Enter your search text in the box above

Select a result to preview

Irina M. (LII) — Harmony and Safety

No Regrets for the Past, No Yearning for the Future

To start with, I have no desire to go back to my childhood. Some people dream of returning to the past (either their own or a more distant one) or catching at least a glimpse of the future, but that is not for me. One can dream, fantasize, speculate, and make plans as much as they like, but I prefer to live in the here and now, with the people and within the events that exist in reality. Perhaps our psyche helpfully serves up mostly positive moments from the past—otherwise, you would go crazy—and as for the future, you plan it out so meticulously that it turns out sterile, meaning there is nothing left to do there, nothing to set in order.

The Nature of Vivid Memories

But memories do exist, of course. Some are very bright—the kind that resurface periodically and stand before your eyes like living pictures. Living, because they are not just like a photographic image, but in motion, in color, in all the variety of smells, sounds, and bodily sensations. And also soul-stirring feelings that are so clearly tied to that specific episode that the phrase "We all come from childhood" becomes instantly clear. Sometimes, such a picture can be triggered by, say, the smell of a spring morning, and suddenly a play unfolds before your inner eye—one you didn't write, but one you participate in and watch countless times.

The First Memory: The Feeling of Safety and Harmony

As for my very first memory, it used to upset me that no one believed I could actually remember it. But I do. I am one year and two months old, and my parents have brought me to Great Ustyug to visit my great-grandmother. And here is a picture, so vivid that I "see" not only the layout of objects, but also the colors, smells, sounds, and physical sensations.

Stumbling—I must have learned to walk only recently—I make my way out onto the doorstep. It is painted brown and slightly chipped in the middle. I hold onto the doorframe with my hand; it is warm and a bit rough. The morning sun is still low, not blinding my eyes, as the porch canopy shelters me. The green of the trees, the green of the grass, a little green bench under the apple tree—even the sky seems to have a greenish tint. The sun pierces the foliage with a thousand tiny rays, scattering across the grass like myriads of diamonds. Under the trees, there are small yellow houses—beehives. Later, I was told that my great-grandmother used to keep bees.

It smells of the warm morning sun, the garden path smells of earth, the grass smells of plantain, dill, and grasshoppers. The tree trunks seem immense to me and smell of moisture and strength. The beehives smell like something fluffy—I cannot associate it with any smell I know. I desperately want to go to those little houses, but I am afraid. Not of the bees, about which I don't know anything bad yet (like the fact that they can sting and it will hurt), but of falling off the stairs, even though there are only three steps. Apparently, there had already been precedents.

And yet, the desire to enter this fairytale world wins. I take my hand off the doorframe, step forward, and suddenly I am caught by my father's strong hands. His eyes are laughing, and in them, I see pride that I finally dared to walk. He carries me in his arms into the garden. An amazing sense of security, quiet joy, happiness...

I was never in that garden again. Much later, when I was about ten, I was shown a photograph of my great-grandmother in that very garden, though from a different angle. I said that I remembered this garden, but no one believed me. Then I described where the house stood, what its porch looked like, where the hives were, and approximately how many there were. But everyone laughed and said that a one-year-old child could not remember that. Yet I remember—I remember everything to this day: the smells, the sounds, the sensations, and that wonderful feeling of safety when my father took me into his arms.

Now I think that this episode is so important to me because throughout my life, I generally need and value a sense of harmony, happiness, and security. But I only ever take the first step myself; after that, someone's strong hands carry me. Anyone can laugh at the fact that I remember this. I know it happened.

The Second Memory: Expectations vs. Reality, Survival Strategy, and The Beginning of a Lifelong Friendship

The second memory is also stable, vivid, and the picture is clear. I am two and a half years old, and I have been brought to kindergarten for the first time. I am not afraid of being left here without my mom and dad. But I don't like certain other things. For instance, the smell of the kitchen is completely wrong—my grandmother's kitchen smells much tastier. Also, the walls in the hallway are painted an indefinite, unattractive color. And the door to the group room is somehow huge and heavy (the building was of Stalin-era construction with high ceilings). The cubby hole where I put my things doesn't have the picture I wanted. I wanted a cherry (I love them), or at worst an apple, but I ended up with something else—I think a pickled cucumber, and its color didn't even look like a fresh cucumber. Everything was somehow different from what I had imagined.

And I had imagined it as a cozy little house with charming rooms filled with many interesting, beautiful toys and books. I thought the children, without bothering one another, would play, talk quietly, draw, sculpt, eat delicious food (like at home), sleep each in their own proper bed (and not on a folding cot, as it was in reality), and play in the courtyard where there would be enough swings and roundabouts for everyone without any fighting. Moreover, in the evenings before bed, my grandfather used to tell me that they couldn't wait to see me at kindergarten, that everyone would be happy to have me, and that I would have many friends. I believed him and fell asleep reassured.

The door to the group room opened—and a wall of sound hit me: a hubbub of chatter, whimpering, laughter, toy cars being zoomed around, and dolls being put to bed. Every now and then, the teacher's voice calling for order drowned out all other sounds. Externally, it all looked like Brownian motion—chaotic not only in direction but also in the color palette, which made my eyes swim. I don't remember the smells; apparently, the visual and auditory sensations were enough for me.

Naturally, instant horror struck: Where had I ended up? What should I do? How could I endure this? Where could I go? I couldn't go forward—I'd get trampled. Backward lay a tightly closed, incredibly heavy door. The instinct of self-preservation kicked in: I recoiled against the wall. Feeling the support, my body stopped shaking, and my brain began to work.

My reasoning went as follows:

I cannot run away because:

This meant:

  1. I had to do something, find some leverage, an expert, and ask for help from someone who could actually provide it (for example, the teacher). That was for the immediate moment.

  2. I also had to learn how to survive in this environment, since I would have to spend all my time here until school. This meant I needed to find people with whom I would feel emotionally comfortable. Walls painted the wrong color and untasty food did not count.

Regarding point 1, these thoughts flashed by instantly because they were quite obvious, especially point b). So why waste a lot of time on the obvious?!

Reasoning for point 2 didn't take long either, as there was no alternative: there was only one woman of "expert age" in the room—the teacher of this group, who either hadn't noticed my arrival or was busy. I couldn't approach her myself for various reasons: it was physically impossible for me to cross an unfamiliar room filled with unfamiliar children, and I couldn't be the first to address an adult with a request for help. But I knew that sooner or later she would notice me, approach me herself, and everything would be sorted out. I just had to wait a little.

This meant I could occupy myself with point 3. The initial shock had passed, a real hope for the success of this otherwise hopeless venture emerged, and I began to scan the children—the ones I would now have to meet every day, play with, interact with, and either please or displease (naturally, I wanted to please them). I urgently, desperately needed a person who would encourage me, give me hope that things weren't so bad, offer a shoulder to lean on, and stand by my side. Of course, these weren't thoughts formulated exactly like this, but rather subconscious desires.

Meanwhile, as I scanned the children, I suddenly noticed a girl who wasn't playing with dolls with the others, wasn't drawing, and wasn't sitting near the teacher. Carrying her plump little body with great dignity, she was slowly strolling around the room, walking in circles. These circles were narrowing and drawing closer to me. I hadn't even had a good look at her face yet, but I already knew for certain that I had piqued her interest, that she would be the first to come over and introduce herself (which suited me perfectly), and that she would become my friend—meaning we would interact for a long time, trusting each other and helping each other in everything.

Externally, I liked her too: chubby, a redhead, lips ready to smile, kind blue eyes, and a sea-green dress (Irka's mom was later surprised that I remembered that dress).

Finally, she walked up to me and simply asked, "What's your name? Will you be my friend?"

"Yes!" I said. And that short "Yes" marked the beginning of a long friendship that endured many obstacles and twists of fate. (For instance, Irka later married a guy who was madly in love with me but decided out of spite to marry my friend, and she agreed. Irka still doesn't know that I am not angry with her; I didn't love him and wished them happiness because I loved her, though they divorced later anyway, and I feel a bit guilty about it).

But back then, I instantly felt at peace. I was no longer alone; I had a person by my side, and we liked each other. Irka gave me exactly what I desperately needed in that new place: warmth and information. Information about everything and everyone: that the teacher's name was Berta Borisovna, that she was kind and never scolded anyone; that during naptime we would sleep on folding cots, and we would eat at the same tables we were currently drawing on; that the twins Olya and Lena were actually very different—one was kind and the other was nasty; that Irka liked Sashka, but Vovka, who wanted to be friends with Irka, didn't appeal to her at all; that Olegizhek told funny stories; that we would go for a walk before lunch and there was a swing in the yard; and that in the kitchen there was Aunt Nadya, who liked Irka very much, and if you peeked through the door, Aunt Nadya would always give Irka a sweet carrot...

Once again, I thought that this memory stayed with me for a reason. Rarely in life has my intuition failed me when it comes to the sincerity of a person's attitude toward me. That is how warm, reliable, and sincere people appear and remain in my life, while others, who are not mine, either have no opportunity to communicate with me or fall away from me like useless husk. Someone is watching over me.

The Secret Ability to Fly

As a child, I was convinced I could fly. Not flitting around like butterflies, nor hopping from branch to branch like sparrows, nor soaring in the sky like eagles. The laws of gravity, conservation of energy, and displacement were introduced to me by my scientist relatives very early on—and naturally, in a playful manner, so as not to discourage a child's thirst for knowledge.

These were also not flights in my dreams. This was my sacred, deeply personal knowledge that I shared with no one; it seemed to me that if I told anyone, I would lose the ability. To do it, I had to squeeze my eyes tightly shut, clench my teeth as hard as possible, make fists, and mentally look upward.

And then, my feet would lift off the ground, my body would become weightless, and it could hover in the air—not high, about a meter off the ground—and move horizontally to the surface. The world around me would begin to play with all the colors of the rainbow, shimmering and changing, and I would be overcome by an incredible sense of happiness, quiet joy, harmony, and belonging to something greater. The main thing was that no one should be around, no one should interfere or rudely tear me out of this state of flight. It wasn't the body that was flying; it was the soul—free of restrictions and blocks, without the adult knowledge that humans cannot fly.

When I started school, this ability began to leave me, and I managed to fly less and less frequently. Later, I forgot altogether that I used to know how to fly. Today, I can still fly. I only need to close my eyes and listen to music that resonates with the music of my heart. And think of nothing—just feel.

My Grandfather: A Haven of Gentle Wisdom

The most beloved person in my childhood was my grandfather. Now I understand why. Mom and Dad worked, so we effectively only saw each other on weekends, while during the week I lived with my grandparents. My grandmother was always busy in the kitchen, doing laundry, cleaning, or "sourcing" things in shops, but Grandpa belonged entirely to me.

He never pressured me or forced me to do anything, yet by some miracle, I always ended up doing what he needed. He never raised his voice at me (whereas Grandma often snapped into high tones). He respected my opinion tremendously, and if I was fundamentally wrong, he would change my mind very gently, using only facts that I could comprehend. He told me stories about many things, including serious topics, but always in a playful way. For instance, I have known the law of conservation of energy and Archimedes' principle since the age of four, but in the form of children's rhymes and funny pictures.

Aside from concrete knowledge, we talked a lot about human relationships. When he walked me to kindergarten or picked me up, I could share all my joys and sorrows with him, getting practical advice on how to build relationships—or learning, for example, that in a certain situation the only option is to "give them a punch in the nose," as nothing else would work.

And he never lied to me. Two weeks before his death, he told me that he would soon be gone. He said it calmly, without panic, with the confidence that he had lived a wonderful life, and promised that he would always protect me from the blows of fate. I believed him, and I barely cried when he passed away. It is a pity he left this life so early. If he had stayed with me longer, I certainly wouldn't have made the massive heap of mistakes I had to go through, and there would surely have been fewer "rakes" for me to step on in life.

Mental Gymnastics and the Escape to Kindergarten

In my childhood, my parents developed me in every possible way. Mental and physical gymnastics were always present in our communication, though looking back, it feels like I didn't always need it. Sometimes I just wanted to play quietly alone, read a book, think my own thoughts, or perhaps hang out with friends. I realize now that when I grew tired of this constant supervision, I gladly escaped to kindergarten. There were activities there too, but they came easily to me—maybe because everyone participated together, so I wasn't the only one suffering, or maybe the tasks themselves were simply easier.

One of my least favorite forms of mental gymnastics was a book called Logical Problems. I couldn't stand it; much of it made no sense to me, and I had no desire to understand it. But my parents considered it their sacred duty to develop my mind, so they forced me to sit down and solve those problems. I think the key word here was "forced" rather than an "inability to solve them," because at a slightly older age, I picked up that book on my own and cracked all the problems like nuts.

Motivation Through Praise and Proper Learning

Praise has always been my ultimate motivation to optimize any activity. It is impossible to motivate me with a "double dare."

For example, there I am, puffing away with my tongue sticking out from concentration, sculpting a bear cub out of plasticine. To me, it looks crooked and disproportionate.

The teacher comes over, adjusts it slightly, and says that it's turning out to be a very cute little animal, and suddenly everything falls into place (in my eyes).

But when I see the fruits of the other children's labor, I begin to feel that I am no artist after all. And when my father comes to pick me up and says, "Oh, you made a pretty good dog," I lose heart completely and wither away.

Only my grandfather could bring me back to life by showing me simple techniques for creating the image of a bear:

"You take six balls. You attach the head (smaller) to the body (larger), roll out the four paws a little and attach them to the body too, and then add tiny ears, eyes, and a nose to the head."

It would turn out quite decent, but most importantly, a positive experience and a real skill were gained.

Dealing with Rejection: Music and Art

There was another episode—when I was six years old, I was taken to an audition at a music school, and the teacher flatly declared that I had no ear for music whatsoever and there was absolutely no point in torturing the child. I was crushed and deeply hurt. I only calmed down after my father and I had a talk about how one doesn't need to be a professional in a field to be an excellent connoisseur and appreciator of it. Today, I love music dearly—the kind of music that is close to my heart and soul, while anything else just sounds like dissonance.

By the way, I cannot draw either, but my father did everything he could to instill an artistic taste in me. He took me to the best museums in Moscow and Leningrad, collected reproductions from Ogonek magazine, and told me about various movements in painting and architecture. I wouldn't say I am an expert in this now, but I can probably recognize the main art movements and the works of famous artists.

A Dignified Quest for Knowledge

I have been inquisitive since childhood. My dad taught me not to be ashamed of asking questions if something was unclear to me. I wasn't a relentless "whys-and-wherefores" child; my questions were asked strictly, with dignity, and very persistently if something remained unresolved. If a person was unappealing (having mean eyes or a raspy, loud voice), I preferred to get information from other sources—books, my father, or friends.

I preferred the source of information to be an expert in their field—I wouldn't go to a literature teacher with Ohm's law. When I encounter encyclopedically educated people in my life, I truly admire them. Well, nowadays, the best source of information is the Internet.

The Art of Zoning Out

I have an innate ability to abstract myself from whatever is unnecessary, uninteresting, tedious, or redundant. I can sit in a lesson looking thoroughly engaged, but not actually listen to the teacher's dull listing of the natural resources of Western Siberia—after all, it's all marked on the map anyway. Or if a classmate is talking about how they collect stamps, I will nod my head, ask to see a few things, throw in a couple of questions—because I can't just walk away immediately, even though it is boring to the point of teeth-grinding. The information evaporates from my head instantly.

This isn't always convenient when answering a teacher or in conversation, but in some miraculous way, key phrases from an uninteresting conversation still manage to stick in my mind, allowing me to emerge unscathed. Such things kept happening after school, at university, and they still happen now. For example, during a tedious lecture at university, I might be entirely lost in my own thoughts. Suddenly, someone coughs or a windowpane rattles—I focus for a brief moment, catch a specific piece of information, and then that exact topic shows up on my test or exam.

The Gift (and Curse) of Hopeless Optimism

Since childhood, I have often found myself hearing what I want to hear in people's words, rather than what they actually mean. Only now, with the passage of time, do I realize what a gift it is to interpret something neutral as positive rather than negative. To me, the glass filled to the midway point is always half full, not half empty. It is a kind of unhealthy optimism that sometimes backfires.

For instance, someone tells me, "You're a good person!" but what I hear is, "I love you!"—provided, of course, it's coming from someone I want to hear it from. But in reality, to them, I am just a good person. And if that person, caught up in the emotion of a specific moment, actually says, "I love you!"—I will believe it unconditionally, only to wonder later why they are avoiding me.

The Need for Reassurance and Absolute Truth

Because I am not very good at discerning people's true attitudes toward me, I tend to ask directly what a person actually feels. I need to hear it as confirmation that I am "soft and fluffy," good, needed, and loved.

Furthermore, I absolutely need to know the truth. Naturally, this applies to my inner circle. We had a game in my childhood—my mother and I would press our foreheads together and ask each other, "Do you love me? And do you love me?" By the third question, she would usually start laughing, but I took it very seriously. I didn't just need to know and hear it; I needed to believe in the sincerity of those intentions.

The attitude of my wider social circle worries me much less. Subconsciously, I know that since I behave properly, politely, and perhaps even a bit coldly in public, no one is going to dislike me just because my "cap is put on wrong." And if such a person does appear, their opinion won't bother me much—after all, the majority of people treat me perfectly fine.

Conflict Avoidance and Family Tensions

During my childhood and school years, I never found myself in extreme negative social situations; I never experienced being boycotted by classmates, nor did I ever participate in such things myself. In general, I did and still do everything possible to avoid conflicts.

This is much easier to manage in a professional or social group than within a family. I always felt deeply distressed when my parents or grandparents argued. And if they scolded me, especially with a sarcastic twist like, "Well, of course, she’s the smartest one here..."—a depressed state and an awful mood were guaranteed.

As I grew older, in high school, I learned to cope with such situations either by retreating to close friends (of whom I didn’t have many then and don’t have many now—just a few people) or by going for walks alone. During those walks, negative emotions were defused by fantasies of comfortable situations or by reasoning through how everything could be fixed (though these were mere daydreams, as the actual participants in the conflict had their own opinions on the matter).

Once, my mother didn't speak to me for almost three months. I don't remember the cause of the conflict, but I vividly remember the sense of deep resentment because she couldn't find a way to listen to me, understand me, and put an end to that nightmare. I have forgiven her, but I know for a fact that my own children will never have to go through that.

Loyalty to the "Band" vs. General Altruism

I don't have many friends. I cannot be friends with a crowd, only with specific individuals. For a friend, I am ready to do a lot, sometimes even things that defy my own logic, common sense, and behavioral habits. I even went to discos with one friend—even though I absolutely detested crowds and loud music, which is still true today—solely, of course, to protect her from excessive advances from the male attendees.

I could stand up in defense of classmates who were unfairly accused of something by teachers, but I could never speak up or ask for myself. But again, this only applied to my inner circle, our "band." When it comes to the needs of outsiders, my attitude is fairly superficial.

I believe that help should be concrete, targeted, and practical:

First Impressions: The Power of Energy and Appearance

In my childhood, I used to "judge people by their clothes," and it wasn't just their appearance that mattered, but also their voice, scent, and behavior. A calm, welcoming kindness was always preferred; I couldn't stand baby talk or over-familiarity, and I still dislike them today, though I have become more tolerant of different personality traits.

I had a beautiful kindergarten teacher—she had a proud posture, regular features, heavy, honey-colored hair styled in a loose bun, and most importantly, eyes that beamed with kindness and love for children. I loved sitting next to her, breathing in her scent. It was wonderful—simultaneously fresh, with a hint of autumn leaves or spring grass (not depending on the season, but apparently on her mood), and homely, warm, and delicious, like my grandmother's kitchen when she baked buns. Maybe it was a certain perfume...

At school, I really liked several teachers—they were physically beautiful, each in a different way, but there was something that united them: a sense of self-dignity and that same light pouring from their eyes, a love for children.

Later, at university, I got into an unpleasant situation. A lecturer who was physically unattractive, malicious, and had a raspy voice delivered the lectures for one of my subjects. I only passed his exam on the fourth attempt—evidently, my attitude toward him was too obvious and could be read right on my face. Until I shifted my attitude toward him into a positive spectrum, nothing worked.

Aesthetics and Comfort in Clothing

My attitude toward clothing has always been straightforward: it must be beautiful (even better if it is unique or exclusive, though not in an extravagant color or style), comfortable (convenient), and appropriate for the occasion—precisely in that order. Only then is it right for me.

I was five years old, and a long-awaited trip to the circus was planned. My mother put a white sweater and a red pinafore dress on me. I really liked how I looked in this outfit and secretly checked myself out in every mirror along the way, but something was overshadowing my joy. I only realized what that "something" was when we were already at the circus—the sweater was "scratchy." My mood was ruined, and my impressions of the circus were no longer as bright and colorful. I couldn't bring myself to tell my mother that the sweater didn't suit me because I didn't want to upset her (she had stood in line for that outfit in Moscow for three hours), so I wore it until I outgrew it. Similar instances happened repeatedly until I got the opportunity to buy my own clothes.

Household Chaos vs. Structured Order

When it comes to domestic chores, it would be much better if someone else handled them for me. I have never liked washing floors, dishes, windows, ironing, and so on. Perhaps this is because my grandmother was the one who taught me, and she did it all quickly, loudly, scattered, and in a disorganized way (in my view). She could start dusting in one room, leave it unfinished, move to another room to wash the floor, drop that, and start washing the kitchen windows.

True, as a result, everything was done, sparkling, and squeaky clean, but I absolutely disliked the process of chaos and Brownian motion itself. I preferred doing other errands for her—going to the shop, taking out the trash, or beating the carpets. I would walk, think, and look around; the chaos remained at home, and with any luck, it would be over by the time I returned.

Nowadays, when I clean my own house, everything happens according to an order I have established myself—it might be a bit slower, but it is of better quality (again, in my opinion). As for the rest, like a squeaking door, a dripping tap, or paying bills, I treat them as an inevitable evil and try to remove these obstacles from my path in a timely manner, knowing that if I don't do it, nobody will.

The "Seven Elephants" Rule

Order in my home has always been a constant. I call it the "seven elephants" rule, meaning everything is lined up by rank. Dolls are seated in a row by height, bears stand behind them, also by height, toy dishes are packed neatly into boxes, and doll clothes are too. Pictures on the walls are hung symmetrically. It is the same way today: the furniture is simple, without any frills or flourishes, small plates are stacked inside large ones, cups stand in a designated order, the carpet is at a specific angle to the sofa, and slippers are arranged by size, with their toes pointing strictly "north."

If my emotional state is comfortable, a disruption of order doesn't bother me; if I feel miserable inside, any deviation can trigger a storm of negative emotions. In childhood, if my mood was bad, I didn't even want to take out my toys and play with them—their organized state had a positive effect on my nerves, which is why I came to prefer books early on. I didn't like anyone else playing with my toys, touching them, moving them from place to place, or changing the dolls' clothes. It is just like today when someone washes my dishes (thanks to them!), but puts them away in the wrong places—it can really start to irritate me.

The School Athlete and the Love of Walking

At school, I did a lot of sports—all kinds of things, practically everything that "came my way": basketball, skiing, table tennis, swimming, speed skating, badminton, track and field, and shooting. Because of this, PE teachers and headteachers valued me highly—I was the kind of all-rounder they could send to any competition (and not just in those specific sports). It never even crossed their minds that I might be feeling unwell or that I might have other things to do. I never refused, sometimes showing up at competitions by pushing through pain and illness.

However, having apparently had my fill of this, I dropped all sports in my adult years and now only exercise from time to time. The only thing I can't deny myself is swimming—I simply love it very much. And I also love walking—neither too fast nor too slow—as it beautifully harmonizes my thought process.

Finding Harmony in Nature and the City

My parents often took me "out into nature." Their motivation was that a child needs to breathe fresh air, but I suspect they enjoyed it themselves. I didn't mind either.

I could wander aimlessly through the woods for hours, listening (to the silence and the sounds of the forest), sniffing the air, looking out for something interesting (whimsical moss, a peculiar root, colored bark, a carpet of leaves), touching the trees, running my hands through the foliage or grass, lying down under a bush, or walking barefoot along a path. It gave me a sense of belonging to something vast, unfamiliar, warm, and breathing.

In the city, I always walked to school using the exact same route, habitually cutting corners to optimize the path. To this day, I still cannot fully understand what is truly more "me"—following a straight, well-trodden path or wandering around in search of new sensations.

Source: How to Raise a Child Without Complexes by O. Mikhevnina