Norocel

Maine se va implini o saptamana de cand ne-am intalnit. Intamplator. Sau poate nu... Planuri rasturnate, calatorii anulate, scurte pareri de rau. Toate alaturi de-o mare bucurie!
Are aproape patru saptamani si e fetita. I-am spus Norocel. Norocul este al meu, la fel si privilegiul de a-mi fi fost scoasa in cale.

Tomorrow it will be one week since our encounter. By hazard. Or maybe not... Change of plans, cancelled trips, short regrets. All together with a great joy!
She's almost four weeks old and she's a girl. I called her Norocel (Little Luck). I'm the lucky one and the privileged for her to be put on my way.

Doruri / Longing

Am cusut-o cu gandul hoinarind pe dealuri... Peste covoarele de iarba grasa si peste florile pajistilor alpine. Betie a simturilor si liniste binecuvantata picurand in urechi. Ca un balsam... 

Cu ea sub crestet, cerul  ar fi mai tare. Si mai albastru.

Ma pregatesc insa de mare... De Dobrogea mea draga si de verde. De drumurile-i dulci, strajuite de plopi tremuranzi, in bataia vantului uscat. Oare ce povesti voi mai afla acum? Si ce povete, oare, imi va sopti iar la plecare?... Pe curand, mama Dobroge! Pe curand... 

My thoughts were strolling over the hills while making it... Over the rich, abundant carpets of grass, over the flowers of the alpine pastures. Exhilaration of senses and blessed silence dripping in your ears. Like a balm... 

With it under my head, the sky would be more vivid. And bluer.

But I'm preparing for the sea... For my dear Dobrogea and for green. For her mellow roads, guarded by the ancient aspens dancing in the dewless blowing of the wind. What stories will she tell me this time? And what teachings will she offer me when we'll say goodbye again?... Till soon, Mother Dobrogea! Till soon... 

Tudor Gheorghe - Umbra plopilor

Für Tiziana

Tocmai a implinit paisprezece ani. Invata bine si este frumoasa. Ii place sa cante la pian, Yiruma fiind unul dintre preferatii ei. De asemenea, adora sa inoate. In apa, e ca un peste.
Muzica si apa... o combinatie mereu curgatoare...
La multi ani, draga mea!

She just turned fourteen. She's good at school and she is beautiful. She gracefully plays the piano, Yiruma being one of her favorites. She also loves to swim. In the water, she's like a fish.
Water and music... an ever-flowing combination...
Happy birthday my darling!

Invocand ploaia / Calling down the rain

Zile fierbinti... Soare torid, verde parjolit, albastru intens. Si liniste. Adapostite cine stie unde, pasarile si-au oprit cantul. Si vantul bataia.
Precum odinioara, cand eram copil, m-am trezit inganand incet "Paparuda, ruda / Vino de ne uda..."

Invocand ploaia. Sa ne ude, sa ne curete, sa ne creasca.

Burning days. Torrid sun, scorched green, deep blue. And quietness. Sheltered who knows where, the birds had stopped singing. And the wind had stopped his blowing.
Forgotten incantation since I was a child, I found myself softly humming "Paparuda, ruda / Vino de ne uda..."

Calling down the rain. To water us, to purge us, to grow us.

... si o inedita versiune a cantecului Paparudei, din Moldova, in interpretarea surorilor Osoianu.

... and an original version of a Paparuda song (Drought ritual), from Moldavia area, performed by the Osoianu Sisters.

Semne din batrani / Ancient forecast

Cand se iveste luna, daca e galbina - e a vreme buna, iar daca e rosie - e a vant.
Cand paiangenul isi intinde panza - e semn a vreme buna si fara vant, iar cand "isi taraie panza" - o aduna - e semn de vreme rea si cu vant.
(Comoara satelor, Anul I, Ianuarie 1923)

In concluzie, inca o zi senina si fierbinte....

If the moon is yellow when it rises - the weather will be fair, and if she is red - it will be windy.
When the spider is reeling his web - it's a sign of good weather, without wind, and when he's bringing it together - then it's a sign of bad weather and wind.
(The Villages' treasure, First Year, January 1923)

Conclusively another sunny, hot day....

Orgolii mari, suflete mici si probleme marunte.

Cand eram copil, imi amintesc cum unii batranii din vecini aveau o deosebita preocupare si grija pentru spatiile verzi din jurul blocului. Le curatau periodic, aparandu-le aproape cu ferocitate, de parca farama de verde reusea sa-i mentina inca tineri, tinand la distanta sfarsitul firesc, iminent. Dar noi, copii crescuti intre betoane, cu setea de verde nemarginit permanent nesatisfacuta, incalcam deseori conventia adoptata tacit: “nu va jucati pe iarba!” Caci nu-i asa, ce poate fi mai placut decat sa joci capra sau lapte gros pe iarba, nu pe maidan, ba chiar sa-ti testezi abilitatile atletice intr-o proba incropita ad-hoc, de sarit garduri…verzi?

De atunci, lucrurile nu s-au schimbat prea mult, remarc. Probabil fiecare strada, fiecare bloc isi are batranii sai ce pretuiesc mai presus decat orice, verdeata. Si n-ar fi nimic rau in asta, de n-ar reactiona atat de brutal si de bolovanos fata de cei ce-ncalca regulile stabilite - copiii, etichetati din start ca “needucati”.

Dupa patru zile fierbinti, ploaia de ieri si vantul racoros au scos din case la joaca,  putinii copii ce locuiesc in bloc. Veselie mare, strigate, chiote. O partida de fotbal, intre doua reprize de “tara, tara, vrem ostasi”. Invariabil, batrana apare in geam scuipand invective urate. Rusinati, copiii de opresc si se indeparteaza, imprastiati de brusca amputare a bucuriei. In scurt timp, un baiat si-o fata, insotiti presupun de mama lor, isi fac aparitia in dreptul geamului batranei, declansand furtuna. Circul capata proportii halucinante, de la acuzatii cu tenta sexuala, pana la amenintari de rupt picioare sau chemat politia. Strada rasuna strident, ambele femei fiind de neoprit, in ciuda rugamintilor stinse ale baiatului “mama, las-o in pace!...” , “mama, hai sa mergem!...”

Vecinii apar rand pe rand in ferestre, urmarind cu interes deznodamantul. Furtuna se sfarseste la fel de brusc precum a inceput, femeia furioasa plecand incadrata de cei doi copii, vizibil stanjeniti de atentia colectiva. Disparand dupa coltul blocului, o aud razand cu pofta : “e dusa cu capul aia, dar i-am zis eu cateva! daca o prind pe-afara, o sa-i sparg capul…”

In linistea asternuta in urma-le, mierla isi continua detasat trilurile. Cine sa i le mai auda?... 

demnitate furata... / stolen dignity...

de obicei nu cumpar flori. nu-mi place sa le vad taiate si odata uscate, mi-este greu sa le arunc la gunoi.
le ador insa afara, in natura. la fel in casa, plantate in ghivece. cat mai multe!
astazi am facut o exceptie. buchetele mici, aproape la fel de ofilite ca mainile ei, mi-au agatat privirile. aveau ceva de pasare speriata prinsa-ntre palme, intr-o fatala clipa de neatentie. la fel de gingase, la fel de frumoase.

am intrebat-o cu cat le vinde iar ea, ridicand inspre mine privirea batrana si totusi inca limpede, mi-a raspuns "cu cat vreti dumneavoastra". am scos o bancnota si i-am intins-o, primind in schimb buchetul mic de suflete legate strans laolalta. si pret de o clipa, mainile ni s-au atins. ale mele erau calde. ale ei, uscate si racoroase.

inapoi spre casa, drumul mi s-a parut mai lung...

I usually don't buy flowers. I hate to see them cut off and once dead, I find it very hard to throw them into the rubbish bin. but I adore them outside, in the nature. and also inside, planted into pots. the more the merrier!
today I made an exception. the small bouquets, almost as sear as her her hands were, caught my sight. there was something about them, like a frightened bird caught in the trap of one's palms in a fatal moment of carelessness. just as gentle, just as beautiful.

I asked her how much she's selling and with an old, but still lucid look, she answered "with how much you want". I took a bill and handed to her, receiving in exchange a small bouquet of souls tightly bound together. and for a transient second, our hands touched. mine were warm. hers, dry and coldish.

the way back home seemed somehow longer...

cercuri

spice galbene

cantandu-si cresterea in cercuri

vara, la sfarsit.

golden grains

singing their growth in circles

summer, at the end.

fara titlu

Nu toti avem darul de a crea muzica.

Dar cei care il au, ne ofera prin creatiile lor bucurie, liniste, zbucium… adica tot ceea ce reprezinta premisele unui dar pe care il avem cu totii. Darul de a ne descoperi ritmul propriu, muzica interioara care ne da echilibru si ne acordeaza la armonia Universala. Pe scurt, darul creatiei de sine.

Pe hartie, orice creatie muzicala incepe cu un semn: cheia sol.

In viata, orice creatie de sine incepe cu un semn: decizia cautarii…

Not all of us have the gift of creating music.

But those who have, through their creations, offer us all happiness, peace, turmoil… all the premises of a gift that we all possess. That of discovering our inner rhythm, our inner music that gives us balance and puts us in tune with the Universal harmony. In short the gift of self-creation.

On paper, any musical creation begins with a sign: G clef.

In life, any self-creation begins with a sign: the decision of searching…

Redescoperind Romania / Rediscovering Romania

Cand simti ca locul tau este niciunde, iar pretutindeni este mult prea departe, intoarce-te si bea o gura din izvorul ce te-a hranit inca de la primii pasi. Acasa.

Aseaza-te cuminte pe pamantul cald, asculta vantul. In adierea-i blanda, vei auzi glasurile celor ce ti-au lasat mostenire un nume, o limba si o tara. Romania.

Nu te lasa pacalit de ce vei auzi inainte sa pleci! Si nu-ti lua cu tine bagaje mari si multe: frici, prejudecati, dezamagiri, regrete, asteptari. Odata ajuns, deschide-ti inima, lasa-ti ochii liberi sa rada si sa planga preaplinul dinauntru, si-ti vei reaminti. De tine.

Va fi o calatorie de neuitat.

The moment you feel your place is nowhere and everywhere is so far away, that is the time to go and drink right from spring that fed your very first steps. Home.

Lie quietly on the warm earth, listen to the wind’s whispers. They will carry the voices of those who left you the legacy of a name, a language and a country. Romania.

Don’t let yourself be deceived by what you’ll hear before you go! And travel light: no fears, prejudices, disappointments, regrets, illusions. Once there, open your heart, free your eyes to laugh and cry the overflow inside and you’ll remember. Of yourself.

It will be a journey to remember always.

cautari...

uneori curgem, alteori baltim…

uneori alergam, alteori schiopatam…

uneori vedem, alteori dormim…

uneori zburam, alteori ne taram.

dinspre vechi catre nou,

dinspre natura catre obiect,

dinspre culori catre umbre,

dinspre inauntru catre inafara.

si din nou, in sens invers…

curgand sau baltind,

alergand sau schiopatand,

vazand sau dormind,

visand sau tarandu-ne

cautam perpetuu.

rostul de a fi.