Mnemonics

I rely on some rather eccentric tools to enhance my recollection of new vocabulary words. One of my favorite methods is to use word association as a mnemonic device. If I can pair a new word or phrase with either another word I already know, or even better some vivid mental imagery, the odds of me remembering it are much higher.

Here are some of my favorite categories for word association:¹


Sounds Almost Like The Same Word

Kafija: Sounds like "coffee," which is what it means.

Žakete: Sounds like "jacket," which is what it means. This is easy, right?

Sort Of Sounds Like Something Sort Of Similar

Nauda:  Sounds kind of like "nada," which is Spanish for "none," which is the amount I usually have of nauda (money).

Kārdināšana: Sounds kind of like "Kardashian," which is the name of an American family with a questionable moral compass - as well as their own reality TV show and clothing lines - who  might conceivably be a kārdināšana (temptation) to someone with a questionable moral compass of their own.

Sounds Like Something Not At All Similar, But The Visual Imagery Is So Striking That You Easily Recall It Anyways

Vēders: Sounds like "Vader," last name of former² galactic overlord Darth Vader née Anakin Skywalker. Darth Vader had a very distinct-looking control panel for his breathing and life support apparatus situated above his vēders (stomach)

Zils: Sounds poetic when paired with zivs to produce zils zivs, (blue fish), which is the last line from the title of a critically acclaimed piece of literature by the late Theodor Seuss Geisel.

Sounds Nothing At All Like Anything Similar, But The Imagery Produced By A Direct Translation Is So Striking That You Easily Recall It Anyways

Kājas pirksti: Literal translation would mean "leg fingers." The imagery produced of fingers dangling at the end of your legs is so striking that the word for kājas pirksti (toes) is burned into your brain forevermore.³

Lieldienas: Literal translation would mean "great/big day." Makes you think of a day that's, well, great. Huge. World-changing, even? If you throw a "the" at the front, it becomes even more striking:


The Great Day.


A far better word for, well, The Great Day than "Easter" is, in my humble opinion. Far more striking. Far closer to the feelings and imagery that should be associated with the event that forever changed everything.

One of the purposes of the season of Lent is to rekindle in us a longing for The Great Day - both past and future - and to remember just how in need of Lieldienas I continue to be.

Sometimes verbal imagery helps you remember vocabulary words. And sometimes the Spirit sneaks into your mundane mnemonic learning methods and reminds you of something even more important than language acquisition. And you recall the reason you're even in Latvia learning to speak Latvian in the first place:


The Great Day.⁴

¹All of these are actual trains of thought that go through my mind whenever I'm attempting to conjure up the word in question. Scary but true
²Or possibly future, I'm not too sure about chronology within the Star Wars universe
³Vibram's FiveFingers line of footwear would be a natural fan of the Latvian language
⁴As good a mnemonic as you could hope to find.

Humor

If asked to quantify my progress thus far in language learning, I would sum it up like this:

The frequency with which I say something unintentionally humorous is now less than the frequency with which I say something intentionally humorous.¹

Case in point:

When I started attending language classes about two months ago, it was a real struggle at first to understand what was being said or even what was being taught. Some of this was probably due to the fact that I'm probably not the sharpest knife in the language-learning drawer, if you know what I mean. But an even greater debilitating factor was the fact that I was the only english-speaking student in the class.²

My survival strategy quickly evolved into a nearly foolproof setup. If I sat in the middle of the semi-circular arrangement of seats, then whichever end the teacher started talking to or asking questions of, I'd have hopefully four or five responses to listen to and try to filter out some recognizable meaning or pattern before it was my turn to respond. If you hear one word that keeps changing in an otherwise consistent reply, well then it's easy: just plug a different word - with the correct grammatical ending, of course - into the formula, and all is well.


Example: the teacher states "Katru dienu, es pērku..." and then points to the student at the left-hand side of the class, three seats away from me:

First student: "Katru dienu, es pērku pienu."
Second student: "Katru dienu, es pērku maizi."

Me (thinking): Ok, so there's only one word changing. "Piens" and "maize" are both feminine nouns for milk and bread, declined in the accusative case. Perfect. I don't know what "pērku" means, or even "katru dienu," but if the next response also includes a consumable item, then I should be home free."

Third response: "Katru dienu, es pērku kafiju."

Me: Kafiju = kafija = coffee. Boom. My time to shine. Code cracked. I'll use "cukurs," sugar, since that's an easy noun to decline. Time to answer:  "Katru dienu, es pērku cukuru."

Cue bemused looks from several people, one half-hearted chuckle, and a brief pause while the teacher acknowledges my grammatical correctness before the next student replies. While responses keep coming in from around the semi-circle, I steal a moment to look up the unknown words in my Latvian-English dictionary, upon which point I discover that I had stated the following:

"Every day, I buy sugar."

Not incredibly funny, but in the spectrum of responses mine definitely stood out as the oddest sort of purchase one would make on a daily basis. Bread, milk, coffee, newspapers, cigarettes, train tickets, sandwiches... and sugar. I could only imagine what must be going through the minds of the rest of the class: "Who is this crazy kid from America? And why does he buy so much sugar? Does he collect it? Is he a baker? His teeth look fairly healthy, so he can't be eating it all himself. Is he a food hoarder? Saving up sugar for the upcoming apocalypse? Does he know something we don't know about the current geopolitical state of affairs? Perhaps there's an impending global sugar shortage about to take place. Should we start buying sugar every day as well?"³


Last week, by chance, the teacher asked the exact same question. The point of the exercise had changed, but the pattern of the response was similar. Note my response and the dialogue that followed this time:

Me: "Katru dienu, es pērku dzīvokli." (Every day, I buy an apartment)
Teacher: "Katru dienu jūs pērkat dzīvokli? Faktiski? (You buy an apartment every day? Seriously?)
Me: "Jā, protams! Kāpēc ne? Es esmu no Amerikās, un visi Amerikāņiem ir daudz naudas... tāpec, man jāpērk dzīvokli katru dienu. Ko vēl darīt?" (Yeah, of course! I'm from America, and all Americans have lots of money... so, I have to buy an apartment every day. What else to do?)⁴

(cue scattered laughter and mild chuckles from around the room).

It's interesting to observe how different motivating factors have influenced my language learning. In the first several class sessions, my major concern was to avoid making mistakes. Comprehension at almost any level was far beyond my feeble powers, and real dialogue was nothing but a distant dream. My studies in between classes had the primary goal of learning enough so I could survive the classes. Being laughed at isn't a debilitating thing for me, whether intentionally produced or not, so I don't mind those moments when I say something stupid and it garners a mirthful response.⁵ I do, however, despise the feeling of not knowing, being in the dark, and being unable to communicate or understand.

Now, though, with just enough language under my belt to be able to comprehend the majority of what goes on in class, my motivations have started to change. My hope each class is not just survival, but instead to learn. To converse. To have some meaningful dialogue, learn some new words and important grammatical rules, and take another small step towards fluency.


There's a strong temptation to motivate myself purely out of fear. Fear of failure, fear of sin, fear of falling flat on my face. This isn't to say that fear isn't healthy, in proper proportions. A fear of failure can be a good tool in your motivational arsenal.⁶ 

But it shouldn't be the only one.

A far greater motivator is the freedom and joy that comes with fluency. That's what progressing in my language skills will - eventually - offer. And of course, this principle extends way beyond the realm of just my language studies.


The best motivator - the motivator, singular - trickling down and influencing all other factors, is the freedom and joy that comes from knowing Jesus and walking with him. 

Being able to live - and laugh - freely is a beautiful thing indeed, and will be worth every moment of confusion and frustration along the way. That is my hope, greater than any fear of failure I might have. 

And that is what motivates me to learn Latvian... and to try and sprinkle in some humor along the way.

¹At least, I hope this is the case. I could be wrong. 

²This means that I'm trying to learn Latvian in a class being taught primarily in Russian. Even just typing that sentence makes my brain ache.

³A more probable line of thought: "Huh, that's mildly amusing. Kid likes sugar. And he also doesn't seem to know many Latvian words. Oh, wait, my turn to reply..."

⁴I realize how horribly culturally insensitive this appears; the rich American flaunting his wealth while abroad. But believe me, I've cultivated enough of a reputation among my classmates by now for slyly poking fun at American culture and stereotypes which, I think, gave me the ability to say this tongue-in-cheek while also stretching out my lingual limbs. Also, I have such a limited vocabulary - which is usually peppered with grammatical missteps, some of which I'm sure crept into my Latvian phrases above - that I just have to work with what I've got.

⁵I kind of look on those moments as minor accomplishments, actually. If I'm not pushing my language to the point where people are laughing at me on a fairly regular basis, then I'm not giving myself a valuable opportunity to practice, to learn, and to progress.
⁶1 John 3:3

Thanks to the miracles of modern technology, an English/Latvian joke book is readily available for "homework."

Unplugged

Sometime around Christmas, I dropped one of the glowing rectangles that I own. You know what they are; there's a good chance you're staring at one right now.¹ Phones, laptops, tablets, media players, e-readers, etc. We use them all the time - all the time - to the point that they have become nearly essential components for our society to function normally.

What shocked me was not the fact that I dropped it; I am a clumsy oaf in the best of times, and eight a.m. before my first cup of coffee is decidedly not the best of times. But my reaction to this seemingly inconsequential event was sobering.


I check it for scratches, and find some. Small crack in one corner. Still works, but with some visible scars.

My pulse quickens, and I taste anxiety at the back of my throat.

Sure, it works, I try to remind myself, but its former lustre is now lost. The magic spell is gone. Post-purchase cognitive dissonance has now arrived.

My temples tighten. My jaw clenches, and I begin to sweat. What will I do? How can I replace it? I do a quick google search - not on the tarnished device, heaven forbid, the mere sight of it now fills me with dread, but on one of my unscathed devices - for repair solutions. Warranty information. Replacement options. Anything which will let me return to my fantasy world in which technology exists only to make me happy.


I was terrified by my reaction and what it represented. Clearly, mine was not a healthy relationship with this thing. And as I examined my reaction, I discovered that my soul was even more uneasy about the connections which this thing - and so many other things that I, and you, and most everyone we know are possessed by - created between my heart and the world. Internet, email, facebook, twitter, blogs news sports videos youtube movies music games...


Millions of ways to connect to millions of people.²


I was so plugged in that when my connection was seemingly threatened by some superficial scratches, I immediately panicked. Sad, but true.

So, as soon as I reasonably could, I stepped away. It was long overdue and difficult to schedule, but well worth it. A rule of life that I've tried to maintain over the past few years is that an hour a day, a day a week, a week a year, I disconnect and unplug from everything and everyone (except God).³ The year was almost up, and I hadn't yet taken a week off from the world.

It was obviously high time that I did so.


While on my technological and communication sabbatical, I came across an entry in my journal from earlier this year which really struck home:

my truest self
can be seen 
in my ocular sheen,
foci of my gaze revealing
the center of my soul.
shades of white and not
glimmering, glistening, a
barrage of flickering pixels
delineating my desire.
can i bear to discover
the heart of my heart?
or will i bury
behind bright barriers
the restlessly lonely,
paradoxically unconnected
truth of my self?

A stark reminder of how persistent the struggle is to remain unpossessed by my possessions, and to be unconsumed by that which I consume. And how important it is for me to regularly step away from the distractions of this world in order to allow my soul to be stilled.


"For the world offers only a craving for physical pleasure, a craving for everything we see, and pride in our achievements and possessions. These are not from the Father, but are from this world."⁴


¹Unless you've printed this off and are reading it in print form. In that case, touche.
²Or, perhaps better put, millions of way to feel connected to millions of people. 
³My views on my relationship to technology have been highly influenced by the writing of Jacques Ellul, Richard Foster and Henri Nouwen in particular. I can't recall which of them deserves credit for the "hour per day, day per week, week per year" formula, but it's definitely not my own concoction.
⁴1 John 2:16, NLT

Advent

I was expecting a package last week.

It contained some important documents,¹ and I wanted to be sure I was home to receive and sign for it. So I cleared my calendar and planned on staying home all day to await its arrival.

Have you ever noticed that when you're expecting someone or something important, the anticipation heightens your awareness of otherwise routine and mundane? Suddenly,

footsteps on the stairs,
trucks driving by,
knock on a neighbors door,
phone ringing,
voices in the hallway,
all trigger a reaction in your fast-twitch package-arrival nerve centers.


It came,

(eventually).

But not on the day or in the way I expected.²


I've been waiting for my residence permit for over six months now. I might get it soon; maybe today, possibly tomorrow, and hopefully by the end of this week. I thought I would get it last week, once I submitted the documents I received in the package I had been waiting for. But apparently there's at least one more step; I remain cautiously optimistic that it's the final one.

My anticipation has been heightened. I'm ready for it to be here, to hold it in my hands. To sit on my couch and exhale, deliberately and deeply, letting the hopes and frustrations of the past several months slowly fade into the past tense


I'd like to think that I'm waiting for Jesus with the same fervor and anticipation that I have been for these packages and permits. That my anticipation will heighten my awareness of the otherwise routine and mundane, so that


footsteps on the stairs,
trucks driving by,
knock on a neighbors door,
phone ringing,
voices in the hallway,
all trigger a reaction in my fast-twitch Jesus-arrival nerve centers.


Rarely do I wonder as I answer my door, "maybe Jesus is here, at last!"


Perhaps I should?


Anna and Simeon³ seemed to have a mix of awe and wonder in their reaction to Jesus. Awe, because their long-awaited dream was finally realized, and their waiting - measured in decades, not days - was finally at an end. Wonder, because this was most likely not at all what they had expected. And yet, their expectations did not prevent them from holding their⁴ Messiah in their arms, and recognizing him as being the answer to their prayers, the fulfillment of their dreams, the answer to their questions, the end to their waiting.


As I wait for Jesus' return, may my anticipation be keen enough to see Him everywhere, and my expectations wide enough to be able to someday say "of COURSE! I didn't imagine it would be like this, but now everything makes perfect sense!" Heaven forbid that, as He returns, I say "Wait, no, not like this, Jesus! This isn't how it's supposed to work!"


And so, I wait. Imperfectly, impatiently, but with awe and wonder growing all the while.


¹My long-awaited apostilled copy of my diploma. What's an apostille, you ask? Having received it, I'm still not sure I know
²It took several long detours in Ohio along the way.
³Luke chapter 2
⁴"Their" in both the personal and the corporate (kin, country, and culture) sense

The Middle

There's a safety zone about a meter wide¹ in the middle of most sidewalks in town.

This varies from day to day, strongly influenced by the weather. Some days it might widen to include the entire sidewalk, and other days it might disappear entirely. Location matters; some sections might retain an aura of safety over their entire width, and others will be constantly fraught with danger.

On one side, you have water, ice and snow falling from the rooftops. You might risk venturing beneath the eaves in order to escape other dangers, but you will eventually be rewarded with a deluge of cold rain pouring off the rooftop directly down the back of your neck, a cascade of snow sliding down upon your person, or, in colder times, chunks of ice falling with enough angry velocity to leave marks on the asphalt threatening your old age.

Duly noted.

Closer to the road lie different, but equally disconcerting, hazards. One could write about the danger posed by reckless drivers - which is real - but I find this to be something of a constant in most city environments,² so I won't delve into that particular risk here. Of greater significance is the splash radius which passing vehicles generate as they drive through puddles of water and slush. I have seen old women who looked arthritic and fragile one moment suddenly appear as though they're channeling their inner Neo³ as they leap and dodge the diluvial waves of water sweeping across their paths

Say hello to the safety of the middle.

Here's the real problem, though: there's not enough room for everyone in the middle. When the sidewalks are jammed with people, you can try and stay in the center, but there will come moments when someone has to move towards the edge and the dangers awaiting them there.⁴

It's easy to say that everyone should stay in the middle. But some must risk dancing on the edge so that others can walk in the safety of the center.

The body of Christ needs people on the edges, pulling on our sensibilities and living out radical expressions of Christianity, every bit as much as it needs people in the middle, walking steadily and faithfully down familiar paths.⁵ There is a strong temptation to take a personal calling and apply it to the general population. And even greater is the temptation to take general truths that are indeed applicable to the entire body and use it as an excuse to avoid your personal call to a certain part of the sidewalk.

Not everyone is called to sell everything and live in poverty. This is perhaps most obvious to those who do not have this calling, and least obvious to those who do. But some are, and they challenge and inspire the rest of the body to ask hard questions about their relationship with material possessions. Not everyone is called to memorize entire books of the Bible, or to rescue victims of human trafficking from captivity, or to mop the church floor every Tuesday morning. But some are, and they dance on the edges of our comfort zone and cause us to pause and reflect on our place in the body as we journey together.

It's far easier to judge someone for not pursuing my idea of what their calling looks like than to sort out exactly where I'm supposed to be walking myself.⁶

In other words, the best question is not "How then shall we live?," but "How how then shall I live?"⁷

After all, to live on the edge simply to avoid the safety⁸ of tradition and routine is every bit as dangerous as staying in the center to avoid the extraordinary.

¹If you're not accustomed to thinking in metric units, that's about the equivalent of "one quick google search for unit conversions of meters to feet" wide. 

²I don't want to introduce hometown bias here, but if you've spent any time driving in or around Boston, it's hard to be overwhelmed by displays by bad driving. I've also been in Rome, so nothing shocks me any more.

³Are "The Matrix" references too dated? Does anyone else conjure up vivid imagery of a man acrobatically dodging bullets on a rooftop when you hear the name Neo, or has that become too obscure of a name-drop? 

⁴"Dangers" might sound like a bit of an overstatement, but go pour ice-cold water down your neck and then tell me how safe it felt.

⁵It's also worth saying that if you're not walking on the sidewalk that's headed towards Jesus, then the question becomes more "where am I going?" as opposed to "what is my calling?"

⁶If, however, you see someone about to veer into the street and get smeared by an oncoming trolleybus, it's a good idea to pull them back onto the sidewalk.

⁷Of course there are questions to be asked about the direction and calling of the body as a whole. I'm dancing on the edge and focusing on only one aspect of an entire spectrum of ideas so as to play my small part in the body. (Hey, see what I did there? Avoided potential criticism by using my own argument as an impregnable defense shield!) But if you don't include the aspect of personal calling, then you end up with a giant army of clones. Ask Obi-Wan and Yoda how that turned out for them. (In a word: poorly)

⁸There is nothing safe about this sidewalk, of course. Everywhere is dangerous; just some parts more obviously so than others. It is, in fact, decidedly unsafe. The risk is more relational in nature: people who dance on the edges are sometimes rejected by those in the middle, and vice versa.

Light

I don't think I can recall the last time I saw the sun. 

I know it was sometime in the past week. Or has it been two? I honestly can't recall its last appearance. My memory is as cloudy as this vintage November weather. Grey skies, drizzling rain, ice-cold chill in the air.¹

I love the changing seasons, but I don't love November.

Imagine if you were observing the change of seasons for the first time, with no concept of what was happening. What would you think? As the days got shorter and shorter, you'd probably start to wonder: will the sun ever come back again? Is this the end of the world? Is light soon to be forever gone? Should I buy stock in a candle-making company?²

Now think of that day - the solstice, the shortest day in the year - when the darkness stopped advancing. You measure the minutes, and soon realize that the light is returning. Days lengthen, winter eventually releases its icy grip on the world, and you rejoice in the return of the light.

When you see enough seasons come and go, you start to recognize a pattern: there are times of darkness, and times of light. One follows another. Seasons change, years pass by, but the pattern holds true: light follows darkness. Sometimes the winters are particularly cruel and dark, but summer always - eventually - comes.

Life has more than one kind of season. Years go by, and you notice patterns similar to those of the seasons: times of darkness, followed by times of light. You move from doubt, to despair, to hope, to joy. Sometimes the seasons are out of proportion, but there is a certain rhythm which we can find comfort in. With enough perspective, you start to realize that darkness is always followed - eventually - by light.

I was reading from Psalms 42 and 43 with a friend earlier this week, and I was struck once again by the refrain that the writer David repeats three times over those two chapters:

    Why, my soul, are you downcast?

    Why so disturbed within me?

    Put your hope in God,

    for I will yet praise him,

    my Savior and my God ³

I don't think I have it in me to be truly thankful for grim November weather. Neither do I have the capacity to give thanks for difficulties and hardships in the midst of them. Those one-degree days without a drop of sunshine in them, and those times when nothing makes sense and God himself seems to have left you high and dry; those are hard, if not downright impossible, to be thankful for.

But the seasons always change.

I put my hope in God, not because I can always praise him in the dark. I put my hope in him because I know the light is always just around the corner, because I have hope that one day I will yet - future tense - praise him. I've seen enough seasons change to have faith that the light will eventually break through, and that this dismal November weather will soon be a thing of the past. And I also know that in times of sunlight and joy, it's worth pausing to remember: this won't last. I need to soak up every minute of this, and do whatever it takes to remember the summer weather while it lasts.⁴

Even when one's soul is being blessed with summer weather, though, this dreary November drizzle is still pretty tough to appreciate. 

¹This is a rare case where there is no culture shock, or a longing for things back home, or a celebration of how much better things are here in Latvia. My suspicion is that Novembers are pretty dismal no matter where in the upper half of the northern hemisphere you reside
²You'd probably be better off just buying some candles.
³Psalms 42:5, 42:11, and 43:5
⁴For the record, I love winter as a season of the year; I do not enjoy it as a season of the soul. 

Thankful

A couple of weeks ago, in a small Bible study group I attend here in Riga, I was challenged to write down some of the things I'm thankful for. 

Here's the thing: once you start making a list like that, you realize that it's a never-ending task.¹ There truly is an incredible amount of things that I can be thankful for. More than enough to fill two pages without even really stopping to think.

Family,
friends,
pens that write well and don't bleed,
health,
Jesus,
chocolate chip cookies,
resurrection,
hope,
clean water,
blueberries,
                       (and so on, ad infinitum).


The interesting part of this exercise, at least to me, was how many things showed up on the list that I'm thankful for now, that at some point in my past I wasn't.

School,
work,
pain,
heartbreak,
brokenness,
broke-ness²
loss,
failure,
mushrooms,³
the New York Yankees.⁴


That's not to say that I'm now thankful for every circumstance or situation. I'd rather have not broken that bone, seen that relationship dissolve, been downsized from that job, failed that class, or watched the Red Sox lose to to the Yankees in 2003.

But pain is often the catalyst for growth. Hardship fosters endurance, which brings about strength of character and eventually the state of being "perfect and complete, needing nothing."⁵


So there's that.


I would never wish pain or suffering on anyone, including myself. And neither, I think, would Jesus. But I am thankful - deeply, heart-swellingly so - that he can create opportunities for genuine thankfulness from the worst that this world can throw at us.


And for that,

(among many, many, many other beautiful and wonderful things), 

I am thankful.



¹Perhaps a shorter - and infinitely more revealing - list would be one of "things I'm not thankful for."
²The state of being broke, i.e. dirt poor, i.e. "I have no money and lots of bills."
³Maybe to say I'm thankful for mushrooms is a bit of a stretch. But I used to despise them, and now I quite enjoy a mushroom under the right circumstances. I'll chalk that up as progress
⁴How else could the Red Sox have vanquished all those years of frustration and futility, if not for the NYY?
⁵James 1:2-4

One again

Today marks my first birthday in Latvia. I say that not to elicit congratulations or birthday wishes or anything of that sort;¹ as I see it, a birthday a paradoxical combination of celebrating surviving another year² and realizing that death is one year closer.

Yay.

I've recently started receiving some language tutoring in Latvian. I'd like to dazzle you with my newfound language knowledge, but in fact the single greatest lesson that I've learned thus far is just how much there is to learn.
Words, phrases, thoughts and concepts which are familiar friends in English have turned into strangers. I am far from being the most eloquent speaker even in my native tongue, but trying to communicate something - anything - in Latvian sends my brain into overdrive. Just to be able to utter a single phrase, which may or may not even be correct, causes smoke to pour out of my ears.

This would be frustrating if I was an adult, trying to communicate using adult language in an adult world

Thankfully, though, I'm not.

I've only just had my first birthday, after all

If I keep that in mind, then I suddenly feel much more optimistic about my chances of someday speaking something which sounds like Latvian. I can't expect to have the vocabulary and communication skills of an adult while still a child; this process has just begun, and there is still so much to learn, to hear, to discover and absorb.

But while there is an awareness that this process will take - is taking, is going to continue to take - considerable time, I also want to be sure that I do in fact grow up. I don't want to remain at this age of fluency; I'd someday like to be able to speak like a five year old. Maybe even, someday, at the level of an adolescent.⁴

I'd like to tell you that my spiritual maturity mirrored my actual age more than my Latvian age. That would be great. It also wouldn't be true. In fact, I feel like what I've been learning in my life with God mirrors my biggest lesson from Latvian as well: 

There is so much to learn, and I know so very, very little.

Therein lies the beauty, however, of both language and life with God. One never truly finishes learning. There is always more to discover, words to learn, different ways of communicating the same timeless truths.

And to learn, one must first acknowledge that one does not know.

Humbling, but also empowering.

So, it's back to the words⁵ I go. Es nerūnaju Latviski vēl; tagad man ir tikai viens gads.⁶

¹That, among a few other things, is what facebook is good for: guilting people who are stuck with the "friends" label into sending along birthday greetings when facebook prompts them to. It makes birthdays much more enjoyable to get a deluge of well-wishes from around the world!

²No small feat for some of us.

³And which almost assuredly has the wrong case ending on some - or all - of the words used.

⁴Because that'd like, be, like, you know. Yeah. 

⁵And the Word

⁶If you speak latvian, please feel free to correct me on my grammar!

Icy cobblestones

It snowed a few days ago here in Riga. It wasn't a big storm, and what snow it managed to deposit on the sidewalks and rooftops and park benches has now all but disappeared. I did a peculiarly sensible thing - peculiar for me, anyways - while it was snowing and stayed inside. I abandoned my morning run,¹ enjoyed a good book, and spent some time doing some organizing and unpacking - a seemingly never-ending task - around the flat.

The next morning - Saturday - I ventured out for my first run of the winter. The snow of the previous day was, by this point, compressed into a microscopically thin layer of clear-coat icing over the sidewalks and streets, pavement and cobblestones. Running in a straight line was a minor issue. Turning and stopping were major ones.

Somehow, I survived without any major catastrophes. I'm not the most coordinated person in the best of circumstances, and traversing icy sidewalks is definitely not the best of circumstances. I've had my share of falls and tumbles,² so to return with both my body and my dignity intact was a source of great pride and satisfaction.

At least, it was until the next morning. Upon awakening, it seemed as if every muscle in my body - legs, back, arms, even my neck - had decided to age about fifty years overnight. After all the miles I logged this past month, I did not expect a low-intensity morning run over a middling distance to leave me feeling crippled the next morning.



Have you ever been in a Wal-Mart? If you're an American, then surely you must have at some point. Have you been in more than one? Have you noticed that the layout of most of the stores is very similar but not identical? I find this phenomenon to be incredibly disorienting. You walk in, and there's enough visual cues to give it the air of familiarity. But no two are the same. Something's always different, and that's what causes the synapses in my brain to misfire and throw me into utter chaos.³ If you expected it to be different, it'd be no problem, but because it looks almost the same, you anticipate a structure and layout that exists only in your memory.


Have you ever driven on the other side of the road? You know which side I'm talking about.⁴ The one that takes you off of autopilot and makes you think about every single little thing you're doing while driving. You don't notice how much effort it takes to drive until you've had to re-learn how to navigate and shift and even turn, for goodness' sake. The weird part about it is that it feels so incredibly similar to driving on the usual side of the road, but something's just not quite the same. It's incredibly disorienting. You sit down in the driver's seat, and there's enough visual and even tactile clues to give it the air of familiarity. But it's not the same. If you expected it to be different, it'd be no problem, but because it looks and feels almost the same, you anticipate a structure and layout that exists only in your memory.



Welcome to culture shock.


The hardest things to acclimate to are not the obviously different, but the subtly dissimilar. They catch you unawares, stretching muscles you thought were well-conditioned and tasking your brain with mental exercises it long ago relegated to the realm of the unconscious. 


Sort of like running on ice.


You expect a phrase spoken in a language you understand to mean exactly what you think it does.⁵ This is how you purchase something in the supermarket, since it feels and looks so similar to the ones back home.⁶ When you cross the street, this is the direction you look and that is the moral compass you use to decide whether you can cross on red without breaking the spirit of the law.


So familiar.
So foreign.


At the end of my run, just about when I was beginning to feel firm on my feet,⁷ and while I had cautiously begin to congratulate myself on making it so far without any dramatic flailing and falling, I saw something which made me realize just how far I had to go:

A woman crossed the road right in front of me.
Running at a full sprint, so as to beat the traffic light.
In high heels. 
Across icy cobblestones.⁸


Respect.


Despite having spent a fair amount of time here in Latvia over the past several years, I'm constantly reminded of the following fact:

I know nothing.

I try and repeat it to myself at least once a day. It helps. It re-orients. It puts the focus on learning, and not on assuming. It makes me stop, look, and listen. It explains sore muscles, tired brains, and baby steps on icy cobblestones.


If I know nothing, then I can learn something. (I hope!).


Most importantly of all, by embracing my own ignorance, it helps point me towards Jesus, where I know I can find the strength and wisdom I need to walk these familiarly different roads.


And hopefully when the inevitable and ungraceful swan-dives onto the pavement do occur, I manage to keep the injuries just to myself, and avoid taking anyone else down with me.


"If you think you are standing strong, be careful not to fall."⁹



¹Needless to say, I've dialed back down the mileage after reaching my goal of traversing the length of Latvia before leaving England. My legs have been rejoicing at the lighter load
²Three broken arms, two broken ribs, and a broken collarbone, foot, and toe (all at different times, thank goodness) would all attest to both my clumsiness and frailty
³Slight over-exaggeration here
⁴I'm intentionally avoiding using the word "right" to avoid being accused of attributing value to one side of the road over the other. Even though one side is clearly the right side.
⁵It doesn't.
⁶It's not.
⁷Mostly because the ice had a good start on melting by that point
⁸I neither recommend this particular activity, nor do I hold it up as the pinnacle of cultural acclimation. It merely serves to illustrate the fact that it doesn't pay to pat yourself on the back for accomplishing pedestrian tasks.
⁹1 Cor. 10:12

icy cobblestone street in Old Riga

Back again

It's four degrees celsius and raining hard, but even this dismal weather fails to dampen my enthusiasm for being in Rīga.¹


The journey back was uneventful, and I'm mostly unpacked and resettled. The five days I've been here have been a friendly blur, filled with meetings and reconnections and bringing some order to my chaotic life.² 


It's good to practice what little Latvian I happen to know,³ be back in my flat, enjoy wearing clothes that are more fitting for the current season than what I packed in my suitcase three months ago,⁴ and - most important of all -  see friends, old and new alike, for the first time in a very long time.


Three months is a long time. Since I was last in Latvia, a man has jumped out of a balloon from the edge of space (and survived).⁵ Something called "the Olympics" happened, which caused a massive increase - and subsequent fall back into obscurity - of interest in sports which end in "-thlon." Three presidential debates among the two leading candidates in the U.S. caught the attention of the world, and brought phrases like "horses and bayonets" and "binders full of women" into popular vocabulary. Apple came out with an array of new products, which caused half of the world to dissolve into a state of lustful desire and the other half to staunchly resist the allure by clinging tightly to objects such as droids, windows, and in the case of one man alone deep in the wilderness for the past ten years, something called a "zune." Several friends have moved from Rīga to places such as Hungary, Norway, the U.K., and even (ironically) the U.S.  


A lot can happen in three months.


(Thankfully, though, some things haven't changed) 


This is my home - whatever that word even means - and this is where I'm meant to be.


Absence might make the heart grow fonder,⁶ but presence makes the heart remember. This is why I'm here - this person, that place, this gloriously difficult opportunity - and this is why it's so good to be back.



It'd take a lot longer than three months to forget how much this place means to me.



¹Lest you think I take this whole writing thing too seriously, let me be the first to state the obvious: This is a truly cringeworthy start to this post. But my weak attempt at a meaningful metaphor amused me so greatly that I decided to leave it in. 
²Not to mention my cluttered possessions. As scant as they might be, they have a way of expanding to fill the entire volume of whatever area they are enclosed within. Kind of like a gas, except with a slightly less tendency towards being malodorous.
³Most recent phrase I uttered: "Man lūdzu melna kafija." Perhaps the single most important Latvian phrase I've yet to learn. Google translate it if you don't speak latvian.
⁴Including sweaters. And long-sleeved shirts. And wool socks. And other assorted cold-weather gear and clothing. *bliss*
⁵That incredibly captivating freefall was quickly surpassed, oddly enough, by a cyclist.
⁶A saying with low credibility, in my opinion, but it's repeated so often I think most people take it to be true. Absence might make the heart grow fonder, but that's only because the difficult and painful slip through the cracks in ones memory far quicker than the bright and beautiful do.