On wonders and unspoken secrets of motherhood

Zofia is looking at me calmly and thoughtfully with those deep blue eyes. It is this blessed 'in-between eating' time when she and her stomach are contented and settled. And I am contented and settled. Time for us both to reflect.

Two momentous events: my little Zofia's one-month'day (another home-made expression of mine), and the first anniversary of my arrival in America, took me by surprise recently.

These, from the point of view of 'a girl I once was,' were entirely and wonderfully unexpected. And they made me wonder and ponder (at least to the extent that I am capable of deeper reflective thought - being a post-natal, intensely hormonal, constantly worried, newly operational and yet deficient milk-factory).

Am I the same person who last June descended on Atlanta with my wedding dress in one hand and a finance visa in another? Yes and no.

First and foremost I am now a mom, and this to put it mildly changes a girl somewhat.
Sure, there are the usual cliches of constant worries, sleepless nights and no 'me' time. All I've heard and believed of motherhood always bore a tint of 'heavy burden'. But there is something important noone can ever tell or explain. Spending every waking minute (and lots of them there are) with this new, completely wonderful human being feels good, cool, exciting! Being so elated one cannot possibly object to a sleepless hour or another dirty diaper. Indeed, the said diaper is happiness in itself, for it means that 'all is in good working order down there'.
And this brings me to the next revelation. I always imagined motherhood as being entirely responsible for someone - this someone completely reliant on me. But, again, something noone can tell or explain is how dependent on this tiny thing one becomes, how one's very life and happiness hang on a full nappy in a desired frequency and colour, on a well-eaten meal, on a smile and a contented murmur.
Thus fulfilled and transformed and satisfied I sit here, staring from time to time at Zofia's tiny frame, marveling at the magic of creation. How come, I think to myself, all her little fingers and toes are in the right place, and, goodness, the correct number and shape? How does Mother Nature know to put her tiny nose right there, in the middle of her face, and her eyes in perfectly equal distance from it? I have obsessed about these anatomical-philosophical mysteries lately. Is it any wonder I have no time for anything else?

Zofia - why I stopped blogging for a while

Zofia Taylor was born on 10 June. The whole 9 pounds and 22 inches of her came out with no trouble at all. She is a sleeping and eating machine! And a tiny miracle...

Now, about ironing...

I feel that I need to explain something about myself here. Present the matters as they are; bare my soul, so to say. Although the thing is about ironing, it really is about psyche: this mysterious something that drives, irritates and complicates us all. I can already imagine the sighs: 'goodness, woman, what is with you and all the drama...?'
There is nothing like some Polish spirit to add drama to the mundane and, according to many, the dispensable. Exactly; the dispensable...
I made a few references to housework in my latest posts: ironing in particular. And I admit - I do iron, most of my and hubby's clothes. Regularly, religiously, probably quite well too. And once Zofia is with us, I will iron her tiny onesies and such as well. But I have learnt to keep this habit to myself, rather (till today). Why? It seems that noone irons any more! I noticed this already in my previous, English life. Any mention of enjoying such activities met with a smirk, a dubious gaze, a shrug of: there is no helping this one...
What added further piquancy to my feelings on the matter were comments made by a popular English radio DJ, Chris Moyles. In his 'humorous' tirade on Polish women, he summarised that they were really only good for two purposes: one was ironing, and the other ... I will leave without comment. Mr Moyles' comments were protested by many Polish women, me included. He never apologised, and the whole thing was quickly forgotten. Since his little outburst Mr Moyles managed to insult many more important people: including celebrities, gay people, disabled people, Americans, other foreigners, women in general, in other words - all those with qualities he does not possess, and continues to do so until today.
The comment which I posted for Mr Moyles to read contained something to the effect of: I am not sure about his second observation, but as to ironing: I would never volunteer to iron his shirt - too much work! Goodness, the man is my age, and yet his shirts look like tents. He is carrying some weight around, which I kindly pointed out. Clearly, my hurt ego stood in the way of any sound criticism of his 'humour'. But what if there was something in it? Is there something inherently Polish in enjoying ironing?
This question strikes me again now, living in the American South. The new friends to whom I mentioned that I indeed regularly iron our clothes, looked at me with disbelief. Who does that any more? It seems that here in the South one either: a. has it done, or b. does not worry about it.
Is ironing a completely unnecessary, dispensable, and certainly delegable, activity? Am I a relict, holding on to the distant memories of women's lot? Many a time it became clear to me that us, Polish women, are somewhat inclined to doing things the old-fashioned way. Sad broads who do not get the whole empowerment of women thing.
Perhaps, perhaps...
Is there anything more to ironing than the harsh sweaty reality of feminine bondage? Certainly there is! How can I put into words the delights of creative thinking when one's mind is free and one's body is totally absorbed in the process of making beautiful what it rough and wrinkly? It is rejuvenation, beautification of one's surroundings without much effort and with no cost attached... My best ever ideas I've had while ironing: ideas for my books, for my life, and those good for nothing but equally fun.

And here I land back at the psyche: with the mind free to roam, one learns plenty about this very mind: about its features normally hidden under the cluster of distractions. Who knows what can be discovered there?
Ironing: under-appreciated and yet thoroughly recommended by me - a traditional broad who enjoys it.

The highs and 'lows' of Atlanta culture - all in one week

This week is not even over, and yet I have experienced two of the many sides of lively Atlanta's culture already! First - a word of explanation: I am not one for declaring all that's classic and old - high culture, and all that's popular and hip - low culture. Well, perhaps only slightly - being a European and having obtained what some might call a 'classic musical education' this type of thinking comes naturally  - but I am working on it. So the 'low' is only added here for contrast and some colour in the title. Now, to the point:

Tuesday evening: a enchanting adventure. I have learnt, truly last-minute, that the St Johns' College Cambridge Choir were going to be singing in our gorgeous St Philip Cathedral in Buckhead, to celebrate their five-hundredth anniversary. Thanks WABE Radio for spreading the good word! Amazing what one can learn while ironing one's undies and such. So off I went, to the Cathedral. It is a surprisingly imposing, Neo-Gothic building. Surprisingly - because it reminded me rather of European catholic churches than the more toned-down churches of the South.

The last rays of the evening sun were sneaking through the stained glass windows when I entered the Cathedral, and the atmosphere seemed softly quiet and dignified. But the place was packed to the brim, and it was actually beaming with excitement! By the time the St Johns' boys came out to bow for the first time, all seats were taken. Gentlemen wore elegant suits and some even bore boutonnieres! Ladies ravished with silks, pearls and discrete scent of perfume.

And then the music started... all was now harmony, and beauty, and peace, and this mysterious Zen which choral music always manages to command. My heart melted, although goodness knows that so did my backside. The seat was somewhat late-pregnancy-unfriendly. Pregnant backsides require softness, and softness was nowhere to be seen. But I quickly brushed off these trivialities. Whatever the painful reality, the music "went forth into a joyless world of swords and rhetoric to bring it joy". The boys went through this interesting piece by Walton (momentous words by Auden) like a storm, after performing a selection of older music. My favourite was 'Libera Nos' by Sheppard. They received a long standing ovation - of which I was an enthusiastic participant - I do not need to mention how happy I was to lift the aforementioned backside off the seat. That's the 'high culture' part.

Now, for the 'low culture'. Enjoying the retired lifestyle, we particularly delight in sampling the plentiful eateries, markets and other food-related establishments of Atlanta. So off we went Thursday lunchtime to the Sweet Auburn Curb Market. This urban oasis of trade in all sorts of exotic and local foods and drinks is almost one hundred years old, and is apparently located exactly in the geographical centre of Atlanta. It reminded me of city markets in places like Florence, Budapest, Bucharest or Gdynia, although no doubt it was a little smaller. Perhaps it has seen better days - some stalls were empty. But what was there was exciting, and fresh, and buzzing. As we wandered through the aisles and admired creatively displayed goodies and the bars and food stalls spread here and there, we were reflecting on the crowd surrounding us. No doubt this is a true working market, where the local not-so-affluent acquire their daily essentials. But every so often one could see the hip and the young, sometimes even elegant office workers, artists, lawyers, and whoever else thought it was an interesting place for lunch.
The market offers meat and vegetables from local producers, has a very tempting bakery, a cute coffee shop with great Cappuccinos and 'cowboy cookies', the 'Afrodish restaurant', the 'Bell St. Burritos', and of course the Grindhouse Killer Burgers! Oh, the latter are something to enjoy. The Burger bar is right in the heart of the market, and you end up sitting on high bar stools facing a tiled wall with an old-style sign and two other not-to-miss sights. One: a projection of 'best of' of Flash Gordon (the movie), the other: a flamboyant looking burger-maker, who is quite difficult to capture on camera, every now and then peeking through the hole in the wall.

The place was crowded, noisy; people were friendly and did not mind squeezing in to make more space for newcomers. A young woman wearing an interesting head scarf was shouting at the man in the wall: 'where is my burger?' and chatting with a waitress. While we were there, our neighbours at the table were a bunch of ambulance crews, some city policemen, and some local office workers wearing suits and ties. Later, a group of hospital doctors joined in the fun: all of them wearing green uniforms and one even something that looked like head gear worn during operations. As I was ingesting the burger, I thought that it was good to be sitting there. Felt like a small piece in a large human machine - a good piece in a good machine. That's the 'low culture' part.

On dishwashers and death of profound, or just warm, conversations

We are in a habit of tuning in to English radio: BBC4 and LBC being the top contenders, through this amazing invention called 'internet radio', just before dozing off every night. Apologies to the US radio (especially in light of my last post), but ain't nothing like it here... And only a few nights ago I heard someone's monologue, which was really an epitaph to profound, or just simple and warm, family conversation over dish-washing after meals. The author suggested that the omni-presence of dishwashers tragically eliminated this so important family interaction. Of course, if one were to search for the culprits in reducing family time of contemporary families, dishwashers would not be high on anyone's list, but bear with me here.

Not quite sure what it is, but I certainly subscribe to the finding: there is something comforting, bonding, conversation-inducing in gathering together over a pile of dirty dishes which is being purified through an assembly line-like process of "dad's washing, mom's sorting things, I'm drying, grandpa's..." etc.
I can remember my 5-year-old self standing on a little stool next to my grandfather and grandmother, while my parents were in and out of the kitchen bringing things in, helping me wipe things dry, and generally wandering around. Grandpa had a very good system for washing the most dishes using the smallest amount of water. One bowl for washing, one for rinsing, c'est ca. Not out of concerns for environment, but rather for family budget which was stretched beyond imagination. Perhaps also because he was brought up in a culture of non-wasting, pretty common in the 1930's Poland. And while he was washing-economizing, he talked! And my grandmother talked, and my parents talked. The most interesting family stories, gossip, war memories of my grandparents, I heard to the bloop, swoosh, bloop sounds of dish-washing. I miss these times, just like I miss my wonderful grandparents. But I am glad about this special bond we made while cleaning our dishes. I am worried that my little Zofia will not have the opportunity to experience this.
I should probably say honestly - I am not planning to throw away my dishwasher. Too lazy, too comfort-loving. Amidst plenty other life-simplifiers (interesting how many of those are also time-wasters: computers, TV, all the stuff starting with i-...) where do we find time and energy to talk, profoundly or simply, to each other? What to do...., what to do.....

On being a citizen US style - supporting public radio

WABE Radio of Atlanta has been a true delight for me since I arrived in America. An important thing to note here: it is a public radio station. One of 934 in the US! It never ceases to amaze me how prolific Americans are. Our WABE offers cleverly chosen classical music, which I am addicted to, and plenty more: news, cooking shows, talks and interviews... But here is the point - 'OUR' WABE? Whose? Who is responsible for its continued existence?

A naive, formerly overtaxed and overregulated European that I am, it did not occur to me that because it is public radio, it needs funds. From its listeners. Each year they organise a special pledge fest, when they tell you, very patiently and often, that you ought to contribute your hard earned cash. The pledge fest is going on right now. True, some public funds support public radio, but it has never been enough and it is not going to be happening for much longer - the funding has just been cut. 

Here lies my surprise and fascination with the phenomenon. My money? For a radio station I like to listen to? Should these things not be 'sorted' by the powers-that-be, up there in their grey-carpeted offices reachable by kilometers of concrete corridors of government bureaucracy? Paid by the license fee, which in the European countries I lived in is obligatory, public television and radio function quite happily providing content of varying quality and interest. Paid by all, enjoyed by some. Whether classical music, interviews with artists and politicians, gardening shows or books of the week selected by anonymous radio employees are your cup of tea, your license fee pays for the said delights. Same with other types of public entertainment provided on other stations: including jazz or hip hop music, or Bollywood music. The powers-that-be decide what cultural outpours are worthy of being placed within the realm of public culture - thus being paid for by the cultured-or-not general public. And here we are: all of us taxed, not all of us enlightened. 

This is Europe, but here in America the position is quite different. My other half explained with a smile of certainty that an official demanding a license fee would be met by a door slam, preceded by the well known middle finger gesture. How anti-social and greedy of these Americans, eh? How cheap, unsophisticated, peasant of the government. No wonder we have the stereotype of an uncultured, ignorant Yankee. 

Not at all, actually. Those public radio stations, in common with public television and other cultural and intellectual endeavours, are receiving impressive amounts of money from individuals and private foundations. Those greedy Americans are paying a lot for things they consider important: higher or lower culture, no culture at all. And, what could very much surprise your average BBC supporter (UK 'higher authority' for public culture), arts and culture are alive and kicking! Plenty of Americans think it a worthwhile cause to pay for classical music radios, enlightened academic media discussions, intelligent and informed documentaries, and more. 

Why pay if you do not have to - this is a question which comes to my mind. Cynical perhaps, but I am pouring out my soul here, so why not? 

What pulls me in at WABE radio? Driving, ironing, gardening, trying to take a deep breath while heavily pregnant - all are made easier to the sounds of Brahms and Bartok, Schubert and Chopin, and of course Gershwin. The good people at WABE talk to artists big and small (in size and fame), they support local young musicians, local cultural events, and track all the important arts happenings around the country. NPR news are excellent, so are 'All things considered': I love not being preached or shouted at. There is an interesting culinary show. And did I mention CAR TALK? The two brothers Tom and Ray Magliozzi - or as they like to call themselves Click and Clack - talk about car repairs of course, but also provide a healthy portion of philosophy and humour to go with one's Saturday morning coffee and toast, or bacon and pancakes. They have been doing it since 1970s, and who can resist their slightly rough around the edges charm?

'How important is the station to you, how often do you listen to it?' - the people at WABE ask, and suggest that the answers to these questions ought to translate themselves into an amount. The contribution growing proportionately to how large a part in your life the station plays. A sort of self-imposed per-usage payment. Makes perfect economic sense. I first heard the pledge appeal driving from a garden shop, car boot loaded with pots, rocks, soil, and flowers of various colours and scents. On my way to work on my own little garden, minding my own business. And here it was: 'like it? help us pay for it!' And I felt, against my wildest expectations, responsible, at least in part, for the life of this space in ether which fills my days with pleasure. What I thought was crucial for maintaining some level of sophistication and panache in my immediate surroundings, suddenly became another item in my budget. And an important one too.
And I felt, perhaps for the first time since I voted in the first democratic elections in the newly freed Poland some time around 1990, a citizen.

Settling down in Decatur

After our Florida tour, we settled right down to quiet life in our little Decatur. We brought the great weather with us. With the exception of a few rainy hours, it has been continuously delightful here. Days are getting longer and brighter, the air is warmer and nicely scented with flowers, and with all the bird songs from the trees around our house - who needs Atlanta Symphony? (Although we have been to the Symphony too: the great Wynton Marsalis and his band made even Zofia kick for joy).

Right now it is almost 7pm, and I am sitting on our deck enjoying the end of day. The birds are chirping gently, and our crazy squirrels seem to have gone to bed. I am actually preparing a battle plan regarding the squirrels: last autumn one or two suckers took a habit of digging into my flower pots in search of some hidden treasure. Moth balls is one weapon I heard about. Still in search of other ideas, ideally not too bloody, although I did see red a few times when I saw what they have done to my cute little flower pots.
Decatur is quiet and peaceful, but by no means is it idle. The enthusiasm and creativity of Decaturians will never cease to fascinate me. Our local running store - Fleet Feet - organises runs and mini-marathons, and every Saturday morning there are groups of eager runners gathering around there, chatting and drinking vitamin waters and such. Dancing Goats coffee shop oozes creative energy from many of its patrons reading off paper or sleek monitors, drinking gallons of various coffee concoctions. I like to sit down with a paper and sip a small hot choc sans whipped cream. No, I am not that good with resisting other temptations (rice pudding being the latest craze). A new triathlon store opened recently, with all the possible equipment you might need, were you so inclined. Strange-looking bicycles are most impressive. There are some exciting new restaurants, and the Blue Elephant book shop has just celebrated its third birthday. Our local 'The Marlay' pub is getting ready for the St Patrick's Day celebration. There will be live music, of course, as usual - very decent Irish food, and tons of beer obviously.
People's gardens are receiving beauty treatments, and the sound of leaf blowers accompanies these not very tranquil therapies. Things are blooming, flowering, and certainly alive. Just yesterday, a group of volunteers was very busy clearing up a large green space bordering on the tiny creek behind our fence. They are setting up a nice little community garden there. What an exciting project.
Good place to live, Decatur.