To my Grandma - На баба ми

Normally, I don't put personal things on my blog. Today I'll break the rule, because in Sofia, at 6.45  pm local time passed away my Grandma Borka. She was an extraordinary woman, who lived with courage through all the turbulence of XX century and met XXI with wide open eyes. Her life was like a saga: sometimes sad, sometimes incredible, but I never heard a word of regret from her mouth. She always faced the challenges with high spirits. It is not the moment to write the story of her life. When someone closes the door, what remains is what was done. My grandma did only good things. She helped my early widowed mother to raise me and my sister, and taught us to be strong, to have dreams and to fight for them. She showed us how to keep the head high in the adversity and how to be tender with the family. She was the pillar that supported the house when it was ready to collapse. My grandmother never complained and never accepted the surrender. A woman who remained without a mother just being five, had her sister dying in her arms when eleven, lived during three political regimes and two wars, passed through luxury and unexpected poverty, and always survived. Someone, who was taking my clothes including my black leather jacket being already 75 and ferociously believed that a visit to a hairdresser cures the depression.

I still remember her ladies tea-afternoons (actually she served mostly coffee), when I was expected to sit still for hours and was allowed to eat just one piece of cake. My grandma outlived all her friends. She was the last of a generation that belongs to other times. This world is gone. But deeply in my heart, remains and will always remain her legacy, which I'll try to pass to my daughter: "Don't be afraid to live! Never bend, never accept the defeat and always believe that tomorrow will bring you something better!" Thank you for this lesson, Grandma! May God bring peace to your soul!

 

Обикновено не слагам лични неща на моя блог. Днес ще наруша правилата, защото в София, в 6.45 местно време, почина моята баба Борка. Моята Грени. Тя беше изключителна жена, която премина с достойнство през трусовете на ХХ век и посрещна XXI с широко отворени очи. Нейният живот беше като исторически роман – понякога тъжен, понякога невероятен, но аз никога не чух дори и дума на съжаление от устата й. Винаги посрещаше предизвикателствата с висок дух. Сега не е момента да пиша история на живота й. Когато някой затвори вратата след себе си, това което остава са неговите дела. Моята баба вършеше само добри неща. Тя помогна на рано овдовялата ни майка да отгледа мен и сестра ми,  научи ни да бъдем силни, да имаме мечти и да се борим за тях. Показа ни как да държим главата си високо срещу трудностите и как да бъдем нежни със семейството си. Беше стълбът, на който се опираше дома, когато имаше опасност да се срути. Баба ми никога не се оплакваше и никога не приемаше примирението. Беше останала на пет години без майка, голямата й сестра бе починала в ръцете й, когато само е била на 11 години, беше минала през три политически режима, две войни, през богатство и бедност, и беше успяла да оцелее. Бабата, която ми вземаше дрехите, включително черното ми кожено яке, когато беше вече на 75 години и вярваше, че ходенето на фризьор лекува депресията.

Все още си спомням следобедния й чай с приятелки, всъщност следобедно кафе, когато трябваше да седя мирна с часове и имах право да изям само едно парче кекс. Моята баба надживя всичките. Тя бе последната от едно поколение, което принадлежи на други времена. На един изгубен свят. Но някъде дълбоко в сърцето ми, остава и ще остане нейния завет, който ще се опитам да предам на моята дъщеря – “Не се страхувай да живееш ! Никога не се огъвай, не приемай поражението и винаги вярвай, че утрешният ден ще донесе нещо по-добро !”

Благодаря за урока, бабче! Нека Бог приеме в мир душата ти !

 

Un patio y una tumba vacía.

Ávila

Esto es una historia corta sobre un patio y una tumba vacía. En un sitio de Castilla, donde todo el mundo piensa que estuvo sólo Santa Teresa de Jesús. No fue así, no exactamente. En Ávila hay varios conventos y monasterios. Algunos de verdad son impresionantes. Para mí, la revelación fue el monasterio dominicano de "Santo Tomás". En los tiempos de Santa Teresa, que entonces era sólo Sor Teresa, que venía allí a confesarse, aquel monasterio era la casa de cientos de monjes, un centro de enseñanza y sede de los Reyes Católicos.

 

Entramos antes de anochecer. El sol baja por los muros y cambia sus formas y colores. El tiempo parece haber parado. Nos dirigimos adentro, siguiendo las señales y después de varias estancias entramos en el Patio del silencio. Parece un patio normal en un monasterio románico en invierno. Frio, no demasiado cuidado, un poco oscuro. No decimos ni una palabra. La voz indiferente del audio-guía nos explica que los monjes paseaban por el patio en silencio absoluto por sus hermanos, enterrados dentro. De repente me doy cuenta, que no estoy andando en un patio, sino en un gigante cementerio. No hay ninguna señal de todos aquellos seres humanos, cuyos cuerpos reposan debajo del jardín. Anonimato a lo extremo. En la hora del último término entre el día y la noche la sensación de lo efímero que es todo en la vida, resulta aplastante.

 

Intentando huir de la mudez de nuestra insignificancia, pasamos a la iglesia. Ya es de noche y las lámparas del claustro iluminan la magníficamente adornada tumba de un joven. Es la del Infante Don Juan, el único hijo varón de los Reyes Católicos. Murió con 19 años, sin descendencia y sus padres le enterraron en el monasterio de "Santo Tomás" en Ávila. Tenían tanta esperanza puesta en él para seguir con su obra. No pudo ser. Hoy en día la tumba está vacía. El cuerpo despareció durante una de las numerosas guerras. Los soldados usaron la iglesia como hospital y caballerizas. Es un milagro que la obra impresionante del escultor italiano Doménico di Alessandro Fancelli haya sobrevivido hasta nuestros tiempos.

 

 

 Como una lección excéntrica del destino, en un mismo espacio reducido se han quedado para la eternidad cientos de restos sin nombre, ni tumba particular, y una tumba vacía sin cuerpo. ¿Qué exactamente ha querido decirnos el Señor? Se lo dejo para reflexionar...

 

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbv99vFK9Yk

 

 

 

English version

This is a short story of a Spanish “patio” and an empty grave. It starts and ends at the same place - somewhere in Castilla, where everybody thinks that only Saint Teresa de Jesus lived. It was not exactly that way: there are few more monasteries and convents in Avila. Some of them are quite impressive. To me, the monastery Saint Tomas was a revelation. At the times of Saint Teresa, just Sister Teresa who used to confess there, the monastery was housing hundreds of monks, a cultural center and even the King Fernando and Queen Isabel during their sojourn in the region.

We enter the complex at the end of the day, when the sun is crawling down the walls changing forms and colors. As if the time has stopped. Inside, after having visited various chambers, we reach the “Silence court”.  It looks quite a regular place for a late medieval “romanico” monastery in the winter: cold, not overdone, a bit dark. The visitors stay mute. The indifferent voice of the audio–guide reveals the reason for its name:  the monks were walking around in absolute silence in memory of their brothers buried down under the lawn. Suddenly, I realize that I am walking around not in a court, but in a giant cemetery.  There is no sign of all those men, whose bodies sleep under the grass. They remain in their religious anonymity for the eternity. At that moment, in the boundary between the day and night, the sensation of how life could be ephemeral, is devastating.

In attempt to escape the dumbness of our insignificance we pass to the church. It is night already and the lights illuminate the magnificently ornamented memorial of a young man. The Prince (“infante” in Spanish) Don Juan was the only son of King Fernando and Queen Isabel, the Catholic. He died at the age of 19 with no issues and his parents decided to bury him in the monastery Saint Tomas of Avila. With his death the Royal couple lost the last hope to have a male successor. Today the tomb is empty. The body disappeared during one of the numerous wars and in various occasions the church has been used as a hospital. It is a real miracle that the impressive marble masterpiece of the Italian artist Doménico di Alessandro Fancelli has survived till today.

As an eccentric lesson of the destiny, the space of the monastery is shared between hundreds of bodies with no tomb or name and an empty memorial without a body inside.  Wondering what was the message, the Lord wished to send us with this comparison, I am leaving the reflection to you…

January 6 - three in one

El calendario cristiano tiene unas particularidades muy interesantes. No voy a entrar en la historia de la reforma Gregoriana, de la separación entre la iglesia Católica y la Orthodoxa, ni nada de eso.

La fecha del 6 de enero es muy significativa en el calendario cristiano para todas sus ramas:

 

Para las iglesias orientales que no aceptan el Calendario Gregoriano, entre ellas la Rusa y la Serbia, el día de 6 de enero es la Navidad. La Iglesia Copta también la celebra en estas fechas.
 

Para los búlgaros es el día de la Epifanía, St. Jordan i.e el día del bautizmo de Cristo en el rio Jordan.

En este día un sacerdote tira la cruz  en el agua (lago, río, mar) y un grupo de hombres compite por encontrarla. El que recoge la cruz recibe una bendición especial y un regalo. Considerando las temperaturas en Bulgaria en ésta época del año (a veces hasta 10 bajo 0), nadar en esas aguas no es una simple competición.

Pero la hombrada más impresionante viene de una pequeña localidad montañosa en el centro del país - Kalofer. Cada año, el 6 de enero, todos los hombres de la ciudad (muy pequeña, por cierto, pero con una historia que remonta a 1533) entran en las heladas aguas del río que la atraviesa. Cantan himnos del siglo XIX y bailan una danza tradicional búlgara.... Este año el participante más joven tenía 6 años....Las fotos no explican bien el ambiente, por eso he dejado el link del video:

http://video.bgnes.com/view/38676

Para los españoles y algunos países de América Latina  también es la Epifanía, o el día de los Reyes Magos, cuando los niños reciben regalos...

Ayer fuimos con mis hijos a ver la Cabalgata de los Reyes en Madrid. En el medio de la histeria colectiva, los niños disfrutaron de las carozas y de la companía de otros niños, igual de ilusionados como ellos.

 

 

Lo más curioso surgió anoche, cuando durante una cena en el Palace, un grupo de ingleses no entendía cómo todo el pueblo español se puede ir a la calle a mirar una proceción con personajes ficticios, tirando caramelos al aire.  The three wise men ?!?! Y además que no se sabe de dónde vienen exactamente. Últimamente parece que de España... El comentario de uno de mis amigos alrededor de la mesa fue aún más impactante: "¡Eso es cuando se tiene un Papa tan culto ! Uno de los más cultos..."

 ¡Qué interesante sería haber nacido en un día tan señalado !