November 25, 2023
Outside the window, delicate glass chimes from a local Konstanz glass artist and small bells from India gently sing in the wind. Tibetan prayer flags flutter, sending blessings with each breath of air, their vibrant colors soothing my eyes.
Theo, my third child, a two-year-old toddler, is sweetly asleep on the bed. I sit at the big table, rereading my notes from a trip to Costa Rica in 2016…
And now it's 2023. Only in recent months have my heart, body, and soul begun to come alive again—after a second war, a second forced immigration, and all the overwhelming, shocking changes.
Since 2022, I felt frozen. A year and a half of deep inner work, of healing traumas and emotional states…
And what helped? Creativity.
It began with the social photo project Chervona Kalyna—stories told by Ukrainian refugee women. Interviews filled with tears. Portraits. A public and personal catharsis.
Then came Stories of Kindness—25 stories about compassion and human support.
The REMARK photo exhibition. Photography returned to my life. Cameras, teaching, workshops…
At the core of all of this? Love. Connection. Relationship. Presence.
And what about travel? That part hasn’t been so simple. Maybe the right moment is still ripening. You can’t rush the birth of a child—yes, it could come in the fifth month, but what would be born then?
I remember how hard it was to carry my children past the seventh month. The body so heavy, internal organs squeezed, the simple wish to lie on my stomach... And always that longing: “Let me give birth already!” But nine months are nine months.
That’s how it feels now with long journeys.
Last year, the Indian embassy denied me a visa as a Ukrainian citizen—in the midst of war. My long-awaited trip as a guide, a group waiting since COVID for Spiti and Zanskar—departed without me. I remained behind, living through the ache of an unrealized dream. At the same time, I knew I probably didn’t have the physical strength then, not even for the flight.
So I accepted: Not this time. Not yet. Maybe I need to go alone. Or with Theo.
Spontaneously, I sat at my laptop and applied for an Indian visa. This time, I received it. But Theo’s was denied. There was no way to go together.
Still, I didn’t despair. I searched. I tested options.
And then it happened—Prague. A breath of fresh air. The airport. I was like a wild animal, sniffing the scent of jungle-portals. Monks passed by. People moved—departing, arriving. I smiled at the departure boards, recognizing familiar cities. It all still exists.
I remembered my three days stuck at Helsinki Airport during the early COVID days. Empty halls. Me, alone, waiting for a flight that might happen. The surrealism of life!
In Prague, our landing took two attempts. The steward announced: “The captain decided on a second landing attempt—don’t worry, it’s standard practice.”
I wasn’t worried. But I knew—it’s not that standard. I've landed in Prague many times.
From the plane, I smiled at the city.
And there it was—freedom. I felt like a woman again. A full, living being. My God, Prague smelled like sex! People were smiling! Warmth flowed through my entire body.
A few days later—back to Konstanz.
At the train station, I suddenly cried. Why did I feel old here? Masculine, heavy. The cold. The energy. Something inside me shifted. More on that, later.
Then came another blow. A failed departure plan—loud and clear.
And I knew: choosing not to travel was my decision. A conscious act of love for this little wonder—Theo.
I returned the tickets to Nepal. Nepal and the India of November, Diwali glowing in my imagination, stayed behind the veil.
I felt stunned.
The bells of my travel dreams had gone silent.
There was nothing I could do. An avalanche.
A hard depression.
Total apathy. No desire to live.
Two weeks.
Then—rebirth. The simplest things. To do something. To feel. Touching trees. Leaves. Fabrics. The cold. The warmth. Then: paint. Charcoal. Pen. Paper. Written. Drawn. Realized.
A wave of regret.
I made mistakes—here, and here.
But that’s life.
A path of trials. Of lessons. Of “this worked,” and “this didn’t.”
And then came forgiveness.
First of all—of myself. And then, of others.
Then came the flow of love.
To myself. To the world. To people.
To all of my experience—an experience I now want to express.
Through words. Photographs. Drawings.
There’s so much to share.
And still—so much to learn.