Where the Forests Still Remember

I was born where the Carpathians breathe.

In our village, the mountains were not scenery—they were elders. The forests were not resources—they were temples. And the old women who gathered herbs at dawn, who knew which mushroom healed and which deceived, who read the weather in the flight of starlings—they were not superstitious. They were simply listening.

Romania is an ancient land. Long before the Romans came and gave us half our name, the Dacians walked these same ridges, speaking to the same oaks, honoring the same springs that still bubble up cold and clean between the roots. They believed the soul was immortal—that death was merely a doorway, and that the forest held the memory of everyone who had ever loved beneath its canopy.

I grew up believing this without anyone teaching me. The knowing came through the soil, through the bread my grandmother kneaded before sunrise, through the icons in the corner of every room—not as religion, but as relationship. The saints looked out at us with dark Byzantine eyes, and we looked back. There was a conversation happening always, between the seen and unseen.

Village life moved in rhythms older than clocks.

Spring meant the return of the storks—those sacred birds who nested on rooftops and were said to carry souls between worlds. We watched for them the way you might watch for a letter from someone you love. When they came, something in the village exhaled.

Summer was wild with poppies in the wheat fields, the air thick with the drone of bees, the long golden evenings when the old men sat outside and the old women told stories of iele—the forest spirits, beautiful and dangerous, who danced in moonlit clearings and drove men mad with longing. "Don't whistle at night," my grandmother would say. "Don't call what you cannot send away."

Autumn brought the plums, purple-black and heavy, and the making of țuică—the plum brandy that every household distilled. The whole village smelled of fruit and fire and fermentation. Death was closer in autumn, everyone knew. The veil thinned. We lit candles for the departed, left plates of colaci at the crossroads.

And winter—winter was for stories. For gathering close while the wolves sang in the far hills and the snow buried everything unnecessary. Winter was when the deepest truths were spoken, because there was nowhere else to go.

The forests taught me everything I know about guidance.

A forest does not judge. It simply is—complex, layered, teeming with life you cannot see until you slow down enough to notice. When I was a girl, I would walk alone among the beeches and hornbeams, and I learned to feel the shift in energy between clearings. Some places held peace like a bowl holds water. Others carried an old grief, a residue of something unfinished.

I learned that the forest responds to intention. That if you enter asking, it will answer—not in words, but in the sudden appearance of a deer, in the way light falls through leaves, in the mushroom that appears exactly where you were about to step, saying pay attention, you are on the right path.

This is not magic in the way stories tell it. This is something more ordinary and more profound: the living world is alive, and it wants to be in relationship with us. It wants to guide us home.

Romania's history is one of survival against impossible odds.

We have been conquered, divided, betrayed, occupied. The Ottoman centuries. The Austro-Hungarian shadow. The communist decades when the secret police listened through walls and the soul of the nation went underground—into kitchens, into whispered prayers, into the stubborn keeping of traditions that could not be stamped out.

And yet.

The villages remained. The forests remained. The old ways—the weaving, the chanting, the knowing which herbs to pick on which saint's day—these survived because they were held by women who understood that some things are too important to write down. They must be lived. Passed from grandmother to granddaughter in the early morning hours when the men were still sleeping and the world was soft.

I am the inheritor of this chain.

Now I carry what was given to me into the work I do.

When I sit with someone seeking guidance, I am not performing. I am returning—to those forests, to those grandmothers, to that ancient Dacian knowing that the soul is deathless and the path is always findable, even when it seems lost.

I am committed to sourcing divine guidance in service to others.

This is not something I decided. It is something I am. The way water is wet, the way the Carpathians are old, the way the storks return each spring because returning is what they do.

I am passionate about helping you clear the way, and establish pathways connected to your deepest desires.

Because I know what it is to walk through dense forest. I know the fear of being lost. And I know—I know in my bones, the way my grandmother knew—that there is always a clearing ahead. That the forest is not your enemy. That the path appears the moment you are ready to see it.

In this way, everything in life becomes easier and more joyful.

Not because the difficulties vanish. They never vanish entirely. But because you are no longer alone. Because the seen and unseen are walking with you. Because the old ones—the grandmothers, the mountains, the saints with their dark Byzantine eyes—are cheering you forward, whispering yes, this way, you are almost home.

There is always a way to invite peace and love into your life.

The forests taught me this. Romania taught me this. The women who kept the old ways alive through centuries of conquest and sorrow taught me this.

And now I offer it to you.