Quarantine Bloglette: Time

Time during this quarantine is almost non-existent.

Time in the sense of hour-to-hour, time in the sense of day-to-day almost doesn't matter.

Little nuisance things like sorting the recycling, putting everything away after I use it, self-care things like using the Neti pot regularly get done because there aren't a lot of demands on my time and attention.

I have no rehearsals, no church services to attend and no language classes, so it doesn't matter what time it is. I'll be holed up here for I don't know how many weeks or months, so it being Monday or Wednesday makes no difference. I spent the first month of the second semester of my junior year of college asleep in bed with mononucleosis. I lost a month. At least here in this time void, I can accomplish something.

Perhaps I'm experiencing life the way I was meant to. Time, after all, is a conceived notion. Some cultures are still grappling with the idea of what 2:00 means. I mentioned letting our circadian rhythm take over if there aren't precise demands on our time. I'm alternating between routine and letting my mood and body dictate what I do. It's working; If I'm in a mood (one of those moods) and can't make myself sit and write, I get my body going: I exercise or clean something. If I'm physically pfft, I put my mind to work studying or practicing piano. I'm using my time well, for the most part.

How often have we told ourselves or others that we don't have the time to do this or that? The truth is, we have all time. What we don't have - because we haven't given it to ourselves - is the freedom to decide how we use it.

This is a sundial on the embassy grounds. I've walked past it before, but I finally stopped to look at it more closely. I like what it says, I am silent without the sun. It is reflective of these dark days for us, while time doesn't hold the same importance it used to.

Quarantine Bloglette: In Our Greatest Limitations, We find Our Greatest Freedoms

Those of you who've read my blog recognize the title. I first heard that from Craig Bohmler (may he rest in peace), my piano/composition teacher. I was learning about 12-tone composition. There are rules in writing 12-tone, and I was distressed that they'd make it too difficult to compose. After he assured me with the above words, I set out and composed a piece so complicated, I couldn't even play it. I thought it was probably unplayable because it made no sense. But Craig could play it. And it was good.

There are a few teachers who've said things to me, sometimes as brief asides, that stick and help me throughout my life. I remember a biology teacher in high school. She gave us an exam on the first day of class - the first day of class! I scored around 13% - an epic failure. I wound up liking her anyway. The year went by, and, on one of the last days of class, she gave us the same exam again. This time I scored a rousing 28%. Epic failure. (Only the exam, not the class.) She saw my disappointment and said, "Laura, you increased your knowledge 100%!"

I could bring very little with me to Moscow and this isolation limits what I can do, so I have time to write. Writing these bloglettes, which may go unread by many, help me view my situation objectively and sort out and nurse my feelings. I've already made the kind of progress on my novel that gets me thinking about it throughout the day and excited about sitting down with it again, rather than being purely daunted by it. I brought very little piano music with me, so I have the time to focus on a few pieces, rather than beginning a new challenge that teases me away from a beloved piece I still can't quite get right. I brought a piece with me, Mendelssohn's The Venetian Boat Song #2, that I once had memorized. I'm hoping to play it by heart once again. (I love that phrase!) If you've never heard it, look it up and listen to it. It's a short piece, very beautiful.

I've heard the advice to look at what you can do, rather than what you can't do. I agree. What can you practice and get better at? What can you do so you'll not have to do it again for a year, if ever? What can you indulge in that you usually deny yourself because you're so busy? Whom have you not written to or talked to for too long? Are you able to let your circadian rhythm dictate your hours rather than a strict work schedule?

We Americans cherish our freedoms. Most often, the freedoms referred to are worship, gun possession and speaking our minds. What other simpler freedoms can we discover inside our own homes?

This painting, Beggar Spanish Girl by Evgraf Sorokin, was at a museum in Moscow when Douglas and I were here in December.

I love the body language in the little Spanish girl. She'll take the coin. She's grateful (arm over her heart), or she's protective, or trying to hold her shirt in place. Yet her face shows how it pains her. And I think her feet are tired judging by the full picture above.

Quarantine Bloglette: Compassion

I'm trying to pay attention during this time of quarantine. 

Life today is like being in a novel plot. One of my friends is reading a book set in the time of the Black Plague and how bodies were carted off and piled in the streets. Ding-ding, Bring out your dead! The updated version is the morgues are full. 

Every day, so many people in other countries deal with war and repressive or oppressive  governments, while we in America just sail along. Now we all have something in common, Covid 19. 

I’m trying to imagine what people’s lives are like in Afghanistan, Syria and Somalia every day of their lives, not just for a few weeks or months.. I'm learning that just because my/our problems are less doesn’t mean they aren’t problems, doesn’t mean they should be dismissed or sucked up, buttercup. But we do need to keep a perspective. 

Going through this pandemic together can make us more empathetic. The urge to wall off our borders to Central America because we have enough of our own to deal with, should be met by those who face being turned away from full hospitals or by those who lose loved ones who couldn't be treated due to lack of ventilators or depleted medical supplies. If the requests for aid presented to our country were dealt with by those who remember that feeling of rejection, who have compassion, perhaps they can then come up with more long-lasting, humanitarian, loving solutions.

At the same gallery where the last picture was taken, a photographer, Alexander Filkine, came in with dancers from the local ballet and took photographs.  I'll share more of these in the coming days.

Corona Bloglette: Delayed Gratification

I'm going to try writing a short blog every day during the quarantine. I want to be encouraging. I'm not going to be too Suzy-Sunshine since what we're going through is bad, it's bad. I want a place to crab, but I want to do it with humor to keep perspective. I've got it pretty good here on the Embassy compound, and I know it.

So, I'll give you today, a thought that came to me while I was running, the thought that spurred this idea. I've noticed that during this time, my ability to delay gratification is stronger. I have a finite amount of chocolate and Pepsi on hand and don't want it to disappear too soon, because I don't want to go to the store any more often than I must. So I've notice that I'm consuming less of them and (with a couple of exceptions) only once a day. (Don't judge me - that's progress.) I look forward to heading to the piano at the end of the day, after I've spent time working on my novel and exercising. It's not only rewarding, it's good for me cognitively.

Check back tomorrow. I may have a sentence for you, maybe a paragraph. We'll see what has my attention. Please comment any thoughts you have. There's a chance, depending on how long this lasts, that I'll run out of thoughts completely. My mind may become a void. (I just mis-typed "voice" for void - a Freudian slip of some sort, I wonder? I guess I have some time to ponder that one.) I may need to steal, er, borrow your ideas.

I've been asked to post more pictures, so I'll give you a picture from an art gallery in Vladivostok.

I actually took a picture of this painting at two different occasions. I continue to be drawn to it. I love the rich coloring. She's looks beautiful and strong, very Russian qualities.

Extremes

I started this post while flying to visit my parents in Phoenix. I had every intention of posting on time, the first of March. I didn't. I continued working on it while awaiting a flight to Paris. Sounds romantic, doesn't it? Don't envy me. Do not envy me. I'm finishing it up while sitting in an apartment on the Embassy compound in Moscow. What am I doing here? You'll find out . . .

I titled this post Extremes. I probably cursed myself in doing that. At the time, the only extremes I was writing about were small things like flying from snowy Vladivostok to mild Phoenix and how Douglas and I had to get my baggage up a steep, ice-covered hill to the awaiting taxi. Our feet could get no purchase, so he left me at the bottom of the hill to let the driver know we were coming. When he came back down to help me, walking gingerly, arms out at the ready, he looked like a baby penguin. (Do you ever love someone extra when they're not at their best?) I yelled to Douglas how cute he looked. He either didn't hear me, of didn't feel cute and, thus, ignored me. There were some flight issues, like Aeroflot telling me that I not only wasn't allowed to have a second checked bag, but that they didn't show it in their system even though I held my claim tag and receipt. Not to risk boredom during the lengthy layovers, I left my passport and boarding pass in one of the many bathrooms in the Incheon airport in Seoul 20 minutes before boarding. Fellow travelers, like the guy who sat beside me in full-blown man spread, eating with his elbows out like it was Black Friday at the Old Country Buffet always kept things interesting. 

Anyway, I was busy in Phoenix and didn't spend much time on my blog, and, as time passed, the extremes got a little more extreme and I put off posting to include them. For example, I was unable to fly back the same route I flew to Phoenix (Seoul, Seattle, Phoenix). Russia was not accepting flights from the Asian countries. I had to fly through New York, Paris and Moscow into Vlad with two five-hour layovers. Every low point, however, was met with a high of some sort. For instance, I found the bathroom in Seoul where I'd left my passport and boarding pass and they were still there. I was so sweaty and red-faced by the time I boarded, they pulled me aside for an extra screening. I then had the entire row to myself for the flight to Seattle. 

Heading out of Phoenix, I had the police called on me for the first time. The Yellow Cab driver, who was to collect me at 3:30 called me at 3:20. "I'm close." He said. "Be ready." I said goodbye to my mother, lugged my baggage to the bottom of the driveway and waited. And waited. He finally showed up at 3:55. I was livid. He didn't care. "You have plenty of time." He said. "What time's your flight?" Right. Plenty of time. Anyway, when I got the the airport, I thrust half his fare into his hand, grabbed my baggage and left him. He chased me through the airport saying "This is wrong, this is wrong." I agreed, told him I was busy and ignored him. As I was checking in, I saw three police officers standing off to the side. "I think they're waiting for me." I told the woman who was helping me. They soon surrounded me. End of story: I had to pay him or get arrested. To not pay would have been "breach of contract." Never mind that he breached contract by leaving me standing for a half hour in the middle of the night. The high following that ordeal was I was able to upgrade to Comfort Class for a mere $79 on that flight. I drank Mimosas. 

When I arrived to Vladivostok, I was surprised to see not Douglas, but our Consul General waiting for me. I told him I'd planned on kissing the man who met me. He told me that even if Douglas were there, I wouldn't want to kiss him.

Uh-oh.

Douglas was in quarantine having had a fever. Alice, our Regional Security Officer, was next door also in quarantine having worked with Douglas. I was put into quarantine next door to Alice for two days just to be on the safe side. When I arrived to the townhouses, I stood outside under our front window and was able to talk with Douglas Romeo and Juliet style.

After our quarantine ended, we found out that we'd be evacuated to Moscow where the health care was higher quality and there were more flight options.  Douglas disappeared into the Consulate for long days as they suspended operations in Vladivostok. He only emerged to come home to feed and sleep. I pulled out the bags I'd just unpacked and repacked them. We'd be allowed two checked bags and our carry-on. Douglas and I decided to pay for a third checked bag. It's funny. While I was deciding what to bring with me, I looked at my piano. Knowing it couldn't go, I panicked. How will I ever learn the Chopin Nocturne? I pulled out the music and sat to practicing, as though I could learn it in the few days I had before evacuating. I was given Scrivener (a word processing program for writers) for Christmas. I had barely begun the tutorial in the three or so months I'd had it, but, suddenly, knowing I might not have that computer with me, I sat to learning it. Mercifully, we were allowed to pack an additional 300 or so pounds of unaccompanied baggage since we didn't know whether we'd be in Moscow for weeks or months. (I got to bring my computer. And some piano music, just in case.)

As I close this post, we've been here a week. We got to meet the Ambassador. I found a piano that's out of tune, but playable. There is a pub in the compound that has a pool table, and I seem to be the only one interested in it. Nice. 

It's odd not knowing how long we'll be here. As I've written before, in our greatest limitations, we find our greatest freedoms.  Without the thrice-weekly choir rehearsals and four weekly Russian classes, my mind is free to write. I hope you, as well as I, will benefit from it.

Shall We Compete or Cooperate?

When you’re driving, and you see a car in the next lane with its turn indicator (the one nearest your lane) on, what thoughts run through your mind? I’ll go first. My thoughts range from “Oh, no you don’t!” to “I’ll make some space so they can move over.” The turn indicator is a device for safety, order and cooperation (if it’s even used – that’s another blog entirely), but it is seen as an attack – like the tiny laser light you see on the forehead of the guy who's about to get shot.

Here’s another one for you. You’re standing at the end of a long line at a grocery store. The next cashier opens up. Do you bolt for the front of that line, or let those who’ve been waiting longer get there first? I’ll tell you what I’ve started doing. Having seen too many inconsiderate, selfish people dash to be first in line, I, too sprint over only to let the ones I knew were in line before me go first. I used to just take advantage of my good timing and quick feet until I shopped at Byerly’s in St. Paul. The cashiers there walk up to someone nearing the cashier in a long line, tell them that they’re going to open register number four, would they like to step over there? Smart. Fair. Cooperative.

Why are we so competitive? Is it because most of us will never be so good at anything to successfully compete that we take advantage of every mundane situation to feel victorious? Are we so wrapped up in ourselves that we don’t see our place in society? Do we want to be noticed and lauded? (Let me tell you: You want to be lauded? Let someone into the lane ahead of you when they put on their turn indicator. Let someone in line ahead of you once in a while.) Or is it more basic? We’ve been taught to be competitive.

There’s nothing wrong with competition in the right arena. There’s nothing wrong with handing out awards to the first two or three winners and nothing to those who lost or didn’t place. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be the best, but there are some things that are immeasurable. I lost two beloved piano students because their father wanted them to play in piano competitions. I could have responded better, I admit. I told him that foot races were competitive, not music making. His daughters were ages eight and eleven, beginner level, and he wanted them to compete in piano playing.

Since my youth, society has taught me to be competitive. My school’s better than your school. (Even though I’d never attended any other school.) Girls are smarter than boys. (The only proof offered was my gender.) She’s my best friend. (You’re not.) Those seemingly innocent taunts and comments weigh heavily in our minds, I believe. They’re seeds that grow into our inability or unwillingness to live more cooperatively as we age.

“America First” was a rally call in the last election. I assume most countries have their own equivalents of such a slogan. But, how about "Humanity First"? I think we have enough problems as a race (hunger, poverty, pollution, global warming—you know . . .) without dividing ourselves into camps to protect our own interests at the expense of others, like having off-season produce available even though it's expensive and, consequently, often spoils and gets trashed while others are starving or shipping trash to others’ backyards for them to deal with because we won’t recycle or package things better.

What do we get out of it? A sense (more often false) of being better than those around us. It’s disturbing to me to hear sportscasters comment about how disappointing the silver medalist must be feeling after missing the gold by .00003 seconds. Think of all the years of disciplined training, personal growth, levels of fitness achieved and other victories being dismissed because of the color of a medal from a single performance. Competitiveness invites a sense of being lesser when don’t have the most followers, friends, views, shares or likes. We feel common, as though there’s something wrong with that. And competitiveness promotes divisiveness.

I’m tired of competitiveness and all its consequences – external and internal.

Here’s another rally call: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” (Keep the word country in that sentence or change it to company or neighbor.) That’s cooperation. That’s recognizing one’s role in society. I learned an important lesson about my role in society when I worked at the Renaissance Festival. I sang in a madrigal group that wasn’t exactly an audience magnet like Puke and Snot, Zilch the Torysteller and The Tortuga Twins. Those who didn’t just pass us by would sit to eat their lunches, get out of the sun or rain, check their phones or (my least favorite) chat. It really bothered me. Then, one day as I was walking around the festival grounds, I walked past a harpist. What a lovely sound, I thought, as I walked on and smelled the rosewater booth and felt the gentle autumn breeze. That’s when it hit me that my little madrigal group was as much a part of the ambiance of the festival as that harpist (who had no seated audience) and The Dew Drop Jugglers with their standing room only crowds. Even though I didn't take the time to sit and listen, I would have missed hearing that harpist (and the next, and the next, because you can't toss a ducat at the festival without striking a harpist). That realization gave me more pride in the music I helped present and eased the envy I felt seeing the large crowds for the Washing Well Wenches at the next stage.

Competitiveness starts when we’re young, and it grows. Competitiveness is what drives congress to stalemate the seating of a Supreme Court Judge or filibuster to stop the passage of a bill. It is the foundation of the rationale of congress to impeach one president with all the witnesses they can find and overlook the sins of another by not calling any witnesses and, consequently, tying the hands of justice. Obviously, competitiveness, as it grows, gets ugly and destructive.

As the final interview in the application process to the State Department and Foreign Service, applicants are grouped together (about 5 or 6), each of who has a project. This group is given a budget that will fund only some of these projects. Each applicant had to pitch their project, but they also have to listen to the others’ projects and consider the budget and the importance of each project in the mission. Many applicants are weeded out during this part of the interview because they demonstrate that they cannot consider the greater good over their own agenda. It is my belief that every senator and representative and other higher-ranking government officials should have to go through that interview process before being allowed to run for office. (I have written this to my senators and representatives. I’m sure you can guess how that went over.) But I’m serious. Why should anyone work in congress who can’t work well with others and put aside their own or their party’s agendas for the greater good of the country? 

I can’t change congress. What I can do is set an example. I can drive cooperatively which will free up the time of highway patrolmen and women who would be pulling me over for stupid driving. I can set an example on the level where I’m at and hope it eventually wicks up to those with public jobs. I challenge you, dear reader, to consider where in your life you can live more cooperatively. Write me with any ideas that come to mind.

A Visionary Year Ahead

Those of you who have been reading my blog know how much I love the word (and concept of) practice. Another word (and concept) I love is visualization. It has been immensely helpful to me in my behavior regarding personal discipline and interactions with others. I know that prevailing wisdom in setting New Year’s resolutions is to be specific. I do better when I’m vague. This year I’m going to focus on envisioning what I want of myself and visualizing the steps required to get myself there.

To me, visualizing is practicing for something in my mind. It’s giving myself scripts and trying them out in imaginary conversations or confrontations. It’s seeing myself stepping back and assessing rather than reacting. It’s low-level dreaming when my mind can come up with constructive scenarios and I can interact with impunity and see what could possibly work and what I should never, ever try in reality. Like in my dreams, I get feelings from visualizations that tell me whether this reaction or that response comes from my soul or from a part of me that is a fleshly concoction of the world.

Visualization helped me run the 10-kilometer bridge run in the autumn. Visualization helps pick up the phone and (knowing I’ll have to use my extremely limited Russian) call a local restaurant or shop to see if they have something I want. Visualization helps me plan my days. When I have tasks I don’t want to do – clean the house and exercise, for example – I see myself doing them, then I see myself finishing them and feeling the relief at having accomplished them and how little time it took. Then I visualize my reward – enjoying a book or a favorite meal, for instance.

I’ve been keeping good company here in Vladivostok, including four sisters from the 

Catholic church where I sing. Sometimes when I’m out about town alone, I wonder how differently I’d behave if I had to dress as they do – robed, with my head covered – obviously marked as a woman of God. I would want a pleasant, approachable look on my face, so I turn up the corners of my mouth and make eye contact with passersby. (Make a note for readers to read the blog about Alexei.) I would want something to give the beggars on the street – a granola bar is easy to carry and nutritious. Alice, my neighbor, is another good influence on me. When we take a taxi anywhere she chats up the driver, exercising her Russian skills. Having seen her doing this, I, too, engage drivers in conversation no matter how awkward it is. Alice’s car arrived before ours did. When she got it, she announced that if anyone wanted a ride anywhere to ask her so she could learn her way around. I don’t like driving and it intimidates me. But, with her example, I started seeing myself getting out and driving no matter how uncomfortable it made me. I drove our car and filled it up with gas before Douglas drove it. While a small thing to many (like Alice), this was huge for me. And it started with someone setting a good example and me wanting to emulate it. That, to me, is a form of visualization.

I have been writing for years. I’ve completed one novel and am hip deep in two more. (I’m a slow and, these days, undisciplined writer.) I envision myself with three agent-ready manuscripts and a collection of short stories begun. So I will visualize myself making daily progress whether in the form of taking notes as ideas occur to me (something that helped me greatly with The Dream Interpreter), writing a scene or free-writing. I will visualize myself writing at my computer in my writing room or on my laptop or pad of paper in a restaurant. I will remember (see myself) how I walked up the stairs to my writing room in Munich every day and sat for two hours and worked. Some days I actively wrote, others I spent some of the time reading for inspiration, but it worked.

I have good opportunity here for musical growth. I’m singing in two choirs and might soon begin piano lessons. I have a harp that was gifted to me; Sister Maria Stella from the church plays harp and is happy to occasionally help me. I have a new recorder – a Christmas gift from Douglas; all the sisters play recorders. I have long envied talented musicians. I’m envisioning myself walking into rehearsals knowing the music well enough to not be the reason (or contribute to the reason) the conductor stopped us and reviewed notes in the soprano section. I’m envisioning myself knowing the recorder fingering well enough to sight-read better. I’m envisioning myself knowing a few songs on the harp that I can play and sing.

I can hear this voice in my head saying, all this visualization stuff sounds nice, but you have to do something. True. And if I don't do anything, than it won't amount to much. I know that. But I also know that visualization gets me excited about accomplishing whatever it is whether it's a behavior or a project. Visualization helps allay anxiety. Visualization can save time; when I've visualized all the required steps, I can go through the motions without as much thought and decision-making. And, as I already pointed out, it's a form of practice.

Now, I’m going to envision my comments section filling up with comments from my readers – all nine or so of you. Many bloggers write extreme ideas to shock and provoke comments. I don't do that. I don't think I do that, anyway. I want more of a sharing experience, a cooperative environment. Your comments can be positive or negative – I learn from both. They can be suggestions for ideas I can write about in the future. They can be your own version of what I just wrote about. You can back me up or respectfully disagree. But help me fulfill this visualization and fill up my comment section!