A squirrel was climbing the branches of the tree. I saw it clearly; my nephew pointed it out to me. Then, I look at the photo and I can't see it anymore.
A photo taken with my phone... what can I say, I don't have high expectations. Anyway, I know that up there, in the tree, there is a squirrel... and it will remain there, in my photograph, for as long as I can remember.
I recently read about a study conducted by some researchers, I don't know where, which recommends that people suffering from depression, sadness, and personal dissatisfaction take a trip to the places where they were born. This would help them heal!
I believe in such methods, which lie on the border between medicine and something more mysterious, related to the power of the earth, the moon, and the universe.
This was the reason for a new trip to the place where I was born, to verify the theory I mentioned earlier. Actually, it wasn't the reason; it was just the pretext.
I now live in a place 400 km away from where I was born. I have to cross Romania from south to north to get there.
This autumn is less warm and sunny than last year. It rains quite a lot and looks exactly how autumn should be. In recent years, it has been much warmer and sunnier, and I have become accustomed to autumn weather that is more like summer.
I waited for a good forecast, for a spell without rain, and set off on my journey as soon as I had the hope of three sunny days.
That's how I ended up once again in the place where I was born (in Romanian, they also say "where my mother made me").
The place where I was born is magical to me. Fortunately (or unfortunately), it has changed significantly, except for the rugged terrain, which serves as a reminder and a cure for health and detoxification, as I often trod upon it in my distant childhood, when I was a prince, free to go wherever I wanted and without obligations.
Now my nephew is the same age I was when I was so happy. He invited me to take a walk along the roads and paths of yesteryear.
Many things are the same, and nothing is the same... especially the 65 years that have passed since I was a child. I have nostalgia, I have beautiful memories, and that's all. After three days, I missed my little house in the big, faraway city.
I don't know how many more times I'll be able to come here... until I can no longer do so. That's why, every time I get to where my mother made me, I think it might be for the last time.
I always start with photos when I want to write a blog. Photos remind me of places, events, and feelings that turn into words. When I post on Photography Lovers, the words have even less importance; they serve as a companion to the photos I want to share. This often makes the story uninteresting, yet it is necessary; otherwise, the photos would merely be a series of ordinary images.
I make this statement as a plea to those reading not to overjudge the text and to focus on the photos.
A wise saying goes that a photograph is worth a thousand words, but I'm not so sure.
Everything depends on the beholder.
