One Good Friend.

“Everyone needs friends. At least one good one”.

I remember those words like it was yesterday, uttered by my very first online acquaintance.

I met her in the beginning of the nineties. Internet and online communications were in their infancy, yet I already then developed an avid interest for online communities, as suddenly a whole new world of interactions was opening up to my perception.

She became my real close friend for a couple of years, a confidant that I shared my thoughts with. There was something safe in the fact that I shared my secrets with basically a stranger, thousands of miles away from me, someone I never met, yet a living, breathing soul who could offer words of empathy and comfort.

Being far away from my established friends and my family, having left everything behind on another continent a few years prior, I realized that making real life friends as an adult was a task light years removed from the time when I was a child.

Me and My Best Friend in 1989

As a little girl I made friends easily. I lost them easily too, but in no time new would come along and I never ever recall being a solitary child or having the feeling of being left out. I had an overabundance of friends at all times; some were children I admired, some were those who admired me and then there was at least one good friend. My very best friend that liked me exactly for who I was and shared my innermost secrets and dreams with me. Already then I perceived easily how important this very fact was.

Once my parents immigrated to Sweden, our family went through a mental transition, one that deserves its own exclusive post. To leave ones country - what at that time was assumed as forever - is not something one easily recovers from and the experiences of immigration shaped my early teenager years.
Nevertheless, I still made friends. I found quickly that initially I was drawn to other children, which just like me found themselves as foreigners in another country. We were brought together due to our similar fate and felt unified due to our situation.
As time progressed and my family became successfully integrated in the new society and our new country became our home, as a teenager I slowly made friends with Swedish kids, even though I with amusement must admit that they all had foreign ties, in one way or another.

Me And My Sister In 1994

During this time, my sister became my very best friend. I recall still today our long daily talks. We discussed everything between heaven and earth and I always looked forward to finding her at home when I returned from school, as we would sit in mine or her room for hours, recollecting our day.

I kept my university friends when I started to work and when I moved away from home on my own, I had a well-established network with only a few friends, but still friends I liked and could count on. The phone was never off the hook and I never felt alone – in fact at times I wish I was.

When I left Sweden as a young adult and moved to the other side of the Atlantic, I quickly found myself in a situation that required solitude and discretion and making friends became suddenly impossible.
And then one day it just happened, as I went through life’s ups and downs, traveled the paths less traveled I found that as an adult I became scrutinized by others, at times viewed as threat and interference and felt unwelcome into new established friendship circles. At the best I could make brief and superficial acquaintances.
It dawned on me then that the connections we make as young are golden.

Whether it is the mindset of younger years, the ability to bounce back so easily or whether it is the will and interest to genuinely get to know people - nevertheless, childhood friends are the ones we should try to keep. There is something infinitely comforting to have known - and have been known by - someone for decades, to have followed them through life’s turmoil and to have shared so many unforgettable moments. It is a magic I will sadly never experience.

I still keep in touch with many of my old friends, those that I made during my teenage years. Still, life has brought us in different directions and the closeness we once felt is long gone. Today, after having lived more than a decade in a new country, I cannot state to have made many new friends.
However life has taught me that it is not the quantity but the quality that counts in the end.
Maybe that is the difference between the friendships we strike as young and the one we do as adults.

Me And Elizabeth

Thus I would like to dedicate this post to my one and only true confidant, my very best adult friend Elizabeth who has become my light in the dark – and serendipitously we met through our common love for a nearby lighthouse.
Her concern and genuine care has kept me sane through many recent storms over the past two years. She has shared my deepest secrets and I hers and her beautiful and unblemished mind and candid empathy has made me once again trust in the goodness of people, corroborating my belief that we should pay attention to who destiny brings our way. Each and every encounter has a higher meaning and the people we meet always have a role to play in our lives.

I have today reached the conclusion that we cannot go thorough life alone. As much as we need shelter and food, we also need love and companionship. And at least one good friend.

There are no rules that define a true friend; however often it is the hardship of life that shows us that true friendship can come from the most unusual and unexpected places.

The Allure Of Time.

Lately, I have been thinking a great deal about the relativity of time.

A few years back I wrote a post related to this issue and recently I returned to it, re-reading the thoughts of my younger self, wondering whether the same sentiments still occupy my contemplation.
I have realized that although basically my views are still the same, my affection for and my perception of time has certainly shifted.

When I wrote that piece, just a year prior I ended a prodigal and trying period of my life. I felt terribly derelict, as I indeed failed on so many levels in my life and was left drained, disillusioned and feeling very old. Today of course I look back at that time with wiser eyes and a tranquil mind. It no longer feels like a failure, but rather a vital experience that was essential in shaping me into who I am.

I have realized that much of my younger years were spent in the waiting line. For as long as I recall, I always waited for something or someone.
Something to come my way, something to resolve, something to come true, something to at last occur. Someone to finally see me. Want me. To find me.

Months turned into years and time became my enemy. It felt wasted and it moved slowly, lacking in progress, draining my energy. I felt paralyzed and disillusioned as none of what I expected and dreamed about came to pass. A sense of panic kept rising within me constantly, while I wondered whether I simply expected too much or whether I was on the wrong path, one that was leading nowhere.

I guess wisdom came to me with age.
I realized in my maturity that stepping out into the unknown was the key to unlocking the allure of time. To completely give into and surrender to ones feelings, to trust ones instincts and to remain completely honest  - with oneself and others - without fear. To never shun away from making changes, however challenging they appear.
To take a true leap of faith.
Good things can indeed come to us even late in the game. Our age certainly does not limit our possibilities nor lower our capabilities.

Within the last eight months I have experienced more than I ever had in the course of several years in my past, even in my youth. I have had the privilege to encounter life's altering events and have felt a plethora of emotions, within a broad spectra; anything from exhilarating happiness to tragic sadness.
Time has been completely redefined in my perception.
An hour has today the potential to bring about incredible progress. The term "What a difference a day makes" has never rang more true in my ears. The realization that life can change so much in a blink of an eye has shifted the way I live.

Today I know that we are the true masterminds of our time.
Despite the fact that we indeed hold very little control over our future, we still have the power to shift the direction of our present.

Time is the greatest gift we have been given and its allure is endless if we only seize each and every day, like it is our last.
I am glad that I stepped out of the waiting line.

(Images: Photobucket)

Wherever I Lay My Hat...

Home.
A word that most certainly evokes strong emotions, powerful thoughts and unique images in everyone's perception.
We all carry an idea in our head of what home means to us, or what we would like it to mean.

For some of us, the word brings about a sense of familiarity, security and happiness. For others; melancholy, longing, emptiness and even perhaps a sense of loss or absence of something that once was and no longer is.
Or something that never was in the first place.

Already as a child, I moved around extensively with my restless parents. As an adult, I unintentionally adopted this lifestyle, relocating and crossing country borders - and even continents - pretty much each decade. Thus as a consequence, the term home has become endlessly elusive and almost unattainable in my perception. At times I feel as if the search for a home and particularly the idea of belonging somewhere - has become the ultimate quest in my adult life.

During my childhood, nevertheless, home was a secure and very much a defined place. It was without a doubt where my immediate family was; my parents and my sister. I belonged with these people in no uncertain terms and the geographical location of the place made no difference to me. The numerous moves, the constant, anxious new school starts, the continuous effort of making new friends - it all interfered very little with the happiness I felt. Even the ultimate move, which made my family into immigrants, only reinforced the bond we shared and home was still a very substantial definition in my mind.

But then along the way somewhere, as I moved out on my own and set out to conquer the world, the meaning of a home became increasingly obscure. At first it encompassed my parents home, later the city where they lived, then a country and finally even an entire continent. In time I began to experience a sense of almost an identity confusion and the yearning to belong started to manifest itself. Gently at first, a subtle longing somewhere deep inside, perhaps almost a secret wish. I recall the first wave of nostalgia, realizing that I might never be able to call any country my home, no matter however much I try. As the bonds that once tied me to the place of my birth were forever severed and no new were possible to attain.
This realization came however with an acceptance and perhaps a certain sense of relief as well, or a freedom if you will. "Wherever I lay my hat, that's my home..."  became my motto and made it easy for me to settle down effortlessly almost anywhere.

As I however grew older and started to look for and appreciate a certain deeper values in life, being a foreigner came to define who I was and thus my search for home - for a true home - became my quest.
And I believe, in retrospect, this quest brought me on a journey and a passionate search for love. I realized that I was looking for someone who would bring that sense of home I once felt, back to my reality. A man, that would offer me a safe harbour and terminate my restless voyage, by accepting and loving my estranged heart unconditionally. A man that would make me feel like I undoubtedly belonged by his side, the same way I once belonged with my family.
Only today I am sadly realizing that such a man most likely does not exist and my search only led me to numerous misty illusions.

My life is currently in the state of a change and as my future is heading in a novel direction, I find myself reevaluating the term home once again.
I still do not believe that it is only defined by a geographical location, although I have come to the understanding that certain places do evoke in us a strong sense of serenity, security and familiarity - whether these are memories of transcending moments spent in certain locations in our past, or current ties to a special place.
To some degree home is also truly defined by people - those that offer us security and the gift of an unconditional love, trust and deep care. It could be our near family, a significant other, our children, or it could be our friends.
Still, my new realization makes me see that a true home is something we carry with us and is that which we harbour within us. It can not be taken away from us as well as it can not be given to us. Some will find it with little effort, some of us never will.

I feel a strong desire these days to revisit my roots. Places where I used to live as a child and the city where I was born. As well as an infinite longing to once again be in the company of the only people that ever truly defined the term home for me.
Perhaps at times one has to go back to be able to move forward. Occasionally our answers for the future might lie in what we left behind.
And perhaps it is never too late to go back home.

(About the photographs in this post: All are taken by my father last year, in and around the place where I was born. I have not been back in the beautiful Tatra Mountains for almost twenty five years...
Please click each image for a larger view.)

The Written Word.

Come to think of it, I have always enjoyed writing. According to my mother, already as a little girl, barely having learned to hold a pen in my hand, I wrote small stories. Mostly fiction I believe, products of my own imagination, although I recall vaguely being inspired by fairy tales read to me before bed time or recollections I overheard being told by others.

When I was about eight years old, I decided to write letters to all my relatives, pretty much everyone I could think off. I no longer remember the details, such as how I got hold of the addresses, but I know that without my parents knowledge, I send all the letters away. Without stamps. The idea of a paying a postage was not  included in my perception when it came to letter writing. However, I knew very well that the orange box at the corner of the street, on my way to school, was intended for the envelopes that somehow would find their way to the recipient.

I can not recall the outcome of the whole incident that well, only that my parents were anything but pleased when they learned that most of our relatives would have to pay a postage fine, as I obviously failed to include the return address.
However, I recall the fate of one letter - the one send to my grandparents, which was delivered around the time when my parents, my sister and I came by for a visit. My grandfather read the letter out loud to my great dismay and embarrassment. Still, I could clearly see that the aggravation on my parents face became displaced by a expression of amusement and fascination. Thus I guess eventually, they did forgive me.

Growing older, I endlessly enjoyed writing assays in high school as a teenager. I recall the scent of the large auditorium, where hundreds of students were confined for hours, in order to produce written stories on a given subject. Even though I was always apprehensive about any kind of test, as soon as the stillness settled over the large assembly hall, I got completely lost in my own thoughts, while the words effortlessly filled the blank paper in front of me. Depicting my visions in letters came easy to me and my good grades reflected this.

Unfortunately, my last teacher in this subject developed a dislike for me and my style. She focused blindly on all the grammar errors, which defined my writing, then undertaken in a foreign language, but which did not detract from the contents, as I have been told by my previous teachers. Her scrutiny, which was borderline viscous, deterred me from enjoying to write all together  - and I rather focused on channeling my imagination into painting instead.

When I begun to work in science as a young adult, I realized that as much as I loved the practical aspects of research, I also relished in compiling the data and I enjoyed writing scientific papers, something most other scientists detest.  However it was not until I started to write my posts here that I rediscover my passion for expressing myself in this way.

There is so much power in the written word. We all know it way too well, as we have all experienced a plethora of emotions when we read a great book. We become educated and enlightened, we can travel in time and space, we are touched to tears or amused until we laugh. The words create images in our perception, make us contemplate and envision or simply just provide a playground to our imagination.  Skillful writers have the potential to make a difference and the great literary works lining the bookshelves in famous or prestigious libraries bear witness to this fact.

To me writing has over the years become an outlet. Not just of the creative kind, the one I share with all of you here, where I can convey my impressions, thoughts and sentiments. There is also the therapeutic kind as well.

Almost any kind of pain or suffering can be channeled into words. Writing down what troubles me, in form of letters which will never become send, is an unusually effective relief. I guess, almost as a form of a diary, where private and personal thoughts are told to an unseen confidant in a written language, immortalizing ideas and feelings in a document seems to be not just a form of release, but also a way of organizing the train of dark thoughts. Once they leave my consciousness and become visualized on the screen in front of me, they feel less threatening and loose their hold on me.

As with any other kind of creativity, to write is to express ones innermost feelings and thoughts - by creating images using words and painting pictures with sentences. Whether shared with others or not, this creative outlet connects our imagination with our intellect,  reflecting and documenting our life and eventually immortalizing us in the written lines.

Never Stop Moving.

It is with amusement that I at times look back upon my youth and scrutinize the way I used to live. Not just the things I did and the way I acted, but also the daily routines that filled my every day - or rather - the lack of those.

Moving into my first own apartment, the sense of freedom I experienced when I was twenty one was very welcomed, but also overwhelming. I was not used to be so completely in charge of my days and recall that initially, I did everything I enjoyed and very little of that I did not.  Such as cleaning the place and a multitude of chores that I found boring or tedious.
My life then was completely devoid of routines, except for those absolutely vital ones. Such as getting up every morning at the same time, waiting for the buss at the same buss stop and going to work and from work at a given hour. The rest was undetermined, unplanned and spontaneous, as I found no need in having a structured week, or even a day. A year comprised an eternity and the future felt exciting and distant and received very little of my contemplation.

I am not exactly certain when it happened, but along the way somewhere, as I aged and matured, routines sneaked up on me. Perhaps it was the realization of the fact, that planning meant getting things done. It meant using the time I had wisely, giving me a certain sense of control over it.
Or perhaps it was when I realized that I yearned to control it and in that same sense to control my life.

The issue of having control became a dominating one when I became a young adult. I have often viewed this as the result of my childhood and the fact, that my parents had the heart of gypsies and the soul of constant travelers. We children were uprooted numerous times, the final relocation being my family's emigration to the west when I was in my early teens. This move at such a sensitive age most certainly affected my formative years, instigating in me a endless search for home and stability that surfaced first later in my adulthood.

As I found myself facing the troubles of life,  my need for control and structure and my need to belong became the only constant in my days.
Today thus I relish in routines and dislike stress. I seek and demand tranquility and crave that of those around me. The few moments of stress that occur are anticipated and controlled by me, or at least controlled by me as much as it is possible.

However, somewhere deep inside I feel a new realization has been taking place as of lately. As much as I love my routines and security, the idea of living the way I do until the end of my days fills me with a endless sense of terror. The idea of having no more surprises come my way is not one I view fondly. It is as if I have began reverting to my younger self, trying to find that spark of infinite joy over the uncertainty in the future ahead of me, even though it has been cut by half since I last time felt this way in the past.

I assume it is in my genes, however much I try to ignore it or fight it. My parents, who are and have always been an endless source of inspiration to me, still keep on moving. They have not settled down yet and I do not think they ever will.
In return they have kept a young mind and soul and warmth of the heart, radiating energy and joy.

If there is anything they have ever taught me it is to never stop moving.
In the abstract sense and the literally one as well.
Perhaps therein lies the secret to the art of staying forever young.

Carpe Diem.

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero – 
"Seize the Day, putting as little trust as possible in the future"
Quintus Horatius Flaccus
Roman Poet

I recall that when I was a little girl, having very little perception of time, it felt endless and vast. Future was far removed from my consciousness while I dreamed of adventures ahead of me, all that would come to pass once I became an adult. Old age and death was a time span so alien to my thinking, it never preoccupied my mind.

As a teenager, my favorite sentence with which I would strike a conversation used to be "When I grow up, I will..." . I was already a dreamer at a very young age and my dreams only grew and developed, never to cease. When I still carried on this way close to being twenty, my mother used to gently make me aware of how ridiculous I started to sound as I was already an adult and indeed all grown up.

Nevertheless, despite my vivid imagination and the dreams and the adventures which I envisioned as a young girl, I realized at an early age that indeed the future very rarely turns out the way we wish. Thus I learned to distinguish between the idea of having dreams and making plans.

Life without dreams is like gazing at a night sky never to see the stars or the moon. Our dreams and hopes define who we are and they add a dimension to our days, making our time here count. But to plan a future is an impossible task, leading to terrible disappointments and heartaches. Perhaps it also causes us to miss out on the best that life has to offer, as the best in life lies in the unexpected and unplanned, in detours and wrong turns.

The beautiful aphorism at the beginning of this post has always made sense to me and to the sentiments with which I view my reality. Despite the fact that I enjoy taking sentimental walks in my past, recollecting unforgettable moments in time, I never dwell on years gone by, nor do I live with one single regret. I lack capability to do so, perhaps because I live in the present. I make decision today, basing them on the knowledge I carry with me presently, deciding with my heart, my intuition and my conscience. This comes naturally to me - every hour in every day has an incredible potential and I view it as priceless and unique.

The minutes as I am typing this will never come to pass again. The light will never again fall in that angle across my keyboard, nor will the same clouds be passing across the sky. The same last sun rays, as the remains of the day move towards the time of twilight, will never shine on my face again the way they do at this very moment, making it so very extraordinary.

As much as I relish in dreaming of the future, I also realize it doesn't belong to me. Not yet at least. And therein lies the infinite magic of life. Despite the fact that the future can feel uncertain and can fill us with feelings of anxiety and apprehension, those same reasons make it wonderfully exciting. Not knowing what might come to pass is endlessly exhilarating.
To worry about what life might throw our way will only make us live in fear and prevent us from taking decisions, from making necessary changes and from taking chances.
I recall once stumbling upon a great set of sentences to the likes that if we expect troubles, we will experience them twice. Furthermore it is futile to prepare oneself for less than pleasant circumstances for two reasons: one; what we worry about might not come to pass, two; usually the troubles we worry about the least are the ones that will occur.

The past is forever gone, the future is not ours to see - thus all we are left with is the present. To live fully we need to embrace everything that comes our way, while we keep our positive outlook and a childish innocence. In my perception, carpe diem means not to just live today, but to realize that the magic of today is all we truly posses.
And that is often more than enough.

"One has to abandon altogether the search for security, and reach out to the risk of living with both arms. One has to court doubt and darkness as the cost of knowing. One needs a will stubborn in conflict, but apt always to total acceptance of every consequence of living and dying."
Morris L. West 

"Grand Adventure".

Music is very important to me.
In fact, it is highly essential and compliments my daily life in the most vital way. I listen to music every day, the whole day.

I turn on the radio in the morning as soon as I walk out of the bedroom, I listen to the radio while I drive to and from work. In the lab, music can be heard in the background the entire day and as soon I come home in the evening, I put on one of my favorite CDs.

There has been many songs in my life that have captured my senses, due to the rhythm, the enticing harmonies or the poetic lyrics. Today my memory holds a collection of various melodies, which have stayed with me for one reason or another. As soon as I hear the first familiar tunes, in a split second I am taken back in time, recollecting particular moments of my past and the people in it, while my being is infused with bittersweet contemplation.

Just The Way You Are by Billy Joel is one such song, which brings smile to my face and amusement to my mind. Hearing it on one of the radio stations the other day, my mind traveled back twenty years, taking a sentimental walk down the memory lane.

I was twenty two, going on twenty three, celebrating New Years Eve in the company of a dear friend on the Island of Furteventura, one of the Spanish Canary Islands located in the Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Africa. We were two young girls who decided to escape the cold winter of Scandinavia, spending two weeks in warmer latitudes, as the year crossed into a new decade. Little did I know then, that this would be such a life changing trip for my best friend and in turn for me as well.

It was more than two decades ago, yet still today I remember the trip vividly. Particularly the excitement when we realized we were assigned to a studio apartment with a large terrace and a magnificent view of the ocean and the stunning sunsets, which would take place every single evening above its turquoise blue waters.
Furteventura, at least the part where we stayed, was unusually pristine, rugged and unexploited. There were very few hotels and all one was left with was unspoiled beauty. With that said though, some of the hotels directly on the beach were luxurious. Particularly the German ones, which were part of a type of Club Med vacation resorts, a term that was quiet unknown to two young girls, who traveled and stayed on a budged.

A few days into the new year, my stunning friend, a true Scandinavian beauty, a cool blond and very sophisticated young woman, caught the eye of a man in his early thirties, walking along the beach one day. After the polite introductions we realized he was German and involved with television entertainment. Within a short while, we were both invited into his hotel later that evening for dinner. I guess I was mostly invited as a chaperon, or as I later realized, a date for the traveling companion of our new acquaintance.

The evening came and when we crossed through the gates to the hotel, it felt as we entered paradise. We were greeted by opulence and beauty, not just in landscaping and architecture, but also in the entertainment and amenities. And the dinner to which we were secretly smuggled into, consisted of a rich buffet, where the tables were literally breaking under the weight of the food offered. Anything from meat to exotic fish, grilled, cooked, baked or fried, fruit and vegetables, some that I have never seen before or since and deserts that even today make my mouth water.
The evening progressed and my friend and her new suitor disappeared at one point, while I was left with his companion. An old man in my eyes then, but my age today. Many years later I often contemplated with amusement what he must have thought off me, a young girl who could have very well been his daughter. A playboy at the best and apparently a photographer by profession, he was tall and striking, with long blond hair, wearing a hat and cowboy boots, his face weathered by the elements, but very distinguished and his manners sophisticated. And he was a perfect gentleman the whole evening, while we walked around the hotel premises, trying to communicate in a broken German and  poor English.

Our walk and the innocent, but memorable evening finally ended in the hotel's bar on the other side of midnight, where he bought me a glass of my first good wine. Even today I recall the odd and long looks of all the mature women present in the intimately lit, smoke filled room. Many of them looked lonely and what I perceived desperate, something unknown to me in my youth. I felt terribly out of place and surprised over this scrutiny then, as the man I was with held no interest of mine. Today I know better, as time has caught up with me as well...
All this became strongly etched in my memory, an odd moment frozen in time while the bars piano man played Just The Way You Are softly in the background.
He played many more songs that night, but this one stuck with me for eternity.

Eventually our lovely vacation came to an end and as we boarded the plane, my friend knew she was in love. She found a soul mate, even though the infatuation came to be short lived. After our return home, she packed her bags and left to be with her love in Germany, where she stayed for many years to come, long after the relationship ended. Even though we are still in touch today, I lost my very best friend on that island and no more than a couple of years later, I left Sweden too, for good. I guess in some way her departure was a catalyst to my own.

What is even more fascinating about this story is the fact that today, the man she left her family and friends for is a famous television commentator and a talk show host, with his own very popular talk show, interviewing prominent guests on German television.
I wonder to this day if fond memories of Furteventura ever cross his mind - or that of his friend. After all, when translated, the name of the island means something like "Grand Adventure".
And it sure was one indeed.

Authors Note: To those of you who read this to the end; I humbly thank you for your patience and effort in making your way through a very long post - and I dedicate this beautiful compilation below to all of you. 
It is a classic and a beauty, both in harmonies and lyrics.

Christmas Memories, Part II.

(Please click here to read part I)

The Christmas celebrations that I recall most vividly are the ones that were spend in Sweden, whereto my family immigrated when I was thirteen and where I lived until I was twenty five.

Upon our escape to the west, when we found ourselves as political refugees, my family became a very closed knit one and still is today. Thus Christmas, which highlights the value of family and celebrates those who are us near, was always a very joyful and infinitely happy time that I recollect today with absolute fondness.

Never forgetting our central European origins, we kept many of the traditions of our Slavic roots, nevertheless also tried to integrate with the new society and thus allowed ourselves to be assimilated by the Scandinavian Christmas traditions.
Such as the Advent observance, which turned December into a month of celebration, when the house became illuminated by multitude of candles. Particularly the lighting of Calendar Candle and the opening of Christmas Calendars became a wonderful daily ritual as we counted impatiently down to Christmas Eve. The weeks were filled with scents and tastes that are so significant of this special time, such as Glögg, a type of mulled wine, a very traditional Christmas drink in Scandinavia, the ginger biscuits and the saffron buns, baked on Saint Lucia Day.
Among all this,  the perfumes of the traditional Slovak and Czech holidays cuisine kept us close to our origins and reminded us of the culture we once came from, bridging the past and the present in a poetic way...

The warmth of these almost twelve years of traditional celebrations in Sweden was what laid base to those I established as a young adult. My very own Christmas was born in North Carolina, where I lived for almost a decade.
It was here that I for the very first time decorated my home for the Holidays, trimmed the tree and started slowly to combine the traditions that I have carried with me from my past, all the way from childhood. Slowly, Christmas became a holiday that I no longer celebrated with my parents, but with my friends. It was difficult at first, but I realized quickly that all the love and happiness I felt once in the past, when I was a child or a teenager, resonated still within me.

I realized that I was capable of creating my own traditions, the ones that would dictate a new direction of the Holiday celebrations that would become my very own.

It Is All In The Journey.

Ever since I can remember, I used to daydream. I did this a lot as a young girl and at times my dreams spilled into my drawings and paintings.

Being a child of immigrants, I constantly yearned for items my parents could not afford. Thus, not being able to own or posses them, I drew them.
 It was a wonderful escapism and my imaginary world supplied me with a relatively adequate substitute, when reality failed to provide what I needed.

Later, as a teenager I continue depicting my dreams on paper,  because my imagination was always vivid and to my dreams the sky was never the limit. I found a release in being creative, one that brought a certain amount of tranquility into my days. I relished in the idea of being able to create a world the way I wanted to see it. My romantic views came to their full potential as I drew and painted, and I most absolutely enjoyed the idea of putting my visions on paper and later on canvas.

Thus daydreaming occupied many spare moments of my teenage years and continued long after I turned into a young adult.
Today I no longer feel the need to draw my dreams, instead my contemplation about life, past, present and future is channeled into my writing and my photography. Nevertheless, my thoughts still do wonder from time to time. That momentarily reality escape, as my gaze is drawn to an invisible point in the air,  instigating a flight in time and space, where anything is possible...

Over time I came to the realization that the magic of my teenage dreams and the way I depicted them on paper had very little to do with them coming true. It had to do with the idea and the anticipation of them doing so. As I have traveled through life's up and downs, I have come to the enlightenment that true joy and happiness lies in the pursuit. However grand and satisfactory it is to reach one goals, the euphoria we feel is temporary.

The enchantment and the absolutely unforgettable experience is hidden in the expectations and in the journey itself. Too often we are so blinded by the efforts of reaching our destination, that we forget to enjoy the trip.
We forget to enjoy the magic of detours and wrong turns and we let the best pass us by...

For The First Time...

Recently I experienced an enchanting occurrence - for the first time, ever. It was a moment that will forever stay etched in my perception, creating an unforgettable recollection to last a lifetime. And beyond.
I felt my body, heart and soul being consumed by this experience, which lingered within me, long after it was gone, to become an eternal, precious memory…

It made me realize how very few “first” we get the privilege to come across as we age and mature and it made me recall fondly all the pristine experiences we encounter as children, as we set upon the journey of life.

There are many memories in my recollection that make up for the very first steps into the unknown. The most vivid ones I can remember fully and completely. Their imprint has left behind a sensation of sounds, scents and sights.

Such as my very first day in school, walking with my parents up to the grand building, which still appears vivid in my memory. I recall the feeling of excitement as well as anxiety, feeling the onset of change, as if nothing was going to be the same ever again.

My first bike ride, the very first one when the safety was removed and I really controlled the bicycle on my own, without the supporting hands of my father or my own feet on the ground. That incredible feeling of achievement and victory.
A very similar sensation to the one I experienced when I learned to swim, in the pristine waters of the turquoise blue Mediterranean on a vacation with my family, when I was about ten. As my small body floated on the surface of the warm water, finally after I have conquered the fear of letting go of the sea bed, trusting my own capabilities and not giving into failures or giving up.

And later in life, the first time I sat behind the wheel of a car. My first flight. The first time I traveled on my own.  My first pay check. The first time I moved out on my own. My first published scientific paper. My first scientific discovery. The feeling of excitement when I signed the deed to my first house…
My first kiss of course, but that came when I was six years old actually, I admit. But the one that really meant something came much later in life and I still remember every single detail about it.

There are indeed many first in my recollection, either of personal, professional or intimate nature. My recent experience though made me realize that a first can occur at any time, at any age. And often when we least expect it. The promise of new wonderful encounters is made by each sunrise.
As after all, each new day we get a privilege to experience is the first one in the rest of our life.

Three One Dollar Bills.

The other day I looked into my box.

Yes, I have one of those secret boxes. A treasure box if you will, where I keep sentimental memories. These include souvenirs from memorable trips, notes, cards or letters from old lovers and other small mementoes given to me by special people, who touched my life in one way or another. The box also houses old diaries, quotes and poems I have written down as a young girl as they spoke to me in an unusual way. Overall it contains items that connect me to unforgettable moments in time, which are locked within their shape, texture or scent.

I do not look into my box very often. When I eventually do, it is on those rare occasions when something is being added to it. And then I can not help but look through the contents once again, as I have done numerous times in the past, surrendering completely to sentimental feelings that overtake me and allowing myself that bittersweet sensation of traveling back in time, recollecting emotions and people I once knew.

The other day I added something into my box and in the process of remembering my past I stumbled upon three one dollar bills. They brought a smile to my face, as I recalled with a sting of melancholy the boy that once gave these bills to me, those twenty years ago - perhaps exactly to date.

I was young, in my early twenties and traveling in southern Spain one late summer. I was having the time of my life, spending carefree weeks in the company of my best friend, with whom I keep in touch even today. When I see her, which happens every few years only, our reminiscing eventually always brings us to a fond recollection of our only summer trip.

The sea and the sun and the concentration of youth is a peculiar mixture. The weeks were one big party it seems today, when we slept under palm trees during the day and frequented bars and discotheques in the night, until the wee hours of the mornings.
I felt young and beautiful and as such I was admired by the opposite gender. I never danced alone and I always had someone to buy me a drink. I recall one evening meeting a handsome boy, the center of everyones attention, gaining mine quiet easily. His tall posture, muscular body and blond locks could make any girl week in her knees - and I was no exception. Soon I only had eyes for him, paying very little attention to his plain friend, who failed to capture my interest, but whose interest I captured in return. I did not give him the time of the day, ignoring him completely, as he was not handsome and I was foolishly shallow.

Admitting eventually his defeat, one day he approached me and as he gazed at me with his intelligent eyes, he handed me three one dollar bills with these words: "My mother always told me, that any kind of trouble can be solved with three one dollar bills. Please keep these as a souvenir - if you are ever in trouble, I hope they can be of help." I remember this as clearly as if it was yesterday, accepting the bills with a slight surprise, managing to utter a weak "thank you". He nodded gently and then left me standing there in silence, as I watched him walk away, never to lay my eyes on him again.

Today I pity my young self, who failed to see the potential in this young mans behavior and conduct. It was not until a few years later that I realized the true meaning of the gift I was once given on a sun drenched beach by a plain boy. Even though somewhere deep within I must have realized the value almost instantly, as the bills were saved in my box, where they have remained until today.

I can no longer recall his face, or voice, nor his name, I am ashamed to say. But I will always recall the day when he taught me how to distinguish between beautiful eyes and eyes filled with the beauty of kindness, intellect and integrity and how to never choose the value of beauty over the value of substance.