Biography

I have lived in paradise.

And that paradise was right here — on Estonian soil, in the village of Kahkva behind Räpina, near Mikitamäe, on a small and lovely farm where my grandparents lived, with whom I spent all the summers of my childhood. A little yellow house in the middle of the fields, a river in the distance, a forest in the background, and friendly neighbors in the nearby farms.

This paradise was summer-sky blue and lawn- and forest-green, sunny and buttercup-yellow, grandma's Sunday-apron white, peony-red, and smoke-sauna black; smelling of hay and roses, tasting of cow's milk and strawberries, with crystal-clear well water and a bright starry sky—an Estonian home built with ceaseless work, radiating endless love. It still radiates it today, even though grandma and grandpa have long been in the soil and the home has become a home for a new family.

All who came, went, passed by, our own people, and even complete strangers who were lost were always welcome; for everyone, the yard gate was thrown open, a meat pan was put on the fire to treat the guests, and everyone was helped with both strength and advice with a kind heart. No one in need of help had to leave without receiving it; they tried to be a support with all their soul and sought solutions even for the worries of strangers. The care that grandma gave also to her animals, to the things around us, especially to her flowers, would have probably made even stones bloom. In return, her flowers bloomed madly—one couldn't even count the peony blossoms, and the roses smelled all summer long. Especially that pink one, "Queen Elisabeth", which was the proudest and most beautiful.

Work was done from early dawn until late at night, bigger jobs were still done through voluntary collective work (talgu), and help always came from the village — whoever you had helped yourself. There were few men in the village, exactly as it is now, but those men had been scattered to the four winds in the forties and rendered non-existent; today, there is the plague of vodka and other diseases. Therefore, grandpa's strength, helpfulness, and golden hands were especially valued.

Looking back, it seems like my whole life was one big celebration, because grandma knew how to work with a song. The work was done so naturally, so meaningfully, rationally, effectively, that it was simply beautiful to watch. With what majesty grandpa knew how to chop wood — as if it were some ritual dance justifying his existence between earth and sky; not one unnecessary movement, legs firmly on the ground shoulder-width apart, and back tanned to the color of smoked ham rind, glistening with sweat. Even today, it is comforting to think about such an attitude towards work, seeing houses collapsing due to shoddy construction, highways beginning to disintegrate before completion, people dying due to the indifference of society. It is encouraging to know that an alternative exists, that living and working differently is possible. Even in the deepest stagnation era, being a human was entirely possible. I have that experience, that memory, and I want to believe in it. I must believe, in order to endure.

Over fifty years were lived in the same place, and the trash consisted of only one ruined building site—some rusted buckets, sprat tins, and old tools. Bottles were taken back to the auto-shop in a backpack, packaging was paper; we made the binder twine ourselves from the bottom layer of the linden tree bark, with which we tied packages and tomatoes and whatever else. A canister or basket or glass jar was always with us when needed, and it would have been unheard of to produce tons of trash as an unavoidable part of everyday life. Of course, we used light made from oil shale, but we didn't really think about that at the time.

When going for berries, a broom was left in front of the house door—as a clear sign for visitors that there was no one home, do not look in the field or meadow. People did not live at the expense of each other or nature, did not destroy each other, did not compete with each other, they did not fear each other; we didn't even gossip about anyone, because grandma was so good to everyone. She never judged anyone or anything. Her blessing hand kindly slid over everything and awakened even the weakest among the weak to life. As the harshest assessment for people who had a very limited outlook on life, grandma said very quietly—all her life like looking out from a bunghole.

This was all reality only 25 years ago. In the conditions of Soviet occupation, deep in the stagnation era, a child had a paradise here on this plot of land.....

They never used expressions like a safe environment, a creative society, mental balance, pedagogical conjecture, methodological abstraction, communal ambivalence, but the conditions for a child to grow up were ideal. The child was not raised, the child grew up herself in the tail of adults. In fresh air, in movement, in playing at working. I was left with the freedom to develop, clean water and healthy food, a sense of security arising from the closeness of parents, and ceaseless care. Endless love, self-evidently. I was kept like a bird fledgling inside downy feathers, and all that was bad, all that was ugly, all that was violent remained somewhere far away, never reaching to crush the child.

A child does not need to know anything about the adult world before she can bear it, before she has become strong enough and grown up enough, so that evil adults do not damage her development. The saddest thing is to watch children on whose account adults act out their complexes—they pour their bad mood, stress, family quarrels, loss of job onto the children. Children who have not even learned to carry their heads yet have to cope with the role of lightning rods and solve problems, be involved in tasks that are too much even for the adults themselves. This is mean, this is inadmissible, and I don't really know how to give advice. And looking at my own children, it seems to me that sometimes they raise me more than I manage to raise them.

In the light of glow-worms, our Midsummer path wound its way when we visited grandpa's brothers through the forest, over the fog-shrouded meadow, through the dew-wet grass. What a moon, what crickets, what an intoxicatingly fragrant, enchantingly beautiful summer night. It was not ruined by music roaring from someone's car radio, broken bottles thrown about, piles of trash dumped into the forest. After all, little green men are not polluting our ditches, but we ourselves do it because we do not care about our fellow human beings, do not bother to consider others, do not respect nature, the peace and love of silence of fellow humans.

Only love is what gives a person wings or the lack thereof forces them to do evil.

The people around you turn your life into either a paradise or a hell, the external is always secondary.

It was great luck to grow up on this farm.

I bow before you to the ground, spirits of ancestors, and holding my hand to my heart, I whisper in prayer—I want it all back, simple, human, secure life, right here, on Estonian soil, as the fruit of all of our cooperation, so that one could live in paradise again, not only in dreams, but also in reality.