Tears on the New Year's Day

 I’m 8 years old. 

It’s the 1st of January and the world is sparklingly brand-new, like an unopened box of felt-tip pens and coloring books I’ve received as a gift.

Traditionally, we are watching both parts of Home Alone movies dubbed in Ukrainian. It’s that specific voice-over without which this movie loses its charm for me no matter how many times I will be rewatching it later in English.

My parents have already dropped from our telemarathon and are peacefully napping beside me on a massive folding couch the three of us are scattered on in that lazy post-holidaying fashion.

The whole apartment is dunked in darkness (the cozy non-scary kind) with only a small Christmas tree and window dressed up glamorously for the occasion in twinkling lights glowing softly.*

[*This probably begs an explanation for non-Ukrainians. In many parts of CIS countries, New Year’s celebration involves the attributes of Christmas. The Christmas tree, the festive dinner, the gifts supposedly brought by Did Moroz (Ukrainian version of Santa Clause), and other wonderful Christmas-y stuff. Minus Jesus Christ and everything He entails. This is explained by the fact that the Soviet government was on a mission to eradicate everything related to the faith which is why Christmas has been banned for many years. Even the very tradition to decorate the pine tree was prohibited under the USSR anti-religious campaign until 1936. This somewhat messed-up way to celebrate New Year’s arrival stuck with us long after the collapse of the USSR and is still widely practiced.]

So, back to the story now.

I’m all curled up under the blanket on that huge couch which feels like a vessel floating through time and space while Christmas music from my favorite movie is filling the room and my heart.

I am suddenly overwhelmed by the striking beauty of this short-lived moment and a sense of unexplainable loss as I realize that it will all be over soon. And there is no stopping it.

The perfect New Year’s Day, the snow outside which slows everything down making the world softer, as if you find yourself in a dreamy watercolor landscape. The all-night celebration with my little family, the humble Christmas tree, the safety of our vessel-like couch... the unfiltered joy of childhood.

My eyes well with tears I cannot yet define or explain.

This magic that right now is nearly palpable is slipping through my little fingers as burning tears are streaming down my face like a little waterfall.

I remember going to bed that night weeping inconsolably, unable to put into words what was wrong or put a label on the big emotion I was feeling. 

The grieving of the childhood that will never come back. The perfect moment that will only stay there. In the past.

And it was true, you know. 

That moment couldn’t be ever relived or repeated the exact same way.

We do let go of that sense of pure joy that we experience so fully, so hungrily as kids.

But it is also in our power to restore it. To recreate it for our loved ones as adults. 

To feel as intensely. To love as purely. To give as generously.

Without letting the world, its struggles and tragedies roughen our hearts.

October in Retrograde

I get to tackle an avalanche of words on the daily.⠀

I dig through them like a tireless mineworker through the piles of rock. Sometimes these are brilliantly put words. Sometimes muddy and messy ones. They beg for proper refining and polishing to be able to shine again. ⠀

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Every single day, the words come as a smashing, merciless tidal wave which you can neither fight nor prevent. I don’t resist it, though. I simply let them claim and take me into their whirl.⠀

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But at the end of the day, when the wave rolls back, the daily rattle dies down, and the sky throws a dark blanket over this lonely, tired city, I retreat to my safe haven - Silence. ⠀

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Where there is profound depth. Where there’s the pain you can’t run away from but face wide-eyed and dumbstruck as if encountering your childhood monsters that used to nestle in the wardrobe. ⠀

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In that silence, there is growth and endurance you never knew you were capable of. ⠀

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It rocks me in its soft embrace and I drift off. ⠀

Just Bloom

Bloom through the concrete.

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Bloom through the soil which has gone dry, cracked and hard as a stone in the summer that has not been particularly generous with the rains. ⠀

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Bloom through the God damn insecurities and fears that whisper darkly into your ears that you are never good enough, or worthy, or loved, or capable.⠀

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Bloom during the offseason when the tanned tourists pack their bags stuffed with cheap souvenirs and leave, when the freezing winds and cold are slowly taking over the “Kurort” city as the trees - naked and vulnerable - are accepting their vile hits. ⠀

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Bloom in the prime of your rebellious youth and when your hands are already covered with serpentine patterns of wrinkles and pigment spots.⠀

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Bloom, whether you are a fragile rose cultivated in a royal greenhouse, or a little wildflower that withstands the hailstorms without single protection, or a chubby cactus that shields itself with the threatening spikes from potential dangers of the oh-so-scary outside world. ⠀

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Bloom despite all this as brightly, boldly, and unapologetically as you can. ⠀

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Because this is why you have been planted in this less than merciful ground.⠀

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To bloom. 

Not Your Typical Pre-Valentine’s Day Post

Global marketing and advertising have been steadily feeding us the idea of The Perfect Love which implies finding a soulmate, the jelly to your peanut butter, the toaster to your gluten-free toast, the knight in the shining <Under> Armor with whom you then proceed to your Happily Ever After and disappear into the California sunset. Preferably.

Yet what they always keep behind the curtains is The Real Love. The hard, the messy, the raw, the bitterly beautiful.
Let’s face the uncomfortable truth here: we all are broken in our unique way, to a greater or lesser extent. Nobody survives this wicked, merciless grind called life unscarred.
As someone wise, whom I now cannot remember for the life of me, once said, “We are all of the books we read, all of the stories we heard, all of the movies we watched.”
For the purposes of this post, I’d take the liberty of adding, “and all of the people we once loved and who loved or didn’t love us back.”
By the time we smash into those we fall for in a Grand Kind of Way, we already have our hands full with all sorts of baggage and are covered in third-degree burns from everything we survived to date. And this is where it takes a crapload of compassion and tenderness, resilience and patience to love them with all those scars, unhealed wounds, roughness around the edges, the mess-ups and the fuck-ups. On the good days and the bad. Especially on the bad.
This is what real love is all about.
It has nothing to do with curvy little cupids all over the place on V-Day, Belgian chocolate (although I gotta admit, I love me some good ol’ Belgian chocolate!), 100500+ roses and all that obnoxious BS.
Love is gorgeously unfiltered and preciously raw, and imperfectly beautiful.
So, let’s celebrate it for what it truly is and love our “jellies” and “toasters” even fiercer, including on days when we feel like throwing utensils at them.

Jazz Season

Бесценны редкие минуты умиротворения и внутренней тишины, тёплой и вязкой словно насквозь пронизанный солнечными лучами акациевый мед. Минуты, когда не существует ничего, кроме Настоящего, каким бы оно ни было: душа прекращает заниматься привычными для нее метаниями и на целое мгновение забывает тосковать за ушедшим и тревожиться о будущем. Que sera sera. 
Сгущающийся ноябрьский туман безапелляционно берет город в плен, а последний сдаётся без всякого боя, словно того и ждал. Полное принятие и смирение, в котором отныне гораздо больше силы, нежели слабости.

Издалека доносятся звуки флейты, наполняющей аллеи вальсом Свиридова, отчего память незамедлительно возвращает в выцветшее словно слайдовая пленка детство, где бабушка под эту самую мелодию учит маленькую Катю вальсировать... Внезапно кто-то громко и чётко зовёт меня по имени. Удивленно оборачиваюсь и вижу девчушку, бросившуюся вдогонку за крохотной собачкой в синей курточке, продолжая окликать беглянку. Своевольная «Катя» без поводка дерзко и весело мчится вперёд. Ароматная жухлая листва по-киношному взмывает вверх. Jazz season. 🍁

Безветренно, тихо, тепло. И что важней всего - там, на глубине, куда не достать даже самым мощным батискафам.

Life Skills, What Are They?

When you really sit and think about it, this crazy thing called living boils down to mastering the following vital skills:

➼ Loving those who make your heart swell with immense tenderness as gently as you can without trying to “own” them or change them completely to fit into your little picture perfect because we all are beautifully imperfect, just as the life itself; 
➼ Fighting your own fight - whatever it may be - with as much dignity as you are capable of while trying to not let frustration, pain, envy, failure, dramatic curveballs thrown at you on an all-too-regular basis get the best of you along the way;
➼ Being accepting of all our differences - big or small - and seeing them as something that can unite us, help us grow and learn instead of creating a gigantic gap that is impossible to overcome;
➼ Helping whenever you can with whatever resources you have at hand and expect nothing in return - just like a fine saying goes: “Help and forget”;
➼ Giving yourself a break every now and again, but don’t stagnate for far too long. Believing in God’s plan predesigned for you is not at all a bad thing (deep down I do it too), but nothing is going to magically materialize unless you make it happen. 
➼ Steering clear of toxicity. Both in people you surround yourself with, things you do and consume - literally and figuratively speaking.

There is nothing fundamentally new or unique about it and, truth be told, I personally still struggle with a bigger chunk of these things, but hey, we all are a major work-in-progress and we have just lived yet another summer under the sun, so I consider it a win. ✨

It's okay to feel sad, it's okay to feel happy, it's okay to feel everything in between.

The not-so-unique idea behind this post has been sitting in my head for a long while, but finally the pieces came together in just the right way. Or so I hope. 

You know, in this day and age, especially on social media we are so used to parading the happiness. 

We are surrounded by motivational speakers, positive self-help books, you-can-do-it type of content, constantly pushing us to be "our best selves." 

However, for all the wrong reasons, more often than not this ends up making us feel obliged to be happy, because that's what you do, that's what successful and accomplished person ought to be doing. I mean, hey, look at you, you've got everything to be happy, exercise your right, grow as a person, work on yourself, stay positive! Yada, yada, yada. 

Instead of actually feeling happy, we do our best to SEEM happy. 

Success, accomplishment and "being your best self" are cultivated like rare kind of orchids in a greenhouse.

And let me tell you, that's such a bullshit. On days when happiness seems like a distant memory, the least you want to do is masking it by a fake smile and bravados. 

Cut yourself some slack, bro.

Being real is accepting your own shortcomings, flaws and realities, limitations and whatever else you have to deal with in your unique situation. 

This always reminds me of a brilliant dialogue between Holly Golightly and Paul Varjak from Capote's timeless Breakfast at Tiffany's about "getting the mean reds" and finding your very own way to escape them. Not pretending to do so, but rather overcoming it as it works best for you.

Thing is, no one wants to feel miserable, afraid or lost. Unless you are an avid masochist, which is fine, too, whatever floats your boat, darling.

But there's nothing worse than having to fake the emotion that just isn't there yet. "Fake it till you make it" is not exactly the healthiest method here.

Feeling unhappy, just like feeling happy is what being human is all about. 

I myself - especially as someone with a long-term disability striving to promote the most positive image of a successful woman in a wheelchair - always thought that this right here is your most distilled type of 

bravery, i.e. to put on a million-dollar smile, show up, nail it and, God forbid, anyone finds out about the sadness that you are carrying in your trendy little backpack. 

But over the years I came to learn - and learn the hard way - that it takes a lot more courage to actually admit that you are not okay. At least, to yourself. 

It's okay to feel sad, it's okay to feel happy, it's okay to feel everything in between. 

You are just a Human. Embrace it. 

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