Beautiful Autumn

Well, we woke up to a beautiful weekend. Clear blue skies, warmth, and the roads full of cars. Now, that’s always a good sign in Lebanon. So, I went out onto the balcony – the one giving the view over Beirut. I wanted to compare what I was seeing and my mood to that of Friday late afternoon. It was the brightness that struck me the most. When the sun is shining over Beirut in the autumn there is a kind of clarity and freshness that you don’t get during the summer. Perhaps that’s why I wait for the “between seasons” of autumn and spring – my favorites. Seems I wasn’t the only one enjoying the weather, one of my colleagues was out and about doing something similar.

I couldn’t do much but stay at home; but I’m not complaining about that, I enjoy having to stay at home! With reports to write and a son vomiting all night long (he's better now) the prospect of doing anything else but stay in was not even on the cards. I took my coffee outside and couldn’t help but enjoy the way the light played on the different colours of the leaves on some of my balcony pots (faithfully watered by Charles).

Inspired I went out the back balcony to check on the “workers.” Our neighbours have plots of land that they dig and plant in just behind out house. You’d be amazed by the noise of the digging that goes on out there on a Sunday morning! Today was no exception. They were all there, busy. Working, chatting, then stopping to have the inevitable coffee brought down by one of their wives.

Living 20 minutes out of Beirut does have its up side…

Beirut Sunset

I stood on my balcony this evening and watched the sunset over Beirut. From my vantage point all seemed calm and strangely normal. There were no plumes of smoke, no unwelcome sounds; in fact, there were hardly any sounds at all.

I gazed towards the Mediterranean Sea, wishing I could just hold back time. Wishing I could prevent the inevitable sinking of the red glowing ball into the blue waters on the horizon. This seemingly perfect scene had sinister implications. This was the last sunset I would witness before the unavoidable hours, days, perhaps even months, of precariousness ensued.

It is now pretty certain to anyone interested that there will not be a presidential election before the end of Lahoud’s term. So, what does this mean to the regular folk of Lebanon? To those people who are just trying to live their lives amid crazy traffic, increasing prices, and a seemingly (until this week’s rain) endless summer? It means stress, anxiety, fear, confusion, and even tears, as we try to carry on with “life as usual.”

But nothing is as usual. Our lives are on hold. Who knows how this will play out? We’re back to the days when you ask yourself the question each time you leave the house, “Is this trip out really necessary?” Each morning going to school we’ll be wondering if anything will happen to make our journey home into an interminable 3 hour jam instead of the early morning 20 minute drive.

Yes, so as I watched the sun this evening you can understand my desire to push the pause button. To have just a few more hours of “normalcy,” the calm before the storm.

In Lebanon it just doesn’t work that way…

Goodbye to a Friend

Marinka was a good person. Anyone you ask will say that, without hesitation and without exception; family, colleagues, friends.

I met her back in 1993 when I went to work at Eastwood. She spoke little English and back then my Arabic was pitiful, but that didn’t stop the communication. She was everywhere. Whatever you needed, Marinka was the person to ask. A human dynamo! Any part of the day-to-day running of the school that she was involved in would be organised, performing like clockwork.

Marinka Saad was not an educated woman, but she was very smart. She was a quick thinker who wasn’t afraid of hard work. Another teacher and I would often muse that if she’d been given the chance of an education she would have gone far. But, the thing that impressed me most from the moment I first met her, and that others also noticed, was her humility. Whatever job she was doing, serving coffee, cleaning up the kitchen, standing in the rain on gate duty; she did it well, with pride, and with a natural humility and grace. Sometimes it seemed that nothing could ever get done without her. You would hear cries of, “Marinka!” coming down the hall. She would smile and say, “Yalla, Marinka khamse dollar!” (“Marinka, $5”) This was a joke we had, quipping that if she got five dollars for every time her name was called… well, she’d have had a far easier life.

Marinka was a hard worker. She raised her family, supported her relatives, and never stopped. She couldn’t stop. Life was tough and money tight. I remember a time when her husband lost his job. She didn’t moan or complain, although she must have been worried. She kept on doing what she always did, in just the same way she always did. She gave everything her best.

This afternoon as I walked towards the church memories of Marinka flashed through my mind. Her daily greetings, her hugs and empathy; her quiet, contemplative moments. I was determined to make this a celebration of her life, not desperation at her death. It was hard. The service, although all in Arabic, was touching. Seeing the people there, the very genuine sorrow etched on their faces, made it difficult to hold back the tears that were so close to the surface. Charles and I slipped away quickly and quietly at the end. I didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone. I wanted to stay quiet, with my “Marinka memories.”

As we left the church small droplets of rain were falling. Their presence fitted the mood perfectly. It was like “angel rain” – tears being shed for all those people Marinka was leaving behind to cope with life without her. My eyes were drawn Heavenwards, and that’s when I saw the beauty of God’s welcome to Marinka. From the horizon to the mountaintop behind us there was a dramatic sunset. Not a hot, postcard sunset – but a rich sunset in all its fullness. At the horizon it shone with red. As it ascended towards the clouds above it mingled with the grey and white to become a strangely beautiful pink hue. The clouds gave the impression of an oil painting. The display continued above our heads, getting ever darker as the fingers of the clouds reached out to touch the mountain, descending into blackness.

An amazing curtain call, totally fitting for an amazing woman.

Marinka wasn’t an educated woman, but she was smart. I learnt a lot from her, especially about humility, forgiveness and love.

I love you Marinka and I’ll miss you.

The Perfect Frame

It’s been a tiring week. I don’t want to sound too pessimistic and say exhausting. And, I don’t want to point out to myself that it doesn’t look like it’ll be the last such week. Having a son in his senior year of IB and on the Varsity Football Team should come with a health warning, “Could cause serious fatigue.”

At times like these I find myself looking for the positive. Didn’t I say I was an optimist! So, on Wednesday evening as I was eventually being transported home from school at 10:30pm, I was allowing the gentle vibration of the engine and rocking movement of the car to begin my mental and physical relaxation from the day. Although we were three, there was no need for conversation. We all needed some peace.

Suddenly, as we turned a corner in the road, I was treated to a sight that fitted the mood perfectly. It sat next to a friend, close enough but still with a distance between them that respected the peacefulness; the space. There was a warm, yet non intrusive glow. It engulfed me. I could feel the quiet; it was tangible. I instinctively sunk lower in my seat.

A perfect half circle balanced serenely just above the darkened silhouette of the mountain. It was huge, seeming to quietly dominate the whole mountain. A silver glow highlighted the upper peaks. The moon hung there. Its proximity allowing us to see each vein, each creator. As I nestled there I felt as if a grandparent was watching over me; “Old Man Moon.” In my weariness I closed my eyes for a moment and was transported back to childhood snuggles with my grandmother. The warm, safe feeling reassuring me that, “Everything will be alright,” and, “It’s nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

I had to break the silence. I had to make sure that Charles and Matthew had both been treated to the same sight. They didn’t quite share my enthusiasm. That’s OK. Passion is a personal thing.

In our professional development at school we have been invited to reflect upon our outlook on life and work by considering the difference between a “good frame” and an even “better frame” using the metaphor of photography. Last Wednesday I was treated to an “excellent frame;” recognizing it was the key.