With the Lamp of My Soul

By Jelena Bango

JELENA BANGO (aka Helena Kvajic ROchstein) grew up in the land of the crossroads of cultures. She was born in Belgrade in 1939, at the beginning of the Second World War. During the war she lost her father.

Her mother Marija immediately moved the baby into Legrad, a small village in Croatia. There, Jelena grew up sheltered by the Catholic nuns of the church and by the quietness of the mystical surroundings of the rivers Drava and Mura.

Jelena’s heart was always wide open to God while, at the same time, her mind was open to learning about the other cultures and religions.

Under the guidance of the hidden hand of God, Jelena relocated to Paris, France, and shortly after, to Montreal, Canada. There she married into the Eastern Orthodox religious culture. She could never understand the reasons for religious separation of the churches and this was the hidden pain of her heart. Few years, the family moved to New York, and to the East Coast of Florida. Jelena continued her search for the meaning of life. She found A.M.O.R.C. and she became an enthusiastic student of Ancient Wisdom and Philosophy. The hidden Hand of God then thrust her into the Jewish mystical and cultural environment. This opened deeper the path of Light at the call of her soul. Today, Jelena understands more profoundly other people’s struggles for Light, and she appreciates more deeply her own religion.

Poetry writing was the means of her heart’s language. Poetry could easily open the gates of the muses. The universe became Jelena’s garden. Jelena is grateful to God, to her family and to everyone who graciously contributed to the growth of her soul into Light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796058239

Jelena Bango

JELENA BANGO (aka Helena Kvajic ROchstein) grew up in the land of the crossroads of cultures. She was born in Belgrade in 1939, at the beginning of the Second World War. During the war she lost her father. Her mother Marija immediately moved the baby into Legrad, a small village in Croatia. There, Jelena grew up sheltered by the Catholic nuns of the church and by the quietness of the mystical surroundings of the rivers Drava and Mura. Jelena’s heart was always wide open to God while, at the same time, her mind was open to learning about the other cultures and religions. Under the guidance of the hidden hand of God, Jelena relocated to Paris, France, and shortly after, to Montreal, Canada. There she married into the Eastern Orthodox religious culture. She could never understand the reasons for religious separation of the churches and this was the hidden pain of her heart. Few years, the family moved to New York, and to the East Coast of Florida. Jelena continued her search for the meaning of life. She found A.M.O.R.C. and she became an enthusiastic student of Ancient Wisdom and Philosophy. The hidden Hand of God then thrust her into the Jewish mystical and cultural environment. This opened deeper the path of Light at the call of her soul. Today, Jelena understands more profoundly other people’s struggles for Light, and she appreciates more deeply her own religion. Poetry writing was the means of her heart’s language. Poetry could easily open the gates of the muses. The universe became Jelena’s garden. Jelena is grateful to God, to her family and to everyone who graciously contributed to the growth of her soul into Light.

Book preview

Who Am I ?

Who%20Am%20I.jpeg

I am a thought,

A perfect idea,

A dream

Which God had in that

Moment supreme,

When He played with

Minerals and plants,

And fishes and ants.

Then He gave breath to Man.

        My long journey, riding on the waves

        Of the ages,

        Began.

… I see the Eye of God looking for me

Inside of the maternal bowl …

… I search His infinite Face

With the lamp of my soul.

I am a child of God

When I Was A Child

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I was a child and I was only five.

There was mystery all around me:

The air, the water, the trees;

Snow in the winter, the early morning dew,

The old grandmother’s house;

Cows giving birth, the backyard full of geese,

Everywhere, there was mystery.

People working, laughing, singing;

Insects, birds and animated things …, all had voices,

Creaks and hums; but,

There were silences that

Were stranger than words … I could almost

Touch them,

Breath them in and out and yet, could not understand their essences.

. . .

House full of relatives,

Aunts and uncles; neighbors; births and deaths;

Sounds of church bells filling mid-day air;

Mud on my shoes; buzzing, hurrying insects busy in

Their invisible worlds …

Taste of potato soup, of cabbage,

Of parsley freshly chopped …

Smells of roses, of lilacs, of early spring violets;

The redness of a ripe tomato,

Roundness of pebbles;

The gentleness, the roughness, the pain of touch …

Letting the river through my fingers escaping,

The sunshine on my cheekbones,

The night’s touch on my sleepy body …

Everything was part of me and yet,

I was an entity—a separate feeling, thinking being …

. . . What am I doing here, I asked when I was only five.

. . .

Joys and tears, but mostly fears;

Sense of shame,

Feelings of sickness, stomach troubles; the falls;

Pain in my scraped knees, in my stubbed toes;

Fears of punishments, of ridicules, abandonments.

Boredoms!

Helplessness, weaknesses. Oh, those long, lazy days!

I heard potency of life streaming

Through the earth.

The air was filled with spirits,

Invisible beings who could talk to me,

Touch me, snatch me, carry me away to some

Hidden side of life … where?

. . .

All was mystery.

Death of a neighbor; house filled with

People in black.

Tears, cries, lamentations …

I touched the corpse.

His foot was cold, colder than anything I knew.

At the end of the village the cemetery stood …

Silent, frightening, mysterious.

I mixed with people in black,

The earth fell heavy on the coffin …

Hollow sounds … Crows screamed and flew.

Crowd shivered and quickly dispersed.

. . .

I also remember my uncle. A musician, zither playing,

In the front yard, under grape vine bows …

Music flowed sweet through the branches and leaves,

And through my uncle’s fingers …

The surrounding trees stood silent in awe.

Under my skin I heard the sweet sound resound,

And the rhythms that lifted my feet off the ground.

There was a thrill in me,

Music was playing through me.

Mystery …

. . . And then, there was my soul,

Talking to me, teaching me, scolding,

Pointing the way …

One day I asked, where was I before I was born?

My soul gently trembled and remained silent.

Mystery.

. . .

The longing in me was for some indefinable something …

Was it for another time, a place, a person,

A God?

My soul was there with me whenever I was

Sitting in silence thusly,

I, a child of five, sitting with the old soul

Waiting for life to unroll.

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Cup Of Life

To you, my soul …, with the breath of God infused;

Into waters of life diffused …, (my soul whom I recognized

when I was three), sitting with me by my grandmother’s bread-baking

stove …

I, in the body of a child

Coming in from the cold;

Confused about the time and wondering about the space—the

strangeness

Of the life’s place, and you,

My soul, made of the universal breath, encompassing the world—yet,

Humbly sitting by my side,

And knowing my place

In the universe.

You, my soul, talking to me through the years, with the

Voices of breezes, the smiles and frowns of sunshine and of clouds,

And of all my human companions …,

You, my knowing soul of the pre-birth-time, the cascades of the

Milky Way …, the planets …, descending,

Ascending …

To you, my soul, non-confinable and unconfined,

My