A Field In Romania

Coming from the silver lining of the horizon arrive my celebrative birds creating on the sky. fluttering an ocean of waving wings. The whole world of soul alive trembles in frenetic activity. FIRST LOVES, Nicolae Labis translated by Magdalena Biela In Spring, in a field stretching across Romania, a man and a woman stand side by side, their hands lightly clasped, on their faces the suggestion of a smile. The man is attentive to her needs, she is fascinated with his stories. Their stance displays the goodness of the right people. They are waiting for the arrival of a special Word the wind will carry down the Windway. The land itself awaits this Word. Those of us at home, or at work, or on a journey, or in the cemetery or a church await the Word. Most especially, the crowd, silent and calm, almost motionless, the Witnesses wait, assembled on a grassy expanse below the knoll on which the man and the woman search each other's faces for reassurance. People shape this Word silently with their lips, then bow their heads, knowing it is only a few deep breaths away... The Word itself is part of the wind which carries it on the Windway, the part that it leaves behind, its mysterious trace no one has seen but everyone feels. Soon they will be carriers of the Word... This is now the quietest place on earth... And, with no drama of any kind, the Word spreads without speech through the crowd, and continues on its country-wide trek. This event is no more special than watching a cloud form, disperse, and reform, but by then we are looking elsewhere. It is no more special than lovers making promises to each other, sealing each one with a kiss. Or a man and a woman teaching their youngest daughter the oldest dance, steadying her legs, counting out the rhythms with her, until her child's grace takes over, and the three of them trace the ancient pattern of footsteps in the afternoon light. I tell you again, it is no more special than watching grains grow, or a river flow, or the sky darken with rain. What must happen will happen, and we live our lives in the Meanwhile between such momentous events- The birds, there! The birds have arrived! They circle about us, then swoop down and gently graze the woman's unprotected hair. They hover over the man's head, or settle briefly on his shoulders. We all turn our heads upward when they suddenly climb back into the sky. Our unison gesture is a kind of prayer. They careen in a wide circle around us, they glide inside the circle their flight has traced, then shoot upward again, straight into a cone of light they fill with caws, and calls, and shrieks. It is no different from yesterday's sight, it's just much bigger. Tomorrow, fewer birds will do the same aerial dances, and not everyone will watch. But that does not concern the rest of us. We love the repetition of beauty... Some people have begun to leave the field, when in an eerie silence, riding and twirling around sun-shafts, the birds come racing down, into our human crowd once again, swooping upward at the last second. Some burst through the tree canopy so headlong is their speed! We are amazed. Cheers and clapping resound throughout the field. Then we join hands, and a general dance begins. Awkward at first, with unsteady steps and botched rhythms, gradually the better dancers assert control, and pull the rest of us along. We hug our neighbors tighter, lovers leading the way, and amid cascades of laughter and row upon row of kicking feet, swaying bodies, and smiling faces, we become what we are meant to be - one body becoming one soul. And long into the night the dance prevails, in a field in Romania. Overhead, the birds circle us again and again, calling in voices that sound almost human....