A Winter Walk

There is something of the reverence and deep silence of a gothic cathedral - a walk in the winter. Nature, usually so lively, so loud, turns off the music, and all other noise. Nothing but the sound of your shoes beating the pavement, maybe a random leaf finally giving up and shedding from a high branch. Defeated by the shy whisper of a February, sharp, but timid breeze. 

For three weekends, we have been kept inside by unseasonably (for North Carolina) cold, rainy, snowy or frozen weather. This weekend we ventured out because it was the first one with no precipitation. But it was cold. Man, it was cold. But our bodies needed it. And our minds needed it more. 

Even the puppies out for walks were speechless. Their owners, sleepy heads hurrying through (you could read cabin fever all over their puffy eyes), were blowing hot air into their high collars and rushing along. "Let's get this over with" written all over their faces. Not many people out. Nor creatures. 

The usual liveliness of nature in the warmer season - the swishing of the bushes, the fish leaping from the creek besides us, the birds chasing in the thicket - none of this was there. It was just us, the crisp air, fingers almost frozen inside gloves, and focusing on the nature around us to find something, anything, to shoot. Trees, dead grasses, the murky creek asleep, frozen in time. 

But life was there ... if you listened. If you looked. There were squirrels chasing each other, birds silent, but awake and puffed up to keep warm. It felt like the cold weather froze the birds' song. The sky was cloudless and the sun blinding. With no leaves, not much shade was there. The sun was there, but it gave no heat. 

When the sun hit the water just so, at some point, it must have woken up a family of frogs because for a brief minute they started singing so loud - their shrieks sounded mad, but they could have also been just saying thanks for a few rays of light. If you closed your eyes and you forgot the frostbite in your fingers, you'd think it's summertime - the frogs, so desperate! And then it got quiet again. Like a tomb. Just silent. 

And then, the king. This beautiful (I think) hawk, just sitting there. Observing. Not more than maybe 20 feet from us, on a fallen tree. Majestic and lofty. Taking in the grounds like it were his kingdom. Demanding respect. Towering. 

For a few minutes, he stood there, gracing us with a couple of head tilts for a couple of shots. Then, he drifted away in the woods, quiet and barely there ... Like a ghost ... 

It would have been so easy to miss him. He made no noise. He was not moving. He was the color of the dead trees around him - brown and gray: we could have totally missed him. And yet, if you listen, if you watch, if you look to understand - life is always there. 

Our trail guardian: a red-shouldered hawk (I think)

Tree gaping at the cold world, by Sanford Creek

Sanford Creek - Wake Forest, NC

There were so many diseased and fallen trees. This one was full of burls and incredibly tall.

Sanford Creek Greenway - Wake Forest, NC

The dead grasses draping on these fallen roots looked like a soft blanket, arranged just so

A spell of light ... the promise of warmth ... 

In cold and warm - life wins ... 

More trail companions - mostly quiet and elusive, but there nevertheless ... 

“Keepers of the Light”

Try as you may, you can never predict history. You can live it, help write it, learn it, and try as hard as you can to not repeat it. Or maybe some history does beg repeating …

22 years ago last month, on January 19, 1998, I flew to America in search of a new home. I was looking for a better life, opportunities, respect for who I am and for freedom. Nowadays, I sometimes find myself asking if it was all worth it. For the most part, I got most of it. But some things are starting to look like they might turn into the bad, haunting history I left behind … But I can’t despair. I am keeping the light burning in the belief that one day America will again be that beautiful place that was once promised … bountiful, but mostly respectful for all.

Regardless of how kind or not America has been to me in the past 22 years, I always celebrate this anniversary. I celebrate that wild spirit, that courage of a single young woman to want to build a life as she wished she should live it. I usually take a trip which is my favorite present to myself for any occasion. This year the trip was to The Outer Banks of North Carolina and to Manteo. 

It was cold. It was so cold, in fact, that one day it snowed. But it was beautiful! Mountains will forever be my soul’s heaven, but the tranquility of the water is magical too. The richness it hides, the pulsating life … The sunsets are as glorious here as they are in the mountains, for very different reasons …

Mountains make me speechless. Water makes me think.

Although we drove and walked in many a cities during this trip, we found good food and great parks, my favorite spots were The Elizabethan Gardens in Manteo, and the drive all the way down to Cape Hatteras. That’s one of those journeys to “the end of the world.” For us, there was a sun dipping in the water on that end, and we felt like the world was over right then and there and for good. A sort of breathtaking desperation you feel in the pit of your chest when the sun just melts in the water. Will it ever know how to float?!  

Enjoy the picture journey of this trip by clicking the shot below. And in case you’re wondering: I would do it in a heartbeat, again, even knowing what I know now … In the end, it was mostly worth it than not …

Re-finding Home

We have been back here, in The South, for five months now. It seems surreal to say the least how months just accumulate on one's journey through this life without one as much as noticing it or hearing it. But here we are. We've been Southerners for five months!

It's been a mixture of melancholy, excitement, sadness and joy that I have savored these months with – a mixture that has been, to be honest, unexpected. Joy and excitement I would have expected, maybe even melancholy, but sadness? That was surprising!

There is sort of a sadness to be back. There is sometimes sort of a longing for what we just left behind. I miss the mountains sometimes. I get lost dreaming about my next trip to The West. This, I did not expect.

There is sort of a reset button you have to push when you move anywhere, but especially when you move back to almost square one. But not quite. And it's not easy to do it. The sadness might come also from the fact that the time seems to stand still here. Not much newness in these parts, and my body is saying: “you needed new things, not more of the same old ...”. There is no smart response I can give to that.

There is also a personal time, a time that did move and did grow, and matured elsewhere. This time, all internal to me, lived in the hard and harsh Rockies for a while, got beaten down by canyon winds, and turned red from red rock dust in the desert. This personal, internal time, living mostly in my mind wants to be roaming and climbing trails somewhere far, far away, close to the aspen groves and the rocky peaks.

I try to bring my heart home – but home is now an elusive concept, I guess. I try to rein it in back into the slow flowing Southern hollow … and it keeps wanting to stay wild. And that's where that sadness comes from: being forced to reboot when all your heart wants to do is fly … It also comes, somewhat, from the fact that friends you thought you had seem elusive now and although pretty much next door, they are swallowed by their daily lives and there is no room for you. You have to start anew even with them. But people forget. In Romanian we say that “When people's eyes cannot look into each other's anymore, they look for someone else's.” Such is life!

The truth is, however, this damn weather! It's been horrible since we got back. Probably one of the worst winters we'll ever live to talk about, mostly because we did not expect it to be this cold. The cold alone is enough to drive you bonkers, the lingering cold for days on end.

We tried to get away from it by taking two trips this winter: one to the South Carolina beaches and one to Wilmington, NC. The two trips we took were the only windows we had into really taking in the beauty and the love and the warm welcome that The South has ready for us. The rest of the time, we have been cooped up in the house with the fireplace on and dreaming of far far lands …

If Jung's theory that our ancestors' experiences live deep in our brains amounts to anything, then at least one of my ancestors lived in the American South, at one point. I have no proof of this, and it is probably highly unlikely, but there is something awakened in me when I stroll an old Southern town.

Taking in the architecture, the live oaks, the huge magnolia trees, the endless amount of green lining the cobblestone streets fills my heart with a feeling of the familiar, and of the stuff that “home” is made of. There is a peace, a quiet lull in the speed of life here. The swish of the pine trees outside my house in the silent bright morning. Life is moving slowly here.

Alleyway lined by huge magnolia trees

There is something all-encompassing about olden like oaks. The stories they could tell. 

Strolling on familiar streets has a certain charm to it. Gaping the eyes wide open and losing my retina into the infinite Carolina blue skies connects me to God and beyond. It's a deep connection that I cannot let go of. A connection I craved for several years while away.

I love seeing cardinals in my neighborhood at any old hour. They're happy and feel at home themselves. I love the magnolia blooms which dared to pop despite the crazy weather.

In every grand outdoor staircase of every Colonial house, in every wrap-around porch, under every column, I see like a chimera at least one or two poofy dresses roaming about … Just for a second, and then they're gone. “A civilization gone with the wind ...”

Some of the grand old Colonial homes in Wilmington. You can hear history writing itself at an old rickety table with a squeaky old stylus

Spanish moss has me believing in ghosts again.

Time stood still back when the big mansions were built and they endure today. Manners are not old fashioned, and no one has ever met a stranger. Everyone's everyone else sweetheart, darling, or love. Even the grocery store lady calls us that. We have not met one person that was so much as indifferent to us. Everyone is nice and warm and we count our blessings.

This. This pace, this quiet land, the gratuitous smile of strangers on our weary hearts are balms that cure the longing for far away rocks. These are all reminders that old or new, like it or not, back-paddled or otherwise, we are home. And home is where you start over. And home is where you grow. Looking forward to some nicer weather and more adventures right here, in our new old back yard.

My American life started 20 years ago on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, about a mile away from this very spot. This year, I started my second coming to the South here, too. Just to get perspective, to think, regroup, and recenter. It was as breathtaking, daunting, scary and maddeningly exciting as 20 years ago. This is a sunrise .... 

Random Thoughts During Quiet Times

A cold winter. A long rest ...


"I am home.
I am an imperfect citizen of an imperfect, odd beautiful, dysfunctional, delicious place. 
But at least we ain't dull." (Rick Bragg - My Southern Journey. True Stories from the Heart of the South)

Rick Bragg was writing this about The South. But it could be said about Romanians, too. And this is the very reason why I felt at home in The South. 


We haven't been doing much lately. It's not for lack of options, but you know, sometimes, you just need a break. Granted, our break has been pretty much lasting since October or so, but, hey, when you're happy, who's counting days, right?! 

It's been a colder winter (and longer, it feels, of course, because of it) than we're used to, and because of colds and getting old, we simply don't have the drive we used to to go out and explore. There shall be happenin' times to come. We hope. 

Reading and watching the birds and the piling snow, one weather event after another, along with comfort food cooking and eating is pretty much the day-to-day around here, outside work. 

I have also been dreaming a lot about the South. I am reading the book I quoted from above and dreaming of why I feel, why I always have felt, like a Southerner. For some reason, now more than before, I feel worse than ever that I need to be there. 

I just get lost in this book, as I slip into slumber, every night. It makes me think and dream and giggle and ponder on either how can I one day return there, or how can I recreate that heaven, right here in the mountains. But you need people like that, for this, and food like that, too.

And it's more beautiful, simple writing than I have come across in a long while. Lately, I have been missing good stories. With a wealth of ordinary but cleverly sewn together words, that flow easily like a good meal down the hatch. Words and phrases that make you go: "Why didn't I think of that?!", Bragg gives me that. 

I'll quote some more:

"I loved a Cajun woman once. It was her eyes, I believe. 
When I was a little boy, just because it is the kind of things boys do, I would look at the hot sun through a green, sweating bottle of 7UP. The sunlight seemed to freeze in the middle of the bottle, and glow.
She had eyes like that." 

I've been taking more pictures of the winter and of the frosty purple finches outside my window, because I can't venture far in these temps! The reading, the warmth of the home, the closeness of my small family is all that I plan for for a while. Nothing more, or less. 

 

The weight of the snow. The tallness of it. It's why I miss "just a dusting" from my previous Southern days. 

 

These guys are so cute, but not sure why they call them "purple".  

I am not even missing airports, like I used to when not traveling. Or the tropics. I am just content to be and grateful to have eyes to see and read, and ears to hear good music once in a while. Touchy fingers to feel Gypsy's silky fur.

There will be times for travel. And times for partying and playing. But for now, it's time to stay put and marvel in the quiet beauty of the world. Outside and in-between the pages of a a good book. 

I hope everyone finds that, when they crave it. 

This is the opening chapter in the book. And it's why I know I will make it to the end - because you want to experience this journey, promised:

"It suits me here. 
My people tell their stories of vast red fields and bitter turnip greens and harsh white whiskey like they are rocking in some invisible chair, smooth and easy even in the terrible parts, because the past has already done its worst. The joys of this Southern life, we polish like old silver. We are good at stories.
(...)
We buff our beloved ancestors till they are smooth of sin, and give our scoundrels a hard shake, though sometimes we cannot remember exactly which is who.
I wonder if, north of here, they might even run out of stories someday. It might seem silly, but it is cold up there, too cold to mosey, to piddle, to loafer, and summer only lasts a week and a half. The people spit the words out so fast when they talk, like they are trying to discard them somehow, banish them, rather than relish the sound and the story. We will not run out of them here. We talk like we are tasting something. 
I do it for a living, which is stealing, really."

Antelope Island on the Great Salt Lake. A Photo Journey.

This belongs in the series “around the corner from our house”, or “our very own backyard”.

We’ve lived here for almost 5 years, and we have planned to visit Antelope Island on the Great Salt Lake every single one of them. This time, we did not plan it. We just woke up one Sunday morning and off we went.

Because this was a February trip, I need to speak a bit about the weather (we normally don’t venture out in the mountains in the winter). We have had a very mild winter so far, and the weather was gorgeous: bright, almost cloudless and a mild 50F. Once you drive towards the island, which feels literally just in the middle of the Great Salt Lake, connected to the land by a skinny roadway/ pier contraption, the temperature drops a little, just because of the wind. But the brightness increases.

The landscape is breathtaking, as you’re on the water, surrounded by desert and the Rockies out in the horizon. There is a strange feeling of what is more overwhelming: all that water? Or all that desert brush? Either way, you feel remote, and lost.

The remoteness and wasteland are broken down by all the amazing life popping in your face at every corner. After the sudden silence you come up against once on the island, everything starts coming to life – birds and animals alike, whole flocks and herds of them, are giving the island its pulsating heart and you realize: you are never alone in this world. I am just curious to see what it’s like in the summer, with all the bees and snakes and lizards coming out, too. Possibilities.

I will let the pictures speak for the place, as my words are not going to do it justice. 

 

 

 

 

Do you feel small and lost yet? I could never get tired of shooting these parts! Between the depth of the lake and the height of the mountains, the majesty of the entire landscape just renders me mute, most days ... If anyone needs to believe in God, or doubts Him, they need to really come and watch, listen and just see ... 

 

My panoramic view of The Island 

 

The thick salt, solidified on the beach of the island. I did not taste it (maybe for a warmer day!), but they tell me the Great Salt Lake is really, really salty. I guess this is proof.   

 

 

 

  

We left the place thinking that they should really call this "The Bison Island" - it felt like they owned the place! The "friendship" or tolerance between the bison and the birds is simply amazing. These enormous creatures don't even blink at the birds barging into their personal space. The birds feed off of bugs in their fur.

 

This was a bigger bird, not on their backs, but still unfazed by their proximity.  

 

She was gorgeous in her own right!  

 

Coyotes and rabbits were other free inhabitants coming out to check out the crowds...

 

And antelopes, of course, albeit skittish and remote ... After all, it's their island. 

This driftwood in the shallow part of the lake was trying so hard to capture every single shade of the sunset in its fibers.

 

Various shots to remind us where we are ...

 

The Fielding Garr Ranch, on the Island, shows the 21st century city people what built The West: ranching and how it was done. 

 

The end of a beautiful day ... 

 

My favorite shot from the whole shoot! It summarizes the whole day in one crystal testimony: prairie grass, the American Wild West, The Rockies, where we are, where hope lives on, where dreams begin ... and end ...  

For viewing the complete album from this trip, click on the picture.