From Western Ukraine

A "shashlick" (barbeque) evening at our Slavsky Lodge with Nikolai; colorful buildings of Mukachevo; Carpathian Mountain views and vistas.

This trip to western Ukraine has been so fantastic I don't have words to describe it. Olga, Tonya, Julia and I have just spent several glorious days in the Carpathian mountains, starting in Slavsky, a ski resort area that was our base, staying for 5 nights in a beautiful lodge built and hosted by Galina and Nikolai. From there we took day trips through the beauty of fall in the mountains to the tops of Slavsky, and then to Skole and Mukachevo, beautiful agricultural towns with a European feel.

Now we are in bustling Lviv, after a visit to the wonderful town of Sokal. We are in a suburb called Vinniky, staying with friends of Olga's, Stefa and Bogdan, a knowledgable, intellectual couple, full of stories. Stefa's daughter lives in NYC with her husband and son. Bodgan is a former Ukrainian army officer and a hero of Western Ukraine.

I have been feted and embraced. I've met cultural and political leaders like Oleg Ivanchena, mayor of Sokal; Ivan Brovdy, a wonderful sculpturer and artist in Mukachevo; 90-something Maria Petroshok, a gulag survivor, and 81-year-old Maria Korole, whose whole family are "freedom fighters" and in whose home in Sokol we spent a night; Mikhail Fertsok, singer and choir master in Scole; and Ostop Stakhili of Lviv, a popular folk singer and musician, a master of the ancient 64-string instrument called a bandoora.

The beauty of the landscape is matched by the beauty of the people and their fantastic stories about Ukraine history, culture, and traditions. I am learning about the struggles against the Nazis, then the Soviets. I am learning of murder, torture, the destruction of whole villages; of the "Gulag," of dissidents sent off to Siberia never to be heard from again. Bogdan's stories are riveting, stories of encounters with torturers, young soldiers murdered for no reason, young mothers separated from their children, a savage beating he himself endured.

Every home we visited, and every public building, has photos of Ukrainian heroes like Stefan Bandera, a fighter for Ukraine killed by the Soviets in 1957. Photos of people murdered in 1968 and into the 1970s fill homes, too, and I am surprised by how recent this history is, how fresh the memories. There is a strong sense of Ukrainian identity and patriotism in this part of Ukraine, so different from the East.

Our western Ukraine journey ended at a frantic pace and on a high note. After a delicious breakfast prepared by Stefa, we marched off to Lviv's historic center for a meeting of Women of Ukraine, featuring interesting talks, some q & a with the Amerikanka and, lucky for all of us, Ostap on the bandoora. We next had a whirwind but wonderful city tour led by professor Yuraslava, down historic streets, through the historic Lviv cemetary, where Ivan Franko is buried, to the Archikatedral Lwowska, a stunning church of Polish origin visited by Pope John Paul, past wonderful monuments,museums, varied architecture with lovely details, and outdoor cafes. The tour culminated at our final destination, the magnificent Lviv theatre, where we saw a magnificent performance of Strauss' "Die Fledermaus." What a day! We boarded our 1:00 am train back to Lugansk with a full heart, and headed back home, a two-day train ride back to eastern Ukraine. For now, here is a taste of western Ukraine--a memorable and fantastic journey into the heart of this nation.

Matters of the Heart

Above Ira, Luba in center, Luda. Right, another
Luba and another Ira, and me, all good friends.

Learning the Russian language has been my greatest challenge. At times this is the most frustrating thing imaginable. Mostly when we long to have a conversation on a deeper level than лривет и как дела, или добри день и сбасибо или что ты делала сегодня.

Luba's been going through a hard time for six months now. It's about her 40-something son being in trouble. It started in April and hasn’t let up. As usual I don't know the whole story. I only know Sergei is away and Luba is distraught. I hear her cry. I hear her pray. I see her aging under the burden.

I understand because I am a mom, too. I know how mother's worry about their kids, no matter what age. Mothers want what is best for them, what makes them happy. We pray they stay safe and healthy, and their kids, our grandkids, do too. But kids make mistakes. We all make mistakes. Some worse than others. And then we have to live with them.

So Luba is going through a hard time, a sad time. We are grieving together, she for her son, I for my brother, but we can't talk about it. I am stuck with a modest level of Russian. понялаюю зто оцень пецальноюю я чотела ты помоцью мне грустно зха васюю That's why I am glad she has so many friends, and that they have stuck by her. She is an extrovert and loves being around people. Her two best friends, Luda and Ira, come often. Luda is serious, Ira funny, and Luba keeps them going! Her friends Luba and Ira 2 are also stalwarts, here when Luba needs them. I enjoy being with them, even though I get only about 50% of what they are saying. They laugh, and gesture, and sometimes speak slowly in case I might get it.

I console myself that I may not know the language very well, but I understand the feelings. They are universal. They involve children, families and friends. They are matters of the heart.

Picking Apples

I joined Asya and Sasha for a bike ride on the day of the autumnal equinox. It was a nice day, with a crisp breeze blowing in from the north, from Russia, signaling the start of fall. This ride was longer than the one to Korychevka so I guess you could say I was prepared for it. It took us in another direction, out of town, over the railroad tracks, and way out into the country, through the steppes, the flat farm lands and prairies of Ukraine. The farmers had tilled the rich black soil for the winter. Flat all the way.

Our destination: an old collective farm, now privately owned but still available, at certain times in the season, for everyone to pick apples. On the way we passed several elderly couples returning to town with large bags of apples, those huge white produce or storage bags. They were obviously old hands at this process. “Probably going to sell them in the market,” Asya said. We were reliving some Soviet survival traditions. Pick them for nothing, sell them for what you can get. A touch of capitalism there, too.

Sasha, a brilliant and highly respected retired doctor, knows Starobilsk and this part of the country like the back of his hand, having lived here all his life. He knows the land and the history. He tells many stories. Asya, a retired English teacher and tutor, translates. We passed an interesting memorial to Ukrainians who had been rounded up, tortured and killed by the Nazis in 1941-3. The dead, he said, were buried there, on the land, no marked graves. "We just know they are there." I would never had known this, however, if I hadn't been with Sasha and Asya. I had never even heard of this event or this statue commemorating it, so far out in the country.I learn new stories every day, and want to know more.

We peddled on, and on and on. We finally came to the very large apple orchard. Sasha knew just where to go to find good trees, and different varieties of apples. We got busy and picked apples for almost three hours, Sasha climbing the trees, Asya and I gathering the fallen fruit. Adam and Eve peered over our shoulders, I think.

Then Sasha expertly packed up the apples and we biked home, stopping along the way to pick what looked like blueberries but are something else. Dark blue berries with pits, like cherries. They are bitter, not sweet, but Asya said they are great in vareneky, a wonderful Ukrainian ravioli. The bushes were full, and we picked a lot of berries, filled our bags, and peddled home. We felt lucky for the bounties of nature, for all the fresh produce we had collected to see us through the long winter. A kind of Rocky mountain high, but on the Ukrainian steppes, not in the Colorado mountains. John Denver would feel connected.

I’m beginning to understand, to grasp fully in the deepest sense, what Chief Seneca meant when he said “All things are connected.” This was Loren's mantra, too.

Neon and Pop Art: And Then Philip Appeared!

I've been having neon thoughts lately. Maybe it's the autumn equinox, what I call the "neon season." The last burst of color before the dying of the light. I don't think of myself in neon very often, if at all, but it happened the other day. It's a "one thing led to another" story, with a happy ending.

Sergei, our neighbor on Panfelova and dear friend from the computer store came over to help me add ink to my Epson printer. He helps me with everything technical. I had a Canon printer but the cartridges were outrageously expensive, so I bought an Epson for the price of a color cartridge. Now I'm having trouble filling the ink cartridges myself. So Sergei, bless his heart, helps me. He patiently fills the yellow, the blue, the magenta, the black. My color is back!

My digital camera wasn't working either. I had let Dima use it when the English Club went on a stroll to take photos of Starobilsk buildings. That Heritage calendar idea is still floating around. But he must have clicked something I usually don't. I handed the camera to Sergei, he turned it around in his hands a bit, and then he snapped this photo. "What did you do?" I asked in mock exasperation. I had played with it for an hour and couldn't get it to work. "Magic hands," he said with a grin.

So that's the trick. Magic hands. I'll try it. After Sergei left, I played with the camera and the printer, the color and the effects. I'm usually hesitant to experiment because I get lost in the technology and can't find my way back. But I persisted. Spun some magic. Went to the extreme, into neon. Extreme for me. Bending light and color. Trying for an autumnal look to celebrate the equinox, an Andy Warhol effect.

And what do you know! Lo, and behold, Philip appeared! My beautiful 3-year-old great-grandson whooshing down a NEON slide. He popped right in there. Pop Art! Neon magic!

this one's for Gran-E!

Autumnal Equinox 2010

Full moon. Golden leaves. Red berries. The last roses of summer in Luba’s garden. The Autumnal Equinox came to Ukraine from America today, 23 September, 2010, at 6:49 a.m.

Loren loved this time of year, and he always honored it with his own special rituals: The transition of the seasons around the world, the moment when day is equal to night, light to dark, and there is balance between them.

Does this balance auger harmony on the planet? It doesn’t look that way now. But we know the nights will be longer than the days; the trees, the flowers, the ground will rest. But first comes that glorious burst of color, that burst of energy that sees us through the winter, before the dying of the light.

Some of my most vivid memories are of fall in New England, the Pennsylvania mountains, southwest Colorado, North Carolina, Skyline drive in Virginia, and now Ukraine. Such unforgettable images, etched in neon in the mind’s eye. The neon season! The trees and flowers in their autumn finery. Yes, that's the way to go.

Biking to Koryevcheka

I went on a bike ride with Olga to visit our friend Tonya in Korychevka, the little village about a 45-minutes bike ride from Starobilsk. I must admit I wondered if I could make a long bike ride, but decided, in best PC mode, to ‘just do it,’ and worry about that later, if I had to.

It turned out I didn't have to. It was a great bike ride on a beautiful day. I had no problems with endurance or energy. Getting old with strength, grace and dignity, Loren would say! We biked out of town over the Aydar river on a very rickety bridge (worse than the ones Loren and I went over in Costa Rica, holding our breaths), over an old cobblestone road, one of the earliest roads in Starobilsk, and past the ancient part of town. We biked through meadows of wild flowers and corn fields surrounded by gentle mountains, more like golden hills; past small villages and large farms; past little stores and houses with large barns; past cows and goats munching on wild grass. They were scenes right out of Currier and Ives, or Norman Rockwell. Sunny and pastel, serene and pristine, warmly glowing and wholesome.

I peddled along behind Olga without a care in the world, absorbing the beauty of rural Ukraine. A rare feeling for a city girl. And so much better than driving through the country in a bus or car,or on a train. The 23rd Psalm started running through my head: "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul..." It was as if biking through the countryside accessed a part of my mind I rarely use, and dug up thoughts and memories I rarely remember.

Tonya, who teaches English at the village school, where I had a lovely visit last winter(2 March 2010 blog) greeted us warmly. She lives in a big house, built by her husband and his father, and they have a huge garden, really a small farm I guess you could say. It’s a working farm, and it’s a lot of work. They have 4 big pigs and 8 little pigs, many chickens, an old dog, and a cat who just had kittens, and huge fields of berries, melons, herbs, and vegetables, now mostly past harvest, except for some heads of cabbage, squash and pumpkins in the pumpkin patch. They have huge mounds of grasses ready to feed their pigs in winter. Tonya and her family live off the land and their animals, in survival mode. They have many cares, two grown sons with trouble finding work, and always work to do around the house and gardens. It's not an easy life.

Tonya is an inspiration to me. She works hard and is generous. She loves to sing. It frees her soul, she says. I can imagine her singing at her farm tasks. She teaches because she has to work. Anything to help the household economy. She was born in Kiev but has come to love country life. I love watching her and Olga working on language together, helping each other out in French or Russian or English. They are always careful to involve me in the conversation. It's reassuring, I can tell you.

Tonya prepared a great meal, fit for queens, with an apple pie and delicious 8-egg layered cake with a nut filling for dessert, and home-made wine and tea. Well, everything is home-made, direct from the garden to the table. Then we walked around the farm, admired the animals, watched the cute little pigs running around in circles, admired an ancient tree and the pumpkin patch, and flopped against the huge mounds of of wheat and grass.

What a wonder filled day. Olga and I biked back to town happy as larks, breathing in the fresh air of the countryside, and picking apples and plums along the way.

We are looking forward to our big trip to Lviv and the Carpathian mountains at the end of the month. Someday both Olga and Tonya want to visit America. I dearly hope their dream comes true. For now, we are happy to explore Ukraine together, friends sharing life, love and laughter.

Details

Above, Elaborately carved entrance Khan's palace, Bakchysaray; Opulent gilded and painted ceilings with sparkling crystal lights, Khan's palace and Odessa Opera House. Collage: Budapest's Grand bazaar tower and a wrought iron gate; Krakow windows; tile work, Uspensky church, Bakchysaray; Budapest Opera house; Tatar Biblioteca, Simferople, Crimea; entrance to the harem, Khan's palace, Bakchysaray. Mosaic with elegant surround, Uspensky church.

I used to dislike details. Now I feel just the opposite. I wish I knew then what I know now. It would have saved a lot of grief: those "sharps and flats" of past remembrances, as Mary Oliver calls them. But that was then, this is now, and it's all we have, the Erich Tolle mantra. Today I'm thinking about details.

Details engulf us. There are the details of daily life: What to wear or eat. Who to see or meet. What to do that's neat. There are the details of work life: How to write that grant, where to shelve those books, how to lead that seminar. There are the details of decision-making: Should we cancel the meeting? Add new members to the book team? Ask school teachers to help with that Democracy grant?

And then there are the kinds of details I have come especially to love: architectural details. I am usually overwhelmed by the larger picture. By the grand opera house. The beautiful cathedral. The magnificent legislative hall. The elegant presidential palace. The palaces of Kings and Queens, Khans and Shahs, Emperors and Tsars. I have hundreds of great photos to prove this.

But when I stop and look at the details, then I become engrossed. Not overwhelmed, but engaged. The devil is in the details, they say. I think that's true, and I’ve been bitten hard when ignoring that maxim. Beauty is in the details, too. In everyday details, yes, and most of all in those architectural details. I’m thinking about the craftsmanship, the talent, the patient devotion, the work ethic, the artisanal traditions, the pride.

Take the blue mosaic of a Monk above right. It is from the little Uspensky Cathedral with the glistening golden dome built in the mountain caves of Bakchysaray, Crimea. At the ends of the earth, almost. Who will see it? But some craftsman didn't care about that. Instead he put a lot of work into this lovely mosaic in this far-away place, tile by tile, piece by piece. A master stonecarver chisled the frame around it, also a beautiful piece of artwork. They emerged from contemplation, these details, and they invite contemplation.

Wherever I travel now, I marvel at windows and doors, many intricately tiled, painted, or carved, many surrounded by gargoyles, nympths and angels, birds and leaves, and bas reliefs. And beyond the details of the windows, those in and around buildings; be they homes or palaces, cathedrals or theaters, sacred or profane, the details fascinate.

And it's no wonder. The crafts people of old stayed with their tasks for years. It took ten or 20 or more years for Italian stonecarvers to carve the gargoyles around the National Cathedral in Washington, DC, for instance, chipping away, little by little, day after day,month after month, until a form emerged from stone, from marble, from alabaster. Devils and angels, animals and birds, human and inhuman, symbolic or imaginative, mad, sad, or happy. An award-winning documentary, The Stonecarvers, tells the story (funded by the DC Humanities Council, an NEH affiliate).

It's the same with the stained glass windows of churches, cathedrals, temples and mosques, in the Blue Mosque and in St. Sophia's in Istanbul, St. Andrews church in Kiev, the Kainite Jewish temple and St. Nicolas Cathedral in Yevpatoria. The light that streams through these beautiful windows cast a heavenly glow onto grand spaces. And on top of these, literally and figuratively, hang the ornate and ornamental glass work of crystal lights and chandeliers. Like those lights illuminating beautifully painted ceilings in the photos above. Or the Venetian crystal chandelier adorning the carved mahogany wainscotting in the State room of Livadia Palace in Yalta where Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill met. I love this tradition, too, the ancient art of glassmaking, foretelling modern American glass artists like Tiffany, Dominic Labino of Toledo and Dale Chihuly of Seattle.

And then there are the exquisite paintings, among my favorite details, covering walls and ceilings, furniture and grand staircases. So rich in detail, so vibrant the colors, so angelic the adorers, so passionate the love scenes. I used to think Michelangelo's awesome paintings at the Vatican were unique to the art world, to religious art especially. And of course they are. But he is not alone. Far from it. He had his predecessors and his successors all over the world. Countless Micheangelos in every country, across the ages, across time and faiths, painted temples, mosques, and churches, in India and in Katmandu, created well before the Renaissance, and also here in Ukraine and in Crimea, in Budapest and Krakow, in magnificent Istanbul, Ancient paintings adorn ancient walls. What glorious gifts to the gods, anywhere, any time, any place.

So here’s to glorious details. My latest toast: “Za Подробнее" [Podrobneyeah, in a rough transliteration]. Here's to tiles, and gargoyles, and ancient lights. Here's to dreamy paintings and heavenly stained glass. Here's to wrought iron railings under starry nights. Here's to intricate marble carvings and mosaic delights.