It’s funny, but following a request I made some time ago, a state of amazing and magical happiness returned to my life. Everything feels somehow magical and beautiful for no particular reason; there are some miracles around, and most importantly, my heart feels happiness, and my face wears an unchanging smile. The joy of life flows into me and out of me in powerful streams. This was only once in my life—after my first trip to America in May 2004, after which I lived as though in two worlds—an utterly extraordinary Moscow, which had gained some new, unfathomable quality, depth, and charm, and, at the same time, already in America. This was one of the features of my existence, against the backdrop of which I was simply constantly blissfully happy. I won’t hide it—there were also difficult moments, even tears and pain, after all, I am human. But overall, the general backdrop was happiness. Everything was wonderful. Perfect? No, not perfect. Wonderful. Total acceptance of life and enjoyment of it.
And now, here I am again, at home. Here, in Los Angeles, I am alone. There is no one waiting for me across the ocean, no one waiting for my arrival in their world, no one waiting for my heart to unite with theirs. There’s no move to another country with a million opportunities. Here it is, the country around me. A beautiful city, so similar to Moscow, with lovely leaves gently swaying outside my window, warm night air that I grab with my fingers as I drive down the streets of Beverly Hills… I am alone, but I am not alone. For the first time in my life, my life has acquired a quality that was previously unknown to it: to be not alone, but to be with myself. To find myself, to realize myself, to enjoy myself as a moment of life, as a celebration of existence, as the only measure of the existence of my world, as the cornerstone of being, as the light beam in my own kingdom, as the air I breathe. In this world, everything is perfect, and I have nothing to add. But at the same time, it has an amazing feature: this perfection is developable. Expandable, as I would say in English. It is capable of becoming an even more perfect perfection.
Maybe this concept of perfection that can evolve initially seems nonsensical, but for those who have been in my state, it’s easy to understand. Perfection is not in idealization, not in the ideal. Perfection is in the real, human, living, alive. And everything that is alive, as we know, develops. This development is beautiful. Acceptance of the living. The development of the accepted, enjoyment of every moment of internal and external contemplation. This is such a simple love, which is not learned, but grown into… sooner or later.
What could be more beautiful?
I am immensely grateful to this life for the fact that, still alive in this life, I finally understood, felt, and realized what love is… Love for this life, for this process, for this existence, for this being. I no longer ask for anything else. I already have everything I need, even more than a person could wish for.
But still, I suppose, I have not yet grown, not yet matured, and I am still learning, because I know that deep down, I still dream of one more thing: to finally experience this beautiful love together. Perhaps, I will be able to say that I fully understood what Love is when this dream is no longer there, when it is no longer relevant, when I learn to love this life even without that very dream, simply to be, without dreaming of any other manifestations of love. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, I never want to part with this dream…