Mind over Matter

On a bright, Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago I suddenly had an impulsive desire to clean up my home office.  It is the room I write in.  It’s a small room, tucked away at the far end of the house, with a large picture window on one side.  The walls are painted a warm, soft yellow.  It’s peaceful, a great place to write and work, most of the time.

Something happened to that room while I was writing A Rose for Sergei.  My neat, tidy room gradually morphed into a catch-all cluttered pile of stuff over this past year.  Stuff to sort through, papers to read, gift wrapping paper and ribbons piled higher and higher.  But I avoided it all as I wrote, focusing only on my book, my eyes glued to the computer monitor.  Given the choice to straighten up the room or write, writing always won.

Back to that Sunday afternoon . . . I started picking up and throwing out papers with a vengeance that day.  Who does this on a Sunday, on a day off?  But for some unknown reason, I kept at it.  After a few hours had passed it hit me like a brick wall.  What I had been trying to avoid brought me to an abrupt stop.  Now I understood the reason I needed to keep busy.  The choice was not one I consciously made.  It was January 11, the anniversary of Sergei Kourdakov’s funeral.

It is Not Your Fault

How many times in your life have you ever said, “I blame myself for what happened?”  It could be in reference to the smallest of grievances.  For example, I left the door open and the cat got out.  It’s easy to take the blame for the small stuff, much harder when the consequences are life-changing.

Recently a friend’s Facebook post revealed a mother’s feelings of blame from not being able to protect her child from the tragedies of war in her former country of Bosnia.  Even though her son is now a successful young man, she carries that blame in her heart.  I admired her willingness to share that statement publicly and responded in a post, “You are an amazing mother.”  Other posts soon followed praising her strength.

I understand blame, but not in the same manner as my friend.  My guilt, all those years ago, was in questioning if I could have done something to prevent Sergei Kourdakov’s death.  Even though I was two thousand miles away at the time, I somehow felt responsible.  I was young then, only twenty-one, and not aware of how fast life can change.  I never expected the unexpected.  And I wondered if his death was somehow my fault.  Was there something I could have said or done differently?  In my book, A Rose for Sergei, I write about carrying that guilt in my heart.  It is liberating to finally share my long-held secret with readers.

For my friend whose son witnessed the tragedies of war, I say “It is not your fault, do not blame yourself.”  And, as an adult now, I know that there was nothing I could have done to change the course of events in Sergei’s life.  Just as I know, it was not my fault that Sergei died.

If You Believe Just One Thing

Proof.  We learn from teachers that we must show our work to support how we get to a certain point.  We follow through with this mandate in the business world.  We all want to see the evidence that backs up a statement.  Without proof . . . we question validity, and hence truthfulness.

My friends ask why I posted the personal photos of Sergei Kourdakov and me on my blog.  “I had no choice,” I quietly tell them.  “How else would people believe I knew Sergei and believe my story.”  I knew the photos were the proof that some people needed to see—physical evidence is convincing.

Sergei and I were seated side-by-side, alone in my apartment, when he told me about his life in the Soviet Union and his daring escape to freedom.  I knew from the manner in which he spoke to me that his story was not just something he made up.  I saw and felt the sadness in Sergei’s eyes.  I saw him.  One of my favorite authors, Orest Stelmach, explained it better in his most recent book, The Boy Who Glowed in the Dark:  “A woman knew a man’s intentions based on the look in his eyes, his body language around her, his manner of speech.”

I always knew that Sergei was telling me the truth.  If you believe just one thing in Sergei’s book, The Persecutor,* believe that something miraculous happened in his life.

*Sergei Kourdakov wrote one book which was published under three different titles:

The Persecutor
Forgive Me, Natasha
Sergei

This Time Each Year

For me, even though it’s a new year, this time each year replays like a scene in the movie Groundhog Day.  In that funny movie, actor Bill Murray finds himself in a time loop, repeating the same day again and again.

On January 1st, I feel like I’m in a time loop that repeats itself, at the same time, year after year.  Unlike the movie, my replay of a life event is much more serious.  For some unknown reason, I am startled awake around 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. on New Year’s Day—the day that Sergei Kourdakov died.  And once again, I know that it is time for my silent prayer.  My thoughts are always the same, a quiet reflection . . . “Sergei, I’m sorry that you died so young.  You are not forgotten.”

The New Year . . . a time to reflect.  The time for a new start.  A time to make promises to yourself.  We all have good intentions.  I know that I have plans for my book, A Rose for Sergei:  readings, marketing ideas, making new contacts.  Self-promoting a book is a lot harder than I ever expected.  However, I don’t intend to let the business part of writing take priority.  Family and friends come first.  Keeping the ones I love close to my heart is a must.  Finding happiness each day is a must because each New Year I am reminded that you never know how much time you have.

The Gifts We Give

One of my favorite holiday stories is a short story by O. Henry—The Gift of the Magi.  Not wanting to give away the story line . . . it’s about a young married couple who want to give each other the perfect gift.  When I was a child I read this heartwarming story.  I had to hold back the tears at the time so the words on the pages wouldn’t blur.

At this time of year everyone is running around trying to find great gifts for the people we care about.  The value of a gift often has nothing to do with how it affects us.  Some of the most meaningful gifts have little monetary value.  The simplicity of Sergei’s rose was spellbinding.

Apparently a lot of people really liked the picture of Sergei Kourdakov lifting weights that I posted on last week’s blog.  I jokingly told friends that if I changed my book cover to that shirtless photo of Sergei more people would check it out.  How boring is a red rose on a book cover compared to him?  The rose on the cover of my book, however, is actually very symbolic for Sergei and me.  When you read A Rose for Sergei you will understand its importance.  The gifts we give from the heart are the ones that last a life time.

Wherever you are this holiday season, I wish you peace and a Happy New Year.

The Persecutor and A Rose for Sergei

The whole time I knew Sergei Kourdakov I only saw kindness, strength, and compassion.  I have to admit, however, there was a lot I never knew about his former life in the Soviet Union.  He had only told me a shortened version of his life, leaving out many details for a reason.  He did not want to alarm me.

Sergei and I met in the fall of 1972 when we were both twenty-one, our worlds complete opposites.  He was raised in orphanages and quickly learned that only the strongest would survive.  This photograph of Sergei Kourdakov was taken shortly before he defected.  He made sure to stay in shape for his unbelievable swim to freedom.  I, on the other hand, was raised in a large loving family.  In comparison to him, I was petite in stature, and always felt safe and protected in my family and in my country.

In my book, A Rose for Sergei, I write about the time I had one brief moment of fear when Sergei and I were alone in my apartment.  It devastated Sergei to think he frightened me.  He assured me he would never hurt me.  I really didn’t want to write this particular chapter in my book because it is deeply personal and private.  It was a crucial turning point for Sergei . . . for both of us.  So I shared this part of our story in my book.

Excerpt from Sergei’s book:

July 1970

Down through the streets of Moscow I wandered, lonely, disillusioned, distraught.  I was in a state of total confusion, but I decided one thing.  I would leave Russia and get as far away as I could.  I can’t say why I wanted to leave Russia.  I only know that I was deeply disillusioned and desperately unhappy, that something was terribly wrong.

-Sergei Kourdakov, The Persecutor (Chapter 18, pg. 221)

The Best Questions

Some people seem to have the ability to ask the right questions.  Not questions that require a simple “yes” or “no” response, but thought-provoking questions.  Try as I might, I don’t believe I fall into that category.  For some people it comes naturally to question as they delve deeper into the conversation.  I usually expect that sort of in-depth discussion to come from an older, mature person.  So, I was pleasantly surprised when an acquaintance in her mid-twenties asked me about A Rose for Sergei.

Lindsay knew I had finished writing my book about Sergei Kourdakov.  However, she also told me she didn’t have a lot of time to read right now.  I told her that was perfectly all right.  After all, it is a busy time of year.  But the good news is, I told her, my book is a quick, easy read when you have more time.  I would say it will take anywhere from 3-4 hours.  And then her questions started.

“Was Sergei The One?” Lindsay asked.

“The one . . . what?  Sorry.  Yes, he was the Russian defector,” I replied.

“No.  I mean, was he Your One.”

“No,” I quietly replied as I smiled back at her.  “My husband was always meant to be My One.”

“Ohhh, I like that answer,” Lindsay said.  “So, you were just meant to meet Sergei in order to write about him then?”

I paused at that point in our conversation.  What an intuitive and thought-provoking question.  I thought about my answer.  “Hmmm . . . yes.  I think you might be right about that.  Maybe that’s the reason Sergei and I met . . . so I could write about him.”

“And no one really knew about you and Sergei.  You kept this to yourself all these years.  And it’s all true.  Every bit of it?”  Lindsay questioned.

“Yes it’s all true,” I said.

“Is the end bittersweet?”

“The end of the book?”

“No, finishing your book.  Is that bittersweet?  You kept it inside all these years and now you’re done.  Is that bittersweet for you?  Now you feel you can move on to something else.”

“Wow, you ask the best questions,” I said.  “You would make a great interviewer!”

“Why, thank you,” Lindsay beamed.

“In answer to your question, yes and no.  Yes, it is bittersweet for me to be done writing the book.  But also . . . no, I don’t feel like it’s the end.  I really feel it’s the beginning—for people to read the book and know more about Sergei.  It’s just the beginning.”