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Radio Easterces Vladimir Morozov

Ivan Tolstoy: We begin with the radio end of Vladimir Morozov, which he almost mysteriously entitled "another", and I would call "History of my soul", in the manner of Maximilian Voloshin. From year to year, a decade after a decade, a person builds himself - ethically and morally. Vladimir Morozov has our microphone.

Vladimir Morozov: ... And Egoriy rode off the icon. Further Nikolai Klyuyev does not report anything about Egoria. But everything is already clear. St. George (Yuri, Egoriy) probably caught up, took a spear and sent a stage to Siberia. And his horse was sent to the collective farm, where she soon died of a freezer. The saint was working on a forestry and died of Pellagra. Or maybe he was shot, like millions of others, not necessarily saints. Like the author of these lines about Yegoria from the poem "Pogorelshchina". Here one name is enough to accuse the poet of anti -Soviet. Moreover, Klyuyev’s further has a “devastation” cycle.

Then the White Sea death channel,

His akimushka was digging ...

Right Nekrasovo Railway:

And on the sides are all Russian bones ...

Nekrasov, however, no one put in jail. And he did not shoot for slander to his native country. Others were orders. Autocracy, tsarism.

And the fact that the Communists arranged in the village, Nikolai Klyuyev could only see - fire and devastation. In addition, the poet was religious and openly showed such an "rest." He did not hide his non -traditional sexual orientation. For such an unconscious element in power, there was one answer - arrest, link, execution.

As a complete devastation, my grandmother also talked about collectivization. She, like Nikolai Klyuyev, lived in the village. She had everything with orientation - her husband and three children. Alexandra Fedorovna Morozova (in the girlishness of Kozlova) did not write poetry, because she went to school only one winter. In the second winter they did not let go - there was no felt boot. She did not read poetry, although they were written by her grandfather - Sergey Ivanovich Morozov, who was known in the village with a letter, because he finished 4 classes. My ancestors were not much younger than Klyuyev and remembered collectivization and dispossession well. When everyone was taken away from everyone. Grandmother does not remember her mother, she died early, and father went after her soon. The older brothers raised. She served as their laborer, only without payment.

Then they married a stranger. For the old man, she complained. He was 10 years older. And he died early. It is impossible to withstand such a life without God. On the nightstand near the grandmother's bed stood a small icon and lay a broken gospel. The only book she read. At the same time, the grandmother led her finger in the lips and moved her lips. She loved to quote Scripture, seasoning him with a kind mother. This made her sayings even more convincing.

"God, he sees everything, your mother like that!"

At the same time, I, already a high school student, was forbidden to curse. Although for the grandmother herself was a kind of funny fairy-tale character.

"A sussed comes to the sushed, and he bakes an egg on a candle. Well, a sussed and tells how it has shown you! And the devil sits behind the stove and thinks-yes, I’m surprised myself."

My grandmother put on the very first cross on me. When Komsomol parents were at work, she carried me to church and christened me. Returning, they condemned her for arbitrariness and they removed the cross from me. But then he returned to me again. I went to work on the fishing fleet in an old school jacket. Over time, he was great, and once, stuffing something in his chest pocket, I felt a hard object behind the lining. He broke a hole in matter and pulled into the light of God the same cross. Babushkin. She sewed him there. What happened to him later, I do not remember.

But I know that my atheist my mother baptized three of my cousins, who were much younger than me. Tsarist names-Nikolai, Boris, Vladimir-although the origin of all workers and peasants. They lived in Moscow, but going there to church meant for the mother to take risks a party ticket. It was said that the capital's priests are obliged to report the names of the parents who baptized the children "up". It was also spoken about the fact that for such an misconduct he lost both the red book and the work of a certain employee of the Central Committee of the Trade Union of railway workers. He also chuckled at this misfortune, because he was punished by an atheist, and his wife was tightly drunk, but her mother insisted on baptism. By the will of the mother -in -law sent me! There was nowhere to exclude this mother -in -law and nowhere to lower - a cleaning lady. In short, my mother, on the advice of good people, found some village church away from Moscow, and there she baptized her nephews. It is clear that the priest was given on a paw. He is also a man, he needs to feed his family. And who is the hunt for free to take it for free.

Mother gave me the cross that I wear now. She sent him to America with a deliberate. Brooklyn Naturopath from former Russians, Naum Nakhimovsky, about to engage in my back, advised the cross to take off. I took off and asked me to put my treasure on the table. No, the doctor answered, it is better you yourself do it yourself, with your own hands. What are you afraid of, I was surprised, this is a maternal gift. Moreover, the Naturopath answered with conviction.

In the summer, stripping by the water, I look around the coaters. I have one cross. I carefully touch him with a finger. Out of habit? Or annoying that no one notices this. Crusader in swimming trunks! Vanity in its pure form. With a religious shade. However, I am not the most desperate example of such a demonstrative righteousness. About ten years ago, I happened to visit Latin America with missionaries.

In the village of Corinth, the group was collected by my Presbyterian church. They wanted to go to Honduras. But several reports came that grateful natives began to rob and rape missionaries. The trip was canceled. And I have already been going to make the suffering humanity happy, I complained to Pastor John Aldridge. And you can do this with a group of missionaries Jeff Sandwick, the pastor answered, they go to Nicaragua, it is safe there, he takes two daughters with him. Jeff lived in the same Corinth, but with his family visited the church of the neighboring town of Leham. Once I visited there. A huge building, which once had a warehouse, skillfully rebuilt into church, where more than a thousand people were placed. Megaskov! I did not believe my eyes, but in the lobby of the temple there was also my buffet, in which, however, they did not hold beer. Well, a cinema, and nothing more. Well equipped technically. Huge screens hung on both sides of the preacher's department. On them, even sitting in the back rows could see the Pastor's face close -up. He was not very but noticeably playing the public. Its parishioners are Born Again (born again), the evangelists. And thirty of them flew to Latin America during their vacation and at their own expense, like me. Lawyers, programmers, teachers, nurses. In Nicaragua, we lived in a mountain village, I don’t remember the names, but as I see the clouds floating below the village now. We slept at school, at the mattresses thrown on the floor. In the mornings, we were awakened by monkeys who raised a terrible scream in the jungle 70 meters from us. Several masons and carpenters arrived in our group. Under their supervision, we built a church. For nine days, guest to finish it did not shine. But later the village expected another, then the second, that is, the third landing of the missionaries, who had to complete the work we had begun. The brigade got up early, a joint prayer followed before breakfast, and for work, comrades. In addition to me, there was another missionary without qualification, 13-year-old James, the only one of our groups who came to Nicaragua not for his money. There was no one, a single mother earned a little. And the parishioners of the Presbyterian Church threw themselves to the guy for a ticket.

But I started about righteousness. The missionaries had a custom - to mention Christ through the word. Some of them wore T -shirts with the inscription "I'M Not ashamed that I'M Christian" (I am not ashamed to be a Christian). Well, what, I’m not ashamed of it either, but why scream about it throughout the village! The evangelists born again invited me to be born again. To do this, it was necessary to climb an open tank with water, where the pastor dipped you with his head and pronounced a prayer. I refused. Then two evangelists began questions.

“Why do you think you are a Christian?”

- Because in childhood I was baptized and I feel like a Christian.

“Do you think this is enough?”

- For me yes.

There was a couple of 25-year-olds with us-the bride and groom. It turned out from my long and trusting conversation with them that they did not allow themselves to be any such sex before the wedding. The groom later complained to me: I, they say, do not mind, but she is not in any way, she is stronger than me in faith. Yes, why is it impossible before the wedding, I was perplexed, you love each other. But because this is how it is written in the Bible. In the evenings by the fire, they sat holding around, but slept, as it were, apart. Another, more cheerful pair of missionaries brought guitars with them, and on Sunday the inhabitants of the Nicaraguan village, first with a slight amazement, who came to the prayer with us, and then enthusiastically listened to Christian rock, which is impossible to sing without a smile. And that megaskovo in the city of Leham in the north of the state of New York, whose missionaries accepted me into their ranks, that church reminded me of another, also converted from the construction of purely worldly. The Americans have from the warehouse, and in Russia ... my son and I (it was 14 years old) came to Kirovsk (Murmansk region) to ski. We wandered around the city and went to the outskirts. Behind the gray blocks of the Khrushchev stood ordinary camp barracks converted under housing. And over one of them, a church poppy rose. Then they told me what Stalin allowed such a disgrace during the war. Everything for the front, everything for victory! So God was mobilized. In the pre-seal of the church, as expected, the icons hung, apparently the locals brought the good hidden from the Bolsheviks. But the spirit (at least mine) did not want to soar, the ceilings were painfully low in the hut, I touched bald.

And another church, this time in the suburbs, in which we wandered with his son when he was already about 16 years old. We celebrated the birthday of the actress and director Nika Kosenkova. From her housing in Domodedovo walked through some forests and meadows. They stumbled upon a dilapidated church, in the middle of which, among the scattered bricks, traces of the fire remained. We lit our own. Piston, sausage, poems. Then my son and I went to see the surviving rooms. In one of them stood a participant in the festival and urinated.

- What are you doing! - I was naively surprised. - This is the church!

- What is the church? - He objected. - There are only ruins around.

Yes, ruins, but even if it had been very close, I could not cope there.

So the temple left - the whole temple,

The idol of the defeated is all God!

In addition, forgive my superstition, but this idol may not be completely defeated, only its external man -made symbol is destroyed. But God, idol (call it as you like), he himself remained. He went into the ground, in our memory, in the soul, in the subconscious. He does not need the second coming. Genes that are always with me.

Two feelings are wildly close to us -

In them, the heart gains food -

Love for a native ashes,

Love for fatherly coffins.

For me, the ruins of the Church are (as they say now) in one bottle - both native ashes and paternal coffins. It’s not even an hour, and suddenly at the place where the friend is now taking the need, it was on this Piglet that he lived, his own great -great -grandfather prayed or was buried. Yes, at least someone!

Not trusting the temptations of the road large

or dreams consecrated for centuries,

I remain an atheist with a free soul

In this world, teeming with the gods.

But once, the strata of reason is fragmented,

delving into your key,

I saw how in the mirror, peace and myself,

And another, another, another.

Good Nabokov, he can - he is a classic. And what is different for me? A centuries -old prejudice? Or a premonition of the past? Or, as they say truly religious people, the power of a prayed place? I myself, apparently, is not real. Recently, on a biblical circle in the Presbyterian Church in my village, Corinth directly thumped that, they say, the eater god chose an unusual, cruel and undeserved punishment for Job. I was immediately asked:

“So you are questioning God's act?”

“Yes,” I answered nothing, “I am in question and, moreover, condemn.”

After that, I was not crucified and did not even drive me out. And I must say that I survived not only thanks to the kindness of my opponents. The Presbyterians are generally free people. They have no bishops or other church authorities. The parishioners themselves are looking for and hire a pastor. In short, they began to discuss with me. The scripture was revealed and thrown in quotes. But I continued to refresh myself and demanded that the opponents postpone books and speak in my own words. They did so. The dispute is like a dispute, no one broke stools, especially about my head. Here is such a rampant democracy in the village of Corinth.

I continue to go to the Presbyterian Church. And they give me a hand. And once a month we place the tables there and the grunts brought from the house make up a common meal.

But why do I go to church at all? Other? For the first time I went to the temple by accident, when I was already exceeded 60. I made material about single mothers for the radio. In particular, whether a woman should have a child if she is not married and it does not shine for her. He called the churches-Catholics, Orthodox, someone else. Catholics strictly answered - well, what a child, if a woman is not married, in any case. The Orthodox priest said the same thing, but rather angrily. And to my question, what can she do if she wants to become a mother, without hesitation, answered - let him go to the monastery! The episcopal church of grace in a couple of quarters from my housing on Hicks Street in Brooklyn. I went there. The then pastor has long been retired. His name was Niles, the surname, it seems, Blatz, his ancestors came to the New World from Scandinavia. My question did not puzzle at all and did not angry. The woman herself must decide, he answered. "But what would you advise her?" I insisted. And the pastor told me the story of his parishioner, not calling the surname. She is about forty, excellent education, good work and earnings for envy, travels to Europe twice a year. But she would like to have a child. She came and asks: Pastor, what to do? Well, we talked with her, then the second time, the third. That is, we did not talk, Niles said, I only occasionally asked questions, but she said basically, I only helped her speak out, to make, so to speak, an audit of my feelings and finances, to think about the future out loud. Well, in the process it is better to understand yourself. In the end, she made the decision herself. Which? Yes, this is not important, the pastor answered, the main thing is herself.

I liked this approach, and next Sunday I came to the service. I have long wanted to learn more about the faith of my Christian ancestors. And (again superstition?) How to establish with them a certain absenteeism or something contact. Throwing a sort of virtual bridge after a while, which until then the weakening memories and stories of my grandmother served me. You can beautifully call this a search for roots, sources, past. Are we all from the past? Or Ivanes who do not remember kinship? Both that and the other? Other!

It is clear that before I went to the Orthodox churches. But prayer with a tongue twister, the harsh faces of parishioners, framed by black scarves, strange people, as if who came there from the 18th century. I did not like the orders. In the Orthodox monastery of the Holy Trinity in the town of Jordanville in the north of New York, my wife was stopped at the entrance to the church. In jeans, it is not supposed to and cover your hair with a handkerchief. We were not far from retirement, and, in my opinion, only a rare fanatic could seriously demand a dress code from us, as is called Russian today.

Here I am a fighter for freedom, but in the church of Corinth, such freedom seemed to me not that excessive, but strange. In the summer, girls and young women come to church in shorts, short skirts and beach slaps. And I, the old goat, look at their bare knees and distracted, I complained to Pastor John. He smiled and replied that the Council of Elders had already discussed whether it was worth introducing the dress code, and decided not to do this so as not to push young people from the church. I had to put up with bare knees.

In the novelty it was me to take the sacrament. At first he could not, Tolstoy’s words interfered that he did not want to eat the flesh of Christ and drink His blood. Then I got used to the rite. But the concept of the Trinity did not defeat. But he accepted, as I accept Christ, with doubts and the puzzled questions of a layman. There is a good saying in English on this score - Love Me, Love My Dog. The literal translation is obvious - you love me, love and my dog. The Russian analogue - who is glad to the guest, he will feed his dog. That is, take me entirely, which is.

How do I accept Christ? I have an answer, but I will not bring it. Here, as in a joke, Ivan has his own opinion, but he does not share it. And I do not dare to talk in detail about something else. Too delicate matter. Theologians are engaged in the path. They have already come, so to speak, and I'm still on the road. Of course, he gathered late on the road, but here he is lucky. Yes, it’s scary to talk about Christ. They will consider a simpleton or a fanatic. Or a round idiot.

In addition, Shklovsky said that art does not tolerate directed, but it seems to me that religion is too. Somehow the deceased now Mark Popovsky called me to his Orthodox Church in Manhatten. The priest had a strong accent, they explained to me that he learned the Russian language to adults. But this is still half -worn. The priest interpreted the Scripture to us in a simple language that could probably seem primitive even to a younger schoolchild. Выходило неинтересно, ведь эти тексты я знал в куда более поэтичном изложении евангелистов. Чего-чего, а прямоговорения у них не было.

Спрятавшись за спину Шкловского, я обвиняю в прямоговорении священников и пасторов некоторых других церквей, в которых побывал. Книги теологов, которые пробовал читать, у меня не пошли. Там авторы часто впадают в другой грех. Они говорят как бы с равными, с людьми, которые и так все понимают. На это счет на английском есть выражение preaching to a quire. В буквальном переводе – проповедовать церковному хору, то есть убеждать человека в том, во что он уже верит, ломиться в открытую дверь. Для меня она была закрытой, ну, едва приоткрытой. Дверь в ДРУГОЕ. Я бодался с ней несколько раз, но распахнуть не сумел. Не каждому дано. Стою возле двери.

Но многолетняя борьба с дверью неожиданно пошло мне на пользу. Прежде чем начать рассказ об этой пользе, сошлюсь на такой авторитет, как Виктор Франкл. Он считал религию одним из элементов своей логотерапии. "Цель психотерапии – лечить душу, сделать ее здоровой; цель религии – нечто существенно отличающееся – спасать душу. Но замечательный побочный эффект религии – психогигиенический. Религия дает человеку духовный якорь спасения с таким чувством уверенности, которое он не может найти нигде больше. И хотя психотерапевт не задается специальной целью помочь пациенту в достижении способности верить, в некоторых случаях пациент вновь обретает свою способность к вере".

Я набрел на эти строки совсем недавно. А с психотерапевтами познакомился давно, около 30 лет назад в Нью-Йорке после женитьбы на американке. Она оказалась феминисткой из Манхеттена. А я оставался довольно-таки неотесанным российским мужиком и пытался переводить на английский расхожие поговорки типа "курица не птица – баба не человек", "спроси у женщины и сделай наоборот". Не успел я высыпать на жену и с полдюжины таких поговорок, как удостоился звания "male chauvinist pig", которое, наверное, не нуждается в переводе. Любовь любовью, но в быту мы говорили на разных языках. Мой казался ей откровенно дикарским, ее – был для меня изыском феминисток. What to do? И мы пошли к семейному психотерапевту. С его помощью цепная реакция наших эмоций понемногу перестала быть ядерной бомбой, а стала атомной электростанцией. На такое укрощение ушло немало времени. Походил к специалистам и я один. Нужда была. В России она называлась нервы. Так говорили тамошние врачи. На меня часто нападало беспричинное уныние, мучила бессонница, припадки раздражительности, почти ежедневно болела голова. Иногда болело и сердце, хотя я регулярно ходил в бассейн и никаких изменений кардиограмма не находила. Помню, как мы таскались с матерью по врачам, когда меня еще надо было водить за ручку. Диагноз поставили уже в Америке – ажитированная депрессия. Впервые я услышал диагноз по-английски – depression and anxiety. Но несчастным страдальцем считал себя уже с детства.

Периоды уныния еще можно было пережить. Но постоянное беспричинное перевозбуждение и беспокойство, иногда переходящие в панику, не позволяли сосредоточиться. Помню, возвращался со смены из пражской редакции радио и пытался припомнить 14-15 новостей, которые читал в эфир несколько часов подряд и некоторые из которых написал сам. После больших усилий вспоминал 2-3, ну 4. И это при отличной памяти, например, на стихи, могу читать их наизусть километрами.

Как я позже узнал от врачей, ажитированная депрессия – удел многих, а знают об этом далеко не все. Но вот состояние, которое я испытывал задолго до того, как попал к специалистам. Вдруг без каких-либо внешних причин ты чувствуешь нечто подобное тому, что ощущает человек, который едет на вокзал в такси, понимает, что может опоздать, нервничает и вдруг попадает в пробку. He goes hot and cold. Он крушит кулаком свою ладонь. Собирается выскочить из машины, хотя и понимает, что пешком тем более не успеет.

Желающие могут прочитать более подробное описание этого состояния в Википедии. Советы консультантов мне не помогали. Какая к черту медитация, когда я не могу высидеть сеанс в кино и досматриваю его уже стоя в боковом проходе! Помог психиатр по фамилии Ньюмэн, не родственник знаменитому актеру, а парень из бывших россиян. Я поведал ему о мигренях бабушки, которая сутками лежала пластом и начинала глухо стонать, если в нашей деревенской избе скрипнула половица. Рассказал, что родила меня 18-летняя девчонка, муж которой – мой отец – в тот же год загремел в тюрьму. Как, повзрослев, я видел, что каждое утро мать просыпалась с искаженным от головной боли лицом и пила гостями анальгин и чашками кофе. Выслушав эту исповедь, Ньюмэн развел руками:

– Так чего же вы, дорогой, хотите с такой-то родословной!

Ни один из его американских коллег (психологи, психотерапевты, психиатры) сказать этого мне не решался. Но постепенно, по их совету, я стал пить лекарства. Привожу названия. Не чтобы дать совет, а для пущей точности. Лет 15-17 лет я принимаю xanax, buspar и celexa. По-русски они называются точно так же. Пью лекарства минимальными дозами, по три-четыре раза в день. Плюс периодический контроль психиатра.

Понятно, что другим страдальцам хлебать самостоятельно эти "таблетки счастья" не советую. Поговорите с врачом. С психотерапевтом и, да, с психиатром. Не стесняйтесь. Не вы первый. И хорошо, если врач у вас не последний. Одна голова хорошо, а два психиатра лучше.

Гремящая, громящая

Бессонница твоя.

Бог помочь! – Я, держащая

Частицу бытия –

Как средство во спасение

Таблеток смесь в горсти –

И свет успокоения,

И, Господи, спаси.

Это написала Антонина Хлебникова, жена Фазиля Искандера.

Одно время я подумал было, что залечил болячку, и попробовал бросить лекарства. Но симптомы вернулись в самом свирепом виде. Нет, в больницу меня не положили и под поезд я не бросался. Врачи помогли мне вернуться к прежней дозе. А стихи Антонины Хлебниковой попались мне очень кстати. Потому что даже и с лекарствами я смог нейтрализовать депрессию только лет 13-14 назад, когда окончательно обосновался в деревне, где и стал постоянно ходить в церковь. Здесь у меня случилась размолвка с Набоковым. Он считал, что "к Богу приходят не экскурсии с гидом, а одинокие путешественники". Мне легче с экскурсией (прихожане) и с гидом (пастор).

Умиротворяющее воздействие других людей, которые молятся вокруг тебя, описано не раз. Не один автор говорил и об ауре намоленного места. Но это не годится в качестве рецепта. Иначе все ходили бы не к врачам, а прямиком в церковь. Оно и дешевле, Богу можно дать и 20 долларов, и два, а специалист за один сеанс в 45 минут требует от 60 долларов до нескольких сотен. И не всякая страховка это покрывает. С другой стороны, выясняется, что одно другому не мешает – врач и пастор, лекарство, консультация, молитва.

Да, конечно, кроме церкви, деревня дала мне охоту, огород и лес в 30 шагах от порога. Виктор Франкл, наверное, не возражал бы и против регулярных походов в горы с соседскими собаками Сникерс и Шайло. Славные послушные псы. В Коринфе не с кем слова сказать по-русски. Так что в лесу я говорю с собаками на моем родном языке. И все основные команды и матерные слова они давно освоили. Кстати, все эти слова произношу ласковым голосом. И большие зверюги норовят лизнуть меня в нос, трутся об ногу, будто понимают, что они мне как дети малые, когда года в полтора они уже научились ходить, а говорить еще нет.

Вот такая вот бытовая психотерапия. И постепенно прошла головная боль, прошла бессонница, прошел крик на жену и много других пакостей, которые отравляли жизнь мне и моим близким несколько десятилетий подряд. Ну, может быть, прошло не совсем и не всегда, но полегчало крепко. Сильно полегчало.

... А как там забытый нами Святой Георгий?

...и с иконы ускакал Егорий.

На иконе он без особых мышечных усилий тоненьким копьецом, шутя-играя, поражает Змия. Но легенда повествует, что в жизни Георгию крепко не поздоровилось. Не зря его зовут Великомученик. Но и до великих мук он успел сотворить немало чудес. Творил их и во время пыток. Один из первых в Римской империи христиан, после смерти Георгий (Егорий, Юрий) стал в православной традиции покровителем воинов, земледельцев и скотоводов. Юрьев день – в его честь. Хотя про День мало кто помнит, только что и осталась уже полузабытая поговорка – вот тебе, бабушка, и Юрьев день.

Об этом празднике мне напомнил отличный фильм Кирилла Серебренникова "Юрьев день". О героине (метафора России), которая вроде бы заехала погостить в свое прошлое, да так в нем и увязла. Forever. Спираль истории, ее мертвая петля? Или петля-удавка, но ее-то надо уметь вязать.

Интересно, вернулся бы Егорий на икону при нынешнем российском православии? Которое скорее напоминает отдел пропаганды забытого ЦК КПСС. Но это я рыло ворочу. А Егорий, пожалуй, мог бы и вернуться. Все по той же причине.

love me, love my dog.

Don't know. And there is no one to ask.