured I should probably embarrass her at least once on the internet for all the world to know…better this story than mentioning the time she sneezed and farted at the same time and we laughed for hours...oops, sorry Zo ;)

Speaking of which, for English lesson a few days ago we had a tea party. The kids learned how to politely ask for tea, sugar, a cookie and also learned vocabulary like cup, spoon, plate etc. I happened to sneeze and we taught them how to say, "Bless you" after that happens. We also taught them to say, "Excuse me." after you pass gas. This was a little too funny for our own good. The rest of our party was filled with constant sneezing and yes, fart noises followed, of course, by the appropriate English responses and howls of laughter.We laughed for a full hour I think!

Tomorrow we are taking a night train to Odessa. We’ll rent a three-room apartment there and have it all to ourselves! Crazy! It’s in the same building as the pastors aunt, directly above actually and three of the kids from here are coming and staying with the aunt. The other two are staying in the apartment building next door. Even though we are switching towns, we’ll still get to be around many of the same wonderful people. It will be nice to know some new faces as well.

I ate a bowl of cereal with sour milk for breakfast this morning and didn’t even notice. For the last three mornings, I’ve woken up with little to no sense of taste or smell. It wasn’t until Zoe got up for breakfast and smelled the milk that I realized my morning’s mistake. Haha, we had quite a laugh! Half of the kids and Zoe have had a cold the entire time we’ve been here and I’ve been expecting to get it but the only thing that’s happened so far is losing my senses of taste and smell for a few hours each morning. Weird…

Instead of sitting for two hours in a musty gym and watching the kids during their Tae Kwon Do class (which we have done several times already), Zoe and I opted instead to spend the late morning in the sun, picking strawberries. A large section of the garden, and all the way around the house, is bursting with strawberry plants…hundreds of them! Dodging spiders, beetles and other various insects, Zoe and I thrashed our way through the foliage, attempting to obtain every luscious berry. Every few minutes one of us let out a screech because of a spider crawling across our toes, a disgusting half-rotten strawberry squishing between our fingers, or the worst: the evil spines of a stinging nettle finding it’s way into our knees, shins, or hands. After our attempts, Zoe’s bowl was twice as full as mine, but my tummy was twice as happy :) One for me, one for the bowl….

I’ve only been teased about being a vegetarian a few times in the last year and a half. The worst happened this afternoon. I went swimming with the kids for an hour and then came back to change clothes. We were going to the airport to pick up Richard (our supervisor) who will be staying the weekend here. Maria had hard boiled some eggs and gave me a few to eat for lunch. I peeled one and ate it. Just afterwards, Angela, the eleven year-old comes into our room, sits next to me on the floor, pats my tummy and says, “Oh…poor leetle cheek-hen….you keeled zee poor leetle cheek-hen and ate her!” My lame come back was to pat her tummy and say, “Poor little fishy.” Which is what she ate for lunch.

So between spoiled milk for breakfast and eating an unborn chicken for lunch, I’d say it was a good day for cuisine. Ha! Actually we eat a ton of fresh vegetables like cucumbers, tomatoes, cabbage, lettuce and chives. We have different variations of vegetable soup every couple of days (I think this is to accommodate my vegetarianism), lots of bread and cheese and of course chocolate. I love the homemade food!

Well, that’s all for now. We haven’t had very consistent internet so I’ve been writing these on my computer and posting when I can. Right now I’m connected through Maria’s cell phone!

a little more life in Ukraine :)

Malaya Alexandrovka reminds me of Southern Oregon. It’s ferny, green and full of trees, bugs and nice people. We live in a five-bedroom house where 12 people live. There are three separate immediate families that each have their own bedrooms. In the midst of 5 mothers, 2 fathers, 4 brothers, 9 sisters, 4 grandmothers, 6 aunts, 2 uncles and a dog, Zoe and I have found a home. I love living with so many people! Their world seems to revolve around their children and their faith, which is beautiful. Pleasantly part of the family is what we’ve become.

During our first week, the kids (who have been taking voice lessons for 3 years) were scheduled to sing at a Ukrainian party. We thought this meant some sort of event with punch and cake, nice people milling around and trying to make conversation, you know, something casual. Turns out to be a protest in front of the government building in Kiev and the kids are on to sing in between fiery speeches about how the government has wronged the people somehow. Zoe and I were slightly surprised but we went with it. The only minor mishap was getting locked within the building by ourselves without our phrase book. After following the kids in to use the bathroom, they left us to go sing. We finished up and found ourselves in a long hallway full of closed locked doors with signs above them in Ukrainian and seven policemen staring suspiciously at us. Our attempt to ask where the exit was flopped miserably so we just tried the handles of about twenty-two doors, giggling nervously the entire time, before finally finding the one that wasn’t an office. I don’t plan on ever asking another Ukrainian policeman for help in the future.

I mistakenly mentioned to Anatoliy, the pastor and eldest man in the household here, that I like to run. I never suspected his 54 year old body was made of pure steel! I discovered this the next day, as we were running our first of many early morning runs, on the forest trails next to the house. He likes to go for an 8 kilometer run, stop back by the house for bikes and then ride half a mile to the lake and swim for a while. After the first kilometer he removes his socks, shoes and shirt and continues trekking away through the forest at a pace just fast enough to make me red-faced and uncomfortable. Fear struck my heart a few times when we passed some unofficial trash dumps out in the woods, but his bare feet continue unfazed over rusty tin can lids, broken glass pieces and other various items. Maybe someday I’ll be as ironman-esk as Anatoliy but until then, I’m content as the wannabe scrambling to keep up with his shadow.

One of my favorite things is sitting during the early morning hours on the back porch, eating almonds and a banana and listening. The house is on the edge of the community, right next to the forest with plenty of room for a giant vegetable garden. I like the moments when I remember to listen to the life happening around me. I’m aware of the people pumping water from the well next door, a few grandmotherly voices discussing something in Russian (or maybe it’s Ukrainian), a dog barking, the faint sound of a train braking in the distance, and the birds and bugs composing an early morning symphony. I appreciate that Zoe appreciates her sleep so much because it gives me some time alone to be still and think each morning before Anatoliy gets ahold of me.

I'm in Ukraine!

Frequency of bowel movements has now officially been moved to the “Things Allie Should Keep To Herself” list. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. Today, on our walk back from the Kiev train, Maria’s face registered shock and embarrassment when I mentioned the reason for my purchase of prunes at the market the day before. Sometimes I forget what things are publically appropriate to talk about. Fortunately, I haven’t made any other major blunders…yet.

Zoe and I swooped in six days ago and officially won the hearts of all five children and their corresponding mothers, fathers, aunts and grandmothers who live in the house we are staying in. It’s amazing what a few thousand games of spoons and “volleyball” can do to found a friendship. I’m not much of a gamer, to be honest, but when you don’t speak the same language, non-verbal activities trump conversation every time.

Russian and Ukrainian, both of which are spoken here as interchangeably as Spanish and Catalan are in Barcelona, have rolled my tongue into a crepe and eaten it for breakfast at least a few times daily since I’ve been here. I’ve discovered that I’m much better at language than I ever dreamed but it still seems a daunting task to tackle these Slovak languages. I have a Russian language program on my ipod so I’ve been studying whenever I can convince Christi (a very tenacious Ukrainian ten-year-old) to let me use it.

Sitting behind the house today at a little blue table with Christi and Sophie (both ten) teaching them English, I had a brilliant idea! I took their workbooks, changed the names in a certain dialog and then threw them into clothes from mine and Zoe’s suitcases. The girls practiced their little play for a bit and then performed for their siblings and Maria. Can you picture it? Two blond haired little Ukrainian girls, decked out in baggy sweatshirts and shades, walking up to each other and saying, “Hay-low! Vat ees yoo-er nem? Mine ees Zoy-ah.” I adore the way they speak! Just for the record: I am “Ellie” here and Zoe is “Zoya”.

Well, that’s all for now. Oh except to mention that the prunes worked.

post numero uno

Okay, I'm not a blogger; I'm a lover. 

Here's the deal though, my life is about relationships and as I picture myself wandering the globe for the next few years, I don't want to lose anybody! Or maybe I don't want to be lost myself... anyways, this is my attempt at an online photo-album/journal in the form of a blog to keep you (whoever you are) close to what's happening in my universe. 

In 6 days I graduate from college.

In 28, I leave for Ukraine.

In 84, I'm back, officially homeless and unemployed. Though when all the world is filled with friends, I'm always at home. 

When I return in August, ideally I'll have a job ready somewhere, but I haven't found one yet. This hasn't raised my blood pressure too much but I'm starting to look much harder than before. I'm applying at international schools across the world and school districts around the US. I think I would really love being an art teacher. I'm also looking into positions in residence life (like a hall director at the university level), internships with design companies and even the possibility of film school for motion design. 

It's unfortunate that cloning hasn't been perfected because then I could do everything. Or maybe I'll believe in reincarnation, pick something for this life and save all my other wonderful choices for another one. Ha!