Tag Archives: #motivation

The Walls Are Never a Prison

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I don’t need wine, cos’ I’m intoxicated with words

Bury yourself in an inexplicable sweetness of my words. – Olya Aman

The walls are never a prison, and any roof never stifles me. I manage to preserve the adventurism while being locked and isolated, for my words are real, as solid and true as every imaginable experience. They are the product of chaos, clutter, greed, insatiable hunger — love, tender feeling, sexual satisfaction, loving enthusiasm, and every possible set of emotions and reactions.

Like a hundred amorets, a swarm of words flies about my head. They leap from idea to idea and shot their arrows of completed sentences and passages into my willing heart. My imagination clothes the naked days with tender feelings, and in my happiness, the uneventful life turns into a fascinating adventure.

I worship the blank pages, ready to accept my writing. I trod on printed lines and shrug my shoulders with a delightful feeling of doing something venturesome, something magical, and absolutely unbelievable.

A day without my sweet mental struggle causes me every imaginable woe. And my heart beats almost painfully when a glimmer of a beautiful sentence makes my breathing strangely oppressive.

That is love. That is why I write. So if you don’t want to read me, that’s fine. I get my share of dope, pure intoxication, complete happiness in giving my words a chance to live and love.

I am too deliriously happy to care if you don’t like it

When I write I cannot tell if it is pain or pleasure. Every fraction of a second is such pure, beautiful madness. “What can be better than this?”, I say with something between a sob and a laugh.

My wayward nature wishes to be subjected to this strong guidance I feel inside me. Above all, I wish my stories to be written, released. When it happens, and I click on the ‘publish’ icon, I feel as if I shake hands with this independent being I’ve created, and my heart goes pit-a-pat against my chest.

It doubles my happiness if you can attune to the tragedy or laugh heartily with my protagonists — but if none of this happens, that’s fine.

I detach myself from the farther life of my stories

My dreamy and even dreary eye is following my heroes in their final stride to adult life, without my motherly watchful attention.

I reconcile myself to any ridiculous trappings. Acts, attitudes, external objects and people, bad stories written in the past, weaker characters brought to life in the present — all are the necessities that are wending my way to a future masterpiece.

I am resolved to let some of my breezy writings live. The truth is painfully simple: if I cannot make head or tail of some of my past work, there might be neither there. If this happens, I allow myself a prolonged moment of hilarious laughter.

I’m not to be bamboozled with negative feedback

There is something positive in the entirely negative criticism, as there is something damaging in a too favorable one. I am on good, or at least on good-humored terms with both.

I receive the first with that serenity, which is a characteristic feature of my personality, and which is close to gayety — an impulse to work harder.

The bare truth is — my story is liked, not me. I’ve changed since then. It is not me anymore who wrote it. I feel detached from any praise it receives.

I say to my fellow-writers, “Camp out, so to say, away from your finished work.”

Share my fondness for living in a story-book style. Turn the page, start a new chapter, without hesitation, with curiosity and desire to learn something new.

Notice the eternal bliss that is always with you. Don’t let any feedback deprive you of this delicacy of life. It is better to make mistakes often, being happy in the process, than making them often just the same, but with your heart in pieces.

You have words enough in your breast. They beat against one another like birds in a net, struggling to get free. Let them loose with no regrets.

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’.

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Backbiting and Gossiping Ruined My Happiness

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Why, or rather when the opinion of others matters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My boss fell in love with me and laid me off

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

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

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

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

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

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

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