Borderlands/Meraki

“Educated or not, the onus is still on woman to be a wife/mother – only the nun can escape motherhood. Women are made to feel total failures if they don’t marry and have children.”  (Gloria Anzaldua)

Non serviam. Some of us choose to be our own creations, what we make ourselves in the end. We rebel from the beginning. In front of families, religions, nations. We run away from the stories encrusted in our skins in childhoods. We abandon that cruel, meaningless God, with which we have been raised and listen to our voice within. To reason. We search for our own language, playing with words, searching. We search for our own people, our own families, despite our misanthropy and our inheritance of lack of trust. Because this is what we have inherited. And even in our wilderness, our wild nature, we are haunted by our past – how couldn’t we, living, growing so much under so powerful myths? No matter how many myths we deconstruct, no matter how up we go, how many theses we write, no matter how successful we are, we are failures in the face of some cultures, some families. 

“There is something compelling about being both male and female, about having an entry into both worlds. Contrary to some psychiatric tenets, half and halfs are not suffering from a confusion of sexual identity, or even from a confusion of gender. What we are suffering from is an absolute despot duality that says we are able to be only one or the other. It claims that human nature is limited and cannot evolve into something better. But I, like other queer people, am two in one body, both male and female. I am the embodiment of the hieros gamos: the coming together of opposite qualities within.” (Gloria Anzaldua)

I have always searched for androgyny in literature, in the style of a writer. I have always searched for wholeness in a person. I have always tried to understand, to see the whole picture.

"I want the freedom to carve and chisel my own face, to staunch the bleeding with ashes, to fashion my own gods out of my entrails. And if going home is denied me then I will have to stand and claim my space, making a new culture – una cultura mestiza – with my own lumber, my own bricks and mortar and my own feminist architecture.” (Gloria Anzaldua)

I have found the other days a world with which I fell in love: meraki – “to do something with soul, creativity, or love; to put something of yourself into your work.” I think this is the word that characterizes my workaholic nature, my stuborness and my wilderness. Meraki. 

Or, on the same note, 

“I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning.” (James Joyce)

Note to Myself: Happiness

Sometimes I feel that I live in a country where 30 means already “old”. Until you are this age, you have to have your own house, your own family, your child or at least planning one. I don’t have any of these. Not even that “steady” career that I have been working for so many years to achieve, and I have given so much to it, doesn’t seem so steady these days.

“What have I done in 30 years? What have I achieved?” – questions that are impossible not to ask yourself. “Am I too old already for the things mentioned above? Is there something wrong with me?” – again, haunting questions that you cannot avoid if you are a human being living in a society full of stereotypes.

I believe happiness, and some achievements, can be measured in small things, in the fingerprints that you leave somewhere on earth and on a soul – either they are remembered or not. I feel that those moments are in small hands rubbing your forehead when you don’t feel well, in friends who are stubborn to let you go and promise they will stay, no matter how bitchy you can be with them, in long walks, orange benches, books that change your perspectives, trips, long or short, in places you find your peace, students who tell you “thank you”, or achieve their dreams with your help, in all the people, all the friends, to whom you showed kindness and helped their dreams come true, in people with whom you shared some smiles, and build new memories, even if you let them go, too afraid of distances of different kinds. Memory, with its maze, is definitely my identity.

Call me Ray. Not because in my soul there is always sun and no storms, not because I am an optimist, not because sometimes I do not have power to believe in something/someone, but because I choose to remember the nicest memories, to see the goodness in people, to forgive more than maybe I should have. There is not a big thing that defines us, that we did/accomplished until this age, but the small, the tiny ones, that shape our wholeness so far.

The Winner Takes Nothing

Inainte de a ma arunca in alte munci sisifice, de a uita aceste saptamani, de a ma ridica de aici, as vrea sa ma opresc putin si sa respir. As vrea sa-mi azvarl hainele si cartile intr-o valiza, sa ma urc intr-o masina si sa plec cat mai departe. As vrea sa ma intind pe iarba, sa mananc o inghetata uriasa, si doar sa privesc in jur. As vrea ca toate sunetele sa dispara si oamenii de care am avut atata nevoie in ultimul timp, sa fie aici. Sa inchid ochii si pentru o saptamana sau doua, sa am dreptul sa ma pot bucura de toate lucrurile la care am lucrat anul acesta.

Probabil ca daca fericirea s-ar masura in note, as fi fericirea intruchipata. Numai ca fericirea se masoara in ignoranta … suntem oamenii ce-i purtam zi de zi in noi, si ne amintim sentimentele pe care le-am impartasit (sau nu) la acest capat de drum cu ei. Ignorance is Bliss and I wanted Hell.

Nu stiu ce am scris, cum am scris, sau despre ce am scris in acele pagini. Nu mai stiu nimic. La capat de drum, din stanca aia de care oricine se putea prinde, ramai un Rayless sfasiat de oboseala, incapabil sa mai duca o idee pana la capat, dornic de mai mult, dar pustiit de puteri. Ramai cu un pumn de vise sfaramate de propria creatie, in care aceasta extenuare fizica si psihica iti cere lucruri ce nu le mai poti da. Nothing, everything, what’s the difference? E randul tau sa vrei ca timpul sa se opreasca in loc, randul tau sa cauti oamenii ce ii iubesti, randul tau sa cedezi complet in fata tuturor furtunelor pe care le-ai ignorat. E recviemul tau pentru un vis. Din tot ceea ce am scris pana acum, nimic nu m-a chinuit mai tare, si-n acelasi timp, nu l-am indragit mai mult. Desi niciodata pana acum nu te-ai mai simtit atat de mic.

*

“I did not know. I was fully aware of what would be destroyed. I did not know what would be built out of the ruins. No one can know that with any degree of certainty, I thought. The old world is tangible, solid, we live in it and are struggling with it every moment - it exists. The world of the future is not yet born, it is elusive, fluid, made of the light from which dreams are woven; it is a cloud buffeted by violent winds - love, hate, imagination, luck, God... The greatest prophet on earth can give men no more than a watchword, and the vaguer the watchword the greater the prophet.”

 

Nikos Kazantzakis

We cannot be without a Past. We would not have a history – be it social or personal - , a memory, or a self. We would simply be walking shadows, without identities. What does it happen when this Past swallows the present and the future, and it makes from them motionless states?

William Faulkner and Katherine Anne Porter explore this theme in their works and depict for us a world without time, where memories become myths, and reality is another “once upon a time …”. They also depict characters who suddenly pass from the sacrality of a past world into the profanity of the brave new world, where modernity destroyed the stability of tradition. The character is now put face to face with the code that was inherited by his or her family from an illo tempore, a code destroyed now either by the changes brought by the Civil War, or by the inner conflicts of the Southerners.

...

We are written, and we write ourselves day by day. Quentin and Miranda are caught in the power of the past, not having the possibility to reach that fluidity of the future, into the clash of tradition in modernity, in a destiny written by the human beings that surround them, and into their own hubris. Their whole identity is torn between the Southern image of the Old Order, and the reality of the New Order; they cannot live in the past, because it is dead, but they are not allowed to live in the present, because in the South, present is motionless, and future must be the image of another past. They are tormented characters, destroyed, who face their own realities – or others - and lose everything.

Only by accepting who they are, and confronting death, they are able to let time flow. Because the world of the future, as Kazanstakis sees it, “is a cloud buffeted by violent winds”, and only by accepting the past, the memories – personal and inherited – and the loss, in a world of nothingness, only then, as Miranda confesses, there will be time for everything. 

Ithaca 1

This is one of the activities in which I've lost myself this year. It was a HELL of experience, in a reality impossible to ignore, cruel, hopeless, and meaningless. For the thoughts and feelings that I’m wearing inside myself, hoping that one day I shall have time and energy to put them on paper, for the things that these kids taught me, for all the hours that some of my students destroyed, for all the unbearable stories that I've discovered, I thank them. Because although I still have many things to learn, I wouldn't have been the teacher that I am today if I hadn’t met an Ivan, an Ionut, or several gypsies [cultural empathy]. But at the same time, I also choose to remember the following things:

One of my students' blog (6th grade): http://apyblog.blogspot.ro/

Crazy Little Thing Called... Life

,,Astazi este … Astazi. Privesc un nor, ma arunc intr-o amintire, ma prind de un gand de viitor … si la fel ca anul trecut, ca acum 22 de ani, ca maine, ca poimaine, raman EU. E 1 Martie, ziua … in care se dau martisoare. E nostim ca nu-mi place primavara (sau mai bine zis, ea nu ma place pe mine). Si cu toate acestea, in loc de traditionalul ,,o primavara frumoasa”, am decis sa spun celor dragi « te iubesc ». In felul meu profund, sacru. E destula superficialitate pe lume, asa ca altii o pot avea si pentru mine." (Martie, 2011)

Mi se pare absurda orice propozitie ce incepe cu “O primavara.... frumoasa/calda/fericita/colorata/etc.” Nu am fost niciodata fana zilelor “traditionale”, a martisoarelor, a felicitarilor sau a urarilor trase la indigo. Le servim oamenilor la aniversari acelasi text rasuflat, superficial si imposibil, pentru ca ne e prea lene sa inventam ceva personal, nu ne pasa de ceea ce scriem, am fost invatati la orele de romana sa invatam fara sa gandim, sau pur si simplu ne lipseste acest talent...?

1 martie este insa o zi altfel pentru mine, in care ma astept la altceva, atat din partea mea, cat si din partea celor ce ma cunosc bine de tot. Mai mult decat in oricare alta zi, trag linii si incerc sa le arat celor din jurul meu acest crazy little thing called Life. In care indatoririle noastre de cetateni exemplari, deadline-urile, cursurile si orgoliul nostru urias sunt lasate in pace pentru o singura zi, in favoarea celor mai simple lucruri. Pe acestea le-am vrut si le-am asteptat astazi.

Cred ca cel mai minunat cadou primit atazi (si-n ultimul timp), a fost acel val de energie, acea epifanie oferita de o clasa. E nostim cum profesorii raman niste copii, trecand peste martisoarele “de oameni mari” (niciodata nu mi-au placut) si cum inca mai colectioneaza buburuze sau ursuleti, cum fac schimb intre ei sau cum privesc o felicitare simpla, stangace, facuta de mana unui copil... astazi mi s-a amintit (si cata nevoie aveam de asta!) de ce am ales aceasta meserie... ieri, in loc de a citi simplu un text, i-am pus sa-l joace (idee ce mi-a venit pe moment), sa-l interpreteze in fata clasei, si pentru astazi s-au oferit singurei sa se imparta in grupe si sa-si scrie propriile texte pe care sa le puna in practica... e atata talent, atata creatie, atatea teritorii necunoscute in noi insine, ce merita a fi explorate... e atat de pacat ca aceasta parte creativa e atat de des acoperita cu gandirea obiectiva, plina de clasificari, in care elevii sunt invatati pur si simplu sa citeasca un text si sa invete ce a zis X,Y, Z despre text si-n care acesti oameni micuti reflecta atat de puternic educatia primita (si neprimita) acasa...

Invatamantul inseamna lucrul cu hartii – MULTE hartii. Barbologie. Lucruri facute pentru nimic. Invatamantul insa mai inseamna si Omul din fata ta, cu o viata ascunsa de ochii nostri, in mare parte necunoscuta si lui insusi, care creste sub privirile tale, care e indobitocit de normele familiei si ale educatiei, dar care, in tot haosul din interiorul sau (si al sistemului), ascunde acea forta creatoare pe care o apreciez atat de mult...

E 1 martie si pentru mine, astazi, Primavara e un pic mai departe.    

1904

I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for a foreign land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazeless stare, we walked a million hills
I must have died alone, a long long time ago ...

Fowles, in Colectionarul scria: “Am încercat întotdeauna să mă impun vieţii; acum a sosit timpul să las viaţa să mi se impună mie.” Imi place sa fiu ocupata si sa joc sah – e jocul care-mi reflecta probabil gandirea: fac o actiune acum, si un sir de alte evenimente, alte posibilitati, alte sanse sau un alt vid mi se deschide si mi se inchide in fata, cantarind in minte aceste posibile evenimente. Dar ador sa fiu surprinsa, de noi persoane intalnite-n viata, de noi stradute la dreapta si la stanga pe autostrada mea, de prieteni vechi.

Probabil ca am tot incercat sa ma impun vietii. Stii, „condamnarea” noastra, a tuturor, la fericire? Cu totii visam/suntem invatati sa ne dorim o cariera intr-un anumit domeniu, sa fim „cei mai buni” in ceea ce facem, cu totii ne dorim o familie, care sa fie mereu langa noi, un sot/sotie, un copil sau doi (si daca-s doi, de ce sa nu fie trei?), un apartament cat mai spatios, sau de ce nu, o casuta cu o gradina in jur, unde un catel si o pisica sa traiasca impreuna fericiti pana la adanci batraneti ... Numai ca ne dorim toate astea fara a lasa un pic de spatiu realitatii, fara a ne bucura de simplitatea zilei de azi, de ceea ce suntem acum ...

Oare cand mai traim in realitate, in momentul numit acum? Cand suntem mici, ne dorim sa crestem, sa ne luam viata-n maini, sa le aratam tuturor cat de independenti, cat de bine ne descurcam singurei; cand crestem, ne gandim la visurile noastre, ne dorim ceva, si dupa ce am obtinut acel ceva, vrem mai mult; ceea ce ne facea fericiti in urma cu un an, devine acum un lucru indinspensabil in viata noastra, dar paradoxal, insignifiant. Evadam din realitate prin reverii, ne omoram singuri ziua de azi, de acum, prinsi fie in amintirile dureroase ale trecutului, fie in angoasele viitorului, nerealizand cat de multe zile pierdem captivi in propriul labirint ...

I’m dancing a tango with my hybris ... la 1904 gandurile se opresc. Obisnuiam sa incerc sa ma impun vietii. Cu timpul, am invatat sa ascult si sa o analizez. Mai sus, si mai sus, pana-n varf, dincolo de regulile ce le detest, dincolo de amintiri, de azi si de ieri, dincolo de lupte, frici, insensibilitate. Poate ca e doar capricornul din mine, iubitor de munte, poate e doar modalitatea mea de a ma elibera de stres si de tot ceea ce am putut aduna de-a lungul anului sau anilor ... La fel ca si calatoria mea prin Ithaca, e un drum intr-un timp circular, spre adultul-stanca ce e mereu prezent pentru cei dragi, pregatit oricand cu sfaturi rationale, cel care cica nu se sperie de nimic, inspre copilul vulnerabil, ce n-am stiut niciodata sa-l ascult, spre cea care viseaza uneori cu ochii larg deschisi ... E linistea de care mi-e dor si unul din acele lucruri banale, care ascunde atat de multe ... pentru ca daca exista cu adevarat magie pentru mine, aceasta se regaseste in cele mai simple lucruri: in cafeaua calda (si rara) din dimineti aglomerate, in plimbarile lungi sau scurte cu cei mai indragiti prieteni, intr-un refren si-un rand, intr-un varf de munte ...

We Have All the Time in the World ...

Cum ar fi dacă am avea tot Timpul din lume? Daca mormanul de carti care creste si creste nu ar mai fi o problema si am putea citi pentru totdeauna, toate cartile din lume care merita a fi citite. Daca tot stresul care s-a facut simtit in aceasta saptamana, care ma sufoca, n-ar mai fi sub taiusul Timpului, si am avea tot timpul din lume sa ne maturizam, sa crestem, sa ne dam o disertatie, un examen, sa fim ceea ce am vrea sa fim? Daca am stii ca indiferent ce, vom avea tot Timpul din lume sa le spunem prietenilor nostri cat de mult ii iubim, sa le asteptam iertarea, sa fim siguri ca undeva, in viitor, lucrurile vor fi de ambele parti mai bune, mai luminoase, daca am avea tot timpul din lume sa le aratam cine suntem cu adevarat, sa le aratam de ce si cum, sa le dovedim cat de mult inseamna pentru noi, sa le spunem, sa ne spuna …

Numai ca nu avem tot timpul din lume. De asta poate iubesc atat de mult cantecul acesta … We have all the time in the world … stresul va fi mereu prezent in vietile noastre, timpul ne va presa mereu; in fiecare zi, anotimp, sau an va fi ceva ce am uitat sa spunem, sau nu am avut curajul sa spunem, cartile vor creste, vor creea noi intrebari, noi punti, noi Ego-uri, prietenii de moment vor pleca, cei adevarati vor ramane. Pentru totdeauna. Totdeauna … oare cat inseamna asta? Cati ani? Fiecare avem un alt totdeauna, pe langa care trecem in fiecare zi … unii il au pe “totdeauna” de 100 de ani, altii de 50, unii de 30, altii de o zi … si intotdeauna vom avea in suflet zambetele care ne-au dat puterea de a merge mai departe, zambetele care ne-au facut mai buni ...

Adevarul gol golut, asa cum Toni Morrison spunea, e ca “today is always here. Tomorrow is never here.” Am avut un vis ciudat zilele trecute … a war and a green everlasting peace. A past and a Future … hopefully, a Future. Why not? Because as I said somewhere, I remember – past, present, future. And I want that Future.

 Dar pana atunci, in acest “today”, prezent mereu,  hai sa incercam sa fim un pic mai buni, sa dam un pic mai mult, sa facem lucrurile asa cum trebuie, sa spunem te iubesc mai des, prin cuvinte sau gesturi … Let it be PEACE. Asta e ceea ce-mi doresc cel mai mult, asta-mi lipseste, asta m-a ademenit, candva, demult, in alta viata parca … peace. Suna bine, nu?

We have all the time in the world … to hope, to love, to care, to save, to be saved, to forgive, to be forgiven, to teach, to learn. Why not? ...

The Right to Happiness ...?!

„Basmele nu le dezvăluie copiilor că balaurii există. Copii ştiu deja că balaurii există. Basmele le dezvăluie copiilor că balaurii pot fi omorâţi.” – G.K.Chesterton

 

Basmele ne invata cand suntem mici ca Binele invinge mereu Raul. Atunci cand crestem descoperim ca scriitorii, zeii care au creat povestile noastre, sunt la randul lor oameni. Si viata nu inseamna perfectiune. Descoperim in spatele fiecarui astfel de zeu un om care a fost ingenunchiat de propria lume interioara, in viata caruia uneori Raul a triumfat asupra Binelui …

Cred ca sunt doua tipuri de lumi. Primul si cel mai mare univers e facut din oameni care sunt pozitionati la mijloc de viata. Aici, viata si fericirea inseamna: ne nastem, crestem, iubim si ne indragostim, ne facem o cariera, avem un copilas, murim. Exista bucurii si tristete, exista siguranta, dreptul la fericire, dreptul de a te simti pe tine si de a nu fugi de tine. Exista puterea de a te uita in oglinda si a zambi, de a te ierta, de a zambi in fata amintirilor. Si o astfel de viata e perfecta.

Exista un univers in care putem arunca artistii, criminalii, psihopatii, savantii, alcoolicii, sinucigasii, etc. Piri Thomas. House. Woolf. Joyce. Picasso. Hemingway. Si toti ceilalti a caror nume nu sunt cunoscute. Oamenii de aici sunt pozitionati la extreme. Aici viata inseamna: ne nastem, crestem, luptam, incercam sa iubim si sa ne indragostim, ne autodistrugem si-i distrugem pe ceilalti, visam la TOT ce lumea cealalta are, numai ca balamalele in noi sunt prea subrede pentru a mai putea schimba ceva. Fiecare zi e o noua incercare de a face un pas inainte, de a uita sau de ce nu, a accepta. La toti gasim un centru, o gaura neagra in care balaurii s-au nascut, in care tot ce tine de lumea cealalta s-a pierdut … si cu toate acestea, ei sunt cei care ne invata sa PRIVIM viata, sa o IUBIM, ei ne arata partea cealalta a vietii, si ne fac mai buni, mai sinceri, mai sensibili …

Primul univers reproseaza celuilalt ca nu traiesc. Al doilea ii indeamna pe toti sa traiasca. Primului univers ii este teama de a accepta ca o lume ca cea a lui Piri Thomas exista. Al doilea e dezgustat de realitatea pe care o poarta mereu in el insasi. Primul nu poate intelege deciziile, rationamentele, sentimentele celui de-al doilea. Al doilea ravneste la primul univers, la o sansa la fericire, si mereu se intreaba “Does nobody understand?” Primul e dezgustat de auto-distrugerea celui de-al doilea si vrea sa nu inteleaga. Al doilea, ar face orice pentru a nu se mai simti pe el insusi. Si de a uita durerea din interiorul lor.

It’s all about PAIN. Capital P. Si aici e marea diferenta dintre cele doua. Pentru al doilea, se merge numai pe extreme. De la non-feelings la sentimente care ofera totul. Pain. Pentru ca nu mai vor sa simta ura si dezgustul pe care-l au pentru propria fiinta. Pentru ca nu mai suporta gheata care s-a instalat in jurul lor, pentru ca sentimentul, singurul sentiment urias, care le-a ucis pe celelalte e atat de imens incat distruge totul, de la spirit, la trup. Vor sa uite. Asta e problema. Vor sa uite amintirile care li s-au intiparit in comportament, visele care ii trezesc in toiul noptii, propriile lor fapte. Si daca mai punem temperamentul artistic la scriitori/pictori/etc, care le ofera sensibilitatea aia uriasa la orice, drumul spre iad e deja hotorat. Asa ca Dumnezeu se arunca in uitare … un pahar, doua, o sticla. Dimineata, pentru totdeauna. Faulkner, N. Stanescu, etc, etc, etc. Pastilele care ii slabesc, ii adorm, care ii fac sa uite. Orice pentru a uita. Apa care-i atrage ca un magnet, pentru ca e atat de CALM acolo, pentru ca in acele valuri nu vei mai simti, nu va mai durea, nu vei mai gandi … pistoale care intr-o secunda sterg premii, ani de munca, romane, coduri de onoare. Hemingway.

Cati din primul univers pot privi cu sange rece realitatea de dincolo de ei? Cati dintre noi putem intelege ceva daca nu am simtit, daca nu am trecut la randul nostru prin asa ceva? Cati dintre noi ii pot ierta pe cei de sus? Cati dintre noi ii putem accepta in cercul nostru pe Ceilalti? Cati dintre noi avem empatia necesara si dorim sa intelegem? Do we really want to understand them?! Is it worth?

Singurul lucru pe care-l facem e sa ne facem ca uitam viata lor. Dupa ce au murit, desigur. Daca trecem pe langa un om beat pe strada, simtim dezgust, mila sau ura. Daca citim poeziile lui Stanescu, sau proza lui Faulkner, spunem: Genial. Daca auzim de un X/Y/Z ca s-a omorat, suntem din nou, dezgustati. Daca e un artist maret, suntem socati. Daca Madalina Manole s-a sinucis, majoritatea dintre noi spunem: “A fost o proasta”. Si Hemingway, si Woolf s-au sinucis. E aceasi categorie. Say it. Think it. “Hemingway a fost un prost. Woolf a fost o proasta.”????? No, I can’t. Because they were brilliant people.

Nu afirm ca toti oamenii "cu pasarele la cap" vor fi/sunt genii. Nu afirm ca toti cei care au probleme cu droguri/alcool/etc vor fi/sunt genii, ca omul care doarme pe strada ta, e un alt Faulkner. E mai mult decat distrugere pentru a fi acel Dumnezeu care ne invata ca Binele invinge mereu Raul. Desi stiu ca nu e asa. Desi toti dintre ei, dintre artistii de mai sus, au stiut mereu ca nu e asa. Sansa la fericire. Sansa de a trai. The first universe is in charge. The first universe is their God. Si daca al doilea univers e atat de las incat nu poate coopera cu viata, primul e las pentru ca nu poate, nu vrea sa inteleaga de ce au un astfel de comportament, de ce sunt ceea ce sunt.

Si ma intreb, oare chiar vrem sa-i intelegem, chiar vrem sa privim dincolo de masti, de oglinzi care distorsioneaza, chiar vrem sa-i ascultam, chiar putem sa-i iubim si sa le oferim un loc la fericire? Si daca da, oare de ce?

 

Ain’t No Sunshine …

A storm is approaching inside of me … this year, next one, or maybe in the following years. But its silent wind whispers near my soul that is going to be here and it’s going to be the biggest of all. And it’s ironic, because this one is my creation, has in itself all my weapons and feelings, all my walls, warmth and coldness, all my parts from my ego and all my wishes and it’s going to knock on my door and window: “You were my creator; you called me!”

We raise children to make them happy. We should become parents when we realize that a child isn’t our property, but a different human being, that giving life to a child does not only mean to carry him in your womb, but (and I would say especially) what you offer him afterwards. As parents we shape a life, a destiny. We mould without knowing his psyche and personality, we make him a happy being or a sad one, a ‘good’ person or a ‘bad’ one. “Everything begins in childhood”, the psychologists say. How many of us really understand these words? Adler and Simone de Beauvoir talk of patterns, of how the child imitates his parents’ behavior, how the circle of “good education” or “bad education” spins around for generations. They also talk of the fewest cases that realize their “bad education”, their unseen inner battles and how these persons become best educators, but cold human beings …

 Being a parent means sacrifices. And a real sacrifice made for love will never wear the word “sacrifice”, a person who makes such a sacrifice would never say to the other one “I made a sacrifice for you”. Because we make them in the name of love, for pleasure, for the better, for the safety of the person near us, be it a child, a friend, a lover or a relative. And no matter what we give, we feel a kind of joy inside ourselves. Can we understand and see the world through our children's eyes? Can we see for a moment the world through the eyes of dearest persons?

We should understand that our dreams are not the dreams of the child, we should learn to look at him and accept him as he really is, we should see what he likes and encourage him in his road, accept his silence in teenage years, we should show him his mistakes not by screaming at him “you’re wrong”, but by various questions and examples, we should let him make mistakes so that he can learn from them, and top of all, we should be here for him. In good and bad. Forever.

Sometimes I wish I wouldn’t know and feel so many things. Sometimes I wish I would not feel so old inside … Sometimes I wish that someone would see me and strongly hug me. How old am I? But there is nothing more powerful and everlasting than the sincere love of a parent towards his child. It’s a love different from the others, which maybe makes you a better person, a love so huge and at the same time so fragile that words are not enough to describe it. No matter if he’s your flesh and blood, or he’s only part of your soul. And there are so many, but so MANY mistakes that people do with their own children, so many “instincts” that they think they possess when actually their instincts have their roots in their own childhood, personality and education, so MUCH selfishness when you actually have in your hands the LIFE of another human being.

When we are in love, we feel happy everywhere, as long as we are near the loving one. But Time changes everything, washes away all the ephemeral things, Reality cuts from its roots romanticism and with the help of Time, puts a mirror in front of us. We move. From cities to towns, from towns to villagers; we give up our dearest cities because ... "home is where the heart is". But, how many of these couples think of their children? How many think of their education, of institutions, how many think that if they go on an island, away from civilisation, after a couple of years they would want for their child the best. And because of this they would have to choose: keep him near them, for an ordinary life, or teach him to search for the best, to educate himself and to see everything that can be seen and feel in a lifetime ... What would you feel when it's time to say good-bye?

 You see, these words are part of me, of my FEELINGS. Are they few, are they many? Call them thoughts, but this time, these thoughts have their roots in feelings. And yes, people for me are one and the same, people leave, people betray and they are all gray. I invest my love and time in people that are able to make a difference. Because I simply believe in the warmth and goodness of the soul. And yes, when this latter persons disappoint me or forget me, I feel pain and I close the door a little more in front of Humanity … And now, I feel that I’m on the verge of my last step: opening my hands and let her fly. I know I would do that. I know she would do that. Because I taught her to do so. But I also know that in that day every inch of my soul will burn.