What is an idyll in the family. Five rules to keep the idyll in the family

CHAPTER III THE ALSATIAN IDYL At that time a stagecoach communication had just been established between Frankfurt and Alsace. A tall new wagon filled with chests and sacks and drawn by six horses at a trot

To dream of an idyllic rural landscape and yourself in the company of gallant knights who consider it an honor to kiss just the edge of your dress - such a dream testifies to the unfulfillment of your dreams, which are too at odds with the rough prose of modern life.

To see an idyll in your house, where everyone is full of love and tenderness for each other, the younger ones respect the elders, catching their every word, and the older ones show cordial concern for the younger ones - in reality your disappointment with your family relationships and the resulting irritability will grow and intensify the further, the more.

Dream Interpretation - Family Quarrel

The dreamer dreamed of an unconscious hitherto familiar Model of Relations, where Dad is consciousness, Mom is emotional dependence, which means that Consciousness rules emotions (not always its own, if you touch the Dreamer). So, Mom (unconscious emotions) tells the Dreamer to take two Pistols and shoot at the Wall once from each, with glass balls that, for the Dreamer's luck, do not fall into it - it means in reality that the Dreamer does not even think about the guiding and destructive essence of Emotions in her life (why is there such confidence in a dream that there are balls in the pistol, and not Bullets, as usual? - right, it’s Mom ordered, and not just anyone, mom will never wish bad for her child, a conscious conclusion suggests itself). Further, the Glass Balls end up in the Brother’s bedside table - this is the Dreamer’s future social failure (the Dreamer’s mistakes and the Brother’s winning position), if she constantly reacts to the emotions-words of others, completely without thinking about their true meaning. The Pistol with Glass Balls, in this case, symbolizes the Weapon - the Scarecrow of the parents and the Emotional views of the young Dreamer, which you just need to change to Conscious - why go on about your emotions and swear when any disagreements can always be eliminated by realizing them. In conclusion, the Dreamer should not participate in domestic conflicts, and even more so, be their epicenter, by doing so she will unconsciously deprive herself of a Solid Support under her feet, which is her integrity and future, which stems from the family, from the house.

Dream Interpretation - Husband, wife, picnic, grave

The dreamer goes with her husband to a Picnic, a beautiful view of Nature - in reality this is the current state of the Dreamer's spiritual comfort, which you should not rely on entirely and completely in the future, since this emotional state is unstable and subject to external trials (there is no Son with spouses, where the Son symbolizes love , trust, fidelity, feelings). A beautiful and mighty Oak in a beautiful Glade, which the Dreamer liked for a joint Picnic - these are the qualities and abilities inherent in the Dreamer's Husband, but not in herself (the Dreamer is under the protection and guardianship of the accomplished Spouse). Suddenly, the Husband takes out the Shovel from the Trunk (unpredictable consequences of a miscalculation) and begins to dig a Pit for the Grave - this is a symbolic Pit for the Dreamer, who is used to relying on the Husband in everything, if she does not leave the symbolic "comfort zone" (Glade) for herself, the Wife rushes about, not believes in what is happening, but does not leave the Spouse to be saved, because she cannot understand the reason for such an act of the Husband - in reality this is a great hint to the Dreamer to think about Her potential and untapped opportunities (social) in order to be Ready for any vicissitudes of Fate (The Dreamer will understand, oh what's the point). The conclusion from this magnificent Dream is that the Dreamer needs to escape from the material custody of the Husband (not from the husband himself) and not take care of him too much in everyday life, but choose and create Her Social Niche in order to avoid serious life trials in the future, if the Dreamer by the will of fate will be left without his mighty patron. Sincerely, Livia.

Family idyll. What it is?

I think that my husband and I have a family idyll! I’m telling you why - we love and want each other, we have two desired children, we match in character and temperament, we love to talk to each other and spend time together, without friends and reasons. It is important for us to be together, to build OUR plans, to dream. We quarrel and swear (as if without it)) but we quickly put up and do not hold grudges and resentments against each other, because we can say everything in each other's eyes!)

A family idyll is a complete mutual understanding of all aspects of family relations. Be it spouses, their parents, children and others. But this absolutely does not mean that this is a family without quarrels. No. A family idyll is when people strive and they manage to find compromises

A family idyll is a situation in a family without any scandals, upheavals. It happens. But I rarely think, sometimes in every family there are ideal moments when all the children are at home, joyful, calm, happy, there is no need to worry about material means. But sooner or later, a storm arises on the calm surface of the sea, and this is completely normal.

I believe that a family idyll is a mutual desire of people to listen and hear each other, to compromise, to respect other people's opinions. For me, both in life and in the family, free will and independence are important. There cannot be a good-natured climate in the family, when people are aimed at pressure and restrictions, and not at mutual assistance.

A family idyll is when two people in love with each other got married and eventually did not become disappointed in each other. They have children and live a happy family life. The word idyll means idealquot ;. A family idyll is the ideal of a family as it should be.

Family idyll - perhaps this is family happiness - those rare moments when all the houses are clean, everything that needs to be washed, nothing is broken or broken, problems are solved or their joint solution is found together, food is prepared, maybe it's Friday, when work behind, and ahead of the weekend, two more reasons to rejoice when finances do not sing romances, but involve new purchases and trips, when children obey their parents, and spouses agree with each other and together plan something new and joyful for everyone for the family - then whether a trip to a picnic, or maybe to the sea, or preparing for a holiday or going to visit, to the cinema, etc.

If you close your eyes and imagine what a family idyll is, then a clean, even expanse of the ocean appears before my eyes, without a single hint of waves. Kind of calm! During this period, there are no conflicts in the family, the relationship is full of sensitivity and tenderness. This is the perfect time.

True, the family idyll is temporary, just as the ocean cannot be always calm.

This is how I would answer this difficult question about the idyll.

The options, of course, here can be very different, what a family idyll can be.

I think that mutual understanding and mutual respect are very, very important in this matter.

This is when there is no fear in the relationship between its members in the family. That is, nothing prevents a person from telling the truth about their feelings, experiences and problems. The less fear in a relationship, the more trusting and closer the relationship.

I. Introduction

Is it really impossible to write, forgetting even for a moment About how short stories and novels are written, Rejecting, at last, conditional deceptions Unnecessary fictions and confused intrigues? Is it really easier for me to depict the death and torment of Heroes dying in an unprecedented battle, Than a conversation with my wife and my room, A dull view out the window and everyday boredom? And yet from them, from these trifles, Forgotten by books and too ugly, To be told in eloquent stanzas, The whole life, the simple life of people, is built up. And one thought has been haunting me for a long time: Is it possible, without intrigue, without drama, without a hero, to transfer into a story from life entirely That little world with which I am familiar? It was a pity for me to pluck a living and fragrant Flower in order to put it dusty in the herbarium; From the depths of my native fields, with a caring hand, I will cut it out with trembling leaves - As it is - with fragrant earth, And dew drops, and wet roots ...

II. At a dacha near Moscow

They scold our Petersburg, our North, and meanwhile What can be more boring than a village near Moscow! It's a factory country: I don't know why everything here is disgusting to me, it's dull, flat, even... Through the felled forest, among the barren fields, A locomotive rumbles along the shining rails. And in the villages - taverns, huge factories, Working drunken people: there is no more nature here. And forever clouds of Factory soot ascend to the heavens, and the silhouette of the trumpet, Reigning over everything, spoils the blue Mysterious distance, sad, dear to me ... It must be, this land was not without reason oppressed Our modern god, mighty capital! And meanwhile, even here, on a lonely walk, You used to go into the wilderness: all around the forest darkness, Green moss, mushrooms, a shaggy bee, And the sky between the branches is so clear, so deep, That you feel yourself far away from all people, In the village under Moscow, as on the edge of the earth. Two or three trees are enough for us to understand the whole life of nature boundless: So two or three people are enough to know All the abysses of dark souls, the whole world of the heart With its poetry, infinite love And everything that cannot be told in words ...

III. Grandmother

But it is high time to start my task. I wanted to describe, without fiction, one family with whom I once lived in a dacha, In a village near Moscow. I'll start with my grandmother. Once upon a time she was a homely mistress, And she was a mother, and a loving wife; Now, a stranger to everyone, she is in her own family, Like a ghost of bygone days, she lives almost forgotten. There is something strict in the features, as if a trace of the hardships experienced; she is dressed simply; Bent over, hunched over - almost the same height, As the youngest granddaughter - eleven years old, Grandmother does not remember what happened to her - no torment, No joy: she lives as if half asleep. He sits on a chest and all day long, out of boredom, he eats semolina porridge and drinks tea as a snack; Sometimes he searches the rooms for something, wanders, Keeping a caring and dissatisfied look, And, thinking that he is entering through the open door, Standing thoughtfully by the unlocked cupboards. "Where are you, grandma?" - they shout to her, but the blind woman touches the object quietly, slowly, Then she leaves, sighing, fingering her handkerchief With thin fingers and rustling shoes. And it smells of tobacco from a long katsaveyka, From wrinkled hands, - sometimes it smells In grandfather's caskets, where for many years the aroma lurks under the old cover ... And again, with a toothless mouth, he chews and seems to be dozing. Like a little child, she looks at everyone With bewilderment and obedient timidity, And she has such a powerless, kind laugh, Asking for pity, as if ingenuously The old woman laughs at herself, and sometimes I think: why did she live, loved, Suffered? Where is the purpose of all life lived? And that's what awaits us all, and ahead is the grave. There was only one thing left for her: with a basket of mushrooms, It happened that tired girls would return, “Where, dear, where?” - At the sound of their voices Blind gropes gropingly. They laugh, Embracing her ... As soon as their voice rang out, The old woman came to life, and her gaze is not so sad, As if the golden ray of the sun shone On the gloomy stones of the abandoned ruins ... In the blind, poor eyes, in the toothless mouth With fresh lips kiss her granddaughters - Fun has no end , - and small hands In a trembling palm, laughing, she takes. And next to the yellow, parchment skin Of a faded face, a sly gleam in the eyes, And laughter, and dimples on rosy cheeks Seem to me even more beautiful and younger. And meekly shines immortal love In the eyes of my grandmother. So - what the grave We can not take! .. And I understand again, Why she lived, why she loved.

IV. Aunt Nadia

And yet the grandmother is far from her granddaughters, And the girls look at the poor old woman So condescendingly, a little condescendingly, As at an old, beloved toy. Soul close to her and devoted forever Only one person remained on earth - That is Aunt Nadia, the daughter of an old woman ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... They say She was a beauty. Now inopportunely Still coquettish; in holey shoes And with a sleepy face, and boredom in her eyes, Always disheveled, in a soiled dressing gown, She wanders around the rooms. In the void In which her life passes, gossip with the laundress, Caring for the coffee pot to boil on the stove, Walking to the shop for thread, for a pack of Some buttons, solitaire, then food, And sleep, and mending stockings - these are all the activities . And so she drags on for weeks and years ... Sometimes she sews fancy dresses From lace, lush ribbons and bright shreds - A miserable lure, a temptation for suitors. And more often, simply, folded his hands obediently, At the roof, at the raven looks out of the window out of boredom And only slowly, yawning, baptizes his mouth. And nearby, on the sofa, lies a Siberian cat - Fluffy, with delicate transparent eyes, Like an emerald - but angry and with sharp claws. The icon lamp glows in silence before the image ... So many years the three of us lived far from the world An old woman, a gray cat and an aunt. They did not cherish the soul in him, but, it is true, they fed the fat Beloved, and the poor cat died. All the aunt's happiness was carried away by his last breath forever. Since then, an empty life without work is even sadder. But I could notice And in her one holy, cherished corner: Cold to everyone, with love without limit, Jealous, feminine, she loved her mother; And day and night with her, she knew how to talk, with a picture, with a treat, or just with a gentle look, the Old Woman, like a sick child, to console. And whoever dares to say a hint, That grandmother's memory is weakening, at the same moment Aunty will all break out, and there is no end to reproaches, Leave the room, raise a noise and cry, - She wants to believe that grandmother is like everyone else, and smart, and not even blind. The old woman for her is not a ghost of the days of the past, As for a family, but a friend - alive among the living. Two poor creatures, obsolete, lonely, Needless to anyone and far from people, Loved each other with tenderness, and together It was more gratifying for them to live in their corner. When the grandmother dies, no one will mourn for the poor: only the aunt will cry over her sincerely and will not forget her friend - Almost one of all living people. And here, and in deeply prosaic vulgarity, There is a victim, there is love, its warmth and light! .. …………………………………………………. ……………………………………………….

I hear blue-eyed Nata's voice: "Do you want to play croquet?" - "Yes!" We are leaving for the garden. The day is leaning. Longer than weeping birch trees, Stronger in the park of linden blossoming aromas. I love ringing, heavy balls And the innocence of a family game. I love the square of the earth, sandy, yellow, flat - On meadows turning green under lindens, I love either red or black stripes - Conditional icons on croquet balls. The girls are laughing: they have only one concern - “Croque” me to distant lands, To win together, and the balls rush through the tight gates, and the goal is already close ... I follow with a smile, as thin Nata Shouts and jumps, embraced by excitement. Everything is in her - impulse, fire ... And the elder sister is Quiet, meek, lazy and kind. Their whole life is common, but everything in them is so different. They are friends, meanwhile I sometimes watched How the younger reigns and rules despotic Ruddy, fat, obedient sister, Healthy Tata. From the timid expressions of Mutual tenderness, from the glances and movements, I can foresee two different destinies: Without torment, without proud thoughts, one of them, probably, Will live quietly as an exemplary mistress, Happy mother. Another - for the fight, For grief created. I see in her the deposit of long-term suffering, those eternal, bitter thoughts, Which today torment the unbelieving mind; And a deep imprint of inner life Lurks in blue dreamy eyes And a pale face ... So with endless sadness I love to think about the future at times, When they walk, embracing, in front of me Under the twilight of the birches of the everlasting alley, And Tata calls her sister "stuff" ... I love their little room, with toys chest of drawers, paper houses and gum dolls. When on the table a boiling samovar bluish steam streams over the teapot, - I like to paint naive pictures: Ruddy girls, green forests ... Sometimes I awkwardly wet the brush: And the skies come out with spots of water, Blurred, the tree merges with the head of the unfortunate girl. And meek Tata threatens Me with her finger. All the former courage Loses my brush; and Nata shouts to me In indignation: “They ruined the paper! ..” When I look into the depths of their eyes, - Whatever dreams my mind may worry about, It’s so easy for me at once, I’m cleaner and kinder, And all anxieties and sorrows subside ... And what Something wonderful has flickered to me more than once, Incomprehensible, like the mystery of distant stars, And yet close from these children's eyes, Like heaven, sinless and deep.

VI. Storms in a teacup

Hearing the scream and the noise of the family, stormy scene, I recognize the voice of my aunt and Dasha, The venerable nanny, and sometimes a fierce argument comes into my room through the thin walls. For the eaten kalach, For a broken glass, a pot of semolina - All the aunt's rage and Dasha's anger, All this hell, and a frantic cry, and crying. So in the kitchen every day they almost have a fight. But the aunt looks at her opponent, Keeping a contemptuous and majestic look, And Dasha is beside herself, she is redder than cancer ... Unquenchable, deadly enmity: How many tricks they need and work, To prick the enemy, to offend something! So only women know how to hate. With the soul of a despot, whenever a nanny would not live In Russia, and in Rome, in the ancient age, She would be a gloomy Tiberius Or a formidable Claudius. But in our prosaic age, Her dominion is not recognized. Meanwhile, She wants to reign in the family and rule everything. And in a chintz jacket, with haughty lips, And a sharp nose, and sly eyes, Nimble, like a mouse, but with the importance of her face, Runs around the house, busying herself endlessly, Shouts at adults and children, gives advice ... Prophetic dreams, folk signs, And the news of the newspapers, and the lives of the saints, Secrets of food and gossip about relatives, Recipes for all medicines and the secrets of all tinctures - Hides her mind, resourceful, bold and lively. And Dasha, having served as a nanny for thirty years, With love in her memory keeps the reverent Traditions of antiquity and family chronicles, - Everyday cases - she is a living archive. He will tell you about how Tata at the christening of Papa's godfather ruined the dressing gown, And whether there was a pie with porridge on a name day Or with elk six years ago. Sometimes it happens that the nanny with stupid gossip Il even offends the hostess with insolence. “I give you the calculation! ..” - the lady shouts to her In indignation. But Dasha is more unrequited, More peaceful than a lamb suddenly becomes. In tears At the good lady lies at her feet, Kisses her hands, and repents, and prays, Until the mistress allows her to stay. Then, keeping her former appearance offended, She will begin to sweep and brush the furniture, And washes all the floors, and becomes meek And virtuous, but only for two days. Then he will not stand it, and again - screams, disputes, And the thirst to rule, and the old strife. What to do? She cannot live without a family: She would wither away from lonely sadness Without those with whom she quarrels all her life, she is full of deep, But hidden loyalty and devoted love. Only girls are dear to her in the world: And hated by everyone, contemptuous and evil, She gave them all tenderness, gave all her soul. And it’s not for nothing that children love their “nanny”: I know, malicious, arrogant features And cunning eyes become kinder, - As if in a glimpse of spiritual beauty, - And her hard hands are more loving and tender, When she lays the children in a cozy bed, Baptizing with prayer, lays sleep. He will lower the curtain, straighten the blanket, Look at them for the last time from a distance, And this look of love is so bright, kind and quiet: “She is not evil, no!” - Think it happened.

She is not a fashionable type of literary lady: "Kreutzer's Sonata" cannot in five minutes Dismantle in detail the author for trial Attract and conclude: "I don't see drama here!.." does not scold, proud of his critical flair, Flaubert, so incomprehensible to Russian ladies; And in secular chatter, as if by chance, She doesn’t think to shine with a bookish thought, or a liberal phrase, and, pouring tea, She doesn’t praise Paul Bourget with a banal smile ... There is deep sadness and kindness in her face, She is shy, calm and simple, And, instead of smart books, only devoted to caring About Natochka's cough, about food, firewood, About fur coats for the winter - about these little things, Which are sometimes more important than serious matters. In a hood Homemade, old, with her appearance Doesn't take care of and wants to be ugly And seem older than her years: She lives for children. But I thought she was lazy and downcast. I remember sometimes They will come running to her: “Let us go on the swing!” But my mother swore many times that they would never let them in, but meanwhile, they would reach their goal. "Dear, dear! .." and, finally, she will give in, defeated by the caresses of children, Although the poor one cannot hear in cold blood, As rotten logs creak suspiciously. At the first prank of the children, she decides again to resort to severity, grieves, That she spoils the girls, that she pampers them too much, And yet she cannot refuse anything. She seemed to me so ordinary, So weak... Then I once saw Her in misfortune: I remember, at a difficult hour, Almost cheerful, with a smile unchanged, She was even calmer. That night Her own daughter was lying dying. I felt that death was approaching the head of the beloved woman ... With all my love I was helpless and pitiful, like a child. And the mother easily, without tears, as if joking, What she needed to do and say something Simple, gentle ... Looking at the expression of her eyes, Looking at her meek face - what strength This woman has, I understood for the first time.

VIII. Prose of love

O carefree, loving couple! What could be nicer? Do you both think, That life is some kind of airy dream, That the nightingales will sing songs to you until the grave? But after all, you have to order dinner, From whatever height you look at life, - A buffet is no less passionate oaths, Linen and irons, pelvises and pots - Eternal emblems of conjugal love. Try to live together - the roses will fade, The moonlight will go out, the nightingales will fall silent Under the breath of inexorable prose ... It used to be, with tenderness, bowing your head, You whispered "I love you" when the star in the ether Struila is a quiet light, and now ... My God! .. " Where did the ruble and fifty-four Kopeks go? - the young mistress says, Over the account book, assuming a serious look. Alas! such is our world ... But worse than any prose - Reproaches of jealousy, domestic war For primacy, for power, and scenes, screams, tears: “Would you like to go for a walk?” my wife tells me. - "I'm busy, don't bother me!" - and we are both not in the spirit ... Spleen, frustration of the nerve ... From these trifles A stupid argument comes out: the pretext is already ready; In the soul - a cold, painful anger. And after half an hour, as to my worst enemy, My wife screams in despair: “You are ruining me ... Go away ... leave me! .. I can’t live with you! ..” And I answered: “Now I know: you don’t love!” And rude words, and slamming of doors... And Bulka gray, beloved pug, runs between us In anxiety, as if between two fires, And looks with intelligent, sad eyes. Isn’t it true, you’re ready to give the whole world to your wife, And you won’t give up an easy chair or a book; You can buy her happiness on earth at the cost of life, And you won’t forgive two or three empty insulting words. But the hardest thing is the disease: what a torment, Barely noticing the fever, counting the pulse in alarm, Having lost the ability to work and read, And think. And in the soul - agonizing boredom ... You put a thermometer, and it’s scary to look At the figure, and you follow, embraced by anxiety, Pretending to be cheerful, like slow mercury Everything rises, and from one tenth of the Cursed degrees - I sometimes feel - My life depends, and happiness, and peace ... Oh, how far you are, mysterious meetings And first love, and unaccountable fear, A timid confession in downcast eyes, And hasty, excited speeches! .. You will not return again: forgive me forever! But no matter how dear the lost dreams, I know: in vulgarity, among worldly prose And everyday worries, and boring work - Everything is stronger every day, deeper and stronger My sad, calm love: No, I would not want you to become again The same as it was: you are even dearer to me! Now - before the power of my simple love, Before this infinite pity for each other - It seems to us almost a childish game That first dream of inexperienced, careless love! ..

IX. Departure from the cottage

Autumn day. In the forest - everything is dead and magnificent: Neither the languid oriole, nor the finches can be heard. And as in a house abandoned by people, forest silence is full of Something sad. Sometimes the trembling aspens are agitated, And the sun will shine, and the leaves will rustle, As on a summer day, but in a moment - and the yellow peaks Will calm down again and immediately fall silent. A bee does not fly over a dull flower garden, Withered leaves fall in the alleys And shine in the dusk, like golden-winged July butterflies. Like scarlet flowers, Two dead leaves tremble and blush On bare boughs. Rain and crows croaking, Wet straw on the huts, misty sky... winters only brightly green. It’s cold in the dacha, and the ceiling is leaking, And the nasty stoves are smoking, it’s blowing from the windows, And even the baker stops carrying His bread, and the aunt is indignant at boredom ... The girl is in alarm, it’s time to go to the gymnasium. They took out a dusty textbook from the knapsack Today they repeat their lesson in the morning: The familiar binding, torn, green, With the memory of the terrible, evil eyes of the Teacher, again inspires fear in them. “The Lacedaemonians in the Battle of Thermopylae...” Tatochka says in a dull voice, Yawning, wincing and licking her tongue His pink finger stained with ink. But now the dray has arrived. All sorts of rubbish is piled on the cart: there are chests, toys, Tables, mattresses and pillows upside down, And a cage with a rooster at the coachman below, And in the very heights, as a symbol of the house, a bright samovar Shines in the arms of the cook. And from a height she shouts to the driver: “Hey, look, don’t break my trough!” The dog, tail between his legs, must be in sad thoughts, Sitting: alas! the hungry time will come, There will be no bones for her, there will be no tasty crusts. And the janitor, having taken off his hat, is waiting for two kopecks. With a bottle of milk corked with a rag, Dressed in a worn gray burnous, But with a very bright, orange hat, With a bandaged cheek (autumn country flux), An aunt is busy and between two cardboard boxes Into the stroller she tries to push her grandmother. Blind, poor old woman, like a child, Pokorna. Everything is now ready. With God - go! But Dasha gets angry and wants to raise the top of the stroller: “What if it rains? no one thinks About children!..” Into scarves, a blanket, then a hood, a coat She wraps them up. They are stuffy: only their eyes Shine ... Let's go. Already the church is behind the hill, Here is a grove where there are so many mushrooms, here is the ferry ... Suddenly the aunt screams in despair: “I forgot! .. Oh, my God, back! .. I forgot my shoes! .. I run away: after all, here - not for long ... trifles! .. "But Dasha, full of militant fervor, Enters into an argument - she rejoices more than anyone, Gloating ... And the cry, and the noise, and the general laughter ... With a smile, Tatochka looks at everything practically, And whether she is at the dacha, in Moscow whether - it doesn't matter. From a French reader by heart She repeats a lesson. And Nate is sorry for nature, Walks and mushrooms, and the sun, and freedom! In a thoughtful face - bewilderment, sadness, As if the question is why in deep thought So gloomy and quiet - there, at the edge of heaven - Magically golden and yet dead forest, Why despondency - in a faded field, in the noise of Autumn weather, and in the clouds, and in everything?. The poor heart in her sensitively stirred, - Who knows, maybe a premonition woke up That great one that we call death ?.

H. Reader

I’m scared to look at the reader’s face: “Where is the hero, the plot, what is the point? And how serious journals are printed Such nonsense!.. What an unprecedented decline! We are weak, we are worthless. All these new poems are impossible; They are bored! But is your life, Reader, more fun? You wash your hands In everything, but who, tell me, is the culprit of this boredom, Decline, vulgarity and prose of our days? You grumble, and meanwhile, all your life you have not been in the least interested in native poetry. What books! .. For you it is more pleasant and sweet Partner at the card table, yes operetta! You love a funny feuilleton to run, And if the joke is rather evil and a mark, You are used to forgiving the newspaper gaer All the vulgarity. You are not averse to fashion scandal, And you have to be daring to please you... But what do you like? How did your soul suffer? When did you sacrifice, to whom, in what struggle? With a prudent mind, with an unfaithful, unsteady soul, And with this eternal, painful longing, And with this dead, skeptical smile, - Here he is, our judge, dear reader! .. Look: we are your execution, we are your image. There is an incomprehensible, invisible connection between us. You know: it hasn't broken yet, - Oh, we are bound by chains too strong! You are not touched by our timid, poor verse - What to do? You see for yourself: our world is gloomy and cramped, Do not demand from us mighty, free songs - They are not for you, you are not worthy of them! Now let's part ... But it seems that I lost my way and went God knows where. Now I will finish. That is the whole point of the poem. In the epilogue I repeat what I started my story with.

XI. Poetry of everyday life

Where there are two or three trees, there is a whole world before us, There is life of all nature, there is all its beauty, And endless skies turn blue, Through between dark, drooping branches, - So two or three people are enough, so that sometimes, In worldly vulgarity, great , holy, - What everyone has - love as a lumen into another world Shone, eternal, like a blue sky!

There are different colors in our life. There are both light and dark colors. Sometimes we feel that everything is going somehow ridiculous, and sometimes we understand - Here it is, a family idyll.

For some, such an idyll is a joint trip. With real tents, a fire and evening songs with a guitar. For someone, the feeling of a family idyll arises in the park on a simple bench. When you and your husband are sitting peacefully eating ice cream/drinking beer and little kids are running around noisily and throwing their toys around. This feeling often occurs after some children's achievements. When a child feels like a hero, and parents are joyfully proud of him. Or after some big joint event uniting all members of the family.

Remember. In what situations do you feel a family idyll? When was the last time? What unites all these cases?

By the way, the basis of family harmony does not have to be some kind of common cause. Family members can be busy with completely different things, but at the same time create an amazing atmosphere of happiness around. I would divide family happiness into two categories.

When do we feel a family idyll?

1. All family members are positive, friendly and united by some common cause.. Not necessarily - a big deal. One charming morning comes to mind when everyone just sat in the kitchen and had breakfast. Day off... The rays of the sun on the window... My husband and I are sitting in our tiny kitchen, warmly and peacefully talking about something... Lizonka is sitting next to him in a car seat and looking at us cheerfully... Nothing special happened, but somehow everyone was on the same wavelength.

2. All family members are positive, friendly and everyone is busy with their own affairs.. In this situation, no one is in contact with anyone, but at the same time, the whole family exists as one. Everyone is on the same wavelength. Artificially creating such a situation is much more difficult than the previous one. Yesterday was a similar evening... An atmosphere of happiness reigned... My husband worked at the computer. The child next to me was fiddling with toys ... And I was looking through my mail on the phone ... And I caught myself thinking: “Here it is - a family idyll.” Everyone is busy with their own business. But everything is one. And all - in an atmosphere of happiness.

How to create such moments?

We can add similar situations to our lives . Situations in which we are overwhelmed by a sense of harmony. Of course, much depends on other family members. But a lot - and from us, right?

What unites all family idylls? What every person is friendly and radiates positive. This is the first and main condition of family harmony. Agree, if someone is closed, offended or in a bad mood, nothing good will come of it. So what can we do?

We, women, are able to create a real idyll in our home. . This is in our power, this is our calling.