We grieve because we love.

The dying generation.

The ladies in this picture are sisters and they happen to be my grandmother (Maria) on the right and my great aunt, Ticuta, on the left. In the middle stands uncle Ionel, my aunt’s husband. My grandfather passed away few years back from Alzheimer’s.

Both sisters had strokes within days of each other, couple of months ago. Sunday, 11-10-2019 aunt Ticuta passed away.

I look at life as a wonderful novel and for some their story may have ended their flesh and blood walk on this earth. It’s impossible not to feel sad at its finality. But strong memories continue their story and recollecting them is my way of spending time with the beloved departed ones.

Here’s one of those memories.

Ibanesti village stands quietly in the Bucovina region of Romania situated north of the country.

Head wrapped in a bright scarf and one hand shielding her eyes from the sun above my aunt stands in the middle of a potatoes field searching for me. In addition to her children and her chores I’m her responsibility for the time being as I spend few summer days working the fields along side. We’ve been weeding and picking these nasty bugs off every leaf for the past four hours and although there’s so much left the work is coming to an end for today. Heat waves dance over the land and her small but mighty frame rests a moment and I can’t help but smile towards her. She does not smile much, too engulfed in her never-ending chores life offers to a peasant but when she does my world brightens and I nearly tear up with overwhelming joy. I can smell dust and dried grass lingering in the air for the ground under our feet is cracked from lack of rain. She looks up towards the sun and her lips move, most likely in prayer. We need rain for the crops to grow, so I too begin to pray. As a child I don’t like the rain much but I sense its importance.

“Carmen! Gicu! Geta! Time to go home!” She waives us over and like separated aunts we happily cluster joking and pushing each other in cheerful teasing. The walk home is shared between gulps of lukewarm water once freshly pulled out of the well and I look forward to dinner.

But dinner in the country does not come quickly. First we must feed and give water to the cows who have just returned from the pastures, brought back by the village boy delegated with such a task. So I help carry the buckets of water after Gicu, one of my cousins, pumps it from the well. I see in the far distance, Geta, another cousin, lifting hay with a fork and bringing it in the stable. Today I must milk the cow, that’s my task, and I take the small wooden stool, I grab the aluminum bucket and set myself underneath the enormous belly hoping she’ll not kick me. The smell of cow manure gags me for a second yet years later this will become my best memory trigger to such times as these. I wash her nipples and began to pull, but its not as easy as it seems and my cousins start to laugh, teasing my clumsiness. I’m a city girl, and I feel it now in every bone of my body. Every day they work hard yet still manage to laugh and tease while I struggle to keep up too proud to admit defeat. So I try again and pull harder with more success.

“Here. Let me show you how it’s done.” Geta offers. She sits down and starts milking with great ease and as the while liquid slushes out quickly the smell of fresh milk teases my nostrils, followed by stomach gurgles. I’m really hungry.

“Lean your head on her belly gently, this helps her relax, then grab hard like this and pull like this. Now you do it.” I nod, ready to prove my worth. I lean my head and start to pull. I’m rewarded with a great sound of liquid hitting the bucket, Geta smiles and the cow moos happy. As I milk her, head agains her belly, my eyes see past the open stable door and into the courtyard, where Mitica, my youngest cousin only about five or six years old helps his mother by bringing the fire wood so she can start supper out in the summer kitchen. It’s too hot to cook inside and during the summer all the meals are cooked outside in the summer kitchen which is a clay oven next to a wooden table situated underneath a lush grape vine. Aunt Ticuta is starting the fire with some matches and soon the soft polenta, the universal bread in these parts of the country, is well on its way. Then she fries pieces of pork meat and my mouth is watering as the fumes reach me, and Geta hurries to help with the salad by picking lettuce from the nearby garden. Fresh made plain yogurt completes the simple meal and I become impatient with my chore.

Come on girl, help me out here!” But the cow turns and looks at me with her big eyes and I can tell she’s saying “What else do you want me to do?”

Once around the table we bow our heads and pray out loud over the meal then sit down under the shade of the grape vine busy eating. The fire was put out but the smell of aches lingers. We tease each other with mouth-fulls of goodness and settle down only when my aunt advertises us there’ll be whipping coming our way if we don’t. But like a bee hive we slowly start it up again. And life keeps going on in a beautiful continuance of love, hard work, and laughter.

Family members of the dying generation mean the world to me. Despite grave injustice against them some brought on by the socialist/communist party others by life circumstances they always worked hard and looked at life as God’s precious gift. The thankful attitude and their tendency to see the positive side of life taught me to be strong. I love that! I was taught that by them! I will treasure it forever. If only I can do as good of a job, now that’s my turn, and make the world around me better. I’m trying:) These are the people I’m mostly proud of, the older generations, that sit invisible behind this two ladies in this picture. My family back home and some here:)

Everyone of us needs a strong and healthy foundation to stand on and I hope you have such a great foundation. If some of these great people have passed away, remember them well, and be proud to have encountered such wonderful human beings:)

God Bless.

Who is the one corrupting, really?

It’s a truth most of us don’t take time to think about it. Who is corrupting who, the adults or the children? Let me clarify.

In a child’s world there is unconditional love, laughter and joy, purity of mind and speech, honesty, and LOADS of forgiveness. When an adult enters a child’s world (-birth-one-two-three-four-five-six year olds) they find all the qualities I mentioned earlier and then some, despite the temporarily expressed frustrations they express from time to time. But you’ll never find a double crossing child, someone who plots your murder, stabs you in the back etc, gossips about you, etc. In their world everyone is welcomed.

Now let’s take a look at the adults world, our world, we who consider ourselves mature, smart, clever, enlightened and so on. Anyone pure who enters our world is hurt and manipulated, destroyed and taken advantage of. We kill (body and soul), manipulate to get our way, hurt, lie, pretend, ignore, cheat, etc, and HARDLY forgive. Our love is conditional and often not genuine. When children enter our world they pay a great price, but when we enter theirs we receive forgiveness and unconditional love. Any damaged child is most likely damaged by an adult. Not one adult is damaged goods because of a child. Why is that?

Why are we corrupting their world? If we are as smart as we think we are? Why?

At the age of 18, not longer a child, not yet a complete adult either, Meleah, my daughter entered the work field- a company in Seattle which made social media games.

“I expected the adult world to be full of mature people, and I was intimidated by that. But when I heard them cursing, just to curse, I was deeply let down.”

As we talked about this let down the “mature world of the adults” brought in her life, a few things became clear; cursing is a form of verbal violence and of a lazy vocabulary, adults are frustrated beings with no parent to instruct them, and overall, not at all that smart. If you know my daughter you’ll also know how liberal in thinking she actually is, however, lately she is starting to believe based on her observations that conservative ways, at least some, are less dangerous and destructive than those of a deeply liberal view. Why? How come?

“Although deeply flowed, the christians are searching for truth and life meaning in one direction, a more uniform direction, as they collect and put the puzzle pieces together.

Although deeply flawed, the others search in every direction with a deeply controversial and far less open minded ways than otherwise announced, it gets so utterly confusing and unpleasant that leaves me skeptical of their ways.” -These are not her words just paraphrasing our philosophical conversation we had this morning. They grew up in a conservative background and like all teenagers rebelled, but Chet and I love when I see our children question everything not just accept ideologies because society or mommy and daddy tolled them to do so. Why? Because adults, despite of their belief system, are the ones corrupting everything, not children, and that’s criminal.

What do you think? Do I have a point in my opinion? Are there memories, or incidents you experience that attest to what I wrote? How about experiences which may contradict the above statement?

Have a great weekend and let’s try to be better adults starting with us.

God Bless:)

Red-A Philosophical self-talk-

I’ve begun reading “The Naked Communist” by W. Cleon Skousen and it’s not an easy task for me as flashbacks from my own experience while living through the last of the communist era, back in Romania, rise up.

I’ll let you know in my up and coming posts some similarities that I see in the America of today and communist tactics I’ve experienced while back home. This is a subject that I would love to capture it with my brother Alin’s philosophical point of view and have a recorded debate on the matter. It would be both entertaining and informative… and done in our native Romanian language. But not yet.

Today, after bleeding for the past 27th days, and clearly a little lightheaded from losing so much blood, I become philosophical:) (I have an appointment tomorrow with gynecology.)

I was truly hoping 2018 to be void of doctors, pain, pocking, needles and medical stress, thus hid the bleeding issue for as long as I could. Thanks to Elizabeth I did end up going to a Zoom clinic and thanks to my mother-in-law’s insistence I finally made a gynecology appointment. I must admit I struggle emotionally. I’m fighting with a Marxist syndrome, a disease in itself, and trying to grasp a truth as seen through my husband’s eyes, a reality built on being born here in America. I like his view so much better than mine, but in reality, it seems to be just a beautiful fairy-tale I like to listen to often. I have changed quite a bit living here in America, for the better I think, but when disease keeps on knocking at the doors of my soul, the old Marxism rises up debating loudly while trying to win.

When one becomes sick and unable to provide for the motherland (this can be geographically anywhere the mind goes) a man’s value disappears, thus he is no longer needed, according to the communism/marxism laws. If you can’t produce you’re no more than a useless eater (Hitler, Communism movement, Margaret Sangers, Darwinism are the best known for this type of thinking). Raised in that type of thinking, I automatically think like that. Back in Romania, you can see this in divorces, affairs,  abuse, neglect, blame, and shame, after one becomes sick vs. here in America, where you see support systems, encouragement, and fighting until the end on behalf of a loved one. (This is a generalized point of view based on the majority of cases, for I have seen harsh consequences following the tragedy of loss or disease here in America as well).

“Oh well, at least they’ll not be a burden to the family now. The sooner they die the better. This is God’s judgment for your sins, your father’s sins, your children’s sins, etc.” Are some of the more normal expressions as a response to any disease in Eastern European culture. (Eastern Europe has migrated into other lands and that philosophy can very well follow.)

In America that differs: “What else can we do, doctor? You’ll get better. Focus on getting better. Don’t worry about the money, you’re more important,”  to name a few, not to mention all the “Go Fund Me” types of support.

To top it all off, I’m a woman, raised and tolled in my formative years to believe that I matter less than the life of a dog, born to please a man only and nothing else. Now here’s the tricky part, this belief was preached loudly from the churches pulpits, all done by males, not communism. In communism law (gender or age didn’t matter, you simply didn’t have value). In Romania, I was nothing else but a Christian woman (that’s not a compliment:) to be used and abused than tossed aside when no longer needed or able to perform my duties- at least that would’ve been my lot in life if I would’ve remained there. (Not all men are cruel, alcoholics or abusive in Romania, but most are). I know great Romanian men that are very decent and loving to their wives, their children and in general to everyone else around.

Now, don’t you worry about me, God’s helped me heal quite a lot from many of these issues, by providing proof of ignorance, instability, indoctrination, culture and a theory (Marxism) based on violence and narcissism (read about Marx’s own pathetic life, his example as a father and husband, and his inability to live up to his own theology). I’m healing, that’s why I can start talking about some truths without disintegrating and with a healthier perspective. Now let’s move on.

Its been only God’s presence and patience, working either directly in my heart or through people such as Chet, my parents-in-law, Elizabeth, my Romanian friends and so many other people I know,  that helped me heal. My siblings have been the biggest help, other than Chet. Chet wants to help but it takes someone who went through hell and back with you to understand the darkness you must heal from. I know I’m not the only one feeling this way. There are far too many that have seen an even greater darkness than I have.

In the days when I’m not feeling well it’s easier to fall into that autopilot old way of thinking, yet, those same days are the ones healing me and teaching me some of the best lessons about myself and life itself.

Why have I let the lies of others (religion, a devil, etc, call it anything you want) take such residence in my heart for so long? Guilt and ignorance of the truth.

I’m dying. (I’m being dramatic here) We all are. Some faster than others. But I’m the one who decides if I’m going to help the evil end my own existence with feelings of fear and hopelessness, or if I would much rather spend that time laughing alongside my loved ones.

When you really get this, life even at its hardest will be worth fighting for. It’s our life, given to us as a gift by God, so guard it and fight for it, it’s our right to it.

Well, like I said, the philosopher in me came out today:) Be happy with the simplicity of life, for a farmer is far happier with his life than a philosopher usually is.

And ultimately, I’ll keep on learning or unlearning, sharing with you parts of those lessons hopefully to help you heal faster and sooner, and be grateful for everything.

God Bless:)