"Impatient As The Wind"

  In Europe, one of the easiest and fastest way to travel from one place to another, relatively distant, is by train.  The train is great, I am carried away, while thinking my own thoughts, and wondering what the people sitting across from me are thinking, what waves of life they are facing. 

  Sometimes we make friends, sometimes everyone is absorbed in their own world, while we are all watching endless fields sprout into beautiful deep green forests with towering trees that seem to touch the clouds, sleepy houses in the distance, and bridges with blue rivers bellow. 

  But before getting on the train, we are all waiting.  The train station stretches and stretches, and there are plenty of benches to sit on while waiting.  We make ourselves comfortable and we're waiting...  

  Life seems to be made up of waiting.  I'm waiting for one thing to end, so I can start waiting for the next one. 

  When the Lord blessed me with babies, I could not wait until the day I could finally meet the little person growing inside of me.  Then I waited for them to sleep through the night, and start walking, and learning how to eat, I waited for each milestone so I can finally take time and rejoice...  While missing the moment, overlooking the smile and the heavenly cloud, walking by the blooming flower, without taking a moment to savor its sweet perfume, because I was too busy waiting...

  Today I want to be "surprised by joy,

                                 impatient as the wind", as Wordsworth once said.

  Today I want to be the wind that takes everything in, and doesn't wait for the valley to be ready, I want to be the rain that rains on the forest of dreams, I want to be the bird that stretches her wings and flies toward the sun.

  Today I am the wind, and the rain, and the dream with sunshine wings.  Today is impatient, since tomorrow might or might not come to the same train station...

Iarna

Ce goana sumbra

Tulbura pamantul,

Sub albul viscolitelor ninsori,

Tresare timpul
Si pletele-si colinda
Spre noi
Si amintiri,
Mistuitor.
M-aprinde flacara iubirii
Langa tine,
Tacerea creste grea,
Unduitor,

Coboara cerul,

Imens si fara stele,
Sub glas de vant
Si aripi de ninsori.

Adorned

Ascending thoughts

Give shape to the sound,

Traveling

From your heart
To mine,
Adorned
In glimmering souvenirs
Of moments,
Captured

In the glass case of time.

Floating feelings
Give voice to our arms,
Together in flight,

Much closer in mind,

Submerged

In the heart of the night,

Embraced

In the silence of stars.

Descending lives

Give peace to the sky,

Stretched blue

Between sunsetting eyes,

Refined

In moments of beauty surround,

Asleep in the worldly night,

Awake in heaven's glorious sight.

Why Write?

Writing is like walking in a forest.

You marvel, you breathe in the fresh air, of which you could not live without, you put your head back to catch a glimpse of the blue sky, arching at the top of the trees...  You feel the gentle wind on your face and, as you walk on the rich ground, where the trees spread their roots year after year, you touch a branch, and the forest whispers back "you belong here"...

Once in a while, curious and friendly squirrels might stop and stare you in the eyes for a minute or two, sometimes you might see deer, sometimes a bear lazily walking out his den, and you're always on a lookout for mountain lions and other predators.  It could happen... it never hurts to be cautious.

But the forest is glorious in its beauty and mystery.  There are always new paths to discover, and the wind blows through the trees differently each day.  If you happen to be there.

I write because I love being in the forest, mostly alone.  It's where I find God most often, most likely because He had envisioned me there from the beginning.  It's where I call it my home of all homes, and life has spread them everywhere, from one end of the earth to the other.

The forest sits in the middle of an island, more beautiful than the mind could ever imagine.  An island neighboring another island, close to my heart.  It's possible one day the islands might make it on the map, have a proper name and a spot in time.  We are all striving to buy time and become timeless somehow, through something.
It matters little to me, as I know the islands live and are already timeless in the eyes of God.

And three pairs of sweet little eyes, who will one day set foot on the islands and continue the dream.  They are the ones who hold the keys of time, and will follow the dream in the heart of God, as they enter the forest.

Country House

The attic wasn't scary at all, but rather friendly and welcoming, ready to be explored.  It looked like a pottery shop mostly, with a few cast iron antiques, covered in a thin layer of dust and cobwebs in the corners.  Grandma M kept all of her clay pots there, to later use throughout the year for the Christian Orthodox tradition of giving away certain cooked meals on certain days, for the souls of the family members passed away.

The attic floor was creaky and the bright sun rays were always shining dust trails through the wooden rails.  The roosters were crowing in the yard, fluffing up their wings, while two wild pigeons were chasing each other in the lazy summer afternoon air.  Little girl C stopped and listened; the air was still, time was generous and the days seemed to last forever...

Below her, the house her grandparents had built many years before, was just right and cozy.  It was a Ranch with three rooms only and one hallway, that was always cold and drafty.

The first room was where C was sleeping with grandma M and grandpa G.  A big fireplace with an old iron stove took up half of the room, and in the cold winter nights, the crackling fire was casting magical shadows on the ceiling, like the timeless dance of a lost world.
C. was listening to the comforting voices of grandma and grandpa talking about the people and the village, before she would slowly drift away in her land of dreams...

The second room was to be kept nicely, for guests and the priests that used to come and, according to the tradition, cast away the evil in any shape, seen or unseen.  They always wore black long robes, and carried a long golden chain with an open cup at the end, with burning incense.  The priests would sing mysterious songs that C never understood, while swinging the incense around the room.  Grandma was always a step behind the priest, silent and happy.  Grandpa was outside, continuing in his work... He never liked church, church was for women who needed to catch up on social life, he always said, and for priests to make good money from the women needing to catch up on social life...

Once the house was holy again, C was free to roam and explore again.  The cold hallway opened into a porch with tall walls, right in the middle of the flower garden.  A small path lead to a green wooden gate and finally into the big yard.  Grandpa had built the gate and the small garden fence and painted it often, for he was always hard working and busy.  C. loved to watch him and follow him everywhere with her endless questions.  And grandpa was always happy, his eyes would shine with delight every time little C was around, and he always had the time to sit and explain the whole world to her.  C loved grandpa with all her might.  And she never stopped...

One question she never asked was about the last room of the house.  The mysterious back room...  She didn't like to go there very often and many times, she would hesitate with the tiny hand slightly trembling on the door knob.  She would not enter.  But once in a while, she would get very brave and walk in...  The back room smelled like dried roses and Russian sage, and it was always so still and perfectly quiet.  C believed the past lived in there, all the great-great-grandmas and grandpas with their endless families of unseen faces...  Grandma M always told her about them in her stories, and not being around anymore, C was certain they all must be somehow hiding and living in the back room.  Where else could they all be?

The room had three tall windows to the right and one tiny window to the left with the perfect view to the winding dusty country road.  A huge old bed, where grandma kept hiding all kinds of secret things, including money and jewelry, with dark wood and intricate design, rested by the tiny window.  Next to the bed, there was a table with old photographs, C. loved one the most.  It was a photo of grandma's sister, whom she had never met, but who was so beautiful.  To the right of the table, there was the mysterious wardrobe, which always scared C the most, for it would squeak and creak and make all sorts of frightening sounds every time she dared to open it.  And at the end, as she was closing its door, breathless, the huge mirror on the wardrobe door looked back at her, even more frightening...  Every brave exploration of the back room always ended with a sudden rush outside and eventually in grandpa's arms, who always laughed and said "You went there again, didn't you, you, grandpa's silly girl?" 

And grandpa seemed like the summer air, always there, timeless and bright...  Little girl C loved him even more.  And she never stopped...