I have lived in paradise.
And this paradise was right here - in Estonia, in the village of Kahkva behind Räpina, near Mikitamäe, on a small, lovely farm where my grandparents lived, with whom I spent all my childhood summers. A yellow house in the middle of the fields, a river in the distance, a forest in the distance and neighboring farms with friendly neighbors.
This paradise was the blue of the summer sky and the green of the grass and the forest, the yellow of the sun and the eggnog, the white of grandma's Sunday apron, the red of peonies and the black of a smoke sauna, the scent of hay and roses, the taste of cow's milk and strawberries, with crystal-clear well water and a clear starry sky, an Estonian home built with ceaseless work, from which endless love flowed. It still flows today, even though grandma and grandpa are long gone and the home is a home for a new family.
All comers, goers, passers-by, friends and strangers who had lost their way were always welcome, the gate was opened for everyone, a meat pan was put on the fire to treat the guests, and a kind heart was used to help with both strength and advice. No one in need had to leave without receiving help, everyone tried with all their heart to be supportive and to find solutions to other people's problems. The care that Grandma took for her animals, for the things around us, especially the flowers, would probably have made even stones bloom. In return, her flowers bloomed like crazy - the peonies could not be counted and the roses smelled all summer long. Especially the pink one, "Queen Elisabeth", which was the most magnificent and beautiful. Grandma herself was like an internet server - but she kept connecting: the flow of letters to the family was incessant, as if in some Marques novel. The highlight of the day was going to the manor to pick up the mail to receive messages from the wider world.
Work was done from dawn until late at night, larger jobs were always done in groups, and the one from the village who had helped you always came to help. There were few men in the village, just like now, but in the forties these men had scattered to the four winds and disappeared, today there is the plague and other diseases. That is why grandfather's strength, willingness to help and golden hands were especially valuable.
Looking back, it seems as if my whole life had been one big whirlwind, because my grandmother could even do her work with a song. The work was done so naturally, so thoughtfully, rationally, and effectively that it was simply beautiful to watch. With what majesty my grandfather could split trees - as if it had been some kind of ritual dance, justifying his existence between earth and sky; not a single unnecessary movement, his feet planted firmly on the ground at shoulder width, and his back, tanned to the brown of a smoked ham, glistening with sweat. Even today, it is comforting to think about such an attitude to work, seeing houses collapsing from sloppy construction, roads starting to crumble before they were finished, people dying due to society's indifference. It is encouraging to know that there is an alternative, that living and working differently is possible. Even in the deepest stagnation, being human was completely possible. I have this experience, this memory, and I want to believe it. I have to believe it in order to last.
We lived in the same place for over fifty years and the only rubbish was a pile of rubble - a few rusty buckets, sprat boxes and old tools. The bottles were taken back to the car shop in a backpack, the packaging was paper, we made our own rope from the bottom layer of lime tree bark, we used it to tie packages and tomatoes and whatever. A manger or a basket or a glass jar was always with us when needed and it would have been unheard of to produce tons of rubbish as an inevitable part of everyday life. Of course we used light made from oil shale, but that was not really what we were looking for.
When going to the market, bones were left in front of the house door - to give a clear sign to those who came - no one is home here, don't look for them in the fields or meadows. People didn't live at the expense of each other or nature, they didn't destroy each other because they competed with each other, they weren't afraid of each other, we didn't even quarrel with anyone, because grandma was so kind to everyone. She never judged anyone or anything. Her blessing hand kindly glided over everything and brought even the smallest of the smallest to life. As the harshest judgment about people who had a very limited outlook on life, grandma said very quietly - life is like staring out of a bulging hole.
All this was a reality only 25 years ago. Under the conditions of Soviet occupation, in a time of deep stagnation, a child had a paradise on this earth.....
They never used expressions like safe environment, 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 on his own in the arms of adults. In fresh air, in movement, in working and playing. I was left free to develop, clean water and healthy food, the feeling of security and unceasing care coming from the proximity of my parents. Endless love taken for granted. I was kept like a baby bird in down feathers and everything bad, everything ugly, everything violent remained somewhere far away, never reaching to crush the child.
A child does not need to know anything about the adult world until he can tolerate it, until he has become strong enough and fully grown so that evil adults do not harm his development. The saddest thing is to watch children at whose expense adults live out their complexes - they pour out their bad mood, stress, family quarrels, job loss on children. Children who have not yet learned to wear a collar have to cope with the role of lightning rods and solve problems, be participants in tasks that are beyond the power of adults themselves. This is mean, this is unacceptable, and I can't give advice. And when I look at my children, it seems to me that sometimes they raise me more than I manage to raise them.
In the light of the Midsummer lights, our Midsummer path meandered as we visited my grandfather's brothers through the forest, across the misty meadow, through the dew-soaked grass. What a moon, what crickets, what an intoxicatingly fragrant, enchantingly beautiful summer night. It was not spoiled by the music blaring from someone's car radio, broken bottles, piles of garbage dumped in the forest. After all, it is not the little green men who pollute our road ditches, but we ourselves do it, because we do not care about our fellow man, do not bother to consider others, do not respect nature, our fellow man's love of peace and quiet.
Only love is what gives a person
gives wings or the lack of them compels one to do evil.
The people around you make your life either paradise or hell, the external is always secondary.
It was a great blessing to grow up on this farm.
I bow down to you, the spirits of my ancestors, and placing my hand on my heart, I whisper in prayer - I want it all back, a simple, humane, safe life, right here, on Estonia, as the fruit of all of our cooperation, so that we can live in paradise again, not just in dreams, but also in reality.
Grandma Maria and Grandpa Artur's Golden Wedding Anniversary
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