Epiphany

"Next Year"

Lyrics by jazz artist Jamie Cullum,

from his CD Twentysomething (2004)

Next Year

Things are gonna change

Gonna drink less beer

And start all over again

Gonna pull up my socks

Gonna clean my shower

Not gonna live by the clock

But get up at a decent hour

Gonna read more books

Gonna keep up with the news

Gonna learn how to cook

And spend less money on shoes

Pay my bills on time

File my mail away, everyday

Only drink the finest wine

And call my Gran every Sunday

Resolutions

Well, they come and go

Will I do any of these things?

The answer's probably no

But if there's one thing I must do

Despite my greatest fears

I'm gonna say to you

How I've felt all of these years

Next Year

Next Year

Next Year...

Dear Friends,

Happy New Year! Greetings from cold, cold Latvia. The days are dark so I've come to appreciate the spurts of sunlight, however meager. It didn't take long to learn that sunlight is only a cruel joke: when the sun is shining it only means it's too cold for snow, thus no clouds, thus sun. This is the weather I was warned about, I think: snow, blustery winds, and wily patches of ice disguised by darkness. Temperatures perfect for anyone suffering from a sore finger or toe or nose. A few minutes outdoors and you're pain will be completely eradicated! Numbed!

Wiped away just like the snow that is pushed into small pyramids along Brivibas iela by old women with stooped backs, clad in flannel skirts and flat shoes. Their woolen socks are pulled up mid-thigh. My, the winters they must have seen! Maybe after all of these years they're oblivious to the cold as they sweep the ashy snow with their brooms made of twigs and branches. I pass by them, darting like an irascible fox, from one Double Coffee to the next. And, though I am not nursing the bottle, I finally understand the furnace-like life-sustaining power of hot tea or coffee. I relate to the Macy's Santa Claus in Miracle on 34th Street, the one about to be ousted by the new, authentic Kris Kringle, who mutters through drunken breath slung on the back of his sleigh, "It's cold outside! A man's gotta do something to keep warm!" Brother, I feel your pain.

Happy New Year, and in spite of the bitter chill, some people are bracing the cold as warriors, as combatants. They whisk through the streets dressed as peculiar hybrid humans: part Sumo, part Eskimo, and in their haste, though frozen or nearly so, from time to time I hear polite exchanges. Words of cheer. Words of the season. "Laimigu Jauno Gadu!" they say. Happy New Year! Wanting to join in the festive spirit, I too have tried to pronounce these happy words but I fear my attempts to do so have only certified me as who I am: a tried and true Westerner, sputtering something vague about "guano" or "goo."

Today is January 6. Epiphany. A day in the Christian church commemorating several occasions, one of which is the visit of the Wise Men to Bethlehem. I shouldn't complain about the snow; I understand they traveled via camel. Epiphany doesn't always fall on a Sunday, but this year it does. Today is also Christmas according to the Orthodox faith tradition. And as I trudged home following an evening visit to the post office, the uninhibited bells ringing out from the Russian Orthodox cathedral, wild and reckless, like the music of a four-year-old left alone with a xylophone and two mallets, I considered that ubiquitous, seasonal question: what will I do differently this year? Don't know if it qualifies as an epiphany, but here's what I considered:

• This year, I will embrace the cold. I shall see the snow not as an obstacle but as ornamentation. The breeze is not debilitating, it is instructive. It will remind me of that old blessing, something about having the "wind at your back." Realizing that my remarks bear no sway on the insistence of the weather and its patterns, I vow to only comment on the weather when I am at an absolute loss of words.
• This year, I will refrain from starting any question with the words, "I don't know much about ________, but...?" If there's one thing I've learned from this experience abroad it's this: I know so little. So when I'm left to talk about something about which I know little, I'm going to fake it by phrasing my questions in a different light -- this will hone my conversational skills -- and then I'll study the subject (whatever it is) later when I'm back home.
  
• This year, I will make big mistakes. Years ago teachers told me that mistakes are good because "we learn from them." And yet the unspoken message was exactly the opposite: the more mistakes, the lower the grade, the harsher the punishment. The more I learn about people whose stories are recorded in the Bible, the more I see that God is often showing himself to "mistaken" people. Just ask David. This goal goes not only for my personal life but for my teaching life as well. I carry this one into the classroom.
  
• This year, I will learn to watch and enjoy at least one major sporting event on TV. Ha! Yeah right.
  
• This year, I will relax about the way I look. Two years ago this January a well-meaning dermatologist informed me that my acne could last well into my thirties and that my hair -- she used those terrible words: "receding" and "hairline" -- may not be around to witness my clear skin. That's what you get for asking. I tell you, if it's not pimples, it's baldness or arthritis or a root canal, or, or, or... Blemishes and hair growth or loss are only signs of one miraculous thing: life! If we can't face what we see, we should follow the poet Nanao Sakaki's advice: To stay young, to save the world, break the mirror.
  
• Gadu, es gribu Latviski macities. (Or something like that.) Correction:
  

  Sogad es gribu macities latviski.  (Paldies, Ruta!)

• This year, I will widen the circle. This morning Pastor Calitis reminded us of why we were there in the church on such a cold, snowy morning: "Because Jesus loves you! But not just you!" Exclusivity is so last year. Inclusive is in.
  
• This year I will honor my parents. A few days with them in Riga, walking beside them as son and adult, it occurred to me that the greatest thing they've ever given me is not my life, but their lives. And, to paraphrase Mark Twain, I was surprised about what all they've learned over the four months I've been gone.

Dad and Mom taking in the grandeur of the Dome Cathedral.

I pondered my resolution-like list as I undecorated my Christmas tree. For three weeks, the little thing had glowed from its perch in the deep window sill in my living room. Charlie Brown would have been proud of my small shrub: adorned with one string of white lights, a collection of small red balls purchased at Drogas on the corner, and a random assortment of ornaments including an angel from a student, a homemade sparkly tree from my goddaughter, some trinkets from friends back home, a traditional Latvian ornament made from amber, a paper angel I usurped from the sanctuary, some ginger bread hearts. Amazing what we accumulate when we're not really trying. Amazing what we're given. I packed each of these small treasures away into an old J. Crew shirt box then rightly wrestled that bristly old pine into a large plastic bag. The tree nearly won. I was fooled by its size. Needles falling to the floor like choreographed confetti. Sap and dust and blood flying overhead.

And you know the strangest thing? I noticed that little tree, purchased for two Lats at the market around the corner, was still growing. Chopped as it was, displaced from the Baltic wood or tree plantation where it had once been rooted, there were tiny green shoots extending from almost every branch. Reaching, it seemed, toward the drafty window behind it. Toward the light or semblance of it. Small, soft lime green growths, as delicate as the end of a small paint brush. Still fragrant. Still changing. Still.

Warm wishes to you, wherever you are this year, as you weather the changes that lie ahead!

Yours,

Tim

In the middle of the square in Old Tallinn, capital of Estonia, some four hours from Riga.

New Year's Eve... actually New Years morning, Raina blvd., Riga.