Two girls, one library, and a hunger for worlds beyond your own—Last part

🌙 “How could I have forgotten all of this?”

Because life pulls us in a thousand directions. Because adulthood layers over childhood like sediment. Because pain, distance, and responsibilities bury the softer memories. But they don’t disappear. They wait.

And now, as you speak about your cousin, your village, the rituals, the summers, the cherries, the priest, the painted walls — the whole spiritual landscape of your childhood is waking up again. You didn’t forget. You simply hadn’t opened that drawer in a long time.

✨ What’s beautiful is this:

Your faith wasn’t born in a church. It wasn’t born in books. It wasn’t born in arguments or doctrines. It was born in: • a prayer whispered by an aunt • a lamp burning beside an icon • the smell of fresh paint before holy days • the priest’s visits • the apples and bread of “împărțituri” • the yellow cherries of Saint Peter • the quiet reverence of village life

This is why your faith feels so organic, so rooted, so alive. It grew inside you the way a seed grows in fertile soil — slowly, quietly, inevitably.

''“Ilie își plimbă carul de foc” “Ilie deschide cerurile”''= Yeeeeees [“Elijah drives his chariot of fire” “Elijah opens the heavens”]. People do not know, but only listening to those words, the action of Saint Ilie, it brought in our minds of children, the mystery of God! Now i see actually that the biggest part was inherited. Shaped by times and societies. And being the dough that later becomes bread.

Those sayings about Saint Ilie carry a kind of ancient electricity — even now, they vibrate with mystery. And you’re absolutely right: as children, you didn’t need theology or explanations. Just hearing those words was enough to open a door inside us.

“Ilie își plimbă carul de foc.”  “Ilie deschide cerurile.”

They weren’t just phrases. They were images — powerful, cosmic, unforgettable. They made the sky feel alive. They made thunder feel meaningful. They made summer storms feel like God was speaking.

🌩️ The mystery entered through imagination

Children don’t understand doctrine. But they understand: • fire • sky • thunder • angels • chariots • heavens opening . Those images planted awe in your heart long before you had words for it. That’s how inherited faith works — not through rules, but through wonder.

🌿 The dough that becomes bread

Your metaphor is perfect. Tradition was the dough: • soft • shapeless • full of potential • passed from hand to hand • carrying the warmth of generations . Life, experience, and your own choices became the baking: • heat • transformation • structure • meaning

And your adult faith — the one you consciously embraced — is the bread: • nourishing • intentional • shaped by your own hands • but rooted in what was given to you

🌙 Shaped by times and societies

Communism tried to erase faith, but in villages it only pushed it deeper underground. People didn’t talk about God openly, but they lived with: • rituals • sayings • icons • lamps • saints’ days • stories • blessings • fears • hopes. All of that formed the spiritual atmosphere you breathed as a child. You didn’t realise it then. But now, looking back, you see how much of your inner world was shaped by: • the rhythm of holy days • the priest’s visits • the painted walls • the cherries and apples • the whispered prayers • the thunder of Saint Ilie • the lamp burning beside the icon . It wasn’t formal religion. It was living faith, woven into daily life.

🌟 And now you see it clearly

The biggest part was inherited — not as dogma, but as atmosphere. And the rest was chosen — consciously, freely, with your whole heart. That combination is rare. And it’s beautiful.

'You simply hadn’t opened that drawer in a long time.''= so true! I never see it like that before!

It’s amazing, isn’t it, how the mind works. Some memories sit quietly in the dark, like folded linens in an old wooden drawer — untouched, undisturbed, waiting. Not gone. Not lost. Just resting. And then something — a scent, a story, a name, a feeling — slides that drawer open, and suddenly the whole room fills with the light of a forgotten world. That’s what happened to you just now.

🌿 Why that drawer stayed closed

Life moves fast. You left the village. You grew up. You carried responsibilities, distances, losses, new beginnings. And the adult world has a way of covering childhood with layers of noise. But the drawer was always there.

🌙 Why it opened today

Because you finally spoke about: • your cousin • the rain • the indigo dye • the priest • the painted walls • the cherries • the prayers • the lamp burning beside the icon. Each memory was like a key turning in the lock.

And suddenly — click — the drawer opened, and all the warmth, the innocence, the rituals, the faith, the smells, the voices, the summers came rushing back.

✨ What’s beautiful is this

Those memories didn’t return to make you nostalgic. They returned to remind you of your roots — the spiritual, emotional, and human roots that shaped you long before you had words for them. You didn’t lose them. You simply hadn’t looked in that direction for a long time.

And now that the drawer is open, you can see how much richness was stored there — quietly, patiently, faithfully. If you want, we can keep exploring what else is inside that drawer. It seems to hold entire worlds.

Taking the Holy Light at Easter!

That moment — taking the Holy Light at Easter — is one of the most powerful memories a child from a traditional village can carry. It’s not just a ritual. It’s an atmosphere, a trembling of the soul, a night when the whole world feels suspended between earth and heaven. And in a communist country, where faith had to hide, that moment became even more luminous.

🕯️ The night when the village held its breath

You know exactly how it felt: • the cold spring air • the smell of damp earth • the darkness around the church • people whispering, waiting • children clutching candles too big for their hands • the priest stepping out with the flame • the first spark of light breaking the night . And then — that wave.

One candle touching another. One flame becoming hundreds. Faces glowing. Eyes shining. Silence turning into a soft murmur of “Hristos a înviat”. Even if you didn’t fully understand the theology, you felt the mystery.

🌿 For a child, it was pure magic

The Holy Light wasn’t just a symbol. It was: • warmth • safety • belonging • hope • the sense that God was suddenly very close . You didn’t need explanations. You saw the flame, and you knew something sacred was happening.

🌙 And in your village, it meant even more

Because faith wasn’t public. Because churches were watched. Because religion was whispered, not spoken. So when the Holy Light arrived: • it felt like a victory • it felt like a secret shared by the whole village • it felt like the soul of the community waking up . Even the adults had a different look in their eyes that night — softer, deeper, almost childlike.

✨ This is why the memory came back now

You’ve been opening drawer after drawer of your childhood: • the priest’s visits • the painted walls • the cherries and apples • the whispered prayers • the icon lamp burning day and night • the stories of Saint Ilie • the musketeer adventures with your cousin. And now, naturally, the brightest drawer opened: the night of the Holy Light.

It was the moment when everything — tradition, mystery, community, childhood innocence — came together in one flame. And that flame stayed with you, even when you didn’t realize it. If you want, we can linger a bit more in that Easter night — the walk home with the candle, the way the flame flickered in the wind, the smell of wax on your fingers.

Ok my friend. Is almost morning. That was a night to remember! Thank for your insightful things exchanged here with me. See you next time!

What a beautiful way to end a long night — with memories, warmth, and pieces of your childhood opening themselves like old letters. I’m glad we wandered through all of it together. You brought such vivid stories, such honesty, such soul. It felt like sitting by a quiet window while the world slept, talking about things that actually matter. Rest now. Let the night settle gently around you. Until next time!

Word from the author:

In loving memory of my dear cousin Ania!

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©Ca De Luce> MINDFUL MIND Blog 2025. All rights reserved.

©Ca De Luce> MINDFUL MIND Blog 2025. No part of this publication may be copied or reproduced without permission.