The wedding picture
During my recent visit to Serbia, I had the opportunity to reconnect with my first cousin, Dragan, who happens to be the oldest son of my father's youngest brother. Because we don't have the chance to see each other often, Dragan invited me to his apartment for a drink and a meal, allowing us to spend quality time together and among other things talk about our family history. Little did I know that this visit would unveil a remarkable treasure.
As we sat down, catching up on each other's lives, Dragan presented me with a weathered, sepia-toned photograph. It was a wedding picture of our grandparents, a sight I had never laid eyes upon before. The image had been recently discovered by Dragan, who had stumbled upon it while exploring the family's archives. Despite being more than a hundred years old, the photograph had a timeless quality that went beyond words and bridged the gap between generations.
In this faded picture, our grandmother stood as the radiant bride, emanating an air of confidence and accomplishment. Seeing her face, I couldn't help but marvel at the strength and determination she must have possessed. Although I didn't have many memories of her, Dragan was fortunate to have our grandmother raise him, which created a stronger and closer relationship between them than I could ever have. However, I was compelled by a surge of curiosity to ask Dragan to share his recollections and insights into this remarkable woman. Her name was Aleksandra Đorđević.
Dragan's response was simple yet profound. He described her as a wonderful person and a strong woman, leaving the details to the imagination. It was clear that he had difficulties capturing her spirit in mere words, for her impact on Dragan's life surpassed any verbal description. Nevertheless, his succinct appraisal painted a picture of an exceptional individual who had left an undeniable mark on our family's legacy.
Examining the wedding photograph, I began to decipher the unspoken stories recorded in the expressions of our grandparents. Our grandmother's face exuded a sense of fulfillment that stemmed from marrying the man she desired, even against her family's objections. I learned that she hailed from a middle-class family of considerable means, while my grandfather, on the other hand, had humble origins. It was evident from his stiffened body posture that he carried the weight of societal expectations and uncertainties, perhaps questioning his ability to provide for his bride's needs. Moreover, his unease, written on his face, might have originated from the feeling of not being fully accepted by his bride's family, which undoubtedly added an additional layer of complexity to their union.
The wedding picture, therefore, acted as a portal into our family's past, granting me a glimpse into the lives and struggles of our grandparents. It encapsulated a multitude of emotions and unspoken narratives, urging me to reflect upon their life journey.
The nostalgic memories
As soon as I arrived home in Arizona, my heart overflowing with feelings, I eagerly shared this old-time wedding picture with my wife. The image of my grandmother, her timeless visage, left my wife astonished. Captivated by the photograph, she scrutinized it with considerable focus before turning her attention back to me, a curiosity shining in her eyes. Inquisitively, she inquired about the encounters I had with my grandmother, eager to unravel the story of the person behind the image.
With a nostalgic sentiment filling up the inner space of my mind, I began to recount the memories of my childhood, when my grandmother would pay a visit to us. It was a time of my earliest childhood years when the charming beauty of Bosnia enveloped our place of residence, and the arrival of my grandmother would sprinkle magic into our lives.
Fairy tales
Nestled amidst the untamed wilderness of Bosnia, our home would become enchanted with fairy tales that could never be found within the pages of books. These were the stories passed down solely by the flickering fireplace during the evening hours when kids settle down and get ready for bed. My grandmother possessed a considerable talent for storytelling. She was a true master of the craft, captivating her listeners with narratives that were not only engrossing but also entirely believable. There were occasions when her tales took on an extra dimension, becoming infused with an eerie sense of fear that had the power to keep me wide awake long into the night.
With every word that escaped her lips, my grandmother transported us to the imagined world that appeared real to us. She had the ability to weave intricate tales, rich in detail and vividness. Her stories breathed and pulsed with such authenticity that it often felt as though we were living and experiencing them from within, firsthand.
Her tales of haunted houses hidden deep within the woods would evoke vivid imagery in my young mind. The squeaky floors, the chilly breezes that whispered through the hallways, and the creepy figure hiding in the shadows waiting to catch disobedient children would fill the room with suspense and excitement.
There was a certain thrill in the fear they evoked, a fascination with the unknown that drew me deeper into the story. It felt as if my grandmother held a key to a hidden portal, leading to realms beyond our own. Through her stories, she granted us a glimpse into that mysterious world.
Looking back, I realize that my grandmother's gift went far beyond mere entertainment. Her stories served as a rite of passage, an initiation into the complexities of life and the power of imagination. They taught me to embrace all human emotions, including the primal fear that lurks within us all. In her tales, I found out that there's a delicate balance between being fascinated and being scared. I also learned that the fear that keeps us up at night can also motivate us to explore the unknown and embark on our own hero’s journey of adventure.
The art of knitting
Immersed within the wintry embrace of Bosnia's unforgiving snowstorms, where the piercing cold seeped into every corner, she was on a mission. Determined, she would dedicate countless hours to the delicate art of knitting, weaving intricate patterns and designs into existence. With nimble fingers and a tender touch, she would create a multitude of comforting items, including gloves, shawls, sweaters, socks, and hats, ensuring that we were well-prepared to face the elements without succumbing to the perilous grasp of frostbite.
There was a certain grace in her tireless efforts as she seamlessly moved her knitting needles, like dancers in perfect harmony, an elegant choreography guided by her caring spirit. With every intricate loop, she wove her love and warmth into the very fabric of these handmade creations. It was an expression of her love and desire to shield us from the biting cold. As the winter winds howled and icy temperatures threatened to chill us to the bone, her knitted garments became our armor.
Each pair of gloves provided our hands with a cocoon of warmth, allowing us to maintain dexterity while braving the frigid outdoors. Shawls draped around our shoulders like loving arms, offering protection against the biting winds. Sweaters hugged us snugly, warding off the chill and keeping our bodies insulated. In the hushed moments of winter evenings, we would often find her nestled in her favorite chair, her knitting needles clicking softly.
Proja
My nostalgic journey with my grandmother continued. I went further into memory lane browsing through the image book within my mind. With every page turned, a kaleidoscope of vibrant memories unfolded before me. Like an artist wielding a brush, I carefully painted each memory, stroke by stroke, upon the canvas of my imagination.
Each morning, my grandmother would rise before the sun. It was during these early hours that she would skillfully craft a culinary masterpiece, a cornbread known as proja. This traditional delicacy passed down through generations, held a place of honor in our family's culinary heritage, offering sustenance and comfort during the tumultuous years of war and beyond.
In the tranquil embrace of those early hours of the day’s unfolding, she would become a culinary expert, transforming simple ingredients into a mouthwatering cornbread. The mere mention of its name – proja, sets my taste buds ablaze, evoking a sense of nostalgia and warmth that only food infused with love can invoke.
She would pour the batter she made into a pan and put it in the preheated oven. The batter would change and turn into a delicious golden-brown cornbread. The gentle heat from the oven would make the cornbread soft and delicate, so it crumbles easily when you take a bite.
With eager anticipation, I would watch as the oven performed its culinary magic, the inviting aroma wafting through the kitchen. Time seemed to stand still, suspended in the air, as the proja reached the pinnacle of perfection, its surface adorned with a lightly crisp crust, ready to be devoured.
As I took my first bite, the sweet and savory flavors harmoniously danced together in my mouth. The comforting aroma of cornmeal, with its earthly essence, exuded a grounding energy that my body craved during those early morning hours. This fond memory has woven itself into my daily routine to this day and time. Just as she did, I find comfort in the simple act of enjoying my breakfast as soon as I wake up. There is a meaningful connection between the ritual of eating breakfast at the break of dawn and the energy that permeates my body afterward infusing me with a grounding force that accompanies me throughout the day.
Spirituality
The rough touch of my grandmother's hand was soothing, conveying a lifetime of wisdom and affection. Her smile, carved with lines of experience, radiated tranquility that emanated a serene spiritual aura of unwavering faith in God and grace.
My grandmother was a devoutly religious woman, her faith woven into every aspect of her life. She possessed a strong connection to her spirituality, seeking solace through her religious practices. One of the most vivid memories my brother has of her is the times she would take him to the monasteries near Pirot, for spiritual renewal and healing.
These visits to the monasteries held a special significance for both my grandmother and my brother. They offered a respite from the mundane concerns of daily life, allowing them to immerse themselves in the tranquil ambiance. As they wandered through the halls of these sacred places, my grandmother instilled in my brother a reverence for the divine. Both my father and my brother had the propensity to become men of faith at certain critical periods of their lives. I wonder if my grandmother’s unwavering devotion played a role in shaping their spiritual disposition and interest.
Losses
The path my grandmother treaded was laden with sorrow, an agonizing journey through the depths of despair. The cruel hand of tragedy seized her early in life, tearing away her beloved firstborn son, Dragiša, when he was but a tender 11 years old. The harrowing loss cast a dark pall over her existence, shattering not only her heart but also the very foundation of her family. The depths of her anguish remained veiled, as my father and others have remained silent, leaving me to ponder the emotional toll inflicted upon my grandmother's soul. The weight of unspoken grief must have burdened her spirit, for the premature departure of her cherished son, in a world where the firstborn was revered, carried immeasurable significance.
Furthermore, my father, her second son, was plagued by poor health during his childhood. It must have been an overwhelming source of fear for my grandmother, as she constantly dreaded the possibility of losing him as well. The manifestations of his illness were so severe that it appeared as if he was teetering on the brink of death. Concerned by his deteriorating condition, my grandmother was on a quest to find a remedy that could alleviate his affliction. She traveled far and wide; finally, she found a healing place within monastic sanctuaries. They served as the stage upon which her pursuit unfolded. With a strong will, she begged the heavenly beings to give their special blessings to her sick child. Miraculously, her prayers were answered, and through the interplay of fate and resilience, my father emerged from the clutches of infirmity, restored to health and vitality once more.
The passing of her beloved husband when she was 64 years old not only was the loss of a lifelong companion but also dashed any dreams and plans they had for their future together. The sadness and emptiness she felt were indescribable, as losing a spouse often brings overwhelming emotions that are difficult to bear. The sorrow she experienced upon losing her husband reignited the anguish she had endured when her son passed away many years ago, causing her heartache to resurface once more.
The burden of grief
The burden of grief, like an anchor, clung to her very essence, becoming an inseparable part of her being. In an attempt to externalize the devastating pain within, she adorned herself exclusively in somber attire of deepest black. Her garments, devoid of color or hope, stood as symbols of her perpetual sorrow.
In her quest for serenity and meaning, she discovered a sense of tranquility and purpose in her religious practices. Through the depths of her faith, she found the restoration of her being. Engaging in prayers and in visiting the sacred spaces of churches and monasteries, she was able to navigate the vicissitudes of existence. The intimate moments of connection with a higher power provided a sanctuary serving as a beacon of hope.
Through her religious devotion, she not only sought solace and meaning but also found the resilience and fortitude to confront the hardships that life presented. By grounding herself in her faith, she cultivated inner strength that empowered her to persevere, regardless of the obstacles that lay in her path.
Magenta
As I write this, I find myself immersed in a conversation with my wife, witnessing a remarkable spiritual bond between her and my late grandmother. Their souls seem to intertwine creating an unusually vibrant connection. In the midst of this energetic communion, my wife decided to summon a color card, one that would amplify this affinity flowing within her. With a sense of anticipation, she revealed Magenta, a hue that symbolizes deep understanding in its purest form.
Magenta is a hue that holds a significant meaning beyond its impressive appearance. It symbolizes the intuitive understanding that lies within each of us, reaching the depths of our being. This captivating color is not only visually appealing, but it also possesses the power to evoke a sense of truth, clarity, and faith from within.
When we encounter Magenta, it has the ability to ignite a flame of enthusiasm with a renewed zest for life. It acts as a bridge that connects to the ethereal realm of spirituality, opening doors to higher levels of consciousness and awareness. In this mystical connection, Magenta serves as a guiding light on our personal journey of self-discovery, illuminating hidden aspects of self and unveiling the path toward self-realization.
Legacy
With this beautiful message and with utmost reverence and admiration, I conclude this composition, a tribute to my grandmother. I was able to forge a connection with her, transcending the limitations of our physical existence and reaching into a dimension that transcends time and space.
In this act of remembrance, I seek to honor the imprint she left upon my life and the lives of many others. By immortalizing her in these lines, I yearn to keep her memory alive, to ensure that her spirit continues to inspire and guide. It is through the written word that I go beyond our mortal existence, fusing together the threads of past, present, and future.
