9 лет в Британии (En)

This she performed, when loving friends had brought her

from the west

Their message o’er the sea. Those who in arts were skilled

the best

Se bade seek out, and chiefly those for work in stone

most famed

To raise upon that place a house, God’s temple to be

named.

(Cynewulf, ‘Elene’)

A lovely friend of mine told me earlier in the morning that the Anglican Church is celebrating St Helen’s Day today, and I found it symbolic and heart-warming: it turns out, my patron saint is recognised and celebrated by the sister church on the exact day I arrived to this country.

It’s been 9 years today. Every year I write a post about the day of my arrival which I still remember in the tiniest details (it’s even more weird and wonderful, because nowadays I sometimes cannot recollect what exactly I did a week or two ago: I hope it’s just ordinary forgetfulness and not a sign of something sinister like, say, “a reduction of mental capacity”), and I have a feeling that each year it’s getting brighter and more vivid than before.

To make the cliché “memory is an odd beast” alive and sparkling again is difficult, because no matter how hard you try to share your experience (especially if you do it concentrating on the main things and not on the mere idea of how it would look to others) with your oeuvre, you will, most likely, fail: there’s always the danger of sounding either too mawkish and infantile (which you, most certainly, can’t stand) or too boring: after all, is it possible to be inspired through plain words if you are no Seamus Heaney or your beloved Swinburne? Yes and no. It’s silly and overall a no go to pretend that you can do it mimicking geniuses (you are too old and too educated for that) and remaining yourself simultaneously. And yes, it is, in fact, possible, if your intention is pure joy, which you want to last longer for egoistic purposes—but who said that egoistic purposes could be bad for others? And this can be your starting point.

Mainly it’s about feeling – accomplished? Determined? Certain? Them all altogether I guess. I also think that a precious opportunity to re-invent yourself in another language is indeed that precious: there are days when I think that my Russian self is much older than me-in-English and sometimes it’s vice versa, as if my relationship with time gets more tangible than before. Only yesterday I recollected a few of many phrasal ugly ducklings I produced within those years: they are also part of my linguistic wanderings.

Them wanderings, yes. I am walking towards my future (zukommen, in Heidegger’s terms) psychologically, verbally and non-verbally—and physically, exploring the land where I live more and more. It’s almost grotesquely gorgeous (forgive me that awkward oxymoron), which I still cannot fully get used to, and it’s a strange thing as well: basically, I am learning that certain things can stay impeccable nearly forever, literally illustrating Solovyov’s “only the sun of love is unmoved,” where love is Οὐρανία, a harmony.

I am very far from being harmonious myself: too many flaws, too little time to fix them. Yet my new—and not that new anymore—country is calming me down, is embracing me and is reassuring me that I can come to terms with myself and others, and do something to show my endless love for it, despite all the usual “immigrants always try way too hard not to look pathetic in their attempts.” You cannot change this opinion, and you shouldn’t: it’s not your job to convince everyone that you belong to the place you love. Just love: it will be enough.

The pain aux raisins in the photos look exactly like those L. bought me at Pret in King’s Cross when we were waiting for the train to Cambridge: Pret is still there, and the pastry is similarly lovely— my English madeleine, let me be your Proust once a year. St Helena, I can pray to you in English now, too.