Sweeping

Is there any household chore as relaxing as sweeping? 

I love sweeping for a few reasons..... it is methodical; it is rhythmic; and it is mesmerizing. 

Years ago I was a lifeguard. Whether guarding at a pool or a lakefront, the process of watching the swimmers was the same. Never keep the eyes still. Scan back and forth. Sweep up and down in a constant visual blanketing of the water's surface. I used to break up the pool or lake into sections in my mind and scan my eyes over one section, then move to the next, and the next, until I'd looked at the entire surface. Then I would shift my view back to the beginning and start over. No spot was left un-looked at. 

I sweep a floor the same way. I look at the space that I have to sweep and break it into logical sections so that my dirt-pile can move methodically from one end of the space to the other without re-sweeping any area. I always start at one end wall, pulling the dirt away from the wall all along the end of the room. And like a wave continually breaking along the beach, I work the dirt forward a foot at a time. Then back to the beginning, and the new wave of dirt and dust slides forward. And again, and again, until I have covered every inch of the surface, leaving it smooth and clean.

I love the rhythm of the broom moving over the methodically-sectioned space in a slow, purposeful rhythm that reminds me of nice, quiet jazz. A slow, feathered pull along the floor is punctuated by the snap of the bristles that have just enough time to end their staccato thwap when it's time for the next slow pull to begin. And over, and over, and over -- slow, feathered pull and then, thwap -- slow, feathered pull, thwap. (If you have no idea what I am talking about, go get a broom and slowly sweep the floor -- you'll hear it!) The only way the rhythm changes is if I decide to sweep more quickly -- then the rhythm livens up, but the sound remains the same.

That same sound repeating itself over and over in combination with the rhythmic motion mesmerizes me. I can get lost in the ordinariness of it all. As the motion and sound envelope me, my mind can wander or just blank out. 

I thought about all of this while sweeping today. But I wasn't sweeping the floor -- I was sweeping the concrete apron from the road to the gate in front of the house. It was covered with the build-up of Winter's dirt and pebbles that needed to be cleared away now that Spring has arrived. Instead of using a synthetic-bristle broom with a long handle, I used the only kind of broom that are used here -- a natural reed broom with a short handle making it necessary to sweep bent over. The area that I swept was pretty large, so I had time to analyze just why I love sweeping so much. The organization of the space, the rhythmic pattern of the bristles working, and the way I can get lost in the work invite me to relax my way.... in moving relaxation, not sitting relaxation. Often when I finish sweeping, I feel like I have just taken a nap.

But I am looking forward to sweeping with a long-handled broom again.

Hi. Can we borrow your turkey?

These girls are lonely. They wander around the yard looking for a boy turkey, but no boy turkeys live at Tea and Koba's house. Since it is spring, they have started laying eggs. Fun fact: turkeys lay only 15-18 eggs a year, so if there are going to be little fuzzy turklets on the farm, a boy turkey is a must -- and soon!

A week ago, I went to a birthday suphra with Tea and Koba at a house up the road a little way. It was the house of one of my colleagues. While sitting in the kitchen with the women, I looked out into the back yard and watched the turkeys meandering around the property. I commented on the size of the turkeys (they were really big), and Tea and I mentioned again how she needs a male turkey so that her turkeys can hatch some little ones. Tea translated our conversation for our colleague, Irma, and Irma said that she would be glad to lend Tea one of her male turkeys for a week or two.

Today was turkey-pick-up day. Tea didn't want to walk down the road in broad daylight with a turkey -- nobody does that, and she hates drawing attention to herself -- so she decided that we should walk to Irma's house just before dark so we could return with the bird under the protective cover of darkness.

We had talked about the best way to transport the turkey, and neither of us knew. A turkey is much bigger than a chicken, so carrying it upside-down by the legs wouldn't work very well. And it probably wouldn't be too healthy for the turkey to be upside-down for that long. I suggested putting it in a large bag so we could carry it together -- we didn't know how heavy it would be or if it would fight to get away or just what it might do. I envisioned having to wrangle the turkey into the bag in a flurry of wings and feathers and gobbles, trying to pin the bird down at the same time avoiding its sharp talons and beak.

Well, I'm only slightly disappointed to say that the turkey gave no such fight. It was as docile as could be as Irma picked him up off his roosting branch in a hazelnut tree. Tea wrapped a flour sack around him and propped him on her hip, cradled in her arm like a large, feathered football. His head was stuck down inside the sack uncomfortably, so I reached in and gently shifted the material so that his bumpy bare head could look out at his surroundings passing by. His beady eyes took in his travels more calmly than I had imagined -- he even let me pat his sparsely feathered head and neck.

When we got to our house, Tea put him inside the momma pig's house -- she is still living in the barn with her umpteen little ones. He will be more calm in an enclosed area for the night. Tomorrow he will some acquaintances to make.....

Rome wasn't built in a day..... part 2

It's true. Rome wasn't built in a day. And the educational reforms that are in the works here in Georgia won't be made in a day, either.

I really appreciated Minister Shashkini taking his time to talk with all of us Teach and Learn with Georgia (TLG) teachers yesterday. He answered many of the questions and concerns that have been building in my mind over the last five months. Concerns about the horrible books that are being used in the classroom -- and when I say horrible, I mean that they are so bad, I'm surprised any of the students have learned anything at all from them -- there is no organization to the order in which the material is presented, the level of the written texts is way beyond what the students can understand, there is little or no conversational application of the language -- I can't even call it a curriculum, because that would imply that it is useable for schooling....... Enough of that tirade -- He addressed concerns about many of the poor facilities, lack of heat, out-dated teaching styles of some of the Georgian teachers, "English" teachers who don't know English, lack of student motivation, lack of homework completion, mostly absent parent-support, and the list could go on. Many of the concerns do not apply to me and my school; I feel like I drew the lucky straw with my school placement. But from what I have heard from many other teachers, there are difficult, bordering on deplorable conditions in some working environments.

As Minister Shashkini spoke with us, he kept saying, "Just give me some time." He is fully aware of the problems and struggles that exist in the present system. But change takes time. He has made some drastic changes that have brought criticism from those who do not understand the big picture. But he told us about many instances in which he has exercised restraint because he does not want to bring about a collapse of the school system. (Some people have criticized M. Shashkini for not firing all the English teachers who can't speak English. He said that if he fired all the teachers who should not be teaching, so many would be pitched, who would teach the classes?) He is working at balancing prudence and decisive action. And I think that he is doing a great job of it.

Five years. That's how long he and TLG are expecting to wait for solid results to be seen. TLG is only one of 32 separate reform projects that the Ministry of Education has running concurrently. So much work is being done on an organizational and theoretical level, and much of it cannot be seen. There is still such a gigantic amount of work left to be done and generations of poor educational philosophy to overcome, that it feels like no changes are being made. At least, that's what it feels like to us individuals who are often isolated in our little villages struggling to teach and be understood. Minister Shashkini told us that he knows that many of us feel like we are not making a difference, but he gave us several examples of ways that we have already made a difference in the eight months that TLG has been in operation.

The books -- he said that the books have been the number one complaint of every single teacher. Because of our united voice (although we didn't know that everyone was saying the same thing), plans for new curriculum were sped along to be implemented sooner than the Ministry had originally anticipated. New books have already been chosen -- from the MacMillan Publishers -- that have been used with great success in China, Korea, Japan, and other countries where English is taught on a large scale. In August, the new books will be put into use in the lower grades (1-6), and the following August, the upper grades (7-12) will begin using the new curriculum. These new books will be sold much cheaper than the old ones and the government will help any families who cannot afford to buy their books. Copies of all the books will be kept in the schools' library collections, and every teacher will be given all the books, teacher's manual, and teaching resources that accompany the curriculum free of charge. Wonderful!! M. Shashkini reiterated to us that it is because of us -- the TLG teachers -- that these changes will be made. (When I told Tea and Lika about this, they almost couldn't breathe. I thought Tea might cry. They are thrilled!)

He also shed a little light on the attitude that seems to be prevalent among most Georgians regarding education (except for those who live in the region where I am -- the region of over-achievers) -- that it is just not that important. And, as I had suspected, it goes back to the Soviet times. There was no motivation then to do well nor reason to achieve, so apathy took hold as the over-arching attitude toward education. And now I see the results of this attitude every day in my classroom (in some students): lack of curiosity, lack of self-motivation, and lack of homework. M. Shashkini told us something else very, very telling: last year a Gallup Poll was conducted among Georgian parents. They were asked if they are actively involved in their children's education and school work. The results? 10%. Only 10% of Georgian parents take an active role in their children's education. The other 90% had no idea what their children did at school and never talked about it with them. My jaw dropped open at that one.

So many changes..... books, certification exams, increased English instruction hours, more vo-tech offerings, teacher trainings, renovated facilities, new facilities, new teaching methods, new assessment methods, updated technology, increased salaries for teachers, graduation exams, grade-level exit exams..... and those are just the tangible changes. The intangibles will be much more difficult to change. So much change takes time (and money). Minister Shashkini said that if he had a billion dollars, he could make all the changes in a year. He doesn't have a billion dollars. So, he is asking for five years. And from the changes I have seen already, within five years, there will be marked improvement in all areas of Georgia's educational system.

It's really nice to know that I am part of something that is making a difference.

Rome wasn't built in a day.....

A couple of days ago, I wrote down about 75 idioms for Tea. She had commented one day a week or so ago that she really likes learning idioms but doesn't know very many in English. I told her that I would look some up online and make a list for her. I found at least 200 different idioms! I picked through them and wrote down the most common ones and the ones that I use so as not to overwhelm her with entire list. One that I included for her was, "Rome wasn't built in a day."

This is essentially the theme for the educational reforms that are happening here in Georgia.

I spent the majority of the day today in meetings with the Minister of Education, Dimitri Shashkini and the staff of TLG (one of the projects of the Ministry of Education). It was an eye-opening and encouraging day, but I am so brain-dead from thinking and writing and talking, there is no way that I can do justice to everything that the meeting entailed if I try to write about it tonight. I will leave most of what I have rolling around in my head there -- in my head -- until tomorrow night when I will be able to write down my thoughts more coherently. Tonight that will not happen....coherence, that is. I'll just relate one small story here.

I met Minister Shashkini this past December when I received the award for the Best Teacher of 2010. After telling the country a little about who I am and what I do in the village of Shamgona, he handed me a medal, shook my hand, and thanked me for my work. I smiled and said, "You're welcome." That was the extent of our exchange.

Last Friday night, the news broadcast part of Minister Shashkini's recent Parliamentary address. I was sitting in the kitchen with Tea listening to the address, and suddenly heard M. Shashkini talking about Shamgona and the TLG English teacher that is there -- that's me! -- Tea and I looked at each other with shocked expressions -- then we heard M. Shashkini say that I am an American from Chicago. We cracked up! She knew that I was going to be meeting with him today along with the other TLG teachers in my area, and she suggested that I let the Minster know that I'm from Philadelphia, not Chicago. Laughing, I told her that I'd see if I could get the correction into the conversation.

So, today at the meeting, after the Minister finished sharing with us what he wanted to tell us, he opened the floor for questions. I had a couple written down, so I raised my hand. I asked my question, and before he answered, he looked at me and said, "You're the volunteer in Shamgona, right?" I smiled and said yes. He told me that he had talked about me in his address to Parliament last week. I told him that I had seen the address on TV and had heard him talk about Shamgona and our school....... and (I went for it) that I'm from Philadelphia, not Chicago. He clapped his hands and threw his head back in a giant nod. He said that he knew I was from a city in the U.S., but didn't have it written down. Chicago was the first one that came out of his mouth. He said that he'll make sure to get it right next time he uses me as an example in Parliament or any other address he makes about TLG.

And, now, let's ponder the idiom until tomorrow..... "Rome wasn't built in a day."

Adaptation

The windows in most Georgian houses don't have screens. The openness is very convenient for throwing dirt of all sorts out the window. Yesterday, as I leaned out my bedroom window to clean the dried mud off my school shoes with a scrub brush (and feeling very Georgian about doing so), a question popped into my head: is adaptation easier when it is only temporary?

The third stage of culture shock is characterized by continuing adaptation and assimilation into the new culture. That is where I am now. It is so nice to be out of the horrendous stage two when everything is irritating and annoying. Pair that stage with winter, and UGH! There were a few brutal days in there, but I am now well past that stage. Thank God.

While hanging out the window and cleaning off my shoes, I felt perfectly normal -- as if I had done this a million times. Everyone scrubs their shoes off to clean them -- and leaning out of the window is a logical place and way to do the job. Other things that go out the window? - dust and dirt from the dustpan and cut flowers that have gone by. In the U.S., I would never throw things out the window, but here I do it every day. Now, every time I open the kitchen door or a window to pitch dirty water, food scraps, or dirt outside, I think about some old black and white movie set in medieval Paris or London when some passerby on the cobblestones gets doused with the bucket of dishwater being heaved from inside. That's me every day -- the thrower, not the one getting soaked. Those things that I have never done before are seeming more and more natural the longer I am here. I have started noticing the things that are beginning to feel normal because they were not natural for me when I first arrived. Paying attention to the changes in my perspective and attitude makes the process of adaptation more self-reflective. Thus, my question.

Does knowing that my situation is only temporary make the adaptation process easier?

I don't know. I've been thinking about this for two days. In some ways, I think it does, but in other ways, it doesn't. Perhaps, knowing that a situation is only temporary may cause a person to think that adapting to a new way is just a waste of time. Since they won't be there permanently, what is the point of changing? Just deal with the differences in method or manner or attitude, bucking the system and creating discord -- but who cares? It's only temporary. Whereas, viewing the change as only temporary, the new ways can feel more manageable. Knowing that one can go back to "their way" of doing things within a month or a year, that person can deal with adopting foreign practices for that time. But is it easier?

What if one were having to make these changes permanently? For the sake of sanity, a positive outlook on the new lifestyle is most helpful. Yet, the burden of knowing that everything about life must change is a heavy one and tough to bear.

Changing and adapting to new ways, even temporarily is not easy. As much as I like change and adventure, I am a creature of habit. And when all my habits go out the window (like the wilted flowers), what do I have to lean on for any sense of normalcy? Just the familiarity of the reflection in the mirror. Nothing else. I have had to learn to do everything in a new way: laundry, dishes, cooking, communicating, shopping, traveling, teaching..... I am adapting, but has my ease of change been sped along by my knowledge that I am not staying here?

I still don't know, but I'll keep thinking about it.

A good day

When I woke up this morning and before I even opened my eyes, I realized that the rain had stopped. There was no pitter patter on the roof, and I could sense less dampness in the air. Opening my eyes confirmed what I was hoping..... the sun was shining! That, in itself, was enough to make today a good day. But from start to finish, one nice thing after another happened.

I got to sleep in. After two weeks of Saturday-school, it was so nice to have a real weekend. I slept until I woke up of my own accord -- no alarm, and I didn't even hear the roosters.

The morning sun streamed in the kitchen windows. As I sat on the bench alongside the stove, coffee in hand, I closed my eyes and let the rays of sun warm my face and my spirits.

Flowers were blooming everywhere. Now that the rain has stopped, the sun is encouraging more and more flowers to show their beautiful faces. On my way into town today, I saw the first irises and apple blossoms of the season.

I heard Abba today in the marshutka. How could that not make any day great?

I successfully used a lot of Georgian. In town today, I went to the market to get some clothespins and some groceries. I had no trouble communicating with any of the people I bought things from --  I even asked for things by the kilo and understood all the numbers I heard.

I went for a long run today. Well, sort of long -- an 80-minute run isn't really long for me, but it's all I had time for. I wore short sleeves and capris!

Two of my friends got engaged. Happy day!

Sports dominated the house tonight. Usually the TV in the kitchen is monopolized by Elene, "Our Grandmother," and Georgian-dubbed Mexican telenovelas. But tonight a soccer game was televised on the kitchen TV that wasn't on the other TV. (The TVs are hooked to two different satellite dishes, so they get different channels.) Georgia and Croatia played here in Georgia, and of course, Leban wanted to watch the game -- I did, too (I really miss watching sports). Georgia was the underdog of the game, and in the first half, it was obvious why -- Croatia completely controlled the game, but they didn't score. In the second half, though, the Georgian team started dominating the field, and with only 3 minutes left in the scoreless game, they scored a fantastically beautiful goal. Everyone in the kitchen went as nuts as all the fans at the game. It was great!

The stars were amazing tonight. When I walked up the stairs to the upper house, the black sky filled with pin-pricks of light stopped me in my tracks. Lovely.

Shoo!

No one likes to be wet for too long -- expect a fish. We're now on our fifth day of rain, and it's getting really, really old. The sogginess has turned the ground that is not underwater into one massive, muddy sponge that oozes up around each footstep and threatens to swallow my shoes.

It must be the rain. Everyone is a little kooky today, including the animals. We've chased various animals out of places they don't belong.

There is a garage attached to the lower house. After school today I was going from the lower to the upper house, edging my way along the covered walkway to miss as much of the rain as possible, and as I passed the garage, I noticed that the small door was ajar. I paused at the door and heard scratching and pecking in the bags of hazelnut shells stored in the garage. I opened the door wider to see who was into the shells. One of the large roosters stood on top of a bag. He had pecked a hole in the bottom of it and had made a huge mess pulling shells out with his beak looking for leftover nuts. When I stepped into the room, he looked up at me with his fierce eyes (roosters would certainly eat us all if they were big enough). I walked around behind him, shooed him out, and pulled the door closed.

About an hour later I walked back down to the lower house, and when I walked past the garage this time, I heard snorting and oinking reverberating off the cement walls. The door was again ajar. I peeked in to see two pigs trotting around in circles. Again I stepped inside the room, walked around behind them to herd them toward the door, and shooed them out. 

Later on, I was in the kitchen tending to the loaves of bread rotating from the stove-top to the oven compartment in the wood stove. Suddenly, I heard clattering and scratching inside one of the cupboards. I opened the door, and there was Kitten, marching around the stacks of plates. His bright orange eyes and pointy ears froze as he hovered, mid-step when I told him to get out. I think he thought that if he didn't move, I wouldn't see him..... a behavior that works when "Our Grandmother" chases him. But I can see just fine, so I scooped him up, pulled him out of the cupboard, and shut the doors.

The two pigs that I had chased out of the garage had gone looking for another open door that would offer shelter from the rain. They must have found the door to one of the sheds out back partly open. From inside the house, we all heard a crash and breaking glass. Koba and Tea ran out to see what was going on in the shed. Some of the chickens, the duck, the turkeys, and the dog had followed the pigs lead; so two seconds after Koba disappeared into the dark room, roaring at the wayward animals, a menagerie of fur, feathers, flapping, and squealing came pouring out the door. The pigs had knocked over some jars of stewed fruit and wine. They broke several 5-liter-jars of wine and cracked one filled with stewed fruit. The next hour was spent in clean-up and salvage mode.

If this rain doesn't stop soon, we are all going to go crazy.... Next we'll be shooing the buffalo out of the outhouse.

Rain, rain, go away

Four days. That's how long it's been raining. On days like this, I often say that it's a good day if you're a duck.... but even the ducks are sick of this weather. They have retired to the shelter of the shed's overhang along with the chickens, roosters, and turkeys.

During those lovely days we had last week -- the middle of March -- I wondered if Winter would make one last vindictive appearance before finally relinquishing its hold on Shamgona. Sure enough. These last few days have been miserably cold and wet. It's amazing how a difference in weather alters this village.

My view while walking to and from school changed. Instead of looking around at the houses and orchards that I pass or watching the groups of students make their way to school, all I see is the wet, muddy road under my feet and a few feet in front of me. The rest of my view is blocked by the purple canopy of my umbrella that I hold at an optimum angle to block the majority of the rain. When I do lift my shelter to peek up the road ahead of me, I see clumps of colored domes that seem to have sprouted black, booted legs. I follow these domes through the gate to the school yard, all the way to the door, where under the protection of the entry-way's roof, the disembodied legs gain the rest of their person. Each umbrella that is lowered reveals a smiling face accompanied with a cheery, "Hello, teacher!"

Despite my hope that the rain would stop before I went out for my run today, it did not. The rain lightened up at least, and was only a drizzle instead of the steady rain that had been the norm for most of the day. Even though I didn't feel like going out in the rain, I went anyway.

There was so much water everywhere. The deep ditches along the sides of the road were full, almost to overflowing. In every yard and hazelnut orchard new lakes appeared where none had been three days ago. Drainage trenches in the orchards disgorged the overflow into the ditches. The puddles in the road had grown in diameter; a few had merged.

As I deftly dodged each puddle, I noticed that the village was quieter than I had seen it in weeks. No one was out. Normally when I run, I pass lots of people in the road -- some walking to one place or another, some just hanging out, some herding up their animals -- I always greet everyone I meet along the way, so I end up saying, "Gamarjobat" about 30 times. Today I said it only once when I greeted the ever-present police. No one else was around. There weren't even many cows in the road. I may have seen 10 -- and I usually pass 70-80 of them on a normal run.

One that I did see reminded me of myself. We were both in the middle of the road -- and with the deserted streets, I had visions of an old-tyme show-down.... that shifted to the running of the bulls..... then morphed to a bull fight. I briefly wished that I had been wearing red to see what the cow would do, although I've run around these cows long enough now to know that no cow in Shamgona would make an effort to charge me regardless of my color-choice. As it was, we were both all black -- me and the cow. As I neared her, the whiteness of her horns protruding from both sides of her head made me think of my blonde hair that was probably sticking out on both sides "horn-like" since it curls up in the most unruly ways in damp weather. She watched me approach, and as I reached out to pat her head on my way by, she side-stepped out of reach and eyed me suspiciously. Maybe she was having similarly ominous visions of me as I approached.

I do like sleeping with the rain pitter-patting on the roof. It has a musical rhythm with crescendos and decrescendos that lull me to sleep. The down-side is that I don't want to get out of bed on rainy days.

Time to let the lullaby do its job.....

Generation gap

A couple of days ago, I wrote a post about some universal truths common in all the cultures I have experienced. I did not write about one of the most basic personal dynamics that is most certainly a universal experience of people everywhere..... the generation gap.

Glorious quietness is suddenly shattered by a blood-curdling scream that is overpowered by an explosion of Georgian/Abkhaz/Mingrelian mixed in an incomprehensible string of who-knows-what. "Our Grandmother" and Elene are at it again. Can an 80-year-old and a 7-year-old see eye-to-eye? I'm not sure they can.

Elene is a normal 7-year-old: curious, playful, and noisy. "Our Grandmother" is a normal 80-year-old: she wants peace and quiet.... and can be a little crotchety at times. There is nothing that Elene does that makes "Our Grandmother" happy, and nothing that "Our Grandmother" does is right for Elene. Watching them interact is like watching a session of Congress debate a bill..... impossibly disagreeable. If Elene runs around the house, yells of disapproval come bellowing out of "Our Grandmother." If "Our Grandmother" doesn't move out of the way, the same yells of disapproval come bellowing out of Elene. Well, almost the same -- maybe an octave higher. If they are both in the house, one is usually pointing out some fault of the other's. It's tiresome and entertaining all at the same time.

One day we were sitting in the kitchen, Elene, "Our Grandmother," Tea, and I; and Elene had done something that "Our Grandmother" didn't like. Following her usual tirade poured out in Elene's direction, she commented that Elene is just like she was when she was young. As she said this, she sat there musing, her deep-set, blue eyes lit up out of the shadow of her head-scarf with the residual fire that burned hot and fast from her youth. At 80, she is still feisty and opinionated -- I can imagine how irascible she was back in her younger days.

What is it about the young and the old that makes them so diametrically opposed to one another? The difference in noise-level preference? The difference in priorities? The difference in speed? Or maybe the difference in perspective? I don't know. Maybe their conflict stems from a combination of all of these reasons. What I do know -- there is a figurative chasm between the old and the young. 

To their credit, Elene and "Our Grandmother" get along when they are doing two things: when "Our Grandmother" calls out math problems for Elene to practice, and when they are perched on their respective chairs in the kitchen enveloped in the Georgian-dubbed Mexican telenovelas.

Viva la revolucion!

Family.....kindred spirits

It rained again today, so when dance class was over, I stepped outside with my iridescent purple/blue umbrella and waited a minute to see if anyone else was walking my way. One of my eighth-grade girls, Angela was. Under the protection of her own umbrella, she joined me in the road and together we started for home. We talked a little bit about dance and the different styles that we are learning -- well, that I am learning -- she already knows them all and is a fantastic dancer. Our conversation then turned to family.

Her parents and older brother are in Russia, and with the border now closed between Georgia and Russia, they are separated. Angela is living with her grandparents in Shamgona. Many families are split up like this. Because there are so few jobs to be found in Georgia, there are many who have gone to Russia to work and send money back to the family in Georgia. The border used to be completely open between the two countries, so those who were working outside of Georgia could return whenever they wanted to see their families. That is no longer possible. Russia is not deporting Georgians who are there, but if they leave Russia, they can't go back. The families opt to stay split up for the sake of financial stability.

I asked Angela if she misses her parents (silly question, I know). She peered out from underneath her umbrella; beautiful hazel eyes connected with mine as she nodded a slow, sad nod. I held her gaze from underneath my own shelter, and with my own tight-lipped nod said, "Me, too." She smiled, and we both felt each other's desire for our loved ones. I had to swallow hard against a lump that rose up in my throat that was sure to bring tears if I allowed it to take hold.

It is hard to be so far away from family and friends. The comfort of being surrounded by the unconditional love of family has no comparison. Even though I am well-cared for and have made friends here, I miss my loved ones. Yesterday I saw my parents on Skype. This morning I talked with my brother through my computer to his phone. I chat with my sister and friends on facebook often. Technology has made staying in touch easier, but it is still no match for sitting in the same room with them.

Every so often, Tea can see that I miss my family. We have gotten to know each other well enough that we can read each other's expression and mood. I can tell when she is tired or upset. She can see when I am pensive. She'll say, "You miss your family," with a seriousness that matches the weight of my emotions. I usually smile sadly and agree. Having lived in Russia for a year, she knows what it is like to be away from home for an extended period of time. Knowing that she understands how I feel helps me to take strength from her quiet support.

Today at school before our first class, Tea and I were sitting in the teachers' room talking about........ something. I don't remember what. We were completely oblivious to everyone else around us as we carried on our conversation. At one point, we laughed about whatever it was that we were sharing. One of the older teachers (one who keeps telling me that I need to stay here) commented on how intimately Tea and I interact -- as if we were family. She said that both of our faces light up when we talk to each other. I said that living with someone allows friendship to grow stronger more quickly. Tea heartily agreed.

At least, living with a kindred spirit allows friendship to grow stronger more quickly. Trying to live with someone who is not a kindred spirit is like an uphill trudge in the mud. You'll make progress, but it will be messy, tough work.

I have thought about June -- when I leave to go back home to the U.S. I have wondered what it will be like to leave Shamgona. It will be hard to leave Tea. It's already the end of March, and I know that as the days grow warmer the time will fly by faster. Departure-day will be here before I know it. I want to prepare myself to leave well. I'm not sure what that means yet, but I've got a couple of months to figure it out.

Good, clean dirt

That cow is a bit distracting, isn't it?

I love freshly-tilled earth -- it holds the promise of good things to come. 

The villagers spend long days out in the gardens and orchards right now. Preparation for spring planting is an arduous process since nothing is done by machine. They till the ground by hand with long-handled spades. It's tough, back-breaking, blister-causing work. But the returns are well-worth it. The food that is grown in these plots of land will feed the families for the next year.

There is nothing like the look and smell of the turned-up dirt. The colors of the dirt are so much more than just brown. Rich hues of purple mix into deep ebony shadows highlighted by lavender swatches. You can see the vitality in that earth. And the smell -- it is the very essence of all that is alive and growing. Pungent, damp, vivacious -- especially just after a rain shower. The affirmation of new life tickles the nostrils of any who breathe in the earthy scent.

The promise of good things to come..... that's how I choose to view my students. Right now they are like the tilled fields -- not yet producing anything productive, but the preparation is being done for a good growing season which will yield a fruitful harvest. 

And I think I'm the spade. I'm digging up what was allowed to lie fallow, breaking apart the clumps of hard ground, dislodging the unnecessary debris to be discarded, transforming the unproductive expanse of land into fertile soil where good things can grow -- good things like critical thinking skills, analytical prowess, logical reasoning -- not just knowledge, but useful application of knowledge. These kids have knowledge in English, but getting them to break out of the memorized tracts that have been plowed in their minds by habitual recitation is just as difficult work as physically tilling up the ground for spring planting. What is knowledge that can't be applied? It's sort of like dumping all your seed corn into one hole. Yes, a few stalks will grow -- there will be some external evidence that corn was planted, but will the harvest be plentiful? Certainly not! Nowhere near as plentiful as it could have been if the corn had been applied to the whole planting area. That's my work this spring. While the fields and gardens are being physically turned-up, I am figuratively turning-up the fertile ground of my students' minds. I know that some won't tend to their mental gardens well -- and their harvest will reflect their negligence. But others who have gained a taste for the harvest will carefully cultivate the seeds that my co-teachers and I plant. They understand that the effort they put into their mental growth now will yield a lifetime of opportunity.

So, let's dig in -- there's work to be done!

Universality

The longer I am here in Georgia, the more I find that in some ways, people are the same everywhere I go. There are some things that are universal, no matter how different the culture may be. Maybe calling these things "universal" is a bit much -- I have not been everywhere in the world..... But as far as I have seen, these things are at least common among the people that I have been in contact with and the countries I have visited.

Commonality #1 -- Middle school kids love to laugh. (And they especially love to laugh when I act things out.)

I'm not afraid to make a complete fool of myself in the classroom. When teaching language, sometimes charades are necessary to get a point across the language barrier. I am perfectly comfortable with this.

This past week I taught three of the six school-days (yes, we had school on Saturday this week....) by myself. There were times in each class that I didn't know the Georgian words for what I was trying to say, and the students didn't understand the English -- or the words were new for them. So, I acted out whatever it was that they didn't understand. In the eighth grade we were talking about music -- I acted out ballet, keyboard, and opera (they loved that one!), and I sang some jazz for them.

Ninth graders are almost not middle schoolers, but I can get them to laugh almost as easily as the eighth graders. The unit we are talking about right now is centered around injuries....what a perfect topic for me to teach! (I've had just about any injury you can name.) The day that I presented all the new vocabulary words was one of the days that I taught by myself, so I acted out all sorts of things: fainting, vomiting, sweating, getting a concussion, getting a sunburn, feeling dizzy, getting a sprain, breaking a leg, and limping. For "feeling dizzy," I spun around a few times, and then pretended to not be able to walk straight -- they laughed so hard! But now they remember the words! Anything for the sake of learning, right?

Commonality #2 -- Students who don't like a subject won't work at it.

There are two boys in my tenth grade class who don't do much actual work in class -- and they don't do anything outside of class. One of them, whose name is Romeo, is really smart, but he won't put any effort into learning English. On Thursday, I called on him to answer something, and he made a remark in  Georgian that got a response from Tea and the girls. From the tone of his voice and what the girls said back to him, I guessed that he had said something about not liking English. I turned to him and said, "You don't have to like English, but you do have to pass it." That brought unanimous nods from the girls and applause from Tea. The class is required. And if he wants to graduate from high school, he has to pass English. Oh, if only that were motivation enough for him to do his work.....

Commonality #3 -- Media-hype is everywhere.

There are two news channels that we watch everyday. They have taken a page from the American media's scare-tactic-news-casting manual.

The moon was supposed to destroy the earth yesterday, wasn't it? At least, that's what the news said. Their words may not have made the statement straight-out, but the video presentation and music choices for the bits were ridiculously blatant in their message. Monochromatic shots of towns and cities that the camera quickly zooms in and out on to simulate an earthquake are paired with eerie, suspenseful tones. Another shot of an amusement park -- the picture bends and blurs and separates the colors for a minute at the most dissonant moment in the tense music. Then a shot of the evil moon -- glaring down at the earth as the furious violins saw away the last vestige of hope for humanity. Finish with rapid-fire cuts from one natural disaster to another: flood, earthquake, tsunami, volcano, hurricane, fire. We're doomed.

The media should present unbiased facts without pressing the fear-button in viewer's brains. But what fun would that be? (Read: sarcasm.)

Commonality is a funny thing. It binds the us together in a unique way, creating paths that everyone is familiar with and can follow to a general understanding of the world-at-large. We are all members of the global community, and even though we have some differences in our cultures, we are, at the end of the day, all human beings. With hearts that beat and blood that flows. With the need for food, water, shelter, and Love. With emotions that can be affected by silly classroom antics or the hype on the news. Being human is what connects us all -- universally.

La biblioteca - ბიბლიოთეკა - Library

These are the Spanish, Georgian, and English words for "library."

Sometimes I like thinking about the word for something in different languages. Often there are similarities. In the words for "library," the Spanish and Georgian are exactly the same except for the letter used for the "k" sound -- in Spanish it's written with a "c," and in Georgian it's the strong "k."

I love libraries. When I was 14 I was hired for my first job working as a library page. The Monson Free Library in the little town of Monson, Massachusetts is in an old, stone building with wide-plank wooden floors and wrought-iron spiral staircases. I used to shelve returned books, process new books, straighten the books on the shelves, and check out books for people. I remember often getting side-tracked by the books themselves while re-shelving or straightening books. If I read a paragraph or two of something that interested me and got really absorbed by it, I would sit down on one of the rolling footstools in the stacks and read until the librarian found me and spurred me on to finish my job.

And what is it about the smell of a library that makes me happy? That musty, dusty paper and leather smell evokes in me a need for knowledge and quietness. (This may be the reason that I do not enjoy reading books electronically. I have tried reading books from my Iphone and computer, but the experience is not the same. I need the smell of the book along with the feel of it in my hands to fully enjoy reading.)

When I was packing to come to Georgia, I packed a few books from my own personal library: a Lonely Planet guide to Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan, a Bradt guide to Georgia, a New Testament, C. S. Lewis's Mere Christianity, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I thought these would keep me occupied for a few months. While in Tbilisi at Christmas time, I bought Dicken's A Christmas Carol at the English language bookstore. It's only March, and I have read them all. So when I'm out of books to read and neither Amazon nor B&N online delivers to Shamgona, what am I to do?

Find a library.

My school just happens to have one. The library is in a room at the end of the tiled hall on the second floor. Instead of a blackboard and desks filling the room like the classrooms, there are three desks with chairs for reading and researching surrounded by three bookshelves that are packed full of books -- so full that there are double rows of books on the shelves. The small library is a far cry from most U.S. school libraries, but it is a start.

On my first day at the school, I was given a tour of the facility, including the library. Lika proudly showed me the section of English-language books available for loan. I made a mental note to see if there was anything that I wanted to read when I finished the books that I brought with me. I read slowly, but I knew that what I had brought would not last seven months.

We had school today -- our second make-up day from the surprise spring break we took a couple of weeks ago. While I had a break from teaching, I asked Irina, our librarian if I could look at the English books in the collection and maybe check one out. She smiled and jangled the keys with a, "Tsavedit!" (Let's go!)

I had no idea what kind of titles I was going to find. I was a little afraid that the selection would be like a summer flea market -- acres and acres of boxes of faded, discarded books that I had never heard of for good reason. There are few things worse than trying to slog through sub-par literature, and I didn't want to spend the next three months doing so..... Irina unlocked the door and opened it, revealing the beloved book-scent. I wanted to breathe it in deeply, but I half-held my breath in uncertainty while I scanned the spines for something worth reading. There were some flea-market left-overs (patience, patience), but there were also some gems. (Joy!) I pulled three from the shelf -- three that I have been wanting to read for quite awhile: E. M. Forster's Where Angels Fear to Tread, Edwin Abbott's Flatland, and Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones. What a combination! Now to decide what to read first..... (If I were my sister, I would read all three at the same time -- a chapter at a time in each -- I don't know how she does that.)

I laid the three books out in front of me and analyzed them. Sebold's novel is a touching story from the point of view of a dead girl in Heaven.... it could be an emotional read. The Forster is about a wayward English girl who goes to Italy and falls in love (typical Forster)....  a lovely read with wonderful Forster semantics. Flatland is a short sci-fi that is going to stretch my thinking into the fourth dimension. The order I read them in matters. What I have read in the past influences the way I think about what I read in the future -- especially if one book directly follows another. Flatland is the shortest, but I don't think I should read it first. To follow it with Forster just wouldn't be right. But if I followed it with the novel from Heaven's vantage point, thinking from the fourth dimension may work. And just a few months ago, I read Forster's A Room with a View, so starting with Where Angels Fear to Tread seemed like a good idea, then Flatland, and finally, The Lovely Bones.

On the very first page, I knew that I had made the right decision. I read, "....it is only by going off the track that you get to know the country." A perfect follow-up to my recent read, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. And a perfect thought for where I am living presently.....

.....it's a rainy day. Nothing better than a book and a cup of tea.

Teaching tomorrow's leaders

I teach over 90 of them. I attend dance class with anywhere from 10-25 of them depending how many show up. I live with two of them. They can be lots of fun and they can be a pain in the neck. Sometimes I get along with them great, sometimes they annoy the fire out of me.

Kids.

One of the underlying influences of a culture is the attitude toward child-rearing. I had never thought about child-rearing in relation to culture before studying culture my first week here in Georgia, but it is an important part of the make up of a group of people. The way children are viewed and treated by adults affects the way they think, react to each other, respond to correction, perceive authority, and think about their future (to name only a few of the influences on them).

I certainly don't know much about being a parent since I don't have children, but I know an awful lot about being a child -- I was one for a long time. I work with them every day. And one of the best ways to be a good high school teacher is to never forget what it was like to be a teenager. 

Spending every "workday" with kids of various ages has kept my own childhood present in my mind. Thinking about my own up-bringing helps me to deal with my students -- being able to relate to them on any level about anything. My parents were (and are) great parents, and their example of child-rearing has given me a good basis to work from in managing my classroom. But what happens when the parents of the children I am teaching don't have the same thoughts on child-rearing as I do? How can the students understand what I expect of them? How do I understand what they think is or is not appropriate to do in class? How do we come to an agreement on work ethic and responsibility?

Ever since I arrived, I have been trying to get a handle on the Georgian attitude toward children. Sometimes I think they are spoiled and are allowed to do whatever they want. Sometimes I think they have a very strict up-bringing with lots of hard work. I still don't know which it is -- maybe it's both. From much of what I have seen, the spoiling comes from the mother and the strictness comes from the father. Kids often whine their way into manipulating their mothers to let them do what they want. But if the kids are out of line, I've seen many fathers pinch the perpetrator's ear and march them to wherever they are supposed to be. I am not going to question the parenting methods that I have seen, I'm just stating that they are. And teaching kids who are brought up with the idea that they can manipulate a "mother-figure" makes being a female teacher who was not raised with these dynamics a bit trying.....especially since whining is one of the things I hate most in all of creation. 

The best way I have found to combat the rampant whininess of my students is to simply not allow it. I tell them that if they whine at me I will not acknowledge them. I will not call on them. And I will not change my mind. My being consistent with what I expect from them has helped....but now and then they still fall back into their old habits of waving their hand in the air like an Atlanta Braves' fan while whining, "Teeeeeacher....pleeeeease. I answeeeeer. Teeeeeeacher......," as if they will truly die if they do not share their answer with me. I look at the whiner, shake my head, and call on another student. They love to answer questions when they know the answer, so it only takes a couple of times of being passed over for them to stop acting like two-year-olds.

But the whining is not the tough one -- it's the lack of agreement on work ethic and responsibility in regards to homework and studying that really kills me. And that is going to be tomorrow's post -- if I can formulate my thoughts on it cohesively enough by then.

The village is a place where children have a lot of freedom. They walk everywhere unaccompanied by adults -- even the first and second graders. Kids have the run of the road, their yards, and the soccer field with no adult supervision. There is nothing to fear (now that the Abkhazian conflict has died down and police patrol the village). They always make their way home when they are hungry.

Don't get the wrong idea about Georgian mothers -- they are not all push-overs. They work very hard and are deeply loved by their children. In fact, the word for "mother," (deda) is the word that everyone says as an exclamation of surprise, pain, tiredness, or amusement. Yesterday, I asked Tea why everyone says, "Deda," as an exclamation. She explained that "Deda" is most Georgian's first word. And as they grow up, their mother is the one that they want to see first if they are sad or hurt or excited about something. Mother will always listen and empathize with them.

Teaching children is tough no matter who one is or where one lives. And teaching the children of a different culture adds an extra layer of complexity to an already-hard job. I am not only overcoming simple language barriers, but also idealistic and value differences. 

No wonder I'm tired.

A new sound

This week has been increasingly lovely. Each day has been warmer and brighter than the last. The sun shine is getting stronger, making me feel like I am waking up from a long nap. The weak sun in the winter makes me feel like my eyes are not quite open -- not until the rays of the sun strengthen do I feel like my eyes are really, truly open. That's been happening this week.

Violets growing in the woods by the river

Yesterday I was finished with my classes before 2, so I was home early. After lunch, the warm sunshine beckoned me outside. I threw my camera, sketch book, pen and phone into a bag and walked to the river. (I'm not sure why I am always drawn to water on lovely days.....I may have to explore that line of thought one of these days.)

I walked down the road, through a pasture, then along a grassy lane to the river. Everywhere I looked, tiny violets poked up through last year's dead leaves, ferns, and grass. Some were light purple, others, a deep royal purple -- and all of them smelled sweeter than any violets I've ever smelled. They smelled like candy.

As I got closer to the river, I heard a sound I'd never heard before. At first it reminded me of spring peepers back in Maine (little tree frogs), but from the intensity of the sound, I was pretty sure it was coming from a much bigger frog than a peeper.

Earsplitting -- that's a good word to describe the noise from these unseen frogs. I was at the riverbank, but I couldn't see any of the frogs. However, the assault on my eardrums assured me that there were many, many of them right in front of me. I was walking into the sun, so the glare on the water heightened the contrast of everything in front of me. All I could see of the frogs were the rings of ripples left behind after they hopped into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

Froggy

I thought that if I turned around and had the sun to my back I would be able to spot at least one of the elusive little guys. Sure enough, not two minutes after I reoriented myself, I saw one of the frogs jump from the bank into the water -- a good-size, spotted frog -- greens and browns -- exactly the same colors as the rocks and algae in the water.

I contemplated trying to catch one, but knowing what is in the water further upriver, decided that would not be a good idea. So I just watched them and snapped a few pictures.

Now that I knew what the frogs looked like, and the light was direct, I saw them at every step I took as I headed back toward the grassy lane to the road. I stopped at one spot where I saw several of the frogs to try to see them making the crazily-loud squeaking/ringing sound. I watched one for a few minutes, but couldn't see anything moving that matched the sound. I shifted my focus to another, larger frog a foot away from the first one and found what I was looking for. As the frog emitted an unearthly-loud squeaking, two bubbles of skin blew up on either side of its head. It looked the frog was made of gray-green bubble gum. As soon as the squeaking stopped, the bubbles deflated.

Bubble-head froggy

For several minutes, I watched the frog with the bubbles -- then I noticed that it was moving toward one that wasn't making any ear-splitting noises nor blowing any bubbles. I wondered if it was a female and the other was a male. Suddenly the bubble-head frog jumped on top of the other frog.

Suspicion confirmed.

Stay

I get told this often.

And I hate being told what to do. Usually when someone (apart from a boss) tells me to do something, I do the exact opposite. (I think I have ODD. And that stands for Oppositional Defiant Disorder.....not to say that I'm odd.....) But for the sake of cultural tolerance and sensitivity, I have had to curb my defiant streak while living here in Georgia.

I get told what to do all the time -- mostly to sit, eat, drink, and stay. I get told to sit anytime I am standing in one spot for more than half a second. I get told to eat and drink any time I enter the kitchen or someone's house. And I get told to stay anytime I lift a finger to help with anything.

At first I did what I was told, but lately I have been refusing if I don't want to do one of those things. When I refuse, I get the same reply from everyone (but Tea, she understands me): "Ratom??" (Why??) I used to try to explain why I didn't want to sit ("I've been sitting all day") or eat ("I'm not hungry") or drink ("I only drink coffee in the morning"), but no one could understand why I would not eat just because I'm not hungry. Now I've taken a cue from the Georgians and I simply say, "Ar minda" (I don't want to). No one questions this reasoning. It's really funny -- I wouldn't say this in the U.S. -- I would feel rude if I did, but here it is the only reason that is ever given and believed.

The command "stay" has changed in its meaning recently. It has expanded.

In the last two days, four unrelated people have told me to stay..... to stay in Georgia and not go back to the U.S. -- "Darchena aq. Shen ar midikhar Amerikashi." (Stay here. Don't go back to America.) "Our grandmother" tells me this quite often -- she said it again on Monday. Two others said the same thing to me Monday -- one of my colleagues and a man in the village (not one of the ones who has expressed his undying love for me). On Tuesday a mom of one of my students told me to stay.

I have a feeling that I will be told this more often by more people the closer my departure date gets.

Each time someone tells me to stay in Georgia, I say no. And, of course, the expected response comes back, "Ratom??" This one is a bit trickier to answer, especially given my limited Georgian. If I am talking with someone who speaks English, it's easy enough to explain that I miss my friends and family. They argue that I can go and visit, then come back to stay. No. In Georgian I know the words for "my friends and family," but that doesn't ever satisfy them. A couple of times I have said (in Georgian) that America is my home. That is always met with the suggestion that Georgia is my home now.

This really gets me thinking about the fourth phase of culture shock -- one that I have experienced many times before and I know I will again in June: difficulty re-assimilating back into the home culture. Every time I travel outside the U.S. and return, I dislike the U.S. more and more. I had wanted to move out of the country for good and would have if I had found a job in Vancouver back in the fall. But since being here in Georgia, I have grown nostalgic over the "good ol' USA." Not that I'll hang a flag on my front door when I get back, but I actually want to go back. I'm sure that after being there for a few months the things that annoyed me before will annoy me again. The media will still sensationalize every news story to keep everyone afraid and under control. Walmart will still perpetuate a lower-middle class society and drive out all the small businesses, wreaking havoc on the country's economy. The government will still spend an obscene amount of our country's money on the military while millions don't have enough to eat. Americans will still drive around in unnecessarily large vehicles that guzzle copious amounts of gasoline, feeding the country's addiction to Arab-oil. Cultural and religious intolerance will still be rampant, fostering ever-increasing tensions and fears. So be it, but it will be home -- I will be home. I will still not contribute to those aspects of America that I disagree with and dislike. But I will be home. I will be with those who love me. I will know my place and role in society. I will be home.

"Darchena aq?" (Stay here?)

"Ara. Tsavedit sakhlshi." (No. Let's go home.)

Polyphonic Spring

"What the hell is 'polyphonic'?"

I won't say who asked me this, but I will say that the question was asked while I was in Sighnaghi with James and Katherine. The three of us were hanging out in our hotel reading (and critiquing) the horribly over-written Sighnaghi town web site, looking for suggestions on what we should see while there. The description of Georgian culture contained a reference to its "polyphonic singing." And that prompted the question.....

"Polyphonic" means many sounds that harmonize. In its strictest sense, it refers to music that has multiple, independent melodies that harmonize with each other. I think it can also cover 4-part harmony. Easy enough to understand for anyone with a church or school choir background -- SATB (soprano, alto, tenor, bass -- or..... "Sing After The Beat," as my dad used to say...). Traditional Georgian music has harmonizing parts that are considered polyphonic, thus the reference to it on the web site.

While in Sighnaghi, the three of us went to a monastery to look around. This word was in the back of my mind as we quietly explored the grounds of the complex. A path led to the holy spring; it was long and a little treacherous, but I wanted to see the spring, so I followed the snowy, icy stairs/trail to the bottom of the ravine and the spring. While walking in the woods alone, I became aware of all the sounds around me -- and the thought came to me that Spring is a polyphonic season. In the woods I could hear the snow sliding off the tree branches and hitting the ground with a slushy, heavy thud. In other places the snow was melting off the trees with a drip, drip, drip that punctuated the sound of the falling snow. The water from the spring ran out of the rock in a musical gurgle that formed its own melody in time with the snow's sounds.

In Shamgona, Spring is a few weeks ahead of much of the rest of the country, and the sounds of the changing season have multiplied and grown in intensity. While soaking up some much-needed sunshine today, I made a list of the sounds that I noticed....

New birds have brought new songs with them. These new songs sprout from happiness for the warm sunshine. (At least, that's what they say to me!)

The breeze in the palm fronds -- a dry rattle that, if I closed my eyes, just might convince me that I'm on the beach in Puerto Rico.....

Thirteen new piglets emit tiny squeals as they try to build their pig pile higher and higher. Grunts and squeals -- an octave or two higher than their mother's -- announce to the world that life is new and exciting.

The hens who are sitting on eggs cluck softly to their growing chicks, assuring them that the snow has gone for good.

Roosters chase the hens (who aren't sitting on eggs) all over the yard. Both squawk as they participate in the "catch-me-if-you-can" game of mating-tag.

Children who have been set free from the confines of their kitchens run and play with awakened vitality.

The hello-"beep" of the police truck seems to have a softer quality than it did all winter long.

Even the rusted metal gate to the cemetery scrapes against its post in the breeze with a restored belief in life outside its borders.

Is there any season as obvious as Spring? Spring makes itself known to every sense, and I love being close enough to it all to notice the changes and revel in them. Life is being renewed. The world is waking up. The layers of independent melodies that harmonize with each other as the world celebrates its reality and renewal are music to my ears.

Pause and listen -- there's music everywhere.

Film Day

I was thankful to see the sun when I woke up this morning. The village is beautiful in the sunlight, and I wanted the film crew to have a the best face of Shamgona. It is a place that I have grown to love, and the sun shows the signs of spring that are breaking out of the hold that winter has had on the area for months.

On my way to school, I wondered how this day would go -- What would they want to film? What would they ask me? How long would they be around? How many people and cameras would show up? Who was making this thing? Where would it be shown? I like knowing the plan, and there was no plan. That made me a little edgy, but I knew that Lika would be really nervous, so I down-played my edginess and tried to be relaxed.

When I got to school, the experience was almost like my first day there back in November -- everyone was dressed in their best, with their hair freshly washed or cut, standing outside to watch for the film crew to arrive. A buzz of anticipation filled the air. I had no idea when the they would arrive. Waiting is bad, but waiting for something I don't really want is the worst.

They weren't there when first period began, nor when second period began. Lika and I taught our first two classes without interruption. We had a break from teaching then, and we wrote our lesson plan for the class we teach together tomorrow and then went over what we would do in the 8th-grade class later on today. We had just finished our work when word was delivered that the film crew had arrived.

I was so relieved to see only one journalist and one cameraman.  No lights. No three-ring circus. Thank God.

The journalist, Rusiko introduced herself to Lika and me and told us that she wanted to film an entire class, not just a few minutes of one. We told her that we had one more class to teach. Lika was a little apprehensive to have the 8th-graders be the class to be filmed -- they can be a handful -- the class is very large -- and not all the boys participate. She suggested that we reteach the 5th-grade class that we had already had earlier in the morning and film them. That class is very quiet with excellent students. I immediately curtailed that idea -- I knew that the 8th graders would be a more lively group for the camera. I assured Lika that the class would be fine and we could handle it. She wasn't so sure, but she agreed.

The cameraman and Rusiko went into the classroom first so they could get set up. Lika and I stood in the hallway waiting for the okay to go in and begin. What a nerve-wracking moment. I've always said that teaching is like being on stage -- from the moment the bell rings, the teacher is "on" -- now having a camera "on" as well..... We breathed deeply at the signal to enter and dove in.

As I had anticipated, the students were wonderful. I did most of the talking for the duration of the class with Lika's support in translating when clarification was needed, in monitoring work, answering questions, and expanding on what I said.

The topic of the unit we are looking at right now is all about the arts. They had learned the words "artist," "composer," writer," "poet," "architect," and "sculptor" last week. I had made sets of cards that went together in a group -- one with the word ("poet"), one with a definition of what that person does, and a third with the name of a famous poet (writer, artist, etc.) that the students know. After we had reviewed the topic and the words briefly, I explained (with Lika's help) what we were going to do: Lika and I would give each student a card, and they had to find the other two who completed their group -- one title, one name, one description. They were supposed to use only English, which didn't happen, but it was a great exercise anyway! The cameraman had a blast catching shots of the students milling around looking for their partners. I was glad to have had an interactive lesson ready for today.

When class was over, Lika and I left the room to Rusiko to interview some of the students. She also interviewed Lika and our school director, and then filmed Lika and I working together in the teachers' room. Before leaving school, our school director invited the guests to the suphra that the ladies had prepared. We ate a little and talked about the film. Thankfully no tamada ("toast-master") was elected and no toasts were given. We were able to eat a bit and then head to the house for more filming.

Rusiko wanted to film me on my normal walk home from school. Classes were just finishing, so I was able to walk home with the students that I often accompany. We chatted about the day and their homework while the camera was rolling. It's tough to be natural with a camera pointed in one's direction -- especially for the students.

Halfway home, Rusiko stopped me to put a mic on me and to interview me while continuing to the house. I had a hard time paying attention to the questions because I was watching the cameraman who was in front of us walking backwards. He kept almost stepping in cow droppings and puddles -- he did hit a couple of puddles, but I warned him of a massive pile of fresh droppings just in time. One of the hazards of village-life.

That was one of the things that Rusiko wanted me to talk about -- village life and how I have adapted to it. We also talked about Georgian culture, how I am able to deal with living on the border of the conflict zone, and of course, the educational system. I talked so much today, I have a hard time remembering everything she asked me -- much of what we focused on was the project that I am a part of: Teach and Learn with Georgia (TLG). Once Tea joined the conversation when we got to the house, we were able to jointly express our concerns about the present system, our hopes for the future one, and our opinions of whether or not TLG's initiative is really going to make a difference in the country. One of the biggest concerns that Rusiko and others have is the vast number of TLG "teachers" who are not trained teachers. Native English speakers, yes -- but not teachers. Tea and I think that it would be fine if all the Georgian English teachers were good teachers who already had Western methods down pat. But that is not the case. My teachers and I seem to be an exception to the norm -- I am a teacher, and my two co-teachers are good teachers who are open to changes and readily implement new methods that I model for them. But in many schools across the country, such a combination is rare. Rusiko was quite surprised to find the above-average teaching environment that exists here in Shamgona. Surprised and pleased.

At the house, they filmed Tea and I in the kitchen serving up some fresh, hot hominey (sort of like polenta), Elene and I practicing some Georgian dance, and me working in my room on my laptop. Once Tea got past her nervousness (I had gotten over mine half-way through school) our answers to the interview questions came more freely and more conversationally. We almost forgot we had a camera staring at us..... almost. (That objectification of the camera lens is hard to get past.....)

And then, of course, in good Georgian-fashion, we sat down to another suphra.

After our guests had left, I helped Tea clear the table and put everything away -- then I had to go for a run. I needed to clear my mind and my body of the leftover nervous jitters and rushing thoughts, and there is no better way for me to do that than a good, hard run.

The sun was going down when I headed out of the gate toward the bridge -- that "golden hour" light that I love so much colored everything in a lovely, warm glow. I cleared my mind and just listened to my body working -- breathing, stepping, heart pumping -- all in rhythm punctuated by the occasional leap over a puddle or pothole. At the bridge, I ran up the rise to turn around where the pavement meets the metal. I was arrested by the staccato strips of cloud in hues of vermillion, violet, apricot, and azure harmonizing across the sky and echoed by the river. Beautiful. I stood there with my heart pounding in my chest, taking in the day -- a great end to a good day.

And.... cut. It's a wrap.

Preparations

There are many people who want to be on TV more than anything else. I am not one of them. The only TV show that I would like to be a part of is "The Amazing Race," only because I would be able to go to lots of great places that I haven't experienced yet. But since I've been in Georgia, I have been on TV twice -- both times on the news. And tomorrow I am going to be filmed for a movie. Right.

Last week when I was in Tbilisi finding my way from the bus station to the metro, my phone rang. After digging it out of the front pocket of my backpack, I answered it. It was one of the TLG staff members at the Ministry of Education. He told me that there is a group who is making a documentary of the educational system in Georgia and they want to include some of the TLG teachers in the piece. He said that they want the teacher in Shamgona specifically -- that's me. They want to film me at school with my classes and at home with my host family. I asked if they would be getting in touch with my host family and school, and he said yes. (I didn't want a disruption as crazy as a film crew to be a surprise to everyone.)

Tomorrow is the day that the crew will be showing up, and preparations have been underway for days.

At school, everyone has been in a frenzy. The ladies have been planning a suphra since the beginning of the week. I am very skeptical about having time for a full-fledged suphra, but they've planned one nonetheless. All week there has been a lot of very loud discussion of who should prepare what, and with food prices rising, the discussions grew in intensity throughout the week. By Friday, the arguments were more heated than I have yet witnessed. I wasn't there today, but I know that they were at the school cleaning it from top to bottom. And the director got the builder to come in and fix the flooring that had buckled and warped in a few of the classrooms. I also heard that some out-of-town police stopped by the school to have a look around..... maybe to make sure everything was safe for the crew.

Since Tea and I had to be at school yesterday, Tea's mom came over to start cleaning the house. She was here before I left for school, and she scrubbed all day long. She took the two carpets off the floor in the living room, washed them, and hung them over the fence to dry. She took down the curtains and washed them, too. They were hanging on the line, blowing in the wind when I got home from school. She mopped the floor a few times to make sure all the dirt and dust were gone.

I swept my room -- but that was all the cleaning it needed since I'm such a neat-freak. I also washed the pants, shirt, and sweater I had worn to school.

Tea and I talked about what foods she wanted to have for everyone (a Georgian-must when expecting guests....no matter who they are). We did a few little things to prepare for cooking, but most of the cooking happened today.

From noon until after 10 p.m., Tea and I cooked. We made a cake, eggplant stuffed with hazelnut paste, red peppers stuffed with the same thing, mushroom/rice/carrot salad, another salad made of layers of shredded veggies, cabbage salad, pelamushi, stuffed cabbage, and bread. Well, the bread was today's -- tomorrow, more will be made. I love cooking, so it was a great day for me. And I am more comfortable in Tea's kitchen and more used to her methods and implements, so I am able to do much more than I could when I first arrived -- like using an empty beer bottle and a bench to crack open hazelnuts to roast for the hazelnut paste. (It works surprisingly well and efficiently!) Since everything is made from scratch, the prep-time for any dish is beyond what most Americans would consider rational. I love it -- it's the way I cook anyway.

The last piece of preparation that happened today was a job for Koba. Tea did not want a film crew to be in her house with her light fixtures non-existent. (Well, she doesn't want them here at all, but....) When she and Koba started remodeling their house a few years ago, Koba took out all the light fixtures because they were old and broken. He kept meaning to get new ones, but never did. Bare light bulbs hanging from bare wires had served well enough..... until now. Now there is a nice, new five-bulb hanging lamp in the living room -- a very nice upgrade that Tea is happy with. She and I commented that now we will be able to read in that room after dark without straining our eyes to see the words on the page.

I don't like anyone bothering over me. I don't like being the center of attention (except when I am teaching). I like doing things for others, not having others do things for me. I know that what everyone has been doing for the last two days is not for me directly, but I am the cause of all the fuss and the work. These wonderfully kind and generous people do not have extra money sitting around to spend frivolously. This film crew coming to town has prompted all my colleagues and my host family to put out money they should be spending on other things -- not for suphras because these film people want to film me and our school. But they wouldn't be Georgian if they didn't fuss like this. It is who they are and it is what they do.

Tomorrow should be interesting.....

First spring farm babies

Fifteen of them -- wiggly, shivering, skinny, almost-translucent, pink piglets.

Yesterday, late afternoon, Leban came running into the house to say that the pig was in the graveyard collecting twigs and grass -- a sign that she was ready to have her litter of piglets (the collecting...not the location). Koba and Tea went out to get her out of the graveyard and into the barn -- I went to my room to get my camera.

Once she was in the barnyard, Koba tried coaxing her into the barn instead of letting her into her tiny house. If she had her babies in her house, she would certainly kill most of them by rolling over onto them. But even with a bucket of food, Koba couldn't get her to go all the way into the barn -- she'd start to step across the threshold -- Tea was ready with the door -- but then the pig turned around and trotted back to her house, squealing all the way. Since the pig wouldn't cooperate by going into the barn, Koba spread some hay on the front stoop by the barn door. She would be comfortable enough to have her babies there, but it was too cold outside for the newborn piglets to survive. They would have to be moved inside as soon as they were born.

We were hoping that momma-pig would have her babies early in the evening. She had made a nest out of the hay and had gone around the barnyard collecting sticks and pieces of hay to add to what Koba had laid down. It was funny to watch a pig make a nest while the chickens stood by watching, probably critiquing the pig's technique with each bob and cluck. Then the pig started doing laps around the barnyard, chewing on nothing but air -- Tea said that meant she was in labor. Pacing and chewing is how pigs deal with the pain. By 10 p.m., she still hadn't had any babies. I went to bed, willing to wait until morning to see them.

The babies came into the world in the middle of the night -- Tea didn't get much sleep having to tend to the newborns. First two, then four, then more, and more, and more! The pig gave birth to 15, but two died right away, so by 3 a.m., Tea had moved the 13 piglets and momma pig into the barn where they would be warmer and contained, but still have space to move around.

I didn't get to see the piglets until after school today (yes, school on Saturday... the first of our two make-up days). There they were, huddled in the corner trying to pile on top of each other to get themselves back into "womb-position" -- which, I'm sure, was much warmer than this Georgian March weather and the barn floor. The pig-pile was a mass of tiny, shivering, pink bodies -- almost cute since they were actually clean. I stepped into the barn later on to see if they had started moving around -- they were a swarming, squirming, pink cloud ringing their mother.

I look forward to watching these little guys grow up in the next few months. And there will be more spring babies to be added to the farm -- chicks, kittens, a calf, and turkeys (if Tea can borrow a male turkey for a few days....).

Fun on the farm!

Risky business

A crap shoot.... or the lottery.... or maybe Providence....

Feel free to pick a frame of reference for my use of the word "lucky." I think it's Provincial -- but a crap shoot could be just as fitting.

Last evening as I hung out in the kitchen with the entire family (minus Elene -- she had gone to her grandmother's house for the night, leaving the rest of us to a night of peace and quiet), Koba made a comment about my being a family member. I don't remember what the conversation was leading up to this statement, but he said that I am not a guest anymore. He and the rest of the family think of me as one of them. "Our grandmother" heartily agreed with her throaty, "Ho-o!" and Tea nodded thoughtfully. They had said this a couple of months ago, but this time it was different -- more familial -- more homey -- more personal.

That started a discussion of how lucky we all feel with my being placed in this wonderful host family's care for my time here in Georgia. I have heard of several TLG teachers who, for one reason or another, did not get along with the family they were placed in, and had to move or are just sticking it out however unhappily. And Tea has heard from some host families whose TLG teachers did not fit in with the family....again for various reasons. She added that she feels so lucky to have me -- and I reiterated that I feel equally lucky to have them.

I asked her if she is going to put her name in to have another teacher stay with them for the next semester after I leave. She pursed her lips over to one side (her thoughtful-decision expression) and paused for a few seconds. "I don't know...... I don't think so. Unless you come back -- then without a second thought, yes." We talked for a few minutes about her desire to improve her English skills and the benefit of having an English speaker under the same roof, but next year she will have more classes at school which means more time away from home. She doesn't think she will have time to care for someone new. Whereas I know my way around now -- around town, around the village, around school, around the kitchen. I'm not new anymore (thank God!), and she doesn't feel like she needs to look after me (so much) anymore. But if she had another new teacher, she would have to initiate them to the area like she did with me. And she would have to get used to a new person....

The process of "getting used to" each other is a tricky one (another 'stoke of luck' or 'lucky dice-roll' or 'act of God' for my home-placement here). Personality conflicts are possible, straight-up dislike is possible. Or, if you are as lucky (or blessed) as I have been, learning to live with each other happens seamlessly and good relationships develop. The adjustment of living with any new person can be long and difficult, and there are bound to be some rough patches as everyone involved learns to blend living space and styles. Compromise is necessary on all sides - everyone involved has to make adjustments to fit a new piece into the existing puzzle. My adjustment to living here has been as easy as it could be with so many drastic differences in lifestyle and living conditions. And the only person I have sensed any resistance from is Elene -- I don't think she likes having to share her mother's attention with me. Other than that, our puzzle pieces have joined smoothly.

Then Tea said, "I don't want to think about what our house will be like when you leave." I just smiled. I didn't know what to say -- and she smiled back. We'll deal with that in a few months.

Laughter is good medicine

Last Friday at the bus station in Zugdidi I met one of the bus driver's assistants whom I had talked with the weekend before when I went to Bakuriani. He had shown me to my seat on the bus and made sure that the driver knew where I needed to get off in Kashuri. On Friday, he again showed me to my seat and made sure I was settled in just before the bus was to leave. He introduced himself to me (although I didn't catch his name) and asked my name. I told him, and then he asked what my phone number was (all this in Georgian -- he doesn't know any English). I decided that it couldn't hurt to give him my number. He took out his phone and put in the numbers as I said them -- rva, shvidi, shvidi, ori, sami, tskhra, shvidi, o, sami. He smiled and got off the bus.

No sooner had we pulled out of the parking lot of the bus station, and my phone rang.
"Alo, Stepani? Shen aqvs messaging teleponshi?" (Hello, Stephanie? Do you have texting on your phone?)
I answered, "Ki batono." (Yes, of course.)
Then he started saying something that I didn't understand, and I said, "Bodishi, ver gavige. Tsota qartuli vitsi." (I'm sorry, I don't understand. I only know a little Georgian.)
He said, "Kargi, kargad" (Okay, bye), and hung up.

Then the text messages started. Nine of them. I only understood three of them, and I answered those as well as I could, but the others.....well, I debated having Tea translate them for me when I got back from my trip. I was slightly afraid of what they might say.....

Tonight Tea and I were talking about men hitting on women and relationships here and in the U.S., and I remembered the text messages. I told her about the guy who I had met at the bus station and showed her the texts. She started reading the first one and howled with laughter as I scrolled down through the message for her -- she translated for me, "Stepani, when you went to Bakuriani last week I wanted to meet you. You have very beautiful eyes. I really like you." Oh, dear. Here we go.

The next one I had understood, "Stepani, are you German?" I had replied to this one that no, I'm not -- I'm American.

Tea got a real kick out of the third one. She laughed and laughed before translating, "Take me with you when you go to America. I'll teach you Georigan. I really like you. When are you coming back to Zugdidi?"

Fourth, "How do you like Georgia?" This is a fairly standard question I get from any Georgian I meet. I would've understood it, but he had misspelled a word and had used a word I didn't know for "Georgia."

Fifth, "When are you going back to America?" This one I had understood and I replied as well as I could, except I didn't know how to say "June" in Georgian, so I wrote some Georgian with "in June" in English. He misunderstood what I said, so his next message cracked Tea up all over again --

"You're going tomorrow?" We laughed and laughed at this one!

I got a new name in the seventh one. "Stepani, Beautiful, how is your trip going?" I had understood a form of the word "beautiful" here, but didn't recognize it as a name.

All of those texts came while I was en route to Tbilisi. The next day I got two more. The first one I understood, "How are you?" The last one he sent was a picture of a rose.

Tea and I laughed and laughed at the texts. The crazy, disjointed communication -- or lack of communication was pretty entertaining. We laughed so hard, our faces and sides hurt. When we had finally gotten over the funniness of it all, Tea made a comment that laughter is good for our health and will make us live longer. Then she said that as much as we laugh, we'll live to be 130.

If that's true, I've barely begun living!

Women's Day gifts

Mercury.

That's the perfect word to describe my ninth-grade class. (And I don't mean only this one here in Georgia -- every ninth-grade class I've ever taught anywhere!)

By "mercury" I mean in just about every sense of the word. They're up; they're down. They always carry the latest news from one person to another. They just may be toxic if you ingest them. Some of them may have spent time too close to the sun...... But seriously, aren't ninth graders about as unpredictable as you can get? Today they were up.

In my present ninth-grade class, the boys and girls are pretty evenly divided. The "bitchebi" (Georgian for "boys"..... great word!) sit grouped together in the center and spread to the back of the room. The "gogebi" ("girls") form a semi-circle around the boys.....sometimes I think to shield them from the learning that is happening at the front of the room.....sometimes to supply much-needed answers. Regardless of the reason, the bitchebi form a dark mass of black leather jackets and Armani/D&G/Gucci knock-off stocking caps. Entire classes would go by without a word being uttered from the dark mysteriousness if I didn't call on the boys specifically -- and then quickly shush the gogebi who automatically turn to the singled-out victim to administer the verbal cure for their present ailment. (Although they may be catching on to the new, expected-participation tactics that I am teaching them and their teacher -- lately some of the boys have volunteered answers on their own. Woo hoo!!)

The gogebi are not quite so uniform in their dress..... then again, most of them do wear tall black boots, black skirts, scarves, and black jackets with fur-trimmed hoods..... Maybe the lack of similar hats keeps them from looking like carbon-copies of each other. Well, that and their unique, precious smiles. Anyway, the girls do not appear en masse like the boys do. (I know I talked about uniformity in dress and look yesterday, but it is relevant again today.)

Lika and I walked into their classroom today and set our things down on the teacher's desk at the front of the room. As we do every day, we asked how they were doing. As I was looking from one student to another, a new repeating shape caught my eye. All the girls were wearing the same headband -- a thin band with a bow on one side covered in a Coco Chanel double "c" and some cute little rhinestones. It was like "fashion spirit day." I commented on how nice their new headbands looked, and one of the girls said that the bitchebi had gotten them as gifts for all the girls for Women's Day. I smiled at the sheepishly grinning bitchebi and told them that it was very sweet of them to do that for the gogebi. I love the sheepish grin of a ninth grade boy not quite sure whether or not he should be pleased with a compliment from the teacher -- adorable.

He, he -- "fashion spirit day"......