friday refract.

There are many ways we refract the light of our lives. Our views. I see light coming from several different directions and dimensions. Take the refraction of time, for instance. We create calendars and dates to lean it straight. But (in reality) time may note even exist. Maybe it's just a bunch of nows. And now. And now. And now. Now. Now. What we've done is carved a prism of nows. We witness our now through this prism. Some people are stuck projecting and experiencing current life through (mostly worries of) the future. Me, I'm more prone to witness my nows through the prism of my past.

Today, for instance, while Serkan and I ate porridge for breakfast, I remembered how his sister, Sevgi, and her family picked me up one early morning after an overnight bus trip from Samsun. Serkan was working in a remote place for a while, and I found a dirt cheap ticket to Amsterdam to visit a friend, and later go to a yoga farm for some intensive practice. Serkan's brother, Selim, and his family had taken me to the bus station in Samsun the night before. They waited for me to board the bus and waved me off. I felt so welcome and protected in that moment, I probably welled up a little.

I arrived to Istanbul, probably around 7 or so in the morning, with my flight to Amsterdam later that evening. I was just planning on finding my way to the airport somehow and waiting there, but, no. The whole fam came to get me, groggily, in the morning. They took me up some winding hills to see their old house with a crystalline view of the Bosphorus. Then we zipped our way back down to the coast and to a lively outdoor cafe in the Bebek barrio. Murat explained it was one of the oldest in the area, maybe more than 100 years old. The huge trees we breakfasted under backed his claim. I ordered fresh yogurt, fresh honey, and dried fruits. Maybe it doesn't sound like much. It's certainly more gringa than Turkish. But Turkish yogurt and honey are divine! I drank coffee and Turkish tea.

A kind of fairytale morning. Instead of wandering somehow to the airport by myself and likely a bit stressed, I was whisked up in this family environment full of love. Add beautiful crisp and then warm morning weather to this. (I can't imagine eating or sitting still anywhere outside these days!) We went back to their house for a few hours and later in the afternoon, they dropped me off at the bus service that would drop me off at the airport.

I've had other moments like this, moments where family has made a return or a journey so much easier. There are so many small ways people can rescue each other.
I remember one time in particular, my Uncle Jim and Aunt Vicki picking me up from the airport one dark evening, probably after a Christmas visit to see my dad, brother and Carol. Uncle Jim drove my car while Auntie Vicki drove theirs. Mine was freshly washed, shiny on the inside and vanilla scented. It was a quick hello/goodbye, a surreal moment, with Riders on the Storm playing as I slid into the driver's seat.

With Sevgi and Selim and fam, I probably felt a tinge uncomfortable at the time, because of difficulties in communicating. As in I don't speak Turkish. I certainly understood much less then, than I maybe do now. (Not to say that I understand much now...) But this morning. That random memory--which probably surfaced on account of the dollop of yogurt I plopped on my cereal--made me happy. A calm and content nostalgia. Not wrought with longing or anything close to lament. And it led to other happy memories.

So it was a happy prism. But so many times we live our lives--our presents--through frazzled prisms. Mine have typically been backward looking. But lately my prisms seem to be refracting some future line. Since I've been experiencing a wee flood of memories and moments, I thought it would be a good idea to purposely dive into them... on Fridays. Why Friday? Because, as I wrote yesterday, it's a day meant to honor love. Though every day is honor-love day.

on thursday.

A couple of days ago, I was showing one of my student's dictionary.com's cool word pronunciation feature. I chose Thursday. One path led to another, as paths always do. And I discovered that our beloved and often difficult-to-pronounce Thursday comes from Thor's day. As in the hammer-wielding Norse god of thunder, Thor. In fact, the days Tuesday-Friday (in English) all have their roots in Norse gods. Although the origins are different, both Monday and lunes (in Spanish) take after the moon. Friday and viernes (in Spanish) honor love: Freya or Frigg--the Norse goddess of married love and fertility--and Venus--the Roman goddess of love and beauty--respectively. This may not be anything new to many of you, but it's today's cool tidbit for me.

Now that it's past 9 p.m., and I'm barely starting to feel alive to the world. I have felt horribly under the weather all day, just exhausted more than anything else. I'm not sick, but I'm not chipper either. This morning my plan was to try out a new yoga class and then I had a running date. I woke up and ate a little breakfast early enough to have an hour without feeding myself before yoga. But I just couldn't even stay upright. The bed beckoned me back to it, this is after already sleeping nearly 9 hours. I read, got up and ate some yummy red lentil soup that Serkan made, and finally went back to sleep until nearly 5 p.m. At which point, Serkan asked if I still wanted to go for a run. We got ready fast, since the sun had just set, and went for a little run together. Afterward, I practiced my own abbreviated yoga routine. Without fail this makes me feel better. I can actually feel the physical space created within me. I can breathe better and live closer to grace. (Something I've been thinking a lot about lately.)

Serkan and I don't go together often, but I like when we do. This year I need motivation! Last year, I was training for the Ushuaia (fin del mundo) marathon with a friend. It was to be my second marathon. After my first, the desire to run another never picked up. But that's because of a sad streak in my life, battles, poems, and difficulties. Of course, that bump in the road, was also what got me traveling, picking up and moving, meeting my amazing life partner and best friend, so it's not all bad.

Anyway, last year we ran up to 20 miles before we discovered the race was canceled. I was the ra-ra part of the team, snow or rain or shine, vamos! At the end both Bill, my running partner, and I were suffering from minor running injuries, and ignoring them. I think I'd even (in an unrelated incident) broken a tiny bone in my foot. We tapered our training with the knowledge that the cancellation. Then Serkan and I traveled to Turkey and through Eastern Europe for a few months.

Upon my return to Patagonia, I'd had big hopes for training. But nothing ever really materialized. I still ran quite a bit, but short runs and not nearly as regularly. Bill still calls me Coach, which is sweet. But he's the one who keeps up his training. Go you!!! Me, who knows what I need: a kick in the arse from Thor.

 

12th century tapestry representing Thor

in between Odin (Wednesday) and Frigg (Friday).

Happy Thursday!

postcards fade to blue.

This afternoon I'm in a tall hot pink hostel, two stories of corrugated tin siding, typical of most buildings in Natales. I'm waiting for my students to show up. Well, not waiting, enjoying. Sitting in a plush velvety seat to take a wee rest while I scan, again, the huge postcard collection here.

Perhaps there are hundreds of postcards here, rows hanging from ceiling to floor, shoddily stapled together. They dangle against a backdrop of a blue and yellow painted wall, the colors split by a strip of wallpaper border. Giant full-lipped suns intersperse cherub-faced crescent moons looking down beatifically at the yellow stars and one audaciously ringed Saturn, patterned over and over.

Over and over the past few weeks, I've come to realize the blueness of postcards. Predominantly. I'm not sure if it's due to sun bleaching, time, an obsession with sky, the lasting nature of blue or something about the postcard industry's azure draw.

Sure, there's the odd red and white Canadian flag; an Ohio triptych within a red & white frame flaunting old barns; the mauve-blue of D.C. lit up at dusk; a rainbowed 1980s thank you!; one of the royal couples wearing red and black; citrus sunsets; a concrete Hamburg from above (framed again in red & white); Holland: red poppies, orange horizons, blue-green A frames, white & black windmills, yellow "traditional dress," and happy cows chewing their cud in green pastures; Vienese gothic cathedrals and brown bakery goods. Grenoble, San Francisco, Australian koalas, so many Patagonias and Antarcticas, Berlins, Brazils, Wales, La Paz & Hong Kong, the Blue Angels, Stockholm, the Taj Majal and Catalina Island--all doused in a prevailing blue.

It's been about 40 minutes, today's class a no-go. But I sense a postcard exchange on the horizon. Mail here is slow and has been unreliable in the past. But nothing's been lost for a while, and the idea of sending and receiving mail throughout this bitter cold (for me!) winter warms my heart. Funny, just today I also stumbled across The Benevolent Postcard Society, a little too late, but what a beautiful idea!

So, send me your address, even if you think I already have it! xoxo

oh, beautiful cello, beautiful morning.

This morning, in our heated and currently sunlit living room, I'm waiting for my students to arrive. I'm listening to Bach's Cello Suites (in case anybody does show), as classical music is supposed to aid in learning and info retention.

I've been teaching English classes to two groups of hostel and other small-business owners. My good friend Laura, who teaches ESL for a living has given me lots of tips. I've been able to use some of them, but because of the odd grouping of people and level of interest, it's hard to get a good routine going. The groups are small, and sometimes nobody shows up at all.

It's a pretty unnatural situation, because the students are only taking the classes to earn a grant from the government. The process requires that they receive training/take classes in the areas of their choosing. And although my students have chosen to learn English, they don't really want to. Well, at least not the majority of my first class. One has even told me on numerous occasions that she essentially has no desire to learn and is only participating in the courses in order to get plata (dinero) from the government.

Needless to say, these sessions can be disheartening and raucous. Often the students just don't show up. My morning class was in one of the hostel-owners hostels, but it has recently, for various reasons that don't have anything to do with me, moved to our house. I didn't make this decision, but I am definitely benefiting from it. I can be warm, teach without wearing my puffy jacket, and when nobody shows for the first hour of class (each class is a whopping three hours long), at least I can still work and be productive in some other capacity, instead of just shivering and waiting. Plus in the end, each student is only required to complete 50% of the coursework or hours attended. No es nada. So, after this week, only the people who have missed several classes already, will have to continue coming to class, and most of the morning group plans to complete the bare minimum as far as I can tell.

In nicer news, the second group of students have more ganas to learn. They attend classes more regularly, so I can actually do fun things with them. We've drawn self-portraits and baked chocolate chip cookies (in English) and had a blast doing it. When you have three hours to fill, something has to be creative about it.

kneaded, rolled, buttered, cut, snailed, blossomed & frosted.

Dawn's battering of wind has broken the typical weather pattern of the last week. The constant winter cold crisps the morning grass, but there is still no snow. Locals say it's not as cold as it usually is this time of year. Morning's have been sunny, calm, windless. By afternoon the wind picks up, a storm rolls in and the rain pours down throughout the night. This morning, when I walk to the corner market to buy eggs and powdered sugar, a fine icy snow blows against my puffy jacket.

I have had a cinnamon craving for a few days now. The cinnamon & sugar-filled baked banana we ate the other night didn't completely sate it. Because, what I really want are my dad's cinnamon rolls. So, today will be my first attempt at baking cinnabon-style rolls from scratch. Serkan has been taking some photos to  document my progress...

I even talked to my dad and brother on Skype conference call somewhere in between. We make a fine triangle across the earth, me at the end/bottom of it, Dad in Wisconsin, and crazy Earon in Iraq, plunging up the dough plumbing. No need to worry. Aside from overworking himself with 12+ hour days/ 8 days a week, he is safe and basically stuck (safely) in one place. He plans to be there a year, and I'm trying to get him to leave early and visit us in Chile! That is, if we're still down here.

Earon said that to make them like Dad, I would have to use a whole lotta butter. And a whole lotta sugar. I'm sure I used less butter than I "should" have, but I still tried not to skimp on it too much. In fact, here I am using extra butter. 

 

knifing the cinnamon worm.

 

snailing atop butter.

orange-zested cream cheese frosting goodness.