monastic

 Friends keep asking me about my life in Moscow. How is it, Kate? Tell us about your adventures! Have you connected with the people we know? And I don't answer them, not really.

I don't know what to say. 

My overwhelming impression over the last week is *quiet*. 

I hear the hum of the refrigerator, the slosh of the dishwasher, the whoosh of the laundry. My slippers shush across the floor. Buttercup tosses her litter around its box. 

The trolley rolls by, squeaking on its rails as it turns the corner. Rain falls gently, and cars splash through the ever-present puddles. 

When I leave, and when I return, the tumblers turn over once, twice, again in the locks. 

I could fill the apartment with music, with podcasts, with radio broadcasts from around the world. But I don't. Unless I open my mouth to speak to Buttercup, the apartment is quiet. 

And it feels like rest. 

It feels like a long breath in after all the hustling I had to do to get here, all the people I had to talk to, all the bureaucracy I had to beg from. 

I've spent three afternoons on campus already, of course, but they feel dreamlike. Distant. A performance. (Teaching is always a performance.)

I'm finding a rhythm here in the apartment, taking care of myself, my cat, my space. Just me. 

Leaving to gather food, coming back to prepare food. Washing dishes, tidying the kitchen, carrying out the trash. 

Sit at the table for food, the sofa for knitting, the desk for writing and work. 

Boil the water for tea plus extra, brew the tea, let the rest cool, pour it into the water bottles in the fridge for later. Safe water for drinking, for brushing teeth, for mixing the cat food. 

Work email in the morning, messages with beloveds in the evening. 

Sleep, wake, repeat. 

It's almost monastic, this quiet rhythm I'm finding. My very own rule.

An adventure in becoming situated.