When I first came to Romania, I fell in love with a little kitten. He died only a month later from complications from worms, and I buried him in the forest here, in a country that was still almost entirely new to me. Around his little grave were some enormous snails, slowly moving across the moss. The image stayed with me and I later read about the symbolism of snails, who embody their homes. Over the past year, as my relationship with the idea of home has become much more co

A year ago, I wrote about why I chose Romania. I wrote about democracy indexes and homicide rates, immigration pathways and cost of living. I wrote about the Carpathians reminding me of the Appalachians, about history that was still being lived instead of preserved behind museum glass, and about choosing my home carefully because I couldn’t afford to uproot my life over again. I still believe in all of that research. Maybe even more than I did then. But a year is long enough

One of the distortions in how we talk about resistance, especially now, when the pressure to perform opposition loudly and continuously is intense, is the assumption that it must begin with pure and altruistic intentions. That it only counts if it arrives righteous, confrontational, and unwavering from the outset. That anyone who ever benefited from a system, complied with it, or moved through it without open defiance has forfeited their claim to the word. History does not su

Dragobete is a late-winter observance that emerged from rural Romanian life and from a close, attentive relationship with the seasons. Traditionally marked in late February, it was neither a church feast nor a celebration designed for pleasure. It developed because people needed ways to recognize when winter, though still dangerous, was beginning to loosen its grip. Dragobete does not yet announce spring or promise relief from the bitter cold. Instead, it marks a subtle but m

White-shadowed keeper of listening, you move where snow remembers every footfall, body light as breath. You are neither weak nor fleeing, but alert, the one who survives by noticing first. Your stillness is not surrender, but attunement, reminding us that danger often passes those who do not announce themselves. Hare, you are not afraid of winter. You change to meet it, you hold close to the earth, you move only when needed, and still you endure, still you remain. In your qui