What seems like a rush or life complications... Bashny.Net

"Not enough". Sensation that sometimes appears in the morning. The idea of a red thread running through the years.

"Not enough sleep". "Not enough time to do them". "Too rarely call parents". "I don't remember the last time I turned my phone off and did nothing". "Not a lot of money." "Not the most prestigious job". "A few interesting events." "Not loved enough as a child to parents." "The husband loves not enough now."





"Not enough sleep". "Not enough time to do them". "Too rarely call parents". "I don't remember the last time I turned my phone off and did nothing". "Not a lot of money." "Not the most prestigious job". "A few interesting events." "Not loved enough as a child to parents." "The husband loves not enough now."

We weren't thin enough, smart enough, attractive or smart, educated, successful or wealthy. We do not have time to get out of bed and touch the floor, and already feel behind, lost, meet the needs of society. By the time we sleep, our brain manages to make a long and boring list of what we managed to do for the day. We go to bed, Laden with these thoughts, and Wake up with a feeling of need. What at first seems to be a rush or life difficulties, in the end turns out to be in vain lived life.

L. A Twist. "The soul of money"

 



City life teaches the comfort for granted and predictability as the norm. And at some point, your existence becomes more like Groundhog day than on an adventure: the vacation schedule is approved, the shopping list is made, the time sequence of trains from the starting station to the final twenty-seven minutes.

From her, from you, from this unbearable light of being gradually disappears roughness.

 



And once I realized what my personal "enough": in the simplicity.

When I think about home I think about authenticity. About the fire and coals, about wood and stone, about pot-bellied mugs and clay plates. About how far you've come from those times when I was born and brought up in lonely houses on the hills, blown by the winds family.

I think about the sounds of grass that grows. About the noise of the pines and the birds singing at dawn. About what cold water, some rough floor, how long the air remains saturated with rain, and you the rest.

 



"Winter we have wintered. It remains now only spring to winter..."

I like how the prick wool socks. Like fires in the fireplace wood. As similar to amber resin tears pine boards.

I want to roast vegetables on the grill and hear the hiss of the water hitting a red-hot iron. Bake young potatoes in foil and eat it, burning his hands. To have in the house a gun and be able to use it. Know where I have planted mint and Basil, any herbs to treat sorrow, what help patient back.

 



I grew up in the village with my grandmother, fishing on Shitikov, grazed cows, handy boat at the age of eight and collected nettles for the pig. It was a very "proper" childhood, with leeches and hay, the rise in the berries at five in the morning and a crisp white filling, Breakfast autumn flies, and winter forest, which was scary, but terribly interesting. We ate blueberries with milk and brown bread with butter and sugar, stealing strawberries from truckers and have been a stick in the ass. My grandmother taught us not to be afraid of work and not too stand on ceremony with bruises and sores – I'll be fine, she said, and added: let's blow.

 



I think the longing for this simplicity lives in me still. I don't want to find your inner child, awakening a goddess, to understand the parents ' injuries and close Gestalt. I do think that introspection around became too much, and so simple, that the true remedy – the usual physical work – was undeservedly forgotten.

 



I have a dream: to buy a big wooden house in the Carpathian mountains, where the weary can come to return Home. With wooden floorboards, floor-length Windows overlooking the forest and mountains. To the rooms freely walking cats, run, large dogs, had a cozy library with good books and no wi-fi. To be able to walk around in warm socks and barefoot, and the best therapy was work: the men would chop wood and roasted meat, and the women baked pies and studied silence.

If you need a conversation – ask, I want no one touched – tell me about it.

 



I wish everyone could remember what it is to care about each other and about the place where you are. Where you warm and safe, where there is no desire or need to surrender to anguish. Where you have as much time as you need.

 



Where you can always go into the woods to be quiet, and where you are treated, is simply looking at the fire and water.

You know, just no matter who you are there, outside the Nest. Napitia this power and go.

Now you have enough power for the road.published

 

Author: Olga Primachenko

 

 

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Source: gnezdo.by/blog/not-enough/