Pausha

Pausha is a nickname that was given me by my husband. It was his private, special pet name for me, until I became adapted to my american existence enough to get a “real job”. The real job came with co-workers and with the realization that it is hard for people to pronounce my polish name. I could see the hesitation and discomfort in their eyes whenever they would approach me, I could almost hear their thoughts: “what was her name again! God, how do I say it, did I say it right?!”. I didn’t want people to be stressed out merely by my presence and the necessity of addressing me, so I introduced myself as Pausha.

Pausha was a pet name, it was name used with love and sweetness, no one has ever criticized me, yelled at me, put me down, using this name. For the first few months when people called me Pausha the warm and fuzzy feeling would show up and the thought “oh, you are so sweet to call me that!”.

The story about Pausha was a nice, good story. It was a story of a loved, beautiful, charming and desired woman. It was a story about an artist, a painter, a designer. It was a story about american girl.

Before the story about Pausha there was a story about Patrycja. This story was much different. It was a story of a polish girl who grew up in a dark, dirty, industrial city in Poland, where  the air was so polluted that it could be seen as a grey haze. A city full of tall, old buildings, narrow streets and few trees, with only little patches of grass here and there, serving as a toilet for dogs . This story was of a woman who dealt with all the pain and trauma by shutting down her feelings completely and relying exclusively on her mind and her intellect to carry her through life. It was a story of a psychology student, smart, reserved, serious, reclusive. It was a story about a person who considers maters carefully, carefully enough to see behind the simple conventions, and who looks for more. Looks in books, in concepts, in thinking. Snobish and intelectual. A story of a person who could appreciate good art but could not create it.

The story about Pausha was lighter, more spacious, open. It carried with it a story about being God. The story about being God is one of opening and feeling, experiencing, seeing. It is a story of not-thinking, it is a story about being. It is a story about taking responsibility and, therefore, it is a story about creating.

Pausha is now the story about God.

There are other stories. Stories of P. the profesional web designer, discipined, organized, capable, confident. The story of Pea, silly, guffy and childlish.

There are so many stories, stories of who Pausha is, of who Patrycja is, of who Pea is or of who P. is. Stories about a girl growing up in Communist Poland, stories about young woman coming to America and crying for 16 hours straight (through the whole flight) from fright. Stories about a psychologist, a picture – maker and web designer, a zen student, God.

None of those stories is who I am.

Stories will come and go, stories will begin and end, stories will be developed in the future and blown away into the past – but I am. I am.