Eyes to See

Sometimes we need help noticing things. At least I do. Because I live so much of my life on autopilot, always walking the same streets, always thinking the same thoughts and worrying about the same worries, always living either in the past or future in my head, so much so that I barely notice what is right in front of me. Psychologists would probably be worried if they knew how many imaginary conversations I have had in my mind while taking my evening walks. And I don't notice much, living like this.

But I feel things have begun to change of late. I have probably explored more of Estonia (and Tallinn in particular) with S. over the past six months than over the five years combined. But it's not only about seeing and visiting physical places, it's so much more than that. I feel as if by being with someone who sees these things for the first time - and who actually notices - I have gotten a new pair of eyes myself. Eyes that see again. Mind that notices again. There is something wondrous about having the endless and monotonous circle of my routines interrupted. The world is a little newer and richer in detail than it used to be.

We visited the ruins of Pirita convent this past Saturday before the blizzard hit Tallinn. Pirita gets its name from that convent - already in the beginning of the 15th century the order of St Birgitta of Sweden made its way to Tallinn. The ruins are on the seaside some distance from the city center and I had passed them a hundred times - and that's exactly that. I had only passed them by, I had never taken time to go see them. Because, honestly, who has time to visit some 500 year old ruins? One is always so busy. One has always important thoughts in the head.

S., of course, thought he needed to climb every flight of broken and icy stairs and jump into every hole in the ruins. As if he had to. I tried to explain to him that he actually didn't have an obligation to climb and jump and explore every last corner of the place and that it would be perfectly fine just to look at some things and walk past them. But he wouldn't have any of it. We had a good laugh about it but the truth be told, there is also something serious hidden in there. There is something about the precious ability to remain curious and be present that I find really refreshing.  

Some say that when you become a parent you learn to see the old world in a new way. You will once again discover that every puddle and chestnut and yellow maple leave has a potential of being a joy. I wonder if it's really true. 

Just the other week I talked about Astrid Lindgren in my literature class and shared someone's memory about her. Someone has said that when all the other mothers went to park, they sat on a bench and watched their children play. But when Astrid Lindgren took either one of her kids to park, she climbed the trees with them. You can sense this in her books, this ability to push back the dreadful boredom of adulthood that most of us drown in, never to return.

I still remain cautious about broken staircases and thin ice and other such things but I hope that some of this freshness of life I've found will remain a long time. I hope my eyesight will remain sharp, not in a sense of "can you read these letters on a chart" but in a sense of "can you actually notice the life around you".

Chaos

It's chaos and mayhem at school. But, on a positive note, it is already the third week of chaos so everyone has gotten used to it and no-one makes a big deal of it any more.

The wave of omicron has swept over us. Last week the school was really quiet - most classes were sent home to isolate since they had confirmed Covid cases among the pupils. For some unfathomable reason, my classes were one of the few ones who were at school so I continued working as usual. The corridors were very quiet and I only saw a couple of colleagues in the teachers' room. Every time I saw another teacher, there was a moment of mutual surprise - oh, hello, so I'm not the only one here! Last Wednesday in the middle of my lit class for the fifth graders (introduction to the life and work of Astrid Lindgren!) someone started playing the piano downstairs in the assembly hall. The girls concluded that it must have been a ghost - since the building was virtually empty - and they found it very funny. 

Some classes come back after a few days of isolating and testing, others go into isolation. Teachers get sick and get well again. Everyone who is well is trying to cover for their sick colleagues. The principal was hit the hardest and is only now, after two weeks, slowly emerging from her Covid cave. Things change so fast I can barely keep up. And honestly, it is NOT quality teaching that is happening at school these days. Too many elements are changing, too many essential people are missing for any normal school life to be able to take place. But I always think - we have been interrupted for two years now. But just think about the World War II - millions were displaced, the whole continent was at war for years on end, schools were closed and books were burned, and yet a perfectly normal generation grew up after the war. I have my doubts about this generation, though. The will to learn, the capacity to discipline oneself, the desire to move forward and make the best out of this sorry situation seems to be missing in so many cases. I don't know what these teenagers will grow up to be.   

But then there are these other moments, too. Moments that bring pure joy. It was just last Friday when I asked one of my fifth graders to copy a poem she had recently written in the lit class on a decent paper so that I could send it to some competition or other. And she took out of her school bag a perfectly old-school pot of ink and pen and wrote the poem, dipping the pen into the ink after every three words. I couldn't help staring at her - and grinning from ear to ear. Not all is lost!

The only thing that I can't figure out is why I haven't caught the virus yet. I no longer count the close contacts, there are too many of them, and my peace of mind is more important than the everlasting counting. I don't think I will be able to dodge it for long, though. From a human perspective, it doesn't seem possible - and maybe not necessary either. What has to happen, happens. But until that I try to live as normally as possible. Even if "normally" means walking around eerily empty school buildings. 

Comparing (or not)

When the New Year comes, all of us look back and look ahead. And so often we find ourselves weighing and comparing, contrasting and summarising. What was the last year like? How much sorrow did we have, and how much joy? How did that year compare to all the previous ones? How much did we lose and how much did we win? And as it often happens, we take a sneak peak into others people's lives, too, and wonder about them. Whether they had it better or worse than us, whether they gained or lost more than we did. 

It's totally human, this comparing thing. And also rather pointless.

The truth is, you can't put your experiences and your life events on a weighing scale. It just doesn't work like this. Let's take 2021, for example. All that grief and sorrow which I experienced in the first half of that year, saying goodbye to my closest friend of 15 years, does not cancel all that joy I found in the second part of the year. Neither does the joy take away any of my grief. They stand next to each other, back to back, and there is no way to compare them. Both of them are just there - the largest of human experiences, the deepest of all emotions. 

I still remember those terrible days in mid April when A. stopped replying to my messages. For a couple of long days I didn't even know whether she was still alive. And later, when she was gone, I remember walking mindlessly around the city, trying to walk off some of that terrible burden. Nothing and no-one will ever replace her. She will miss my wedding, dammit. And I will always miss everything that could have happened in her life.

And yet that did / does not lessen in any way the surprise and pure joy of finding a person who has brought color and future to my life, who has completely changed the direction of my path. Who has made me - ok, he hasn't, that I've done out of my free will - study Swedish words every day. All that joy is undiluted. 

I also have a temptation to compare all the recent Christmases. But I want to resist that temptation. All these Christmases over the past 8 years have been spent in the valley of the shadow of death. Mom died on December 23 and it's amazing how long a shadow one death can cast. There were Christmases when we couldn't find aything to be joyful about. But I don't want to "cancel" these Christmases in any way. Let them be there, let them have their rightful place in my life and in my memory. And also let this past Christmas stand by itself, without a comparison. A fairy tale Christmas, as if something straight out of Astrid Lindgren's book. A Christmas filled to the brim with family and love and sunshine and good friends and good food and much needed break from the never ending work.