There’s something magical about waking up to Istanbul covered in fluffy whiteness. That’s easy to say from the top floor of a cosy apartment building, I know. But still. I basked in it for a while.
They say grief isn’t linear. I was reminded of this last night, when an old sadness bit me in the butt and refused to let go. I know well enough, now, sometimes… when I remember to… to not fight it. The ceiling in this room is covered in glow-in-the-dark stickers, and they kept me company while I lay with the heavy, uncomfortable sadness that took up all the room in my bed.
So it was nice to wake up to fluffiness and beauty.
Django and I headed out for breakfast with that human rights lawyer we’d met at Sunday’s women’s brunch, to talk about the possibility of starting a charity here for refugees. Let’s call her Harika, which means amazing, because she is. I read the menu while I waited, which I mostly understood aside from one word that kept popping up: "kruvasan”. What the fuck is a kruvasan? I scanned my memory from Turkish lessons past.
I looked at the counter behind me, piled high with baked goods, and smacked myself in the head.
Kruvasan… Croissant.
Harika arrived. We ordered two “Yummy Kruvasan” breakfasts (don’t get me started on what was in them). She explained which documents that needs to be completed (surprisingly few) and what needs to be put in place to apply to become a charity (surprisingly little). We brainstormed some more and she told me how she’d consulted with a friend of her dad’s who works in the exact field of setting up charities in Turkey. The friend said he was more than happy to help. Harika is more than happy to help.
“I feel like this was meant to be,” she kept saying.
actual photo of me at the kruvasan place
As we chatted, more ideas popped up about how to make this sustainable, and of people I could ask for advice, some of which I’ve worked or volunteered with in the past, others whom I speak to almost daily in my work as a fundraising grant writer for NGOs, a skill that had never occurred to me would be useful until this very morning over kruvasans.
We talked about that feeling that we’re not doing enough. I shared my recent thoughts about how small things with great love is actually the greatest thing you can do. She reminded me of the parable about the person throwing beached starfish back into the water.
Django and I were both freezing as we walked home in the rain/snow, past people bundled up to their eyeballs, our teeth all collectively chattering. I refuse to buy a winter jacket, so am wearing both my coats one over the other, which looks as stylish as it sounds. Django just has his little sweater and is now almost naked after his stylish Istanbul groom. He was shivering, my hands were ice, and my eyes were tearing up from the wind.
But there was so much glow left from breakfast I couldn’t feel any of it.
Beautiful. Your words have brought tears to my eyes. So often we feel helpless. Seeing how little it can take to make a difference just by asking…