Freezing in Yaroslavl

There is a girl here at the organization who also keeps a blog, called "Freezing in Russia." http://debrasmith.blogspot.com/index.html
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From the moment the children ran up to me and the other volunteers on Monday morning, I have been dreading leaving Yaroslavl. And tomorrow is my last day. I will be honest here; I do not want to leave. In fact, I will be plain and say that I would give almost anything to be able to stay just a few weeks more. I want to say, Please, Time, for God's sake, slow down. Please. Just a little more time is all I want. Just a little more time.
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The volunteer organization I am with (Cross Cultural Solutions) visits children in the orphanages here in Yaroslavl, and plays games with them, teaches them how to make crafts and gives them as many "happy memories" as they can.
There is a couple here from England, Paul and Ally. They came here last February for three weeks, went back to England and promptly quit their jobs, sold their house, and moved here to volunteer for a year.
That is the kind of effect the children here have on you.
Even though Paul and Ally told me what to expect, I was still so stunned when the little ones came up to me, not knowing me at all, and were all smiles and cuddly hugs, and kept saying, "Zavoot? Zavoot?" ("Name?")
There is Dasha, the tiny elfin star of the group -- at about 5-years-old, she is the youngest and fussed over by the other children.
There is Lula, a little girl that up until today, I thought was a boy. She loves Dolphins.
And then there is Luba.
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Luba was the first person to come up and hug me and greet me on Monday, and even now, remembering that moment, I choke up.
The children are in the hospital because they are either mentally ill or have run away from other orphanages. Yes, some of the kids look like they are emotionally messed up. One of them sadly sports a black eye. Luba is over medicated but still has a shining smile.
I expected them to be impatient with us, because we don't speak Russian and they don't speak a bit of English except for the stray word or two they've picked up from other American and UK volunteers (Hi, Mine.)
But they're not impatient at all. Rather, they are the most patient people I have ever met. They wait their turn. They explain games to me over and over again. They teach me how to do the craft and the language barrier does not throw them into fits of anger and rage like I imagine I might if I were in their shoes. Instead, they mime and call for the interpreter to communicate.
Why are they so patient and sweet? Who taught them to be so patient in the face of our ignorance? The hospital looks leftover from a turn-of-the-century asylum. Crumbling walls, drafty rooms, creaking floors. And still the children bounce up to us, hug us and tell us "Dobriy Utra!" (Good morning)
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On Tuesday, I came to work prepared with a whole 48 hours worth of phrases on crib sheets in my pocket. Shortly after we arrived, we heard a terrible screaming and weeping from a child in another room and the children working on the craft project, studiously paid attention to the paper butterflies. The energy of the room took a dive.
Luba wasn't there, and I wondered if it was her, and I ached and hoped it was not. I was relieved to see Luba waltz in later (and even later, the girl who had been screaming came in and was eventually coaxed into playing a game with another volunteer).
Luba flashed me her smile. Same light brown sweater from the previous day; I would come to know and look forward to seeing that light brown sweater the following days as well.
I caught her eye and she smiled at me and gave me a little wave.
We're not supposed to pick favorites, of course, though we are all human and it is perhaps not possible. I played with the other children, but from the corners of my eyes, I watched her and was most likely visibly pleased when she and an older girl named Nadia came down on the floor with me to play jacks.
Luba showed me how to toss the ball and grab a jack. I never played jacks when I was a kid, and I just didn't get it. Luba showed me again. And again. I tried and missed. Uncoordinated. Finally, I got the ball in the hair, touched the floor and grabbed the jack.
Luba looked so pleased for me. Though so medicated, her eyes clearly shone as they met mine with deliberation, and she nodded at me and smiled her approval and said, gently, "Dah. Dah."