I have been a terrible mother lately. Selfish one. I want my child to be with me, enjoying her company, but to control her, as well, albeit in need of more time for myself, which I get hard and do not feel bad when I indulge in it. When she is away from me, I know it is for her own good – to diversify her experiences, to grow among other people who would paint differently her worldview, but then I am miserable, I am anxious and all her possessions scatter and gather me back like I am a cloud of dust.
The lime trees exhale their last days of blossom. I will miss the sedative effect pretty hard. I will have a farnesol withdrawal, I will sneeze, I will sniff the air like a hungry cat. But separation is salutary, it makes us appraise the things that do not belong to us, for a little while or forever.
Expectations are a ground for huge refreshing eye-openers! If you are spellbound by the immeasurable magic that is the world of perfumes, no matter a master parfumeur, or a fragrance aficionado, then you have heard of the Bulgarian Rose Valley. Well, I don’t live there. It’s in the middle of Bulgaria, almost at the geographical center of our country. But I live at the Western border, in Kyustendil, in a valley as beautiful and fertile as the Rose valley. Cherries and plums, apples and pears – those are the fruits of our region, but not roses, or anything herbal and aromatic on a large-scale production. Can you imagine my stunned face and nose, when this year I found that the prolonged April showers did bring a profusion of May flowers? Like I never knew the flow of things could go this way. Like it is the first time that many rose blooms saturate the air with their endorphin-inducing scent. Every little piece of cultivated green space has at least one rosebush. See it for yourself!
Balconies, porches, hedges…
The artist in me has been stowing for a long time this summer. The summer squeezed through sheets of paper for textbook encasing, locks of sun-bleached hair and cutting holes of cider cans.
The artist must buck up, fend off the dusty thoughts and feelings, dive into autumn clouds and breathe, and breathe …
Do away and stride forward.
Calida gravisque pura velut aurum
Et canunt angeli molliter
warm and heavy as pure gold
and angels sing softly
to the new-born babe.
The good in the world has no end. It is flowing, circling, transforming and it always finds its way to the one who needs it, or back to whoever created it. The malice is asleep and sleeps longer when we forget it, when nobody speaks about it. I remember good and want to do good.