Tag Archives: faith

The Edge of Despair

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She was poised for flight! But, my word! I still had a small, tiniest chance to save her.

Gven endured long and severe emotional hardships. The marks of suffering were imprinted on her whole being. Extremely lean, she seemed all bones and nerves, as if the lack of desire to live was draining her inner and outer body reserves.

Standing on the edge of a cliff, Gven went on and on conversing with herself, gesticulating furiously, as if a sudden fit of insanity had come over her.

I heard her repeating, struggling with herself:

“No more pain. I’m coming to you, my baby, my son, the love of my life, my everything… I miss you so much, I cannot breathe. This grief chokes me. No more pain. I’m coming to you…”

Gven didn’t breathe a word of her life-threatening thoughts to me. To prevent her from taking a fatal step forward to the abyss, I needed to collect the best words possible.

Beads of perspiration shone upon my face.

I spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbreaks:

“I pity you from the deepest of my heart. I know only angels in heaven can feel your pain. You want so badly to touch his little hand, to press your face into his tiny sweaty neck, to cry into his hair and breathe him in. You will give everything for one living touch, for one cheerful smile, to hear his laughter just one more time.”

I devoted my whole being to this moment of soul-felt expression and was looking for every hint of hope in Gven’s eyes.

“Your son is in heaven, holding hands with angels, playing games with them. Seeing God in His perfection. He was too small to sin. He was taken from you being so pure, like a diamond, like a drop of holy water.”

The night was stormy and the noise of the warring elements was so great that I feared my words were scarcely audible.

“Do you think that by killing yourself you will meet him in heaven? But No! When you go today, you will never ever see him again. You will gather about you all the shadow of the world.”

The weather was gradually calming down. I felt that my tirade, poured forth in the most impetuous manner, made Gven bend a listening ear to the faintest sound of my voice.

“Your life is a gift from God and you need to cherish it. If you want to see your son again, you need to LIVE. LIVE like never before. With pain as your daily companion, and a reminder that you need to do every good deed possible to deserve to join your son in heaven when YOUR time comes. It will not be easy. It is not meant to be so.”

Gven’s nervous organization, so highly excited, was finally submitting to containment.

“There will still be sun in your life, you wait and see. You just wait. For his sake… You just live.”

Time does heal. Sometimes it takes really long, but eventually, a rattling good moment of ease wins the mastery.

Rearrange in Your Fashion the Person You Love. Mistake That Costs You Your Happiness

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The valuable wisdom of the Tao Te Ching teaches how to avoid a common blunder of many otherwise happy couples

Olya Aman

43rd Verse.

The softest of all things overrides the hardest of all things.

That without substance enters where there is no space. Hence I know the value of nonaction.

Teaching without words, performing without actions — few in the world can grasp it — that is the master’s way.

Rare indeed are those who obtain the beauty of this world.

— Lao-Tzu

When I read those verses, in an instant, like a shock from the blue, they spoke to me. Shaking authority, they told me, “Just see how you can understand what I say, will you?” And hunting through the years of my married life, I’ve found proof of every word, explicit confirmation of every thesis.

I’ve chosen only one verse that can give you insight into the art of creating a happy relationship.

Our first year of married life was absurd and entirely enlightening in such a manner as to be almost legendary. My husband’s political speeches on the place of man and woman in the family union were anecdotal and gave rise to loud protests and clarion laughter from me. My spy games and intellectual schemes aimed to enliven his daily schedule and make planning a permanent habit tired him out.

“Your day is a brainless harlequinade. You sleep till 3 p.m. and stay awake till 3 a.m. Your absence in the morning irritates me like a gap, faded spot, on the wall where a painting used to hang.”

I couldn’t quite decide whether I wanted to cry in pity for myself or to shout in an angry fit just for the same reason.

“You are a master of radiant rationality. To compare your husband with a piece of drawing,” his eyes under the darkly drawn brows were bright with amusement, “that is certainly one to you.”

Our life arrangement left me in pure puzzledom. We barely spent any time together. Being a morning person, I felt my energy fading away with the sun leaving the horizon. My husband, on the contrary, was at the peak of his activity just at the time when my eyes were closing fast asleep.

Make it fair between us was my primary aim.

There still was a heavy, oppressive sense of thunder in the air each time we started this ancient debate.

My husband wanted his strength to be prodigious.

“We’ll crack our old misunderstanding when you admit that there cannot be all equal between a wife and a husband in a family.”

I motioned him in with my left hand, gave one of my characteristic ‘h’ms’, and pulled his ear with my right in a particular, sensual way — the way that always showed the real power of the ‘weak’ sex.

The softest of all things overrides the hardest of all things.

That without substance enters where there is no space. Hence I know the value of nonaction.

We were on the verge of separation when alas realized that achieving harmony and happiness involves acceptance and nonaction. This tiny alteration tipped our entire life over. It was a perfect mental somersault because the long-awaited change shambled into our relationship unawares.

Teaching without words, performing without actions — few in the world can grasp it — that is the master’s way.

Rare indeed are those who obtain the beauty of this world.

By being more tolerant, ironically, my husband and I feel happier than when we tried so hard to better our life. We still have things to discuss now and then, mind you. Without being didactic and exaggerated, we out-distance any conflicts.

That foxy old scheme of love and care always works. We hug the axiom that it is vital to underrate the troubles and overrate the affections in all disputes.

Today we live softly and without effort. Accept each other quietly, without force. Enjoy being together easily, without a struggle. We allow the change without pushing it.

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.

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.

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.