Ukraine Garden: do one small thing

Two women sidled through the gate, taking in the garden; Claire, me and Rich deep in gabfest. We welcomed them to their community garden, and introduced ourselves. Rich from New Zealand and we two Americanski. After some small talk, in English, one of them, looking at me asked,
“Why are you in Ukraine?”
I gestured to the garden-in-progress and answered with our message statement for this journey, and held my finger and thumb indicating small, “One small thing, do just one small thing.”
They understood.
One looked at me, “Not so small. That you come is good for our,” she searched for the right word, “psychology.” A nod and smile.
We chatted about how the garden works before they left. They will come back.

Overview og part of garden

Weeding and transplanting

The garden space is an old vacant lot that was used for a dump by the neighbors and worse by the homeless. And little by little, (pomalenko), a place full of broken glass that seemed hopeless is becoming an enchanting, inspiring refuge for people to come in off the street and rest. Here, a community barn-raising effort is called Toloka.

Claire and Rich

Perfect weeding weather; every day!

Clever picnic table planter

Challenging first night in Kyiv

Our first night in Kyiv, sleeping, or trying to, in the hallway of our apartment building because of multiple air raid alerts through the night.

We knew that coming to Kyiv would give us a better sense of this senseless war. And we anticipated air raid alerts on our first night, since Russia has been indiscriminately bombing for the previous two nights. We even had alerts in the early morning hours in Lviv. Is it Putin’s design to disrupt everyone’s sleep enough to make us all zombies during the day? These people are tough; they’re still ready to return a smile. I will learn from them.

Our view for the night

Our home for three weeks. An historic 1910 with thick walls.

“All my boys are gone.”

He opened his wallet and showed a picture of his wife, and “his boys.” Pointing to three, killed defending their homeland. “All gone.” He shook his head, eyes glistened. “Tears cannot be shown.” Google doesn’t translate pain well. He can’t let go of the what he has seen. He is unable to cry it out. “I can’t sleep at night.”

Within minutes of when we had met him, he was hugging us. Google translated our love of Ukraine, and appreciation of his sacrifice.

An hour or more, more hugs, an invitation to go mushroom hunting with him, some drinks, a look at our bikes.
I gathered he must have been a lower level leader at the front. What he had seen was written on his ruddy face. He was now reassigned to the border patrol. I think we were looking at the broken soul of PTSD. His eyes were filled with pain and his voice desperate for relief. With Google between us we could offer little more than hugs. Some days that may be enough. He smiled some, even laughed.