Before we start the story, everyone should grab their favorite kids' snack bar! It could be now, or it could have been long ago, in a sea of forests, fields, and seas—perhaps right where you used to live—you popped in for a moment; there was a country or a continent, its length and breadth endless. Its name was Csintalandia, this place with no end or beginning, full of raspberries, pears, and strawberries, full of children and adults, each more mischievous than the next. Here, anyone could walk down the street on their hands without anyone else thinking they’d lost their mind. They could fool around or bellow as the mood struck them. Here, everyone wore different clothes; there was no fashion to follow. If someone spotted a piece of clothing they liked on another person, they’d run over to them, take a good look, compliment them, and by the time they got home, they’d come up with a version that suited them perfectly. Of course, there were conflicts here too, but for the most part, the residents of Csintalandia lived in peace and contentment. But it wasn’t always this way… There was a time on this earth when Csintalandia wasn’t Csintalandia. Back then, people lived very differently. For example, if they saw someone on the street humming to themselves, they thought that person was crazy. Or if someone’s sock had slipped down, they would point and laugh at them. Some were teased because their skin was lighter or darker than others’; some because they prayed at night, and some because they didn’t. Well, it was a strange world, I have to say. And there were those places where the children went day after day—I could even say they spent most of their days there—where they were told what to do every single minute, where every child had to write, say, and draw the exact same things. These places were called schools. The kids spent hours getting dressed in the mornings to make sure they looked exactly the way they were supposed to at school, so they wouldn’t be teased. In fact, their mothers even packed them exactly the same snacks for lunch as the other kids brought. (maybe a Csinta kids' snack? ) Well, it really couldn't have been easy, could it? You can imagine how difficult it must have been to shape all the unique qualities hidden within each person into something so similar. It was as if they had all hidden their treasures under one big shawl and shown only what others also had. The one thing that was the same then as it is today was nature. The trees bloomed and bore their many delicious fruits just as they do now. Strawberries ripened in the spring, sour cherries and apricots in the summer, and plums and apples in the fall—just as they do today—and if you looked closely in the orchard, you could see the Mischievous Sparkles flitting about. These were colorful creatures—and of course, they still exist today—who flitted about in the orchards and forests, but often in villages and towns as well. The all-knowing ones say they are born from the scent of fruit, or from a sweet laugh, a loving embrace, or when two pairs of eyes meet. So wherever the sweet scent of strawberries tickles your nose, or if you’re rolling on the ground laughing, pay close attention—you might just spot them. These little creatures watched the world’s many strange things in wonder, but of course, most of all, they watched the children—they found them most like themselves—and, of course, the childlike spirit within adults, because they saw that too. It was here, among them, that the many little stories unfolded that have inspired me to write this now. The one that touched my heart the most began with a little girl. Szilva was a little girl with big brown eyes and curly locks; her round little face was full of love, her arms open for hugs and caresses, and her voice like a tinkling bell. She sang almost before she could speak; she knew ancient secrets, the language of plants and fairies, and the Csillangók had been her best friends since she was a toddler. But when Szilva started school—you know, that place where all the children had to do the same thing—something changed.At first glance, this renowned school seemed like a wonderful place, and I have to say that compared to other places of its kind that were around back then, the one Szilva started attending was truly marvelous. It stood on a hillside surrounded by beautiful forests and mountains; wherever she looked, fireflies were flitting about. Her classmates there were all lively or quiet little children just like her. But one day, when she wandered off with the others to a place she shouldn’t have gone, the teacher appeared, and it was as if an icy gust had swept through the landscape, freezing the air. Szilva was punished. Oh, what does „punishment“ even mean? Back then, adults thought that if a child didn’t do what they were told, or what had been agreed upon, it was best to make them do something they didn’t want to do, something they didn’t enjoy—because then, next time, they’d do what was expected of them. This is, of course, very sad, and I can hear from your sighs and see in your puzzled eyes that you’re asking, „Who did this benefit?“ Well, you’re right—of course, no one. The poor adults felt sorry for the children and were sad themselves. And the children even more so. So, to get back to what I was saying, Szilva was punished. She had to walk with the teacher during the time when the others were allowed to play together. You might think this is no big deal—it could have happened to anyone else, or even worse—which is true. But let’s see what happened to Szilva. Suddenly, she felt as if an invisible veil had been cast over her, as if she’d been locked away in a place where she couldn’t hear the whispers of the breezes or the twinkling of the stars, the birdsong—the melodies of life faded from her ears, and the world’s loving, radiant glow was left outside. Those who didn’t know her didn’t really notice anything different about her—perhaps she had just become a little quieter, and the ideas, melodies, and ancient knowledge she had brought from old worlds remained shrouded in obscurity. His loving nature still radiated warmth, but anxiety had taken hold of him. Perhaps you, too, have felt this—as if a tingling sensation were coursing through your body, preventing you from acting. Just as the Sparklers are born from the scent of fruit, the Grumbling Zurgs are born from this tingling, anxious sensation. These tiny, invisible, elf-like creatures make us forget our true selves, our joy, and our ideas. They constantly whisper in our ears and make threats. They don’t really mean any harm, but since they were born of fear, they’ll do everything they can to make us do things dictated not by our hearts, but by our fears. This might be hard to understand, but maybe you’ve heard a Grumbler whispering in your ear, too. For example: „You’re definitely not going to succeed at this; the others do it much better—don’t even start,“ „Don’t do it because he’ll get angry,“ „You’re clumsy,“ and things like that. If you hear voices like these, you can be sure that a Grumbling Zsurgó is perched on your shoulders. Well, a little Zsurgó like that moved onto Szilva’s shoulder too and kept talking to her. When they were forming letters, it would say, “Is this the letter ‘o’ for you? Is this an egg?” When they played tag, it would say, “Oh, you’re so slow—everyone’s going to catch you. It’s no fun playing with you!” You can imagine what it was like to listen to this all day long, especially since she couldn’t even see these strange little figures. Still, when she got really absorbed in playing with her friends, luckily the room was filled with such loud laughter that the Zsurgók’s voices couldn’t be heard. Then, when she was left alone—even for just a moment—they would often whisper in her ear, and this made her days quite sad. One day, when Szilva was sitting in her room drawing, surrounded by socks, yarn, and piles of clothes, her mom, Cinnamon, quietly peeked in. Seeing the girl sitting amidst the chaos, she gave her that disapproving look that made it seem as though she took the jumble of clothes as a personal insult. Szilva looked up at her, startled. And, sure enough, the usual line came: “Didn’t you say you were going to tidy up your room today?” Szilva curled up, lowering her tousled head; her face gave nothing away. Cinnamon had long since regretted saying a single word and not leaving her lost in her painting, in the middle of the mess, if that’s how she liked it, but it was too late—she could see that, too. And though she knew nothing about the Zsurgós, she could hear the grumbling voice of the Zsurgós perched on Szilva’s shoulder: “Here we go again—you promised, but you can’t be counted on. It was the same yesterday…”“And so on and so on…” Cinnamon hesitantly tried a sentence or two more, but finally gave up and left Szilva alone, hoping she’d go back to painting and calm down. But she was wrong—Zsurgó’s words had cut deep into Szilva’s little soul, and she began to sob, curled up in a ball. Eventually, she fell asleep while crying. In her dream, she was awakened by a velvety voice; someone was singing. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet; she was just enjoying it. Someone was rocking her, and it felt so intimate and warm that she had to savor the moment. Then, carefully so as not to be seen, she peeked out from between her eyelashes. It was a very strange old woman holding her in her arms. She was so wrinkled that, even with the best will in the world, Szilva could only compare her face to a prune. This almost made her laugh, but then she closed her eyes instead and began to listen to the song: When the Csillangó sings softly, prick up your ears, little one, for it tells a tale or sings a song to lift your spirits. A sigh, a moment—the Zsurgók’s voice falters, for the simple folk understand what weighs on your heart, and that’s enough for it to drift away carefree, until it finds another target to grumble at and pester, until the moment comes when they can understand themselves. Hand in hand, the Zsurgó and the Csillangó create, so that we may understand what the cry or even the silence conveys within us… – Csillangó, oh, who could these be?—she sat up excitedly. “Those winged beings whose voices shine within me.” “Oh, how poetic you are,” laughed Aranyom, the Dried Lady, in her trembling voice. Her voice was quite different from when she sang, but Szilva liked it just the same. – “She’s like a witch,” she thought, but that was a compliment in her eyes. She considered witches and wizards to be her kin; perhaps she knew that one lived within her as well : ) “Who are you?” Szilva asked, looking into the eyes of the witch with the prune-like face. “I am Aranyom, the Prune Lady, the second-oldest resident of Csintalandia.” “Who’s the oldest?” Zsálya interrupted. -“Well, it’s the Wise Bio. Don’t tell me you haven’t met her yet—we’ve heard a lot about you, though.” -“About me?” Szilva asked in amazement. “But… and what exactly is Csintalandia?” “Oh, it’s a long story: I know him and I don’t, I’m familiar with him and I’m not—he’s half a stranger, yet I find him within me.” “What? Why are you mumbling so incomprehensibly? I know him and I don’t, It grows within me, it doesn’t grow—I’m rambling, rambling…” Szilva joked, even surprising herself, because she was usually rather reserved and well-mannered around strangers, but this woman was like an old acquaintance, almost a relative. “Be quiet for a moment, close your eyes, and listen”—Szilva closed her eyes, and then Mrs. Aszalt repeated the previous little verse: “I know it and I don’t, I recognize it and I don’t, half a stranger, yet I find it within me.” At that moment, two sparkling, flitting figures appeared before Szilva’s closed eyes. They somersaulted through the air, full of joy. Szilva couldn’t help but grin—they were so silly. “Go ahead and open your eyes,” said Mrs. Aszalt. Szilva opened her eyes, and lo and behold, the two funny figures were grinning at her from the woman’s lap. “They really do exist—I thought I’d just made them up when I was little.” “Back then, I used to tell everyone that they were flitting around the garden, in the orchard, and everywhere, and everyone would gently pat my head,” she mused, “and I don’t think they really believed me.” “Well, it looks like we are,” and they pinched Szilva’s cheek so she could feel it. “They certainly exist, but not everyone—or not always—can see them, because the veil of thoughts often obscures the image.” I’ll teach you a little magic spell. When you want to see the sometimes invisible world at work around you, say this to yourself: To see what is visible, it’s not enough just to look. My hands and head move together, my heart beats in time with them, my ears and eyes are open—I believe what I see. Recite the spell aloud. See what enchants you all around. “Can I try it?” Szilva asked excitedly. “Well, I don’t think you need it right now, but try to learn it, because when you wake up, you might need it.” “What?” Szilva looked around in surprise. “Am I asleep right now? Is this all a dream? You’re not even real?” Her voice faltered, and her mouth turned down at the corners. “Szilva,” she said quietly, “my dear lady—learn the magic spell, and then you’ll have nothing to grieve about!” And then the two little Mischievous Sparkles fluttered around Szilva and, for about a quarter of an hour, hummed, sang, and whispered the magic spell into her ear. “I believe what I see,” came the cry. Szilva jumped up from where she was lying, looked around to see where the voice had come from, and then realized she’d woken up to her own cry; there she sat, right in the middle of a pile of socks and a heap of clothes. She tried to recall the words. “I believe what I see.” “What was that?” she wondered. “There was someone in my dream—more than one person.” “Oh no, I didn’t do what I promised again. There were people in my dream”—dream and reality became jumbled in his head. He closed his eyes and saw the figures so clearly, as if they were right there. She opened them again immediately. She didn’t know what to do. Could she be sick and having visions? That thought frightened her so much that, forgetting that her mom might be angry with her, she ran out to her and snuggled into her lap. She curled up in her warm, soft lap and looked up with her big brown eyes at Cinnamon’s smiling face. It seemed as if something had glinted, but she didn’t pay any attention to it… During such a long story, you must have happily nibbled on your favorite, healthy Your kids' snack bars!
