Finally I watched “Bella”.

Vivid colors, seems like a slow pace story, but how truly resembles the reality of time passing, decision making, consequences revealing. Cool shots and nice music wrap ups.

The message is so innocently positive, although the story has many hidden tragedies, that it is hard not to think about celebrating life given as a gift to live it fully once again.

Vary few movies can express such passions without relating to some extreme scenes, in order to lure the public. Very few can depict family’s history as this in one scene, portraying it with hope and charismatic love.

It’s not an action, adventure movie. It does not have a plot which will keep you on the edge of your seat. But it has something that I needed. Hope in goodness, charity, love. It brings healing.

in the shadows of gray

Reminiscing is not easy. Sipping my cup of tea, I’m trying to distinguish between the reality that was awaiting me and the far surpassed life given me as a gift I don’t deserve.

I came to this world as a rather fearful, somewhat disoriented, internally intrigued and at the same time outwardly sound-minded heart. My first memory is saturated with the color of gray walls in the building where I spent the first years of my earthly pilgrimage. The beam of lights cutting through this deserted place are also present in my memories, invigorating the sadness and overwhelming heaviness.

My mom and I lived in an old building surrounded by 3 sides with similar giant, obscure, upraised old German apartments. These ancient dominating buildings were always there and everywhere. My apartment was on the third floor. From the balcony, I could see another gray giant, with it’s windows starring at me.

Some windows were inhabited by people recognizable to this small gray community. One window had a man with a loud puzon (trombone). The man would practice daily at different times of the day. I don’t even know if he belonged to some orchestra or was it just his hobby. His window seemed loudly disturbing. The lace curtains decorating it would fly open quite often, revealing pieces of old-fashion furniture. But there was not enough light in our yard to distinguish the interiors of his living place.

There was another interesting window across. This one was always occupied by someone from the family. Mostly by the mother and one of the daughters. It was incredibly amazing how they could be so well informed about the whereabouts of most of the occupants just from observing and watching. They were mobilized if a new person would pass by, they would be vigilant at evening times, they would listen attentively to the echoes of the voices bouncing in between the buildings, trying to decipher the meaning of the words, to feed their hunger for gossips. I was thinking often, when do they have time to cook, to clean and to do other “normal” things of life. They were probably bored. They were waiting with anticipation for something great or even less then great to happen. Something that would change the monotonous existence within the scratched walls.

Every time I stood in front of these buildings I was diminished and conquered by their firm and depressive presence. They reminded me of the times we lived in. These old tenement houses supported the idea of the ruling system, proclaiming loudly the common share, common property, common life as a massive blurb of otherwise not important individuals, working for the better tomorrow in the land of common satisfaction. The patches with falling paint, pieces of bricks and whatever else might stick to them in the last 100 years, were slowly giving in under the pressure of time.

The yard was ugly. Squeezed in between monster buildings, there was black dirt, beater (for cleaning the carpets) and the doors leading to the outside world of streets, cars, shops and people. Nothing else.

Looking from my balcony, to my left, there was a piece called the “Jewish yard”, to my front and right was “our yard”, and behind my building was the “Gypsy yard”. The last one had a story and a social right to be named in such a way. Gypsy families were living nearby, their numerous children would play in there, making constant noise by loud laughter, songs and frequent fights in a language not understood by the rest of us.

This is the back view of my building from the “Gypsy yard”. On the left would be the “Jewish yard”, to the right and in front – “our yard”.

But every space called yard around my building, was the same. It brought the same feelings, the same disappointing “luck of hope and the future” message banging over our heads, falling straight from the sky, sinking deeply into our very conscious and alert minds. No escape was the refrain of this chant soaking daily into our existence, trying to penetrate to the very bone of leftover faith in humankind’s goodness.

The only thing you could do in that place called yard was to imagine. Therefore creativity blossomed exponentially. There is a limit to the number of times you can play hide and seek or jumping ropes. Beyond these familiar games there was a wide open world of unrestricted imagination. And the kids were freely exploring this childhood universe without boundaries and borders. But today is late and I need to go to sleep…

These 3 picture are not of the place where I actually lived, but were taken in Poland and depict accurately the feeling of the times.


nie zapomnę niewinności

co zaklęta jest w skale poznania

choć nie da się jej odtworzyć

bez pogardy odsunę kamień zamieszania

utkwię mój wzrok w bezczasie wieczności

z filigranowej teraźniejszości się otrząsnę

wyleczę się z turbulentnego narzekania na monotonię codzienności

przeniosę punkt ciężkości z niejasnej rozpaczy na stałość kochania Twojego

tak się pomodlę dzisiaj

i niech takjuż zostanie

a gdyby coś zostalo

jakiś ochłap nadziei w mroku

to daj mi znak


Posted on April 2nd, 21.37

Exactly 3 years ago John Paul 2 died. My whole country froze for a while. People went out on the streets to pray and cry together. This is the “JP2 generation”. This is the generation that has seen political independence for the first time after WWII, and John Paul was one of the main reasons they did.

In 1979 he visited Poland for the first time. Still communistic oppression.


This is how the stores looked.

This is how the lines looked to buy anything. (I remember during my vacation time I had to stand in a line twice a week at 5 am till they opened the store, at about 10 am, just in case something was delivered).


An then we had a Polish pope who came to visit. The governmental, regime TV(we only had 2 channels, showing only about 8 h of programs on each) was showing the main parts of His pilgrimage, but the directions for the Media crew filming the meetings was strict: do not show the masses of people, only the close ups. The militia was everywhere.


John Paul landed in Warsaw and this afternoon He preached about the Holy Spirit on the Victory Square in Warsaw. 1 mln people showed up.


There he spoke words that changed the world in consequence.

I wołam ja, syn polskiej ziemi, a zarazem ja – Jan Paweł II, papież, wołam z całej głębi tego tysiąclecia, wołam w przeddzień Święta Zesłania, wołam wraz z wami wszystkimi:
Niech zstąpi Duch Twój!
Niech zstąpi Duch Twój!
I odnowi oblicze ziemi.
Tej Ziemi!”

(Jan Paweł II, Warszawa, 2 czerwca 1979 r.)


And I, the son of Polish land, and at the same time I – John Paul II, the pope, I am crying out from the depths of this millennium, I am crying at the dawn of Pentecost, I am crying with all of you:

May Your Spirit come!

May Your Spirit Come!

And change the outlook of land,

This land!

If you would ask people who were present there or those who watched TV what happened there, a lot of them would respond that that was the day their hope for freedom returned.

I watched Pope’s visit then on TV. I remember that when He landed on Polish soil I knelt down (in front of TV, 13 years old) and prayed. Something happened then. It was like an awakening moment. I did not know how to describe that then. Even today I am not sure. Sense of worth, courage, hope, patriotism, a new beginning.

One year later “Solidarity” movement in Poland started. This was the beginning of the end for Communism as we knew it.

There is so much more I can share about this man…

His last words were: Let me go to the House of the Father. When He died, people were crying and clapping hands, missing Him and giving thanks to God for His life.

In Polish language “saint” and “holy” are one and the same word “swiety” (sh’vyeen-tee). So God is “swiety” and the saints are “swiety”.During His memorial service, before it even began, people were carrying signs with the words: SUBITO SANTO, which is: SAINT NOW. Swiety juz teraz.


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uniesienia są chwilą ecstasy is a moment
która karze nasz czas pozostały scourging our remaining time

marniejemy we wither
i tylko jedno and only one thing
przywraca nam nadzieję brings consolation

oczekiwanie na spotkanie awaiting for the encounter
z Panem czasu with the Lord of time

katastrofą nie są huragany hurricanes are not catastrophic
lecz zimne otępiałe serca but cold stuporous hearts
nie rozpoznające już not recognizing any longer
porywów Ducha whirlwinds of the Spirit