I have this notion that creativity often gets lodged somewhere between the 5th rib and the esophagus. Something, some presumptuous, unannounced thing, will make it stir—a moment, experience, a conversation, a face. But then it will just be stuck and you'll spend hours trying to figure out how to dislodge it.
[Sidenote: But then I listened to this episode of Radiolab, and I'm temporarily terrified of creativity]
I just wanted to tell you the state of my thoughts on creativity. More on that later.
Classes began last week, and with them came the familiar lack of direction and/or knowledge regarding what's going on. Americanly-enough, I take comfort in words like "master course syllabus," "roster," "course objectives," and "rubric," even in spite of my less-than-adequate organizational skills. And I can say things to my colleagues like, "I'd like to discuss expectations for the course" or "is there any particular way you would like me to structure this course?" yet I still get answers like, "whatever you do is great" and "no," which is my reminder that I am no longer teaching at an American University.
So I planned a lesson and I showed up—my go-to method for success. The topic is "art" (seriously, just..."art"), so I thought "why don't we talk about Dada and they can tell me what art is." And they did. Emphatically. With vigor.
Five months and what can I say about my life here?
The once strange has become familiar.
I can drink instant coffee, no problem. I feel less anxiety now when half a dozen people bulldoze into me in the bread aisle. I now respond to "дівчина!" ("girl!"). Riding the marshrutka feels more like transportation and less like a David Lynch film. When someone asks me a question, I no longer panic, say "ya ne razameyoo," and quickly walk away. I'veslipped and fallen observed others' ice-walking behaviors and can successfully walk like a penguin. I don't smile at strangers, and my "no"s are much more firm. I wear many of my clothes at least 3 times before washing them (and I totally don't even stink (at least I don't think I do. Please tell me if I smell)). I've been told that my Ukrainian sounds great—now I just need more (and I mean a lot more) vocabulary. I really, really, really love soup, beets, kasha, kotleta, anything with cabbage, and anything, ANYTHING you can dump smetana on (namely pancakes).
And perhaps most importantly, I've learned to not worry so much about "knowing what I'm doing," because it seems that whatever approach I take—in some way or another—works. As my dear friend, Kristen, reminded me, "Ukrainians seem to just 'go with the flow', so I've decided that we probably should too." Context, details, subtext, and any-other-information-that-I-think-I-might-possibly-need be damned.
I still can't sleep on the overnight train. My clothes are rarely, if ever, ironed. My shoes are never polished. But perhaps, given enough time, these things will shift as well.
[Sidenote: But then I listened to this episode of Radiolab, and I'm temporarily terrified of creativity]
I just wanted to tell you the state of my thoughts on creativity. More on that later.
Classes began last week, and with them came the familiar lack of direction and/or knowledge regarding what's going on. Americanly-enough, I take comfort in words like "master course syllabus," "roster," "course objectives," and "rubric," even in spite of my less-than-adequate organizational skills. And I can say things to my colleagues like, "I'd like to discuss expectations for the course" or "is there any particular way you would like me to structure this course?" yet I still get answers like, "whatever you do is great" and "no," which is my reminder that I am no longer teaching at an American University.
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So I planned a lesson and I showed up—my go-to method for success. The topic is "art" (seriously, just..."art"), so I thought "why don't we talk about Dada and they can tell me what art is." And they did. Emphatically. With vigor.
Five months and what can I say about my life here?
The once strange has become familiar.
I can drink instant coffee, no problem. I feel less anxiety now when half a dozen people bulldoze into me in the bread aisle. I now respond to "дівчина!" ("girl!"). Riding the marshrutka feels more like transportation and less like a David Lynch film. When someone asks me a question, I no longer panic, say "ya ne razameyoo," and quickly walk away. I've
And perhaps most importantly, I've learned to not worry so much about "knowing what I'm doing," because it seems that whatever approach I take—in some way or another—works. As my dear friend, Kristen, reminded me, "Ukrainians seem to just 'go with the flow', so I've decided that we probably should too." Context, details, subtext, and any-other-information-that-I-think-I-might-possibly-need be damned.
I still can't sleep on the overnight train. My clothes are rarely, if ever, ironed. My shoes are never polished. But perhaps, given enough time, these things will shift as well.
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