No matter how beautiful the photos are and no matter how wonderful I made the video, all the materials will never convey what I feel now when I am writing this text.

Sitting on a bench with a woven rug, I lean on a square pillow in a pillowcase with lace, and frosty air blows to my feet from the window from the window. Directly above my head is a red corner, and an icon with a lamp, crochet curtains on the windows, logs in the Russian oven crack, and next to the table is a cast iron with borsch, which we ourselves have cooked in it. Children are sleeping in the next room, and I hear them sniffing. A candlelight burns and at night we hear frosts cracking as a bear pounded on the door with its paws.

I love every detail in this house: sheep coats and boots, which are waiting for us in the hallway, buckets of water to be heated in the oven, horseradish and sauerkraut, which are frozen in the hallway, a barn and a decorated Christmas tree hidden there, huge icicles hanging from the porch mittens and socks carefully prepared for us, sheepskin slippers and warm vests, embroidered shirts and sarafans, sashes and belts, linen pajamas, tablecloths, cast-iron and wooden spoons, the little spoons that we presented, the birds of happiness that the children carved, a loom and a rug, which every morning becomes several centimeters longer thanks to the efforts of Nicole, kerosene lamps, lotto, napkins, birch bark baskets, cups and cups, a pre-revolutionary samovar and many chests, fluffy spruce and river from the window, hare and wolf tracks.

I’m walking across the field, whispering to myself ... “I love you”.

They will not, I am almost sure, will not stand for my Motherland and shout “Hurray” for Russia three times. And I honestly do not think that one day with a fist in the chest and an embrasure behind the banner. My Russia is different: not about tricolor, not about Moscow skyscrapers, not about politics. There is something special about us Russians: a kind heart and a wide soul. I would like our children to always be proud of a piece of Russian blood, not to love poppies, but what the forest smells like, and books in the library, and the metro in which those who read library books travel, I want to know how to love avenues and fields , lakes, rivers and mountains, so that they know that the willow is crying and that the sky can be ringing, and that the heart is hot, and the soul is wide open, that they look at the stars and make wishes, and that their wishes always come true, so that holding hands , felt warm, and once realized that they had two large families.

“Wherever I am, I am yours forever.

You are my homeland ”

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