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!

Politics

This is not going to be one of my better posts. Politics is not my thing at all. I would rather watch HGTV than MSNBC, but living in such a politically-charged country, I am daily faced with some type of political conversation. I will give my disclaimer right here and now: I should probably do a lot more research on the political situation here in Georgia before writing any posts about it; however, I am going to make a few comments about a meeting I attended yesterday. Please take any political statements I make here with a grain of salt!

For anyone who is unfamiliar with the country of Georgia (as I was before I came), there are two regions of the country (Abkhazia and South Ossetia) that have essentially seceded from the republic. Georgia still considers them to be part of the country, but both have elected their own governments and have closed their borders. Russia has supported both territories in breaking away -- largely in military-strength.

In 1989 and 2008, war devastated the country. Thousands died and more were displaced as the Separatists and Russians violently took control over these two regions. There is virtually no one in the country who has not been personally affected by the loss. And for many, many Georgians -- probably most of them -- becoming a unified country again is their greatest dream. The Georgian government is working very hard to become accepted into the European Union and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. They believe that affiliating themselves with these alliances will do two things (among others): get rid of "the bully" Russia and reunify their country.

 Yesterday, Deputy Prime Minister Giorgi Baramidze came to my school to speak to the high school students and teachers about his work -- namely, getting Georgia accepted into NATO. He arrived with an entourage of secret service, body guards, police, and media. They all filed into the large hallway where we teachers and students sat awaiting their arrival. Minister Baramidze stepped forward and began his address.

Although Lika was sitting beside me, she didn't translate much of what he said -- we were sitting in the front row, and talking would not have been very appropriate. From the little she did tell me, and what I could understand, I gathered that he was relaying what being a part of NATO would mean for Georgia's future. He spoke for about 20 minutes, and then opened the floor for questions. When he asked for questions, I wondered if any of the students would actually ask anything -- from my experience with American teenagers and politicians, there is usually quite a vast expanse between the two in the teens' perceived relevance of the politician's message. That was not the case here. Not two seconds after Minister Baramidze finished speaking, at least five hands went up -- boldly, not sheepishly. Much of the discussion centered around regaining the Abkhazian and Ossetian territories. The students wanted to know if joining NATO would guarantee the country's reunification. Being a good politician, M. Baramidze said yes..... and then expounded on the benefits for ten minutes.

Today in my eleventh-grade class, Tea and I talked with the students about yesterday's meeting. I am continually surprised at and delighted in the interest these kids take in their country and the government. With every word they spoke about NATO, Georgia, Abkhazia, and Ossetia, passion filled their voices. Anytime anyone mentioned Russia, a gravelly note of antipathy rousted the passion. Most of them have a decent grasp on the situation and know that without some external allies, the country will never be one -- Russia will not allow it.

Two of the students in that class are Abkhazian refugees. They have seen horrors that I have never seen -- and I pray I never do. They have had to live through the worst atrocity that can plague a nation. They have watched loved ones go to fight and not come home. And, in the end, they had to flee their home to save their own lives. No wonder they speak with such vigor and longing for their country to be whole.

The Georgians hate war. (The first toast they give at any gathering is to Peace.) But throughout their long history, war has found them. Their newly-formed government is on the right track to shield this small country from any more war -- aligning themselves with international friends (the E.U. and NATO) who will back them against any new onslaught of violence.

I pray that their wish is granted.

მშვიდობა (mshvidoba) -- Peace.

"Breakfast at Tiffany's"

I always prefer the book to the movie if I have read and seen both presentations of the same story. I'd seen this movie quite awhile ago.... so long ago, in fact, that I had completely forgotten what it was about. But I had never read the book. 

After visiting the "American Corner" in the Zugdidi library on Saturday afternoon, I came away with two books that I haven't yet read and a movie that I haven't seen: the Cohen brother's "Fargo," Jack Kerouac's On the Road, and Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's. Capote's story is only a hundred pages long, so I spent a few hours reading it on Saturday and Sunday.

I'm not going to go into great detail about the story or Capote's style -- except to say that I could tell a man had written it -- seldom does a man write a woman's character in a natural, believable way -- and as great as the story is, the author missed the mark of the female-ness of his central character. However, I loved the name and profession he chose to give her....

"Ms. Holiday Golightly, Traveling."

That's what her card said. Some days I feel that could be written on my business cards. I have traveled a great deal and have made it a priority in my life. I would rather not have "things," but spend my money on traveling instead. Seeing a new place, being taken in by the beauty or vastness or starkness of a landscape that is completely unlike anything I have ever seen brings me much more fulfillment than a shopping trip. I don't need the latest and greatest anything, but I do need to breathe in some new air that I've never breathed -- or hear some local music that I've never heard -- or feel lost in the words of a language that isn't mine -- or wander through streets or trails surrounded by architecture or trees that I've never seen. In every new cultural experience, my soul expands just a little bit more, covering just a little more ground, including just a bit more of this vast world I live in, connecting with a few more kindred spirits. That's what traveling does for me.

And what about that name -- Holiday Golightly? Who doesn't love to be on holiday? Free from cares and worries. Free from work. Free to do whatever you please, whenever you please, with whomever you please. And to go lightly -- lightly-packed means that one can get around more easily and adeptly. Light-hearted, maybe. Sounds good to me.

Or does it? I may be cursed with Wanderlust, but I am tired of being away. Something that Holiday said in the book resonated with me (well, a lot she said resonated with me, but this in particular) -- after being compared with a bird that was set free and flew away, she mused, "It's better to look at the sky than to live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear."

I'll be glad to come down out of the sky and just look at it for awhile. Until Wanderlust strikes again....

Apple pie

Before my grandfather (on my Dad's side) passed away, he gave my sister the recipe box that had been our grandmother's and our great-grandmother's before that. In it were many recipes that don't fit a 21st-century kitchen -- but since the kitchen that I am getting comfortable with here in Georgia is more like a 19th-century kitchen, the methods in those recipes are more useable for me than my trusty Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook.

Tea has been wanting to learn to make some American dishes, but getting the right ingredients is an issue. If we were in the city, I might be able to get some "exotic" ingredients like cinnamon and nutmeg, but in the village, if it isn't grown here or isn't a staple imported from Russia (read here: mayonnaise), it is not available. It is also difficult to classify anything other than hot dogs or hamburgers as "American"..... then it hit me -- What's more American than apple pie? And I should be able to get all the ingredients for a pie.....

Since we are still cooking in the wood cookstove, I needed an old-fashioned recipe for the pie. There was no actual apple pie recipe in my great-grandmother's recipe box, but an apple dumpling recipe there listed some cooking directions for a wood stove. Through several facebook messages and Skype, my sister and I combined the apple dumpling recipe with her apple pie recipe in a way that seemed workable. She doesn't make her own crust (sorry, Beck, I hope I'm not telling any secrets here), but it's easy enough to make -- some flour, salt, butter, and cold water. And don't over-handle the dough. No problem.

Last week when I was in town, I bought butter and two kilos of apples -- we had everything else for the pie at the house. Well, everything except for those exotic spices.... cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, and cloves don't exist in this part of the world.... and no brown sugar, either. Without  the right spices, is apple pie really apple pie? I contemplated scraping the experiment until I could get to the city (Batumi or Tbilisi) again -- cinnamon may be available there -- but I decided to go ahead with baking it anyway.

Yesterday afternoon Tea and I started the crust. We sort of measured the flour (I say "sort of" because there are no measuring cups in the kitchen). Five small wine glasses full of flour looked like about two and a half cups. I eyeballed the hunk of butter that I had bought (just a solid mass wrapped in a plastic bag), and decided that it looked like the prescribed one cup for which the recipe called. I chunked up the butter, dumped it into the measured flour and salt, and started cutting it in -- boy, did I miss my pastry cutter -- with a fork and knife the job is much harder. I showed Tea how to do it, and we took turns cutting the butter in until the "coarse-crumb" consistency appeared. Then she added the cold water while I stirred -- just one spoonful at a time until the dough became sticky and just held together. We split the dough in half, wrapped each half in plastic, and put them in the fridge for the night.

This morning after our coffee, we resumed pie-making. First Tea stoked the fire to get the stove hot enough for baking. Then we got out the remaining ingredients we would need to finish the pie -- apples, sugar, lemon, flour (no cinnamon....). After mixing up the pie crusts and baking bread yesterday, there was only a small bit of flour left -- enough to use for coating the counter to roll out the dough, but not enough to mix into the apples to thicken the juice in the pie. So, we did what anyone in the village would do in this situation -- grab a bowl and walk to the neighbor's house to borrow a little flour.

Back at the house, with all our ingredients collected, we sat at the table with the two kilos of apples, a bowl, and two knives. We halved then quartered each apple; cut out the core, peeled off the peeling, and sliced the fruit into the bowl. Elene sat down at the table and watched us with a puzzled look on her face -- no one does this to apples around here.

When all the apples were sliced, I rolled out the bottom crust with a cold glass bottle. It worked much better than the wooden rolling pin I use in the U.S. (Note to self: pitch the rolling pin.... use a bottle.) I folded the crust in fourths, placed it in the pan, unfolded it, fit it into the bottom and up the edges, trimmed the excess, and put it in the stove to bake for a few minutes.

While the crust was baking, Tea and I mixed up one-half a wine glass of flour with two glasses of sugar (what I guessed is one-quarter cup and one cup, respectively), squeezed  the juice from two lemons onto the apples, then added the dry mixture. With my hand, I gently lifted the apples and mixed them until they were well-coated with the flour and sugar.

Fresh out of the oven.....

The bottom crust was smelling hot and buttery, so we pulled it out of the stove and filled it with the apple mixture. I rolled out the top crust and placed it on top of the apples, tucking the edges under the bottom crust. We brushed the top with milk -- thick, creamy milk -- and sprinkled sugar on top of that. I cut a few slits in the crust to keep it from bubbling up, and we placed the pie into the stove to bake.

Even without the deliciously homey smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, the smell of the pie baking filled the house with a wonderful aroma. Everyone in the family kept wandering into the kitchen to see if the pie was done. Finally, it was -- steamy apples and golden crust glistening under its coat of milk and sugar sat on the counter cooling, tempting everyone within smelling-distance.

Just then, Tea's parents, one of her sisters, and two nephews arrived. They all followed their noses right into the kitchen to see what this new smell looked like. Everyone was eager to try the....what to call it? I kept telling them it's not cake -- but to Georgians, a "pie" is bread dough filled with cheese or potatoes and fried. I told them it's American apple pie, but they insisted on calling it the Georgian word for cake.

No matter -- everyone loved it! Cinnamon or not, it was delicious!

Against the wind

The weather forecast for the next four days is wind, wind, and more wind. The weathermen around here are much more accurate than the ones that I only ever half-listened to in Pennsylvania because they were rarely right. If the Georgian weathermen say it is going to rain, it rains. If they say it is going to snow, it does. They said that it would be windy today -- let me tell you that it was! The wind was so strong this evening, a gust yanked the kitchen windows open, flung them against the house, and broke one. Tea and I scrambled around, reaching through the bars to pull the windows shut again, latching them securely, then gingerly replacing the larger pieces of glass to block most of the wind from swirling through the kitchen.

Running on windy days is tough. That is, when heading into the wind. But a tailwind is great.

My favorite ten-mile race is Philadelphia's Broad Street Run. The energy of the runners in that race and the spectators cheering everyone on makes it one of the most enjoyable races that I've run. I have run it five times, and each time was a great experience. The year that I ran my Broad Street personal best (86:24) was one of the windiest days that spring. There was a constant tailwind that fluctuated from 15-mph to gusts of 40-mph. At some points in the race, all I had to do was lift my feet, and the wind carried me forward. Almost everyone I know who ran that day set a personal best time.

Running into the wind is another story.

Like today. I wanted to do a 90-minute run, but the minute I stepped out onto the road, I knew that there was no way I was going to battle that wind for 90 minutes. (I ended up running for 60 minutes -- that was all I could take.) It was so strong, at some points I didn't move forward. My legs were moving. My arms were moving. But it was like I was stuck on an invisible treadmill there in the middle of the dusty road. Then my body found a weakness in the oncoming wall of air and, slicing through it like a knife, I freed myself and finally started moving forward again. Sudden gusts kicked up Dirt Devils that swirled down the road toward me. I turned my back to them just before they hit me to keep the majority of the dust and dirt out of my face. Bent into the oncoming rush of air, I worked my way down the road, over the bridge, past the spring, and up the hill toward Zugdidi. When I turned around to head back to the house, it was like I had stepped into a new day. Making that wide semi-circle in the road transported me from one time to another -- suddenly there was no wind whistling in my ears. My eyes immediately stopped watering. There was no grit being blown into my face and mouth. The absence of noise was almost deafening. The ease with which I ran back to the house added to the surreal feeling that it was a different day from when I set out. Then a blast of dirt and dust hit my back, and I knew that I was still running in Saturday's space and time.

As I ran with the tailwind, I started thinking about the stark contrast between the two -- headwind and tailwind. What a drastic difference between moving in one direction or the other. All I had to do was turn around to feel the difficulty or ease of moving. Of course, I prefer the easy way -- who doesn't?

Isn't that so much like life?

Walking home

I did something today that I would never do in the United States. In fact, I would probably get arrested for it if the wrong person saw me and accused me of inappropriate behavior.

When dance class was over today, three of my eighth-grade girls who live on my end of the village waited for Elene and me so we could all walk home together. As we left the ramshackle pavilion and walked through the rusty gate to the broken-up road, one of the girls, Tamuna, skipped up beside me and took my hand in hers. The other two girls, Mari and Angela, walked on either side of us as Elene trailed along behind, her short legs not used to walking at the pace our longer legs keep. Tamuna played with my fingers and my ring as she clung to my hand, swinging it in time to the music that Angela and Mari took turns playing on their phones -- some Michael Jackson, some Shakira, some Usher. We chatted and sang and danced all the way home. Tamuna didn't let go of my hand until we were in front of Tea's house and I wished the girls a good weekend.

No proper teacher would hold hands with an eighth-grade girl while walking down the road -- none in the U.S., anyway. But here in Georgia, it is not at all uncommon. People are people -- few positions of employment divide anyone by class or age or station. A teacher is a normal person like a neighbor or a cousin, and those relationships allow for less distancing between each other. Every person here in the village has to do the same work to survive from day to day -- no one is elevated over anyone else -- all are equal.

Everyone is much more physical here, and I'm not sure if the physicality is affectionate or just normal. It seems normal to me. All girls and women walk down the road with arms linked or holding hands or with their arms around each other's waists. The boys and men do it, too -- there is no "weird" or "creepy" stigma attached to touch. It just is.

I've wondered if the difficulty of village-life contributes to the constant hanging onto each other. Like they don't want to let go for fear that the strength of the community will quickly seep away if they are not directly connected to someone else. Touching allows them to share energy, derive support, gain comfort, and give sustenance in both emotional and physical ways. I find it a much more healthy environment than the virtual bubbles we each carry around ourselves in the U.S. "No one can enter my bubble without my permission." We live around each other instead of with each other. That we are afraid to touch another human being is a sad commentary on our society. No wonder so many feel so lonely and isolated.

When I am back in the U.S., I won't walk down the street holding any of my student's hands, granted. But I will not be afraid to touch those that I love and trust -- to gain strength when I need it -- to share my energy with them -- to gain comfort when I am upset -- to give sustenance to a soul in need. We do need each other, after all.