Objects

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It is almost midnight. It is August, but it is cold and cloudy. This is the coldest summer in Barcelona as far as my memory goes.

My daughter drew a picture of a dog. And the drawing is lying on my bed. She did not know how to draw the dog’s tail, thus it looks like a little Christmas tree. The dog is brown and the tail is green.

I got my son a pair of new shoes today. The light brown shoes are on the top of the big red suitcase. He needs to leave a pair of spare shoes at school. Size 31, one size bigger than he is wearing right now. Looking at these shoes that are one size bigger than needed makes me feel lonely.

The violin music is playing in the other room. The windows are open and the fresh night air is coming from the balcony. I think about the kids and their friends. And then I think that it is ok to feel lonely sometimes. There is a beautiful sad song that I like, but I do not want to remember it now. I tell myself not to sing its words.

There are two sleeveless jackets. New. I just cut off their labels. Those are for the kids, they will use them in California… California sounds like home, but also feels very far away.

I broke my nails packing the suitcases.

I am moving away from my family again. Moving apart from my ex-husband. It was a good relationship that lasted thirteen years. However it feels like no relationship exists, nor existed for a long while. It is good to leave something that was just an object.

This is a weird month. A weird year. I have been going to sleep really late. Working at nights with the windows open. Sometimes I think I am trying to remember a poem or a song I have forgotten.

There must be poems…

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There must be poems that make sense in words. And not only in words, but also in rhythm, in harmony between lines, in sudden falls and rises of the heartbeat. If the verse talks about flower or flame I want to know it with my skin at the same time as I read it with my eyes. It is this fine line of talking in words and talking in senses. Not falling into a simple word sequence, not boarding on a bank of absurdity. Moving with the flow where the rhythm is the air.

I open my eyes and all I can see is a wing of a bird. The wing is huge, the bird must be even bigger. The wing takes all the sky. And then it breaks and millions of small birds fly over my head. I can’t hear the noise of their wings, but I can see them flying frenetically. The birds in the wind. Wings covering all the sky. All I can do is keep laying on my back and look up at the skies. I smile. Then I laugh. Seeing so many birds at once makes me laugh. I laugh hard. I can’t stop. The rest of my life I will be seeing only skies with millions of birds flying over my head. All the birds look the same, little brown dots moving with the wind and covering all the skies. I do not like brown.

I realize that I will never see a human person again. The air on the top of my face and hands is hard. It weights like the earth and the rye that are under my back. I can move my hands and feel resistance in any direction. The substance is weird, invisible and dense. I am glad it is resistant. It is not like water. You do not swim. You move from inside. The air passes through your body and moves you up, or right, or left. Anywhere. My back still guards the heat of the rye field. I am over it now.

The birds are circling in the skies. I do not feel closer to this brownish flock. The sky is everywhere. The sun. I put my right hand over my eyes and before it gets dark I notice that my hand looks like a giant wing against the light. The air flows inside of my body. I do not need to breath. I become part of the air. I smile…

And you smile too because you know there must be poems…

Где нет зимы

I found this book on my mom’s table. I started to read it this evening and did not stop till I finished the book. I navigated through two work calls and some emails, but my eyes were seeing only the book cover. Где Нет Зимы. Дина Сабитова.

I have read her books before. However this one was different. It made me feel very human and inhuman at the same time. This happens when I read something that touches me. You go through so many emotions and at the same time you withdraw yourself so much from those. Makes you feel in the middle of two powerful magnets. Two intense opposite currents. Just standing there alone.

Then I sat at the kitchen table while we were having dinner and thought how powerful our thoughts were. We can always rationalize and think about what we feel and why we feel it. Then emotions stop being a turmoil because by thinking we control them. Crying is a way of accepting our emotions. Thinking is another way to accept them. So I thought that it was good to feel what I felt. And it was good reading this book, even if things hurt me at times.

Last week my soon-to-be-ex-husband said that we both come from unhappy families and this is why our marriage was doomed from the beginning. And he added that both of our children will probably have unhappy relationships in the future. He said that my parents are unhappy because in my house we never show emotions openly. And I understand his point of view, it must look unhappy to him. I just see it differently.

So I thought that it was good to be reading this book, and feel sort of pain, and feel that I am human. Way too often I have to be tough, strong, silent, authoritative, take care of everything. When I am in this mode I forget about all the small details, I just have no time for that. I forget to look at the kids one extra time, to smile once more, to do something at random for myself, to listen to a song. Today I reminded myself to be softer. I closed the book halfway and took the kids outside and got them ice-cream. We sat on a bench in front of the ice-cream parlor and they ate their ice-cream, and I kept asking them questions about what they like, what they do, what they plan to do. And then I felt how precious having them was. I knew right there that I will make our home a happy one. There will be laughs, games, friends, books. Life gets very busy, but it is good even with all its businesses.

Past does not mean future. What really matters are the changes we go through.

When I finished the book it was 1am. And it started to rain. And I love when it rains in summer at nights. Thus I sat at my desk and wrote all this, because I did not feel sleepy at all.

On places I miss … & random thoughts

DSC_9387I have realized lately that the places I miss are the ones I have not been to. There is a fancy restaurant with blue lamps on a side street in Barcelona. I have never been there, I always thought I would go there with somebody special and laugh a lot.

Then there is a fishermen village not far away from Tarragona. I wanted to go there to see the fishermen boats and to eat some fresh fish. There is the village of Cadaquez (where Dali lived), last time I have been there I was 12. I remember there was a serpentine road to the village, it rained heavily, and the fog was dense. This is the only time I saw my dad scared. He slowed the car down and said “Mamma mia!” in Russian. Then he stopped the car right on the road and we all waited for the rain to stop. Those were the only emotional words I’ve ever heard from my dad. The rest of my life I know him as a very rational man, solid as a rock; He speaks with an even voice, he never gets angry, he works a lot, and he likes to play cars and planes with my son.

I miss the two towns in Norway that I never got to visit: Bodø and Tromsø. Both are around the arctic circle. I thought I would live there for some months, work remotely, and see the snow fall behind the windows. The way you feel the relationship between the nature and yourself in those places must be entirely different; An intense mix of beauty and respect.

I miss people I did not get to know quite well. It is a queer sensation of missing somebody you do not know.

I can’t say I miss Barcelona. I try to imagine that I will miss these cafes, these streets, this full moon that I am seeing right now sitting on the atico of my parents. The moon is big and yellow. Strangely enough I have no feelings towards all this. I do not miss the town of Besalu that we visited yesterday.   I do not miss the roads that we walked in the past years. The roads were beautiful, the walk was worth it, but the places remain just sceneries.

I miss the poems that I did not find. When I am tired I like to read poetry, sometimes looking for a particular author, sometimes choosing the verses randomly. Lately I have not found anything that would make me stop and want to read it over and over again. Something that I could read like I breath.

My son still likes to put his fingers in my hair and mess with it. He still does it, so I do not miss that. What I really miss is laughing a lot, lightheartedly. This desire to laugh is the little motor that makes me go forward (may be even fly forward), the true motivation behind everything I do.

The blue skirt

I could see her blue skirt through the shoulders of the people sitting in front of me. I would lose the sight of her, I would get distracted reading, I would start thinking about something else. Then I would gaze with no purpose at the playground and see her blue skirt. And seeing it would make me feel peaceful.

It was mid July and it was hot. Too many things going on around; in the world and in my own life. I was glad we were moving. With all the stress of packing, finding new place to live, working on new projects, with all the good and bad things it entails, I still was glad that we were not staying here. People around looked wealthy and happy. They complained about the freshness of the bread, argued about the price of the meat, and discussed their vacations; they dressed well and talked loud. The waiters patted my children on their heads when they took them inside to chose the ice-creams. I loved the city and the people.

And then I could not remain stale. I felt being a part of the things that happened; people being killed in other countries, poverty, stupidity, and unnecessary acceptance. I knew that my thoughts did not solve anything. But they also made it impossible for me to argue about the freshness of the bread or the latest issue of the women magazine. There were other things close to my heart. There was a future to be built, the kids to be fed and taken care of, projects to be carried through.

I liked that we were moving and that the kids could see people in other parts of the world and have a different perspective on things. Even if this meant leaving their friends and grandparents behind. All the hassle of packing, selling, moving did not feel hard after all.

I was catching the sight of the blue skirt that my daughter wore that day. And this patch of blue made me feel fine.

In the summer of 1999

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On a hot July afternoon I waited until the church clock struck 4pm. I remember I stood next to that old wall made of uneven yellow stones and each stone was very hot. Everything around me was hot from the sun and I just waited there and listened to music with the headphones in my ears. I did not want to think, I was nervous. When the church clock and then the church bells announced 4pm I walked up the narrow stairs adjacent to the wall and rang the doorbell. After a long silence a priest dressed in black opened the door. I walked inside the room where the air was cold.

“I am here to see the priest,” I said.

“I am the one,” the man replied and stretched his hand to me. “Please sit down.”

We sat for a minute in silence on the opposite ends of a large wooden table. He looked at me and then I finally said, “I want to convert into Catholic.”

He fixed his eyes on mine and the silence became even deeper and I could feel the texture of the wooden table under my hands. And my fingers became cold and I did not move.

“Why?” he asked.

And I told him a story of love. I told him that I was in love with a man who was Catholic and believed in God. And I was not Catholic and did not know if I believed in any God or religion. And that I thought that if I would become Catholic I could probably see the things that he sees and have a new perspective on things, and love differently. And be loved.

I did not say anything else.

And then the silence and the cold air inside the room became unbearable. And we looked at each other. May be five minutes have passed. And then the priest spoke.

“You do not need it,” he said. “You do not need to become Catholic or believe in anything else apart from what you believe in already. You have it all within you. You are strong. You do not need anything else.”

He talked for a little bit longer, but I could not concentrate and I did not remember his words. I felt calm only when I was outside walking fast up the street. It was hot again and the sun was burning my skin. It was the summer of 1999. The priest was the priest of Santa Maria del Mar church. And I was 21 then.

…..

The Santa Maria del Mar church was full of tourists. I stood there and watched how all of them were buying church candles and lightening them. I stood in the middle of the crowd and looked up for a while. There is silence when you look up. I hesitated if I should get a candle too. Then I walked outside. I stood on the church steps and looked at the people passing in front of me. Since the first time I crossed this church entrance in 1999 I got attached to it. Apart from sharing the name, I loved that this is the church where wives, lovers, and daughters of the sailors came to pray for the men who were in the open sea. I thought that I would also light a candle for somebody who is on a mission. Every time I left this city I became one of those sailors too.

I stood on the steps thinking all this, and thinking about all the moments I spent inside this church. Never like a passer by. I crossed its doors when I felt down, sometimes in despair, sometimes full of resolution, once with the tears in my eyes. I never came here on purpose either but found myself to be nearby when I need it the most. And then I always found strength to go forward.

I went back inside the church. I got a candle and walked along all the saints and looked at them. And then I saw one who was not suffering. She stood with her head high and with two little angels around her. It said Santa Maria Cap de la Cort (Santa Maria the head of the court). I lighted a candle there, watched the flame for a second, and left the church.

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A comment

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Yesterday night my seven-year-old daughter was reading us a book before going to sleep. In the book a boy, Anton, gets angry because other kids do not want to play with him.

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Anton says he will leave and never come back, because he will be dead. And then he pretends that he is dead.

At this point my four-year-old son asked, “Is he really dead?”

To which my daughter replied, “Or course not. Can’t you see? He is just a small boy. Children never die. To die you have to live long and grow old. To die you have to become an old man with a beard. Haven’t you seen how old people look? He does not look old. Look! You can’t die when you are that young.”

“Aga,” said my son. “Then he is not dead.”

“Of course not. He is just pretending, because this is the way he plays.”

I just listened and my daughter kept on reading. I thought that the way children see the world is very different from how we see it. May be we know more, but their view is truer to what is should be. I keep thinking about her words and wondering what future in her head looks like. I get to know it little by little through her comments and games. Interesting & inspiring!

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So you walk on stage…

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I was sitting in the theater, on the first balcony, right above the left side of the stage. I watched the young girls dancing below me. I could see their hands, faces, and feet. I could also see all the small mistakes and inexact movements. Now that I have been on the rehearsals I knew what the perfect performance should look like. But it was not the uncleanness of their steps that bothered me.

While listening to the Mozart’s music and seeing the little bodies transforming the stage in to a magical world I thought that what did not let me enjoy the performance to its fullest was the tension. The tension was visible on almost every ballerina face. The tension transformed their hands and feet. It was the tension and the attention to detail that danced that night. It was not the joy of dancing. Coached to smile while on stage, some of the girls would suddenly stretch their mouths in long smiles. But the smiles were not radiant. The glow did not come from inside. I longed to see a ballerina who enjoyed the dancing more than each particular detail of the dance. And right then one came on stage. And the glow was so radiant that I closed my eyes for a second.

I stood up and leaned on the wall right over the stage. And looked. And then I thought that our life is not different from that. After years of being grown ups we become professionals at this grown up life thing. We know how to do our jobs, how to run our households, how to bring up our children, how to maintain our relationships, how to talk to other grown ups and how to talk to children. Those of us who are any good focus on details, because finally details are what make us be us. It is about how you talk, how you eat, how you dress, how you hold your pen, how you close the door, how you sleep on the couch when you are tired and nobody is watching you. All these are details and our faces are tense making sure we do not omit anything. Then there is the next level: the radiance of living. Once all the details are perfectioned and become part of us, once we remember what it feels like to gaze at the sky, to laugh without stopping, to run for no apparent reason, once we love ourselves again only then we are able to make others smile. Only then we are able to give something valuable and irreplaceable to the world around us. And it is not easy and it does not happen by itself. And then I thought that I always appear serious in life and on the pictures. I thought that I was no different from these young ballerinas who learned all the details of the dance, but have not yet got to enjoy it truly. Without this glow we can never create anything of value.

I ran down the beautiful theater stairs, I crossed the hall, I showed my green pass to the guard, and pushed the hard wooden door. I ran down the simple greenish stairs and went straight into the open door that said Camerinos. There I found my daughter already changed.

“How was it?” I asked her.

“It was great!”  she replied.

“Lorena, listen, next time you go on stage just enjoy it, ok? Do not think about anything, do not think about your hands, your feet, your face. Just think how you enjoy dancing, how you enjoy dancing on stage. Think about yourself. Dance for yourself. It does not matter if you make mistakes, it does not matter if you lose extra second with a movement. It really does not matter now. Just love yourself when you dance. Will you?”

“I will. I already do,” she said.

And then I thought that she knows so much more than I do. So, you walk on stage… and you must love yourself. I am learning from her now.

Ballet Junio 2014

Ten pictures of touristy Barcelona

Two weekends in a row I was in the downtown Barcelona. Here are ten pictures of the most touristy part of the city.

Plaza Catalunya with its balloons, pigeons, and street artists and entertainers.
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La Rambla: The most touristy street in Barcelona.
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One of the old pastisseries on La Rambla
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La Rambla where it gets closer to the Columbus statue.
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The Columbus statue. It is said that Columbus points his finger in the direction of the Americas. I think every tourist that comes to this city has a picture next to it.
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The City Hall on Plaza de Sant Jaume.
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A church and a fountain on a secluded plaza in the Gothic Quarter.DSC_1261

A restaurant and a shoe museum on the same plaza in the Gothic Quarter.DSC_1258

Carrer de Ferran that connects La Rambla and Plaza de Sant Jaume (where the City Hall is).DSC_1242

And here are the bracelets that are sold everywhere in Barcelona. DSC_1277

Rendez-vous

LFB Barcelona

I had a chance to spend one hour at the school where my daughter goes. A month ago she told me that she saw two moms of her classmates eating at the school canteen. She learnt that parents can come to school to spend an hour eating the food the kids eat and evaluating the canteen services. It is called Rendez-vous á la cantine. It took me couple of weeks to set the date and prepare the visit together with the school administration. I have been given the rules to follow and a questionnaire to fill in after the visit. The rules were simple: not to disturb children’s routine, quietly observe the children and the school staff, not advise or help children or adults, and not to spend more than one hour on the school patio. The questionnaire was about the quality and quantity of the food, the attentiveness of the canteen staff, the presentation of the food, the state of the food facilities, and the daily habits of the children while eating. 

The school where my children go accommodates 2,200 children. The catering service Serunion provides the food for all the children. Every day the children eat their lunch at school.

When I got to the canteen my daughter and her friends have just finished their lunch. She was happy jumping around me for 30 seconds, and then she told me to look for her in the patio after I am done with the food part. She also told me that I was lucky as today they had french fries and hamburger, which happens like once a month.

The canteen was large. One of the staff ladies showed me around and told me how I should proceed. The truth is that I have not been present to the school life since I finished high-school. We are talking about a 20 years gap. Things that are obvious to people working at schools appeared fresh and new to me. I took the tray as I have been told and got a fruit. Somehow the food line started with the dessert. The kids had to chose between an apple or a banana and between a greek yogurt or a cuajada (curdled milk). Then there were glasses for water, napkins, and silverware, including knifes. All kids got a fork, a spoon, and a knife. Next was the broccoli soup. The soup was served as the children arrived. Then there was hamburger (just the meat part, non the bread) and a choice of french fries or fried onions. I went for the onions. All the kids took the french fries. The last was salad, which included lettuce, tomatoes, hardboiled egg, lentils, carrots, and something else. The bottles of olive oil and vinegar were placed next to the salads. The kids helped themselves to pour those on their plates. The last were two choices of bread: white and wholewheat.

I looked around and found a table with some empty chairs. Each table sits twelve kids and as I have been told each class has two tables assigned to it. There is one canteen lady watching after each class. I was free to chose where to sit. I sat at a table with three kids on my left and two boys on my right. The kids on my left were finishing their food and talking. The boy had bread crumbs around his mouth and he was laughing and talking to the girls next to him. All of them were about six or seven years old. The amazing thing is that all the kids were happy. They laughed, talked, ate, made jokes, asked for more ketchup, and smiled non stop. I did not realize before how happy the kids are. The adults working with the kids seemed happy too. You can’t keep a tough face when kids are laughing and playing around you.

I did not notice how I ate my food. I enjoyed looking at the kids around me. They talked all the time. They were talking in French and making jokes. Probably around lunch time is when kids learn how to become social, how to eat and enjoy a conversation. None of the kids was screaming. Actually they mostly talked in normal voices and I could not always hear what the kids in front of me were saying. But when they laughed I inevitably smiled.

Patio LFB

When I finished my lunch I went to the patio to look for my daughter, I knew what patio her class plays in. However, I could not see her there. I met couple of her friends and they all were happy to see me, but they could not tell me where Lorena, my daughter, was. I went inside the building and asked somebody from the school staff if they knew where she could be. I have to tell that around patio there was a lot of school stuff.  All of the school staff wore green vests and were easy to recognize. I was not aware that so many people were involved in playing with the kids during the patio time. As soon as I have asked a lady in the green vest about my daughter a group of girls came running to us.

“Who are you looking for?” one of the girls asked.
“I am looking for Lorena. She is the one with two pony tails,” I said. “Do you know her?”
“No,” said one of the girls.
“Lorena Salvado?” said the other. “Yes, I know her. She is a friend of Aitana, right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And she is a friend of Margot and Leocadie?” the girl asked again.
“Yes,” I answered. “Do you know where she is?”
“She is in the librbary. It is her library time. Do you want me to take you there?” the girl asked.
“Yes, please, ” I said. “What class are you from?”
“I am from CP 3, and she is from CP 4, and she is from CP 1,” she pointed to the other girls. “And Lorena is from CP 6, isn’t she?”

I nodded. CP is the first grade. There are six first-grade classes in the school. The girls took me to the library and showed me where to find Lorena. Once inside I saw her sitting with Aitana and reading books. I told her “Hi” and she run to me, gave me a kiss, and told me, “You did not search for me, right?”. I could feel that she was feeling a little bit awkward seeing me in her world. Thus, I just looked at her for a second, touched her pony tails, smiled, and told her I was going home, and that I loved eating at her canteen and visiting her school. Later in the evening Lorena told me she was nervous seeing me, because she knew she did not want me to leave the school and her heart beat twice as fast the moment she saw me.

Walking back home I thought that I loved her school because the kids were so amazing. They were open, helpful, happy, trustful. They played, talked, smiled, and learnt a great deal of social skills. I did not feel like an intruder, I felt like a guest. And I kept on smiling long after I have crossed the school gate.

I did not take any pictures, the ones I’ve posted here are from LFB website.