A house is like a tree. It grows invisible roots towards distant ancestors, it grows branches reaching for the stars. It is alive, a part of the beholder’s life, a part of the revolving cycle of generations. It is a mirror for people‘s growth and flourishment, as well as for their slow descent on the ladder of life.
On the roof tops you can find sometimes houseleek, a kind of plant with red flowers and thick leaves possessing medicinal attributes. On the walls different wild creepers or grapevines grown wild embellish old deserted houses, creating unique patterns together with the old architectural ornaments.
But what I consider to be the utmost of symbiosis between man and natural world was the fate of an old 19th century house in my grandparents’ village. No one demolished yet that house. In 2009 it was still „normal” with bindweed climbing the walls, but avoiding the cross imprinted under the eaves, like in the picture below. I found interesting this kind of natural piety from the part of the wild vines. In that village even houses more recent have imprinted on their walls the symbol of the cross, on that house there was an old type of cross.
In 2011 things were different that I knew, an unusual or unexpected event has occurred in a few years. A tree was growing inside that house and its branches were pushing for outer space through the old and damaged, mellow walls. I never imagined this can happen to a house. I imagined it ruined with walls crumbling down little by little. I don’t know the name of that tree. I am not sure if those are branches or roots… Maybe my imagination played tricks on me and those are only a kind of bush ramifications, growing up there.
But now I know for sure that a house is like a ship. It carries inside the living families, and when it is deserted it continues to carry the phantom family tree. A house smiles or cry, I mean cries out, casting its living shadow on the ground where nowadays families forgot the names of those who owned the house a century ago.