Sometimes what we consider burdens turn out to be blessings. Take the day I wanted to go for a bike ride alone in Kopychyntsi, my husband's hometown in Ukraine - and the town my father was born in. My daughter Kalyna begged to go with me, but I wanted to go by myself.

"I'll be stopping a lot to take pictures," I warned her, knowing how she dislikes my constant picture taking. "Pictures of houses..."

 

...and street scenes..."

...and people."

I don't want to hear any complaints about how much I stop, and that I take too many pictures!"

I hoped this would discourage her, but Kalyna agreed not to complain, so I reluctantly let her come with me - but only to the end of the street. Or so I thought.

When we arrived at the end of the street, we were, unexpectedly, at the very edge of town. Beyond were open fields.

Kalyna accompanied me down the bumpy dirt road and continued to explore with me. Soon we were far from the town in the middle of extensive fields - fields of wheat and corn and barley.

"May I pick some of the wildflowers?" Kalyna asked. Here were the wild poppies that I'd heard so much about from my parents, the wildflowers of the Old Country.

When she'd picked a large bouquet of flowers, Kalyna asked, "Do you know how to make a wreath out of flowers?" A wreath of flowers worn on the head is part of the traditional Ukrainian costume.

By now I'd come to enjoy Kalyna's company. We were both enchanted by this isolated place we'd found, a place right out of the childhood stories I'd grown up with, stories of Cossacks on horseback and war and young maidens. I wove a wreath of flowers, which Kalyna proudly wore.

We rode on through the fields in what felt like the middle of nowhere, exploring a land I'd heard so much about as a child. Suddenly we came across a woman walking through the fields towards a small, brightly painted blue house. It was the only house in sight.

"Come in, come in," the woman invited us. "Have some coffee. I dreamt that I'd have guests today!"

Like most Ukrainians, she was extremely hospitable. While I drank coffee, Kalyna played with kittens and the woman chatted with me — and discovered my husband and her son were acquaintances!

This ride with Kalyna, which I started out grudgingly, is one of my favorite memories of the summer.

"Would you like to come to Khmelnytsky with us tomorrow?" my brother-in-law Andrij asked me during my stay in Ukraine.

Khmelnytsky, a city with the largest bazaar in western Ukraine, was a two-hour drive from my husband's hometown. My brother- and sister-in-law always left before dawn on their weekly trips to the bazaar to get the best deals. Every year when I visit Ukraine, I tag along with them to shop and to photograph the market area.

"Sure!" I said. "Just tell me when to be ready."

Normally Andrij and his wife Ira rush to get to Khmelnytsky as early as possible. As they speed through the countryside, I would sit in the back seat of their car, snapping mental pictures of the scenery - the rising sun, the shepherds taking their animals out to graze, the dew-soaked fields... Only at the bazaar would I pull out my camera.

But this year was different.

"We're not in a rush. If you want to take a picture, just let me know and I'll stop," said Andrij.

What an opportunity! I try not to impose on my hosts, so I rarely ask them to stop when I travel with them. This morning's invitation was a special treat.

The morning was enchantingly misty.

We came upon peasants herding their animals.

Not only was the dawn light phenomenal, but we also came upon a field where farmers were cutting hay the age-old way: with scythes. I felt I'd stepped back in time.

That morning, the mist, the peasants, and the countryside were magical. Unforgettable.

Back at my in-laws' house that evening, I uploaded the pictures to my laptop and showed the family what I had photographed.

A week later, after their weekly trip to Khmelnytsky, my sister-in-law mentioned to me, "You know, after seeing your pictures last week, this week's trip was different. I could see beauty that I had never noticed before."

It's all in the eye of the beholder.

A new year. The birth of a baby. A new house. All these new beginnings are reasons for celebration. But disastrous events such as hurricanes and earthquakes also bring about new beginnings - beginnings of painful trials and heartache when homes are destroyed or lives are lost.

Imagine watching your entire home being swept away by a massive mudslide. That's what happened in the mountains of Guatemala, where people already struggle just to provide the necessities of life for their families. When a disaster like this strikes, victims have little hope for the future. They begin to despair. That's why teams like the one my son Kostik joined are so crucial.

Last summer, these teams of unusual teenagers, organized by Global Expeditions, took time away from the comforts of home and used the resources that they raised themselves to go to the ends of the earth to help others. Their funds paid not only for their air fares and lodging, but also for the building materials and for soap, toothpaste, and other items that they handed out. The NBC Nightly News even did a story about one of these teams:

The news segment is about Matamoros, Mexico, the destination of my son's earlier trip, a trip on which I also went. Whereas that first year we literally went to a dump to build houses, Kostik's last destination was San Pedro, Guatemala on the shores of Lake Atitlan, described by author Aldous Huxley as the most beautiful lake in the world. Since I did not go along on that trip to the dramatic crater lake edged with volcanoes, I eagerly awaited Kostik's return so I could see the pictures that he captured with his Kodak EasyShare Z710:

The scenery was indeed spectacular, but the mountains were steep and roads were treacherous. The teams used old school buses with fancy paint jobs to get to and from their worksites. The switchback turns on the hills were so sharp that the bus could not negotiate some of the turns without backing up. The driver would then honk the horn to warn vehicles driving down the mountain that the bus was making a wide turn.

Kostik documented this backing up process with a video clip taken with his Z710. As you can see, the truck at the top of the hill stopped to let the bus pass.

The teams built new homes out of cinderblocks, a sturdy material that will hopefully withstand future storms and mudslides.  Carrying all the cinderblocks from the road to the building site was a workout.  The building process was not only a learning experience, but a time of bonding for team members.

Building the walls

Helping hands

 

Kostik in front of partially built house

Nearly completed house

Oftentimes when we give our resources or our time, we don't expect anything in return, yet we end up receiving far more than we give. These teens and young adults ventured out of their comfort zones to give their labor and love to the Guatemalans. One of the participants, Nikki, described some of the rewards:

"Every morning and night we eat at this quaint little restaurant that overlooks the majestic Lake Atitlan. Walking back and forth everyday to the restaurant is truly a blessing. You get the feel of the real Guatemalan culture. Their pace of life is a much more comfortable speed than what I am used to. Guatemalans lined the streets wearing their vibrant attire, welcoming us with bright eyes and smiles. As I walk down the road, I gently wave and try a few of my newly learned Spanish greetings. Seeing their warm response to my simple gestures fills my heart with love for them. Such kindness they bring to complete strangers; I have hardly experienced that in my culture. I wish I could bring them home with me to teach Americans a lesson. I never knew that a simple "Hola" everyday could do your heart such good."

Traditionally we think of the New Year as a time of new beginnings. But I think of the trip my son took to Guatemala last summer as a new beginning both for the family for whom his team built a house and for the participants. New friendships. New experiences. New self-confidence. New hope. Isn't that much better and more significant than New Year's Day?

 

If it weren't for the camera around my neck, we never would have become friends.

I was wandering around Kopychyntsi, my husband's hometown in Ukraine, photographing the local pond, the ducks, the houses. The non-threatening subjects. It was 2001, my first year at Kodak, my second visit to Ukraine. I had just switched over to digital photography and was experimenting with my first digital camera, a Kodak DC4800, which I had purchased just before this trip.

Although I had met my husband's large extended family and photographed them, I hadn't worked up my courage to photograph strangers. Not yet. But as I chased some ducks on the street, an elderly woman called out to me.

"Take my picture," she requested, and posed proudly in front of a hovel. When I asked where she lived, she pointed to the lot behind her, so I misunderstood that this dilapidated structure was her home. It wasn't until a year later when I returned with a print for her that I realized that the house she lived in was behind this rundown building.

I learned her name on that second visit. Teklia was not a native of Kopychyntsi. This might explain why she'd been so uncharacteristically bold in asking me to photograph her. Teklia had moved here to be near her married son, her only surviving child. But he had gotten a job abroad, as have many Ukrainians since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and she was left quite alone in this town. She begged me to come again.

"If only you lived here, you could help me carry water from the well in the winter," she lamented. Her home has no running water, no toilet, no bathtub. She carried her water in buckets from the public well on the street, used an outhouse, and washed in a basin. My heart went out to her.

This time I photographed her in front of her house. I stopped by whenever I could.

It occurred to me that the pictures of Teklia over the years are a historic record not only of her life and our friendship, but of the digital cameras I've owned over the years. The first two years, I photographed her with my then top-of-the-line 3.1-megapixel DC4800.

I returned to Ukraine two years later. I brought Teklia prints from my previous visit; she fixed me a meal. Even if you drop by unannounced, most Ukrainians will host you with food and drink - sometimes a cup of tea and a sweet, other times a full meal. By now Teklia had gotten used to the camera that was perpetually around my neck. I was even able to capture a candid shot of her.

Teklia making tea, 2004 both taken with my Minolta	Teklia with bread and tea, 2004

By now I had graduated to a 5-megapixel Minolta, a camera I became disillusioned with because of the washed-out colors of the images it captured and how quickly its batteries ran down.

My following trip to Ukraine in 2005 was short, so my visit to Teklia's house was brief. This time she complained of high blood pressure and deterioration of vision. She could no longer read. She didn't want me to leave. I began to wonder whether I'd see her again.

That summer I used a 5-megapixel Kodak DX7590. I loved the bright colors of the images, but missed the 28mm wide-angle capability of the DC4800 and the Minolta, which were useful for taking in more of the surroundings from the same vantage point, and inside a house, you often can't get any further back from your subject.

It was another two years before I returned to Ukraine. Teklia was one of the first people I visited. She wasn't outside, and her door was closed. I knocked. I heard some noises inside, then a voice. "Who is it?"

"Vera," I answered. "From America."

"Who?"

I repeated my answer.

After much shuffling and scraping, the door opened, and there she stood, thin, haggard, propped up with a cane. She was panting from the effort of walking to the door.

"Oh, Verochko," she crooned, using a diminutive of my given name. "I have been sick for a long time. What month is it?"

"August..."

"May God bless you that you have not forgotten me."

Teklia by the bed where she spends most of her time, 2007 both taken with my Kodak EasyShare P880	Teklia with her passport

Teklia could barely walk. She was unsteady on her feet, keeping them far apart as she tottered over to a wooden chair near her bed. She sat down awkwardly with the aid of a second cane. Then she paused to catch her breath again.

My heart broke.

She could no longer cook. Or fetch water. Or go to the latrine outside. She was completely at the mercy of neighbors who brought her food and fetched her water and emptied the contents of the bucket in her room, which functioned as her toilet. This bucket was positioned under a chair with a hole cut in the seat. The odor of its contents hit my nostrils as soon as I stepped inside. Her house, once so clean, now smelled of deteriorating health and progressing frailty.

Despite her ill health, she didn't forget her manners and in typical Ukrainian hospitality, offered me a jam-filled pastry - which I had to fetch myself.

"I am so lonely, so lonely... Will you come again tomorrow?"

This past summer I used two Kodak cameras I'd purchased in the last year, the 8-megapixel P880, a "prosumer" camera with 24mm wide-angle lens, which is even wider than my previous cameras' 28mm capability, and the 7.1-megapixel V705 with a 23mm (!!) wide-angle lens.

As I backed up to take her picture, Teklia raised her voice in panic, "Don't touch the phone!"

I glanced around, then took a step away from the old-fashioned dial phone on her table.

"It's my lifeline," Teklia explained. "I would perish without it."

Before I left, I fetched her some water and emptied the contents of her pail.

I visited Teklia several more times this summer, sometimes bringing my husband, who mowed her lawn, and my children, who sang for her and helped with chores. She always asked what month it was. She explained that her memory was failing and even looked up her own birthday on her Ukrainian passport. She had turned 80 in the spring.

It was difficult to say good-bye, realizing that most likely, I will not see her on my next trip to Ukraine. But I am so thankful to have memories of Teklia captured over many years with many cameras.

As I glanced to my left, I saw a bent woman in a purple dress standing outside her door. I slammed on my brakes. My bicycle brakes, that is, because when in Ukraine, a bicycle is my main means of transportation on the bumpy, unpaved village roads.

I just had to have a picture of this woman. She was so... unique. Such a personification of the grueling toil of a villager's life in Ukraine. So I stepped out of my comfort zone, opened the gate to this woman's yard, and walked toward her.

I was in Ukraine with my family in August visiting my husband's relatives and others I had met on previous trips. I spotted the woman in purple while on my way to deliver photos that I'd taken earlier in the week and printed on my printer dock, which I brought with me to Ukraine. This printer dock works with all three of the Kodak cameras I brought with me - my P880 for its wide-angle lens, DX7590 for its telephoto capability, and my most recent acquisition, the pocket-sized V705.

I was thankful I had these pictures with me as I neared this stooped stranger. They would be my ice breaker.

"Do you know where any of these women live?" I asked, holding out a picture of four women sitting on a bench watching the world go by - a common activity in Ukrainian towns and villages. I had taken the picture on this street. "I'm delivering these prints to them."

I quickly followed with, "I'd like to take your picture, too. I'll bring you a print in a few days."

The woman hesitated, but eventually succumbed. I chatted with her briefly and snapped a few pictures with my P880 before I rode on to deliver the prints in hand.

When I returned to the hunched woman a few days later with prints, I saw the opportunity to take a more powerful portrait.



Olya (I finally asked her her name) had been painting the interior of her house earlier in the day and was dressed in her most ragged clothing. She was delighted to receive the pictures and had no objections to be further photographed. In fact, as a 79-year-old widow who lives alone, she seemed delighted to have a visitor, someone who would listen as she talked of her day-to-day troubles. Even when I set up the small tripod I carry with me at all times (you just never know when you'll need it), Olya seemed oblivious to the fact that I was turning our chat into a portrait session. So many of the elderly folks that I visited in Ukraine reacted the same way: they were so overjoyed to have a visitor that I could take pictures at will as I listened more than I spoke.

The picture below, my favorite of the session, portrays the desolation of the elderly not only in Ukraine, but the world over. Although Olya was a stranger when I hesitantly approached her, I now have another friend whom I'll visit in future trips to Ukraine.


 

NO PHOTOGRAPHY ALLOWED, declared the sign on the gate.

My heart sank.

For years I had wanted to visit an orphanage, and last fall I finally got my chance. Not just any orphanage, mind you, but the Mother Teresa AIDS Orphanage in Addis Ababa. Four hundred HIV-positive Ethiopian children achieve an otherwise unattainable quality of life here, and I wouldn't be able to share this my way, with pictures.

Discouraged, but not defeated, I took to journal and pen, and tried to paint a picture with words - the opposite of what I'd been doing while riding through the streets of Addis Ababa.

I wish I could show you this serene oasis amidst the city squalor - the neat, new buildings on lush green slopes of manicured lawns dotted with brilliant flowerbeds; the carefully tended vegetable garden that nourishes the orphans; the row upon row of aloe vera that, mixed with honey, is fed to the children as a health supplement; the haven of cleanliness and order that contrasts so sharply with the dust and disarray on the other side of the fence.

I'd like to show you the modern dining hall and movie room; the building of gleaming, white tiles where the children enjoy flush toilets and hot baths, a luxury that most countrymen don't have; the school building en par with the best boarding schools in Ethiopia; the soccer field and playground with swings, slide, and monkey bars; the tailor shop where a local man mends blankets and mattresses; and the three tikuls - round, thatch-covered buildings where the staff rest and eat.

I wanted you to see the steam rising from the meter-wide pots that the cooks stir in the spacious kitchen as they prepare good, hot meals of chicken and rice, fruits and vegetables, and traditional injera bread - meals far more nutritious and lavish than the average Ethiopian eats, meals to restore and fortify the children's weakened bodies.

How I wanted to capture the scene of two toddlers gleefully chasing an orange cat, which trotted just ahead of them, then stopped briefly to allow itself to be petted, and finally strolled calmly under a bed, still pursued by the delighted youngsters, now crawling energetically on all fours.

I wanted to share the way the sunlight lit up the sparsely occupied infirmary with its bright cribs and bunk beds of yellow, blue, and red frames, and mattresses covered with the vivid blankets; to show you the large Mickey Mouse, Winnie the Pooh, and other stuffed animals that hang prominently above the beds of the ill with a cheeriness that belies the tragedy that the transmission of AIDS to these children was preventable - if only their mothers had the right medication. I wanted to capture the emaciated infant with huge, brown eyes sucking formula from a propped-up bottle while a visitor went from bed to bed praying over the sick.

I'd like to show you how the toddlers reached up their hands to be lifted and held, the way they giggled and wrapped their tiny, dark hands around my neck when I picked them up, how they stroked my hair, the joy in their faces when I held their hands. I'd like to share the poignant scene before me when a visitor not only had a child's hand in each of his, but a toddler wrapped around each leg. I wish you could see a child's dark eyes looking into the faces of the visitors, pleading for attention, rejoicing when singled out. I'd like to show you how I played ring-around-the-rosy and clapping games with these children, how we communicated across cultural and language barriers, sharing laughter and love.

I wish you could see the orderly dorm rooms filled with rows of tidy bunk beds, and the girl who broke from the crowd and pointed out to me the one thing on this earth that is hers alone: her bed.

I wanted to show you the agile fingers of the teenage girls as they wove baskets, which they sell to raise money for the orphanage. Since I bought some, I can at least show you the baskets:

I wish I could convey the kindness of the staff and the nuns from Nigeria, Kenya, Bangladesh, Slovakia, and India, the way they work tirelessly to meet the needs of the children who, thanks to them and to modern medicines, are surprisingly energetic, as children should be. I wish I could portray the servant heart of the red-headed Israeli who hand laundered children's clothing when he wasn't working as a physical therapist or teacher, and show you the hundreds of tiny socks hanging up to dry.

I wanted to share how God blessed this place, that although children used to die here every week, now the deaths have been reduced to about one every four months. "We have some as old as 19, and we don't know what to do with them," said Sister Maria, who was dressed in a habit like Mother Teresa's. "This was not the case in the past."

But it's not a bad problem to have, you see.