I never thought I would say this, "I'm missing winter." After two years in Ukraine, you might think I had enough of snow and ice. But here I am in Washington DC with temperatures in the 50s and 60s and only a few below freezing. Last week it was warm enough to have a picnic in a park and I did.

Yikes, it's January!

Maybe to compensate for the unusual weather, I've been creating snow scenes in my art. It's been a lot of fun and I feel like I'm improving week by week. I started with scanning my photos of Maine winters for inspiration. These two take me back to my wonderful years in Portland. Then I heard on the radio that Portland was surprised by below zero or maybe not so surprised. I remember... Mainiacs seem to take it in stride even as they sigh, "Here we go again."

Original photos of Mainer winterMy first painting is a small one about 5" x 8". People often ask, "Where's it from?" Of course the best thing about watercolors is that pictures come from the imagination.

Original Watercolor - Winter Walk

I remember the birch trees that are ubiquitous in Ukraine as well as Maine. I looked through the web for inspiration and pulled together this painting. I like the glow of color that also leaves a viewer wondering, "Is it the sun rising or setting or is it a fire or ...?"

Original Watercolor - Winter Glow

I took this photo in Ukraine. It was a cold crisp day when the sun was so bright that the shadows turned blue. I wanted to give a watercolor life to the photo and express my own feelings. It looks easy to do, but believe me it is not. It took me three attempts to get the blue wash smooth enough and the shadow acceptable - not too light or too dark, but just right. Here's my rendition.

Original Watercolor - Winter Blue

I love winter storms. Well...let me be more precise. I love the first winter storm. When I lived in Maine, I would snap on my snow shoes and go for long walks in the woods. In Ukraine necessity meant you walked everywhere. Maybe it's the kid in me but when the snow is whistling across a field I feel exurberant and so wonderfully alive. Of course by March, I've had enough. Yet in both Ukraine and Maine, winter has plenty more to dish out.

Original Watercolor - Winter StormPainting has become a kind of New Year resolution for me. I sent several photos of my work to friends in Ukraine. As they replied with Happy New Year wishes, they also encouraged me to keep creating. I think that's what I most like about watercolors. I face a blank sheet of paper with only an idea in my head. I mix some colors. Sketch and outline. And them swoosh on my first brush of paint. Idea becomes form. A new creation takes shape.

My Hallway of Ukrainian Art

Friends and family ask, "Well, what was it like in Ukraine?"

I say, "It was a grand adventure...one of the best in my life."

Saying goodbye to Luda who hosted me in her home during trainingMaybe I add a story about living in a Soviet style apartment or tell something about one of my projects. Usually that satisfies the questioner unless the person is more curious. On those occasions, I get to share more stories of projects and people and living in Ukraine. I try to stop before eyes glaze over...(chuckle!)

Now many of those stories are captured in a video. Before I left Ukraine, actually my last day, the Peace Corps ask me to share my experiences for future groups of Peace Corps Volunteers.

I had given presentations at two Peace Corps workshops. Labeled "21 Tips for Community Integration" , it was well received.

Yelena, Director of Hearts of Love, meets me during Peace Corps swearing in ceremony , June 2009Douglas, our Country Director complimented me and liked the refrain I used - "Yes, you can do it too" - and a number of new volunteers told me that they referred to the PowerPoint presentation especially during their first months at site.

So I was pleased, although a little nervous, to make the presentation again and this time into a video camera. I felt that I did okay, but if you ever have done anything like this, you know that as a presenter with only a camera as an audience, you don't really know. The camera gives no feed-back and mostly you're just glad it's over. The Peace Corps staff said they would edit pictures and slides from my PowerPoint Presentation into the video.

I left Ukraine in June of 2011. Since then, I wondered from time to time what became of the video. But I never heard a word until this week.

The staff had been working on the video. A final version has been prepared and is being used with new Peace Corps Volunteers.

Iryna Krupska, who directs training for the Peace Corps in Ukraine, shares in an email:

"It felt like you were here, while we watched the final version of the video. I could feel your kindness and wisdom, your big and loving heart in every word you were saying. I just keep being amazed at how inspiring and instructive your tips are. I’m sure that many generations of PCVs will benefit from them and as a result would be able to better understand Ukraine, have more patience and inspiration and have a more rewarding give and take experience here.

THANK YOU for continuing your service to Ukraine!"

The video has been placed on the web and can be viewed at http://vimeo.com/33968664

Amazingly, the adventure continues...What a ride!

I admit it. Sometimes, I get fed up and just turn-off the news. Can you blame me?

Here is a sample from the past week - Occupy Wall Street protesters evicted from park. Greece and now Italy face economic catastrophe. Republican Presidential Candidate, Michele Bachmann, favors waterboarding. Congressional Special Committee cannot agree on budget and taxes. The House GOP wants to reclassify pizza as a vegetable. Penn State coach accused of pedophilia. In Washington DC, I get a constant flow of information. When I was in Ukraine, I was lucky to get NPR’s All things Considered once a week via the web. Now I have multiple NPR channels and of course, cable news programing each with its own right or left wing slant. The news even becomes comedy. Check out the Daily Show if you haven’t already done so.

News is unending 24/7 with no brake for holidays. Maybe that’s why I get to feeling over-satiated, ill like going back to the buffet once too many times….ugh!

That’s when I like to escape. I make a cup of tea and turn on the classical music. Give me the rhythmic precision of a Bach Goldberg Variation to soothe the inner turmoil and the outer clamor. It’s lovely nuanced and predicable.

Today, I am listening to music. Sunday’s Washington Post lays sprawled across the floor by my reading chair. I pick it up and cannot resist thumbing through the articles. I guess I can’t escape from the world of news for very long.

As I read the following article, my inner voice says, “This makes sense.” The editorial writer, Steven Pearlstein, creates a counter punctual Variation from the cacophony of weekly headlines. I wonder if the Dems and the GOP can put aside rivalries over the next election and focus on the common good? Pearlman gives some plausible hope.

Here is the editorial as it appeared in the Washington Post and syndicated around the Country. Give it a read and let me know how it strikes you. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.

By Steven Pearlstein, The Washington PostPosted Nov. 13, 2011, at 6:41 a.m. The global financial system teeters on the edge of collapse because European politicians refused to tell citizens of their crumbling economies that they could no longer guarantee them “la dolce vita” — the sweet life — they had come to expect.Top executives at Olympus, one of Japan’s leading companies, resign in shame after acknowledging that for nearly 20 years they used a complex accounting scheme to hide billions of dollars in speculative trading losses.A revered coach and a respected president at Penn State are fired because they were more concerned about protecting their own reputations, and that of their school, than protecting young boys from an alleged sexual predator.And a former governor, senator and head of Goldman Sachs resigns as chief executive of MF Global after bankrupting the broker-dealer with overleveraged bets on European sovereign bonds.Welcome to this week’s exciting episode of “Failures in Leadership.”Leadership is difficult to define but easy to notice when it’s gone missing. Surely any definition of leadership includes the instinct for seeing the big picture, the ability to get people to acknowledge unpleasant reality, and the willingness to take the personal risks necessary to secure the common good. By that definition, the world would appear to be suffering from a profound leadership deficit.In hindsight, it seems perfectly obvious what should have been done in each of these instances. Everyone knows it’s crazy to play Russian roulette with the nation’s economy or a company, university or industry. Except that they did.Why?“At the time, it seemed like we didn’t have a choice,” says the Demi Moore character in “Margin Call,” a new movie about the recent financial crisis, as she recalled her firm’s fateful decision to disregard warnings about a mortgage market crash.“It always does,” replies the Stanley Tucci character.I’m guessing that’s how it seemed at the time to the political leaders of Greece and Italy, who couldn’t imagine a world where public employees couldn’t retire at 55. Or the top brass at Olympus, who couldn’t imagine the shame of reporting huge trading losses. Or coach Joe Paterno, who couldn’t imagine allowing a moral stain on his stellar record. Or Jon Corzine, who couldn’t imagine clients would mind his using their money for just a short while to keep the firm afloat. They each had a choice, and they made the wrong one.To politicians in Washington, it now seems they have no choice but to stick with their party as one more blue-ribbon panel — the congressional “supercommittee” — tries to come up with a bipartisan compromise to rein in the runaway federal budget deficit.For reasons that have mostly to do with ideology and political gamesmanship rather than economics, Republicans have been insisting on a plan that relies solely on cutting spending on domestic programs and entitlements. They offer Americans the promise of growing our way out of the economic hole we now find ourselves in simply by repealing regulations and lavishing more tax cuts on corporations and those heroic “job creators” in the million-dollar bracket.What you’ll notice if you listen to Republicans describing their plans is that they involve no pain for anyone except overcompensated, underperforming government workers and the undeserving poor.Among the Republican presidential candidates, the race to wipe out entire government departments has become so intense that one of them couldn’t even remember all the ones he plans to ax.Do those who propose to eliminate the Commerce Department plan to do away with the Census Bureau and the National Weather Service? If there are no federal funds flowing to local school districts from the Education Department, does that mean Republicans are in favor of raising state and local taxes to make up for the lost revenue?Of course, these bold proposals are nothing more than political talking points meant to satisfy the mad hatters at the Republican tea party, not serious proposals by serious leaders. As Republicans see it, there is no need to talk about shared sacrifice because there’s no need for sacrifice. Just give them the chance to spread a little free-market fairy dust and America will magically be back on top again, where God had meant her to be all along.As a group, Democrats have been better only by comparison. They offer their own version of painless budget solutions that they’d have you believe puts all the burden on millionaires and oil companies. They pander to the elderly by telling them there is no problem with Social Security that can’t be solved with higher payroll taxes on the rich, and no problem with Medicare that can’t be solved by government price controls on hospitals and prescription drugs.They pander to the middle class by promising to lower their taxes, make college more affordable and use the words “middle class” in every third sentence. Although Democrats think more infrastructure investment is vital, it’s apparently not vital enough to warrant a modest increase in fuel taxes to pay for it.Along these lines, a special shout-out goes to the AARP, the seniors lobby, which has been busy with a TV campaign threatening both parties with political retribution if they dare to slow the growth in spending for Medicare and Social Security. The ads feature a seemingly kindly gentleman who summons up indignation as he declares that seniors won’t stand for being denied the programs they’ve already paid for. Too bad it’s not true: They take out more than they put in to either system.The ads also are based on the false premise that if we slow the runaway growth in Medicare spending to something closer to the growth in national income, seniors will be denied the care they need. Along with most everyone else in America, seniors are getting hundreds of billions of dollars worth of unnecessary care, or the wrong care, which can be eliminated with no harm to anyone other than doctors, hospitals and drug companies. Failing to slow the growth in health-care spending won’t just bankrupt Medicare — it will bankrupt the country.Just like the Greeks and Italians, just like the Olympus executives, just like the folks at Penn State and MF Global, the United States is at that “profile in courage” moment when our leaders have to be willing to risk their careers in order to prevent a disaster. Whatever downsides there might be from raising taxes on small-business owners or asking seniors to wait another year for Medicare or eliminating tax breaks for oil companies, you can be sure that all of them would be better off with those than the financial calamity that is otherwise sure to befall us.President Obama and Speaker Boehner have demonstrated they are ready to embrace such a compromise, and the latest Democratic and Republican proposals leaked from the supercommittee are hopeful signs that others may join them. If it happens, my guess is that it would unfold something like this:The final deal will be struck among three Democrats (Sens. Kerry and Baucus and Rep. Van Hollen) and four Republicans (Sens. Toomey and Portman, Reps. Camp and Upton) — the bare majority necessary to trigger an up or down vote on the plan in both the House and Senate.The deal will involve between $650 billion and $750 billion in additional revenue over the next 10 years as part of a sweeping reform of the tax code that will get the top rates for individuals and corporations below 30 percent. There will be about $1.5 trillion in spending cuts, at least half from entitlement programs, plus savings from foregone interest payments. To provide an immediate boost to the economy, an earmark-free $100 billion public works bill will be tacked on for good measure. Total debt reduction: about $2.5 trillion.First stop will be the Senate, where a bipartisan group of 45 has committed itself to voting for such a package, where the bill will be managed not by Majority Leader Reid but by No. 2 Democrat Durbin. Schumer Democrats and DeMint Republicans will rail against it. In the end, both Reid and Republican Leader McConnell will seize the historical moment and vote aye.In the House, Boehner will break from his own caucus and, with a hundred other Republicans, vote for the plan, along with an even greater number of Democrats corralled by Democratic Whip Hoyer. Republican leader Cantor will lead the tea party fight against it. Under pressure from her president, Democratic leader Pelosi will defect from liberal colleagues and vote aye.This would be the American answer to the “unity governments” now taking power in Italy and Greece, in their cases too late to avoid years of painful austerity and restructuring. Whether it can happen here depends on the willingness of those three Democrats and four Republicans to buck their party caucuses, ignore the special interests and put their own political futures on the line, jumping together into the cold waters of bipartisan compromise.Those who argue that it will require the 2012 elections to break the political stalemate are just kidding themselves. Voters are neither equipped nor inclined to create grand bargains. Those require leadership. If the budget deficit is not tamed now, the chances are it won’t be until the economy is in a steep decline and the financial barbarians are at the gate. And at that point we’ll all be looking back and wondering what could they possibly have been thinking in the fall of 2011?

It's the day after the Washington, DC Quake of 2011. Here's what I experienced when the ground shook and ordinary time became an indelible memory.

I"m enjoying brunch with a group of grad students. They are from American University. This week they will start their studies in International Studies. With orientation scheduled for Thursday, I wanted to mark the occasion with a little celebration. "Let's have a brunch."

We are finishing our meal when the quake hits at 1:52 pm.

At first I think it's someone playing a joke and jiggling the table underneath. Or maybe it's a a construction truck from the building of a new Walgreen store on the corner. The low rumbling sound could easily be coming from a fleet of construction vehicles. But why? What's happening?

Then the stained glass chandelier above the table begins to swing and we all look at each other in shock. What do we do now?

I was going to run outside onto my patio, but a young woman from California says "NO!" She advises that the safest place is under a door frame. Who would have thought? With 16 floors of concrete above me, I followed her advice.

We all scurry into my short hallway that connects bathroom, bedroom and living room. Crammed under several doorways, we stand stunned and watch the pictures sway on the walls. Something falls off a shelf and crashes to the floor. Oh no!

At such times, you are suppose to have a mental flash-backs of your life. Accomplishments, regrets, people you love and so forth.

Me? I said, "Damn, just when I got all my boxes unpacked, look at what's happening. I'll have a mess to clean up." So much for spiritual depth and insight. Fortunately only one item fell from the shelves and it was not broken.

The quake was over in about 15 seconds or so, but I kept shaking. Never before had I experienced one. The grad students all said that my back-to-school brunch "Rocked and Rolled."

Considering what might have been, all is well in Washington. Several spires on the National Cathedral fell to the ground. It is situated on the highest point of the City. I can only imagine the sway that caused this damage. But no one was hurt.

The 127 year old the Washington Monument is closed for inspection. A few fractures were spotted near the top.

A swimming pool in a sports center at the top of a shopping complex cracked and spilled water on a Target and Best Buys below. But again no one was hurt.

I wonder if there will be Quake Sales. Maybe it will "level" some of the prices. (My brother is responsible for this pun!)

A friend from Lafayette says, "I had no idea that DC was on a fault. I thought that the only fault was above ground in the House of Representatives." I was hoping for a shake-up. But thankfully, life just goes on....

I’m on my way to being back in America. I've been here for two months. Like cars on the DC Beltway, I feel the speed of American life. Every day demands more and more activity. People seem to be moving so quickly. I look at young professionals going to work. In Kiev the escalators going down into the Metro move at double speed, but here it’s the people. I see a young woman, professionally dressed, but in sneakers, actually racing down the escalator like she is competing in a race. Maybe she is. I notice that everyone in America has technology in hand. While cell phones are ubiquitous in Ukraine, smart phones and I-Phones and Blackberries have taken over America. People meld into their electronic possibilities. A blue suited young man pulls out his electronic device and stares at its 2.2 inch screen. His thumbs are busy typing or flicking across the Internet. He’s so absorbed that I think there could be a robbery happening near-by and he would not notice. American life has gotten even more intense or maybe I have forgotten what it was like back in 2008. I miss the slower pace of Konotop. I miss the children at Hearts of Love who greet me every day with warm enthusiasm. I miss running into friends at the Konotop fountain and exchanging greetings in Russian. I think about my Peace Corps buds and hanging out at the local café or making pizza for the gang (mine is the best!). I yearn for phone calls from Ukrainian friends who have practiced these English phrases so that they can give me a proper invite to a family dinner or a picnic in the forest and a swim in the river. I miss the simple pleasures of everyday life and the people who made them so enjoyable. Moving on gives a legacy of memories, but then surrounds them with longing. I close my eyes and I am in Konotop. Last night I dreamt of Konotop. It was not a story-dream as much as it was a people-dream. Faces flashed before me like slides on a screen. Luda, Yelena, Marat, Andre, Anton, Arteom, Oksana, Maxim, Anna, Ilia, and little Maria. I cuddled her in my arms.

If you could have seen me, I think you would have noticed a smile on my face. I love the people of Konotop and the privilege of serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer. But of course, I’ve moved on. I open my eyes and here I am in Washington, DC.

Thankfully, I’ve been surrounded by good friends. Bob and Joann Bell and their son, Bob, have opened their home as I repatriate into my old life. Bob and I became friends in 1968 at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and have stayed in contact all these many years. It’s wonderful.

Bob is the first American I meet upon my return. He greets me at National Airport. After nearly 24 hours of travel, his warm smile makes me feel like I am home. I will always be grateful for his hospitality and friendship. I stay with the Bells for about 5 weeks. There’s much to do. I must finalize details for the purchase of my co-op apartment and start my Social Security, Pensions and Medicare.

I find myself in a Catch-22 situation. The Co-op Board hesitates to approve my application to buy a unit because I have no cash flow. Since I have been out of the Country, I have not been able to have my Social Security and Pensions kick in. It will take a month or so. I have investments, but alas I show no cash flow. What to do? For a few days, I wonder if I will be homeless.

My realtor knows the president of the management company and writes a letter. Like Ukraine, people connections are important. Approval comes and I make settlement on June 20th. It’s official. I now live at 3001 Veazey Terrace NW, Washington, DC.

I take a few more weeks to paint the all-white-apartment in warm Spanish hues. I decide to be bold and paint burnt orange in the living room. Brilliant or not, the verdict is still being decided. People say that they like it, but are they just being kind?

Not with standing living room walls, I love my new home. I have an ample kitchen where counter space is measured in feet, not inches. My stove has four burners and a griddle in the middle. They all work. My fridge has water and ice in the door. Imagine. I have hot water every day. Down the hall is a room filled with washers and dryers. No more bath tub soaking and swooshing for me. Just select the wash cycle and tumble dry. It’s easy to re-adjust to luxury. Maybe, it’s too easy.

Today I am buying a toothbrush. I walk from my new apartment down a short hallway through an automated door and into the underground garage. My apartment building is connected to a Giant Supermarket which is just a 50 yard stroll down a ramp and through another automated door. There’s no need to go outside. Everything is interconnected and convenience abounds. I am back in America.

The doors open to the produce department. The space is large. I think it must be 3 or 4 time larger than any market in Konotop. Fruits and vegetables spill from the shelves. The variety is stunning. In Ukraine I remember how excited I was to find a few broccoli heads at the market. Here thick displays tempt the eyes to buy more and more. Behind the produce section, I discover the rest of the supermarket. It spreads out into 12 more aisles brimming over with products. By American standards, I guess it’s not so unusual, but with my acquired Ukrainian sensibilities, it’s colossal. I wander from one aisle to the next. There’s too much to see.

I find my soft bristled toothbrush on aisle ten. I can’t help but chuckle to myself, “that was easy.” In Konotop, I remember preparing for the buying of a tooth brush. I didn’t want to get a hard bristle one again. So I looked up the words in my Russian dictionary, wrote them down and hoped that I could recognize the labeling. Buying something as simple as a toothbrush sure could become an adventure.

But in America it’s easy. Signs and labels are in English. Maybe there are sub-texts in Spanish, but always English. After 27 months surrounded by Russian, it’s comforting.

I buy my new tooth brush and head home. I retrace my steps through the automated doors and within a few moment I am sitting on my patio. It’s a calm green spot surrounded by trees and plantings. It's my private oasis in the midst of the city. I’ve made a little water fountain with two large pots. It’s so soothing. I turn it on and stare into the mesmerizing spouting and gurgling of water.

Yes, I’m on my way – well on my way to being back in America. But maybe I will just close my eyes for a moment and catch another glimpse of Konotop.

The Peace Corps loves acronyms.

Of course there are the easy ones like PCV or Peace Corps Volunteer. But then there are more complicated ones like PCMO or Peace Corps Medical Service and PST or Pre-Service Training. Some people experience ET or Early Termination, but most of us go all the way. Right now I am experiencing COS or Close of Service. I finished my two page check-list and have said my goodbyes to a wonderful PC Staff.

In less than 24 hours, I depart from Ukraine leaving behind a DOS or Description of Service in my official record. Take a moment and give it a read...

The U.S. Embassy Chargé d’Affaires, a. i., James D. Pettit swore in Mr. Judson W. Dolphin as a Peace Corps Volunteer on June 18th, 2009 in Kyiv, Ukraine.

Mr. Dolphin was assigned to Konotop, a City of 95,000 Ukrainian and Russian speakers in Sumy Oblast which is located in the northeastern part of Ukraine. He worked as a full-time NGO/Community Development facilitator at Hearts of Love Charity Fund, which has a director, 6 primary volunteers and many other occasional volunteers.

As a Community Development volunteer, Mr. Dolphin focused on transferring organizational development skills. He consulted with his primary organization, conducted workshops, and implemented projects. During his second year in Konotop, Mr. Dolphin connected with secondary organizations including governmental, NGO and educational institutions.

Yelena Yuschenko, Director of Hearts of Love Charity Fund, was his counterpart. Ms. Yuschenko along with other volunteers opened Hearts of Love in the fall of 2008 as an activity and support center for special need children and their families. Mr. Dolphin was their first Peace Corps Volunteer arriving in June of 2009.

Ms. Yuschenko introduced Mr. Dolphin to the community during a partnership meeting within the first week of service. Mr. Dolphin followed up with individual meetings and further networking to broaden his contacts in the community. Within three months, he had met with over 25 leaders from the NGO, educational, governmental and business sectors.

Mr. Dolphin deepened relationships through an innovative 10 week Leadership English Course. About 15 leaders participated in the twice weekly course that ran for 10 weeks. He authored the curriculum and tailored material to the abilities and interest of his adult students. As skills and English language learning were being shared, mutual trust was developing.

For example, when flu quarantine closed Ukrainian schools, including the Konotop Institute where classes were being held, the City Department of Pensioners and Disabled Persons volunteered a space so that the classes could continue. Having a US Peace Corps volunteer freely using a space in a city governmental building is unusual and was a first in Konotop.

At his primary site, Hearts of Love, Mr. Dolphin worked with volunteer staff to start an Art Expression Class for special need children. Collaborating with Ukrainian volunteers set the framework for transfer of skills and eventual sustainability. Now even when Mr. Dolphin is away from site, the Art Class continues with about 10 children participating each week.

In the winter of 2009, Mr. Dolphin provided guidance in developing a funding strategy for his host organization. Higher energy costs and increased activities at the Center required additional funding.

Through a series of discussion and presentations, it was decided to initiate a local funding strategy to supplement grants from foreign benefactors. With additional guidance and training provided by Mr. Dolphin, Hearts of Love held a successful charity auction selling bead-work that children and parents had made. A silent auction was also organized with services or goods that had been solicited from 16 local businesses of whom most had never contributed to Hearts of Love before. Over 3800 UAH was raised along with much media exposure.

Media reports during the holiday season stimulated copy-cat auctions raising additional money. In 2010, the Charity Auction was repeated with expanded leadership and is on the path for sustainability

In January of 2010 Mr. Dolphin led a needs assessment process involving children, volunteers and parents at his site. The idea for a SPA project emerged calling for a computerized learning center for the special need children of Hearts of Love. Often, these children are passed over in school and do not have access to the power of computerized learning.

Implementation of the project was delayed because of unforeseen illnesses, but in September 2010, a computerized learning center was opened. Five Ukrainian volunteers now teach and oversee about 25 children (non-duplicated number) each month. Plans are underway to secure additional funds for connecting to the Internet.

Also in 2010, Mr. Dolphin developed a series of Organizational Development Seminars. Leaders from both government and non-government sectors had heard about success at Hearts of Love and wanted to benefit from the knowledge and skills that Mr. Dolphin brought with him from a life time of non-profit management and teaching experience.

Mr. Dolphin conducted a needs assessment with leaders and potential participants. From this information, he developed a series of four 3 hour seminars in both English and Russian. He worked with a translator and presented each seminar twice in order to better accommodate schedules.

As a result 26 leaders participated in one or more of the seminars. They gained information and practice for developing mission statements, conducting SWOT analysis, building teams, working with volunteers, growing as leaders and of course, understanding fund raising strategies, organizational stability and grant writing.

As word spread about the value of the Seminars, Mr. Dolphin was invited to adapt the material for special audiences. The City Department of Families and Children held a meeting on volunteering and Mr. Dolphin presented information on working with volunteers to about 50 people. And then youth leaders of the City met to learn skills and share ideas. Mr. Dolphin presented leadership skills and team building to 23 young leaders. All presentations were conducted with Russian translation.

Mr. Dolphin was honored by the Konotop Institute and Polytechnic School during its 120th anniversary. Among the many business, educational and business leaders, he was invited to briefly address over 100 people who had gathered to mark the occasion. It was a very special honor to be the only American to be a part of this historic moment.

Also while serving in Konotop, he has made brief presentations at half dozen primary schools, several youth organizations and other meetings. On one occasion he shared the podium with several of Konotop’s remaining Great War veterans. Stories of personal sacrifice during the War were blended with other stories about individuals volunteering to make the country a better place to live. Mr. Dolphin concluded his remarks by paraphrasing President Kennedy, “Ask not what Konotop can do for you, but what you can do for Konotop?”

In the summer of 2010, Mr. Dolphin and other Peace Corps Volunteers discovered a lack of English literature books in all of Konotop. A rich cultural exchange and world of new ideas was closed to the people of Konotop. Mr. Dolphin set out to correct this deficit. At first he was rebuffed by the city library. They were not interested in partnering. But then, Mr. Dolphin approached the English teachers, librarians and director at the Polytechnic School. They were enthusiastic and eager to partner.

Over the next 6 months a small team works steadily. As a result, an English literature library of more than 300 books was opened on March 2, 2011. Access is open to anyone on Konotop and a month long public education campaign was launched to inform the community about this new opportunity. Within the first month 38 books had been circulated. More will follow since the School plans to integrate an English Literature course into their curriculum.

During his intensive work with the Polytechnic School, Mr. Dolphin started a monthly advanced English conversational seminar. Each seminar was interactive and gave students a chance to leave textbooks and have real English conversations. About 18 students participated in each session.

In February and again in May of 2011, Mr. Dolphin was invited by Ukrainian Catholic University in Lviv to teach in their Institute of Leadership and Management. It’s the only institute in Ukraine offering a master level program in organizational development and NGO management. Their goal is to equip Ukrainian leaders for developing Civil Society.

Mr. Dolphin taught a 6 hour seminar on Public Relations and Media, a 3 hour seminar on Fund-raising and Grants, and another 3 hour seminar on Story Telling. Each was well received and sixty-five leaders participated in one or more of the seminars.Continuing their relationship, Nataliya Bourdon, Director of the Institute of Leadership and Management, has invited Mr. Dolphin to be a long-distant advisor. They plan to have regular Skype conversations as this important effort to build civic society continues.

Throughout his Peace Corps service, Mr. Dolphin enjoyed his exposure to Ukrainian culture. While his language level was tagged at low intermediate, he had no difficulty in developing many new friendships. During a thank you party as he prepared to leave, more than 40 of Konotop’s leader and friends came to say farewell.

Mr. Judson W. Dolphin left Konotop, Ukraine on May 25, 20011 for end of service meetings with the Peace Corps staff in Kiev.

Following Ukraine's Declaration of Independence in 1991 and its decision to become an independent democratic country, a bilateral agreement was signed by US and Ukrainian Presidents to establish a U.S. Peace Corps Program in Ukraine in 1992. Since then, US Peace Corps Volunteers have been serving in Ukraine in the areas of business development, education, environmental protection, youth development, and community development. Mr. Dolphin work as a Community Development Volunteer, as well as his role as a representative of the people, culture, values and traditions of the United States of America, was part of a nation-wide development effort in Ukraine.

Mr. Judson W. Dolphin completed his Peace Corps service in Ukraine on May 27, 2011.

“In the past two years, you’ve become family,” says a dear Ukrainian friend. “Now as I look around, I realize that we are not the only ones. I see that you are family to many others here in Konotop.”

The day of my “Thank You Konotop Party” is unfolding. It’s late on a Sunday afternoon and about 45 well-wishers gather for a final farewell. Diverse segments of the community are here. They have come together for some chi and cake, a little wine and of course to say goodbye to me.

I remember Gregory saying that if he was still living, we would have a big party before I went home to America. He did not live long enough, but both Illya, his grandson, and I agree that he is smiling upon us.

We’re in the midst of toasting one another. Ukrainian people are so eloquent. They dip into their poetic souls to say some of the most touching phrases.

The Director of the Konotop Institute reminds us of the great Ukrainian poet - Taras Shevchenko. He tells me his statue is in Washington, DC near the FDR Memorial. "Please send us his photo." I readily agree. I try to express my appreciation in my best Russian. “I came as a strange. You did not know me and I did not know you. I could not speak much Russian and everything was so new. But then I began to meet the kind people of Konotop, especially you in this room. Two years later, we have become good friends. We’re so comfortable with one another. True? And of course now, I speak Russian… but only a little.” My friends smiled broadly. They have been so generous and patient with me. We joke that I need a translator to translate my Russian into Russian. But I manage and as I look around the room, my eyes swell with happiness. Yes, we are family and this one is Ukrainian.

If God is Love and I believe it is so, then today God is touching Konotop. We all are getting a glimpse at how good life can really be. Amazingly, children of the Cold War who once were taught to fear one another, now embrace as adults. For nearly three hours we talk and remember. There are first meeting stories, funny happenings, holiday dinners, forest picnics, project adventures, silly mistakes, cultural differences, keeping in touch wishes, and so much more. Where words fail, body language takes over and says the rest. There’s an abundance of hugs and cheek kisses. I'm all smiles.

I have prepared a self photo. It gives me a chance to speak with eachperson and write a little Russian/English message on the back. One of my young friends puts it in his shirt pocket and looking at me, says, “Next to my heart.” If only he and so many others knew what a big part of my heart they occupy. But then again, maybe they do understand and it is mutual. I feeling so deeply blessed.

Our final farewells go slowly. We don’t want to let go. We begin by saying goodbye at the tables and then in the doorway. Outside we gather in circles and share more final stories – again and again. I love denial. It can be wonderful at times like these.

But eventually, a few turn to go home. I watch as they stroll down the street. My Ukrainian friends are disappearing from life and entering into the timeless realm of memory. Two or three look back and wave a final goodbye. And then they are all gone.

I ’m thinking how fortunate I am to be alive in this place at this time. Goodbye. Я люблю Конотоп. Спасибо и удачи.

Copy the Russian into Google translate.

All day I’ve been stressed. It started when I read my morning emails. Last night as I went to bed, I thought I had finalized buying a condo in Washington DC. I was set for a smooth transition from Peace Corps Service to my new adventure in retirement.

But now as I am sipping my coffee, I read that my real estate agent is still waiting for scanned documents to be emailed. And a second email ominously warns that another offer from another buyer is possible, maybe before the end of tomorrow.

With 7 hours difference in time, tomorrow is now.

For the next 5 hours, I’m glued to my computer. My neck aches from hunching over and my mind floods with worse-case scenarios. Increasingly frantic, I‘ve try everything. I look out the window and think, “I can’t do this anymore. I got to get away. “

Interestingly, I recall some Ukrainian folk wisdom. “When life is hectic and times are difficult, we go to the land.” Rich dark fields and sweet cool forests restore. I think that’s why so many Ukrainians keep a dacha returning to the village of their childhood.

For a glimpse at dacha life, click Ukraine Dacha. For generations this land has rejuvenated spent spirits. I need it now.

Outside I walk away from my stress and Soviet style apartment block, across a field and stroll down a dusty path. The spring rains and mud have left behind a fine dust where footprints now track the walking of others.

One of the remarkable things about living in Ukraine is the number of people walking here, there and everywhere. Without so many cars whizzing by, everyone walks. The paths and roads are alive. Somehow it makes me feel connected even if I don’t know names.

Visually Ukraine is all about people and not so mechanized with cars. It’s refreshing.

Ahead of me, a babushka herds a few goats. They are munching on fresh spring grass. I wonder what they eat in the winter. I ask if I can take a photo. She smiles and I do.

I turn up a dirt road. Barking dogs announce my approach. They run loose, but thankfully, behind high walls which surround each cottage home.

Many of the homes are in a state of ремонт. That’s repair, pronounced remont. Ukrainians love to repair, decorate and extend their homes. The process can go on for years as money comes and goes in household budgets.

In the distance, a man works a field. He turns the sod one scoop at a time. I think it’s a linguistic coincidence, but the Russian word for garden is сад and it’s pronounced sod. I have only seen one roto-tiller in Konotop and it belongs to the City. They use it to plant flowers along a mile or so of the main street. Everyone else uses a shovel one scoop at a time. Already, the man has turned an area approaching the size of a football field. It’s not unusual. For many Ukrainians, a large garden is a necessity, not a hobby. With work spotty and monthly pensions averaging around 700 UAD (less than $100), this dark soil literally feeds the body. The road opens to a broad field for as far as the eye can see. While fences surround individual cottages, no fences can be seen dividing the land.

I think it may be a holdover from years of collective farming and maybe represents a different approach to the land.

Instead of individual homesteads plowed for free market production which created American agribusiness, Ukraine has workers in small villages (many under 500 people) who comprise a work force for the land. Once they were called serfs, then peasants and comrades and now they are simply workers.

For an interesting report on Ukrainian agriculture from an American viewpoint, check out this USAID Report.

I breathe in the colors of the grass and earth. I feel a calm joy soaking into my spirit. The sun plays hide-n-seek behind stacks of clouds. The artist in me wishes I had brought some supplies so that I could capture this rejuvenating image. Ukraine is so beautiful.

Of course, we have expansive areas like this in America’s mid-west, but seeing a horse drawn cart or men and women traveling by bicycle on the make-shift roads adds a human dimension missing in my more prosperous and mechanized homeland.

I knell down and grab a clump of dark earth. “From earth we came and to earth we go,” lingers in my mind. I imagine all the suffering that this land has absorbed on behalf of Ukrainian people - hungers, wars, oppression from one generation to the next. It’s humbling to think these thoughts as the earth slips between my fingers. I can only hope that Ukraine will see better days.

Gradually as I walk along the edge of the field, I gain a new perspective. My condo problem is small stuff. A smile replaces worry. I’m mostly okay with either getting or losing the condo. As an old proverb says, “Only when you have eaten a lemon do you appreciate what sugar is.”

Take a moment to browse a few more Ukrainian Proverbs.

My story ends with a taste of sugar. Finally the documents appear on my agent’s computer thanks to the help of a third party in America. The deal is sealed.

As another proverb puts it, “The only thing certain in life is birth, death and change.” Soon my life will change again in Washington, DC.

Maybe it's my imagination, but people seem happier on Paska (Easter).

I'm watching Ukrainians at the Vokzal (train station). I see smiles everywhere. A babushka and dedushka hold hands helping each other as they meander across train tracks. A little girl sucks on an ice cream while a little boy races ahead looking behind every few moments to make sure his parents are still watching.

In a gentle spring manner, the sunshine is beaming down on everyone. Puffy clouds roll across the day's cerulean blue canvass. A tender breeze caresses the senses. It's warm without being hot. A perfect day.

If Paska means love-unending and I believe it does, then I am in love with Ukraine and the chance to be living here.

I'm at the Vakzal to catch a train from Chernigiv and back to Konotop. It’s here where my Peace Corps adventure began. Now two years later, my time is ending and new clusters of volunteers are just starting.

Last Thursday, I got a chance to share my experience and some tips on networking and community integration at the Peace Corps training. The new recruits were attentive. Two years of being a Peace Corps Volunteers bestows some credibility. Like Woody Allan puts it, “80% of success is showing up.” I'm a survivor...veteran...or whatever. I showed up.

I like developing training presentations. I always wrap in stories with practical tips that I have either used or gathered from other volunteers. My presentation went so well that staff invited me to record a DVD so that it can be shared in the future. I’m delighted. It looks like I will be able to leave behind a training legacy.

This time my visit to Chernigiv is also a goodbye to my host family and particularity Luda. I lived with her for 11 weeks in 2009. Luda taught me some of my first practical Russian phrases.

I remember practicing - Я хочу купить воду без Гасс. Proudly, I carried my first bottle of “water without gas” back home to Luda. Like a kid, I beamed, “I did it.”

Every week we would make a menu in Russian. Even if we didn't follow it which was mostly the case, I was learning. We played lots of UNO and I learned my colors and numbers that way. Of course, Luda almost always won. We laugh together recalling our shared stories.

On Paska, we take the yellow bus to one of the historic churches in the center of Chernigiv. Along the way I see scores of people strolling with wicker baskets strung under arms. Each is filled with an assortment of Easter breads, (also called Paska), eggs, kielbasa, and maybe some cognac.

As we approach the church, I see a crowd ringing the towering domed building. They wait with their baskets quietly greeting one another in the dawn.

Luda and I snake our way through the crowd and enter the sanctuary. Spectacularly, the front is gilded in gold from floor to highest heights. A screen known as a iconostatis separates the altar from the people. Icons are everywhere. It’s a remarkable sight to see in such a poor country.

There are no pews. People circulate through the space pausing at icons to say a prayer and kiss the image. They begin and end their prayers with the sign of the cross. Unlike the West, Orthodox Christians cross themselves with broad bold movement – head, chest, right shoulder, left shoulder and a full bow.

Many people light candles. I buy one to remember those I have loved who are no longer with us – my parents and brother, Nancy Lee, Gregory, Babushka, Jessie and Brian.

I am struck by the theology of the space. The gold and towering dome is other worldly. Yet the people milling around is so human. I think this architecture reflects the miracle of divinity and humanity together in Jesus.

I don’t understand the words of the Priest. He chants and I am told that he is reading the Resurrection account from the Bible. A lovely soprano sings simple melodies. Her voice reverberates and seems to come from the arches above - almost heaven.

Later some people come forward to receive a sip of wine from a chalice given to them on a silver spoon. They have been fasting since Holy Thursday and break their fast with the “blood of Jesus”. It must be a powerful experience for believers.

We leave the sanctuary and join the crowd outside. It has grown denser - about 3 or 4 deep.

The priest has a bundle of spring branches in hand. He dips them in water – holy water – and sprays the people and most importantly the baskets. Everyone and everything is blessed. It’s like a baptism reenacting the Easter miracle - Love-Unending.

From the tower above, bells begin to ring. A large one goes bong…bong…bong while strings of smaller ones go ding-a-ling… ding-a-ling… ding-a-ling. The combination is so much livelier than a single bell. I imagine the heart of Chernigiv brimming over with joy.

After our blessing, we stroll down the walkways that surround the Church and make our way back home. I try to imprint the sights and sounds into my consciousness so that I can remember this feeling.

Later that same day, I say goodbye to Luda. With a smile that keeps tears from flowing, we remember our daily ritual. Every day as I left for language class, Luda would say, "Goodbye and good luck."

Now we hug and say it for the last time face-to-face.

What a lucky fellow I have become. It's like I have gained a second family. I step into the sunshine and look up at the balcony of Luda’s flat. She is there waving - Goodbye. Good luck!

Again, it’s the dawn of Holy Week. Outside the snow is gone and hope for a resurgence of green grows each day. Daffodil spikes poke through the black soil.

In Konotop, resurgence is real and happening now. Ah, spring!

I will travel to Chernigov next week. I have been invited to share in the training of new Peace Corps Volunteers. I want to present a collection of tips for community integration and networking. It’s so important to take time to understand Ukrainian ways and build new relationships.

As another Peace Corp Volunteer said to me recently, “Our service is all about relationships first and then projects follow.” I’ve learned a lot and I’m glad to have the chance to pass it on. I’ll stay in Chernigov and share Paska (Easter) with Luda and my host family. It’s my third Paska in Ukraine. What an amazing story I have been blessed with living these past two years.

Yesterday as I was enjoying a flood of memories, a free verse came to mind. I sat down and with very little tinkering. these words flowed onto the screen:

the kingdom of god is now

so he rode into town

the people loved him

but crowds are fickle

or was it revenge

then and now, money changers remember

they play the future

a kingdom of god is no good when you have plans to profit the whole world

so with the crowds blessing, they killed him

just like they always do to those too good for now

just like a common thief for stealing away the right to hate and do daily injustice

then and now, death restores normalcy

or so it seems

but for those with eyes and ears and hearts and hands that work, the kingdom of god is now

so we ride into town...

Yesterday, I shared the verse with a few friends. One said she felt inspired and another said she might include it in Easter Sunday worship. She’s a minister. Amazing, how email sends thoughts around the world.

And now I share the verse here on my blog. While the context is Jesus and Holy Week, I think the theme is universal. All religions struggle with overcoming hatred and fear and daily injustice. Like daffodils, we poke our heads through the dark soil in hope.

Happy Paska!

My apartment is in the neighborhood of желмасив. To pronounce it, say zhelmasiv. Roughly translated, it means a place for living. When I tell Ukrainian friends where I’m living, they smile and joke, “You’re in Siberia. It’s so far away.” Well maybe, but I call it home even if it’s next to nowhere.

Let’s travel to my Ukrainian home in желмасив. See the sights that have been part of my life for nearly two years.

We’ll start in the Center of Konotop near the cinema and the town’s main fountain. Neither works.

The movie theater has been closed for years. People say that DVDs did away with the need. In my opinion, it’s a pity. Teenagers still gather in front when day-light turns to twilight. They promenade in an ageless ritual of looking and being seen.

The fountain only works on special holidays and sometimes not even then. But the children love the fountain or more correctly, they love the child-high wall that encircles the fountain.

They place tiny hands on the concrete surface as if by touching they will have power. And they do. Little boys clutch toy cars and trucks as they speed around. Little girls giggle and race around too sometimes beating the boys.

Occasionally, a few older children dare to mount the wall and slowly walk the concrete strip like a circus performer. So proud they become. To walk around the wall is an accomplishment for a 4 ½ year old and making it all the way is a relief for nervous parents who hover nearby. I love this fountain without water. I will sit and watch the drama unfold for hours. Who needs TV when real Ukrainian life is right here? But today we are going to the edge of the city...to желмасив.

We’ll catch either a van or a mini-bus. Both cost 1 ½ UAH (12 cents), but vans are smaller. In a van, you have to crouch down low as you enter so as not to hit your head. Then you must navigate up two steps while trying to swing the door shut.

The steps are narrow and if you are not careful and if your feet are big, like mine, you will trap your shoe between the door and the riser of the step. Believe me, I have learned the hard way. That’s why I prefer the big yellow mini-buses.

Of course we could hop on the trolley. It goes to желмасив too. Since Stalin’s time, Konotop has had a trolley or tram way system. It opened on Christmas day in 1949 and runs for about 15 miles (24 kilometers). Seniors get to ride free. You are supposed to get an official stamped card, but I never have. I guess I just look the part.

Down the main street of Konotop, we go. It is one of the main arteries that are paved. Like many towns in Ukraine, this main street is named Перспектива мира. To pronounce it, say Perspektiva Mira. Prospect Peace.

Out our left window is the park. A statue of Lenin waves in front of the City Building and a Shevchenko statue reclines while reading poetry across from the Post Office.

Benches line the walkways. A few kiddy rides are further back and mostly in disrepair. The Soviet State use to provide family fun in the park, but of course, it is no more. Private enterprise has yet to fill the gap.

On our right is a row of магазины. To pronounce it, say Magazeneh. Stores. A few Babushkas huddle in front selling pussy willows and sunflower seeds.

Pussy willows are signs of spring and the approach of Palm Sunday. Since there are no palm trees in Ukraine and other trees do not leaf early due to the harshness of the climate, only pussy willows reveal their tender catkins.

Leaves are present too, but not quite visible – a symbol of the joy of Easter that will soon be revealed to the faithful. Everyone wants to have a bundle of pussy willows in their home at this time of year.

See the three guys standing on the corner. Notice that one shares a handful of sunflower seeds with the others. It’s a popular snack and maybe a national pass-time.

In a smooth motion from hand to mouth, they crack the seeds between their front teeth extracting the kernel and spitting out the husk while not missing a word of the conversation. It’s multi-snacking at its best.

We make the turn at фора (Phora). It’s one of Konotop’s supermarkets. Between the Bazaar and here, I purchase most of my food. It’s not huge like an American Shop-n-Save. It’s more like a convenience store on steroids.

Inside you can find most of what you need. It helps to be able to read Russian, but then sometimes it gets confusing. Well, a lot of the time, it gets confusing especially when the labels switch to Ukrainian.

I guess that’s why it’s a relief to come down the vodka, cognac, beer aisle. Everything is color coded - white for vodka, brown for cognac, and skinny neck bottles for beer.

On our mini-bus, we pass by “Little Palestine.” During our last walk, Gregory pointed it out to me. “It’s where Konotop’s Jewish families lived before famine, wars and Nazis.”

He showed me his boyhood home which is now an office. He lived in a room about 12 x 15 with no kitchen or bath. Both were down the hallway and shared with other families. This was known as family dormitory living. I do not recommend it. I almost never pass by without saying a blessing for Gregory. If it matters in heaven, Gregory is remembered.

Our 15 minute ride is not so far by American standards. I know people in Boston who commute more than an hour. But still I am on the edge of city development. It’s the end of the line for the mini-bus, van and trolley. All three will turn-a-round here.

We get off and see an open field across the way. The soil is dark black and is said to be among the most fertile in the world. Individual plots have been laid out. In a few weeks, families will be out there turning the good earth by hand and planting food for the next year.

It’s a necessity. I have learned that Ukraine’s minimum monthly pension is 596 UAH ($73) and its average is no more than about 1,060 UAH ($130). It’s a pittance for a life time of work, but even at these levels, officials say the entire pension system is in dire crisis.

I’ve seen the alternative. An elderly woman scavengers through the trash containers not far from my home. She searches for any item that can be sold. And as difficult as it is to realize, she will also grab anything that can be eaten.

Stray dogs stand patiently in the shadows of the dumpsters, like sentinels, watching for any scrap that may be tossed their way. Other people scurry here and there and seem not to notice much. Очень жаль. To pronounce, say ochen zhal It’s a pity.

We walk another 15 minutes to my home. We pass a gaggle of Soviet apartments. They are five stories high and either of concrete or brick construction. To be higher would have required elevators according to Soviet code.

Balconies protrude in vertical rows. Each hangs in various states of repair. The overall appearance is chaotic and drab. In Soviet times, these buildings served a utilitarian purpose – to get families out of dormitories and into a home of their own. That part worked.

We notice in the distance some new construction. Locals call it “poor street” with obvious sarcasm and maybe some envy. Apparently free enterprise has given some people more – a lot more. And they have constructed their own castles on the edge of желмасив on the edge of town.

My place is modest – ever so modest. I have one main room that’s about 12 x 10 feet. Here is where I sleep and read and write this blog. My desk occupies one corner and my armoire sits in the other. A fold-down futon takes up most of the other space.

A short hallway connects this room with my bathroom. Last September, I got hot water. I’m in favor of hot water. But even when I was without it for 15 months, I adapted and I think most people would.

Next to my bathroom is a kitchen. I have about a foot of counter space. Whenever I am with other volunteers, I always make a complaint. With tongue- in-cheek, I gleefully rant on. It’s become my signature joke – a gourmet cook with so many ideas and so little space. Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle… And whenever I’m invited to another volunteer’s apartment, I stand and envy their two feet of counter space. It’s all in fun because I know many Ukrainians prepare elaborate meals for people they love with no more than I have. They prove that you can do a lot more with less. I’m thinking people adapt. We adapt to more maybe too easily and we adapt to less maybe without realizing it. We may not like it. We can complain. We can have fear or envy. But in the end we adapt and it’s a good thing.

So Welcome, my friend. I live on the edge of town in желмасив. Even though it is not a "poor street," I like it. It's become my living space.

Fifty years ago this month, newly inaugurated President Kennedy established the Peace Corps. Over the years, more than 200,000 volunteers have served in 139 countries. Back then as today, Peace Corps Volunteers shared skills and knowledge, represented America to host country friends and brought cross-cultural understanding back home.

Happy Birthday, Peace Corps.

What would a birthday be without presents? In Konotop, we take this occasion to open the world of English literature to an entire community creating a legacy of knowledge and cross-cultural understanding.

Where none existed before, more than 300 English literature books are given and made available to everyone. This English literature library is made possible with gifts from Americans to the Peace Corps Partnership Program and with additional gifts from the personal reading shelves of Peace Corps Volunteers serving here in Ukraine.

What a great way to honor 50 years of Peace Corps.

My team - Tatyanna, Irena, Anna“We are making history,” whispers Tatyana with eyes glistening. She and Irena and Anna are English teachers at the Poly-Technical School and Institute in Konotop. For more than 6 months, they have planned and worked for this moment.

“Remember you came to us on September 10th with this idea of English literature,” recalls Anna. “We wanted more text books at the time, but you introduced the idea of literature. We did not know it, but our Head-Mistress also had a dream of offering English Literature to our students. “

The Head Mistress had participated in a cross-cultural exchange program and spent a month in Ames, Iowa. She brought back many new ideas. Wonderfully, the synergy of the Peace Corps, an idea brought from the heartland of America and gifts of books will now make dreams come true. PC Director, Douglas Teschner, with PC Volunteers, Rose Cheyette, John VanGavree, Dan Cahoon, Danny Zawacki, Kim Rosado, Jud Dolphin with Gifts of Books

I am with Douglas Teschner, our Peace Corps Ukraine Director and an entourage of local Peace Corps Volunteers. We are walking down the hallway towards the library. Along the way students direct us. They are dressed –up for the occasion. Suits, formal dresses and an occasional thumbs-up greet us. It’s obvious that today is considered a very special one. As we enter the Library, the Head Librarian and her staff are all smiles. When we first met, I remember her showing me a handful of Soviet English publications from the 1960s. That plus a few other books at the city library were the extent of English literature in Konotop. None of the classics were available.

“We may get as many as 300 books and each one will need to be catalogued. It’s a lot of extra work,” I cautioned. But the Librarian was more excited than worried. She assured me, “Not a problem.” Weeks later, Tatyanna glowed when telling me that the library staff is learning English too since each title must be translated and entered into the computer.

It seems to me that giving creates its own rippling effect. It keeps expanding outward creating waves of possibility where none existed before. As Douglas remarks, “The books are important, but it’s not just about the books.”

With obvious pleasure, the Head Librarian now displays shelves of English books. Each has been prepared properly - a translated routing card and a stamp that says US Peace Corps Partnership Program. The books include many abridged versions of classics so that even beginners can have a positive reading experience. Other books are full versions for those more advanced.

Anna and Tatyana I remember going to Kiev with Anna and Tatyana to buy the books. We started before dawn on a cold dreary day. First I had to go and get cash. Ukraine is mostly a cash economy. Few shops take credit cards. For a time I was a rich man with over 12,000 UAH ($1500).

We invaded English only shops and outdoor stalls. Previously at their own expense, Tatyanna and Anna had checked-out possibilities in Kiev and knew exactly where to go. Carefully, we selected titles. So absorbed we became that we forgot about lunch until 5:00 pm.

Getting the books back to Konotop could have been a problem, but as a sign of the School’s commitment, the Head-Mistress provided a car and driver. Perfect. Since then, we felt that problems could be solved.

It’s an important lesson for everyone to learn and here in Konotop, we replace problems with a good feeling. I don't know who started it, but whenever we come across a problem, we remind one another of the Bobby McFerrin tune and hum - “Don’t worry…Be happy” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-diB65scQU

Now anyone in Konotop can check out a book by showing identification. Young or old, student or not, all are welcome. It’s a huge change in policy and one that might challenge even American colleges.

Two young Ukrainians in traditional dress hold a red ribbon in front of the bookshelves. As the Head-Mistress and Douglas cut it, I can’t help thinking that here cultures are meeting and embracing one another. Soon an English literature course will be part of the curriculum. Tatyanna boasts, “Some of the students have already checked out books.”

A piece of the ribbon is handed to me. Waving it in the air, I am ecstatic. Inside the Reading Hall, a crowd is gathering. As I walk to the front, I suddenly notice two very special people. Gregory’s widow and daughter are here.

You may recall that when my first organizing attempts were rebuffed by the city library, Gregory told me that “something good would happen.” Sadly he died before he could see his prophesy fulfilled. I embrace his widow and daughter and my eyes well-up with tears. They are strange tears, but mostly ones of joy, inspiration and gratitude.

Two students emcee our program. We are treated to a wonderful full-length Ukrainian ceremony. We hear about the dawn of writing and scrolls and papyrus and eventually the printing press and books as we know them. Two charming poems are recited in English and a few songs are mixed in along with a stand-out performance on the Bandura. Please learn more about this traditional instrument.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bandura

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUGx5FVxp00&feature=related

Douglas and I both are invited to share a few words. The people are impressed with Douglas and more than one remark how wonderful it is that he comes all the way from Kiev. He talks about the Peace Corps, its history and its enduring goals. He tells everyone that the Peace Corps is now 50 years old.

It’s a perfect segue. Each of my Peace Corps colleagues brings a gift of books from their own collection. Festooned with ribbons and bows, the books pile up as a tribute to the Peace Corps and a symbol of our friendship with Ukrainian people. I say, “We give you the enjoyment of books. We give you the knowledge of books. We give you improvement of English through reading books. We give you your dreams with books. We give you understanding of other cultures.” And then I add, “We give you our friendship and hope for a very good life.”

After all the speeches are completed and people filter out, two young boys stop to speak with me. Their English is pretty good and they bubble enthusiasm. Each pledges to read many of the new English books. I smile and think maybe they will….so many more possibilities exist now.

Happy Birthday, Peace Corps.

"Let me say a few words...a toast to so many walls falling down and people sharing...no longer afraid of saying the wrong ideas...we are open to talk our minds...we are friends without fear and barriers," smiles Natalia, the Director of the Institute of Leadership and Management of the Ukrainian Catholic University.

I am with her and two of her team members relaxing over dinner after a long day that included my seminar on Practical Public Relations for NGOs (Non-Profits).

Her toast comes after an extended conversation about struggles for a civil society and lingering consequences of Soviet rule. Although it's been 20 years, I am continually struck by the dark depth of this legacy. It seems like Soviets in an effort to control control human thinking left deep scares.

"As children, my brother and I went to Holy Friday worship services with my mother," Natalia shares. "It was held at night because in the dark, it is not so easy to see who is going in and coming out."

She tells how this time they were observed by authorities. The next day at school, she and her brother were taken into a room and reprimanded. "Good Soviet Pioneers (a Soviet children's program) do not go to bad places. Only bad people go to churches." As Natalia says, "We learned to stare a hole in the floor and never say a word."

The Soviet system imploded and in 1991 Ukraine rose up declaring its independence. The world would need to learn that this land was no longer "The Ukraine" as if it was a section of a larger country, but simply Ukraine, a fully autonomous nation.

I remember having to learn to drop the article "the" when I first came to Ukraine. The Soviet legacy was a part of my mind too. It may seem like a simple or even silly grammatical change, but it is more. It is about identity, human dignity, freedom and hope for a better life. .

I am in the west of Ukraine in the city of Lviv. It's a 13 hour train ride from Konotop and a mere 85 kilometers away from Poland. During much of Ukraine's history, the area around Lviv has been been annexed by one empire or another. Poles, Lithuanians, Astro-Hungarians, Germans and of course Russians took turns. Still through it all a remnant Ukrainian identity survived. And now since 1991, there is but one Ukraine from Lviv in the west to Kiev in the middle and Donestk in the east.

My seminar brings together about 30 NGO leaders. Each is engaged in some form of community service or charity work.

It's remarkable. Back in Soviet times, there was no entrepreneurial leadership. If it was not done by the State, it was not needed. You did not embark on your own. To do so was to invite danger to yourself and your family. So many Ukrainians have told me that they got real good at practicing invisibility and just blending in.

So it is remarkable to see so many leaders eager to learn. These men and women are building the structure for a more civil society. Association by association, network connection by network connection, the slow process of regaining a good life is happening.

A mother talks about her son with autism. "They told me he would be nothing and should be kept at home and out of sight." She rebelled, went to school to learn about treating autism and now heads a small organization that gives hope to other families.

A young fellow, maybe 28, is working to resurrect Ukrainian culture and teach the next generation about the traditional ways. He is planning a cultural festival in Spring and is eager to learn about press releases and press conferences and how to spin a story into news.

An older woman talks about uniting pensioners so that they can speak in one voice. Her organization is part social and part advocacy. Immediately I think of AARP and the similarities of how it got started. I share lots of ideas. She can't wait to check-out the AARP web site - www.aarp.org

A woman tells about a mini-bus that travels the streets of Lviv giving HIV tests and AIDS information. "A lot of time people don't notice us," she laments. We discuss placing colorful circle and a banner on the bus so that it stands out. I suggest, "Maybe a radio station will play a game and ask listeners 'where in Lviv is the HIV bus today!'"

We have a lot of fun. Thanks to a wonderful translator, I can freely share practical ideas, antidotes and even a few jokes. We all have a laugh when I use a colloquial expression and my translator stares at me in disbelief. "What will he say next?"

Even though the Seminar goes on for more than 6 hours, most of the students stay. They are so eager to learn and grow their organizations. It's a delight to be with them.

I am encouraged to see a kind of transformation happen before me. Silent head-bowed obedience is replaced with animation and tons of questions. The human spirit lives. Minds can think new ideas. People can associate in new ways. Civil Society emerges.

So, dear friend, I invite you to join us. Say a few words and offer a toast. Americans and Ukrainians, we are friends without fears or barriers. Let us help one another live into a good life. Let's us build a civil society.

More than 4000 years ago, a moral conscience developed among Egyptians. I have been reading Development of Religion and Thought in Ancient Egypt by James Breasted.

Absorbing the evolution of ancient thought as I watch 21st century history unfold in Tahrir Square has created a remarkable convergence of underlying truth. I realize anew the depth and strength of the human spirit. It cannot be denied.

In this civilization along the Nile, people created a cradle for our civil society. From prehistoric roots, they developed the first awareness that social behavior is linked to human development and the will of the gods. Some experts say that their social consciousness was well established more than three centuries before the Ten Commandments.

Even Pharaohs are subject to judgment. Carved into the walls of their tombs are pleas of innocence.

“I did not slay men. I did not steal from one crying for his possessions. I did not take away food. I did not diminish the grain measure. I did not commit adultery. I did not stir up fear. I did not stir up strife. I was not avarice. I was not puffed up. I did not make falsehoods in the place of truths. I was not deaf to truthful words. My heart coveted not. I did not wax in hot temper. I did not do an abomination of the gods.” (Adapted from Book of the Dead, translated J. Breasted, pp302-303)

Injustice does not stand. As Martin Luther King said to a powerful country still needing to address its own injustice, “…the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice."

Before January 25th and the start of the protests in Egypt, I was emailing Omar. You may recall him as the artist I met in the Egyptian Museum, just a few blocks from Tahrir Square. He was the one who recommended a cafe on Tahrir Square.

I did not know then that the cityscape I was exploring would soon be filled with tanks, military and millions of ordinary Egyptians fed up with the dictatorial system .

Omar writes one week before the start of protests:

“the weather here is kinda cold, winter break just came by, my birthday in 2 weeks and my 6 months anniversary with my girlfriend, I am really excited about the 2nd one because I really think she is the one :)

I am starting my own company too; Vinyl designs - as in records not the material :D - , WISH US LUCK. WE NEED IT!!!

best wishes from the ever green Egypt :)”

A very normal and friendly note from an almost 21 year old. It’s what you would expect and then a few days later I receive this email:

“Hey Jud

how are u doing? yea things have been crazy the past week! a lot of people escaped prisons and were stealing malls and homes. i almost got shot like 6 times and i almost killed a man. feels weird but thanks god me, my family and our home are unharmed. the good thing is that people are uniting again, everyone cares about the other and our love to our country got restored. pray for us. btw i am 21 on the 7th :D”

I honor his request for prayer and celebrate his birthday by sending a home-made birthday card. I write the following to him:

“I am very glad to hear from you. It must be a very scary time but also a time for much needed change….

I can only imagine the fear of being shot at and the terrible feeling of almost shooting another. I am glad you were spared that experience. May it continue.

Are you sleeping on the square? Are you protecting your area from criminals? I of course will pray and trust that good outcomes will happen for you and your country.

I will celebrate your 21st Birthday on Monday.”

I assume Omar celebrated his birthday on Monday, but did not hear from him. Of course, I worried as the stalemate became more intense. The news had a face and it was Omar's. Then history was made on 2/11 and Omar wrote:

“YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HAPPY, ALIVE AND DIGNIFIED WE ARE AT THIS MOMENT I CRIED OUT OF JOY! I COULDN'T BELIEVE IT!!!

it has been a long journey, I myself almost got ran over twice, almost got shot 8 timesand full of bruises and scars now. i have lost friends and i ve seen bad thingsbut i gained freedom and got my country back :D”

Like all the commentators say, Egypt has so much to accomplish for freedom and justice to flourish. But this is a land and people who first gave voice to our higher ideals.

Like a kind of unintended immortality, we have the words of justice inscribed on the walls of ancient tombs. Even now they strengthen our human spirit. I have a feeling that something good will emerge and I think my young artist friend will be a part of it.

Omar, God bless you….

“Can you help us develop a grant for Civic Engagement,” comes the invitation from Tatyana, the Director of the Poly-Technical School?

Tatyana is a graduate of an American Exchange Program that took her and a few others from Konotop to Ames, Iowa. Now there is an opportunity for a grant to further Civic Engagement locally.

I arrive for a meeting. It’s a small world. By coincidence, my brother and his wife lived in Ames for most of their married life. Warren taught biology at the Iowa State University and Judy directed the campus YWCA. They never met Tatyana, but amazingly they share friends in common. Because of this Ames connection, I think Tatyana and I share a special friendship.

Her request to help develop a grant comes unexpectedly. Initially, I have no idea what to suggest. I fret about it for a couple of days before the meeting. I am honored to be asked and increasingly I’m afraid I have nothing to say. As a last gasp for something, I start looking at my Peace Corps Training Portfolio. I’m looking for ideas, any ideas. But there is nothing. I sort through more files and dust off my assortment of how-to manuals. I am getting desperate.

Suddenly, Service Learning jumps out at me. In the first summer of my Peace Corps experience, I attended training about Service Learning.

When I returned to Konotop, I tried to interest a few people, but it went nowhere. I placed the how-to booklet behind my shoes in the bottom of my armoire. It stayed there until today.

I quickly research the idea on the Internet and put together a one page fact sheet translated into Russian. I put a call through to the Peace Corps Office and get them to send me all the materials they have on Service Learning. Strikingly, they have been translated into Ukrainian. I am soaring high. Who would have thought that such a great idea would be lying dormant in my armoire? Briefly if you don’t already know, “Service-Learning is a teaching strategy that integrates meaningful community service with instruction and reflection to enrich the learning experience, teach civic responsibility, and strengthen communities. “

(http://www.servicelearning.org/what-is-service-learning) I think it is a perfect idea for Civic Engagement. At our meeting Tatyana agrees. She asks whether Service Learning is common. I say, “It’s growing in America, but maybe not so much in Ukraine.” She smiles and says, “Maybe we will be the first.” But there is more. Tatyana goes on to explain that she is finishing her doctoral degree on educational pedagogy emphasizing engagement of students. We both see a wonderful merging of her academic work with Service Learning and this grant opportunity.Others are called into our meeting and soon assignments are made to develop the grant. I will help with the English translation. I leave the meeting with a glow of satisfaction. Sometimes all the pieces do fit together. In another small way, the Peace Corps is making a difference in the world.

It's strange to look at a CNN photo of the Egyptian Museum with fully armed tanks rolling down the street from the very spot I stood just a month ago. Gone are the traffic jams replace by armed power and fear.

I have no great insights about the whys and wherefores of yet another world conflict. It just seems to me that the world churns onward with too many many reminders that we need more justice, understanding and compassion for the entire human family. Maybe it sounds corny, but surely it's needed.

As chance would have it and while I am doing research on an upcoming seminar on marketing for NGOs, I stumble upon a video and the Charter for Compassion. www.charterforcompassion.org

"What's this," I say to myself? With a click, I take a look. It's a remarkable video and an inspiring message. I think, "Maybe this message can infiltrate the human family in a new way and empower a little more justice, understanding and compassion. So I will pass it along and who knows where and what it will do."

Sure it's not solving desperate problems and maybe it's a little corny, but with a little more justice and understanding and compassion....

Images of antiquity seem ubiquitous. They’re available in picture books or on our computers whenever we want them. Las Vegas gives us Pyramids and the Sphinx in miniature. It’s easy to think, “ We've seen that before,” and glibly move on.

But today, I’m surrounded by the real thing - a formal colonnade inside Luxor Temple. I’m impressed and stand in wonderment. I can only imagine the awe people felt 3500 years ago when they stood in the same place where I am standing now. They had no pictures, no miniatures and no buildings as tall as these towering structures. The sight must have shaped their thinking and conveyed a deeper meaning.

Fran and I travel to Luxor via a day train. We want to see the countryside and catch glimpses of ordinary life. The seats are comfortable and the windows are grimy giving my photos an antique look. The trip will take all day and then some. It’s about 450 miles following south along the Nile Valley.

Outside it’s lush green. The Nile through a series of canals certainly transforms the desert. It’s as if someone has drawn a dividing line - water and green vegetation on one side and dry desert on the other. It’s a remarkable to see how the Nile makes life possible.

Interestingly, the Aswan Damn, which is further up stream (south), now controls the periodic flooding. Water flow is carefully measured out. Peasants use gasoline powered pump to lift the water from canals. Their fields are laid out in 20’x20’ plots with raised walkways to contain the water. It creates a kind of green patchwork quilt.

Unfortunately, they no longer get the benefits of rich black soil that flooding had brought since the dawn of recorded time. Now they buy fertilizers from chemical companies.

I spy a family tending their field. They’re dressed traditionally like we use to imagine when we dressed up for the Christmas pageant. Long flowing robes called Gallibya cover from neck to ankles. A head wrap protects from the sun.

It’s a quaint picture for a westerner though I am sure it is anything but a quaint life. I know a little about rural life in Ukraine and this seems more severe.

I see no mechanization except the water pumps. The family works the field on their hands and knees. They are cutting what I believe is alfalfa. It's feed for their animals.

I see at least half dozen donkeys and a few horses, but mostly donkeys, for every car or truck on the road. They carry bundles on their backs, transport people and cluster in the shade of palm trees when not in use.

Small mud huts dot the landscape. I think these are shelters used when working a field and not permanent homes.

They are made from mud and straw bricks like those mentioned in biblical times. They look quite primitive, but no doubt a pleasant respite from the glaring sun. I’m enjoying my train ride so much. It’s like a living museum where life goes on from one generation to the next and change is measured in the millennium.

I start thinking about the two natural phenomena which dominate the landscape - the sun and the Nile water. No modern tourist can visit Egypt without awareness of the bright glaring ever-present sun. It rises in the east and falls in the west only to repeat itself every day. Likewise, the life-giving water of the Nile clearly transforms the dead desert into a living lushness.

It’s a small wonder that these natural phenomena influenced thought and religious development from earliest time. The sun evoked a god called Re, Atum, Horus and a host of other names as one aspect or another is emphasized. He becomes the king of gods.

The Nile becomes the domain of Osiris. His mythology follows the regeneration of life upon the desolate earth after flooding. He becomes identified with death, resurrection and the after-life. To learn more about the Osiris mythology and its interaction with the sun god mythology, go to http://www.touregypt.net/osiriscu.htm I think we still have shadowy remnants of these ideas when we look to the heavens for God and celebrate rebirth every spring.

Now I'm across the street from the Luxor Temple in a bookstore. As serendipity would have it, I find a most interesting book. It's entitled Development of Religion and Thought in Ancient Egypt and is written by James Breasted , an esteemed Egyptologist.

The Great Pyramids of Gizeh were built from 2575 to 2150 BCE and stretch some 60 miles along the edge of the desert. They represent an incredible effort of an entire society through purely material means "to immortalize the king's physical body, enveloping it in a vast and impenetrable husk of masonry, there to preserve forever all that linked the spirit of the king to material life." (Breasted, p 178) I use to think of the Pyramids as a monument commemorating a Pharaoh when actually they are a material place for immortality.

After about 2100 BCE, Pyramids were no longer built and after another 1000 years, they were mostly forsaken, left desolate amidst the shifting sands of time. An age of political disintegration took hold of Egypt. Mournfully, they began to realize the futility of massive masonry to insure immortality. Skepticism ensued and with it, new ideas took root.

The afterlife which had been the sole domain of Pharaoh was democratized to nobles and eventually common people. Osiris and the sun god were redacted into a blended, if not always consistent, theology. By 1300 BCE a new religious order worshipping the sun god Atum was established. Thebes or modern day Luxor was at its center.

Now I am here.

As I stand among colonnades of Luxor Temple or visit Karnak Temple or wander the Valley of the Kings, I feel linked with these places. I realize that the development of human thought once moved through here and now moves through my generations and one day will move into places not yet imagined.

Later that night, we join a group for an evening of star gazing under the desert sky. Climbing a sand dune, we watch the sun go down or is it dying in the west. I now understand how natural phenomena can be given mythological meaning.

We gather around tables to enjoy a delicious Egyptian meal with people from South Africa, France, Holland, England and our Egyptian hosts. We are a diverse human family and yet we come together under the stars.

We are shown the Milky Way, constellations and star clusters. One star, Aldebaran, or the Bull`s eye, is said to be 65 light years away. I gasp, “Yikes, this one started its light path to earth during the year of my birth.”

Of course, other stars are much further away. They say our galaxy is about 120,000 light years in diameter and it is one among billions of other known galaxies.

Gazing into the heavens puts perspective on my Egyptian trip. As ancient as Egypt is, it is but a recent moment in the life of the universe. We are just beginning to send our light to distant places.

Like ancient Egyptians before me, I look up at the colonnade and the stars and I can't help but wonder. What meaning? What stories are yet to be told? What will human life and thought and religion look like in another 5000 years and beyond?

Without thinking, we step on to a moving sidewalk at the Istanbul airport. I am with Fran, my Peace Corps travel buddy. We have a 5 hour layover before proceeding to Cairo Egypt. So engrossed in conversation, we don’t notice the end of the walkway approaching. Suddenly we spill across the floor. Hand luggage scatters along with our legs and arms.

What happened? Quickly we check for broken bones and scurry out of the way before more people tumble upon us. We are okay with more bruised egos than anything else. We look at each other and think, “How could we be so stupid?” Then uncontrollably, we begin laughing and laughing and laughing.

This incident becomes a metaphor for my trip. Egypt is all about shock and awe. I find myself in places I never thought possible. I experience the intensity and chaos of Cairo and then step into the stately antiquity of the Pyramids. I consciously try to learn to let go of control and just savor the experiences – good, bad or indifferent. It's about enjoying the ride for as long as I can and remembering to jump and not fall off the end.

Cairo is a densely compacted city of 7.8 million with as many as 10 million more people living in close proximity. Intense is an understatement.

Cars whiz along as if trying out for the Indy 500. Three lanes become 4 and sometimes 5 as cars swerve to gain an advantage of a few feet. I’m in the front seat and have to close my eyes more than a few times. Amazingly, I never see an accident although I certainly think one is about to happen. It’s as if cars become an extension of the people driving and they can calibrate the closeness to another within fractions. It’s uncanny.

Car horns beep and blare…constantly. It’s like they are talking to each other. Some taxis have special beepers. They emit a rapid high pitch and crescendo before ebbing in a wave of sound. The cacophony assaults the senses. I think maybe Cairo Egypt is where John Cage got his inspiration for his compositions of sound effects.

I try to cross the intersection to get to the Egyptian Museum which is directly across the street from our hostel. I walk a half a block to a traffic light, but quickly realize that lights are more ornamentation than traffic control. Egyptian drivers ignore them…yikes!

How to get across? At 9:30 am there is no break in the traffic and like I say, traffic lights don’t help. I watch other pedestrians. How do they do it? They boldly walk out in front of speeding traffic. Of course, car horns blare, “Get out of the way.” The pedestrians extend an arm in a stop motion and then dodge between on-coming traffic. It’s magical. Cars mostly slow down.

I pick out a cluster of Egyptian pedestrians and decide to follow closely. Even though my blood pressure probably shoots up 30 points, I make it. I’m alive. By the end of the trip, I am doing it on-my-own. I just extend my arm in a stop motion and magically cross to the other side.

Egypt is Pyramids and the Pyramids are everything you can imagine. However, getting to them is a challenge. We buy a tour from our hostel. It was a mistake. Our “English speaking” driver has a limited vocabulary. Try as we do, there is no way to communicate. I now know the frustration my Ukrainian friends feel when they try to communicate with my limited Russian.

Our driver gets us to the Pyramids and then the tourist hustle begins. Everyone seems to have a scheme to help me spend money. It can be the shopkeeper who prices bottled water at 10 Egyptian Pounds when the local rate is 4 EP or it can be the dozens of long robed men trying to grab my attention.

“Come with me....what is your name? This way please....where are you from? I have very good price. What you want…camel…horse…carriage? I get it for you,” they say. I feel like I’m being picked apart by the constant barrage of offers. I’m exhausted going a few hundred feet. It’s a hectic craziness.

I fend off offers…although I am tempted a few times. I’m still a neophyte in the Egyptian bartering system. I don’t know a fair price and I don’t know what may lie ahead. Fran says she yearns for a shop with price tags.

We buy tickets to get into the Pyramid area. At 60 EP (less than 12 USD) it's a deal and maybe the only one we will encounter today.

After going through a security scan, AD picks us up right out of the crowd. He is 61 and soft spoken. At first I think he is checking our tickets and then I think he is a part of our entrance fee. Silly me. He explains that he is not trying to sell us anything. Huge relief.

For about an hour he escorts us around the Pyramids. It’s a sunny day with a touch of dusty grayness or is it pollution hanging in the air? I feel like I have walked into a National Geographic layout. All my life I have seen pictures and now I am here gazing at mortuary monuments from Egypt’s Old Kingdom, some 4500 years ago.

The Giza complex includes three large Pyramids for the afterlife of the Pharaohs and three smaller ones for wives. A mortuary temple and complex is attached so that offerings can be made to the god-king and his resurrected life secured for perpetuity.. A causeway has been discovered that connects the colossal monuments and smaller tombs for nobles of the Pharaoh’s Court.

The volume of the largest Pyramid of Cheops is roughly 2,500,000 cubic meters. Based on these estimates and building over a 20 year period, workers (or were they slaves) would have installed about 800 tons of stone every day. Similarly, it means that of the 2.3 million blocks of stone, about 12 would have to be put into place every hour of every day for twenty years.

To learn even more go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Pyramid_of_Giza

The Pyramid area is so vast that even with many tourists, moments of calm reflection are possible. I realize that here ancient people have made an insistent and passionate protest against death.

The Pyramids are an affirmation to life and a supreme revolt against the darkness and silence from which no one returns. They evoke mystery and deep soulful thinking.

AD brings me back to the present as he finally makes his pitch for a “tip.” I give him 100 EP and feel satisfied that he is getting a fair compensation and I have not been taken too badly. After all, I reflect, “In the face of 4500 years of antiquity what difference does $20 dollars make? There are better things to think about - life and death and beyond the horizon.”

To take a good snap-shot requires the right equipment at the right time in the right place. I offer you two snap-shots from Konotop that prove the wisdom of being present in the moment.

Fridays mean Art Day at Hearts of Love Center. Just about every Friday I do some sort of Art Project with the children. It’s become popular to draw or paint with the American.

On some Fridays, I’ve seen as many as 18 kids in space for maybe 10. I do get a little tense and overwhelmed, but with the help of Annya, I keep my cool. She says with a smile, “Normalna. It’s normal.”

Last week, I made a huge Christmas tree by taping together blocks of paper and using my watercolors to paint the branches. Then the children drew ornaments to decorate. All levels and ages contributed. Some of the ornaments are decorated ala scribbles while others are carefully drawn. One medicated boy surprises me. Instead of the usual scribbles, he draws a design for the first time. I say in my best Russian, “Good job…Good Job.”

I always insist that the children put their names on the art. I think by claiming it as their own, a little piece of self-esteem is added to their lives. Often they will take the art to other adults at the Center and bask in the approval.

I am putting away supplies and getting ready to go home, when a little girl bursts into the room. “Chi, Chi, Chi,” she insists. I make my way down the hall to another room where she and a friend are setting the table with china cups and plates – no Styrofoam here.

Then I learn it’s the little girl’s Birthday. She is a 8 years old. Her mother has brought in a small cake for a small celebration. It’s a special treat.

As we settle into our places at the table, we are invited to share a Birthday wish. This is a wonderful Ukrainian ritual. People talk intimately about a person’s character and offer wishes for a good life. Each wish can go on for several minutes. I love the way Ukrainians are not embarrassed to express kindness.

I look at the little girl. She is wearing a red dress. Red is considered most beautiful for Ukrainian women. And this little girl is beautiful in her own special way.

What I notice most is her demeanor. She glows with Bambi eyes wide open. The gentle words of praise accumulate like dozens of presents – but only more valuable. I am touched when her older brother speaks in admiring terms of love. We all should be so blessed.

I place my hand on my heart and take a mental snap-shot.

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Whether it's Santa or St. Nicholas, there's magic in the idea that a stranger will come to give gifts. Sometimes it’s expected and other times it happens as a surprise.

At Hearts of Love, the hallways are strung with tinselly garlands. We are having a lot of fun getting ready for our St. Nicholas party. Just when I think all has been done, Yelena finds another box of tinsel. More is better. I tease her that she's decorating this center like a mother with a gang of kids.

My watercolor tree is decorated. The children have covered it with their own creations. I am proud of them. Festive bags have been bought and filled with candies. We are expecting about 35 children.

The party unfolds as expected. A play is performed by an acting troupe from our House of Culture (a Soviet institution that continues). The story pits a fox and wolf against two little hares with a big old bear as referee. There are chase scenes, deceptions, fisticuffs and more. But in the end all are friends. Ukrainians like animal stories and judging the reaction from the children, they love this one.

Finally St. Nicholas comes. Instead of red and jolly, he is dressed in a light blue cloak and a monk's hat. He gives a little blessing and then distributes bags of goodies. A large gingerbread man has been added – compliments of our new Mayor. The children are delighted. A few games are played and then the party ends. Thank you, St. Nicholas.

I am putting on my coat when I learn that the Vice Mayor of Konotop has dropped by and wants to meet me. With the election of last fall, governmental leaders have changed and the new Mayor is reaching out.

After introductions, the Vice Mayor gets right down to business. "How does this organization compare to ones in America," he asks? “Wow,” I think. “How am I going to respond to such a question?”

I have learned during my time here that Ukrainians will often ask the comparison question as a way to find out if they are acceptable. I quickly re-frame the question into a litany of what Hearts of Love is doing well - like transforming a crumbling building into a center of life and activity, a place where children who might be ignored are considered special.

I talk about the challenge of funding and the need for local support. I offer the idea of a United Way approach. He’s interested and asks, “Will you come and meet with the Mayor?”

I’m totally surprised. What and unexpected opportunity!

Then he turns to Yelena and says, “I think we should make a professional video of so that the people of Konotop can learn about your work here. “ It’s another unexpected surprise. The meeting ends with exchanges of emails and wishes for a happy holiday and New Year.

Later as I am getting ready to leave, Yelena says to me, “You told us to widen our circle of friends…We listened….See what’s happening.”

I put on my jacket, smile and take another mental snap-shot.

Once we were allies. Then we became Cold War enemies. And now we can be friends again.

The story starts with an invitation to speak at School # 5. I have been getting quite a few speaking invites and never know exactly what to expect.

We walk into the assembly hall. It’s packed with students and most look to be from the upper grades. They’re dressed well - no jeans and sweat shirts here. Boys wear dress pants, suit jackets and ties. Girls are in skirts or dresses and many with bows in their hair. For a moment I think it’s 1958 and I am back at St. Cecilia’s Catholic School in Philadelphia.

Today is Ukrainian Army Day. Officially it’s a day to remember the 1991 establishment of the Ukrainian military, but unofficially it’s more about veterans and especially veterans of the Great War (WW II). The director of the School wants to combine honoring veterans’ service with the idea of volunteering and community service. I now know why Yelena, Vika and I are here.

We are escorted to the front of the hall and take our seats behind three older men. They are a living legacy from the Great War. Their chests are festooned with ribbons and medals. I see the profile of Lenin and madallions with the hammer and sickle on many.

To an American, it looks strange to see so many military medals on an ordinary civillian suit jacket. But then as an American, I have never known such a pervasive and devastating war on my home soil. What memories they must hold on their chests.

The program unfolds in typical Ukrainian style. Two students read from a scripted program to welcome and introduce each segment. They do a great job. After introductions, a young woman sings a hauntingly beautiful patriotic song.

Then we are shown a slide presentation. It’s visually haunting as well. I see a slide of army boys crouched at a window looking out at war-torn buildings. Then I glance at the windows in this hall and shiver. The window style is the same. The photo could have been taken from a place just like here. And maybe, it was.

The Veterans take turns addressing the students. I kept thinking that they were not much older than the oldest student here when they went to war. I notice a young boy across the aisle from me. He is on the edge of his seat absorbing every word. Judging from the intense silence in the room, everyone is doing the same. The speaker begins to weep.

I wish I knew what he was saying, but I later find out he was speaking in Ukrainian and I only know a little Russian. So I sit absorbing emotion and offering empathy.

Yelena speaks next and her warm charm provides an excellent transition. Her pictures of a broken down building being transformed into a lively Center for disabled children tells a powerful story of volunteer drive and the positive difference a few people can make. She speaks from the heart just as the Veterans had done, but she speaks about living and loving and hope.

My turn comes next. I start with JFK’s famous phrase – “Ask not what your Country can do for you, but what you can do for your Country.” I talk about the Peace Corps. I tell the students that right now more than 8,500 Americans are serving in 77 countries around the world. They share skills, like I do here in Konotop. They make new friends and kindle cross-cultural understanding.

I end my short talk by applying JFK’s words to Ukraine. “Ask not what Ukraine can do for you, but what you can do for Ukraine… for Konotop…for your city. “ The applause is loud and sustained.

As I take my seat Yelena smile. Each of the Veterans turns around to shake my hand. As the third one does so, he pulls me closer and before I know what is happening, he firmly plants a kiss on my hand. This military man with a chest full of medals and memories has tears in his eyes.

Allies…Enemies…Friends.

In this religious season when we think about being thankful and try to imagine God's Spirit among us, I thought you might appreciate hearing about some of the good that is being done in the world. It’s a story about Paul and Darlene Heller.

I have known Paul and Darlene Heller since my days at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. Yikes, that’s more than 40 years ago. Paul and I met and became close friends. I never realized back then that we would still be good friends in 2010.

Darlene found Paul (or was it the other way around) when he was in NYC serving an internship at the East Harlem Protestant Parish - a groundbreaking ministry among the poor. Darlene was studying to be a nurse. They fell in love and Darlene came back to Pittsburgh with Paul. Marriage soon followed.

Over the years our friendship deepened. For more than 20 years, ever since my divorce and its brokenness, I have spent every Thanksgiving and Christmas with the Hellers. The kids, Adam, Caleb and Rebeckah adopted me along with their spouses Sara and Andrya. We are family and I am delighted.

One time I was visiting and had a nightmare. I woke up shouting, "WHAT ABOUT GOD'S JUSTICE???" It was loud enough to wake the Hellers. Over coffee the next morning, we laughed about my active imagination and theological musings – even in sleep. It became one of those family stories that gets repeated over turkey.

Fast forward to present time. Paul and Darlene leave Plattsburgh, New York with all its snow and skiing for the tropics of Malawi. Yes, for two and a half years, Paul and Darlene Heller, have been in Malawi Africa.

Darlene has been directing the Mzuzu Crisis Nursery. They take in babies who have been abandoned for a variety of reasons. Often their mothers have died in childbirth or there has been some other difficulty in the village. When the babies come, they are mostly in a wasted state.

Paul has been working on the administrative side strengthening administrative practices and securing a more stable financial base. It’s crucial work.

He also has been preaching at the local church where 1000 people regularly attend. That’s right, one-thousand people – imagine! He tells me that worship services often go on for 3 hours and even more. I tell him he needs shorter sermons (chuckle).

The work at the Mzuzu Crisis Nursery is literarily life-saving. It will probably never reach the headlines of the NY Times or the air waves of NPR – although you might easily argue that it should.

Another baby is brought to the Mzuzu Crisis Nursery

Day-in and day-out, babies are being nursed back to health. They come as frightened skeletons and become chubby cherubs. Of course, sometimes a baby arrives too late. All that can be done is hold the little one until she dies. It’s hard work. And I think it takes a lot of soulfulness to do it. My good friends have soul and faith and love.

The same baby after two months of food and care

Take a moment to review their blog. The context is heart-wrenching, but the work is heart-enlightening.

http://www.suffer-the-little-children.blogspot.com/

I keep thinking that among the lives being rescued at the Mzuzu Nursery there are those who will make a difference in Africa’s poorest country. Thank you, Paul and Darlene, for being an answer to my dream – “What about God’s Justice?”

Today I graduated. And I must say it was a lot of fun.

Ever since arriving in Ukraine, I have taught beginner’s English. Most Peace Corps Volunteers have at least one class. Many have several. During our Peace Corps training they told us that while being new in a community, English could be used as a kind of social currency. It gives us something useful that Ukrainians want and it occupies us as we try to figure out what’s going on.

So whether it’s been with children or adults, mothers at the Center or governmental leaders, I have taught English. It’s been fun to introduce participatory classes and get my students talking. We progress from simple verb tenses to pronoun charts to prepositional phrases and more. We make up simple sentences and dialogues about family, friends and weather. Progress is slow and it’s been at an elementary level.

That's why I am pleased to receive an invitation to teach at the Technical School.

"Can you come and be with our advanced English students? They do not have many chances to talk with native speakers. Your presence will be a great pleasure for them,” says Tatyanna, one of the English teachers.

I agree to teach and we begin to discuss particulars - What kind of class; how many students; and so forth? Tatyanna tells me that there will be about 25 students, maybe a few more. "Like I said it will be a pleasure for them,” she says. And I think it will be very interesting for Tatyanna and the other teachers as well.

We decide to read portions of Taras Shevchenko’s poetry. He is a renowned Ukrainian poet (and painter) who captures the long suffering of his people and the ever present hope for rebirth. His influence on Ukrainian culture is immense.

During Soviet times, his strong patriotism was downplayed in favor of his anti-czarist sentiments. However Shevchenko was always a Ukrainian patriot even though he was a serf and stood up for the plight of the poor. Today he is an iconic figure even appearing on Ukrainian 100 grievnah bill. (adapted from Wikipedia)

Also we decide to read portions of Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech. His dream of America living up to the ideals of our Founding Fathers echoes Shevchenko's dream for a just and free Ukraine. I hope this class will add to our cross-cultural understanding. We all struggle for a better life.

I arrive early for the class. I can tell that the teachers are nervous - a little for me, but more for their students who they hope will do well and that I will have patience with them. Tatyanna confides, "They have never had such a class."

Students arrive. It is a full house. Extra chairs are brought in from across the hall. Unlike most of the classes I have taught, young men outnumber the women here.

I ask, "Do you speak English?" And I am pleased to hear a loud response, "Yes, we speak English." The class proceeds with readings from Shevchenko’s poignant poem. Some have read it before in Ukrainian, but now we read an English translation.

…Break then your chains, in love unite,

Nor seek in foreign lands the sight

Of things not even found above,

Still less in lands that strangers love...

Then in your own house you will see

True justice, strength, and liberty…

…Then all the shame of days of old,

Forgotten, shall no more be told;

Then shall our day of hope arrive,

Ukrainian glory shall revive,

No twilight but the dawn shall render

And break forth into novel splendour....

Brother, embrace! Your hopes possess,

I beg you in all eagerness!

Taras Shevchenko, Viunishcha, December 14, 1845

We continue with King's speech and note the similarities of these two patriots from countries half a world apart. We discuss a little about justice and freedom and how liberty is justice with freedom. We are having a substantive class and discussion in English. It’s great.

As we wind down the class, I have a surprise. I show the words of a 1960s song. It's a song I sang often with other volunteers when I first tried the Peace Corps in 1967. Now more than 40 years later, I am teaching If I had a Hammer to Ukrainians. Who would have thought it possible?

We review the lyrics and end the class by singing it together:

...it's the hammer of justice, it's the bell of freedom, it's a song about love between my brothers and sisters all over this land....

What a wonderful experience. I feel like I have graduated.

Life in Ukraine remains interesting. I find my days filling up with memories. What a privilege to be here and take it all in. Recently, I noticed that some of these memories and images and feelings are beginning to blend together. I guess it’s natural. That’s why I decided to write down some of my random Ukrainian experiences here. I hope you will enjoy and I hope it will help me to remember.

>>>One morning on my way to a Marshuka, I spy a old babushka emerging from the tree-line that surrounds an open field not far from my building. I give her the slightest glance until I notice four goats following her. They are grazing on a mixture of leftovers from the field and weeds. The babushka is bent over gathering some of the same weeds, maybe herbs.

Even when she stands up, she is still bent over. It's a common sight among older woman who, no doubt, have had years of back-breaking work - literally. She's dressed in a peasant skirt, heavy stocking to her knees, layers of sweaters and an overly large coat. Nothing matches. A colorful scarf wraps her head. Slowly and deliberately she moves plucking weeds and using her walking stick for balance. The goats follow. I stare. It’s another National Geographic moment.

>>>Synergy is a neat word. Don’t you like the way the syllables roll around the mouth before emerging? And even neater is the way it keeps showing up.

I am sitting in the audience while Hearts of Loves second charity auction unfolds. Last year I played a central initiating role, but not now. Plans for the auction were well under way before I knew it. The idea of local fund raising has taken root.

This year a group of university students volunteered to help. They reached out to businesses for donations and orchestrated the entire evening complete with music, entertainment, auctioneers and lovely "Vanana White" type young women who parade among the audience with each item for bid. It’s a charming sight.

I think they are feeling bad that I do not have a larger role this year. They are wrong. When I am asked to share a greeting, I say how proud I am of these young leaders. Everyone applauds.

Last Spring these young people were among those that shared in my Leadership Seminars. Now they are joining Hearts of Love to raise more money for this year's heat. Synergy is happening in Konotop.

>>>Anton, my young Ukrainian friend, tells me a family story. When his father was his age, nineteen, a Soviet military recruiter came to their small village. At the time, the Soviets were involved in a in a blood draining war. The place was Afghanistan.

The young men of the village were rounded up. There were 35 of them including Anton’s father. On that day, everyone was scheduled to go to Afghanistan. After paper-work, they would be packed in trucks for the long journey away to war. I can hardly imagine the impact this must have had on a small village.

Anton’s Grandfather knew that if he could delay his son’s departure by a few days, he would likely be assigned to Kazakhstan and not Afghanistan. So he acted to save his son. On the day of the round-up, he brought a hog and a lot of vodka to the recruiter. He said something like, "my son is needed at home. Can he go next week?" It worked. The paper-work was misfiled. Anton’s father was passed over for a few days.

As Anton tells me this story, I get a chill. I realize that without his Grandfather’s action he would probably not be here. Of the 34 recruits sent to Afghanistan that day, only 5 returned.

Probably most people are not faced with dramatic situations like this one. Yet I get to thinking that kind and generous actions, even small ones, can make a difference from this generation to another and another.

I had never visited our local library. Other volunteers at other sites have done some amazing things with their libraries. My friend, Fran, set up a sizable collection of English reading books where none had existed before. So along with several other Peace Corps Volunteers, I decide to discover the situation in Konotop.

Our guide and interpreter for the day is Gregory. At 70 he speaks impeccable English and is a leader in the remnant Jewish community of Konotop. For many years, he edited a newspaper. He has a love of words and curiosity about life. He has become a good friend of us Peace Corps volunteers.

We discover the library on the ground floor of a block apartment building. It’s easy to walk by without noticing. It’s nothing like the ornate buildings that Andrew Carnegie was prone to build and endow. How fortunate we Americans are.

Inside on the left is a computer room and on the right are the book collections and reading room. A few young guys seem to be checking out the Russian version of Face Book and an older woman is quietly reading. Obviously, we are a disruptive entourage, but still we are warmly welcomed. For a few grievnah (less than a dollar), we become library members.

We ask about English books. The librarian takes us to a bookcase. Half ways down on a shelf are about a dozen – maybe eighteen books. I did not expect many, but I am surprised at so few. “Are there others somewhere else," we ask?

“No, they’re all here. “ In a town of nearly 100,000 people, less than two feet of shelf space holds Konotop’s entire collection of English literature.

Immediately, I think of Fran and how she transformed a similar situation. She created a Peace Corps Partnership Grant and with the help of family and friends, about 300 books were purchased forming a permanent collection.

A few weeks later, Gregory and I make an appointment with the librarian. I had promised to return and show pictures of Maine and America on my computer. I often do this as a way to build friendships. Most of the library staff crowd around a table as I show off the beauty of lighthouses, my garden, Lincoln Monument and more.

Later over tea, I propose a Partnership Grant to create a permanent English reading collection. I’m stunned when she says, “No.” Thinking that she does not understand, I explain again that it will be a grant in addition to the library’s current budget. The answer is still no. She adds, “It’s not in our work plan.”

Gregory is a good friend. He sees my disappointment. On the way home, we pass the building where he lived as a little boy. He insists on showing it to me. It’s an office now and inside a small room, about 10 x 12, is where his parents and siblings lived sharing a kitchen with other families down the hall. He tells me about being hungry as a boy – “so very hungry.”

He tells me about how the Soviets tried to control thinking. And then referring to the library and English books, he says, “Something good will happen. I know it.”

Disappointment leads me to think about alternatives. I make an appointment at the Polytechnical School. I propose the same Partnership Grant and this time teachers and librarians respond with enthusiasm. Gregory was right.

Reading room of the Polytechnical School

They show me a handful of old Soviet era English paperbacks. That’s it for English literature. They have English textbooks for classes, but nothing to open the world of English literature so that students can grow and learn on their own. Old Soviet era English books

The Director of the School joins our meeting. She says that ever since she visited Ames Iowa on an exchange program, it has been her dream to have an advanced English Literature Course. “Now I think my American dream will be possible,” she says with a broad smile.

I’m excited. This project will open the world of English literature from beginners to advance readers. We will include anthologies, poetry, young adult literature and of course, many of the Classics. We will purchase 10 English/Russian dictionaries to help students with new vocabulary. Students give thumbs up to the Project

In addition we will publicize this new collection to the entire community. As a result, Konotop will have a new source of knowledge, inspiration and cross cultural understanding, a way to learn about life and the world, and an encouragement to imagine and achieve dreams.

As this project takes shape, I am deeply saddened by the sudden death of a wonderful man. My friend, guide and translator, Gregory, died on October 10th. He was hospitalized in early October, had an operation and showed a few sign of recovery. But then he died. What sadness.

How he loved words. How well he spoke English. What a wonderful friend he was. His stories and reassurance echo in my heart. “Something good will happen. ...I know it.”

. Shelves waiting for English reading books

If you would like to help with the English Reading Project, please send me an email at juddolphin@gmail.com I’ll send you more information as soon as the Partnership Grant Proposal has been approved and posted on line by the Peace Corps. Thank you so much.

It’s the 120th Anniversary of the Polytechnical School. About 300 Konotop leaders from business and industry, the government and military as well as students and educators have come to celebrate this occasion.

In the front row sits the Mayor with Tatyanna, the Director, and other officials. I sit several rows back with my friend, Irina, who heads the Department of Families and Children Services. The long auditorium is filled with smiles. Oversized windows that line one entire wall emit a defused autumnal glow. It’s a warm festive occasion.

A month ago, I was invited to attend. And then last week, I was asked to say a few words. So here I am on stage. I start by speaking a little in Russian to the delight of the crowd. I think my Peace Corps’ language instructor would be proud.

Of course, a translator is next to me to carry-on with the speech. It’s Annya, my friend, who has helped me in so many ways before. She tells me she is a little nervous, but very honored to be a part of this program.

Built in 1974, the main building on the Polytechnical School's campus.

The year is 1890. Railroads are the new technology of the day. Steel rails are connecting cities and villages. Change is happening. Now you can go to Kiev in less than a day…Amazing.

But who will develop this technology? Who will manage and engineer the system? The answers to these questions and progress are the Polytechnical School. From Czarist times through Bolshevik revolution, World Wars and Soviet rule to a new Constitution, Orange Revolution, elections and democracy, the Polytechnical School has adapted and survived.

The year is 1941. The Nazi war machine is on the march east. Instructors and students flee Konotop for the interior of Russia, but they keep on teaching. The School buildings are bombed and burned. Konotop becomes a charred skeleton of itself.

Yet when the students and instructors return in 1943, buildings are reconstructed from the rubble. Students build tables and chairs and book cases from salvaged wood and learn a valuable craft in the process. The School becomes the pride of Konotop – a symbol of hope and normalcy in the post-war era.

Today the Polytechnical School has joined with the Konotop branch of the Sumy University forming a broader academic and technical Institute. Railroading is still offered but so are electronics, computer technology, social work, management and building trades.

As I finish my remarks, I realized that I am the only American at this event. I think what a privilege and honor.

I’m here not because of me, but rather by what the Peace Corps does best. In 77 countries worldwide since 1961, the Peace Corps connects and integrates volunteers, like me, into their communities. I get to be my Country’s ambassador to Konotop.

The program goes on for 3 ½ hours. It’s long even by Ukrainian standards. Students perform dance and song routines telling the history of the School through the arts. And then more speeches and awards are given. Some people leave early. But I stay even though I only understand every fifth word or so. I want to soak in this experience because something like this may never happen again for this American.

I should have expected it to happen. Like most people, I thought that normal everyday life would just keep on keeping on, but of course it doesn’t.

Ordinary life is always changing. Usually it’s incremental and we hardly notice. But sometimes out of the shadows of consciousness, death intrudes.

We are sitting in Yelena’s small office finalizing plans for the fall. There’s excitement at Hearts of Love. The Computerized Learning Center is up and running. Thanks to a grant from USAID, four brand new computers, a printer, white board and projector are ready to introduce our children to the world of technology and learning.

Suddenly, Valaya, our bookkeeper and dedicated volunteer, enters. She is noticeably upset. She tells us that Babushka has died. She fell down from an apparent heart attack and no efforts could bring her back.

At first, I couldn’t believe it. Just last week, I ran into Babushka and her granddaughter. Both are regulars at Hearts of Love. The granddaughter is in my Friday art class. She is troubled emotionally being caught in a dysfunctional family where her mother is unable or unwilling to care for her. Babushka has stepped in and given the little girl some stability and love.

Babushka and I sharing tea with the children

Babushka always greeted me with a smile and warmth. I thought of her as a kind and generous woman. She was constant in her presence and help. Every Friday when her granddaughter was in my art class, she joined the other women in creating beautiful beaded flowers, like the ones we sold at last year’s auction. We all took it for granted that she would keep on keeping on, but not now.

Valaya, who is a strong Ukrainian woman, tries to maintain her composure, but cannot. Her sobs underscore the change that has happened. We all confirm it with our own sadness.

Later in the afternoon, I walk through a cemetery near my new apartment. I feel like I want to be alone with my own thoughts about life and death. In the year that I have been away from America, three dear friends have died. Babushka’s death brings back memories of them. At the cemetery I feel close to the dead - both known and unknown. It seems comforting.

I wind my way into the expansive grounds. There are no paths. I must squeeze my way between crowded burial plots. Each is situated east to west as the sun rises and falls. Soon I am surrounded by gravestones and can no longer see the streets or buildings beyond.

Strangely, many of the gravestones are etched with life like portraits. The dead may be buried but a two dimensional image remains. Some stoically stare ahead and others warmly smile as I pass by. I think, “remembering the dead has a kind of realism in Ukraine.”

I notice small picnic tables and benches at many grave sites. “What are they doing here,” I wonder. It seems strange, until I learn about an ancient custom that is still practiced.

On the Sunday after Easter, families bring Ukrainian picnics to graveside. Some of the same foods that the deceased savored while living are set upon the table.

Although it is a blustery grey September day, I imagine a white table cloth embroidered in red flapping in the wind…a table laden with dark bread, cheese, kielbasa, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, salads and special dishes like the eggplant Oksana made for me a few weeks ago. All is prepared to remember the departed ones and share a family meal in their honor.

It’s called Provody combining a belief in Christ’s victory over death, the ancient wonder of spring time rebirth and continual family love for the departed. When you understand a little about another culture, picnic tables in a cemetery are not so strange.

Babushka was only 57 when she died last week. I have learned that Ukraine has an alarmingly high death rate. It’s pegged at 16.3 per thousand people. Prevalent smoking and excessive use of alcohol add to the problem. Combined with a declining birth rate, the UN warns that Ukraine could lose as many as 10 million people by 2050. That’s more than 20% of the current population of 46 million.

Of course, every generation dies and the next one creates its own everyday life. I remember my grandmother Dolphin sitting on her front sun porch. My childhood memories see her surrounded by house plants, starched laced curtains and green window shades drawn down exactly half way.

My grandmother would tell stories about this neighbor and that neighbor who had died. As a youngster, it was a little creepy, but now I understand or at least I think I do. It was her way of dealing with ordinary life that was changing - slipping away one neighbor at a time.

Babushka died suddenly. All of us at Hearts of Love are sad and we know that we will need to make even more room in our hearts for her granddaughter. She may be troubled, but she is not alone. There is always room in ordinary life for more love...always.

He is Russian and I am American. As a young man, he worked on a production line building Soviet rocket engines. He was a member of the Soviet military and I am the first American he ever met.

We speak different languages and have lived different lives, but from the moment I met him, I sensed that we would become friends, but I had no idea how we would be thrown together.

Mikhael is 70 years old and the father of Oksanna, my good friend. He's visiting from the southern part of Russia. In Konotop, it is common for some relatives to live in Russia and others in Ukraine. The border is a geopolitical construct, but for families it makes little difference. These days they can move freely.

Today is Oksanna's son's birthday party. We will go to the river for a celebration. Another Peace Corps Volunteer and myself are honored to be included in the "family."

Maxsim is 16 and in the last year of school. In Ukraine, there are 11 years of school though many young people then attend an institute. It's like an American junior college.

Ukrainians value education although their methodologies are often more geared to memorization and repetition. The educational reforms that happened in America post World War II are just beginning to seep into Ukrainian schools. Peace Corps is helping by assigning our largest group of volunteers to Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL).

I am introduced to Mikhael. We shake hands as is customary among men here, but not with women. While Americans might wave a quick hello to a friend, I have seen Ukrainians take a detour to the other person, make physical contact by briskly shaking hands and then move on, sometimes, without speaking a word. It's a ubiquitous greeting even three year old boys do it.

After introductions, we stuff into the Soviet era utility van that Tolleg (Oxanna's husband) uses for work. There is the front seat and one passenger bench behind. The rest is open space.

A big pot of shashlick is set down. It is a special treat reserved for special occasions like this one. Chunks of pork are marinating in a creamy mixture of onions, garlic and spices.

A pit will be dug and a wood fire made. Hardwoods, like cherry, are often used since they make for the best shashlick. The meat will be skewered and cooked over the glowing coals. The men are the ones in charge here - just like an American barbecue.

Oksanna has made an eggplant relish. This blend of eggplant, tomatoes, onions, peppers and of course lots of garlic is a favorite of mine. She smiles when I spy it. She promises to show me how to make it . I will pass the recipe along.

What's a birthday without a cake? Actually, a cake is not so traditional here. But I decide to Americanize this birthday by using my spring-form cake pan again. I make a yellow cake dotted with several handfuls of blueberries. It gets a chorus of "ahhhs" as I carefully lay it on top of the mound of stuff filling the van.

There are more traditional foods too. A pile of river fish have been breaded in a light batter and fried. Another pot holds boiled potatoes simply sprinkled with parsley and butter. Of course no Ukrainian meal would be complete without lots of fresh tomatoes, cucumbers and green onions along with bread and cheese.

Oh, don't forget the vodka. Now I think we are ready to go.

Mikhael and I are directed to the passenger bench where we both easily fill all available space. Neither of us are small men.

The drive is an adventure. The van's shock absorbers are long gone. The road is a washboard of pot holes and asphalt patches. There is no avoiding bumps and what feels like leaps into the air. Mikhael and I collide squashing our bodies together. We start holding on to one another for stability...as if that will help.

The road goes from asphalt to gravel to dirt. The last several kilometers are simply a cow path curving across an open field from a small village towards the river. I savor a Ukrainian sun drenched day as the the bumps and leaps become even more intense. I look off to the horizon imaging that I am at an amusement park and riding the Dare -Devil-Twister.

Suddenly with no warning, the seat we are sitting on gives way. Both Michael and I flip backwards with a thud. The big American and the big Russian lay side by side on their backs with legs flailing in the air.

After a moment of silence, we look at one another and begin to laugh. Others want to help us get up, but we just lay there laughing and laughing. I cannot remember laughing so hard.

Eventually we unscramble our bodies. No one is hurt. My cake is the only victim. The spring-form pan has a bid dent and the cake is partially smashed. We laugh again. It will still taste good.

Later in the day, we walked by the river and talk. I recalled the Cuban Missile Crisis. "Americans were afraid of nuclear war," I say "As a school student I use to practice hiding under my desk or cowering in the hallways as if it would protect me from a blast."

That's when I learn that Mikhael worked on rocket engines - maybe the same ones we feared. He told me he had no recollection of this Cuban Missile Crisis. He said, "Most Russians did not worry about nuclear attacks. I'm astonished since during the Cold War, Americans were so preoccupied with the fear of nuclear weapons. I wish my Russian was better to deepen our conversation, but it's not. He says that life is better now. I agree.

After hours of eating and enjoying each other's company, we drive home. The seat has been turned and leans against the inside of the van. Mickael and I are again smashed together holding on to one another for security. or maybe in friendship.

I brim over with a warm satisfaction. What a happy birthday it has been for all of us. I think how unusual for me to be thrown together with a Russian and Soviet military man. But then again, in Konotop and Ukraine, it happens all the time.

This is a story of a boyhood dream come true. If I was a young boy, I would shriek with excitement. But since I am a grown man, I hide my feelings behind a broad smile.

My story starts with an ordinary ride. In a country where private automobiles are still not common, common folks either use foot-power or a form of public transport. It forces people from all walks of life (except the very rich) to rub shoulders with one another. I think it is a daily reminder that we all are part of the human family.

In town, Marshrutkas are common. These are mini-buses that are often used by retirement homes in the USA, except here they have been retrofitted with extra rows of seats. They make airplane seating seem luxurious.

Konotop has 17 routes. For 1 1/2 grievnah or about 12 cents you can travel from one end of town to the other and all points in between. But there are no transfers. You will need to pay another 12 cents.

Konotop has a Tram Way too. It's popular among seniors, because they get to ride free. Built during Stalin's time, Konotop is the smallest city in Ukraine with such a system.

I think it has a lot to do with the fact that during Soviet times Konotop was a center for military deployment. I recently learned that of the three major Soviet Tank Divisions, Konotop was home for the most western one.

Today, I take the Tram Way (it's free for me!) to the Vakzal and meet up with Babushka. She has invited me on an excursion into the forest. We will take an Elecktrichka instead of a Poyezd.

The Elecktrichka is an electric powered train and differs from the diesel Poyezd since it usually travels shorter distances between towns and villages. There are no sleeping compartments and people sit on benches facing one another three by three. For less than a dollar, we will travel an hour into the countryside.

As seats fill up, vendors walk the aisles hawking their merchandise. One man sells an assortment of magazines and newspapers. Another offers socks, shoe laces, gloves and other small household items. A much older woman, who seems to be permanently bent over, drags big bags filled with sodas, bottled water, candies and cookies.

We are a diverse group on the Electrishka. People, who are dressed as if they have some money, sit across from those who have little. Families with children are next to pensioners, army men, university students and on this trip, a spiked-heeled and mini-skirted young woman with painted nails about an inch long. She stands out, of course.

I settle into the bench alongside Babushka and across from several of her friends. Using my small print Russian/English dictionary, we have fun "talking" with one another. I find that smiles and laughter make for good communications in any language.

.

Unexpectedly, Babushka stands up. She beckons me to follow her. "Where are we going," I wonder. We sway our way through the moving car towards the front of the Elecktrishka. I see her conferring with one of the conductors and before I know what is happening, I am sitting next to the engineer looking out the train's front window.

In front of me is an array of gauges, throttles and pedals that control the speed and blow the whistles. He explains some of the workings of the train.It's every child's dream.

In my childhood, I remember the family getting a 45 RPM record player. It was the kind which took a stack of records and automatically dropped the next one into play.

Among the records was a story about a boy and a train. I think it was called "Sparky and the Talking Train." I listened to it over and over again. Although I cannot recall the story line, I do remember the feeling. It was magical.

I beam a Grand Canyon wide smile. Today has become magical. I'm Sparky. Although I do not get to run the train, I am right next to the engineer. When he blows the whistle, I imagine some talking. Now would that be Russian or English?

My day begins with a phone call from Annya. I have known her for over a year and every time she calls me something interesting is bound to happen. "My Babushka wants to know if you want to go to the forest."

Among Ukrainians, going to the forest is one of the preferred leisure activities. Ukrainians love their land and especially the forests. I've heard many a discourse bestowing the benefits of pine scented air and the healing qualities of nature's beauty. They say going to the forest can heal mind, body and soul. Who am I to disagree?

Annya continues, "My Babushka has a special place to pick ground apples. Will you join her and a couple of friends?"

I have learned to never say no to an invitation and immediately agree. I will learn about forging for ground apples.... whatever that may be.

It's a beautiful day. The oppressive heat of a few weeks ago is gone. Blue skies mixed with delicious marshmallow clouds hover over golden fields. The sunflower crop has been harvested and the corn awaits its turn. Distant clusters of people work fields by hand. I think they are harvesting potatoes for their family's winter meals.

Much of the land is unploughed. I am told that ownership disputes have not been settled since the demise of Communism. In addition, markets and infrastructure for crops are undeveloped. Ukraine is rich in natural resources, but has yet to benefit fully.

I look out over the Ukrainian landscape. I try to imprint the images into my mind. I am aware that my time in Ukraine is running down. Already I have been here more time than remains. I want to capture the sights for my old age memories.

Summer is turning towards Fall. Fields in greens, yellows and browns flow across the horizon. Mounds of hay dot the landscape. Stork nests adorn the tops of electric poles like large baskets A horse drawn cart trots down a two rut path. Flocks of geese waddle across a pond. Babushkas sit on benches outside of village homes watching our train swoosh by.

About an hour later, we arrive at a village station. It's like hundreds of others that mark destinations across Ukraine. I am surprised to see a professionally dressed woman waiting for us. She is the Director of the Station. I learn that my Babushka worked for many year as a ticket-taker on the trains. She knows everyone!

"Please come inside," says the Director in Russian. "We have prepared a little welcome for you." Within moments, we gather around an office table. Pizza, chicken cutlets and of course, fresh tomatoes and cucumbers appear along with a tort (cake) and a small bottle of vodka.

We toast to health and then to friendship and then to women and then the vodka runs out. I savor the moments. An ordinary train trip has been transformed into an occasion. What a welcome!

Now into the forest, we go. Sun shadows speckles are path. A backdrop of white pines scent the air. Here and there, a cluster of birch trees stand out. I am feeling the healing qualities.

We walk and then walk some more. After about 3 kilometers, we spy our first ground apples. They are about the size of golf balls or even smaller. They grow under the white pines on ground hugging shrubs. "Pick the yellow ones and leave the green for later," my Babushka instructs.

We get busy filling bags and then pourin the contents of our bags into a big sack. Babushka and here sister have a family dispute about the best way to hitch the sack to the bike. I have been taking photos and now capture the squabble. We all begin to laugh. Sisters will be sisters.

The ground apples are terribly soar like lemons. Each one will be cored and either boiled for compote juice or ground into marmalade. It's a lot of work.

As we scurry back to catch our 6:00 pm train to Konotop, I realize that this trip is more than foraging. It's a chance to enjoy friendships, delight in impromptu parties, see the countryside and taste the beauty of nature. For this American, it is also a way to remember a Ukrainian way of life.

Like most Americans, I like to feel engaged and productive. Give me a project to work on. I am happy. Let me develop a strategy for that goal. I feel energized. Give me a problem to solve and I feel like I am making a difference. Sure at times, I can get to feeling overloaded, but still I would rather be busy than not.

Interestingly, this Peace Corps experience is changing my perspectives. Here I am learning about life when it seems empty, when there is no new project. People go on vacations or tend to family or plant gardens or get sick or a dozen other things.

At times nothing much happens. Life is still. Whatever shall I do?

A box of stuff stares at me from the corner of my apartment begging for attention. I have been ignoring it for several weeks. It's the left overs from my move into my new apartment. I must have some kind of phobia about unpacking that final box. It just sits there.

But today I finally say “enough procrastination” and dig in. After all, it will fill the emptiness of a hot muggy day. Here in Konotop the temperatures are soaring over 40C or 105F.

On top of the box is a newspaper from Bangkok. I must have tossed it there upon my return. I can't resist picking it up and noticing a small article that I circled on the back page - “Life Amid The Pebbles.” Interesting, I think and begin to read.

The author observes how a few weeds have managed to sprout on the rocky pathway of his garden. I think, "Who sees such things? Who has time to notice unless you are no longer so busy?" Interesting....

He continues by wondering how those weeds make it through a thick layer of stones devoid of soil or sand or water. “How can life thrive and grow in this parched and unfriendly environment?”

Indeed! My mind wanders to the immense challenges facing leaders in Ukraine.

Within in living memory, Ukraine has absorbed so much death and destruction into its collective psyche. Stalin's agricultural collectivization created an artificial famine killing more than 3 million previously independent peasants. Some say it was more like 7 million. Then came the Nazi occupation killing another 5 million in the war and devastating the countries infrastructure.

According to the UN Relief and Rehabilitation Administration, losses were enormous. No less than 2 million buildings and 1600 industrial enterprises gone. 714 towns and cities destroyed. Another 2800 villages devastated. Even here in Konotop, I learned that 1000 Jewish citizens met death as the Nazi Holocaust swept into our little city.

No Ukrainian is untouched. Horrid memories live in the collective psyche. This is not hyperbole. Sadly, it's truth. I guess that's why I am so struck by the courage of Ukrainian people to embrace life again.

The story of my Center for disabled children comes to mind. A mother with a disabled child overcomes her own depression and collective fatalism to create a Hearts of Love Center. This week 45 children with all sorts of disabilities are enjoying Day Camp.

I see the young girl who could not stand at our Spring Beauty Pageant because of a bone deformity. She has had an operation and her leg is in a cast now. It's part of a long term treatment. She gleefully swings around on crutches. I think she is beautiful.

A young boy has another bone disease and cannot walk at all. You would not know it by looking at him. He exudes energy and is so cute. But then you see that he is carried everywhere by counselors or when they are not available, he pulls himself across the ground with such strong little arms. He wants to be part of the action and I think he will always find a way.

The author of my article reflects more about pebbles.

"These days we are short of people who are willing to be the first stones who pave the way so that other stones can be laid down. The stones on the upper and topmost levels are the ones seen and acknowledged by people and society, but the first stones have to remain at the bottom.

“We hardly find people of this nature – those willing to be first stones that pave the way for others. That’s why virtuous creations rarely come about."

What kind of stones have I met in Ukraine? What kind am I? I sigh reflectively as I cut out the article for my "Good Stuff" file and finish unpacking the rest of the box. The stillness is no longer so empty. Thoughts of pebbles fill my mind.

A week passes and I am sitting on a bench at the Hearts of Love Center awaiting the start of Camp. The stillness of last week is replaced by the energy of children. Everyone is excited.

A young woman spots me, waves and moves in my direction. She is one of the translators who will help the volunteers from the UK who have come to help with Camp.

"I am so glad to see you again...so very glad, " she beams. Again? Honestly, I am having a hard time remembering where and when we met before. Noticing my uncertainty, she adds, " I was the translator for your group project. Remember?"

During training all new Peace Corps Volunteers have to pull together a community project. My group did some Internet Research and held a round table discussion with a few city officials, some university students and Peace Corps trainers. I never considered it much of a project until now.

"Your project changed my life."

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. "After that meeting, one of the Peace Corps staff asked me to apply for a position. Of course, I knew about the Peace Corps, but I never would have thought about applying for a position."

I smile in astonishment and she continues, " I owe it all to your training group. If I had not been invited to be your translator, none of this would have happened. I just love my job with the Peace Corps. It's like a new beginning for me."

I marvel at this unexpected story and imagine how her leadership is already effecting others. What more will she accomplish in the 35 or more years of her professional life?

Pebbles. Sometimes you get to be a pebble...even when you don't know it's happening nor understand how important it can be in another's life. And sometimes your pebble can be part of the foundation for a virtuous creation.

Recently, I attended Peace Corps Summer Language Camp. It’s a chance to work intensively on language development. It can be either an albatross of frustration or golden opportunity depending on how you look upon it.

I try to be positive. Every day we’re immersed in the Russian language either attending classes or playing camp games. I marvel at the language expertise of some younger volunteers. They speak with a fluency that I can hardly imagine for myself. Often I do not know what is being said, but I keep trying. And sometimes, I surprise myself. I actually catch on to more than I ever thought possible.

I say to my classmates, “In Konotop, I am known as nominative case Jud. Everything I say is in the nominative case.” They laugh and smile when I say, “I have decided to make a change and take on noun endings.”

In Russian there are 6 noun cases with different endings for masculine, feminine and neuter. It gets more expansive. Each one can have as many as 4 variants. Do the math. That’s 6 x 3 x 4 = 72 endings. Repeat for plural forms. So deciding to take on noun endings is no trifle and speaking them can be daunting.

Wonderfully, I get lots of support from other volunteers. These gatherings bring us together. One of the best parts of my PC experience has been the chance to know energetic and dedicated younger people. We get to share many conversations.

I’m walking history. I tell them about the Viet Nam War and the Marches on Washington in 1968 and 1969. We all puzzle at why so many died and for what. Now Viet Nam has become a tourist destination. The government is still communist and the dominoes are still standing.

They talk about their generation’s war in Afghanistan, terrorism, human rights, alleviating poverty, the environment and more. I realize that they will be involved in many forms of public service. In a small ways, I try to encourage. But mostly, I delight in knowing that peace and justice ideals live on.

As the week progresses, I decide to take a language proficiency test known as an LPI.

For about 20 minutes I sit with a language instructor who asks me questions. I am able to respond and only miss one question. I am communicating in a language whose alphabet seemed impossible just a year ago.

I score intermediate low. It’s the same as I received after training a year ago. I think, “At least I did not fall backwards.” Even more, I now I feel like it’s a more solid score than before. I am actually encouraged.

Camp comes to an end. I say goodbye to friends and set off for the Train Station and a real-life language experience. As you know from reading my Blog, the Train Station can be a language and cultural challenge if not nightmare.

Heading the challenge list are the ticket agents. They are notorious for their attitude. Even Ukrainians complain about them.

“Please repeat,” I ask and I get a louder and faster response. It is not helpful. As I try my best to understand, from behind others crowd in. A lady is lurking over my shoulder adding here comments to my situation. It’s not unusual to have someone literally in your face – inches away.

Ukrainians and Americans have different needs for private space. Maybe the years of families doubling or tripling or quadrupling in small living spaces has altered their need for privacy and distance. Or maybe because Americans live in an expansive country, we expect more space. All I know, it’s unsettling. I leave the ticket counter to regroup for another try.

This time I am in a more buoyant and prepared mood. Although a lady behind me crowds in again, I am able to get, not only one ticket, but two for my connection. It’s a language and cultural victory.

Outside, there are five different platforms for departing trains. There is no posting of train arrivals and departures. Only loud speakers are gargling in Russian. It’s impossible. I decide to try a new strategy.

“Can you tell me what platform for the train to Neegan,” I say to an older looking couple. They do not know, but promise to tell me when the announcement is made.

I say, “Thank you so much. I only speak a little Russian.” They smile and say that I am doing very well. I continue, “I am a Peace Corps Volunteer in Konotop. I work with disabled children.” They ask me how long and I tell them for two years. A new friendship begins.

As departure time arrives, there is some confusion about which side of the train to board. The crowd surges to the left side. My new friends assure me that it will be on the right side and there is no need to move. They have taken me under their protective care.

But then, they decide that maybe they are wrong and they begin to usher me forward. Of course we are speaking some Russian in the midst of this confusion and I am only catching a part of it. Just then a young woman steps forward and offers her assistance in ENGLISH!!

Inside, we all sit together and begin a little conversation. I speak Russian and when my vocabulary fails, the young woman serves as translator. Others are drawn into our conversation. Stoic public faces that are typical of Ukrainian people get a hint of good humor. People are smiling at this American guest on the 3rd class Electrishka (electric train and least expensive way to travel) who’s going to Konotop.

As we wait, vendors are moving up and down the aisles. On an Electrishka, you can buy lots of things from socks to fly paper to food. My new friends say, “Here the bazaar comes to you.” We all laugh together and continue our conversation.

A young man, who is selling buns stuffed with cheesy potatoes, steps forward. He insists that I take one, but I decline. He insists more. I try to pay, but no. He will not take payment.

“It’s my gift to you,” he smiles.

The woman next to me says, “He is my brother.” When I say “your brother” using Russian, she corrects me. “No, brother in Jesus.” I say that I understand and with a smile she says, “Amen.”

A scene from Feeding the 5000 flashes across my mental screen. I try to share the bun, but a Babushka across the aisle tells me to save it for later. “You will be hungry.” Others agree and refuse my offer with much kindness. The train feels like a car load of friends.

It is interesting how reaching out is often met with kindness. I guess small kindnesses are contagious in any language. It's wonderful. But then I get to thinking, why do we too often retreat and hold back when reaching out and helping one another can be so much more fun? You can learn a lot more than language at Summer Camp.

"We are recommending medical evacuation," explains my Peace Corps doctor? During my mid-service medical exam, several suspicious marks were found on my skin. The Peace Corps doctors suspected basal cell cancer - not the dangerous type, thankfully. They decided that the best course of treatment would be a visit to their medical back-up center in Bangkok.>

Bangkok was never on my "must see" list, but here I am being medically evacuated or as some light heartedly suggest going on a medical vacation or a "Medic-Vac."

I arrive at 4:00 am in the morning after a 9 1/2 hour flight from Kiev. I am anxious about new language and money conversion and getting a taxi especially at this hour in the morning. But as I step off the plane, I see that I can relax. I am in a very modern world class airport that is only a few years old. It is quickly becoming a hub for all of southeast Asia.

I am relieved that signs are in local Thai (a form of Sanskrit, I believe) and English. It is easy to navigate through customs and to the baggage claim. My final anxiety is also relieved. My back-pack comes circling around.

Outside I get a taxi. My driver speaks staccato. He only knows isolated words in English. Now I know how my beginner's Russian sounds to my Ukrainian friends. A word here and a word there, but not much of the connecting lingo.

I think he is talking about the recent unrest in Bangkok. He keeps making gun-shooting sounds like kids do when they are playing "shoot 'em." It's unnerving at 5:00 am especially when each "shoot 'em" sound is followed with laughter. I have to take several deep breathes to still my mind from racing ahead.

I need sleep.

After 20 minutes of a fast and thrilling ride, I reach the hotel. I am greeted by two doormen and a desk clerk who are all smiles. I mean these folks really know how to smile broadly. They greet you with palms together and a short bow too. I feel so welcomed.

My room is clean and simple like many 2 star hotels I have stayed in. I have all the basics and a comfortable bed.

I am bone tired.

The next day I see my doctor. The Bumrungard Medical Center is directly across the street from the hotel. The Peace Corps has made excellent arrangements even providing a specialized nurse to accompany me. She is great.

I enter a spacious lobby that resembles a 5 star hotel lobby. I see a Starbucks, a few shops and even a WIFI cyber corner amidst clusters of stylish sofas and comfy chairs. There is no institutional look here.

A young smiling Thai woman greets me in English. She directs me to the second floor registration. All is done efficiently, like America, and with even more friendly patient care.

My doctor is remarkable. He spends about 30 minutes examining and explaining treatment options. Several times he asks if I have questions and he does it in such a way as to invite questions. Can you believe it?

After a brief time in the waiting area where containers of juice and water are offered, I return for treatment. The doctor spends another 20 minutes taking a few biopsies and doing some skin freezing to prevent further problems.

I am delighted with the care. Procedures are in keeping with what I know of American practices and I never got the feeling that he was in a hurry to see another patient. In fact, he gives me a restaurant recommendations and even draws a detailed map on how to get there.

The next day is for sightseeing. I want to go to the Grand Palace and Wat Phara Kaew, a temple complex where the revered Emerald Buddha resides. Getting there is a challenge.

I study maps and metro stations. The streets in Bangkok seem like a jumble of pick-up sticks. As best as I can tell, each neighborhood has a main avenue with smaller streets that run off of it and then smaller allies that run off the streets. The streets in each area are numbered. The odd numbers run off of one side of the main avenue and the even on the other. It is quite tricky for a westerner to figure out. Missing is the predictable grid pattern.

I venture off to the Sky Way, an elevated Metro that has been in operation for a few years. Bangkok is notorious for constant grid lock. The Sky Way speeds you to your destination in a clean modern system. Stops are announced in Thai and English. I am impressed.

Unfortunately, the public transit only takes me 3/4 of the way. Now I must catch a taxi. My driver speaks no English and has difficulty understanding my map which of course is in English script.

It's a struggle or as I prefer to think during my better moments, a new adventure. Somehow after 20 minutes of traffic jams and making a wrong turn, we get to the Grand Palace and Buddha Temple. I have no complaint. The driver smiles and gives me a discount for the wrong turn.

The vacation part of my "Medi-Vac" begins.

I have to remind myself that I am not on a Hollywood set viewing a remake of the King and I. It is astounding to be here and to see the remarkable architecture close up. It is so unlike anything I have ever seen in the West.

The Grand Palace complex was established in 1782 by a King Rama I. When he assumed the throne, he declared the old palace not suitable. So a new one was designed and constructed. Kings get to do it their way.

The complex consists of his royal residence, a series of government buildings and the highly renowned temple of the Emerald Buddha.

The colors are bright and intense. The design is graceful yet strong. And the craftsmanship is evident in delicate mosaics, intricate carvings and epic paintings. I stand there mesmerized Tourists, like me, are busy snapping pictures. In every direction there is something dazzling to see.

As I walk I hear chanting in the distance.

This area is also a functioning Buddhist Temple. People go to the Emerald Buddha to honor the teachings of Buddha. As was explained to me, Buddhism is not so much a religion as it is a teaching about living in harmony and peace.. Still this place is one of the most venerated sites in all of Thailand.

The Emerald Buddha is actually green jade. When discovered in 1434, it was covered in plaster. Nobody took it to be more than an ordinary Buddha image. But some plaster on it nose flaked away and revealed a lovely stone beneath. Mistakenly, it was thought to be emerald. Hence, the legend of the Emerald Buddha began.

The Emerald Buddha is quite small. In the temple, it's overpowered by a massive and ornate altar upon which it sits. Other Buddha images flank the altar. Epic paintings adorn the walls depicting the life of Buddha including his Great Renunciation and Temptations to Enlightenment. All is ablaze with gold.

I stop and take off my shoes and enter this sacred space. The ritual is simple. Kneel. Bow three times with face to the ground and then with palms together say your prayers.

Often I am told, people pray for loved ones who have died. I pray for family and friends who have died, some recently, and imagine them in a safe and satisfying state.

Outside people pause at a cauldron of holy water and lotus blossoms. They use the blossoms to sprinkle themselves and one another.

It's a respectful ritual but done with smiles and a little playfulness. In an oppressively hot climate where it is normally 90 F or more, water is a welcomed relief. And in a world as troubled as ours, holy water should be shared gleefully.

For several hours I wander the Grand Palace complex. Here are a few more images for you to enjoy....

With the sun still blazing, I find an outdoor porch and enjoy an entire bottle of cold water.

Thailand has known warfare and lots of strife, but there seems to be an inner tranquility. Then I meet a young man from Indochina. He tells me something remarkable. Thailand means "Land of Peace." I never knew that before and now I will never forget. What a wonderful place...I think I'll have another bottle of water.

Budapest is funky in a good way. At least that's my first impression as we check into the Lavender Circus. The Hostel's lounge is cluttered with 50s and 60s memorabilia. Silent films are playing on the walls and in the hallways. It works in a Elvis and Beatles sort of way. Andrea is our host and makes us welcomed by offering a shot of Palinka - a homemade vodka. It's powerful.

At the suggestion of Andrea, we're off to Castro for dinner. It's a hangout for locals with tables so close you could sample from a neighboring plate. Posters fill the walls with Che and Castro and the Beatles sharing space in a psychedelic montage. Anyone over fifty knows the scene. Why didn't I bring my bell bottoms?

Next morning it's breakfast at The Central Cafe. Andrea tells us that it's a historic cafe and a favorite meeting place for artists and assorted rebels. "Imagine the plots discussed here," I say to Fran. "It's a place of elegance and intrigue." We savor our eggs and coffee latte and make our own plot for the day.

Budapest was united in 1873 when two separate cities came together forming Buda-Pest.

Beautiful bridges now span the Danube lending elegance to that union. There has been settlement here since before Roman times. During the Renaissance, Budapest became a hub of trade and culture.

The people have survived through many invasions and occupations. The Nazis and Soviets were the most recent.

In 1956 the Hungarian Revolt was the first crack in Soviet solidarity and foretold a different time when oppression and occupation would end. Through it all, I think the Hungarian spirit was never broken. It waited for the right time to breathe free again

Budapest is a delight to the eyes. Splendid architecture is around every corner. I read in a guide books that it's like the Paris of Eastern Europe. Maybe that's an overstatement, but not by much. The cityscape is like a massive painting. I can't wait to see the next scene. I take way too many photos, but I cannot help myself.

What makes these architectural treats so remarkable is the destruction that Budapest suffered during the Great War. More than 80% of the buildings were hit by bombs. I am not sure why, but the Soviets spent a lot of money and resources to bring the city back to the elegance we see today.

At night Budapest becomes magical. It's a city of lights spanning the Danube. Stroll along the river. Stop at a cafe for a glass of wine. Watch the sun slowly set over the Danube and hills beyond. Soak in the beauty of a city opening to the night.

Next day it's off to Castle Hill. Like bookends, the hill is framed by Mathias Cathedral and a Castle with lesser buildings in between. We ride an incline to the top and get a panoramic view of Pest. It's beautiful.

Matthias Cathedral has a 700 year history and is an icon of the Hungarian spirit. Tural, a mythical guard bird, keeps watch from pinnacles.

Even with Tural's watchfulness, the Cathedral has been sack and rebuilt several times.

During the Ottoman Empire occupation, it was converted into a mosque. Mosaics were white washed into oblivion and all images removed as required by Islamic practice. A statute of Mary was hastily hidden behind a false plaster wall. A century later when the Hungarians sought to oust the Turks, a volley of cannon balls broke through the plaster wall and Mary miraculously reappeared. So stunned were the Turks that their morale was broken and they lost the war. The Cathedral was once again Christian.

We extend our visit in Budapest and get a chance to try out a new Hostel. This one is next to Budapest Opera House. I'll long remember a late afternoon siesta with summer breezes waffling though tall windows as an operatic soprano rehearses across the street. Does it get any better?

We buy tickets for a world premier of a modern ballet. The grace and energy communicates emotions without words. Music and movement unites a diverse audience with the performers.

In one piece the audience is so absorbed that for a few seconds we forget to applaud. Then we remember and we applaud and applaud with deep gratitude and roses are flung onto the stage. Bravo!

A growing heat wave sends me to the mineral baths. Budapest is on a fault where natural mineral springs percolate streams of hot mineral rich waters. Locals and the government claim healing benefits.

I go to a bath with more than 18 different pools inside and out. Some are for swimming and others are for soaking. You can even visit a sauna and then jump into near freezing water. Brisk and refreshing, they say. I do not try it thinking that my heart will thank me.

I spent lots of time swimming followed by soaks in progressively hotter water. I must report that after a day lounging in baths, my body fells like a 35 year old. Gone are minor aches, especially my soar feet. I feel rejuvenated.

I love Budapest.

It's funk.

It's architectural beauty.

It's culture.

It's enduring spirit.

And yes, a cool swim on a sweltering afternoon.

It's 1945. A new life begins. From the moment of inception, cells begin to divide. Hundreds, thousands and millions growing and forming tiny legs and arms and fingers. Skin and bone mold a unique face within the womb. Soon a baby will press out and into the world. He will be named Judson Wesley Dolphin.

At the same time in 1945, there is death. The Concentration Camps of Auschwitz and Birkenau are multiplying their victims. Lives are ending to soon and too quickly. Mostly, the bodies in those Concentration Camps consumed themselves. With less than 1000 calories and more than 11 hours of hard physical labor each day, the cells have no choice. They consume one another to survive if only for another day.

Legs and arms loose muscle mass becoming tiny again. Skin seems translucent sagging like wet tissue paper on bony protrusions. Faces dim becoming devoid of emotions. It's like the soul is trying to lessen the horror in some vague way.

Slowly cell by cell, life is taken away. The process will be repeated 1,500,000 times in these two places. Later in 1944 and 1945 gas will hasten the process and crematories will clean up the mess. Mass murder has its own learning curve.

I am visiting the Concentration Camps outside of Krakow Poland. My Friend and travel companion, Fran, says, " I don't want to go, but I must." I feel the same. My life began just as these places became known and the world vowed "never again." I cannot help but feel a human connection. I both want and hate the idea of seeing these places for myself.

Electrified Fencing at Auschwitz

It's about 90 minutes bus ride to Auschwitz from Krakow. Tidy country homes dot the countryside. Fran and I point out the sights to one another from our bus window. All seems so normal and beautiful. The fields are sprayed in deep summer green. Splashes of red field poppies add enchantment. Life is beautiful.

Yet I remember that in 1945, human bodies came in this same direction. Routinely across these fields and hills, they came to Concentration Camps. Legs and arms stuffed into railroad box cars which were meant for animals. With no food or water and barely air to breathe, bodies came from all over Europe. Auschwitz was selected because of its central location. Originally for Polish prisoners, it would now leave a legacy of death for Jews and Gypsies and Homosexuals and other so called political and social misfits.

A film of those years is shown on the bus. A young Soviet photographer captured the pictures as the Camps were liberated. He says, "Time can never erase these memories."

I see for myself. In my mind's eye, images appear as if they are ghost reflections on the glass surface of the bus window. They appear for a few moments and then disappear as the beauty of the countryside takes over. But no, the images cannot be forgotten and even more await me as I draw closer to Auschwitz.

First Crematoria at Auschwitz

It's 1945. A new life begins. From the moment of inception, cells begin to divide. Hundreds, thousands and millions growing and forming tiny legs and arms and fingers. Skin and bone mold a unique face within the womb. Soon a baby will press out and into the world. He will be named Judson Wesley Dolphin.

At the same time in 1945, there is death. The Concentration Camps of Auschwitz and Birkenau are multiplying their victims. Lives are ending to soon and too quickly. Mostly, the bodies in those Concentration Camps consumed themselves. With less than 1000 calories and more than 11 hours of hard physical labor each day, the cells have no choice. They consume one another to survive if only for another day.

Legs and arms loose muscle mass becoming tiny again. Skin seems translucent sagging like wet tissue paper on bony protrusions. Faces dim becoming devoid of emotions. It's like the soul is trying to lessen the horror in some vague way.

Slowly cell by cell, life is taken away. The process will be repeated 1,500,000 times in these two places. Later in 1944 and 1945 gas will hasten the process and crematories will clean up the mess. Mass murder has its own learning curve.

I am visiting the Concentration Camps outside of Krakow Poland. My Friend and travel companion, Fran, says, " I don't want to go, but I must." I feel the same. My life began just as these places became known and the world vowed "never again." I cannot help but feel a human connection. I both want and hate the idea of seeing these places for myself.

Electrified Fencing at Auschwitz

It's about 90 minutes bus ride to Auschwitz from Krakow. Tidy country homes dot the countryside. Fran and I point out the sights to one another from our bus window. All seems so normal and beautiful. The fields are sprayed in deep summer green. Splashes of red field poppies add enchantment. Life is beautiful.

Yet I remember that in 1945, human bodies came in this same direction. Routinely across these fields and hills, they came to Concentration Camps. Legs and arms stuffed into railroad box cars which were meant for animals. With no food or water and barely air to breathe, bodies came from all over Europe. Auschwitz was selected because of its central location. Originally for Polish prisoners, it would now leave a legacy of death for Jews and Gypsies and Homosexuals and other so called political and social misfits.

A film of those years is shown on the bus. A young Soviet photographer captured the pictures as the Camps were liberated. He says, "Time can never erase these memories."

I see for myself. In my mind's eye, images appear as if they are ghost reflections on the glass surface of the bus window. They appear for a few moments and then disappear as the beauty of the countryside takes over. But no, the images cannot be forgotten and even more await me as I draw closer to Auschwitz.

First Crematoria at Auschwitz

The contrast continues at Auschwitz. Pounded out in wrought iron letters and hanging between posts at the front gate are the cynical words - "Work will set you free."

I walk through the gate and have my first look a Auschwitz. Immediately, I notice the neat orderly rows of brick buildings. They look like dormitories on a college campus.

But Inside, prisoners were kept 3 bodies to a bunk stacked three high. Displays tell the story of what went on here from 1940 to 1945.

Originally, Auschwitz was meant for Polish prisoners. They would be brought here and worked hard until disease or starvation ended life - usually within 5 months.

Latrines where prisoners would often hide

Our guide tells us that names and faces were problematic. The Nazis had an insatiable need to be in control of everything - even those they murdered.

At first they took photos of those who came to the Camps so that they could identify who died. But the Camps were growing quickly and the need to process more bodies made photos impractical. Besides as the body eats away at itself, appearances change making absolute identification uncertain.

Uncertainty was a threat to Nazi supremacy. So they developed the practice of tattooing numbers. Match the numbers with the record card - Nazi certainty. When Ally troops liberated children in 1945 and asked their names, the children simply pointed to the numbers on their tiny arms or legs. Names no longer mattered.

Somewhere around 1942, the ideology of racial supremacy connected with the efficiency of Concentration Camps and created a mechanism for mass extinction. The Nazis were learning how to handle hundreds of thousands of bodies.

Separate women and children from the men. Get rid of the children first and then the mothers. They have no work value. One of the lasting images is a large display case with little children shoes. My stomach actually gets acid reflux as I spy a clump of baby booties in the mound of remains.

Our guide tells us more about the sorting of human life. With a quick nod, doctors ordered healthier men to the work barracks and sick ones to the hospital and certain death. A jumble of eye glasses, maybe several thousand, are in a display case. I take mine off and hold them next to the pile with only glass separating us. I shudder, but not quite silently.

Nazi lust for racial purity lead to many twisted enterprises. Doctors experimented on women in search of an injection that would cause sterilization. Injections had an advantage over gassing. There would be no body refuse to clean up. In this medically clean way, Nazis could rid the world of other undesirables, like Slavic people, after they had taken care of the Jews.

Remains of Baracks

The killing machine expanded. An adjoining Camp known as Birkenau was started. Unlike Auschwitz where people had to walk from a train station into the Camp, at Birkenau, the tracks came in through a narrow gate and spread out across an open field.

After the initial sorting, women and children were promised a shower at one of 4 buildings building on the far end of the field. They walked along the train tracks to their death.

I walk the same train tracks from the crematories towards the open gate. I count the railroad ties separating the two. There are over 4,000 withe each tie being a step. How long does it take to walk 4000 steps? How long until life is showered away?

The sun is blazing hot with temperatures more than 90 F. Step by step, a strange image enters my mind. It seems like I am walking along a kind of birthing canal.

Visually I see the opening of the gate. Except this one is in reverse. It starts among the living in the outside world and draws human life into a womb of death.

Birkenau was so efficient. The exact number is unknown, but our guide says about 1.500,000 died here including more than 235,000 children. They say that 95% of all Jews brought to Auschwitz-Birkenau were dead by 1945, the year of my birth.

Slowly I walk the train tracks and count the ties and think about living and dieing.

I remember an Elder from Trinity Presbyterian Church in Pittsburgh. He once told me to be careful about too much religion and I would add now, about too much ideology. I dismissed his advice at the time being a bit of a zealot myself, but as years have passed I understand his wisdom.

It seems to me that whenever any group believes that they have unshakable certainty, no good will follow. It matters little if it be the Taliban in Afghanistan or the Christian Radical Right condemning homosexuality. Certainty in a cause breeds intolerance and soon breeds hatred.

Sometimes people are willing to sacrifice freedom and life in order to have their own way enforced. I think it's a kind of lust for control and power. Sure we can wrap many rationalizations around the certainty of our cause and give it a more respectable appearance, but I think it stills eats away at human life.

I want to remain a skeptic. Maybe the horrific legacy of 1945 can be a reminder. There is no good in having it all figured out. Life is a beautiful mystery. Uncertainty always opens space for living freely.

What do you think?

My cell phone rings. "Are you planning to join us for the bike ride," asks Anton. He is a student at the Konotop Institute and parliament president. I got to know him through my organizational development seminars.

About a week ago, he suggested that I might enjoy a bike ride. I think he saw my bike at Hearts of Love Center. Since the weather turned warm, I have been trying to ride several times a week.

Mine is an old Soviet bike which was given to me to use for the duration of my stay in Konotop. It has those thick tires and old fashioned coaster brakes. I had to relearn how to peddle backwards in order to stop. Yikes!

There's nothing sleek about this bike. I think it weighs about 100 pounds or at least it feels that heavy when I want to ride and must first haul it down and then back up 4 flights of stairs.

I agree to join Anton for the bike ride. I am thinking, “Great fun joining a few university students for a ride on a pleasant spring morning. So I pump up my tires - Eat a protein rich breakfast - Haul the bike down the stairs - Put on my helmet - And start peddling.

Casually, I make my way to our meeting spot in the center of town. As I turn the corner, I am totally surprised. The unexpected greets me.

About 200 young bikers are massing in front of the Post Office. A few adults are busy organizing the chaos into rows as if the bikers were soldiers getting ready for a parade. My ride with a few friends is actually a healthy life style event for all of Konotop's kids.

Bikers gather for the Healthy Life Style Event

No problem. I will just blend into the back row. Ha! Who am I kidding?

First, I am the only kid with a helmet. Second, I’m no kid. In fact, I am the oldest person within sight. Third, my bike is straight out of the 1950s Soviet Sears and Roebuck Catalogue if they had such a thing. I am as conspicuous as a Soviet flag would be at a 4th of July celebration.

Anton greets me with a video camera. He tells me that he won’t be riding but capturing the day digitally. A TV crew is here too. “Great,” I think, “now there will be a record!”

Before I know what is happening, I am in the front line of all the bikers. The plan is for the American and two others to lead the pack. Me - in the middle, leading 200 kids on bikes. Can you believe it? Yikes...Leading the way

Adrenalin pumps and deep breathes calm my nerves, barely. We are off on a 3 kilometer ride with eager kids nipping at my back tires. Luckily it is rather flat terrain in Konotop and the only hill is towards the end. I chug up the hill with a few kids passing by. I blame it on my chunky tires.

We swerve into the school yard all smiles. The next few hours will be filled with competitions. The kids line up to participate in everything from chess to arm wrestling to hoops to badminton to tug-of-war and more. On a stage there is Ukrainian singing and dancing. There’s even a Kung Fu demonstration. The kids are particularly attentive as leg blows are traded.

Anton tries on my helmet

What a wonderful day, it’s turned out to be. It’s not what I expected, but I’m thinking, “This is Ukraine and it's my first bike run ever. Wow, I made it.”

I have known them as a couple since 1956. They met in high school and have been married for 48 years. I remember rocking their first child to sleep. Now she is all grown up and has children of her own.

The cause of my reminiscence is a Ukrainian visit by my brother, Warren and my sister-in-law, Judy. When I was younger, I don't think I appreciated their effort to keep in contact with family as much as I do now. Now I relish their visit.

Brother Warren

Judy and Jenny

They have multiple reasons for visiting Ukraine. Top of the list are two grandsons, Brendan and Aidan. My niece is married to an military officer and he along with the whole family are now living in Kiev. In one of those odd coincidences, he learned about his assignment two weeks after mine. It has been a wonderful blessing to have family close and now a visit from Warren and Judy.

Brendan and Grammy

Aidan and "Great" Uncle Jud

I meet them in Kiev having decided that placing them alone on a train might be too much of a Russian language adventure. I remember my panic. They are grateful. My brother calls me his lifeline. I chuckle to myself since all of my life, I have looked up to him.

The train ride to Konotop is uneventful. I brought a bottle of wine along. So we sip it from plastic cups and Judy and Warren get a look at the Ukrainian countryside captured like snap shots through the smudgy train window.

"It's very flat, even more than Iowa" remarks Judy. Warren notices a lack of storage silos and processing plants. Both wonder where the live stock is hiding.

Ukrainian land stretches from horizon to horizon without interruption. What does get cultivated is often done by hand. We see miles of thick dark black earth and in the distance, small figures bend over as generations always have done. Spring means days of back-braking work.

In the future, whenever I think of some overwhelming task and feel like giving up, I will remember the figures preparing the soil row by row by row. Progress is painfully slow, but they do not give up. With much toil and constant bent frames, their bodies offer a kind of kinetic prayer, - "Grant us a harvest again this year. "

Konotop is buzzing with excitement. A special Tea Time is planned at Hearts of Love for 1:00 pm. Friends are making arrangements to leave work so that they can greet my brother and his wife. Later in the night we will be hosted at a home for a traditional Borscht dinner.

Meanwhile, we sightsee Konotop and enjoy the perfect Spring weather. A short trip to the Konotop Aviation museum is disappointing. It's closed on Mondays. We still get to see the helicopters through the fence under watchful eyes of a guard.

On our way back we notice a small church. The gate is open beckoning us forward. A few men and what appears to be a special needs teenager are clearing winter debris from the yard. Several women are inside methodically cleaning the floors on their hands and knees.

We hesitate to enter, but their warm smiles and gestures urge us inside. The Church is a year old made from recycled bricks that may be a 100 years old. The altar is constructed of plywood and has yet to be covered in the ornate Russian Orthodox style.

For now, beautiful cross-stitch hangings cover the walls. Judy, who is an avid sewer, admires the handiwork. It is amazing what you can communicate with warmth and body language. She does not really need a lifeline.

The rest of the day is consumed with eating Ukrainian style.

At Hearts of Love, tea time has been transformed into a luscious lunch. We are treated to lupsky (cabbage rolls), a fresh salad, veggies, crepes and many sweets.

My brother presents a wooden cutting board to Yelena as a token of appreciation and friendship. He hand-crafted it and by the look on her face it will become a treasure.

After 3 hours, the meal ends and we say our farewells. We walk down the gravel and dirt paths towards Konotop's only hotel. It is actually quite nice. We have an hour to try to recover an appetite before our next eating engagement.

Natash has set a luscious table. Surprisingly, an Iowa State Flag is part of the center-piece. Immediately Warren and Judy wonder how she came about having such a flag on a table in Konotop.

It seems that she went to America for a leadership conference at Iowa State in Ames Iowa - where Warren and Judy lived most of their lives. Even more fascinating, Natasha brings out a scrap book with pictures of several friends Judy and Warren new well. Instant rapport.

Set before us are big bowls of borscht. Each one is like a serving dish. It's absolutely delicious. Natasia and Babushka have worked most of the day preparing this special meal. Ukrainians, like many people, show love by with hospitality. Appetite or no appetite, Warren and I make room savoring each spoonful. Judy does well too.

Judy is amazed that all the careful chopping and dicing is accomplish in such a small kitchen. There's a small table and about two feet of counter space.

Space is limited. It's one of the differences that Americans normally notice.

Americans need physical space for privacy while Ukrainians create a kind of mental privacy. Close proximity without communicating is normal. We Americans feel a need to fill spaces with words and if we can't, we grow increasingly uncomfortable until we leave for another room. Ukraine families have few places to escape. It is not unusual for a family of six to live in 2 or 3 rooms.

The next day, It's off to Chernigov and a visit with my host family. Ksusha takes leave from work to be our excursion guide. Her English is excellent though she confides that Americans "do speak quickly." .

Chernigov is an ancient city and many of the world class landmarks remain. We walk towards ancient churches amidst a colonnade of Soviet heroes. Take a look and see for yourself.

Honoring the soldiers, patriots and underground partisans of Chernigov land

St. Parasceve Church dating from the 13th century

Boryso-Hlibsky Cathedral dating from 11th century

Chernigov Collegium 18th century

My Ukrainian family is delighted to meet Warren and Judy. We have a lovely dinner together as we sip wine and become better acquainted.

Andre and Natasia, whose wedding I attended,join us as do Pavil and Ksusha who may get married this Fall. Pavil shows me some of his design work for office furniture. He works with his father in a small fabricating shop. He is the design brains behind the products. His work is really quite good.

My brothe and Pavil have something in common. They both create with wood. I feel like I am introducing family to family. It's wonderful.

The next day we wander through the extensive Bazaar until we happen upon the used tool section. I knew it would happen.

Warren loves collecting tools - not as show pieces but as useful instruments for his excellent wood working. He is like a kid in a toy shop. He must see every aisle at least once, maybe twice, but who is counting.

Too quickly our visit comes to an end. We head back to Kiev in a Marshrutka. Flat fields accompany us with occasional villages and the odd sight od stork nests afixed atop telephone poles. I see a few baby storks peeking from nests and looking for their mothers.

Jenny and Jud

Judy plays peek-a-boo with a child in the seat ahead. Both communicate in the universal language of giggles. I smile too. I get to thinking about family and realizing how blessed I really am. Thanks for visiting.

I was worried. All night, I hardly slept a wink. By the time I had to get up and give my presentation, my worry churned into utter fear. My voice trembled softly and my knees quivered beneath my pant legs threatening to snap like over wrought rubber bands at any moment.

I was in Miss Leece’s 6th grade class. My assignment was to tell my classmates about last night’s news. I do not know how I made it through the five minute presentation without disintegrating in front of everyone. I was absolutely terrified. Even now, I shudder thinking about it.

From earliest childhood, I had difficulty speaking. I use to say “wawa” for water. My family seemed to understand and I got what I wanted. But to outsiders, I guess, I was hardly intelligible.

I arrived in first grade needing to both read and pronounce my A-B-Cs. For three years I was given speech therapy so that I could say sounds like SH and CH and TH along with S and K and D and of course, A, E , I, O and U.

I remember my father. He drilled me several times a week in the back bedroom. It was tough going. I think I taught him patience as he taught me the sounds I needed to know. He did a good job. Thanks Pop. I know you would be proud of me now.

Last week I was invited to tell a new group of 35 Peace Corps volunteers about my 1st year experience in Ukraine. I was standing front of my peers again. This time, I stood with confidence.

My talk wove together 20 tips for survival and community integration along with stories of people I met and projects I accomplished. Most have been recorded here in my blog.

I told them how I learned my Russian numbers and colors by playing UNO in Russian. Every time a card is laid down the number and color must be said in Russian. My host family still loves to play the game. My friend Jim sent me extra games to give-a-way. Thanks Jim.

I told them about a wedding and how I was toasted by the father-of-the-bride as the first American to set foot in his home. “You are welcome here in my home - always.”

I told them about a former Soviet military man who lived his career preparing for war against America, and how he wrapped his arm around me in an embrace declaring to all present, “This is our American.”

I told them about Konotop’s first charity auction and the 11 new business contributors. “We didn’t have the confidence to ask businesses for donations. You gave us the idea that we could do it.”

I told them about another Peace Corps volunteer who sometimes doubts she has had much impact. But then a neighbor tells her, “You have changed my family’s life. “ Imagine….

I told them about teaching English and Leadership English and my new project to strengthen NGOs through Organizational Development Seminars. I shared an idea for a Leadership Network in Konotop and my hope to see it meeting regularly.

I ended with more tips and a refrain that they will succeed. “You can do it. Take time to build relationships. Be patient with your language learning. And manage your attitude. The Peace Corps is one grand adventure.”

As I sat down, there was applause and then a comment from the new Country Director of Peace Corps Ukraine. He said, “Thank you so much. Thank you, Jud. Your presentation was outstanding, simply extraordinary.”

As I beamed with pride and satisfaction, images of Pop’s language drills and speech classes and Miss Leece’s news report flashed across my memory screen.

And I thought about my dear mentor, Dr.David G. Buttrick who in my Seminary years taught me about the power of words. “Speak in images. Evoke pictures in the mind. And remember your structure. Structure is meaning.” Thank you, David, your teaching and friendship are treasured.

How strange it is. A kid, who had a hard time talking, has spent a good part of his life informing and motivating others. With words and stories, I think I am helping others in more ways than I will probably ever know. At least, I hope so.

I will savor last week not only for the kind and generous comments, but for all the history – my personal history - rolled into a job well done. What a grand adventure this past year has been.

Sometimes wanting something is more than half of the pleasure of getting it. The mind has time to image anticipation. Over and over, the story is replayed and refined and savored. When the day of getting finally arrives, it almost feels like a special event.

And so it was in my quest for a pie plate.

For several months, I wanted a pie plate I have been thinking that it would be nice to make a dessert when I get invited to a family dinner. Pies are not common in Ukraine. So a homemade apple pie would be so American and a special way to say thanks.

Unlike America, there is no Wall Mart. I cannot just drive to the Mall and choose from a dozen possibilities.

No, in Ukraine, you have to hunt. Different shops specialize in different products. If you want bedding, you go to the bedding shop. If you want fish, you go to the fish shop. And if you want a pie plate, you need to find a shop with household goods.

In Konotop, we do have a “Department Store.” It’s like I imagine our grandmothers once shopped at. It’s small about a quarter of the size of a dollar store.

There are no consumer friendly shelves. Everything is behind the counter. Rarely are prices marked making it difficult to comparison shop. You must ask to be shown everything.

I am in the cosmetic section trying to buy tooth paste. “How much is that one,” as I point to the shelf behind the clerk? “No, not that one…a little further to the right.” Of course, I am doing this all in Russian, my version of Russian. It’s amazing that I end up with Colgate Total.

In another section are plates, cups and vases. They are all displayed in square cases made of glass and dark mahogany framing. The cases stand about seven feet tall and glisten from the sun streaming in the front door.

If you want a closer look at an item, you must get the case unlocked. I think you must really want something in order to ask to have the case unlocked. Otherwise, it is too intimidating. I have been in the shop many times and have never seen the case unlocked.

The “Department Store” did have one oven-safe plate, but it was big and oblong. I wanted a small round one. “No, we do not have,” said the clerk. Instead of being annoyed, I found myself bemused and drawn into the quest. “Where will I find a pie plate,” I thought?

Of course, I could have asked a Ukrainian friend. But this time I wanted to do it on my own. After all, I have been in Ukraine for an entire year and it is time for me to navigate all by myself. If I can now buy my own train ticket, surely I can find a suitable pie plate.

I went to several other stores, but no pie plates were to be found. The challenge intensified. I branched out to hardware stores. I recalled that sometimes they carry house hold items. One hardware shop had a glass plate, but it was square. I was running out of options.

On Saturday, I got up early and made my way to the Bazaar. As I got close to the Bazaar, I saw a small shop that had a few plate and cup sets in the window.

“Maybe I will find one here,” I thought. I had written the Russian words for pie plate and a small dialogue on a card so that I could more easily and correctly ask.

But again, the answer was “Nyet.”

I think I sounded a little desperate when I asked, “But where?” The kind woman smiled and beckoned me to follow her outside. She pointed out a yellow building about three blocks away. I thanked her and scurried up the street.

Excitement!

In the shop were several choices. There was a small and round one, a pretty ceramic one and a spring cake pan which might also double as a deep dish pie pan. I went for the spring cake pan and its versatility. And maybe with my next Peace Corps allowance, I will return for the small ceramic one. My quest was complete.

In America shopping is often on automatic pilot. We hurry into the mega market, pick up a few things and then drive home. There are so many ways to be instantly satisfied.

Maybe it sounds silly, but I think I will enjoy my spring cake pan more because of the hunt and anticipation.

On Easter Sunday, I was invited to a family dinner. I made an apple cake. It was delicious. I noticed a sister-in-law of my host snatching a second piece. "Perfect," I thought.

Today is the International Day for Women. At Hearts of Love, we celebrated a few days early with a special event. I am not sure it would be considered politically correct by those who keep score on such things. Still the young girls, who participated, and their families were so proud and happy.

The International Day for Women harkens back to Soviet times. It got tied to socialist politics and rights for women workers in the early 20th century. Maybe that is why it never really got much noticed in America. The UN adopted it in the 1970s and promotes a different theme each year. This year the focus is on ending violence against women.

For more information - http://www.un.org/events/women/iwd/2009/

Since the break-up of the Soviet Republic, it has lost some of its socialist stridency especially in countries like Ukraine. Woman’s Day has evolved into a combination of Valentines and Mother Day. It’s a time to honor women and recognize their contributions.

Unknown to me, a plan to commemorate Women’s Day was being discussed at Hearts of Love.

That’s the way it works here. I use to think that Ukrainian people did not plan. I was wrong. They just use a different kind of planning. Instead of flip charts and formal meetings or proposals and board of director decisions, a project is formed during informal discussions. Slowly, a consensus emerges, volunteers step forward and the project is underway.

”What are you doing,” I ask seeing two young women working on the office computer? “It’s for the International Day of Women. We’re making a beauty pageant for our children.”

“What,” I say? The two ideas collide in my head as I nod and feign a smile. I think they notice my lack of enthusiasm and tell me more about the project. I am being brought into the discussion.

The idea began with our December St. Nicholas party. As part of our outreach to the community, contact was made with Miss Konotop and her court of beauties. They came to the party coiffured and dressed in evening gowns, sashes and crowns. Our young girls were giggly with excitement. Everyone wanted their picture taken with Miss Konotop.

Could we replicate something like Miss Konotop for the children at Hearts of Love? The plain truth is that our children don’t get a chance to be recognized as beauties. Some are retarded or autistic. Others have internal disabilities like heart conditions or epilepsy. And still others manage with palsay and other physical disabilities. Hearts of Love has brought together a wide range of special need children.

It is hard on them and their families. I am told that during Soviet times, physical strength and perfection were applauded. Just take a look at the prowess chiseled into Soviet monuments. Disabilities represented failure. These kinds of children were hidden and a source of shame.

But times are a changing….why not a beauty pageant for our children? I warm to the idea.

The big day arrives. Fifteen girls participate and about 75 parents and friends ring the stage.

The music starts and the young girls walk down four steps and across the floor. They strike a pose and move on with poise and dignity. I look around and everyone is so proud.

Then I notice a little commotion on the side. One young girl has been crying. Nerves, I think. But then, I discover that one of her legs is deformed and she cannot walk without crutches.

On this day, she does not want to be seen with crutches. I identify since I spent several years on crutches when I was about her age.

She is beautiful in her evening gown, but apparently embarrassed to tears. Yelena kneels and talks to her. Then two men lift up the chair she is sitting on and carry her to a place beside the others. Everyone applauds and applauds. Another girl gives her a hug. She gives a tentative smile.

The beauty pageant continues with self introductions and talent performances and the making of love cards for mothers and grandmothers.

They all do such a splendid job.

At the end, everyone is awarded a title and a sash. The little girl confined in the chair becomes Miss Spring. I learn that she has been enduring a series of operations so that maybe one day she will walk just like the others. Let’s hope….

What a wonderful way to celebrate the International Day for Women. It makes me proud to be here.

“Start with the end in mind.” My friend, Jim, taught me this snappy aphorism while I was still working with AARP. Sometimes when I got bogged down, I would remember his words. But it wasn’t until I came to Ukraine that I realized its uncanny power.

Just a year ago, I was in the final month of preparations for the Peace Corps. I said goodbye to friends at the Lafayette Urban Ministry to return to Maine and hopefully sell my house. My days were spent sorting through my stuff and selling or giving away most of it. Daily visits to the Good Will got me on the first name basis. "Hello, Jud...here again?"

People asked me, “Now what exactly will you be doing in the Peace Corps?” I mumble something about helping and cross culture awareness. I sounded like talking points from the Peace Corps web site. To be honest, I was not exactly sure of what I was getting into and not sure what I would be doing.

Of course that’s part of the attraction. On the one hand it is scary to see your stuff compacted into a 9x12 locker and then embark half a world away into the unknown. But then, it is so exciting to not know what will happen next. To have an adventure at my age….Wow!

Somewhere in the back of my mind an idea was forming. Maybe, with my life time of experience in the non-profit world, I could kind of consult or teach leaders of Ukraine’s emerging NGOs. I had no idea how this might happen, but it became my “end in mind.”

I sold my house, said goodbye to friends and family and before I knew it I was in Ukraine. Cyrillic alphabet letters that I had tried to memorize in America now surrounded me. It was a little scary, but so exciting.

Ten weeks of training and some language development transformed those strange looking letters into words. I could speak Russian…at least, a little. I scored intermediate-low in our end of training test, but I think they were being generous.

Most of the time when Ukrainians spoke to me, I was in the dark. I got real good at saying, “So sorry, I am just learning Russian and I do not understand.”

How would I ever be able to consult or teach?

Our country director had given us some advice. She said, “Just show up every day and accept every invitation you get…. Something good will happen.” And I added, “Start with that end in mind.”

Summer and fall in Konotop filled up with meeting new people. One contact would open another and another. I started Leadership English. During my twice a week classes, I got to know leaders in local government and the NGO world. With my fledgling Russian and a help of a translator, I was learning that I could teach.

Then Yelena at the Hearts of Love Center asked me, “We need help with fund raising plans. Do you think you could help us figure out what to do.?” I jumped at the opportunity and Konotop’s first charity auction was the result. We raised 3000 grievnah ($375) and became known to 11 business owners in the community.

Several weeks later, our auction was copied by the well-to-do of Konotop and Hearts of Love benefited. At a local café, they auctioned off fancy dinks with some going for as much as 800 grievnah. The organizer was a woman who got the idea from our auction.

I felt like something good was happening.

After these successes, word spread. Yelena raised the possibility of teaching a few seminars. Many people were asking her if I might be able to help their organizations too. “Don’t you think a series of seminars would be a good idea?” she asked.

We held an informational meeting and 30 people showed up. Of course, there was a lot of curiosity and I doubted that all would be interested.

I spoke through a translator and outlined the kind of seminars that I had in mind. They would be participatory with worksheets and projects. We would cover the basics of getting started with mission statements, goals and objectives. We would address the need for team building, leadership skills and funding plans. I asked people to prioritize their needs.

After the meeting, I was delighted to see everyone hanging around. They were energized. It was a good sign.

Last week, I waited for my first seminar to begin. I was not sure how many people to expect. I was hoping for 6 or 7. Typically, Ukrainians do not commit until the last moment and they keep you guessing because they almost always show up 15 minutes late.

But I had no real worries. The room was set up for 12 and as people showed up, we had to pull in a couple of extra chairs. The room was full.

For 3 ½ hours we created mission statements, brain maps, SWOT analysis and goals. People worked hard and were very attentive. It was a good session.

As we winded down, I asked everyone to share one thing they might use from the seminar. Many were excited by new organizational tools and the chance to put their mission into words.

One woman wrote, “I came with a dream and no idea how to accomplish it. Now I have tools to make my dream come true.” I later found out that she wants to create a home for Pensioners who have no family.

“Start with the end in mind.” Powerful.

Just when I thought it could not get any worse, it did.

The other night when I went to bed,I noticed that the temperature was just above freezing. Great, I thought. Maybe we are going to have a February thaw. I woke up this morning and the temperature was still a little above freezing. Fantastic! No more slipping and sliding. I was gleeful.

Then I went outside..

The rising temperature had managed to melt the top layer of snow. It's this layer of snow that provides what little traction there is.. In its place were huge puddles of water with pure smooth ice underneath. I repeat SMOOTH ice underneath.

It was horrible. It took me 15 minutes to go a half a block. I should have turned back, but instead I pushed on. It began to sleet. That's a nice way of saying freezing rain. I took off my glasses because they were getting misted and then freezing. I could not see.

Every step was tentative. I could not really walk at a normal speed. I felt like an inch worm who was in the wrong season. Thank goodness, I had my walking stick. It kept me from falling several times.

My normal 15 minute walk to the Hearts of Love Center took me about 70 minutes. I was soaked and chilled. Miserable to the bone.

Ukrainian friends tell me that this kind of winter is rare. They cannot remember the last time. Lucky me, I get to experience an old fashioned Ukrainian winter.

As I finish writing this, it's starting to snow. Believe me, I am very happy and relieved. Now Traction will return in the morning. And the worser will get a little better.

I notice her from afar. Slowly she creeps up the incline leading to the Eco Market. Under each tentative step is 4 inches of ice.

The first snows in December were beautiful. I felt like I was walking through a Currier and Ives painting. I remember walking down a path in the city park and thinking how sparkling Konotop looks. Clumps of snow hung on pine branches. Other trees glistened in the frosty chill. I felt enchanted.

But December snows have compacted and worse yet thawed and frozen again into ice. The traction that compacted snow provides is disappearing. Everyday islands of ice expand as people-traffic takes away the snow.

I am no scientist, but I think it works like this. The friction of foot steps melts the snow and then wicked cold temperatures freeze it. I fear that the ice islands will soon transform into forbidding continents - slick and treacherous. Already the pathway to the Market is mostly ice.

The woman pauses. She is probably in her 70s or maybe older. She is well dressed with a typical long coat and fur collar and fur hat. She is dressed for winter.

In Ukraine, even when the temperatures dip to minus 20 centigrade (that's about 10 below zero F), people are out and about. There is food to buy and bills to pay. The mail is not used and each bill requires a personal appearance. People walk through the cold and snow and ice to do their daily business.

Today the woman is on her way to Eco Market. The Market is like an A&P that I recall from my boyhood. It's small. There are three aisles and a side meat counter. Half of one aisle is dedicated to Vodka and Cognac. A produce cooler and a dairy corner complete the display.

As the woman and I move closer, our eyes make contact. It's then that I see the panic. Her look links into something primal within me - my own fears. "Will I make it? Will the next step be secure? Or will this be the time I fall and break something?"

Like her, I inch my way along. My YakTraxs, that I bought from America, do not work on 4 inches of ice. I have fallen several times. Nothing serious, thank God. Constantly I search for compacted snow so that my YakTraxs can dig in. A 10 minute walk can take twice as long. It is mentally exhausting deciding where to take the next step.

Lenin in the snow.

I think I know some of what the woman is feeling. I am touched. I offer her my arm and hope that we do not slip together. Slowly we inch our way toward the steps which have been swept clear. She looks up at me as we depart. The panic is not gone.

Winter is hard in Ukraine.

As I finish writing this blog, I get a notice that a package has arrived from America. A friend has sent me a pair of walking sticks. What a blessing. These walking sticks will give me added traction and safety. But now I'm wondering - Is there a Ukrainian groundhog to predict how many more weeks of winter remain?

Finally the holidays are over. It's not that I am complaining. I think I had the best of all possibilities. I got to celebrate both American and Ukrainian versions of the holidays. And I got to travel to Istanbul too. It's a wonderful life and a cheery counterpoint to this cold gray weather.

My holidays start with a visit to my niece and her family for Thanksgiving. They are living in Kiev and I have a great opportunity to be with my family and get to know their two sons - Brendan and Aidan. Both are smart inquisitive boys. They call me "Great" Uncle Jud and who am I to argue with their impeccable judgment.

Thanksgiving is great fun with other international guests. One couple is from Poland and another from the UK. Shannon (Jenny's husband) gives us a little quiz on Thanksgiving history and we all tell a few family tales.

I tell about a time when "Great "Uncle Peter ate a pound of butter from the dinning room table. Mom could not understand where it had gone until she discovered Peter with an empty dish under the table. At least that is the way I remember it.

Holidays pick up with the Ukrainian celebration of St Nicholas Day. At the Hearts of Love Center a big party is held for about 50 children. There are clowns who play a series of games. Miss Konotop, beauty pageant winner and her court of runner-ups, make a surprise appearance. They parade across the room with runway poise. The young girls and older men are delighted.

Then St. Nicholas comes along with another game and a special Bible lesson on the 10 Commandments. Sure its a potpourri of activities but when all get a sack of candy and sit down for cake, everyone is thrilled.

Next I leave on December 22nd for Istanbul. After a 3 1/2 hour delay I arrive near midnight to discover that my checked bag is no where to be found. ""Please help me," I whine to the woman behind the desk. She does not speak real good English, but she reads my exhausted body language well enough. I am close to melt down. I fill out a form (luckily I kept the little bag claim slip) and left with a promise.

The next day, the hostel crew follows up and my bag is found. The night manager teases that he will even place flowers on the bag when it arrives. I awake the next day and my bag is awaiting me...yes, with flowers! Hooray! You can read more about Christmas in Istanbul in my earlier posts.

I returned to Ukraine on December 29th. After a brief stop-over with my niece and family, I catch the Electrechka (electric train) to Konotop. While I was away. a new and more secure door is installed on my apartment. I also see a new cabinet doubling the space for food preparation to about two feet. Wonderful!

Tomorrow is New Years Day. For Ukrainians this holiday is more like American Christmas, but without the religion. Homes are decorated with New Year Trees. I am invited into a family's celebration.

By 10:00 pm we are all gathering at Babushka's house for a meal. Last moment preparations are underway. The 12 year old is excited because this meal features an entire roasted chicken. Yum! The dinner is delicious. As is typical, we nibble and drink and toast for several hours. As midnight arrives, a bottle of champaign is uncorked and hugs are shared.

A big bouquet of balloons is brought out. Everyone selects and pricks a balloon. We cringe as each explodes. Inside is a wish for the New Year. I think this is a splendid tradition and I pass it on. Simple, yet so magical and fun.

Later, Anna gives me a hand made card, The special New Years wish touches my soul.

We wish you health...so you may enjoy each day in comfort.

We wish you love of friends and family...and piece (sic) within our heart.

We wish you beauty of nature ...that you may enjoy the work of God.

We wish you wisdom to choose priorities...for those things that really matter in life.

We wish you generosity so you may share....all the good things that come to you.

We wish you happiness and joy...and blessings for the New Year.

We wish you the best of everything that you so well deserve.

Happy New Year!

Ukrainian Christmas follows a week later. I track down an Orthodox Church, but I think I missed the worship. Prayers are being said by a priest behind a wall, but there is no worship that I recognize. I must learn more.

A short Marschuka ride takes me to Oksanna who did not want me to be alone on Christmas Eve. My Ukrainian friends are so thoughtful. I vow to emulate their hospitality. It is such an important gift when you are a stranger in a different land.

Oksanna has prepared a wonderful meal and we all sit down for an evening of eating and laughing. Maxim, Oksanna's son, with Babushka.

Their Babushka joins us and at 79 she tells me she does not think of herself as older than 40. "But sometimes my body does not agree." She is healing from nasty fall on the ice. She needs a pair of YakTraxs. So I order her a pair and my friend Jim will forward them to me.

As I leave this loving home, it begins to lightly snow. Few cars or people are on the streets. I cannot help but feel nostalgic...home, family, and friends. It's a Wonderful Life... celebrating both American and Ukrainian holidays.

Town Square, Konotop, Ukraine

Our Holy Night pilgrimage continues inside St Antoine's.

The pews are only partially filled. I lead the way and we take a seat a little less than half from the front. Then remembering my parents, my mind is flooded with memories. Every Sunday at the Presbyterian Church, they sat on the right hand side and a little less than half way from the front. So here I am in Istanbul replicating it 60 years later.

We do not know the worship schedule and wonder if the mass will be sparsely attended. The choir is up front and appears to be practicing songs. I notice that it's a multi-racial choir. Africans, Asians and Turks are all noticeable. They sing several beautiful melodies, yet unknown to our American ears.

Then they begin to sing O Holy Night. In this far off land this familiar sound floods my mind again. I lean over to Fran and say, "My mother use to play that song on the piano in our living room." Fran smiles and says, "I was just thinking the same thing. It was my mother's favorite too."

I sit listening and imaging all the places where this song is being played and heard tonight and every Christmas Eve. My eyes settle on the pulpit and I imagine Pope John XXIII preaching a Christmas message.

Christianity in Turkey has deep roots.

Emperor Constantine Christianized an empire here. Early creeds were formulated in the Hagia Sofia before the Church split in two - Roman and Eastern Orthodox. Crusaders came and went. Islam prevailed through centuries of the Ottoman Empire. Then in the 20th century, the Republic brought tolerance and Christianity found itself in a crowded Bazaar of faiths. Islam, Judaism, Secularism, Christianity and more contending with one another.

Would Pope John's years in Istanbul result in a faith with a siege mentality or would there be a generous openness to new ideas? Having just spent the afternoon at the Grand Bazaar, I know you can either fight the flow or move along expecting the unexpected.

I imagine Pope John teaching about the unexpected birth of a savior. I think of him trusting God to spread love of one another. I think of a grand bazaar of faiths adding understanding to the human experience. I don't know if Pope John XXIII said such things. Maybe I can find where his words are kept alive on the Internet.

Meanwhile the Church is filling up. Pew seats are no longer available. Rings of people are crowding into the aisles. Some are taking pictures and many are chatting on mobile phones. Humanity from the boulevards of Taksim Square is being drawn in. Spilling into this place, the buzz of energy grows louder. It seems some what surreal.

Then unexpectedly (at least to me) a television crew shows up along with a photo journalist. Aggressively, they push down the center aisle. The photo journalist takes pictures of the pulpit...the choir....worshipers...while the TV crew pans the front and captures the growing crowd...digitally.

I have never seen a Christmas Eve service covered as if it was a news event. But then again, maybe, it should be. Isn't it a better way to think about this holy night than the usual one all wrapped up in store-bought excess? I wonder how will they spin the story?

Alarmed ushers lasso the TV crew and photo journalist escorting them to the back of the room. They resist. They are not happy. I get the image of bouncers at a night club. The atmosphere is more charged than any prim and proper worship service that I have ever attended. I surprise myself. I like it.

The choir begins to sing in earnest now. Beautiful melodies. Are they Filipino words? I am not sure. A group of African men gather in the corner by the pulpit. Drums beat. Rhythmic chants are sung and shouted. The crowded sanctuary is captivated. At least six rows of humanity encircle the pews now. People put away mobile phones and listen. A carol is adapted to African drums.

O come all ye faithful...boom....boom...boom. Joyful and triumphant...boom...boom, O come ye...boom. O come ye...boom

to Bethlehem...boom...boom...boom."

The old and familiar is unexpectedly new and exciting.

Next to Fran is a young woman. Her name is Fatama. After some conversation about the Peace Corps and how it emphasizes cross cultural sharing, we learn that she is Muslim.

She is very engaging and explains that she is a practicing Muslim even though she is dressed in western fashion. I am learning that Islam has many forms and is much broader than the caricatures portrayed in western media.

Fran, always the inquisitive historian, asks the question we all are wondering. "How does a young Muslim woman come to a Christian Church on Christmas Eve?"

The young woman smiles and says,"Istanbul is my home. Islam is my faith. And the faiths and cultures of the world are my interests and passions. I wanted to pay my respects."

In a strange way her words are a Christmas blessing. I think if her thoughts can be shared over and over again, maybe, there is hope for this tired world.

I look up at the pulpit and find myself saying, "Pope John XXIII, Your words, your faith are still alive here." A captivated crowd. Fillapino melodies. African drum beats. TV news casters. Muslim passion and respect. All mixed together.

Expect the unexpected. O Holy Night...It's Christmas in Istanbul.

O Holy Night...it's Christmas Eve in Istanbul.

Of course you would not know it. For most people here, it is just an ordinary Thursday evening. This is a modern Muslim nation. Mosques seem to be around every corner including the famous Blue Mosque

( http://www.sacred-destinations.com/turkey/istanbul-blue-mosque )

and Hagia Sofia which was an early Christian Church turned Mosque turned Museum.

( http://www.sacred-destinations.com/turkey/istanbul-hagia-sophia )

Now mosaics that were once covered up by Muslim intolerance of images are being stripped of plaster to reveal their original glory.

While the minarets announce prayer five times a day filling air waves with a strange wailing, men and women, for the most part, dress in ordinary western clothing. Many of the young are actually quite fashionable and carry ubiquitous mobile phones permanently attached to their ears or so it seems. They obviously are hip and have frequented the shops and boutiques which line the pedestrian boulevard running off of Taksim Square.

We have traveled there on our way to a Catholic Church for Christmas Eve worship. We use the modern Metro and Tram Way system that helps to move the population of over 12.5 million people across Istanbul.

What a surprise to emerge from the Metro and see a Square filled with holiday lights. While Christmas is not a holiday, the city seems to embrace all. I am struck by the openness of ordinary people.

Street vendors, couples strolling, shop keepers are all friendly and helpful. Not only do they offer to show you the "very best carpet in all of Istanbul" or "help you spend your money," but they also are patient and generous in giving directions.

We ask for directions to Saint Antoine Roman Catholic Church. We are told "it's about a kilometer stroll down" We walk down a very upbeat boulevard that's so alive with energy and festooned with blue lights. If I did not know better, I would think I was in Time Square...but only cleaner.

O Holy Night in Istanbul - an energized mixture of Islamic and modern hip cultures spanning both Europe and Asia. The earth crust may have split the continents in prehistoric times forming the Bosporus, but now Istanbul is bridging differences and seems to be conscious of its role and possibility of bringing people together.

We are making our pilgrimage to St. Antoine's. It's a longer walk than we thought. We stop several times to ask directions. People look at us with some puzzlement and then remembering they say "yes, yes" pointing further down the boulevard.

Fran is the first to see the Church. She along with Justin are Peace Corp Volunteers or as they say in the land of acronyms - PCVs. We have come from the far corners of Ukraine to meet in Istanbul.

Fran is an historian and has been an executive with the National Council for the Humanities in their DC and Florida offices. Justin is a philosophy and ethics graduate from the University of Northern Michigan. Fran and I work at Community Development and Justin is Youth Development volunteer in his small town of about 1400. We have become great friends.

St Antoine's is tucked behind a high iron fence and if it wasn't for the people streaming in through the gate, you might miss it amidst the glitter of the boulevard. We stop to take a few pictures. It is an attractive structure. Don't you think?

Near the front steps is a bronze statue. It is a likeness of Pope John XXIII. None of us realized that the reforming Pope who initiated the Second Vatican Council, also served here for 10 years before becoming Pope. I imagine him walking up these stairs. Greeting the people and preaching from that pulpit.

I wonder what he taught Istanbul and what Istanbul taught him. He was a Pope of Peace and ecumenical outreach. I think we need his spirit among us now more than ever. My heart is full and my eyes brim over as I mount the steps and enter the sanctuary.

O Holy Night in Istanbul...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Anthony_of_Padua_Church_in_Istanbul