Whenever I return to this place used for at least 6 generations of my family, the memories of the arduous summers spent here come flooding back. It is a hassle to reach these small eastern villages but I always come with the same heart as if the spirits of this land call me anxiously when I am afar for long.
Every summer, as mid-June hit and the school closed its gates, I would eagerly prepare myself to reunite with my friends and to my mother’s dreadfulness, I would be relishing in three months of living as an utterly village girl. Those were unquestionably the most cherished months of my entire childhood.
My granddad had a couple of horses, cows, ducks, chickens, turkeys, and a pig named Dori (an amusing homage to my grandma). Near to his workshop, a quaint small distillery stood, perpetually stocked with no less than 15 to 20 barrels of wine, along with a few barrels of a potent brandy traditionally known as “palinca,” made according to a longstanding southern tradition. The memory of that frigid room lingers within me, where the strong alcoholic drinks intertwined with the scent of cheap tobacco that he clandestinely indulged in and hid the packet in an old lamp shade.
I adored the simplicity of it all. The way the days unfolded, the orchards, and the tales. The limestone walls were bathed in a glowy, orange-yellowish sun every evening.
I still don’t know if the place was poetic or my mind was but a myriad of activities kept me every day so enthusiastic and so eager to wake up. Some of them were peculiar, I would say now.
Strangely, I developed a fondness for the cemetery, contrary to everyone I knew. Death held no fear for me; it seemed an entirely natural occurrence.
During our visits to pay respects to my great-grandparents, I would wander amidst the Orthodox tombstones adorned with portraits of the deceased, reading the memorial narratives and finding myself deeply intrigued by some short-lived existences.
Another odd summer habit that came about quite early was my interest in visiting the flea markets. To my mother’s dreadfulness and disapproval, I didn’t find anything horrendous in dirtying myself when digging through antiques or someone else’s belongings. I found it entertaining and I loved the questions my mind always asked when finding intriguing pieces. I loved anything that connected me to the past. I loved the smell of old leathers piled up, the yellowed books torn by hands and time and I could have spent hours digging the bowls with old coins with washed-up years and faces.
I was truly in love with the flavors, songs, Sunday dances, and tales shared by our elders in their late-evening gatherings.
My grandma had a few really good anecdotes and folk stories. I would ask her every night to repeat them for me and I always went from feeling terribly amused to feeling frightened and then, as the crickets and fireflies would have their spectacle at my window, I would fall asleep as if cradled by a fairy.
I perhaps have hundreds of stories collected during those summer months and my mind retained so many details as if they happened to me yesterday.
Every September, it was a struggle to bid farewell to this sanctuary and go back to our town, where I was required to don a uniform and conform to entirely different expectations. The pages of my old diaries still have the marks of my tears – it felt truly unbearable and from what I remember, every year I needed a couple of weeks to settle into my new role.
This is a pattern that continued in my life and no matter what I do or which road I take, I seem to always live in split worlds. Always moving between different shapes of myself, never able to fully commit to one for as long as I would want to. My heart had a life of yearning. The moments of silence and peace were always just a transition. I mostly ached for everything around me. That made me stronger and helped me to see value in the most mundane moments or things but it does not cease to be painful or shattering whenever leaving one side or another behind me. Always bidding farewell to someone or something.
Always a lonely drifter on a path that only I can understand so far.
THE WONDERMIND 