My mother comes from a very small village called Mosty in the Świętokrzyskie Mountains. Most of my childhood and teenage years were spent there during school breaks. The village was home to around 30 inhabitants, nestled in a valley, surrounded by forests on both sides. A bus carrying essential supplies would arrive once a day, and sometimes, once every two days. The nearest shop was a 5-kilometer trek on foot. Only one village resident owned a car, the village administrator had horses, and the rest had one bicycle per farm, reserved for urgent trips. We were completely cut off from the outside world.

Due to my parents’ habit of taking me to my grandparents whenever possible and leaving me there until it was time to return to school, I spent many isolated moments in Mosty. In the initial week of my stay, I often found myself missing my parents, television (a rare luxury, since hardly anyone had a TV, and electricity was intermittent), my friends and colleagues from the neighborhood, and even something as simple as drinking a Coca Cola. As the weeks progressed, my longing transformed into curiosity about new experiences, the joy of caring for animals, and helping my grandfather work in the fields. I discovered that I was having genuinely happy moments there.

After several weeks, everything started to look the same, and boredom set in. Frustration took hold as I grew impatient, resenting the fact that my mother hadn’t come to pick me up yet, and I felt trapped with no way of returning. However, when my parents eventually did come to get me, I didn’t want to leave. I had grown deeply attached to the place and the way of life.

Upon returning to our house in Lodz, everything felt foreign. I missed Mosty, my grandfather, the animals, the silence, and the freedom to do as I pleased, something the countryside allowed. As you can see, each of these feelings was intense and transient. When I reflect on that period of my life, I wish I had cherished it more and paid greater attention to every detail with mindfulness. I recognize this now, as my grandfather has passed away, my grandmother resides with my uncle in another village, and the farm where I grew up belongs to someone else, having undergone changes and partial demolition.

Last year, I found myself near Kielce and decided to make a detour to at least cross the village of my childhood. The sight was heart-wrenching. I hardly recognized the place. I drove along an asphalt road flanked by new houses and new residents, with a massive white sand mine in place. My heart ached, and I felt a profound sense of loss, regret, and the realization that I had underestimated those moments, assuming they would last forever. How wrong I was.