I would rather say: Hello Drue and Diane, Hello Mike, Hello Everyone
I used to be a conversation-kind-of-man. Writing is always a harsh experince to me. A bit like whispering into a dark void. It is easier to imagine you in front of me. And talk. As we used for years.
This is pretty much a temporary solution until I chance to figure out how to do this as regular bi-lingual stuff. On other hand be patient pls. Late Adam Miłobędzki — my master at the University — used to say that in this country temporary happens to be most permanent. Well, will try to do my best…
A word about blog’s name. ‘Tropinka [тропинка]’ in Belorussian means a tinny footpath. A merely trace of direction, at the edge of legibility. Marked with a trodden grass, a wolf’s footprint filled with water, or a couple of craneberries smashed by impatient foot.
There is very famous Martin Heidegger’s book Die Holzwege (published in English as Off the Beaten Track). A „Holzwege” is a woodland foot-path. I am neither a philosopher, nor a writer. Everyone finds path he/she deserved. So I found mine somewhere amidst of endless swamps and bogs of Belorussia (The White Ruthenia). Woodland, by its very nature, seems to be mythological, pagan. While walking the bogs one is presented rather with monotheistic essence. Endless, overhelming vault of sky. Meauser of things, and distances, distorted by dwarf pines and birches. I guess it builds a framework roughly close to sea of sands sourrounding Desert Fathers. At least, it is what I have found.
Some lifes follows straight, well-paved roads. Some even HiTech Autobahnen. Mine is a walk in a way indirect and confusing. Its meaning is sometimes obscure (at least to me). I am asking myself again, and again about the message embeded with people I met, places I have passed, books I read. An abundance of good has been passed to me on the way. It is my obligation to bear witness of it, to share it with you. Otherwise I risk to find myself being in a position of that “wicked, lazy servant” (Mt. 25, 14–30)
* A word about Late Charles Ward.
He was one of that rare breed of Englishmen, never high in number, being the salt of the earth. Like those we know from their books: Patrick Leigh Fermor, Philip Marsden, or William Dalrymple, just to mention three of them. Clever, with a deep insight, honest and warm with people, with great sense of humor. Vivid and moving. And never, ever showing any kind of superiority. Despite of global position of English, always open to local tongues: both dialect-, and sociolect-wise.
When I think of him, I think about long, late hours we spent debating on Poland, on Central Europe, about the World, history, literature, about life.
There is, in a way, a problem with depiction of his personality, so far it was rich, and manifold. This resembles me of some crusader, I believe somewhere in XII C., who after entering Africa suffered similar problem. He was short of appropriate terms to describe a new phenomenon: a parrot. So, he went like this: it is a curious, and wonderful bird, and in no way resembles our ravens.
Exactly, Charles himself: a curious and wonderful bird, in no way resembling those Englishman we know from Cracow’s market square.
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