цемра (3)

Testing of Culture

"Candies, candies, candies! Give us candy!!! Candies!" That's how Luba usually greets the neighbor's red van. Before, the elderly neighbor would give her candies on his own, but now that's become his nickname. Now he's learned to say "no" and to run away.

Today, our Polish friends agreed to look after our children at their place while I attended a parent meeting at the kindergarten. Such visits for the kids always go by joyfully. But they end with difficulty. And this time, Luba didn't want to leave peacefully. She screamed at the top of her lungs: "gifts! gifts! gifts!". She cried and demanded. The Poles didn't understand the word "gifts", so I tried quickly to pull Luba into an embrace and rushed out, not even putting on my shoes. We quickly said our goodbyes and ran outside. Almost, almost... I thought. But I had to return for our pot.

While I was coming back, Ksyusha helped Luba explain by translating to everyone that "gifts" mean "presents" in Polish. The air was filled with shouts of "presents! presents!". Our friends were already searching for gifts, but I stopped them in time.

I shoved Luba into the car. Took a deep breath. Closed the doors and took control. Now I was the one shouting.

Only after about 10 minutes did I calm down. I felt shame. I started to pity the kids and reflect on what had happened.

The situation was too complicated for me. The words "Luba, you shouldn't do this!" no longer represent an absolute truth. Luba wants presents. Luba speaks openly about it. Luba demands it. I don't want to make her not want gifts. I don't want her to be silent about her desires. So, what do I want? Do I want her to better understand other people and their emotional state?

Is it Luba's problem that her words are taken so seriously (especially by me)? Is it Luba's problem that dad decided she should be a very grateful and proper girl, and if she's not, it's very, very bad? Or maybe I decided that I'm responsible for the discomfort she brings to others?

Writing this now, it hurts. Because I've always been someone who doesn't bother others, doesn't cause them trouble, a useful, non-confrontational person.

Is life just about being good, non-confrontational, avoiding confrontation, considering others' desires? It seems more like seeking approval. People like me are useful to society. They are "low-maintenance". They are always praised. They thrive on "praise-seeking" and suffer from its lack.

But there are others: Socrates, Kierkegaard, and the list goes on. Those who stood firm with their truth and absence of correctness. Who valued sincerity and authenticity. Even Christ was so inconvenient that many wanted His swift death.

My dear daughter, I hope you will continue to say what you genuinely desire. And don't pay attention to how uncomfortable it makes your "sick" father during those moments.




P.S.: "The servants of the householder came and said to him, 'Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from?' He answered, 'An enemy has done this.' The servants said to him, 'Then do you want us to go and gather them?' But he replied, 'No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, "Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn."  Matthew 13

When you pull or trample the weeds in a child's heart, the wheat of sincerity and truthfulness might also get trampled. I think the focus should be on nurturing the good wheat of a loving and sincere heart in my daughter. And the weeds will be taken care of when the time comes. Though, undoubtedly, everything is millions of times more complicated and doesn't fit such simple hypotheses.

Night

Night. The clock has just passed midnight. We turned off the lights. Finished talking. Stretched out to sleep. I look at the door frame. Its edges are illuminated by the moonlight, which somehow filters through the blinds and regular curtains. This frame fascinates me. Thoughts circle: if I don't fall asleep - I'll photograph this doorway, how it looks at night. If I fall asleep - I'll rest. Dasha sleeps, I lie down and look. I reach out to the phone, try to take a shot with a long exposure, but without a flash. The result is just one black spot, no way to recognize the door, but it's there. Took pictures, kept taking. Decided to go write. Now I'm sitting here, writing. Something indistinct resides inside me, wanting to express itself. What is it? I don't know. But I write with hope that it will soon emerge. Earlier, dark doorways used to be sources of fear for me. Now they're a mystery. You can gaze into them. To see the unseen. To see what's not there even in the light. To uncover a secret, an essence, something crucial, but always elusive. Lately, I find myself laughing at myself or at others when they claim to have grasped the very essence of things. All of it seems like the wind, which you can't catch. But you can feel it, you can set the sails and navigate through life. Just like that, jump out of bed and write incomprehensible texts. Give in to that unrecognizable force that inspires, that unveils the horizons of the unexplored.

Forest under Dark Clouds.

I step out to my beloved forest edge. The sun illuminates everything around, the eye rejoices, the heart fills with love, everything is embraced by trust and security. The forest is alive. This patch of forest can be easily overlooked from a helicopter or Google Maps. But who can fathom its depth? Everything that happens in this patch? The forest is vast in its essential depth. One could study it endlessly, and it will always be different...

The sun hid behind dark clouds, the wind howled, the forest plunged into darkness. Fear engulfed me. I don't feel safe. Even though I have a flashlight in my hands, and in that flashlight burns a tiny flame. But what is this little flame for such a forest, to illuminate it? I don’t know what to do. The memory of how the forest looks in the light inspires me. Now I don't recognize the paths, the trees. Everywhere I look, I'm scared. I am afraid of the forest, I want to illuminate it. I want to somehow make it bright. The forest remains silent; I can't find out why it's in darkness, why it's struggling, if it will ever end and if it will end at all?

My language is the language of the flame in the flashlight. It wants to break free and light up the entire forest. Branch by branch, tree by tree. My flame wants to save the whole forest from darkness. And this has happened before. It broke free, and the forest burned in flames. The forest burned to the ground. Light spread, but it wasn't true light. It was a destructive light.

This time, I entered the dark restless forest. I left the flame in the flashlight. The flame remained silent and listened to the forest. The tiny light of the flame in the flashlight gently warmed the forest. The forest knew that I, with my flashlight, was waiting for light. Both the forest and I knew we just had to wait. Understand and accept the darkness. Allow it to exist in the forest. Not to fight the darkness so fiercely, not to lose what you love. The forest also feared the flame. It knew the flame could burn everything down.

We stayed silent for a long time. We built trust in each other. We allowed the darkness to exist. The forest began to feel better. The forest began to speak, and I just quietly listened. With each word the forest uttered, the clouds dispersed, and the sun illuminated branch by branch, tree by tree.

Now when there's darkness in the forest, I'll find the strength within me to go and wait, to go and listen. I don't want to lose love; I want to wait for the light.