Transylvania

2/16/26

You read that right. I was born in Romania, in the Transylvania Valley. I lived in the village of Cristur, near Hunedoara, which was well known and considered a sort of metropolis. It is not. It’s a town with a gorgeous medieval style castle that is being renovated. Vlad Tepes, also known as Vlad the Impaler or as you might have known him - Dracula, stayed at this castle sometime during his violent life for perhaps several years.

I have no idea how many people lived in Cristur, but it couldn’t have been more than a few thousand. We lived on the main street, in a lovely two bedroom house where my father built indoor plumbing. This was considered somewhat fancy back then.

We stored our cured meats in the attic and fermented goods in the cool basement. I learned how to care for every aspect of a home and small farm from my mom and widowed grandmother. It was customary to live with one set of grandparents.

The gardens were some of my favorite spaces, even though they required so much constant tending… How can I not love them? Snowdrops, tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, and even lily of the valley all grew in our yard during spring, but it was the massive dahlias that took over a large area beyond the gorgeous walnut tree that towered over most of the yard. I loved that tree, and not only because it provided fruit and ample shade during the hot summer months.

We grew every kind of vegetable beyond the apple, cherry and plum trees, and tons of corn for livestock. I couldn’t swim yet, but I would brave the churning waves of the creek, hopping from one large stone to another, just to get to the expansive wildflower field beyond where I would meet with the beings from other realms.

Between the ages of 2 to 4, my parents and I lived on church grounds, helping with the care of the building, cleaning and general upkeep, and ringing the bell on the hour (one of my favorite activities).

Since Catholic mass is held so regularly, and I attended when my brain was a complete sponge, I memorized every line of the ritual. I would close the curtains of our living room, bring in all the accoutrement (cracker, wine glass with water in it, a table cloth for my shoulders). The chairs got set up in a special way, I would grab the bible pretending to read and hold ritual. Our priest would spy on me. As the only child he knew that could recite the mass verbatim, I became his favorite person in the community.

“When can I start training to be a priest?” I asked with absolute enthusiasm.

“Oh dear, girls cannot be priests.” He told me, crushing my spirit completely. I couldn’t understand because I had such strong conviction, such strong desire and belief in my destiny as a priestess.

As a girl, there was no way.

This is law in the church.

“You can be a nun.” He would say to appease me, but to which I scoffed. I held nothing against the devotees who would commit their lives to this kind of service, but I knew even back then that the pure and solitary existence of a nun was definitely not my destiny.

And yet, something about an ancient ritual resonated in my soul. I should have known then that religion was not the way I would reach the depths of it…