Snail-story – the Story of Love and Happiness


She was afraid, because they harmed her. She said: Never again! She’d rather be lonely! She built a shell-house above everyone else’s. She was perching in it, sometimes sniffing the outside, her horns hitching a good friend or a nasty hedgehog. After every meeting she crawled right bac ink and kept on being afraid. She was looking down on life from afar as it was spinning on time. The good and bad were coming and going, but she just peeped through a tiny split in the door.

Only the White Wanderer was singing with her. She trusted Him a long time ago and invited Him in. He pressed her, edged her on to live well already, enjoy the beauty already, and as soon as He became the Lord inside the shell, not just a Guest, the little snail listened to His voice. „I have a plan with you!” – said the White Wanderer, her Best Friend. „You have to get out and make as many friends as you can! Talk to them about Me, their eyes might be opened and they might see me as well!”

She dared to get out a little. It’s not so bad being outside after all, she thought. She made one or two friends, but didn’t invite in anyone. That would’ve been too risky! The place is too small, and anyway, nobody invites her in either, and anyway, everyone hurts her, and anyway… In other words, she didn’t want to suffer. And she didn’t like embarrassing things. What can be more embarrassing that loving someone who doesn’t want to love you? On the contrary, pricks you! Nudges you! Cuts you! It hurts a lot and is too embarrassing!

But she became braver and braver by and by. Then one day, whether it was a day of warm summer shower or silver snowfall, I do not know, but on a lovely day she opened all the windows and doors wide, and even though she was trembling, she invited every soul in. Let them come in! The good and bad all came. They treaded down her carpet and drank all her raspberry drink. The good and bad all sang together with her inside and outside her shell, and by and by walked away. Many of them saw the White Wanderer, and she shared a special smile with them, and although she gave and received many wounds, there was Happiness next to Sadness. She conquered her fears, she changed.

She had a room deep in the shell, and in that room she had a wardrobe sealed with seven locks. In that wardrobe she had a suitcase sealed with seven locks. In this suitcase was slumbering the creature called Falling-In-Love.  She never let anyone go near it. Once she showed the dusky room to the Wanderer, only for a second on tiptoes, but she was clutching the keys very hard. The Wanderer smiled. „The time will come, little snail,” – said the Wanderer, – „when you will let me in here too!”

The snail was terrified! She knew that when the Wanderer will step into the room nothing will ever be the way she wants it. Can’t she keep for herself at least this tiny room, this tiny wardrobe, this tiny suitcase, at least Falling-In-Love in its slumber? Can’t she be the Boss at least in this little corner? He will rummage through everything, the Wanderer will confuse her! As He usually does! She sqeezed the keys in her hand, but the fourteen locks did not let her rest. So be it! – she sighed.

„Let Your will be done!” – cried the snail to her Friend, but even her horns were trembling as she spoke. „Wake up Fallin-In-Love, if you wish, or let it sleep on forever! I had enough of living in fear! Here are the keys, do, what you have to!”

There were many things in that room, not to mention the wardrobe! Bric-a-brac, lumber, bad memories, revenge, envy, ill desires, the nest of maggots and slimes that she held on to and smuggled in the room so that the Wanderer wouldn’t see it. She hid Pride in there, her most precious treasure, in a golden case. The Wanderer shot a glance at it and whoosh! – with a sway threw it out the open window. Oh, anything but that! – the little snail wanted to shriek, but she was so relieved that she laughed out loud instead. Out with it, whoosh, out with it!

While the Wanderer was opening the locks somebody else stepped into the room. a boy-snail. „Am I in the right place?” asked he shyly. „I smelled a friend-smell in here. A Friend of mine told me to come here.” The little snail was so shocked that she was left speechless for a while. What will happen now? A stranger in her innermost room? Oh, anything but that! But then she smiled and said: „That is just the smell of raspberry drink. Feel yourself at home! What’s your name?” The other snail answered with a misgiving glance: „Derek. And who are you?” The snail answered: „Johanna”.

At frist they were both very frightened, but the Wanderer was the best Friend of both of them, so they often exchanged special smiles, and heard His voice pressing them: „Open your doors, let the air in through the windows, leave your keys with me!” Suddenly the boy-snail was startled. „Something stirred inside there!” – said he. It was Falling-In-Love that stretched and shaked its disheveld head, it was awake. It was good, very good! But the Wanderer warned them: „Falling-In-Love is always sleepy. As quick as it burns now, it will just as quickly go out. You can keep it awake with unconditional Love. There is no other way!” That hurts, man, because when there are no conditions, there is nothing to protect you. But it’s really good too. Without conditions there are no limits either!

This is my story. Or rather our story: the White Wanderer’s, Derek’s and mine.

Everybody is afraid more or less. And everybody wants to be happy. But Happiness isn’t just the good friend of Sadness, it’s his sibling by blood. This is why one needs courage for Happiness. One cannot be happy if one is a coward. Happiness isn’t an object that one can put on a shelf or twirl around in one’s hand to use it as they see fit. Happiness isn’t a guest, a long seen acquaintance, isn’t a neighbour or relative. Isn’t a family member who stays in you for a while, let’s say, until they find a job or until the storm ends. Happiness isn’t Falling In Love. Either Happiness is a complete stranger to you, or He is the Lord of your Heart. Happiness is the Son of the Blessed One, He is Love.

Gratitude Journal – 3rd Week

Johanna - osszes mobiltelefonkep 457

I am thankful today for the gloomy or sunny, peaceful or loud, obscure or pretty, but always blessed Sunday mornings,

  • because I can drink my coffee and eat my bread ‘n butter in quiet and in the warm safety of my house — noone is threatening my life or my family’s safety, and no war is casting it’s shadow on my community;
  • because I can dress up in my favorite stuff, take my baggy bag and weird hymnbook and go to the church I like, sing the songs I know and worship the God I believe in — there’s noone to persecute me for my beliefs and noone to deny me the freedom to openly practice my religion;
  • because I can always have a little chat with my mother over a toast before getting ready — both of my parents are still alive and thriving in a healthy marriage that gives me such a wonderful feeling like nothing else;
  • because I can stay in bed a little longer than usually on the mornings of the rest of the week — I truly enjoy the free time Sundays offer;
  • because I like mornings in general and Sunday is always special in a way — it is the last day before the next Monday! 😀

This Is Not A Common Fire!


Bind the sacrificial wood

with strong ropes!

Because it hisses and watches,

bind it’s neck, bind it to hope!


It’s kicking against it with nymph-legs,

press it to the altar with steely webs!

It’s kicking against it with nymph-legs,

never untie it’s waist, even if it begs!


It put it’s branch-hands

on the altar,

it never wants to turn back

it’s bushy head to the halter!

(Even if it scratches and scrapes…)

Bind the sacrificial wood

with strong ropes!


It should burn long and pretty,

like the star burns on the sky.

The sacrifice is not worth a penny

without the obedience of the wood.


Let it blaze in the fire of the burning bush,

as log as the vision lasts!

(Love is passing by.)

This is the time it can show what kind of a tree

it was cut out from by the blessig of the blast!


This is not a common fire!

It’s the flame of love:

it binds you, like a slave,

sets you free like the rebel’s fire.

No river may quench it,

no water can wash it away!


Bind me with ropes,

with dauntless ropes,

like the sacrificial wood!


As log as the vision lasts…


If I’d wash the glass from the inside,

it would be better.

It needs some washing in the outside,

but in it’s lair

Coke-drops take brown slips.

I wipe it in vain with the napkin,

that outer crystalline crust,

my industrious hands don’t clean

the inside’s clammy must.

If I’d wash the glass from the inside,

it would be better.

It would be – – better.

Compelling Circle

as when your

drooping soul already echoes with the blazing prohibition,

your heart is jugging in the mortal fear of the yet hovering eternity, knowing there’s no remission,

your itchy eyes still look into the snake-eyes,

your hand still to the toxic fruit flies,

as when…

(it’s as if

the fly would wilfully fly into the spiderweb,

it’s as if

the turkey would chop down it’s own stupid head,

the orgy of a foolish set…)

as when you

hear behind you the scorching scream,

then closer to your head the bluster of the fire-stream,

till you look inside you, and find hell there,

still an eye looks back, as idol-stare,

still your foot recoils as a salt-stair,

as when…

(it’s as if

the worm would gladly jump into the beak of the woodpecker,

it’s as if

it would voluntarily jump out from the nest, that fluffy flapper,

the coquetry of a senseless matter…)

as when at departure

in your tumbledown car you don’t fasten your seatbelt,

then you don’t slow down a bit in the hairpin bend,

you’d like to live, but an intrinsic revolt cries crazily

that despite all of this you should play a bit merrily

in the compelling circle of the ancient adversity,

as when…

Same Interesting


It’s so interesting:

no change, only limitless depth in You.

Unshakable beauty and unsearchable layer upon layer.

For ages the same shiver and same fire,

you give men the same fear and same desire.

Same light, same shadow; same right, same hollow;

same question, same answer; same fractal, same order;

same meek, same power; same sweet, same sour;

same big, same small; same peace, same war;

same beauty, same fright; same duty, same might.

Yet one can never get tired of your character.

(As one can never get tired of studying the same

hill or street of their birth-town or parent’s home,

or the eye-color of their mother, lover or newborn.)

I’m nothing but a passing rainbow

on the sky of the ever same God.

Yet one million years of travelling on the same bus

wouldn’t be enough to understand a bit of your love,

or a morsel of You yourself, the ever awesome God.

Yet one million years of travelling on the same bus

You yourself, the ever awesome God.

Gratitude Journal – 1st Week


I have decided to write a gratitude journal, and to post some of it at least once a week. I will enlist 5 things I am grateful for that day or that week. I have to stop focusing on the negative things in my life and this should help. If you would like to share things that you are grateful for, feel free to do so in the comments.

Here is today’s list:

I am grateful for:

1. A very friendly puppy with candy-eyes on the road back home.

2. Pretty shells in my whale-large bag.

3. Salty wind blowing my face.

4. Ice-cream in the car with family.

5. The giant ruffles of the rare seen sea.



the trail of a gazelle’s hoof left behind

the rattling asphalt under wheels to grind

a drunkard’s swing away from the wall

on a drain a ring’s tapping fall

a chair-squeak without any risk

a turn on the corner with a sudden whisk

the opening of petal-less lips

the abyss-dip of atrophied leaves

the deep denting in a tectonic plate

a cloud of jackdaw flouncing as fright-freight

a frightening flouncing’s jackdaw-like steam

the dented tectonic plate’s freight-deep dream

the diving leaves’ abyss-happiness

the lipless petals are rather ravenous

the whisk-less turn of the face and chair

the tapping of the drain is a ring-like flare

the wall’s drunk swing away from everything

the grinding asphalt above the wheels forgetting

the trail of a gazelle’s hoof backwards started to move

I’m releasing the absolutely not releasable