Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Category: Life Stories

History To Bury and Time To Cherish

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On August 3, 2013

In Life Stories

20130731_160333The ground is awfully hard to dig in. I have a small green shovel and it feels like I am trying to dig a hole in cement.

It is midday and we are burying some bone fragments we have found on the field close to my sister’s house. They are white and brittle and the intricate trabecular network is all exposed where the bone was broken.

My sister says it could be an animal bone but just to be sure we pay proper respect in case they are not, we will be burying them.

Sasha and I walk barefoot into the field, over some sharp white rocks that hurt both feet and eyes with a sun so bright, just until we reach an area where the grass has been cut a while ago.

Fields...The grass stubble is all dry and sharp, it’s like walking on toothpicks. We pick a spot and start digging. The combination of dried up, hardened dirt and liquid heat that pours on my back makes me think of all those who had and have to do this work not for a stint like ours today but for a living…

Ten centimeters in, we scoop the dirt out and lay the bone fragments in. You cannot not think of all that once was, in case they really are Roman bones. Two years ago around here I found a skull, that really was a Roman skull and I still remember feeling the ridges inside and the flurry of thoughts it caused in my head.

It’s a good reminder of how time takes no one’s part and a humbling experience altogether.

20130802_195810Last night we walked to the old fortress that is now beautifully restored and got to see a short play, a reenactment of times past, when the Romans first came to conquer Dacia. The boys were impressed and having possible undiscovered archaeological sites a few steps away makes them want to roam and dig and wonder.

This is a place imbued with history, a Roman town was once built here because of a legion that was stationed here for Old churchmany years. There’s been a lot of digging done by teams of archaeologists and the local museum’s exhibitions have been swelling to impressive sizes and collection of artifacts, but truth is, the past has only been partially discovered.

It makes sense. Why would you take everything out anyway? Some things are better left alone. It is somewhat thrilling to know that even in my sister’s garden as we walk to do the daily gardening chores, there may be human remains deep in the ground and some more artifacts, pottery and such.

We cover the bones in dry hot dirt and walk home. I stop to pull out a couple of spikes that have pierced my feet and look around. The field runs buzzing with all sorts of bugs all the way to the feet of some old quiet hills, just like then. Some two thousand years or so ago. Time takes no one’s part. A reminder to be grateful for today…

Of Trains and Such

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On July 31, 2013

In Life Stories

Train station, cloudy“Can we walk to the train station today?”

Yes, we can. We did. The boys are fascinated with the trains here. The station is empty, barely a handful of people walking by and a stray dog begging silently for food. We feed him some savory bun and then go check for the next train to arrive. The boys want a shot of it as it comes in.

A few minutes later a train arrives. Green with two cars. The boys take photos but…

“Will there be more?” A blue one perhaps, the boys ask. Not for another two hours, the schedule says. We walk to the end of the platform, talk about trains and how fascinating they are. Romania used to have a lot more but now there’s more cars on the road and more bus services between cities.

“Too bad,” the boys sigh.

Indeed. Trains are charming. I don’t mean the fast trains with all the modern fixtures but the older, simple and slower ones that take you places, actual destinations and memory-locked too… The infrastructure is all there too, but it gets old and derelict as time passes. Too bad…

On the way home we buy ice cream.

We take a shortcut through an old cemetery and the boys keep reading the tombstones. One man got to be 103 years, a girl died when she was 17 days old. How could that be? The little girl, they say, she must’ve been very small. And her parents must’ve been very sad. Life is not always kind. We have today…

I remember walking through the neighboring cemetery as a kid and reading tombstones, wondering about the people, feeling sorry for the young ones and always wondering whether the older people who died got to go through the Second World War.

We get to the top of the hill, overwhelmed by heat and happy to be home soon. We cross the field on the way to my sister’s house and wildflowers line the side of the dirt path. The grass is almost all straw, heat really can be merciless, and somewhere in a nest of long tired straws I notice a poppy.

PoppyGently unglamorous, small and shy, the poppy turns beautiful in the photograph I take. I am grateful for it, it is one of those shots that tickles you pink, it’s that good.

My fascination with these ephemeral flowers that are ever so unassuming and yet stunning, is satisfied for now.

The boys run ahead and as I get to the gate, Sasha greets me with a mysterious smile spread all over his face. “Look mom, an orange butterfly! For you.” No longer alive, the butterfly will find its way into a painting soon, along with wildflowers that I press for that reason. A drop of sweetness from the summer we spend here…

Thank you. Orange is perfect.

The Big Circle Of Life. A Story

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On July 14, 2013

In Life Stories

20130711_170243(1)The cry pierced the soft quietness of early night. It sounded like a child crying and I knew it wasn’t a child but a baby goat. I covered my ears. I was sitting under an old walnut tree, with my sister, my nephew and the man’s wife. She smiled when I covered my ears, a calming smile almost…It has to be, it’s all part of it, her smile seemed to say.

 

I felt ashamed and I put my hands down. I am not a vegetarian, I told myself. If I choose to eat meat, then I should know that this is part of it. I tried not to imagine the baby goat. It’s called a kid, I know, but I have trouble calling it that.

The man loves his goats, my sister said before we went there. The goats spend their days on green pastures among healing wild herbs and carpets of wildflowers. He talks to each of them and keeps them clean. He cares.

We make our way to the side of the barn where the young goat hangs upside down, skinned and hoofless. I don’t look away. This is part of it. I might not eat part of this one, but I eat meat occasionally.

The man cuts the young goat open, no choppy moves. He moves the knife fast and sure of himself. He asks for some clean bags to put some of the parts in. I run down to the house and get some. I hold the bags, one by one, and they get filled with various parts. Still warm.

I realize I am holding my breath and let go. This is part of the oldest ritual there is. I breathe the warm night air in. There’s more than the usual sweet night air smell but I will not hold my breath.

My nephew asks jokingly about the crime scene. The man calmly replies “This is not a crime, it is a sacrifice.” Everyone is silent. Thinking. Knowing.

Ten minutes later we are ready to leave.

We pass by the goats’ pen. They are all white except for a brown speckled one trying to pick fights. It got ignored and for a reason. Goat or not, a day spent in the sun makes you pleasurably lazy and unwilling to respond to fights.

On the way home, I think about it all. We’ve strayed from understanding the actions that bring food on the table. To grow vegetables is an act of grace, some say. There’s nothing inconvenient to witness.

To put meat on the table, you have to sacrifice the animal. Buying a tray of drumsticks or a round steak will not bring understanding. Gratefulness for every morsel comes from looking at the animal, thanking it for the sacrifice and not letting anything go to waste. It is not blood thirst that makes one opt or meat.

Tomorrow. Step to further life...It is part of life. Death is part of life. Sacrifice without a purpose is cruelty. It does not honor us, nor does it make us appreciate life. Not caring to know where our food comes from and how also shades us from the very act of gratefulness, which makes us humble and responsible for our choices.

 

If you choose to eat it, have the courage to look at it and understand its connection to you and respect it. No need to cover eyes or ears, you need to see in order to be respectful of every morsel.

Wednesday Mornings, Itty Bitty Spiders and Random Hugs

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On May 19, 2011

In Life Stories, Motherhood

I am walking home with Sasha from Tony’s school. It is 9am and the morning is a big sparkling diamond. “Let’s walk home this way, Mom.” Sasha points to a street with a tree that looks like a red shredded umbrella with pink flowers all over. He loves that tree. He loves flowers and leaves and twigs. Every day I get them as gifts.

When we don’t have to hurry Sasha discovers an entire world of wonders. We walk up the street, pass the red umbrella tree and stop in front of a carpet of big leaves. They have dew on them, perfect little clear spheres of liquid life. Sasha is mesmerized by them, and I am mesmerized by him. I wish he’ll never lose that sense of wonder. He doesn’t touch the dew, too precious.

A few seconds later he makes the cutest little sound while crouching to see something under a leaf. “Mom, this is the tiniest I’ve ever seen.” It most likely is. A spider. So very small. Yet still, it has its own web. So delicate. Sasha’s eyes are big and round and happy. No gift in the world can replace this.

Time to wonder. Time to be silent and happy. Time to have Mom and that diamond of a morning all to himself.

His little hand slips into mine and we walk uphill. We talk about spider webs and questions are bubbling up so quick he’s almost short of breath. I pick him up. His arms wrap around my neck and his head rests on my shoulder. A big smile inundates his face. “You just picked me up randomly, Mom, I love that.” He’s learned quite a few big words from books and stories on tape lately, randomly is one of them.
There is nothing in the world to replace this. Time to hug my growing baby. Time to feel his head on my shoulder and his breath on my neck like the warm flutter of an invisible butterfly. A random butterfly hug that fills my eyes with tiny spheres of liquid happiness.
The sun envies the warmth of our hug. I would too.

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