I am part of the nature, and you?
From - for untidily - gray, densely covered dairy - white pre-dawn ridges of clouds of the horizon whose habitual Nordic gloom foretells one more as in winter low-joyful day, suddenly appear the heated disk of heavenly gold. It seems that the handsome Feb on the fiery chariot harnessed by red restive trotters lost the habitual way and turned in these unfriendly northern latitudes, firing fiery arrows as distress signals, extensively.
One gold arrow pierces not brushed kroner of the next pines and birches, and they flash in all flowers of a rainbow, with astonishment coming to life from a long dream. Another with velocity of light gets into a breast hidden on a branch to the bird who shivered in a night, and she wounded in the small heart, having miraculously shuddered, is filled in with the joyful song, the first song of spring and life. The third arrow flies in a dark window of a small brick lodge and spills the morning gold on a table with untidy books, to cups with the drunk not enough coffee, to the scattered handles, pencils, points and, eventually, pierces in a small Chinese rug on a polovichny floor. Splashes of solar gold fly extensively, get on chairs, a case, a bed, forcing me to open eyes.
I carefully peer into the window which is dimly painted over by rains and snow. The world will be transformed in the most wonderful way around. Gloomy clouds coward creep away in different directions, the trees which withered for long winter is grateful shake huge branches - hands, being poured by vivifying juice, pritoptanny ice knives of winter, the sleepy green grass slowly becomes straight, everything around slowly comes to life, lasts up, flits, flies, jumps, runs, sviristit, coming to spring fury.
I promptly jump from a bed - not slowly and reluctantly I creep out, as usual, of my warm night shelter, and joyfully I jump out, having far cast away edge of a thick woolen blanket, I pull on myself the cooled-down clothes and, cheerfully jumping on one leg, I direct on still gloomy kitchen.
While my coffee prepares, I, cheerfully purring itself something a little clear under a nose and from time to time crying out any nonsense in different languages, with a smile blissful and in mute triumph joyfully I touch in memory everything a gratefulness which without fail will happen today to me.
The greatest pleasure which I anticipate and the thought of which brings me into pleasant excitement, is the forthcoming meeting with expensive to my heart, bathing in radiant paints of the early sun and smelling sweet as all aromas of the young maiden - spring, the wood. The wood - the magician, the wood - the healer, the wood - the life.
How many times it as the loyal friend, helped me at a difficult moment, allocating me with the primitive force, healed my sincere wounds. How many times I betrayed and not understood by the world, the friends and relatives, by itself, pathetic and crushed, in confusion, having thrown everything, ran to it, seeking a privacy and consolation, and always calmed, with new forces came back. How many times, having inhaled its infused on dairy fog and tart fir cones, diluted with trills of forest birds and warmed up by gold beams of the sun, air, I found again lost as composure and rest of heart seemed, forever.
Having hastily swallowed hot coffee and having waited until the sun finds midday force, having taken with itself all the remarkable mood, on a narrow path, by an old ragged shed, along orphaned apple-trees and plums, on a boundary and straight through dead black fields, despite of bogs from fat dirt and ice thawed patches, I go to a high green wall, is proud rising in the distance, a wall from pines, fir-trees, aspens and birches. On the road, having closed eyes and blissfully smiling, I generously set up the person to gentle beams of the spring sun, with love listening to reckless bird`s intermittent singing. Even spiteful croak of the impudent crows slipping up and down chernotochashchy fields in search of a free breakfast, sounds as fine music.
At last I enter the first rare prilesok. The footpath playfully runs under a bias. Here and there early primroses are seen. They bashfully look out from - under last year`s semi-decayed is black - red foliage - simple, modest and pure as the nature. Through a thicket look through the velvety semi-revealed willow eyes. Heart in a breast is stupefied fights, dispersing the oxygenated blood on veins, the head is easily turned, all sense organs hurry to absorb smells, sounds, colors.
Feelings overflow my heart, and I begin to read verses - aloud, loudly as though I was one in the wood, on the earth, in the Universe. I remember all poets whom ever knew and learned: Pushkin, Yesenin, Akhmatova, Blok, Pasternak, Byron, Goethe, Schiller and many others. “ I asked a cuckoo how many years I will live, pines tops trembled, the yellow beam fell in a grass. But a sound in a thicket fresh, I go home, and cool wind indulges a forehead hot mine “ A. Akhmatova, or “ Ich ging im Walde so fuer mich hin, und nichts zu suchen das war mein Sinn. Im Schatten sah ich ein Bluemchen stehen, wie Sterne leuchtend, wie Auglein schoen. Ich wollt’ es brechen, da sagt es fein soll ich zum Welken gebrocheb sein. So grub ich’s mit Wurzlein aus und trug’s im Garten am huebschen Haus, und pflanzt’ ich’s wieder im stellen Ort, so blueht es weiter und zweigt so fort “ V. Goethe. Classics. My heart happily rings.
Over the head familiar loud percussion is distributed. I throw back the head and without effort I find it, the disturber of forest tranquility, in a dandified red shapchonka and is black - a white dress coat, dexterously winding spirals towards a blue vault of heaven and yaro tapping the bird`s tap dance on a trunk of a dead pine. He me is not afraid at all, this nice wretch, and even after my loud approach not only does not hurry to hide, popritikhnut, and on the contrary, doubles the drumbeat, ignoring my unwanted presence.
Having approached a cretaceous pit from which all valuable to the person, this wreath of the Universe, was passionless and pulled heartlessly out, selected at the nature of years so twenty back, and from which there was only a big lifeless pockmark on smooth skin of Earth filled with azure water, I stop as if maintaining a moment of silence, thinking of how thoughtlessly and impudently the person outraged upon the nature.
At the edge through prickly paws of the fir-tree growing at the break the stream of the gold sun beats and, crashing into transparent blue tranquility of a dead ditch, scatters lilac splashes in different directions, creating the taking breath away, almost phantasmagoric landscape from water, air and the sun. Some time I, having stood and almost without breathing, I am left to stand without the movement, devouring with eyes this surrealistic nature vivante, trying as it is possible to depict better him in the memory.
As all - is good in the wood! What calm of mind and heart! What unification of the person with the nature! I feel by skin, every time, each hair how the wood treats, cures me of my illnesses, neurosises, madnesses. I feel how my discontent with and others leaves as my complexes, irritation, indignation, indignation are dissolved. In the wood there is no place to arrogance, egoism, ambitions. In the wood there is no wish to swear. In the wood nobody should prove anything. The wood accepts you it what you are. He knows what you are. With it it is useless to pretend to be. He knows what you what you cost.
Having much absorbed vivifying energy of the wood and the sun, to dizziness having saturated with tart forest air, having thrown off from itself as the old decayed clothes, the adversities, I slowly turn back, turning to the left from time to time, to the right, distracted by this or that ordinary miracle of the wood - an early inedible mushroom, an unfamiliar plant, a zheltokryly butterfly - a grain of sand of the spring sun.
Having come out of the wood, in the distance I see familiar ink fields, naked apple-trees and plums, the brick lodge to which I head is already seen. The breast happily rises, I do not feel at all tired as if in me the second wind opened. Legs carry me. In me there is so much pleasure and force that I am ready to divide them with others. I am not sorry at all. Well, with whom to share? Do not hesitate, approach!