Three years ago, we moved to another neighborhood. On the way to the children's school, we pass by a tall, communist-era block of flats with many stairwells. In front of one of them, the allocated patch of land is flooded with flowers, from spring until late autumn. In that spot, daily, my children's steps slow down, and their eyes light up.
They are children born and raised in a big city, from grandparents and parents born and raised in an urban environment. For various reasons, our families have lost all connection with the environment of our great-grandparents. We inherited no relatives and no material ties in those villages. So, generally, our children's contact with plants happens in the park and in the pots on the balcony.
One morning, I saw the ones who care for these flowers so well. Two seemingly very old ladies, one leaning on a cane, moved slowly but with the skill that comes from experience. I watched them for a long time, and my son whispered: “I wonder what their names are?”
We didn't dare to disturb them with our curiosity. Since then, we've seen them a few more times. I don't ask them anything; we don't want to trouble them with our admiration and joy. Between them and the flowers, there's a relationship that doesn't need validation from those around them. We don't know their names, but we carry them in our hearts, just as our youngest writes lists of names for remembrance, featuring unknown gentlemen and ladies, 'the gentleman who helped me with my bike,' 'our homeless person,' etc.
For my children, these lady-gardeners are reasons to love life without the fear of aging. They are comfort and encouragement for children whose feelings about the passage of time have been greatly challenged by their grandparents' aging. They are reasons to love ordinary life, not just great achievements.
But it's not only the flowers of the lady-gardeners that give me a few minutes of respite and warmth (so necessary for growth) each day, but also the stop at În Pridvor. I stop to be for a few moments near the connection with God, so naturally nurtured by the writer-people from Pridvor.
So as not to disturb the natural flow, I whisper to you: Thank you.
Laura-Ioana