La Bella Vita
I have spent the past few mornings (and some afternoons too) sitting down to share with all of you some of the many things that have been on my heart and in my mind … or is it the other way around?
I load up with a big mug of Assam tea, stretch the windows wide open, sit down, put fingers to keys, and … write? Let me just say that the past few days’ attempts have been the written equivalent of an ADD’d six-year-old: here, there, and everywhere. Despite my best efforts to reign it in and keep it on track with whatever topic we started off with. Obviously, therefore, the end result has been writing that is not quite ready to be shared with the world you. I mean, I could share it with you. But you would probably think, “Geez! Someone needs a shot of Ritalin!”
So rather than subject you to that, I would like to share with you this morning a blog entry that I wrote two years ago focusing on the beauty in an ordinary day. At the time that I wrote it, I very much wanted to share with friends and family that life in a foreign country is very much the same as life in one’s own country (even if that “foreign country” just happens to be Greece). Over time, though, I have simply come to appreciate this post for what it is: a declaration of life as beautiful, no matter what.
So if you’re up for it and have a bit of time (this one’s a long one), grab your own cup of tea and settle in for a little read of ‘A Day In the Life.’ I hope it reminds you, too, that life is beautiful –your life is beautiful — and encourages you to savor your own very special, never-to-be-had-again moments today.
Here we go:
Thursday, 20 March 2008
I got up this morning at 8:20 a.m. But I had woken many hours earlier, 5:41 a.m. to be precise, stirred by the coming sunrise and the heat from the blankets that had forced me to abandon my pajama bottoms. At that hour, the light was blue-grey, just bright enough for me to make my way to the bathroom without bumping into anything, pour a glass of water and then pull a kitchen chair close to the balcony window and sit for a few minutes and listen to the morning birds waking up. The sky got gradually lighter, and I went back to bed and boy.
At 8:20 a.m., after sleeping fitfully, I left bed and boy again and this time stepped into a living room flooded with light and the sound of cars below and little Maximo – the neighbours’ son – on his electic trike. I am not ready to be “up and at ’em” but the spring sun won’t let me sleep, and I have a gym visit that’s calling my name. I am trying to ignore it.
I walk over to the kitchen table and turn on the computer. I am still tickled that, for the first time in 2 years, I have internet at home. Then I walk into the kitchen and fill the pot for the hot water that will make mine and boy’s morning tea.
“Boy” is the love of my life, G. He is asleep in the bedroom, and this is our morning routine. I wake up and steal a few moments of me-time before he rises. And once he does, our day takes a path of its own.
But for now the routine is the same. The water is beginning to boil in the pot while I log on to see if I have any mail from anyone back home. I do not, and I am a little disappointed. But I have been away for almost two years now, and I cannot expect too much. As the water boils, I pull down a container of cheese biscuits and lightly butter them and set them on a plate with greviere cheese. I fill our mugs with the boiling water, set the plate of biscuits on the table and then take the eggs and milk from the fridge.
By now boy has woken up. I have heard him come out of the bedroom and slide into the bathroom. While I’m cracking the eggs into a bowl, he steps up behind me and lightly kisses my neck and shoulders and says, “Good morning, agapi mou.” I tell him the same as I begin to whip the eggs and milk and pour them into the hot pan.
G and I eat our breakfast in mostly silent contentment. We are not morning people … it takes us a while to start saying anything each day. But we are both delighted to see how beautiful the day is becoming and that it holds the promise to be a warm one. Since we are counting down the days to Saturday and Spring’s arrival, this bodes well.
As I take our breakfast plates to the sink, G takes a slip of paper and begins writing down our shopping list for the day. This is another of our routines, as we shop only for what we need on a day-to-day basis, buying only the necessities for two or three meals at a time. He asks me what I want for lunch today, and we make out the list together. Then, while he gets dressed to do the shopping, I wash up the breakfast dishes. Today I won’t go with him because I have a lesson to prepare, compositions to mark and a (possible) gym visit – all of which must occur by 2:00. He finishes getting ready, grabs the list and then grabs me. “I love you,” he says. “I’ll be back in a little bit.” I say, “I love you, too. Be careful.”
After the dishes, I set up camp at the kitchen table with my books. I have a lesson at 2:15 with a seven-year-old boy who hates to write. We have also just begun a new book – he has graduated from A level to B level – and this new book is full of writing. So I am frantic to find something to do that will keep him interested and at the same time get him to write, as he is a beginner and must learn to recognize and spell all these new words he’s learning. It’s a difficult task, but I look at the lessons and am hopeful that with my sketch-pad activities, the CD songs and the computer game ’assessment’ at the end that today’s lesson might be a bit more successful.
I finish up, and then I mark my compositions. And now G is home. It doesn’t look like I’m going to make it to the gym, today.
While putting the groceries away (G is a ’gorilla,’ which is why he doesn’t do it), I realize that G hasn’t brought me anything to fix for my lunch. I mention this to him, at which point we have some words. G is stressed out today because it is Thursday, and Thursday is “Kandanos Day,” the day he drives one hour away to a mountain village to teach for 6 hours and then drive one hour back. He has to leave at 1:30, and he won’t be home again until 10:30 tonight. As a result, every Thursday is a stressful day – and the tightness and shortness of his words tells me this is weighing on his mind. I understand it, but I am still miffed that for the third week in a row my lunch has been conveniently ’forgotten’ in the hubbub of getting him ready for Kandanos. I say as much and he retaliates. We both know we’re both being overly sensitive and that this is just a matter of miscommunication, but neither of us wants to give. He huffs off into the bathroom, and I grab a water and walk out onto the balcony. I’m not all that upset, so I sit in the sun and look at the mountains and try to forget about my upcoming lessons.
A few minutes later, G steps out onto the balcony too. He walks over to where I am and puts his head in my lap, looks up at me and says, “Agapi mou, you can have one of my bread rolls for lunch. I don’t need both of them.” He finishes getting ready – it’s already almost 1:30 – and I pack his lunch for Kandanos and fix a tuna sandwich for myself. In a few moments, I have to get a shower too.
It’s 1:30 now, and G pulls me to him and tells me again, “I love you.” “Have a good day, darling,” he says. And I tell him, “I love you, too. Come home to me safely.”
I only have a few minutes now until my 2:15 lesson, so I scramble to get my shower and get my bag ready so that I can leave my house to catch the bus as soon as my lesson is over. I don’t really like this rush, and I am still nervous about my lesson, but I remind myself that at least it will be over in an hour. The sun is still shining, and it’s still really warm, and I am just content to be alive on this glorious almost-Spring day.
Promptly at 2:15, Christos and his mom show up. He tromps in and thrusts an origami creature at me. He loves making paper animals, and this is his newest creation. “For you,” he says. I put it on the desk while he throws his bag on the table and begins taking out all his books.
Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, the lesson is agonizing and at the end of it he proclaims to me and his mom and anyone else who might care to hear, “I hate English.” Oh, my. This is not good. I’m going to have to come up with something. His mom reassures me, “He hates all his lessons right now. He just hates writing. Don’t take it personally.” Easier said than done. I am a teacher. Aren’t I supposed to make learning exciting?
Elena drops me off at the bus stop, and now I’m waiting for the afternoon bus that will take me into town, where I will catch another bus to take me to Galatas, the village where I will teach for 3 hours this afternoon. It’s wonderful sitting in the sun. The breeze is brisk but warm, so I don’t mind it. I can’t believe how mild it is, and I am excited about the prospect of going to the beach for the first time this weekend. What a wonderful way to celebrate the first day of Spring!
An hour and a half later I arrive in Galatas at my school. Galatas is a small town, but it has a glorious view of the sea on one side and the Leuka Ori (the White Mountains) on the other. The students start showing up and at 5:00 I begin my grammar lesson with the boys (and three girls) of C Class. They are a rambunctious group – 8 pre-teen boys with all of their energy and hormones running wild. But they are also good kids who are more rowdy than they are troublemakers. It’s a tough hour, though, as they all like to give running commentary on the lesson. And at one point I have to send Manos out until he can quieten down enough to come back in and not disrupt the class.
D Class, my next hour, goes much better. This time there are 8 girls and only two boys. We enjoy our hour together, probably because I tell them stories from my life. They, therefore, like to do the same. And it has become a regular occurrence now for them to stay on during their break and try to chat with me between their lessons. I am always impressed when they do this because they are consciously choosing to continue a dialogue in a language that is not their own – and this is not an easy thing. I admire them for this, as well as enjoy hearing about how they’re doing.
Finally, it’s my last class. We have been lucky tonight because the power has not gone out yet during our lessons. But … there is still one more hour to go, and power is already out in another part of town. This has been happening for two weeks now, as workers in the electric industry nationwide have been on strike to protest recent changes in the social security system. G and I applaud them doing this, but it makes for interesting evening lessons. It is certainly a task teaching English by candlelight and mobile phones.
At any rate, I am grateful the electricity hasn’t gone out yet and am also praying that it will continue until I finish the listening exercise I have to do my next hour. Fortunately, my prayers are answered and I get through all of it with no problems. At the end of the hour, I pack my bag and I say goodnight to my students and wish them a good weekend, since I won’t see them again until next week. And I walk to the corner where I will wait for the bus again that will take me into town … where I will catch another bus that will take me to just within a few blocks of my house.
I get home at almost 9:00. Despite the beauty of the day, I feel a bit blue. I have logged onto the internet again and am saddened to see that there is still nothing in my inbox. I begin to wonder if I have offended anyone. My most recent blog most certainly could offend some people, but at the same time I feel no need to apologize for it. I begin to feel that my world has become very small.
After cutting up the carrots and potatoes for dinner and placing them in the casserole with some olive oil and seasonings, I lay some marinated chicken breasts on top, cover the dish with foil and pop it into the oven for an hour. And now I log on to “talk” to Kiboko – the one person I think might understand some of my “small world” angst and perhaps respond with either sensitivity … or her usual sarcastic wit … both of which seem like a good remedy to me. I am lucky because she is online and does both. It makes me feel a bit better but also has me feeling a bit like a wuss, whining over minute things. But … but …
Around 10:00, my G comes home. He walks in the door and I run to meet him and he says, “I love coming home to you.” And I say, “I love you coming home to me, too. How was your day?” He tells me about Kandanos while I put dinner on the table, and while we eat I vent my frustrations about a friend of ours who has recently begun getting on both of our nerves. We have both been trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but we have also been both getting increasingly annoyed. Who knows what we will do about it, but at least we got it out in the open with each other.
It’s 11:30 now. G wants to unwind a bit, and he has a fair few bit of dishes to do. I am feeling the pull of Spring and can still feel the warm air coming through our open windows, so I take myself off into the bedroom and lie on the bed and watch and listen to the night. The moon is high and shines across the bed. The wind is warm and curls around the hair on my forehead. I am content.
In a little while, G comes in to see what I’m doing. I tell him, “I’m celebrating Spring and thinking some thoughts.” He lies down next to me and starts kissing my cheeks and my nose. He tells me I’m the one he loves and he doesn’t want to be without me. We look at each other and smile.
He turns the lights in the house off and comes to bed. We close the door and the windows (our street is too loud in the morning to keep them open). And I fall asleep in his arms.
What about you?
Can you look at your “ordinary” days and see them as the miracles they are?
Can you look back on yesterday, or the day before, and see an ordinary moment as a bit less ordinary?
What are some of the “ordinary” things that make your life beautiful?
Please share.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Warmest wishes and thoughts today,
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