Artemisia and coronavirus. The wooden cross.
I rarely have vivid dreams. That day I woke up from something special. At first, I was in a hospital with patients and someone had requested an autograph. I said to him: "What are you talking about? Do you know that in ten years this may worth ten million euros...?? "Then I was in my parents' house. There was also an aunt of mine, my father's first cousin, with whom we were distanced for several years now. It is as if a DNA that was never lost suddenly came to life from the depths of time. She gave me a nice carved wooden cross as a gift, which had carved birds on its edges. A piece of jewelry, it was two or three times the size of my palm. I woke up in the peace that she gave me that gift, the peace of kindness and a distant love from my father's relative, from his own family that I felt that I had lost. The gap was already large.
After enjoying a nice mild coffee, a sweetened Nescafe with a spoon, as I used to do lately, I logged into Facebook. And suddenly, in the news feed I read that in Madagascar the herb Absinthe or Artemisia was announced as a cure for the coronavirus. It was on Google a month after my discovery - finding. At first I did not pay much attention, I saw it as a simple confirmation. But as time went by, I began to realize it. Until I realized that it was vindication. Then I remembered the dream. This cross was a great blessing; the peace that I felt was unique. I praise God for these majestic feelings. And indeed, when I received the gift, it was as if I said: Well done, my offer was not in vain - But what offer...?? I had not offered anything. It was the discovery; which I remembered on the occasion of the dream. Lately, through March of 2020, my discovery on Wormwood or Artemisia herb was released, which in combination with zinc fights against the coronavirus, a conclusion reached after research that I had performed at the beginning of quarantine. Covid 19 or SARS -CoV2 anyway had brought a pandemic or, at least, quarantine, because before there were patients that passed away from various viruses, but also from this virus, as they say, in the country. Artemisia, in large doses is toxic, but it can be used as a medicine, as it was done in Madagascar. I did not search much; within a maximum of half an hour in one night in March 2020, I had found it. My dedication and perseverance led me to the solution. Without, of course, ruling out that this is the only one. Immediately afterwards, for at least a formal confirmation, I emailed it to myself. I uploaded it to my blog and sent it to some friends selectively. Others had also seen it, as a few times I had advertised it along with other tips in our fight against coronavirus, as well as for health and happiness in general. It was my gift. It was my offer. My aunt wouldn’t even open her door for me to enter. She had stopped doing so for several years now. Even after being
notified on his health, while he was hospitalized, I knew that despite any disagreements and differences they were beloved cousins; even then, after she had come, she was cold and derogatory. Perhaps, she wanted, deep inside to justify her already misguided self. It has been two decades since then. It was a time when I was overwhelmed by various situations that mainly concerned my relationship with my social environment. None of my relatives asked me why I was not ok; especially those, who skillfully contributed to this unpleasant situation, just like her. Regarding the lack of affection and elementary discretion, they wouldn't even mention it. The heavy burden with ease was given to me to carry, to my teenage daring risky tendency, an anticipated characteristic of any teenager. But even if they did that, my opinion was like falling into a vacuum, bouncing off their own disbelief and misunderstanding. To be polite... Not that I had big hopes from relatives I rarely saw, but even this attitude they had towards me was derogatory. Not for me, I never felt that way, even though it bothered me, but for themselves. With her eldest son, an exact copy of her, we wouldn't greet each other. He had been on Special Forces duty in the army and his military style was well-preserved, as the mummy is preserved over the years; a cold, moving being, testy and unnatural. It took me a while to understand the fiasco; the jealousy, the inadequacy that she projected herself elsewhere. And she, after so many years and while she was given opportunities to stand decently on her feet, while losing her otherwise beloved cousin had no one to speak to. I was reborn. From the poison that became a therapeutic herb, medicine. The day I finished my short story, one Saturday, which is a sacred day for the souls, I turned on the television and fell on the music show "Cheers, my friends". My father used to watch the show, as he was a music lover, a virtuoso harmonica player with an excellent voice, a great unexploited talent. And it was playing the song "A wooden cross", written by Kostas Virvos and orchestrated by Christos Leontis.
Lakis Chalkias was singing. I listened carefully to the song lyrics: "A wooden cross nestled in wildflowers is anyone's son, who cannot nestle enslaved. And when the wind cries and groans the cross with a heavenly voice tells us move only forward, forever. A wooden cross with the moon as its candle is a shining beacon, and you worth it lad". I was deeply moved... ~~
The Father
At one point, while looking at some photos on Facebook I wondered if parents sleep with their babies. And as if I had no recollection of it, I thought of asking my mother. A few days had passed and the issue was forgotten. One night, where I was surfing carefree on Facebook my eyes fell on a photo. There was a father with a baby. I liked it, but I moved on, as I usually do with photos of people I don't know after clicking the "Like" button. I moved on, until the news stream brought it back on my screen where I started reading the attached comments. He was a young father; he seemed fit or maybe a little chubby, with curly dark hair, holding his baby tenderly by the hand. Then I asked his wife, as he had passed away years ago, shortly after this photo was taken, as she confessed to us, if the parents sleep with their babies. She said yes, and the only fear would be to accidently fall on them during sleep. So, when looking at that tender photo and even before talking to the baby's mother, Mrs. Vavi, I remembered my own father. He lovingly leaned over my headrest and held my hand tenderly with his sturdy hands. That was a moment from the depths of time that came to flood the
present like a sudden lightning in a clear sky that dazzles you. Apart from being a jeweler and a skilled gold engraver, he was very good at both the unicycle and high-diving. He also liked cycling and fishing. He had various interests and talents that helped him exercise his muscular strength. In addition to being restless, an innate talent. A genius, I would say. And indeed, his hair was black, thick and curly. That's how I was born and in the process they altered. But not the eyes, I still have half blue of his own, from that sea, the witch he had adored. How can all these not come to your mind, when you suddenly and unexpectedly recall memories as if they were experiences from the present, from a past so distant‌?? Our life, of course, is an infinitesimal gust of wind in the face of infinity, lasting for an infinitesimal period of time, but for us here, since we live it in minutes and seconds and forget it over time when the information we receive is stormy, but even if it is just a routine without special nuances, it looks great. So deep in time and yet, as if this image that my memory recorded came to life in the present, making me experience it again. Time does not forget, as I did not forget, since I happen to have even rare memories from my infancy. After all, nothing is really lost even if it is forgotten. It is recorded in our own photographic film, in our personal Akashic records of time. Because "nothing is lost in our lost life, I resurrect your dream and your every why", as the song says.
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