Deklica z vžigalicami


Zgodbe nas na najlepši način negujejo in hkrati poučujejo, in ena takšnih zgodb je o Deklici z vžigalicami,
čigar sporočilo je lepo razdelala Clarissa Pinkola Estes.

Stories can nurture our souls and teach as at the same time through wisdom. And one of these stories is The Little Match Girl,
where Clarissa Pinkola Estes beautiful unveiled its message.

[Slovenian above | English below]

Nekoč je v temnem gozdu živela deklica, ki ni imela ne matere ne očeta. Na robu gozda je bila vasica in zvedela je, da lahko kupi vžigalice po pol penija, nato pa jih na ulici prodaja po peniju. Če je prodala dovolj vžigalic, si je lahko kupila skorjo kruha, se vrnila v svojo kočo v gozdu in zaspala, oblečena v vsa oblačila, kar jih je imela.
Prišla je zima in bilo je zelo mraz. Ni imela čevljev in njen plašček je bil tako tanek, da se je videlo skozenj. Stopala so ji pomodrela, prsti na nogah pa postali čisto beli; taki so bili tudi prsti na rokah in konica nosu. Tavala je po ulicah in moledovala tujce, naj kupijo vžigalice od nje. Toda nihče se ni ustavil in nihče se ni menil zanjo.
Tako se je nekega večera sesedla in si rekla: »Imam vžigalice. Lahko zakurim ogenj in se ogrejem.« Vendar ni imela ne trsk ne lesa. Odločila se je, da bo vseeno prižgala vžigalice. Sedla je na tla, iztegnila noge pred seboj in uprasnila prvo vžigalico. Zagorela je in bilo je, kakor da bi mraz in sneg v trenutku izginila. Namesto vrtinčastih snežink je zagledala prelepo sobo z veliko temno zeleno keramično pečjo. Vratca peči je krasila železna rezbarija. Peč je oddajala tolikšno vročino, da je zrak okoli nje valoval. Deklica se je stisnila tesno k njej in bilo je nebeško.
Toda nenadoma je peč izginila in spet se je znašla v snegu. Tako močno je drgetala, da so zarožljale kosti na njenem obrazu. Uprasnila je drugo vžigalico in zid hiše, ob kateri je sedela, je postal prosojen kakor tančica in nenadoma je lahko videla skozenj. V sobi za steno je bila miza, pokrita s snežno belim prtom, in a njej so bili najbolj beli porcelanasti krožniki in na pladnju je bila pravkar spečena gos, in ravno ko je segla po jedi, se je videnje razblinilo.
Spet je bila v snegu. Toda sedaj je kolena in boki niso več boleli. Mraz jo je zbadal in žgal navzgor proti rokam in trupu, zato je uprasnila tretjo vžigalico. In v svetlobi tretje vžigalice je zagledala prelepo božično drevo, čudovito okrašeno z belimi čipkasto obrobljenimi svečami in s prelepimi steklenimi okraski in tisoče in tisoče drobnimi svetlobnimi pikicami, da ni mogla uganiti, kaj so.
Zazrla se je kvišku v deblo visokega drevesa, ki se je dvigalo više in više in se raztezalo dlje in dlje proti stropu, dokler ni prešlo v zvezde na nebu nad njeno glavo in zagledala je zvezdo, ki je svetleče šinila čez nebo in se spomnila materinih besed, da se vsakič, ko umre kaka duša, utrne zvezda na nebu.
In na lepem se je pojavila njena babica, topla in prijazna, in deklico je neznansko osrečil pogled nanjo. Babica je razširila predpasnik in ga ovila okoli nje. Tesno jo je objela in deklica je bila zadovoljna. Toda babica je začela bledeti. In deklica je prižgala vžigalico za vžigalico, da bi obdržala babico ob sebi … in vžigalico za vžigalico, da bi obdržala babico ob sebi … in še in še … in skupaj z babico sta se začeli vzpenjati v nebo, kjer ni bilo ne mraza ne lahkote ne trpljenja. In zjutraj so našli deklico otrplo in mrtvo.

Deklica živi v okolju, kjer ljudem ni mar zanjo. Ljudje, ki jo obdajajo ne cenijo njenih ogenjčkov na paličicah – začetkov vsake ustvarjalne možnosti. Če živiš v podobnem položaju, ga čimprej zapusti; nikdar se ne vdaj in se zbrcaj čim prej ven. In da ne bi postala deklica z vžigalicami in se zatekala k fantaziji, se odloči za pomembno dejanje: »Kdor ne podpira tvojega načina življenja, ni vreden tvojega časa.«

There was a little girlchild who had neither a mother nor a father, and she lived in the dark forest. There was a village at the edge of the forest and she had learned that she could buy matches for a half-penny there and that she could sell them on the street for a full penny. If she sold enough matches, she could buy a crust of bread, return to her lean-to in the forest and sleep there dressed in all the clothes she owned.
The winter came and it was very cold. She had no shoes, and her coat was so thin she could see through it. Her feet were past the point of being blue, her toes were white; so were her fingers and the end of her nose. She wandered the streets and begged strangers, would they please buy matches from her? But no one stopped and no one paid her any attention. So she sat down one evening saying, “I have matches. I can light a fire and I can warm myself.” But she had no kindling and no wood. She decided to light the matches anyway.
As she sat there with her legs straight out in front of her, she struck the first match. As she did, it seemed that the cold and the snow disappeared altogether. What she saw instead of swirling snow was a room, a beautiful room with a great dark green ceramic stove with a door with iron scrollwork. The stove emanated so much heat it made the air wavy. She snuggled up close to the stove and it felt heavenly.
But all of a sudden the stove went out, and she was again sitting in the snow, shivering so bitterly the bones in her face chimed. And so she struck the second match, and the light fell upon the wall of the building next to where she sat and she could suddenly see through it. In the room behind the wall was a snowy cloth covering a table, and there on the table were china plates of the purest white, and on a platter was a goose that had just been cooked, and just as she was reaching for this repast, the vision disappeared.
She was again in the snow. But now her knees and her hips no longer hurt. Now the cold was stinging and burning its way up her arms and torso, and so she lit the third match. And in the light of the third match was a beautiful Christmas tree, beautifully decorated with white candles with lacy ruffs, and beautiful glass ornaments, and thousands of little dots of light that she couldn’t quite make out.
And she looked up the trunk of this enormous tree, that went higher and higher, and stretched farther and farther toward the ceiling until it became the stars in the heavens over her head and suddenly a star blazed across the sky, and she remembered her mother had told her that when a soul dies, a star falls.
And out of nowhere her grandmother appeared, so warm and so kind, and the child felt so happy to see her. The grandmother picked up her apron and put it around the child, held her close with both arms, and the child was content.
But the grandmother began to fade. And the child struck more and more matches to keep the grandmother with her … and more and more and more … and together she and the grandmother began to rise together up into the sky where there was no cold and no hunger and no pain. And in the morning, between the houses, the child was found still and gone.

This child lives in an environ where people do not care. If you are in one of these, get out. This child is in a milieu where what she has, little fires on sticks, the beginnings of all creative possibility, is not valued. If you are in this predicament, turn your back and walk away. Being with real people who warm us is essential to the flow of creative life. Otherwise, we freeze. When women are out in the cold, they tend to live on fantasies instead of action. So, to avoid being the little match girl, there is one major action you must take: » Anyone who does not support your life, is not worth your time.«

***

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4 comments

  1. Hvala za priču i » Anyone who does not support your life, is not worth your time.«

  2. Hvala vam na prisjećanju na ovu predivnu priču i povratku u djetinstvo…

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