My mom always used to tell me that I was "slower than molasses in January".
I understood the concept that a solution as viscous as molasses would tend to move more slowly in the cold weather, but I didn't understand the frustration associated with the sluggish pace until I tried to make rum cake for a New Years Eve party. It doesn't matter how much of a rush you are in, if you are measuring out a teaspoon of molasses, you better be prepared to wait.
Everything becomes suspended in time while you wait for that drop to fall from the tip of your spoon into the bowl.
I just spent a month at home with my family. Time passed strangely as I prepared myself to move back to Armenia. I had a leisurely month of working from home, going for hikes and eating dolma. I had so much time. Then, suddenly, the final days of my visit were upon me and I found a million and one things that I hadn't thought of. I found myself thinking absurd things like “What if I can't find the right type of notebook that I like to write in in Armenia?” or “What if my luggage is overweight, I can't possibly get rid of a single one of these books.” I actually brought one single subject spiral bound notebook (in addition to my moleskin journal and a leather bound journal for stories) and over 6 books, one of which is hardcover, with me to Armenia. And a kindle.
You'll be happy to know that I have arrived safely in Yerevan with all my writing and reading implements intact, although I am still pining for my hardcover complete collection of short stories by Ernest Hemingway. It weighs more than some dogs of the dogs I saw women toting about in their purses at Zvarnots Airport.
The past 72 hours have moved like a scene in a movie where there is a half second shot of every moment in the protagonists day. They wake up and by the end of one minute you've seen every aspect of their day. Usually it ends with them in a very still and silent place, alone and usually looking desolate over the monotony of their life. The pace of movement is the same, and I do find myself sitting alone in the quiet kitchen at 3am but without the feeling of desolation. My life has become anything but monotonous.
I've lost track of how many times people asked me why I wanted to move to Armenia while I was at home. The questions was often accompanied with an inflection that implied that the idea of an an ex-soviet, poor, corrupt country that still lives under Russia's thumb couldn't possibly be a place one would want to live and that if one did want to live there, one was crazy.
Well, maybe one is.
I can't deny that Armenia is all of these things. But I can affirm that it is a country full of opportunity. Full of beauty and adventure and people who can say my name.
I know that I don't owe anyone an explanation, but I also know that when people have asked “Why do you want to move to Armenia?” I haven't always answered with the most articulate response. Because it is difficult to articulate. I'm often tempted to say, “because I like it” and leave it at that. Do I need another explanation? Do you?
The truth is that I am still figuring out the draw that the country has on me.
Certainly, being around Armenians is one of the biggest factors. “But Maral,” you might say, “you have Armenians at home, right in your kitchen!” And you're right, I do and I miss them.
Having friends from all over the globe who are always willing to offer a differing perspective is another factor. They might poke fun at me for being American but I get to correct their English so everyone's happy.
Perhaps the biggest factor for me right now is the element of the unknown and the uncomfortable. I have sought it out, this feeling of unease and anticipation, in order to propel me into my future.
As I sit here in my new kitchen, jet lagged and dehydrated, writing and trying to relax my mind so that I can fall back asleep, I feel the stillness of the air twist and stretch. I feel all the energy caught in the moment of that drop of molasses pulling and straining against a spoon rush through me and out of my fingertips. I feel the rest of my life waiting on the other side of this morning.
