All posts by Olya Aman

By now I’ve been so many people, I’ve learned who I am. I Am an Actress! If you could draw a map to happiness and make real, palpable emotions into GREEN traffic lights – I would’ve been the shortest way to a Happyville. Why? Because I know how to goose things up and make life on screen shatteringly, profoundly interesting. I Am a Writer! When I write, be it stories, novels, plays or movie scripts, I tug at your heartstrings and make you porous to sweat-out-loud gorgeous life experiences. I know how to woo people with my silver pen. It is similar to witchcraft and I’m the most skillful broomstick rider there is. I Am a Loving Mother and a Devoted Wife! An extraordinary woman that knows how to build a happy home out of the fabric of love, understanding, patience and compassion.

A Widowed Father’s Greatest Fear

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“Understanding, that worrying was draining and unreasonable arrives in course of time,” said U. sitting himself with the air of a stranger.

And U. was not a stranger in our house. We both, I and my mom, were visited with the same unpleasant sensation – worry glimmered faintly in his pale blue eyes.

U.’s eyes were sharp, noticing everything, skipping nothing. A round face, shiny black hair, and old fashioned half-whiskers. A friend to our house, a brother to my mom, a confidante to me. He was quick at understanding the teenagers who spoke their own language of youth. But his own daughters seemed to get more and more distant with him.

U. had two twin-teenage daughters whom he raised without mother, she died when they were only three years old.

N. and M. were as different in their inner nature as they were alike in their outer looks. N. was fanciful with all sorts of unspoken preferences and was easily offended. M., on the contrary, at almost any disappointment or displeasure would lift her chin and bear it silently.

Both of them at their 16 now were getting even with the life of love-adventure. That was the major reason for sleepless nights and days full of anxiety for their father.

U. was quick to anger, quick to laughter, and kind and loving from the depth of his soul. His daughters used to confide in him with every life adventure. But now they were growing into little ladies and needed a woman’s… mother’s guidance.

U. noticed that with him his daughters would restrain their speech and manners out of some secretive modesty. They hated the superior tone that he sometimes took with them, trying to reason and caution.

His daughters resented U.’s protective manner. He feared that their open-to-love hearts may get bruised on the way to more mature understanding of relationships.

N. and M. were tossed down blindfold on that life of emotion. To predict what it would make of them was impossible. They needed to taste it with their own taste buds.

U. was walking slowly, dragging his feet along as if he had a great weight on his shoulders. My mother was a wise woman and a good friend to her older brother. She reasoned with him, instilling in his mind the understanding that every step his daughters took toward love added to them strength and expansion as individuals.

My mother said that there was no purpose in tossing the days in a sort of monotonous agitation as there was no way to stop the natural process of girls’ awakening sensuousness. She chose to trust and respect rather than worry and question our self-esteem.

U. needed to call back to his memory the days of his early youth. He could make his authority felt and lock his girls at home—that would only invite violence and protest—U. knew it too well.

His daughters were merging into their teens. Soon enough they would be grown young women and to get to this point they needed to acquire experience that only heartfelt affairs could give.

I was on friendly terms with M. and N. That friendship produced a consoling effect on U.’s worrisome mind. His girls spent a lot of time in our house, talking to me, my sister, and our mother. They could ask my mother questions that were not destined to man’s ears. The answers they received were full of dignity and depth of graceful and noble judgment.

U. also had a privilege to relieve his long-pent emotions and talk freely with my mother. She was able to balance the strange anxiety in his soul, solace his spirit, and soothe his ruffled temper with the company and conversation.

The time of agitated, burning heart and brain is left behind. U. is an affectionate grandfather to his many grandchildren.

His beautiful and wise daughter M. came back from a big town with a child in her hands seeking retirement for her broken heart. She met a simple farmer, married him, and became a mother for four brothers to her little older girl.

U.’s other daughter N. became a famous writer—married to her books; constantly in love with her cats, niece, and nephews; and caring about every relation on a distant gift-giving manner. She remembers all the important dates and never fails to send a word and a present but rarely shows up herself, always faithful to her secluded way of life.

The Bench Among the Sunflowers

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Know the difference between distractive loneliness and desired solitude

My kind of loneliness rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of my life. – Olya Aman

I stole cautiously towards my secluded bench in the middle of a little island of sunflowers in their utmost bloom and richness of color. One would be almost invisible amongst those kingly looking plants with their golden crowns and massive leaves.

My face during that tough, lonely period of my life was a good deal over-serious for my two and twenty. I was well-nigh alien to this stunning and bewildering scene. My gloominess quite confounded the senses.

I looked at the boy on my bench, my neighbor, in mute and timid wonder. How did he end up on my patch? The intelligence that shone in the deep green eyes of this autistic boy, when I finally had a chance to look into them, seemed scarcely of his age, or of the world. The changing expression of good humor and seriousness, his ability to blush very red to the ears, made me admire a thousand lights that played about his face.

When I rented a small cottage in this remote village, I took no notice of other people and very little of this boy, although we were house to house neighbors and met often coming out and getting in our homely places, both thresholds facing each other. I seemed hard upon my thoughts, constantly looking down as if examining my boots and the ground right under my feet.

That day I smiled at this boy and said a word of polite greeting, but he, dedicated to his thoughts, didn’t respond. I discovered that this ability to concentrate made him a fantastic listener. At that moment in my life, he became my salvation. I was pouring on him a torrent of personal sentiments.

Not looking at me, he said, “L.. l.. l..”, then a long pause. The boy had a severe stammer. Finally, he produced his name in an unusually deep baritone, “Liam”. We communicated in notes from his side and words from mine. The first thing he wrote was, “You are lonely.” And he was right.

I told him my love story and although he avoided any eye contact and scribbled something in his little journal all the way; I knew he was all ears.

“I am in love with a dead person. If I knew him longer, I could have loved him longer. I miss his clear and pure miniature skies under the arch of his eyebrows. Only in his company I felt no need to think of what to say. Every moment of silence was a blessing, every word uttered was a revelation. He poured out more treasures of his luxurious inner nature in one minute than anyone else could’ve done in his entire life.” Liam brushed tears from my cheeks with his checked handkerchief. It was so old and soft, as if a tender touch of a mother.

“Only two years I spent in this blissful state. He missed our second anniversary. He‘d been run over by a car.”

Liam handed me a note with the following question, “Do you feel that your happiness is owing to him, and without his presence, your existence lacks purpose?” This boy could read my heart.

We met every day on that same bench. I was talking; he was scribbling. I said to Liam that I voluntarily chose isolation. I nurtured the notion I differed from all other people that surrounded me. I saw the world in clouds and fogs rather than in colors and vibes. I perceived people as rough creatures, not fit to understand my pain and be my companions.

I busied myself diving in my newly formed plan of moving to the village and burring my over-drained mind in simple farm occupations that required no thinking but just hard physical work. I used to have the vastness of feelings to lose myself in. Now I tried to be forgotten and forget.

When at home I felt my words thrown out, conversations started and no one to address them to. I used to defend myself tragically in an empty room in front of an imaginary lover. My bitter remarks dashed in vain against empty walls. I ate and drank, but it didn’t put any heart in me.

I couldn’t sleep, the night was fast closing, not gifting me with rejuvenating rest. I carried myself with the air of a weary person, feeling the claws of depression pressing harder on my chest. I had no tools to cope with stress, life attractions seemed to be hidden from my eyes. I found it harder with each day to approach people.

Liam listened. When I was done, he handed me his journal and smiled.

Liam handed me his journal. He had written only a few lines.

“There is a difference between loneliness that drains your spirit and solitude that restores it. You are not seeking peaceful solitude. You are hiding inside painful loneliness.”

He paused before writing again.

“Open the door to people, even if only a little at a time. Let someone sit beside your silence. Speak when you are ready. Listen when others speak. We belong to one another more than we think.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then added one final sentence.

“Give love without measuring it. It almost always finds its way back.”

Friendship, which before these days seemed impossible, crept in my life accompanied by blithesome music of this boy’s kind heart. That music taught me to value the treasures of the heart over any material possessions. I stopped feeling superior over others, admitting that I had tons to learn from simple people with little to boast of in terms of monetary luxuries, and so much in terms of values of the heart.

When I let myself be open to the truest, warmest, soul-felt gratitude — I saw more smiling faces around. The reason was simple — the charming smile found its way to my face, and even though I had forgotten how to wear it, my gentle nature was always ready to master every positive skill all over again. I learned to share the devotion and affection of my nature so long locked and sealed inside my soul. This transformation brought deep and lasting relationships with other people.

My mind was firmly set on never to return to the sorrow and calamity of my past distractive life apprehensions. I intended to not let my positive spirit tarnish. My long suffered heart found the perfect formula for happiness, and the key element in it was a strong connection to other people.

I Found 7 Profound Reasons to Be Patient, and It Saved My Family

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I found patience at a crisis in my life… the blessing that greeted my nature – Olya Aman

Keeping the kids nice and neat, the house cozy and welcoming, the food tasty and nourishing—I reduced my restful, sleeping hours to about four a day, comforting myself with thoughts about excellence and perfection of my life.

In three months I felt as if I was groping forward a few steps in my daily life and strolling backward with increasing speed. The little one cried almost every night with no obvious reason. I often lost my temper with my four-year-old.

The growing family forced my husband to accept an offer of higher pay and longer absence from home, often being away on his business trips for weeks in a row. Left alone with kids I could not find energy enough to keep my old acquaintances and friends. I was busy and very lonely.

I kept reproaching myself for lack of attention to my husband and kids. Too often I ended up snappish in my manner.

The atmosphere at home became suffocating. My husband was providing for the wellbeing of our family, and I was devoting myself fully to the kids. Although our generous impulses had the best intentions, the outcome didn’t provide lasting happiness.

I was aching to the distant time of those happy days when my husband was at home every night. The tears I shed on the occasion of his coming home from another business trip caused the sacred emotional transformation. The only solution was to reunite our family, sacrificing some pleasant but unnecessary luxuries on the way.

My husband decided to go back to his old employment with lower pay and higher healthy, meaningful time spent with his family. With each day at home and each family dinner, the healthy and benign atmosphere was coming back to the house.

We abandoned our expensive car for a cheaper and a trifle less comfortable one and our pompous yearly vacations for a lovely countryside escape. When a chain of unlucky events at my husband’s work culminated in his losing the position, we didn’t despair. We lived out of our humble savings and occasional company commissions that I still received now and then.

My husband, freed up from the necessity to go every day to the office, finally could devote his time to his music experiments. He used to compose wonderful pieces when in college.

My husband was shutting himself up in his study at night, interrupting his work for rounds with our crying son. The little creature grew quieter with time, sensing my increasing tranquility. I had my full night’s sleep thanks to my husband’s loving help. Our older son got much attached to his father with his bedtime stories and childish fighting games.

Sometimes the artistic progress was dishearteningly slow. Producing music, though, became more familiar with each failing attempt at reaching the desired effect. I believed in his talent and future success. I encouraged his persistent work.

The daily treadmill of our home life was sweet and enchanting, notwithstanding the portioned to us hardships. I liked to see my husband, to hear him about the place and at his music work.

One year left us with a feeling that we’ve accomplished a lot of good for our family, which no money could buy. The second year brought the first small yet increasingly delightful music projects. My husband and a few of his college friends got back together and created a small-movie company.

All three of their movies presented at the festivals didn’t gain recognition. My husband became an instigator and a powerful motivator for his small company lot.

His music grew strange, turbulent and insistent, soft and plaintive—and the movie they produced with not much money but with great blissful inspiration became a winner.

How Backbiting and Gossiping Ruined My Happiness

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Why, or rather when the opinion of others matters

Spend precious moments stubbornly biting your lips, speaking sternly, and acting openly… – Olya Aman

Dima was my first boyfriend. A terrible bore as he was, I loved him dearly. I always thought him to be above the average in the firmness of his mind. He read classic literature and spoke the language of 19th century romance. We were young and very much in love.

Dima was a sensible and handsome young boy of twenty at the time. I was a smart, pretty girl of eighteen with merry grey eyes and lofty, intelligent forehead. Today when I see a photo of us together, I remember how contagiously happy we were.

One incident ruined our happiness. Dima thought himself deceived, duped, and hopeless. A slough scandal was spread through the entire village and finally found its way to Dima’s ears. The tempest of doubt and dread, of jealousy and rage, almost blinded him. Some shallow minds believed it right away. People that wished us bad luck were rejoicing.

I got to the root of it only by hints and innuendos, as no one dared to speak openly with me about it. I stopped any intercourse with the poisoned humanity, the ones that readily accepted the circulating vile slander.

Dima’s spirits rose almost to madness when he heard the dreadful story of me being unfaithful to our love. I thought nothing could crush his faith in our shared future. The story was a lame one. Unfortunately, he believed that I could swear love to someone else.

The first night after discovering that his best friend was an instigator of the slander, a paroxysm of anger disquieted Dima’s breathing, and he bitterly reproached himself for the moment of weakness. His friend, a worthless reprobate, an impracticable fool, gave food to envenomed tongues, and they started to talk about me as if I was a little frivolous kitten going around and gifting my love to insipid individuals.

Eventually, Dima cut all ties with that false friendship. Forgot the way to his friend’s house. Wiped him off his phone contacts and social media accounts. He brushed the dirt of this acquaintance from his life. After what happened, Dima knew too well to keep such people at a great distance from his life.

My heart rejoiced when my parents and my elder sister took my side in this insinuated story. I felt strong support and stoic faith from them. My close friends showed me the true value of their relationship. People that sincerely wished me to be happy took pains to consider everything thoroughly. They recollected what they knew about me and found not even one reason to surrender to the falsehood circulating in the village.

This occurrence served as a great lesson for both of us. Dima’s so-called friend, being a jealous and wicked person, ruined our happiness. He did his utmost to bring about a fatal collapse to the true love between two faithful hearts. That unfortunate affair taught me to avoid provokingly jealous, heartless, and artificial people. I clean my life from any false attachment.

Today I make my life a pleasant experience, awakened by grand people. The mention of any piece of news that concerns me is heart-felt when coming from a loving soul and easily forgotten when coming from a distant and unimportant acquaintance.

My Father Died From Cancer, and It Taught My Mother to Write

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I painstakingly pieced this story from the several treasured excerpts of her diary

You must have a divine heart to be so full of vigor when life is a misery, filled with it like a precious vase… – Olya Aman

My mother makes beauty beautiful. She dreams in words of love and hope when her life is tragic enough to make my face distort with darkness.

Her life is a sad song for an outsider and a bright red fire for those who have the privilege to know the divine rebellion of her smile and the great resoluteness of her mind.

My mother gifted me with her beautiful diary on my 30th birthday. I painstakingly pieced this story together from the treasured excerpts of her diary.

May 1988: “I buried myself in the full of soul eyes of my dying husband. I know I need to think of my dear child and myself for her sake, but it is so hard to tear myself from his bedside. His sufferings make my heart weep. I wish I could sacrifice myself and save him. His voice rising painfully when he holds my hand and pronounces my name. I quiver with restrained grief and smile to cheer him up.”

My father was going through tormenting sufferings on his way to the end of life. His pain, the result of advanced incurable cancer, was inadequately relieved. The question of surgery was not even possible to discuss. It was too late.

May 1988: “My diary is my salvation. I often write and hold his hand in mine. I put on paper what I feel and fold it in two. I plead and pray to God and hide it in my soul.”

July 1988: “He is in constant pain but looks the very incarnation of quiet bravery and love. Even in his intolerable condition, he strives to carry away my disquietude by talking about the beauty of life after death and the pleasure I should feel on this earth even when he will leave me.”

August 1988: “Whenever he is awake from his tired slumber he asks me to write the messages to daughter so I can deliver it to her when she will grow up to understand the preciousness of every word that was voiced through pain and suffering. I like to listen to his sentiments. I love his extreme good sense, his exquisite taste, and the feeling of life. He urges our girl to be uncompromisingly bold in the defense of her opinion and life principals, to be earnest and keen in pursuing her dreams, and to win the esteem of her mother and father by vindicating her character from any unkind inclination.”

October 1988: “With an agitated, burning heart and brain, I live through every minute of my life without him. How do I dare to live when he is not among the living? The one who in intellect, in purity and elevation of soul, was immeasurably superior to anyone I know. I rush outside to cool my feelings in the balmy winter air, and to compose myself each time I feel the hot tears coming to my throat. The solitude of my garden helps me to put on a gleeful smile to cheer my child.”

December 1988: “The poison of this loss spreads through all my essence. I now recognize its harmful intentions. The serious depth of it may kill life within me. I fight it, turn my back upon it. I seek retirement for my pain in taking care of my girl. She is my salvation. I let my head to be carried away by her childish ideas. There is no better cure like a merry, simple-hearted child — ever ready to cement broken heart, to melt the ice of freezing soul, and overthrow the walls of sorrowful isolation.

March 1989: “My mother is my faithful friend. When I see a flash of love in her eyes, a glow of sincere care on her face — I think that one day I will cease to feel this pain. When throbbing recollection flashes upon me, and a cloud of sorrow darkens my eyes, I talk to her: in person, on the phone, or in my mind, and a moment of inward conflict gives place to quiet conduct. I start to behave with exceeding calmness so that she never had to reprove me once.”

November 1989: “I started my diary with more truth than wisdom. In the beginning, I was still fearing to be rooted to my loss. Often the paroxysm of pain and despair was preventing me from saying what I was intended to say. A torrent of tears stained the pages with misery, and I prayed for forgetfulness. But only memory gave life to my words. Never do I endure so long, so blissful nights as when I write. I go through every moment of happiness and pain all over again. My goal is to keep the fire of my foaming and swelling with emotions life engaging and bright, so it warms the heart of my child when I give it to her to read and remember.”

September 1990: “Smiles and tears are so alike with me. I often cry when there is nothing left but to laugh and smile when I am in bitter grief. My diary is my remedy. I feel graceful easiness and freedom about all I do these days. The expansion that this new activity gives to my mind is so refreshing.”

October 1990: “I cannot stop writing. A broad sea is rolling between my past and present. My soul is forever united to the one that is dead in body but always living in my heart. My husband is my everyday companion. I feel his soothing presence. And this feeling of our reunion is not sad anymore, but rejuvenating.”

My mother started a diary and found consolation in putting her feelings on paper. Writing those down by-the-by brought consolation. It brightened the doomed comprehension of life. The melancholy musings and painful lamentations stayed on paper.

The words of sorrow, written in her diary, purchased solace and tranquility.

The Wheelchair That Carried Him Back to Life

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To linger here or to feel that you belong… — Olya Aman

T. is a lean, long-backed, large-headed Lebanese, with surly tones of his voice and coarse features of his face. We scour the country together every now and then: I—on my feet and he—on his wheels. His wheelchair is a speedy little beast, accelerated by his mighty hands and skillfully maneuvered by his flexible torso.

T. is my dear friend. You would never believe looking at his expressive and full of exhilarating energy face, that death had been hovering over him just three years ago.

The dark night in T.’s life crept slowly on, unexpected and unwelcomed. The sun rose and sank, and he was dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever.

A weak, thin, and pallid face was looking at him from the multi-squared mirror lights of the hospital ceiling. Outside the window strangers in and out, smiling and crying, old folks and newborns—all colors of countenances and personalities were passing through his painful perception for forty-three thousand agonizing wakeful minutes of his confinement to the bed.

When starting to sit down to his meals, still dispirited and sad, the realization that the chains of grief were the heaviest of all fetters came to T.’s mind. The belief in a higher intelligent plan and purpose was still holding him tight, not letting him sink into that despair completely.

T. needed to return to the world he belonged. Hour by hour the drop of every happy memory brought back first feeble streams of life. The fairest consolation came in disguise of a prayer. He applied himself with assiduity to the task of reviving his inner and outer strength so his family could be proud of him.

He made off as fast as he could to lay his spirits to the ground and managed to get himself out of the bed and on his wheels with surprising speed. Every morning he called before his mind’s eye a vast amphitheater of loving faces of his dear people.

He didn’t feel his legs anymore, but that missing part of his body was substituted by strains of overly agitated nerves of his arms and spine. He followed on the track of strengthening his torso every instant he felt the need to hue-and-cry to the missing limbs.

T.’s life hanged heavy on his hands even before the turning point that left him without legs. Being 32-years-old, he had been poring over various subjects. It seemed a matter of impossibility to center his life around fitness and body healing strategies now when he lost almost half of it, but this idea was firmly impressed upon his mind. T. became transfixed with the desire to achieve the heights he didn’t even think possible for his fully-functional healthy past-self.

He set his heart firmly on a goal to become a physical therapist working in amputee rehabilitation. He became a world known inventor of dynamic specific strengthening exercises that flex and tone the muscles. His online teaching courses are empowering. His own experience gives him psychological advantage to motivate people who suffered a loss to set goals and move on with their lives.

The impressive stateliness that radiated from T. was adopted from his mentor. The simplicity of his mentor’s life stirred T. profoundly. This person was happy, chasing his dreams and loving his family. With neither legs nor arms he was shining with heart strength and will-power. Every trace of T.’s essence strove to be worthy of the second chance he was given.

T. still had a realizing sense of his weakness and captivity. But he was recovering his life-balance by an effort of willpower and desire to set an example for others.

He conveyed a message that whatever happened to him was not a run of ill-luck but a fortunate wakeful blessing. He shared many talks on how to accept the past and devotedly love your-past-self and present-self.

He received many compassionate comments on his media channels. The influence which his sincere contented personality exercised was deep and lasting. People saw a humble person just like themselves, never repenting on his helplessness, but actually claiming to be powerful enough to uplift his own spirit and inspire others to do the same.

In a Field of Battle With Regret, You Must Either Slay or Be Slain

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Regret made me goofy. Sorrow gave me an enigmatic flavor. – Olya Aman

My boss fell in love with me and laid me off

I was out of humor and out of heart. It has been almost two years now, but my grief grew fast and furious with every succeeding year. My best friend, the one I was secretly in love with, died from heart failure. Miraculously, we were at the stop sign when it happened, the horn of a car announced the death. His innocent and pathetic face was radiant with new happiness. I couldn’t help wondering how he could be so glad to leave me alone. Sitting on a front passenger seat, I unconsciously called to mind a portrait I saw in a gallery some years ago. The painter neglected the background, reserving all the magic of his brush for the quiet, happy face of a man. My friend at that moment looked just like him, as if he had caught the golden glory of heaven on his countenance.

He felt discomfort in his chest for a few weeks before the terrible culmination on that day. I mentioned to him several times that he needed to see a doctor. I blamed myself for lack of persistence. And the regret I felt had a sensation of almost maternal protection. Its watchful eye never left my side. It didn’t let my mind wander elsewhere. Some days I could feel the throbbing of his heart as if he was pressed in an affectionate embrace close to my chest. Those days were worse than others.

I would do impossibilities to bring him back. I owed my happiness to him. It felt like an explosion now when he was gone. And I could not pick up the fragments with all the care of an antiquary I applied. I became stifle. My mind and soul were on fire, and that blaze seemed to gleam from hell. There was no space left for new emotions.

That dark, evening power that dominated in my life had some magnetic energy that attracted empathetic people. There are some ways of looking at you that seem to penetrate your soul. I looked at people and made them feel as though they had nothing on. That irritated a lot and captivated many. A coworker once told me I looked like someone who belonged in an old painting. And my gloomy voice could talk the language of enigmatic gallantry of that time.

I often was behind handed with my work, but my senior manager closed his eyes on every mismatch in my schedule. The tension was growing. I could not see the outpouring lava of affection that I excited. My handsome boss was on fire, like a human volcano he loved me with the fierce of unchained nature.

But I was a different person after 2 years of mourning. I gazed about me with a saddened eye, paying attention to the dim side of life. That desire to expand every misfortune in daily life and minimize the impact of many little jolly things was roasting me alive. I needed thunder and lightning to wake me up and transform that death-like, sepulchral look into my regular prior-to-the-fatal-day features.

My heart finally spoke to me, and I happened to take to it. The blow of losing a job served as a curing disaster that shook my essence. When enough time was given to self-wandering, I realized that there were still pages in my life book that I had not read.

 

Kyrgyzstan — Where Reigns a Policy of Intoxicating Delight

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No worries destination

Photo from the author

Conquest of the country

I credit myself with the conquest of this land. It is almost impossible to bring me to forsake this welcoming place for any other destination. Kyrgyzstan greeted me warmly and secured my affectionate love forever. And when you devote your heart to some place, you obtain a fortune of a vast land because now that place belongs to you.

The most fastidious and picky of our tribe will get their satisfaction here. Kyrgyzstan knows how to grasp your imagination with a pleasurable tight grip. Dwell with me for a little sweet moment and I will tell you the story of my victory.

Secured love

When you take a course of a sincere interest in people, you bring their affection to yourself. Kyrgyz heart is capacious, it holds an abundance of generosity and love.

Unblinded eyes will see the beauty of simple life. Rural areas of Kyrgyzstan are charming, full of daring and chivalrous people, who have much to say and plenty to give.

Photo from the author

Golden chains of hospitality

The most modest household will take every pain to make you feel like a monarch of a friendly nation. They may run into debt but will throw a feast in your honor. You will never have even a slight hunch about those troubles because these people take it as their high privilege to serve you and make you as contented as possible.

Kyrgyz people are known to be kind and honest. You will feel genuine care and friendliness that no money can buy. They will gift you to the ears and won’t take a refusal for an answer. You will go when you please (even if you came for an hour, agreed to stay for a day, and left in a week) with your hands full and your heart happy.

Gastronomic luxury

A sense of culinary exhilaration will be your daily companion. Any place you visit in Kyrgyzstan, be it a café, a restaurant, or a friend’s dining room, it will enchant you with its delicious food.

Manty and oromo, plov and dymdama, samsy and lagman, shashlyk and beshbarmak; kumis, kompot, black tea with milk and honey, etc. — the list is long and will take a book to cover — but the essence is simple: they are all cooked with love as the key ingredient.

Photo from the author

Thrilling glance at the past

The history of this land is fascinating. It can be traced back to the ancient times (1st century BCE) and relates about rather proud but good-natured and just people.

When you read Kyrgyz’s traditional epic poem Manas a strange spell as if exerted over you. What a magical and often sad work it is the reading about old times… The feelings seem so strong as if people who expressed themselves so could never pass away. You feel a vivid and intense sense of present time in every person depicted and every event described.

The empire of symbolic and significant

I was in a fit of passion when I saw the ornamented jewelry, rugs (or shyrdaks), embroidered handmade clothes, and all kinds of felt little articles to beautify your home.

Kyrgyz art is irresistible. Every symbol is culturally important. Kyrgyz patterns remind me of beautiful music, a succession of shapes creates a magic rhythm on every item. The motif is soothing and melodious.

Photo from the author

The glimmer of the language

I take it as a habit to learn basic language expressions whenever I travel to a faraway foreign destination. Believe me, neither mountains nor rivers would be able to resist your allure. It is so sweet to see the faces with their smiles stretched from ear to ear at a simple earshot of a greeting on their beloved language.

Splendor of nature

The whole mystery of this place is rushing through my mind when I recollect the splendor of its landscapes. I know the reason why the blood is tingling through my veins from adoration. These mountains now have my heart in their sole possession and the sound of rushing river re-echoes in my soul.

The nature of this country serves as a passport, introduction to a newcomer. It is the main reason foreigners want to visit this place and enjoy its breathtaking gorgeousness

Photo from the author

Driven to come back

I often find myself with a bunch of pictures in my hand, and a bunch of happy memories in my head. The freedom you feel in this country, the love you give, and receive leave an unforgettable impression and your whole essence strives to come back and see beautiful Kyrgyzstan again.

Enrich Your Sense of Beauty. Triumph Over Any Fashion

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How to be a WOMAN in the most beautiful sense of this word

Olya Aman
A woman dressed in confidence and love is always elegant. – Olya Aman

I was in my fifth edition, and that outfit looked just as good as four others I’d tried. I and my girlfriend have been going through my wardrobe for a good half hour now, and each succeeding combination was even braver than the previous one.

“It will be rather a lark if you wear this one to work,” she said succinctly.

“I’m just in my yarn when I put things like that on,” said I, covering my bare shoulders with a gorgeous handmade shawl in pastel purple, beige, and blue flowers.

Natasha is my closest friend. The one I see only once in a few years, do not talk for months, and always feel closely attached to. She knows I follow no trends in style and look stunning in my very few outfits, bought years ago or presented by dear people. I am a minimalist when it comes to wardrobe computation. But each article of clothing is most adored and cherished by me.

I’m not beautiful in a way people used to consider facial attractiveness. Just a shade below average height, I nevertheless convey myself with an expression of assurance far beyond the ordinary. The faintest curve of humor never deserts my lips, making my face — sweet in expression, but somewhat irregular in features — charming.

Conversation

Natasha pulled out a leather pocket-book: which, like herself, was very petite, and got ready to listen. She thinks every idea I share with her can be compiled to a separate book.

Let’s see…

“A WOMAN that is in love with herself makes everything that she does beautiful. Every move she makes, every, even the most trifling thing, becomes enveloped in meaning. Her life: family, kids, career — for sure is interesting, every aspect of it. Why?”

“Because she cares about her feelings — that attention towards herself in her ‘to do’ list is primary. She gifts herself first and then she has more to share.”

“I love my kids and I want them to have a healthy, energetic, beautiful mother. That is the reason I go to my yoga class, meet my girlfriends at least twice a week, and do my exercises once a day.”

“I want to be interesting, that is why I am interested in many things. I read on various topics. Fashion is just one of the many. I know my colors and how to play with them. It is easy when you give yourself time to research and experiment.”

“I do not like shopping. But I am attentive to what is pleasing to the eye. I try my outfits, various combinations at my leisure time to get to know them better. I consider my shawls, skirts, and jackets — my friends, that is why I have only a few and love them dearly.”

“Everyone’s got intuition. The inner voice that never deceives. Some just forgot how to distinguish it in the multitude of whirling thoughts. Women are more sensitive. That time I spend alone helps me to find good grounds with that precious girl in me. She knows what is better for me. I do not want to be one of the crowd, I am to all appearances different, unique — and I love it.”

“I keep a close watch on how I feel in my clothes, bearing philosophically the judgment of others. When freed from the demands and expectations, you live in harmony with yourself. We, by no means, need not lose ourselves in chasing trends.”

Beauty Begins the Moment You Believe It

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“Unlike her mother, she loved herself just the way she was”

I met Natasha when I was in hospital as a child, on some trifling issue with my collarbone. We got together somehow. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature was the best recommendation for me. Natasha was always disposed to chatter, and I loved to listen to her stories. So, when she invited me to snatch a meal at her parents’ house on one of the weekends, I agreed with delight.

A Mother’s Heart

I was aware that Natasha felt somewhat uneasy to introduce me to her mom. But Natasha sensed a kind and open heart in me and wanted my smiling face to cheer her family.

I did my best to not show my astonishment at seeing her mother. But I bet it was all written on my over expressive face. I never before or since saw a woman so big. I was just a shy child and on my asking if there was anything I could do to help her with setting up the table or getting the tea ready, she became suddenly annoyed and left the room without saying a word.

I felt her unease and pain as my own. I didn’t think a moment but acted on impulse. Rushing right after her, I hugged her and cried bitterly in her soft bosom.

Natasha’s mother was a beautiful woman, shy and gentle, kind and sincere in everything she did. She, just like me, was oversensitive. She had a way of noticing even a slight change in people’s attitude towards herself, and she took it too close to her heart.

That was a magic night. I do not remember laughing so much ever since.

Second Encounter

I left the hospital in a week and we lost each other, being a few years apart and busy with our lives.

In my last year at university, just before moving overseas, I rented an apartment with my friend. The kids next door were noisy little devils. On one occasion they were fighting in the little corridor we shared and ruined our shoe shelf. Their mom came out of the door just at the time when I was vainly trying to rescue my boots out of the younger boy’s hands.

I was so much taken up by the drama in front of me that I didn’t right away realize that a lady next door was dragging me out of the fighting boys’ way and into her apartment. I found myself in the kitchen, sitting at the table with the lucky boot in one hand and a cup of fragrant tea in the other.

I was well rewarded for my pains with love and hospitality bestowed on me by my old friend Natasha.

“Forget about the little rascals, Oly,” Natasha was the only person calling me so. “They will get their share of motherly affection when I’m done with you.”

We hugged and kissed, we laughed and chatted till midnight, Natasha’s husband dealing with the kids.

We were throwing tea parties almost every night since then.

Her husband adored her, children obeyed her ALMOST every time, and unlike her mother, she loved herself just the way she was.

Natasha needed to go out more often, though. I knew that, she knew that, and her husband secretly asked me to encourage her.

Her mother died at 43. Too many health complications caused by extra weight. So, Natasha needed to change her life to be there for her family.

I asked her a few times to run some errands for me, excusing myself by the business of my working and studying schedule. Then I offered evening walks instead of evening tea rounds. Half hour strolls gave way to an hour one, temp getting faster, music accompanying conversations.

Natasha loved music. Her tuneless yet sweet humming was pleasing to the ear. I found out there was a dancing studio nearby. The time worked for both of us and I urged her to try. She became friendly with the elderly woman instructor. Gradually that kind and sincere lady took the place of a coach in Natasha’s life.

I got into a habit of sending Natasha a motivational postcard each month with little writings coming from my heart. She sent me photos of her-improving-self in gorgeous dresses she crafted for her dance performances.

Natasha turned 44 last year. She always had a fear in her kind heart to have a similar fate as her mom had. Natasha stopped thinking this way the day she felt a deserved pride from being herself.

Although her health improved significantly with some weight loss, the bigger change was in her attitude toward herself.

To the outside observer, Natasha’s body didn’t change very much. Maybe some curves got more prominent and sensual, that was all.

She WAS and IS bathing in love coming from her husband and kids.

In her eyes, there is a real, rattling satisfaction. She goes about singing and dancing, knowing how to showcase her inner and outer beauty. A growing admiration from the men and women of her dancing studio and applause from the smiling audience proved to her the thing she always knew but seldom voiced proudly.

Those magic words were:

“I am beautiful!”