Welcoming

(I’ll warn my regular readers—all four of you—that this is a long one. I was going to edit it, shorten it, but decided that there was nothing I wanted to leave out, so here it is.)

I’ve had a warm reception in Vladivostok. The Consulate staff, the church choir, the professional choir, patrons and employees at Art Etage, shopkeepers, neighbors and people on the street have all welcomed me in their own way.

I have turned to some of the Consulate staff to find out where to buy things like Douglas’s Christmas gift (pictured below), harder-to-find grocery items and face cream. The answers I got came with written instructions, pictures from Google street view, bus routes and brand names to try or avoid. This, I’ve learned is the nature of Vladivostokians. When I’ve asked for directions on the street, I have as often been walked to my destination as directed.

This is a podstakkanik. (It literally means "under glass," referring to the elaborate holder.) I saw a man at the Consulate drinking tea form one and commented to Douglas about how handsome it was. He agreed and said he wanted one. 

There is a house down the hill from us – we walk past it every time we walk to the Consulate – onto which a wall has recently been added. I’d started waving to the men out working. They waved back. One day, a man came out to greet me, in Russian, of course. I explained my Russian limitations. It turned out he spoke English. He was a visiting relative who was only there for the week. A couple weeks later, I walked by the house and heard a man yelling, Amerikanka! I looked up, and he said (in Russian) my relative was talking to you. We had a short exchange, and I walked away warmed. We had an in with each other and we grasped it to have a short conversation. More, hopefully, will follow. I haven’t seen him since the weather has turned to cold.

Sometimes, the way we're made to feel welcomed is by being treated as no different than the locals. Douglas and I were walking down what we refer to as the goat path (an unpaved road in great disrepair) to go into town. It had snowed and was a bit slippery. A man from up the hill yelled at Douglas calling him a hooligan for not holding my hand and helping me down the hill. He explained that he had offered and I'd rejected him. (I didn't want to slip and take Douglas down with me or vice-versa.) Douglas came over to me, took my hand and told me to hold it until we were out of sight of him! And I thought it was only the babushkas who commented on people's behavior in public.

The Russians have a saying that there's no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing. This is me as I appear on the goat path to and from  the Consulate and church.

I've attended Bachata and salsa dance classes twice a week with an American friend. The instructor speaks a little English and wants to learn more. After a few classes, she asked me if I’d meet with her to talk so she could practice her English. I wanted to say no. I was committing more of my time with four Russian classes a week instead of two and choir rehearsals, and I wanted to keep up with my writing, exercise and music practice at home. But I said yes without hesitation, and I’m so glad I did. We met about an hour before class for what turned out to be a mutual show-and-tell session. Olga likes to read about quantum physics in her spare time. She also teaches music to children and dances in competitions. I wish you could see her face and hear her voice when I walk into class, Lora . . . she says and hugs me. I wish I could express the comfort I got out of her classes when I was going through a funk recently. I wanted to stay home, hole up and feel sorry for myself. I went to class instead and floated out of the room afterwards. (There will be no pictures of the dance classes. Ever.)

Music, we all know, is an international language and I am reminded of that when I sit and sing with the church choir or the professional choir. I met the director of the church choir at the Thanksgiving dinner at the Consul General’s residence. Sister Katarina, and the other sisters, are Americans. I started singing with the sisters in the choir and kept hearing talk of a professional choir. I asked Sister Maria Stella (the organist) for an introduction to the director. On a rainy evening in November, I was to meet her at the church (where the professional choir also practices). I arrived with one wet foot (I'd stepped in a puddle that was deeper than it looked), but Sister Maria Stella wasn’t there yet. I saw a woman who was eyeing me. I assumed she was the director, so I approached her, introduced myself and, as best I could, told her that, though I didn’t expect to start that night, I’d like to sing with her choir. (They had been rehearsing since October for a Christmas concert.) She stared at me a moment, then asked, “Why not tonight?” I didn’t have an answer to that, so I took the music she pushed at me, called Douglas and told him he was on his own for dinner and sat down to sing. One song we sang was in English, so I was a good resource for pronunciation. 

During the first rehearsal, I heard a woman behind me saying something over and over. Then she said, понимаете? (Do you understand?) Next thing I knew, an arm was reaching over my shoulder. The hand at the end of the arm pulled a few sheets of music out of one of the plastic sheet protectors in the folder I'd been given. All the music up to that point had been single sheets; for some reason, this entire song was in one protector and I hadn't noticed. I'm afraid I'm a bit high maintenance in rehearsal.

Alexander, a tenor in the choir who speaks English, made sure I knew that I could turn to him if I ever needed help during rehearsals. Katya, our rehearsal accompanist, comes up to me smiling and talking away in Russian in hopes I’d understand enough. Slava, who speaks some English, talks to me in hopes of improving his English. Vasili, who plays a Japanese instrument called a koto, is looking forward to a musical gathering at our house. I’ve never exchanged phone numbers so freely. I’m even considering getting on WhatsApp.

With that said, I want to talk about the other side of being welcomed: making myself someone they want to welcome. I can’t stand they myriad ways of keeping in touch. I don’t want to sit at this box checking email, blog comments (of which there are painfully few, by the way), twitter, texts and answer the phone and Skype when someone calls. How many ways do we really need, folks? I stood my ground in Munich, refusing to get onto Facebook. I remain glad of that. I came to Vladivostok with the determination that I was going to experiment living differently. I have more apps on my iPhone. I’m reluctantly texting, though I don't like it. No sir. I want to live up to this warm welcome and reciprocate by welcoming them into my life.

Saturday, December 29^th, I had a rehearsal at church for an upcoming ecumenical music festival. I found out that the next morning at church there was to be a funeral service. Sister Katarina asked me if I could show up early and sing for it. She also mentioned a memorial  luncheon (a pominki) i could attend after the noon mass. That sounded like a long day at church. I thought about it and decided that, since I was now part of this community, I’d act like it. At first, I felt like I may be a little out of place at the pominki. But the deceased was the twin sister of one of the altos in the choir; I had a connection. So, I made a small plate of food, showed up early and sang for the funeral, then the regular service and stayed for the pominki.

I sat with Sisters Fastina and Joanna. I was quite hungry. I’d eaten breakfast around 7AM and it was 2PM before we sat before a huge spread of food. I was told that the first dish served and eaten at a pominki was koliva. Koliva was traditionally made with boiled wheat, sugar, fruit and nuts. But during a famine, rice replaced the wheat and some traditions have continued to use rice. What we ate was white rice with chopped grapes. We watched the other end of the table, where the bereaved sat, for cues as to when to serve ourselves. The sisters were waiting for a prayer before eating. When you sit with the sisters, you must behave yourself. So I sat for about twenty minutes with plates of sausages, bread, cheese, fruit and vegetables awaiting a prayer. (I, myself, was already praying that my stomach wouldn't growl too loudly.) Eventually, Sister Fastina said we could eat; apparently there would be no prayer. We were served a hot bowl of borscht (which is pronounced borsh in Russian), red wine and vodka. There were long toasts given throughout the afternoon. I walked home from the six or so hours at the church feeling good about making myself an active part of the community in such a supportive way. I was giving back the welcome that had been extended to me.

While Douglas was in DC for a training, I invited Sisters Katarina, Maria Stella, Fastina and Joanna over for lunch. I showed them around the townhouse (the lighthouse!) first. We spent a good half hour in my room where the piano and harp are. We took turns playing for each other. We ate, then made spritz cookies together. They’d never made them and had so much fun. We watched four hours pass together. I was high with the excitement of having new friends. Like a child, I said “We should do this every Wednesday!” I look forward to learning more about the Catholic church and the commitment and lives of the sisters. I can tell you that these are four smart, talented women who sing beautifully together and, by their own devices, have learned the Russian language.

Between the sisters from the church and the employees at eh Consulate, I’m surrounded with strong, smart women. I anticipate that this will be a post of growth for me.

Douglas standing in front of the yolki in the main square in Vladivostok. New Year's is the big holiday in Russia, not Christmas. The Consulate observes local holidays as well as American holidays and is closed the entire first week of January. On Christmas day, I sang in a noon mass and had a rehearsal that evening, just another day.

There are a few signs of Christmas. The New Years trees (yolki) look Christmassy to my American eyes. Then there's this poor Santa who fell from  I don't know where. 

Settling in

As I write this, my piano is being tuned. Pling! Pling! Pling! Eighty-eight keys, one at a time. Over and over. In fifths. In octaves. Over and over. I don't know what's worst, listening to myself practice The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies or this. I want to be in the room with the tuner because my computer is in here. It's a security thing, even though I can tell where his hands are even if I'm downstairs. Pling! Pling! Pling! But security is security. I also want to be on hand in case he has any questions. Not that I'd be much help. He, naturally, speaks Russian and they didn't cover vocabulary for getting one's piano tuned at the Foreign Service Institute.

My piano being here tells you that all of our things are now here. The piano had to be winched up and over the a railing onto the upper balcony, then moved across the fourth floor room into my writing/music room. You may watch the excitement here:

Some dread the process of unpacking and putting things away. I like it. It's like New Year's Eve. This time I'll . . . and I begin a litany of organizational goals, tidy practices and self-improvement plans. I'll use these three flights of stairs as exercise, then I won't have to sit on that bike and sweat. Sounds good until I either arrange things so I have a bottle of water, box of tissues and pair of reading glasses on every floor or decide I can do without. If I always put my keys and sunglasses here when I come home, they'll always be here. Right. Unless I leave alone and come home with Douglas after dark who has his keys out and opens the door for me, in which case my key remains in my handbag, the bottom of the grocery sack or my pocket. If we keep shoe racks on the first floor and make the practice of taking off our shoes as soon as we get in the door, the floor won't get the grit and muck from the goat path strewn all over it. Sounds good, but what about coming home after walking thirty minutes after a cocktail-rich event and needing the bathroom really, really badly and knowing that you must climb two flights of stairs to get to one? The purse gets tossed  on the bench by the door, the hat and gloves are unceremoniously dropped on the first flight of stairs, the coat on the second and the shoes stay put. That's what that's about. If I keep all the sweets on the highest shelf on the first floor, I'll have to make a determined decision to have them. I'll have to go down all the stairs, all the while trying to talk myself out of it (it could happen!), carry the step ladder down the last flight and climb it to reach them. Sounds good, but what I hadn't thought of was the one Heath bar I squirreled away in with the Zone Perfect Double Dark Chocolate bars. I dutifully grab the Zone Perfect bar (because I've convinced myself that it's better for me than candy) and leave the Heath bar which torments my mind for the next two days at which point I eat it. How did I reach the Heath bar? I left the step ladder where it was and stood on the extra chair from the dinette set which we (I) conveniently store underneath the candy shelf in the storage room. Hey, it had to go somewhere.

Settling in means getting used to the appliances. We have a normal sized washing machine and a drier that fits one sheet or two towels. It takes about two hours to dry anything. Yesterday, I did three loads of wash - clothes, towels and sheets - and was at it for over ten hours. The dishwasher is about a third of the size, maybe half the size, of a normal dishwasher. I can put in three or four large items or several plates, bowls and glasses. The shortest cycle is ninety minutes. I could wash them in ten minutes in the sink. I hate washing dishes, but I hate waste. Time will tell which I loathe more. We have a full-sized freezer on the first floor. It is a practice here to stock up on food that can be frozen to avoid trips to the grocery store during the winter. The roads are hilly and icy. They don't do much in the way of salting and plowing them in Vladivostok. (We had our first snow which quickly turned to ice. I walked up the hill with no problem. Walking down, I found myself in a free-glide toward the main road where traffic was plentiful. I froze. I balanced myself. I rode it out praying that I'd stop before reaching the street. I did. On the way back, I had to step creatively (think walking through a mine field) to avoid sliding in reverse with arms full of groceries.) Back to the freezer. The thing is, we've been eating mostly rice and vegetables here. (I'll give those of you who've long known me time to regain consciousness.) I know fruit can be canned (as in mason jars). I'm wondering if I can can sauteed peppers, onions and squash, our staples. (I'll wait while you reach for the smelling salts.) Those of you who do know the spaghetti-o's loving, Pop Tart popping Laura are surprised by this. (I made a typo that I'm glad I caught: Pop Tart pooping! Sometimes the truth must be censored.) One change that has come upon me in menopause is the lack of daily cravings. Except chocolate. And Pepsi.

And now a brief tour of our house. We are blessed to have a beautiful view of the sunset every evening from large windows. This is a view of our living/dining room (on the second floor) from those windows.

Note the handsome man seated in the chair reading. The diplomat at (rare) rest. The picture of the woman you can see hanging above the couch is a print of a self-portrait of popular Russian artist, Zinaida Serebriakova. It's one of Douglas's favorites. We'd heard rumors that when posted in Russia, we should expect that our houses will be occasionally rummaged through. I think those were just rumors, but just in case we decided to display our love of Russia in our art and music. (I brought a couple Tchaikovsky books to leave out on my piano just in case.) Here's a link to better see the picture and see more of her art: https://www.google.ru/search?q=zinaida+serebriakova+self+portrait&newwindow=1&hl=en-RU&authuser=0&rlz=1C1NDCM_enUS692US693&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=EF7NMQrB7Qs7pM%253A%252CfOiBqefSk-GIcM%252C_&usg=AI4_-kRCNMAWZyvwNRWCF6QkV7pGEYH17A&sa=X&sqi=2&ved=2ahUKEwiSkMGbrf3eAhXNAxAIHcNWA28Q9QEwBXoECAAQDg&biw=1280&bih=579#imgrc=EF7NMQrB7Qs7pM:


This is our bedroom (on the third floor):

Housing always comes institutional-white. We had some walls painted since we're going to be here for at least three years. (It's difficult to tell in the picture, but the wall behind the couch in the living room picture is a pale, grey-blue.) The print you can see above the bed is a gift for me from Douglas. It's a print of Rembrandt's The Philosopher in Meditation. I saw this picture somewhere years ago and remarked on it. About two years later, Douglas surprised me with the print. It has inspired a short story that I've written. Here's a link to get a good look at the picture: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Rembrandt_-_The_Philosopher_in_Meditation.jpg

This is the top floor where Douglas has a desk and where we watch television:

I spend a lot of my time reading up here because Douglas closed off the heat and it's cooler. Behind me is my room where my piano and writing desk are. I'll show you two pictures, one of each end of the room:

The music area. You can't tell, but on the piano is an arrangement of The Nutcracker Suite. I've been trying to learn to play this for years. Every year I get a little closer. The harp you see was a gift from the daughter of a woman at my church. It needs some repair work, but sounds nice. I'm hoping I'll spend time learning to play it while here. The woman who plays organ at the church where I sang last Sunday plays harp; I may be able to get some lessons.

The other end of the room is for writing:

I write here and I study here. The picture on the (painted) wall is by Cole Wolford. Here's a link to Cole's website so you can see more of his work: http://colewolford.com/gallery/ I met Cole while living in Munich where we were in a creative group together. He gifted me this print, which I cherish. Here's a close up of it:

It's called Coming Undone. It reminds me that when I sit and write, I need to bare myself. I must be able to shed whatever has been put on me, what I've put on myself and tell what needs to be told. I like that this man seems to be in a church, in God's presence, which is the safest place to bare oneself and shed the world. My writing is the second safest place for me. A good writer, when finding herself living somewhere like Vladivostok, would delve into the society and write about it as richly as she can. I will try to do this for you in my blog. I will try to do this for me. Until next month, Merry Christmas and Happy Hannukah.

Barefoot in the Glass

There is a beach near Vladivostok in Ussuri Bay that is beckoning for a fairy tale. Instead of just sand, this beach seems to be covered in gemstones. As I walked it for the first time Sunday, I tried to come up with a story.  I could see a place where people dropped offerings to God in thanks for the beautiful view, giving God a wonderful view in return. I imagined a magician casting a wonderful spell on the nearby volcano making it cast out liquid emerald, ruby, sapphire and amber that cooled into colorful jewels.


This beach is one of the only places on the planet where litter has been turned into beauty. (There's a glass beach in Fort Bragg, California.) Apparently, there was once a porcelain factory that regularly dumped its unwanted glass, ceramics and porcelain into the river or bay or onto the beach (depending on which story you read). Over the years, it has been smoothed and now lies glistening in the sun and water. Where it's dry, the colors are dusty and muted; where it's wet, they gleam and sparkle. Both are beautiful. (If you want to see some good pictures, Google glass beach in Vladivostok. They have much better pictures than I do.)

Here are some treasures lying in the dark, volcanic sand.

As much as we strike out against nature, it fights back against our "progress" in many ways. As annoying as it is in our driveway, I love seeing plants growing up between the cracks of sidewalks and patios. You're not going to stop me! They proclaim. In this case, nature has also protected us from ourselves by smoothing out the glass so that you can walk barefoot on it. I'm told the beach is most beautiful in the winter when the colors shine in the snow.


I wanted to play around and take an artsy picture. Here's my effort. Let me explain the somewhat disturbed expression on my face. At first, I lay down and spread out my hair to get a picture of myself with the glass around me. My friend Mary noticed how close to the breaking tide I was. I knew I was quite close because I could hear it. She watched and told me when to snap so that I could get the white of the tide breaking just out of reach of my head. Just as she was telling me the tide was near and I was ready to snap the picture, her voice changed as though I were in mortal peril of being covered by the water. I looked like I was in the middle of a curse, which I wasn't. So I'm not publishing that picture. I then lay there waiting for about five minutes for another wave to break nearby. Apparently those other waves were rogue, because no more came near enough for me to see in a selfie. (Why I didn't ask Mimi, who had the good camera with her, to take a quick picture, I don't know.) So I moved closer to the water. And waited. And waited. Patient Mary told me to get ready. As you can see, when this wave broke, it seeped down under my neck and into my shirt explaining this expression.

I looked prettier in the other pictures I took without the waves (you'll have to take my word for that), but I think this one is much more interesting.

One goal Douglas and I set for ourselves was to get out and do things like attend concerts. Last weekend, we saw The Firebird and vignettes from various ballets at the Mariinski Theater. It was lovely. The pianist and a cellist played Saint Saens' The Swan as a ballerina glided en pointe across the stage Her arms were liquid as they fluttered and alternately went above her head like the swan's neck and head, then contortionist-like behind her back as its wings. It was exciting - even scary with the dancing demons and special effects. Red glitter fell as fire in one scene. The demons' costumes were painted with paint that changed their appearance as they moved around the stage in and out of black lights. Last night, while Douglas was in Yakutsk, I went to see Serenade - a ballet by Balanchine - and The Carmen Suite, which uses music from Bizet's opera Carmen. Even I could tell a difference in the Balanchine ballet, though I'm not sure I can verbalize it. One thing that struck me was the lack of constant balance - four dancers on one side, four on the other and the principal in the center. Also, there were times that the company danced far stage left or right and some were momentarily in the wings out of sight.

I am going to Bachata dance classes Monday and Thursday evenings. I am reminded of why I was never on cheer or pom in high school. I can do all the moves, but when we put them in order in a dance, I can never remember what comes next, so I'm always a beat behind. Sigh. But, the teacher wants to learn to speak better English, so I show up early on Thursday evenings so we can talk. She's kind enough to split our time between English for her and Russian for me.


I attended the Consulate's English language book club and was pleasantly surprised to recognize two people there: my dance teacher and one of the drivers from the Consulate. When Douglas and I were in Silver Spring, we each sang in a couple of choruses. Through our connections there, we wound up singing with other groups on occasion. It was fun to attend events in such a big place where we knew relatively few people and run into familiar faces. I hope that continues to happen for us here.

These are the keys to the lighthouse (our townhouse). Rather large. The red is for the back ("neighbor") door; the black is for the front door. It barely fits into the pocket of my exercise shorts when I go running. Next month, I'll post some pictures of our townhouse - after our stuff arrives.

That glass beach is just tugging at me to write. At first, fairy tales came to mind. Now, I'm feeling more philosophical, poetical. When the glass was first dumped, walking on it barefoot would have shred your feet. Today, after the ocean has tossed it around, it is smooth. Today, our society is in the raw glass, shredded feet stage of some contentious issues. We need to keep tossing them around in order to smooth them out. So let's keep talking about the president, immigration, the environment, sex and religion. We need to talk and we need to listen without an agenda. The ocean had no agenda with the littered shards, it just kept tossing them around and look what happened.


I have special files for the novels I'm working on called streams. These files are where I write random thoughts and ideas about the story or a scene or character. Usually it's not very good writing, but it gets me thinking and it gets me in the chair writing, working. I think that we need to allow for this in ourselves and each other when we discuss things. We need to allow ourselves to hear outrageous statements by others without editing them, shutting them down or insulting them. We need to feel comfortable making awkward statements and risk having them misconstrued while we work out or feelings and seek the truth. Saying I don't wish to discuss this won't ever get us there. That not only shuts others down, it shuts us down. It prevents others from ever understanding us and it allows us to remain incapable of expressing our perspective. I'm going to challenge myself and you, dear readers, to listen without assigning too much gravity to what the speaker is saying - maybe they're still working it out and they need to hear it come out their own mouth before they know how they sound. And allow yourself to speak and correct yourself and contradict yourself and admit you were wrong or admit you have no factual basis for what you're saying - you just think it.  I got this idea from the glass beach. Maybe it makes sense; maybe it doesn't. Maybe writing like this explains why I'm not a poet. Then, again, maybe this is why I should be a poet.

Lasts and Firsts

I left Silver Spring, our house, my church and the United States on September 10th, arrived in Moscow September 11th, and Vladivostok on September 14th. Though there was a definite excitement in anticipating a new life in a new country, it wasn’t easy walking away from people and activities I loved. I made the decision to soak up my last experiences as I lived them, rather than mourning the impending loss.

Mindfulness played a huge role as I walked (or ran) through Wheaton Regional Park the last few times. I’ll miss these woods, I thought. I’ll miss the birds. Wheaton Regional Park had lots of woodpeckers, cardinals, blue jays, some goldfinches. So far all we’ve seen (and heard) in Vladivostok are pigeons, robins and magpies. 

The most dramatic last experience I had was with my choir. We flew to Bristol, England to sing a week of Evensong services at the Cathedral. Instead of hanging out with the usual suspects, I chose someone different to be with for each meal and each excursion. I didn’t get to say a formal goodbye to everyone, but our time together touring, rehearsing and leading and participating in worship made up for it.

An added benefit of the England trip was meeting up with two good friends I meet in Munich. We enjoyed a few days together walking the cliffs and beaches of North Cornwall. I love relationships that pick up right where they left off after months or years.

Detachment also played a role as I resisted carrying plastic bags with me to pick up littered recyclables every time I got out and walked. That’s your problem now, Silver Spring, I thought as I walked passed the filth. Vladivostok isn’t as littered as Silver Spring. Don’t take that the wrong way; people litter here, but there are street keepers who regularly pick it up so we don’t have to walk through and around it.

I squeezed in one more trip to Phoenix to see my parents. My last trip before moving to Russia was supposed to be back in the spring, but their circumstances had changed and I wanted to see them again. It’s hard leaving them in so much need. They have some good people around them, but they don’t have me and I don’t have them. Thank God for Skype, when it works. I think of my grandmother who, from the age of seventy or so would say, Well, you may never see me again. She lived to be a hundred and two. I’ve been worrying about and bracing myself for losing Mom and Dad since I first left for Tashkent back in 2010. They are a couple of Energizer bunnies.

Vladivostok is my first home on the coast. I’ve long dreamed of living near the ocean. We can see the bay (and splendid sunsets) from our townhouse. When Douglas first joined the Foreign Service, I wanted to live on the coast - any coast. Our first post was in Tashkent, Uzbekistan – one of only two double land-locked countries. Now I’m living my dream. It’s a port city, but there are islands and preserves in the area. I hope I’ll get out and explore and make the most of living here.

Soon after arriving in Vladivostok, Douglas and I both had a first: we ran (and walked) in our first 5K. It was the tail end of a marathon and took place on the first rainy day here. That may have kept us holed up in the hotel, but no – we got up, pinned on our numbers, walked to a nearby square where we pushed our way through the hordes onto the shuttle bus and waited under a canvas tent in the rain for an hour and a half to line up. This was the one chance (per year) we’d have to cross the famous suspension bridge on foot. It wasn’t a great day for photography from the bridge, but we snapped a few anyway. It was exhilarating to be cheered on at the finish line. We heard the Russian version of “Good job!” and “We’re proud of you!” We were even given medals!

Before. Everyone is lining up for the race.

During. Bad picture, I know. I used my i Phone and it's having problems.

 Another bad picture. We were told not to stop on the bridge, but I really wanted a picture. There are no after pictures, I thought I'd spare you. 

I was told that my Russian teacher didn't speak much English. I’ve heard of people leaning languages by watching television. How, exactly? It turns out that she speaks quite a bit, thank God, but she doesn't like to when teaching. We're compromising. I’m rallying some faith, faith in myself, my teacher and nature. We all learned our first language by immersion with no translations.

Another first for me is living in a four-story townhouse. It’s not as huge as it may sound, it’s tall. There are two or three rooms on each floor. I told people before we moved that it would be like living in a lighthouse! The steps aren’t as steep as a lighthouse, but they are interesting. They aren’t uniform. The first step is steep, while the rest are rather shallow. It’s shocking to come plunging down the steps, fall into a rhythm, then be surprised with the extra couple-inch drop at the end. (Or, on the way up, trip on the top step because it's two inches higher than all the rest.) And they aren't square with each other. It looks a bit like the crooked house that the crooked little man built. We decided to have color put on the wall instead of living in institutional off-white for three years. I saw my first sunset here the other evening and realized that the colors I chose for my writing room and our bedroom were right out of that sunset. Brilliant!

This is the view from our balcony. I'll post a better picture when I have a better camera (and a nice sunset over that water). My i Phone camera sometimes only works in selfie mode.

So, in honor of living in this little lighthouse, I’d like to unofficially rename this blog From the Lighthouse. (I considered setting up a new blog, but don’t want to go through the fuss and bother.)

A Fast from Guilt

This Lent I've decided to give up guilt.

Stop laughing. My life is not one long Mardi Gras, one long Fat Tuesday turning me into Fat Laura. Quite the opposite.

One of the first things I've learned is that giving up guilt is a lot easier - now listen closely - when you don't do anything you shouldn't. In fact, I believe it can be a complete success. I don't know, because I'm still doing things I shouldn't.

Case in point: I really wanted a Pepsi one day last week. I'd had two doctor's appointments downtown. It was a beautiful, sunny, seventy-seven degree day and I passed a 7-11 on my walk home. I stopped in only to find the soda fountain out of order. Fie! I had to be good. I know, I could have bought a bottle, but I like my special blend of half diet and half regular in vain effort to cut some sugar out of my diet. Later I arrived at the church early to help catalog and file music. I walked to the 7-11 next door to get that Pepsi. The diet Pepsi was out; I only got a spray of vaguely caramel colored fizzy water. Now my inner voice - the one I'm supposed to be listening to and abiding by - was screaming leave! No Pepsi today! But the stubborn me was adamant. I turned to the only employee in sight who was on the register with a long line waiting. I went to the back room and called. No answer. I got in line. And waited. And waited. I tried to ignore my inner voice by stepping out of line to pour out some of the carbonated water and add a bit of regular Pepsi to sip as I waited. I was really craving it now, brothers and sisters. I stepped back into line and waited. And waited. And somewhat curbed my craving. When it was my turn, I asked the clerk if there was someone else there who could fix the Pepsi dispenser. No. I showed him my watered down drink and said I didn't want it and didn't know what to do with it. I'm a regular there. He shrugged and waved me off. I left with a half cup of watered down Pepsi. I left with my Pepsi craving somewhat satisfied, but otherwise feeling foolish and guilty, admonishing myself for not taking the load (after load, after load) of bricks that came tumbling down on me as a clear directive to do without Pepsi.

That's the kind of guilt I should have.

The kind of guilt I want to shake off is the kind that, after spending thirty minutes on the bike, says I notice you skipped work again. The kind that, after a day of practicing music, exercising, cleaning the house, saying my prayers says, did you write anything today? Why not? You'll never finish that novel. You'll never get published. That's the guilt I want a break from. Preferably a permanent break.

What or who is it in me that finds fault with thirty minutes of exercise or a day well spent minus one single element? Where do I get such high standards?

I'm in a book discussion group that is reading The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. I'm only through chapter three. I alternately get so excited reading it that I have to walk away to write and think or I find myself yelling at him, how can you say that? It does make for good thought and discussion. The first law is be impeccable with your word. My interpretation of one of his points is speak uplifting to all, including yourself. By cultivating that behavior you cause your mind to be less receptive (fertile) to negative, damaging talk like gossip. I like that idea. Then he claims that you are working against yourself every time you put blame on yourself. I understand his point in what I wrote in the paragraph above, but what if I cheated on Douglas? Wouldn't it be working against myself to not recognize my culpability in that?

The second agreement is to not take anything personally - including those inner voices that always seem to be against you. It's a good book for me to be reading and discussing with others.

A source of guilt for me is wasting time. I'm not employed, so my work is, for the most part, done in my own time. I have to show up for rehearsals, church and performances on time, otherwise I practice, write, cook, and maintain the house when I do. Two friends whom I love and respect don't see any use of their time as a waste. As long as they are doing what feels good, what they want to do, they don't see if as a waste. I don't think I'm capable of that. If Douglas and I run out of prepared meals, I have the responsibility to prepare another one. That's part of my job. If I haven't cleaned the house in two weeks, I need to make the time to do it. If I choose to lie around reading a book or playing a game instead, that's wasting time and it's wrong. On the other hand, if I spend four hours cleaning and pressing Douglas's shirts and I want to take a break, lie on my back and play Scrabble, fine.

I like what Mr. Ruiz says about sin. He says when you think something against yourself, it's sin. I don't know if it's that simple, but, as God has a presence in us, that's a good, broad base. Kind of like you can replace many of the rules and laws in the scriptures with the single directive to love. Instead of saddling ourselves with lists of rules, face each day more simply. Is this showing love? Is this uplifting? Am I contributing to order or chaos? There are times we need our hands held, so we have the ten commandments. Then there are times we can think more clearly on our own and live the fruits of the spirit without concerning ourselves with assigned and forbidden behaviors.

I guess what I want is a finely tuned, well functioning conscience. When I'm out of line, I want to know it. When I've done my best I want to feel good about my efforts regardless of the outcome.

There's an element of necessity in guilt. If I never felt the repercussions of wrongdoing, I'd be one step into sociopathy. I'm hoping that, in not getting caught up in constantly upping the bar and allowing for no lapses in judgement, I will go easier on others as well as myself.

I'm already experiencing a bit of freedom in warding off guilt. I don't spend time rationalizing my behavior to myself. It's mindful: What am I doing right now? Is it worthy of my time and attention? I recently wrote about change for my church newsletter. Giving up guilt involves changing perspective, attitude and thought responses. It has given me pause to dig around for other feelings when I think I'm feeling guilty. I'm not simply trying to toss aside guilt in doing this. I just want to keep it in its proper place. I've read that we tend to feel - or be aware of - very few emotions when there are actually an array of emotions. It has become popular to boil everything down to fear. Anyone who disagrees with  something is afraid of something. Simple, but thoughtless and not always accurate. Same with me and guilt, I think. It's one of my go-to emotions and I want to search to see what lies beneath it. I already notice that I'll assign guilt to myself when, in actuality, I'm disappointed in myself. Disappointment is a far cry from guilt. I know that. Now I need to live it.

Do you have any go-to emotions worth taking a second look at? I know someone whose first response to anything displeasing is anger. That was me for years until I shoved anger aside and uncovered sorrow, confusion, discomfort and, yes, some fear. Trying to deal with anger while sad didn't work. It was like treating a digestive problem with a cough drop.

So, here's to emotions! Cheers! I wonder. . . I wonder if, in uncovering, naming and dealing with our true emotions, we can start the same trend in society. Maybe we can learn what is at the root of all these mass shootings, sexual harassment and abuse, propagation of lies and many other of societies ills.