Having finished the country time, winter I spend Sydney from a computer at the window on the first floor of a city apartment. Nothing other health allows. Waiting for spring and giving. The first joy will be forced in late December, when the day increases and nature says that the border is passed. May the light be!
Second joyful day - February 2. The day of the defeat of the fascists in Stalingrad. In our family, this day is noted: my parents - participants in the battle, have orders and medals. Father has died in a peaceful life. As a result of heavy injuries, Gangrena developed. My spouse in 1942, his father was killed. Drink a glass silently.
And the real spring will only come with the glorious female holiday on March 8! But before him, it is necessary to live ...
In winter, it is especially acute and walked to the skin known phrase "light in the window". All this light is associated with a view of a glowing window, perceived as joy, consolation, and fade.
The origin of this phrase is very romantic: the phraseological dictionary of the Russian language connects with the phrase "the light of my eyes" - so in Russia they called a beloved man. Loving woman admiringly looking at her beloved, as a light that helps her do not forget himself. A woman at that time was called "My Soul". There is no point in anything - nor in wars, no accomplishments, or in knowledge, nor in the abilities, if the soul is forgotten. How beautiful it is!
How are the men call their loved ones? Bunny, kisa or something else, even a very cute animal. But, you see, My Soul sounds different!
My feelings from the window are opposite to the interpretation of "light in the window". Just the opposite, upside down, I would say - "Shivaro Tycho": This is not my luminous window attracts "Oph", on the contrary - I look at the light from the window of a huge room ... light of life.
Moms with children walk in the courtyard, the grandmother in the "pyat stroke" - a store in the right wing of our house. The neighbor from above displays a walking of its old, slumbsy and thick English bulldog with the bold hind legs. Aths with bottles and banks are waiting under the window the car with milk. At the near bench ran red cat with a mouse in the teeth. Life abounds.
The yard is closed from all sides by our P-shaped nine-story house in the city center. A huge poplary grows around the perimeter of the courtyard, and right under the window - spoiling hurry. All this creates permanent twilight in our apartment. We joke with your wife, saying that we live in the cellar and white light - only in the window. The name of the story of Korolenko "Children of the Dungeon" immediately comes to mind.
Early in the morning, forcing the eyes, still lying on the bed, by selling the curtain, first of all I look at the deserted courtyard, the parked cars, covered with snow caps, put on the curb to the curb, are rumbled near the benches and children's swings.
Glowing of the urcha old diesel, leaves a trash machine from the courtyard. But on top of the roofs confidently pierce the first gentle rays of the bright, almost spring sun, illuminating the tops of old poplars. Last, short winter month!
A memorial verse sounds in the head:
The morning paints the delicate light of the wall of the ancient Kremlin, wakes up with the dawn all the Soviet Earth.Yes ... no cycling and mighty! He cried in chatter, prisitude, betrayal. And we, the Soviet people, missed the Great Country, which went to us at the cost of bitter victories and deprivation. Seen and did not understand what was happening. Many rejoiced that they got an uncomfortable "Khrushchev."
Now, along with it, we are leaving and we, the last eyewitnesses and carriers of the Soviet lifestyle, values, culture. However, "gentle light and color" will not go anywhere. He is hidden in his chest, and his grandchildren will see his reflections.
What to cry through the hair? With tears in the shower I repeat the lines of the large Russian poet Nikolai Zinoviev, my contemporary. I was born in 1944, and he in 1945:
The map of the former union, with a rumble of the chest, standing. I do not cry, I do not pray, but just there is no strength to leave. I stroke the mountain, ironing the river, concerning the fingers of the seas. As if I closing the eyelids of my unhappy homeland ..."Everyone has its own inner light," said the Italian writer, the poet Tonino Guerra said - each person has its own inner light. Only someone is the light of the candle, and someone has a lighthouse light. "
Well said Italian. Does the inner light be seen from the window, or does it light up only your journey?
What to do? The answer to the surface:
"Everything that your hand can do, forces do; Because in the grave where you will go, there is no work, no reflection, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, "said Ecclesiast preacher in very ancient times.Great Book Bible! And if in Starikovski, but at least with a fraction of humor?
To strive for the joy of life at any life situations! Thick door. Fight towards bright light! And there - be it, what will happen!
Author - Vadim Garin
Source - Springzhizni.ru.