This week, a book of poetry by J. M. Storm crossed my pathand I decided I have to writea full article about it, although probably not right now. I was drawn to asentence on the back cover: “She is a beautiful piece of broken pottery, put back together by her own hands. And a critical world judges her cracks while missing the beauty of how she made herself whole again.” It’s true, we’re all just pieces of broken pottery, put back together again, with larger or smaller scars, which are sometimes very noticeable and on other occasionsnot, but they’re apart of us either way and they make us unique. By the time we reach our end we’re probably so scratched and cracked we don’t resemble the initial image anymore, but if it means dynamic growth and change in our life, then who cares? I think it’s only wise to learn to collect moments, beautiful ones, of course, but not necessarily big ones, because it’s the small joys that make the picture perfect. Finding yourself in a cup of good coffee, morning light, in an embrace of a man we love, in a handshake of a friend, child, grandchild, who makes the gestureso totally selflessly and sincerely.
I also think it’s important not to wait for our birthday or a special occasion to get flowers, because as far as I know flower shops are open all year long and I see no obstacle, preventing us from getting a bouquet of roses for ourselves. Or tulips or peonies, which make every home more beautiful and are a balm for the soul. Little things, but not so littlethatthey could be overlooked. The smell of new books, which I always order, excites me, so do magazines that help my inner growth and drive me to explore myself even deeper, to forgive more often, understand less or dedicate less energy into figuring out all the whys in the world, because they always remain a mystery anyway. The scent of my new fabric softener, which I just used to wash all the curtains, so now my entire flat smells like flowers, the tea that my father or mother prepare from plants growing in our garden, reminding me of a time when Sofia was still a baby and adored this same tea, when she sipped it from her bottle. I’m grateful for her diapers and soft skin, because those were rituals I now miss a great deal. As a mother, I always feel like someone wants to take her away from me, that there’s a great force making her more a young ladyand less small each day. As a selfish mother, I would stop the flow of time now and then only tolose myself in her long hair that always smells ofchamomile and honey, because I continue towonder, how that’s even possible, and I’m scared again that someday they’ll lose this scent, the magic. And I’m there again, in the projection of the future and ungrateful for today, which is actually the only real moment, the only moment that exists. But you know, I’m only human…
As a child, I had a Hello Kitty folder full of stickers and among them were those from Bravo magazine. And so I smile, when I open the living room closet and I see it, all worn and torn, because Sofia often plays with it, and by aa strange coincidence, the Bravo stickers are still there, caught in time, just like me, and they have something that sooths me, they’re captive, just like me, but at the same time area witness to an era that was much more sincere and normal. I love my mother, when she comes over for a visit and makes me feel like she’s in no hurry and we start a woman’s talk, laugh a lot and there is a beingnext to me again that can admire my craziness and accept me as I am, because my soul is 18 and not a month older. Ofcourse, this side of me is reserved for only a few and not the entire world, which, as J. M. Storm would say, is critical, likes to judge and doesn’t understand much. Maybe that’s why we all wear a mask, like living in a never ending carnival, except there’s often no music or dance, only suspicious looks and the feeling that maybe you’re in the wrong place. But when I look within, I can still make out the sparks of pure happiness and feeling of unexpected rainbows; then it’s all clear, because I understand that we don’t need much for our own happiness, just a bunch of small joys, which happen anyway, but the problem is that perhaps we don’t take notice of themthem enough. Or appreciate them.
There’s another thing that makes me beyond happy: the melancholy of rain, falling calmly on the grey sea, even in Izola, where I live, with boats on the surface and lives of fishermen, which always fascinated me. The feeling that there is work, jobs, lives beyond ourown, and truths that are completely different. And I admirethe collection of candles that I have in a closet at home, but I’ve only recently, in the past year, started to use them regularly, because before, it always seemed they were too specialfor an everyday occasion. But now I feel as though every day is a holiday, so I find my own reason to draw out these small things that make me happy, and I show my daughter the way to making our liveslife better, even with tiny detail, which you may not understand, but maybe you’re like me and you know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m grateful, when I peek atmy wardrobe and see pieces with history, which make me feel feminine every day, because I don’t think that happens on its own, not at all, I’d sooner say that a lucky path has gotten me this far. Just like yesterday, when I happened to drive by a field full of sunflowers and it seemed like they were looking at me, so I waved at them from my car window and felt grateful for this moment of yellow happiness, for which I’m sure that not everybody notices.
So here I am, sitting on my balcony, surrounded by loud cicadas, calling out for summer. I’ve always listened to them, even as a little girl and I always wondered how animals can sense seasons and months without words. Maybe it’s because there’s magic in the air, so it’s quite good if we can catch some.
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