An old wisdom (Maybe Buddhist? I don’t know. I forget so much.) says that the key to happiness is not wanting anything.

I get it, on some levels. Always craving for more, never being satisfied – you cannot be happy that way. Wishing for something can end in disappointment, either when you get what you want and it is not what you thought it would be or the joy of fulfilment wears out too soon, either when your wish never comes true. I’m not sure it really matters if what we wish for are material things or not. The mechanism is the same: we wish, we get, we forget. Or we wish, we don’t get, we get sad. Or we wish, we get and we regret. Or… there is always a chance we get and it is it. At least, I want to believe there is, that chance.

However, I still don’t know how not to wish. And I am quite experienced at trying, if I may say so myself. I’m learning over and over again not to expect. I know expectations lead to disappointments. I know, I understand that most of the wishes come from influences of our society. We are a society of consumption on so many levels. Consumption of food, of goods, lifestyle, relationships… we are (sometimes very subtly, sometimes not subtly at all) taught to always want more. Realizing this is the first step to learn how to control those “cravings”. I do not need much. When I want something, I know that even if I don’t get it, it is ok.

But… there is a different kind of want. Wish. Need. Is it not? The kind that, even if I cannot categorize it, is quite distinct. The kind that you burrow deep, cover it, hide it, deny it, try to ignore it… and still it is beating deep in your heart. Retreating, but never going away. Fading, never vanishing.

I know. I’ve tried. I’m still trying. But the more I try, the more it feels like I’m denying not only my wish, but myself. My core. My soul.

Maybe it is not that simple with wishes. Maybe some are not simply wishes, but parts of us. I just wish… I wish I’d know how to tell my heart not to wish. I wish I would spare myself the hurt.

Well, maybe pain is the price for wish and not wanting anything is the way to happiness. But why does it then feel like I’m only depriving myself of being what I am, the longing being part of that?

Alenka H., 2021

My parents taught me to respect my mother tongue. My studies taught me that language we speak, and mother tongue especially, influence the way we see the world, the way we think, act. My attempts in translating my own poems taught me, once again, how precious the ability to express yourself is.

There are many differences between English and my mother tongue. For me, the most difficult things when learning English were irregular verbs (I mean… really? Really?!?), spelling (Again, really? Logic much?), and in some cases the proper use of tenses. I would never say I speak it excellent, but I think I’m ok at it. After all, all those years must pay off, right?

It is not the first time that I noticed the major differences between those two languages, my mother tongue and English, but now I see them from another perspective. I’m not a translator. My degree is neither my mother tongue’s nor English literature. I’m just someone who wants to translate her own poetry. And one of the things I miss the most in English?

The beauty of “two”. Of “us” that is not 3, or 5, or 10, no. When I say “us”, it can be so many people. When I use our word for it, it’s clear that we are alone, no-one but you and me. And it’s so beautiful that you know it, that there is only one word that tells you we are a pair. (Grammatically, it’s duel, the addition to singular and plural.) Even more, you can tell it just from the form of the verb I use. I don’t even have to write “us”, because “we” are already a part of verb. And it shows.

The beauty of two… You and me. Midva.

I’m sure every language has many many treasures. No, actually, every language is a treasure. The duel is one of the gems of my language. They say learning foreign languages makes you rich. It certainly does. But we should never forget the treasures of mother tongues.

Alenka H., 2021

Strange message came in one morning. As it turned out, it was strange because it was from unknown person. Usually, such things result in “block user”, but not this time. This time, it developed into conversation over a few days. As this stranger said, there are no accidents. It was meant to be. I’m thankful. He, among other things, gave me inspiration to write about scars.

I have many scars, yes. I might not be more beautiful because of them. (I might not be beautiful without them either, so it doesn’t really make a difference.) But they are a part of me. An important part.

Some scars remind us we are still alive. The scars that are left when we survived, when we could not, if… but we did. We might be left with a sign on our skin, our body, yes, yet we could no longer be at all. So we are scarred.

Some scars remind us that we can all make mistakes, or be a bit clumsy. But we have them because we work, we are active, we do something… we live, not just exist.

Some scars bear memories of adventures. Of things that we tell our friends even long after they are gone, things that have place in our heart after many days and years.

All scars are part of us. As are things that caused them. They didn’t just change our body. They made us who we are now. They are marks of our path, our experience. Signs of our strengths.

It is really sad that our culture teaches us that scars are ugly. We hide them, cover them, when we should be proud of them. No to brag about them. Not to feel something special. But to appreciate, respect what they represent. The story behind them. Our own (hi)story.

The same as wrinkles the scars tell us how rich our life has been so far. They show the depths of our living.

And at the same time… they tell us most of scars are not visible. They are hidden, covered. They teach us never to judge someone, because you never know the scars they carry – as others don’t know yours.

Alenka H., 2021

The candles were burning and I watched them, watched little flames transforming hard wax into liquid. And it brought me into another time, some years ago, could be last year, could be a lifetime ago. It was this time of year, when here we slowly prepare for holidays, for family gatherings, celebrations… But for me that year was something else. The beginning of years when it was never as it was before.

That year, my mother took me to our family doctor, and he sent me to psychiatrist, who diagnosed me with depression. Two years after my daughter was born. Two years that should be filled with joy but were, instead, filled with pain.

It wasn’t that memory that hurt. What hurt was remembering what happened after. My doctor recommended anti-depressants to help me get back on my feet, and then go on with support group. Looking back it was a good call. I wasn’t in state to do anything on my own. It was too long, I was too damaged. Too hurt. Too tired. I wasn’t able to look for help. I wasn’t able to accept help.

People are different, and so are things that help us. Some need talk. Some need rest. Some need activity. Some need individual therapy. Some need groups. It’s important to recognize that, to accept and respect that.

However, some need medical help to stand up and take another step. There is no shame in that. For me, it’s the same as any other medicine. If it helps, if it’s thoughtful, if it’s supervised… then why not?

But that’s not what I want to write about.

The thing with antidepressants is that it’s not like pain medicine you take in wait for effect and that’s it. You start taking small dosages and then wait until your body recognises it. It takes time. And, what is very important, in the beginning, it can make you feel worse.

For someone with suicidal thoughts worse is… dangerous.

So my doctor warned my family. I remember him saying “Look after her. Call me. Help her.” And then… Then my then-husband took our daughter and left, gone to his parents, and hour and half away.

I’ve dealt with it. I don’t resent it. I know my part in our relationship. I’ve accepted the good and the bad, how it was and how it ended. He will forever be my daughter’s father. But that’s all.

Yet… I felt pain. Pain remembering that December. A pain triggered by the relationship I am in now, yes.

It’s not that we don’t forgive. Or get over. Or however you want to call it. Some feelings still stay. Some wounds leave scars even when healed. We don’t bleed, but the skin is never the same. And sometimes it hurts.

And it’s ok. It’s ok to feel. We don’t want to. I for sure don’t want to. But it’s ok to. Feeling is being alive. Only dead things don’t feel.

Alenka H., 2021

I’ve made many mistakes. Bad choices. Wrong moves. I’m paying for them. I’m not deflecting the guild. I’m not looking for excuses. I’m not blaming anyone else. I know it was me.

Life is always complicated, our paths partly guided by things we cannot control in partly by our own choices and decisions.

Sometimes we can see the next step, sometimes not. Sometimes the path suddenly takes a turn. Sometimes it’s so foggy we can only guess where it leads us. Sometimes it’s crystal clear and it’s all laid out and obvious.

Could I change it all? No. Some things were not my choice. I accept them. Live them.

But even the things I’ve caused… All mistakes always resulted in some bad and some good. Some pain and some joy. Nothing is ever just black or white. So even when I could, I’m not sure I’d change it.

Yet… There are moments I allow myself to be sorry. To feel remorse. To wonder if the price is fair.

And every time I promise myself to be more careful next time.

Is it good or bad I don’t stick to that decision? Because even when I say it to myself, even in that moment, I know I won’t be. I’ll give it all again. I’ll ask for all. I’ll go and take the step. I’ll make stupid moves. And I’ll get miracles and hurts of it.

If I’m strong enough, I’ll at least get poems out of it all.

Alenka H., 2021

We are, who we decide to be.

We act the way we decide to act.

We decide how we treat others.

We decide if we are loving, supportive, caring.

We decide if we give or take.

It is our decision.

Many things are out of our hands. Many, many things. Who, what and how we are is not – at least, not completely.

It is our decision to change. Be better version of ourselves. Be what we want to be.

It is easy? No. Is it simple? No. Does making a decision mean it is done? Oh, no. But is it a start.

The trick? Our decision means it’s our responsibility. Our accountability. And we just don’t like that, do we? It’s so much easier to say we are done and sculptured and molded the way we are, and so so much easier to blame others, the world, universe, fate, for the way we are.

But it’s just an excuse. Just an attempt to think it is not us who hurt, leave, forget… – us who decide.

Alenka H., 2021