January 30th – Day of Saudade

The other day while working through the material for my online TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) course, I ran across some examples of words that are difficult to translate. Completely unaware that my world was about to be rocked, I clicked one of the words, and this is what I read from Wikipedia:

Saudade describes a deep emotional state onostalgic or deeply melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing will never return.”

You mean…that nameless melancholy that’s been hanging over my head since I was 15 years old is a real thing? Oh my God, there’s a name for that? I thought. Relief poured over me.

We seek a country”, I used to call it, a phrase I borrowed from Hebrews 11:14, because I felt strange and out of place.

It feels like homesickness, only worse because you’re homesick for somewhere you’ve never been. Not just nostalgia, but great, heavy, soul-crushing melancholy. Some deep, deep ache so intense it’s almost physical, as if you know that something’s missing, but are powerless to fill it. Not just sadness, but The Sadness. The one that extracts your heart out through your toes.

I was 15, overwhelmed with complex emotional confusion that I couldn’t put words to. I had never heard about anything like it before. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I was being silly and stupid and that I just needed to pull myself together and keep my life moving. But it haunted me, that shadow. Everywhere I went, everything I did, that grieving/longing followed me. I couldn’t shake it, couldn’t kick it, so I hid it. No one else ever talked about anything like this. And I never spoke of it because I didn’t think anyone would understand. I thought I was crazy. And I was ashamed.

But this is good news! Similar ideas are recognized in many other languages! Says the great Wiki:

In Mongolian, betgerekh (бэтгэрэх) is closest to saudade. A feeling where a person misses something or someone very deeply, such as a soldier missing their homeland. It can be categorised as a mental illness.

Great. In Mongolia, not only am I woefully, mournfully, more-or-less always in the throes of saudade, I’m crazy too. Yes, that makes me feel MUCH better.

So, of course, this song by Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors immediately came to mind:

“Some days I wake up with the sadness,

Other days it feels like madness.

Oh, what would I do without you?”

Wikipedia elaborates further:

“It can be described as an emptiness, like someone … or something … that should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence. It brings sad and happy feelings all together, sadness for missing and happiness for having experienced the feeling.”

Again according to Wiki: “In Brazil, the day of saudade is officially celebrated on 30 January.”

So all that being said let me address this message directly to the source on the Day of Saudade:

Saudade, what would I do without you? I’m not sure I quite know… Perhaps I would be always airy, bright, and care-free. Always happy and never sad. What a lovely life that would be! But there’s a fragile beauty to this tragi-comedy of mine that I think I would miss, and there you would be at the end, Saudade, waiting for me and we would begin our spiraling dance all over again.

Do you remember when we first met? It was the day I said good-bye to Kabardinka, and I felt everything all at once: love, joy, pain, gratitude, regret, angst, fear, resignation, faith. Everything I had refused to feel until that moment came pouring out of me. And you were there, Saudade, and you never left me.

You see, you were the First. You were the First Great Emotion that I ever felt. You were the first to make my heart beat when I was numb and cold and devoid of feeling. You will always be with me, always be part of me, because I remember so clearly what it felt like to feel something for the first time. Like a piece of my heart I didn’t even know I was missing had suddenly been found. And then ripped away again. Is it any wonder that I have fought and struggled against you so hard? You are happiness and pain and anguish, always two bitters for every sweetNever a day goes by that you don’t greet me, because there has never been a day that I haven’t thought of them. You and Kabardinka are all tied up together in my heart and I can never recall the two of you separately.

All this time I have spent carrying you around, all those prayers for deliverance from you, all those exercises for letting go of you that I have triedBut now I know you, Saudade, and now that we’ve met face-to-face as it were… I’m not sure I would ever give you up.

You are not some formless shadow haunting me as I once believed. All our ghosts have fled. I know your name, Saudade. You are mine. It is not you who holds on to me anymore; it is I who holds on to you.

You are the push that sets my feet to moving, when everything that stays the same becomes unbearable. You are the lines I draw in my doodles. You are the myths I write in my folk-tales.You are the thing chasing me that I can not escape from, until I decide to turn around and chase you. You are the thing that drove me back to Ukraine after 7 years.

And you are the thing I feel when I’m looking through my TEFL course’s school listings – all the places where people have successfully gone to teach English – and I see the very city I have dreamed of for 12 years, Nalchik, is listed. Right there. Staring unblinkingly in my face, blinding me with unassuming pixels on my computer screenYou are with me in that moment when my past and my future collide to form my present, and I realize that the most impossible of all my dreams is not only possible. It is HERE. And my heart lurches and turns over in my chest, because the destiny I have been working toward my entire life I am standing right on the edge of it, teetering like a baby bird about to jump from the edge of the nest to whatever fate awaits.

And there are no words, not even Saudade, to describe what this feels like. Saudade, yes, but something more: Hope and Terror.

I don’t know if this makes me brave or desperate or just plain crazy, but I am tired of being ashamed of feeling this way.

And I don’t want to feel it alone.

So. For anyone out there who knows how saudade feels, January 30th is our day. 


With Unveiled Face

The 2014 Olympics are nearly upon us, and the upcoming Winter games have me wandering back into old half-forgotten memories and the lasting impacts they have left on me.

The most memorable of these was Alexei Yagudin.

Despite the love-hate-mostly-hate relationship with dance that I had developed by the age of 15, my long-standing fascination with figure skating never wavered. After 6 years of rigid ballet training, I no longer loved dance. I was too tall, too gangly, too big, and cursed with legs too long to achieve the glorious lines of the other girls in my class. Telling me not to compare myself with other girls was useless. All I had to do was look over at the girl next to me with perfect technique and her foot up by her ear, while I wobbled and struggled to hold my leg up at barely 90 degrees, and I knew that I would never be a ballerina. I would never be the best, so what was the point?

I was ever increasingly resentful of all the people who loved my “church presentations”, oozed over how “anointed” I was, encouraged me always to “glorify God with the dance”, and assumed I would grow up to be a “dancer” because I “had this God-given gift” and if I didn’t use my “talent” of dance, etc. etc…. That alone probably ruined ballet for me. That and the nightmare church-approved dance outfits from hell. This was pre-liturgical dancewear era before “worship dance” was really even a “thing”. Floor length skirts, wrist length sleeves, chokingly high almost-Victorian necklines, generous billows of fabric everywhere. Back then I had to wear three separate layers of heavy modesty clothing under these outfits, and I felt about as graceful as a fluffy pillow. But enough of that because it’s not like I’m bitter or ranting or anything… (insert awkward pause here)

Anyway. Resentful as I might have been, I couldn’t stop moving either. My mind made irresistable demands of my body far beyond my physical abilities. Leaps, pirouettes, attitudes, and arabesques danced before my eyes, while my feet flopped and clomped at the end of my wooden legs pitifully like a marrionette’s. And so I spiraled into a downward cycle of self-judgement and depression. By the time I was 15, I was miserable. I hated dance. And I hated myself for hating it and even more so for being unable to stop.

And then this happened:

Tall, blond, and oh! that Russian accent! I was done for. But height and good-looks were nothing compared to the way he skated. He wasn’t just skating a piece called “Winter”; he was Winter with every gesture, with every breath. I never knew he was about to jump until he was already in the air. Night after night I stayed up long after my parents had gone to bed, replaying the VHS recording of Alexei Yagudin’s programs, searching desperately for words to describe the indescribable. What was it that had me spellbound and made me watch again and again and again? 

In those days, I didn’t feel a thing. I was almost entirely devoid of emotion, never happy or sad, angry or nervous. I never got stage fright. I described myself earlier as miserable, but at the time I didn’t know that I was. I was empty and numb. Alexei Yagudin had something that I lacked, and I didn’t know what it was.

But I wanted it like I had never wanted anything before.

All I could conclude was that he loved what he did. And I didn’t. He had passion. And I didn’t.

I wanted to be like him. I wanted that passion and inner fire with which he skated. I hungered for it from the bottom of my empty, frozen soul. My shell of a heart recognized instinctively what it lacked, and craved it insatiably thereafter. 

It didn’t escape my notice when the commentator said emphatically, “He [Yagudin] changed the way he ate. He changed the way he trained. He changed the way he thinks. He said, ‘I had to be doing something wrong’.” And I wondered just how much Alexei Yagudin had given up to achieve this kind of result. How much pain did a person have to endure to burn with this kind of fire? And was I willing to go through it myself to get there? No way. I had too much pain as it was. What person in their right mind would be such a glutton for punishment? The thought of enduring any at all was unbearable. 

But I wanted that drive, that motivation.

I used to recite to myself over and over:

“We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties…..

“We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise…..
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!”

–exerpts from “We Wear the Mask” by Paul Lawrence Dunbar

I understood that, all right! It described my existence perfectly. My only defense was to wear a mask, or try my best. Sometimes I think I succeeded too well. Oh, it’s not like I didn’t crack sometimes, but the very few people I confided in or went to for help seemed confused. Why would such a good Christian girl from such a good Christian home have such overdeveloped feeling of guilt and anger? Simple. My parents wore masks too. And I was the only one who knew, because when good Christian people have problems at home, it’s not okay to tell the truth. So we lied and played a holy masquerade.

And yet…

He was the Man in the Iron Mask. He was a prisoner who throws off the mask and overcomes. Could such a thing even be possible? The only thing holding me together was the mask I wore, and I didn’t even realize I had one. But this introduced me to a new idea: the idea of living my life “with unveiled face”.

To this day the gesture of throwing off the mask conjures a sob too thick to be uttered through my throat. It sticks in my chest and makes my eyes water. Perhaps because I understand now that it requires a lot of courage not to hide behind a mask. You become vulnerable, and, beautiful as that might be, vulnerability has never been high on my life’s shopping list.

Alexei was the very last to skate in the final competition. I was wound tight as a drum, every muscle tense as though I could keep him from any wobble, any fall, any mistake through sheer willpower. But there was no need. He was perfect. No one else had artistry like he did. I believed he was a dancer, not an athlete. He took a sport and made it art. When those four 6.0’s came up and it was clear he had won gold, Mom and I shrieked and cheered enthusiastically — much to Dad’s bewilderment — and ate our celebratory 3 Musketeers Bars in an event of completely unplanned solidarity.

Both of these programs still take my breath away. It’s hard to describe how I feel watching them now. I still have that same awe, that same wonder, that same thought of “I want what he’s got” as I did at 15. But I’m no longer an emotionally vacant troubled teen, desperate to feel anything, but as someone who has decided that there is no ecstasy without agony, no gain without loss, and that we would never be victorious if there were nothing to overcome. If hardship or sacrifice is the price of passion, I have come to believe it is worth it.  I am learning not to hide behind a mask.

It’s been 12 years and Alexei Yagudin is still my biggest inspiration.  For years I have traced The Beginning back to this point in February 2002. The year Alexei Yagudin won gold. The year I met Kabardinka. The year I started learning Russian. The year I first went to Ukraine and discovered my roots. The year my life began.

But I am no longer sure.

As a young child I would put on the slickest socks I could find and attempt to slide across our yellowed kitchen floor. My parents worried whenever they caught me, especially Mom. I think she was afraid I would fall and hit my head. But she needn’t have worried. It was just after my first Olympics, 1994. And in my mind I wasn’t sliding perilously across old, buckled linoleum. I was gliding beautifully across ice. Just  me, the movement, and the whistle of wind in my ears. I was lighter than air, graceful as a swan on a lake.

Oksana Bayul became a legend in our house, and the fact that she was Ukrainian was always mentioned. Not that we knew anything about Ukraine at that time. It was just so unusual that it had to be noted, a coincidence that we would later look back on with much more admiration and devotion. For unbeknownst to Mom and I in 1994, three generations of our ancestors had lived, labored, and loved on rich, black Ukrainian soil before their exodus to the New World in search of peace and farmland. Oksana Bayul from Ukraine — I was raised to revere her ethereal grace and beauty, so like a ballerina’s, and though the white swan is my mother’s favorite, this pink outfit is the one I remember best.

It is really strange to look back and realize that it has been 20 years since Oxana Bayul’s 1994 Olympic victory, that at the time Ukraine had only been independent for 3 years. That I was 7 and in my mind Ukraine existed only in connection with the young figure skater who I imitated every time I stepped onto my imaginary ice. (Even into my teenage years, it wasn’t just a kitchen floor; it was an ice rink, and I was lost in the movement.) I slipped and skidded across that bumpy kitchen floor, like a fledgling bird dreaming of great blue heavens. There was no good or bad, no concept of a right way, a wrong way, or technique. I was a little bird who flew.

Perhaps that was the true Beginning of my life.

For two years this fascination with movement continued, until at 9 years of age Mom finally enrolled me, not in ice skating classes, but in ballet. Thank God. I was not cut out to be a figure skater. Swollen, busted knees and ice packs were not worth skimming over ice. Give me a kitchen floor any day.

I have finally come to the conclusion that it was never specifically “dance” that I loved, but being in motion. I love to move. Play music and I am physically unable to sit still. And looking back, I can see that I never really stopped moving; I just stopped thinking of it as “dance”. And every new experience has helped me unlearn my bad associations with dance and made me a little less broken.

It has been a long and difficult road since I used to search for answers in Alexei’s Olympic programs. I have wandered from discouraging attempts at ballet (because it was the only language of movement I knew), to folk dance, to Taekwondo, to yoga, and finally to a “real Ukrainian wedding” (where I learned the true secret of the willowy Ukrainian physique — strong vodka and non-stop dancing).

From folk dance I learned that dance depends upon your perception of the steps. Taekwondo taught me focus and that “there’s a dragon in me somewhere”. Yoga taught me patience and persistence and showed me that not all movement is dance, giving me the space to rediscover the love on movement I had lost. And the real Ukrainian wedding taught me that the important thing is not how you move, but that you just do it. (Because apparently if you’re not dancing, you’re not having enough fun!)

And now here I am, back at the basics in a friend’s adult beginner ballet class. Only this time something has changed. Suddenly I realize my feet are moving of their own accord, neglecting to inform my mind before it can start judging every little imagined flaw. Yoga taught me the importance of a calm and quiet mind. And though sometimes my mind still wants more than my body can do, I just smile to myself and say, “Later.” This would never be possible if I had not spent time in yoga.

I bend my knees, I point my feet, I fight for every millimeter of height in a developpe because I choose to. Because I know I have a choice. Tomorrow I may do yoga or taekwondo or attempt a new style or go to folk dance, but today I do ballet. Today it is enough to be lost in the movement like I am once again 7 years old and the kitchen linoleum is my ice.

I feel like a bird who is relearning how to fly. 

“And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.” 2 Corinthians 2:18

Things I like:

Read a recent interview with Alexei Yagudin!

Watch gorgeous prima ballerina Svetlana Zakharova.

Listen to one of my favorite songs “God is a Dancer” by Benjamin del Shreve.

For a list of some figure skaters to watch in the 2014 Sochi Olympics, go here!

Unfinished Business

My mother asked me to look up an old friend of hers before I left for Ukraine in September 2012. We met Kitty on that fateful first trip in November 2002, and lost touch with her not long after. Fortunately, this is an age of technology, information, and connection. One quick search and I found her in less than 5 minutes. Years had fallen prey to those bittersweet words “lost touch”, years during which I had simply never thought to look.

I sent a message to Kitty. You know the kind: Hello. Remember me? Mom sends love. I’m coming to Kyiv. Can we meet?

She was thrilled. Of course, she wanted to meet.

Yaroslav the Wise

Me with Kitty and Yaroslav the Wise, Golden Gates

One morning in Kyiv, Kitty called me, waking me out of a deep slumber. Communication was always an adventure of its own. And this time was no different. Between my broken Russian, my morning stupor, and her few words of English, we were able to arrange a meeting time and place. She took a bus down from Chernihiv and met me by the Golden Gates.

I wasn’t sure I would recognize her after 10 years. But every so often life brings you those rare, beautiful, and perfect moments. Because when I saw her, I knew it was her. I knew it was her and I was certain. She said I looked exactly the same. We talked and hugged and walked arm in arm down the street. I swore to myself the next time I saw her I would be fluent so that we could talk about everything. 

She had been my mother’s friend, true, but as my mom’s emissary and bearer of gifts, Kitty and I discovered that we shared something that gave us a common bond: love for my mother. In a way, that sort of made us sisters.

Mom had sent her a picture before they lost touch. Kitty had kept it framed so she would remember always, that awful picture where her eyes were closed. The memory of that time and place was so dear to her; it kept her going. She never thought she would hear from me or my mother again. She thought that we were lost forever.

Kitty, 17, and, my mother, Rita. This is the picture Kitty kept in a frame.

Kitty, 17, and, my mother, Rita. This is the picture Kitty kept in a frame.

And yet here we sat in an Italian/Sushi place in Kyiv, Ukraine, reunited and sending good thoughts to Mom, who was far away and probably sleeping soundly in America. Kitty said that when she received my message she cried buckets, tears just running down her face.

Kitty and Me

Kitty, 27, and me, 25. I never realized until I posted this, how much I look like my mom. Spooky!

But as often as life gives you little moments of bliss, it will also contrive to be cruel.

We rode the metro together, both headed for home. I was off to my flat, Kitty to her bus. I was promising to come back soon and bring my mother; she was begging me to do so with tears in her eyes.

Then it was my stop. Levoberezhna.

A fierce hug. A swift good-bye. And I was out of the train car. I could see her through the window. We waved as the doors closed, a sad farewell through the smudged glass.

I’ve noticed that Ukrainians generally don’t do prolonged good-byes. None of this: “No, you hang up. No, YOU hang up! No, you…” Just “see you” and gone. Sometimes it’s better to simply walk away. But I waited. And then I understood a little better the value of a swift good-bye.

When you say good-bye to someone through a train window, you can see them, you can smile, you can wave, you can cry, but it doesn’t change anything. You can’t reach them, speak to them, or hold them. You can only wait for the inevitable. And then suddenly, with a rush of wind snatching at your hair and clothes, they are gone. You blink and your loved one is vanished. And you all you can do is just stand there on the empty platform.

So I stood there, left behind, alone in a sea of people, who didn’t know and didn’t care who I was, who Kitty was, or about our story. And that’s the thing about Ukraine: no one pays you any mind, whether you’re waving a sad farewell through a train window, or crying alone on a street corner.

Goodbyes on a train are the worst.

For all I know, when the subway train took Kitty away, it might well have taken her away forever. Phone numbers change. Profiles deactivate. And long-lost loved ones are swept back into the oblivion they emerged from, as unreachable as ever before.

Sometimes I feel like I am always losing people, even as soon as I find them.

It makes me wonder, what’s the point? People come and go. They waltz in from the wings onto the stage of life, and then they dance right on through and off the other. Would it be any better, if they never danced through my life at all? Friendships that seem strong can shatter into pieces. Grudges can start with only one little misunderstanding. This flood of time can sweep someone out of arms reach in an instant, and you’ll find yourself like I did: alone at a station, knowing you’ll never see them again, but hoping. Always hoping.

What else can I do, but hope? Maybe there will come a day when I won’t be the only one looking, and I’ll be the one found.

Maybe there is no point. Maybe finding and losing people is just a part of life I need to accept. But suppose for a moment that every person who passes through our lives does so for a reason, to teach us something. What if we are given heartbreak in order to make us wise? What if we lose people in order to teach us to appreciate what we have while we have it, and then let go? What if we endure pain so that we will learn compassion? What if without these things, we would have no capacity for happiness or joy? Think of a sunny day, how much more precious that warm sunlight is after a week of cold, grey rain.

Kitty once wrote to my mother, and I feel she said it best: “Unbearable things happen in life, but you keep living — to see, to hear, to understand — and one day, life turns around and greets you again with a smile.”

At the end of the day, lost or found, I am one heartbreak closer to that smile.

Kyiv Moods

Kyiv has many faces and many moods, always changing. Not all of them are pleasant, but all of them are unforgettable.

A few of my favorite moods of Kyiv:

This is the Fun Part

“How do you tell if a Ukrainian boy likes you? I don’t understand the boys here at all,” I whined to one of my roommates, Anna.

I was about three weeks into my trip, and stressing about relationships, obviously, or the lack of them. America has labored unceasingly to teach me that if you are over 25, single, and childless, there is something wrong with you. Hence I was begging Anna to explain how these things work in Ukraine, as they seemed incomprehensible and I was convinced that Ukrainian guys were not interested in me at all.

Looking back, I don’t know why I wasted brain power on the thought. I didn’t really want a boyfriend, maybe only to feel popular.

Anna gave me a piece of advice that has proved to be one of the most important things anyone has ever said to me.

“Just relax,” she said sagely. “Besides, maybe it was just the magic of the night, a foreign language, being in a different country. You don’t know. Time will tell. If something is going to happen, it will happen. So you don’t need to worry. Just relax and enjoy it. If you’re falling in love, this is the fun part.”

I kept forgetting that she was a few years younger than me. I can still hear her voice like an echo:

If you’re falling in love, this is the fun part.

I didn’t want to spend my time in Ukraine worrying over boys and relationships. I wanted to be happy, fancy-free, to see and do everything, speak Russian, and generally be on holiday and enjoy myself.

She was right after all. I had been beguiled by the night, a pair of pretty eyes, and the music of a beautiful language. Somewhere along the way, without even knowing, I fell in love.

I realized it walking down Tychyny street one day. I was so excited about discovering new words and understanding, and how incredible it was to be in a foreign country with all the language skills of a two-year-old. I almost missed it. I was pondering the process of breaking through the language barrier, chipping away at it little by little, word by word, when suddenly, I knew that I would have no do-overs. I would never pass this way again. Once I broke through the language barrier, I couldn’t go back and do it over again. So right there on a little sidewalk in the left bank in the big city of Kyiv, Ukraine, I made up my mind to enjoy the process as much as I possibly could, while I tried to conquer the city and the Ukrainian/Russian language. Anna’s words came back to me with a crash and the equivalent force of a falling grand piano: “This is the fun part.”

It stopped me dead in my tracks, stunned.

Then I knew. I was in love! I was in love the way you love someone you can’t stand. You fight. You argue. You quarrel. They make you angry. They make you crazy. They make you mad. Until one day you wake up and you realize how angry crazy madly you love them, no matter how bad it gets. And the rest is history, or so they say.

Of course, Anna and I had been talking about a boy. And she had been absolutely right. Only, it wasn’t a boy I fell in love with. It was Ukraine, Kyiv, that place and time. I fell in love with life and the unhindered living of it.

I didn’t have to worry about how to make that “special someone” like me, or if that “special someone” was the “right special someone”. Suddenly, it just didn’t matter. I saw everything clearly. For once, it was simple.

Love is not a real-life game of Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey, though a lot of people treat it that way. To pin all of my hopes for happiness on someone else, or hang my dreams on their fragile wings, and then try to make them feel the same, is an unfair exercise in futility and a dangerous one.

It seems to me that people generally believe they must have a significant other in their lives to be happy. But I protest. Hearts are far too precious treasures to leave at just anyone’s mercy. Why had I ever thought I would find happiness by doing just that?

I don’t mean that I stopped wanting someone special in my life; I just stopped thinking that I had to have someone.

I wrote a besotted love letter in my journal, one stormy night not long after that conversation with Anna:

“I got off my bus early and walked home. I like to do this sometimes, because it helps me collect my thoughts. Or if I’m not quite ready to see a flat full of people. But this time, I got off because it was raining gently, I thought, and as I walked it got more and more, until I was laughing up at the Kyiv night sky, for sheer joy, because I realized that now I’ve seen Kyiv in so many moods, not all maybe, but I love her in all of them.

“Kyiv to me is like a woman or a person. You know, the ones you meet [with whom] at first you don’t get along. You fight, you humph, you disagree, you torment. And then one day you wake up and realize how crazy madly you are in love with them and how boring your life would be without them. Kyiv is maybe not the woman you would marry and raise kids with, but she’s the one you judge all other women by, the one you never forget. Kyiv is that affair to remember, the one you never quite get over. I laughed at the rain, because I’ve seen Kyiv sleepy, quiet and still, drunk, hungover, chilly, and warm, depressed, and wild, hurried, and bored, angry, and tender. I laughed because if by some chance this is the only time I ever spend with Kyiv again, I wanted to let her know that I enjoy every minute. That I love Kyiv in all her moods.

“Kyiv is that rare person you meet once in lifetime that you love so much that it doesn’t matter if they love you back. It’s as though after 3 weeks in Kyiv, breathing her air, eating her food, meeting her people, and drinking her beer, has spread Ukraine throughout my system, my cells, my blood. She’s under my skin and in my heart. It’s as though we finally stopped fighting. Maybe we can at least be friends. I can not tell you in any language how alive I felt on this night, sharing Ukraine with people, and walking, feeling her flow all around and through me.

“I can’t imagine, when I write such things with such emotion, admiration, and tenderness, what it will be [like] to go back [to America].

“Ukraine is not for the faint of heart, but she’s worth it. We are alike, she and I.

“Someday I hope someone loves me the way I love Kyiv, Ukraine.”