Sunday, September 25, 2011

Am I coming or going...?


Literally there are no words. There are no metaphors. There are no similes. I think of how to describe this life and think aha that is it. Then an event will take place.

Some random moment will occur and I am again lost. Perhaps this is good to be lost. Life in the end makes little sense.

In the last two days it is I have lived so many moments that my head spatters about like the Black Sea in in the wind. Now I am at Maia’s home with her children, Nardoli (14) and Katie (15). Lika and her husband and their two children and a random cousin Maria are here on summer holiday escaping the cities heat to village life. The chickens scurry all over and the main entertainment for the little ones seems to be seems to be to shoo them out of the living room.

There is always a flurry of unanticipated activity. Feral animals are chased. The roosters seem not to know night from day. Folks call me and say “tchama/eat.” at unpredictable intervals. Is this a typical Georgian farm home? It is mine.

I am considered lucky by the other volunteers that to have an indoor toilet (though it does not flush). I am happy to be a plumber’s daughter to understand how to inspire the septic system. We have chickens, a turkey, a cow, a pig who stays secluded in his pen and two little flea borne kittens that that only come about to eat fish scraps. We eat fish often, as we are three kilometers from the sea. The cats only go near Maia, as she is their source of sustenance. Maia seems to be the source of sustenance for all in this little home. She is a placid, powerful woman. It is easy for me to live in this house with Maia. I do not speak the language. She is comfortable with silence. She is a widow and much rests on her shoulders, which are strong. She carries fifty-pound sacks of harvested hazelnuts up the steep mountain.

I spent yesterday in a groove with Maia gathering nuts. I did not understand where we are going or what we are going to do. I am thinking it was a little walk about. I am in a frock from the boutique, my sparkly Birkenstocks, with my ankle bangle. We climb down (near fall down) a steep hill. It is all very lovely and medieval us in a forest. Up the hill the pig’s oink sends out an occasional greeting. I am thinking she is gathering some buckets for her family. After the first hour I understand we are at farmers. It is harvest season. I think on the painting of the Angeles. I now understand how the farmers kneeled so reverentially in prayer. They were weary and only the noon prayer was their respite. I am thinking, ring bell, ring. I am thinking “Collette”, (all here call me Irene, my legal name. I am happy about this as it sounds so lovely Ehreene) “Collette you do not have to do this. You could be writing.”

When Hemingway was in Spain did he harvest in the fields? Then I am thinking it is crazy how back home I spend much money and time for exercise. Here I have hazelnuts, so I just keep picking. We pick two fifty-pound bags. Maia sits on the earth in the cool holler of trees and teaches me to use my teeth to crack nuts. We return home, spend more time shucking them for sale. We eat cheese, tomatoes, and nuts. I sleep an uncluttered sleep.

Georgians are very devout. Maia particularly so. She is trying to heal her heart from her husband’s death by a car accident. She volunteers in church each day for hours selling candles. This day, Sunday, all is quiet. Church goes for hours. I am home trying to bring my brain back together from such change. It is not common or accepted to have alone time in Georgia so I glad for the silence. I clear the clutter of a tongue not my own, yet hear nothing.

I have made a friend, Nona. She runs the coffee stop on the highway in route to the sea. I walked down the hill to explore and found Nona who says each time she sees me “ I love you Irene”. Nona is a hottie. I think the Marsuka drivers just stop to see her smile and her rare blue eyes. At her little shop/shack you can also bet the horses. All stop there.

She decides to enculturate me to Georgia. We go out eating, drinking (vodka, a leftover from Russian invasions, kill the sorrow and all that) and dancing. There is a scuffle between Nona and a Georgian man as to who will dance with me. I am wondering about her persuasion I find is common in Georgia to be possessive of one’s dance partner.

At the shop I met Kheladze. She is a summer resident. She will help me to learn Georgian. An elder Georgian man is introduced to me, kisses my hand and truly me who is so bold blushes, deeply.

Kheladze shows me the way to the sea. I am lucky to be so close. Prior to coming I could not even wish where to live, the mountains, the sea, the city? When I thought on the sea I had visions of the Normandy coast, all fierce and desolate, charming and wild.

The Black Sea is not this. It is lovely and the water amazing, but it is like spring break Daytona Beach. Much life, many tourists,, lots of vendors. Still all are happy. My beach is famous for healing as it has black sand. Lika buried my shoulder in the magnesium rich black sand. I am thinking my orthopedic doctor would approve.

This is a little snapshot of life in Georgia, a land where even a picture does not tell 1,000 words.

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