It’s funny how the most magical states return to us not through effort, but through presence. Some time ago, I made a request—from the heart—and now that request has quietly come true. Without warning, happiness has returned. Not the kind that comes with fireworks or declarations, but the quiet, streaming kind that glows from within and flows outward. Everything feels magical again, and not because anything specific has happened. Miracles sparkle gently in the corners of my life, and more than anything, my heart is smiling. My face is smiling. Life itself is smiling through me.
It happened once before—after my first trip to America in May of 2004. I came back to Moscow and everything was different. The city was the same and yet it wasn’t. It had gained some kind of depth and mystery. I lived between two realities: Moscow, now infused with new meaning, and the America that had quietly claimed a part of my soul. I lived in that liminal space with an open heart. Of course, there were tears sometimes. I’m human. But the backdrop was joy. Not perfection—joy. A wide-open acceptance of life. A full-bodied yes to everything.
And now, here I am again. At home. In Los Angeles. But this time, something is different. I am not straddling two countries, not preparing for a grand next chapter, not moving toward something external. There’s no one waiting across the ocean, no heart I’m about to unite with, no grand arrival to be orchestrated. I’m already here. This is the place. This is the life. And I’m alone.
But not lonely.
For the first time, I am truly with myself. Not as a placeholder or a transition, but as an arrival. I am the one I’ve come home to. I am discovering what it means to live with myself, not as a solitary being, but as the centerpiece of my own kingdom. As breath. As light. As the very existence I used to chase in others.
And here’s the strange and beautiful part: this version of life is perfect. And it’s also expandable. This is a kind of perfection that grows. Not the perfection of stillness, but of motion. Living, breathing, unfolding perfection. It doesn’t seek to fix or finish anything. It deepens what already is.
That may sound paradoxical. But if you’ve lived in this state, you’ll understand. Real perfection isn’t an ideal. It’s not a flawless picture. It’s the aliveness of now. And everything alive grows.
This growth is the most beautiful thing I’ve known. It’s love. Not taught. Not given. Just grown into.
And what could be more beautiful than that?
I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for having reached this state—while still alive, still breathing, still here. I know what love is now. Love for this process. This moment. This being. I need nothing more. I’ve already been given everything.
And yet…
There’s still one dream nestled deep inside me: to share this love. To experience this kind of beauty together, with someone who meets me here, fully.
Maybe the dream will fade. Maybe it’s part of what still makes me human. Maybe real love—the full understanding of it—will arrive when I no longer need the dream. When I can stay in this state with or without its fulfillment. Or maybe… maybe I don’t want to let it go. Maybe it’s part of the beauty too.
