It’s Wednesday.  I am still exhausted from last Thursday, the day of the “International Festival” at Dante and Evan’s School.  It was a big success. It looked like we were a school for performing and visual arts (with all the cool sets and artsy masks, a drum circle and all the different authentic folk dances, with lights and actors and set changes, and the big finale, of course) instead of a tiny little parochial school that was going to close less than a year ago.

I volunteered to produce (write, direct and rehearse) the International Festival Show at my kids’ school because… because… because…

Because when I involve myself in any work with kids (other people’s kids) I know I will come out different.

Not only do I get a chance to offer them a piece of my musical knowledge and skill but I also get to share in little pieces of their worlds.  And receive insight into their innocent (and not-so-innocent) existences. 

There are eight grade boys who are way too cool to sing or to approve of any music, except what’s on their iPods.  They shared the list with me.  I spent hours trying to find “clean” versions on iTunes, and even then, it wasn’t the words that were offensive, but what they talked about.  Granted, I don’t completely understand the many different styles of Rap and Hip Hop and the backgrounds - a part of me wants to believe that there must be more to it somewhere underneath all the filth… I wanted them to participate - some of them are amazingly talented kids.  I let them write their own rap song and I watched them as they performed it - with pride and self-respect.  I tried to help them to understand that they don’t have to accept everything that’s being sold to them, but need to use good judgment and pick out music that doesn’t degrade them, but empowers them with positive values. 

There is a sixth grade student who had never seen an accordion before.  I let her walk around with it, playing the “buttons” until her back started to hurt.

There were fourth grades who didn’t know who Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was - ok, parents… maybe a trip to the symphony now and then wouldn’t be a bad idea, even if you have to use the “bribe method” and promise ice-cream after the show.

A fourth grade boy wanted to be involved in some way.  I assigned him to learn to play the handbells with a few fifth grade boys.  He had become very, very good at it and enjoyed his newfound talent. But in the past his parents had never been able to bring him to any of the evening school activities.  He was so worried he would miss it again that he went home sick from school that day.  Just before show time, he came to me with the biggest smile to say “I made it!” I said I was so happy he was there and how very proud I was of him.  I smiled, but I wanted to cry with the excitement and joy I felt coming from his heart.

These stories are tiny little sparkles in the life of a child and those around them.  But we can never know how big of a “ripple effect” they might have… 

I was in 7th grade when a literature teacher said to me (after I had read my book report, got emotional and had the entire class burst out laughing at me): “you are different and it’s that quality that will set you apart from others.  You will be misunderstood, and lonely because of that, but it will give you a life most extraordinary”.  Her words empowered me and I remembered them many times in my life.  

Yesterday I spent some time with a musician who had lived in London and Los Angeles and now is happily enjoying his perfect life with his wife and children in the quiet and stress-free city of Cincinnati (Matthew said he is going to start a blog “Why we live in Cincinnati”).  Sometimes though, he says, he misses the “highlights”.

In my late twenties, I started to crave the stability of, what I call  “perfect life”, with a husband, children and a house warm and cozy where there would always be fresh flowers in a vase and a pot of delicious soup on the stove (the soup is a sure sign of a “perfect life” in Croatia - even in the scorching heat of summer) This “perfect life” would have a certain routine which, my magazines promised, would then create order and stress-free enviroment.  A well-lived routine would enable me to have plenty of free time; to play with children and enjoy bike rides, soccer games and delicious home-made dinners, hang out with friends, and plan vacations.  I was looking forward to it.  Hmmm.

It worked for me for about six months when Dante was born.  Life with a husband and a baby was so different from anything I had ever known,  I was madly in love with both and the tiniest little noise from the baby, or a fresh squeezed glass of orange juice from my husband provided plenty of emotional “highlights”.  But as our “routine” was establishing, I  panicked and got restless.  Really restless.  

I am a fervent advocate for being honest with who we are.  So, Matthew, Dante and I did what when we had been doing before and what we would be doing only God knows for how long - we packed up and went on the road, seeking a different kind of “perfect life”. One that doesn’t involve flowers freshly cut from my own garden, but instead those given to me with much pride at the end of a concert by a girl who had cut them from her mother’s garden.  We have created our own routines (because every life style needs order and some traces of predictability) and our “perfect life” though it might seem chaotic for most of the people out there, has a certain flow that I still get restless from…

So I look for more “highlights” - and last Thursday was a very emotional one for me.  It’s one thing to get up on stage and perform… I am used to it.  I love it.  I feel more comfortable than in my own living room.  It’s my version of “perfect and calm life of routine and order”.  But to watch students take a chance and conquer their fears and then to see the pride on their faces as they bow for their parents and relatives tears me up inside and leaves me with an amazing sense of accomplishment (even though I had blown off my own work, pushed back a few deadlines, and now will have to get a second job to pay my bills

Every Wednesday evening, I get into my car and drive south on I75.  I don’t go far.  Two exits.  My destination: St. Joseph’s Church close to downtown Cincinnati.

I first came to St. Joseph’s Church one Sunday morning,  I was feeling really sad and depressed.  I had just returned from a Lenten Tour, my first since my father’s passing.  I had had a hard time moving away from the Cross.  I had lingered there at the place of sadness, not willing to let go, afraid of accepting my loss and moving on.

I came to St. Joseph’s that Sunday because someone had told me about their amazing African American choir.  I needed music, deeply spiritual music to heal my heart.  I wore my best day-dress, Matthew had on a tie and our boys were in nice button down shirts and khaki pants.  I was pretty sure that everyone there would be all dressed up.  We sat near the choir.  I wanted to hear them and be close enough to feel their energy.  I was ready to clap my hands and sing without any inhibition.

The music started and a beautiful woman came up to the altar, greeted everyone and said a prayer.  ”I don’t want to wait till a better day comes, to thank you, Lord.  I want to thank you right now.  I don’t want to wait till I am healed to thank you. I want to thank you right now.  I don’t want to wait till I get that job that will help feed my family to thank you, Lord. I want to thank you right now…”

The choir sang, the priest (an older priest who could clap pretty well for a white guy) seemed to enjoy the mass as much as they did – talking his time, letting them take their time and sing many verses as he sang with them.  I could not hold back the tears.  I was sobbing most of the mass.  I tried to hide my sobs from my boys.  I felt like my father was right there sitting on that pew with me, holding me close and whispering into my heart: “It’s all going to be just fine.  I am here.  I will always be here.  Even when you can’t see me I am right here.”   That Sunday, I did not sing.  Not a single note.

That day was one I will never forget.  I felt as if I was lifted up from the place where I stood in tears and carried over to a place where there was a perpetual party going on.  A place wherre life was good in spite of all of life’s hardships and losses.

I also think that the choir and the whole community reminded me of the Croatia where I grew up and the way we used to get together and sing.  My Dad would always take his guitar every time we went to visit someone or have a party and we would all sing in the same uninhibited way, enjoying the simple pleasure of being together and making magical memories out of nothing but a few voices and an old guitar.

It’s been a little over a year now since my first visit to St. Joe’s.  I had asked a friend of mine, another wonderful music minister Jim McCormick, to connect me with their leader Maestro Wylie Howell.

Wednesday rehearsals have become my prayer evenings.

Last week as I sang, Wylie said to me: “Let His Light fill you up. Let HIs Light be the one thing you will share with others. Because He is not on the cross any more, He is in Heaven, He is with you and me right now, right here.” He coached me until something inside of me changed - I felt as if until now I had only walked beside my Lord, or watched Him suffer and felt His pain. Until now, I had looked at Him from down below, on my knees, broken by my struggling soul.  But now, as I sang at St. Joe’s I felt God within me - shining like a blazing light through me.  

I can not wait for this Concert.

The alarm sounded off perfectly synched with the sunrise. I reached over and with a smile on my face, without once hitting the snooze button, turned it off. I sprung on my feet, stretched out my arms, breathed deeply and within minutes I was showered, my subtle but flawless make up was applied and I was wearing a bright yellow tailored dress and some cool “putting-around-the-house” heels. I arranged the fresh tulips and lilacs that were delivered at my door that morning, turned the music on and started working on the Easter breakfast - fresh squeezed orange juice, freshly baked bread, croissants, ham and hard boiled eggs (which my boys and I had painted and decorated so artfully you’d think they were not to be eaten… ever) with tea served in my best teapot. I poured myself a nice cup of tea and sat down in my sun-flooded kitchen, waiting for my boys to wake up.

“Mama, mama, wake up” I heard Dante saying.

“What’s up, ljubavi?”, I always try to address my boys with the Croatian word for ‘love’

“Happy Easter”

“Happy Easter

to you, too Dante”, I glanced at my clock. 7:13. “Do you mind if I sleep for a bit longer?”

“No, but Blais and I are hungry.” Dante said quitely and gently.

I looked at him standing big and tall next to his two and a half year old brother, both in their red p.j.’s. Instinctively I looked for Evan and right away I located him snuggled on the other side of me sound asleep.

“There are doughnuts on the counter in the kitchenette, would you serve some?” I mumbled, immediately feeling a pang of guilt. Was it a dream? I thought I got up and made this nice breakfast for my family. It’s Easter Sunday…

“Sure, mama” Dante said and ran to the kitchen “Come on, Blais, I’ll give you umm-umm (Croatian baby speak for eating)” I smiled at Dante’s use of Croatian language. I felt a bit proud - sure they don’t speak Croatian in full sentences, but a word here-and-there is a good beginning. “Oh, whatever… I am not allowing any kind of guilt into my conscience. Not today”, I thought.

I made a move, or at least I remember willing myself into making a move, to get up and help him “He is still so little, he shouldn’t have to…” But I stayed laying still. A smile came to my face as I looked out the window at the ocean. “Thank you, God. For this morning. For my sons. For Easter. For this comfortable bed. For the soft sheets and the perfect pillow, and the warmth of my husband’s closeness. For liking the way I am - without guilt.”

We took a few days after the tour on South Carolinas shores, to wind down before getting back home where plenty more work awaited us. Matthew loves the ocean, the boys love building sand castles, and I love to sit on a nice chair, look out into the vastness of the Atlantic and ponder: I look East at a new beginning of each sunrise, that brings new possibilities and fills me with refreshed hopes and dreams. At the same time I look East where my past, my roots, my memories are. From the same direction come the new and the old, the lightness of being and the heaviness of the past. Such confusion…

Perhaps that’s why I also enjoy just sitting on a nice chair and reading fiction - especially fiction that involves shoes, lunches and big cities - without feeling any guilt. It’s like counting pennies for me: just letting my brain rest by giving it thoughts or actions that employs it enough so that it won’t take me into any serious pondering.

Not too long ago, I would not admit to this not even to my close friends, let alone make it public in a “blog”, oops, a “diary”. But I am really comfortable with me these days. I am who I am.

Happy Easter (have you downloaded Alleluia yet?)

We were driving southbound on I95 after our last concert at St. Christopher’s Church in York, Maine, still energized from the amazing experience, trying to recap the tour.  Matthew, who was driving, would say the name of the church and the town and Denny, Maya and I (Melanie had already gone her way after the concert) would try to fill in the details - the names of people that organized the event, priests and deacons, where we had stayed and what we had had for dinner.  It wasn’t easy - the beginning of the tour, although only 6 weeks ago, seemed like months ago.   

After we said goodbye to Denny (whom we dropped off in Woonsocket, RI where some friends of ours would take him to the Providence airport in the morning) we continued south.  In the silence of the all night drive I tried to remember all those who had talked to me after the concerts - sharing their stories with me, asking for prayers as well as those who had offered their prayers for our intentions.  

It is what I like about my spiritual music - the openness between me, as a performer, and my audience.  There are no walls, no pretense.  There are no “throw-away” songs or “fillers”.  Every word is important, felt and thought through, every note occupies time laden with prayer and meditation.  Often I find it difficult to contain all the emotions that surface through the music, or ignore the thoughts that linger in my mind long after the concert is over.  It’s that very thing that I find so inspiring and rewarding, that also leaves me exhausted and sad, particularly after the “I Thirst” concerts.  The entire tour I couldn’t “shake-off” the feeling that we are not doing enough - I would like to be able to offer comfort and hope to someone who has none.  Well, it just means we need to work harder and not give up. 

I am ready.  Almost.  No, actually in all honesty, I am not ready at all. I am tired and I do need a break - to catch my breath and refill my heart.  Once Easter comes, I will listen to some happy music, dance until I collapse, I will have a glass of wine (or two) with Matthew and some friends and laugh an evening (or two) away.  I will go bike riding with my boys and in the evening hug and kiss them as we all fall asleep in the same bed cozy with fresh linens and soft pillows.  I will buy a bunch of bright yellow tulips and then I will be ready for more…  

For now, I pray…

“Mama, look at me!”, Evan cried from the old-fashioned balcony pulpit at St. Mary’s Church in Brookline, MA.  “How do you think I got up here?”

“Hmmm. let me think,” I pretended to be puzzled. “You climbed up on the pew and then jumped up to the bottom of the pulpit and swung yourself over the wooden railing”

“Nope, try again!”

“You climbed up the column like Spiderman!”

“Mama…” this one was too much even for him, my five-year old son.

“You wished it really hard and magically got in there,” I took my guess again

“No,” he giggled, “there are stairs right here in the back”

I got up the stairs and sat next to him explaining how when you sing or speak from this raised pulpit, your voice carries further– and before there were microphones, this was a clever way for your voice to be heard.  Evan, who has lately been waiting for the first star in the sky to wish upon every night got quiet and asked, “Mama, do wishes really come true?”

“Of course they do, Evan,” I said, quickly adding, “except the ones that are greedy or mean”

“But do they ever come true right away? Like…’poof”?”

“No, I don’t think so. It usually takes some time. And usually the wishes that come true are those that you wish for with all of your heart.  Then God, who knows your heart, hears it and helps you get the wish you wish for”. Then I told him how when I was five, I wished to someday go to America. I tried to explain the best I could, how impossible that wish seemed from a world so far away and so different from this country.

“Your wish came true, Mama,” he said with a smile on his face.

An hour later, the concert began.  As Denny and Melanie played the instrumental intro to the program, I stood in the darkness, with only backlights illuminating the first few pews of the georgeous church.  Small crowd, I thought and felt a bit disappointed.  But then I saw a woman wearing the “I do believe” t-shirt.  She was sitting in her wheelchair in front of the first row of the pews, with a blanket over her lap.  If I was discouraged for a moment, the sight of her was like a bright sign popping out of darkness: sing for her.  It took a big effort on her part to be here tonight.  You need to deliver the music as if you were performing for thousands.  One person.  One soul.  That’s all that matters.  That one person.

I gave my all.  100%.  No holding back. Towards the end of the concert, I decided to talk about Evan’s wishing upon the star and how I told him about my own wish coming true.  I sang “Over the Rainbow” remembering what it felt like to be that little girl and wish something against all odds.  After the concert, I went to thank the woman in the “I do believe” shirt for coming.  She pulled me close, “Tell Evan that wishes do come true.  Two years ago I saw you at another concert in Boston and I have been wishing ever since that you would return to our area.” she said with a big, beaming smile on her face.

Speaking of wishes coming true, earlier this week I had to drop off my MacBook at an Apple store here in Boston area.  The store was located in a very, very upscale mall.  I took Blais with me to have some one-on-one time: I planned on taking him out for lunch.  After we had dropped off my computer (and Apple Stores have the best customer service in the world– everyone is super nice, knowledgeable and their “genius bar” service is enough of a reason to become a Mac user}, Blais decided he wanted to ride the escalators.  So we went upstairs where we landed in front of a really nice Ellen Fisher boutique.  I thought of going in and checking out their end-of-season sweaters’ sale. (I like Ellen Fisher’s sweaters because their wool is light and Italian and hand-washable.)  Still feeling a bit shy after my last week’s experience (see “Child Friendly” entry), although I did receive a nice response from their manager supervisor apologizing for the treatment I had received, I took Blais by the hand and slowly walked in.  Immediately a georgeous looking woman in her 40s came up to us and said “Hi!” to Blais.  Within minutes the two of them were sitting on a ledge of a platform in the shop’s window, talking and playing with decorative stones, while I browsed through the racks of clothes.  She allowed herself to stop what she was doing and enjoy this little person who wandered into her store.  She noticed his manners, his sweetness, his two-and-a-half-years-old personality, smiling at the way he talked to her, and then completely melted when Blais, encouraged to take one stone to the cashier lady who would write his name on it, took three and said to her: “Evan and Dante too! Ple-ee-ase” 

Now, I wonder: does this little, insignificant, but definitely precious life’s episode qualify as “wishes do come true?”

“Mama, pogledaj gdje sam!” Evan je stajao na balkonu u prekrasnoj baroknoj crkvi Sv. Marije smjestenoj u lijepom

 predgradju Bostona.  “Pogodi kako sam se popeo tu”

“Hmmm, cekaj da promislim,” pretvarala sam se da mi nista nije jasno. “Prvo si se popeo na klupu i onda skocio tako visoko da si zavrsio na balkoncicu”

“Ne, nisi pogodila!”

“Popeo si se po zidu, ko Spiderman!”

“Ma mama…” cak ni moj petogodisnji klinac nije bio impresioniran mojoj domisljatosti.

“Zazelio si svim srcem te se carolijom nasao gore, ha!” probala sam treci put ‘pogoditi’

“Ne”, rekao je kroz smijeh, “tu iza su stepenice.”

Popela sam se i ja gore i sjela kraj njega.  Dobra prilka za lekciju iz arhitekture i akustike: “Vidis Evan, prije nego sto su ljudi izmislili mikrofone, ugradili bi ovakve balkoncice s kojih bi kantor pjevao jer ih se puno bolje culo s ovog mjesta.”  Evan, koji vec par dana strpljivo ceka vecer, trazi prvu zvijezdu na nebu da zazeli svoju zelju, potiho me pitao, “Mama, da li se zelje stvarno mogu ispuniti?”

“Naravno, Evan” rekla sam, nadodajuci “osim ako su sebicne ili zlobne”

“Ali, da li se nekad ispune onako odjednom, ‘puff’– i zelja je tu!”

“Ne, mislim da ne.  Ponekad treba puno vremena da se zelja ispuni.  Pogotovo zelje koje zazelis iz dubine srca jer tada dragi Bog, koji zna sve sto je u nasim srcima, cuje tvoju zelju i pomogne ti da se ispuni.” Ispricala sam mu kako sam ja, dok sam bila mala ko i on, zazeljela da jednom dodjem u Ameriku.  

“Mama, tvoja zelja se ostvarila!” Evanove velike plave okice su zasjale ispunjene srecom.

Sat vremena kasnije… Koncert pocinje instrumentalnim uvodom.  Stojim za svojom klavijaturom, osvjetljena jedino sa reflektorima iz pozadine.  Prekrasna crkva, te veceri manje puna nego inace.  Pogled mi padne na zenu u crnoj majci s bijelim slovima “I do believe” (to su majce koje se mogu kupiti jedino na mojim koncertima - znaci vec je bila na jednom od  koncerata).  Sjedila je u svojim invalidskim kolicima s dekom na krilu i plasticnim cijevima za kisik kod glave.  Ako sam u trenutku osjetila razocaranje,  njena prisutnost bila je kao bljestavi signal: “Pjevaj za nju.”, pomislila sam,  ”Zamisli koliki napor je ona ulozila da veceras bude tu.  Mjesecima je planirala, organizirala specijalni prijevoz i pratnju.  Pjevaj kao da nastupas za tisucu ljudi u nekoj najvaznijoj katedrali.  Jedan covijek. Jedan zivot.  Tu je vaznost. Bas u  toj jednoj dusi.”

Dala sam sve od sebe te veceri, pa cak i vise od toga.  Pred kraj koncerta ispricala sam svoj mali dogadaj s Evanom i kako on svake veceri zazeli zelju kad vidi prvu zvijezdu.  Pjevala sam “Over the Rainbow” (pjesmu iz Carobnjaka iz Oza) sjecajuci se kako sam kao mala voljela tu pjesmu i taj film, i zamisljala sebe kako glumim i pjevam ko Judy Garland.  Nakon koncerta, pristupila sam zeni u kolicima da joj se zahvalim sto je dosla.  Primila me je cvrsto za ruku i primaknula me sebi: “Reci Evanu da se zelje uistinu ostvaruju… Prije dvije godine vidjela sam te na koncertu i zazeljela da se jednog dana opet vratis u moj grad” rekla je s velikim, srdacnim osmijehom na licu i suzama u ocima.

Kad smo vec kod ostvarenih zelja, ovaj tjedan sam opet zavrsila u jednom od vrlo lijepih Bostonskih shopping centara, zbog mog lap-topa koji mi je malo “zastekao”.  Uzela sam Blaisa sa sobom planirajuci ga pocastiti malim ruckom - samo on i ja.  Nakon sto sam ostavila kompjuter na servisu, Blais si je zazelio provozati se pokretnim stepenicama.  Zasto ne?  Za cas smo se nasli na drugom katu ispred Ellen Fisher butika.  “Hmmm, da li da udjem ma samo na tren… Ovaj ducan uvijek ima krasnih, kvalitetnih talijanskih vesti” pomislila sam, prisjecajuci se mog ranijeg iskustva s djecom u lijepim shopping centrima… (vidi “Pogodno za djecu” dnevnik).  Primila sam Blaisa za njegovu malu toplu i mekanu rukicu i polako usla u ducan.  Cim smo usle, prekrasna i vrlo dobro obucena cetrdesetogodisnjakinja uocila je Blaisa i srdacno mu prisla “Bog mali!”  Za cas su se njih dvoje sprijateljili i zabavljali dekorativnim kamencicima u izlogu ducana dok sam ja mirno i polako pregledavala krasnu robu u ducanu.  Zena je zapravo prekinula ono na cemu je radila (sto je zapravo rijetkost u Americi) da bi uzivala u malisanu koji se je nasao u njenom ducanu (sto je isto prava rijetkost).  Primjetila je kako je mali fino odgojen, kako je slatki, kako ima vrlo razvijen karakter za dvogodisnjaka, uzivala je u njegovom osmjehu i krasim recenicama kojima joj je odgovarao na pitanja.  Ubrzo je potpuno poludila za njim te mu ponudila da uzme jedan od kamencica na koji ce mu ona napisati njegovo ime, a on je pitao da li moze uzeti jos dva za svoja dva brata, “Lijepo molim?”

Pitam se: da li ova naizgled beznacajna mala zivotna epizoda kvalificira za “zelje postaju stvarnost?” (s obzirom na moje ranije iskusvo u Pennsylvaniji - procitaj “Podobno za djecu”)

Bio je slobodni dan. Odlucili smo ici u kino - i mali i veliki.  Jedino, morat cemo gledati dva razlicita filma, jer ipak ne razumiju bas svi humor animiranog krastavca, sparoge i paradajza (popularni djecji likovi iz “Veggie Tales” serije).  Ja cu voditi decke u kino iako nisam ni ja previse impresionirana filmom, ali meni je najljepse promatrati moje decke kako uzivaju u njihovom specijalnom izlasku. 

Htjela sam ih bas dobro pocastiti jer su se stvarno pokazali kao jako dobra djeca, bas pravi mali profesionalci, i na koncertima i na putovanjima.  Nakon kina, ako bude sve po planu ici cemo u Shopping centar gdje cu im kupiti novu igricu za njihov DS Nintendo i voditi ih na sladoled (morala sam ionako pricekati dva sata dok film za “odrasle” zavrsi pa da se svi skupa mozemo vratiti u apartman gdje smo tada nocili. 

Prije nego sto smo krenuli zvala sam shopping centar da pitam da li imaju ikakve atrakcije za klince, tako da se znam pripremiti.  Obicno veliki centri imaju igraonicu ili bar ringispil.  Neki bolji centri cak pruzaju mogucnost da se djecu ostavi krasnim tetama koje ih cuvaju i zabavljaju.  Ako nista drugo onda se barem uvijek nadju kakve igrice ili McDonalds sa igraonicom  no zenskica koja se javila na telefon kad sam ja zvala rekla je da njihov shopping centar isljucivo za “shopping”!  

OK, mozda je zena imala tezak dan jadnica, pa nije imala strpljenja odgovarati telefonske pozive (makar, pomislila sam, gospodja bi si definitivno trebala naci neki drugi posao koji ne zahtijeva ljubaznost sa strankama, ako joj bas to ne ide.)

Vec je bilo oko sedam sati navecer kad smo dosli u centar.  Blais je bio malo umoran pa sam odlucila uzeti ona djecja kolica na iznajmljivanje s dvije stolice i krasnom velikom mrezom za kapute i vrecice.  No, za salterom sam samo nasla policajca koji je nonsalantno razgovarao na telefon.  Pricekala sam par minuta i onda ga prekinula jer su decki vec postali nemirni, Blais je trcao okolo naokolo dok sam ja ‘lagano’ gubila strpljenje: “Molim lijepo jedna kolica za dvoje djece!”, pokusavala sam reci sto pristojnije i mirnije. “Gospodjo gledajte, zao mi je ali ja sam tu samo priskocio dok su nam agentice na pauzi… Mozete li se vratiti za kojih 20-tak minuta?”

Ha, ha, ha.  Jako smijesno!  “Ne hvala”, rekla sam i okrenula se.  Naci cu ja drugi salter s kolicima…

Prosli smo kraj krasnih, velikih i skupih butika… Coach, Luis Vuitton, Salvatore Ferragamo, DKNY… Gledala sam u izloge kao kakvo dijete pred slasticarnom… Ma samo da na minutu zavirim u nutra, onako “na brzaka” da pogledam par stvari i “cekiram” da li je i ovdje sve “made in China”.  Ipak sam se suzdrzala.  Mislila sam si u sebi - pametnije je da samo elegantno prosecem kraj butika  mastovito zamisljajuci kako se prekrasno uredene prodavacice (koje su jos premlade da bi imale djecu) salijetaju oko mojih deckiju, zabavljajuci ih od srca dok ja mirno i polako uzivam u odjeci, torbicama, maramama… 

Salter do kojeg smo napokon stigli je bio na prekrasno uredenom “trgu” ispred vrlo eksluzivne robne kuce “Lord & Taylor”.  

“Molim Vas, jedna kolica za dvoje djece”, obratila sam se agentici koja me je u trenu odmjerila pogledom od glave do pete i rekla vrlo neljubaznim tonom: “Nemamo dupla kolica, na donjem salteru su. Obratite se tamo”

“Dosli smo sa donjeg saltera no tamo je samo bio jedan policajac koji mi nikako nije mogao pomoci”, rekla sam vrlo polagano i smireno.

“Ja ovdje nemam dupla kolica”

“Mogu li onda iznajmiti nekakva obicna?”

“Morate ostaviti vozacku dozvolu i kolica moraju biti vracena nazad do devet sati”

Zbog cega sam se ja sad njoj zamijerila?  Bila sam dobro obucena, uredena, sminka, torbica, a niti decki nisu lose izgledali.  Pa i da smo izgledali losije, nije li ta cijela prica o klasnoj diskriminaciji svar proslosti? (pogotovo ovdje u Americi gdje se i najbogatiji cesto oblace kao klosari) Primaknula sam se salteru i rekla pokusavajuci prikriti nezadovoljstvo: “Vas centar nije bas prilagoden djeci?” 

“Ne, nas centar je za odrasle”, rekla je s jednakim naporom suzdrzljivosti.

“Ali draga gospodjo, odrasli imaju djecu, zar ne?”

“Da, ali ih ostave doma”

Zapravo ne mogu vjerovati da sam nakon toga ipak uzela kolica, svjesna da cu jos jednom morati doci na isti salter i ponovo se suociti sa dragom gospodom. 

Sat vremena kasnije decki i ja smo se smjestili na vrlo udobne klupice na drugom prelijepom “trgu” u istom centru i uzivali u finom sladoledu.  Promatrala sam svoje sinove - svu trojcu - kako vrlo uredno i pristojno jedu svoje sladolede.  Stvarno se bolje ponasaju nego mnogi “odrasli” koje znam.  Pomislila sam, zasto je nase drustvo postalo tako neprilagodjeno djeci?  Sjetila sam se price jednog fratra koji je dugo bio u Africi kao misionar.  Pricao nam je kako bi cijelo “selo” sjelo oko vatre na razgovor i druzenje.  Svatko bi imao priliku doci do izrazaja i svakoga bi se sa zanimanjem slusalo… i starce i djecu s jednakim postovanjem. 

Tada nisam u potpunosti razumjela njegovu primjedbu o tome kako je zapad taj koji je zapravo “neciviliziran” - ali sad mi se cini da razumijem sto je s time htio reci.

It was our day off.  We decided to go to the movies.  The kids and the adults.  Except, it had to be two different movies, because not everyone is into Veggie Tales… So, we split up.  I enjoyed the humor (and at times the very unimaginative lack of it) of the asparagus, cucumber and the tomato, but most I enjoyed watching my kids having fun on their very special “night out”.  It was an all-out evening - they have been really good on this tour, behaving like little pros, so I decided to splurge.  After the movies we would go to a nice shopping mall right next to the theatre, where we would buy a DS game they both “really, really” like and have some ice-cream (I also had to “kill” two hours before Matt & Denny’s movie would end.)

Before we even left for the movies, I had called the mall to inquire about any children’s areas (most malls throughout America have indoor play areas or old fashion carousels. Some even offer a drop-off service.   There is almost always at least an arcade, or the traditional standby - a McDonalds with a play-place) The customer service person who answered the phone at the mall told me that their mall is for shopping (!)  

Well, perhaps she was having a bad day and didn’t want to talk on the phone (however, I thought, she should find a different line of work, if she doesn’t like answering phones)

It was already 7PM when we got to the mall.  Blais was getting tired and I decided I would get a cart with two seats and a nice big basket to put all the coats in.  But, when I got to the customer service desk there was only a security guard talking on a telephone.  I waited a few minutes and then decided to interrupt him - the boys were getting restless, Blais was running around and I was running out of patience.  “I would like a double cart, please”, trying to be polite. “Sorry, I am just watching the phones, the customer service people are on break.  Can you come back in 20 minutes?”

Ha, ha, ha.  Very funny.  “No thanks” I said and left, hoping to find another service desk with more carts.  

We walked by some very nice shops… Coach, Louis Vuitton, Salvatore Ferragamo, DKNY… I glanced over the windows, wanting really badly to step in and check out the latest fashions - I especially like to check out the workmanship on designer items, and how many are made in China - but of course didn’t.  Instead I strolled by only imagining walking in and having the dolled up sales girl being extra nice to my boys as I browse the racks of clothes. 

The next customer service desk was in this beautifully designed area, right in front of Lord & Taylor.  “Hi, I would like a double cart, please” I said to the woman behind the desk who immediatelly gave me the classic “one-up” look and said in the most unexcited voice “I don’t have any double.  The desk down below does. You can go there”  

“I just came from there and there was only a security guard servicing the desk”

“Well, I don’t have any doubles” 

“Could I have a single, then?”

“You have to leave your driver’s licence and it has to be back by 9PM”

What did I do to her, I thought?  I was dressed nicely, had my make up on, my boys didn’t look too shabby either.  And even if we did look shabby aren’t the days of class discriminating behind us? 

I leaned in and said in the nicest voice I could pull up, trying really hard not to show my frustration: “This is not really a child friendly mall, is it?”

She said in an equally quiet, forced tone: “No. This mall is for adults.”

“But adults have children, don’t they?”

“They leave them at home”

In retrospective, I can’t believe I actually ended up getting the cart - that meant I had to encounter her once again at the returning of the cart procedure before 9 PM.  

About an hour later, the boys and I were having some delicious ice-cream seated nicely on good-looking and pretty comfortable garden benches in a different part of the mall.  I watched them as all three of them ate so politely and so carefully, they would put many “adults” to shame with their manners.  Why did we became such “child unfriendly” society?  I remembered a story a friend of mine, a missionary priest in Africa, shared with me - about people sitting together around a fire and talking.  Each person was involved in the conversation and every old person was regarded with same respect as every little child was.  Everyone listened when even the little ones spoke, and with interest. 

At the time I was confused by his statement that “first world countries were uncivilized” — now I think I am beginning to understand.

Update: Within 12 hours of posting this entry, I received an e-mail from the mall’s Customer Service Manager who wrote: “We do not conduct business in this manner, and we plan on counseling our associates involved.  I apologize for the reactions and attitudes you received.”  I really appreciated her fast and pro-active response.

Despite all of the technology and all these people working hard to make it really easy for me to write my “diary” (they even let me forever abandon the word “blog” and continue with my more romantic version) I have fallen behind once again. On the other hand, there is Sharon, (a great girl who became a friend of our family through our music) who very lovingly and gently pointed out that she has my diary page bookmarked, but she knows that I must be very, very busy - so busy I don’t write!

Excuses, excuses, excuses…I don’t like excuses, so I decided to put Sharon’s picture on my Google calendar to pop up every few days and remind me with a gentle smile: Web diary! So, finally I’m writing. We are driving down the Penna Turnpike on a georgeous, sunny Thursday towards Allentown. I feel great, energized by the concerts and the effect they leave on those who attend, great crowds, stories that would blow you away - like the one of the young exchange student from Zagreb, Croatia who has been staying with a family in Versailles, Ohio (near Russia, OH where we had a concert). She was a bit disappointed with the scene in Versailles (a small town) because when you grow up outside of America, you think the entire country is like Los Angeles, New York, Chicago and Miami. No one ever talks about the corn fields of the midwest! The host family understood the young girl, who is a very sweet girl, and enjoyed taking her to see Chicago, New York and few other places. She was very grateful and very, very happy, but, she said there still was one thing she wanted to do while she was in America. She knew that Tajci lived in the States and mentioned it to her host family that if she could see and meet Tajci, all of her wishes would have come true. What are the odds? It’s a big, big country. But, the host family knew exactly who the girl was talking about - the mother had been to one of Tajci’s (aka Tatiana) concerts before and knew her story and her music well. The very next Sunday there was a flier in their Church Bulletin about Tajci’s concert in Russia, OH…

I have to admit that that day, when we drove into the little town of Russia I wondered: how in the world do we end up in these tiny little places and who on earth would show up for a concert? There was no “town” in sight. That night we had one of the most amazing dinner ever - all made from scratch, even the New York Cheesecake and Chocolate Mousse Pie - we thought perhaps it’s because there is no store around… It was an amazing night! After the concert I met Matea - the young girl from my home town. She was beaming with excitement and disbelief. I just regret I didn’t know she was there before the concert - because I would have sung a special song for her! (Not to use it as an excuse, but I didn’t think I’d be able to finish this entry - as I was writing we were getting the news about the attack of the US Embassy in Belgrade. Matthew was getting the phone calls and couldn’t believe that I was determined to stay focused on writing my “blog” I mean “diary”… or an update for Sharon

Well, I texted my mother and since she didn’t text or call right back, I know that I shouldn’t be concerned. Kosovo has always been a very touchy subject in old Yugoslavia and in the most recent years… we just need to pray that it doesn’t escalate into another violent Balkan crisis.)

Ever since I was eight years old, I have been keeping a journal. By now, I have a nice collection of books, all different colors and sizes, filled with memories. 
It’s not just the stories that are kept in those journals, it’s the handwriting that reveals my age, my stress level, my lack of time and my days of leisure and calm, even the anxiety and fear. Then there are those loose pieces of tickets, photos, scribble-scrabbles that fall out, but must never be taped in, because there is such magic in that very moment when a piece of memory falls into your lap…
I already had a hard time a few years ago, when I started this on-line journal. I selfishly wanted all of these thoughts to be in one of my books, but for the sake of being able to share a piece of my experiences with those of you who find it interesting to read (I wish I was a better writer, so often I struggle with making my thoughts come out clear), I began the process - I can always print them out and paste them in my books, I thought. Sure, they won’t be handwritten, but they will testify how the computers became an essential part of our lives. 
I have enjoyed this process - so many times people would come to me after a concert and comment on a specific diary entry they read. It always encouraged me to continue journaling-on-line (although I never really got into a routine)
Which is the reason why my web-consultants have been trying to convince me to start a Blog. 
I have to admit, I strongly dislike the word “blog”, but I’ll get over it (it has none of the romanticism that the word “diary” has).

I now will “blog” my thoughts, and I hope you will still enjoy them.LINK TO MY OLD DIARY