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chuckadams · 4 years

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The Fierce and Beautiful World: A Requiem for a Year

And now let us gather round the hearth—or whatever it is we consider a hearth in this day and age, be it a wood-stove (you lucky bums) or the soft glow of a smartphone screen—let us gather and dive into yet another of my long-winded rants and raves about the past year. For it has been a doozy. Is that the right word? Can a doozy capture both the highest of highs, as well as the lowest of lows? Is there a better word? I have already googled “best word to describe a year of ups and downs” and google cannot adequately give answers.

Because there are no answers.

Last year I wrote that there are only “arcs and circuits and feedback loops, and they are always bending and flowing. Gaining and losing. Seeking a balance, that will never be perfect or purely balanced.” 2019 was the year that proved it.

SRI LANKA NEW YEAR

On the first day of 2019 I woke up in Bucharest after a long sleep, interrupted briefly by midnight fireworks in the piazza down the street. I had just returned from a two-week trip to Sri Lanka, which, if nothing else, allowed me time to reflect and consider where I was going. I had just begun dating Ani, an Armenian-born Russian citizen, earlier that fall, and she was back home in Russia for the holidays.

One year later, I will read this, from a book gifted to me by my brother: “I will find my way into new country that beckons me to take unexpected risks, which turn out not to be risks at all, but the next step.” And I realize this was what 2019, and pretty much all of the past decade, has been about. Unexpected risks turning into next steps.

In Sri Lanka, I sat on a beach and watched a daughter excitedly frolic in the waves with her dad, and I thought, Wouldn’t that be nice, too? I took surf lessons (“I need to impress my surfing girlfriend,” I told my instructor). I sat on a flat wooden raft and was pushed across a lake by a silent boatman, while I spied elephants on the far shore with my binoculars, tuning in to the steady splashes of water against the hull. I leaned out from the open door on a jungle train as it chugged through tea fields in the highlands from Ella to Kandy to Colombo, listening to a soundtrack of indie rock music on my mp3 player.

I read, months later, about the terrorist attacks in Colombo and thought about the wonderful people I had met who would likely suffer from less income this year.

THE TROUBLE WITH ONLINE DATING

“Everything, even the weather, becomes a communication, or even a critical comment, on one’s relationship with things, phenomena, persons, etc.” I wrote that last year. It seems sad to admit, but the biggest comment about my newfound relationship with Ani came when I deleted all of my dating apps on my phone. Not days after I met her, nor even weeks. It took months. Months of internal conflict that culminated in what, for me, was a small victory for the soul.

Online dating apps have been both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, they have allowed an introvert like me to actually have a dating life. I recall, back in 2007, when I was suddenly single after a long relationship, how difficult it was to date. I didn’t even have the Internet at my house in Eugene, Oregon; no Wi-Fi, and definitely no smartphone; I got 8 hours of screen-time per day at my job, and that was plenty for me, thank you. Dating in 2007 was like the Stone Ages compared to today, where you had to physically go out and “bump” into strangers, or just wait until strangers fell into your orbit.

I’m not really the kind of person who talks to strangers at bars (at least not in bars in my home country), so I let people drift into and out of my life like those deer who show up in your front yard, eating your clover, and then move on down the street. I was that kind of deer, too. A feral browser, moving to and fro, with no rhyme or reason.

And then, around mid-2016, voila! an endless scroll of possibilities with dating apps, whilst living in ever larger cities of Portland, and then Bucharest. But I noticed something: the “endless possibilities” became, for me, antithetical to actual committed relationships. I remember going on a few dates with women, who were, on balance, worth spending my time and energy with, but that energy was instead spent scrolling through the endless possibilities still out there. It was like I was living through some bizarro world version of my college art film, “Hunting Love.” I had become a hunter-gatherer, and yet I wanted to be a farmer. These apps had turned me into a hypocritical monster. With so much wild game at my fingertips, there really was no rational reason to switch to cultivating a sustainable life with another person. I had resigned myself to eternal bachelorhood, and I was becoming more and more okay with this.

Then I met Ani.

And isn’t this how it typically happens? Someone defies all of your expectations, catching you unaware?

With Ani, our courtship (and yes, I insist on using that old-fashioned term) developed over the course of months, not days. It was like a tree that needed to grow a few rings of thickness before it knew it was something of substance. In the past, I would have looked at the seed, imagining I saw a tree, prematurely. Often I would have planted anew before even giving it a chance to grow.

For me, the seed became a tree when we both took a weekend trip to the Black Sea coast in late January 2019, a full 2.5 months after we met. We got a deal on a room at one of the few seaside resorts still open in the dead of winter, one that had an indoor pool and a sauna. That evening, before dinner, we took a stroll along a desolate stretch of beach. It was dusky, cold, and a light rain fell, coating us in those fine white dots of spray. I remember thinking, “There are only so many people on this Earth who would actually enjoy what we are doing right now. I mean, it stinks like dying fish on this beach, and it’s bloody cold, and there is nobody else around here except us.” But we got closer, for warmth, and it was obvious I was not asking too much of her to be here with me.

Later, in the spring, we took a weekend road trip to the far western part of Romania to scout a location for a school trip. Then, for a week we road-tripped through Bulgaria, with the highlight being some wild camping on a beach near the border with Turkey. Again, I came back from these trips pinching myself.

ADDRESSING THE ISSUE OF CHILDREN IN WAR ZONES

In the midst of all this, I continued to teach at the American International School of Bucharest, surrounded by intrepid and exasperating students, as well as adventurous colleagues.

For example, there was that wonderful week in February spent in Sweden with colleagues. We walked around Stockholm, then spent a solid few days cross-country skiing and soaking in hot tubs in Funasdalen, in the central-west mountains near the border with Norway. Mmmhmmmm, just what was needed in the middle of winter.

I also took on a new challenge this year, namely that I coached the middle school’s Model United Nations (MUN) for the winter season. We had a group of 8 students, all quirky in their own ways, who got practice in debating, resolution writing, and the fine art of lobbying. I’ll admit that I probably would not have been interested in MUN when I was a middle schooler, nor as a high schooler. It does seem to favor those who like to hear themselves talk, though it certainly attracts those with a desperate need for social skills practice. However, I liked that this was a group that actually enjoyed discussing worldly topics, like the role of NGOs in developing countries, or the role that religion plays in national politics. I was most comfortable when I could just assume the Humanities teacher role and guide students to a well-written and researched resolution addressing the issue of children living in war zones. We had a local, on-campus MUN conference in March, and then traveled to a MUN conference in Budapest, Hungary. The big news I wish to share is that, for the first time in my life, I bought a suit. Apparently MUN participants must dress the part, and their coaches must follow suit, literally. So there’s that. A small but significant change. Ka-ching.

THE POETRY OF BONFIRES

After MUN season wrapped up in early April, I got ready to lead a group of 7th and 8th graders on a trip to Port Cetate, in the far southwestern part of Romania, for a week-long creative writing and photography retreat. At my school, the 7th through 10th graders go on week-long trip in mid-May tailored to their interests. The trips ran the gamut from creative pursuits (like writing and photography), to outdoor pursuits (like rock-climbing, mountain biking, or scuba diving), to service-learning pursuits. On the trip I led, I got to teach kids about writing short, descriptive vignettes, as well as how to take photos manually using a DSL film camera (using my old Canon AE-1). It blew their minds that they would have to wait 2-4 weeks to see the fruits of their photography, most of which turned out slightly out of focus. Above all, I won’t forget the last day we had with the students, when we had a bonfire on the banks of the Danube River, looking across to Bulgaria. We had an impromptu dance party, which is probably the most memorable poetry these kids will remember a few years from now.

When we returned from this trip, I headed straight to the airport, to fly to Portugal to meet Ani in Sagres, where we spent two days surfing, eating amazing meals, swinging in hammocks, and hanging with her surf camp friends. We spent one sunset overlooking what can only be described as “the end of the world.” And others describe it this way, too. Sagres is the extreme southwestern point of the European continent. (It is at this spot that we hope to perform a small but special ceremony in June 2020.) Later, we drove north to spend a day in Lisbon, a wonderful city well worth the time and energy spent exploring its nooks and crannies.

SUMMER OF HANG TIME

After that, time moved swiftly. The school year ended, and my summer break began. This summer I would not be charting something so adventurous as the previous summer’s month-long bike tour of the Balkans. No, this summer the theme was Hang Out with Friends and Family, and Renew Relationships. I think this summer epitomized what I wrote last year about optima:

“Optima means there is no single variable which should be maximized over any other single variable: period. This is the practice of stability, of optimization; an oscillation of gain and loss; the practice of diversity; the spirit of community.”

What this meant, in practical terms, is that my legs and lungs probably got less exercise this summer, but I was exercising something else, perhaps less physical, but no less important.

I spent quality time with friends and former professors in Laramie, Wyoming; a week with my brother Jonah and family in Colorado; a road trip across Hwy 50, the “loneliest road,” from Utah to Oregon, with my brother Phil; a family reunion in Astoria with my niece, Skye, and her fiancé, driving in from San Diego, as well as my sister, Elisha, and her boyfriend, Joe, flying in from Chicago, essentially to celebrate my return from abroad, as well as my niece’s recent engagement.

At first I anticipated this reunion with trepidation, as Elisha has a knack for returning to Astoria with hurricane force winds, knocking down everyone in her path of verbal volleys, usually snarky but occasionally biting. That being said, I hadn’t seen her in over a decade, for a variety of reasons, and I realized, after she arrived, in full hurricane mode, and saw her interactions with everyone, that I missed her. Her boyfriend, Joe, was sporting a mohawk and pounding down the local craft beers I was offering. Uh-oh, I thought. Maybe I should have mentioned these were 6% ABU? Somehow we all made it up to the Astoria Column for the sunset.

I remember waking up the next morning and seeing that nobody was taking action to make anything special for breakfast. Such lazy bums, I thought. Then I remembered that I was an adult now...it only took me 36 years to figure that out...and that if I wanted pancakes for breakfast, I had to make them myself. So I got out all the ingredients and I started churning out what we call “big pancakes” in my house, and which are called Swedish pancakes, or French crepes, elsewhere. Sure, there were arguments about whether my dad’s cherry jam would or would not cause food poisoning...arguments over the absurdity of my brother running out and buying three large jars of high fructose corn syrup jelly…but those arguments came from the parents. I remember that Elisha and Joe were grateful for my sweat over the stovetop.

This, I choose to remember.

RECONNECTIONS

Later, once my extended family came and went, I focused on hanging with my parents, and spending time with friends in Astoria and Portland. On this trip alone, I met at least nine brand new humans under the age of two, such is the state of mid-30s life. At some point, I remember briefly thinking, “I miss the freedom of my bike tour of the previous summer, where every day I packed up my panniers and cast off on another journey to another new town.” Then I remember thinking, “Well, but this is nice. To reconnect and restore relationships...moreover, to have the blessing of time off in the summer months to do such a thing, is priceless. There will always be time for adventures; there is not always time to just hang out, however brief, and catch up on life.”

Indeed, I even got to spend a few hours with Ngaoi, a friend I met back when I was volunteering on a farm in New Zealand in 2010. She was the best friend of our hosts, and would come over often to hang out and help us in the hydroponic lettuce greenhouses. My ex-girlfriend, Rachel, and I secretly wanted to adopt her as our daughter (we were in our late 20s; she was in her late teens). Zoom ahead a decade, and she was visiting her current boyfriend, an American she met in New Zealand, but who happened to live in Beaverton, Oregon. They both made a weekend trip to Astoria, and I introduced them to the Blue Scorcher’s coffee and we browsed a “flea market” at a local church.

The sun races around the galaxy; the Earth sprints to keep up with it in gravitational orbits; and we always make our returns back to our origins to begin again.

THE ORIGIN OF LOVE

When I flew back to Romania, Ani had moved into my apartment in downtown Bucharest. We had planned on it before I left, but still it was a bit of a shock to see all her belongings in place, the decor slightly personalized to her likings. I didn’t mind it at all. Moreover, it was an important milestone, a difference that made a difference.

When you are 22, you have your whole life ahead of you, and, even if you’re certain about a thing, can take your time to get around to ascertaining it. Well, when you’re 36, and you are certain about a thing, there is no practical use in waiting to ascertaining it. You take hold of it and don’t let it go.

Thus, by mid-October, while we Ani and I were on vacation in Greece, on the island of Crete, on a stretch of beach we had all to ourselves, as the sun hung low on the horizon, I proposed.

The engagement ring has the words “origo amare” engraved on the inside of the band, an allusion to our first meeting at a coffee shop named Origo. The Latin phrase means, “The origin of love.” It seems ironic, I know, that the origin of love could be instigated by a few messages sent back and forth on Internations, a social media site for expatriates, followed by a meeting for coffee. There was no love at first sight. In fact, it took a month before we exchanged our first kiss. But every slow burn needs its spark.

Our spark came when I asked if Ani would show me how to use her longboard, which she had in the trunk of her car parked a block away. As we walked to the concrete slab, she pushed me from behind to see which foot was more dominant. It was just a test, but later, she told me, “You felt so warm.” Perhaps the body knows things before the brain does. Life is a mystery, and I want to hold onto that mystery, because there is no reason we should have met each other, growing up on opposite sides of the world, to meet under such particular circumstances. That spark led to another meeting, and then another...

So it goes.

One year later we were engaged. Unlike most other times in my life, there is no inner conflict, no hesitation. Sure, there are “What if…?” lines of inquiry, as per usual. But the one line of inquiry that sets me straight is the one that goes, “What if I had never met Ani?” It sets me straight because I know the answer to that one: I would be writing this end-of-year review as per usual, likely on a tropical beach somewhere, likely alone, and happy enough, because I am perfectly fine enjoying my own company (and the company of books), and I would be describing some incredible moments from the past year.

But I would not be describing what I suppose I’m describing now: a change in trajectory, a revolution of priorities. Without Ani I would have been happy; with Ani I know I will be happier.

OF LOGISTICS AND A DOG BITE

So the year beat on. In November, I brought my cross country team to the championships in Kiev, Ukraine, and got bit by an unclaimed dog in the middle of the coaches race. Spent my November getting injections of rabies vaccine by a no-nonsense nurse at the Anti-Rabic Clinic here in the city.

We enjoyed a three-day weekend at the end of November in Milan, Italy, visiting with an old friend and taking engagement photos with an iPhone X. I celebrated my 37th birthday on a rare sunny day in Milan, eating turkey at a belated Thanksgiving Day feast.

Throughout the fall, Ani and I spent many an evening planning the logistics of when and where we would get married in Romania (in front of the legal authorities) and in Sagres, Portugal (in front of family), as well as the insane amount of bureaucratic paperwork needed to fulfill the requirements here in Romania.

Ani and I have no plans to return to the United States to “settle down.” We met as global citizens of the world, and we intend to stay that way, at least for the time being. As of today, I have spent a little over 5 years of my adult life living abroad, in places all over the world. I feel at home in the world now, and building a cross-cultural, multi-lingual family seems to be my ultimate fate, happily.

THE REBALANCING OF HIGH & LOW

Well, so much for the highs. Sometime in September, I thought, “I’ve been lucky so far, because I have only lost my grandparents, and that was long ago. But...it’s only a matter of time.” And that time came in early October, with the passing of my Uncle Remi. He was 76 years old. My parents flew to Chicago to attend his funeral, as well as take care of his final arrangements. He was living in his family home at the time, and now that house, which had been in my family’s possession for over 70 years, will be up for sale.

Then, on the evening of December 7th, I got a call from my brother. I was in the middle of my school’s holiday party, at the Marriott Hotel, when he told me our sister had passed away. She was 47 years old. At one point, he mentioned that we knew this moment would come eventually, and I knew what he meant. In 2011 she had nearly died as a result of a critical MRSA infection. At that time I was in a far remote corner of Ethiopia, and the power and Internet was cut. My family was rushing to the hospital in Chicago, and I was rushing to catch a bus to somewhere with a phone signal. She miraculously recovered from that scary episode, and so I like to think that she was blessed with eight more years of life. Eight more years to make memories with her daughter, and to see her daughter get married on a beach in Hawaii this past October, so happy and joyful.

After the news, I sucked it in as best as I could and went to work for three more days. Some colleagues wondered why I was at work. Where else would I be, I thought, on the couch moping? No, it was better to see the faces of my students, to let them know what happened, so they saw me as a frail human. And they were so kind about it. About seven students from my 6th grade English class even surprised me with kind notes attached to my door, reminding me of the spirit of giving and generosity in our darkest month of December.

I flew to Chicago on a Thursday, arriving late, hosted by my cousin Jeremy. Despite the circumstances, it was satisfying to catch up with some of my family still living in Chicago, such as my cousins Jeremy, Harmony, Mike, and uncles Steve, Ben, and John, and aunts Linda, Pam, and Kathy. As well, meeting my cousins’ tiny children for the first time was a diamond in the rough.

The night before the funeral, my brother Jonah, his wife LuAnne, and my brother Phil, all of whom just arrived by air, picked me up from my cousin’s house. We congregated at the Hampton Inn, in Lisle, Illinois, where several folks were staying for the weekend, to put together three large photo-collages that would be displayed at the funeral. Elisha’s step-sister, Melissa, had collected arts and crafts supplies from the daycare she runs, and we all got to work, including my niece Skye and her husband, David. Together, we all did our best to piece together Elisha’s life from images collected from several sources across the ages. It was hard not to dwell too long on this treasure trove of images, some of which we had never seen until now, and before too long it was nearly midnight.

What is there to say about funerals? Are they really for the deceased? Or are they for the living?

As family and friends came together at the funeral home for a two-hour moment in time, we paid our respects to Elisha, and we paid our respects to each other. I met people for the first time, and I reunited with people I had only met once, long ago. The photo-collages were beautiful, but it was the photo album that my Uncle Steve brought—ones that held Elisha’s baby photos, when she ran and frolicked on the farms and coastal beaches of Oregon—that choked me up the most.

Every time I got near my sister’s urn I choked back tears. Stupid as it sounds, because I didn’t have any tissue on hand, I stifled the tears. But when the funeral parlor director came out to ask everyone to take a seat, or take a knee, while he said a prayer, I found some tissues, and the tears burst forth.

Then he asked everyone except the immediate family to walk past the urn and pay their final respects. I did not, could not, look up. More tears.

Then he asked the immediate family to come forward. We made a half-circle in front of the urn, in all its rainbow-hued splendor, reflecting my sister’s colorful character, sitting there amidst the expensive floral arrangement paid for by my Uncle Steve (“For these types of things you call the professionals”). More tears from me—and the funeral director told what amounted to an anecdote about his own mother’s passing as a way to lighten the mood. Later, Jonah would ask, “You think he tells the same story at every funeral?”

He probably does tell the same story. Because it’s always the same story. Loss is loss. Grief is grief. He can tell us all about how it will only be “a little while—hopefully not too soon! (haha)” before we see our loved one again in the metaphysical afterlife, but, believers or non-believers, it does not take away the pain of the present moment.

Even so, the funeral was over, and it was time to pack up the cars full of flowers and photo albums and an urn, and head over to Q’s for the reception, where the menu was Italian-American to the max, including what my vegetarian brother described, accurately, as a “meat salad.”

The remainder of the days in Chicago were for hanging out. Being together. One-by-one, people flew home, and I stayed until Tuesday so that this “hanging out” would not be rushed. My cousin Jeremy took Friday and Monday off work, as far as I could tell, just to hang out with me. In many ways, this trip was an extension of my summer trip back to the U.S. No matter how far I fling myself out in the world, the Great Magnet always reels me in, back to Chicago, back to Oregon, back to the Rocky Mountain West, back to the Pacific Ocean, back to Doug fir trees, sand dunes, and the coastal river valleys, where campfire smoke always drifts downwind, and where an ageless youth laughs out loud, in a cackle, at the glee and sheer terror of catching a crawdad.

CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

The final half of December I spent with Ani as we celebrated the Christmas spirit at three locations throughout Transylvania, in Romania, each place unique. The first place, Sinaia, is known for its mountain peaks on all sides. We intended to go skiing, but the snow report stunk, so we went hiking instead. Then we moved on to Cund, a small, quiet village in what is known as the Saxon part of Romania, a place with a strong German heritage, and fortified churches. We sat by a roasting wood-stove, watched movies, and went on a meandering ridge-line hike in the mist. Finally we moved on to Sibiu, a small city that resembles a storybook German village than anything you typically find in Romania. They have one of the largest Christmas Markets in Eastern Europe, and it is exquisitely framed by a picture-postcard square, with buildings that have droopy eyelid windows in the roof, so it looks like you are being watched.

And, who knows, maybe we are being watched over.

There is much to be thankful for in the year 2019. For me, a solid job I am passionate about, a fiancée who sticks by my side through thick and thin, and the good health to still run my legs through the forest at a fast speed, rabid dogs notwithstanding.

There is so much to look forward to in 2020, up to and including:

In February, travel to Ethiopia, with a group of five other colleagues

In March, Ani’s cousin’s wedding, in Togliatti, Russia

In April, travel to Armenia, to visit my newly adopted motherland

In June, our family wedding in Sagres, Portugal

In July, a possible bike tour :))

I welcome this new decade, like a new chapter, with open arms.

#2020 #letter #2019 #reflection on a year #requiem #longread

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