Guilt, Regret, Pain and Forgiveness

http://www.lds.org/media-library/video/mormon-messages?lang=eng&start=1&end=12&order=alpha#2010-07-14-forgiveness-my-burden-was-made-light

This link goes to a video on lds.org. It addresses forgiveness, in its most purest form. Even in the face of tragedy.

I have had many times in my life where forgiveness has been a hard, hard lesson for me to learn. Not just towards other people, but especially towards myself.

I have never done anything as awful as harm other people through my mistakes. At least, I hope I haven't. No, the person who was harmed the most was me.

You see, I once had a problem, a problem I still struggle with from time to time - a problem with viewing certain content on the Internet. Within the webcomics community, of which I am an active reader and hopeful member, such content is the norm, and encountering it is far too easy. What makes it worse is that when you stumble over it, you can rationalize that it's just a part of the story and you can easily flip through it quickly. You convince yourself it's not a big deal, that so long as you just went to the next page, you were okay.

That's about as rational as saying that song lyrics from suggestive songs have no impact on you. In fact, it's even less rational, because it's through images. Images are much harder to tune out, and thus harder to ignore. You absorb it, whether you want to or not. The temptation comes bit by bit, and if you're not careful, you soon find yourself giving in. You don't know true, awful temptation until you have experienced this. It's so very easy to give in. It's so incredibly hard to resist.

What makes it all worse for me, personally, is that within my family we have had traumatic experiences as a result of pornography. I won't say that I am addicted to it - far from it. I struggle with temptation because of the websites I frequent - some of my favorite webcomics link to other, less savory websites that I've checked out, not knowing what they contained. I have seen things I literally can't un-see. You see now why my family's past experiences makes this so much more awful to deal with. I feel like such a traitor, a horrible person who learned nothing from past experience and just causes more pain for her loved ones. I feel like the most awful, most unforgivable, unlovable, undeserving person in existence. I disappoint myself to the point of physical illness. There are times where I was so ashamed that I almost didn't tell my parents. I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing them, have them think so much less of me. My family has often been all I have, the only people in the world I felt appreciated and loved me for who I am.

And then there's not just that, but then there's what happens afterwards. After I've gotten over my impulses, and I find that I didn't do the right thing and I can't get rid of the images in my head, I feel sick. Literally sick to my stomach. There is no satisfaction, no peace, no hope. You feel empty. And then you feel filthy. You can't look anyone in the eye. For me, my anxiety kicks into gear. It's always the worst anxiety attack I've had in a while. In my religion, we believe that the Holy Ghost is with us always - that is, if we keep the commandments and are clean. I think that emptiness, that anxiety, is the feeling of the absence of the Spirit. It's terrifying. It's lonely. It's the worst feeling the world, when you become aware of it. The fact that you know you made a mistake, and now you're facing the consequences, is the only thing that provides some relief.

I don't frequent those websites anymore. At least, I try not to. There are artists that I like, who have blogs and Tumblrs that I enjoy reading. And these artists sometimes work in erotic fiction. For the most part, they don't show anything 'unsafe' out in the open, but there are some that don't. These are the ones that I sometimes stumble over, that I walk right into. These are the ones I have to remember, and walk around.

As sad as it makes me, I need to stop reading these blogs. I need to avoid a place I usually enjoy being in, which usually offers encouragement and advice. It's sad, that a place that is usually so good could result in something so awful. But, no matter how good it is normally.....I don't want to have that feeling. I don't want to deal with that horrible, horrible guilt. It's not worth it.

I went to lds.org to read about forgiveness, to try and make myself feel better about my past actions. This video was the first thing I found. As I watched, I cried harder than I have in a long, long time.

This boy - hardly older than I am - did something far worse than I did. It was not something that could be kept secret. It was not something you could ignore, or gloss over. I can't even begin to imagine what sort of guilt he must feel, what horrible images he can't get rid of. That someone - and not just anyone, but someone who suffered as a result of his mistake - could forgive him, help him through it.....for me, it's almost incomprehensible.

It made me realize something: that if he can be forgiven, so can I. I need to forgive myself, for the sake of my own happiness. I think that's something all of us forget, not just me. When we do something wrong, really really wrong, the hardest part isn't earning other people's forgiveness. You don't feel like you deserve any happiness, that the only sentence you're worthy of is continual suffering. The shame and the guilt are overwhelming. It never really ends. But it can fade. You can let it fade. The feelings will remain, in a small way, to remind you of your mistakes. But that's so you can move on, and not make them again. That's the whole point of our humanity.

I don't know if I am going to post this to anyone - I will admit to being scared of what people might think. I have family members who read my blog, who have no idea that I've had this problem. I don't want them to think less of me.

But I guess that's a part of the repentance process - admitting you've done something wrong, regardless of what others might think of you. All I can say is, I'm sorry I wasn't a better person. I'm sorry for making mistakes. I wish I had never made them. I can only hope that someone will benefit from reading this. That is the reason I wrote this. If someone can read this and feel some measure of hope for themselves, then that is all I could ask for.

So....I hope you still love me, Family. :) But this is something I needed to get out.

(Note: No, this is no longer a great trial in my life. I have overcome it. Just to clarify.)

The Phantom of the Opera: A Rambling

So....this is actually an essay I wrote for my music appreciation class. I was supposed to walk about the play and its historical value, but I wound up comparing the movie and the play instead. Ah, well. I do love both. But anyways, when I finished this, I liked it well enough to post it here. So here it is. 

         
          Historical Video: The 25th Anniversary Stage Production of The Phantom of the Opera

    I was introduced to The Phantom of the Opera pretty early on in my childhood. Believe it or not, I actually discovered it through the book rather than the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. After a fashion. My brother, who I believe was in 8th grade at the time, was reading the book for an English class. And he loved it. And when my brother loves something, he has to tell everyone about it - in this case, me, his easily impressed little sister. Although I don't really remember everything he told me, one conversation sticks in my mind: he was describing the "phantom" (whose name I knew long before any fans of the movie did: Erik) to me, saying that the skin of his face was stretched tightly over his bones, making him look like a living skeleton.

    Yeah, you would not be wrong in assuming that that gave me nightmares as a kid. Fortunately, I was also a fan of the book-oriented TV show Wishbone, which happened to do a program focusing on Phantom of the Opera (yes....for a kid's show, they covered some some heavy stuff). They gave a somewhat more child-friendly play of the book, and it presented the Phantom as more sympathetic and pathetic figure, rather than simply the murderous, demonic monster I had originally envisioned.

   I have always loved stories with anti-heroes and complex villains, and this story is a superb example. I think that this plot, combined with the ominous and epic sounds of Andrew Lloyd Webber's compositions, is what made the musical such a hit. It's so fascinating, and so suspensful, it's really difficult not to find something to like about this musical.

    But I digress - I'm supposed to talking strictly about the musical.

    Well, I suppose I better start off by saying that throughout the production, I couldn't help but draw comparisons between the 2004 movie and the play. As much as everyone else dislikes the movie, I actually think it's rather good, and watching it in 2004 was actually my first true encounter with the musical itself. My brother, of course, made sure that I also heard the soundtrack from the original Broadway play (with Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman), and so I became well acquainted with both versions. And yes, I also saw the Lon Chaney film, and I have to say.....Lon Chaney was the only awesome thing about it.

    But I digress again.

    I have always wanted to see the original stage play, and so when I heard about the filmed stage production at Royal Albert Hall....well, if I hadn't been too poor, I would have gone out and bought the DVD right then. As it was, all I could do was rent it from Amazon, and watched it over the course of two days.

   And...well, it was good. In fact, it was excellent. For the most part.

   Yes. For the most part.

   As I said, as I was watching, I couldn't help but compare certain things between the movie and the play. Take the orchestra, for instance - the orchestra is considerably larger than the one for the play, and so when you hear it blasting out the main theme in the beginning of the movie, it sounds mighty and impressive. It always gives me chills when I see that scene, where they light up the chandelier and the music suddenly starts.

    That being said, the orchestra for the play was also very, very good. But it sounded considerably less impressive compared to the movie. Now, I know that it's a matter of limitations in stage as compared to those in movies, but still. I wasn't feeling that chill.

    Then there is, of course, the main actors. It's absolutely impossible not to compare them. Gerard Butler's Phantom is more suave, handsome, and seductive; Ramin Karimloo's Phantom is more deformed, more passionate, and considerably more insane. Therein lies the Big Difference, and as far as acting goes....well, I have to go with Mr. Butler on this one. While he didn't look the part, he acted it extremely well. You can see why Christine feels compelled to follow him. Not to put down Karimloo's performance, but when I was watching him, I could not see that magnetic charisma the Phantom is meant to emanate. He's supposed to be genius, a person you can't help but feel drawn to, despite his frightening appearance. It's what makes him so compelling as a character. With Karimloo....he puts more emphasis on the insane part of his persona than the seductive part. And that just didn't sit well with me.

    Of course, Michael Crawford comes out on top of both, since he combined the best parts of each performance (even if he wasn't the best singer), but as I have only listened to him as the Phantom rather than seen him, I have no real proof of this.

   And then, there's Christine. And again....yes, I am going to go with the movie again on this one. My basis for this is the song Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again - in the play, Sierra Boggess's version of the song was a lot more...over the top. She was louder, and more passionate, and more, well, operatic. It wasn't bad, but I couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable as I was watching her. I mean, when I picture myself singing a sad song at my father's grave, I think I would be more morose, more quiet, and less inclined to cry to the heavens in anguish. I wouldn't be shouting to the air, declaring my sorrow to the world. That's just not the appropriate tone. Emmy Rossum's performance was more on par with my expectations - she was very quiet and slow, and obviously shaken from her ongoing ordeal. You can really feel her pain as she mourns her lost father. It's a quiet pain, something she's been dealing with for years. She's desperate for guidance, trying to make sense of the frightening situation she finds herself in. It's all in her face, and in her slow movements and soft voice.

    Say what you will - Emmy Rossum portrayed it beautifully. I even prefer her over Sarah Brightman, who was certainly better than Sierra Boggess, but still a little too operatic and dramatic. I know that it's supposed to be operatic, but keep in mind that there are subtle moments in opera, too.

   And now this essay has turned into a long-winded comparison between the movie and the play. I'll break away from that now and simply address the play from here on out. The play is currently one of the longest-running productions on Broadway. And when you see it, well, it's not hard to see why. The music is wonderfully composed (with certain "inspiration" taken from certain other songs but cough cough we won't mention that) and is well placed, capturing the suspensful atmosphere perfectly. The best of these, in my opinion, would have to be Past the Point of No Return. Yes, it's not exactly the, um, purest song of the bunch, but when I heard it for the first time (yes, at the movie) I was on the edge of my seat, absolutely rigid and staring at the screen. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I knew where it was going, but right then I might as well have been a newcomer. The play also executed this beautifully, and I still felt the same suspense. Which, considering my lack of chills earlier, is a grand accomplishment in my book.

    My absolute favorite scene, however, has to be the one in the Phantom's lair towards the end, where Christine is pleading with the Phantom while he threatens to kill her lover Raoul (who I honestly could not bring myself to like, but whatever, he's the helpless love interest) if she refuses to stay with him. Here we come to the climax, and here we see some true suspense and emotion. This was where Karimloo shined (and Boggess as well, although she still manages to be a tad over the top), and where you could feel the heightened emotions running rampant.

    And then.....it descends gracefully, slowly, as the heated music slows down and returns to a dark, rumbling tone. And then it rises again, magnificently, when Christine takes pity on the Phantom and gives him a strong, solid kiss. This completely disarms him, and touches that one remaining shred of humanity he still possesses.

   Now, somewhere (most likely the book), it's better explained why he reacted the way he does to the kiss: throughout his entire life, no one, not even his mother, ever kissed him. In other words, no one has ever shown him any compassion or kindness. This one small act reminds him of his humanity, which in turn compels him to set Christine and Raoul free. Personally, I think it's this scene that makes the play, and the story in general, the most memorable for me. You sympathize with both the Phantom and with Christine (Raoul is pretty much a convenient plot device at this point), and see clearly the entire theme of the story. It's moments like this that are so very rare in modern stage as well as cinema. And it's why I, personally, adore this play, and this story.

Coming Home

Hey, guys.

I'm home.

Man....that sounds so weird.

And you know what's weirder? I have been home for over a month. But it doesn't feel like it.

If there's one thing I've learned over the past few months, though, it's that home can mean a lot of things. There's the physical definition of 'home' - the house you grew up in, the state you lived in, the country you were born in.

Then there's the....less physical definition.

When I first came to Russia, I was scared. Not just scared - I was terrified. As anyone who has read my letters will know, I had a rather colossal anxiety attack upon arriving at the Moscow airport, which lasted for about a week. I wouldn't eat, I wouldn't unpack, I wouldn't even shower - I wouldn't do anything that would mean I was accepting the fact that I was going to be staying there for a while.

Anyone who has lived in a foreign country - or heck, moved to a new home - will know what I'm talking about. It's that rejection of change - that scared reaction that comes with not knowing what comes next, and not wanting to find out. As a shy kid who has lived in one place her entire life (a great blessing in its own way, just as moving from place to place is), suddenly going from my hometown to Moscow, Russia, and then on to college, felt like the end of the world.

My parents kept telling me that it wasn't permanent, that I'd be coming home for Christmas, and then after that I'd be home all summer, but that wasn't enough. I knew very well that going to Russia meant that I would be passing one of the biggest milestones in my life - leaving home. And not just for four months - for forever. Because, while it's still my home, and I will always think of it that way, I won't be living there 24/7 anymore. Sooner or later, Christmas and Thanksgiving and summer vacation will end, and I'll be going back to what is now my 'normal' life - college. And somewhere along that road, I'll meet someone (and I know this is going to happen, whether I want it to or not) with whom I KNOW I will want to spend eternity with. Eventually, I'll have a family of my own, and building a home of my own. And from there.....well, I sure as heck don't know.

But even so....that's a lot to take in.

For a 19-year-old girl, it's almost impossible to even take all of it into serious consideration. I mean, come on! I'm not old enough to get married. Yeah, sure, I'm Mormon. Yeah, sure, I want to get married in the temple. But that's all SOMEDAY. Some 19-year-old girls are ready to get married - heck, I know some of them. But one truth of the human race is that we're all different. And for me, personally, I don't envision passing that particular milestone anytime soon.

One great thing I was taught growing up, though, is that in order for me to develop naturally and comfortably, I have to learn things at my own pace. Some things come slower to me than to others - some things come more quickly. It took me a little longer to learn how to speak correctly - but I was way ahead of everyone else when I learned how to read. Everything balances out in the end. Everything turns out for the best, one way or another.

In Russia, I eventually came to realize something - that 'home', for what it's worth, is not just the place I grew up. It's not just where my family's living, or where I was born. Home is - to put it bluntly - me. My personality, my mind, my heart, my thoughts - all of that is home. So (as corny as it sounds) wherever I go, I'm not a stranger, because I carry my home with me always. It took me a while to figure out, but it was worth the fear I had to feel in order to reach it.

And it's certainly a good thing I did, because a lot changed while I was away. The biggest blow was my grandpa getting sick. I think this, more than anything, cemented the fact that the childhood home I had always known wouldn't be the same when I got back.

And that's how it is. After four months, things AREN'T the same. But you know what - out of all the living things on the earth, human beings are by far the most adaptable. It might take us a while, but no matter what horrible things happen, we are capable of storming on through it. I mean, just think of all the different places we live - everywhere from dry, blazing hot deserts to dark, icy tundras. We may not like the idea of change, but we eventually come to accept it. And that's a comforting fact to know, even when you sure aren't feeling it.

It's funny - when I first came to Moscow, there was nothing I wanted more than to go home. Now, though, there are times when I'm sitting down, feeling lonely and out of place, where I miss it. I miss the beautiful forests, and the irrepressible babushkas, and the icy roads, and the quiet little towns, and the big, beautiful, almost impossibly colorful cathedrals.....but most of all, the gruff, incredibly blunt, world-weary, kind-hearted people who lived there. Right this minute, I'm missing it so much it almost hurts.

But, you know what...I didn't leave that behind. I took it home with me. And it's never going to go away. Just as my hometown is, and my college years are going to be.

Because, baby, that's how the human race rolls.

The Story of Souvenir Shopping

You see this? This is the entrance to Izmaylovo Market, possibly the best souvenir market in Moscow.

Or at least, my favorite.

Souvenir shopping has been an interesting experience. Initially, I was actually dreading shopping in Russia. The reason? Before I went to Russia, I went to China. And in China, shopping is a battle. You avoid eye contact at all costs - unless you're really, really sure you want something, you don't say anything - and you keep about five feet away from any stalls. Because the salesmen will mob you. And then you're trapped.

Not being much of a 'people person', this was a very uncomfortable and overall really annoying experience for me. I hate being mobbed. I hate having people shadow me while I shop. I like to be left alone, so I can go in quietly, make my purchase, and then leave. That's how it's done in the U.S, and that's how I like it. Some people enjoy meeting new people and getting into the culture of bargaining and whatnot, but for me, I just want to buy something and go. That's it. I'll pay the ridiculous price, even, if it means I'll get out of there faster. Which, of course, has proven to be very unkind to my wallet. Not to mention my pride, when my roommates and I regroup and they talk excitedly about how they five matryushka dolls for only 300 rubles, and I avoid looking at the poster that cost me 400 rubles.

Fortunately, for me and for my wallet, Russia is much more low-key. The salesmen will shadow you, yes, but they don't say anything. Not for at least 3 minutes. It's during this short period of time that they're examining you, making sure that you're actually looking to buy, and not just to browse. Then they step forward, and ask, either in Russian or English, what you're looking at. If you tell/show them, they'll take it out and demonstrate its uses, or show off its pattern, and then they'll show different versions or patterns they have of it. If you're still interested, but still hesitating, they'll either take something out that's similar/cheaper, or they'll ask what it is that you're looking for. And they take it gracefully when you politely decline and go your merry way. No chasing or shouting after you, offering a better deal. Well, most of the time, anyway.

The Story of Kindergarten

This is a short one.

But it involves talking about the kindergarteners that I teach, so that instantly makes it feel a lot longer than it should be.

I remember one of the things I was most afraid of when I came to Russia was that the kids wouldn't like me. This haunted both my nightmares and my day-to-day routine, following me everywhere. I was going to be the worst, most hated, most awful teacher EVER. I just knew it.

So, thinking thus, it would only make sense that my fears would turn out to be unfounded, and I would be the best teacher EVER, and everything would be perfect.

Sadly, real life isn't like that, and my first day of teaching, I found myself facing a classroom of 20 kids (our teaching limit is 8, by the way) who had never had ILP before and didn't speak a lick of English, with no teachers (American or Russian) to help me.

Suffice it to say....not such a warm welcome to teaching.

I was just thinking about this today, setting up chairs for opening for my kindergarten class. The kids we teach in our class are pretty young - no older than 5. And oh boy, do they show it.

At first, I wondered if there was something wrong with the way I was teaching. Was I doing something wrong? Was I not interesting enough? Maybe I should use more objects...make bigger, more exciting lessons.....make them WANT to sit down and listen to the lesson.

Now, I know it isn't that simple. I realized, partway through, that I wasn't doing anything wrong - I was doing the best I could. And that's all I could keep doing. As long as I did that - wasn't lazy, planned my lessons, and did my best at teaching, no matter how bad the kids were being - then I would have no reason to beat myself up about it.

And honestly, taking that approach has made me a better teacher. Sure, I won't be winning any awards anytime soon, but I know how to deal with my kids.

More importantly, I know my kids. As bad as they are, I know how special each and every one is - their personalities, behaviors, likes and dislikes. As incredibly frustrating as it can be to teach these kids, I still love them.

And then there are little, rare moments that I just cherish.

Like that day, only last week, where Mischa, one of our most badly behaved kids, was the only kid left at the end of the day, as everyone else had been picked up early. We wound up pretending to be airplanes, flying around the room, arms outstretched, making wooshing noises. He has the most adorable crinkly-eyed smile, and the tiniest, highest-pitched little boy's voice. He rolls his r's all over the place when he talks - listening to him is sort of mesmerizing.

A few days ago, I brought a plastic yellow barrel for a class. I had put a pom-pom inside it, primarily for transportation purposes. When I took it out, I handed it around for the kids to look at. When Mischa got it, he immediately noticed the pom-pom. He showed me the pom-pom inside the barrel, closed it, and then hid it under the table. At first, I was the verge of stopping him - he has a habit of taking things or knocking things over just to be annoying - when he whipped it out again, dramatically displayed the now-empty barrel, and loudly proclaimed, "ABERRRRA-CADABERRRRRAH!"

I nearly lost it. It was a good thing that we rotated right after that, because I don't think I could have kept the laughter in for much longer.

As bad as Mischa is, I am going to miss that kid.

I'm going to miss Kirill, who can't ever stop talking, and always wants to tell me everything (even though I have no idea what he's saying), and has that huge, bright, ear-to-ear smile. He always speaks so earnestly, and always waves to us when we leave, or shouts "HELLO! HELLO!" when he sees us coming. I'm even going to miss how he always tries to explain his way out of trouble, when it's obvious that he's the one that hit that kid or stole that marker. It's also made me glad that I don't speak Russian.

I'm going to miss Sonya, who always comes to class with a new stuffed animal (which she proudly shows off to us at opening) and is the most princess-like little girl I have ever met. And she knows it. Long, gorgeous hair, bright green eyes, and that exasperating penchant for refusing to do something while giving me that sweet, oh-so-pretty smile.

I'm going to miss Vova, and the strange little world he always seems to be living in. Sometimes paying attention, but mostly staring off into space, making loud explosion noises, or wandering around the room, off in his own amazing, explosion-filled story. When he speaks in Russian, he puts such quirky expression into his speech that I genuinely wonder what on earth he's saying - mostly because I have a feeling that it's something incredibly interesting....or hilarious.

I'm also going to miss Dasha, for being the sweet little angel that she is. She always speaks in class, always tries to help keep the other kids in line, always does the right thing. Her large brown eyes shine and sparkle all the time, and she is one of the most kind-hearted little girls I've ever met.

I'm going to miss Velizar, for his garbled way of speaking, and his cute little boy mullet, and his absolute OBSESSION with dinosaurs. Seriously, other little boys only wish they could be this devoted. He always brings a new dinosaur toy to class, always wears dinosaur clothes, and always notices whenever we have dinosaurs in our lesson - even when it's just a tiny little picture in a newspaper someone is reading in a scene in a picture book.

I'm going to miss Polina, for her bright, chubby little face, and the way she sulks so melodramatically. I love making her laugh, and seeing her bright smile.

I'm going to miss Gardei, and his fast-paced way of talking (both in Russian and in English), and the way he says, "Please sit down!" and "Fold your arms!" whenever he wants me to calm down or leave him alone. I'm even going to miss the way he just randomly tries to grab things from my lesson - no matter how many times we explain the rules to him, both in English and in Russian (with help from the teachers), he just keeps doing it. It's like it's an impulse - he just can't help it. The little kleptomaniac.

Heck, I'm even going to miss Nikita - big, burly, blonde-haired, brown-eyed little boy with the need to hit and kick just about everything, and make mocking garble-garble noises when we're trying to get him to repeat. Yes, even you. Because you know what? I know you're a fun kid. I've played ball with you - you like copying me when I make fancy tosses. I remember our first day, how Nikita was the last kid to be picked up, and he was so shy and quiet, and I had no idea what to do with him. So I just took out a ball and tossed it. A few minutes later, he was happy and smiling, having so much fun just throwing a ball back and forth. I had a ton of fun myself.

So, I'll remember the bad stuff, certainly - but at least by the time I get back home, it will be funny, and I'll have all sorts of stories to tell my family. But I'll also have good things to remember, and talk about.

I'm glad I didn't flake out and go home early. Because this, as frustrating as it has been, was worth it.

The Story of 2 Thanksgivings

Russians do not know how to stand in line.

This fact came to my attention when we were on vacation, waiting for our turn to have our passports stamped at the port in Helsinki, Finland. Now, I'm not saying that Americans are experts in organization - but one thing we do know is that lines make things quicker. Or if not quicker, at least more bearable. You can estimate how long it'll take by how many people are ahead of you; no one's crowding; no one cuts ahead; things progress in a decent, orderly fashion.

Not so in this situation.

We were standing in a large, packed room, hot and stuffy (despite the icy temperature outside), with people going shoulder-to-shoulder, shuffling forward a few inches every now and again. There was seriously no way of knowing just when your turn would be - it was pretty much every man/woman for him/herself. Either you shoved your way forward, or waited in vain at the back of room with the rest of the spineless weaklings with un-sharp elbows.

Now, you might be thinking, 'What on earth do Russian lines and sharp elbows have to do with Thanksgiving?'. The answer to that is: nothing. Absolutely nothing. I just wanted to talk about Russian lines. Fun, isn't it? I thought so. Now I bet you're all a little more thankful for those oh-so-dreadful holiday lines at all those ritzy American grocery stores and supermarkets. Because, trust me, you have nothing to whine about.

Speaking of thanks, I had the privilege of celebrating Thanksgiving twice this year. There's irony for you - I celebrated Thanksgiving way more here, in Russia, where they don't celebrate it, than back home in the good ol' U.S of A. I find it funny mostly because all I was expecting was one small, personal little celebration with my roommates. Which I did have, mind you. But that comes later.

So, we were making plans for Thanksgiving. We knew that we would have to teach that day and so couldn't do anything too elaborate. This was a somewhat sobering thought to me, if only because I was starting to feel the painful little nigglings of homesickness creep up at the memory of the veritable feast we had back home in California every year, with all the delicious food and all my family there, talking and watching movies and just enjoying each other's company. That was my favorite part of Thanksgiving - and while we were still getting some good food, I knew that my favorite part wouldn't be there this year. So, my enthusiasm for the holiday was just a bit diminished when we went to the grocery store by the metro station to get our pie and ice cream.

In the end, we bought a pie-like blueberry pastry that I was a little apprehensive about trying (it was in a box. On a shelf. And the picture on the front looked waaaay too pristine. I just knew it was going to taste like sugar with a bit of artificial fruit flavoring mixed in.)

On Thanksgiving day, we gathered in one of the dorm rooms, with the heated up blueberry cookie-pie thing on the table and the ice cream in the freezer. We had a paper bag on the table as well - it was full of little bits of paper, onto which everyone had written one thing they were thankful for. I suddenly realized that I hadn't put any in myself. So, I borrowed a pen and quickly scribbled down the one thing that stuck in my head when I thought of what I was thankful for, and threw it into the bag.

We started eating, and the pie- thing actually turned out to be pretty decent. As one of my roommates observed, it tasted like a blueberry Pop Tart. Which was only a few steps above my sugar-and-flavoring analysis, but hey, it was still good.

While we ate, each of us took a turn reading one of the slips of paper from the bag. There were normal like shower curtains, clean laundry, and not having to cook. There were funny things, most of them in-jokes, such as BRAINS!, farting, and other various things that I will not mention to save breaking the Code of Girls Everywhere. And then there were the more personal ones - saying what we were thankful for in each other, in Russia, in our classes, and back home.

This one was mine:

I am thankful for mischievous little blonde boys with big smiles and way too much charm.

Just for you, Kirill. Just for you.

It was a good night.

The Saturday afterward, we were invited to have Thanksgiving dinner with a family in our ward. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, as I didn't know this family very well. Well, actually, I didn't know anyone in my ward very well. But that was beside the point.

We waited for someone to come pick us up and lead us to their apartment. While we were waiting, the snowglobe I had bought earlier at the souvenir market somehow broke inside my bag. The fluid got all over my winter hat (stowed inside the bag in order to cushion the snowglobe, mind you), and nearly ruined the rest of what I had bought in the bag.

Suffice it to say, I was not very happy.

So when a Russian guy walked up to us and said, "Excuse me, ladies, you look a little lost," I was ready to kick some butt. No guy was going to get away with trying to flirt me, man. No way. I was done. Bring on the butt-kicking.

Then we noticed that he was wearing a BYU jacket, and my butt-kicking urges went out the window. Maybe it was for the best - kicking anyones' butt for any reason is a bad idea. I should learn to be more civil.

Anyways, it turned out that he was Brother...um.....well, his last name is Russian, and Russian surnames are really hard to remember. Keep that in mind. He was the man of the family we were going to be visiting. Let's just leave it at that. His wife was American, and they had moved to Moscow not long ago from Las Vegas. They had three kids, who some of my roommates knew because they help in Primary.

So, we were led from the mall down a few streets to their apartment. Walking inside was like walking into a dream. Yes, that is a cliche. But whatever. Every time we have visited someone's house, I've found myself unable to get over the homey-ness of it. Our dorms are okay, but they certainly aren't a home. They're a place to sleep, and to talk, and use the computer. The school as a whole, I guess, is our home - the place we eat, sleep, work, etc. But it doesn't have the feeling of home.

We all sat down in the kitchen, smelling the familiar smells of mashed potatoes and turkey. Eating the food was amazing. It was just like it was back home.....well, almost. The olives still had pits. But oh well. It was all still delicious.

But the best part was talking. There was another group of ILP teachers there, and this combined to make something almost exactly like my favorite part of Thanksgiving. I felt almost like I was in California again, talking and laughing and listening while I ate, hearing the chatter and clutter the kids made in the background......it was wonderful.

Afterward, we all sat in the living room and played games. I sat on the sofa, and had a deep discussion with the family's little toddler about a shoelace underneath the couch that looked like a bug. In the end, I still believed that it was definitely a shoelace, but she was convinced that it was a bug. Well, I tried.

In the end, overall, it was worth the globe fluid all over my hat.

Which, really, is all that matters.

Traveling

It's been an interesting few months.

For those unaware, I have been living in Moscow, Russia for the past 3 months, as a volunteer for the International Language Program.

Now, I know that I'm terrible at blogging, but even I must acknowledge that having this blog and not updating it while I was in Russia is kind of ridiculous. I can't say that I didn't have time, because I did, and I can't say that the thought never occurred to me, because it did, and I ignored it.

So now, with only one month left in Russia, I have come to a decision: twice a week, I will write a post, complete with stories, pictures, and otherwise. Most likely, this will be on Tuesday and Thursday nights - maybe Saturday if I forget one day. I am committing myself to this, because I feel that it's the best way to tell the world what I've been up to (not that the world especially wants to know....but whatever).

So here it is: my commitment. I will begin on Thursday.

So.....come again then. Hopefully, I will have remembered.

And so, with that said -

Da svedanya, and onwards.