A light gray haze had descended upon the earth during the night.
It would stay for the rest of the day. It was as though a picture of life created in the summer by Ghirlandaio or Veronese had been quickly painted over by an impressionist in the darkness. Everything, the trees, the grass, the footpaths, the Dnipro bays, and the living beings seemed to have lost part of their substance, becoming half-transparent and ephemeral. There could be no tomorrow.
But this phantom of the fall did appear in the heat of summer, reminding us that there is nothing permanent under the sun: plans of summer travels, the illusion of merging with Mother Nature, the blissful freedom to go naked, keeping one’s windows open wide all night long, taking early leisurely morning strolls, walking on white sand, entering spots of knot grass, climbing up and down those inimitable banks of the Dnipro, enjoying the local Riviera sights, bringing home a bouquet of wild flowers, smelling clusters of wormwood drying on the wall, taking in the aroma of frying eggplant. Indeed, time is running so you must never miss a single enjoyable moment.
Being on the left bank of the great Ukrainian river on such a day, one can sense rather than feel the mighty breath of the boundless steppe, a sensation born of the subconscious, an echo of distant ancestral memories. The great steppe had almost reached the great city, then stopped, yet it remains something dangerously strange and but still wild. Despite the industrial ravages, high-voltage lines monstrous urban residential districts, there are still spots found on the left bank from which one can look on vistas vanishing on the horizon, delicately emphasized by the leaves of grass. If you lie down on the grass and put your ear to the ground and listen carefully, you will hear distant hoof beats and whistling winds. Who are they? Friend or foe? Where are they coming from, north or east?
There are small ancient villages coexisting with modern urban developments that remind one of the proverbial tower of Babel, having very old names which disappear as these villages are torn down. Their names are not even used for new streets. In such cities one can still find blossoming pumpkin, mallow, and chrysanthemum plantings with haughty greenish-blue heads of cabbage claiming their privileged status; it smells of earth and dry leaves. Immediately beyond the kitchen gardens are fields with a small river, former Dnipro estuary, still struggling to survive. It is all so very quiet! Only some little birds sing in the reeds. Below giant pear trees, you notice huge logs once used as benches by the village youth, polished shiny by countless squirming backsides during countless dates well into the night under the clear bright moon. Hanging across the fragile garden fences are pumpkins [a very special thing in the Ukrainian countryside; a girl wishing to say no to a prospective fiance would have the matchmakers issued with a pumpkin, a very bad thing, for the young fellow would become the village’s laughingstock] interwoven with sky-blue wildflowers. The road-cum-street is overgrown with the sporysh crabgrass boldly striving to survive under dire circumstances. Everything is in blossom and yielding fruit. The quiet resounds. No people are in evidence. One finds oneself musing why not include such scenic rural landscapes in an urban development plan? After making all the proper adjustments, of course, like modern utilities and amenities. Why not leave something tangible to remind people of the villages inhabited by their forefathers? After all, where do all of us burghers scorning the rustic folk come from? The same place, the countryside, even if some did sooner or later and now remember the times with gratitude or try to erase the experience from their memories.
Real beauty, breathtaking beauty, nature, and human thoughts, have all remained a mystery haunting inquisitive minds.. This subject was broached by John Paul II’s message to the international forum, Meeting for the Sake of Friendship among People, in Rimini, Italy. The Vicar of Christ feels sure that contemplating things of beauty is not only of aesthetic value, because it leads modern man on the road to the Truth, to the Lord as the source of everything remarkable. Many believe now that the reality, the prose of life are estranged from the beauty of nature, art, and man, which can amaze us with their unambiguous splendor. However, will anyone dare deny the fact that, for example, marveling the setting sun in the mountains or the vastness of the sea, or human face begets in us a special awareness of the depth of reality? The same is true of the spiritual beauty manifest in acts of justice, in an apologetic gesture, in a sacrifice performed with joy and noble grace (and in human talent, for that matter). At such moments the feelings and mind are united, as beauty addresses man and seems to whisper: You shall not be unhappy, the desires of your heart shall be fulfilled; moreover, they have actually been fulfilled. Precisely at this moment.. The Holy Bible reads that through greatness and beauty you can by analogy come gradually closer to the Creator.
