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My Brother Died Young, But Left Me A Legacy

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I found gratitude in the thrashed around pieces of my world

I was armed at all points. It was a pleasure to be so completely equipped for the life battle with my gratitude weapons being polished steel.

When It Costs a Heart and a Dime

Misha, a son of my stepfather, was distressfully dying all those years we knew each other. There seemed to be a happy symmetry in this unhappy depiction of his life.

In the last two years of his life, Misha had a clear taint of death, a flavor of mortality in him—which is exactly what I needed to shake my world to the bottom and have a chance to find myself in the thrashed around pieces of it. I hung on every syllable he uttered and received, as oracles, all he said.

Misha died at thirty. When I saw him last, he evidently found great difficulty speaking. He waited long to collect himself, and then he murmured simply, “Take this,” and handed me his gratitude journal. That book had a voice that dropped deep into my soul. The words would fail me if I tried to describe the unconditional love he shared. But I will fight the tears and try to convey his last beautiful message to you.

The first few sentences in Misha’s journal explain a lot about his personality:

“Of parents extremely loving and extremely honest, it was next to impossible that I could paint my life other than in affectionate colors. Our family considered the most troublesome hardship an occasion to express our love and gratitude.”

“I often was bruised and felt scant of breath but never ungrateful. My mother died when I was twelve, and I never fully recovered after that loss. I caught a violent cold right after the saddest day of my life, which fixed itself on my lungs and stayed with me for the rest of my life.”

Misha was weak and often ill.

“I had good winters and poor winters. I basked in the sun and went to bed when it rained. And I never forgot to spend a few moments a day reflecting on the things in my life I was blessed with.”

My mom schooled Misha at home so he would not need to go out when the weather was cold and damp. But he never was bored. Misha was always so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humor, reserve, and caprice that the experience of knowing him for a short while had been insufficient for any person.

Misha was determined to live longer, although the doctors professed the limit until only twenty. Imputing it to nothing but grateful feelings, which for ought I knew prolonged his life, he was able to make it to thirty.

I love this excerpt from his journal. I reread it each time I feel gloom coming over me:

“When I was in pain, I more often smiled than scowled. That was the foundation of my beauty, despite my many limitations. I had love enough but not too much; I had loss a lot but not unbearable. Had I lived my life again in every detail of desire, temptation, pain, and surrender, I would have chosen the exact life I lived to the very aspect of sickness and every element of loss.”

These words still make me smile with delight.

“The fervency of my personality trembles from sunlight and fragrance. Gratitude creates a barrier that guards me against cold and cheerlessness. Like any freezing temperature, these kinds of feelings can preserve but never let life develop.”

“Every now and then I put my thin forefinger on my lips and remind myself of many blessings in my life that I am sincerely thankful for. I kiss it with a smile and imagine embracing myself tenderly. This sets every nerve in my body quivering with happy vibes.”

Misha exposed me to the goodness of the world around. He could describe delight, peace of mind, and soft tranquility on paper, voice it to his friends, charge with it our family, and radiate it to the objects and atmosphere around.

Thanks to my brother, I learned to wrap myself in happy memories, grateful emotions, and generous hopes. I let gratitude excel every other quality.

The last page of my brother’s journal contained this message:

“Pain passes, but love remains. We suffer so much sometimes. I’m very old when I think about it, but I grow young again when I believe in generous mistakes that hurt, happy tears that burn, and deep adoration that squeezes the heart till every drop of love is revealed. And the only way to see the beauty in life is to open your eyes every morning with extraordinary gratefulness. Only this feeling will take you beyond the reach of pain.”

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.

She Survived Genocide and Returned Home to Heal Others

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I act often with fear and bravery chasing each other in my eyes… – Olya Aman

L. is a good nurse, and that alone tells a lot about her. She was born in Rwanda, adopted and raised in Europe. L. moved back to Rwanda when she learned her way and made sure that helping her patients was her aim in life. After the genocide her native country needed support, her least lucky people needed her knowledge.

L. is a fine creature, her big almost black identical in size and shape eyes cause people to confide in her. She learned early on to listen, and this skill proved to be invaluable in her profession.

“Every day is like putting Humpty Dumpty back together again,” she says. “I begin my harum-scarum day and see the transformation, one person at a time.”

“I was 12 when my new parents took me to Europe. I have my first memories linked with horror and fear, loss and grief. Those memories shaped my personality and in some way, I am grateful for the background I have.

“My good, generous and loving parents had to put up with a lot. I was not an obedient child, rebelling at anything and everything. I was in constant emotional pain at least first five-six years or so. The lesson of the genocide period in Rwanda left my whole being in ruins. Nearly one million people were killed. I lost my family, my friends, everything I ever loved.”

“Love and patience helped me to gradually come back to believing again. Jane and Matt—my stepparents—are my rocks in life. I owe them my new self, or, rather, the return of my old happy before-the-horror-self. I remember and I mourn, I often cry, but now mostly because of happy memories.”

“This transformation came with the knowledge that I wanted to make a change. A woman that nursed me in the hospital imprinted the longing for the same profession in me. By that time I knew that Rwanda was in the reconstruction period and the system of health needed human resources. I was going to come back home.”

“The most precious resource of the post-genocide Rwanda was its people. Thousands of community health workers traveled from home to home providing the necessary care. I willingly joined the rural health tribe.”

“The health workers were selected by the villages they served. The people of my native village decided that I would care for them. It was the happiest day of my life.”

“At the end of every day, I am tired and full of joy and sorrow. Both mixed together comprise my life and make it unforgettable. I take both and grateful for both. The new coming day is ever more incredible because of this mixture of emotions and I always start it on a positive foot.”

“I am happy to be home. To lead the life of purpose is stimulating. I often in a state of inward merriment and I encourage myself to prolong this feeling because it is contagious. People around me can feel it and, consequently, become happier from my presence in their life.”

L. is very contented in her profession. She is a link in a chain of remarkable alterations for the better.

L. confided in me and gave her permission to share her story. She only asked to make an emphasis on the happy side of it, showing to my readers the importance of positive, grateful approach to life. She mentioned several times that love saved her sanity, and optimism of her parents, being contagious, helped her to get better physically and emotionally.

Beyond the Reach of Pain

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I was armed at all points. It was a pleasure to be so completely equipped for the life battle with my gratitude weapons being polished steel. — Olya Aman

T. was a generous spirit. He had all the illumination of wisdom, and yet he was distressfully dying. I was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of which this person was capable. His unselfish belief in the idea that gratitude is a way to make the most of life was something I could set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to.

T. had a taint of death, a flavor of mortality in him—which is exactly what I needed to shake my world to the bottom. I hung on every syllable he uttered in his diary, and received, as oracles, all he wrote.

“Of parents extremely poor and extremely honest, it was next to impossible that I could paint my life other than in grateful colors. Our family seemed to be possessed with a kind of intellectual gaiety at the times of the most troublesome hardships. We were able to starve any thoughts of misery and lack of appreciation entirely away by just a mere force of heartfelt love to each other and to the life itself.”

“I often was bruised and felt scant of breath but never ungrateful. Every misfortune walked me away from despair and gave me the key to patience. I was a sick-nurse to my father. I was seriously out of health.”

“I had good winters and poor winters. I basked in the sun and went to bed when it rained. And I never forgot to spend a few moments a day reflecting on the things in my life I was blessed with.”

“I was determined to live longer, although the doctors professed the limit till just two-and-thirty. Imputing it to nothing but grateful feelings, which for ought I knew, prolonged my life extremely, I was able to make it to these days, waaay past forty.”

“When I was in pain I more often smiled than scowled. That was the foundation of my beauty despite of my many limitations. Had I lived my life again in every detail of desire, temptation, pain and surrender, I would have chosen the exact life I lived to the very aspect of sickness and every element of loss.”

“Gratitude gave me that easy confidence of manner. Always quite up to everything, I was a sort of person you could depend on, and that made me splendidly respectable by my partners and coworkers.”

“I took no notice of negative people and very little of pessimistic acquaintances. The wealth of positive emotion awakened pleasure and added loveliness and virtue to my life.”

“The fervency of my personality trembled from sunlight and fragrance. Gratitude created a barrier that was guarding me against cold and cheerless.”

“I looked on nature and my fellow-men and didn’t see the dark and gloomy. The cheerful colors prevailed, and those were reflections from my own grateful eyes.”

T. died at forty-eight. When I saw him last, he evidently found great difficulty speaking. He waited long to collect himself, and then he murmured simply: “Take this,” and he handed me his diary. That book had a voice that dropped deep into my soul.

The last page contained a message:

“Pain passes, but love remains. We suffer so much sometimes. I’m very old when I think about it, but I grow young again when I believe in generous mistakes that hurt, happy tears that burn, and deep adoration that squeezes the heart till every drop of love is revealed. And the only way to see the beauty in life is to be able to open your eyes every morning with extraordinary grateful gladness. Only this feeling will make you beyond the reach of pain.”

Self-Competition Is a Gambit in a Self-Development Game

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Rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced, V. was extravagant and a little disquieting. Large, square face and little grayish eyes – there was nothing soft or gracious about her. Up to everything and down on herself, V. was a splendid actress but didn’t quite believe in it herself. She formed the habit of sticking pins into her dignity. I always felt an impulse to pull out the pins.

Her conversation was of a sort that gave a large license to originality and wittiness. But she accused herself of not being like some other beautiful and successful actress, and that competition she was constantly in with others heated me so that it almost scorched.

Goodness only knew how far from the truth V.’s self-understanding was. She lived in a constant state of competition-stupidity with others and the only salvation I could see was to recharge her self-esteem, and to redirect her competitive spirit on herself.

The winter of 2017 was the toughest in V.’s life. She lost her father (her mom died two years prior) and being the only child, she was now left alone. I came to console and pull her out of that misery she thrashed herself into.

I kicked all the clothes off the bed and chairs, made V. get up and look in the mirror. I was not very picky with words when I held my hand to keep her silent and listen to the voice of reason. At the end of my tirade her smile was irradiation and the best reward I could ever ask for.

V. had a habit of talking to herself in a mocking and resentful key. And I made a goal to change it during the week we spent together in a Turkish all-inclusive hotel by the sea. This trip was a transformation therapy that I prescribed to my friend. My voice sounded in her ears with continuous expressions of love and beauty, serenity and benevolence, exquisiteness and originality of her personality.

I made my best to instill in V. envy to her better-future-self, substituting the raving desire to be somebody else. Only when she took herself and the choices she made in an axiomatic loving and respecting manner was she able to call her life her own. Starting from this turning point any defects became goals—a way to flawless crystal image of her future self.

It was worth the trouble of looking at and admiring my renewed friend. Her features started to express intense intelligence which brought her self-respect back to her eyes and self-love back to her heart. Now the atmosphere about her sent a cheerful warmth and a suggestion of comfort and ease.

V. was wrongly choosing idols from a famous Hollywood crowd, and that was a definite failure. When the wind of self-respect and self-love started to blow in her sails V. became a capital person to be around and to listen to. Now she was brave to be different, courageous to disagree, bold to self-express, and daring to call her-future-self the best person in the world.

She found the best acting teacher in a stand-up women’s comedy show. People praised her, and she rejoiced, friends criticized sometimes, and she was grateful. She started as an out-of-stage minor character and won her way to a leading actress participating in every show in her best disguise. Ingenious people loved her, and slightly shallow minds didn’t understand and avoided her—and that was just the price for being true.