Tag Archives: #feelings

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.

She Hated Me Because I Wouldn’t Hate Her

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My best friend happened to be a monomaniac

Olya Aman
Her boyfriend falling in love with me was the last link that held back her devilish hatred.

Eva and I were friends from the first day in college. For seven years, we were spending hours together, talking in person and on the phone. She was a year older and had an air of superiority about her. Now I know I felt some patronage chord in her attitude towards me. A simple village girl, I was shy and sensitive to every misfortune and any offender—easy prey for a person in need of dominance.

Our decision to live together was an odious ordeal destined for a devastating failure. I realized much later the reasons for Eva’s abusive ignorance and suppressive silence at that time. I’m not sure if her unfortunate love affair with a man from the States whom she met on a dating website was one of them.

Eva and her man exchanged many beautiful letters; she wanted me to read them all. I was happy with her happiness. Those loving vibes were the only bright emotions at that difficult time in my life. When he came to Minsk for two weeks, they rented a fashionable flat and had a beautiful, as I thought at the time, fortnight together. I lunched with them once. My father took us all on a ride to our village house. A quiet dinner and a stroll around the rural sights followed it. Eva’s American boyfriend left, and as far as I knew, they continued close communication, planning their future together.

I couldn’t pretend anymore not to understand when I finally understood perfectly well the reasons for that change in Eva. She intended her sudden reserve and complete disregard to be abusive, but it looked pathetic.

I was a sincere, gentle girl. Eva was a city diva. I never considered myself beautiful, only good looking. Eva carried herself as if admiration was a common thing she pocketed every day. But I couldn’t be got to envying beauty. And this beauty wanted to be envied.

Eva favored my friendship only to look superior to my somewhat shabby outfit. She saw me as a dependant—to make me feel a failure. I didn’t feel it. I never thought that frugal life is something I should be ashamed of. After seven years of it, I didn’t turn a hair. By that time, she was a monomaniac with her hatred throttling everything good still left in her.

The crisis she planned was this long-awaited meeting with her man. Eva offered that country drive with my dad to my homely place to show the contrast between us to this handsome American. Too late, she realized her miscalculation.

The honored and mature boyfriend of hers spent many years in Afghanistan building schools and universities, helping the ones in need. My now-dead father, with no knowledge of English, became his best friend. My mother’s hospitality made his eyes water. On leaving our cozy little cottage, he gave my father a handmade prayer rosary he always carried in his breast pocket.

I still don’t know if I was the reason for their relationship to end. I’m almost positive he, being a gentleman, never as much as mentioned my name to her.

I divorced my husband and moved to the United States. One day, I found myself reading a love letter from Eva’s man. It was a complete surprise, and I hope my response, full of respect, gratitude, and gentle rejection, didn’t cause too much pain to this beautiful person.

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.

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 Train Compartment

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Let us be acquainted with my childhood friend Marta.

She is my noble and generous friend. Noble not by birth but by her personal qualities, virtues of the heart. Our strange friendship started in the first grade and ended in the 8th… to be renewed with the boldness, freedom, and maturity of womanhood.

When in school, Marta used to make fun of everyone in a boisterous manner. When someone came to the class with a new school bag the classmates used to say, “Marta will be mad before long, you wait and see.” And sure to the word, she gave enough time to lamentations that all the kids were ready to swallow up all the new things they had before Marta could lay her envious eye on them. They called her ‘the practical’ because of her love for all material things.

I rarely had anything popular at the time: the cool gadget pet that you can feed and it grows into a funny fat cat or a scary huge beast; the pretty multicolor pants all girls adored and considered the only possession that can pave you a way to a popular kids’ group; the denim backpack with numerous pockets, belts and buckles that every boy and a girl had; the list is endless. The lack of those things made my life a nightmare sometimes. I was an outcast in old neatly looking pants, and a sweater my mom made with so much love that I felt her hugging me each time I heard a bullying accusation. I looked so lovely in it, which made every teacher adore me. And… yes, I was hated for that even more.

Marta’s parents were respected doctors with busy schedules and no time for sentiments. She was well dressed, well fed, well groomed… and not loved enough. There were no grandparents to substitute the lack of genuine affection, her whole being was craving for.

She started to take a fancy to me mostly because I seldom had anything worth her attention and I liked her, because she was the only child walking home with me. My friendship happened to be the most precious thing for the child that could have everything in her life but for sincere affection.

After 8th grade, we’ve lost each other. Marta and her family moved to live in the nearby city, and I stayed in my native village till graduation.

A few years ago, a nice-looking woman entered my train compartment. The long trip to the far-away city was shortened to a thought provoking and tears causing conversation.

I wanted Marta to make the running. The inner writer and explorer of human mines raining in me. I was resolved to persevere in my silent patronage of the conversation.

Marta gave voice to her inner child, and we cried bitterly and laughed heartily at the memories of a girl who considered gifts to be the merits of love. A girl who could ill bear when someone had things she considered pretty and nice. She thought that meant someone was loved more — and that notion was painful for a child deprived of a genuine feeling.

That day in the compartment Marta looked contented. Strong character was visible in the physiognomy of this young woman with her big unmoving eyes, her almost lipless mouth, and a high intelligent forehead. Marta carried herself with confidence. There was not even a passing feeling of irritation, only that physical beauty that comes from the loving energy inside.

I was not able to take my eyes off her. She radiated positive energy and every word she shared was saturated with thoughtful consideration. I couldn’t help thinking that the person in front of me was not the Marta I knew.

When I asked her about the turning point, the element in her life that caused this alteration, Marta fell silent for a moment, so much taken up with her thoughts that her eyes seemed to stop seeing.

The loss she endured was painful enough to make her think of what she could have exchanged for a life given back. Her parents didn’t have time to love her, but she loved them with every cell of her body and every vibe of her soul. She was only 18 when an unchained element of nature left her an orphan, her parents’ car being smashed from the road by a violent gust of wind, both her mom and dad dying instantly.

It seemed like a dream, or fiction, or chimera. Vulnerable and insecure, Marta was left alone to think about the present. The past was gone, but the future was hers. Anything in that timeframe of days bygone and days to be still lived was compared to that particular incident.

I could see into the inside of her nature with the eyes that understand and the heart that can weep in unison with her soul. I lost my father in a car accident only a few months prior to our meeting with Marta. I finally had a person who spoke to my heart with the words it could understand.

Life, after having handled her so roughly, seemed now was willing to teach her the survival skills. She found the diary her mother had, and that precious notebook was full of tender words her mother seldom voiced but no doubt felt — and that was the only thing that mattered.

Marta was not going from then on, she was led by love. The exhilarating effect that love has, changed her understanding of true values. Any envious feeling towards material possessions of others disappeared like a star lost in the distant darkness of the horizon.

Her salvation was in a feeling of gratitude. Her beauty was in the desire to devote her life to the people she loved.

Marta had no family left. She decided to have a big one comprised of abandoned children, orphans. She volunteered for many years in various orphanages around the country and abroad. Marta’s family left her a substantial legacy which she spent on education and donated to different causes.

She witnessed life undisguised, seldom gentle and often cruel. Her experience made her compassionate and generous. Marta favored a minimalist approach to material possessions. She became a passionate advocate of children’s rights. Her dream was not to have a luxurious house and an expensive car, but a tiny home full of love and child’s laughter.

Our shared journey was coming to an end. Marta waited silently for any fresh question that I could have, being a little tired from all the various emotions she forced herself to go through again. She surely satisfied all legitimate curiosity, and I let her rest and husband her strength, joining her in contemplation of a succession of low hills and rich forests outside the window.

Marta became an active, vigorous woman, and even now I can see her in my mind’s eye being happy in her chosen career. She is a therapist working with at-risk youth.

She rarely breathes a word of her private misgivings, but always opens a listening spot in her busy schedule for a friend who needs some consolation. And she offers her love with that shy grace that is so very charming.

Marta and her husband do not give up hope to have their own kids. For over 10 years, they failed to conceive. They adopted a two-year-old girl and a 13-year-old special needs boy, two siblings whom they didn’t want to separate. Every time I visit my native country, I go to their house to get the feeling of unconditional love. This family is happiness personified. Her daughter experiments with my hair and her son makes me play all known table games with him. I go home with my hair tangled and my heart singing.