Heritage Day

Today is my last day

 

I manage to crawl off the bed that ceased to be coupled almost a decade ago

then land in my still relatively tiny bathroom, though my own physique seems to be shrinking by the second now

I look up at my reflection and I realise the purpose of mirrors

There is a headline,

my face

wrinkled and grey beneath its letters seems to unfold like an over ripe flower without ever having been touched

it says;

Heritage Day

I shuffle along until I trip over the now almost dry white board marker and I begin the list:

One: I inherited the dark lines of deceit off my mother’s core

Two: I learned how to live with being a liar

Three: I came as a foreign being full of love

Four: I was denied love but I’m still leaving filled with only those four letters

Five: Life was beautiful though the darkness is always the beginning of a new story

Six: I inherited the art

Seven: I will never forget

 

I rinse myself off and decide that it would be better to leave full of hope

After all

3 months before they expected me I was ready

13 years before I was

they weren’t

my family

 

The wardrobe whispered the call of majesty

I obeyed my longing eyes

past the dioors and my goodbye suit

I found the two letter phrase barely in disguise and I remembered why

Heritage day:

One: I learned how to judge myself better than anyone had ever judged me

Two: It wasn’t always sunny

Three: How to fake the smile through heartache

Four: How to cause the same

Five: My clothes are cheap

Six: I am unworthychocolat_l

Seven: I knew this each time we made eye contact… after all; we are self proclaimed judges

 

So neat, tidy and fresh I walk towards the lonely seat and the non functional tv

and on the top right hand corner of the screen

A phrase in white paint screams out at me

Heritage Day:

One: My skin colour murdered my first love

Two: I inherited the skill of not caring much for those attributes

Three: My father Died of a broken heart

Four: You saved mine

Five: Our life was puzzled together by vibes and muted sentences

Six: In the end, my quirks were irrelevant and your were my indica

Seven: I fell eternally asleep with the very thoughts that days and nights before had always haunted me.

 

Palm on palm now

My eye lids find their space

No tears left in me

My heritage day is eternal

and I only grew to know that the moment I looked into you!

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Of Wood Nymphs and Samodivas

Nymph: (Greekνύμφη, nymphē).

In Greek mythology a Nymph is a minor female nature deity associated with a particular location or landform. Nymphs are generally seen as divine spirits who animate nature. Usually depicted as beautiful, young nubile maidens who love to dance and sing; their amorous freedom sets them apart from the restricted and chaste wives and daughters of the Greek polis. They are believed to dwell in mountains and groves, by springs and rivers, and also in trees.

 

According to many sources including one very interesting essay extracted from the Scientific Works of the University of Rousse – 2008, Volume 47, Series 5.3’; the myth of the Samodiva was born with the fall of the Bulgarian empire. According to this source the natives believe in the reality of once mythical maidens, but also seek a logical explanation to these legends. They believe that during slavery, groups of 3 women from every region in and around the Balkan areas fled into the forests and remained there.

In mid June when the young shepherds took their herds out, it was well known that young ladies would descend from the depths of the forest, to steal a man of their choice as their groom.

This groom however, was only kept until the end of August (According to Bulgarian folklore on August 29 of every year the sun would slice through the day and the night, making them equal).

Thereafter the young man was banished and sent back to his village partially because having to provide food for him as well was very difficult. Shortly after the groom returned to his village it is said that he would die from either a severe illness or depression. Hand in hand with the groom’s death goes the birth of his child (usually male). The child of a Samodiva apparently had extremely good genes especially concerning his/her physical attributes. The sons of these maidens grew with them until they were strong enough to be sent out as freedom fighters, the girls remained with their mothers in the forest and continued to preserve the bloodline.

Many of the great Bulgarian poets and writers (most of whom were freedom fighters) record various encounters with the Samodivas throughout their journeys. Their descriptions of these ‘deities’ are astonishingly similar to those of the Wood Nymph.

Keep in mind that I am not claiming the Wood Nymph and the Samodivas to be the same… I’m only pointing out that the theory of their existence is not completely farfetched.

As a Bulgarian, the myth of the Samodiva makes me extremely proud to be a woman. Five hundred years of hiding and breeding in secret, telling stories and remaining ‘wild’ and uneducated for the sake of preserving the blood line… No romance, just perseverance… it is no wonder that there is no written record of these times. During the Ottoman rule our alphabet was scarcely used… the poets and writers start springing up just before the fall of the Ottoman Empire and technically this makes us a relatively new country.

A new country with a deep history, a nation so closely linked to nature, so rich in mythology; a mythology that is being forgotten, when for centuries women and men sacrificed their lives daily just so that a Bulgarian would never wonder where he/she came from.

The point is that whether we are talking about Wood Nymphs or Samodivas, we should always try to go a little deeper and decide for ourselves whether mythology is really just a bunch of stories as many people perceive them to be.

‘I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge

That Myth is more potent than history

That dreams are more powerful than facts

That hope always triumphs over experience

That laughter is the only cure for grief

And I believe that love is stronger than death’ – R. Fulghum