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The village preserves a mysterious order. An order that the city, in its agitation, cannot yet receive. And childhood carries holiness within it. The Savior Himself said it. Children possess this conquering simplicity. They are not burdened by the need to assert themselves. They don't have wrinkles from the effort of elbowing their way. They live. Simply. Naturally. With dried snot in their noses, unembarrassed, unstressed by "how do they appear to others?!". They have no facades or facets. They are truly who they are. And through this, they conquer, without elbowing their way, without wanting to impress.
So the village and childhood carry within them order and holiness. That is how I remember both, like an icon. Somehow, inseparable. Unseparated. One.
What was childhood like during Easter time in the village? It was exactly like that: with order and holiness. I've always said it: do you also feel how, even from the first week of Great Lent, the very air we breathe changes its texture? Do you feel how the water tastes different? Even the blue of the sky isn't just blue, but it's clearer, brighter, more vibrant. There is great power in desiring nothing. And I once tasted this power in the village, in my childhood.
Such was the custom in my village: on Easter night, everyone goes to the cemetery with lit candles. “Tonight, the Light comes from the cemetery”, my father would say. And so it truly was. Every person in the village carried light to the cross beneath which their ancestors rested. And the cemetery was a sea of sparks. And, thus, carrying the light, we received light.
Years later, before the Resurrection service, I saw the order and holiness in a monastery. The bell called to prayer. I was waiting for the brightest night to begin. A monk came to worship at the icon of the Mother of God. He who had the power to desire nothing; not to be bent by the desire for self-assertion; not to get wrinkles from the effort of elbowing his way; not to have facades or facets; to truly be who he is. He who remained a child in spirit. He lowered his eyes, stretched out his hand towards the icon, with a touch that transcended the laws of physics, and I saw him receive power in his voice, to announce to the world that “Christ is Risen!”.
Someday, I will return to my childhood, to my village, to holiness and order; I will go down the road to the cemetery, and I hope I will find the Light. I will hear the words “Christ is Risen!”. And, with dried snot in my nose, I will joyfully respond: “Truly He is Risen!”. Then I will know that I am Home.
Silvana Bașa
Photo by Simona Andrușcă
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(Petru really wanted to type something too)