Into My Arms

Sometime in the Easter Week, moved by all the hope, I decided to be happier, less anxious. Yet another scheme of growing up and shaping of how I am. So here I am, on fieldwork, another week has rushed by, I have Nick Cave in my ears, a blanket to hide under, and I am not thinking the creepily usual self-commiserating whining. Truly. I could be complaining about a lot of things, but something tells me it will not make it easier. I have this tendency sometimes to think the worst, and wake up thinking I have not a lot to live for, but, in fact, this is a matter of perspective. Not having a tight schedule which gives me the luxury to wake up slowly and ponder, generates a lot of space for thought and, indeed, creativity. I try to see it this way, though, I admit, it is not always easy to be your own master. Today, the yellow dog that I met as a puppy (and fell in love with) in November and who was my neighbour then, but who has since moved to another family, accompanied me to my field visits all day. I was amused by his opportunism, and flattered that he did not follow the first person who we encountered on the road to the next village. First, I told him to go home, then I told him not to be afraid of the other dogs, and then I told him not to walk in the muddy ditch (also serving as canalisation). I was so happy he was there. It was a bright day, and I did not care that he caused the whole dog population of the ulita mare to make a hell of a noise, announcing this traveller. I knew I would not find too many people at home, because they were all busy planting potatoes and labouring in their gardens on the hills, but I did not take it personally (for once). I sat for ages with the woman that has blue eyes and runs one of the little shops and listened to her explain about giant frogs, vinera izvorilor, local versus national politics and oameni vazuti. I walked back and recognised some people in cars coming my way and saying hello, waving, flashing lights. People’s Hristos a inviat, and I love the moment when you can decide whether you want to get involved in a conversation. My mother made me laugh on the phone. I shouted at an obviously hard of hearing old man who had his back turned to me and talked to some sheep across the fence. He eventually turned around, noticed me, came closer across his garden, and said, what are you saying, love? I am a bit deaf… How can you not smile at that? Of course I did not just shout at him for fun, I actually wanted to know whose sheep they were.