Game theory as it applies to language learning

Impressive title, isn't it? It sounds like a dissertation topic -- or at least a thesis. Too bad I don't really know anything about game theory.

What I do know I learned from my friend, James. He tried to explain it to me one weekend when we were hanging out in Sighnaghi. I know that he explained it as simply as he possibly could, but unfortunately, mathematics and mathematical-theories don't make much sense to my artist's brain. But I think that I partially grasped the concept. Today I googled the topic and tried to read some of the web sites that came up on the search. I read a lot of words, but they may as well have been Greek. I didn't understand a thing.

Here's what I do know about game theory: it is a study of decision-making and what causes us to make the decisions that we make given a certain set of circumstances. I can't state the theory that applies to what I want to say, but I can give the application. Maybe the theory will come out of that.

When I first arrived here in Georgia, I spent time every day studying Georgian. I have an English/Georgian dictionary, a language workbook, and notes that I took during my week-long training and Georgian lessons. Every afternoon for the first few months that I was here, I sat with all three books and studied. I reviewed what I had learned in class, I looked up new words, and I practiced reading and writing the language.

Spending an hour or so a day working at this very difficult language paid off after a couple of months. I understand a lot of what people say to me. Answering them is still difficult, but I can usually flounder my way to being understood. I can hold simple conversations and use a little Georgian if needed in the classroom to help the students understand what I am teaching.

My daily studying lasted until about two months ago, when my time became consumed by more school work and helping Tea with her exam-preparation. Or maybe those are just excuses for the real reason that I stopped studying Georgian: I know enough to get by and I won't be here for very much longer. That's the application of game theory to language learning.

The amount of effort that I am willing to put into learning Georgian is in direct relation to the amount of time that I will be in the country and the level of knowledge that I need to communicate. Now that my Georgian is good enough to operate on my own (mostly), I don't feel the need to spend my time studying anymore. And I will only be here for two more months..... I hate to say, "why bother?" but, why bother?

That's not to say that I'm not learning anything anymore. I still ask Tea how to say certain things or I ask her what things mean that I've heard. I do love learning. But I love learning things that are a profitable use of my time. And in the grand scheme of my purpose here, learning more Georgian is not a high priority. So, instead of reading or writing or looking up words to learn, I get by with what I already know and spend my time doing other things that I have deemed more important. Tea will benefit from my helping her with all aspects of the English language astronomically more than I would benefit from knowing a few more phrases in Georgian. She needs the language learning for her career. Once I leave Georgia, my language skills will be little more than a cool thing to break out at a party -- on par with useless trivia.

I am glad that my job here is to teach English, not to learn Georgian! ძალიან ძნელია. (dzalian dznelia.) It's very difficult!

Blessings of springtime

The last two days have been really nice -- warm and bright. On days like this I find myself looking around a bit more than on the cloudy, rainy days that seem to be more common in a Georgian spring. Lovely spring-time blessings have touched my senses as a result of my observations -- sights and sounds and smells and feelings. Here are a few--

Two more animals here on the farm are pregnant -- Tea's black cow and Mouse (the gray-striped cat). Both of their bellies are getting rounder and rounder every day. Soon I'll be posting about delivering a calf..... if I am able to help.... and about some tiny, mewing kittens.

Yesterday I passed a mother horse with her beautiful newborn foal. The reddish-brown foal with four white stockings and a star hid behind its mother as the marshutka I was in jostled by. Peeking out around its mother's neck, the foal watched the strange, white machine with multiple faces staring out of the windows. The foal's legs were longer than the rest of its body and neck, with large, knobby knees wobbling uncertainly under the feather-weight. Its big, dark eyes wondered at every new spectacle, just like me.

The grape vines are finally sprouting new growth. Small leaflets have emerged from the buds, opening in hues of pink and gray-green, translucent in the sunshine. They are small now, but soon they will be large and dark green, shading the new grapes from the blazing summer sun.

Wildflowers carpet the ground. One hazelnut orchard that I walk by on my way to school is carpeted with buttercups right now. The small yellow blossoms dot the true green grass in a contrast that calls for the attention of all who pass by. Another orchard has a carpet of chickweed blossoms. The small spires of tiny purple flowers make the orchard look like someone has taken a crayon to the grass, coloring it all purple instead of green.

Yesterday evening, I went for a run. The clouds had moved in, but the air was still warm. Spritzy rain lay on my face and arms, cooling me as I ran. The warm rain moistened the air with a humidity that invigorated me as I moved through it. And the smell..... delicious, earthy, and alive.

The sun set at 8:15 p.m., and it will only get later as the days go on.

Last evening I sat in the kitchen with Tea and "Our Grandmother." We had the back door standing wide open to let the balmy breeze blow through the small room. I closed my eyes to enjoy the kiss of the fresh air.

As I walked out of the lower house to go to bed, I paused at the stairs to the upper house, arrested by the sight of the apple tree in the front yard. In the darkness, I could see the clusters of pink and white blossoms glowing on the tree like tiny ghosts floating within the branches. The sweet scent hung heavily in the haunted air.

Ah, the blessings and wonders of springtime!

Visiting

The collective nature of Georgian culture manifests itself in ways that feel completely foreign sometimes, and old-fashioned-American at others. Today I was a part of a typical Georgian custom that felt a bit like the old American days: visiting the ill. 

One of my colleagues, Mitusha, had heart surgery last week. I don't know exactly how old he is. When I asked Tea today, she said that she didn't know, but old. She asked someone else, and the answer was, "Old. Not less than seventy." We all went to the hospital to visit him today.

So that we would have time to get to town to visit him, our last two periods were cut short by ten minutes each. (Which I didn't know until the bell rang in the middle of my ninth graders' interview activity. Frustrating, but not uncommon.) The teachers hired out a marshutka to pick us up at school. Around 2 p.m., after our ride arrived, we all piled in and bounced our way out of the village and into town. After stopping a couple of times for various teachers to run quick errands, we pulled up to St. Luka's Zugdidi Medical Center -- a building with which I am quite familiar since my run-in with the angry dog. 

The large hospital is of typical Soviet-era construction, built with austere cinder-blocks and solemnity. It was painted a robin's-egg-blue not too long ago, judging by the generous amount of paint that is still sticking to the rough surface. 

Visitors are not allowed into the hospital, so we all gathered out in front of the building and waited in the sunshine (it was a lovely day today). We'd been standing around for about fifteen minutes, when the front doors opened and Mitusha shuffled out, accompanied by his wife. 

He looked good. Tired, but good. A few extra years were layered into his already wrinkled expression. The thin gray crown that circles the back of his head seemed a shade lighter, but the light in his eyes shone as brightly as ever. His feeble smile confirmed that he is recovering well. 

He made the rounds of the group, shaking all our hands and thanking us for coming. Some of the ladies had brought bags of fruits and vegetables which they gave to Mitusha's wife amid more thank-yous. After about ten minutes of quiet chatter and inquiries into his prognosis, we wished him a quick recovery and waved goodbye as he shuffled back inside.

Visiting those who are ill is not an abnormal practice even in our individualistic, American society. We go to see loved ones who are sick or in the hospital, as do the Georgians. But there is a difference in the way the visiting happens. My colleagues have been arguing for days about when to see Mitusha, because, according to custom, the entire group must go together. Going together as one group is a respectful practice to show the ill/recovering person that he/she is loved. So even though all the ladies have so much work to do at home when school is over, there was never a question of "if" they would go to see Mitusha, only "when." 

Such kind, caring people, the Georgians.

As American as.....

The rest of this title could have two endings. I posted about one of them not too long ago -- apple pie (I have since found some cinnamon and made a second pie -- it was scrumptious). Today's post is about the other possible ending of the title -- baseball.

I don't consider myself a sports fanatic. A fan, yes. But not a fanatic. Even though the short form of the word comes from the long one, the length of the word also seems to denote just how insanely one follows the team they love. When in the U.S., I watch most of the New England and Philly teams as often as I can (all but basketball). I even have the ESPN app on my iPhone that sends me updates as the games progress. But since leaving the U.S. over eight months ago, I have seen exactly one game -- a Patriots football game. That's it. Not much of a fanatic.

But that doesn't mean that I don't miss it. In fact, sports is one of the things that I miss the most. Granted, I am not on a complete sports drought. The males of my household are soccer fanatics (yes, full-word fanatics). One of the TVs in the house is usually tuned to whatever soccer game is being broadcast. I often peek at the screen to see who is playing and what the score is, but only once have I watched an entire game -- the Georgian national team was playing the Russian team in Russia. Georgia was the underdog in the game. The game was scoreless going into overtime, and in the last minute of the game, Georgia scored. It was very exciting! The kitchen erupted into cheers and hollering and hugs. But it is not the same as watching the Red Sox or Phillies or Pats or Eagles or Bruins or Flyers..... There are moments when I dream about hanging out with my friends and family watching a football, hockey, or baseball game. With summer on the way, I'm pretty sure that baseball will be the first sport I watch.

In my excitement to watch baseball again, I decided to read a baseball book. At the American Corner in the Zugdidi library, I found W.P. Kinsella's Shoeless Joe. I saw the movie adaptation of the story years ago, but I don't remember much about it -- only that Kevin Costner was in it and that he's cute. I don't remember whether or not I enjoyed the movie. I am, however, enjoying the book. The descriptions of the game -- the sounds, the smells, the sights, the feelings -- are so accurate and poignant, I often feel as though I am sitting in the stands at a game instead of just reading about one.

Sports are a huge part of culture, and in American culture, although football may be more popular, baseball is still considered to be the national pastime. I can remember playing the game every day in the summers when I was in middle school in Florida; that is, until an unsolvable argument broke out over some disputed play that ended with someone leaving in a huff taking with them the only bat or ball or pitcher that we had. I'm pretty sure that we never once finished an entire nine innings. But it didn't matter. The next day, we were all out there again, starting at the bottom of the first.

I don't play too often anymore, but I have learned to love watching the game. The camaraderie of fellow-team supporters, the food and drink, the tailgating, the suspense, the annoying commercial breaks, the bad calls, the instant replays, the triumphal victories or crushing defeats -- it is all a part of the culture that I know and love and miss. So, until sometime in a couple of months, I'll have to be satisfied with the book I am reading, looking at scores online, and reading the facebook posts of my friends and family. Before I know it, I'll be standing for the seventh-inning stretch and singing, "Take me out to the ball game...."

My protector

A couple of months ago, I wrote a post about Dog. (His name is Bobby, but nobody calls him that.) He has claimed me as one of his people, and today he took on a new role.

I went for a run this afternoon. It was my first run in the village since being bitten. I was only slightly nervous about running past the house with that dog, but a friend who worked in a kennel for years gave me some great tips on dealing with angry dogs; so with my new knowledge, I felt confident that I will not be bitten again. (Basically, I will walk past that house from now on and kick the dog if it attacks me again.)

Before heading out, I stepped into the lower house to let Tea know that I was going running. She cringed and said, "Be careful!" I promised that I would be.

Dog on the porch of the lower house

As I walked across the yard to the gate, Dog loped up alongside of me, nudging at my hand for some pats. I ruffed up his thick mane and patted him on the shoulder. As I opened the gate, he darted out into the road ahead of me. He often wanders around the road -- there is no leash-law in Georgia. I turned to run up the road, and Dog bounded along after me. He settled in right beside me. I looked down at him, grinning; he looked up with a typical dog-smile, big pink tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth.

I thought that he would drop off after a minute or two. Nope. He stayed right beside me. Now and then he chased a pig or a goose that was in the road, but after each short excursion, he trotted back to me. Sometimes he ran along in front of me, tail streaming out behind him. He seemed to sense that I was a little nervous about encountering the angry dog again. His attitude to every dog we met was, "Hey! This is my person. Keep your teeth off her!"

When we got to the scene of the attack, the mean dog was nowhere to be seen. The kids and mom of the house were all out in the yard. I waved and said hello -- they asked how I was doing, and I told them that I was well. We all smiled. They laughed when they saw Dog with me -- they liked seeing that I had a body guard.

I'm not sure, but this may have been Dog's first sustained run. After about 10 minutes, I knew that he wasn't going to leave me. I decided to do a short 30 minutes instead of my planned 45 so that he could stay with me the whole time. If he keeps joining me, he'll be able to go for longer runs in no time. But I thought I'd start him slow.

Speaking of slow, he slowed down on the return run. A few times, I ran in place while he caught up to me, tongue hanging way out of his mouth. But he did it! He ran a little more than 5 kilometers.

Might I really have a running partner for the rest of my time here?

Questions without answers

I apologize for the incompleteness and disjointedness of this post. I am having a very difficult time formulating my thoughts for the topic on which I want to write. The difficulty is stemming from my lack of understanding of Georgia's cultural practice of drinking to excess.

According to tradition, after giving a toast, that person must down all the wine in his/her glass.... or horn or bowl or mug or vase or boot or whatever else the receptacle may be. If only one toast was given, it wouldn't be a problem, but at any celebration (suphra), you can count on at least eight toasts.... maybe fifteen or more. That's a lot of wine.

As a woman, I have had an easier time begging off of sharing in this tradition. It's alright for a woman to refuse to drink. Don't get me wrong, I love wine -- but I don't like chugging it by the glass-full. I find it easier to just refuse it all than being goaded and prodded to "dalie bolomde" (drink to the last). If you want some wonderfully written, witty word pictures of Georgian drinking, my friend James has written two great posts in his blog from his experiences. One is from his New Year's celebration in his village, and the other is an exploration into the societal pressures of drinking. Both are very accurate representations of the toasting/wine-imbibing that goes on.

Next to New Year's, Easter is the biggest holiday in Georgia. In the Orthodox tradition, Easter carries greater importance (at least, that is what I was told), but the celebration at New Year's is a little bigger. 

Here in Georgia, Easter is a completely religious holiday. The Easter Bunny has not yet migrated to this part of the world. Hard boiled eggs are dyed red as a symbol of Christ's blood. The greeting for everyone during the Easter holiday is, "Christ is risen," answered by, "Risen, indeed!" (In Georgian, of course.) 

But what struck me as odd today was hearing that pair of statements out of men who were stone-cold drunk. 

I don't understand it. I know that I am not going to understand it -- mostly because no one can explain to me the reason behind the drinking. If I could hear some persuasive rationale that explained the symbolism behind the need to empty a glass of wine after a toast.... after toast, after toast, after toast.... then I would have no problem with it (minus the damage that such quantities of alcohol wreaks on the body). But liver-health aside, if there were a REASON, I could understand it. "It's our tradition," is not a reason. Add the word "because" with an explanation, and voila! Question answered. But this is a question without an answer.

And hearing a drunk man tell me that Christ is risen doesn't resonate with me as reverential. I have to wonder what God thinks of it.

Easter prayers

My first prayer of the day came this morning just before I headed out for my first attempt at running since I was bitten by that abominable cur almost two weeks ago. My prayer went something like, "God, not running is driving me nuts. You know that I need to run. Here goes....," as I laced up my sneakers and headed out the door of the guesthouse. The shoreline was a little less than a mile away, so I headed that direction.

Gray morning on the Black Sea

There was almost no one out. It was early, by Georgian standards -- only 7:15. I passed only a few people on the sidewalk as I ran toward Batumi Boulevard to run along the shore path. It was a bit chilly and drizzly, but the clouds were high and I could tell that it was going to clear up soon. The face of the sea was calm and flat. No wind. Just stillness. I ran for another mile along the water, watching the seemingly infinite horizon. The blue-gray of the clouds faded into the green of the sea almost without distinction. Then came my second prayer of the day. Something like, "That's peaceful and beautiful. Thank you."

Batumi's Catholic church

After breakfast and checking out of our guesthouse, James and I headed to the bus station to board our separate marshutkas homeward. James' left right away, but mine didn't leave for another 30 minutes. The only Catholic church in the city was just across the tracks from the station, so I shouldered my backpack and walked over to wait there.

It was nice to go into a church that had someplace to sit. (Orthodox churches don't usually have any benches or chairs.) I set my backpack down on the back bench like a wanderer releasing a burden and sat down. The day's third prayer. This one was longer. I thanked God for the blessings that he constantly gives me -- safety, health, friends, hospitable hosts, and new adventures. I thanked him for caring for humanity as a whole since the beginning of time. Then I paused for a bit, thinking about what to pray. I continued by telling God that I have no idea what in the world I am going to do when my contract is up and I leave Georgia and it's really stressing me out. I ended by thanking him for whatever is going to come next.

Inside the Dadiani chapel

Once in Zugdidi, I had a couple of hours to kill before Katherine arrived at the bus station to spend the rest of the Easter break with me. It wasn't raining, so I walked to the park by Dadiani's Palace. There were a couple of ladies sitting out in front of the church next to the palace selling candles, so I went over and bought five small beeswax candles to light in the church. I wrapped my ever-present scarf over my head and went inside. As I lit the candles for various people, I prayed for each one for specific things: for my ex-husband, true love; for my love, peace; for Tea, success in her work; for my parents, rest; and for myself, direction.

Growing up as a Baptist, I didn't light candles when I prayed. I think I may have a couple of times in Latin American countries when I attended a mass while traveling. Since being in Georgia, I have gotten used to lighting candles as I pray in the Orthodox churches that I have gone into. I like the symbolic smoke rising from the flame -- a picture of the prayer ascending to Heaven. To me, the flame acts like a reminder of this moment in time, representing the immediate, present words being uttered aloud, quietly, or silently. The smoke is the vehicle of the prayer to Heaven. Being a visual person, I like this physical representation of the spiritual occurrence.

Easter prayers -- thankfulness, petition, candles, quiet.

Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed!

I ♥ Batumi

After walking by a tattoo parlor along Batumi Boulevard this evening, James and I joked that we should stop in for a lasting memory of Georgia -- James suggested a "მე ♥ ბათუმი" (I ♥ Batumi) somewhere where no one else would see it..... We both decided against it! As much as we do love Georgia -- Batumi and all -- tattooing ourselves with it just wouldn't do justice to our experiences here. 

At dinner tonight we talked about what we are going to miss most about Georgia when we leave. Both of us decided that, in some aspect, the people are what we will miss the most. For my part, I will certainly miss Tea the most. She has become a very close friend. But generally speaking, country-wide, I will miss the hospitality of these people. 

James and I are staying in a guesthouse in the city -- basically, we are sleeping in extra rooms that the family has in their home which they rent out. The family is very nice. They have made us feel welcome and at home. Although breakfast is not included in the price of the stay, they invited us to have breakfast in the mornings. Of course, we accepted the offer. We were pleasantly surprised this morning to find a table set with bread, cheese, sausages, hard-boiled eggs (dyed red for Easter), rolls, cake, jam (cherry tomato jam -- surprisingly good), and tea. The son of the proprietors is the only one who speaks English, but with mine and James' combined Georgian skills (James' more-so), we could communicate with the mother of the premises with no problem. She offered us anything we needed, and invited us to sit and watch television with her and her husband. We declined the TV-watching, but thanked her over and over for the wonderful breakfast. She confirmed with us what time we would want to eat tomorrow morning. 

Such beautiful, genuine generosity -- with a warm smile and honest eyes. That's what I will miss most when I leave this place. 

Sitting by the sea, watching the waves roll up onto the rocky shore and the dolphins roll up then under the surface, I am surrounded by beauty. Wild, untamed beauty that cannot be described -- it can only be experienced. Likewise, no words can truly express the depth of generosity of the people of this country. For all the differences that a Westerner may label a "fault" in the Georgians -- smoking, unemployment, lack of "inside-voices," lagging educational standards, unmotivated society, sub-modern medical practices -- the beauty of the culture of these people is as wild and untamed as the sea that borders their land. The rocky shore resembles the difficult past this country has had -- riddled with invasions, war, poverty. The blurred line between the sea and the sky is like their desire to be something different from what they have been...... but they are not there yet. The constant rolling tide is the deeply ingrained tradition that keeps Georgia Georgian. And here I sit, observing it all. Not quite a part of it -- close, but not quite. I can touch it. I can watch it. I can appreciate it. But it will always be something that is foreign to me. I could put on a wet-suit and tanks and mask, and swim down in the sea with the dolphins for awhile, but I won't know what it is like to be a dolphin. I may experience their world for a little while, but I won't know what it is to be one -- know its struggles, its joys, its fears, its background, its philosophy, nor its life. 

That's how I feel about Georgia.

No matter how much Tea shares with me her customs and traditions, I will never fully understand them. But that doesn't mean I can't experience them. I can take in everything around me to the best of my ability and learn everything I can from everyone I meet. In this way, I will gain a broader appreciation for humanity as a whole -- and Georgians as a special part of that whole. 

Yes, I ♥ Batumi. 

Construction and growth

I haven't always thought of construction as growth, or even progress; but in this developing country, I am finding them to be basically synonymous.

In yesterday's post, I mentioned that the roads here are horrible and that construction is happening everywhere. After spending much of today exploring this city, those two observations still hold true.

I have no idea what this structure is going to be..... but it's cool.

Batumi is an odd city, but I really like it. (Maybe that's why I like it!) The architects of the new buildings that are going up appear to be in competition to create the strangest-looking structure. It reminds me, on a small scale of Las Vegas. There is a lot of glass, a lot of neon-tube lighting, a lot of mod-styling, and an unimpressed air to all the new buildings. They don't seem to care whether or not you like them. They like themselves. They are cool cats.

The cool-cat era explains Batumi perfectly. It is un-presumpuous and in-your-face at the same time. It is going to wear its leather jacket and hang out and smoke its cigarette just because it wants to. Besides, there's nothing better to do. Wait, am I describing the attitude of the city or its inhabitants?

Georgian cool cats hanging out by the Black Sea

The progress that Batumi is undergoing is massive. It is no exaggeration to say that there is at least one major construction project every two blocks -- on average. Such large-scale growth has to be viewed as progress. Would Donald Trump invest in anything less than certain progress? (That is to be read "tongue-in-cheek" with an element of truth...) While there is still so much that needs to change in this city to bring it up to the tourism standards that are common throughout the rest of Europe and the U.S., progress is being made. Changes are occurring. And it is encouraging to watch -- maybe a little annoying to live around the inconvenience of the progress progressing underfoot and overhead..... but the city can't shut down while it grows. So the growing pains are felt by the native Batumi-folks and the guests alike.

Onward and upward.

Potholes

After a long, wet winter potholes are normal -- at least a few here and there, scattered along a stretch of road that is recovering from the freeze and thaw combined with the pressure of traffic. But Georgia's potholes take the severity to a whole new level.

I've written a few times about the deplorable state of Shamgona's road. The Russian tanks tore it up years ago during the conflict years, and it has been neglected and left to deteriorate ever since. In a tiny village, such a bad road is understandable, even excusable. But in Batumi?

This major crossroad is not one of the worst in the city....

Batumi is the second largest city in Georgia. (Some friends and I are spending our spring break here.) It is the city that is growing the most rapidly and evolving the most drastically. Construction is present everywhere  -- evidence that improvement, opportunity, and progress are on the rise. And it looks that way, too -- modern, stylish, new buildings, hotels, casinos, high rises -- it looks like progress is afoot as long as you don't pay any attention to what is UNDERfoot. The roads in this city are as bad as the roads in my village.

That's bad.

While walking around the city this afternoon and evening, James and I tried to make sense of the horrendously rutted, potholed, puddled, dug-up, rock-strewn, crater-riddled streets. This condition would be understandable if it afflicted only one or two out-lying streets. But, no, the majority of the city looks like these photos. Whether the budget has not covered road-repair for years or the construction vehicles constantly tear them up or a city-wide drainage/water supply problem is being resolved, I can't tell. What I do know is that for THE tourist destination of the country, the road condition is not inviting nor welcoming.

Doesn't look like much of a tourist-destination, does it?

Can't life a bit like this?

Bumps throw us off-track. Rocky sections take their toll on our nerves. Puddles splash muck all over whoever may get too close. Holes jar us from the very depths of our beings. Ruts keep us heading in one particular direction.... whether or not we mean to go that way. Dug-up sections impede our progress. Rough sections slow us down. So what's the best thing to do when you're stuck on a road like this?

Park the car, get out, and walk.

Who, me? Blog?

I've never liked writing. Not when I was in high school or college or grad school. When I went back to school to start my graduate program, the first time I was faced with writing a 20-page paper was a real shocker. It had been almost 15 years since I had been on the student-side of school, and I was quite out of composition-practice. I sought advice from a friend who is an English teacher on how to go about this writing-thing, and he gave me some priceless advice, "Write drunk, revise sober."

I didn't take his advice literally, but a glass of wine did help to get those first difficult words out onto the paper (or computer screen). Sometimes getting started is the hardest part. Once the flow has begun, inertia takes over and the words just keep coming. Pen flowing over the paper. Fingers flowing over the keyboard.

In grad school, I wrote lots of papers (as an art student! What's up with that?), and each one was as difficult as the first. Oh, sure, I got used to the method of researching and writing, and the thoughts eventually flowed more profusely. But it was never easy to make myself sit down and actually write.

And now I write every day..... in, of all things, a blog.

My brother posted a picture of a "de-motivational poster" on his Facebook wall not long ago. It was entitled, "Blogging," and the quote said, "Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few." Ha! My feelings exactly. Yet, here I am, writing every single night for at least an hour, sometimes two. Is it a diary? I hope not. Is it a journal? Not really. So what is a blog? I looked it up on dictionary.com.

A blog is "a web site containing the writer's own experiences, observations, opinions, etc., and often having images or links to other web sites." That sounds like what I am doing.

There is one type of writing that I have enjoyed doing -- travel-writing. Over ten years ago, I started writing and sketching when I traveled. I wrote so I wouldn't forget what I had done or seen or felt. I drew because that's what I do. At first, my travel journals were concise and less than descriptive. But the more I have traveled and the further I have gone, the lengthier my entries have become. I try to include my experiences, what I think about them, and how they make me feel. I have at least 10 books filled with my scrawls and sketches from my journeys. And those are from short trips.....

If I put together everything that I have written in this blog as my "Georgia journal," it would be a book. I've always said that I should write a book about my crazy life...... Looks like I have a good start.

But, seriously, I struggle some days with what to post. I want to remember who my audience is -- some I know, but some I don't. (The stats on my blog-posting site tell me where my posts are being read. I'm pretty sure that I don't know anyone in Germany or Denmark, but 10 of my posts were read there this week.) I guess that exploring cultural observations is interesting for people everywhere.

"The writer's own experiences, observations, and opinions...." with some humor and a little of the human condition thrown in -- (that last one is certainly relevant to everyone) -- that is what I am sharing.

I still can't believe that I blog.

Preparations for Easter

Spring cleaning is happening all over the village this week -- partly because the rain stopped, but mostly because Easter is coming. Up and the down the road, houses have their windows thrown open, wash lines are filled with clean sheets and bedding blowing in the wind, and porch railings are lined with mattresses and pillows airing out. But the houses are not the only things undergoing spring cleaning. The graveyard is, too.

A family plot in the graveyard

Living across from the village cemetery may seem creepy to some, but I rather like it. (For one thing, it cuts down on the noise-level in front of the house.) I have been able to witness several funeral processions and graveside burial services from the yard. It is also a nice place to meander on a dreary day.

The last couple of days, the cemetery has been filled with families armed with hoes, spades, and twig-brooms cleaning up the plots. Each family has a fenced-in plot where loved ones are buried when they die. Often flowers are placed at the grave along with fruit and wine or vodka. This week any old flowers and fruit are being cleared away. Clean, fresh glasses of libations are placed beside the graves. The dead grasses and weeds and sticks that have collected there over the winter are taken out and piled in the front of the graveyard.

This evening the pile was set on fire. The blaze crackled and sparked as the fire consumed the brush. The sound of the fire caught my attention as I sat just inside the house beside the open front door with a book. I went to the doorway to watch the fire roar. Blaze-orange flames licked the air above the pile, as dark smoke rose. My first thought was, "Who has the marshmallows?!" Then I got a bit more pensive. I imagined the smoke carrying the prayers of those working in the graveyard up to heaven. Or maybe it symbolizes the purification of souls. Either way, I was captivated..... thinking and watching.

The celebration of Easter is centered around resurrection -- the rising smoke turned my thoughts to the ascent of Our Lord on Easter morning -- the purification of humanity. In preparation for the most important holiday for Christians around the world, spring cleaning is a must.

Both outward and inward.

Sick day..... again

Down for the count....
Under the weather....
Hit me like a ton of bricks....

Since I am so focused on language lately, I tend to relate everything to it. The idioms above all apply to me today. The "ton of bricks" that hit me? That would be a bout of food-poisoning.

When I got up this morning, I felt great, and it was a beautiful day. My plans for the day included teaching until period 5, heading into Zugdidi to go to the hospital for my next shot in the anti-rabies-injection series with which I am almost finished, stopping by the library for a new movie and book, and maybe trying a short run since my leg is feeling a bit better. I got as far as the teaching part of my day.

At the end of period two with my angelic fifth-graders, I suddenly felt nauseous. As I walked down the hall with Lika, I wondered what in the world was wrong with me. I was feeling worse by the second. I sat down in the teacher's room and tried to ignore the waves of nausea that were quickly inundating me. Ignoring it didn't work.

As I walked to the bathroom, I knew that it was something that I had eaten. I've had food-poisoning before, and the sharp pain in my stomach told me that what I had for breakfast was going to come back up -- a piece of bread, shredded potato salad, and some wicked spicy wild mushrooms.

I'll spare you the details. Let's just say that spicy mushrooms are not fun the second time around. After throwing up, I thought that I would feel better, but I was still weak, pale, and my stomach hurt. I walked back into the teachers' room, and Lika took one look at me..... she said that she would take me to see her mother (she's the village nurse).

The doctor's office is just down the road from the school, and one of the teachers who has a car (she's the only one who drives to school) drove us there. In the quarter-mile distance between school and the doctor, I threw up two more times.... then again at the doctor's office.

The doctor handed Lika some medication for me and written instructions for Tea. We got back into the car and drove to Tea's house.

Tea's mom was at the house helping with some spring cleaning, so I had three generations of care-giving: Tea, her mom, and "Our Grandmother." They all hovered around while I threw up again. When they had decided that it was the mushrooms that affected me, they wanted me to "wash out" my stomach before taking any of the medication. That meant downing a half-liter jar of warm water..... that would purposefully come back up. Tea's mom wanted me to do it four times. Two was all I could take. After the second "washing," I did feel somewhat better. At least the pain was gone.

I went inside to lie down on the couch, and Tea brought me the meds that the doctor had ordered: 10 jet-black tablets that I was supposed to take all at once, and some salty, warm liquid that I was supposed to drink every 15 minutes all day. Tea thought that taking all 10 tablets was a bit over-board, so she gave me four of them. When she put them into my hand, I commented that they looked like charcoal. (Later I looked at the package..... I was right.) I took the pills, threw back a shot-glass of the salty stomach-cure, and lay on the couch.

My head hurt. My body was exhausted. I dozed off and on.

Whatever crazy concoction I drank along with the stomach-washing and charcoal-filtering of my system did the trick. All the nastiness was done. In the past when I have had food-poisoning, the nausea and throwing-up has hung around all day. Not this time.

Now I feel much better. I have kept down some bread, tea, and mineral water. But I am weak and tired. If I feel well enough in the morning, I'll go to school. Spring break starts on Thursday, and I'd like to work this week at least a little bit! The rabies-shot and library will have to wait..... maybe Wednesday.

Here's another appropriate idiom for me: When it rains, it pours.

Tradition

Why do we do the things that we do?

I think that many times, whether or not we realize it, we do what we do out of tradition..... or if you're a out-of-the-proper-decade-throwback-beatnik, out of a deliberate attempt to break with tradition.

The suphra that I went to with my host family last night was a traditional one -- or should I say, the reason for the suphra was a traditional one (the suphra in and of itself is a Georgian tradition).

Back in the winter, one of Koba's cousins, Lika, got married. When a Georgian girl gets married, she traditionally moves in with her husband's family. She leaves her house and takes up residence with her in-laws. That's not so unusual in many places in the world. The unusual part is that she can't go back to her parents' house until they formally invite the newlyweds and the in-laws (and extended family and friends) to their house for a "homecoming" suphra. Georgian tradition dictates that the new wife cannot go back to her house until the homecoming suphra happens.

It's expensive to feed 50 people, especially suphra-style. It has been months since Lika got married, and she had not been back to her parents' house until last night -- it took that long for her parents to save enough money to throw a proper party.

When Tea told me about this tradition, I winced. "What??" I thought. "That's ridiculous!" (still just a thought.... not words.) Instead of criticizing the Georgian-way, I asked Tea why they have this tradition (although I'm sure she could read my initial feelings from the expression on my face..... I'm pretty transparent). She laughed. She's getting used to my need for a reason for everything. When she stopped laughing, she paused...... a long pause while she thought....... then she shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know," she stated with an air of new awareness. Awareness that there are things that are done just because they've been done that way for generations. Without knowing why. She smiled again and said that it is just one of their traditions.

My need to know why everything happens kept the conversation going. We talked about what the meaning might be behind this specific type of suphra. We decided that it is a demonstration to the community that the wife's family accepts the husband and his family into their home and lives. The daughter returns to her parents' house with her new relatives, and the two families are joined on the "home-front." At the wedding the families are joined relationally, but at the homecoming suphra, their every-day lives intertwine and are joined.

At least, that's what Tea and I think.

The fruits of our labor

The first few times I went to a suphra (Georgian party) I wondered how long and how many women it took to make all the food and to prepare everything that needed to be done before everyone showed up for the party. I now know. For a suphra that has 50 guests, it takes 15 women and three days...... I was privileged to be one of those women who cooked and prepared for the party I went to tonight (it was at Koba's cousin, Lika's house).

Since it is already 1 a.m., I will only write briefly about the day and post a few pictures from the night -- tomorrow I want to write about the purpose of tonight's suphra. It was one that is steeped in a tradition that I need a little more time to explore before I post about it.

Yesterday I spent the majority of the day in the kitchen helping Tea cook khatchapuri (cheese-filled bread) and a large chocolate cake. Today I joined Tea at Lika's to do whatever needed to be done -- setting the table, decorating with the napkins, filling plates with food, garnishing the plates, making food that couldn't be made ahead of time, cutting up cheese....... We went over at noon...... and just got home.

Since I have already written a few times about the set-up and preparation for a suphra, I'll just let my photos tell the rest of what I want to say for now.

Looking down one of the two large tables that seated the fifty guests.
The details that are considered in setting the table are astounding.

Cutting the stacks and stacks of fresh khatchapuri to place on the tables.

Variations of chocolate cakes that ladies made for the suphra.
The darkest piece in the front is from the cake that Tea and  I made yesterday.

Toasting.

And after a few hours of eating, we spent a few hours dancing..... now I'm tired and my leg hurts. Time for a good night's sleep.

"Say" or "Tell"

How would you explain when to use each of these words?

In Georgian, there are two words for these verbs -- one that is equivalent to "say" and another to "tell." But, in Georgian, they are interchangeable. You could use either word without changing the word order or sentence structure, and the sentence would still be correct. Not so in English.

Tea is working so hard at using these two verbs correctly, but the difference between the two is not concrete (as least, as far as I can tell). I have looked online for some rules of when to use which one, but my search has not given me anything useful. The best I can do right now is give her examples of proper use:
"Tell me something....."
"Say something...."
"Say what you mean."
"Tell me what you mean."
"Tell her the story."
"What did you say?"
"What did she tell you?"
"What did she say to you?"
"She said that she would be here."
"She told me that she would be here."
"Tell me the answer."
The best "rules" I can come up with so far is that usually a pronoun is used after "tell," but not after "say." That's not very specific. And the words are not merely interchangeable; however, they can often be used to express the same type of thought -- like "Say what you mean," and "Tell me what you mean." The sentence doesn't change meaning with the change in the verb.

Tea and I were discussing these two verbs again tonight as we baked a giant chocolate cake for a suphra we are going to tomorrow. We were trying to come up with general guidelines for when to use which word. As we talked, Tea got pensive for a moment. Then she remarked that it is amazing how thought-provoking language is when you start swimming in the entirety of it.

This is so, so true! The complexity of language is staggering. It is so much more than vocabulary and grammar. Reading rules, spelling, synonyms, homonyms, antonyms, idioms, homophones, interrogatives, sentence structure, punctuation, capitalization, syntax, semantics, rhythm, intonation, pronunciation, figurative language, and the list could go on and on.

Learning the nuances of any language takes years and years of speaking it, listening to it, thinking in it, being surrounded by it -- as Tea said, "swimming in it." I know that sometimes she feels like she is drowning in it!

Good thing I used to be a lifeguard.

Real, live "Peeps"

I was crouched on the bathroom floor over a tub of soapy water, encouraging the dirt out of some clothes when Tea walked in grinning. She held her hands cupped together in front of her. As she got closer I heard a tiny peeping sound coming from whatever she was holding.

"Look!" she whispered. I stood up, and as Tea held out her hands, I saw a fuzzy little head peek up through her fingers. 

"Oooooo! A chick!" I cooed. "Is this your first day out of the shell?" I asked the chick. Tea said that today was the second day for the little one. 

I gently took the wee bird from Tea's hands and held it close. So tiny and frail. So soft and fluffy. Tiny, beady eye. Tiny, pointy beak. It settled into my grasp as I wrapped my hands around it. The baby responded to the warmth of my hands and gripped my finger with its teeny feet. It cheeped and peeped as I patted its little head and stroked its tiny neck.

Tea said there were nine more in the shed. I gave back the hatchling and scooted up to my room to get my camera. Together we went into the shed, and Tea took the sitting hen out of the box where the chicks were being safeguarded. They were so cute -- white, yellow, and black chicks -- all scampering and huddling together, a chorus of cheeps and peeps. I gingerly nabbed one of the black ones as it came close to me. If I could have held all of them at once, I would have. Lined them all up like a package of "Peeps" that I know are on the shelves of every grocery store in the U.S. right now and patted every one of their precious little heads. But I didn't. I put back the little guy I had picked up. The mother hen that Tea was holding by the shoulder was not very happy that her chicks were being played with. Tea put the hen back in the box, and the hen immediately gathered the chicks underneath her wings. 

Beautiful.

Living in the present

This is a tough thing to do. At least on a regular basis. I tend to go through phases of living in the moment and then circumstances and stresses distract me from the present and get me mired in the past or floating in the unknown nebulous-ness of the future.

For the last few weeks, I have been gradually slipping out of the present and either dwelling on the past that I wish were my present or stressing about the future. Worrying about either one is as effective as trying to nail jello to a wall. The past is gone. The future is not certain. Neither one should be consuming my energy and attention. Yet as my time here in Georgia winds down, the more steadily my focus turns to the unknowns -- where will I go next? What will I do? Where will I work? Where will I live? How will I pay for moving to where I get a job? Will I get a job? How can I buy a car with no job? I (stupidly) left almost everything I had when I left Pennsylvania -- how will I afford to buy what I need -- I don't even have a towel or pillow of my own anymore. Most of my money got sucked up trying to move to Canada, and what is left belongs to the IRS..... And on and on and on go my worries, spiraling out of control.

I was talking with my friend, Katherine today, and she said something very poignant. She stated that there is nothing like a crisis to bring one back to the present. When she said that, the words bounced around in my brain like a pinball machine, hitting on nerves, sparking on gray matter, lighting up synapses, and finally coming to rest in a spot where I would remember what she had said after I hung up the phone. (Often my brain acts like a sieve, leaking out too much of what I really want to remember). This thought I filed away under the heading, "Important! Don't forget." I thought about it for the rest of the day.

My mini-crisis, this minor catastrophe that is really only an inconvenience in the grand scheme of things -- namely the teeth-marks in my calf -- has refocused me on the present. Can I change anything by worrying about it? No. Will my stressing about the future give me any more control over it? No. I know these things, but I so often forget that they are true.

The remainder of the day, I practiced living in the moment. I enjoyed everything that I did -- drinking tea with Tea -- writing out some ideas for class activities -- reading Kerouac's On the Road (a crazy, frenetic read, by the way) -- sweeping the rug in the sitting room -- stoking the fire in the stove -- kneading bread dough -- watching Casablanca with Tea -- talking with "Our Grandmother" -- watching the crazy weather change from rain to hail to sun. Everything means so much more when all my attention is focused on the moment at hand.

As I pulled up a bucket of water from the well tonight, I noticed that the clouds that had hung in the sky for days finally moved off to hang over someone else. The sky was clear and the stars were bright. I'd almost forgotten that they were up there. Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major and Minor greeted me as I watched my breath evaporate in the chilled air. I breathed it in and thanked my God in heaven for that moment.

A running-first

There are many negative things that affect most, if not all runners at some point in their running careers -- blisters, dehydration, exhaustion, cramped muscles, run-ins with dogs, being run off the road by vehicles, getting lost, being hit by something, and getting yelled at -- just to name a few. A year and a half ago was the first time I had something thrown at me from a passing car (a full beer can). Yesterday I had another running-first -- I was bitten by a dog.

I had had a bad day for various reasons, and Tea and I had just finished writing our lesson plans for the following day.  I was frustrated by the things that were weighing on my mind from the day; so although it was already 7:30 p.m., I decided to go for a short, fast run to work out my stress. I quickly changed my clothes, laced up my sneakers, and was on the road by 7:45. The sun had set, leaving a strip of vermillion light peeking out underneath the dusky-purple cloud of the cold front that had settled over the village. The cool air (winter is having a bout of separation anxiety this week) felt refreshing as it washed over my stressed out body. My expression immediately relaxed. Nothing calms me down like a furious workout.

The village is full of dogs -- big dogs, small dogs, meek dogs, loud dogs, skinny dogs, fluffy dogs -- everyone has at least one "house protector." All properties are also fenced in. Everyone's primary land (house and yard) and sometimes the orchards, too, are surrounded by some type of fence. For the most part, the fences keep the family dogs contained.... for the most part. But there are a few who habitually jump their fence to chase whoever may be passing by the house.

 One dog in particular has been getting more and more aggressive when I run by. It always barks and chases me if it sees me coming. In the last few weeks, it has started running right up on my heels and tagging the back of my sneakers, then backing off. There is usually a group of men who hang out on the road there. When that dog comes after me, they all yell at the dog and chase it back to its yard.

Yesterday, since I was out later then my usual running time, there were few villagers out on the road. I was on my way back to the house -- about a mile left to go. I approached the mean dog's house, not really paying attention to the angry barking coming from behind the fence. The dog ran ahead of me to the end of its yard, cleared the fence in one easy bound, and circled back to meet me head-on. None of this was unusual for this dog, so I was not alarmed. Fur standing up along its neck and upper back, teeth bared, the dog lunged at me and tagged my sneaker as I passed. Again, this was its usual reaction to me, so I kept going. But then it lunged at me again, this time, latching onto my calf. I felt its strong jaws squeeze my muscle. I whirled around to face my attacker. I yelled at the dog, and it backed off; as its owner yelled for it from inside the house, the dog jumped back over the fence and was gone.

Me being me, I began running again, fueled by the shot of adrenaline I'd just gotten. My leg didn't really hurt, so at first I thought it was nothing. After a couple of minutes, my calf started to ache, and I started wondering if the dog's teeth had broken the skin. I stopped, hit the "stop" button on my watch, unzipped the ankle-zipper on my track pants, and pulled up the pant leg to look at my calf. My heart sank. An inch-and-a-half gouge had filled with blood and was dripping down my leg. I couldn't tell how deep it was in the low light, but I could tell it wasn't merely a scratch. I knew I needed to get home. I pulled the pant leg back down, zipped it closed, and hit the "start" button on my watch as I took off down the road.

The wound was beginning to throb as I slowed to a walk in front of the house. I went into my room to get clean clothes and my towel. Undecided as to whether I should shower or tell Tea what had happened first, I put my things in the bathroom and stood there for a minute, immobile. I decided to tell Tea before I showered. I stepped into the kitchen where she sat amid ingredients that she was preparing for stuffed cabbage. By the look on my face, she knew that something was wrong.

"A dog bit me," I stated flatly. I pulled up my pant leg. I thought she might pass out.

"Deda!" she whispered frantically, clutching her heart. "Our Grandmother" saw the wound and immediately ordered that vodka be brought -- for sterilizing the wound..... and maybe to drink, too! There was none in the house, so Tea took off for the neighbor's. In the meantime, Tea's cousin, Zaza walked into the house, saw my leg, and when I told him that a dog had bitten me, he said that I needed an injection. He called Koba to come home from wherever he was with the car. Tea arrived at the same time as Koba, and instead of dousing the bite with vodka, we all piled into the car and took off down the road for the village nurse's house.

The nurse took one look at the bite and refused to touch it. She ordered us to the hospital. We piled into the car again, this time headed for Zugdidi.

Koba drove as fast as he could on the ridiculously bad road out of the village, careened through town, and pulled up to the "Ambulance Only" entrance of the hospital. The guard at the gate stepped out of his glassed-in shelter. Koba told him (in Georgian) that he had an American who had been bitten by a dog. The man pushed the button to raise the gate, and we sped through.

Visiting a Georgian hospital was the last thing I wanted to do. I hate all hospitals and doctor's offices, and the prospect of medical treatment by a developing-country's night-shift actually scared me (and I am not afraid of much). I envisioned a dingy, dirty, unsanitary, crowded place where I would be stuck with a giant needle in the stomach -- the old-school rabies treatment. The entire drive to the hospital, I was silent, trying to get a grip on myself and my trepidation.

After parking the car, Koba, Zaza, Tea, and I walked through a crowd of men hanging outside the ER, smoking and waiting. We weaved our way through the throng to the doors where a police officer stood guard. Koba told him what had happened, and he let us through. Tea and I were immediately escorted to an empty treatment room and a nurse walked up with a notebook and a pen. She took down all my information, called my insurance company to verify my coverage, and asked us to wait for the doctor to come and look at me.

Tea and I sat in the large treatment room and waited. We were both glad that the room was empty, but it still smelled like a nasty hospital room. I suggested that we race the beds-on-wheels up and down the room, and Tea cracked up. She said that she was so glad I could keep my sense of humor at such a stressful time. I told her that it was either laugh or cry. We laughed.

We didn't have to wait long before the doctor came in. He looked at the wound and then wanted to know all about the dog -- if we knew who it belonged to -- if it was a stray -- anything we could tell him about it. He said that the dog must be watched for ten days to see if it had any changes in behavior -- rabies is a real threat in this country. He said that he would give me a tetanus shot and also start the series of shots for rabies. He went to his office and left the nurse to tend to the wound.

She poured an entire bottle of some milky-white liquid over the puncture, rinsing off the blood that was caked on and around the gouge. I could see down through the layers of skin now -- all the way to the muscle. Yuck. At the deepest spot, the puncture was about a half-inch deep. I was in too much shock to feel anything, so nothing that she did hurt as she cleaned the bite. After fully irrigating the wound, she slathered on lots of betadine -- I felt that one. Some piles of gauze and tape, and I was as good as new.

Not really.

Tea and I followed the nurse down the tiled, dimly-lit hallway and into the doctor's office -- a startling contrast in lighting with three large, interrogation-strength fluorescent lights shaped like mini-steering wheels hanging from the ceiling. I sat on the bed as the nurse readied the tetanus shot. She was very nice and very gentle -- and if the liquid didn't burn as it went into my shoulder, I wouldn't have known she was giving me a shot. The doctor explained all the shots that I would need, wrote up a prescription for antibiotics and an allergy-blocker, and then went through a list of what I couldn't do while on the medication. This is where it got weird.
  - No coffee or chocolate for 10 days. (Okay, I'll survive)
  - No alcohol for six months. (What??)
  - Don't be cold. (Okay.)
  - Don't sweat. (Wait a minute.......)
  - No watching the sun set. (What the heck???)
  - No physical or mental exertion. (So..... do I meditate for two months?)
Then I asked when I can run and dance again. His answer, "In two months." I shook my head -- no way. No way can I not run for two months. I'll go crazy and I'll drive everyone around me crazy. I asked why I shouldn't run for so long. He said that physical activity will inhibit the injections from working properly. And since the rabies virus can lie dormant in the body for a few weeks, the shots may not work if I am active. I told Tea that I would do some research online about this. I absolutely cannot not run.

The doctor bid us goodbye and the sweet, barrel-shaped nurse led us back to the treatment room. Since the doctor had been speaking in a mix of Georgian and Mingrelian when explaining the shots I would need, I didn't understand what he had said. I had no idea what I was in for.

The nurse said that the first one would be given in my wrist and then I would have to wait 20 minutes before the next one -- "First one? next one?" I thought, and my face reflected my surprise. I climbed up onto one of the wheeled beds that I had joked about racing and lay down. No racing for us. I held out my arm, and she again gave me the shot as gently as she could. This one hurt. I flexed my hand to try to alleviate the burning, but the nurse told me I needed to be still. It was too much, and the tears that had been waiting in the wings suddenly sprang into view. I couldn't hold them back. They streamed down both sides of my face. I hate shots. I hate needles. I hate hospitals. I hate being injured. I hate pain. And here I am, lying in a hospital bed on the other side of the world from where I belong -- it was just too much. Tea rushed around to one side of my bed, and the nurse stood by me on the other side. Tea held my arm and hand, and the nurse smoothed back my hair and wiped my tears. They both reassured me that I was going to be alright -- I had English reassurance on one side and Georgian on the other.

I collected my composure after a couple of minutes of tears, and told the two worried faces peering down at me that I was alright. In that moment, Tea's face was like an angel -- like my guardian angel who is so familiar to me -- has been a part of my life forever. I'm not sure how else to explain it, but I felt as if I have known her all my life.

The other three shots were not as bad as the one in the wrist -- one in the shoulder, and twenty minutes later, two in the buttocks.

When all the shots were done, we left the hospital, got back into the car, and found an all-night pharmacy. After filling my prescription, we drove back to the village. I was so glad to be home after being stuck like a pin-cushion for an hour. I took my medications and went to bed.

I didn't go to school today, and I won't be going again tomorrow. I am sore and if I keep my leg down for more than a couple of minutes, it starts to throb. Today Tea took me back to the village nurse's house to change the bandage, and I took my camera along to take some pictures -- If only I had thought to shoot some of the fresh wound -- it looked nastier yesterday.....

Blood-soaked guaze -- the small cut and bruise on the right are from the dog's upper teeth

And this is the cleaned-out gouge from its lower teeth

As I told my friend James..... at least it will be a scar with a good story behind it!

Notes on Spring

Today while riding to town in the marshutka, I made some notes of small things that I have noticed as the seasons have changed.

The river -- As the rain continues to fall and the snow in the mountains melts, the river has risen. Swollen waters now overflow the lower rocky banks and are edging their way up toward the upper grassy bank. The water has turned brown as the increased volume quickens the flow and stirs up silt from the river-bottom. All the snow melting off the Caucasus in Svaneti is on its way to the Black Sea, 20 kilometers south.

Fish -- Last Friday was an Orthodox holiday -- the day that the angel appeared to Mary and told her that her life would change forever. Orthodox Christians always eat fish on this holiday, so Koba and his friends went fishing in the river. They showed up at the house with a huge plastic tub of fish -- the catch was divided up evenly among the seven fishermen, and we were still left with almost 30 fish -- small, but so many! I asked how they could catch so many -- remembering my few fishing days back in Maine when I was small, and what an eternity it took to get even one bite on the line. Tea said that they cheat -- they use some device that shocks the water, and they scoop up the fish in a net. Just like shooting fish in a barrel!

The cows and buffalo -- Back in late fall, I posted about the cows coming home at the same time every day -- between 4:30 and 5. Well, it seems that they are only punctual in the fall and winter. They gain an independent streak in the spring -- last night they didn't come home. Tea said that they must have found some extra nice grass somewhere, and refused to come home. When we got up this morning, they were out front, lying in the road -- recuperating from their wild night out.

Newborn calves -- Tiny babies, furry and clean with ultra-velvety noses smelling the apple-blossom scented air experience their very first days -- new sunshine, new rain, new night, new wind, new clouds, new skipping through the hazelnut trees, new butterfly-chasing, new nuzzle from their mothers -- all for the very first time.

Spring -- It is an actual season that lasts longer than one week. The cool temperatures, rain, grass growing longer and greener by the minute, flowers appearing little by little -- all of these subtle changes are happening in a time-span that is stretched out over weeks -- even months! Not the single week of spring between winter and fall that seems to be the norm in Pennsylvania. And I love it!

How to make a chicken happy

The majority of today was spent online. I spent hours staring at the computer screen but got little accomplished. For various reasons, I haven't yet been able to finish filing my tax extension request -- that took at least two hours of my day -- and it still not done. I am also in the middle of posting my resume online on various web sites for teachers -- there are some pieces of information that I don't have for that -- so that's not done, either. I wanted to send resumes to some of the postings I found that looked like suitable jobs for me, but with slow-ish internet and incomplete information online, I ended up sending out only two resumes. Two. For the number of hours I sat and worked online, two resumes is not what I would call "productive."

And, what's more, I hate sitting. Combine sitting with a computer and looking for a job, and you have a trifecta of horrible-ness. Finally around five o'clock, I couldn't take it anymore. I shut my laptop -- I'd been working on it since eleven this morning -- and told Tea that I needed to do some manual labor. She laughed, and we headed outside.

The soil in the flower garden needed to be dug up and turned over, but we needed to borrow a long-handled spade. Tea and I walked over to the neighbor's house and borrowed two.

We carried them back to the yard, stepped over the drooping, rusty, chain-link fence that surrounds the flower garden, and got to work turning over the dirt.

This job should have been done a few weeks ago. Since it wasn't, the weeds had grown up to cover most of the topsoil, making our job a bit more difficult. The weeds are the stringy-viney kind that cling to and climb up everything. Chopping through them was half of the difficulty of the job. But it felt great to move and work.

Turning over large clumps of dark, moist earth stirs up lots of earthworms. I love worms. They fascinate me -- smooth and efficient. There is so little to them, but they can squirm through hard-packed dirt better than my steel spade (probably because a spade doesn't "squirm"). As I turned over one lump of soil, an especially large worm wriggled up out of the ground. I snatched it up before it could dive back down below the surface, and showed Tea. She freaked out -- jumped back, muttering in Georgian faster than I've ever heard her talk before, holding onto her heart. She hates worms. I didn't know that. I was laughing so hard, I couldn't put the worm down. She continued to react, still creeped-out that I was holding the worm. I couldn't stop laughing, either. Finally I dropped the worm, and we stood, doubled over our implements in peals of laughter.

Then the chickens showed up. They love worms, but not for the same reasons I do -- chickens love worms because they are tender and juicy. Soon Tea and I had lots of company with us in the garden -- about ten hens and a rooster. I started grabbing the uprooted worms (subtly so Tea wouldn't notice) and tossing them to the chickens. They scurried after the gifts and gobbled them up.

That's how you make a chicken happy.

Renegade daffodils

Daffodils are one of my favorite spring flowers. There is something necessary and immediate in the yellowness of the flowers. Like they are mimicking the sun in shape, hue, and feeling -- after a long, cold, bleak winter, daffodils are just the cure for a winter-weary soul.

Daffodils (and all narcissus) grow from bulbs that have to be placed wherever they should grow -- they do not sprout from seeds. The bulbs divide each year, creating a larger and larger grouping of flowers from year to year. They should be dug up every few years and spread out to keep them from overcrowding. (That was a little "Daffodil 101" for those who don't know flowers or gardening.)

Most people grow their daffodils in gardens or plant them to line the edge of walkways. I love a walk that is lined with the sunshiny-yellow blossoms -- I think it is one of the most welcoming sights. But have you ever noticed a bunch of daffodils growing off by themselves in some random location? I call these "renegade daffodils." 

Many people in Shamgona have daffodils in their gardens, but there are also more renegade daffodils in the village than I have seen anywhere in the U.S. Along the river, in the ditches, at the edges of hazelnut orchards, in the middle of fields and meadows, in the middle of bombed-out concrete structures -- renegade daffodils are everywhere. 

Today while I was out for my long run, I looked at the runaways and wondered how in the world they got there. Since the flowers don't grow from seeds, no bird dropped the seed as it winged its way through the air. I imagined the flowers moving of their own accord like in one particular sci-fi movie that I used to watch with my dad when I was young -- "Creature Double-Feature" was always a Saturday afternoon favorite, and in one of the films often played, the trees could move around on their own. Maybe the daffodils can do the same. Or maybe a cow pulled up the bulb by the greens, munched the leaves down to the top of the bulb while meandering along, dropped the bulb, and stepped on it, pushing it to just the right depth underground. Or maybe it was the pigs. They up-root everything -- but they eat everything they up-root. And I'm not sure that the bulb would actually grow after being pulverized by gnashing teeth, digested, and passed. 

I spent at least an hour trying to figure out how in the world the bulbs got transplanted into such random places. I still don't know.

My run today took me out of my village and into another that is on the way to Zugdidi. I have run that way every weekend since adding a long run to my weekend routine, and the villagers there are beginning to become as accustomed to me passing by as the Shamgona villagers are by now. Today, after turning around at the end of the road and heading back, I was flagged down by yells from behind me. I turned to see a teenage-girl running toward me, waving both arms for me to stop. I did, and I waited for her to catch up to me. She was all smiles, and greeted me in English. She asked if she could run with me. Of course I said yes. We talked as we ran -- well, jogged at pace that she could keep -- with her little English and my little Georgian -- we asked each other's names, where we each live, how old we are, and about our families. She jogged with me for about ten minutes, and then she started getting tired. She asked if my house was still far -- I said yes (it was about 30 minutes up the road yet), so she kissed me on the cheek, said goodbye, and turned to go back home. 

As I watched her jog back to her house in her bright pink jacket, yellow scarf, and giant yellow and black sparkly headband, I thought -- "a renegade daffodil!" She certainly split off from the Georgians who normally line the road and wave and say hello as I pass by. Away from the group, she did her own thing -- went her own way -- on her own two legs. 

Maybe daffodils have legs......

Time for a little poetry....

A Prayer in Spring

  -- Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

Pretty bird

When I was a little girl, the story of Dr. Doolittle fascinated me. The thought of being able to talk to animals made my already wild imagination take flight. I envisioned myself in Africa on the savannah making friends with the wildest of wild beasts. Or in the jungle (my favorite ecosystem) prowling around with the panthers. Or in the Maine woods having great adventures with the wolves and moose and bear.

But, I really dislike zoos. As much as I love seeing the animals live and up-close, I hate the captivity. As lovely as some zoos' manufactured habitats are, they are still essentially cages in which these magnificent animals are trapped. Another similarity between Capote's Ms. Holiday Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany's and me -- she abhorred cages of any kind. Even for birds. And speaking of birds.....

This morning I arrived at school between the first and second classes. (I wasn't late -- I don't have first period on Thursdays.) It was raining, so the students were not running around the school yard. Instead, many of them were crammed onto the entryway porch, milling around, being kids.

As I walked up the steps, I noticed that one of the tenth-grade boys, Ted, had something in his hands. I looked closely to see that he was holding a dark brown sparrow that he had caught inside the school (there are no screens in the windows, so all sorts of things find their way in). A beautiful, fragile little bird -- he held onto its feet and legs with one hand. I wondered if it had a hurt wing, but then it stretched out its wings and flapped them as if answering my query. I stepped right up to Ted, and he held out the bird for me to see. I asked if I could touch it, and he held out his hand with the bird sticking up like a live chocolate popsicle. I reached out slowly and cupped my hand around its warm, trembling body -- trembling out of fear at being held fast. The soft, feathery form felt more fragile than it looked. I really wanted to see it fly away. I asked if he was going to let it go as I pantomimed releasing the sparrow into the air. He raised his eyebrows in question and copied my gesture. I nodded (he takes German as his language class in school, not English). Without a word, he threw his hand up into the air, letting go of the bird. Smiles broke out on both of our faces as we watched the sparrow dip and dive in the excitement of being set free. I clapped, and my heart soared with the sparrow as it mounted up into the air as high as it could go.

Free!

Gardening

Red bud
Daffodils
Calla lilies
Apple blossoms
Cherry blossoms
Peach blossoms
Pear blossoms
Tulip tree
Mimosa
Forsythia
Violets
Pansies
Camelia
Primrose
Wild mandarin
Wild flowers (six different kinds)

These are all the flowers I saw blooming today as I walked or rode through the village. I love flowers. I've always felt the need to pick flowers and have fresh ones in a vase (or ten vases!) somewhere in my house -- no matter the season. Here in Georgia, I am able to pick flowers a good deal sooner than I ever could in Pennsylvania. (Today, one of my beautiful little fourth-graders gave me a bouquet of daffodils and calla lilies from her yard.)

I have always kept a flower garden. Even when living in an apartment, I made flower gardens and grew whatever I could. There is something wonderful about getting into the dirt -- manipulating it to give life to seeds -- encouraging it to support root systems -- watering it to allow plants to bloom. It's the most basic stuff of life -- dirt, water, plants, flowers. Working the soil gives me satisfaction on a different level from any other accomplishment -- on the primal level of mere existence.

Tea has a flower garden, but she doesn't know much about the flowers nor how to care for them. Her mother-in-law put the garden in (this is her house) -- but in her absence, Tea does her best to care for them. A few days ago, I asked Tea for something that I could use to prune the rose bushes and other plants in the flower garden. She gave me some snippers, and I went off happily to tend to the rose bushes and other plants.

It is a little late for trimming rose bushes -- the best time to cut them back is in late winter when the very first signs of growth show in the tiny red buds that pop out on the stems of the bush. But, better late than never! I cut back all the roses -- 10 or 12 plants, trimmed a small palm tree, pulled out last year's stems from a few plants, and shaped up a shrub.

Tea came out to see what I was doing as I was contemplating trimming the last rose bush. It was growing lopsided, so I was looking for the best places to cut it. I showed her how to cut the stems to force the plant to grow in the best possible way -- cutting just above the new growth that appears on the outside of the stem. Trimming all the stems just above the outward-growing buds will allow the plant to grow evenly in all directions, leaving enough room in the center for branching without overcrowding. It's not rocket science, but until one thinks about it logically, the how and why of pruning can seem a bit daunting.

It was so nice to be in touch with plants again. I have missed tending to plants of any kind -- indoor or outdoor. The next thing we have to do is turn over the dirt in the garden. Maybe this weekend.... it will be good to play in the dirt!