Haikus Written in Russia but not in Russian (Summer)

I walked through Pokrovskoye-Streshnevo Park, a.k.a. "the park across the street" for the last time on June 20th, then left for the airport.  I saved the best for last, my favorite place in Moscow, 30-seconds from the door of our apartment building.  As I waved good-bye, turned and walked away, I felt that I was leaving a friend.  

A rather odd pairing, a park and a person.  Yet it's true.  I have developed a deep relationship with acres of trails and trees, bushes and lakes, pointy-eared squirrels, serenading birds, a rickety bridge, flower gardens, secluded spots of solitude. . .with a faithful listener, an inspiring muse, and ever-accepting companion. 

I knew that I my final blog posting from Russia would be about The Park, in celebration of her spirit, in gratitude for her friendship.  I would complete the set of seasonal haikus, with summer joining the photographs and poems previously created for fall, winter and spring.  As I sit on the porch of our Arkansas home on a quiet summer evening, I write and remember.

       

gentle summer rain

sprinkles enchanting freshness

o'er a thirsty world

Sidewalk Museum

displays "Joy Through Childhood Eyes"

no rain can erase

         

orange, yellow, pink

circle a fountain of green

designed for delight

sunbathing pigeons

on a billowy June day

scout for wayward crumbs

final glimpse, then turn

away from Russian beauty
"dasvidaniya,* friend"
(*good-bye)


©Twylla Alexander 2011 

Angels and Friendship

Once upon a time there were three angels, sisters, musicians all.  Upon first glance they looked identical, with tight brown curls topped by golden halos, glossy black eyes and cheerful pink smiles which stretched from cheek to blushing cheek.  Each sister had a pair of dainty gold wings, fashionably tipped in white and dotted with red and blue.  The two older sisters always wore gold dresses, slightly different in design to highlight their individuality, while the slightly younger sister insisted on wearing cherry blossom pink.

Their instruments, of course, gave away their identities.  Anna played flute, Ruby cymbals and Alexandra guitar.

Their story begins a week before Christmas, 2006.  The Angel-in-Charge sent the sisters to Moscow, Russia on a very secret mission.  It was so secret that even the sisters were given no details, except. . "You are to sit on a store shelf until someone buys you."  So they sat and sat, occasionally being picked up or admired by passers by, but never selected.  They played a selection of festive tunes, hoping to bring attention to themselves and smiles to the fatigued faces of holiday shoppers, but to little avail. . until

a lady named Linda

and her two daughters entered their aisle.
"I'm running out of time," Linda frantically told her daughters.  "The staff party is tonight, and I must take a gift to exchange.  I want it to be different, special, not the same old bottle of wine I usually take to these things."
"How about those angels, the ones up there with the instruments?"  the taller daughter asked, gently touching the hem of Ruby's pink dress.
"Perfect!" exclaimed Linda and before Anna, Ruby and Alexandra could say, "Hallelujah," they were bought, gift wrapped and off to their first party.

All was dark and quiet in the gift bag.  The sisters were surrounded by crinkly red tissue paper, no clue as to where they were or what was happening.  Without warning, light flooded in, illuminating their halos like sunshine upon glitter.  Hands reached in, pulled them out, and a voice oohed, "I love them, thank you." Linda smiled, pleased that her gift was a success.  However, instead of joining the party, Anna, Ruby and Alexandra were quickly stuffed back in the bag, as if they were being deliberately hidden away.

"You can pick a new gift or take one that someone has already opened," they heard a man announce through a small gap in the packaging.  Suddenly, a new pair of hands reached in, pulled them out and said, "Sorry, Twylla, I love angels, too."  Once again, the sisters were returned to darkness.

Tired and confused, the trio remained there for what seemed like hours.  Then like a hot air balloon lifting slowly off the ground, the bag left the floor and passed from one pair of hands to another.
"I want you to have them, Twylla.  Even though I took them from you in this crazy White Elephant gift exchange, I want these angels to stay with you."
"Thank you, Zhenya.  That's very kind.  I'll take good care of them."

 The beginning of a friendship. The angels began to understand why they were there.

For five years, the angel sisters sat in Twylla's kitchen window, enjoying the change of seasons and practicing new songs they heard on the radio.  However, as boxes appeared, furniture disappeared, and talk turned to moving, Ruby, Anna and Alexandra wondered what would become of them.  Would they go to Arkansas, to New York, or to the pile of "Give Aways?"

One morning, Twylla gently stroked their curls, said "Good-bye, Dear Ones," and settled them in a gift bag surrounded by crinkly yellow tissue paper.  She placed a card inside with a name written across the envelope, a name the sisters could not read in the darkness.

Amidst the sound of clinking tea cups, the angels felt themselves, once again, pass from hand to hand.  As fingers touched the card, light filtered in to reveal the name, "Zhenya," and they heard Twylla say, "These angels are now yours, to keep you company and bring you happiness as they have me."
"Thank you, Twylla.  That's very kind of you.  I'll take good care of them."

 
(Thank you, for your friendship and suggestion that I write this story about our angels.)
      







                  

    

Good-Bye to St. Petersburg

How do you say "good-bye" to a whole city?  In one day?  If you know that the chances are great that you will never return, what do you choose to see one last time?

During our seven years in Moscow, I've made many trips to Russia's second largest city, usually to consult at the Anglo American School of St. Petersburg.  (I wrote about the school and my morning walks to work in blog postings this fall.)  My fondness for the city has grown with each visit, whether it be mid-winter when the days are dark and the snow is magical, or June 21 when Daylight takes only a short nap and revels in keeping the population awake. Radiant yellow leaves of fall, overhead and underfoot, defy anyone to remain gloomy in their midst.  And finally spring, of this year.  May 23.  A day stretching before me, blue sky, sunshine, only a light jacket needed. .

I begin walking, allowing the day to direct me.  My eye, then my camera, spots a color, a glint of light,  delicacy of petal, angle, curve, a memory.  I capture it and walk on, wondering about a bigger picture.

                                                                                      

The Russian Museum is a must, my favorite, even surpassing the Hermitage.  Russian art has educated me about Russia, its landscapes, history, traditions, the faces of its people from peasants to tsars.  Today I put away the map, having been here three times, guiding myself to familiar paintings, as if they were friends.  "There you are; nice to see you again," I might whisper as I walk up to "Visiting" by Abram Arkhipov.  But this visit feels different.  My eye focuses on details, pieces of the whole, searching for paintings within paintings.

                           faces of women

Or, "The Opera Singer, Fiodor Shalyapin" by Konstantin Korovin

                                         still life on the table

The bigger picture? Good-byes are singular, solitary. . . one piece, one person at a time. The process of leaving forces me to notice, to appreciate, to take time with.  The enormity of St. Petersburg is too much for me to hold onto, but the tulip, the dome sparking in the sun, the smiles of the women in the window and the flowers on Shalyapin's table are part of Russia that have touched my soul, and therein lies the secret.  

May The "Force". . .Get Your Attention

I'm a firm believer in the Force, that mysterious power that existed "A Long Time Ago in a Galaxy Far, Far Away."  Ben Obi-Wan Kenobi described the Force to young Luke Skywalker in the original Star Wars trilogy. "The Force is what gives a Jedi his power.  It's an energy field created by all living things.  It surrounds us and penetrates us.  It binds the galaxy together."

Since the galaxy is still together, I figure that the Force is hovering around doing his (or her) Forceful  things, pretty much staying in the background.  However, when circumstances converge (coincidences some might call them), which appear to be imparting wisdom, I pay attention.  Such as occurred this week. . .  

Episode #1:  Most mornings, at 6:30, I fast-walk through the park across the street.  Forty minutes of exercise along tree-lined paths, around the perimeter of two glassy lakes -- fresh air, sunshine, flowers, birds, ducks -- Nature at her most peaceful.  Calming, centering.  Yet, recently thoughts of packing, moving, transitioning, farewells, social engagements and school functions have been jockeying for top positions on my mental "To Do" list, followed by a waiting list of worrisome wanna-bes.  I've entered and exited the park before the beauty of the day has had a chance to catch up with me.

Until Saturday.  Whizzing  through a generic overgrowth of green ground cover, I suddenly smelled freshness.

 Not sweet exactly.  Not mint, fruit, wood.  Not any fragrance I could identify.  I stopped, retraced my footsteps, smelled the air with the quick inhalings of a detective on the trail of a mystery.  But the fragrance - or had it been a feeling, a nostalgia inviting me to reminisce - had disappeared.  Back at home, I turned to the day's reflection in Meditations of Henry David Thoreau, A Light in the Woods, by Chris Highland.

#51, "Sweet Smell of the Earth" - Thoreau's first sentence hit me with the force (pardon the pun) of a kindred spirit. "I perceive from time to time in the spring and have long kept a record of it, an indescribably sweet fragrance, which I cannot trace to any particular source.  It is, perchance, that sweet scent of the earth of which the ancients speak."

Episode #2:  Same park, same exercise route, different morning.

Monday.  I was in and out of the park in the predictable 40 minutes, registering but failing to absorb Nature's morning messages.  Hurrying through my bowl of cereal, cup of tea and forgetting Henry David altogether, I opened my computer to check email.  Mary, a friend in Idaho, who frequently joined me for walks in the park when she was a teacher at AAS, sent a poem written by another Mary, whom we both admire.

When I Am Among The Trees

       Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,

Especially the willow and the honey locust

Equally the beech, the oaks and pines,

They give off such hints of gladness

I would almost say they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

In which I have goodness, and discernment,

And never hurry through the world

But walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

And call out, "Stay awhile."

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple" they say,

"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled 

with light, and to shine."

Trees. When had I last spent time with my favorite trees in the park, the ones that remind me of Gothic arches in a medieval cathedral?

 When was the last time I "walk[ed] slowly and "bow[ed] often?". . . let the "sweet smell of the earth speak to me?"

The Force, capable of whopping me over the head with one of those favorite branches, had instead combined energy from his field of living things (in Thoreau's case, living words) to connect with me.

Episode #3 - Today (Friday).  "On a stump I sit.  Trees I watch.  A deep breath I take."  -- as Master Yoda might say.  

Swan Lake

Drew and I leave Moscow in less than a month. . . for good.  Perhaps we will return sometime for a visit, but never again to live, as we have for the last seven years.  In his farewell remarks to a gathering of Anglo American School of Moscow parents last week, Drew spoke of "symmetry," of beginnings and endings being in balance, bookends that define time and experiences.  Intentionally and intuitively, we find ourselves placing bookends neatly on our Moscow shelf, as we repeat activities we did when we first arrived.

Last Friday night we attended a performance of Swan Lake.  It is the final ballet we will see in Moscow, and it was the first we experienced when we arrived.  It is my absolute favorite!  From the orchestra's first haunting notes, I'm transported into the world of Odette and Odile, Prince Siegfried, and Von Rothbart, an evil sorcerer. The ballerinas' white feathered tutus and head-dresses, along with their meticulous imitations of a swan's delicate, vulnerable, yet powerful movements, trick my senses into believing that they are real.  At one point, the stage is enveloped in total whiteness as 25 swans dance as one.

Beyond the grandeur of the performers, their dancing, costumes, the setting, story and emotions ranging from hope to despair, it's the music that holds me in a magical trance.  How did Pyotr (Peter)  Tchaikovsky, how does any composer, create such brillance out of what is only the mist of an idea, floating invisibly over the surface of a lake or the top of a tree, just out of reach?


I remember contemplating this same question a couple of years ago as I visited Tchaikovsky's home in Klin, 85 km northwest of Moscow.

The hugeness of his talent hung in each room of the house like the portrait that greeted us as we entered the door.

Among the facts, stories and intricacies of Tchaikovsky's life, our guide, Felix, shared an insight that hinted at an answer to my question.  "Tchaikovsky," he said, "moved from Moscow to Klin to escape the noise of the city. In the noise, he could not hear the music.  It was here, in the quiet of the countryside, that he would walk through the fields, among the cows, and hear the music in his head."  Was it nature, or the solitude that nature provides that allowed the elusive mist, the first notes of a composition, to edge into his thoughts?  I picture him running back to his writing desk, dodging a cow here or there, to empty the music onto paper.

 Only Tchaikovsky, of course, knew how his creativity grew from idea to reality. As a listener of the ballet he created 136 years ago, I sit transfixed until the final note, grateful for the opportunity to be surrounded by his music, watching the dancers interpret it on stage.  The shimmering blue, gold and black curtains close; the music stops.  The rhymthic clapping, the trademark of Russian audiences, pounds its approval.  I attempt to capture the curtain call on video, a lasting memory tucked snugly inside the bookend.