I can never forget the ambiance of the attics.
When the fall colors covered the hills,
surrounding our village in the Jizera mountains,
and hay harvest came to an end,
we ran into an apple orchard to climb the trees,
and pick the sweetest rubies,
finishing the evening under the roof,
jumping into haystacks,
telling tales while snacking on our potpourri,
and fresh milk from a local farm,
still hot in our flasks.
Then we built ourselves mini shelters,
using old wood logs and hay,
insisting to bring our blankets over,
for a sleepover with more friends from the village.

Our scouting winter lodge held many adventures.
The hike up the mountain would be vigorous.
Some of us carried backpacks twice our size,
with snow up to our knees,
falling on our backs at times,
to the friendly laughter of older boy scouts.
We were the “promising young sherpas”.
They each had their nicknames.
I was helped by “Quickfoot”,
from my favorite Foglar books and comics,
about the boy club named “Fast Arrows”.
Once we reached the lodge,
we opened our sleeping bags in the attic.
At night we told scary tales,
of sticky and devouring green blob of disease,
floating everywhere to catch its prey,
or bloody hand, and ghosts in the woods,
all huddled next to each other,
throwing our flashlights around,
to find our night snacks in our backpacks,
listening to the whistle of winter outside,
and the occasional case of the sound of wildlife on a hunt.
The next night we had to complete a walk of bravery,
by following a trail light with candles on the side,
and spooky sounds of our brothers,
pretending to be those ghosts,
I wished I didn’t listen to those tales from the attic.
At the end of the trial, we had to sign a paper to prove our presence,
and we got to uncover a secret message from our leaders.

In my grandma’s attic mind goes wild and fairies exist.
Across the top of a large elementary school,
with long stairs to the top,
hiding all sorts of artifacts.
It was the perfect place for enchanted wonder.
I spent hours there,
looking for a treasure of any kind:
old books, letters, b&w photographs,
dance outfits, colorful buttons, cuff links,
grandpa’s vintage watch and hats,
or mother’s school supplies.
When it rained my grandma climbed up there,
and looking for long-lost items full of memories,
to the sound of raindrops hitting the roof above.
I listened to her stories from her youth,
or made-up tales about fairies living inside large rocks,
rocks that opened full of bright light at night,
and the fairies came out to dance in the woods,
where soft small grasslands grew with wild blueberries,
and you could lay there without a sound,
except for pine trees squeaking as they moved with the wind,
mystical calls of the nocturnal owls,
or deer and rabbit steps wandering close by.
Then the fairies started to sing.
It reminded me of Rusalka by Dvorak.
She said my mother visited the fairies as a child,
riding a white horse,
wearing a purple dress with a light veil,
and a small pouch necklace made of gemstones
– a piece of treasure I just found in the attic.
Later I found out the outfit was from her dance ball,
and the pouch was a gift from her first love.
My grandma’s fairytale stories were always new,
Created on the spot,
Stories that have not been told before.
With raindrops hitting the roof and vintage treasures around,
They were always real to me.

Dried mushrooms and herbs –
another purpose of grandma’s attic.
I remember damp mornings of wandering around the woods,
picking up boletuses and marjoram for the best soups in town,
or lemon balm and valerian for teas.
I didn’t know much about coca-cola in the 80s and 90s,
But I knew tea recipes from great grandmother –
ones that were used to treat others in her small village,
much appreciated aid during both world wars.
Preferring sugar-less holistic remedy above pills any day,
as a child, I wanted to spit it out,
envious of kids glugging Fantas.
Now I am resuming her remedies,
and returning to herbal teas,
with herbs and spices from the attics of Nepal.

In the town of Hejnice, we had an attic full of mysterious energy.
I used to climb up there to hang up our laundry to dry,
looking through the pieces of clothes,
getting spooked that someone could be hiding in the dark corners,
watching me sing to myself,
or pretending to be some fictional character.
When done, I used it as my spot to read books,
engaging in a new adventure every time.
On other days I came up to play with my childhood love,
resulting in some of our first kisses,
and dreaming of our future together.
Some mornings I was looking for creatures I dreamt of the night before.
Somehow I thought they would be hiding in the attic.
The smell of the wood added to the scales of my imagination,
and I believed their memory could become a reality one day,
knowing that they will live forever in my mind,
a mind that hardly worried about the present or past,
yet always wondered what will come next,
what will come out of that spooky mysterious corner,
“What did I do? Is it me over there? What did I do?”
Some questions just remain unanswered.

It’s the early 90’s.
The orange rays of light are beaming,
making their way through the cracks of large windows,
as the evening practice started.
The gym is roaring with the beats of Smooth Criminal,
and a group of teenage girls is lined up,
following my mother’s choreography,
and getting ready for a dance competition.

It’s a typical evening for a kid of two professors,
hanging out with older kids from their classes,
dance teams, chess clubs, or sports teams.
If only I had their guts.
When asked to dance I turn into a stiff lobster face,
quickly resolving the situation,
by rushing to mingle with dad’s chess club.

It’s a choice between hobbies.
One could develop into a passion for a lifetime.
I only dance when I am in the woods alone,
preferably in the dark when the natural light dims out.
Watching my mom’s dance team always blows my mind,
but I only dare to compete by running or cross country skiing.

It’s the year 2002.
One of my childhood hobbies turned into a passion.
I’ve been inspired by the exercise to “maniac”
from the movie Flashdance.
Our lawn still has bold spots
from my steps through the years.
The grass took a serious beating.
It has become a quirky part of my training, as a runner.
I love waking up early to run at the crack of dawn
and arrive at the stadium for the afternoon practice.
The collegiate athlete’s routine is energizing.
This weekend we are traveling to Houston, Texas
for the Conference USA Championship.
I am nervous about the 3k race.
It is my first time competing in the event.

The Year of 2004.
The year of heartbreak.
I am no longer allowed to compete.
Seizures have grown to be too frequent,
bringing along the concussions from the fall.
Ambulance rides became as familiar as putting spikes on.
The last glimmer of hope – staying up the night before EEG.
The women’s team is up with me to keep me company.
The power of teamwork is overwhelming,
but health claimed the priority seat at the table,
and I have to kiss my spikes goodbye.
Being stripped of such a big part of my life is debilitating.

More than a decade later.
The rollercoaster seems only bigger.
Confusion,
failed relationships,
lost friendships,
more health concerns,
loss of interest in anything,
and feeling utterly lost.
Is it a quarter-life crisis?
After several more EEGs, it is clear.
No signs of epilepsy,
but suspicions of pseudoseizures.
I can’t risk driving
or standing by the train tracks.
These constraints are making me mad,
mad at others, mad at the world,
and most of all mad at myself.
Yes! This is the beginning of transformation,
and more environmentally friendly lifestyle,
no more cars, but a sailboat is a terrific replacement.

Post COVID.
Streets are getting filled again,
and so are the dance floors.
It’s time for a new beginning.
It’s time to let go.
Let go of the desire for perfection,
whatever it may be…
Let go of expectations,
of the never-ending effort to be normal,
of past mistakes and failures,
of stigma,
of self image,
or my stiff lobster face.
It’s time for self expression,
to lose myself in the moment,
and begin moving to my own beat,
becoming the maniac on the rainy streets of my old tears,
making a space for the misty stream of colors.
Space for music.
Dance is turning into a restorative absolution,
for both my light and dark selves.
Why should the dance stop?
Getting to see the world upside down is part of it,
and there’s no need to stop dancing.

Ambulance knot.
Nazdar! Our teepees are up,
but we’ve yet to build our beds,
using ancient Native American techniques,
but first we need a fireplace for the beds to surround.
Fireplaces in the centers of our teepees are crucial.
They are our main source of heat.
The pipe of wisdom will light up a day behind.
What kind of a tribe are we?

Dragon knot.
It’s 7am and the sound of a trumpet is traveling across the camp.
I throw on my shirt with neckerchief tied by a leather slide,
time to raise our flag.
Today I started my beaver badge of silence.
I cannot utter a word for 24 hours.
I’m probably an introvert, because it will not be difficult at all.
I’m more worried about the badge of bravery,
when I stay alone in the woods for a whole night.
I plan on trying to decode fireflies’ light patterns into a morse code,
just to avoid imagining some creatures sniffing behind my back.
If anyone from the boys camp is doing bravery badge on the same night,
I could scare him to death by pretending to be one of those creatures!

Shortening knot.
The ax is stuck in the wood log.
If it gets stolen,
the camp has to come to an end.
Teams are selected to protect it through the night,
from sneaky boy scouts wandering outside their camp,
and snooping around ours!
Those nightly blood suckers! 😉

Eight knot.
The ax is guarding three weeks of adventure:
backpacking through Czech paradise,
with nothing but a small survival kit,
overnight hikes through the wilderness,
daily mingle with diverse species,
battles against the other scout camps,
running around with bows and arrows,
countless games and projects outdoors,
more tasks to learn our survival skills,
evening bonfires and singing with a guitar.
The best part?
Building an infinite instinct
to stay connected to nature!