Tuesday, December 29, 2015

New Project

I have come up with the idea of reviewing my story in light of new awareness that has emerged within me as I practice the Steps given in Steps to Knowledge: The Book of Inner Knowing.

I have embarked on this journey with the tacit knowledge that nothing is finite or set in stone, with the tacit knowledge that more shall be revealed, with the tacit knowledge that life is a Mystery and the only thing I can really depend on is that internal nudge that somehow confirms I am doing the next right thing.


I said that I did not know where this journey was taking me. Now I have a clue. I can look back on my life and see it has been a set of stepping stones leading me to the place I am today. I am finally living the life I have so long dreamed of in the beauty of rural Russia. My efforts to reclaim the Knowledge placed inside me by the Creator of All Life have come to fruition and I can say that I have finally come home to myself.



Friday, October 18, 2013

Disappearing Into The Woodwork

Prelude: One Woman’s Journey to Self-Realization


I believe that every life is a journey along the evolutionary path of the soul. If taken consciously it may lead to a higher level of awareness and inner knowing, a knowing that comes from the deeper mind where Knowledge resides, Knowledge that claims to represent my True Self (Step 2) and my true foundation in the world (Step 6). It is my task to reunite with this Knowledge, to reunite with the Universal Source of All That Is, to experience the emergence of Knowledge and reclaim it.

To sidetrack for just a moment, let me explain that this Knowledge with a capital letter is not what we think. It has nothing to do with facts and figures, or with what we learned in school or anywhere else, it has nothing to do with education. To quote the source text in What is Knowledge: “Knowledge represents your bond and your intrinsic relationship with all life. Yet Knowledge has a specific mission for you in this life— a mission which you are encouraged to discover, to accept, to integrate and to fulfill.”

So I am on a mission, a mission which is still a mystery to me, and this is the story of my personal journey to discover this mission so far. I began writing it when I was fifty-one, having reached what I considered to be a certain vantage point along my life-path, a certain ledge with a view where I could rest and take stock, review what had gone before and reflect on where I might still be going. Four years have passed since the initial writing, and during this time I have climbed to an higher ledge with an even better view, which is what prompted me to return to and reconsider, refashion if you will, what I wrote before. I am hoping I can bring things into sharper and more coherent focus, but maybe that is just another vain hope.

Chapter One: The Soviet Union


It was just too bad I had left my heart behind the Iron Curtain. Or perhaps it was not so bad at all, it just meant that things would be very different from now on.

That was in the summer of 1981 after I returned to the States and realized I had left a vital part of myself behind. I intuitively sensed that I would never be the same again, and if I never returned it may tear me apart. However the reality of returning seemed so remote, so unlikely, so impossible. But I am running ahead. Let me go back to February 1981 when I first set foot on Russian soil.

The cold marble sterility of Moscow’s Sheremyetevo airport was rather startling. It formed a sort of vacuum, a no-man’s land between where I had come from and where I was going. The smooth shiny gray expanse of the near-empty interior was reminiscent of an ice rink, I felt like running headlong across its pristine expanses, twirling pirouettes around the starkly immobile pillars, sliding and gliding along its polished floors. But I felt the foreboding stare of unseen eyes, stern and hostile, unrelenting and accusing, from somewhere I could not be certain and it sent a tremor of uncertainty that was not entirely unpleasant down my spine.

And then it was over, once beyond the sliding glass doors, huddled into a rather ancient dimly lit bus along with all the other students, and off into the dark wintry streets of the Soviet capital, that sinister scene faded and I saw a very different world. Despite the late hour and the copious February snow, the streets were alive with people in dark coats and hats scurrying along from store to store in the hope of filling their shopping bags with whatever might be available that day. The place was a-boil, like a massive anthill, each dark dot moving purposefully toward a destination unbeknown to anyone but itself.

And a wild feeling of unfathomable joy and anticipation filled me. Here I was in a land of bans and prohibitions, a land of mystery locked behind the mythical Iron Curtain, a land with a notoriously bad reputation, where chains clanked, prison doors clanged, lack-luster eyes in gray drawn faces gazed forever downward, or so was the idea, but all I felt was an immense sense of liberation and exultation, the wild exhilaration of just having climbed on a roller coaster and feeling like I was in for a breath-taking and gut-churning ride.

Dormitory on Volgina Street in the south of Moscow


The dormitory I was to live in was in the south of Moscow, but the institute itself, The Pushkin Russian Language Institute, was in the center of the city, not far from the American Embassy. This meant a forty-five-minute trip every morning on the metro to get to class. And if I wanted to have breakfast at the Intourist Hotel first, where they served a smorgasbord every day for four rubles (an absolute steal), I had to be up and out of the dormitory by seven o’clock. And the smorgasbord was a darn sight better than eating the rather insipid and unappetizing fare offered at the dormitory cafeteria. Also, when I first arrived in Moscow, I was always worried I might not get enough to eat. I was seized by the unfamiliarity of being in a new and strange place where nothing was routine and the same as what I was used to at home. So just to be on the safe side, it was best to fill up in the morning and then if nothing else came along during the day, at least I wouldn’t starve. Of course that all backfired and by the time I left four months later, I had gained so much weight that I could only fit into one pair of cord dungarees that had been ample and baggy when I first arrived. But enough said about that.

For the moment I was thrilled to walk into the Intourist Hotel on many a morning before class, just breeze on in there as though I were the bee's knees. Ordinary Russians from the street couldn’t do that, they would be stopped at the door and asked for identification. But I in my grandmother's otter fur coat, with my frizzy hairdo and cheesy grin was a foreigner for sure, so no one asked me for identification, but waved me graciously on. How elating it was! So on I would breeze into the dining room where the buffet table just groaned with all kinds of Russian delicacies and where I would proceed to fill up for the day. After all, four rubles was only a couple of dollars at the official exchange rate and only a dollar at the black market rate. What a bargain!

Sign on the door of the Pushkin Language Institute in the center of Moscow

Classes themselves were a bit of a bore and I did not give them much time or attention. I certainly did not rush back to the dormitory afterwards to get on with homework like most of the rest of my group did. Learning Russian grammar while poring over textbooks was not the reason I had decided to try out for this program. And it certainly was not the reason I had come to Russia. I wanted to learn Russian from real Russians, explore the city and have fun, not spend the whole time sitting around in the dorm. Luckily my roommate was of the same mind. So after class, instead of going back home, we would set off exploring.

One of the first places we found was the Café Sever on Gorky Street, the main drag in the center of Moscow. It was an ice-cream and champagne café. That’s right, all they served was ice-cream and champagne. Oh, you might be able to get a bar of chocolate as well, sometimes, or some mineral water. But the big attraction for me was the champagne. Just imagine the luxury of sitting around in the middle of the day drinking champagne, just for the hell of it! And the other thing about most Russian cafes and restaurants was that although they brought you a menu, and usually a rather elaborate one with pages and pages of all kinds of different fare, nothing you might want to order was actually available. So it was best just to shut the menu and ask, “What do you have today?” Usually there was one flavor of ice-cream available and one type of champagne, either semi-dry or semi-sweet. I preferred the semi-dry, but would never complain, semi-sweet would do just as well.

If we did not go to the Café Sever, another favorite place was the Ukraine Hotel on the Moscow River. It had a café on each floor. They were never all open at the same time, so you had to ride up and down in the elevator until you found the floor where the café was open at the time you wanted. That was a trip in itself, riding up and down in the lift and roaming the thick-carpeted silent halls and corridors, looking for an open café. There you could get good cups of strong coffee and order some open-faced sandwich or a pastry. It was in one of these cafes on some floor of the Ukraine Hotel that I met my first Russians…..

I was sitting with Margie, my roommate, drinking coffee and minding my own business, when two Russians strolled up and asked if they could join us. Well, since it was my aim to meet real Russians and converse with them in real Russian, of course I would not act all prim and proper and tell them to go away. The spokesman, Igor, although a somewhat sleazy-looking character, not very tall, rather skinny, with shaggy dark hair and a mustache, had something sultry and attractive about him. The other, Boris, turned out to be a Pole who was visiting the capital. He was really funny and also had some trouble speaking Russian, which made him immediately adorable and appealing, and he had one phrase he was fond of repeating that kept everyone laughing. Of course, I could not have known it at the time, but Igor was a black-marketeer out looking for a way to hoodwink unsuspecting foreigners into changing dollars into rubles unofficially at a supposedly better exchange rate than the official one. He also speculated in deficit goods. But such concepts were way beyond my innocent naivety at that time and I blithely went along with whatever these new friends offered.

After sitting for long enough in the café, Igor and Boris suggested we go some place for dinner. I was all for it. This was the beginning, the opening up of a whole new world for me, I always felt so elevated whenever I was wined and dined. In the weeks that followed, I saw many of Moscow’s restaurants and always felt the same excitement. There was never any rush. We would book a table for the whole evening and there was always a live band and dancing. The most important part always seemed to be the appetizers, which of course were accompanied by vodka (for the men) and champagne or wine (for the ladies). But since I was a foreigner, drinking vodka with the men was seen as something amusing and entertaining, rather than something to be scorned. So I would end up having both, vodka and champagne, and loving the sense of emancipation that came with the alcohol. My natural shyness would disappear, the alcohol would loosen my tongue and rid me of my awkwardness about speaking Russian and my desire to only open my mouth if I knew I could get the sentence out without making a mistake. I would transform into a young woman of abandon and allure, I felt as though the world were at my fingertips, I was unabashed and courageous. I was no longer the goody two-shoes who always did my homework and got good grades, who always obeyed my parents and tried to please, who was afraid to say boo to a goose or cross-talk anyone. Here in this new and strange land, away from my family and everyone who knew me, I was a queen. I was free to be someone else, free to let loose the passions I felt in my soul, free to laugh, dance, get drunk, talk to strangers, allow unknown and beguiling men to escort me around restaurants.

So restaurants became an enchanting and enticing part of my student days in Moscow. And I particularly liked the drinking and all the ceremony that went with it. I loved how the light played provocatively on the gold band painted around the rim of the vodka glass. These glasses with their gold bands were to become a talisman for me. Then there was caviar and soft rolls with creamy butter. A delicious mushroom concoction in a small silver crucible topped with melted cheese. Different salads with sauerkraut, potatoes and vegetables dressed in sauce. I loved how when clinking glasses before drinking I was told to look into the eyes of the person I was clinking with. Eyes would lock in a sort of secret pact and the vodka would go down in a fiery lick, at first searing my throat, but then filling my belly with a warm and incredible feeling of pure joy.

It was an incomprehensible world for a foreigner, particularly a naïve and inexperienced one like me. There were taboos, certain rules to be followed, certain codes of conduct to be observed when interacting with Russians, since we were being watched by the KGB!

But that did not stop me, I paradoxically felt a sense of liberation and freedom, as though some inner door in my soul had opened and I was free to fly to the heights I always dreamed of.

Vladimir 1981 - Shrovetide (Pancake Week) celebration (Maslenitsa)

What was so alluring about the place? I just felt something awesome there right down to the marrow of my bones, in every fiber of my being. About a month into the semester, all the groups of foreign students studying at the institute went on a bus trip to Vladimir and Suzdal, two beautiful towns rich in history and culture on what is known in Russia as the Golden Ring. On the bus, I sat next to the leader of the Middlebury group. He was a Brit like myself who had lived for a long time in the States. So I felt a bond with him, both of us being ex-pats. And he had no objections to sitting next to me and answering my questions. He had led groups to the Soviet Union on numerous other occasions and perhaps could give me some insights. The main question that burned inside me was this. Did he know of any Westerners who voluntarily came to live in the Soviet Union? And not just come to live for a while because of their job or some other work, but who voluntarily chose to spend the rest of their lives there, who fell in love with the place and wanted to stay there forever. Yes, he had heard of such cases, he answered. “But most of those people seem to disappear into the woodwork,” said he. The image of a wooden house out in the country immediately arose in my mind. I could see the beams, the solid roof, the porch, the trees around it, the smoke curling from the chimney. Yes, that image satisfied me, it filled me with a wild yearning, almost sadness, a deep feeling of nostalgia. Would I ever be able to fulfill that dream? So even then, even before what happened indeed happened, I was thinking about how I wanted to come and live in Russia forever.

Igor added to my cherished thoughts when he told me about Lake Baikal with its water that was so clear you could always see the bottom. An image of sparkling pure water came to mind, rippling in the sun, and through it could be seen colorful rocks and shells and a sandy bed that gleamed in the amazingly clean water. Yes, one day I would look down through the glistening water into the depths of that magical lake.

Lake Baikal


* * *

One evening in mid-March, after I had been in Moscow for six weeks, I was to meet Igor in the vestibule of the Pushkin metro station. I arrived on time, he was waiting for me, as were a couple of other friends. We stood and chatted for a while, but no one seemed in a rush to move on. What were we waiting for? A lively fellow with a curly blond afro, lisp, and short fur coat made of artificial leopard skin kept us entertained. Alyosha, as he was called, was particularly interested in me and told me they were waiting for another friend of his. About ten or fifteen minutes later, he appeared. I first saw him as he materialized, head, shoulders, followed by slender jean-clad hips and legs, up the escalator. He had the most striking blue eyes I had ever seen. I was mesmerized. I felt instantly drawn to him, and a spark of recognition seemed to register between us. But he was also so alien and reticent. There was a reluctance about him, as though he wished he were somewhere else. So this was the foreigner he had been dragged out of his sick bed to meet. (He told me years later that the last thing he had wanted to do that evening was go out to a restaurant with someone he hardly knew and did not particularly like, Igor that was—they only had a nodding, very superfluous acquaintance—and some foreigner. He had a fever and was up to his eyes in work. He would have much rather stayed at home. But Alyosha had been so insistent, he had finally succumbed to his pestering.)

After the introductions (his name was Ivan) and in a swoon from my love-at-first-sight experience, our small group set off in search of the evening’s adventures. I remembered huddling into the back seat of a taxi, I sat in the middle, squeezed between Igor and Ivan. I could not have cared less at that moment if Igor dropped off the edge of the planet, I could not think about him any more, I no longer cared. The first stop was a beriozka shop near the Rossiya Hotel. Beriozkas were the state-run shops that only foreigners with hard currency had access to and where items were sold, particularly in the supermarket department, that ordinary Russians may have never seen their entire lives. Of course, Russians with hard currency could shop there if they took the risk. But it was hard to camouflage the fact they were Russian and being in possession of hard currency could get you a turn in prison, so it was a great risk indeed for a Russian to venture into a beriozka shop. One of the attractions was the abundance of fresh fruit, pineapples being particularly popular. Most of my other student friends would buy pineapples from the beriozkas whenever they went visiting their Russian friends. But the reason I was going to the beriozka was for booze, Amaretto (the nectar of love, as Ivan later told me), and Camel cigarettes. Alyosha also asked me to buy him cigarettes, he wanted More, he was fascinated by their length, slimness, and color. Nothing at all like any of the cigarettes available to the ordinary Russian. He just doted on me because I would buy him those cigarettes. That evening I was happy to please, and once more that thrill of excitement hummed through my veins as I felt the delicious unfamiliarity of all that was going on around me. Later I would feel ashamed that I had the privilege of buying things that ordinary Russians had never seen in a month of Sundays never mind have the money to purchase. What made me so privileged? Just because I had had the luck to be born in the south of England and then lived for years in the United States, just because I was from the West and did not live under communism? Once, when I left one of the beriozkas, then called Sadko, laden down with plastic bags bearing the Sadko emblem, which stuck out like a sore thumb, I was so overcome by the injustice of it all that I swore I would never go back there and buy anything else ever again. Especially when I saw Russians coming out of the local supermarket just a few doors down the street with their string shopping bags holding a few rather dismal-looking packages wrapped in gray paper. I went in just to have a look. Yes, there was some cheese and butter, tins of sardines, and bottles of mineral water, but not much else. I had just come out of a place almost right next door, but with blank windows and no sign on the door, ordinary Russians were none the wiser, they did not know what lay behind those white painted windows, where the shelves were groaning with almost every delicacy under the sun. It was just so unfair.

By the end of the evening, I knew I had to see Ivan again. We ended up going to someone’s apartment, he wanted me to spend the night, it all seemed like a dream, as though I was in a fog and had no clue what was going on. It was as though I were looking at everyone from the inside of a fish bowl, everyone was talking, mouthing words, laughing, drinking, but I could not hear or understand a thing. I just nodded and smiled, let them do with me what they wanted, drive me here, drive me there. I did not stay the night. Igor insisted on taking me home, but instead I ended up in a taxi with Ivan and Alyosha, traipsing off to the other end of Moscow where they lived. I had no idea at that time that my dormitory was right across the road from the apartment they had visited after the restaurant. This was Irida’s place, she was an older woman and obviously used to having all kinds of guests drop by at any time of the night or day. But that night I did not know I could have been back in my dorm room in ten minutes. I hadn’t the foggiest idea where I was, I just allowed myself to be led. So I traveled home in a taxi with Ivan and then the taxi driver brought me back to the dorm. But the next morning I discovered that my wallet was missing. I had left it in the taxi along with one of my gloves, which had dropped to the floor when Ivan removed it to kiss my hand in parting.

I had Alyosha’s phone number. I called the next day, and yes, I had left my wallet and he wanted to return it, rather Ivan did. So a date was set up to meet again.

I am so sensitive and impressionable. I often liken myself to a chameleon that changes its colors to suit the situation and the environment I find myself in. I could quickly change from one passion to another. What was vitally important and drove my entire being onward one day seemed insipid and insignificant the next when some new and more enticing or challenging thoughts filled my mind.

 There was so much contradiction and turmoil in my soul aroused by this wild and unfathomable country. I was filled with an unutterable recklessness, ready to do things I never dreamed of or thought I was capable of before. What a paradox, in a place where my guard should have been up, where there were so many shady places, so much I did not understand, so many invisible barriers, I felt like throwing all caution to the wind and just gallivanting on, heedless of everything. And although I felt even then somewhere deep in my soul that this was my home, that this was where I wanted to be for the rest of my life, the likelihood of it ever coming to pass was so remote it did not even bear thinking about. So again the recklessness and dare-devil intrepidity gushed to the surface. If I was only there for four months and would never be back again, I had to go to the hilt, squeeze every last drop of adventure and excitement out of this experience while I was in it, for I would never have the chance again.

I just could not get over the feeling of empowerment I felt. Never before had I felt such confidence in myself. The language was a barrier, there was no doubt about that. I felt inhibited and wished I could talk like most of the other students around me with their better schooling and more intensive language courses. My Russian courses had not prepared me for such in-depth and impressive command of the language. I felt so unsure of myself, especially when around the other students and during classes at the institute. I would cower in the back row hoping no one would ever call on me to answer questions. But once out on my own with my new Russian acquaintances, I felt my wings unfold again. My clumsy Russian was not a hindrance, rather Russians found me quite charming, and after a few shots of vodka, I didn’t care any more and would rattle on as much as I wanted. Often about taboo subjects like the Soviet troops in Afghanistan. I could never recall the next day what I had actually said, but after that particular conversation about Afghanistan, Ivan gave me a book that laid out the Russian version of the whole situation. I never really understood it all until years later, so brainwashed was I by the West’s version. Now though, I felt empowered, empowered to talk about things I had no inkling of understanding about when my tongue was loosened by vodka. And my Russian friends only found my attempts to wax political amusing. “Kak ty govorish!” they would say with a twinkle in their eyes. But I could talk. There was no doubt it was within my capacity, and so I soared on the crest of a mighty wave.

Most of the serious talk went on while they were drinking. I would accept everything that was offered – champagne, wine from the light Georgian and Moldavian varieties to the heavy port, beer, and of course vodka. My heart soared when I sat at the table surrounded by my friends and kept pace with the men, being clapped on the back and encouraged, told that I was “nash chelovek,” that is, “one of us.” Not a foreigner with different morals, customs, and traditions, but with a Russian soul, just like them. I felt an immense sense of belonging.


I loved to walk the city streets in the snow and sit in the parks at dusk reflecting and soaking up the wonder of it all. One such evening in March, when the snow was still thick on the ground, and the sun was sinking toward the horizon, I walked in Gorky Park and sat for a while on one of benches. The dusky pink sun as it set that evening mirrored my heart, that mystery, that deep hushed silence, the pink quiet, I was completely content just sitting and watching, drinking in the calm and feeling a quiet joy in just being alive. What had happened since I came here was hard to explain. Very subtly, but very definitely, things had changed, I had changed, my outlook on life had changed. Life had become more complex, yet clearer and simpler. I felt I was beginning to grasp, experience, and understand feelings and ideas that were before just vague dreams, distant and unrealized. Life seemed to take on purpose and focus. I felt as though my destiny was beginning to take shape before my eyes, that I was becoming aware of who I really was and what I wanted out of life. A strong feeling of myself arose within me, I felt that no matter what happened, where I went, what I did, I was myself, true to my own purpose, aware of what was dear to me, what made me tick, what made my heart beat, what was important to me, what made me aware. All the superfluous things in life were falling away and I was looking into a crystal clear pool where I could see my reflection in all its reality. I was a worthwhile being.

Looking back now, almost thirty years down the road, I am amazed at the insight of my young 23-year-old self. I am in a similar place now, but I have not stood still. To get to where I am today I first had to lose myself in the suffocating clutches of alcohol and take a discomfiting and often searing trip to the dark side of my soul, before I was truly able to regain myself, my worth, and my power. 

Sitting there on the park bench in 1981, I could not have known all this, I could not have known about the journey I was about to embark on, could not have known how these four months were to awaken all the putrid, horrific, unthinkable deep and dark sides of me along with the bright, love-filled, radiant sides. I could not have known that I would take a journey to hell and back before finally finding that calm shore with its clear water for which I so yearned. My insight back then was incredible though.

I wrote in my diary at that time: “Nothing will come without tears and pain, yet it will all be worthwhile, and I will look into the water that is so clear you can see the bottom and hear the solitary birds cry over the dusky pink marshes at sunset and feel the peace, contentment, and breath of life as it fills and elevates me. I will have my life of feelings, emotions, impressions, inexplicable joy and devastating pain. I will feel the warm dusk envelop me, see the last rose fade and the twinkling lights of the evening appear, see the reflections, the beads of life, the sweet breath, hear the sigh of peace and fulfillment and cry these tears.”

But there was such a contrast. I could also see the other side. Despite the calm and content in my soul, on the outside the world, the harsh reality of Soviet life, often bore unpleasantly down on me. However, the outward rigors and deprivations of Soviet life did not faze me, I saw them as surmountable hurdles, not vast stone walls or iron hurdles that could not be brought down. The Iron Curtain was only an illusion after all. A figment of the imagination built to create the semblance of estrangement and alienation, separating men from men, women from women, women and men from each other. In actual fact it did not exist, it did not exist inside, it did not stop me from pursuing my dream of carving out a life for myself here, “behind” it.

A few days before I was due to leave, I and Ivan went to a dog show and then walked in the woods, I was in awe of their beauty. I loved the birch tree groves, the way the slender, silver trunks stretched skyward, so exquisitely pale and alluring. Later I thought of a silver birch grove as my temple, it was the place I felt most in contact with my inner spirit, with the Source of all that connected me to the rest of the universe, this was where I could practice Stillness.

The woods were warm and moist, the birch trees so tender and lovely as we walked in the lush green. I felt as though I could have wandered there forever, sleeping in the long cool grass, admiring the pretty wild flowers, the pale birch tree bark, and the abundant foliage, smelling the scent of the woods and feasting on nature.

I spent the evening with Ivan, Irida and Alek. Ivan and I walked arm in arm in the scented evening air, everything so green and beautiful. I wrote in my diary later: “It had just rained, the sun was setting, the sky aglow, the rain clouds dispersing in the soft, pink hazy light. Occasionally I caught a glimpse of burning orange through the trees, the tops of the old, heavy stone, beautiful buildings were picked out in detail by the sinking sun. In the park the air was fresh and washed clean by the rain, full of the scent of apple blossom, lilac, damp grass, and earth; the scent hanging in the still evening air, full of the promise of warm summer languid days still to come, still more refreshing rain storms and beautiful, peaceful, long Moscow evenings such as these.”

There had been no vodka the last time I saw him, which was probably just as well. The tears he searched my eyes for were not there. They may have been brimming somewhere far enough below the surface, but there was nothing to trigger them and make them flow. I kept them well hidden and realized the futility of indulging in harrowing farewells. He told me he didn’t want me to leave, that he would miss me. But both of us knew the impossibility of our being together, that I was to go back to my other world from where I was unlikely to ever return. Of all the places in the world to leave, this was the one to which I had the least likelihood of ever returning. He told me he loved me as a friend. I promised to return, I promised to write, but would I be able to come back? Did we have a future? This was something I, neither of us, could know.

On the plane back to the States, I reflected on what had been. It had been lovely while it lasted, but now it was time to get back on with real life. I was emerging from a dream. It was as though I had been in a fantastical world conjured up by my imagination and now I was waking up. That world was dissipating like a fog, the wisps slowly turning into nothing as they evaporated in the morning sun. It had all been an illusion, but I needed time to recover. I needed time to regain my breath after my rollicking roller coaster ride, a ride that had turned the world as I previously knew it upside down. I was leaving my heart behind the Iron Curtain and things were never going to be the same again.

Chapter Two: Back in the U.S.A.


  
Arriving in New York was one of the most unpleasant experiences I had ever had. I was exhausted and felt frumpy and overweight in my gray corduroy dungarees, which my Russian friends had told my looked like “work clothes” – rabochaya odezhda. Not a compliment, that was for sure. And on top of everything else, because I had a British passport, I could not go through the U.S. citizen gate with all my student friends, but had to go with the non-citizens and other “aliens.” I used to laugh at that choice of word. When I later got my Green Card it described me as a “Resident Alien,” as though I had arrived from another planet! Well actually that was not so far from the truth. But now I was faced with a long wait and an even more unpleasant surprise. While in Moscow I had had to get my visitor visa extended. So now I had a large colorful stamp in my passport from the American Embassy in Moscow. The American customs people did not like the look of it, very suspicious they thought that someone had had their visa extended in Moscow, the Soviet Union. I was removed from the line and taken off to a room and told to wait. I was to be questioned. How humiliating! How absolutely awful! Here I was returning from a land of bans and prohibitions, a land of non-freedom, a land where human dignity was so frequently trampled, to the Land of Liberty and Democracy. Didn’t the Statue of Liberty stand in the harbor at the gateway to the United States of America, the Land of the Free? So why was I being interrogated as though I were a common spy or some second-class citizen? Okay, it was a formality and I did not have an American passport, but surely this was the free world, this was the West, where was the dignity? I was crushed, I was devastated, I did not belong here either. This was not my home. Was I forever doomed to roam the earth in search of a place I felt accepted and welcome? A place I could call home? It would be years before I realized that my real home could only be within. That sacred place I would later know and recognize as my Ancient Home, the place I am connected with my Source, the Source of all that is. But for now, faced with this humiliating situation, I managed to give satisfying answers to the officials’ questions and a couple of hours later was released into the lobby where my anxious parents were waiting. All the other passengers on the flight from Moscow had long passed through, I was the last to emerge and my parents were getting very worried. I rushed toward them, flinging myself into their waiting embrace, the dam of unshed tears that had long been building inside my finally bursting and gushing to the surface.


My parents stayed in New York, they were there on some business, so I was free to fly on home to San Antonio on my own where Jason would be waiting. I was excited now at the prospect of seeing him, I felt relief that I would finally be back on familiar ground. But I was not prepared for what was in store. He rushed me from the airport to a Mexican restaurant for lunch. Oh, this was something you could not get in Moscow! This was something I had missed. The tangy dips, the corn chips, guacamole, salsa sauce, nachos, and of course the salt-rimmed glasses of pale green Margarita. Once settled across from each other over plates piled high with spicy delicacies, he popped the question. He asked me to be his wife. Inwardly, my jaw dropped and I felt a vast void open in the pit of my stomach. NO! my inner voice screamed with all the force it could muster. This just could not be. I was not ready. My whole being rose up and repelled this possibility, the very thought threatened to tear out my heart. I did not know what registered on my face, but I told him quietly that my initial response was negative, that I needed time to think. He acquiesced and gave me the space I needed.

I thought about it for almost a month. Most of that time I spent in Houston at my parents’ house. And it was enough time to awaken feelings of longing and yearning, and come to the understanding that I was missing this man very much, that something was lacking in my life. The feeling I experienced before Moscow of my love opening like a budding rose returned. I once more felt the rippling of love for him in my heart. I asked him to come and visit. And in the pool in my parents’ back yard, I said I had changed my mind. The answer was “Yes.” It was the beginning of July 1981.

We celebrated our wedding on 5 September, 1981 at the Little Church of La Villita on the River Walk in San Antonio, Texas, with a reception just across the road in the Cos House. I had dreamed of an outdoor wedding. I had wanted it to be somewhere out in the country in some lovely and picturesque spot. Texas was so flat and it took a lot of imagination to find real hills even in the Texas Hill Country. But there was Enchanted Rock, a huge mound in the middle of nowhere that espoused magnificent sunsets. This was the place, I thought, when we visited one day, panting as we struggled to the top. But then I thought of trying to ascend in high-heeled shoes and a wedding dress, not to mention dragging all the guests up there, and where would we set up tables and drink champagne? I had to face the fact that although it was a lovely romantic idea, it was totally impractical and I would have to abandon it. So the Cos House with its outside patio would have to do. There would be shelter if it should rain and the colored fairy lights strung from the beams would substitute for stars.

The wedding was simple, inexpensive, but very creative and tasteful. My mother made my dress of creamy silk and rainbow-colored chiffon bridesmaids’ dresses for my sisters. The cake and the flowers were the only things we ordered from professionals. We prepared the food ourselves. Nothing elaborate. For some reason I retained a vivid memory of the melon balls Jason’s sister scooped out using a special gadget. They were attractive and unusual. And the highlight was the cascarones—empty eggshells filled with confetti to be cracked on every unsuspecting head—a Mexican tradition. Jason and I spent a few weeks preparing them, carefully chipping the tops off the eggs, draining out the contents, washing and drying the shells, dying them, filling them with confetti, and closing the hole in the top with a colorful sticker. It was a fun joint task that kept us happy for hours and made for great amusement among the guests at the wedding reception.

On my wedding day I drank too much champagne and ran barefoot along the San Antonio River Walk after most of the guests had left. We did not leave on our honeymoon that day, we spent the night in the Four Seasons Hotel, an immense luxury. We arrived in the room after midnight and I called room service to order more champagne. I was told the bar was closed and liquor could not be served to the room after hours. I was very disappointed and quite affronted actually. What a cheek!

A week later, we loaded all our earthly belongings into a U-Haul trailer, hooked it onto the back of our rather ancient red Pinto, and set off for California where I was to continue my Russian studies at the Monterey Institute of International Studies.

We spent about ten days traveling across country, stopping to camp for the night at national parks along the way, and hitting the Pacific Ocean at Morrow Bay. The last part of the journey took us up magnificent Highway One with its majestic views of the Big Sur Coast.

We eventually found an apartment to rent in Seaside—a cheap and rather tacky area of the Monterey Peninsula and at quite a distance from the institute. Well it definitely did not have the glamour of Pacific Grove with its beachside condominiums and homes with a view, and it was certainly not Carmel, that fairytale grotto for the rich and upwardly mobile. Nor was it Monterey proper that catered to the rather classy and moderately wealthy. Seaside was for the working class, for those who scraped by on the minimum wage, and for students like myself. It was not the best, but it would have to do. I acquired a bike and would cycle to class along the eucalyptus-lined roads, the trees filling the air with their tangy aroma every time it rained. And the beach was just a stone’s throw away. Jason and I jogged or walked there most days, the stretch from the Holiday Inn to the pier in Monterey affording invigorating room for maneuver.

MIIS proved a challenge. But then I rose to challenges; although not without a struggle and much heart-searching. The institute had been a breeze to get into. My Russian professor at Trinity in San Antonio, the one who had encouraged me to apply for the semester course in Russia, had an old catalogue. Her husband had once thought about applying to MIIS. There was an application form in the back which I tore out, filled in, and sent off. In return they sent me a more recent application form, and soon after that I received notice of my acceptance. So here I was attending classes. And the classes were small and taught by native speakers. But very soon my bubble of confidence deflated. Even after my “practical” experience in Moscow, I was faced with the sober realization that my Russian was abysmal. And one of my Russian teachers was a real battle-axe, very unforthcoming with her encouragement, and very severe. There were often times when I wished the floor would open up and swallow me as I struggled pathetically with my sight translations. I was ready to give up and leave.

I told Jason about this half way through the first quarter as we took our daily jog and walk on the beach. “It’s no good, I’m way over my head,” I complained. “Let’s think of something else.” He was taken by surprise and the last thing he wanted to do was uproot and go somewhere else (where could they go at this late stage in the game?), but he gave a good show of trying to be calm and logical. With his patient and steady reasoning he was able to change the wind in my sails. He told me that he supported me and would stay with me no matter what I might decide, but he felt we should not give up quite so easily, why not keep trying? And I agreed.

The solution came when I faced the truth that I would never be an interpreter. Oral translation, simultaneous interpretation, even consecutive interpretation were not for me. I would never sit in a booth strapped to earphones in the United Nations. But I loved to write, I had a knack for writing, I loved the written word, and if I had the time to ponder over word choices, look things up in the dictionary, think calmly and unhurriedly, I could produce something worthwhile. Of course, I needed to understand the original first, but I discovered that my main asset was my love of my native language and my ability to express myself in it. I vividly remembered a general assembly in the institute’s main auditorium. The director was giving us a pep talk. To be a good translator, he told us, you have to love your native language in every way. If you have never written long letters home, if you have never kept a diary and done a lot of writing, translation is probably not for you. He was describing me to a tee. I remembered the pages and pages of letters I used to write home to my parents, especially when I was in Moscow. My father complained he had to get out a magnifying glass to read the small cramped print that would not all fit on the sheet of paper or postcard I was filling and would spread out into the margins at the top and bottom and up the sides of the page. I could not write enough. And I was an avid reader, there were so many books I had read and enjoyed, so many different authors and genres I admired and felt an affinity with that I would not count or list them all. So what if I dropped interpretation, picked up German again, and concentrated on written translation with two foreign languages? That was the solution.

After that things were wonderful. I had a talent, I could do it. I didn’t feel like disappearing through the floor anymore. And even though that one professor was still rather harsh and scanty with her encouragement, I rose to the occasion and decided that instead of letting this woman crush my spirit I would show her just what I was made of. And I did.

Interlude: Vienna, Austria

Along with some more of the German students, Jason and I spent the second year of my MIIS course in Vienna, Austria, studying at the University of Vienna, to polish up my German. It was a very special time for us, although not easy. We made the most of it on the small amount of money we had. A student loan helped us to pay for it all, but we were still very frugal, although we did not deny themselves the luxury of traveling and seeing as much as we could. We discovered the Wiener Staatsoper (Vienna State Opera House) that had standing room for 50 Schillings (the equivalent of about 50 cents in those days). We could not pass up the bargain and would go there several times a week to see all kinds of wonderful ballets, operas, operettas, and even catch famous singers like Jose Carreras and Maria Callas.

Some entries from my diary show the various stages of transition I went through and how Vienna was a city that never really captured a place in my heart.
5 October, 1983

“Cold and damp. I am planning on going to class today, although I don’t know what to expect or where to go. I have to wait until F. (Jason’s brother) sends whatever the university sent me (hopefully an acceptance) before I can register. At least I know that much, but it’s like drawing blood from a stone trying to find out anything around here, and the university building looms impressively but impersonally. Each day feels like a marathon, it is exhausting and sucks the energy out of you. We pound the streets, swallow the cold, damp air, despair and sigh. The city is so alien and narrow, clamping tightly shut the edges of its life, closing its doors to strangers, looking inward upon its own mold and death. To draw a smile or some warmth is like trying to curl up and sleep after the covers have been wrenched aside and the morning air crisply takes hold of your toes – the only warmth left is what is inside you. Everything takes so much effort, nothing is laid at your feet – you can’t expect this, but couldn’t it be a little easier? My sensitive heart stares aghast at this world, and wilts and cringes under its icy fingers. No one wants us, no one cares – all are too busy with their narrow concerns, their heads in the sand, the dull drudgery of their lives wrinkling their skin and bending their backs lower against the biting wind. The people plod in dreary colors through their frosty lives and never think that a smile or kind word could lighten the burden of their days. Sternly they look at the world through blind, stone eyes and turn their heads to the past where ghosts dance in eveningwear and silently applaud the final act. Alive, keen minds are lost, the vital sap of life may run thickly in other lands, but here the beauty and vibrancy of lost centuries is only a tarnished luster, the brightness of their bygone youth. No bright knowledge opens doors to the warmth of its heart – the great oak doors are closed on damp mustiness where the smell of the grave turns the alert, questing mind away. Dead brown leaves clog the rushing waters of life and leave a stagnant dormant pool.”

17 November, 1983:

“It was night in Vienna. I looked down on the city from the Stadtbahn and saw how gentle the whole scene was. Soft rays from headlights and street lamps bathed the streets and the buildings in a subdued glow. People bustled about, trams clanged by, and everything had the warm, cozy atmosphere of people doing last-minute shopping before Christmas. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see snowflakes, it was the scene from a book, a children’s book about a city, a book about the safe coziness of ordinary people’s lives. The stations we stopped at were old and dimly lit, as if the Stadtbahn were Vienna’s oldest and first form of public transportation. I could have been on a train traveling across Siberia, stopping at the tiny, rundown stations, sitting on the floor of the bare carriages with the peasants and their bundles. It felt so remote, so strange, so dreamlike, as if I were in another land, at another time … I feel as though Vienna is slowly working its way under my skin, into my heart and soul and changing me. All of a sudden classes and my academic progress here do not seem as important. I am battling against the tide anyway, translating German into Russian, I am attempting an impossible task, so why not just accept it and flow with it. Just being here is better than if we had never come. Whatever happens, I will leave here richer and more fulfilled than if we had never set off on this adventure. … Reality is much more confining and restricting than dreams – one would have to be a person of unlimited physical energy and strength and be in possession of endless time (in other words superhuman, supernatural) to be able to accomplish all the tasks you set yourself in dreams. A simple mortal cannot perform the impossible. I should be content with my lucky lot in life, count my lucky, beautiful, shining stars, and smile on a world which is not so lucky.”

10 February, 1984:

“Vienna is snowbound. Snow on rooftops and trees, snow slushy and soft in the streets, snow brown and ugly trampled by cars. We have made three trips in the snow, each time it was deeper, denser, more permanent. It reminds me of childhood winters, as taken for granted as rain or shine, just something to be put up with, exciting at first with snowmen and snowballs, then dreary and damp with soaked Wellingtons and wet clothes. Something to watch and admire from afar, but not so charming in everyday life with cold toes and gray skies. Its melting was like a sigh of relief because spring peeked through those crystal drops and sunshine made the white turn clear. Our walk today was beautiful in the silent woods, nothing can create an atmosphere like snow, but it is also sinister and deathly, penetrating and overpowering. It clings and will not leave. I try desperately to see beneath, to capture life and breathe warmth. It penetrated my brain and boots, making me want to laugh hysterically at its volume, its sheer volume, weight and oppressiveness – it was everywhere and just would not leave. Vienna cloaked in snow removes itself even further from my heart, like an ice princess, so beautiful, but deadly. I cannot love Vienna in the snow for she is too cold and cruel, too barren of feeling and vitality to ever be endearing. Our walks in Vienna’s snowy suburbs were magnificent and grand, but my heart ached and yearned all the more for sun and warmth and freedom. Snowbound Vienna is sobering and stealthy, sealing any charm behind shuttered windows and locked doors.

Aside from loving and hating the snow, our expeditions have been most enjoyable. Wintry ruins in Baden with pine woods and slanting sun on creamy snow – a dipping winter’s sun creates unusual light effects which lend themselves well to romantic dreams. A children’s play park in Bisemberg with a view across the Danube to Leopoldsberg, Kohlenberg, and Klosterneuberg. Shadows on the snow from the hazy sun – walks in wintry woods do have their charm.”

We also traveled further a-field, into the Eastern bloc, to Budapest and Prague.

In my diary I wrote on 2 November, 1983: “We are on the train back to Vienna after a five-day stay in Budapest. … Budapest was a frenzied hub of people against a background of smoky skies, a slow, heaving river and the solid stone of an ancient and noble history. The grime and spittle of the much trodden streets of Pest contrasted with the majestic solidity of Castle Hill, Liberation Monument, and St. Gellert to symbolize the stifled drudgery of life under communism and the proud and stubborn spirit of the Hungarian people. For Jason and I the most lasting memories were our walks along the Danube after dark. Budapest was not electrified by a single neon bulb at night, but glimmered in the waning yellow glow of a candle, like the moon past its prime. One night the Parliament, Castle Hill and the Chain Bridge were lit up, not brightly and garishly, but subtly like lights glowing faintly in the fog or viewed through a fine gauze, like the yellowing of old lace, the dull luster of burnished bronze, the mellow richness of autumn. It gave an air of mystery and romance like that evoked by old brown photographs of times gone by. The plenty in the stores and the ‘fashionableness’ of the Hungarian people surprised me after my experiences in Moscow. It seemed as though the people did not want for anything materially. It could have been Austria had someone not known better. To me, however, the mark of socialism was all too evident. A gray, spirit-destroying pall seemed to pervade the air, it could be seen in the people’s haunted expressions, the specter of communism and Russia’s iron grip caught in people’s eyes, it weighed on their shoulders and made them stoop against its oppression. The carefree joy, the jaunty step, the bold expression so common in the West were all painfully missing. The crippling drudgery of life under socialism, the frustration of desires, the crushing of aspirations for a better life were all to be blatantly read on the people’s faces, in their demeanor and stance.”

Prague seemed even more oppressive and under the weight of communism. We traveled there in the spring and even though the city was abloom, I still felt that sense of life being held in an iron grip. The train was to go on to Moscow. Oh how I wished I could have traveled on to its end destination. In one of the department stores in Prague I heard Russians talking. It was like balsam to my ears. I moved closer, pretending to be interested in some of the items on a shelf nearby, just so I could listen to them talk. Prague was not Moscow, but it was as close as I could get at that time, and it awoke new stirrings and yearning in my heart.

A year later, I successfully completed the course at the Monterey Institute, then spent another two years writing my thesis, a translation of Mikhail Bulgakov’s Notes on the Cuff into English. I found a publisher in Ann Arbor, Michigan that specialized in translation from Russian into English. I wrote to them and asked if I could translate something for them that they would then publish if they found it worthy. I would not be paid for it, but I would be in print. I dreamed in those days of becoming a literary translator, but no author or publisher would take a beginning translator fresh out of school seriously if they had no published works to show. Ardis accepted my conditions and after I completed my translation, they published it. In 1986, I received my Master of Arts degree in Russian and German Translation.

After I passed the professional exams at the end of the course work but had still not begun my thesis work, another long-cherished dream came true. I became pregnant. My beautiful and wise daughter made her entry into the world on 6 March, 1985, just four days after Mikhail Gorbachev became General Secretary of the CPSU and later President of the Soviet Union. Perestroika was about to begin. Later, this always seemed symbolic and significant to me. It marked the beginning of major changes in the Soviet Union. A country so long ensconced behind the Iron Curtain began to open its doors to the outside world. And yes, my newborn daughter was indeed a wise being. I recognized this almost instantly. I remembered vividly the thoughts that came into my head when I first set eyes on her. “This child is going to teach me more than I can ever teach her.” And so it came to pass. We named her Ursula, prompted many years ago when I read D.H. Lawrence’s The Rainbow while still in school in England. The description of Ursula as a young girl in that book had struck such a chord in my heart that I told myself then, “if I ever have a daughter I will name her Ursula.”


While he had long been far from my mind, Ivan began to consume my thoughts again. After we returned from Vienna, we found an apartment in a more respectable and comfortable part of the Peninsula. It was in Pacific Grove, just down the hill from the Defense Language Institute and just up the hill from Cannery Row. Later the Monterey Bay Aquarium appeared at the foot of the hill and I spent many a happy hour there with Ursula watching the fish. The beach there was cozier too. Small secluded seaweed-strewn inlets among the rocks where I would take my baby to play and sit in the sand. I loved watching the otters smash mollusks against the rocks on their chests as they swam on their backs. And there were plenty of seals too. It was here that my mind filled again with thoughts of Ivan and I began to recall in detail our time together in Moscow. My dreams and yearning were triggered by reading back over old diaries I had kept during that time. It all seemed so illusive, beautiful, a whole other dream world that beckoned and lured. Such sweet memories. I even began writing him a letter as I sat there on the beach, but it never made it as far as the post office. I had sent him letters and even photos soon after my return in the summer of 1981. But I had never received a reply. He had most likely forgotten me and was living his own life. I did not seriously think I would see him again and did not strive for that. I was just happy that I had those memories, that he lived in a small corner of my heart, and was grateful for the time we had shared together.


On 24 May, 1986, I wrote in my diary: “I still think of Ivan, but have not written and the burning desire to do so has subsided. I am still consumed by going to Moscow though. Perhaps it is just the elusiveness that attracts me, but I cannot deny the adventure and uncertainty I yearn from life, I don’t want our lives to be predictable, I want spontaneity and wonder. I feel we can have it if we remain flexible and young at heart. Our daughter seems to respond to change and new environments, we should take advantage. I wonder if we will ever get to Moscow. Perhaps the only solution is to have another child to curb these adventurous feelings, since they still threaten to tear me apart.”

In the summer of 1986, we packed up a U-Haul again with all our earthly belongings, hooked it onto the back of our Pinto and headed back across country from California to Florida, stopping on the way to visit all the national parks and sights we could fit into their itinerary.

Soon after we settled into Jason’s parents’ house with his elderly parents in tow, I did get pregnant again, and on 23 July, 1987, my second beautiful daughter was born. I had immediately found a support group of women with children the same age when I came to Ocala. I attended a play group and had met some wonderful women with like-minded ideas about bringing up children. Through one of my new friends I found the Birth Center in Gainesville run by midwives who were advocates of natural childbirth. Right up my alley. Jason and I attended childbirth classes there. My pregnancy was a time of budding spirituality and awakening to the callings of my soul. I made so many discoveries and had so many insights during this time. I did a lot of reading and was very in touch with the growing presence inside my. I meditated, exercised, nurtured my body and mind, and prepared myself consciously for this birth. I had done this the first time too, when I was waiting for Ursula to come, but the first time is always so different. A time when there is no past experience to rely on. The second time, I was determined to do it all naturally and did not want a hospital birth. So the Birth Center in Gainesville had been like manna from heaven.

I wrote in my diary on 2 August, 1987, about a week after the birth.

“We didn’t realize it, but Claire means Light, and this is what she is, a ray of pure light, filled with light, and lighting our lives. My spiritual awakening during the pregnancy made me more aware of her soul and my presence as a conscious, feeling being within me. Sometimes I was overcome with the feeling of how special she is, an exceptional being whose soul had chosen us as channels to incarnate through. My decision to go to the Birth Center in Gainesville was somehow the first step along the path to the greater spiritual awareness which unfolded during this pregnancy. The fears I had about giving birth in a homelike setting soon abated and I became convinced that this was the right thing for me and that everything would go well. The power of positive thinking really worked, there was never a shadow of doubt in my mind that things would go perfectly.”

And indeed they did. A more perfect birth I could not have wished for. At 6.30 in the morning as the sun spilled into the cozy room at the Gainesville Birth Center, Claire came into the world. A few hours later we were all back home again in Ocala, our small family of three now expanded to four. And the delight and love were immense. This was the answer. My feeling that having another child would quench my yearning for Russia had indeed been perspicacious.

Now with two small daughters my days and mind were filled with new wonders and new challenges. I was consumed with their upbringing, I wanted to give them as much as I could, I wanted the involvement and the bonding, the time shared together as they grew and blossomed. I read to them, I took them on walks to the pond and the park, I sang and danced with them, I lit candles at bedtime and we prayed, I did arts and crafts with them, fed them natural foods, introduced the idea of leaving gifts for the fairies and angels before they went to bed and had to come up with a myriad of ideas for gifts in return. But it was all magical and fulfilling. In the time left, I translated and saved money, and Jason worked evenings as a waiter and also saved money. We had a shared goal. As soon as we had enough money we would go to Moscow. So a percentage of each of my translations and a percentage of Jason’s tips were put aside each time, until finally we had the sum we thought would be enough.

In the meantime I had been in touch with my student friends from the Pushkin Institute days; the girls I had gallivanted with. Through one of them I found out that Lucy, the head of our student group, had married a Russian and was living in Moscow. After making a few phone calls and by a piece of sheer luck really (that sort of information was not normally given out over the phone), I tracked down Lucy. She was delighted to hear from me and said she would be more than happy to have her husband issue me an invitation to come for a private visit. This was possible since Gorbachev had taken the helm. So the wheels started turning, the process was underway. But naturally it did not go as quickly as I would have hoped and liked. It was a frustrating time. I thought we would be able to leave by the summer of 1989, but in November we were still in Ocala and the invitation had still not arrived. Then there were holiday delays and other intervening circumstances. Finally, Lucy sent the invitation for the beginning of 1990. So it would be later rather than sooner. This gave them more time to pack up and sort out all the loose ends in the States, so it was really for the best.

On 18 November, 1989, I had a dream about Ivan. I was in Moscow again and he saw me in the street and recognized me because I was wearing that same fur coat. We explored a hotel together hand in hand, so happy to be together. Then some helicopters flew over and a huge ladder fell down from which descended some strange men, they had come to destroy. Ivan and managed to find somewhere safe. In a meditation later, I was in a dark tunnel and Ivan came toward my and said it would all be alright, and we passed through a crack in the wall into a beautiful garden. This all had rather an upsetting effect on me, I denied the fact that I wanted to return to Moscow because of Ivan. Was I subconsciously seeking a reunion with him and still actually thinking of having a life with him? The thought appalled me. If this were so, then I would do better to stay at home. But I told myself that this was not my motive. I just had a strong attraction for Moscow, I wanted to return there to work and live in a Russian environment. And anyway any real thoughts about a life with Ivan were pretty ridiculous at this point, after all I had had no contact with him for nine years, how could I count on anything? How did I know I would even see him again, let alone share a life with him even if I did? Anything could have happened in the interim. But what good were these kind of thoughts? So I pushed them aside and concentrated on the overwhelming task of reducing our worldly belongings to what I considered the bare minimum. They filled ten suitcases.

With this load, we set off for Miami on 31 January, 1990 to board a Virgin Airlines flight to London and then take the train to Scotland where Jason and the girls would stay with my aunt and uncle while I went on a two-week scouting expedition to Moscow. The fact I was going on my own first “to check it out” filled me with such immense excitement that there could be no doubt about what I wanted. I wanted to see Ivan and the butterflies I felt in my stomach threatened to raise me off my feet with the beating of their wings and transport me to nirvana. My rune card called for Patience, Perseverance, and Foresight—through Discomfort and Inconvenience will come Growth.

Chapter Three: Return to the Soviet Union – Reconnaissance

On 14 February, 1990, I waved goodbye to Jason and my girls at the station in Falkirk and set off on the first leg of my reconnaissance trip to Moscow. I would take the train to Edinburgh, where I would change to Sheffield and there catch a bus straight to Gatwick Airport. I left my family in two minds, part of me was filled with an incredible excitement that this was finally happening. I felt an immense love and respect for Jason that he was allowing me to do this, that he was permitting me this freedom, this insanity, for how else could it be named? Leaving everything behind, burning bridges, and heading off into the unknown, to a strange almost forbidden land, where nothing was familiar. I did not even know if I would find a job, and even if I did would my girls adjust to the severe realities of life behind the Iron Curtain? I had just uprooted them all and replanted them on alien soil. And it was all okay. Jason condoned my actions, how could I not love him for that? But I also felt a wrench at leaving them, how would my daughters manage without me? I made a tape-recording for them to listen to while I was gone, telling them of my love for them, that I carried them with my in my heart, that I had not really left them and would soon return. To make it worse, Claire fell asleep on the way to the station, and I did not want to wake her to say goodbye, so I had to leave without doing that, it did not feel right, I was torn. But I was happy with the arrangements at my aunt and uncle’s. The girls had responded well and it had snowed the day before, a new experience and excitement for two Florida gals.



However, the journey was very hairy. To my chagrin I discovered when I arrived at the deserted bus station in Sheffield late in the evening that I had misread the bus timetable and the next bus would get me to Gatwick too late to catch my plane. I struggled with my heavy suitcase across the street to the train station. There was a train to Manchester with a 00.30 connection to London Euston—a slow mail train—that was due to arrive at 5.00 am. There would still be time to catch my plane. I decided to go for it, there was no other choice, although I would be cutting it very close. In Manchester I was lucky to get on the London train early before all the West Ham football fans crowded on for their trip home after a match. It was a rowdy trip. However, I overheard another passenger saying he was also going to Gatwick, so I asked if I could tag along and catch a taxi with him. What a piece of luck. Luck, because we shared the taxi fare, a whopping 52 pounds, which I would not have had enough money to pay for by myself. I made the plane with 10 minutes to spare.

Moscow was as overwhelming and wonderful as I remembered. The wide snowy streets, the quiet mystery of it all, everything seemed larger than life, and oh so familiar. There was still the secrecy and undercurrent of excitement, the feeling of never knowing just what to expect next. Lucy met me at the airport and whisked me off to a restaurant for dinner where a whole crowd of other people awaited us. It was one of the new cooperative venues that had become popular since Gorbachev took the helm. Entry by invitation only. I was back!

Fatigue took its toll and, despite my thrill at being swept up again in the embrace of this enchanted land, I could not help feeling awkward and out of place. I was reluctant to use my imperfect Russian and felt shy and uncomfortable with Lucy’s husband, as though I could not put two sensible words together and join in the conversation. I felt strange. But the next day Lucy helped me to find phone numbers of publishing houses, places I could call to find out about translating work.

And I called the number I had for Ivan. It was Irida’s number, the one I had always called back in 1981 whenever I wanted to get in touch with Ivan. I dialed and heard a girl’s voice on the other end. I asked for Ivan, the girl said there was no one by that name there. Normally I would have just hung up in confusion and disappointment. But for some reason I began to explain herself, saying it had been so long since I had been there, he had probably moved and please excuse me for the disturbance. The girl on the other end suddenly exclaimed, “Alison, is that you?” It was Irida’s daughter, Tasya. I had met her a couple of times back in 1981, the last time when we had gone to that dog show at the end of my semester stay. Tasya had only been 14 at the time and did not live with her mother, which was why we had not met that often. But Tasya recognized my voice! She said Irida was at work and to call back later and she would give me Ivan’s phone number. So this is what I did, and Irida was overjoyed to hear me. She said she had already called Ivan and told him I was in Moscow. She had stolen the show, it would no longer be a total surprise, and I had so wanted to hear his response to a call from me totally out of the blue. Now he was prepared. I called the number Irida had given me and could not believe I was hearing his voice on the other end of the line. He told me he had been expecting me (this was before Irida had called and told him that I was indeed back), that he had had a dream about me not that long ago and he knew I would be returning soon. That clinched things for me, I knew that something beyond the ordinary bonded us. I had also had a dream about him and had seemed to contact him in my meditations. It all jived for me. We arranged to meet in a couple of days. I had already made other arrangements for that weekend, so our rendezvous would have to wait until Monday.

How I lived through those days, I do not know. I could not sleep or eat, I was so nervous and often overwhelmed with doubts that I was doing the right thing. Jason and the girls seemed so far away, in a different world, a world that was no longer my reality. This was my reality here, in Moscow’s expansive frozen streets, in a cocoon of self-denial, or in a place that pointed me further down the road toward my destiny. I was so confused, but nothing could stop my now, the cogs were already turning, the mechanism had been launched, there was no turning back. Ivan was waiting for me, he was still available after all these years, still waiting for me to return. From our phone conversation I found out that he had been married and was now divorced. He had a seven-year-old daughter. He lived in the same place as before, in the building where I had arrived in a taxi to retrieve my wallet and see him again back in 1981, only I had not known then that this was his permanent address, that this was where he lived most of the time. He only rented a room at Irida’s and spent time there when he was drinking and needed time away from his family—his mother, sister, and niece. His workshop was at his mother’s, this was where he had his sewing machines and sewed clothes that were not available in the Soviet stores for his clients. And Irida’s was a haven for other things. I had not known that until now, so it was not surprising that he had not been at Irida’s when I called. It was not his home number.

I wrote in my diary on 19 February, 1981.

“I am meeting Ivan in a couple of hours and I am so nervous I can barely think straight. I have been sleeping badly and feel like a bag of nerves. I felt so sure about this on Saturday, but now I’m wondering if I am doing the right thing. I will not be able to rest easy until I see him and find out the scoop. I fluctuate between feeling all-powerful and outgoing to feeling like a little timid mouse. I guess the main thing about it is that I feel so duplicitous, like I don’t want anyone to know what I’m going, and I hate that feeling, but this is something I have to get out of my system, so I have to go for it, I just wish I felt more rested and less nervous. Oh well, I guess it will all work out for better or worse, we’ll see.”

We met on the platform of the metro station near Irida’s. He was waiting for me, I was a few minutes late, and I saw him first, anxiously searching the crowd streaming from the arriving train trying to spot me. Then we stood before each other and it was as though we had never been apart. He had not changed and he told me that I looked just the same too, just as he remembered me.

And afterwards I wrote:

“It turned out better that I could have ever expected. We are soul mates, that’s for sure.”

Those two weeks were full of portent events. Although I felt so at home and familiar in my surroundings, I spent a lot of time trying to picture everything from my daughters’ viewpoint. How would they react? What would they think? Would the climate and the environment not be too harsh for them? My overall conclusions were that they would manage. I was encouraged by the children I saw being pulled around on sleds, spades in hand for playing in the snow, their rosy cheeks aglow, bundled up in woolen hats, scarves, mittens, and felt boots. I thought my girls would rise to the occasion and fit in.

I managed to find a phone number for Progress Publishers and went to see them. The head of the English Translation Department remembered my resume (I had mailed it from the States months ago), but he confirmed my suspicion that dealing with potential employees long distance was not their style. You had to show up in person and only then might some decision be made. No one was going to reply to a fat envelope with a resume and translation samples from some unknown body thousands of miles away on the other side of the globe. This I had suspected, which was another reason I had so badly needed to come to Moscow, to show up in person and say here I am, hire me. I did some work for them and they were satisfied. But nothing could be decided at such short notice, not by 2 March at any rate, which was when I was due to leave. They suggested I return again on a private invitation for a longer time, at least two months, then they would see what they could do.

By lucky coincidence, but I do not believe in coincidences, to everything there is always some divine order and pattern, so it would be better to say, by some serendipitous flow of events, another friend from the student group of 1981 was also in Moscow at that time studying at Moscow State University. She invited me over to eat spaghetti with other students in the dormitory where she was staying. There I met another student who knew a Russian lady looking for someone to translate her book. This woman had written a book about a scandalous court case involving some physicians who had been imprisoned without a fair trial back in Stalin’s time. Her father had been one of those physicians. I made arrangements through this student to meet the woman. Her name was Natalie and, after immediately taking to each other, we came to an agreement that I would translate the book. During the course of our meeting I explained my situation, that I was soon to leave but was looking for a way to return with my family for a longer time. Natalie offered to invite me back to Moscow. Yes, yes!!

Another serendipitous event. While I was living in Florida I used to subscribe to a magazine called Mothering. It could be described as a magazine for mothers with alternative views about bringing up children. Mothers somewhere out in left field like myself. It was very enlightening. Several months before I left for Russia, but after I already knew I would be going, there was an article in the magazine called “Conscious Birth in the U.S.S.R.” and a letter to the editors from the author of the article, a certain T. S. in Moscow, Russia. The article was about natural childbirth in the Soviet Union, specifically about underwater birth. I was intrigued. And although my thoughts were far from having another child, I wrote to the editors of the magazine and asked for the full address of the article’s author, explaining my situation. What to my delight and surprise when they not only responded promptly with the address, but also said they had another article from the same woman that they had translated into English and wanted to publish. Could I take a copy of it with me to Moscow and deliver it personally to T.S. for her approval? You bet! So during that first week in Moscow I also tried to track down this woman. The address I had was not clear and my first attempt at finding it by looking at the map, going to the nearest metro station, and trying to find the street ended in failure. Lucy suggested sending her a telegram. So I did, giving Lucy’s phone number. The very next day I received a phone call from T.S.’s husband. They had moved into a larger apartment, their address had changed, but the telegram had been forwarded, they would love to meet me.

And what a trip! I could not believe I was here in Moscow visiting a family with four children (practically unheard of in the Soviet Union in those days) who were into the spiritual aspects of childbirth and talked about how they traveled to the Black Sea with pregnant couples so that the mother could give birth in the sea. Their latest project was to try and attract dolphins to draw near to the birthing mother as she went through her labor. They said that dolphins are intuitively aware of women in childbirth and if they are summoned by special sounds they will draw near and “participate” in the event. It all sounded too good to be true, and I imagined myself being that woman giving birth in the sea in the presence of these gentle mammals. Victor, the husband, talked of all sorts of things, things so familiar, yet so strange, so strange to be hearing from a Russian. Why did I think that? Russians are very spiritual and very close to nature and the intuitive meaning of life. He told me how Patriarch Ponds, which is where Master and Margarita, Bulgakov’s brilliant novel and dear to my heart, opens, is a very mystical place, how the Earth is a living organism in which Russia is the heart and America is the spine, and at some time in the future Russia will once again become of spiritual center of mankind. I spent the night at their apartment since we were still talking far into the small hours. I slept fitfully and was awoken by a powerful message that the stone my mother had given me to take to Moscow had to be placed in Patriarch Ponds. This was part of web-weaving, when a stone is selected in one part of the world and taken to another part of the world. There it is left in a sacral place and a stone selected from there is transported on to the next place. With these thoughts uppermost in my mind, I left early in the morning while everyone was still asleep.


My second week in Moscow was spent exclusively with Ivan. During this time, our bond was clinched, and I had no further doubts that I wanted to join my life with his and live with him as his wife in Russia.

So with Progress’s promise to give me a job should I return, Natalie’s promise to invite me back with my family, and Ivan’s promise to build a life with me no matter what, I left Moscow and returned to Jason and the girls in Scotland. Naturally the journey was one of low spirits and fatigue. So much buzzed in my mind. Now that I knew for sure that my destiny was with Ivan, how would I face Jason? How would everything work out? What indeed did the future hold? There were so many questions and uncertainties. How wrenching it was to leave once again. But this time I was leaving with a purpose, I had some definite plan, some reason to come back, I just did not know how long it would all take.

Now began the most excruciating time in my life. The waiting….

Chapter Four: Britain—The Excruciating Wait

Aunt and uncle's house in Scotland

My girls were so pleased to see me upon my return. Claire stroked my face and looked lovingly into my eyes. It was Ursula’s fifth birthday a few days later and she loved the Russian gifts I had brought for her, especially the set of nesting matroshka dolls, beautifully painted with a gold and blue pattern intermingled with white flowers. Naturally, the girls had missed me and wanted to be with me all the time now I was back in the family fold. Jason had managed superbly while I was gone, he had kept them entertained and happy. But now they wanted their mother, and I tried my best to give them the attention they deserved. I also felt very guilty that I was so duplicitous with Jason, that my mind and heart were full of Ivan, that there was nothing I could do about it. I did not want to hurt Jason, I wished he did not love me so much, that he did not care. And he was being so accommodating, he sensed my inner turmoil, that I was struggling with something, and he was willing to give me the time and space I needed to adjust. So he kept his distance in his undemanding and unassuming way. For some reason, this infuriated me and finally when I could stand it no longer, I yelled at him about it. He assured me that he was okay, that he just wanted me to recover from my obviously emotional journey. I was in two minds about spilling the beans right then, part of me wanted to tell him straight out about Ivan, while another part told me to wait, to be cautious. I did not want to hurt Jason’s feelings unnecessarily by letting him know I was in love with another man when I did not know what the future might hold. We discussed our options for the waiting time. We did not know how long it would take for Natalie to get all the paperwork done at the Russian visa and immigration office. We had to decide where we were going to stay while we waited. We had outlived our welcome in Scotland.

Eventually we decided to return to Sheffield. My old school friend, Jane, said we could come and stay until we found somewhere to rent.

We found a place in Tinsley, the advantage was that the landlord did not want to rent long term since these houses were about to undergo major renovation. That also made the rent cheaper, another major advantage. So it worked out well all round. Finally we were in our own place again, just the four of us, although this did not comfort me, it even scared me, since I was not sure how I was going to be able to live with the lie that we were no longer a happy and harmonious family. I just could not be kind to Jason. I allowed my irritation to show in all my communication with him. I knew I was being ugly and unfair, but I just could not help herself. All my thoughts, yearning, and inner being strove in another direction, it was difficult to remain anchored in my true center and not allow myself to be buffeted by the storm of my emotions.

I busied myself with looking for work and against all odds found some translation companies willing to take me on. One of them was right in Sheffield. I was quite amazed that I had been able to swing that. Plus I was working on the translation for Natalie. The editor from Natalie’s publishing company in New York got in touch with me by phone to tell me she would be going to Moscow at the beginning of April and wanted to take the finished translation with her. I made the deadline and we had also received our applications for a private invitation from the Soviet Embassy by that time, which had to be sent to Natalia too. The editor agreed to take them along with her, much more reliable than the postal service.


Now the really worst time set in. I had done everything in my earthly power at my end, now the ball was in the other court. How long it would take to process the invitation applications and receive an answer was something I just could not know. So there was no point in trying to second guess. I would just have to wait and grin and bear it; and grinning and bearing it proved to be the hardest things I had ever done.

Life in Tinsley was like living in a war zone. We lived in a row of terrace houses with a tiny back yard. Most of the neighbors were Pakistanis and my girls would ride on the swings, roundabout and slide in the nearby playground with the local children. It was quite a change from the time I lived in the same city during my school days. At that time, we lived, if not in the posh part of town, at least on a street with fairly large semi-detached houses and upper middle-class families. I did not really think of myself as a snob, but I remembered that Tinsley and Attercliffe were parts of the city to be avoided, the sleazy end of town. But here I was thrilled to at least have a place to stay and it was roomy enough, with a small kitchen, dining room and living room downstairs, two bedrooms on the second floor, and even a third floor with an attic under the beams and a gable window that looked out onto the park. This room was my haven. We set up the computer there and took it in turns to work. One day Jason would entertain the girls while I worked on my translations, then I would do things with the girls while he worked on his book. It was a perfect arrangement. There were also joint trips up the street to the laundromat to do the laundry once a week. We would stuff everything into backpacks and head on up the hill. The girls would be treated to a bag of penny sweets at the sweetshop to keep them happy while the laundry spun.

On the days I spent with the girls while Jason worked we would catch the double-decker bus at the end of the road and go to visit Jane. These bus rides were an exciting adventure for my girls. We would always have to climb the stairs to the upper deck and sit in the very front seats, which offered a superb view of everything round about and down below.

Jane had just given birth to her second daughter and Ursula and Claire would enjoy going over to play with her toddler and see the new baby. We would go to the park together and walk in the woods that were right behind Jane’s house. They were so beautiful in the spring, with daffodils and crocuses blooming. I also found a Waldorf school in Sheffield and inquired about Ursula being enrolled. I had been intrigued by Rudolf Steiner’s teaching while living in Florida and had wanted to home-school my girls using a Waldorf curriculum. There was a Waldorf school in Gainesville, where Claire was born, but it was private and the tuition was too high for me to afford. However the girls and I would participate in the celebrations at the school, as well as setting up special tables at home to celebrate Christmas, Easter and other festivals. Ursula ended up not being able to attend the school in Sheffield, but we would visit, again to participate in festivals, and its beautiful setting had a very calming and inspiring effect on my soul.



Little by little I spilled the beans to my family. I wrote my mother a letter telling her about all that had happened in Moscow. I received a surreptitious note back from her in a general parcel for the whole family. It was tucked into a book for me. How subtle my mother was and how supportive and understanding. She never once expressed her concern, she was always in favor of whatever her “wayward” daughter took into her head next. She told me years later about how she recognized my singleness of purpose in those days. How she saw that I had a goal and I was going to go for it no matter what. Even if I did not know myself what the final outcome would be, my determination to follow my dream was phenomenal. There was no stopping me or getting in my way, so my mother felt that all she could do was be supportive and go along with me.

I also revealed more to Jason. I had hinted before that we were headed into a precarious situation and Jason, none the wiser, had met my caution with enthusiasm saying he was all up for an adventure. Finally though I felt I just had to let him know about Ivan, that I had met him again and there was things I needed to settle with him. However, I couched it all in rather vague terms. I had done a past life recall before we left the States. And one of my past lives had been in Russia. I had been a gypsy girl in that incarnation, the daughter of the gypsy baron. I was a dancer and kept all the men entertained. My father had picked the man he wanted me to marry, but I had fallen in love with a youth from the nearby village. I could not obey my father and bring myself to tie the knot with the man he had chosen for me. I made preparations to run away, surreptitiously helped by my mother who was on my side. But my father discovered my scheming before I had the chance to escape and sentenced me to death by strangulation. I was filled with a knowing that the youth had been Ivan. We were denied the chance to be together during that lifetime and were now being given a second chance. I did not tell Jason that I wanted to share my life with Ivan this time, but I told him I felt there was some unfinished business with him from a past life, some karma to be resolved, which was why I wanted to go back. Jason amazingly accepted all of this and said he was willing to go along with me. He said he would always love me no matter what I did.

So the time passed in ups and downs. There were desperate down times when I felt so lost, confused, and uncertain I was doing the right thing, followed by uplifting times when I soared on wings of inner knowing, certain of Ivan’s love for me and empowered by the knowledge that it would all work out. I reconciled myself to the fact that it was going to take a lot longer than I anticipated for me to return to Moscow. I had translation work to keep me busy and was thankful for the income it generated. I allowed my doubts to overwhelm me at times, but I never gave up hope. The times I did manage to talk to Ivan on the phone assured me he was still waiting.

On 25 July, Lucy called to say she had our invitation letter, that is the approval we needed to go ahead and apply for our visas to go to Moscow. I had made arrangements with Natalie to pass this vital document on to Lucy. Lucy had lots of contacts and found someone leaving the Soviet Union for the West who would take this approval with them and mail it to our address in Tinsley. So now I had to wait for the mail to arrive. It arrived on 1 August, and we sent it straight off with our passports to the Soviet Embassy. We were planning to travel to Moscow by train so there was still the problem of getting transit visas for Poland. So once we received our passports back from the Soviet Embassy, we had to send them off again to the Polish Embassy. They finally arrived back on 21 August. And Jason went in to the travel agent’s to book the train. Another blow awaited me when Jason reported back that all the trains to Moscow were booked up until September. This was something that had just not figured in my plans. There was nothing we could swing that would get us to Moscow in the next few days. Finally we booked a flight for 23 August and ordered a minivan taxi to take us to the airport in Manchester at 4.30 that morning.