How Do You Say Serenity in Russian?

The past two weeks, life has been wonderful at reminding me I control very little. I like to think I generally have a pretty good handle on things. When I checked my e-mail last week and read a note from a friend in Honduras who said he saw Cedar Rapids on the news there, I knew I was really out of the loop. (Primary season is over, why in the world would Iowa be on the news?) I went to the website of our local station and watched footage that’s now permanently in my head: the entire downtown submerged in a river that we never thought would flood. Aha, I thought, sitting in the lobby of my hotel in Yaroslavl, Russia. This is called being completely helpless.

Over the next few days, I was able to get updates from several people, and learned my home, family, and friends were all fine. Altered life went on in Cedar Rapids, and my altered life in Russia is going just fine too, although I can’t help but wonder at the irony: here I am volunteering nine time zones away, when my hometown has never needed more help. I’m learning so much about myself, about Russia, and by comparison about the US, too, but I know I could be doing more in my own city. But I also know it will all be okay. Cedar Rapids will go on just fine without me (let’s be honest), and though I can’t control much, I can control my attitude, and do the most I can while I’m here in Russia.

The flooding aside, my first two weeks in a foreign country has also taught me a lesson or two about surrendering control. The mere act of relying on a translator, or on some muddled form of charades, to carry a message to and from other people takes a serious amount of letting go. I like to think I’m self-sufficient here, but I can’t even buy train tickets or stamps without bringing along someone who knows Russian. People come up to me on the street and start talking and I can never even remember how to say “I don’t speak Russian” in Russian. It was hard at first. But there’s something sort of contemplative and freeing, even along with all the limitations, in not talking so much, in just letting the language wash over you, and knowing that somehow, you still figure things out.

So, I can’t control the weather, in Russia or Iowa, and I wasn’t blessed with a gift for learning languages (I’ve been studying Spanish for five years and I’m continuously foiled by verb tenses), but hopefully I can do a thing or two while I’m here. When we’re driving in the van to the orphanage and I’m not busy trying to sound out street signs like a little kid, sometimes I think about home, and wonder how the clean-up is going. But then we arrive and the kids run up and hug my legs and giggle and scream, and I know that for now, I’m right where I belong, so I’d better do the best I can while I’m here. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

By Erin Becker  |  June 22, 2008; 12:28 PM ET  | Category:  Tar Heel Testament
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