Saturday Morning

I’m sitting at my desk looking out the window at an overcast morning partially cheered up by the blooming red roses and coral gladiola in my front yard. My thoughts are not too cheerful, though.

The past few years have been tumultuous for me, and I have emerged a changed man at least in several aspects. One might argue it was good for me, but was it really worth the scars that have been permanently left? This morning I looked in the mirror and saw a tired, puffy face with decidedly unhealthy complexion woefully staring back, and I could almost hear it ask me why oh why I had to refuse to be just like everyone else.

The fact is that my world has shifted around me and I cannot adapt accordingly. Or rather I will not, or I cannot – I don’t know anymore. How to analyze why I still believe in kindness instead of self-interest, in truth instead of fabrication, in genuineness instead of calculation? How to explain the fondness I sense at the sight of a solitary wild flower, the joy I feel when a long-forgotten melody wafting on a fortuitous wind reaches my ear, or the nostalgic quiver that seizes my heart with a whiff of a distant perfume that whispers to me across the years?

In a world saturated with and dominated by crass, fake and whimsical values, I have sought solace in friendship but found mostly disappointment, in churches but seen only insecure and inflated egos, in God only to face an incomprehensibly silent stone wall. More than ever I’m feeling like an alien stranded on a grotesque planet.

Is it ever possible that I find a corner of my own to grow my roses, sing my songs, and be free to be just the way I am? I’m going to look in that mirror again to see if that tired face will regain its vigor anytime soon. Whatever feeble ember that remains inside me now, I'll have to fan it into flame once more.

Winter Sunrise

I got up early on a February morning, bundled up, opened my bedroom window and waited for the moment the sun came up.

How's Your Tank Filling Up?

I spent a few minutes on New Year's Day to contemplate my days past and days to come while looking at the somber dry grass in my winter front lawn. It occurred to me that inside each of us there must be some sort of a tank which holds the knowledge and experiences we've accumulated over the years, and which governs our current way of living.

A young person doesn't have much in his tank, so he has to draw guidance from somewhere else, trying different philosophies and viewpoints for size. Like a ship without cargo, he still has to find his own balance.

With maturity, a man's tank is full enough to have a settling effect on him, but there's still room for acquiring more wisdom. Like a ship with enough freight in its hold, he sails the oceans with joy and confidence; yet with an open attitude he is also likely to gain new ideas and get to see new shores.

Well, it sounds very nice and all, except that it only works if we accumulate the right kind of material in our tanks. For many people, throughout their life, collect no gold dust but only useless dirt.

So, how's your tank filling up?

Small Morning Hour

It was well past midnight when we pulled into a gas station, which against the surrounding pitch-black nightscape appeared warmly inviting like some sort of home.

At this small hour there was less light, less noise, less activities. Yet whatever remaining seemed magnified; lights seemed brighter, sound sharper, even the gas smelt stronger.

In the refreshment area, the aroma of coffee and newly baked donuts felt immensely enticing. A few customers looked up, watching us curiously. I nodded at them, wondering who they were and what circumstances had led them here, away from home at this hour. At a busier time, in a public place like this one, nobody would have paid attention to anybody for sure.

Now I understand why they say less is more, I thought. With less distraction my senses actually picked up who and what around me with more clarity, making them more interesting. We sat down by a window, coffee in hand. The darkness outside seemed like a big unknown which we would soon venture into.

Not a bad way to start this new year. All I have to do is to get rid of noises from my life and carry only those things that matter into the uncharted territory of the days to come. A titillating sensation was creeping up my spine, and to the puzzlement of my companion I smiled happily.

December

December came with my birthday and Christmas, both I met with indifference. It was for something else that I really felt.

The weather has been acting erratically this year. We had a warm spell in mid-December, pleasant enough for me to walk around in shorts and sandals. Then my astonished eyes caught bits of bright yellow standing out in the drab winter landscape, and I realized that a few forsythia shrubs were starting to bloom. Poor things, tricked by the unseasonably warm weather into blooming too soon. In a few days those tender flowers would be exposed to frigid air and prematurely wilt away.

I thought of the way my friends and I had grown up, not unlike those flowers which opened to life only to be met with cold harshness. We had been children of a country that had just lost a bitter war, and had not been spared the ignominious status of the vanquished. Our fathers had been taken away, our means of subsistence reduced to hardscrabble meagerness, our values and beliefs maliciously derogated. And growing up we had been faced with no prospect for education or jobs, regardless of competency.

Life had moved on, each of us had found our own way according to our own mettle as well as chance circumstances. Nevertheless, we had all shared the same experience as those flowers that had the misfortune to be blooming in mid-December.