Words ripe and juicy

Words.

When I see light hit the tree branches during a December sunset on a particularly calm day, and it reminds me of the way life is fragile and hope is present even if for a fleeting moment, I try to translate it into words.

When my husband is lying on an ER table during a heart attack in the middle of the night, pale but joking with nurses, and at the same time asking to talk with our oldest daughter on the phone (“just in case”), I want to translate it into words.

Maybe it’s because words help me: to make sense, to share, to save any given moment. I know friends who do this with photography, “capturing” life.  For me it’s words. It has always been words.

A few years ago, I read an article about Love Languages in which the author, Dr. Gary Chapman discusses five different ways that people express their love:

Words
Time/attention
Gifts
Acts of service
Physical touch

It’s no surprise that for me, it’s touch and words.

If I give you a hug, I mean it. If I tell you I love you, I really mean it.

Words.

I surround myself with them. Collecting books like lost photographs in an ancestral album. Together they tell a story, even as they each have their own voice.  Separately, they are a gift to be treasured.

Words are like leaves at the bottom of particularly delicious cup of tea (for me, a cup of Fortnum & Mason’s Russian Caravan, black). If I love them, I look into them, trying to see beyond the story, beyond the living characters, beyond the beautiful sounds, into the poetry that lies at their heart: the magic of the words.

Children understand the poetry, the magic. I’ve watched my three as I read to them, cherished stories or new adventures. I love when we discover the magic together; it’s one of my favorite things in all the world. It’s the reason my next book was written for children.

So as we begin a new calendar year, I find the urge to look back with words. I am always aware of “how much has been written.” But this isn’t about “how much.” I’m not placing each word to be weighed on the Goddess Maat’s scale. The answer to that would be: not enough. There are always more words to be written.

The stories are there, the character clamoring for attention, but the last year, 2011, was heavier with life than written words. Some years are like that, and though I wish I had made time for more words, I understand that sometimes life happens. Sometimes new babies are born, heart attacks happen, blueberry girls must be blessed, family members in crisis happen, pillow forts occasionally need to be built, and towers of doom must be played with. There are times when we need to put the pen aside to be present.

And yet, there were still words. Here on the blog, on facebook, and on twitter, I have a way to record moments and share them. I still have my notebook for story fragments and plot ideas, but the internet has created a community that wasn’t possible for a writer who would likely spend much of her time in a room, or perhaps out walking, or maybe sipping coffee in a café…alone. Marvelously, the internet has brought many of us who would be solitary together, so that we can be alone and also connected.

So late one September evening, when my husband was in the hospital after a heart attack, I didn’t really want to talk, not even to my father who sat beside me in the waiting room, but I could send out a few tweets. I could shout out a moment of fear and heartache. The miracle of twitter and email and facebook, was that people responded. Friends offered to come by or call, but their messages of support were enough, those words across time and space were exactly what I needed. Thank you to everyone who sent prayers and energy.I thought about Twitter a lot after that, because it’s such a strange creature, something my generation did not grow up with and many have resisted. Some friends love facebook, others text constantly, or skype, or tumblr. We all seem to adopt different technological tools depending on our needs and personalities.

I still prefer the online journal because it allows me to meander, and I am coming to appreciate tumbler as it lets me collect different bits, but I like twitter best. I’ve come to the following conclusion: Tweets are like dehydrated fruit.

Rotten grapes make rotten raisins, but the best fruit—robust peaches, sweet apples, and other juicy delicacies make delicious dried fruits. Twitter can be like that. Much of it is forgettable, most of it is ordinary and that’s ok. Some of it is terrible, but occasionally it can be wonderful.

Words. Carefully chosen words:

Happy. New. Year.

Three words to hold so much, like a tiny tweet.

The year has begun. It’s a new page.

Happy? What makes it happy? What makes you happy?

Whatever it is, I hope you find it. I hope that you fill your new page with words ripe and juicy and bursting with potential.

Happy New Year.

The Sticky Subject of Kutia a.k.a. Ukrainian “Porridge”

This morning Neil Gaiman was in a NY cab and tweeted about his Ukrainian cab driver, who picked up Neil because he was a man and “if 1st fare is a woman is bad luck all day.”

I replied by explaining that this tradition is likely related to the Ukrainian superstition that a man should be the first one to enter a house (or even call a house) on New Year’s Day. I also shared the tradition of throwing kutia (porridge) onto the ceiling on Christmas Eve. If it sticks, it means good luck for the household, and the more kernels that stick, the greater the luck.

After tweeting:

What I have learned this morning: 1) Ukrainian Taxi drivers are superstitious 2) Ukrainians throw porridge at the ceiling for luck.

Neil apparently received quite a few tweets from Ukrainians in Ukraine who had not heard of this tradition. Some had not heard of the porridge.

After a few tweets redirected my way (thanks, Neil 😉 ), I decided to quickly write this post with a few highlights.

  • The Ukrainian “porridge” to which I was referring is kutia. Some people describe it is as a flummery. Neither is quite right, but they’re close.
  • Kutia is an ancient dish that was once eaten at the solstice and is now the first of the twelve dishes to be eaten on Christmas Eve dinner (called Sviata Vecheria)
  • A nice essay about the variation in Sviat Vechir traditions can be found here, by Orysia Tracz, who has written extensively about Ukrainian traditions.
  • There are several recipes online, and as many variations as there are for Irish oatmeal. Everyone has their own particular way of making it. Google “kutia recipe” for some ideas.
  • The basic recipe we use is to first sort & rinse the bulgur wheat, soak it overnight (6-8 hours), boil it for an hour or so (depends on how long you soaked it and how firm you like it), then rinse again. Add poppyseeds, raisins, crushed walnuts, and honey to taste. In my opinion, the key is in the honey. (Ukrainians have been beekeepers for generations, and Ukrainian honey was prized. Here’s a link for more information from Medyana Rosa.)
  • There is a tradition of throwing the kutia up to the ceiling on Sviat Vechir. My grandparents did this when my father was young, and it continued into my childhood. Our Ukrainian friends and family did this and exchanged stories about it.

The things that I find fascinating about this exchange is that many Ukrainians in Ukraine have not heard of the traditions, while Ukrainians in Diaspora (Canada, US, Australia, Argentina) have likely heard of it from parents or grandparents, even if they don’t still celebrate in the traditional ways.

A few weeks ago I was part of Zlukacamp, a conference with Ukrainian students studying in the US, and the subject of traditions came up. When I was growing up, I was taught (from my parents, grandparents, Ukrainian dancing and school, church) that because Ukraine was not free, it was up to us to learn the language, study the history and traditions, and keep them alive.

My grandparents came from Ukraine (via Germany and the Displaced Persons Camps) in the 1940s. The Ukraine I learned about was very much the Ukraine of the 1930s and 40s, the language of that time, the traditions of that time.

Now Ukraine is an Independent country, but some things have been lost, and other things have changed over time. Like any country and people, they have grown a great deal in the last several decades.

So I’m not really surprised that the tradition is lost, but I’m happy to have been able to share it with some people on Twitter, and I’m glad that I had the opportunity to learn about it as a child, to celebrate it as an adult, and even to write about it in my novel, The Silence of Trees (kutia and Sviat Vechir are a part of the story).

I look forward to someday seeing Ukraine of the 21st century, and I hope to be able to share with them and others some of the treasures from an older Ukraine, a Ukraine rich in folklore, fairy tales, and folk arts.

Stepping into the Twitter Stream

I’ve mentioned before that I twitter (Valya). It is not difficult to drop a line here and there, and it’s been an invaluable resource for meeting other creative people. I have always enjoyed reading personal essays by writers I admire, as well as autobiographies that chronicle their creative process and motivation for making art. Twitter creates these interesting intersections of writers, musicians, performers, and artists communicating/comparing/encouraging. I like tapping into that energy.

Many of you know that I tend to do most of my writing/editing after the kids are put to bed (from say 10pm until 2 or 3am). At any moment, I can go to Twitter, read a few tweets, then get back to work. A little mind stretch and also comforting to know that there are other people awake in the Twitterverse.

I compare it to living in a large apartment building and knowing that somewhere, nearby, a neighbor is doing laundry, another is practicing piano. When the house is quiet, the husband is already in bed, the kids are (mostly) sleeping soundly, it’s nice to know there are others online. It is especially nice when they are creative, interesting folks whom I admire that are also burning the midnight oil and occasionally posting 140 characters of their progress. The messages can be motivating. They can be entertaining. They can be humbling.

There is also this interesting, occasional phenomenon–not unlike reading tea leaves or tarot, or hearing a particular song on the radio at just the right instant–sometimes twitter can deliver a message of synchronicity.

I’m not referring to the self-proclaimed gurus on twitter (and there are many) who like to spout their own philosophies for wealth or happiness. I’m referring to the random tweet from a friend or someone I admire that resonates. I like to think of these tweets as little gifts from the Universe, like getting a phone call from a friend at precisely the moment when I was thinking of them: messages of synchronicity.

In ancient Greece,Heraclitus wrote that it is impossible to step into the same river twice, for it’s never again the same river and he’s never again the same man.

So too with Twitter.

With hundreds of thousands of people online, a lot of information and emotion are being shared. Sometimes you can dip into the Twitter stream and there is little to be gleaned. Other times, you stumble upon a gem.

Tonight Deepak Chopra twittered: Grace happens when you let go and surrender to the unknown. Grace manifests through synchronicity and meaningful coincidence.

This resonated with me. It was a gift, a reminder.

March continues to be a rich month of chaos and creativity. I have much to write about, and I’ll try to get to an update this week.

In the meantime, I’m here. I’m well. I’m occasionally on Twitter. 

And I surrender to the unknown.