Beneath the streets of Moscow

I’m in that strange transition time between leaving one planet and landing back on my home planet. We left Moscow six days ago and have been in meetings in Miami. Due to a glitch in our ticket, we have one more day here in Florida before heading on to Oregon.

I woke up this morning, as I have woken up every morning for the last week, submerged in the subways beneath the streets of Moscow. In some of the dreams I’ve become separated from my friends and find myself lost, unable to read the signs, surrounded by hundreds of people all in purposeful motion. The roar of the frequently arriving trains on both sides of the platform, the possibility of numerous levels of platforms connected by long escalators, and the ominous presence of the abrupt unguarded drops down to the tracks—these all weave through my dreams and send me groping for the light of day.

Variations on this dream have been recurring several times a night, and this tells me I need to pay attention.

My actual experience of the subways of Moscow was positive, in part due to Johan and Judy’s excellent guidance. The subway experience is just one aspect of normal life to them. Yes, we had to keep alert, eyes on the guide, stick together and move quickly. And our jaunts from one place in the city to another often involved transfers from one subway line to others, usually on different levels. But it was all part of the adventure.

I found the Moscow subway system amazing. An immense but logically organized labyrinth of tunnels, tracks, platforms, levels and escalators links the city and offers a highly efficient transportation service. Not only well lighted and with ample signs and maps, the different subway stations are works of art. It seems that Stalin, the instigator of all this, decided he wanted the subway system to be as splendid as the theaters of the day. We didn’t get a chance to explore a theater, but “splendid” is a word I might use to describe several of the subway stations. Chandeliers, frescos, sculpture, paintings, floor mosaics—if it weren’t for the swiftly moving crowds, I’d have been tempted to slow down and take it all in.

Speaking of the crowds, they also amazed me. In all the rush and crowding, a certain orderliness reigned. People did not push, even as we funneled into the narrow openings of the escalators or rushed to get on a train before the doors closed. Even though people avoided making eye-contact, courtesy prevailed. This may have more to do with Russian culture than with the subways, but I was impressed.

Did I mention that the subways were clean?

So why these dark dreams? Why the fear? I’ve learned that my dreams, especially the dreams I remember, are about me, not the external reality they’re drawn from. In other words, this is not a critique of the subways of Moscow. It’s a call to attention.

To what? I’m not clear on that yet. Our Miami meetings have concluded, but I still feel the impact of the intense emotions as we worked through the complexities of a growing organization. At times the “roar” of the trains almost overwhelmed my senses. Is this the meaning? Or is it the specter of having to work our way through the maze of the social security system in a few years? That could certainly spark fear. Does it have to do with my reactions to difficulties in the extended family circle? Or is this about growing older?

I need to wait and listen. In the meantime, thank you, Moscow, for a fine adventure. And thank you for giving me a splendid metaphor as I explore the subterranean places in my own life.

(Written May 24, 2012)

Russia remembers

On stage in the public square, black clad

ballerinas, swaying, flesh out the moans

of Russia, mourn the loss of her sons

and daughters all those years ago. Bowing

to grief they push up against the brokenness,

move toward an uncertain mending,

as the old men and women look on,

knowing what they know. The crowd

around me, at once solemn and festive,

moves slightly with the dance. Above

us a grey sky hints of sun, but makes

no promises.

(Elektrastol, Victory Day, May 9, 2012)

Morning watch

William Stafford, that kind poet,

once told me how he got up

at 4:00 every morning

to sit in the quiet and wait for a poem.

It always came. Stafford filled notebooks

with the fruit of his attention and freely

shared it with the world. I'm grateful

to have been included in that world.

So here am I, sitting in my own

quiet spot by a window. The morning

grows light before me. Trees emerge

and the far hills. Like Stafford,

I’m waiting. Waiting.

Getting ready for Russia

How does one “get ready for Russia”? A country so vast, so extreme; a culture so different from ours, so mysterious; a history so tortured. Going as a tourist—the identity my passport assigns me—seems casually inappropriate. Russia demands to be taken seriously, even if the visit is only for 11 days.

Let me backtrack. The Board of Global Outreach of Northwest Yearly Meeting has invited Hal and me to go to Russia to visit Johan and Judy Maurer. They are not only “Friends Serving Abroad” (the board’s new term), they are our good friends. We look forward to spending time with them and getting to know their fascinating context. Russia.

I’ve been fascinated by Russia ever since I discovered Tolstoy’s War and Peace in high school. It’s probably my all-time favorite novel, one I still come back to every few years. To Tolstoy I’ve added Dostoyevsky, Pasternak, Solzhenitsyn and others. With all their differences, similar threads—usually in the darker colors—run through their works, weaving a tapestry that portrays a vast panorama, as well as an array of the details of human life, suffering, joys and dreams.

My vision of Russia may be overly romantic, so I’m trying to get ready by reading some books recommended by Johan.

A Long Walk to Church: A Contemporary History of Russian Orthodoxy (Nathaniel Davis) focuses on the years following World War II, detailing the persecution and survival of the church. Adding to that perspective, last night Hal and I watched the Russian film, “Repentance,” that also portrays the persecution of the church (among other dark themes). The ending scene is classic. An old woman walking through a town stops and asks another woman if the road she’s on leads to a church. On learning that it doesn’t, she scowls and replies, “What good is a road if it doesn’t lead to a church?” The old woman then turns and continues walking down the road alone. The film ends.

How Russia Really Works: The Informal Practices that Shaped Post-Soviet Politics and Business (Alena V. Ledeneva) has given me the sense that my many years living in Latin America provide part of my preparation for Russia. The author argues that “informal practices constitute generic responses to structural pressures in all societies,” and then goes on to flesh this out in contemporary Russia. When I read that the trust in personalized networks weakens “forms of generalized trust and trust in impersonal institutions, necessary for effective workings of politics, business, and civil society,” I see more similarities. One of my favorite lines is the author’s translation of a popular Russian saying: “the rigidity of our laws is compensated for by their nonobservance.”

Finally, Echoes of a Native Land: Two Centuries of a Russian Village (Serge Schmemann) chronicles how the traumatic upheavals in Russia’s history have affected one village and the individual lives of her people. That’s a lot of reading, and I admit that I skimmed many of the details, trying to get a feel for the writers’ main points.

I’m also re-reading two old favorites. It’s been so long since I read Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov that, while the characters are familiar, much of the plot seems new. I’m also in the middle of one of my favorite books in Christian spirituality, Henri Nouwen’s The Return of the Prodigal Son. I’m re-reading this book because our trip plans include a day in The Hermitage museum in St. Petersburg where Rembrandt’s painting rests. Because of Nouwen’s reflections, this painting has already impacted me greatly. I’m hoping to be able to spend time with the Real Thing. While not Russian, it seems fitting that Rembrandt’s works, and this one in particular, find a home in this land. I sense similarities in depth and spiritual texture.

Or is my romantic imagination running amok again?

No, I don’t think it’s possible to get ready for Russia. I’m doing what I can. And I’m open for surprise.

Some simple thoughts on grace

In June the Pacific Northwest Quaker Women’s Theology Conference will gather women from Canadian, North Pacific and Northwest Yearly Meetings at a retreat center in Oregon. This will be my first time, and I’m looking forward to the experience.  This year’s theme centers on grace.  I find myself pondering grace a lot these days, asking, among other things, about the Quaker perspective on grace. 

As preparation for the conference, we were asked to write a short essay on grace and submit it to the conference web site.  Here’s my offering: 

Last Saturday we began an all-day elders retreat with an eclectic contemplative exercise.  I find the combination of traditions grace-filled. In this case we combined the medieval labyrinth walk with Ignatian prayers of examine and a dab of Quaker silence thrown in.  On the way in to the center of the labyrinth we meditated on the desolations in our lives (all that currently separates us from God), and on the way out we pondered our consolations.

The desolation that quickly came to mind was disappointment in my lack of vocational discipline—my inability these days to write or pray with any regularity. I’m disappointed in myself.  And I can’t help but feel that God is also disappointed in me. Instead of letting the deep joy of these callings energize me, I’ve become strangled by guilt at my lack of productivity. As I walked I confessed and lifted this up to God.

Even before I reached the center, I sensed the quiet voice of Jesus saying simply, “My grace is sufficient for you.”  I felt his smile and began to relax from the inside out.  He reminded me that it’s not what I do for him that gives me value.  He loves me.  As I am.  And his grace is all I need.

“My grace is sufficient for you, Nancy.  Follow me.”

And I was reminded that not only is God’s grace sufficient, but that “There are no limits to the grace of God, who will make sure you will always have enough of everything and even a surplus for good works.”

I know I will continue to struggle with feelings of inadequacy and the pressure to be productive. I’m a child of my culture. But on a deeper level, I’m a child of God, and I’m growing in grace and in the knowledge of Jesus.  That’s my hope as I walk the very real labyrinth of life.

In the next few weeks, I will continue to ponder and post thoughts on grace. I invite responses as I explore a Quaker theology of grace. Non-Quaker responses are, of course, welcomed.

On stupidity

“…the stupider one is, the closer one is to reality. The stupider one is, the clearer one is. Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence wriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a knave, but stupidity is honest and straightforward.”

Spoken by Ivan in The Brothers Karamasov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

What a relief to know that.

My old face

One afternoon last week, as Hal was taking our bicycles out of the garage, a woman pushing a stroller stopped and asked for directions to the nearest park.  Two other kids ran around the stroller, while the baby eyed Hal suspiciously.  The woman was new in town, and the kids obviously needed somewhere to release their energy.  Inspired, Hal told her that he and I were just about to go bike riding, and why didn’t we all go together to the park.

I came out, met our new neighbor, and off we went.  It turns out that the woman had just moved in with her boyfriend, and that the kids were his grandchildren.  I expressed surprise; she looked young enough to be their mother. She actually had children and grandchildren of her own, living elsewhere.

I was glad we accompanied them, as one part of the route had us walking a narrow sidewalk down a busy avenue, and the kids were apparently glad to be out doors and on the loose.  We made it safely to the park and spent the rest of the afternoon together.  Hal and I bonded with the two older kids as we rode bikes together and played on the swings.  The baby, however, never stopped scowling at us.

Near the end of the afternoon, four-year-old Anabel, looked at me sweetly, head cocked to one side, and asked, “Why do you look so old?”

I wasn’t prepared for that. I don’t remember how I responded. I probably just laughed. But the question keeps circling in my mind. Actually, it makes me chuckle. But it’s also forcing me to examine my values, especially in light of a strong cultural pressure to look as good and as young as possible. I’ve been feeling that pressure ever since I was 13 years old, although for a while there I wanted to look older than my age.  As I grew up, married, and raised my children, my experience has mostly been that of my new neighbor. I’ve taken pride in all the times people have said things like, “That’s impossible! You look too young to have kids that old!” Or, “You? A grandmother? You certainly don’t look it.” For some reason this has always affirmed my value as a person.

People don’t say that so much anymore.  Wonder why.  But Anabel’s comment was a first. Well. Thanks be to God for a sense of humor. I guess I can see this as a good opportunity to realign my values with those of God’s Kingdom.

I hope I run into my young-looking neighbor again.  I probably will since they live close by.  I wonder what helpful thing Anabel will say to me next.