 
I've always been appreciative of the little things life brings in unexpected ways. They can even be dashing moments of time, but sometimes they reveal knowledge that is so clear and piercing, that it is almost painful. It can be a slowly sliding raindrop on the window that glistens in its short beauty before it disappears in a typical puddle of water, or a leaf that gracefully waltzes down from the vast sky, flirting with its colors or the sunlight breaking through the dull crack of dawn to gallantly reclaim the morning over the night. These things hold a special treasure that onlookers can keep for themselves for the lesson one can learn, if willing. In my life, these seemingly inconsequential things have made a great difference. Especially something that happened this summer on a pleasant evening walk, somewhere deep in Russia.
This summer I went on a long-awaited trip to Bashkortostan to work with children in the poor, yet joyful, village of Beloreck, embraced by the Ural Mountains. One evening, long after the boiling sun had dipped behind the seemingly growing mountaintops, a bundle of six kids showed up at the doorstep of the humble church building where I was staying. They were natives of the valley and owned six mischievous smiles and twelve dark eyes that held a secretive uncertainty, yet a deep longing to be loved. They were very eager to take me on a little expedition around their charming village, not bothered by the late hour. And actually I was as eager to go as they, or maybe even more. We headed off into the awe-inspiring night, such as I visit only in my dreams. It seemed as if someone had set the sky on fire atop the mountain peaks. The creamy shades edged into each other, stretching their splendor in the dark. It appeared as though I could reach out and dip my fingers into the rich and buttery blend, as if it were a big bowl of warm and melting chocolate.
We had heaps of fun merely strolling the dusty roads of this undemanding village that held the pleasures of simplicity. The adorable children animatedly showed me their favorite huge old tire swing dangling from a solid tree branch, reverentially lead me to the peculiar Muslim mosque and even cautiously guided me through the creepy cemetery by the white river. I listened to their stories and they giggled at my rather amusing, I believe, accent. Geese and ducks, horses and cows, goats and dogs were our newfound companions on each road we took. Time passed very swiftly and we slowly started heading back to the cozy church, trying to stretch each of our steps on the path.
As we turned on to a new road, the children started running ahead of me and encouraged me to follow them, which I did. We were all laughing, because we found such genuine delight in such an ordinary activity. Jumping up and down, we made the dust on the road rise so high that we ran even faster to escape it. Although our age difference was quite obvious, it seemed to disappear tonight. This was one of the unusual qualities that the poor village owned. It could take away the unnecessary and give the needed, even though I was not aware of the need.
We were laughing and talking about everything and really nothing at all, when suddenly one of the children started singing a well-known Russian song. It was the indescribably energetic and cheerful young boy named Dima, who at full volume and in a confident voice declared to us the desire to be free as a bird and fly high above the peaks of the mountains. I was extremely amazed at his remarkable and persuasive voice which seemed to be owned, not by a nine year old, but rather a grown man. I was about to say something about his wonderful talent when the kids in front of me unexpectedly spread their arms and pretended to soar into the skies like birds. They did it with such ease and passion that it seemed as though they were floating and rising from the dirt road up into the dreamy colored sky. With each step they took, the singing became more pure and the laughter became more innocent.
Among them, Dima turned around slightly and said to me, "I can fly! I can fly! You can too!!" And right then something happened to me. It was such a simple thing, but it grabbed my heart and squeezed it so hard that it created welling pools of tears in my eyes. I was struck so hard, that I stopped as if a door had been slammed in my face. Everything vanished except the sound of Dima's voice and the light movement of the children's imaginary wings, as if they were hypnotizing me into an odd daze. It seemed an eternity before I escaped the bizarre feeling one gets when drug away from reality. There was absolute silence within me, so real that I could almost touch it. The strange, though comforting, certainty made my heart pound franticly until I fully perceived its meaning. And then I let it slowly curl inside of me as a satisfied cat curls in the warm sun. The silence became complete. I stood there in the midst of old mother Russia and gently smiled, thankful for the lesson these children had taught me.
I had been shown the priceless worth of simplicity. The simplicity of heart, mind and soul, and the beauty it contains. These children possessed the rare and fragile freedom of life which is so easily lost and so difficult to redeem. We in our busy lives often forget how beautiful life really is. We need to pay attention to the little things, enjoy them, and let them speak to us.
"Yes, I can fly. I really can fly," I replied to Dima and followed the dreamlike birds sailing in the sky before me.
Renalda Ludvika is a student at Lithuania Christian College in Kleipeda, Lithuania. She is the daughter of Almers Ludviks, Director of Fonds Partneri in Riga. This essay about Bashkortostan was originally written and submitted as a class assignment at LCC.
|
