In the past weekend I shared my time with 3 of my big loves: Murakami, Pica the cat and Amstel beer. It was a pleasant weekend, relaxing at the big window, enjoying the great book of discovering an inner self. I love this type of days, well hidden in the green puff that remembers me about the years spent in Vodafone Romania, many years ago. Behind of it the light comes in through the big window and I can see the last year flower trying to re-born in the long not winter, but not spring yet, period.
The last book of Murakami was a long story, but I managed to finish it in 2 weeks, reading on the train or in weekends. As used with it, the idea is almost the same, but this time it had many components, making me somehow re-fill with energy for what is meant to follow. In some of the chapters the story of the prisoners in Siberia is told and I couldn’t stop thinking about my grandfather. I don’t know for sure if the story is true, but I still have the medals he received after WW2. The story is that he was in prison for 5 years in Siberia and when Romania became communist he was released, but dressed with Russian military clothes and with no food or money. He and several Romanians came by foot back home and he made it after many years of disappearance – everybody in the village thought he was dead. Next year my father was born and he has the same hair my grandfather used to have – all white. When I was a kid my father used to tell me that he will give me money for each white hair I pull from his head and 2 years ago I heard him saying to my nephews almost the same thing “I will give you money for each black hair you will pull from my head”. This is how I feel time passed by and how, by this, many things changed everywhere. And here I am. In an office, in an old building in Amsterdam, a town I heard for the first time around my 20s. I know, leaving your home country, is a usual thing to do nowadays, but for me it seems to be the biggest step I’ve made in my entire life. And now that I am in front with the unknown it’s starting to be much more frightening. I feel like I am on the margin of an abyss, not having everything in my hands; but my well is starting to have water – and this is the sign I needed in order to gain control again.
Even if my grandfather didn’t had the life I heard from stories he remains in my mind as the man sitting in front of the house, under the black bitter cherry tree, unable to speak, but always waiting for us with his shacking extensive hand. Sometimes life is not what you imagine or what you expect. I am trying to understand this and I know that the days that will follow will be here only to demonstrate me that nothing is prescribed.