Hiking in the alps

Right here and right now stop self pity, let go all of your pains. Here in the Alps you are newly born. 

Embrace the grandness of Earth. Cherish the beauty of nature. Give your love to all the cows and goats, to all the flowers, stones, rocks and hills. Listen to the Alpine horn somewhere far away. Let the wind play with your hair. Wash your face in a small waterfall. Spread your arms and feel the energy running through your veins. Breath in the 2000 meters high altitude thin air. In the night watch the stars – the myriad of your brothers and sisters. Always there for you, just give your hand. 

Swim in the ice cold mountain lake, dive in. Everything is different under the water. Can you hear the silence of the Earth?

Reverse back to an embryo. No past, no wounds, no heartbreaks. No one ever made you suffer. No one ever was mean to you. Nothing ever was disappointing. 

Emerge. See how sun rays playfully shimmer on the glossy surface of the lake. The goosebumps on your skin. Melt on the sun.

Nothing brings you back to yourself than being in a pure, undisturbed and archaic surrounding like Alps. Feel gratitude for being alive, for being here, for having a chance to be stunned by the eternity. By mighty Earth. By mother Nature. God.

Laugh.
Cry.
Once and for all.

Smile.

Right here and right now you are the perfect creature. Empowered and strong. Young and beautiful. Fierce and fearless. Free and healthy.

You are gorgeous.

Right here and right now.

Ode to my Land

The more I embrace the West, the deeper I miss my roots. I miss my childhood in the suburbs of my hometown and the long summer holidays spent at my grandmother’s house. 

Those were the days when my grandfather was alive. I still hear the mesmerizing whisper of the walnut trees in his garden. I still smell the baked potatoes we clumsily made on the coals. There is still a taste of a fresh milk and hot Uzbek bread in my mouth, that little special bread for children that my grandmother baked in the clay oven. 

I hear all these voices that called us to the table for a dinner of fried tomatoes and dry bread. I hear all these voices of my vanished childhood. Those twenty years ago, when summers were mild, aryks were filled with water and I was a child bitten by mosquitoes. I was a youngster who smashed the watermelon all over my shirt; I was a child full of curiosity and lust for new experiences. 

Those were the days when even my great grandmother was alive. She could no longer walk without assistance. Every time I ate an apricot or a peach, she would tell me to plant their stone in the ground. She made me believe that beautiful fruit trees would spring forth from this tiny seed. And the trees did grow: trees of life and passion that sprang up in me. My great grandmother taught me to nurture the soil and the soul. 

When I think of who I am, the golden reeds stretching forth on the salty Karakalpak land instantly come to my mind. I still remember them quivering in the wind and blinding my eyes. I reminisce about the trees, steady and unmoving, spreading their strong branches into the wild, trees deeply rooted into the soil. There is a terrifying magnificence to this scene which symbolizes the nation that gave birth to people who are called nowadays – Uzbeks. Under this overwhelming sky, Amazon women rode their horses and defended their land from the other tribes. They were my predecessors – button-down, cool and fierce people. 



There, under the stunning rays of the sun, you can hear the whistling sound of the wind; you can feel the majesty of Earth running through your veins. The lines on my 80 year old grandmother‘s face are not wrinkles, but the evidence of a long and fulfilled life. I see a resemblance; I feel we have the same DNA. She kisses my cheeks twice and then kisses my hand. And I know I am from here. And I am THAT tree standing alone in the middle of the desert with branches that even the wind can‘t break. 

No matter what language I will speak, no matter where I will wake up, no matter how big my bank account will be, no matter what clothing I will wear, I will always remember who I am. It is written on my face – the shape of my eyes, the color of my skin, my nose and my lips. And there is not any force that is going to erase it. The desert wind is my lullaby. It is the ode to my heritage; it is the poem of my progenitors written on the surface of the desert sand. And I carry the lyrics in my genes. And deep in my heart, I sing the ancient song that gives me power and energy to live my life to the fullest.

sanity

The world has gone perverse, the big organizations are all the same bullshit, the crowd coming to the ‘let‘s get married‘ show is more insane than that who is watching it, it is all absurd. I wonder that most of people are pretending not to see it, or just too scatterbrained to feel the weight of the world. Only your beloved ones and closest friends remain the same, remain the sane. I love the evenings we can just talk, not being pretentious and arrogant, not trying to show the world how strong and successful we are. In the end, us is the most precious thing we have. And I want to keep it.