Light, Let There Be

The illuminated House of Blackheads with the stunning Peterbaznicas (St. Peters Cathedral) in the background. Not far from here is the site of the first ever decorated Christmas tree in recorded world history (circa 1510). The tree wasn't necessarily connected with Christmas, though, rather the Pagan traditional commemoration of the Winter Solstice.

Dear Friends,

On a Sunday morning, the city of Riga is an 800 year old ghost town, a vacant stage set of swinging doors and idle windows minus the characters from Saturday night's performance. Sunday morning Riga is as desolate and intriguing as three empty bottles of vodka haphazardly catching sunlight somewhere along Terbatas iela, the street I walk to church.

Not long ago on my solitary Sunday morning stroll through the somnolent city, I was startled by the rushing sound of a car whizzing past me -- excessive speed and cobble stone roads do not make for an inconspicuous escape -- followed by the siren wail and rushing zoom of a police car close behind whose driver proceeded to pull over the driver of the speeding car. Statistically, Latvia's roads are the second most dangerous in Europe after neighboring Lithuania's, so my first churchy reaction was one of gladness: One more speeder caught. One more standing pedestrian. Justice served!

As I continued my pious forward march, I watched the two men exit their cars, the cop wordlessly reaching into his coat pocket for a small black book which he opened and began to write in. The speeder stood motionless, leaning against his car like James Dean, until the cop did something unprecedented. Pausing from his writing for a moment, he pulled from his pants pocket two cigarettes, handed one to his prey, and set the other one in his own mouth. With his lighter, the policeman lit both cigarettes, first Andretti's, then his own, and silently, by rote, turned back to the business of issuing a ticket.

As the sole onlooker, I was touched by what appeared to be a random act of kindness. (Maybe I'm wrong and the two men actually roomed together at summer camp in Sigulda in 1987.) Good thing the first driver was a smoker, otherwise the surprise planting of a cigarette between his lips would not have been such a pleasant one after all. And while the gift of a stick of gum, or carrot, let's say, would have made for a much healthier treat, who am I to upset the smoke coming from a gift horse's mouth?

One minute you're being issued a ticket. Next minute you're puffing carelessly away on a cigarette, and, yes sir, there's still that darn ticket hanging over your head like a cloud, but maybe the world isn't so dark after all. Strange how light is handed out in the darkness when we least expect it.

As young brothers, one of the best ways Andrew and I could seek vengeance on the other was switching off the basement lights when the other had gone down to fetch something. Funny. Like most siblings, I imagine, we taunted and teased and hit and bullied each other, but what really scared us the most I think, what cut to the soul like no whop to the arm could do, was to summon darkness on the other brother in the infernal regions of our finished, otherwise quite pleasant basement.

"I'm going down to get my tennis shoes."

"All right... let's hope the lights stay on this time."

"Don't you dare, you piece of..."

And that's how it would begin. But, you know, we were both really scared of the dark. Maybe our mocking was a juvenile stab at demystifying the darkness below. And when we both went downstairs together, the darkness wasn't dark at all.

My friend Peter is an investment banker at Hansa Bank, Riga's sole skyscraper just across the Daugava River. He's not a regular church attender but finds himself in the sanctuary most often in the winter. "I need to get some light somehow," he told me.

I remember once being utterly floored by an adolescent girl's simple yet profound observation at a Presbyterian youth group meeting. We had been talking about Jesus being the light of the world. If you have light, you can give it to someone else at no cost to your own. Sharing light doesn't diminish your light at all. Brilliant. Just ask the cop.

In October, a couple friends sent me Yann Martel's exquisite novel, Life of Pi. I read it start to finish in the dim light of the tour bus en route to and from Slovakia. It's the story of an incredible, improbable journey one young man makes alone -- with a Bengal tiger -- in a small boat across the Pacific Ocean. When he's finally safe and recovering on dry land, two inquisitors come to him seeking to get to the bottom of his unbelievable story of survival.

"I'm sorry to say it so bluntly, we don't mean to hurt your feelings, but you don't really expect us to believe you, do you? Carnivorous trees? A fish-eating algae that produces fresh water? Tree-dwelling aquatic rodents? These things don't exist."

"Only because you've never seen them."

"That's right. We believe what we see."

"So did Columbus. What do you do when you're in the dark?"

What do you do when you're in the dark?

Last night was Christmas Eve and again the streets of Riga were shrouded in Dickensian duskiness and perceived emptiness. There was hardly anyone around, most everyone off somewhere with their families, I presumed. But the strobe lights at the entrance of Kalku iela were spasmodically blinking as on any other night. A girl was dancing on the bar inside of one of the clubs, and two times I was propositioned by a dark-headed barker, "Come in! Dancing girls! It's Christmas!" We're all looking for a little light.

In the darkened, candlelit sanctuary of St. Saviours the vicar read to us from the book of John. Those of us in the congregation, taught to be critical thinkers, accustomed to being incredulous believers, no longer so afraid of the dark, listened. Or tried to.

"In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it."

Yours,

Tim

Candles on the water: Floating flames drift down the Pilsetas kanals on Independence Day, November 18. The canal is directly across from my school and serves as a sort of divide between Old Riga and the City Center.

Not So Impossible After All

Gertrudes iela, not far from where I live, in Riga's City Center

"One could get a creche on New York"

Garrison Keillor
Chicago Tribune
December 5, 2007

I got to teach Episcopal Sunday school last week, a rare privilege, and it was in a New York church so the kids had plenty to say. Teenagers, and if you expect them to sit in rapt silence as you tick off points of theology, you're in the wrong place. They made plenty of noise, and not much of it about religion. Some of them seemed to be on a faith journey that was heading away from the Nicene Creed toward something cooler and jokier, some form of animism perhaps, the worship of cougars and badgers.

I like teenage noise. They let me say my piece -- God prefers honest doubt to false piety -- and then they said their pieces, and what shone through was a sensible anxiety about the future and the fact that they care a lot about each other. You could imagine a confirmed agnostic hanging out here just for the warmth and conversation.

We sat in a sort of triangle, two couches at a right angle, a line of chairs, a window looking out at the snow on Amsterdam Avenue, and talked about the rather improbable notion that God impregnated a virgin who, along with her confused fiance, journeyed to Bethlehem where no rooms were available at the inn (it was the holidays, after all), and so God's son was born in a stable, wrapped in rags and laid in a feed trough and worshipped by shepherds summoned by angels and by Eastern dignitaries who had followed a star.

This magical story is a cornerstone of the Christian faith and I am sorry if it's a big hurdle for the skeptical young. It is to the church what his Kryptonian heritage was to Clark Kent -- it enables us to stop speeding locomotives and leap tall buildings at a single bound, and also to love our neighbors as ourselves. Without the Nativity, we become a sort of lecture series and coffee club, with not very good coffee and sort of aimless lectures.

On Christmas Eve, the snow on the ground, the stars in the sky, the spruce tree glittering with beloved ornaments, we stand in the dimness and sing about the silent, holy night and tears come to our eyes and the vast invisible forces of Christmas stir in the world. Skeptics, stand back. Hush. Hark. There is much in this world that doubt cannot explain.

(I might have told the kids that when you use the word "awesome" to describe everything above mediocre, you're missing a word for Christmas Eve, but I'm not their editor either.)

New York is very gaudy at Christmas, and the Santa Clauses on 5th Avenue swing their bells with style, and the store windows glimmer and the city at dusk is ever magical, but all New Yorkers know that loneliness is a part of life and can't be extinguished, not by entertainment or pharmaceuticals.

I walked around the city that Sunday night -- two homeless people were camped on the steps of a Lutheran church on 65th, in the midst of grand old apartment buildings, and the opera crowd was wending toward Picholine and the Cafe des Artistes for the lobster bisque, and on the uptown subway we all sat and did not stare at the crazy old man boogeying in his sleeveless T-shirt and singing incoherently and watching his own reflection in the glass -- and how 17-year-old kids should mesh New York with the Nativity, I was not able to tell them. God prefers admitted incompetence to fake authority.

But explaining the universe to them was not my job, only to love them, which I do, utterly. They are brave and loyal and funny, heading out into a world that is not forgiving of mistakes, that will try to pummel them into submission, that is capable of awesome cruelty and deceit, but here they are. Emily Dickinson said, "To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else," and if she, who spent most of her adult life in her bedroom, could feel that way, then think how it must be for the rest of us.

A day in New York can show you such startling sights, including a band of doubting teenagers clustered in church on a snowy morning, that the birth of the child in the hay seems not so impossible after all, even appropriate, even necessary.

Thanks for the clipping, Addie.

La Bohème: A sparkling night with Joy and Whit.

Whit, from Baltimore, is here on a Fulbright scholarship and landed in Inga's house.

He lives on the sixth-floor in a "period"... uh, "rustic" flat,

coined by Inga and now affectionately referred to as The Penthouse.

Hunger

Dear Friends,

Hunger is one of my closest traveling companions. I'm often hungry. It's not that food is hard to come by or funds run too quickly dry. Nor is my hunger Riga specific by any means, as my appetite was alive and active even in Illinois, the heart of America's bread basket. I like to eat and so I do. I'm fortunate that I can. At age 28, I wonder how much longer I can fall back on the exhausted excuse, "I'm a growing boy" or respond politely to the observation that I must have a hollow leg to fill. Maybe I do.

This past week I've been honored to welcome three friends to my Rigan table: Joy, from Illinois, and her friends, Preeta and Anna, from London. The trio taught together last year in Madrid. Showing them around the city has woken this sleepy man from his slumber. Nothing like seeing a place through the willing, expectant eyes of guests. We covered the highlights and a few hidden gems of Riga, mostly on foot, but the real jubilation of their visit manifested itself when we sat down to eat. For me, a pork chop and mashed potatoes usually qualify as suitable dinnertime company but breaking bread in the presence of friends makes the food that much tastier.

That's why I was doubly excited to dine at Vincents, arguably Riga's finest and best-known restaurant, named after Van Gogh. My thoughtful brother and sister-in-law presented me with a gift certificate to Vincents as a token of their thanks for serving as best man in their wedding. It was an arduous job but someone had to do it. Since receiving their gift the end of July, I'd been anticipating using it. Going, then, to Vincents on Friday night with Joy, who had been my date to the wedding, seemed like the perfect time to celebrate the close of her stay in Riga while remembering Andrew and Alicia's kindness and generosity.

Prior to our 7:00 reservation, Joy and I prepared for our evening with formidable intentionality. After bathing, grooming, and dressing, Joy emerged an ethereal sight in her new black and white dress. I can't claim to have come close to matching her radiance -- a careless bout with the razor left my neck slightly sliced and a precarious pimple remained conspicuous even after being touched up with a tiny drop of Mary Kay foundation (make-up is a sign of virility, gentlemen) -- but, exterior primping aside, my enthusiasm came to a head as we walked in the unpretentious lower-level entrance of Vincents off of Elizabetes iela in the famed Art Nouveau section of Riga.

"You must be Timothy Chipman," one of the hosts said as we walked in. Cool, they were actually waiting for us!

"That's Mister Timothy Chipman to you," I thought, with a smug cackle.

The place was posh. White walls and beige carpets were augmented by minimalist artwork (yes, we concluded, the sketched horses were indeed mating in the framed piece behind us) and natural decor -- dark, wintry flowers strategically dangling from the ceiling, a shelf full of zen rocks and small votives, orange fruit and simple floating red candles on each table. Ella Fitzgerald crooned Christmas songs through the small speakers. The place oozed charm and Fung shui. It smelled of money.

After pushing in Joy's chair, our conciliatory server asked us about aperitifs.

Joy and I glanced at each other. A pair of what?

Whatever we said must have been right because a couple minutes later, the cart of pre-dinner wines and champagnes had been pulled up next to our table. Feigning certainty, we tentatively made our selections and were pleased with the results.

After agreeing that this was the fanciest restaurant either of us had ever been to, I had an epiphany. "Joy," I said, "This is an experience to be remembered. We need to own this place... embrace it!"

Which was all well and good until the menu came. It read like a fairy tale but was anything but embraceable. The server shared with us the specials and proceeded to give us his recommendations. I felt like I had been given the charge of selecting a new car. For 70 Lats per person, Joy and I could have partaken in the "Christmas Tasting Menu," a full-blown five-course extravaganza fit for King Ahaz, but we declined. In the words of Steve Martin as father of the bride, we opted, let's say, for the "chepper chicken." We were not disappointed. My grilled wild boar with chestnuts, a traditional Latvian dish, was a colorful parade on a plate, and Joy claimed satisfaction with her Irish dish of grilled noisettes of lamb with pearl-barley and mushrooms. I'm still looking into what "noisettes" are precisely.

An empty dish with the slightest remaining traces of crème brûlée, my melting bowl of ice cream (yes, the bowl itself was made of raspberry ice), and two and a half hours later, Joy and I toddled our way past Elton John, George W. Bush, Madeline Albright, B. B. King and other dignitaries framed posing with the chef on the wall to fetch our coats. The meal -- the entire experience -- was sensational.

I was hardly hungry for breakfast Saturday morning. Somehow my Special K didn't seem so special. With Joy already in the air, I rolled out of bed for the second time that morning, picked up yesterday's jeans and sweatshirt off my make-shift dresser, put on my glasses and stocking cap and made my way through Old Riga to St. Saviours. I've been helping with the church's Saturday soup kitchen off and on since my arrival four months ago. I was told the soup kitchen was originally conceived by two teenage girls who organized the weekly event. Eventually, a troupe of boy scouts provided the tables and chairs in the church's undercroft calling to mind the unforgettable words, And a child shall lead them. These days the soup kitchen feeds approximately fifty homeless or near-homeless people a week, but yesterday's numbers were in the seventies.

The soup kitchen is primarily run now by Rihards, a well-intentioned young man who works for the church and actually stays in a small room off of the balcony, and Alita, a temperamental older gal with hair fire-engine red. While the church facilities are adequate, neither Rihards nor Alita seem to stand by the old adage of cleanliness being next to Godliness. I always struggle to decipher the clean towels from the used ones among the pastiche of items in the small kitchen.

Unlike those who patronize Vincents, which prides itself on being a trademarked "Slow Food" establishment, the men and women who come to St. Saviours for soup and sardines and brown bread, when it's available, on Saturday mornings have little time to spare and little tolerance for slow food. Collectively, they are a mangy crew, wearing over-sized coats, carrying a variety of bags, mostly plastic. Bedraggled and forlorn, they aren't much to look at, and Lord knows they aren't pleasing to the nostrils. "Be sure the fans are on," I was advised early in my days of volunteering.

Occasionally I play the old piano while the people eat and Saturday seemed like a good day for Christmas carols. I always play quietly, as if I'm afraid to wake the neighbors, and I am never certain if the diners like my music or not. Some of them exchange smiles with me. Mostly, I'm an obstacle to surpass on the way to the station of seconds. I am always surprised when I make it through my playing without noodles or warm broth on the back of my neck. With so many people in a space too small, the odor was particularly loathsome this week. Even the heavy aroma of the soup on the stove in the kitchenette across the hall couldn't disguise the inextricable blend of unwashed, unfiltered humanity. For the first time in my piano-playing life, I concentrated on "smelling the music" to keep my gag-reflex under control.

After about twenty minutes or so, most of the people have gone and I move into the kitchen to wash dishes. There are always a few men who stay behind to help clean-up. This is where notions of the stinky greater mass of a puzzle fall apart into tiny pieces of unique personalities. I don't know his name, but one man, for instance, is quite the raconteur. A hardy laugh follows all of his stories, and though it would be very plausible, I've never detected a drop of alcohol on his breath. He's just happy.

Another old fellow offers a courteous, nearly inaudible "excuse me" each time he has to come past me to fill up his bucket with water... a gift to the English speaker standing at the sink.

I'd like to say that my time at the soup kitchen was more fulfilling or more rewarding than the evening before at Vincents. In spite of the fact that both food venues provided this writer with multi-sensory experiences, I can't say it's so. Just like you, I guess, when given the choice, I'd rather be seated on the receiving end of the table.

Into this world of contrasts, as vast as the discrepancies and complexities of one human mind, a world of fine china and plastic bags, of reservations for some and starvation for others, comes Immanuel whose humble entrance among us, a rather deplorable, hopeless dramatis personae, still ought to stir up something sacred within. I think it starts with an invitation: come, the table has been prepared.

This Christmas, bring your appetite.

Yours,

Tim

Sly Bells and Silent Slovakian Nights

Dear Friends,

A week ago, I set out on a melodiously grand adventure: a choir trip to Bratislava, Slovakia with my school's Jaunais Rīgas Vīru Koris, or New Riga Men's Choir.

I almost didn't go. Let's just say the reason could be classified as intestinal/gastronomic. Tuesday I was chained to the bathroom.

"Teem, I heard you were sick with the diarrheas. So, I bring you medicines."

That, from Dr. Inga, officially known as The Best Landlady in the Baltic Lands. Inga made her house call as promised with the following instructions: "You mix this powder with half cup of water, but the taste" -- she grimaced here -- "is ogly. It's terrible. But, it vill stop your diarrheas and vomits."

Love her.

"You vill ride on bus for thirty some hours with the high school boys?? Geezus. I wish you luck. But with this medicines, it is good."

And good it was. With a bulging suitcase and stable bowels (ha, or was it the other way around!) I boarded the grand charter Wednesday morning. I didn't want to miss this trip. One Wednesday afternoon in September, at the urging of a student, I attended a choir practice in my school's aula or grand hall. The directors welcomed me with opened, conductorial arms. Iveta, the head director, speaks no English, but we are able to communicate on a base level in German. I should say she puts up with my fragmented Germanish, like a patient Angela Merkel speaking with Mork. On the eve of my very first rehearsal, she invited me to come to Bratislava in December. I voraciously agreed.

Since then, my Wednesday afternoons have been filled with choral music. Now, the choir is composed mainly of students from my school -- but there are students from other schools as well, and a handful of alumni return. The choir literature claims that "friends" of the school sing in the ensemble as well. That would be me -- the oldest young "friend" of the bunch. Still, at the age of 28, I blend in well enough. When I told one of the singers that I was teaching for the year at the school, he looked at me, unable to conceal his surprise, and said in perfect Lat-British English, "You're a teach-uh?!"

My first rehearsal I introduced myself to the other second tenors in the back row.

"Labdien. I'm Tim," I said, shaking hands.

"Janis."

"Hi, Tim."

"Sveiki, Janis."

"Tim."

"Janis."

Popular name among second tenors.

The Janises and the other guys in the group are great; many of them are my students. I believe every teacher should put himself in a situation like this from time to time, where the usual teacher-student roles are flip-flopped like the notes in a capriccio. Knowing that I don't speak the language, many of the guys are eager to point me to the proper measure or page or glance over their shoulders to make sure this American interloper isn't completely bumbling and lost. They look after me. The guys take their music seriously, and I smile sometimes as I watch them singing so intentionally yet so youthfully, some of them straining to hit the higher notes like baby birds with a slight case of lock-jaw reaching for food.

I remember those days when it was possible to wake-up a first alto in the morning and go to sleep a tenor. And there's no camaraderie like that found in a choir to see you through the pubescent changes or otherwise. I discovered I'd missed the sensation. Over six years since my days with the Illinois College Concert Choir and even longer since high school chorus, both integral phases of my formative years. Joining this chorus has plopped this fish back into the stream.

Familiar as the old choral waters may be, there have been plenty of surprises along the way. Like two weeks ago, when Iveta called me down to sing the English verse of Agnestig's "Stilla natt" ("Silent Night") as a solo. My palms were sweaty, smiling though I was, but with the chorus backing me, I sang with pride. What a rush! The director only smiled when I botched some of the English words. Eh, dees langueege is new to me, what can I say.

I recalled this pleasant memory as our big bus rolled through eastern Europe. Our first stop on Wednesday was in Lithuania (new country No. 1). Through squinted, sleepy eyes, out of the bus windows I saw Warsaw, Poland (new country No. 2). And finally, Thursday morning we arrived in Slovakia (new country No. 3).

The city of Bratislava is terrific. The terrain is hilly and perched at the highest zenith of them all is the old castle and fortress walls that stand over the old city. Watching the congeries of spirited humanity moving among the Christmas market while enjoying a lunch of halusky, Slovakia's traditional food of dumplings and sheep cheese, I knew in my heart (as I've stated before) that I could fall in love with this city.

Friday morning, as a competing choir in the 2. Medzinárodný festival adventnej a vianočnej hudby or 2nd International Festival of Advent and Christmas Music, we performed our five piece repertoire in the exquisite Hall of Mirrors inside of the Primates Palace. Later that evening, we performed again in a concert inside the St. Jesuits Cathedral. We opened with pieces by Latvian composers, Andrejs Jurjanu's powerful "Gods Dievam angstiba" and Raimonds Pauls' demure "Mate Saule". Franz Biebl's "Ave Maria (Angelus Domini)" moved us to the finale of "Silent Night." The other two soloists and I moved to the front of the cathedral, while the chorus and director remained in the balcony. The first soloist sang in Latvian, then I, in English, and finally, with the chorus moving pianissimo on an a capella hum, the final soloist -- a sixth grader -- sang his verse in Slovakian, his soprano tones cascading clearly and sweetly enough to melt your heart.

Of course, many of the highlights of the Slovakian excursion occurred away from the risers. These guys like to sing -- that's why they're in choir -- and they will sing anywhere. Walking down the street. On the trolley bus. And among the host of Latvian folk songs, I found "White Christmas" to be among their favorites. Their spontaneous renditions were quite good, but I nearly laughed each time I heard them sing "to hear sleigh -- pronounced sly -- bells in the snow." Oh, I didn't have the heart to correct them. In addition to the beautiful music, I was completely regaled by the idea of animated, wily bells moving furtively over heaps of snow. Anyway, those dern "ei" / "ie" combinations drive all of us English speakers batty.

A special surprise came Saturday morning when Antons, a first tenor and one of my students, said, "Hey Tim, you going to Vienna with us today?" A day trip to Vienna was scheduled for Sunday; perhaps I'd missed the announcement of the change in plans. Travelling as a non-speaker with native speakers one becomes accustomed to surprises rather like an unsuspecting child whose parent announces one morning, "Today I'm taking you to the zoo." The parent could have been planning this for days or minutes, but to the child, who had no thought of tomorrow yesterday, the idea seems splendid and outrageously surprising.

"Of course I'm going to Vienna!" I replied. I like this childlike aspect of travel: I've come to expect nothing and anticipate anything. Like diarrhea, which happens. But usually the surprises come in the form of priceless rewards, like revisiting one of the greatest cities on earth on a sunny Saturday afternoon with your students who call you "Teacher Timmy" and translate for you and ask you to pose with them in pictures and give you pocket-sized Latvian lessons, small enough to fit into a stanza of "Silent Night."

Yours,

Tim

Outside of the Vienna Opera House

Speaking of the M-Word

Dear Friends,

My fellow English teacher and table-mate periodically leaves me articles, stories, and comic strips she uses in her conversational English classes. Today I found this gem by Ann Landers on the topic of marriage. I figured her advice is worth sharing again. This one goes out to the many couples I know who live these words. Enjoy.

How to Make an Intelligent Decision

The more you have in common with the one you choose, the better your chances for a successful marriage. This means religious training, cultural, social and financial background. The old saying "opposites attract" may be true in the field of electromagnetics, but it seldom works out in choosing a lifetime partner.

Don't marry on the spur of the moment. If love is real, it will last. The tired line "marry in haste, repent in leisure" may be a cliche, but it still makes good sense.

Don't marry a person whose chief attraction is sexual. A marriage based on sex will fall apart when the passions cool, and they'll cool a whole lot faster than you thought.

Don't marry with the intention of changing your beloved to meet your specifications. It won't work. If during courtship a person is unfaithful, a heavy drinker, a gambler or abusive, marriage will not provide the magic cure. In fact, he'll undoubtedly get worse as time goes on.

Choose someone who wants the same things from life that you want. Discuss in detail your aims, goals and objectives. Marriage should mean companionship and building a life together.

Approach marriage as a permanent relationship and not as an experiment which can be tossed aside if it doesn't work. Remember, a good marriage is not a gift -- it's an achievement. It takes working at. You must repeatedly compromise. Forgive and forget. And then be smart enough to forget what you forgave. Often the difference between a successful marriage and a mediocre one is leaving four or five things a day -- unsaid.

Til' Death Do Us Part,

Tim

Come Helsinki or High Water

Dear Friends,

A trip to Helsinki the first weekend of December properly ushered in the Christmas spirit -- a broad phrase that covers a host of elusive feelings and wishes and emotions. Where did the spirit come from? It had something to do with location -- Finland, after all, holds bragging rights on being the official home of Santa Claus. Something to do the with climate -- there was snow on the ground. Good, thick snow. Made for packing. The kind that crunches under your feet. There was good company -- Ali and I again met up with Laurie, another Fulbright teacher from San Diego living this year in Vantaa, just outside of Helsinki proper, who treated us as kin. (Laurie spent a weekend with me in Riga in early November.) And there was nature. Not ten steps from Laurie's back deck lies a beautiful, unblemished forest of tall pines and twisting dirt paths.

On Suomenlinna Island, after walking among the ramparts, we warmed ourselves with cups of gloggi as we witnessed "King Gustav" of Sweeden declare the official opening of the Christmas season, complete with cannon blasts and fanfare. The next day we saw the Jolly Old Elfiss himselfiss parade in a horse-drawn chariot down a street adorned with candles and greenery and carolers. This was followed by a luscious lunch of reindeer quiche. (Don't tell Mr. Claus.) The city was cast in the colors of Christmas, from the crimson Uspenski Orthodox Cathedral looming in the distance to the alabaster Tuomiokirkko Lutheran Cathedral regally residing in the middle of Senate Square.

Given time, I told myself, I could easily fall in love with Helsinki.

Saturday evening, Laurie prepared makkara, a traditional Finnish dish of smoked sausage complemented by a dry Merlot. After dinner came time for a round in the sauna, pronounced suh-oo-nah if you're Finnish, located off of Laurie's upstairs bathroom. Warm and relaxed, the evening's night cap was enjoyed under bundled blankets in front of the TV where we gleefully stumbled upon the last twenty-five minutes of White Christmas. Oh, the insouciant glories of a warm home on a cold snowy night!

In spite of the warm glow brought about from the sauna and the wine and the blankets, I sensed a slight draft: my toes, though properly covered in socks, were cold. During a commercial break, I glanced down (as if looking at them would warm them). At first, I saw my socks were brownish along the toe lines, probably from the wear and tear of breaking in my new brown snow boots. But, as I looked closer, I saw that in fact my socks were themselves wearing away. The fabric was thinning.

I know what you're thinking: Boy, Tim, it's been two weeks or so since you've blogged. We were hoping for something a little more... I don't know, spectacular, a little more Euro than this. Not that we don't care about your socks and other routine podiatric concerns, but come on!

The plot thickens, dear reader, when I mention this: the socks under present scrutiny are exactly seven years old. Once darker green, they have warmed and comforted my feet quite adequately all this time. But I'll tell you how I remember their age: they were a present, the last present, in fact, from the girl who was once slated to be my wife.

I can't say the diamond ring was exactly returned in the socks, but it was returned with the socks.

My college sweetheart and I promised our love and life devotion to each other sometime in June 2000. By December of that same year, the ice that had begun to form over waters once tepid and flowing was beginning to crack. I was twenty years old.

Children, let this be a lesson to you: don't consider m-m-marriage at such a young age. Beware even mentioning the word. Go back to your play pens! Go back to your pull-up pants and dolls!

Her silence was the first indication of her desire to throw in the towel. I was taking a break from writing my senior seminar paper comparing the literary works and respective religious conversions of G. K. Chesterton and C. S. Lewis when over the phone I said to this girl, with a quavering voice, You don't want to end things... forever... do you?

She didn't respond. This was a turning point. Up until this time I had only suspected dark clouds and wind. She was calling for a hurricane. Here we shared a moment of private conversion.

That's when it began to snow outside.

In addition to a senior paper to write, I also had a Christmas show to do with my fellow musicians and best friends who comprised our a capella quintet. On stage, I sang and played "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" Inside, I wondered what I was doing with the rest of my life.

After the concert, the guys came back to my apartment and that's when I really opened up about what was happening to me, with me. They stayed and talked with me nearly all night. "I can see this calls for a lot of conversation and a twelve-pack," I remember one of them saying, walking out the door to do some quick shopping.

The girl was living in Chicago; we were almost four hours apart. Over the phone, she suggested we meet half-way in Bloomington, at the Cracker Barrel, to... disengage. I don't like Cracker Barrel on a good day, and somehow, with the rage and chasmic despair moving inside me, I couldn't envision the two of us rocking amiably on the wicker chairs like old timers, reminiscing about the good days gone by as the winter sun set before us. I told her she'd need to come see me.

And she did. Carrying a heavy heart, a diamond ring, and three pairs of the best damn socks I've ever had in my life.

My heart was utterly broken, but my feet were dancing.

She hadn't wrapped the socks. We'd picked them out somewhere together months before, trying to get an early start on the Christmas shopping.

After I walked her to her brother's car in the falling snow, I went to see my parents. Through my tears, I told them the news, but feeling the bulge in my coat pocket, I laughed as I pulled out the socks and exclaimed, "But, hey, look what I got out of it!" They hugged me and we cried like mourners believing the cosmos were running accordingly and in order even still.

I've always believed travel has less to do with sight-seeing than self-seeing. Travel is the purest form of character study. For as much soul-searching as I've done abroad, it didn't take Latvia for me to see that this particular relationship that ended ended providentially.

I have been thinking a bit more critically about holes, however. Holes form when something that was is no longer. What once was fullness becomes space. Holes are the result of occupancy transforming into vacancy.

Holes are empty. Holes are tears in fabric. Holes make your toes tingle with coldness.

But holes are opportunities. Holes let in the light. Didn't Joana Macy say it perfectly when she wrote "The heart that breaks open can contain the universe"?

One other notable landmark in Helsinki is the Temppeliaukio Church, hewn completely in solid rock. Thirty some years ago, two brothers had the idea and the dynamite to create a church out of one enormous granite depository of the many that line and compose Helsinki's battered coast.

I went inside this church building. Heard a men's choir sing there. The acoustics were as live and vibrant and ready-made for sound as any I've ever heard. Though the walls are solid rock, it's the people inside that produce the heavenly sounds. The rocks themselves, as far as anyone knows, have yet to cry out.

Church out of rock. Something out of nothing. Pulse within stone.

Flippantly, upon exiting the church, I picked up three printed cards on a table in the lobby. Each contains a quote, and my favorite one simply says this: "How God will transform my troubles I know not, but that he will transform them I know for sure."

When it comes to holes, experience has proven God to be a masterful seamstress. Not to mention a professional stocking stuffer.

Yours,

Tim

Traditionalesque

Dear Friends,

Thanksgiving came a couple days late to Riga this year. The actual holiday found your fellow American working like a turkey on any other day. While I didn't treat my students to anything edible, I did allow them to feast on some great words about gratitude by great writers like Erma Bombeck and Langston Hughes.

Apart from school, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen. Pick your jaws up off the ground, family and former roommates. It's true. One of the craziest things about living abroad is the new-found awareness of national identity. I had no idea just how American I was till I started living in Latvia. At home, I could always look forward to experiencing the sacred kitchens belonging to my mother and grandmother. I love the smell of those rooms; I love what comes from them. But my interaction with them existed only in the passive sense -- me passing by for a cookie, me delivering dishes and occasionally staying to dry a few.

Now, I have a lovely kitchen here in Riga, but as hard as I've looked, I've found no mother or grandmother. As much as my mouth waters for the steaming bowls of rama noodles extracted from my little microwave from time to time, I can't say much of anything redolent in the culinary sense has emerged from my kitchen.

Until last week.

Thanksgiving and no cooking? A cook-free kitchen zone? It just felt un-American. Untraditional.

Some weeks ago, my friends Bob and Cheryl sent out invitations to the seven of us Fulbright people and our families to come over for a Thanksgiving potluck. We were encouraged to bring along a dish or two to share. You must understand that up until this point in my life, I've operated under the assumption that in potlucky situations, everyone involved including myself, would be gastro- and astronomically much happier if I allowed someone else -- like Hostess or Pillsbury, for instance -- to do the cooking. I have been the perpetual delivery boy, never the head chef.

This time, though, there was a stirring within my bachelor's heart. Something deep within inspired the crazy notion to prepare my own dishes for once, for this Thanksgiving potluck. I can't say for sure, but I believe the idea sprung from a rare strand of homesickness. Or existential madness.

I asked myself, WWJD? (What would Janet do?). In the form of a fiery pillar from heavenly ovens above, the answer descended: Thou shall create cranberry jello salad and peanut butter no-bake cookies for Thanksgiving. Selah

Now, these two dishes were absolute staples in my formative years. There hasn't been a single dish of my mother's making that I haven't been entirely over-the-moon about, but cranberry salad and peanut butter cookies are among my favorites. I e-mailed Mom who sent the recipes. And I was off.

Miraculously, I found all of the necessary ingredients after stops at several groceries. The only major set-back was trying to mold my first batch of saturated cookies into clumps on the wax paper. Lesson learned: corn syrup and corn oil are not synonymous. Turns out no one in Latvia has ever heard of corn syrup, so I followed the sage advice to substitute maple syrup, which worked wondrously and even added another dimension of flavor to the cookies.

So, walking into Bob and Cheryl's Saturday afternoon carrying my bowl of cranberry salad -- did I mention I even drizzled the top with whipped cream and fresh mandarin? -- and two plates of peanut butter cookies, I felt kingly. I guess everyone was feeling kind of regal because with each ring of the doorbell, the counter of food came to contain another delightful creation. Our cornucopia began bursting at it's wickery seams.

Okay, I confess it did seem a little show-offy that some of the guests had to make such homemade croissants and such incredibly delicious salads and casseroles and potatoes. And just because she was the hostess, Cheryl didn't have to bake one of the best pumpkin pies I've ever tasted. But, you know, my homely little delicious peanut butter cookies held their own among the vast spread of yum.

And you know what? As we, complete strangers three months ago -- American, Latvian, Latvian-American, Russian-American, and Czech -- ate and drank and dazzled our palates, the strangest thing happened. We melded into family. Pilgrims on similar journeys pausing to satiate our bodies, to converse, to laugh. To nourish souls and give thanks.

I asked one of the couples what their grown sons back home had done for Thanksgiving. One of the guys had run in a race -- running on Thanksgiving morning was something the family had been doing for years. Both boys had called their grandmother on the family farm, another Thanksgiving tradition.

In listening to their stories, it hit me that my personal definition of Thanksgiving family tradition is rooted in presence, not absence. Apart from one abhorrently interminable Thanksgiving spent with the family of the woman I'd planned to marry after college, in twenty-eight years, I had been seated around the family table every single year. Present to read the prayer Grandpa had written and printed on an index card with a black Sharpie... present to piece together Grandma's artificial tree... present to sing the year's first round of Christmas carols... present to watch the recorded TGIF Perfect Strangers Thanskgiving Special... present to take the annual Thanksgiving Day walk up and down the quiet streets of Jacksonville. Though cheerful and relaxed, I had no clue how to handle this holiday away from home. Unlike my friends across the table whose sons had called home to Grandma on Thanksgiving as usual, I possessed no prior knowledge of how to address a Thanksgiving away from home.

So, I did what I know to do: Get up and get another piece of pie, and keep talking. As conversation ebbed and flowed I acknowledged the mosaic of traditions, memories, and expectations I alone brought to the table. And here was the really earth-shattering piece: I realized that everyone else, each one away from home, was bringing his or her own cartload of the same.

Writer Anne Lamott has an idea why we tend to stay close to our families, especially at holiday times. "Everything is usually so masked or perfumed or disguised in the world," she writes, "and it's so touching when you get to see something real and human. I think that's why most of us stay close to our families, no matter how neurotic the members, how deeply annoying or dull -- because when people have seen you at your worst you don't have to put on the masks as much. And that gives us license to try on that radical hat of liberation, the hat of self-acceptance."

By accepting each other, the family-like friends with whom I shared Thanksgiving this year gave each other the gift of marking time, in thanksgiving, together. We talked and laughed long into the night, and when I stepped back outside, many hours after having arrived, I half-expected to see the open roads of Illinois before me. I'd never been so far from my family. I'd never been so close.

Americans seem to put a lot of stock in tradition. And, I'll confess that the slightest little shift in "normalcy" has my inner-Tevye pulling on his prayer shawl and shaking a raised fist wondering what has become of tradition? Tradition connects us to the past and extinguishes fears of the future. But tradition is as flimsy as pumpkin pie crust. Not long after a marriage or birth, we can't seem to remember the way it was before she arrived. And it doesn't take long after a funeral to realize we won't be able to go on quite the same way as we did when he was with us.

Abraham Lincoln delivered his Thanksgiving proclamation on the last Thursday of November 1861, so for years many Americans continued to celebrate the holiday on the last Thursday of the month. In 1939, Franklin D. Roosevelt suggested Thanksgiving be permanently set on the fourth Thursday of November. His proposition was met with vehement outrage by many Americans. Could it be people had already established and grown so accustomed to their Thanksgiving traditions that they were unwilling to alter them? You betcha.

Tradition has everything to do with cranberry jello molds and phone calls and prayers and walks on empty streets and what we did last year. And yet, tradition stands independent of all of these. Tradition, whatever it is, carries meaning and such meaning is not bound to one permanent address.

Yours,

Tim

Cran-Apple Mold
2 packages (3 oz.) of jello - one orange and one cherry
1 cup boiling water
1 can of cranberry jellied sauce
1 can of applesauce
Simply pour the 2 jello mixes in a bowl. Add the boiling water and stir well. Then add the jellied cranberry sauce and applesauce and mix well. Pour into cups or a bowl and set in the refrigerator.


Unbaked Peanut Butter Cookies
1 cup sugar
1 cup corn syrup - I use Karo - this is a clear, thick syrup that I buy in a bottle.
Combine the sugar and corn syrup, stirring well. Heat until you see tiny bubbles beginning on the side of the pan.
Then remove from heat and add 2 cups peanut butter and 4 cups Special K cereal. Mix well.
Then drop from a teaspoon onto wax paper or a plate.
(You could use some other cereal of similar type - and often I use crunchy peanut butter that has peanuts in it, but you don't have to.)

A Poem for Thanksgiving

I look down Gertrudes iela to catch a glimpse of this church building

in the center of the city twice a day... walking to and coming home from work.

This Lutheran church has recently partnered with Salem Lutheran Church in Jacksonville.

Listen

with the night falling we are saying thank you

we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings

we are running out of the glass rooms

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky

and say thank you

we are standing by the water looking out

in different directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging

after funerals we are saying thank you

after the news of the dead

whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

in a culture up to its chin in shame

living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you

in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators

remembering wars and the police at the back door

and the beatings of stairs we are saying thank you

in the banks that use us we are saying thank you

with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable

unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us

our lost feelings we are saying thank you

with the forests falling faster than the minutes

of our lives we are saying thank you

with the words going out like cells of a brain

with the cities growing over us like the earth

we are saying thank you faster and faster

with nobody listening we are saying thank you

we are saying thank you and waving

dark though it is

W. S. Merwin

Falling on Riga

The stuff of fairy tales and story books...

First snowfall in Riga, November 3, as seen from the open air top of St. Peter's Cathedral

Dear Friends,

Maybe the feeling is common to everyone living in a new place. I can think of no other word for it than virginity.

When I woke up in Riga for the first time on August 25, which happens to be my birthday, the first thing I did was clean the refrigerator, which is small, but because of the Latvian freezer flora growing inside, beckoned my urgent attention. I'm a Chipman; therefore, I clean. While scrubbing away, I distinctly remember thinking, Tim, you are cleaning out a refrigerator... in Latvia!! just as a falling skydiver might say, My parachute has developed a slight tear, but just look at the view! I went so far as to giggle.

A few weeks later, when I dusted my flat for the first time, the thought occurred to me -- and, I concede, this is alarming, even to me -- that this wasn't like dusting at home, for this was Latvian dust darkening my rag and tickling my nose.

When you're living in a foreign land, you don't go grocery shopping. You set out on a journey to discover nourishment.

When you're traveling in a foreign land, you don't casually stare out the window of the bus. You study and gauge and gawk and note take, like Magellan.

When you're working in a foreign land, it's not a staff meeting you attend. It's an hour of opportunity. It is information sharing. Of course, speaking a bit of the natural language comes in handy.

When you clean your toilet in a foreign country, you first give thanks you have one to clean, and recognize the privilege of having what has become such an integral part of your happiness away from home -- a private bathroom.

And then, slowly, over time, the alchemy mystically breaks down. The changes are subtle at first, as the extraordinary turns ordinary. What once were small wonders begin to be filed in the folder of Small Annoyances. The sound of the morning alarm, that once was so melodic and Latvian and luscious, becomes an ambulance siren, just like your alarm clock at home. The once beautiful walk to work turns into the laborious marathon hike.

In short, the toilet turns out to be... well, the toilet.

It's not that the world once so rosy turns gray. It's just that things start looking the way they should. The way they are.

The changes are good of course. They indicate you are settling into your life and that your life is settling into you. Face it, it's a lot of work going through life with Disney eyes, big enough to take in an entire hemisphere.

But when the changes occur -- when virginity gives way to experience -- you'll probably come down with something.

I did.

My first Latvian cold.

There was nothing glamorous about it. Nothing I could marvel over. Nothing I could admire, apart from the gallons of phlegm my body is capable of producing. With each cough, I expectorated another wad of blame into the air. I blamed the airline for the night of lost sleep coming home from Crete! I blamed Latvia's climate in which a polar bear and her three cubs could thrive! And, since I'm not above blaming myself, I blamed myself for continuing to go about my busy little life as if nothing were wrong, with no intention of slowing down. (Evidence that the virginal child is still active inside of me.) The push to keep going is a personal quality I've grown to simultaneously love and loathe.

Last Sunday morning before church I went to visit Inga. I owed her for the month of October. Inga has become such a positive force in my life, that when I go to see her, I inevitably stay for awhile. I become Patrick Dennis to her Auntie Mame, and she always makes me laugh. This particular morning, my laugh sounded more like a chain-smoker's last wishes, and Inga became worried. "Poor son," she moaned. Inga sent me home with a jar of her mother's berry jam, honey, and a glass bottle of an unidentified dark liquid. I had strict orders to mix it into tea and stay inside.

Which I did. For a few hours.

The next day, Monday, was going to be a big day. In addition to my six classes, I had been invited to speak to a group of 12th graders about democracy and freedom. Then, after school, I had to sing in my first choir performance with the young men from my school. A visit to the school nurse after lunch seemed warranted and prudent; without my friend and co-worker Marta's help with the translation, I would really have been up a creek. Instead, I rowed away from the loving nurse's office with a prescription.

When I stepped out of the front doors of the school about 4:15, I hardly noticed the snow falling. Experienced Tim emerged and commanded me to make survival the number one priority by pulling the scarf a little tighter around the neck and walking a little faster. I found the small pharmacy where I was directed to go, and after a brief wait, I greeted the woman behind the counter and showed her my prescription. I became aware that if she tried to hassle or question me at all, I was going to become very un-Tim-like and bark like a boar. She must have seen the sickness in my eyes, for she gave me my bottle and my little box with a smile.

Thanking her, I turned and headed to the nearest open spot to hit up.

Now, I'm one of those people who believes I feel better the very minute medicine or anything healthful enters my body. It's the same feeling I get after prayer. So, already, when I stepped back outside, I was a changed man on the road to health. I had to cross the lovely park between my school and Old Riga to get to the choir concert in the History Museum attached to the famous "Powder Tower." The snow was falling like powder, big white wet flakes. In spite of my affliction, I had the sense enough to peer up at the dark skies from which it was falling and offer a short prayer of gratitude.

When I looked straight ahead again, I noticed I had come up behind two teachers from my school, one of whom works in the English department. Not feeling like talking in my moment of medicated, reverential bliss, I decided to slow my pace to keep a few steps behind them. This was wise, I assured myself, since the pavement was a bit slippery.

Now, I should mention that I was carrying my umbrella -- opened and over my head -- as most people do in rain. Ahead of me, I didn't see anyone else with an umbrella. No umbrellas to either side as well. Just as I was wondering if I was the only idiot carrying an opened umbrella in the snow, a huge cough from the lower rings of my soul rose up through my innards and deposited an ungodly amount of goo in my mouth. What to do? Couldn't spit -- teachers ahead of me! People in every direction! But I can't swallow! Be a man, just spit it out! Be a man, just swallow it. You'll have it for later!

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I stopped. I was on a bridge. A quick peek over my shoulder assured me the coast was clear, and the teachers were more than a few steps ahead of me now, so I relinquished what I'd been carrying. I lifted the burden, as my Baptist friend would say, but the burden lingered... the break was not a clean one. I removed my hand from my glove to wipe my mouth when she walked by and looked at me: a tall, beautiful Baltic brunette. She wore all black and stiletto boots. She carried an opened umbrella.

*****

Last Sunday was a Day of Remembrance in Latvia. Pastor Calitis preached on the text from Luke 21, "By your endurance you will gain your souls." He suggested endurance to be one of the foremost and important characteristics of a follower of Jesus.

Endurance may or may not constitute walking through a park in Riga on a wintry November day with a frozen gargoyle of phlegm dangling from your chin, causing you to blend in with the Art Noveau architecture in the background.

Maybe endurance has everything to do with insisting upon seeing the world with "new eyes," as Marcel Proust so eloquently noted. Maybe endurance is reclaiming virginity.

My cold has subsided, thankfully, and as I glance around my small apartment, I can see that the layers of dust on the coffee table and window sill give the surfaces a new dimension in this particular light, rather like snow on the rooftops of an old, old city.

Yours,

Tim

How To Live

Sun rising on the Sea of Crete

How to Live

"I don't know how to live." –Sharon Olds

Eat lots of steak and salmon and Thai curry and mu shu
pork and fresh green beans and baked potatoes
and fresh strawberries with vanilla ice cream.
Kick-box three days a week. Stay strong and lean.
Go fly-fishing every chance you get, with friends

who'll teach you secrets of the stream. Play guitar
in a rock band. Read Dostoyevsky, Whitman, Kafka,
Shakespeare, Twain. Collect Uncle Scrooge comics.
See Peckinpah's Straw Dogs, and everything Monty Python made.
Love freely. Treat ex-partners as kindly

as you can. Wish them as well as you're able.
Snorkel with moray eels and yellow tangs. Watch
spinner dolphins earn their name as your panga slam-
bams over glittering seas. Try not to lie; it sours
the soul. But being a patsy sours it too. If you cause

a car wreck, and aren't hurt, but someone is, apologize
silently. Learn from your mistake. Walk gratefully
away. Let your insurance handle it. Never drive drunk.
Don't be a drunk, or any kind of "aholic." It's bad
English, and bad news. Don't berate yourself. If you lose

a game or prize you've earned, remember the winners
history forgets. Remember them if you do win. Enjoy
success. Have kids if you want and can afford them,
but don't make them your reason-to-be. Spare them that
misery. Take them to the beach. Mail order sea

monkeys once in your life. Give someone the full-on
ass-kicking he (or she) has earned. Keep a box turtle
in good heath for twenty years. If you get sick, don't thrive
on suffering. There's nothing noble about pain. Die
if you need to, the best way you can. (You define best.)

Go to church if it helps you. Grow tomatoes to put store-
bought in perspective. Listen to Elvis and Bach. Unless
you're tone deaf, own Perlman's "Meditation from Thais."
Don't look for hidden meanings in a cardinal's song.
Don't think TV characters talk to you; that's crazy.

Don't be too sane. Work hard. Loaf easily. Have good
friends, and be good to them. Be immoderate
in moderation. Spend little time anesthetized. Dive
the Great Barrier Reef. Don't touch the coral. Watch
for sea snakes. Smile for the camera. Don't say "Cheese."

By Charles Harper Webb

So, You Think You Speak English?

Typical Smiling American... in spite of the fact a Greek flag is protruding from this bloke's skull.

Dear Friends,

It's no wonder that the British implanted their version of the English language in Latvia long before American English arrived. There may be no arguing the fact that British English came first, but it's a shame that we couldn't have saved our Baltic friends the trouble of repeated consonants and nebulous answers of when to use singular or plural verb forms with collective nouns.

Here in Latvia, Great Britain are the champions. No doubt about it.

What a pity.

But, with a little help from my American friends, we can attempt to equalize the English language instructional programme.

In The Canterville Ghost, Oscar Wilde wrote, "We have really everything in common with America nowdays, except, of course, the language."

Here's the case in point:

In one of my classrooms there hangs a poster boasting, Increase Your English Vocabulary! It's chock full of words and definitions. I've selected a few of my favorites/favourites to present to you. Turns out, my comprehension of English words is sorely lacking. I hope you'll fare better than me... than I... than myself... eh, whatever.

So, pour yourself a spot of tea, ol' chap, and try your hand at deciphering these esoteric English words. (And I do mean English words.) Post your definitions, if you dare, and I'll provide the actual definitions in a few days.

Now you can see what I'm up against as a teacher of English in Latvia.

1. shetload

2. pants (not the things you wear on your legs)

3. bling bling

4. snaffle

5. zine

6. sorted

Good luck!

Tim

Live Coverage

Dear Friends,

Temperatures in Riga today hovered just around the freezing mark. For me, the cold day was a day of celebration: with official paperwork completed, Timotijs Vilijams Čipmans is now an official resident of Latvia.

Since I had my camera in my bag , I decided to commemorate the occasion and capture the scenery that's become so familiar to me. (I regret not doing this three weeks ago when the trees were still ablaze in autumnal splendor.) Standing where the City Center merges with the Old City, I start and end with the National Opera House in view. You'll notice that I zoom in on my school and also take in the stately Freedom Monument. The crisp air hardly seemed to effect the embouchure of the saxophone player.

The link: http://youtube.com/watch?v=Oc2Sbdv0-ws

Yours,
Tims

Translating Dictionaries

Dear Friends,

"Tim, would you like to turn a page in a dictionary?"

Lasma is one of the dozen or so English teachers at Riga State No. 1. Small in stature, she has a constant gleam in her eye indicating she is always waiting to tell the perfect little story. She has an anecdote for every occasion.

Without hesitation, I picked up a wine glass and handed it to Lasma. "I'd be honored," I tell her. "Fill it up!"

Latvia is the world's northern-most producer of wines. Here's the vineyard...

As I watched her fill the glass with sparkling white wine, I recalled my first official day at the school -- now, well into the year, already a foggy memory. After a series of meetings, the faculty gathered over finger foods and drinks in the school canteen. Like everyone, I was enjoying the light-hearted, convivial nature of the gathering after a day of technicalities and before the ensuing whirlwind that is the dawn of a school year.

I had just bitten into my sushi, when one of my colleagues (I didn't know her name at the time) said to me, "Oh, Tim, some of us will be meeting after this for the purpose of translating dictionaries. Do you translate dictionaries, Tim?"

"Yes," I said. Lying through my teeth. Lost as a duck in the desert.

"Good. Then please come to our meeting this afternoon..."

Directions and time and place ensued. My colleague exchanged glances with the others around her. Each of them nodded approvingly.

Suddenly, my sushi wasn't settling so well.

Translating dictionaries? What the--? What kind of work-slaves are these people?

Not only had I pretended to know something about something I didn't, I had actually stated that I'd be willing to what... lend my expertise?!

All in a first day's work.

And, what kind of dictionaries were these, anyway? I pictured myself sitting Indian style surrounded by building-block towers of Latvian dictionaries. A pencil behind my ear. A notebook on my lap. Hand through my dishevelled hair as my Latvian counterparts, dressed in traditional garb, danced around me waving a Latvian flag. A certain initiation.

Following the orders I had received, I met the group outside of the school at the set time. We proceeded to the bus stop and moments later boarded a bus leading us outside of the city. A Funk and Wagnalls helping of weight was on my shoulders.

Eventually we arrived at one of the teacher's flats. I followed the happy herd inside. Awfully excited about dictionaries, I thought. Poor, poor people. Oppressed for so long.

After a brief tour of the lady's flat (new to her and her husband), the group unanimously agreed that it was time to bring out the dictionaries!

I'm a bad, bad man, I told myself.

"To start us off tonight," one teacher said, "French dictionaries!"

Doh!

"Followed by Italian!"

Gulp!

"Tim, please take a glass," someone suggested, handing me a goblet. Well, this may help a little, I conceded.

"And here comes the French dictionary!" That from the host, emerging from the kitchen holding a bottle of red wine.

THAT was the dictionary?

My face must have given me away.

"Tim, what did you think we'd be doing here?"

"I really had no idea," I responded. "But I think I'm going to like this... translation."

Ernest Hemingway called wine "the most civilized thing in the world." He had this to offer about wine-drinking in Europe:

In Europe we thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also a great giver of happiness and well being and delight. Drinking wine was not a snobbism nor a sign of sophistication nor a cult; it was as natural as eating and to me as necessary.

As necessary and natural as translating dictionaries.

Needless to say, I've been enjoying my school meetings like never before.

Prieka!

Tim

Sunday Morning Worship

Dear Friends,

I confess my trip to Crete was not born of a long and deep-seated desire to see Greece. Rather, in my wanderings around Riga, I'd found a travel agent I'd really come to like in my neighborhood who told me about the opportunity to see the island. The price seemed right and my yearning to visit a new country could this way be fulfilled. There are few places I would not go.

Little did I know I would land in the heart of what could be a set stand-in for MTV's Spring Break Open Beach Party. The author of my travel guide suggested that those looking for a good time (definition: a time not burdened with the pangs of conscience and memory), should come to Hersonisos. But next time, he wrote, you may want to consider visiting Crete.

Harsh. I couldn't disagree with his assessment, but I did feel compelled to rise above it. With my water bottle in hand and Nikes on my feet, I set out to find the beauty surrounding me -- beyond the T-shirt stands and bawdy disco techs.

I succeeded, I suppose. I know this because each time I wandered away into natural coves and pastures or surrounding small villages, the more obnoxious the sights and smells of my adopted neighborhood became upon return. The more odious the frazzle.

In Matala, I swam in the surf around the "hippie caves."

Outside of the ruins of Gortyna, I wandered into an old-fashioned kafeneio and drank (nearly ate) a tiny cup of Greek coffee in the midst of old men playing cards and shifting around their worry beads on strands of leather.

Taking the recommendation of a travel guide, I ate an exquisite olive-laden dinner of bread, stuffed mushrooms and rabbit in a place simply called Krete. "We locals go there," she told me. This was confirmed when, as I was eating, a man of about forty hopped off his little motorcycle, darkened the opened doorway and bellowed, "Yanni!" in good Ricky Ricardo form. The owner responded with what I guessed to be something like, "I have just the dish for you, my friend!"

North of Hersonisos, I watched two kri-kri playfully head butt each other on a narrow cliff.

I had a staring contest with a forlorn kitty perched atop an abandoned rooftop. (I won, for the record.)

I passed so closely to the living quarters of the locals (perhaps to their chagrin) that I heard an old Greek man pass gas from his hind quarters, his flatulence ricocheting through the hills like Zeus' thunder. He didn't see me, though.

But by far the most memorable experience off-the-beaten-path occurred Sunday morning. Earlier in the week I had stumbled onto the ruins of a second-century Christian basilica on a peninsula overlooking the Sea of Crete. It was haunting in the moonlight, but I vowed to return sometime in the morning.

Sunday I did. I went for church. Don't know if my experience constituted as "church"; I was neither surrounded by four church walls, nor was I absorbed in the body of a congregation. I was alone. I carried my God Calling devotional book and a long-sleeved J-Crew t-shirt.

When I arrived I sat down on the remains of one of the walls, no more than three feet off the ground. The October sun was warm, so I took off my shirt. I leaned back. Closed my eyes -- but not for long. Eyes-shut reverence may be a great way to block commotion, but here I yearned to connect to the natural churn of the water some ten yards below and the hazel blur of the horizon beyond.

I sang a couple youth-group stand-bys: "God of Wonders" and "Sanctuary." How vividly did the image of me being the sanctuary emerge in lieu of any physical bastion or edifice.

I prayed, and by that, I mean I listened.

Responding to the urge to stand (an urge strongly suppressed in too many good churches), I stood and began to slowly circulate around the small rim of the peninsula. A path had been laid out in spite of the dusting of broken glass and moss. Though my meanderings were not carried out in a maze, I thought of the traditions of maze-walking for spiritual enlightenment found both in ancient Celtic and Native American religious traditions.

I thought of the Nigerian proverb, When you pray, move your feet.

Somewhere on the trek, I dug the simple line-picture of an ictus in the sandy soil with my big toe.

I remembered my own experience in youth group when leaders Brad and Christine led us students, blindly and furtively, to a place of safety and cover in the darkened basement of our church building just as early Christians might have done in the fields and furrows now in my eye-shot.

I sang "The Lord's Prayer" and "Amazing Grace." Slowly I returned to my seat.

Planted again, I recited the Prayer of Thanksgiving ingrained in my mind from years of Presbyterian services in Jacksonville. It's a good prayer. I get it now. Something about the "long sought us" line always used to make my friend Allison and I exchange glances and laugh. I smiled at the thought.

I read from God Calling. A little scripture.

Moments later, walking away, I collected offering by picking up as many bottles and wrappers and orphaned bags as my arms could carry. Moving back down the steps, I sang through my own rendition of "God Be With You Till We Meet Again," trying not to let my fingers slide over any of of the sharp edges.

No sooner had I deposited the rubbish in a can did a tin voice from a ply wood booth call out to me, "Hey buddy, how bout an afternoon boat trip? Weather's right!" I smiled, and imagined if his offer would have involved donuts and coffee, I may have taken him up.

Was I moved? You bet. Did I want to be? Absolutely. Perhaps expectation is among the greatest key ingredients to seeking the Divine, a God who has "so long sought us."

In spite of my "thin place" of solitude and meditation that morning, the absence of warm-bodied, if overly-perfumed, persons sitting beside me in worship left me feeling a little divested. (And, no, by now, I'd already put my shirt back on.) I recounted the minor annoyances that had sprung up in and around the church-work I'd done the last six years. Like tiny grains of sand in a mighty wind, the little granules had not hampered the progress, but at best, had caused me to rub my eyes and refocus.

Looking back, I am humbled to see that some of the tiny grains of sand had been kicked up even by me on what had been a relatively smooth and level path.

This day, no one was around to engage me at all.

Freedom, and isolation.

Maybe what God is teaching me -- maybe what he taught me that morning -- is a lesson in balance. Of finding good soil between the sea and the rocky coasts. Of engaging in Christian fellowship as rigorously as in Christian worship. Of basking alone in sunlit presence without a glimmering guilty thought of selfishness.

The bread is meant to be broken together. That is clear.

But the wine, like blood, like Spirit, is found running within.

Yours,

Tim

And a few more...

"Timothy, He; Timothy, I"

He arrived on the southern side of Creete,
now called Gortyna, when his ship wrecked in 59 AD.
I arrived in Gortyna on a large chartered bus
this morning, October 24, 2007.

He came with Paul, his teacher.
I came with Susan, my tourguide.

He arrived wet and worn, and happy to be alive.
I arrived well-rested but also happy.

He carried whatever he could salvage,
perhaps a gospel scroll.
I carried my Lonely Planet traveler guide
printed on white paper and bound.

He wore sandals.
I wore Nikes.

His mother, Eunice, and his grandmother, Lois,
were known for their great faith.
My mother, Janet, and my grandmother,
Wilma, are known the same way.

Eventually, he moved on to Rome.
Friday, I fly to Athens.

Timothy, he.
Timothy, I.

Followers, belivers.
Both of us.



"e-Myth"

I passed the handsome couple around two.
Silently they sat at a street cafe
together and separate.
His head was turned toward his hands
from which glowed a familiar light.
Her slender fingers emerging from her long sleeves
devoured a mobile phone like so many crabs
feasting on a sandy carcas freshly awash on the shore.

Three hours later, or maybe four, I found them again,
bodies cut and pasted now to a park bench.
Their backs were turned toward the sea.
And still, he poked a pad with a thin inkless pen;
the silver box she held caught a ray of sunlight.
The glare caused me to look away.

He may know how the Dow closed today.
She may have seen the photos of her second cousin's baby daughter.
He may have confirmed his tee time for Saturday.
She may rest easier knowing that she did indeed lock the front door.

But did they see way the setting sun over Greece tonight transformed
the clouds into purple and crimson hues to match the anemones flowering on the hillside?

I walked into my small room tonight and stepped out onto the balcony,
a phone's throw away from the sea.
Moments later, as I reached for the light, I thought of that couple
off somewhere in a little room no doubt like mine
in which electronic orgasms may lead to the conception of modern-day
Minotaur:
half man, half megabyte.

And the two of them all-the-while unknowingly logging off
as if it were any other night.



"Minoan History in Three Parts, Concluded with A Moral"

The windows of the Queen's palace
overlooking the Mesara Plain were always blocked.
Not because she did not want to see out, but
because she did not want others to see in.

Minoan people never built harbors;
they set sail from and returned to the sandy shores,
already in existence.

Unlike Egyptians who built walls and
constructed inward, Minoans found the center
of the space, and planned and built outward.

People, let us:
1. expose our humanity freely
2. use what's made available
3. work from the inside out



"Twenty Meter Trot"

I walked up to the man and said, "Sir, pardon me,
can you tell me which way to the grocery?"

"Yes, young man, I'll tell you today.
You gotta walk 20 meters and go this way."

I stepped up to the lady, with apples in hand,
and said, "How do I get to the post office, mam?"

"Go out this door and turn to the left.
Walk 20 meters and... you'll figure out the rest."

Posts in the mail and ready to go,
the bus I needed but my map didn't show.

"Kalimera, my friend! Do you know where the bus is?"
"Twenty meters over there. Adio! There 'tis!"

Some day far from now when this life has ended
Earthly toils and travels thereby suspended

I'll reach the pearly gates and say to St. Peter,
"You don't have to tell me -- I'll be with the Lord in about 20 meters."