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"No, I'm not running away from myself. "Now it's my turn to look at him curiously—rather, on the contrary, I want to come to myself." I have always believed that you can understand yourself only through God and Russia. And to understand Russia... It seems to me that it is unlikely that anyone will succeed. To be honest, I set myself a more modest goal: I want to look at her, my dear.

"And where does your path lie, if it's not a secret?"

- What a secret is there. I just don't know where I'm going to go. There is a month of vacation, there is an approximate path, and what place will you have enough strength to walk to...

-Got it. And yet it is in vain for you to leave, mark my word.

"Maybe," I answered, and all we had to do was say goodbye.

It so happened that only a month ago I was lucky enough to take in my hands a book that tells in detail about the life of the holy elder. Maybe that's why, when I entered the cell, it seemed that I was already there. A lamp burns quietly. Icons. Photographs. What heavenly heights opened up to his eyes from this tiny room, which became a place of spiritual attraction for all of Russia? For some reason, the words of the elder came to mind: "We must live on earth as a wheel turns: as soon as one point touches the ground, and the rest of the points inevitably strive upwards; and as soon as we lie down on the ground, we cannot get up"... My lips seemed to whisper a prayer of their own accord. It was as if some kind of abscess had burst. I wasn't looking for words, they came by themselves. Now, as I write this, I can no longer remember those words, return that state. I only remember that it was as if I saw myself from the outside, and saw my life, sinful and stupid, in which there was so much ostentation, so fake, so much vanity and empty words, walking in the dark and self-conceit...

It was already evening, when I slowly wandered from the skete to the monastery along a picturesque forest path. He wandered devastated and happy. This happens in childhood, when you commit some misdeed, carry the burden of what you have done in your soul for a long time, and then, shedding tears, you tell your mother about everything. And with forgiveness comes happiness, and you suddenly notice how wonderful everything around you is. And the emptiness is from the stone that fell from your soul.

I will not describe Optina. Firstly, it has already been described hundreds of times, and secondly, it is better to see once than to hear a hundred times. I will only say that, to my joy, I did not notice the tourists loitering idly here. No, there were people. But the difference between a tourist and a pilgrim is the same as between night and day. Some watch, others fall down. Some take away impressions, souvenirs, others bring questions, their hardships and doubts.

Near the entrance to the main temple of the monastery there are crosses. New crosses on old graves. The Optina elders rest here. There are also laymen - brothers Ivan and Peter Kireevsky. For the absolute majority of us, they are (as we were taught) Slavophiles. As if one word can characterize the whole life of a person. But Peter is a wonderful writer and collector, talented and self-sacrificing of the inexhaustible wealth of the Russian people: its songs, proverbs, sayings. Ivan is a philosopher whose legacy we have yet to study and understand. Thank God, the time for this has come. And in the temple there are the relics of St. Ambrose - the spiritual teacher of the Kireevsky brothers.

Entering the church, I was surprised to find that it was not just a service. More precisely, not service at all. Three young novices were ordained monks. Former names, surnames, former life - everything remained there, beyond the threshold of the monastery. A beautiful ritual in which there is solemnity, sorrow, and joy. The reliquary with the relics of the saint is open, and, probably, not only I have the feeling that Ambrose himself is blessing the new brothers - Arseny, Hilarion, Dositheus. A tall, stately monk with a noble gray beard pronounced a word without verbal beauty, all kinds of speech effects, but a strong, sinking word into the soul. He spoke about what a heavy cross it is to be a monk, how responsible and difficult it is. And what a joy it is to be a monk, casting aside all earthly and vain things, to serve the Lord, to save not only your own souls, but also the souls of those who remained in the world. Then all the monks present in the church, standing up in pores, began to approach and venerate the relics of Saint Ambrose. They were followed by laymen, first men, then women. Surprisingly, my heart suddenly began to beat like a drum. I did not understand this excitement. My hands suddenly became sweaty. The faces around me were like in a fog... Only when I went out into the street did I realize that it was not in vain that I got to the rite of monastic tonsure. It is not at all accidental that today, for the sake of this event, the relics of the monk were discovered. And in general, there are no coincidences in life. Whoever believes in chance does not believe in God. I knew for sure that my prayers in the cell had been answered. The holy elder blessed me for the journey.

June 19. On the banks of the Zhizdra.

Early, early morning. Kozelsk. The town is still asleep, only somewhere to the left, where small houses are hidden in the green of the trees, a rooster is crowing with might and main. The night rain slightly nailed the dust, which here, as in any Russian regional center, is in abundance. The rising sun silvered the dew on the fence and grass. The day promised to be hot, but for now, in these dawn hours, it was easy to walk. Behind them was the fast Zhizdra and the monastery on its bank, the road led along the main street. I walked and thought that cities are the same people. The fate of cities is like human destinies. There are great cities, known to everyone, there are unknown ones, living quietly and inconspicuously: there are Croesus among the cities, and there are Cinderellas, who were never destined to meet their prince. Among

There are two bright types of people: those who know how to live, and those who do not. It seems that they live in the same way, but for some everything is fine, and for others everything is not like people. They are called losers, eccentrics. It seems that God gave everything - a smart head, hard-working hands, a just and honest heart. Or maybe that's the point? Others, those who know how to live, have managed to understand that if you want to live, know how to spin. And these are not going to turn around, to compromise with their conscience. Sometimes it seems to me that all provincial cities that have been counting the chronology since the time of Troy's grandsons are from the category of those who do not know how to live. And judge for yourself. What picturesque places are located, what riches are around, how many centuries behind the soul, and look at them... Any metropolitan journalist who comes here for a day, in his photo essay (this is fashionable now) will write that he is very provincial and ordinary (read between the lines - gray and uninteresting), place three or four photographs - the only remaining church, a grandmother selling at the market, a half-naked beauty in the window of a kiosk... In short, the sentence has been pronounced. You can go further, because there are countless such towns in Russia... In those ancient times, when the Arabs triumphantly conquered one province after another, Christians also lived there. The Arabs offered the cities to surrender to the mercy of the victors, promising to save the lives of the citizens. Then those who accepted the Muslim faith were exempted from taxation. And soon there was a drop of Christians left in the Islamic ocean. What can you do, you need to be able to live. Cities are like people. People are like cities. And when the Mongols tried to act in Russia according to the "Arab scenario", they failed. It is clear when it refers to such great and powerful cities as Vladimir and Kyiv, they still had, albeit a small, but a chance. And what could tiny Kozelsk, which 750 years ago was "provincial and ordinary", hope for? The heroic defense of the city continued for several weeks, the Mongols called it the "evil city" and broke into it only when there was no one to defend it... Cities are like people...