A Medicine Story of the Balkans
Sharing a story of my lineage. The medicine of the fairies.
Welcome family. Today I desired to share with you all a story that is very close to my heart. Woven with the threads of my own expression and hearts song. I wrote it about a year ago and then it just sat on my computer, waiting as though in a gestation period, until it was ready to be shared. It is based on the folk mythology and legends from the regions of Macedonia and the Balkan heritage as a whole, the lands from which this body and being stems. I would love to hear how it lands for you! The comments section is a safe communal space to share what’s comes through from reading each piece. I invite you to take up space there, and share with us your thoughts. To get the full experience of this piece, open it up on Substack, that way images and writing will fully load.
With love.
Marija
My lineage is that of the weavers, the makers, the ones whose medicine bled through their hands. The potters, the storytellers. A lineage steeped in shepherds roaming the vast meadows and valleys. Of songstresses whose melodies rang through the pastures. Their homes tucked away on mountainsides, close to flowing springs and lush forests. The people who were in right relations with the lands. The women spun wool and wove magnificent fabrics of red, yellow and black. The men tended the animals and built homes that would last lifetimes. Artists that created with what the land offered. They walked the forests with ease. Knowing the trails that led to the great game. Throughout their days they played music from the soul, that lit a fire in their hearts and was the beat their feet took upon the earth. Steady and light. They told stories of the fairies they met in the trees. They made art of their daily tasks and tools. They were content with living simply. Their connection to the land was the blood in their veins. The herbs of the forests and mountains were picked with gratitude and hung upon the walls for medicine. Some hung up on the door for well wishes. Some burned in the hearth for purity. The fires blazed within sturdy stone houses. There was blossoming in community. I come from a lineage of shepherds and medicine women. People of the forests and mountains. Where the land holds you in a tight cocoon of silent safety. Secluded and mysterious. One unfamiliar with the paths gets swallowed by its vastness. These people knew depth, for the forest taught that very well. How to go deep, and emerge again unscathed. It made them resilient, courageous, and enduring. Those who tended to the lands and flourished. Those who sang the songs of the woodlands and rivers. They live in my bones now, their songs still sing in me.
It’s been such nourishing medicine to explore the realms of my heritage. Perhaps it is the time of year invoking the calls of my ancestors. Stepping more fully into the stories of the land from which I come from. Often I have heard these tales told with the influence of domination and pain. Of a people stuck in fight or flight. Holding pride in their wounds. In the past, I wasn’t ready to touch these parts. Now I know it is my work to transform them. The work of medicine stories for me has been unravelling the influence of other people's pain to find the honest tale. To weave together a truth that I know in my bones. A tale once forgotten, that bubbles upon through my breath to be born again. I am the vessel through which they may take form, in a way of romance, love, and pleasure where there otherwise was only pain, loss, and grief. Gently peeling away the layers to find the core and essence, and water it with my living memory, so a medicine story may bloom. The true lesson trying to be conveyed. The wisdom that was encapsulated to be passed on to others. There, one is enriched with the tales of old.
Etymologically, lineage comes from the latin word linea, which mean line of descent but also a thread or string of connection. I find this a beautiful visual invitation to see a lineage as an intricate tapestry of threads, woven together to form something whole. Each thread being an individual that adds their flavour and colour to a bigger something they are irrevocably a part of.
The stories of my mothers and fathers who first told these tales with the intention of sharing something meaningful. It has reached me here, the cord that stretches through the expanse of time to find me. They speak to me through these stories. Of the way they saw the world. What they held dear. How they moved and wove magic and meaning into life. They speak through the songs of my culture. The dances of my heritage. The instruments and the steps that flowed to the rhythmic beat of their earthen drums. Feet pounding upon earth to awaken the spirits. Hearts beat in tune to each thump. They become one. In these moments union is celebrated between one and all. Community. The music that was irresistible to them lights the same fire in my heart. I listen and hear my ancestors playing, I see the threads of them reaching me through those melodic tunes. It is how they remain alive. Through the stories that ignited laughter, reflection, or inspiration. They speak. And continue to guide their relatives. Reminding me of the gifts as well as the burdens that were laid upon my cradle. The inheritance of my lineage. “What do you choose to carry on?” they ask. In these ways, we heal together.
In these darkening days, they’ve been speaking louder, of the traditions that long to be remembered. As I step deeper into my womanhood, they invite me to embrace that which nourishes my journey. They dance for joy as once again they are reclaimed and the medicine continues to flow into the spaces in need of it.
Humans long for meaning and belonging. For me, my sense of belonging opened more fully with the embrace of my lineage. The memories of those who came before me, they are a part of who I am now. Such an important part. The heritage I chose to celebrate in this life, inspires me and guides me. I chose this lineage so I may be in full witness and embrace of its expression as it lives through me. When I call it a remembering, it is because, as I practice these traditions or speak those stories or hear those songs, I feel as though it has always been so. For a long time. I feel as though my hands already know the movements. My mouth knows the words. My feet know the steps. It has been done before, many times. Through the beings that now live within my bones. They make up all that I am here. And so, my embrace is a remembrance of something that has already been done. By those who now make up the pieces of me. The memory lives in my cells. Reclaiming those ways means everything to me.
Our connection to our ancestors has been such an integral part of human experience, forever. Until some began to forget. Perhaps that’s why some look for this belonging in other places, spaces, and traditions. When it is right there at your feet, waiting for you.
I wrote this story last year around this time as a living remembrance of how I see my heritage. A piece of it anyway, told through an old folk tale of samovili ~ fairies. Woven with the threads of ancient stories told upon the lands I come from. Spun on my own loom. It is a retelling that brings deep nourishment for me and a richer expression of the beauty and intricacies of a heritage that many have forgotten. Greatly inspired by other folk tales from different parts of the world that echo the same songs as this. Seal Woman told by Clarrisa Pinkola Este was a big influence on this retelling. Yet many others echo this same song of a wild woman, leaving her home and then returning. Told through the lens of each cultures expression. Writing this was a big remembrance of what once was and continues to be through my very own breath and steps. Remembering the ancient songs. The samovili are fairies in the Balkan regions of Europe. Revered for their shimmering white dresses, magical natures, shapeshifting and vast wisdom of the natural world, for their hypnotic songs that echo through the forests and great dances that bloom in the deep hours of the night.
The Dance of Samovila
Within the vast mountain range that expands through deep forest, open meadows and flowing lagoons, there lived a shepherd. On this day, like many others, he was walking along the old pastures in the valley near his village. But on this day, a young sheep had strayed from his mother and become lost. The shepherd looked all over the fields and could not find him. Being a compassionate man, caring for the integrity of his whole herd, he went out past the fields in search. But this man was growing older, and wearier, he was lonely. His whole life had been spent watching over a herd of sheep. Nonetheless, a herd that kept him company and brought him joy and a means of survival. Earning his wages from their milk and the wool of their coat. He walked on higher into the mountains, further from his herd. Further from his village and the trails that he knew so well. As he walked he realized that he no longer recognized the landscape. This land expanded out into open meadows of wildflowers he had never known, the sun touching his skin seemed to pierce deep into his being with warmth. He noticed how the landscape radiated a particularly vibrant hue of green, as though the midsummer itself was alive and blooming in front of his eyes, even though it was still early spring. He felt like the trees watched him here. His familiar routes that led him through the meadows outside his village were now a long distance away, and still, his sheep was nowhere in sight. He noticed a feeling of dread and hopelessness washing over him. He thought it better to keep his luck and turn around before he encountered some mischievous forest spirit.
Right as he was about to turn his step back down the mountain, his ears suddenly picked up a luminous sound. Unlike anything he had ever heard. He felt perhaps in that very instant he had died and been greeted by the angels. The voices and songs enchanted him. His feet could not walk away without finding the source of these heavenly echoes. He started to follow the voices, hoping to find their embodiment. His heart pulled him toward an old willow tree, which in her age became slouched, drooping to hang close to the floor. Her trunk had curled to resemble a spiral. Her branches dangling down along the side close to the water like a curtain. His people often said the willow holds a doorway into other worlds. This thought came to his mind as he walked closer and peered through the hanging veil to find a crystal lake. Shimmering like the clearest stone you had laid your eyes on. Still and enchanting, the water seemed inviting and warm. And to his astonishment, bathing naked to his left was a group of samovili. He recognized them immediately through their shimmering long hair and their skin that twinkled like starlight. He understood in that moment why those songs that led him here were so enchanting. Samovili are known for their hypnotic voices. The shepherd was awestruck, one does not simply stumble upon a group of samovili on just any day, at any time, in their recognizable human form, and be offered this gift to have seen them first before they realized his presence. He knew this was a gift from the divine, an opportunity to turn his luck around, to finally live his dream of having a family. He crouched low close to the roots of the willow that were growing up out of the ground. Sheltered by the hanging canopy of the tree.
He watched them for a while, their bare bodies wet and glistening in the afternoon sun. They took turns to brush each other's waist-length hair. Singing sweet songs of the forest and waters as they braided plaits in the brushed strands. Songs he knew in his heart yet had never heard played in his village. His heart leapt with each melodic shift in note. Inside him bloomed warmth he hadn’t felt since he was a boy on his mother's lap, listening as she sang songs of the wild lands. He noticed their calm and carefree expressions, as they enjoyed the bliss of bathing with sisters. His eyes moved a few inches to the left of them and noticed, sprawled freely upon a boulder, their dresses gleaming with the light of the blossomed moon. And then he did the only thing he knew to do, swiftly as he could manage, without thinking for another moment, he swooped down silently to the boulder and snatched a moonlit dress. Tucking it under his arm, he retreated back behind the hanging willow. Astonished, he looked down at the samovila’s dress in his very hands. It felt alive between his fingers. As he held it tightly between his worn hands, he could have sworn it was moving, breathing. Shimmering as living light would do, moving as ghostly shadows of angel wings.
While he was transfixed by what he had just done, the shuffling of the samovili snapped him back to the moment. The samovili had finished their bathing and were beginning to move to the boulder. Each in turn gracefully picked up a dress, as a woman would pick a flower, and raised it above her head. Seamlessly the dresses cascaded down over shoulders and onto bodies. They fit loosely, yet snug enough to outline the shape of their curves. As they dressed there was one samovila that began to franticly look for her dress. She was particularly taller than the others, and had a distinct red tint to otherwise shimmering white hair. The shepherd softly signed and took a step back as he looked at her. Longing tugging at his breath.
The others slowly began to walk back into the woods, while she quickened her looking. She peered under each stone and over each boulder for her dress. Soon the others had melted back into the thick forest and the shepherd found himself alone with a samovila. Not wanting to wait too long and lose his courage, the shepherd slowly stepped out from between the trees and revealed himself to the samovila. Her eyes instantly fell to the shimmering light of her dress draped over his arms. With a shriek, she leapt for the dress as a lynx would leap upon prey. Yet the shepherd already stepped out of the way, and she landed smoothly on the mossy earth, agile as a cat. A moment was suspended here. With the samovila and her racing heart graciously rising again, and the shepherd standing tall a pace away, there was a stillness so deep that it felt like perhaps time had stopped. For a moment, no one and no thing made a sound. The frogs and birds ceased their songs, the squirrels stopped in between bites of nut, and the deer watched from a distance, waiting in anticipation to see what would happen next. And then the shepherd broke the silence. Speaking in an uncertain voice, he said “Beautiful Samovila, come with me back to my home, be my wife, bear me children, let us live our lives together in the village”
The samovila was silent for a moment, weighing out her options. As she stood she rose high above the shepherd and spoke “I cannot live in the village with you. I belong to the trees. To the wind. I belong in the wild places, not with a man and a village”
The shepherd expected some resistance, and pressed on “ I hold your dress in my hands. It is your life force, is it not? Something you cannot live without?”. The samovila glared, a penetrated gaze that pressed down deep inside his soul. She understood where this was leading, and could see in her heart a purpose that guided her towards something important. Although she did not yet understand what. She began to feel a dull ache in her heart knowing she would leave her home. Not wanting to give away her true emotions, she hardened her gaze, stepped forward and said “I am not your wife, I will come with you because for now I must. Yet I will remain only for 7 years. I will bear you a child. After these 7 years, you will give me my dress back and I will go back to my home”
The shepherd was startled by her sure and strong voice. Startled by the lack of argument. He was sure he would need to fight for this request. Yet he was caught in a daze, feeling entranced by the sweetness that lingered after every one of her words, yet chilled as he felt the prophetic tone from which she spoke. He saw himself joyously listening to her speak until he withered away into bones. Such emotions she stirred in him! Longing and passion, yet she unsettled him, for she had something otherworldly about her. He felt that she had gazed into his soul and saw the fear and loneliness that lingered in the spaces once filled with hope. Knowing that he could not disobey this agreement she offered, and at the same time, hoping after 7 years she would surely want to stay, he agreed.
And so it went that the samovila wound up living in the shepherd's house. The summer passed by with her exploring the meadows by her new home and getting to know a life held within the confines of a village. It was unlike anything she had experienced before. She was used to roaming the meadows freely, basking naked under the sun and picking berries with her beloved sisters. Now she was learning the ways of the loom that the women in the village taught her. Learning the art of breadmaking and milking. Her hands worked in new ways. The shepherd often worked in the fields, so she frequently left for the meadows high up on the mountain to commune with the medicines she once worked with, the animals she once spoke to and to sing the songs of her people.
One year later the samovila birthed a child, a girl with hair as black as the fresh earth in spring. As curly as the spiralling wheel of the seasons. Her skin held an ever so subtle shimmer to it as though it was made of stars. On the day of her birth, her mother and father sat together under a willow tree and wove a little crown out of her branches. They placed it over their daughter's head in the old ways and blessed her newfound place upon the earth. The child mainly grew up with her mother in the forests, learning to work with the land. She wove ointments for her father's injured hands with the plants her mother showed her. She learned to spot the animals that lived there, learned how to hunt them in the ways of her ancestors. How to offer prayer and skin the hide into warm clothing for the winter. While her father was away her mother took her to her beloved places and told her stories of her family. Of her sisters and mothers and all that she remembered from her other life. She spoke them to remember them herself as much as to share them with her daughter. As the days passed, the sparkle of light that once lived in her mother's eyes grew dimmer. Her once radiant skin became duller. After many years without her dress, her heart grew quieter, no longer could she hear the whispers that once guided her. No longer could she feel her sisters around her.
After 7 years, it was time. The samovila approached the shepherd delicately. After many years of learning his ways, she had grown to love him. He was a kind man, good to her and their daughter. He touched her softly as though she was a fragile thing that might break if pressed too hard. She loved how his laughter filled the room when she would sing songs. She loved how much he loved her. She didn’t expect to grow to love him, yet life with him had become something simple and easy. But she was growing weaker, her light dimming to an almost imperceptible flicker. She could not stay. The shepherd knew this too. So when she approached him, he knew what she came to say. On a warm midsummer day, just as the cicadas began their sun song and before her husband went off tending to his herd, she says “Husband, it has been 7 years since I first came here with you, we have created a beautiful child together, and now I long to go back to where I belong. I need to. I cannot survive it. Give me my dress back so that I may be whole again.” The shepherd's heart sank. He couldn’t have believed all those years ago that she would leave this life with him, he had loved her well and long. Yet even he could see the dullness on her once gleaming skin. The red tint on her hair fading into white. But how could he let her go, what would his life be without her. He thought fast to buy himself some more time and said “ I leave with my herd today for a long trip to the nearest town. I will sell some sheep there and buy some goods and clothing for us. I would like to send you off with some gifts. You will get your dress upon my return.”
The samovilas sat staring, a soft sigh escaped her parted lips, knowing that she did not have that much time. Her thoughts moved much slower these days, jumbled up in a cloudy haze of bewilderment. She tried to focus her mind, but before she could say anything the shepherd was on his way. As the door swiftly closed behind him her daughter came running into her arms. She had been listening from the doorway. “Where are you going mama, what has happened?” she said. The samovila quickly got her bearings in order enough to smile lovingly at her daughter, looking into her eyes as golden as the summer sun. “Come, my love, let's go for a walk”. They spent the day in the forest picking mushrooms, and the meadows smelling wildflowers. The samovila knew the shepherd was trying to delay their parting, yet she could not wait any longer. She could feel her connection to the moon still tied through the cord of her dress, yet the threads had weakened. Unbearably so.
She spent the day enjoying the presence of her daughter, smelling the sweet fragrance of her hair and the sound of her joyous laughter. When night fell upon them, her daughter went to sleep soundly and she kissed her on the forehead before silently moving into the other room. It was the kind of night that lay suspended in floating rivers right before a storm. The summer had been dry and hot, and they had longed for the precious roaring ones to arrive and water the parched land. The air was still, waiting. Droplets hung on her skin like rich honey upon a comb. The cicadas sang their radiant song and the frogs echoed in the distance. She knew where to go. She headed soundlessly to the hearth fire that burned quietly, to where they kept the instruments. They would often play music, sing and dance by the fire on nights just like this one. She grabbed her knife from her waist belt and quietly pierced it into the sheepskin bagpipes her husband would play for them. His beloved bagpipes were dear to him, having been passed down from his grandfather. Always he played with such beauty and grace. The closest thing to the otherworld she had ever heard from a human. The sounds that reached her ears always reminded her of something ever so familiar. The songs she once knew. And that night she ripped them open to find her dress woven with the threads of moonlight tucked inside the thick hide. She swiftly grabbed it and ran for the door. As she threw it open she heard a voice yell out to her. “Mama”. She caught her breath. Without thinking she scooped her daughter and the dress into her arms and ran out the door.
It was a desperate, disarrayed run. The kind that disappears in the shadows of the darkness. Tripping on roots and snagging on branches. She scratched her face and bruised her feet, yet did not stop running for the life of her. With every thread of energy she had left she catapulted into her retreat. Passing the pastures and familiar game trails, she wheeled through the village well and around the chestnut orchard until she reached the unmarked forests. She ran still until she finally recognized the wildflowers and felt that glimmer of warmth that is the mark of her homeland. She ran until she reached the familiar crystal lake. Where she and her sisters once sang sweet songs of the forest and river so long ago. She put her daughter gently down onto the mossy earth and put on her dress. Within a fraction of a moment, the life that had been draining from her eyes came back to reveal the radiance of the golden sun. Her skin which had grown dull and grey over the years got back its warm shimmer. Her hair ignited into flaming red locks. She took a deep breath in and let out the most exhilarating, joyous laughter the lands had heard in a long time. Her daughter gazed at her with wonderment. Hearing her mother's laughter ringing angelically in her ears brought warmth to her heart. She jumped up and started to dance, bare feet on the mossy stones. The kind of dance that is bouncy and joyful. Her mother was about to join her until she heard a rustle from between the trees.
She turned to look, and a deer appeared in the clearing. A stag with antlers reaching up to the heavens as the magnificent branches of an oak tree. The white of his fur shimmered like the light of her dress. In an instant, she sighed and jumped up to greet him. Her arms wrapped around his long neck and his head nuzzled into her neck as if to hug her in return. In a quiet whisper, they spoke, and the samovila’s daughter watched in awe at the encounter. In another moment her mother turned to face her, and stretched her arm out, inviting her closer. Her daughter came to face the great stag. Taller than she was, he looked at her, and in a steady movement, brought his forehead to press gently against hers. “My granddaughter” he spoke. “You have grown wise and strong with age. I have been waiting a long time to meet you, sweet one”. The daughter felt those words reach her with a tender love as tears welled up in her eyes. In her heart, she recognized the stag as her family, and felt suddenly all the stories her mother told her wash over her with living breath. After some moments of gazing at each other and laughing in joy at the bliss of reunion, they got up and soon were leading the young girl beyond the trees. Where the light changed into a shimmering, otherworldly green. She followed the great stag as her mother followed behind her. Once she turned to catch a peak of her mother and saw she had taken the form of a beautiful silver doe with a red-tipped hide. Shimmering in the ways of her father. The daughter turned around again, smiling to herself and continued to walk. In another moment they arrived in a round clearing.
A place unlike any other. The trees parted to reveal what looked like a village, yet the houses were carved into mushrooms and hollowed tree trunks. Sounds filled her ears of the most marvellous sorts. Animals and samovili were gathered all around in communion and celebration. Upon their arrival, many hands came to touch her and her mother. Many words of blessing and celebration radiated from the crowd. For they had heard. A sister has returned. In the centre was a huge table filled with foods of the forests, that the samovili themselves had prepared. That night was one the girl would remember for the rest of her days. They dined to the most scrumptious flavours the young girl had ever tasted. The songs played enchanted her. The stories told by her grandfathers and grandmothers inspired her. After the meal, there was a big fire burning where the table once was. Stacked high with logs. All the samovili and animals and mushrooms circled around it and danced as if enchanted. The light of the fire glowed upon their skin and caused it to sparkle like stars. The night lit up with their steps and sounds. Everyone in tune with everyone else. The music played on and the creatures sang, and the full moon, as if hearing the cause for celebration, hung high in the night sky. The young daughter of the samovila danced and danced with her relatives. They taught her the steps and she followed as if having been dancing her whole life.
She danced with her mother who had once again transformed into a woman, until the moon dipped below the trees and the sun was peaking above the horizon. It was time. They knew the celebrations must come to an end and the girl must go back. Her mother took her by the hand and led her to the edge of the clearing, where stood a big oak tree. The biggest tree that she had ever seen, standing as if touching the sky, roots curling up all around the open space. Her mother told her how this tree touches every part of the forests and meadows of this land. That its roots reach out even to the very meadow where their village lies. It is the cord of creation. And through it, they remain connected. Through it, they may always find each other. The samovilas eyes filled with tears as she held her daughter in her arms. Hands squeezing her little body as if scared she might dissipate if the grip loosened. Soon they began their walk back to the forest at the edge of the village, with the company of her grandfather in the form of the great stag. “You can always find me in the woods and the meadows. Wherever the wild things roam, I am there”. They hugged one last time in an embrace that lasted an eternity. She greeted her grandfather with a touch of forehead to forehead. A communion beyond what words can express.
And in another moment she turned and walked back into her familiar home. Back into her sturdy stone house and her warm bed and slept until the moon once again drew up the night sky. The shepherd returned soon after and found his home empty of his wife’s warm light, yet it sparkled anew in his young daughter. He noticed something different about her, yet he couldn’t pinpoint what. Something resembling a woman he once knew. A light that surely was always there, yet awakened to shine brighter. The shepherd never forgot his otherworldly wife and never remarried. Instead, he lived out the rest of his days holding close to his heart what they had shared, and what they brought to this world together, their beautiful daughter. Every day he spent with her he saw their resemblance grow stronger.
The young girl grew into a strong young woman, a gifted huntress and medicine weaver. The healer of her village, knowledgeable of the plants and animals alike. She often spent her days deep in the woods and roaming the open meadows. Stories were told of her being the daughter of a samovila. Her gift of healing given to her by her mother. She had a mystery to her that others found intriguing yet unsettling. Sometimes she was seen talking to the deers and plants. A strange young woman. Whose beauty glowed bright like a star in the sky. Shimmering black hair that glowed a red hue when the moon was bright in the night sky. Every once in a while she would walk into the forest and not return for a whole moon cycle. Nobody knew where she went, and no one dared to ask. The shepherd never spoke of her journeys to the others, becoming more secluded than even before, yet was always seen greeting her warmly upon her return, exchanging smiles and whispered stories. She arrived always with gifts of the land, rare mushrooms and medicine plants, finely woven twine and fabrics, and each time brought with her a new song. The village rejoiced in the gifts and celebrated by lighting a fire and dancing to the song sung by the daughter of the samovili. A song that played the cords of the otherworld. Knowing they were blessed by the spirits of the land. The young girl, now a woman, sang in the ways of her mother, hypnotic and sweet, like the fragrance of elderflowers in summer. Eyes always closed as though singing to the unseen ones. Those around that listened yet remained behind the shadows. One day she returned wearing around her neck an antler resembling the branches of an oak tree. She wore it until her last days on earth. As she grew she fell in love and birthed beautiful children who shared her melodic voice. And so it was that the blood of the samovili and humans became interwoven, forever a part of each other.
Here are some other pieces if you feel like reading more of my writing ~
Thank you for sharing this beautiful story about your ancestors and forefathers. It has brought me much light in these dark times. Great power lies in rediscovering and connecting to ones roots. Much love from a fellow Balkan girl.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful story!
Last week I attended an evening of Indigenous storytelling, of the cultures native to this region sharing their new and old stories, in both English and traditional languages. I would love to know more of the stories of my own ancestors.
Blessings!