Category Archives: Essays

Chronicles of a Hospice Nurse: Life Lessons Learned the Hard Way

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How you can be the richest person in the world

I am an artist that combines human unfulfilled dreams, last painful regrets, and agonizing pleadings into the greatest masterpiece this world had ever seen. – Olya Aman

I am a hospice nurse. I witness the end-of-life every day. I’m an expert in emotional and physical pain elimination. Physical pain is taken care of with the help of drugs; emotional—with the help of letters I offer my patients to write. I come home after work and reveal my daily impressions to my diary. It helps me understand the meaning of life, and our place in it.

Life most foul

Martin, a patient on a deathbed, is very weak. He has only a day or two left. Enough time to respond to a question, “Martin, you are dying. Who do you care about? What message do you want to send to those whom you love? This is a pen and a paper. I promise to deliver your letter.”

Martin laughs convulsively, shaking all over. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. All that emotion is tearing him apart. I can see the pain crippling down his throat.

A skill of commanding love is the only and the biggest blessing in life. To gain it be a Herculean task for me, much harder than to become a millionaire many times over. – Olya Aman

It is a beautiful experience: a handsome elderly man, with thin lips that forgot how to smile, and grey eyes that didn’t remember how to show pity or compassion. This person is transformed into the naïve boy he once was. The boy that used to believe in love and remember how that feeling could rejuvenate and heal. The boy that was generous in a way where he did not want it returned. He used to let himself forget what he had done for others, and because of that he never missed love.

Instruments of self-destruction

Martin responds with emotion, “Nothing. Listen! Nothing came easy for me in this life. Everything I had I needed to fight for. Gnaw out like a mad dog, breaking the teeth and trying to chew through all obstacles on my way — human or material. I didn’t care. And you know what? I buried my claws deeper in the human flesh rather than other things and I enjoyed it.”

Martin is overtaken by his memories. They haunted him for a long time and now he lets them out, freeing his mind and soul from their oppressing presence. He continues with passion, “But… Ha… everything I thought worth fighting for was irrelevant. The mere fog that is fading away at the sight of a brighter ray of the sun, running in fear of nonexistence. It is all… the houses I had, the cars I cared so much about, the jewels I traded for the pleasure of possessing another beautiful face, sensual body, and empty eyes — all of it was nothingness and left me when I went broke.”

There were many wars where Martin was marching with the flag of success, recognition, and money. Those were of no true importance. Nothing was left. An emotional lack was reining in his life. The understanding of this truth is torturing and rejuvenating at the same time. His following words prove it:

“Now I know, a skill of commanding love is the only and the biggest blessing in life. To gain it proved to be a Herculean task for me, much harder than to become a millionaire many times over. I had this skill when I was a kid. I lost it when I put money first on my scale of priorities.”

A moment of meaningful silence

Martin sobs, hiding his face in his hands. A moment of meaningful silence. I love this shared minute of wisdom. I never interfere. I let him experience this ocean of new feelings, wave after wave until his lungs can take this emotional fragrance and inhale it greedily, viciously.

Martin continues to open his heart to me and to himself, “I’ve lost everybody who cared about me. Everybody who I thought would be ever-present in my life by some weird universal law and with no effort on my side. Am I the only one who makes such a mistake? I traded Alive for Soulless. They needed me, my love, my attention, and my time. The most valuable things I never shared with my family. Then I thought it was too late.”

Martin was a traveler in a desert. His life was a sandy plain with mirages of abundance and each of them turned out to be another sandstorm that swept away one by one everything real in his life.

They say tears are not words, and words are not tears. Now, sitting by Martin’s bedside, I can tell that tears and words are inseparable. Every word he utters is a drop of regret, love, passion, and compassion, “No. The truth is — I was too proud to ask for forgiveness, too arrogant to make the first move. And now I am alone. They would have been beside me right now if I had been with and for them before. No one will miss me. No one! I have nothing to write on this paper because there is no one you can deliver it to.”

Martin dictates. I write. Now there are no tears to accompany his words. He was obsessed with such a common sickness of possession. He thought luxury could substitute for the warmth of loving humans. Every new object he obtained was draining his soul, making his heart numb — tough like a stone. He lost connection with his wife and son many years ago. I addressed his letter to his now grown-up son.

Stay tuned…

The Things Fire Could Not Take

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Let me strip life of all that’s unimportant and tell you what’s left

Olya Aman

I am naturally taciturn. After the tragic death of my father, it was easier to get a full version of a Bollywood movie out of my expressive face than speech out of my lips. This peculiar characteristic of mine stays true to me till this day.

Simple life firmly impresses true values upon your memory

My family lived in one of four identical solid wood houses built close to each other for collective farm workers, near a wheat field about a mile from the rest of the villagers. Beautiful flower beds in front of it and a neat looking vegetable garden behind it were the objects of envy and admiration of all the women of the neighborhood. My mother said that it was from her that the village ladies learned to hang linen the ‘right’ way, placing it on a rope grouped by size and color.

Delicious memories of my childhood were made not from the riches but from unconditional love and care of my dear parents. My light heart and bright visions thrived in an atmosphere of slight monetary tightness because the right people were beside me. My mother and father found each other at the humble beginnings of their lives, and their union gave us the brightest bliss that would last a lifetime.

My family was an example of true devotion and love that does not consider poverty a misfortune, but rather a way to be inventive. My father made the best toys out of anything that he could find close to his skilled hands: a piece of wood, a branch from a tree, or a chunk of plastic someone tossed away.

The list can be endless. He made a wooden doll for my sister and presented it dressed in the cutest outfit my mom made from various pieces of cloth. I still have that doll, the dress she wears now is knitted by my crafty hand and the ugly-looking shoes and hat are the results of my niece’s experimentations with threat and a hook.

The whisper of beauty beyond the tomb

My father was a forester, an occupation that barely provided for our family but which he would never change for a more highly paid job, like a combine or a tractor driver. He was on duty going around the encampment spots and making sure no one was abusing the unfortunate forest for its wood, when the sound of a fire alarm brought him home.

The unusually hot summer weather in July 1993 endangered not only forests but all the grass fields of the area. The windy weather made the progress of the wildfire rapid and valiant. The woman and the infant, our next-door neighbors, were sound asleep and hopefully never sensed the pain of a horrible death.

My father entered the house in an attempt to save the mother with her baby. He perished with them.

The memorial service for the three victims of the fire was performed on the same day. My mother became a frequent visitor to the village church and talked a lot with our priest after every Sunday mass.

The priest told her:

“Those who have lived but are no longer with us implore us to step on a road of recovery. You need to continue living under the united care of the love remembered and the love still felt. The marks of grief and regret awaken the health-diminishing powers within. You need to learn contentedness again, even if more from good-mother-nature than from people.”

Father Peter was not only the old and wise priest of our ancient church, but the best friend of my father. Maybe that is why his following words helped my mother to find the strength within to live and to love:

“Material advantages of fortune are lost amid the true treasures of sincere affection. Loving people can lend fresh vigor to your life. The luster of the loving eyes, the brightness of the sincere smile, the beaming of the compassionate soul whisper of beauty beyond the tomb.”

My father’s last words are imprinted in my memory

“Now it is a custom to be fenced from the plants by stone walls as if we have nothing in common with them. It is not enough to simply plant a flower in your house — in this case, it will feel itself a prisoner. It needs to be precisely invited.”

I believe those were the last words my father said to me. He found me struggling with some kind of weed looking plant and sat on bare soil beside. It was so awesome to see him sitting on plane earth. I mean, it was normal for a kid to ignore the caution from adults to put something under your little butt, but for my wise father to do so seemed the coolest thing for a 5-year-old me.

My father was a person who had the vastness of nature to lose himself in. He had internal respect for all the living. He transferred this value to me on the day he said those words. With each passing year, I grow more familiar and confidential with the surrounding scenery. This intimate connection helps me cope with many life trials that are tossed on me. Every time I call up before my mind’s eyes the greenery and fragrance of the fields, mountains, and forests, I lift a dusky curtain of grief inch by inch and recover my balance.

Losing my father stripped life from everything unimportant. Let me tell you what’s left.

My life holds onto family values and support from caring people.

As confused as our existence can be sometimes, only family gives us the heart to cope with all difficulties. I’ve learned to value the power of it. Our devotion and love are gaining in strength with passing time and experienced together challenges. There is no one in this world so close and dear for me as my mother and sister, my husband, and kids. Nothing can disturb the equanimity of my mind because I have the support of loving people.

I welcome love and compassion and let these feelings do their healing deed. Kind communication can always draw a smile from me in the gloomiest time of my life. My family and close friends help me recover my will-power. To be with loving people has something of the divine in it.

Stay tuned…

The Boy Who Believed a Fortune Teller

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Telling lies is a wicked habit. Once mastering this vice, you stop to be sincere even to yourself – Olya Aman

D. used to be a cheerful boy who was rushing into childish sorrow and joy, both with the same zeal. He got strongly carried away and stoically endured failures. He got sick with many childhood illnesses in succession: broke his arm in a skating rink, fell through the frail April ice one time, and once almost died from anaphylactic shock. No one was truly worried about him or tried to protect him because the safety margin he possessed was truly inhumane. It was very likely the result of love everybody bestowed on him which was accumulated over his childhood.

Kids can be cruel in their antipathy as much as they can be passionate about friendship. D. didn’t know the taste of opposition, as we all do now and then. He seemed to be an exception – a pet to every girl, a confidante to every boy, and a favorite to every adult. Plump and rosy-cheeked as a baby, he was skinny and pale when a toddler and a teen. Always cheerful but never laughing out loud, he appeared to always know how to behave and what to say to a party of elderly people or a group of children of any age.

D’s family lived in a three-story apartment building across the road from me. His balcony located on the first floor faced the front gate of our house and I used to observe him through our sun room’s picture window watering the flowers or playing with his cat. We used to exchange our own silent language and meet on a neutral territory just outside the entrance to his stairwell. Gathering the rest of our kids’ company we played picture cards or staged some play or other for grownups from the area. We drafted specific invitations as our performances were popular and we liked the idea of choosing the audience. 

D. was a source of endless ideas for costumes or the dialogue’s comical language. His sense of humor was superb, and laughter accompanied every act. I thought he would make a lead actor or a director in the theater world or even the cinema. His ability to change the timbre and depth of his voice, coming now from the upper part of vocal cords and then from his chest, fascinated me. D. used to easily memorize all parts and could improvise, always saving the scene when someone forgot their lines by mumbling the words of an unfortunate fellow in a funny sort of way, slightly opening a corner of his mouth and making the rest of his facial features unusually steady.

We all used to think his never-ending source of energy and ideas would be like an immortal all- present sun, that only in cloudy weather could not be seen, but everybody knew still existed in our sky. When he got sick, no one paid attention to this fact and considered any misfortune in his path as a slightly darkened forecast for the day: we might not see him today, but tomorrow the sun will rise again as it always did before. And true to this expectation, he woke up the next morning and went out to the balcony with his hand bandaged or his head wrapped. We loved him at those moments more than anyone. It seemed the memory of yesterday without his joyful spirit was sunless. 

But one thing finally broke that love-shielding wall that I’m sure protected him, and that jolly spirit perished with it. On one occasion coming home from school D. was stopped by a gypsy woman and driven by curiosity he let her take his hand. She predicted his death from a fall. Yes. So silly: no particulars of any sort, just a silly woman saying a silly thing out of spite just to scare a boy out of his wits. But his passionate nature disserved him this time and he was carried away by that nonsense. The look in his eyes changed gradually: happy sprinkles of yellow on a watery green iris gave way to gloomy brown ripples almost swallowing the rest of the palette of his eye. His countenance, full of lifeblood, had undergone the transformation into a shadow-like version of himself. His paleness was not noble anymore. Rather it was unwell, and his tiny frame gave the impression of some disposition or other.

From that time every disease he suffered from drained the life out of him drop by drop. There was a sickening flavor about him that made one think of misfortunes, bad luck, and weakness. That unfortunate prophecy stole the charisma that D. undoubtedly possessed and the admiration we all felt towards him yielded to the force of death that obsessed his mind and changed his looks drastically to the worse.

He constantly repeated that crazy woman’s words, which resulted in an alien personality he started to wear, thinking somebody else’s thoughts about his life in constant fear of a fall. He came to be one of those unfortunate people that always look back on others with dread, nervously trying to read everybody’s thoughts, expecting them to pity him and disliking them for that. He desperately needed someone else’s sympathy, approval, and love. He had all of it in abundance when he was able to give his cheerful smile in return. When a gloomy mood possessed him, any positive feedback from outside was forever lost.

At the age of 14 D. withered as a flower pulled from its soil. It was a minor cold that killed him afterward. Many think though, that he was dead long before that illness took his final breath. Dread of everything that life is – trials and failures, meetings and partings, praise and hearsay – was a murderous weapon that made the final shot. The memory of his awe-inspiring cheerful nature that reserved everybody’s favorable attitude towards him was a red cloth that made him furious when he saw the change in people that truly was only his own nervy and stressful alteration, reflection of which he saw in others.

Even now, when I think of D., I don’t remember the prophecy first. I remember the boy who believed he could survive anything. Sometimes I wonder whether fear can become so convincing that it slowly rewrites a person’s life. I have never forgotten him, or the lesson that careless words can take root in a child’s heart.

Stay tuned…

A Beast Bit My Face and Changed Me For the Better

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My face is different. But ‘different’ doesn’t always mean ‘worse’

Olya Aman

I was shocked and, due to that, felt no pain at first. People were shouting and gesturing to one another, trying to figure out how to distract the furious beast. Somehow, I do not recollect exactly how it was pulled from me. The man who helped me in an old blue ‘Zhiguli’ and drove to the village dispensary and later to the nearest town hospital was the owner of the dog. In the hospital, I got nine stitches in four places on my face.

The doctor that performed the work of reconstructing my face did not know about cosmetic stitching. He simply decided the way he would do it was going to be sufficient. During the procedure, I concentrated on his deep, fine-tuned voice. To listen to him was like drinking warm ginger tea on a frosty winter day, and very likely it served as the best anesthetic for me. His work was not bad, just not good.

I have the scars, one is very visible, and people often ask about it. I consider it a part of my unique personality. I like my face. I love myself the way God created me and the way life, not always gentle, adjusted the sacred work.

Thoughts about my mother, her loving face darkened by suffering because of the incident, overpowered the fear of thread, needle, and pain. And even during the recovery, when the only recollection of the event made me shake with uncontrollable sobbing — the result of a great fright — I tried to compose myself with enormous energy. One glance at my mother’s eyes with a distinct element of worry pulled me together, and I did my best to laugh.

Providence is often a cruel teacher. The life-threatening experience I went through was there to spirit me for what was before to come. I had bad days, but not too many. I had loss enough, but not too much. Although, I feel completely miserable at times, I do my best to not feel depressed, rather unite the best blessings of my nature and learn to be a gainer in every situation.

I didn’t react to those unfortunate circumstances with deliberate self-pity. I thought of my mother and not of myself. From then on, my desire to give overpowers the desire to take. Lack of selfishness gives me the strength to withstand many of life’s calamities.

Whatever happens, I only need to understand how things are and accept the change, because ‘different’ doesn’t always mean ‘worse’.

Become a Sweet Killer Each Time You Converse With a Person

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Find charming weapons in your posture, gestures, and mimic

You must possess a great deal of inner strength to fight for your true essence. – Olya Aman

Experienced the poison of my own personality reflected and redirected at me when I was eight.

We were sitting on a balcony on the 6th floor of a nine-story quiet building and shelling peas when the boy, my distant cousin, the exact relation of whom I am not able to disclose, promised to marry me once we grew up. He was 6 years old, I think, and for me, that was the main obstacle to matrimony. I couldn’t bear my husband being a whole 2 years younger than me.

The boy was petite and skinny, dressed according to the latest style with a modern haircut. His eyes were flickering like quiet water at the bottom of the well. I don’t remember his name, only the electrified tenderness from the combination of sounds that caressed the roof of my mouth.

I used to be a shy girl and I couldn’t imagine anybody might take a liking to me. This first occasion indulged my vanity and coupled with that raised right eyebrow and light tilt of the head to the left made magic. He unconsciously copied all my gestures, like the one of bringing the tips of my fingers together in a thoughtful manner.

That skill of sweet murderous attraction (and my distant cousin undoubtedly possessed it) sometimes takes ages to master. By listening with all six senses, adding full awareness to this mutual process of comprehension, and giving yourself in full to the moment of wisdom, you may be highly rewarded by obtaining a grateful and affectionate friend.

Unfortunately, the relation, if any, was very distant and I haven’t seen my first admirer for many years. Our encounter lasted about 4 hours and was limited by that romantic adventure with peas.

However, the ability to see, or rather to sense with your entire body the inner rhythm of any living being could be a curse rather than a blessing.

One day about six years ago when I visited M. I met a good-looking man. What struck me was the familiar flickering in his eyes. “I’ve already seen that watery gray color somewhere”, I thought.

His wife was a big woman with unusually dainty ankles. She had a style about her, and I could almost call her dazzling but for her loud voice, just a touch above average, with an expression of power and force in it.

Magnetism seemed to radiate from her, and it outshone her husband completely. They both made a curious movement of their shoulders when being introduced to me. At the dinner table she talked a lot and each time her husband wanted to add something, she interrupted him deprecatingly. It looked like she didn’t care even two straws about him when he was completely determined to obey her in every way.

This man was lost in his wife’s charisma, modeling her movements and intonations in vain hope to be heard by the object of his admiration. It can be easier for a person like that to vanish in search of identity and never discover the true self within.

Looking back, I sometimes think individuality is far more fragile than we imagine. It does not disappear all at once. It fades quietly, gesture after gesture, borrowed opinion after borrowed opinion, until one day we hear ourselves speaking with someone else’s voice and wonder where our own has gone.

The little boy I once knew copied my movements because he was discovering the world. The man I met years later copied his wife’s because he seemed to have stopped discovering himself.

Perhaps the greatest struggle in life is not becoming someone extraordinary.

It is remaining yourself while loving someone else.

You must possess a great deal of inner strength to fight for your true essence.

The Warmest Winter

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My mom shaped our delicate souls with unconditional love

The snow was deep, the morning was happy, and the planned activity for the day was the most cheerful. A nearby forest was a place for kids’ games and enchanted stories about hidden treasures. The kids from the entire village gathered their sleds, skis, and simple hunks of plastic (those were the best things to sled down the main hill) and met at the designated place.

I put on my best coat. That white-pinkish fake fur made me look like a tiny cloud of thick mist on skinny legs — and taking my makeshift sledding gear, I ran to meet my friends. We had a blast! My face was red, my lips chapped, and my eyes watered from the frosty air, happy shouting and too much laughing.

When I came home at last, much later than my mom allowed me, I looked like a drenched grey mouse. My lovely fur turned into a dirty wet mass. The look on my mother’s face said more than words could. But she composed herself, closed her eyes, and sighed with a soft smile on her lips.

I understood fully her words many years after. At that time, they only meant that she was not cross with me, “You know I love you, cutie pie. Life is a collection of happy moments, so let us have another one together. I will make your favorite pancakes. How about that?”

My sister and I were sitting at our small square solid-wood dining table covered with a sunflower tablecloth. My mom always made our house look like one of Stephen Darbishire’s summer paintings. We had color sprinkled in each room: handmade pillows, embroidered pictures, and lacy doilies on every surface.

I spilled my tea, dotted the space around my teacup with sugar, and put the cuff of my shirt in jam with no reproachful comments from neither my mom nor my sister. The green tea with ginger, lemon, and honey was my mother’s masterpiece. Accompanied by hot pancakes, straight from the pan, it was the greatest luxury of my childhood. I needed to possess a remarkable skill to finish the previous round and soft delicacy in time to stretch my hand for a new hot one before my sister did. It was a fun little competition. Even nowadays we play this game mostly to amuse each other and to make our mom laugh heartily.

Looking back now, I rarely remember the ruined coat. I remember the pancakes. I remember the warm tea warming my frozen hands. I remember my mother’s smile.

To someone watching from the outside, our life may have appeared marked by loss. My father died when I was only three years old. My mother was twenty-eight, left alone with two little daughters and a future she never expected to face by herself.

Yet somehow, she never allowed sorrow to become the language of our home.

She never pretended pain did not exist. She simply refused to let it become stronger than love.

She understood something I only began to appreciate after becoming a mother myself: children do not build their childhood from perfect days. They build it from moments. From the way someone looks at them after they make a mistake. From laughter around a kitchen table. From muddy coats that matter less than happy memories.

Now, when I watch my own children discover the world, I often think about that winter afternoon.

The coat disappeared long ago. The pancakes are gone. Even the sunflower tablecloth has faded with time.

But the feeling my mother gave me that day has never left.

Perhaps that is what love really does.

It quietly teaches us that different moments pass, but the warmth we receive inside them can remain with us for a lifetime.

My Struggle With Hatred After My Boyfriend Was Killed

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I was beside her, wrapped around her, melting in my anger… – Olya Aman

I was almost abnormally fond of Adam.

The little dimples on his cheeks were driving me crazy. He was the only means of complete and ineffable happiness, the very essence, which I defined as Life.

His heart stopped beating and the Hatred to the person (who drove the car in a state of alcohol intoxication, killed my boyfriend, and remained almost unharmed) began to control my existence with innate satisfaction.

This experience turned my understanding of Hate and Hatred bottom side up.

I meditated on my hate, crying quietly, shouting inwardly. I was utterly desperate in my desire to inflict the same suffering upon a person responsible for that devastating emotional pain, soul-torture, the heartbreaking outcry of my whole being.

I will share my love story with you in a few well-chosen silences, and the story of my hate — in several emotional words.

The ghost of an idea to get to know that person better (and if not to forgive, but at least to free my spirit from a tormenting feeling of anger, that didn’t let me breathe fully, function satisfactory, and live bearably) invaded my thoughts.

I visited Mary in prison for eighteen months and four days after the car crash. The expression on her face told me wordlessly that I should (if I would be so kind) spend a moment in her presence, make an effort to not shout from inner pain, listen if she had anything to say, have a look into her eyes for just a fraction of a second… and just be quiet.

Mary’s apocalyptic face, whiter than Death’s itself, seemed incapable of even a glimpse of a smile anymore. I felt my hatred if not slipping away but for sure diminishing. In front of me, there was a woman that made a fatal mistake, a mother that could not be beside her kids, a wife that lost her husband’s trust and love.

I blamed her. Mary had gone on every night without the consolation of exoneration.

After the meeting with the person who killed my boyfriend, I was unhurriedly and calmly propelling myself toward recognition of my loss and acceptance of my fate.

I did not forgive Mary, I still felt the pangs of hate often. That was a huge step forward to a new life, where moments without this suffocating feeling were visiting me more and more often.

I had never in my life so perfectly understood (even to the most exquisite nuances) that state of hatred I lived in for so long.

But before that meeting, I had not even one-third the command over it. My ability to distract my thoughts and recover some balance in my feelings ranked better with each new day.

Although my loss was the unspeakable and the unwritable history of agonizing anger and bitterness, I created by some occult process of self-mastery a diary of perfectly cruel time in my life. I wrote about the perpetrated deed of self-distraction committed by hatred.

I wrote down my feelings partly because I wanted to get rid of that hate, and partly because I wanted to have a shred of evidence in the form of a written word of that time, to justify my desire to live when my lover was not among the living, to show him that I still loved and suffered tremendously from that loss.

I could not push this pain off or away, but I started to talk about it with people who cared to listen.

By doing so, I rose from the domain of the inner prison cell I used to live in one on one with this feeling of hatred.

I appeared on the surface where friendship and love of close people and consolation saturating from every encounter could help me recover and drift peacefully along with the current of life.

From all the indescribable I had known, definitely, the most intense one was the feeling of overwhelming loss, pain, and hatred mixed together.

This cocktail made me sick to my stomach and dizzy in my head.

Sometimes my body remembered the hatred before my mind did. I learned to breathe slowly through those moments until the storm inside me became bearable.

It helped me to diminish that absolute and incurable hysteria of emotions and, with time, to extract it from my life almost completely.

I visited Mary, the unfortunate driver who killed my boyfriend, only once.

I could not force myself to go to prison again. In one more year after our encounter, Mary was released.

When that piece of news was announced in an official letter, I felt bitterly disappointed. Were thirty months in prison enough to pay for the taking of someone else’s life?

I was despite myself with grief. The feeling of hate overwhelmed all my entire being all over again.

The authorities forced our second encounter on me. I needed to be present at the release meeting, where Mary would declare her remorse, ask to believe in her renewed self, and plead to be forgiven.

What a hellish thing it was to sit through it. I could not lift my eyes to see her talking. When most of the time elapsed, the door opened and two pairs of huge black buttonlike eyes entered the room.

A three-year-old boy and a 6-year-old girl. Mary’s husband divorced her while she was in prison, but being a good father brought the kids to see their mother on the day of her release.

The spectacle was refreshing for my feelings. Now I stared all eyed in the scene of devoted love of a mother and unconditional love of her children.

I leapt to my feet and made for the door to shut it and never see these people again, to close that chapter of my life, and be partially contented with the idea that I could not hate this loving mother anymore and hopefully would never see these people again.

Mary and her family moved to a different state, away from the memories and people who can judge her and bully her kids in school. Away to start a new life.

I never saw Mary again. Sometimes I wonder where life carried her children. I hope they grew up knowing their mother for more than the worst day of her life. I know I finally learned to remember Adam for more than the day he died.

She Got Her Back Broken to Realize She Was Happy

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The power of giving others the heart to live

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

My sister Tanya is a lean, long-backed, large-headed girl, with surly tones of her voice and coarse features of her face. We scour the country together now and then: I — on my feet and her — on her wheels. Her wheelchair is a speedy little beast, accelerated by her mighty hands and skillfully maneuvered by her flexible torso. You would never believe, looking at her expressive and full of exhilarating energy face, that death had been hovering over her just four years ago.

The dark night in my sister’s life started from an unfortunate fall from a high staircase. Her brain stopped triggering signals responsible for the muscle movement and she didn’t feel her legs anymore.

When starting to sit down to her meals, still dispirited and sad, she used to say to me, but truly to herself, “Nothing happens without reason. There should be a higher intelligent plan and purpose in it.” The fairest consolation came in disguise of a prayer. It was holding her tight, not letting her slip into that despair completely.

My sister didn’t feel her legs anymore, but strains of overly agitated nerves of her arms and spine substituted that missing sensation. She strengthened her torso every instant she felt the need to hue-and-cry to the missing control of her limbs. She got herself out of the bed and on her wheels with surprising speed.

Before the accident, my sister used rambled at her pleasure, mostly spending time in the gym listening to her favorite music. Being 32 years old, she still had trouble finding her place in the grownup world.

It seemed a matter of impossibility to center her life around fitness and body healing strategies now when she lost control over almost half of it. But she couldn’t get rid of this idea. Tanya became transfixed with the desire to achieve the heights she didn’t even think possible for her fully functional, healthy past-self.

Tanya set her heart firmly on a goal to become a physical therapist working in amputee rehabilitation. She learned with passion about specific strengthening exercises that flex and tone the muscles. Her own experience gave her a psychological advantage to motivate people.

She adopted this impressive stateliness from her mentor. The simplicity of her mentor’s life stirred her profoundly. Tanya used to preach to me, “This person is happy, chasing his dreams and loving his family. With neither legs no arms he is shining with heart strength and will-power.” Every trace of my sister’s essence strove to bring purpose and happiness into her life.

My sister still has a sense of weakness and captivity sometimes. But she is recovering her life-balance by an effort of willpower and a desire to set an example for others.

Tanya always says to her patients that whatever happened to her was not a run of ill-luck but a fortunate wakeful blessing. She teaches them to accept the condition and devotedly love their past and present selves. People in her clinic see a humble person just like themselves, never repenting on her helplessness, but being powerful enough to uplift her spirit and inspire others to do the same.

The Village That Stayed in the Water

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Secrets about water that my life put to the proof

The voice of natural water sounds silver and life… – Olya Aman

Water can rise through the trunks of gigantic trees against tens of atmospheres of pressure. What is more surprising, though, is the faculty of a human being to rise over hatred and aggression in the world, indifference and treachery towards himself, and still be loving and empathetic.

The Bottle of Water

“What the dickens do you drink this water for?” I said deprecatingly when my dog rushed to the water spilled on the floor.

The bottle it came from was a gift I did not appreciate enough. I considered it a weird birthday present. My dog seemed a much better expert in healthy living than I was. He had never eaten or drunk anything from the floor before, preferring his own silvery bowl to any other vessel.

I felt I had to learn more about this water.

The honored man who presented that fortunate flask became a source of happiness in my life. His kind soul, wrapped in a beautiful body, opened before me a new world of love and shared happiness. I went from enchantment to enchantment, scenting compassion in the air, and that feeling of admiration gave a new direction to my thoughts.

Marat is now my husband.

The bottle of spring water he gave me was not an ordinary gift. It carried a story.

After a terrible car accident, Marat lost almost all memory of his childhood. Doctors believed it was his mind’s way of protecting him from unbearable grief after losing his parents.

He longed to remember.

Years later, while traveling, he met an elderly healer in a remote mountain village. Whether it was the place, the memories, the emotions surrounding it, or something he himself could never explain, that journey became a turning point in his life.

The village was the birthplace of his father.

His parents had once lived there before returning home to welcome the son they had waited so long to have.

Marat always believed that something awakened inside him there. Perhaps it was memory. Perhaps it was hope. Perhaps those two things are not so different after all.

When he fell in love with me, he returned from Kyrgyzstan carrying the most meaningful gift he could imagine—a bottle of pure spring water from that mountain village.

At first, I did not understand it. Later, I realized he had not given me water. He had given me part of his story.

Before I met Marat, I had become strangely careless with myself.

After the end of a painful relationship, I rebelled against everything that had once been good for me. Fast food replaced healthy meals. I stopped caring what I ate or drank. I thought badly about my own body while continuing to neglect it.

Meeting Marat slowly changed that.

He is incredibly cheerful. Nothing seems capable of spoiling his gratitude for life.

At first we continued eating the same unhealthy food I preferred. Yet somehow everything felt lighter beside him. Later, when he became the master of our little kitchen, our home changed together with our habits.

By degrees we began spending ridiculous amounts of money on good food.

Water became one of our greatest luxuries.

I love music, and I am a pianist.

Every day I hurry home to my soulmate. Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven fill our home with quiet happiness. A decanter of water often stands beside the piano while I play.

Whether the music changes the water or only changes me no longer matters.

By the time I lift the glass to my lips, it carries memories of home, kindness, conversation, gratitude, and love.

Perhaps that is why it always tastes different.

How My Cousin’s Self-Compassion Helped Him Recover From Drug Addiction

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Self-compassion taught him to admit the fact that life is painful sometimes

Take the misery of negative self-judgment in a luxuriously calm refuge-island of self-compassion… – Olya Aman

My cousin Victor was a fair example of a typical ‘mazhor’ (a kid of wealthy parents). He snapped his fingers and had everything he wished. And when his father lost every dollar they had in a risky market deal, Victor’s self-esteem suffered a great deal. He simply lost his place in the world, thinking that material possessions were the only means of determining it.

When his family moved to a shabby-looking village house nearby, his grandma left him in a will a long time ago, he considered all his plans for the future ruined. I found him very poorly equipped to live frugally and happily, rather he was prone to make up in negative judgmental feelings what he lacked in dollar bills. We were not friends, although spent hours together talking, or arguing about life. I was only 13 at the time, but felt myself superior to this 18-year-old kid.

Victor lived a narrow life of anxiety and depression. He suffered from fits of narcissistic, self-absorbing anger. He stopped any communication with his father, blaming his misfortunes on him. He spent almost all his time in the nearby town, and when he occasionally showed his wistful face in our village, he often ended up in my kitchen. He longed for compassionate attention and understanding. He was lost amid his troubled thoughts and feelings, and painfully needed to talk to someone, to pour his misery out and, by doing so, try to get his turbulent life in order. I tried to be a sympathetic listener.

In about a year of village life, Victor stopped coming home at all. I can admit now, I missed this troubled boy a lot. His parents found him almost too late. He entered the narcotic state of self-destruction, greedily grabbing after each opportunity to get stoned and forget about the present.

Self-compassion tells you to resist the temptation to criticize harshly yourself and others. You reach the full potential in life if you are alive with kind thoughts and feelings concerning others.

Six months in a rehabilitation clinic drew a straight line between his past and his present. Victor had to learn all over again to establish contact with people. But to do that he needed to notice their engaging characters, rather than labeling any new acquaintance either as a ‘valuable’ or a ‘useless’ one as he used to do before.

I was happy to accept my cousin in a small circle of my best friends. Now we could talk without raising our voices. Now we had more in common.

Self-compassion kindles a sense of belonging and connectedness. Attachment to humanity is the only way to diminish suffering.

To find new friends, Victor needed to add more positive emotions to his life. I loved him and was ready to accept him with the entire fabric of his timid personality and teach him to understand the keener pleasures of life without an abundance of money. Victor needed more people like that in his life.

The first note of compassion washes away anxiety. It was suggested by the science that self-compassion lights up regions of the brain linked to empathy, pleasure, and caregiving.

He plunged into the healing process by getting rid of regrets, doubts, and self-bitterness. Victor added to his life the rich touch of self-understanding, self-acceptance, and self-praise. It gave him power enough to think favorably about his future. I always told him he was smart enough to reach the desired, be it personal happiness, or material comforts. Finally, I saw signs that he believed in this creed.

Being kind to yourself means to learn the art of positive self-evaluation. There is nothing in this world more delightful than that state when you mentally balance between self-worth and acceptance of imperfections in yourself and in the world around.

Today Victor claims to have self-compassion enough in him to straighten his life in a balanced, heartfelt, and mindful way. He is not ignoring his past, but he is no longer exaggerating his own misconduct, rather takes the best from each experience. He needs to fight his way to happiness, always remembering about his past addiction. He praises himself for each day lived without drugs.

Conclusion

My cousin discovered inner instruments to make himself believe that he was special just the way he was. Victor doesn’t need money, recognition or fame to prove it. Today he accepts things as they are, because being not perfect means to be unique.

Victor recognizes his past mistakes and explains the reasons for them. Self-compassion taught him to admit the fact that life is painful sometimes. He radiates an atmosphere of power and productiveness, even facing hardships.

My cousin is imperfect yet magnificent as every one of us is. When he embraced what he could share with others rather than what benefit he could take from each person, he found genuine friends, people ready to be beside him even when he is in the wrong. Now his self-worth is much less easily shaken.

Stay tuned…