Sediments of Joy

Sometimes all it takes is a second, a single flash on the screen, for the whole world we once knew to crash back into our present. Recently, while flipping through channels, I came across an image of that old, foot-operated air pump from the 1970s. Do you remember it? It was orange, made of ribbed plastic, somewhat unsightly, but in our childish eyes, it was the key that unlocked the summer. That specific sound—pfff-tack, pfff-tack—as we inflated beach mattresses on the hot sand, still rings in my ears.

That was the sound of my childhood. A time when everything was somehow simpler, slower, and, I dare say, fuller. I immediately remembered those verses by Balašević about how “we used to eat well.” And indeed, we ate well, but we felt even better. We had everything we needed, not because we were rich, but because our childhood was filled with a sense of security.

Those summer days, the smell of sunscreen, and the plastic mattresses that would rock us for hours on the waves, were the first sediments of my joy.

We were the children of socialism dreaming of the world, and that world seemed within our reach. Then, along with the sound of synthesizers and neon lights, the eighties walked in.

My youth.

It was a time of rhythm, dance, and that indescribable pride as we followed our domestic music scene, which back then stood shoulder to shoulder with global hits. We danced like there was no tomorrow, with that fervor you only have when you are young and believe your legs are the fastest in the world. Those years were a layer of pure energy, a mixture of rebellion and immense hope.

But life, like the earth I studied for years as an engineer, is subject to tectonic shifts. The nineties brought earthquakes none of us wanted. Wars, destruction, the collapse of systems and borders. It was a difficult time, a time when we had to grow up overnight and learn what loss meant. Yet, looking from today’s perspective, it was also the time of the “victory of freedom.” From the ashes of old structures, something new was being born, painful but authentic. Those layers of my life are dark, full of pressure, but they are exactly what turned the soft limestone of my childhood into the solid marble of character.

With the arrival of the 2000s, I felt a new scent in the air—the scent of the future and new miracles. I remember the excitement when “The Lord of the Rings” and “Harry Potter” hit the cinemas. It wasn’t just entertainment; it was confirmation that imagination still lives, that stories about the victory of good over evil still matter. Those years brought novelty into my life, technology that began to connect us, but also that deep sense of satisfaction of living in this exact era. I felt like an explorer finally beginning to understand the map of the road she is walking.

And here I am today. I am in my mature years, in the part of life geologists call the “stable layer.” I live in Paris, in a quiet corner of the city, in a building that seems to embrace me with its silence. Around me is a beautiful park, and right next to it, a river that flows slowly, just like my thoughts. I look at that water and do a retrospective. I like everything. Every single moment—from the orange pump to the Parisian coffee—was a bullseye.

Today I know how to appreciate peace because I know noise. I know how to appreciate health because I know illness.

I feel an indescribable gratitude that I was in the right places at the right times. Even those difficult moments, those “war sediments,” gave depth to my happiness today. My life’s geology is complete; I have become marble that is solid enough to withstand anything, yet smooth enough to reflect the light of the Parisian dawn.

I have returned to my roots, I have returned to myself, and I finally understand: the past was a journey, the future is an intuition, but this peace by the river—that is life in its purest form. And it is more than enough.