Sunday, March 30, 2014
Child 31 - The Story of Mary's Meals
Watch this. Get angry. Cry a lot. Then get a little hopeful, and maybe donate a little money. The money you spend on coffees in the course of a week? Yeah. That money.
And once you've done all that, you might like to check out this beautiful Lenten post on the Apostles' Creed.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Clay Jars
In recent days, I've been feeling extremely fragile. Liable to break.
Physically, with fever and sickness and tiredness. The slightest overexertion and I collapse onto the nearest soft person-sized surface. Teaching is possibly the worst profession in which to get sick, since you are negotiating dozens of relationships a day, constantly dialoguing, planning, articulating. You need health and bountiful joy, or you will find yourself in hellish hell of introverted misery.
Emotionally, with massive events in my family back home and with the ever-changing web of relationships right here. Babies being born, weddings like confetti, the sudden departures of people I love with big love. The future prospect of being torn from the lives of my students. How is this to be endured?
Spiritually, liable to weep at any moment with the near knowledge of my daily failures and the impossible, incomprehensible, unfailing love of a Brother who is a King, whose love for me doesn't depend on my righteousness. It is beyond my ability to comprehend; it is too high, I cannot understand it. So I panic and weep.
'We have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.'
Whatever text I teach, I love to linger over imagery - whole lessons on a Shakespearean metaphor - unpeeling the delicate petals of allegory in a poem - the inexpressible beauty of sounds - if they learn nothing else, my students will learn to appreciate good imagery when they find it.
A jar of clay. Hard pressed, perplexed, struck down. The ugliest thing you ever saw. But not destroyed. Because oh, there's something indestructibly beautiful in the jar. It was put there some time ago. It is a story, all glory, all grace.
Physically, with fever and sickness and tiredness. The slightest overexertion and I collapse onto the nearest soft person-sized surface. Teaching is possibly the worst profession in which to get sick, since you are negotiating dozens of relationships a day, constantly dialoguing, planning, articulating. You need health and bountiful joy, or you will find yourself in hellish hell of introverted misery.
Emotionally, with massive events in my family back home and with the ever-changing web of relationships right here. Babies being born, weddings like confetti, the sudden departures of people I love with big love. The future prospect of being torn from the lives of my students. How is this to be endured?
Spiritually, liable to weep at any moment with the near knowledge of my daily failures and the impossible, incomprehensible, unfailing love of a Brother who is a King, whose love for me doesn't depend on my righteousness. It is beyond my ability to comprehend; it is too high, I cannot understand it. So I panic and weep.
'We have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.'
Whatever text I teach, I love to linger over imagery - whole lessons on a Shakespearean metaphor - unpeeling the delicate petals of allegory in a poem - the inexpressible beauty of sounds - if they learn nothing else, my students will learn to appreciate good imagery when they find it.
A jar of clay. Hard pressed, perplexed, struck down. The ugliest thing you ever saw. But not destroyed. Because oh, there's something indestructibly beautiful in the jar. It was put there some time ago. It is a story, all glory, all grace.
Monday, February 3, 2014
A Little Perspective
Kyrgyzstan is very traveller-friendly right now. It offers free tourist visas, and you should definitely take advantage of that. This is useful for expat workers in other Central Asian countries, since they can come here cheaply to renew their visas, and do.
As a consequence, I've have a European friend staying with me for a week. She's a doctor in a neighbouring country, and has to leave to renew her visa every couple of months. Bishkek is the best place for her to do that. It's been an interesting experience for me. Firstly, because I've been living on my own since September, without any overnight guests, and have gotten used to my own grotty ways without worrying about anyone else. The adjustment has been unsettling, but good for me, since I have had to clean up and cook actual meals and be sociable.
More than that, though, is seeing Bishkek through her eyes. We spent a day together recently. I took her to a modern, affordable Turkish clothes shop; to the place that makes real, good coffee; to the new Japanese restaurant; to the vegetable market, where you can buy broccoli; to the European Store, where you can buy peanut butter. We even noticed a tiny new shop, its yellow varnished wood gleaming in the snow, proclaiming its name on a nicely designed board as the 'Good Food Company.' It makes and packages fresh salads and sandwiches. They might not have passed muster in a western context, but in a Central Asian context, it was like finding gold.
Anyway, after all these adventures (in -18 degrees), she said - there is so much nice stuff in Bishkek. And I said - yes, I suppose.
Thinking about it now, though, I would go further and say that I'm living in one of the best places in Central Asia; it isn't nearly as urbane and expensive as Almaty, and it has good markets and (as long as you're not too fussy) you can find nearly anything you might want. I bought a handheld mixer the other day, for making cakes. My apartment is pleasant, warm, and only has occasional electrical problems. I never have to wait longer than five minutes for public transport, which is incredibly cheap and quick.
Since my friend lives with a family whose diet consists mainly of different varieties of bread, oil, and rice, with occasional mutton, she has been enjoying this experience immensely.
I won't be complaining about my lifestyle any time soon (the cold! the packed marshrutkas! the dogs! the dirt! the spitting! the men! the pollution! the absence of good muesli!) - context is everything. I have it pretty good, and I'm really thankful for this chance to be hospitable and to remember that things could be far, far worse.
As a consequence, I've have a European friend staying with me for a week. She's a doctor in a neighbouring country, and has to leave to renew her visa every couple of months. Bishkek is the best place for her to do that. It's been an interesting experience for me. Firstly, because I've been living on my own since September, without any overnight guests, and have gotten used to my own grotty ways without worrying about anyone else. The adjustment has been unsettling, but good for me, since I have had to clean up and cook actual meals and be sociable.
More than that, though, is seeing Bishkek through her eyes. We spent a day together recently. I took her to a modern, affordable Turkish clothes shop; to the place that makes real, good coffee; to the new Japanese restaurant; to the vegetable market, where you can buy broccoli; to the European Store, where you can buy peanut butter. We even noticed a tiny new shop, its yellow varnished wood gleaming in the snow, proclaiming its name on a nicely designed board as the 'Good Food Company.' It makes and packages fresh salads and sandwiches. They might not have passed muster in a western context, but in a Central Asian context, it was like finding gold.
Anyway, after all these adventures (in -18 degrees), she said - there is so much nice stuff in Bishkek. And I said - yes, I suppose.
Thinking about it now, though, I would go further and say that I'm living in one of the best places in Central Asia; it isn't nearly as urbane and expensive as Almaty, and it has good markets and (as long as you're not too fussy) you can find nearly anything you might want. I bought a handheld mixer the other day, for making cakes. My apartment is pleasant, warm, and only has occasional electrical problems. I never have to wait longer than five minutes for public transport, which is incredibly cheap and quick.
Since my friend lives with a family whose diet consists mainly of different varieties of bread, oil, and rice, with occasional mutton, she has been enjoying this experience immensely.
I won't be complaining about my lifestyle any time soon (the cold! the packed marshrutkas! the dogs! the dirt! the spitting! the men! the pollution! the absence of good muesli!) - context is everything. I have it pretty good, and I'm really thankful for this chance to be hospitable and to remember that things could be far, far worse.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Australia Day in Ashu (Bless You)!
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| The morning view - |
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| -while deadly icicles threaten our breakfast. |
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| They posed with huge grins while their mother yelled for them across the field. |
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| Toddler traveling in style. |
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| A well-aerated barn. |
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| Last year's mud house. |
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| Everything stretches for miles - mountains, skies, and avenues of birch trees. |
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| The Russians knew what they were about. |
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| Happy Australia Day! |
Saturday, January 25, 2014
God the All
Back at Christmas, there was an amusing moment when I unwrapped the brown paper parcels that my mum had sent to London with my aunt. First, I opened one with bright pink underwear (very appropriate to my needs); then, I opened a book of Puritan prayers and devotions, The Valley of Visions. The two items side by side caused some hilarity. Both have proven useful.
Here in Ashu, on a short retreat in a snowbound village, I've been captivated by some of the prayers, including this one: complete and perfect.
'God the All'
O God whose will conquers all,
There is no comfort in anything
apart from enjoying thee
and being engaged in thy service;
Thou art all in all, and all enjoyments are what to me
thou makest them, and no more.
I am well pleased with thy will, whatever it is,
or should be in all respects,
And if thou bidst me decide for myself in any affair,
I would choose to refer all to thee,
for thou art infinitely wise and cannot do amiss
as I am in danger of doing.
I rejoice to think that all things are at thy disposal,
and it delights me to leave them there.
Then prayer turns wholly into praise,
and all I can do is adore and bless thee.
What shall I give thee for all thy benefits?
I am in a strait betwixt two, knowing not what to do;
I long to make some return, but have nothing to offer,
and can only rejoice that thou doest all,
that none on heaven or on earth shares thy honour;
I can of myself do nothing to glorify thy blessed name,
but I can through grace cheerfully surrender soul and body to thee,
I know that thou art the author and finisher of faith,
that the whole work of redemption is thine alone,
that every good work or thought found in me
is the effect of thy power and grace,
that thy sole motive in working in me is to will and to do
is for thy good pleasure.
O God, it is amazing that men can talk so much
about man's creaturely power and goodness,
when, if thou didst not hold us back every moment,
we should be devils incarnate.
This, by bitter experience, thou hast taught me concerning myself.
Here in Ashu, on a short retreat in a snowbound village, I've been captivated by some of the prayers, including this one: complete and perfect.
'God the All'
O God whose will conquers all,
There is no comfort in anything
apart from enjoying thee
and being engaged in thy service;
Thou art all in all, and all enjoyments are what to me
thou makest them, and no more.
I am well pleased with thy will, whatever it is,
or should be in all respects,
And if thou bidst me decide for myself in any affair,
I would choose to refer all to thee,
for thou art infinitely wise and cannot do amiss
as I am in danger of doing.
I rejoice to think that all things are at thy disposal,
and it delights me to leave them there.
Then prayer turns wholly into praise,
and all I can do is adore and bless thee.
What shall I give thee for all thy benefits?
I am in a strait betwixt two, knowing not what to do;
I long to make some return, but have nothing to offer,
and can only rejoice that thou doest all,
that none on heaven or on earth shares thy honour;
I can of myself do nothing to glorify thy blessed name,
but I can through grace cheerfully surrender soul and body to thee,
I know that thou art the author and finisher of faith,
that the whole work of redemption is thine alone,
that every good work or thought found in me
is the effect of thy power and grace,
that thy sole motive in working in me is to will and to do
is for thy good pleasure.
O God, it is amazing that men can talk so much
about man's creaturely power and goodness,
when, if thou didst not hold us back every moment,
we should be devils incarnate.
This, by bitter experience, thou hast taught me concerning myself.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Getting to Know the Neighbours
Since moving into my new apartment in September, I've barely seen my neighbours. The are four doors clustered at the top of the stairwell. The one next to me, I'm fairly sure, is empty, because the bills (which are stuck between the door and the jamb) are never collected. Across the way is a young couple who always look a bit cross (although they're Russian, so that doesn't mean anything). The fourth flat must surely be occupied, but I have never seen anyone coming or going. I am on the third floor out of four floors.
Until today, I'd had maybe three conversations in total with people in this building. That all changed when the old codger downstairs started doing repairs: he (inadvertently or otherwise) managed to cut the power to the whole building last night. There was a terrific thump around midnight and everything went dark and quiet. It was still off this morning, which effectively ruined everything in my freezer. I could have gone and dumped it all in the snow outside, but it didn't occur to me and if it had, I probably wouldn't have risked my already dubious reputation as a foreigner.
Anyway, as the morning wore on, I got a bit worried and investigated. My neighbours did the same, and suddenly we were bound together in our concern. It's the dusty, rusty Soviet wiring, you see. Difficult to fix, not to mention dangerous. I learned the names of several neighbours as we congregated on the stairwell and discussed options. My language abilities are pretty rubbish, but I followed along because the conversation stuck to fairly basic vocabulary. In time, some electricians turned up and went to the roof and everyone returned to their flats. After several hours and many false starts (which I fear may have killed my fridge) power was finally restored.
Nothing will change probably, except that perhaps we will make more eye contact than normal and more meaningful nods of heads when we pass each other. I got excited for a moment and envisioned myself making cookies for everyone, until I remembered the last time I tried that, in a different block of flats - many suspicious looks and some flat-out refusals. I guess I'll stick to nods.
Until today, I'd had maybe three conversations in total with people in this building. That all changed when the old codger downstairs started doing repairs: he (inadvertently or otherwise) managed to cut the power to the whole building last night. There was a terrific thump around midnight and everything went dark and quiet. It was still off this morning, which effectively ruined everything in my freezer. I could have gone and dumped it all in the snow outside, but it didn't occur to me and if it had, I probably wouldn't have risked my already dubious reputation as a foreigner.
Anyway, as the morning wore on, I got a bit worried and investigated. My neighbours did the same, and suddenly we were bound together in our concern. It's the dusty, rusty Soviet wiring, you see. Difficult to fix, not to mention dangerous. I learned the names of several neighbours as we congregated on the stairwell and discussed options. My language abilities are pretty rubbish, but I followed along because the conversation stuck to fairly basic vocabulary. In time, some electricians turned up and went to the roof and everyone returned to their flats. After several hours and many false starts (which I fear may have killed my fridge) power was finally restored.
Nothing will change probably, except that perhaps we will make more eye contact than normal and more meaningful nods of heads when we pass each other. I got excited for a moment and envisioned myself making cookies for everyone, until I remembered the last time I tried that, in a different block of flats - many suspicious looks and some flat-out refusals. I guess I'll stick to nods.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Three Degrees!
The temperature reached three degrees today, and the snow was radiant in the sun. I squinted a bit and wore my lightest jacket. The slick ice was entering that slushy crunchy stage, so it was much easier to walk (if messier).
I don't know what has happened to this, the most cold-bloodedest of Australians, that she should find this to be mild and delightful weather.
On the marshrutka today:
As usual, I bumped my head while paying the driver. It was standing room only, so I found a space between a seat and the window and ignored the usual armpits in my face. Shortly after, the very, very old woman in the seat near me tried to get up, and plumped down when the bus veered unexpectedly. In that moment, I noticed her feet were at strange angles: there was obviously some kind of deformity, and her steps were tentative. She had a face like an apple in storage and smelled of damp mothballs. I offered my green-gloved hand, which she took and heaved herself up. There were three large men between her and the door, so with her hand in mine I steadied her, while the other hand guided her through the bodies. The marshrutka shrieked to a halt on the corner and she picked her way down the steps, her feet in first position like a ballerina's. Maybe she'd been a Soviet ballerina. I immediately created a whole life story for her. Since I was standing, I couldn't see through the window how she fared, and the whole thing probably took about five seconds. But how my heart swelled with love and pity and regret: love for her gentle, aged face; pity for her wretched physical condition and probable poverty; regret that I had not descended the steps with her and ensured her wellbeing.
Though it is painful, I am glad God aligns my heart with his. It awakens me to pray with yearning. It also confirms my desire to study community development this year, because more and more, I long for the skills and aptitude to help women like the one on my marshrutka today. I cry out for that ability. I think God is prompting me in this direction. I guess we'll know more shortly.
I don't know what has happened to this, the most cold-bloodedest of Australians, that she should find this to be mild and delightful weather.
On the marshrutka today:
As usual, I bumped my head while paying the driver. It was standing room only, so I found a space between a seat and the window and ignored the usual armpits in my face. Shortly after, the very, very old woman in the seat near me tried to get up, and plumped down when the bus veered unexpectedly. In that moment, I noticed her feet were at strange angles: there was obviously some kind of deformity, and her steps were tentative. She had a face like an apple in storage and smelled of damp mothballs. I offered my green-gloved hand, which she took and heaved herself up. There were three large men between her and the door, so with her hand in mine I steadied her, while the other hand guided her through the bodies. The marshrutka shrieked to a halt on the corner and she picked her way down the steps, her feet in first position like a ballerina's. Maybe she'd been a Soviet ballerina. I immediately created a whole life story for her. Since I was standing, I couldn't see through the window how she fared, and the whole thing probably took about five seconds. But how my heart swelled with love and pity and regret: love for her gentle, aged face; pity for her wretched physical condition and probable poverty; regret that I had not descended the steps with her and ensured her wellbeing.
Though it is painful, I am glad God aligns my heart with his. It awakens me to pray with yearning. It also confirms my desire to study community development this year, because more and more, I long for the skills and aptitude to help women like the one on my marshrutka today. I cry out for that ability. I think God is prompting me in this direction. I guess we'll know more shortly.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
My Last Day at the Gym
Well, here is a hideous truth. The owners of my Russian gym (named 'Monroe' and replete with a Marilyn clock, her face in the tiles, and bright pink weight machines) have just installed a bunch of seedy hotel rooms above it, rented 'by the hour.' Many of the girls who come to the gym work in those rooms. Mostly they're teenagers.
I need to find a new gym. I will not give one ounce of profit more to the owners. And once again, with a furious heart, I grieve for the women here; so exploited, and somehow so resilient.
I met one young woman at this gym. Her name was Aibeka. Aibeka had pretty good English, and I learned that she'd recently returned from working in Dubai airport, in customer service. It seemed like a pretty decent job for a local girl. But no. It's no good, she said. No good. They take your passport away. They make you pay for every glass of water, every bus trip from the accommodation to the airport, so that in the end, you don't make much money at all. The only way to make money (for your family back home, which is why you came in the first place) is to give in to the prostitution racket. Most girls do.
Lord, Lord.
I need to find a new gym. I will not give one ounce of profit more to the owners. And once again, with a furious heart, I grieve for the women here; so exploited, and somehow so resilient.
I met one young woman at this gym. Her name was Aibeka. Aibeka had pretty good English, and I learned that she'd recently returned from working in Dubai airport, in customer service. It seemed like a pretty decent job for a local girl. But no. It's no good, she said. No good. They take your passport away. They make you pay for every glass of water, every bus trip from the accommodation to the airport, so that in the end, you don't make much money at all. The only way to make money (for your family back home, which is why you came in the first place) is to give in to the prostitution racket. Most girls do.
Lord, Lord.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Winter's a-coming
There is a frost in the air that's been absent until now. The trees are as yellow as can be. I had to wear gloves this morning, and I've dug out my best winter coat and hung it by the front door. Snow is predicted for Monday, and that is really the beginning of a new season that doesn't end till the start of April.
Happily, the heating has been turned on; somewhere in the recesses of Tetz, the ancient factory near Vostok Pyat, cogs and wheels are spluttering fuel into the heating pipes of an entire city. The sadly ironic consequence is that I have to open all my windows, to let the frosty air mingle with the stifling heat and create a temperate environment. Awful waste, but one over which I have no control.
Today, my 11/12 English class wrote exam essays about dystopias; my 10 English class dissected an IGCSE poem by Elizabeth Brewster; in ESL support, we worked on new vocabulary; I advertised upcoming auditions for the school production; I ran English club; I met with my landlady because she wanted to give me potplants (not realising that she was effectively committing them to death); and I met with some friends at a Japanese restaurant.
That's an example of a nicely balanced day. I'm learning how to look after myself in this regard - how to fine-tune my time. After last year's burn-out, I am determined not to push myself. I go home before 6 PM. I do not take grading with me. I eat all the vegetables I can find. I take time to cook real food. I walk more, go to the gym more. I listen to music and sermons and thereby feed my soul. I reply to emails promptly. I say 'no' to many opportunities. I commit all these things to God, and thank him for caring enough to teach me about rest.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Putin, the Immortal
So, in Tzum today (Tzum is the Soviet equivalent of a mall), this wall hanging was advertised, on sale. Fancy your very own larger-than-life Russian President?
You can't see it so well here, but it's a rug woven with the face of a much younger, immensely glamourous Putin. He appears to be wearing lipstick and contemplating the future with dreamy eyes.
You could also order Lenin, and have a face-off across the living room.
You can't see it so well here, but it's a rug woven with the face of a much younger, immensely glamourous Putin. He appears to be wearing lipstick and contemplating the future with dreamy eyes.
You could also order Lenin, and have a face-off across the living room.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Sunday Poem: Lift Up Your Hearts
Recently, I was lent a copy of Christina Rossetti's reading diary. Some of her best poems are in this collection - the poems I like best, anyway. I skipped ahead tonight (she was getting her 'Anglo-Catholic' on in the latter parts of October and early November, which I found tiresome) and alighted upon this little piece. She often lifts her spiritual dryness to the Lord and has nicely metered conversations with Him about it; I recognise my own constant prayer in hers - do for me, Lord, what I cannot manage - be both object and enabler of my faith! And so, she begins with that oft-repeated phrase:
'Lift up your hearts!' - 'We lift them up' - Ah me!
I cannot, Lord, lift up my heart to Thee:
Stoop, lift it up, that where Thou art I too may be.
'Give me thy heart.' - I would not say Thee nay,
But have no power to keep or give away
My heart: stoop, Lord, and take it to Thyself today.
Stoop, Lord, as once before now once anew
Stoop, Lord, and hearken, hearken, Lord, and do,
And take my will and take my heart and take me too.
Christina Rossetti
Time Flies: A Reading Diary, November 12
'Lift up your hearts!' - 'We lift them up' - Ah me!
I cannot, Lord, lift up my heart to Thee:
Stoop, lift it up, that where Thou art I too may be.
'Give me thy heart.' - I would not say Thee nay,
But have no power to keep or give away
My heart: stoop, Lord, and take it to Thyself today.
Stoop, Lord, as once before now once anew
Stoop, Lord, and hearken, hearken, Lord, and do,
And take my will and take my heart and take me too.
Christina Rossetti
Time Flies: A Reading Diary, November 12
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Saturday Song: Rivers & Robots
Rivers & Robots have recently become one of my favourite bands, and it's not just because there's an ampersand in the name. It's because of songs like this one. I love the lyrics. This whole album is gorgeous! Do yourself a favour and fork out a couple of quid on it.
Friday, November 1, 2013
The Regal Touch
I have an addiction. It's been going on for years. Just when I think I've cast it off, it comes back with a vengeance.
My addiction is The West Wing.
I've watched so much lately that I've had several dreams related to it. Last night's was the most peculiar of a very peculiar lot.
I dreamed that I was Josh, and that POTUS was coming to visit. I was wearing pyjama shorts, which felt indecent; so, I did what any normal person would do - I stripped my bed. I wrapped my doona cover around me like a skirt (taking the doona out first) and then I put my pillowcase around my shoulders. You know, for a regal touch. Then, I walked out to the living room. Then, I woke up.
That is all.
(I still haven't made my bed).
My addiction is The West Wing.
I've watched so much lately that I've had several dreams related to it. Last night's was the most peculiar of a very peculiar lot.
I dreamed that I was Josh, and that POTUS was coming to visit. I was wearing pyjama shorts, which felt indecent; so, I did what any normal person would do - I stripped my bed. I wrapped my doona cover around me like a skirt (taking the doona out first) and then I put my pillowcase around my shoulders. You know, for a regal touch. Then, I walked out to the living room. Then, I woke up.
That is all.
(I still haven't made my bed).
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