My cousin Maja, who lives in a small Serbain town of Backa Palanka, recently took these pictures of her daughters and her town.

They haven’t seen this much snow in a long, long time. Some are enjoying it more than others!

Marija, Maja's youngest daughter, looking determined

Big sister Dejana

Marija and Dejana

Sisters having fun - Jovana in the front

Maja's house

Backa Palanka

Snowed-in fields - remind me of Fargo, ND

Source:  Special thanks to my cousin Maja Zoric Kotarlic for taking these delightful pictures.

Source: Serbia Snowed In from Gracious Living, Day by Day

This is an ancient Chinese fable that my Serbian grandfather frequently told me when I was a little girl.

When life is hard and nothing in the world seems to go my way, I remember this fable.

Of course, my grandfather told me the story in Serbian. I found the English translation on this website.

Here is the story. I hope it gives you hope as well.

Ancient Chinese Fables

“Long ago, near the frontier lived an old man. One day he found his horse missing. It was said that the horse was seen running outside the border of the country. The neighbors came to comfort him for the unfortunate loss. But the old man was unexpectedly calm and said, “It doesn’t matter; it may not be a bad event, on the contrary, I think it can be a good one.”

One night the old man heard some noise of horses and got up to see. To his surprise, he saw another beautiful horse as well as his own. It was clear that his horse had brought a companion home. Hearing the news, the neighbors all came to say congratulation on his good luck. At the greetings, however, the old man was very calm and thoughtful. He added, “It is true that I got a new horse for nothing, but it is hard to say whether it is good or bad. It may be an unlucky thing.”

What he said was testified right. The son of the old man was very fond of the horse brought home, and one day, when he was riding the horse, he fell down from the horseback and terribly hurt his left leg. Since then he was never able to walk freely. “Nothing serious,” the old man said, “perhaps it is going to be good.”

A year later, many of the youth there were recruited to fight in a war and most of them died. The son of the old man was absolved from the obligation for his disability, so he escaped death.

The old story tells us that good and bad, disaster and happiness can be converting objects to each other sometimes.”

Source

Source: A Loss May Turn Out to Be a Gain from Gracious Living, Day by Day

I like to believe that I am a patient mother.

Sasha and Mike - 1995

From the moment my first child was born, I loved being a mother. Everything about my personality seemed to fit the role well, and what didn’t, I was willing to change and improve.

Patience was a characteristic that needed development and enhancement. I worked on it every day.

But no one is perfect.

My three children and my sister’s two spent a lot of time together. They were very close in age. We lived in the same town. Really, they grew up together.

In this group of five rugrats, Mike was the oldest and the ring leader. He was also the instigator of a lot of tomfoolery and silliness.

Sasha, my nephew, was a few years younger, and on his own a less audacious personality. But Sasha and Mike together – that could be an explosive combination.

Mike would start something silly, and Sasha respond by laughing uncontrollably and feeding his ego. Most of the time, we let them have their fun, and ignored the goofiness, but the two could get pretty annoying on occasion.

One summer we were all on holiday at a resort on Lake Michigan. The resort was perched high above the lake with a beautifully expansive view, but to get to the beach we had to walk down a very steep flight of stairs. I always worried that the kids could trip and roll down and it made me nervous when they didn’t pay attention.

After spending a long morning at the lake, I was walking back to our cottage with Mike and Sasha to get some lunch. Slowly climbing the steep staircase, we were all sandy, tired, hungry.

I am not sure what happened to excite the boys, but all of the sudden Sasha was carried away with laughter, and Mike was making silly remarks. I walked behind them, guarding them from the deep precipice.

“Pay attention, boys!”

But as their laughter got louder, their attention melted away, and they started tripping, wrestling and pushing each other all over the steep staircase.

“Stop, stop, stop!”

Completely ignoring me, they carried on. All my attention, all my strength went into slowly shepherding them onto the safe and stable ground.

But once we reached the stable ground, every ounce of my being felt depleted, stressed and angry. I felt personally offended by their carelessness and disregard.

I wanted to say something that would really, really hurt, and I didn’t care what it was. I had totally lost my cool.

The boys still had echoes of mischief left in them, but they knew that I was angry. They sent worried glances my way.

I looked at them with fury and said the first word that came into my head, the word I thought would overwhelm them and competently stop them in their tracks.

“Monstrosities!”

They looked at me in disbelief.

This is the best you can do? their expressions seemed to say.

The word was so completely me – arcane, ridiculous, not cool, old world, foreign.

They looked at each other, they looked at me, and they dissolved into joyous peals of merry laughter. I started laughing, too, quietly at first, but with less and less restraint.

I joined the boys in their merry heap and the three of us wrestled and laughed and tickled, until we could laugh no more.

They pulled me up from the grass, dirty and disheveled, and holding hands we walked back to the cabin. I felt as peaceful, tranquil, happy and untroubled as a tired child.

Source: Sticks and Stones from Gracious Living, Day by Day

For as long as I can remember we have had a ritual in our household – Sunday mornings are reserved for idling on the living room couch, drinking coffee, talking and reading the New York Times.

Lately, though, the news stories seem to be getting so unrelentingly depressing, this relaxing practice has lost much of its charm.

After reading about the unrest in the Middle East, the global economic crisis, environmental disasters, global warming, and constant bickering in our own capital where nothing seems to get done, it is hard to put it all out of my mind and go about enjoying my day.

Yesterday morning I read a story that moved me deeply and made me hopeful. It made me happy for the rest of the day and I kept telling people in my household about it until I went to sleep.

It was a story about a boy named Iyal who was adopted from Russia in 1999 by an American couple. By the time he was three, Iyal grew explosive, unhappy, angry, unrestrained, confrontational. Iyal had long, raging tantrums that no one seemed able to mollify. He hardly spoke or communicated with others. He didn’t show love and had trouble accepting affection from his family. He was afraid to sleep.

Iyal and Chancer

The doctors diagnosed Iyal with F.A.S., fetal alcohol syndrome. His brain and central nervous system were irreversibly damaged in utero because his birth mother consumed alcohol. There is no cure for Iyal’s condition.

The family tried everything to reach their boy, to calm him and console him, to comfort him and show him love. Iyal, now thirteen years old, didn’t respond well. He seemed locked in his own unhappy, frightening world.

Then Iyal’s mom heard about a non-profit service dog agency that trains dogs to respond to autistic children.

I won’t go into great detail, you can read all about it in the New York Times.

But I will tell you this – Iyal got a dog named Chancer, a big, good-natured golden retriever who needed Iyal as much as Iyal needed him. They were a perfect match.

Now Iyal has a friend to sleep with, play with, be quiet with, be distressed with.

Chancer seemes to literally feel Iyal’s pain and tries to prevent tantrums before they even start.

Sometimes, when he feels that Iyal is getting out of control, Chancer playfully lays on top of the boy, pins him down and licks him until Iyal calmes down.

And Iyal himself, when he feels his raging clouds taking over, got in the habit of laying next to Chancer, taking his paw and covering himself with it like with a protective shield.

Chancer’s presence didn’t cure Iyal; there is no cure for his condition. But it helped ease his pain and the pain of his family.

Now Iyal speaks better, communicates more, and has more self control. With adolescence, he and his family are facing new challenges.

But so far, Chancer has made this boy’s life, this family’s life, calmer, less stressful and isolating.

Now you know why I had a happy Sunday.

Source: A Boy and his Dog from Gracious Living, Day by Day

I have been writing a great deal since the start of this year. More than I have in years.

It doesn’t seem enough.

I wake up every night and there are skirmishes and conflicts  taking place in my head.

For hours – stories, memories, impressions, meditations, musings, reflections – all are scrambling for supremacy and precedence.

They are pushing each other down, stepping over (and on) each other; no offer of a helping hand in this rowdy bunch, all racing to the top of my memory spectrum, hoping to be the prizewinner.

And the prize?

The prize is this.

The memory is clarified, illuminated and recoded. The memory is not forgotten. The memory becomes a story.

The memory is granted life.

Who can blame these ghosts of things past for mercilessly crossing swords with each other – when the  prize is this precious?

Source: Ghosts of Things Past from Gracious Living, Day by Day

Eastern Europe – especially Serbia, Ukraine, Poland and Bulgaria – has been experiencing exceedingly freezing temperatures in the past week.

It's a cold morning in Belgrade!

Over 79 people have died as the result of the cold spell throughout the region.

Helicopters had to rescue residents of snowed-in villages in Serbia and Bosnia, parts of the Black Sea coastline froze near Romania, snow fell on Croatian islands in the Adriatic Sea, and sixteen towns in Bulgaria recorded lowest temperatures since record keeping started over one hundred years ago. More details here.

Forecast through the week? Snow and continuing Siberian temperatures.

It's cold in Belgrade!

And here in Michigan?

I saw crocuses pocking their little shoots out of the ground yesterday. Way too early and most unusual!

What is the weather like in your part of the world?

Source: Cold Spell in Serbia from Gracious Living, Day by Day

I notice that I’ve been writing about books and libraries a lot the last few days.

Well, one memory leads to another.

Libraries have always been some of my favorite places – places where old, dusty books break down physical, mental and emotional boundaries and anything – anything – becomes possible.

After I gave my notice to Mr. Piel, Jeff, Mike and I moved to a small university town in Michigan, bought a little house, and settled in. Less than a year later, Nena was born. We loved our new town, but felt a bit lonely. We knew hardly anyone.

I loved being at home with the kids, but longed for some adult company and intellectual distraction. I decided to look for a part time job.

I found an ad for a librarian position at the Graduate Slavic Library that seemed to fit me perfectly: library experience, knowledge of a number of languages, a graduate degree. I applied and soon had an interview scheduled.

Two middle aged ladies met me at the appointed date. One was a pleasant Midwesterner, the other had an unmistakable Slavic accent. I assumed that she was Russian.

The interview went well. I liked the job description and I liked the ladies. They liked my credentials and seemed to like me. They offered me the job on the spot.

I opened my mouth to say, yes, but then remembered to ask about the hours and the salary.

“It’s a full time job,”one of the ladies said.

“But you advertised it as a part time?” I replied.

“Oops, a mistake.”

“And what is the salary?”

The salary was almost half of what I was making at the New York Society Library! I couldn’t afford to take this job, it would cost more to hire a babysitter than to watch the kids.

The three of us looked heartbroken. It seemed such a perfect match.

The Slavic lady told me then that she had noticed that I had an accent. Where was I from?

“Yugoslavia,” I replied, for at that time the country still existed and one could say that.

“What part?”

“I grew up in Belgrade, but my family comes from the north part of Serbia.”

“Really, what part?”

“Around the city of Novi Sad.”

“Really?”

Now I was starting to get confused. She still seemed curious.

“Well, my mother’s family comes from a small village on the Danube.”

“Really?”

“Banostor is the name of the village.”

“I know Banostor,” the lady replied, “my family comes from Cerevic, the village next to it.”

Countryside around Banostor

And when I told her my grandfather’s name, she knew of him!

What are the odds, I ask you, of this kind of coincidence? Libraries are magical places, indeed.

I didn’t take the job, but through this lady Jeff and I met an entire community of new friends. Including Jelena, one of our best friends in the world.

Source: Job Interview from Gracious Living, Day by Day

Yesterday, I wrote how reading Moby Dick made me reminisce about the time I spent at the New York Society Library.

New York Society Library - Circulation Desk

I had two main duties at the library: to catalog all newly acquired books and to maintain, clean and update the giant old catalog files. Also, every member of the library staff had to spend an hour a day at the circulation desk, so we would get to know the patrons.

This job and I were made for each other.

I delighted in walking the reading halls, book stacks and stairwells of the magnificent old building, always conscious of the ghosts of old writers, thinkers and philosophers who must have decided to remain here for eternity if they possibly had a choice.

I looked forward to exploring the secrets and mysteries of the card catalog, deciphering notes and codes of librarians past. Sometimes hours went by while I dug through those drawers, until someone came to remind me that my lunch hour had passed long ago.

New York Society Library - Catalog Room

Every new book that the library acquired passed through my hands. Sometimes I couldn’t stand to part with a book that interested me deeply and would keep it for longer than I should have. Sometimes I kept a whole stack of new books, causing our director to come and scold me for “squirreling away books again!”

The director of this glorious library, Mr. Piel,  was an elderly, kind, book loving, eccentrically Dickensian sort of character. He and I liked, respected and appreciated each other.

There was only one problem – Mr. Piel was a very frugal man, one might even say miserly. He had such an aversion to spending money, I could see the comical side of it even then, although it didn’t always make me laugh.

Always flustered when it came to making demands for myself, and shy to talk about something as common as money, I was given an embarrassingly low salary when I started the job. After talking to my colleagues, I realized that I could easily ask Mr. Piel for more.

But I didn’t have the courage to do it. I worried that Mr. Peal would fire me for asking for more money, when in reality I would have been happy to work there for free.

In the end it was Mr. Piel who gave me the opportunity to ask for a raise. At the beginning of the summer he called me into his office and grandiosely announced that I was doing a great job and was being promoted and awarded with a new title. And then he opened the door to let me out.

Even I knew that this was not an opportunity to waste. “Will this promotion include a raise, Mr. Piel?” I asked sheepishly.

Mr. Piel looked dumbfounded.

A raise?

But once I started, I didn’t let go and somehow I got Mr. Piel to add a thousand dollars to my very low salary.

I was elated by my success and couldn’t wait to impress Jeff with my financial and practical acumen.

He wasn’t as impressed as I hoped he would be.

For months after the salary negotiations, Mr. Piel avoided me in the hallways. I fear that he held that thousand against me bitterly.

And then, at the end of the summer Jeff and I made our decision to move to the Midwest.

I was happy with the decision. But I was devastated about leaving my job. I couldn’t imagine how the library could possibly function without me.

And the thought of telling Mr. Piel about my desertion broke my heart.

When I walked into his stately office, I was nervous and apologetic. I started by giving Mr. Piel a larger picture of our situation, then slowly narrowed my presentation to the fact that I was quitting.

He looked at me for a second as if trying to distill the argument to one essential fact, breathed a deep sigh of relief and said with a smile:

“Oh good, and I thought you had come to ask for another raise!”

Source: Favorite Job from Gracious Living, Day by Day

A week ago I started reading Moby Dick.

Moby Dick by Herman Melville

The first chapter was dense and arduous, but by the time Ismael and I reached New Bedford, I was hooked. Reading about Ismael’s meeting with Queequeg made me laugh so hard, I drove Jeff crazy by interrupting his own reading and relating the funny parts. I had to share.

I am not sure why I decided to read Moby Dick again.

I was looking through piles of books at the cottage last week and came upon a beautifully designed copy that Joe had given us a few years ago. It is illustrated with an eerie scene of a whale hunt in a tumultuous gale, printed on heavy, unevenly cut paper, the black ink soaked deeply into the fibers.

It made me happy to hold this book in my hand. I couldn’t resist its siren call. I am glad I didn’t.

The last time I read Moby Dick, I was at a very different stage of life.

Jeff and I were living in New York City; Mike was two years old. Jeff was working on Long island as an editor of a technical magazine. I was working in Manhattan as a book cataloger at an old library. My mom took care of Mike.

Our life was overwhelmingly busy, and commuting took so much time, we hardly saw each other. Mike missed us terribly and we missed him. We knew that we needed to make a change. But we didn’t know where to start.

I loved my job. I was working at the New York Society Library, a beautiful old library full of rare and exquisite books. In a quiet corner of one of the reading rooms a plaque proudly announced that Melville had written many of his books here, including Moby Dick, which was published in 1850, almost a hundred years since the library opened in 1754.

I tracked down a dusty copy of Moby Dick in the library stacks and started spending my lunch hour every day at the very table where Melville sat. Once in a while, I would dreamily look through the large paneled window down at the busy and noisy city, through the same panel that Melville had gazed through.

New York Society Library reading room - where I read Moby Dick for the first time

I loved the book. It took me on a glorious adventure and a much needed escape from everyday worries. It made me laugh. It introduced me to a cast of characters both outlandish and exotic, but whose deepest concerns were not foreign to me.

It gave me courage.

By the time I finished the book, Jeff and I had a plan. We decided to leave the jobs we loved and move away from the intensity and turmoil of New York City. We decided that the place we wanted to live in was a small university town where we could bring our children up at an unhurried pace.

And here we are, three children later. I am fifty two years old. Our children have fanned out across the country, Mike studying law in Boston, Nena in New York City, Sam at a large Michigan university. It is their time to go exploring distant horizons.

Jeff and I are starting a new chapter in our own adventure. Whom better to turn to for navigational guidance than our old friend Melville?

Source: Reading Moby Dick from Gracious Living, Day by Day

When my eldest son Mike started middle school, the entire sixth grade went on a field trip to a nearby state park, to a tree climbing obstacle rope course.

Matched in pairs, the idea was that kids would help each other go through a number of challenging obstacles by climbing high trees, walking on suspended wires, zipping down fast lines, etc. The school hoped this activity would be fun for the kids as well as give the new group a sense of unity and help students develop team-building skills.

I was one of the parent-chaperons.

I was anxious on Mike’s account. I well knew about his fear of heights – he had inherited it from me. So, I came along to show support and to cheer him on.

Riding on the school bus to the state park, I sat next to Brandon’s dad – a friendly, nonathletic, overweight music professor. After talking to me for a long time about Italian operas, I confided in him that I was worried about Mike’s upcoming climbing adventure.

He asked me if I was climbing. The idea had never entered my mind and seemed so shocking and outlandish that I laughed out loud.

“So, you expect your son to do what he is most afraid of, but you won’t do it yourself?” the little musician asked.

“Are you climbing?” I asked.

“Oh, I have been looking forward do it all week. I love to climb.”

I felt humbled and shamed. There are few challenges that provoke my pride more than the implication that I am letting my children down. Or that I am a coward.

When we reached our destination, I looked up into the never ending canopy and the trees seemed as high as the Empire State Building.

Students started climbing, one partner high up on the obstacle course attached to safety ropes, the other on the ground giving directions. Kids were laughing and having fun, but Mike was uncharacteristically quiet.

My hands were sweating when his turn came. I could tell by the way his voice shook when he talked to his partner, by the way he held on to the tree trunks, that he was very frightened. But he did it. He completed the entire obstacle course and zipped down the line in triumph.

Brandon’s dad went climbing soon after. The man was as graceful, as light and elegant as a ballerina up there high in the branches. At one point, instead of walking forward, he pranced backward, on a high wire.

Almost everyone who wanted to climb had climbed, I was the only parent who hadn’t. Mike’s English teacher, Mrs. Murphy, came to me and asked if I wanted to go up. She needed a partner.

I saw both Mike and Brandon’s dad looking my way.

I slowly climbed the ladder and there I was, high above the rest of the world, my heart pulsating like a frightened squirrel.

I pressed my cheek against the rough, thick trunk and held on for dear life, unable to imagine ever moving again, much less taking the leap across the high wire. I, so restless and nimble on the ground, was an elephant in the high branches of the trees.

If someone offered to buy my children at that moment, and everyone I hold dear in return for placing me safely on hard, stable ground, I would have gladly done it. But no one offered.

So, I let go of the trunk and took a clumsy leap. I landed on a delicate wire, didn’t fall into the void.  I held on. The kids cheered.

And so I went from one obstacle to the next, terrified, hardly able to speak, anxiously listening to directions from Mrs. Murphy, while the kids, united in a fascinated curiosity, followed my every move.

When I zipped down the final line at what seemed like hundred miles per hour, the sixth grade class greeted me like a hero, my son among them.

I sat far away from Brandon’s dad on the bus-ride home. I didn’t want anything to hinder my sense of triumph.

Bouncing with his friends on the bus seats, talking and laughing, Mike looked happy and relieved. I knew how he felt.

I felt like I had just slain a dragon.

Mike and his mother - 6th grade

Source: Slaying a Dragon from Gracious Living, Day by Day