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.

Just Bloom

Bloom through the concrete.

⠀

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.⠀

⠀

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. ⠀

⠀

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

⠀

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.⠀

⠀

To bloom. 

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.

Not that I have much trust in astrology anyway, however, every now and then I stumble upon a statement saying that Geminis take life half-heartedly. They easily shift from one passion to another, whether this is an occupation or, well, a person. They cannot be bothered by being forever-changing, unsettling, raw and careless. Biggest losers in attachment department, happy-go-luckies, with their heads in the clouds and wandering feet that feel the constant need to keep finding newer, different pathways.

I have to admit there is some truth in that. Just take a closer look at me. At one point of my bumpy youth, I was consumed and majorly invested in writing. I strongly believed that this is it, this is what I am supposed to sew into my life, this is what keeps my blood running and, thus, sustains me. However, that too has changed. Just like many other things. To my biggest astonishment and - quite frankly - disappointment... Later I fell in love with photography that remains till this day...

When it comes to my moods and my mind, these have their own quite spectacular roller coaster, too, which they enjoy on a daily basis. I cry with all that I am, I laugh just as intensely, and then I cry some more when no one watches.

Yet, when it comes to those who have entered my life and captivated my heart once and for all, the astrological assumption turns out to be false. They are stuck with me and I am stuck with them in the most old-fashioned manner in which you become devoted to someone. For good.

They might be world away, they might no longer even be a part of my life anymore, however, they never leave my soul, becoming an inseparable part of my identity.

I might not see them as much as I wish I did, I might not be able to ever talk to them again, I might not do all those things I long for and miss so much, but they never ever stop being woven into all that I do, into melodies that trigger both shivers and memories, into verses that I read, sunsets that I get to soothe my eyes with. Every moment when I am joyous and every moment when a feeling of lonesomeness and longing pricks my heart and stays in there like a thorn which I am unable and unwilling to take out. As cheesy as that.

... I remain annoyingly constant and old-fashioned when it comes to loving you.

Come to think of it, we haven't gone too far from the animals. We, the humans, do mark our territory, just like the animals do. But even more so, we cannot restrain ourselves from marking those who we tend to refer to as "ours". We leave the scent of our deepest affection on them, and before you smirk, let me tell you, it has hardly anything to do with sexuality.

Those we love, those we have the biggest privilege to call "the closest" have that particular mark which is never visible to the naked eye. It is absolutely impalpable and in no way can be examined, tasted, smelled. It is carefully concealed, they themselves might never be fully aware of it, but it is as real as a lingering feeling one gets from being kissed on the eyelids - probably one of the most captivating expressions of tenderness yet.

It stays on them as long as the thread connecting us remains intact and - oddly enough - even after it breaks for all the wrong or right reasons. All of the dear souls who we were fortunate enough to touch and profoundly interlace with in our lives once still have our trace on them. And, I believe, it is one of the most beautiful things one can think of.