Thursday, April 30, 2009

Baltas and Nebaltas Dienas



At my cousin Rita's



Following Ieva back to the writers' house from the market



Iveta, Goddess of the Sun, with forsythia in the writers' house courtyard, late April



The wildflower bloom in Vidzeme (central Latvia), late April



The sauna at my cousin Rita's, in the old days, where families bathed (many farm families still do) and woman gave birth



My cousin Rita, who rode horses back in the day, has an Alaskan soul



Above, at my cousin Rita's (left), her daughter Tereze on my right

There is much that isn’t on this blog yet. I’ve been to Aglona, the town of my father’s birth, since my last post, and I’m in the process of writing about it, but it’s turning into an essay, and writing it is a kind of pilgrimage. As soon as the basic story’s there, I’ll post it. The same happened with the story of the monks in Riga; that too is a writing journey still underway. Some intended posts morphed into essays. A writing residency unfolds and deepens as the weeks go by. The daily effort of putting words down takes me deeper and deeper into my experience of being here. But now that experience is winding down.

It’s the last day of April. The Latvian-English dictionary is open beside me to page 742 and 743, deep in the “N”s. Between “neapstridams” and “necilvecigs”, “indisputable” and “inhuman.” Ne means, of course, no and not. As I scan down the page, anticipation grows inside me. I’m looking up a word I’ve seen and heard a thousand times, and know the meaning of by instinct, but there’s always a thrill of looking up any Latvian word, seeing it linked to an English word so directly, its meaning confirmed or clarified. “Neatkariba”. Independence. “Neatkarigs.” Independent. I see a variant of this word every morning, on the kitchen table. One of the daily newspapers is called “Neatkariga.” The next four days, my last four full days here, are national Latvian holidays, like our July 4 in the U.S. May Day is one of two Latvian independence days. It was the day Latvia was admitted to the EU, in 2004. The second is the one my parents celebrated every year when I was growing up, November 18, the date of Latvia’s first independence, in 1918. It was a bittersweet day in my childhood. My parents would gather with the Buffalo Latvians in some church basement. Candles would be lit, the Latvian flag displayed. The Latvian national anthem would be sung. Tears would flow. In those days, Latvia seemed hopelessly removed from the idea of independence. It was under Soviet control. The Latvians in that church basement were exiles, and November 18 was a day to remember the wrecked dream of a free Latvia, the distance they’d traveled from that place, and the daily hardships of “Latvia’s Latvians” under Soviet occupation. And then the liquor would flow, and “Amerika’s Latviesi” would dance to the Latvian Dance Party album.

My eyes travel further down the dictionary page. “Neatlaidiba,” perseverance. “Neatturams,” irrepressible. “Nebalsigs,” voiceless. “Baltas un nebaltas dienas,” throughout the ups and downs of life. “Nebeidzams,” endless. “Nebrivs,” unfree.

It’s April 30, 10 am, and I have four and a half days left in Ventspils, a half a day in Riga, and then I’m on a plane again, flying away from here, on my way back home, to Alaska, by way of Cape Cod. In Alaska, I’ll plant starts in the garden, help build a shed and cold frames, turn the compost pile, and know, in a way I didn’t fully appreciate before, that those things are in my blood; they tie me, like they did my parents, to a place and a people thousands of miles away.

The trees outside my window in Ventspils are leafing out now. The poplar branches in a vase in my room are leafing out. The first flowers in the writers’ house courtyard are already fading. The first morning here, I looked out the window at the broody gray sky and a thin powdering of snow on the north-facing roofs and sidewalks of the square, and I described the people walking by, bundled up in wool coats. This morning I look outside and see, squinting into the bright sun: squiggly shadows of oak trees, hatless women walking in light spring coats. Shadows of gulls streaking across the bricks. Pink-tipped buds on the poplar tree.

Winter or spring, “baltas un nebaltas dienas,” people will keep on walking across the square toward the market, carrying plastic bags and purses, pedaling their rickety bicycles, yakking on their cell phones, smoking their cigarettes, or battering at the bricks of the square with their stiletto heels. The clanging cranes of the loading docks along the river will compete with the church bells and bird songs for dominance. The wind will blow across the Baltic, once in awhile carrying the smell of asphalt, or smoking fish, or the sea. On a cold night, the smell of burning wood will hover over the chimneys. At his wooden table in the market, the blind man will arrange his garlic. An elderly couple will stick their fingers into buckets of sauerkraut on a vendor’s stand and sample some before buying it. The vendor will encourage them to try another kind. The gulls will screw on the rooftops. The tiny gypsy beggar with her long black ponytail and black leather coat will purposefully stride up to someone sitting on a bench in the square and insist on a few santimes. Old women’s kerchiefs will flutter in the never-ceasing breeze. From a loudspeaker in front of the bus station, a block away, a bell will ding and a woman’s voice will announce the departure of a coach to Riga, or Liepaja, Kuldiga or Tukums. I won’t be standing at this window, but these things will continue on, as many of them have for hundreds of years, as long as there’s been a town called Ventspils. In a country that’s been inhabited for 9000 years, it’s “nebeidzams.”

I try to savor every moment of these remaining days, recording as much as I can, memorizing the shapes and outfits and burdens of the people walking by, so that when I’m far from here, I’ll be able to close my eyes, and in my mind, get up from my desk, walk to the window, and see them.

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