"The fact that I was born and raised on a farm in Siberia..."
There is a different life somewhere out there. Life with early mornings before the sunrise when you run outside to get eggs out of the chicken house to make omelets for breakfast. There is a life where you milk a cow before having a glass of milk. A life where you pick the vegetables in the garden for your salad and slaughter the cow if you want meatballs for dinner. There is a life with long evenings by the fire followed by songs and fairytales. There is a life with constant but pleasant troubles and everyday hard work. A happy life though, and happy people.
I was born and raised on a farm in Siberia. The place that makes many people go: Brrr, it’s so cold out there! The place that makes my heart soften and hurt at the same time, because of how unknown it is to many western cultures and because of how eager I am to share the beautiful story of its hard-working native Asian peoples.
I am an immigrant. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I haven’t been back home in almost ten years. It’s been a while since I saw my family. I am a stranger, who wandered around ever since, searching for meaning in life. Some of it I found in the arts, some of it I found in this country and its culture. There are feelings in life that are hard to explain in English, but I found a way to translate them: clay became the other language I speak. This language can cross continents and centuries. For many people to understand it and respond, you don’t have to speak English or any other language, you only have to speak art, and I find it beautiful.