Alina's Adventures

My favorite untranslatable words.

Full moon off The Transylvania.

The kids frequently ask me to translate a Romanian word for which I can find no simple English match. Over the years, they have learned to expect definitions which extend like kudzu in multiple directions and layers. 

One of my favorite Romanian words- also the root of my father's name- is impossible to translate. I cannot convey the way in which this tiny word tangles with the scent of moist mountain soil, the sonorous vocalizations of shepherd songs, the face of a woman caught laughing.

I've written poems up and down this word without coming any closer. 

"Doina de Jale" (Poet's International)
"Holy Bread" (Eunoia Review)
"Doina de Haiduc" (The Freeman)

The word is "dor". The word is immense as a landscape. Here is the meaning, alongside a few other fascinating untranslatables.

WAIT! THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH "HOMESCHOOLING"

Everything in the world is "homeschooling". Everything and anything. Example: one fun way to play with these words is by asking your child to write a short story about how the word came about in the given language. To provide interesting details, encourage your child to research the country of origin, including its legends and religious stories. Perform the story. Or read it aloud with gestures. There are so many ways to play with magnificent words.

Dor (Romanian)
Begins with the longing for absent things or places or people but stretches beyond longing into an element of pleasure, a fondle which inhabits the pain.The feeling is elusive but it is not vague or passive, and it is always ‘directed at an object’, as the entry says. 

Iktsuarpok (Inuit)
the frustration of waiting for someone to arrive or turn up.

Mamihlapinatapai (Yagan)
the wordless, yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start. (Yagan is the native tongue of Tierra del Fuego, an archipelago off the coast of South America, the last stop before Antarctica)

Saudade (Portugese)
the feeling of longing for something or someone that you love, and which is lost. 

Ya’aburnee (Arabic)
literally, “You bury me,” a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person, because of how difficult it would be to live without them. 

Litost (Czech)
a state of agony and torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery. Milan Kundera believes it is impossible to understand the human soul without this word.

Waldeinsamkeit (German)
the feeling of being alone in the woods.

Drugoj (Russian)
the other people or neighbors whom we are supposed to love as ourselves.

Esprit d'escalier (French)
literally, "the spirit of the staircase". Refers to that witty comeback that you think of moments after leaving the situation in which you might have been able to use it. The staircase is a reference to your departure from the scene. 

Hygge (Danish)
a complete absence of anything annoying, irritating or emotionally overwhelming, and the presence of and pleasure from comforting, gentle and soothing things.

Schilderwald (German)
a street covered with so many road sides that you become lost.

Uitwaaien (Dutch)
literally, "to walk in the wind". Refers to the act of taking a brief break in the country side to clear one’s head.

Bakku-shan (Japanese)
the word for a girl who looks pretty from behind but ugly in front.

There should be a word for the way
moonlight swallows engulfs a girl
on a sailboat.

Culaccino (Italian)
the mark left on a table by a wet glass.

Zalatwic (Polish)
the use of friends, bribes, personal charm or connections to get something done.

Jayus (Indonesian)
a joke so poorly told and so unfunny that one cannot help but laugh.

Dépaysement (French)
the feeling that comes from not being in one's home country.

Fernweh (German)
a feeling of homesickness for a place you have never visited.

Komorebi (Japaense)
the dappled effect which results from light shining between trees.

Pochemuchka (Russian)
a person who asks too many questions.

Won (Korean)
the reluctance to let go of an illusion or delusion.

Gökotta (Swedish)
to rise early in the morning for the purpose of going outside to hear the birds sing.

Backpfeifengesicht (German)
a face badly in need of a fist.

Shlimazl (Yiddish)
a person who is chronically unlucky.

Evighed (Danish)
literally, "eternity". What makes it untranslatable, or at least worth thinking of in translation, is Kierkegaard’s use of the term to cover at least three different possibilities: the felt eternity of the present moment; a future eternity that corresponds to St Paul’s concept ‘the fullness of time’; and the sheer continuity of consciousness, which eludes time.

July 22nd, you should have turned 67.

 

The anger is yellow but not golden like mamaliga.

 

Mamaliga has mama in it.

 

Mamaliga can be made into boulz.

 

The anger is not a delicacy handled by shepherds. 

 

Everything we love has been handled by shepherds. But not anger.

 

Boulz comes from cheese aged in bark and the sheep mingle their bleetings inside every bite.

 

July 22nd is yellow and red and orange but nothing is golden.

 

The jewelry she saved for us has disappeared. 

 

She loved gold but the gold is gone.

Papanasi, a Romanian recipe for dumplings, and Norman Manea.

Gnome samples papanasi, a traditional Romanian food.

Whenever my Aunt Sanda visits, she and Bunica collaborate in the kitchen to create all sorts of Romanian foods that Bunica doesn't cook so much anymore. It's exciting because it reminds me of my childhood, when Romanian recipes were all my mother knew (she hadn't quite learned to cook American yet) and so tripe soup or tongue soup (the dreaded dishes) might pop up any night of the week.

Papanasi can also be eaten as entree without sugar.

A paper bird gifted to us by Bunicu hangs above the dining table.

I sit at the table and write beneath a strange bird. 

It's hard for me to get away from the Romanian evocations in my writing- partly because the mist of childhood makes them feel like legends, fairy tales, impossible things once believed as backdrop for everything else around me. Sanda has been teaching the kids Romanian phrases and it's a reminder I should be doing the same- that I shouldn't abandon my first language. Or leave it to history.

I've been inspired so much by Romanian writers, currently including but not limited to Dimitri Tsepeneag, Mircea Cartarescu, and Norman Manea. I love how Manea describes writing in this excellent interview with Norman Manea in American Reader:

“You write in order to redeem yourself partially from the chaos which is around you, you’re trying to find something, meaning, somewhere. Or to invent one, if you don’t find it—and this is what produces art generally: this need of the individual to search for something which is beyond their reality, even if it is sometimes hidden within that reality.”

Portrait of Manea sourced from an interview with The Daily Beast.

He admits to writing for readers in a closed society:

"My language tried to be faithful to a closed society, rather than an open one. The language was coded, sometimes quite obscurely, and differed greatly from the language of newspapers or party slogans. The characters were usually marginalized—people who were foreigners in their own land."

In the same interview, Manea describes America as “the best hotel”. He shies away from claiming a favorite country:

“A hotel is where you come in, you have a place for which you pay, everything functions, nobody asks who you are or what you want. You have an ID, you give the ID, you come, you go, and that’s it. It’s a domicile and it’s a temporary one because we are temporary here on this Earth.”

There is so much to learn from Manea, who survived both the Nazis and the communists as a Jew and a human being. So much to learn from those who refuse to accept the unacceptable and write their way through the lies society asks them to tell. 

And there is papanasi- the complicated substance and texture of a minority immigrant childhood- that one girl must describe to placate the dead. 

PAPANASI RECIPES TO TRY AT HOME 

Papanasi dessert recipe from Artsy Bites
Papanasi recipe from Cooking Without Limits
Papanasi recipe from Bettina's Traditional Romanian Foods blog

Stella Radulescu's hallowed memory holes.

Reading Stella Vinitchi Radulescu's I Scrape the Window of Nothingness scooped me out so thoroughly that only scaffolding remained. The scaffolding and the notes jotted down in a sketchbook while crouched on a rock in the arboretum. A sample:

untitled 3

the truth belongs
to those
who never say
good-bye

or lie about
being
here    in love
with falling
gods

Where to begin? I'll begin in the black hole- the place where the literature of dissent abandoned its respect for language. Start with the sparse aesthetic of the political dictatorship, how it led to the absurdism of Eugene Ionesco, the veiled fruits of Herta Muller. What remains after totalitarianism (and utopian propaganda) rendered ordinary words meaningless.  

Now progress to the shores of democracy where people know billboards better than the native plants in their backyards- look around, it's a brave new world and nothing is out of your reach if you're willing (and able) to buy it.

Alas, the hyper-mediated consciousness of consumer culture does not resuscitate language. Perhaps there is disappointment for the political exile upon discovery that democracy honors language by accident- and only on occasion. 

The poet returns to the page with a mistrust of what man creates to make sense of things. No man-made signs can be trusted to offer truth. The words betray as swiftly as clock hands put us at another border, begging to be accepted into another country where only the moon is familiar.

But there are seasons, stars, and particular forms of light by which the world can be known. To read Radulescu is to re-learn geography. To jettison the GPS maps for enfleshed topography. To tell time by what we glimpsed in childhood faces or the heat of a mother's hand. 

lend me your tongue
I buried mine a long time ago
there was no place for such a flame...

And then to hide what we know in our marrow but cannot afford to say- maybe because it fails to signify but really there are no words. No words unmolested.

The scene in Radulescu's poems winds through a distinctly liminal space- the thin skin stretched between light and dark. The space where superstitions are more legible than street signs. The space becomes the place where one expects the epiphany. For Radulescu, the poet's sacred absolutions- the pen, the paper, the attentive expectation- rarely give rise to revelation. She remains alone with a past she can't verbalize and a pen that draws blood without offering us a sentient body.

Other things I found: There are dogwood blossoms but they don't feel green. The flower's sensuality is held back. We are deprived of the resonance by which a bloom holds our attention. There is the ghost of Paul Celan. There is a moon (an eternity of moons). And other characters, or words, which return to re-orient us. There is ice, silence, wind, time, and light. There are eyes, scars, vowels, shadows, children, lovers... 

The visual aspects are not effusive. In this regard, her poems resemble Eastern Orthodox icons more than photographs, oil paintings, or watercolors. Nothing of gouache's tender, wistful touch. The heaviness of holy things- gold foil on wood, the abstracted solemnity of faces who have seen holy things and yet cannot speak of them. The point at which silence morphs into reverence. The point at which she earns my trust.

She brings us to this point again and again and then refuses to go any further. I savor the non-adulatory awe- love the courage of language so bare you can see the swollen joints, the skinny knees knocking together.

Ultimately, what I find in Radulescu's poems is inseparable from what I know about being a Romanian defector: the past is easy to recount but impossible to translate. So I trust the bark of a tree for what it doesn't say. Maybe only a tree is equipped to handle the holy. Maybe the televangelists despise what they cannot touch. 

a poet dying seeks refuge and
sets the page on fire

Radulescu offers her poems to a culture marked by impatience, a culture disinterested in the ineffable. Her courage comes from refusing to cater, pander, or prevaricate. Among my favorites from this book- "1955"; "bells & bones"; "rough winter, cold meals"; "starting point"- emblematic of her voice.

Sketch by George Terry McDonald [source]

I Scrape the Window of Nothingness will be available for purchase on March 12th, but you can pre-order a copy now from Orison Books.

"But why should I do this if you just finished saying Radulescu doesn't offer any revelations or certainties? Why bother if the poems won't fulfill me?"

Because any poet who fulfills you is a one-night stand on the bedside table; and what seems acrobatic at night looks foppish on two legs. Fulfillment is only temporary, a flash in the pan, but the silence of unspeakable things beguiles indefinitely. This is Radulescu's poetic gift- to convey the ineffablility of exile's place and the way language desecrates as much as it preserves. Read her for want of a moon.

"femme bleue" (in French)
"the earth begins" (translated by Luke Hankins)
"night in four voices" (in French)
"flood" (YouTube reading by the author)
"some words suicidal" 
more poems at Orison

Vinegar in my blood.

The King's cabbage salad.

Romanian girls aren't raised on sugar and spice and everything nice. We grow into our skins with the tangy sourness of vinegar and red cabbage salad. 

Vinegar may not smell pretty but magic doesn't work wonders through smell. The vinegar in our blood preserves the words until we're ready to crack open the jar and unpickle the nascent poetry. 

"The French poet, Rimbaud, predicted that the next great crop of writers would be women. He was the first guy who ever made a big women's liberation statement, saying that when women release themselves from the long servitude of men they're really gonna gush. New rhythms, new poetries, new horrors, new beauties. And I believe in that completely."

Surely Patti Smith craved vinegar when she made this remark....

Additional meditations on vinegar by minds worth excavating:

"What I've learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices in my head. First there's the vinegar-lipped Reader Lady, who says primly, "Well, that's not very interesting, is it?" And there's the emaciated German male who writes these Orwellian memos detailing your thought crimes. And there are your parents, agonizing over your lack of loyalty and discretion; and there's William Burroughs, dozing off or shooting up because he finds you as bold and articulate as a houseplant; and so on. And there are also the dogs: let's not forget the dogs, the dogs in their pen who will surely hurtle and snarl their way out if you everstop writing, because writing is, for some of us, the latch that keeps the door of the pen closed, keeps those crazy ravenous dogs contained." 
        - Anne Lamott

"As the best wine doth make the sharpest vinegar, so the deepest love turneth to the deadliest hate." 
        - John Lyly

"I was a thorn rushing to be with a rose, vinegar blending with honey…
Then I found some dirt to make an ointment that would honor my soul…
Love says, “You are right, 
but don’t claim these changes. 
Remember, I am wind. You are an ember I ignite." 
        - Rumi

Primitive, unpretty emotions about soil.

Hiking along Snake River on a cloudy day.

"No, I’m no patriot, nor was I ever allowed to be. And yet, the country of my childhood lives within me with a primacy that is a form of love. It lives within me despite my knowledge of our marginality, and its primitive, unpretty emotions.

Is it blind and self-deceptive of me to hold on to its memory? I think it would be blind and self-deceptive not to. All it has given me is the world, but that is enough. It has fed me language, perceptions, sounds, the human kind .... no geometry of landscape, no haze in the air, will live in us as intensely as the landscapes that we saw as the fi rst, and to which we gave ourselves wholly, without reservation.” 

So writes Eva Hoffman, in a book I've read and re-read numerous times. 

Bolted lettuce and border wars.

Lunch is a time for the King to survey garden business.

Reading about the South American children stranded between one border and another, I recognize the jagged edges of their lives. Too much thinking and ponderizing is apt to cut into the responsibility of weeding and tending. 

I let the lettuce bolt. 

Being born in Eastern Europe and raised in Alabama provides an upbringing in which the rules of the road are always in transition. The here and now is continuously juxtaposed against the here and there. The verb of me is hard to translate.

Truthfully, every immigrant and exile lives with the effects of displacement, separation, hunger, and anxiety. If the rules of the road are constantly fluctuating, this is because the the context itself shifts from one place to another, one country to the Other. Do we ask Pakistani Americans to feel like enemies of themselves?

Like a hobo on a high-speed train, the shifting contexts keep me from getting too comfortable- from sensing the ground beneath my feet as something solid, concrete, and reliable. 

I'm okay with this insecurity. I've adapted. Learned to love gardening despite knowing the soil can never be certain- always more metaphor than material to me. 

There are other things I've learned as an immigrant. Learn to upload photos and maintain a digital record of everything you treasure, everything you may be asked one day to leave behind. Plan to find yourself online one day should a panel of experts deem you unfit for the privilege of citizenship. Avoid getting attached to textures and landscapes. 

Never look back because the looking will demand you tell a story of what you saw- and this story will not make sense. In context.

Learning about the sculptures of Constantin Brancusi.

Constantin Brancusi, self-portrait, 1924.

Our introduction to the art of Constantin Brancusi (pronounced "Brun-coosh") began simply enough. I handed Gnome, Prophet, and Little B. a black and white outline of Brancusi's "Bird In Space" and asked them to use their imaginations to reveal the bird in space with a little help from colored pencils.

To use the coloring page, enjoy the free download (which includes a brief activity plan) at Teachers Pay Teachers. We followed up our Brancusi exploration with a brief study of the actual marble scuplture itself and a discussion of Brancusi's life and career.

More resources to study Brancusi with kids:

 "Brancusi, Bird In Space, 1928" (Khan Academy)
Brancusi's golden heads (Paul Kasmin Gallery)
Simplicty is complexity resolved: Brancusi and the Americans (Yatzer)
View of Brancusi's studio circa 1928 (Bruce Silverstein Gallery)

A brief dip into my Romanian family history circa 1934 and 1935.

The year was 1933. My grandfather attended the Boys and Girls National Dance Festival in Sibiu, Romania. You can see my grandmother in the third row from the bottom. Her smile is the bright one lighting the 5th face from the right.

In September of 1934, my grandfather sits in the front with his brother, Parsifal, standing to his upper right. Parsifal was killed by the American planes that bombed Bucharest at the end of World War II. 

Despite the misery of war and the loss of his only sibling, my grandfather still found a way to enjoy sailing on the lake at Parcul Herestrau, one of my favorite haunts in Bucharest.

Beware when your child spends time learning about Romanian vineyards...

It seems a liberal education can lead to creativity across the board, including the making of wine labels by a ten-year-old boy whose old wine tasting takes place at communion.

Max's handmade, index-card wine label involved no input from his humble mother or father. He has yet to explain the "logo" to me. All the same, his relentless pursuit of makings and doings inspires and enchants me- keeps my head outside the many boxes I have built for myself.

Adrian Ghenie and other fantabulous Romanian artists on the post-Ceausescu art scene.

Adrian Ghenie’s “Pie Fight Interior 8.”

Twenty five years after Ceausescu’s lightning-quick trial and execution on Christmas Day, when most of the artists were in grade school, they retain a special brand of pragmatism, cynicism and dark wit. Their output — somber, intellectual, haunted by history and laced with gallows humor — reveals the psyche of a country sentenced to grapple with its past for decades to come. Ghenie’s thickly worked canvases depicting what look like melting faces have drawn comparisons to the work of Francis Bacon, but his titles making reference to pie fights lend the works a layer of slapstick. Muresan’s video of dog puppets evokes the human potential for brutality. The Romanian critic and curator Mihnea Mircan, 37, summed up their generation as “allergic to utopia.”

In this spirit, they navigate success in a post-Communist environment, where for decades most any achievement required working with the regime. “I trust myself better than I trust others,” Serban Savu, 35, says, explaining the self-reliance he and his colleagues have developed. “Nobody helped us to construct the art scene.”

Read this for the rest of this fascinating story.

A family portrait from Romania: Journal prompt.

My dad emailed this photo of his family, dressed in the traditional Transylvanian clothing of the time. He noted that my great-grandmother is on the left. I've asked him for more details, but I'm going to wait before reading them.

In the meantime, I think Max and I will journal our own "stories" about this branch of the family tree. I started Max off with the goal of naming them, explaining the sash tied around the gentleman's waist (what does it signify?) as well as the stump on which the little boy is sitting. Can't wait to read what he weaves from this...

"Delight in Disorder", a poem by Robert Herrick.

The King sports his Che shirt.

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

"Coffin Tree" and "Dear Corporation", two poems by Adam Fell.

A statue graveyard in Bucuresti, October 2011.

COFFIN TREE

Somewhere in the national forest,
there is a coffin tree for each of us,
chosen at birth, containing us
completely, even in its youngest seedling.
If we keep no one left to love, to love us,
to cut it down, to afford it carved
to order, we will wander the flower bridge,
the light-rail route, the geopark trails,
unclean ghosts the clouded blue
of our deepening cataracts.
What’s left of us, children moved to city,
smudged air of our once bodies,
is holding, exhausted, the village
brinkline of trees from the road.
We disappearing as the mist that beads
our shapes burns off at dawn.
There is a difference between fire
shaped like a horse and a horse made of fire

DEAR CORPORATION

Each proud morning flashes
its bleached asshole at us,
and, bless thine ass, darling,
you call it a dawning.

Adam Fell was born and raised in Burlington, Wisconsin, and holds degrees from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. He lives in Madison, Wisconsin where he teaches at Edgewood College. You can download a free copy of his chapbook, Ten Keys To Being A Champion On and Off the Field, online. I like how Adam does strange things with love, loss, and the corruptibility of hauntings,

"House hunting", a poem by John N. Morris.

A house in Bucuresti from our trip to Romania last year.

It is not just
A matter of an airy
Kitchen, good schools, and
Two fireplaces ten
Minutes from the station.

Nor is it just
That what you are
Looking for is an acre
Of suburban work
You are not suited to:
The lawn that expresses
Like cancer; the furnace
That stops like a heart
At the center of winter;
Or any other simplicity
You will be helpless
In the face of.

Nor is it just
That you are buying
A place to hear
Your children tell you
Lies in, the pleasant
Rooms where they will hide
Their habits and to which
They will not wish to return;
Or that you arc buying
A beautiful box to be
Sick in and the hall
From which to call the doctor.

It is just that
You must hurry,
The color of life
Fat in your wallet.

John N. Morris (1931-1997) was an American poet and professor who paid a strange tribute to the rise of suburbia in his writings. Known as a the poet of "quiet desperation and the long perspectives of middle-American comfort", Morris also contributed a fair amount to literary criticism in journals like The Hudson Review. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Morris never became well-known enough to develop a character for the American literary scene. But his poems whisper to us about the change in how far we came and how very fast we forget. More on Morris:

"For Julia, In the Deep Water", a poem by Morris (Poetry Foundation)
"Over Grave Waters", a poem by Morris (Poetry)
Morris on Morris (National Humanities Center) 
How Morris helps left-brainers write poetry (National Writing Project) 

"A Poem of Friendship" by Nikki Giovanni.

Gradina by Maria Surducan, a Romanian artist and illusrator

We are not lovers
because of the love
we make
but the love
we have

We are not friends
because of the laughs
we spend
but the tears
we save

I don’t want to be near you
for the thoughts we share
but the words we never have
to speak

I will never miss you
because of what we do
but what we are
together

Happy first of March with martisor.

Bunica brightened our morning by bringing martisorii for everyone to celebrate March 1st. 

Boys wear martisori too.

In ancient Rome, New Year's Eve was celebrated on March 1 - 'Martius', as the month was called in the honour of the god Mars. Mars was not only the god of war but also an agricultural guardian, who ensured nature's rebirth. Therefore, the red and white colours of Mărțișor may be explained as colours of war and peace.

The Thracians also used to celebrate the New Year's Eve on the first day of March, a month which took the name of the god Marsyas Silen, the inventor of the pipe (fluier, traditional musical instrument), whose cult was related to the land and vegetation. Thracian spring celebrations, connected to fertility and the rebirth of nature, were consecrated to him. In some areas, Daco-Romanians still celebrate the agrarian New Year in spring, where the first days of March are considered days of a new beginning.

Before March 1, women choose one day from the first nine of the month, and judging by the weather on the chosen day, they would know how the new year will go for them. Similarly, in other areas, young men find out what their wives are going to be like.

Milla's martisor was a little gold mouse.

The first 9 days of March are called Baba Dochia's Days, Baba Dochia being an image of the Great Earth Goddess. The tradition says that you must pick a day from 1 to 9 March, and how the weather in that day will be, so it will be for you all year long.

Initially, the Mărțișor string used to be called the Year's Rope (‘’funia anului’’, in Romanian), made by black and white wool threads, representing the 365 days of the year. ‘'The Year's Rope'’ was the link between summer and winter, black and white representing the opposition but also the unity of the contraries: light and dark, warm and cold, life and death. The ‘’Mărțișor’’ is the thread of the days in the year, spun by Baba Dochia (the Old Dochia), or the thread of one's life, spun at birth by the Fates (Ursitoare).

White is the symbol of purity, the sum of all the colours, the light, while black is the colour of origins, of distinction, of fecundatity and fertility, the colour of fertile soil. White is the sky, the Father, while black is the mother of all, Mother Earth. According to ancient Roman tradition, the ides of March was the perfect time to embark on military campaigns. In this context, it is believed that the red string of Mărțișor signifies vitality, while the white one is the symbol of victory. Red is the colour of fire, blood, and a symbol of life, associated with the passion of women. Meanwhile, white is the colour of snow, clouds, and the wisdom of men.  

The King's martisor attends his homecoming.

In this interpretation, the thread of a Mărțișor represents the union of the feminine and the masculine principles, the vital forces which give birth to the eternal cycle of the nature. Red and white are also complementary colours present in many key traditions of Daco-Romanian folklore. These are just a few of the reasons why the Mărțișor is a sacred amulet to many Romanians, and that this tradition thrives in both the villages and the cities.

In Daco-Romanian folklore, seasons are attributed symbolic colours: spring is red, summer is green or yellow, autumn is black, and winter is white. In this sense, the Mărțișor thread, knitted in white and red, is a symbol of passing, from the cold white winter, to the lively spring, associated with fire and life. For more on this tradition and how you can play:

Martisori coloring pages (Nicole's Coloring Pages)
The Legend of the Martisor in PDF for kids (The Kitty Cats)
Alina Alex's informative article (World Reporter)
Four lovely martisor crafts (Pradznik Martisor)
Baba Dochia story in PDF for kids (The Kitty Cats) 
Martisor gallery (Tom Kinter) 

"Mama", a poem by Nicolae Labis.

(The original in Romanian)

N-am mai trecut de mult prin sat si-mi spune
Un om ce de pe-acasa a venit
Cum c-a-nflorit la noi malinul
Si c-ai albit, mamuca, ai albit.

Alt om mi-a spus c-ai stat la pat bolnava.
Eu nu stiu cum să cred atatea vesti,
Când din scrisori eu vad precum matale
Din zi în zi mereu intineresti.

Mother

It's been a while since I passed through the village to be told
by a man on his way away from home and night
how the hackberry is blooming at our place,
and how you've whitened, dear mother, you've gone white.

Another man said you've taken to bed with illness.
I don't know how I could believe him, or even what to say,
when reading letters I watch in wonder as
you grow younger every day. 

I translated this one because Labis' touch, delicate and generous, stayed in my mind all afternoon. It's a loose translation, and I'm a mediocre translator who is only as faithful to the literary meaning as cross-cultural context allows. But Nicolae Labis (1935-1956) was a Romanian poet whose gifts and life deserve more exposure in the West. He died very young- and under mysterious circumstances- just as he was beginning to reveal his disenchantment with the Stalinist and anti-humanist line in Romanian communism. 

When we visited Romania last year, I left a cold-stone kiss on Labis' headstone at Bellu Cemetery. The verdict on Labis' politics remains murky (some consider him to be the first Romanian dissident poet), but the verdict on his poetry seems clear as a sunbeam.

Inspirations from vintage Romanian children's books.

Whenever I'm looking for good folksy art and craft ideas, I pick up one of the many vintage (circa 1970's and 1980's) Romanian children's books hidden throughout the bookshelves of the castle. These images are from a version of the three little pigs.

This haystack, for instance, would make a great embroidery pattern or an inspiration for an applique wall hanging using dark threads quilted in straight stitches to "draw" the hay on a deeply tan-yellow fabric.

And this village tablecloth and table setting brings the Transylvanian pottery designs to the forefront. How lovely would this be as a wall hanging made from fabric? Or a quilt block? Or even a watercolor card?

Playing dress-up with vintage Romanian.

It's been a long time since I played dress-up. And it's been a long time since wearing my mother's wedding dress struck me as a light, beautiful, unburdened activity. But this weekend, I put on her civil ceremony dress and floated without the usual bittersweetened aftertaste of my parents' divorce.

Micah loved watching my mom take photos- and loved being part of the photos. I think she sensed something warm taking place between us.

Waiting for a train in Romania.

My dad is currently in Romania on business and he will bring Grand Bunicu back to the States with him. He sent this from his iPhone this morning as he waited in the metro for a train. It seems the metro performances in Bucuresti are pretty cool. Why not smile?

Participating in the Little Red Farm's cultural exchange.

And we couldn't be more excited. This is our first Cultural Exchange, and I'm already having trouble keeping the kids from mailing the moon to five different families across the world.

Look at the countries that have been represented thus far in this particular exchange. We will be representing Romania, and we will be recieving exchanges from:

California

Colorado

Australia

Phillippines

Japan

Thank you Little Red Farm for letting us add some fairy dust to the mix. 

On the sidelines of the Stupor Bowl.

Patrick said:

"Do you know how much these ads cost?!"

Alina replied:

"Honey, you say this every year..."

Patrick:

"I know. Isn't it crazy?"

Alina shrugged:

"It's totally wacky, dude. It blows my mind. Can't wait to get in a stupor..."

The only good to come of the Stupor Bowl this evening began with a salata de beouf and culminated in a beautiful moon dripping gold which we were able to observe after being removed from the house by the Stupor Bowl watchers (also known as "Stuporheads"). 

The salata de boeuf made by Bunica and decorated by Max and Micah.

Lady Moon Corner shares a spot-on recipe for salata de boeuf, a traditional Romanian dish, if you are interested in giving it a shot.

A detail from a painting on our wall.

Romanian naive art, remarkable for its celebration of village and Danube life, as opposed to its precise representation of individuals and perspective. There's something jolly, almost good-natured, about naive painting. I love it and think it encourages young people to draw the world as they percieve it, as opposed to how older men and women drinking tea at a country club might see it. 

Love letter #47: Cristian Bassa photographs of life.

Cristian Bassa is a Romanian photographer with a sense of humor and an eye for the poetry of everyday life.

A lady in a Sibiu window.

One from the time after time series.

Bassa captures his grandmother in her milieu, as patterned by age, sharpened by time, and worn by love.

Bassa describes learning from artist-professor Micrea Tocaci in the sculptor's quest to discover what lies within a stone:

when we arrive on site i followed Mircea around in his quest picking the right stone. he is looking for the right type stone composition, pattern and texture. not any stone will do, as i found out later while happily holding in my hand a small semitransparent stone, apparently not usable. for me, all the stones looked the same yet Mircea carefully baptizes them with water to remove their first mask, the dirt mask, revealing a little of their true selves.

Mircea pulling back layers from the stone.

The Weeping Lady

When she emerges from the stone, Bassa considers how many more possibilities lie beneath the masks of the ordinary and mundane:

what is there left to say? that maybe we are surrounded by beauty and we don't even realize? maybe we all have beauty within us and we need someone to come and shatter away our masks? maybe we are too afraid to take them off ourselves to reveal our inner light?everything is all so silent. again.

Peasant love songs.

Bardezi by Ovidiu Balaban

PEASANT LOVE SONGS

by George Cosbuc, translated by Maurice Aisen

I.
    He
In the garden of my sweetheart
Sing two birds beautifully,
And the sun proudly shines,
And my darling sits and dreams.
Near the garden of my sweetheart
Runs a river clear and crystal
Where my darling sits and weeps.
    She
When you are here, little man,
I dress all the time like a bride,
Wearing flowers and pearls
So you will like them.
Since you have gone away, little man,
The red belt and the tulip have vanished—
It is so sad.
Green leaf of the citron:
My little man has gone to the army;
He is gone and does not write to me,
Neither on the leaves, nor on the river,
Nor on the wings of the wind.

Inequality by Ovidiu Tutunaru

II.
Bad, O mother, is fever,
But far, far worse is love.
For fever you can eat and drink,
But for love there is naught but pain.
From fever my mother can cure me,
But love is far from her care;
From fever the priest can pray me,
But not from the evil of love.
All of us learn this evil,
As did I a year from last spring.
The longing is slowly killing me—
Yes, love is an evil thing.

Photo taken by Paul Pop.

III.
If you did not love me, little man,
God shall curse you for it.
You should marry nine times,
And you should have nine boys.
You should have a girl too—
She shall bring you water in prison,
Because when you left me
You broke my heart and my love.

IV.
Little man, tell me, is it true?
Be honest and tell me, please—
Do you love me or not?
If you like me only a little,
Take any road that you wish,
But never the one that leads to my house.

Cristian Bassa photographed the making of Doamna Care Plange.

V.
Goodbye, darling, good luck!
Remain beautiful as a violet
In a glass on the table.

VI.
Beautiful girl with blonde hair,
When I see you I begin to lean
Like the leaves in the acacia
When the wind is blowing through them.
Like the leaves of the oak tree I lean
When the breeze is blowing through them.

VII.
I had a beautiful neighbor,
And a path to her garden;
But she went and got married
And said not a word to me.
I would have taken her myself!
If she had married three villages away,
It wouldn’t have hurt me so.
But she married a man down our street,
The third door from my mother’s home!
When I am in, I hear her voice;
When I go out, I see her face:
It makes my heart burn like fire.

You can find a PDF version of this poem online at the archives of Poetry magazine. Aisen wrote translated this poem as part of his "Roumainian Poems" series by Romanian poet George Cosbuc.

Drawing by Tonitza.

The enchanting artwork of Nicolae Tonitza.

Our one piece of artwork for today turned into a multitude of artworks by one artist in particular. Blame it on the book we found which captivated us for a few hours because, well, Nicolae Tonitza evokes everything.

I made a collage of four different paintings by Tonitza to compare his depiction of faces.

The way he paints faces always blurs the eyes. Depending on the viewer, this might appear morbid. Max and I both agreed that it made the figures appear innocent and doll-like.  

Mother and Child by Nicolae Tonitza.

The Bread Line by Nicolae Tonitza, 1920.

We found this study for The Bread Line by Nicolae Tonitza in our book. It would make an excellent coloring or watercolor painting page to encourage children to explore shading and layering in paints. I think I'm going to print a copy and let them have a go at it.

Nicolae Tonitza (1886-1940) was a Romanian painter, engraver, lithographer, journalist and art critic. Drawing inspiration from Post-impressionism and Expressionism, he had a major role in introducing modernist guidelines to local art. Like most artists of his day, Tonitza spent the requisite years in Paris and, drawing on a Romanian tradition, spent a few years painting monasteries and churches (an example of one of these church paintings).

Tonitza's health remained precarious after fighting in World War I. As an artist, his compassion for the suffering emerged most clearly in his graphic work, which bordered on the furious. His graphics and sketches were published by numerous contemporary  political magazines, often with a leftish lean. In 1921, Tonitza opened the door to a whole new medium by painting prototypes for a ceramics factory and organizing a ceramics exhibition. A few months later, he moved to Vălenii de Munte, and ended his fliration with journalism and political illustration. His new experiences as a father, husband, and rural dweller contributed to the development of his characteristic style and themes.

In the Red Corner by Nicolae Tonitza.

The tragic effects of World War I on Tonitza and his generation are revealed in this undated painting, Dupa Razboi (or After the War). Tonitza's compassion for the female experience of war is elicited through the harrowing expression on her face and the crosses in the background- every soldier is someone's child or father or husband.

The House in Doborgea by Nicolae Tonitza, currently held by the Museum of Art in Brasov, along with many other beautiful paintings by Romanian artists.

My genetic history.

I love my parents.

I was an E.C. baby.

My friend Heather has been using elimination communication very effectively with her baby girl, so when I found these photos in an old family album, not sharing seemed silly. 

In the above photos, I am six months old. My father titled the series, "The Physionomy of Satisfaction". In other photos of baby me on the potty, I am wearing thick wool socks which resemble leggings.

Elimination communication was practiced (minus the special vocabulary) by the majority of families in Romania when I was a baby. I'm so glad it's being "rediscovered" stateside. All this EC talk is making me miss Heather and her family....

Something between them.

Making sarmale: A traditional Romanian Christmas meal.

Micah loves to help in the kitchen. Today she helped Ratpaw snap green beans. I overheard a bit of their conversation as they "labored".

Micah: "And so I know it's not right to bump into people or push them."

Ratpaw: "How do you know this?"

Micah: "Last night, my heart told me for a very, very long time..."

Oh, the conversations that come about while snapping beans. It reminds me of Romania, where nothing comes prewashed or cut and so many little secrets of life are spilled amid chopping blocks and vegetables. Perhaps there is something beautiful about all the time it takes to make a meal from scratch- especially when that time is shared with family.

At the other end of the counter, Bunica was whipping up a batch of traditional Romanian sarmale, or cabbage rolls with seasoned meat stuffing. Each ingredient takes a fair share of time to prepare.

Boiled cabbage leaves.

Seasoned meat and pork stuffing.

And then rolling each one and stacking them in the pot.

Guess who was busy making her own sarmale with Bunica when I left?

That's right- "Micah help". What a memorable way to indulge our ethnic traditions and pass them on to eager munchkins.

A surprise visit from Mr. Lazarescu.

Holiday surprise visits are always a treat. I'm the kind of person that likes an open-door policy for guests- you are always welcome to drop by and surprise us. The house is never really clean, and life is too short to set boundaries on love based on repressive cultural norms. 

So Mr. Lazarescu's afternoon surprise enchanted everyone.

Barefoot munchkins dancing around in wet grass was, I think, a little more than he anticipated. He came in to sit for a spell, and we chatted about Romania, family in Romania, and American politics.

Little Milla took a particular liking to the kind Romanian-Alabamian.

There is so much sweetness in watching the very young and the very old together. I miss my grandfather. The holidays are not the same without my favorite curmudgeon, who also happens to be one of my preferred heroes.

How to bring the joy of littleness to the wisdom of age? We celebrate the small moments like this one.

A holiday book from my grandfather.

Winter on the Street

Among the beautiful gifts from my grandfather, Claudiu Stefanescu, lies this book published in 1984- poems by the Romanian poet, George Cosbuc, situated within illustrations of winter life in the village.

My grandfather's dedication to me in the front of the book.

Reading it to Max is bittersweet because there is something native, the colloquialisms which characterize Cosbuc's poetry, lost in translation. 

We listened to it read in the original Romanian first. You can download the free mp3 and view the text at Romanian Voices.

The colors of traditional Romanian folk costumes glitter like gems in the snow.

There is so much action around the gates in Romanian villages- so much information transmitted and shared.

"The joking goes round like a water wheel..."

The old lady tries to help her grandson.

A quiet peek inside a Romanian museum guide.

Oana, our Romanian finger puppet, inspires finger puppet fun.

I still haven't even come close to finishing my postings about our trip to Romania- a handicraft and aesthetic inspiration in every way. A little introduction to Oana, our Romanian finger puppet.

Oana's base is made from felt, and her lovely yarn braids make me smile.

Finger puppets are an excellent teaching tool for kids of (almost) all ages. This free printable finger puppet and teaching ideas packet makes for a fun autumn sojourn outdoors. Bring some crayons, tape, scissors, snacks, drinks, and a well-worn blanket and spend today communicating and learning through the mouths of puppets.

How to embroider with the Romanian stitch.

A motif from a crewel-embroidered linen bedspread worked by Mary Breed in tones of pink, yellow, and green. Flowers and leaves are worked in Romanian stitch. Dated 1770.

Of course, my current book obsession includes a Romanian stitch- in the context of the American colonial period, no less. Examples of the Romanian stitch can be found on the crewel-embroidered bed hangings and chair coverings that decorated the home of American colonists. The stitch was actually favored for economy's sake since, unlike the satin stitch, very little thread is wasted on the back of the embroidery. The stitch is often referred to as "Oriental stitch", probably because it was used in designs inspired by Oriental motifs.

HOW TO DO THE ROMANIAN STITCH

Variations on the Romanian couching stitch.

For more on Romanian embroidery motifs and stitches:

• Eliznik's hat-tipping collection of illustrated Romanian stitches.
• Learn Romanian couching (scroll down after following link). 
• Another explanation of Romanian couching.
• A 42-second video demonstration of Romanian couching stitch.
• The wonders of red thread on white linen, a customary Romanian crewel and embroidery color choice.

Roundabouts are all the rage in Romania.

As you can see on this word collage page from Max's Romania journal, roundabouts (which are not the same as traffic circles) are a conspicuous feature of Bucharest. I was very impressed with how well Patrick handled the car in these roundabouts, where each move is literally like a roll of the dice and no one seems too concerned with communicating their intentions. 

I left Max reading the wiki entry for roundabouts while I made breakfast this morning. Believe me, he was enraptured.

Exploring the doina.

The doina is a Romanian folk song tradition of free form lyrical songs made up of a sequence of melodic elements ornamented and lengthened by the performer in a manner typical of the area. It includes vocal and instrumental versions, and tends towards a lament. The word "doina" has no translation in any other language.

You can listen and watch various forms of Romanian doina traditions in this video. Notice the unique instrumentsts and vocal patterns.

Max and I set out to identify some of the interesting sounds and instruments which gave these doinas a pastoral flavor.

• The fluier, similar to a wooden tin whistle
• The caval, a five-hole pipe
• The tilinca, a long metal or wooden tube, open at each end, without finger holes, distinctive to Transylvania
• The nai, a Romanian panpipe
• The bucium (also called a tulnic), similar to the Swiss alpenhorn
• The Stroh violin, also known as the "violin with horn"
• The accordion
• The cobza, a Romanian lute
• The cimpoi, a Romanian bagpipe
• The cimbalom, similar to the dulcimer
• The zongora, a type of guitar held vertically when played

Doina tunes also passed over into Jewish kletzmer music, as can be seen in the sheet music for the 19th century Solinski Doina. Listen to Solinski's Doina and see if you can visualize the music notations.

Chasing doinas through green meadows:

• Great music to stream and enjoy at Smithsonian Folkways.
• The sheet music for Nathan Curtis' "Doina", which you can print and play
• Zamfir plays a doina on the nai in this video
• "Doina străinului” (or "Stranger's Doina") performed by Marica Larion at shepherd’s pipe (“caval”), field recording from 1965. Romanian traditional folk song from Transylvania, Bistrita-Năsăud, Leșu village. This one is apt for transmitting the sentiments of "illegal" immigrants.
• Learn more about the history of the doina here.

"Little cow soup" or ciorba de vacuta, a family favorite.

Patrick eats a quick ciorba in the yard.

During our time in Romania, Max discovered a hidden love for what Alice calls "little cow soup", or ciorba de vacuta. Milla prefers ciorba de burta, or stomach soup. Either way, I promised Patrick that we would eat more ciorba upon return to the States, so I've kept the stew pot full. To make your own ciorba de vacuta...

INGREDIENTS

• 1 onion finely chopped
• 2 celery stalks chopped
• 2 carrots, peeled and finely chopped
• 3 tbsp olive oil
• 1 lb stewing beef (cut into cubes of preferred size)
• 1 bone
• 1/4 cup long grain rice
• 1 egg beaten
• 3 tbsp tomato paste
• juice of one lemon
• chopped parley 
• 2 tablespoons leustan, or lovage (you might not find this)
• salt and pepper to taste

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Put the beef and the bone in a large pot and boil it in a two cups of water for 2 to 3 hours or until tender. 
2. In a sauce pan heat the olive oil and add the carrots, onion and celery and sautee until tender. Do not burn.
3. After the meat is boiled, add the onion and carrot mixture to the beef and broth. Add the tomato paste, juice from one lemon, salt and pepper to taste, add the rice and let simmer for another 30 minutes.
4. After 30 minutes, add the egg to the soup, it should end up looking like pasta in your soup. 
5. Take off heat and add chopped parsley and leustan. Serve hot with sour cream and warm bread.

My little cross by Marian Zidaru.

Every time I chased Milla past that cross, it left a vivid imprint on my mind. A cross of flowers- the way meadows crown gravestones with wildflowers, the tiny little nails to remind us of the unbearable ones.

My Bunicu, who was spending the day with us, wanted to buy a reminder for me- something special to put in my house.

"Why do you keep looking over there, Alina? Heh. Is it that little cross?"

"Yes, Bunicu. I am trying to memorize it so I can make one."

"Then let me buy it."

"No no no no no..."

"Excuse me madam, can I have that cross on the wall? Yes, that little one."

"Oh Bunicu...."

My little cross' creator is artist and sculptor Marian Zidaru, whose wife, Victoria, features prominently in his work and inspiration. Zidaru and his wife live in an Orthodox Christian artistic community in the foothills of the Carpathian mountains north of Bucharest. Aside from having participated in international art events in countries as diverse as Germany, Spain, Belgium, Italy, Brazil, Marian Zidaru has won various international awards and fellowships. Together, the couple transformed art into a potent form of evangelizing for their faith and the sufferings of the world which we inhabit and share.

In an insightful and mesmerizing essay on the Zidaru's art and its spiritual compoment, Anamaria Iosif Ross writes:

In addition to being the creators of striking social and spiritual artworks, which they sometimes display on mountain-tops, among trees, and amidst other natural landscapes, Marian and Victoria Zidaru are the most visible figures of a revivalist, apocalyptic, charismatic Orthodox Christian movement that sees itself as today’s Israel and holds Romania to be the site of the spiritual renewal of humanity through the Word of God. The earthly source of the New Jerusalem movement was a woman known as Saint Virginia (1923-1980), or diminutively St. Verginica, a devoutly religious seer who lived in the town of Pucioasa, near Târgovişte, a small historic city located two hours away from Bucharest.

The Courtyard of the Mother God, 1987.

I only wish I could have visited this town last month- that I had known more about Zidaru than the lovely way in which he combines paint and wood. If I have the opportunity to visit the Kripke Center at Creighton University, another little longing will be sated. 

More sculptures and paintings by Zidaru across his broad range including:

• angels 
• seraphim
• "the massacre of innocents" 
• the seasons
• Jesus, Creator of All
• Saint Gheorge, or George
• movies with wandering angels and clothing

I feel like this little cross deserves an entire wall of its own... Whenever I try to put it next to something else, it seems to overpower it. I'm still fascinated.

Constantin Dipse's formidable lines.

Madonna and child. Dipse's version sits comfortably within the colors and textures of Romanian village life.

Dipse's colors and lines danced through my head long after they left the immediate vicinity of my eyes. Though he studied under the famed Camil Ressu, his style brings together a love for life, a respect for local folkways, and the vivid colorings of an imagination raised on basme that is entirely his own. He mainly works in oil and acrylic, Dipse also has a few mosaics and frescoes in his closet.

The Thracian cavalier.

Currently, his work is available at the National Village Museum, where I picked up the inspiring postcards pictured below.

Milla tromping through old town in Bucharest.

A true lover of the cafe scene, little Mills tromped around old town waving to various Romanians and clapping for street musicians. She continues to be a bundle of joys ready to taste and try anything new, always on the lookout for a new excuse to be happy.

I think everyone needs a magnificent little Mills in their life....

Language games: Learning about the roots of the Romanian language.

The Romanian language comes mainly from the street Latin spoken at the time when Hadrian's legions ruled the fertile provinces north of the Danube during the 2nd century A.D. By the 10th century, the modern Romanian language developed into its current form, absorbing some words from languages of nearby Slavic tribes and peoples. Dacian words, which lie close to Albanian words in language families, also pepper the Romanian language.

Romanian is a Romance language. This means that it is a part of the Italic languages family, rooted in Latin. The lexical similarity of Romanian with Italian has been estimated at 77%, followed by French at 75%, Sardinian 74%, Catalan 73%, Spanish 71%, Portuguese, and Rhaeto-Romance at 72%. 

There are 47 Romance languages and dialects spoken in Europe, including three Romanian dialects:

1. Istro-Romanian with 170 speakers of this language still living in Croatia
2. Aromanian with small pockets of speakers in Macedonia, Bulgaria, Greece, and Albania
3. Megleno-Romanian with about 5,000 speakers left living in Greece and Macedonia

Slavic languages tend to dominate the southeastern neighborhood of Europe. Some commonly-known Slavic languages include:

1. Russian
2. Czech
3. Slovak
4. Polish
5. Bulgarian
6. Croatian
7. Macedonia
8. Church Slavonic
9. Montenegrin
10. Slovenian
11. Ukranian
12. Belarusian

Slavic words have migrated into the Romanian language through time, trade, and association. Old Church Slavonic also made its way into the Romanian liturgy and then into the village language. Some of these words include:

• bolnav- sick
• bogat - wealthy, rich, blessed
• iubit - loved, adored
• dragoste - love
• harnic- hardworking, dedicated, industrious

Globalization has greatly increased the American and English content in the Romanian language. Just walking down the street in Bucharest, billboards advertise various consumer products and services using American words, like joburi (the Romanian plural for "jobs"), mouse (for compter mouse), internet, hamburger, blog, techno (with reference to music), cool, faine (pronouned "fine" and meaning "cool"), and so on...

When I asked Alice if she was offended by the Americanization of her language, she laughed and told me about a politician who tried to "cleanse" the language of American words. He insisted that a computer mouse be called by the Romanian word for "mouse", which sounded absurd and didn't make sense because this meaning was not conventional. I love how Romanians embrace all the change brought to their dynamic, richly-textured langauge. 

Ovid's exile to Romania: A historical inquiry.

In 8 AD, the poet Ovid (a.k.a. PUBLIUS OVIDIUS NASO) was banished to Tomis (now known as Constanta), on the Black Sea, by the the Emperor Augustus. No Senate or Roman judges played a role in this decision, which leaves a little historical mystery in its wake. Why was Ovid exiled? What did he do that so offended the Roman emperor that he resorted to a personal decision to banish him?

Ovid wrote that the reason for his exile was carmen et error — "a poem and a mistake", claiming that his crime was worse than murder and more harmful than poetry. Interestingly enough, the Emperor's grandchildren, Agrippa Postumus and Julia the Younger, were banished around the same time. Julia's husband, Lucius Aemilius Paullus, was put to death for conspiracy against Augustus, a conspiracy about which Ovid might have known.

Did Ovid write something which offended the Emperor's moral sensibilities? Or perhaps his legislative preferences? In 18 BC, Augustus moved the Julian Marriage Laws through the Senate. These laws promoted monogamous marriage in the hopes of increasing the population's birth rate. Every empire needs its potential human carnage. Did Ovid's writing in the Ars Amatoria concerning what was then the serious crime of adultery appear subversive to the Emperor?

In exile, Ovid wrote two poetry collections titled Tristia and Epistulae ex Ponto, reflecting his sadness and despair. The five books of the Tristia, a series of poems expressing the poet's despair in exile and advocating his return to Rome, are dated to 9–12 AD. In the Tristia, Ovid makes a direct appeal to the Emperor but foolishly suggests that the Emperor made a mistake in exiling him- not a tactic likely to go over well with Augustus.

The Ibis, an elegiac curse poem attacking an adversary at home might also have been written during this period. The Epistulae ex Ponto, a series of letters to friends in Rome asking them to effect his return, are thought to be his last compositions, with the first three books published in 13 AD and the fourth book between 14 and 16 AD. The exile poetry is particularly emotive and personal. In the Epistulae he claims friendship with the natives of Tomis (in the Tristia they are frightening barbarians) and to have written a poem in their language. He addresses his epistles to a multitude of friends, poets, orators, politicians, and statesmen.

It seems that Ovid misses Rome and his third wife, as many of the early poems are to her. (One scholar has observed that Ovid writes less to his wife in direct proportion to his time in Tomis- maybe he realizes that she cannot bring him back and so his feelings for her grow rather chilly.)  

The mysterious causes of Ovid's exile remain unexplained. Ovid died at Tomis in AD 17. It is thought that the Fasti, which he spent time revising, were published posthumously. He was allegedly buried a few kilometers away in a nearby town- a town which was renamed Ovidiu in his honor in 1930. Ovidiu is a common male first name in Romania. A statue commemorates him in the Romanian city of Tomis. The inscription on the statues is excerpted from the Tristia and reads:

Here I lie, who played with tender loves,

Naso the poet, killed by my own talent.

O passerby, if you've ever been in love,

let it not be too much for you

to say: May the bones of Naso lie gently.

To explore some excerpts from Fasti and discuss what his poems revealed, you can download the free document below. You can also explore his biography here.

OVID'S EXILE THROUGH POETRY: A LOOK AT THE TEXTS 

You can access a translation of Ovid's entire poems from exile, including the works mentioned above, or you can browse his book, The Metamorphoses, in images and bookplates.

Love letter #30: Trends, tastes, and little habits I picked up in Romania.

Creative uses for ikea stools via my cousin Filip's groove-crusted apartment.

• Moonlight Breakfast, a band fresh from the Romanian streets.
• Mathilde, a great design label from Brasov (available in Bucuresti at Hippie Hippie Shake).
• Patterned leggings and tights with everything.
• Florence and the Machine via my cousin Filip.
• Books from The Dalkey Archive, thanks to Anthony Frost English Bookshop in Bucuresti.
• The Soft Moon via my cousin Alice.
• Mayonnaise.
• A hardcore respect for traditional folk embroidery.
• A recovered penchant for laying on graves.
• Eating soup at every meal.
• The use of red tassels on horses to frighten away evil spirits.
• Multiethnic democracies and dual-language street signs in Transylvania as a hopeful future for the US in these anti-immigrant times.
• The hypnotic compositions of Anatol Vieru.
• Romanian car seats beat any car seat I've ever purchased for comfort and design. Milla loves her new throne.

A shepherd in Alabama.

As a result of time spent in Transylvania, Max has decided that he wants to be a shepherd when "he grows up". In fact, during our stay with the Puscariou family, Max planned how to make enough money to buy a flock of sheep with a little help from Marian. He picked apples from the orchard and took his apples to a street merchant, whom he asked to sell the apples and give him a cut of the profit. Sure enough, Max made some money- not quite enough to buy a flock of sheep, but more than I made in Romania for sure.

Since everyone and their stepmother knew about Max's desire to become a shepherd, Bunica bought a little sheep pillow for him (and a littler one for Micah) for his Romanian birthday party. The shepherd and his sheep immediately hit it off. The next day, the Puscarious dropped by for a visit with three sheep pillows for the munchkins (their kindness and love for my children was a constant rainbow). What do you know? Max's flock was complete!

"The good shepherd", as we call him, made sure that the sheep were comfy on the international flight back to the States. Upon arrival, he immediately began planning their residential quarters. And then today, Max decided that his sheep should be the happiest sheep on the planet. So he and Micah got to work.

First they created a soft, pinestraw-lined wagon caravan for the sheep, whose names include Bogdan, Miel, Oy, Crayon-Marker, and Baaa-Baaaa.

Then they decided that happiness required a slide.

The architectural allure of Bucharest.

Patrick and I fondly describe it as "dirty pretty" or "pretty broken"- it suits our taste for the slightly dishevelled and worn. Most of these buildings and places have names or residents, but our brisk stroll did not present opportunities for inquiry. All the better- let the mystery be.

Romanian influence on Jewish culture: An exploration of traditional Romanian folk dances.

Every evening on Romanian television, you can find at least one show or program dedicated to traditional folk music or dance. Music and dance, like tuica and Christianity, is woven so deep into the Romanian culture that not even communism could quash it. 

Max wanted to learn more about Romanian dances, so we focused our explorations on that subject today. The hora is the starting point for all traditional Romanian dances. It gathers everyone into a big closed circle where the dancers hold each other's hands and the circle spins, usually counterclockwise, as each participant follows a sequence of three steps forward and one step back. The dance is usually accompanied by musical instruments such as the cymbalum, accordion, violin, viola, double bass, saxophone, trumpet or even the panflute.

There are many different kinds of horas to dance, depending on regions, seasons, and occasions. All you need is a few willing dancers and a good reason to celebrate life (i.e. you're alive is a good one). Max loved watching the videos and noting the differences in the steps and patterns of each hora. 

• Learn how to dance the Romanian hora with the simple step-by-step.
• Watch Hora fetelor, or "the girl's hora", performed by a Romanian folk ensemble.
• Watch Hora de la Sud, or "the hora from the South", performed by the Fluieras Dance Ensemble.
• Enjoy watching a wedding hora in Moldavia, performed by some happy gentlemen. Then watch this mixed-sex wedding hora from Bucovina. Good stuff.
• Read the lyrics ro Hora Unirii, the celebratory hora song written to honor the unification of the Romanian nation in 1856.
• Learn about Hora Bucuriei, or the Hora of Joy, the celebratory hora performed when Romania was admitted to the EU in 2007.
• Wouldn't it be cool if American schools taught folk dances?

The sirba (or Sârba) is a Romanian dance normally played in 2/2 or 2/4 time. It can be danced in a circle, line, or couple formations and was historically popular not only among Romanians, but also Ukrainians, Hungarians, East European Jews, and the Poles of the Tatra Mountains. It is fast-paced and triplets are usually emphasized in the melody. More sirbas and sirba-isms to explore:

• Watch a Sirba de nunta, or "wedding sirba" in traditional folk costume with customary calls and responses.
• Watch a Sirba from Oltenia, or, at least, danced by those with Oltenian roots.
• Listen to a Sirba din fluier, or a sirba solo on flute.
• Even better, listen to a Sirba la cimpoi, or a sirba performed on a traditional Romanian bagpipe.

If you research the roots of kletzmer, you'll discover that this vivacious and beautiful music genre shares seeds with Romanian folk dances and melodies. According to Wikipedia: 

Above all the musical styles which influenced the traditional Klezmer musicians, the Romanian influence seems to be the strongest and most enduring. Traditional Romanian music was heard, adopted and adapted by Klezmer musicians. This fact is reflected in the dance forms found throughout the entire surviving Klezmer music repertoire (e.g., Horas, Doinas, Sirbas and Bulgars etc.).

Hopefully, when my mom returns from Romania, she will teach our family to dance a personal favorite, the Ciuleandra, which is diminished unless the rich voice of Maria Tanase holds it up. On a parting note, fedelesul wins the prize for the goofiest traditional folk dance, which means I need to find a circle for it very, very soon...

Traditional Romanian embroidery stitches and styles.

A book of traditional stitch patterns and styles from the National Peasant Museum.

Traditional weaves pictures in the book.

Embroidery patterns pictured in the book.

"The artistic treasure of the Romanian is a living thing. He turns into a work of art everything he touches, actuated by a pure inner need, by a requirement of his instinct. There are no such things as a serial work, for each object is unique. Creation is continuous ; in other words, once created, a work is not separated from the source of inspiration, it never get "fixed", it is never perfect."

Mircea Eliade, beloved philosopher and historian

Eliznik explains the terms and history of Romanian embroidery and shares an excellent image chart detailing each type of stitch.

Martha took all the photos I wished I had taken the Peasant Museum and shares them with those who wish to be impressed and inspired.

Another inspiring set of images on flickr.

A pdf description of Romanian embroidery by Pauline Garblik.

A few pages from the other sketchbook. There are more available at the link in prep for her 2012 exhibition on this subject.

Textures and tastes and apres-travel playlist.

Travel always brings an encounter with various textures and tastes. What remains of Romania now comes in sense-battered fragments, impressions, the stuffing of playlists and poetry.

PARCUL - Alexandru Andries (mp3)

  

VOYAGE - Charlotte Gainsbourg (mp3)

DON'T MOVE - Phantogram (mp3)

WALKER - Cascadeur (mp3)

 

DERELICT - Sundress (mp3)

 

YOU'VE GOT THE LOVE (Florence and the Machine Cover) - The xx (mp3)

 

DINU LIPATTI'S BONES - The Mountain Goats (mp3)