And absolutely adorable

baby in wrap

Late autumn is the season of death. I can very well remember my previous deaths. Caring for a baby this autumn is a totally new way to die. The best one so far, I’d say. You truly have to kill whoever you used to be. The new you needs none of your former selfish endeavors. The new you has no time to waste. The new you is just happy to be of service.

I’ve read some of my former writing pieces and I wonder if I’m ever going to be that good again, if ever again I can focus on something else than diapers, breastfeeding and the lack of intimacy in what used to be a (more or less) romantic relationship. And still, as I’m writing this, I feel it’s not entirely accurate. It’s just that I’m going through changes and until the storm has settled I cannot find my new voice (too much noise to hear myself write). Old structures are falling, new ones are being erected and all this time I’m taking long good looks in the mirror.

“Look at you”, a friend says when she comes to visit, “You don’t even look like you’ve given birth! You’ve lost so much weight!”

And yes, that’s so comfortable. I put on very little weight during pregnancy and in the first few days after delivery I quickly went back to my pre-pregnancy weight. I do feel somewhat attractive, but still feel my whole body is just being used by this growing creature, losing its former glory and attractiveness. Nevertheless, it has gained tremendous force trough birth, I think. And a newly found respect for its wonderful strength and endurance.

“You’ve really got someone now, you’ll never be alone again”, she continues as we’re walking out of a shop late in the afternoon, in the noise of the crazy rush hour traffic.

Then what’s with the lump I keep feeling in my throat? What’s with the chest pain? What’s with the longing? I wonder… There must be something wrong with me. Where is my beloved? Who am I still waiting for? What/ who is still missing from my life?

It’s nothing, love, it’s just baby blues. Yes, again… You should be glad it’s not postpartum depression, my inner shrink goes off as soon as I’m quiet again.

Fuck it, I break out. I’m tired of this. Fix me already! Am I not over this already? I’m getting bored of this shit. I feel too much.

I decide to end my blog post here, but I open my pdf copy of Forty rules of love at page 300 (I decide it’s the number for October 30, my and my son’s birthday) to see what Elif has to say about it:

“The town had finally gone to sleep. It was that time
of night when even the nocturnal animals are reluctant to
disturb the reigning peace. It always made me both
immensely sad and elated to listen to a town sleep,
wondering what sorts of stories were being lived behind
closed doors, what sorts of stories I could have lived
had I chosen another path. But I hadn’t made any
choice. If anything, the path had chosen me.
I remembered a tale. A wandering dervish arrived
in a town where the natives didn’t trust strangers.
Go away!” they shouted at him. “No one knows
you here!
The dervish calmly responded, “Yes, but I know
myself, and believe me, it would have been much
worse if it were the other way round.”
As long as I knew myself, I would be all right.
Whosoever knows himself, knows the One.
The moon showered me with its warm glow. A light
rain, as delicate as a silk scarf, began to fall on the
town. I thanked God for this blessed moment and left
myself in His hands. The fragility and brevity of life
struck me once again, and I recalled another rule: Life
is a temporary loan, and this world is nothing but a
sketchy imitation of Reality. Only children would
mistake a toy for the real thing. And yet human
beings either become infatuated with the toy or
disrespectfully break it and throw it aside. In this
life stay away from all kinds of extremities, for they
will destroy your inner balance.
Sufis do not go to extremes. A Sufi always
remains mild and moderate.

As I’m bouncing on the fitness ball with him in my arms at 3 am this morning, I’m going through my memories of labor again. He’s one month old today. I take one more look at him and all my complaints fade in the face of his perfection.

Not writing because everything has already been said

Then what if after the first autumn the season would have simply canceled itself? Because in no other year could it repeat the extraordinary display of color and the whole autumn paraphernalia.

And then after the first love story we would have simply stopped falling in love and writing poems and books and making movies about it. No one would ever have to repeat lines like “Do you have the time?”, “Do you want to go out tonight?” or “Will you have dinner with me?” or the ever so used “Hi. How are you?” No one would ever strive to come up with a more original first line like “Sorry, do you know which way the river flows?” And the cute couple in party clothes would not be kissing at the corner tonight. We would not develop gastritis, either.

And what about living? People have been living since forever and everything has already been lived. Yes, it has. Then, after the first human being, everything would have simply stopped. Because a human being has already lived, felt, experimented etc. And so I would not be writing things like “I want you to feel my breath in your hair” or “my mouth in the palm of your hand” and no one would say ” I’m a good cook, but remember I never eat meat”. Or “you are insane”.

Then Florence Foster Jenkins would not have existed. Or if she had, she would definitely not have sung. And what a waste that would have been.


“People may say I can’t sing, but no one can ever say I didn’t sing.” (Florence Foster Jenkins)

That wedding night in Porto


The sunset had spread its honey all along my arms. Out on the terrace overlooking the river, looking at the stars, listening to stories, smiling and dancing, wearing high heels for the first time and a stunning dress, having decided Portuguese is very similar to the Moldavian accent, tasting yet another drink, my lips leaving soft plum marks on the rim of the glass before smiling again and sending more words to kiss your ears.

“Sorry, Mr Maker, do you know which way the river flows?”



PS It must’ve been the proximity of the ocean that made everything much deeper and more dangerous. And slightly colder from the tide. Made everyone take good care not to let themselves dragged by some strong wave and lose themselves. So now, in the safety of our homes, we can look back.

Nuca și spărgătorul de nuci

Un spărgător de nuci s-a întâlnit într-o zi cu o nucă.

– Unde mergi, spărgătorule? Te căutam… M-am rostogolit peste tot până te-am găsit.
– Mă căutai pe mine?! întrebă surprins spărgătorul.
– Chiar așa. Vreau să știu cum mi-e miezul. Nimeni nu m-a văzut vreodată pe dinăuntru. Coaja mea e groasă și tare. Înăuntru n-a pătruns nicio rază de lumină de pe vremea când eram floare.
– Credeam că nucilor le e teamă de mine, răspunse spărgătorul și mai surprins.
– Mie nu mi-e teamă decât că miezul meu s-ar putea să nu fie bun. Sau că s-ar putea să se usuce în interiorul cojii fără ca cineva să-l descopere vreodată.

Și așa s-au împrietenit spărgătorul de nuci și nuca. El și-a desfăcut brațele și ea s-a cuibărit în îmbrățișarea spărgătorului, care a strâns-o-ntre brațele lui puternice. Ușor, coaja nucii s-a crăpat cu un oftat și înăuntru a pătruns lumina caldă pentru prima dată după mult, mult timp, topind umbra și dezvăluind miezul fraged, acoperit de o pieliță cafenie și mătăsoasă.

Toate temerile nucii se risipiră odată cu coaja sfărâmată, iar miezul zâmbea acum dezgolit, mângâiat de razele soarelui. Spărgătorul îl privea cu uimire, continuând să cuprindă nuca sfărâmată între brațele lui, cu grijă s-o țină toată la un loc și simțind pentru prima dată că are un rost de care poate fi mândru.

PS Another one of my writings from the creative writing workshop I taught this week. See related posts: Zborul and My summer school creative writing workshop.






An island planted in the entrails of the city
Shipwrecked on its shore
I find shelter
Succumbed to a will that is finally my own

A tall fire starts in the darkest corner
And there I call you

I love you

In all the languages I have ever spoken to you

In all the languages we will ever speak



I promised to come

Here I am


Let go

I am free and you are free

I say it loud and clear


In all the languages that bound me to you

In all the languages that set us free

For all lifetimes to come