Chasing the Light, Essays



Scène du massacre des Innocents by Léon Cogniet

Metafore inspirate de pictura Scène du massacre des Innocents de Léon Cogniet:

Femeie, nu te teme de privirea sura a pictorilor tai. Te-am imbracat in haine de roaba si te-am lasat desculta. Genunchii tai ingramaditi de zidul rece s-au invinetit de spaima si de frig. Iata, glasurile mamelor au devenit stravezii. Doar umbra lor mai suspina prin crapaturile pamantului. Bratele lor au amortit cu sugarii prinsi de piept. Bataia inimii lor a devenit una cu murmurul pruncilor.

Nu te teme, mama, nu te vom pari purtatorilor de sabii. Ascutisul lor s-a tocit de sange nevinovat. Slobozeste glasul pruncului tau si lasa-l sa vorbeasca. Gangureste micutule om, glasul tau se va adanci in sufletele oamenilor. Osanditorii tai s-au pierdut in arsita desertului. Glasul celor ce striga in pustie s-a stins de sete, dar in curand vor avea iar apa. Obrajii lor s-au uscat de lacrimi, iar buzele lor au sangerat de rugaciune. Scoala-te din intunericul fricii si indrazneste, mama! Fiul tau va fi viu!

Chasing the Light, Essays, Stories, Thoughts About Life

The Songs of Birds


God gave the sweetest melody to the smallest of birds. A cluster of goldcrests fly from branch to branch. Their little tails shake with anticipation, while their beaks are picking at the sweet flowers. Ah and the tree, a magnificent giant covered in ivy! I can’t even see its trunk or begin to decide what family of trees it belongs to. It stands there, with its crooked branches pleading to the heavens. Covered in parasitic veins and leaves, it breathes heavily. The bark bleeds under the tight grip of the ivy, but it still finds love for the little creatures that play amongst its withered forms.

The tree reminds me of a man, whose once rich possessions have succumbed to decay and misfortune. His status, albeit stained by wretched gossip, strains to stay afloat. He sits on a chest in the middle of his once grand, now empty, ballroom. His eyes close with delight as the soft voices of songs once sung there caress his soul. ‘I have lost my worldly glory.’ he whispers. ‘I have seen the cruelty of man at its peak and have tasted the bitterness of poisonous lips!’

‘Alas’, he sighs, ‘But I cannot forget the beauty of man’s soul when he loves. And when one loves, one sings! I shall have one last ball here, with the last of my earthly possessions. Let the grandest singers and musicians come and share their tunes! And after everyone has heard their songs and got their fill of gladness, I shall go into the world happy. Poor in my attire, but rich in my heart.’

Such is this tree as it listens to the goldcrests and black birds nesting in its wounds. For this tree is wiser than me. It bears its pain with patience, listening for what rings true and lets it rest on its shoulders. It does not shake the winged messengers away, but rejoices in their gifts. The tree knows that its roots are deep inside the earth and that the ivy is tight around its neck. It also knows that the songs of birds speak of a world it cannot yet see, but whose beauty and truth bring a promise of freedom.

Chasing the Light, Essays, Stories

Chasing the Light

Light flowed gently over the serene face of the newly baptized child. Her golden curls crowned a carefree smile as she grabbed her godmother’s finger. Soft spoken babbling soon followed. Clouds of incense mixed with the colours of stained glass as they rested with sighs of rested hearts.

‘Grija cea lumeasca sa o lepadam.’ I can’t remember the words in english, although I sung them today. What is the heart and why does it beat unceasingly? Why does it tremble with awe when we see a blossomed valley in spring? Why does it become light with joy when we see the face of a loved one? Or why does it sink in the depths of our ocean when we grief or feel unloved.

What are you running for? Or should I ask, who are you running from? Is it yourself or the lurking shadows of your soul? Who are you…really? Are you stardust or a grain of sand? ‘In veselie omul exista, se misca.’ A beloved father who lived by the sea used to say that. He means that joy is the natural state of a person’s heart. When you love someone, you give them your time, you rest in them and they rest in you. We run because we need to feel worthy of rest, we need to feel worthy of love.

‘Every person needs to learn from childhood how to spend time with oneself.’ Who said that? Ah, it was a russian boy with a warm heart and a keen eye. He’s famous now, but I believe he wants to be remembered by his stories, more than by his name. Silence is truly wonderful for listening. In order to be silent one must stop running.

‘Here you are, Izabella.’ her mother said as she helped godmother put on Izabella’s white, frilly dress. Izabella giggled with the all knowing laugh that only children have. The echoes filled the church and softened its grey stone walls. It hoped to hear the little girl’s laughter more often in the future. She could play on its worn out persian rugs and it could shelter her from the rain and the world. The church wanted Izabella to rest in it. They could sit in silence together and think of matters of the heart. Because when you can be silent with someone, it is truly special.