At the edge of a sleepy village stood a brittle old blue door, set into a crumbling stone wall covered slightly by a breathtaking purple wisteria tree.

The origin of the blue door was a complete mystery to the people of this village. No one knew who had built it. There was no house behind it, only the deteriorating wall, the purple wisteria, and the blue door that had been locked for as long as anyone could remember. Everyone except young Mara had given up on trying to open the door. She had always felt a strong, unexplainable pull towards it.

One hot summer afternoon, on her way home from school, Mara noticed something she’d never noticed before scratched into the wall beside the door. Three tiny drawings stared up at her: a dragon, a crown, and a ship.

Suddenly, Mara felt a pull so powerful she instantly reached for the rusted handle.

To Mara’s surprise, the door opened. Beyond it was not another room, but an endless silver forest beneath two moons. Gorgeous blue fireflies drifted between the sparkling silver trees, and rivers flowed upward into the stars. In the distance stood a castle made of the most beautiful crystals Mara had ever seen, its towers glowing like lanterns.

A small fox wearing a red cloak stepped into view from the cover of the shadows.

“You are late,” it said.

Mara blinked in confusion.

“Late for what?” she asked the fox.

“The choosing”, the fox responded, and with a quick flick of its head, three paths materialised in front of her.

The first led toward the castle. The image of a golden crown placed upon a plush red cushion that sat almost patiently on a throne entered her mind. The image quickly disappeared almost as fast as it came.

She turned her head and looked over at the second path, which disappeared into a disturbingly dark forest, where something formidable lurked between the trees. Mara could feel the hot breath of the monster wrap around her body.

Mara swiftly averted her gaze and turned her head once more to see where the third and final path wound its way towards a glistening, shining blue sea, where the largest ship she had ever seen floated calmly against the swaying waves. Its pearlescent white sails flapped briskly against the wind. The ship was so enormous that Mara had to strain her neck backwards to get the full view of the stunning ship.

“Which one is the right path?” Mara asked the little fox.

The fox tilted its head to the side and gazed up at her in slight wonder.

“There is no right path. Only the one you are brave enough to take.”

Mara looked back at the open blue door.

Home was behind her. But her sheer curiosity soon won the battle in her head as she stepped forward towards this new world. As Mara slowly closed the door behind her, the purple wisteria began to glow. Mara marched on towards this new, enchanting realm filled with determination and didn’t once look back towards that blue door behind her, because honestly? What did she really have to lose.

~ a story by Zoe Leetch, age 14.

There was a door in Ada’s grandparents’ village that no longer belonged to any house.

The house had disappeared long before Ada was born. First the roof collapsed, then one wall, then the other, and after a few years nobody was entirely sure where the yard had ended and the road had begun.

Only the door remained.

Every spring it disappeared beneath purple blossoms.

The tree was one of those trees that seem to take flowering personally, covering itself with so many blooms that within a few days you could no longer see the trunk or the branches, only a violet explosion that appeared to have landed accidentally in the middle of the world.

The door was always closed and that, more than anything else, bothered Ada.

Not because there was anything remarkable on the other side. If she stood a few steps to the left, she could see perfectly well what was behind it: a field, some grass, a path leading toward the creek and, farther away, the first houses at the edge of the village.

And yet the door remained closed.

Every day during the summer she passed it several times. On the way to the well. On the way back from the store when her grandmother sent her to buy bread, yeast, or the small sour candies she pretended not to like. On the way to Tanti Tanta’s house carrying apples, eggs, jars, messages, and occasionally information that seemed far too complicated to trust to a child but was entrusted to her anyway.

Every time she passed the door she wondered what would happen if she opened it.

Not what was behind it, that was clear and visible, but what would happen. These seemed to Ada like two entirely different questions.

That summer she was reading Narnia, and the situation became considerably more complicated.

The fact that she could see a field behind the door no longer proved anything. Books had already established that wardrobes were unreliable, mirrors were suspicious, and ordinary-looking objects frequently concealed entire worlds. There was no reason a blue door in a village in Muntenia should behave more honestly than a wardrobe in England.

For several weeks she became convinced that the field was merely a disguise and the real world would reveal itself only after the door opened.

The difficulty was deciding which world she wanted to uncover.

She considered Narnia itself, it seemed like a promising outcome.

On the other hand, if she opened the door and found herself in the story of the Three Little Pigs, she would be deeply disappointed. The entire story irritated her. Everyone made poor decisions and the ending felt undeserved.

Some fairy tales suffered from similar problems. The handsome prince was rarely the most interesting person in the story and even Ileana Cosânzeana, despite possessing exceptionally beautiful hair, appeared to spend too much time waiting for other people to solve her problems.

Winnetou was more attractive. A Journey Around the World in Eighty Days also had potential. Narnia remained a strong candidate.

The summer passed. Then another one. Then another one. The door remained closed.

Ada continued thinking. She got more and more convinced that choosing the wrong story could have serious consequences. If the door opened into a world she did not like, she might be forced to stay there. Books were strangely vague on this subject.

She decided to wait until she was sure.

Years later she realized that she had never opened the door.

The door, meanwhile, appeared perfectly willing to wait.

Later she wrote down the explanation.

EVERY DOOR LEADS SOMEWHERE.

TECHNICALLY CORRECT.

THE DIFFICULT PART IS DECIDING WHICH STORY YOU ARE ENTERING.

My son and I traveled to Chicago together.

For a few days, we walked the same streets, looked up at the same buildings, ate at the same tables, and collected the same small stories.

Then, at the end of the trip, we went to the airport.

He flew home to Helsinki.

I flew home to Seattle.

There was nothing unusual about it. At least, not for us. Families like ours become fluent in airports. We measure distance in flight times rather than miles. We know how to calculate time differences without looking them up and how to plan visits months ahead. We learn to say, "I'll call you when I land," as naturally as "See you tomorrow."

And yet, somewhere between the airport security line and the two flights carrying us in opposite directions, I found myself thinking about the geography of families.

For a long time, the story of migration seemed to have a fairly simple map. You left one country and made a home in another. The old country remained behind, the new country grew around you, and somewhere between the two, you tried to preserve the language, traditions, and values you hoped your children would carry forward.

But what happens when the family no longer has one place it simply calls home?

Children grow up and build lives in countries their parents eventually leave. Brothers and sisters settle on different continents. Grandparents remain in Romania. Cousins speak to each other from time zones eight or ten hours apart. We gather in Cluj, Helsinki, Seattle, Edinburgh, or sometimes in a city like Chicago that belongs to none of us. Then we return home, except home is no longer the same place for everyone.

The map keeps changing.

Maps tell us where a family is.

They don’t tell us how a family is.

What deserves our attention isn’t where our families live, but what still makes them feel like family.

Part of the answer is easy to see. We share a language, memories and traditions. We make a conscious effort to keep those alive because they help us remember where we come from.

But the things that make us a family are often more subtle.

They live in the way we tease one another, in the silences that don't need filling, in what we consider rude or polite, or how long we linger at a table after the meal is over. They are there in the flavors we search for in unfamiliar cities, in stories that grow richer with every retelling, and in laughter that begins before the punchline because everyone already knows what's coming. Sometimes they might even appear in that stubborn instinct to send someone away with food, regardless of how many restaurants, grocery stores, or airports stand between here and their next meal.

Our children may carry these things into lives very different from ours. They may speak several languages, build families whose maps are even more complicated, and be shaped by every place they call home. Romania will be one of those places, even if it is no longer the only one. They may never know where one influence ends and another begins.

Perhaps they don’t need to.

Perhaps this is another place where culture lives.

Not only in the things we deliberately preserve, but in the rhythms of family, in habits that no one remembers teaching, in ways of welcoming, worrying, laughing, celebrating, and saying goodbye.

Romania is present in those rhythms, even when our homes are scattered across the world.

At the airport in Chicago, my son and I went home in different directions.

But for families scattered across countries, home is no longer where we meet. Home is who recognizes us when we arrive.

Living Edge is an interior design and home staging company based in Bellevue, founded by Romanian entrepreneur and CEO Larisa Kocsis.

There is a common saying that goes, “a house is different from a home.” A house is a structure that provides shelter, privacy, and a place to reside. On the other hand, a home is a timeless sanctuary of comfort that fills the emptiness, brings people together, and complements their way of life. At first, the house is empty- nothing but polished wooden floors and freshly painted walls with windows. With staging, the house is transformed into a home. This job doesn’t just happen on its own- it is made possible by a team of talented designers and staging professionals who foster collaboration. “Collaboration will always be key,” says founder and CEO Larisa Kocsis. Living Edge was established to help homeowners and real estate agents transform properties into welcoming, market-ready homes by combining “intentional, impactful design” with smart staging strategies to create spaces that are personalized, beautiful, and functional.

With over 20 years of hard work, Kocsis describes founding Living Edge as pursuing “an industry that was a whole new career” from what she was used to. Kocsis had initially worked in architecture, where she gained valuable experience in staging and design, yet she found the job limiting and unfulfilling for her ambitions. Thus, Kocsis established Living Edge with a clear purpose: to “let go and start an inspiration” in which she would “get back to something creative.”

What do you enjoy most about being the business owner of Living Edge? Kocsis replied with a smile, “The creativity.”

On a typical day at Living Edge, that’s what leads most decisions: it is pivotal to finalizing furniture selections and staging the interior of houses. However, when working with her team or clients, Kocsis described loyalty as the foundation of her business.

“I would call that number one,” she explained, “You get to build some very strong relationships, and that is extremely valuable.”

For Kocsis, success is measured not only by beautiful interiors but by satisfied clients and lasting relationships.

“I cannot measure my success if it is not expressed in terms of my clients”

Together with the strong team ethic at Living Edge, this philosophy drives the company to deliver high-quality staging and design consulting.

How has your Romanian background influenced your career decisions?

Kocsis proudly stated, “Being a hard worker is something I can trace to my Romanian background.”

Rather than viewing challenges as setbacks, Kocsis also approaches them as opportunities and a chance to grow- a mindset that can be traced back to her Romanian roots. Kocsis also credits much of her motivation to her upbringing, expressing profound gratitude to her mother, who instilled in her the values of perseverance, resilience, and dedication from a young age. These principles continue to guide Kocsis throughout her career development, work ethic, and leadership style. Additionally, Romanian culture is something the Living Edge founder and CEO embraces in the work environment and lifestyle;

“Being part of the Romanian community opens up relationships for resources, but it also opens up the possibility of connecting with like-minded people who provide inspiration,” she explained with a smile.

Beyond professional networking, the Romanian community has provided friendships, inspiration, and a sense of belonging that continue to strengthen Living Edge’s collaborative culture.

Kocsis lives by a simple philosophy: “Be obsessed or be average.”

After exploring interior design and the staging industry, she discovered her passion for it and turned it into her reality.

“Without working hard and working my best, this wouldn’t be possible,” stated Kocsis. “I value my clients very much, and I want things to always end up good enough to meet or exceed their expectations.”

Kocsis’ passion for interior design extends far beyond an established career, leading the dedicated founder to spend much of her time transforming houses into homes. While the founder spends most of her time and energy improving Living Edge, Kocsis additionally enjoys “dancing, running, or spending a long summer on the lake with [her] family.”

Whether spending time with her family, staying active, or tackling a unique project with her team, Kocsis approaches each aspect of her life with the same dedication and enthusiasm that have contributed to her undeniable success.

“My vision for Living Edge is to be recognized as the #1 design-led staging company in the Greater Seattle Area,” Kocsis proudly stated when asked about her aspirations for Living Edge.

To Kocsis, Living Edge isn’t just a business: it’s an opportunity to create “a smarter way to stage.” In Kocsis’ words, the next steps Living Edge seeks to implement are to prove its motto through supporting feedback, reviews, and project metrics.

The Living Edge team combines strategic thinking with strong design expertise. As Kocsis explains, "things are very fast paced," and the industry requires continuous education in design principles and changing consumer preferences.

“It never gets boring,” Kocsis said with a smile. For Living Edge, this is only the beginning. She is determined to grow her interior design business into the leading design-led staging company in the region.

Deeply woven in Romanian culture, the common saying “nu lăsa pe mâine ce poți face azi” highlights the value of hard work and emphasizes pursuing initiative in the present.

What advice would you give to your younger self and young, aspiring entrepreneurs?

Kocsis’ advice was immediate: “Become comfortable with the discomfort.”

Growing up surrounded by resilient traditions and passionate culture, Kocsis learned to “do it scared,” embracing uncertainty and learning from setbacks. She believes that “taking risks becomes something that you get to enjoy and becomes very fulfilling,” ardently expressing that “it gives you confidence and gives you the ability to do things that you haven’t imagined.”

Living Edge began as the dream of a young Romanian girl who used her imagination to guide her creativity and her curiosity to build her initiative; today, it has become a reality that shapes Kocsis’ mindset and guides her very definition of “home.”

About the Series

Romanian Entrepreneurs of the Pacific Northwest is an ARCS Journal series featuring Romanian-owned businesses in the Pacific Northwest. Through meaningful conversations with local entrepreneurs and business leaders, the series explores the unique stories behind their companies, the challenges they’ve overcome, and the experiences that have shaped their success.

About the Authors

Ariana and Catarina Pirvu are students attending Woodinville High School with a strong passion for business and their Romanian culture. The two created this series in hopes of learning from and sharing the special experiences of local Romanian entrepreneurs with the Romanian community.

The blue heron is getting ready for dinner. Partially covered by the vibrant green cattail leaves, it patiently preened its feathers, seemingly oblivious to the lens focused on it. Nearby, a group of ducks drifted slowly, rippling the calm water. Suddenly, a chorus of bird calls echoed through the marsh, prompting everyone to look up. The observers turn their heads, exchanging excited looks with every step.

These quiet, focused observers were the talented ARCS teen photographers from our community, gathered for their second photo walk of the summer.

The excursion followed a highly successful first outing at the local botanical garden. During that lovely stroll, the teens focused their lenses on the vibrant world of flora, capturing flowers of every imaginable color, texture, and shape.

Now, they traded flower petals for feathers as they set out to discover the rich fauna of Juanita Bay Park in Kirkland.

Known for its thriving wetlands and accessible boardwalks, Juanita Bay Park proved to be the perfect classroom for budding wildlife photographers. Unlike the stationary subjects of a botanical garden, the park’s residents required a whole new set of skills: patience, precision, and observation.

But look a little closer, and you’ll realize this walk was about much more than just photography.

The patience required for wildlife photography naturally created space for connection. While waiting for the perfect frame or for a hidden bird to reveal itself, the camera lenses lowered, and conversations began.

During these moments of stillness, the teens shared their personal and academic successes from the past school year. Even more exciting, they exchanged ideas for future endeavors. You can practically see the seeds of creativity being sown in the marshlands; don’t be surprised if you see some incredible collaborative group projects growing from these planted ideas in the months to come.

The patience required for wildlife photography naturally creates space for connection.

Stay tuned for the stunning wildlife gallery these creative teens captured from the bay!

We are deeply grateful to every teenager who joined us for this Photo Walk, and to the parents who encouraged them to come. We cannot wait to see where the next Photo Walk takes us!

So whenever I face a door, I wait. I let someone else go in or out, then study their features, their clothes—though I know the proverb about clothes revealing nothing—and even the spring in their walk. Most of the time, I decide to stay on my side. No risk of betrayal is a risk well taken: no risk, no betrayal; no risk, no challenge; no risk… who cares.

But this door is different. It’s guarded by a crawling ivy of violet glass shards. The blue door itself is fragile, breakable, whispering a different kind of invitation: break me. Be the villain for once. I feel stronger than whatever lies behind a glass door. The glass ivy is spreading fast; soon it will cover the whole wall. I will be the only one who knows that there was ever a door in the wall. I will walk alone down the street, pass the hidden entrance, and feel confident that I made the right choice:
I did not open the door; I did not need to! What I should do now is mark
Liliana’s glass door with graffiti and finish Magritte’s Unexpected Answer with a shard from hers.

Rene Magritte’s Unexpected Answer, 1933

The shock of turquoise attacked her eyes when she turned the same corner she took every day on the way to work. She was used to the peeling plaster, the little weeds that lined the creases between the building and the dusty ground – hell, even the brick that shamelessly exposed itself and the stubborn weed that she promised herself six months ago that she would spray next weekend became commonplace. But this… this was atrocious.

The door was always white. Well, recently it was white with streaks of brown where paint had flaked and yellow where it hung on for dear life and weathered. She would paint it white again next weekend but she loved those little nooks and crannies that formed from afar. But this… it was painted over inconsistently in a suspicious tone of blue and green.

Down the street, splashes of turquoise, blues and greens dotted bits of the old street’s fondest memories – windowpanes, benches, clay roof tiles, storm drains, planters. It’s Friday and as wandering travelers from near and far trickled into the town’s bed and breakfasts, someone who believed they were more creatively talented than others thought it would be best to “elevate the aesthetic” of the quiet town without notice. No one who lived here actually knew who that person was, but they sure as hell wanted to find out now. And this… This was vandalism.

Her cheeks warmed and reddened. The door was always open, with the orchestra of tools at work by the hands of the very first man who loved her and whom she loved back with everything.

Her mind swam in a flood of memories of endless summers playing on the floor of the little workshop with her toys strewn about, the humming of old tunes, her father’s hands working quickly on delicate things like clocks, locks, and jewelry. Sometimes he would tell her stories about families who grew old in the town, sometimes stories about those who left one day to never return. But one day, a dragon snuck into their home and into her father’s body. It injected venomous pain into his legs so he could barely make it up the tall step. Then it took his eyesight and focus. Later, it twisted its claws around his body and dragged him into bed, holding him there until he was too tired to fight any longer. Then one day, holding her hand in his, he left town too.

But not her. She would stay here and flake and weather and peel apart until there was nothing left.

“Because there is nothing left,” she said quietly.

The turquoise, blue, green, whatever it was, had started to settle behind her eyes like a slowly pulsing promise. Glints of purple caught her eye – someone manicured and shaped the weed, now elegantly stretching upward and over, framing the door and adding a touch of mystery. For the tourists, of course.

She took two cautious steps forward as it beckoned to her again. “Look,” the door said. “Someone else came and made me beautiful.”

A deep inhale that caused her sternum to pop. Then another step forward until her toe almost grazed the tall step, greeting it like an old friend.

Somewhere behind the door, she was sure she had left a few building blocks and a beloved plush giraffe to watch over the orders her father had to finish.

She placed trembling fingers on the small knobs. It was probably time to take them home.

July has arrived, and with it comes that familiar feeling that life slows down just enough for us to notice the things we usually rush past.

Some of us will travel. Some will return to Romania for a few weeks. Some will spend their days listening to the waves of an ocean or a sea, others will hike mountain trails, wander through museums, explore unfamiliar streets, enjoy evenings on a porch with family, or simply find a quiet afternoon with a good book.

Summer has a way of collecting moments we don’t expect to keep.

A handwritten menu tucked inside a book. An old church bell at noon. A tiny museum no one told you about. The smell of pine after rain. A conversation on a train. A bakery you wish existed back home.

If you find one of those moments this summer, don’t let it disappear.

Share the street you couldn't stop photographing. Tell us about the book you couldn't put down. Introduce us to the café you'll remember long after you've forgotten its name, or the place that made you pause, smile, or feel unexpectedly at home.

We can’t wait to see what this summer brings back with you.

Happy summer from all of us at ARCS!

May it be filled with good books, unexpected conversations, beautiful discoveries, and moments you’ll want to remember long after the season has passed!

Send your story to: sanda.berar@arcsproject.org. We’ll select a number of submissions to publish in the ARCS Journal throughout the fall.

June began with a bang for ARCS and our community: a book club meeting on Zoom with novelist Doina Ruști. More than thirty people joined us on a bright, sunny Saturday morning in Seattle. I mention the weather because, as many of you know, cultural institutions here plan their programs only after consulting the forecast: if it’s sunny and playful, the Symphony plays Rachmaninov—Rachmaninov, like Tchaikovsky and Beethoven, sells tickets; if it’s rainy and gloomy, they play anything else.

So the fact that it was a sunny Saturday, a day when most Seattleites head straight for the mountains, made the turnout even more remarkable. Instead of hiking, people gathered to talk about Ferenike.

The lively, intense, and friendly exchange of ideas led to something none of us expected: emails, WhatsApp messages, and Instagram notes asking when the next book club would be and whether we had a summer reading list. How could we resist such an enthusiastic crowd? We put a list together—and uploaded it.

The next challenge was answering the practical questions that followed: “How can we get the books?” “Is anyone traveling to Romania to buy them?” and “Why can’t we order them on Amazon?” The first two are easy: ARCS members who travel to Romania will bring copies back to Seattle and add them to our online library so you can borrow them.

The third question has a less satisfying answer: major Romanian publishers do not collaborate with Amazon. It has something to do with legislation, but mostly with bureaucratic headaches—ones that a few overworked clerks would rather avoid.

Almost at the same time, Bookfest opened in Bucharest, where dozens of Romanian authors presented their newest books to the public. If 455 events and 158 publishers under one roof sound impressive, just wait for the Frankfurt Book Fair 2028—where Romania will be the featured country there. Back to Bucharest: the Guest of Honor at Bookfest 2026 was Georgi Gospodinov, whose powerful novels have been translated into more than twenty-five languages.

His most recent novel, Time Shelter, first published in 2020 and translated into English two years later, received the prestigious International Booker Prize in 2023. I should add that this novel is already on my students’ reading list for next spring quarter.

After a thirteen year gap, Frankfurter Buchmesse returned to Bucharest, noting in its statement—posted on Facebook—that “international book fairs remain essential spaces for turning ideas into future collaboration, because strong international partnerships are built through continuity, shared passion, and mutual commitment.” The Buchmesse also announced that Romania is “on its path toward becoming Guest of Honour at Frankfurter Buchmesse 2028: the journey begins with listening, exchange, and relationship building, and has the greatest impact when it is understood as a multiyear collaboration rather than a single event.” Wonderful news for anyone who loves Romanian literature, whether in the original or in translation.

June also marks the moment when American publishers launch their new titles. On June 1, The New York Times listed twenty-eight books that will soon be on bookstore shelves.

Amid the noise of the big book fairs, Sanda Berar’s black-and-white illustrated volume feels like a breath of fresh air. It is not quite fiction, nor poetry, nor drama; it is a woman’s transcript of the words she never utters. Structured in five texts followed by a final “chapter” of illustrations, the book becomes an installation of magic mirrors—reflecting not the characters’ appearances but their inner selves.

The Quiet of Breaking also works as a divination device for readers: from the first page, we are invited to choose the section that matches our momentary state of mind. Sanda gently tricks us into a nonlinear, nontrivial reading experience— as Espen Aarseth calls the act of reading that is not sequential. I resisted the invitation and read it straight through, from chapter one to five. Each of the five chapters—Blindness, Rupture, Endurance, Aftermath, Stillness—records fragments, or shards to echo the title’s metaphor, from a woman’s life from infatuation to divorce, from the fears of motherhood to the painful acceptance of aging, from the comfortable routine of marriage to the instinctive sense of another’s intentions before they are spoken. Recovering the most honest words—the ones a woman never discloses, the ones meant only for herself—Sanda Berar writes about true feelings, ordinary relationships, and readings and misreadings of people, gestures, whispers, and silences.

I have not identified with a character so strongly in a long time. Here, I saw parts of myself in every woman portrayed. Most strikingly, the book made me wonder whether I, too, have begun “living inside a photo.” I hope not—but I urge you to see whether this might be true for you as well.

Add this book to your summer list!

No one planted them.

That’s the thing people forget, or maybe never knew. They simply appeared one spring, the way certain things do - without permission, without explanation. A tendril at first, cautious and thin. Then two. Then the whole cascading rush of purple reaching across the stone, unhurried and certain.

The door came later. Or perhaps the door was always there and the blossoms simply decided, in their own time, to find it.

They grew through drought and through rain, through summers that bleached the wall to pale gold and winters that should have finished them. They didn’t ask about any of that. They moved the way water moves. Not toward anything in particular, just forward, just because forward was available.

People have tried to explain them over the years. A seed carried by a bird. A root no one thought to trace. But the blossoms were never interested in being explained. They just kept going, quiet and unhurried, the way things go when no one is expecting anything of them.

They don’t belong to anyone. They don’t mourn anyone. They grow because growing is what they do, reaching toward the turquoise the way any living thing reaches toward something bright. Not out of longing. Just out of habit, or instinct, or something that has no name yet.

The wall crumbles a little more each year, old brick showing through in patches like the building is slowly remembering what it was made of. The blossoms don’t notice. They were here before the door. They will be here after.

She had tended this garden for over forty years, long enough to know roses bloom whether you’re watching or not.

She checked them for the second time that morning, straightening a stem that didn’t need straightening. The purple tree by the gate was in full bloom, as it always was when her daughter came home. The sun was still high. There was still time.

Inside, the soup was on the stove and the cherry pie was in the oven, filling the house with something that smelled like every summer at once. She stirred the pot and added another pinch of salt; her daughter’s preference, memorized decades ago. It wasn’t the first time she’d waited like this. In the college years she’d done the same, knowing the train would deliver her back by evening. The distance then had a size she could hold in her mind.

Now there was an ocean between them.

She went back to the garden. Then, a low hum above the rooftops. She looked up, shielding her eyes.

Cannot be. Not yet.

She watched the airplane until it disappeared.

The call came before the sun went down.

The pie cooled on the counter. No one cut it. Outside, the roses were still in bloom: indifferent, perfect, unbothered by what the day had taken. She had checked on them three times.

The blue door stayed closed.

The neighbors said the roses had never bloomed so fully as they did that year. She had whispered to them all spring, the way she whispered to everything she loved: gently, persistently, without asking anything in return.

The purple tree would bloom again next year. It always did. It didn’t know how to do anything else.

The blue door opened again, not for her, but because of her. Some gates never truly close. They live on in the hearts of those who once passed through them, carrying her legacy into a world she taught to bloom.

On a warm summer evening, a group of teenagers gathered at Bellevue Botanical Garden carrying cameras, phones, and plenty of curiosity. They came to take photographs, but by the end of the evening they had discovered something else as well: how much more enjoyable photography becomes when it is shared.

The ARCS Teen Photo Walk was born from a simple idea. This September, ARCS will host a community photography exhibition at Gallery 4500 in Seattle. The exhibition, centered around the theme Sun Kissed, is open to photographers of all ages, and we wanted to make sure that young artists had the opportunity not only to participate, but also to feel confident enough to exhibit their work alongside adults.

Rather than simply inviting them to submit photographs, we thought it would be far more meaningful to create opportunities to photograph together.

From the beginning, we envisioned these walks as a place where young people connect through creativity rather than background. While many participants came from the Romanian-American community, others did not, and that made the evening even richer. Some of the teenagers arrived as friends, while others were meeting for the first time. By the end of the evening, it was difficult to tell which was which.

Photography became a common language as they wandered through the gardens together, exchanging ideas, pointing out interesting subjects, and encouraging one another.

It was wonderful to see teenagers who had never met before spending the evening exploring the gardens together, exchanging ideas, and encouraging one another. Small groups formed naturally as participants wandered through the gardens looking for light, reflections, flowers, textures, and unexpected details. They compared photographs, showed each other interesting compositions, experimented with close-up shots, pointed out subjects others had missed, and exchanged ideas about perspective, framing, and the way changing light transforms a scene. There was no formal lesson and no competition, just young people learning from one another through curiosity and conversation.

Photography became the reason to explore, but it was no longer the only purpose of the evening.

Seeing how much everyone enjoyed the experience, we are already thinking beyond this first walk. We hope to continue organizing ARCS Teens Photo Walks throughout the summer and, if the enthusiasm continues, well beyond it.

Our hope is that these walks become more than photography outings. We hope they become places where young members of our community meet, inspire one another, build friendships, and gradually become active participants in the artistic and cultural life of our region.

The photographs featured here are a selection from our first evening together at Bellevue Botanical Garden. Some may eventually become part of the Sun Kissed exhibition this September. More importantly, they represent the beginning of what we hope will become a growing community of young artists creating, learning, and exploring together.

We are deeply grateful to every teenager who joined us for this first walk, and to the parents who encouraged them to come. We cannot wait to see where the next Photo Walk takes us!

Its beauty caught my eye immediately. I had been walking for a while through a historical, walled neighborhood looking for just the right color. I would often drive the few miles away, sometimes, just to walk my dog and admire the old landscapes. Jacarandas and crape myrtle dotted the sidewalks. Ferns and fuchsias brushed together below them making rhythm as we walked. My house was a fixer-upper, and I had spent everything I’d had to buy it. Resources were limited for updating anything costing even the smallest amount of money. I knew that painting my front door was an affordable way to give this new love a boost.

Despite being a bit worn, this door in the brick wall still radiated, embraced by a dripping wisteria. Deciding to take a picture, I held up my cell phone, about to point and press. The door began to open. My face began to blush.

An old man was standing there looking back at me. I continued to watch him through my phone screen. I hesitated for a few seconds before bringing it down. “Hello,” I said, “I’m Sorry; I was just trying to help to remember this beautiful color. It’s lovely. Do you happen to know the brand and name of the paint?” He continued to stare, saying nothing. My face continued its journey to turning crimson. I recognized and knew well the feeling without needing a mirror. Like a bad friend, it had always given me away.

It felt like an entire minute before he spoke. “I don’t know the name. My wife painted it.” I knew it was rude to take the shot, but I was desperate to know the name. I lived two towns over and felt it far enough away to avoid looking repeated in the neighborhood. I am a hypocrite. I detest a copycat, but it came in handy this time. I glanced at the color again. Memories flashed through my head.

I am a child at the beach in Mexico with my family. My brother is standing next to me on a cliff. We held hard to the rail, both of us looking down at the ominous waves swirling against the cliff rocks. It was magnificent! This aqua blue color, and everything accompanying it, I had never experienced before. It floated me away. The briny air and relentless cacophony of the waves was magical to this 9-year-old. My brother, soon bored, walked away. I stayed until summoned by my parents. I couldn’t stop looking below into the sea at those jewel-like tones of blue, watching it vary in richness with the changing depths, at once shifting this mystical color from the blues of midnight to the blues of daylight.

“Is she around? Maybe I can ask her about it?” I pushed.

“Well, she sure was the gussy-upper around here! My job was just to bring home the bacon!” he laughed, his eyes twinkling. “No. She isn’t here. She passed away last September. Give me a minute. I’ll go and poke around the garage a bit and see if I can find the can.” My heart sank for him. “Oh no! That’s okay.” I started, but the back of his grey head was long heading away from me. I stood awkwardly staring at the vacant threshold, feeling ashamed.

The memory with my brother was stirring in the undercurrent of my thoughts. He, too, had since passed, and with time I found my memories of him returned more and more often. I started to weep but pushed the tears back with the approaching footsteps. The old man reached out his weathered hand which held the can with the paint I’d wanted. Even the long-dried drips in a frozen fall still shone sapphire. At his suggestion, I took a shot of the text on the can.

“Thank you. I really appreciate that. It means a lot to me.” With relief, I felt the blush starting to fade. He looked through me for a few seconds with recognition.

“It means a lot to me, too. Have a good day.” He looked at me and with a knowing wink and a thoughtful smile, he closed the door.

They say everyone will eventually go through it.

Some walk, some run. Some arrive out of breath-desperately searching for something they cannot name.

It is always there.

The azure kissed door tucked beneath a cascade of lush, sun-washed blossom lilacs.

People come here for different reasons.

A personal reason.

For love.

For heartbreak.

For healing.

For a quiet hope to remember a trusted emotion and touch a fading memory.

Running barefoot through the violet lit field of grass, I reach the door entrance for what feels like the hundredth time.

The aquamarine hue of its exterior reminds me of peace, complimented beautifully by the surrounding heliotrope blossoms of first love and innocence.

Laughter. Tranquility. Reminiscence. Memory.

Why so many knock at this door remains a mystery. But it is said that when opened, the mind experiences quiet clarity and peace enveloped by emotions inexplicable by words. Nostalgia.

By now, this door feels like a second home.

Welcoming me for the hundredth time, I eagerly await the feelings of bittersweet melancholy that I know will soon precede.

Nostalgia.

This door has seen me walk, run, and sprint through its threshold, rekindling emotions that remain unseen by anyone else.

I have walked through this door for a chance to remember a time where I felt truly untouchable. Proud.

I have run through this door for a chance to bring him back to me, to cling to the version of intimacy that once made me feel chosen. Loved.

I have sprinted through this door for a chance to never forget the one thing I am most afraid of losing. Myself.

My pull to this door only expands as I grow older, experience gathers, and feelings accumulate. I find myself running desperately to its entrance for comfort whenever the cruel fear of forgetting comes too close.

The entrance never fails to steady me.

It isn’t the blue honey frame that holds my memories together.

But the very threshold itself- the very place where nostalgia gathers and reminds me of who I am.

The truth has never been quieter

The truth has never been louder

One of the challenges of sharing Romanian culture abroad is that language can become a barrier.

Many members of our community read Romanian. Their children often do not. Friends, spouses, colleagues, and neighbors may be curious about Romanian literature but have no way to access it. Translation helps bridge that gap.

As part of our effort to make Romanian culture more accessible, the ARCS Community Library is gradually expanding its collection of books available in English translation.

We are pleased to introduce two contemporary Romanian novels that offer very different journeys into Romanian history, imagination, and storytelling.

• Too Great a Sky (Capătul drumului) by Liliana Corobca, translated by Monica Cure

• The Book of Perilous Dishes (Mâța Vineri) by Doina Ruști, translated by James Brown

Too Great a Sky by Liliana Corobca, translated by Monica Cure, explores one of the lesser-known tragedies of twentieth-century Eastern Europe: the deportation of Romanians from Bukovina to Kazakhstan during the Soviet period. Through memory, loss, and resilience, Corobca gives voice to experiences that shaped generations but remain unfamiliar to many readers outside the region.

The Book of Perilous Dishes by Doina Ruști, translated by James Christian Brown, meanwhile, takes readers to Bucharest in 1798. Blending historical fiction, folklore, mystery, and culinary magic, the novel follows a young apprentice drawn into a world where recipes possess unusual powers and food becomes a gateway into a richly imagined past. Doina Ruști blends historical fiction with elements of fantasy and culinary storytelling, creating a world that feels both strange and familiar, humorous and profound.

At first glance, the books have little in common. One confronts historical trauma and displacement. The other delights in folklore, imagination, and adventure.

Yet both demonstrate the richness and diversity of contemporary Romanian literature. Both are deeply rooted in Romanian history and culture while telling stories that resonate far beyond Romania’s borders. And both remind us that literature offers one of the most powerful ways to understand lives, places, and experiences different from our own.

Whether you are already familiar with Romanian authors or are looking for a place to begin, we invite you to borrow these books from the ARCS Community Library and discover where Romanian stories can take you.

Because sometimes the best introduction to a culture is a good story.

When we launched the ARCS Journal, the very first collection we published was a small experiment.

A painting of a woman, a cat, and a moon became Not Everyone Sees the Same Cat, a collection of stories written by different people looking at the same image.

The painting stayed the same. The stories did not. Some were funny. Some were philosophical. Some were mysterious. Some were deeply personal. The cat became a companion, a witness, a suspect, a quantum paradox, and occasionally the wisest character in the room.

That experiment reminded us of something simple:

art does not have a single meaning. It becomes complete only when someone brings their own memories, questions, fears, hopes, and imagination to it.

Today we begin a new collection.

This time, the invitation starts with a door. Gate of Blossoms by Romanian artist Liliana Sâmbotin presents a weathered wall, a turquoise door, and a cascade of purple blossoms reaching across the entrance like a living archway.

But what lies beyond it? And perhaps more importantly: Why is the door there?

Your Challenge

Write a very short piece inspired by the image.

It can be flash fiction, a haiku, a prose poem, a memory, a letter, science fiction, historical fiction …. whatever you want :)

There is no correct interpretation.

The door may open.

The door may remain closed.

It may lead somewhere extraordinary.

Or nowhere at all.

A Few Questions to Consider

If you’re not sure where to begin, try one of these:

• Who planted the blossoms?

• Who last walked through the door?

• Who is afraid to open it?

• What happens if the door is opened only once every hundred years?

• What if the blossoms are protecting something?

• What if they are keeping something inside?

• What if the door appears only to certain people?

• What if the door remembers everyone who has crossed its threshold?

• What if the person standing in front of it is you?

Or ignore all of these and follow your own path.

Guidelines

• 10 - 1000 words

• Any genre welcome

• English or Romanian

See the Door in Person

While a photograph can capture an artwork, it never quite replaces standing in front of it. Gate of Blossoms is currently on display as part of Liliana Sâmbotin’s solo exhibition at Macrina Bakery in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood through the end of July.

If you are in the Seattle area, we encourage you to visit the exhibition before writing your story.

Of course, participation is open to everyone, whether you experience the artwork in person or through the image published here and or the GlassArtography site

Publication

Summer has a way of creating space for reading. Long flights, quiet evenings, weekends by the water, or simply a few moments away from the usual routine.

With recommendations from Ileana Marin, a passionate reader and champion of contemporary Romanian literature, we’ve put together a small summer reading list for anyone looking to explore today’s Romanian writers.

Whether you’re browsing a bookstore in Romania or searching for your next Romanian-language read from abroad, these books offer a wide range of voices and styles, from literary fiction and memoir to satire, autofiction, and historical novels. Some of these authors have joined ARCS events in the past, while others are names we hope to welcome in the future.

Alexandru Lamba — Șapte virtuți deșarte și o păcătoasă moarte

A novel praised for its inventive structure and memorable ending, which earned recognition for one of the strongest novel finales in recent Romanian literature. Lamba blends imagination, irony, and philosophical reflection in a story that stays with the reader long after the last page.

Ioana Drăgan — În căutarea nefericirii în continuare

The recently published continuation of În căutarea nefericirii continues the author’s sharp observations on modern life, relationships, and the human tendency to complicate things unnecessarily. Written with humor and self-irony, it offers both entertainment and food for thought.

Marius Balo — Păturica roz

One of the most remarkable debut novels of recent years. Drawing on experiences from his imprisonment in China, Balo transforms personal hardship into compelling literature. The result is a deeply human story about resilience, dignity, and survival.

Radu Paraschivescu — Recviem vesel pentru tata

Known to many readers for his wit, essays, and translations, Paraschivescu turns toward memory and family in this moving and often humorous reflection on loss, inheritance, and the stories that shape us.

Cristi Nedelcu — Cimitirul trandafirilor

Journalist, playwright, essayist, and novelist, Cristi Nedelcu brings a storyteller’s eye to contemporary Romanian realities. His latest novel combines strong characterization with a keen sense of observation and social nuance.

Doina Ruști — Nas de bulgar

Fresh from completing her book tour, Doina Ruști continues her autofictional exploration of memory, family, and identity. Readers who enjoyed Ferenike, our recent ARCS Book Club selection, may find themselves eager to continue the journey with this second volume.

Roxana Ruscior — Diavolul din Freisetzburg

A carefully researched historical novel that imagines events that could have unfolded within a Nazi concentration camp. Combining historical detail with literary imagination, it explores difficult questions about morality, power, and survival.

Ioana Nicolaie — Tot înainte

One of Romania’s most respected contemporary writers, Ioana Nicolaie often draws on personal and collective memory to illuminate larger social realities. Tot înainte offers a powerful and intimate reading experience.

And, of course...

No list of contemporary Romanian literature would be complete without authors such as Tatiana Țîbuleac, Matei Vișniec, or Mircea Cărtărescu, whose newest volume, Texistența, has recently appeared in bookstores.

These are only a few suggestions among many. Romanian literature today is vibrant, diverse, and full of voices worth discovering.

If you pick up one of these books this summer, let us know what you thought.

And when autumn arrives, come back and tell us: Which one should become the next ARCS Book Club discussion?

In traditional Romanian villages, scoarța, a handwoven geometric rug, was never meant to be walked on casually. It hung on the wall like a tapestry of collective memory, its intricate knots holding the stories, symbols, and history of the hands that spun it. Each thread carried intention. Each geometric diamond or stylized leaf carried a lineage. When a community relocates across the ocean, that physical fabric stays behind, and the quiet danger of cultural fraying begins.

We know this danger intimately. We have felt it in the silences between generations, in the slow forgetting of words, in the distance that opens when memory has no place to live. What we carried with us across the ocean did not remain whole. It shifted as it passed from one hand to another, thinning in some places, stretching in others. But within that very change, we began to recognize a different kind of continuity, one that depended on use, on touch, on being shaped again with whatever threads were available where we landed.

The community initiatives at ARCS are parts of this weaving, they are the raw thread, the weavers, and the pattern that keep our cultural memory together.

The Raw Thread

You cannot weave without material. You need color, texture, weight, and the foundational fibers that carry memory forward.

For us, the ARCS Community Library serves as that raw thread, a collection of books in Romanian, stories carried across borders, language preserved.

Give a book, get a book. The gesture is simple, but the principle mirrors the roadside wells our ancestors dug in the village, built not for the self, but to ensure that anyone passing through the village can quench their thirst, and leave the water for the next traveler.

These books are the wool we spin into new forms. They are the mother tongue passed from hand to hand, the grammar of belonging, the vocabulary of home. Without the weight of these books, the loom sits empty, and there is nothing to hold the pattern together.

The Weavers

Yet, a rug is never made by a single pair of hands. It requires a collective rhythm, weavers who bring different skills, different tempos, and different visions to the very same wooden frame. This is the purpose of the ARCS Artist Network.

It aims to bring painters, sculptors, photographers, filmmakers, and word makers to the same shared loom. Here, one medium can freely inform another, allowing unexpected patterns to emerge from the exact places where our individual threads overlap.

This is not collaboration for its own sake. It is the recognition that diaspora art, art made in translation, in dual languages, in the space between two worlds, requires more than isolated voices. It requires a chorus. It demands the friction and beauty of many hands working side by side, creating something none of us could have made alone.

We are the weavers. And the loom we share is Washington, a place far from the villages of our grandparents, but close enough to each other to keep weaving.

The Finished Pattern

A tapestry, however, is not fully complete until it is seen. It must be hung on the wall, stepped back from, and allowed to speak directly to those who stand before it.

The ARCS Journal is where that speech begins. It is the surface where our separate, scattered threads can show their true shapes side by side. By gathering the stories, art, and poetry of this cultural moment, it becomes a vibrant record of our presence here, answering our collective motto: Remember Who You Will Become.

A living culture stays fluid as it moves from one set of hands to another, and the journal captures the steady, patient rhythm of that movement. It is the place where the threads are being straightened, held at the proper tension, and prepared. In these pages, we record the unique knots we are tying today, the stable foundations we are stretching across the frame, and the language that defines us in this generation, ensuring the fabric remains unbroken for those who come next.

We weave because the alternative is unraveling.

Culture in diaspora is fragile, yes, but it is also elastic, adaptive, capable of holding new colors and new shapes without losing its essential form. The scoarța our ancestors made maybe did not cross the ocean. But the skill of weaving is within us, we have the memory of patterns, the instinct to gather, to make, to pass something forward that crosses every border.

So we weave. With books and language. With artists and intersections. With words and images that become part of the record.

And row by row, the tapestry grows.

Forward. Alive