On New Year’s Eve, we often notice the passage of time and reflect on the important events of our lives. We asked three writers to remember those who did something good for them. And we tried to understand what it means for us to feel gratitude.
We all know that we “should” be grateful. And why? When this is said by the very person who is counting on our gratitude, it is easy to assume that he wants us to notice and appreciate his efforts, to express gratitude for his participation. But what is it for us? Unexpressed gratitude seems to torment us as much as a hidden resentment…
Elena Kholmogorova, Vadim Muratkhanov and Elena Komarova readily responded to our request to write a letter to a person who had done something good for them. And they quickly sent the finished text to the editors, as if their words of gratitude were just waiting for an opportunity to be expressed. What is the secret of this feeling?
“When we are helpless — small and weak, as in childhood, or in a difficult situation — and we are helped, without assessing whether we are worth this help, without demanding anything in return, this is what we respond with gratitude to, the client-centered psychotherapist reflects. Marina Khazanova. — This is how our soul responds to the acceptance and support that we have met. Other names for this feeling are love and happiness. When we experience gratitude, we touch our true selves. After all, it is known that rage, hatred, greed are all varieties of psychological defense, socialized to a greater or lesser extent. We have a right to them, they reduce sensitivity, and this can help when we are in pain. They make life easier for us, but they also distort it. They are not us, not what we really are. And in those moments when we are free from defenses (as in a moment of gratitude), we experience the happiness of meeting with ourselves, we are warm and joyful.
It turns out that unspoken gratitude is a missed chance to feel like yourself, to feel your soul as it is, without anesthesia. And saying “thank you” aloud, we openly admit our weakness and vulnerability and at the same time testify: people and the world accepted us like that, and were kind to us, and brought their gifts into our lives — disinterestedly and generously, at the very hour when we especially needed it.
Elena Kholmogorova
Prose writer, essayist. Author of nine books, including «Best Supporting Role» (Olympus, Astrel, 2010), «The Border of Rain» (AST, Astrel, 2011), «Frame for Silence» (Astrel, 2012).
“Dear aunt Panya, my unforgettable nanny!
I am glad to talk to you, and it does not matter that you have not been in this world for the second ten years, because with God everyone is alive! You yourself told me so when, clinging tightly to my hand, as if danger was creeping up from behind, you secretly walked with me to church. Thank you — for the first prayer in my life, copied by you on a piece of paper in a cage, I don’t know from where, with all the costs of your “incomplete primary” education — two classes of a parochial school, as it was called by inertia in the first post-revolutionary years. It was called «Living Help», and only much later did I recognize the 90th psalm «Living in the help of the Most High.»
Now I often hear how they are trying to choose a more cultured nanny for the child, so that she speaks without vernacular and, of course, without any accent. As if the illiterate Arina Rodionovna, originally from the village of Lampovo, spoiled the language of her pupil! Tyopochka, as not only me, but the whole family and friends called you, I don’t remember how many letters you didn’t pronounce, but your words have not yet found synonyms in the standard language. Coming with bags from the store, you sat on a chair and always said: “Wait, let me waste away,” and this is not the same as “catching my breath” or “resting”. When I didn’t want to pack up and go somewhere, get off the couch at all, you cursed: “Well, what are you doing!” With my thirty-five years of editorial experience and eight books written, I do not know what to replace these words with.
I, a Moscow girl, knew your entire family tree, all your neighbors in the village of Yushino, Bryansk region. And one fine summer you agreed to go there with me. It was like a trip to Mars: thatched huts, kerosene lamps, porridge from the oven, moonshine. And peasant labor, the lessons that rolls really do not grow on trees.
All your life you worked, and you had only one award in a frame on the wall: in gold on white «Gratitude for active work in the parent committee.» God did not give you children, so you washed the windows without fail in the spring and decorated my class for the holidays. And she cried with emotion, putting a corner of a handkerchief to her eyes, when I, your «pet», was awarded a commendable letter for excellent studies and exemplary behavior. And next to it is a photo: fake-fake, as they knew how to shoot in the atelier: me with a white bow, in a school uniform, an October badge on my chest, and you in your «kobedneshnye» colorful jacket — the most elegant (in childhood, I thought that the best clothes were worn earlier for dinner, not at all linking the name with the church service).
Until now, I eat what you gave me. How much richer my life has become. After all, none of my relatives, hereditary intellectuals, could not teach your lessons.
… I often think how proud you would be, rejoiced at my successes, and it does not matter that you would not read my books.
Read also about it: Dossier «Be grateful»
Vadim Muratkhanov
Poet, critic. One of the founders of the association «Tashkent Poetry School». Responsible secretary of the magazines «New Youth» and «Interpoetry». Author of six books of poetry and a book of poetry and prose «Approaching Home» (Iskander, 2011).
“Hello, Natalya Evgenievna!
I want to thank you for the fact that on my first meeting with Moscow, you did not let me get lost in it. Hearing my unfamiliar voice on the phone, you immediately responded to a request for help and at that moment you yourself became Moscow for me.
On an old October day in 1999, I stood in the middle of the city completely alone and did not know what to do. I was going to visit Uncle Gene, a friend of my father. I had never seen him before, and when I called him, he complained that he was ill. But I interpreted this not as a refusal (in our family it was not customary to doubt friends and their constant readiness to help), but as a guide to action — I bought a jar of honey and a stick of sausage and went to Novye Cheryomushki. He rang the doorbell for a long time, until a tenant who looked out from a neighboring apartment said that Gena had left for the dacha in the morning and it was not known when he would return.
Trying to find some acquaintances, I wandered around the city all day. But some of them hung around themselves and could not share my worries, while others did not answer the phone. The bag with clothes and books pulled harder and harder. The streams of traffic, shimmering in the rain, could be crossed with equal success in one direction or another, but there was no desire to move anywhere. The illuminated interior of the buses beckoned with an illusion: you dive into any one, close your eyes — and you open it already sitting in an armchair under a pink floor lamp … By an effort of will, I forced myself to return to reality, rummaged through my notebook, then in my wallet and, having found the last token, scored in the street machine your number. We barely knew each other. At Tashkent University, you taught in a parallel course, and your friend taught us. I said hello from her. You didn’t remember me, as I feared. And yet the next minute they were dictating the address to me.
I spent several days with you, enjoying the warmth and safety. Wet shoes slowly dried in the hallway. Worrying thoughts came to order. I was finally out of the reach of the rain and the police (my registration was asked so many times that in the end it began to seem to me that they were looking for me). You and your husband had only just moved to Moscow then, leaving early (you for a temporary job, he for her search) and returning late, fearlessly leaving the house to me, an almost stranger. Soon you had to move to another apartment, I — to arrange my own life. Neither you nor I have ever used the Internet. And we lost touch.
Years later, I am not writing to you in the hope that you will read this letter. I think it’s more important to me. The stability of life is deceptive: it is based on household items, on blurry ink lines in a tattered notebook. True strength and animated constancy are possible only in living people. But people are also fluid, they tend to get lost in space and change over time. And our memory is a loose substance. The imprint of an event is too dependent on the material receiving the imprint and the direction of the wind that is destroying the rock. And now, while I was writing this letter, I began to doubt whether your name was Natalya? Or maybe Hope?
We are accustomed to relying on the ageless Latin proverb: God preserves everything. But what if, in fact, there is no one but us to do this work?
I remember the pink light of the floor lamp, the warmth and smell of vanilla cookies. And a sense of security, like in a children’s game of catch-up, when you are in the «house» and no one can touch you … God forbid that I immediately respond when they call me.
Elena Komarova
Prose writer, essayist. Author of the story “Lessons of playing the button accordion” (“Znamya”, 2011, No. 4). The story «The Blue Teapot» will be published in Znamya magazine in 2013.
“Dad, I want to thank you.
When you were dying in the country, I wanted to tell you that you were the best, and then I was embarrassed that this was something ready-made and suddenly I would say it false, and you had already turned away. First time in life. To die, sometimes you have to look away. You’ve never turned away before, you’ve always been with me.
I don’t remember us being in a hurry or being late. So easy, quietly walked through the snow to the kindergarten. Walked in the evening before going to bed at the rink. We just played badminton before dinner… Of course, you spoiled me. I came home from school, and on my table there was a plate of washed grapes. You came home from work cold-ruddy and always got something out of your briefcase for my brother and me — oranges, apples, also cold.
Every person entering our apartment told me: “Well, the spitting image of dad!” And I didn’t want daddy’s chubby cheeks at all.
When I rolled on a cardboard from an icy mountain, I got to the hospital, dad stood under the window for a long time in a snow-covered hat with a pie — they were not allowed inside because of quarantine.
Recently, I looked at photographs again: a wedding, I am a bride, a groom, we are standing with crowns on our heads. Dad is behind next to mom, in a new suit. And suddenly I saw that dad had sad eyes — we are parting, I will leave soon. And then, at the wedding, he was cheerful, made speeches one after another.
Dad has been gone for two years. I’m completely without daddy’s cheeks. But I have a middle son. And he has cheeks. Like my dad. And also, when he bathes and comes out of the bathroom, there is such heat and steam — exactly like my dad just came out of there.
Thank you for what it was and is now. Continues.»
See also: Thank you to say