About me

A miracle, but why? Einstein said there were two ways to live your life: one as though
nothing is strangely miraculous, other that everything is. I chose the latter. On the other hand,
it may have chosen me. Maybe those who are able to spot miracles are miraculously strange
too. I saw miracles in some seemingly ordinary everyday things, which would suddenly start
glimmering and shimmering, leaving sparks in the air. As if those very things were calling out
to me, waving with words: Notice me, Ive got something to tell you.
I let those miraculous airborne fluid beings lead me through life. They would appear when I
least expected them, taking me down the unknown labyrinths over the kaleidoscope-coloured
mosaic of the world, allowing me to discern and demystify their magical nature only in
glimpses, and then they would disappear off where they belonged into some mysterious
holes in the fabric of space. Hypnotised by them, I tried and tried to decipher and understand
what they were trying to tell and show me. But the closer I got to them, the farther these
miraculous beings with their sparks became. Staring at them, I got lost more than once. But, I
would rather get lost on my way to miracles than safe in the miracle-free world.
These miracles manifested themselves in two ways: in spatial visible and material, and
temporal energetic and spiritual sense. The tangible ones I could capture in photographs and
preserve their fossils. The others, manifested through energy, I would weave into words and
try to press them into poetry. Yet neither poetry nor photography were enough to capture all
the miracles around me, so I found new ways. Historians said philosophy came to be from
peoples marvelling at miracles, and so I the small miracle-hunter started dabbling in
philosophy, so that I would have the luxury of never having to stop marvelling at miracles.
Thats how I started studying miracles through philosophy, literature and photography, finding
comfort in them until one day, those tiny miracles jumped out of the pages of my books,
pictures and notebooks, right through the window and into the street, and from my street to
other towns, and countries. From my street into the open seas, high mountains, snowy
valleys, clear brooks and depths of oceans. They dwindled among the corals, spring pollen,
melting snowflakes, shell pearls, dolphin songs, baobab branches and starry skies. And I had
no other choice but to follow them, searching far and wide, asking flowers and corals if they
had seen them.
I collected many miracles along the way, but I failed to understand what they were trying to
tell me. One of them ventured, if I understood correctly, that they werent trying to tell me
anything at all. That they had nothing to say anyway. That I merely needed to take them and
turn them into new miracles. And that way, I would eventually turn into a miracle myself.
On my journey towards miracles, I was overcome by a natural need to have one place where I
would keep them. And how else would that place be called if not a miraculous place.
Oh, and by the way, my name is Mira.

1. A MAGICAL JOURNEY THROUG STOLIV

On the way to Kotor from Tivat, there is a small town in the Boka Kotorska Bay, hidden
between the mountains and the sea. This tiny town is called Stoliv and is often overlooked
when talking about the beauty of Montenegro. Truth be told, this is justified to a certain
degree, as it does not boast any special characteristics. It has no tourist attractions or beaches,
and the sea is not too clean in this area. Yet, its charm does not dissipate because of this. What
makes it so appealing is its geographical position, which oversees numerous other beauties of
Boka, its architecture, and certainly vast vert, which adorns the whole town. Stoliv is,
therefore, you typical Mediterranean town with greyish white stone facades, wide-open
windows, green and blue jalousies, and a wealth of trees and flowers. It possesses a particular
atmosphere, which resists being described, which is only to be experienced and lived. Thats
what we call the soul of a town.
Path took me to this quaint town while I was living in Tivat. I used to travel to Kotor often,
and I always opted for the longer way so that I could enjoy the view to the bay. The way
around the bay is three times longer than the one that goes through the tunnel, but taking it is
not a waste of time in this case. The plush-looking sea stretches before your eyes as you drive,
gaining new tones and textures every time you go. Sometimes its navy blue like denim,
sometimes silky and velvety in tones of grey and silver as if a mirror had been laid to reflect
the sky. Apart from the skies and clouds, the colour of the sea will depend on the winds
gusting in the area, and I personally prefer the gleam the sea acquires during bonazza, those
windless times, when everything grows still and silent as if in a photograph. Bonazza is the
greatest enemy of sailors, and you can often hear it enunciated with a dose of disdain and
disappointment, accompanied by that famous Montenegrin phew. Only during one sailing
trip, when we had spent hours trying to catch some wind in our sails and raise them did I
understand this disdain. Before that sailing trip, the bonazza in Boka had been the peak of
beauty and charm, and I often felt as if we belonged in some French movie rather than reality
(life imitates reality). These moments, when you feel you are not real, because you are
actually starring in a perfectly directed scene are the most precious in life. Those are the
moments when everything stops and enters your soul to stay there forever and remind you
later, during humdrum run-of-the-mill days that you too were once a part of the magic. And so
now, even though Im seated in front of the computer in my room, I can transcend into that
image which had long ago painted the canvas of my (sub)consciousness. Bonazza keeps on
sparkling and its flutters are leaving millions of glittering confetti in the sea of my soul.
Mountains Orjen and Lovcen rise above the sea, sternly preventing the seawater from
polishing them further. The war between the Adriatic Sea on the one side and Orjen and
Lovcen on the other has been waged for thousands of years and it is hard to tell who the
winner is. It seems that this never-ending war contributes to the beauty of it all. It might not
even be a war, but rather a symbiosis. This picturesque contrast between the sea and the
mountains, the water and the earth is one of the most striking landmarks of Montenegro,
something many more exotic and popular countries might be envious about. Whenever I take
this road, I cant help it but be overawed by the sight of the stern, sharp and slightly scornful
mountainside threatening with its high slopes, and find some solace at the same time when I
look at the gentle foamy sea, providing the sense of security and consolation. And so my eyes
drift from one to the other, switching between disturbance and serenity, which reminds me of
Kants definition of the elevated beauty. He says that something is beautiful if brings harmony
and peace to our souls and elevated if it rouses awe and sends shivers down our spine. Kants
aesthetics have found their application in the Boka Bay. It seems impossible to mention the
sea without bringing up mountains too and that this is some new form of nature we could
name sea-mountain. Its as if the nature itself has played with its motifs, combining its two
kinds of offspring into a hybrid. This brings me to Ivo Andric and his famous sentence: The
sea and the land I have always wondered which is the frame and which the picture. And
truly, the nature in Boka takes such rounded forms which swirl through the cliffs into the sea
before returning to the sky and back into the water. The sea and the mountain blend into one
another, making it impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends. The hearty cliffs are
frightening in their spiky, rough edges, serpentines and cracks and the sea covers their equally
intriguing feet, luring us into trying to explore them and wonder what kinds of mountains can
be found there, covered in corals instead of grass.
In the face of these natural beauties stand the artificial, man-made ones. Man has always
created settlements near the water, building his homestead and homeland by the sea, fishing
for living. Seafarers decorated their houses with different kinds of vert, flowers, undergrowth
and trees. Cypresses, cacti, laurels, figs, magnolias and camellias dominate the bay. Small
boats tied to piers can be seen in front of almost every house and each house gives a special
picturesque experience. Enthralled by the sight, you cannot help but wish one of those houses
belonged to you and that you could enjoy the shade from the mountainside while sipping
coffee and observing the sea from your balcony or backyard. Thats how I discovered my
favourite cottage, where I wanted to sneak in and invite myself over, but I never saw the
owners in the street while wandering around. It had happened before that some elderly woman
or man invited me over for juice just because I had stopped and stared at their houses or took
a photo of some detail on it. Unfortunately, this wasnt the case here. And I really had the
desire to meet the people living in this fairy-tale-like house, because I had always admired
people who took their homes as a piece of art through which they could express their
creativity.
The entrance to Stoliv is a good introduction to the beauties, which are born before your eyes
as you progress. When you leave the Tivat municipality, near the Verige gorge, you can see
the islands The Lady of the Rocks and St George and the tips of Perast behind them. While
travelling around these parts, your eyes will wander between the islands to the left, the city
architecture to the right and then upwards towards the mountaintops surrounding you. Such a
tri-dimensional image will remind you how small you are in the world, in the Boka Bay and
Stoliv itself. You will experience the unrealistic need to climb the mountains, sail, dive and
parachute at the same time, as this is the place where all the senses are awakened and you feel
the urge to identify with and master all those wonders of nature. I must mention Marnia
Tsvetaeva, who in her letters to Boris Pasternak reveals her fear of the seas and her preference
for stability of the mountains, as she feels them to be her symbolical feet. Marina Tsvetaeva
would face no troubles in Montenegro though. You do not have to renounce anything here.
There are many sites for mountaineering, hiking and skiing near the sea.
I usually get these thoughts as I cycle around the bay as the wind brings the smell of the sea
into my lungs and I listen to the sound of the waves whooshing and feel like Im flying. Once
I finally reach Stoliv, I usually find my favourite place. Its one rectangular balcony
surrounded by twiners, which seem to be floating in the sea. You can descend to a small,
pebbled beach from it, and when the sea level rises, you can even jump right into it from
there. This makes it look like a gate from the solid into the liquid state, the gateway between
two worlds. I first saw it one autumn, when some crimson red twiner embraced it and turned
into a floral gate into the sea. This balcony makes a perfect frame for Perast peeking in the
background. I instantly appropriated it and nicknamed it my living room. The colour of the
twiner changed over the year and I was there to follow all its transformations. My balcony
turned red in the spring and I devotedly followed its growth, watching it flourish gradually.
Someone brought a small table out there in the summer, making it even lovelier, warmer and
more welcoming. I even did some diving on that beach once, using the balcony as a perfect
hiding spot for changing my gear and the storage for shells I had found in the sea. Those
shells are now glued to various boxes, picture frames, candleholders and other pieces of
furniture I had decorated with seaside motifs. Those shells, which preserve Stoliv in their
core, are now a part of a new, arid life in the plains. They carry their sea with them, breathing
even in the dry air of my room, and sometimes I wonder if it had been cruel on my part to
take them. Am I not, just like those shells, forced out of my natural habitat and into the pattern
of breathing on the shelves of planet Earth, searching and never finding my home?