Yeah, I know.
Adage tells us that ignorance is bliss. How absurd.
Maybe there is a level of contentedness in going through life being completely unaware of the world around you, but I can’t imagine that making anyone feel that life is anything more than just okay. Sure, knowledge brings awareness of all the bad things that go on, and bad (really, really bad) things happen all the time. It’s pretty depressing, so in that sense not knowing about them is arguably a happier state of being.
This is something that I’ve had to consider quite a bit this semester in school. For the first time in a long time, I have been faced with a lot of new information in fields that are pretty foreign to me, and I have found that processing that information has been more difficult that I’m used to it being. It’s a little demoralizing, and very fatiguing. I have been constantly faced with my own ignorance, and that doesn’t make me feel blissful. It makes me feel small.
And it makes me yearn for knowledge all that much more. In the context of my school work, I certainly want improve my knowledge base and skill set because it I feel that it will enrich my life. My music classes have gotten more confusing, but I know that pushing through that confusion will make me a better musician. My photography class has been completely over my head for most of my semester (that’s getting better though), but as I am growing more familiar with the subject matter, it’s just becoming exciting and really just fascinating.
But it’s more than just school. For a while last Fall, I’d fallen almost completely out of sync with current events. I was busy and stressed out, and I did have the feeling that there were so many negative things going on that keeping track of them was making me feel even more worn out that I was. I snapped out of it about six weeks ago, and the things I’ve started paying attention to have made me blatantly angry.
But it’s good. Learning about the world means that I become more connected to it. Ignorance is isolation, in the loneliest sense of the word. Because knowledge isn’t just filling your head with facts and figures, it’s learning to make connections. It’s being able to take a small amount of information (because let’s face it, no one is ever going to learn everything, not even close) and having the ability to paint a greater picture of things in general.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s just vanity. I happen to really dislike the feeling of being approached in conversation with a new subject matter and knowing so little about it that I can’t do more than smile and nod. I know that I can’t learn more than a fraction of the things I’d ultimately like to be informed about, but I see a pretty big distinction between willful ignorance, and even the smallest attempt at understanding.
I want to be an opera singer.
I think. That’s what I tell people I want to do. It’s what I’m working toward.
And it’s true. It’s just that, sometimes, it’s really hard to tell. Even from my perspective. The route I’m taking toward that goal isn’t the most direct.
It’s a bit of a predicament. I’ve been told that if there is anything else in life what I feel like I could be doing instead, I should go for that. And I have that. I could very well pursue a career as a yoga instructor, get certified as in Alexander technique, and have a very fulfilling life helping people be healthier. Not a bad alternative. It would be so much easier, I think. But I know that, if I were to do this, I would regret it.
There have been times in my life where I’ve tried to not be a singer. For a while, it felt okay. But inevitably, I would start feeling restless, feeling this persistent itch. And a hollow, empty feeling in the middle of my chest. Going back to singing was an undeniable relief.
But I can’t say that the emptiness has gone away. Lessened. Quite a bit. But it’s still there. It’s gradually shrinking. Every day that I continue singing, it gets smaller and smaller. Little by little.
The problem I face is that, if I don’t pursue music, I fear that I will never feel fulfilled. But I cannot truly pursue music until I learn to sing from my heart. And that depends on things outside of music itself. I have made decisions lately that I feel will enable me to do this. I’m not exactly sure how to follow through with these decisions, but now that they are made, I feel confident that they will happen.
The decisions are conflicting. They don’t involve me getting the best music education that I feel I could get. Not on an undergraduate level. But they do involve me coming to an environment that will be more healthy and nurturing for me. As a result, I hope that I will be able to pour more of my heart into my voice.
I am tired of the emptiness. The fire that should be fueling my craft is a sputtering, inconstant flame. It doesn’t provide enough heat, not enough passion. And talent without passion, at least my my experience, leads just to waste. A waste of abilities and gifts that many people only dream of. If my heart has learned to be constant about anything, it is about the disdain it feels for that waste.
And so I keep saying that I want to be an opera singer. One day, those words will fly from my heart.
From _____, with love
After weeks of waiting, I finally got my care package from my parents. It comes at a very opportune time, because I’ve been feeling a little down lately. Maybe it’s the winter dragging on. Maybe it’s fatigue. Maybe it’s just loneliness. I wouldn’t say that it’s a bad feeling per se. I feel sad sometimes, but it’s a very light sort of sadness. I don’t know how to describe it. It is what it is.
I’m 24 years old, and I’m not what you would call self-sufficient. Emotionally, I’m pretty independent and what many people call “mature”. Practically, I have a very underdeveloped ability to take are of myself in the context of society at large. I’m working on it.
Two months ago, my parents moved to Germany. My dad got a job in Berlin over the summer. Their visas came through in November, and on November 29th, they shipped off. Here start the wacky misadventures of me learning to grow up.
Overall, it’s going alright, I think. I handled the initial transition with more dignity than I expected. I survived the holidays with a tolerable amount of grace, with the help of some wonderful friends. I’m adjusting to living by myself. Everything else, I’m still figuring out. But I have no doubt that I’ll get through it.
Still, it’s hard to be away from my family. We email, and we Skype, but the distance is a palpable reality. A part of it is that I miss my parents, but it’s also the feeling of being left without a safety net. My parents’ home is no longer my home. In a way, it feels like I don’t have a home to go back to. Which brings me back to feeling a little down. Maybe it’s that I don’t feel like I really have a place to rest.
The package I got today was my New Year’s gift from my family. I knew it was coming, and I’ve been waiting for it with some trepidation. It’s taken over six weeks to arrive, and I’ve nearly popped with anticipation several times over the last month.
I had a false alarm about two weeks ago. I’d gotten a delivery notice while I was at school, and since I wasn’t expecting anything else, I figured that it was my parents’ package, but when I went to the post office, I got a parcel from Russia, not Germany. My grandmother had sent me a gift. I was on the train when I opened it, and I’m not ashamed to say that I literally cried when I did. I was so overwhelmingly happy to get it. It was a pair of camel hair leggings from Mongolia.
You read that right. Camel. Mongolia.
It’s actually not that extraordinary, as my grandmother lives in Ulan Ude, a city that is pretty close to the Mongolian border, as artfully illustrated here:
Her packet also included a large bag of Russian chocolates. I can’t share them over the Internet, so all you get is a geography lesson. My music theory class got a taste.
My parents mostly sent me food. I got a box of praline chocolates, some cookies, a cute little box of marzipan, a Christstollen, and a pair of warm woolen socks, which aren’t edible. I really, really love socks. These match my new leggings. Both stylish, and a little itchy.
And it’s not that I’m so thrilled about getting new Stuff. I a good present every now and again, of course. But the bit of tangible familial love matters more than a box of chocolate. Love lasts longer.
Snow Day.
The blizzard that just passed over the Midwest has left me with mixed emotions, and a lot of time to ponder them. I love winter: I love the cold, the ice, the snow. I love the crisp sunlight on a particularly chilly day. I love coming in from the cold: the burning warmth of indoor air, sitting under a blanket, and drinking hot tea. I was born in Novosibirsk, which is in the Siberian part of Russia, and though I moved to the states when I was very young, my most vivid memories of my childhood in Russia are of Siberian winters. Snow in America has always made me feel a little nostalgic.
I know that the blizzard has caused a lot of problems for a lot of people. Many were left without power. Some were trapped in their cars on Lake Shore Drive overnight. A lot of the city has shut down, including the City Colleges. My school closed at two pm yesterday, and it will remain closed at least until Friday, because the amount of snow is just unmanageable. My house is completely surrounded by thigh-high snow drifts and piles, and until the village of Forest Park manages to clear off the sidewalks, venturing outside means tunneling out to the cleared off street. I’m more than happy to remain at home.
Indeed, this lull in activity is a very welcome one. I like school, and I’m sorry to miss so much class, but between the classes that I take, and the yoga classes that I teach, I haven’t had a day off in a while. This is a very opportune time for me to have a snow day: I’m exhausted, and I know that I’m going to be even more busy from here on out.
I won’t say that I feel like this blizzard was fashioned just for my own convenience, especially since it comes at so much inconvenience for nearly everyone else, but I always feel that the Universe provides what I need, when I need it. I needed this break. Sometimes, it’s difficult to admit that you’re tired. It’s not always easy to allow yourself to really rest. Sometimes, you need an excuse.
I’m going to end this post with one of my favorite songs, by one of my favorite bands, DDT. It’s in Russian, but the song itself is as beautiful and somber as a blizzard can be. Nevertheless, here is a translation.
V for Velociraptor
From time to time, I like to buy the one-pound chocolate bars from Trader Joe’s, the one with milk chocolate with almonds. Usually, I have enough self-control to make this slab of deliciousness last me for quite a number of weeks, but the last couple of times I’ve bought it has inadvertently been at my hormonal peak where, like many women, I start having massive chocolate cravings. I find myself resisting the urge to chomp into the bar like a maddened chocolate-crazed velociraptor. It’s a good thing that I finally live alone (more on that later), because it’s really not dignified.
In general though, I have a pretty healthy, balanced diet. I love fruits and vegetables, avoid most over-processed foods, eat in moderate portions, drink plenty of water, and little of anything else. Et cetera, et cetera. But I’ve always been bad at breakfasts, and I’m not in the habit of bringing lunch with me, which tends to dis-balance how I eat any given day. After a bout of stress about two months ago, where I lost eight pounds in less than two weeks because I was too frazzled to eat, I decided that it’s time for me to figure out how to standardize my eating habits.
I usually start off my mornings with a warm cup of water with lemon and honey 15-30 minutes before I eat anything else, which is an Ayurvedically good way to jump start digestion at the beginning of the day. I don’t drink coffee, and my caffeine intake is limited to the occasional cup of green tea, but I find that my morning drink wakes me up better than caffeine ever did.
During the aforementioned period of stress, I started drinking a protein shake in the mornings. At the time, it was one of the few things I could get down my throat, but I continued afterward because I realized that, while the smoothie that I make isn’t enough to substitute a full meal, it is likely to stimulate my appetite at a time during the day when I am least inclined to eat. For a while, my smoothie has included a scoop of whey protein, a tablespoon of Ovaltine for flavor and mild sweetness, a banana, a few tablespoons of yogurt (which I buy in a 5lb container in Indian stores; it’s delicious!), and a splash of milk. Tomorrow, I’m very excited to swap out the Ovaltine for half a mango.
My protein supply is dwindling, however, which puts me in a good place to optimize my new breakfast routine. For one thing, I’m thinking of switching to hemp powder, instead of whey. For another, I’m rather curious about cacao nibs.
I’m very wary about the idea of superfoods, mostly because I think it’s ridiculous to expect a few exotic food items to magically fix all my problems, if the lifestyle I live in general is detrimental to my health. As ridiculous, in fact, as the idea of food with underwear on the outside of their tights saving me from some odious supervillain. I would assume that quite a few people fall into this trap of thinking (the first part, not the part with the tights). Still, the idea of being mindful of foods that can be healthy, if not miracle-causing, is appealing, so I keep my mind open to foods that can potentially improve my diet.
Hemp protein is appealing as a plant-derived food, that not only has protein (which isn’t really my main focus anyway, since I’m aware that too much protein isn’t the best thing for you), but that it’s high in fiber, and contains omega 3 and 6 fatty acids, and B vitamins (and rainbows and unicorn tears, for extra good health!). Plus, hemp is environmentally sustainable, has a variety for potential uses, and it sounds like something that a hippie liberal like me should consume. Cacao nibs just sound cool as a new source of chocolately deliciousness, that could be healthier that gnawing on a slab of chocolate as big as my head. The hemp I’m going to look into in a few days. The nibs I will consider when my Ovaltine supply runs out, which I admittedly only got after finally giving into a week-long craving for it.
Physical health is definitely part of my path to greater love. Working towards a healthier body leads to a healthier mind and heart. It’s all connected. The cliche “you are what you eat” is so literally true, that it’s really impossible to separate physical health from a healthy diet. My breakfast habits are improving drastically. My portable lunch regime is a work in progress. My love for green and leafy things is still just wishful thinking, but that will get better with time and perseverance.
Little by little, I improve.
I Say.
I’ve been re-reading a lot of Jane Austen works lately. My New Year’s present (as a card-carrying Russian, New Year’s is the day of gift-giving/getting) to myself was a new copy of Pride and Prejudice, full of wonderful commentary and explanations. I was very excited about it, as it’s one of my very favorite books. I read it about four times a year. That is, I read it at two separate times during the year, but each time, I end up reading the book twice in rapid succession. Obsessive? Maybe.
After re-reading the book, I started watching the movies, including BBC versions, and Indian cinema adaptations. Consequently, I started reading all the other books… I just have Mansfield Park left. Part of Austen’s appeal is, of course, that I’m a girly girl, with girly romantic notions. But I also love her writing style, her satirical wit, her social commentary, and her understanding of human nature.
I can’t pretend to relate to Regency Era morality or lifestyle, but I there are ideas in Austen’s books that resonate with me. The concepts of courtesy, for one. It’s not just the notion of being polite, but of communicating in a way that is honest, yet tactful, of being mindful of other people’s feelings and concerns, of having both respect for others, and dignity for yourself. It’s conscious, deliberate communication, that requires thought before execution.
Language is very important to me. I love words, and I love making good use of them. I think that the way we communicate is reflective of who we are, in the sense that it betrays our inner selves beyond our conscious thoughts and ideas. For example, as I type this, I am very conscious of the fact that I have a very hard time proofreading. I like to joke that, as a foreigner, my mistakes can be explained by the fact that English is, technically, my second language, but really, the errors that I make in my writing are mostly due to inattention and a lack of patience to go over my own work.
Checking speech is harder than checking text, of course. There’s no editing of what’s been said, so I put a lot of effort into what I say. It doesn’t always work, but I try very hard to make my speech meaningful and deliberate, in the belief that, as my speaking improves, my mind will improve with it.
I think Jane Austen will be my guide from now on. I’m not going to start wearing corsets, or worrying about my virtue (that ship has sailed), or start looking out for a wealthy, yet love-able husband, but I am endeavoring to make my actions mindful of other people, aware of causing undue offense or injury. I want to learn to be kind and gentle in how I communicate, yet firm in my convictions, and confident in my meaning. I want to be able to show gratitude, when it’s due, and to show it with grace. I want to be able to remain civil and courteous even in the face of unpleasant company. And I want my communication to reflect the person that I am.
The down side of me reading all these books, and British literature in general, is that I end up taking on British English (circa 1800) idioms and speech patterns, which makes me even more absurdly formal that I normally am. Formal, and pretty pretentious, probably. I think that’s the reason some people think that I’m British. My accent is only vaguely Russian, but my speaking style seems to remind people of the British Isles from time to time.
Oh, well.
