Shumbrat! Every time I sit down to write about my people, the Erzya, I ask myself the same question: should I even share this at all? Erzya culture has survived centuries of erasure and violence: our language, our rituals, even the way we dress have been slowly stripped, repackaged, or forgotten. What remains is often fragmented—misrecorded, buried in obscure texts, or preserved quietly in the habits of people who never thought of themselves as “carriers” of anything.

To share something publicly is to risk watching it become diluted, flattened into aesthetics, misunderstood, and then repeated with confidence. But to say nothing at all carries a different kind of risk, one that feels quieter but just as final: that no one will know we exist, that there will be nothing left to support, nothing left for anyone to feel responsible for. I find myself constantly moving between these two edges, unsure where the line should be drawn, or whether it can be drawn at all?

My instinct has often been to gatekeep online, but not in a face-to-face conversation. I do this not out of superiority, but out of a sense of responsibility. In person, there is context—tone, presence, the ability to sense whether something is being received with care or simply out of curiosity. Online, that layer disappears, and what is shared can detach from its meaning almost instantly, moving faster than any explanation can follow.

There are things I do not share, even from my Slavic side—personal family practices, anything that could be misused, anything that requires a certain level of understanding to even approach. The rest, especially folklore tied to the land, to seasonal cycles, and to human bonds, I feel more open to sharing. Those things live through repetition, through presence, through people continuing to engage with them in a grounded way.

When it comes to my Erzya heritage, however, I’ve found myself far more apprehensive, and that hesitation comes from experience. I once shared a small fragment about the ritual veneration of the Erzya goddess Angue-Patyai, mentioning that young unmarried women would kiss each other during the ritual. What followed was not curiosity about the culture or the conditions under which such practices existed, but projection. People reshaped it into something more “sexy”, more “palatable”, something that fit an already existing fantasy. They asked for the book I got this information from, as if it contained a hidden map to a lesbian utopia they had already imagined for themselves. I can’t even fully blame them for that reaction. It was just one moment among hundreds they would scroll past that day. Such is the nature of social media.

But the book itself is not that. Like much of what survives from Erzya history, it is marked by colonization—fragmented, partial, often filtered through the perspective of those documenting it. What people saw in that small detail was not the weight of what had been lost or obscured, but something they could immediately recognize and consume. In that moment, it became clear to me that the risk of sharing is not only that something will be misunderstood, but also that it will be entirely replaced by something more convenient.

At the same time, the knowledge itself does not come easily, and it is almost impossible to convey in a single post or reference. For years, I searched quietly and persistently, often late at night after putting my child to sleep, following leads that rarely led anywhere. I spent money I did not really have on books that might contain a single relevant page, knowing that more often than not, they would not. And then, occasionally, something would open.

When I found this particular book, it did not feel like an act of acquiring information, it felt like recognition, like meeting a family member that you have never met but somehow already know. I needed time to even accept that feeling, to sit with it long enough to understand that it was real. This is not a process that can be rushed or replicated through direct access.

What makes this even more complicated is that the book I spent years trying to find now exists online, freely accessible to anyone who thinks to look for it. It can be opened in seconds, skimmed, quoted, and passed around without much friction at all.

The text itself does not offer the clarity people expect, it is fragmented, shaped by the perspective of an outsider documenting Erzya/Moksha life through an imperial lens. Without context, without patience, without a relationship to what is being read, it is easy to take a single detail and mistake it for the whole.

Much of what I understand about Erzya culture has come not only from texts, but from observation, from the small habits of my grandfather that once seemed like quirks. Bowing to the soil before collecting strawberries, listening to hazelnuts, smelling the air to find mushrooms, collecting his own nails, or his uncanny way of finding fresh springs in forests and fields. Over time, through research and reflection, those details began to take on a different shape, revealing themselves as cultural memory expressed without explanation.

The inspiration I got from that book has led me further down into the rabbit hole of my ancestry research: I learned that my great-great-grandfather, Vlas, was an Erzya spiritual practitioner. My name, Vlasta, was not consciously given in his honor, and yet the connection exists (the legend is that my dad named me Vlasta because the name “just came to him”). I found our village, Starye Turdaki, which used to be a pretty big village populated primarily by Erzya people; however, in 2016, there were only around 500 people living there. Right now, it seems that some parts of it have been abandoned, and I was lucky enough to find a video of it online.

Through further research, I came across references to sacred springs forming a near-perfect heptagram around it, which completely explains my grandfather's knack for finding fresh springs anywhere he went.

Most of the springs have small temples built around them, although some seem to be not very well maintained.

The journey of ancestral discovery is not linear. It can remain still for long periods of time, offering very little, and then suddenly something shifts, and everything begins to align. These moments feel almost disorienting in their intensity, but they are only possible because of the time spent in uncertainty, in searching without immediate reward. Without that period of persistence, nothing would appear.

This is what I think about when people ask for sources or direct access. My hesitation to share is not rooted in the belief that knowledge should be hidden, but in an understanding that what matters most is not the information itself, but the relationship one forms with it. A book cannot create that relationship on its own. It can only meet someone who has already begun the process of searching, of sitting with something long enough for it to take shape.

I do not believe that everything should be shared openly, but I also no longer believe that silence is a form of protection. Silence does not preserve a culture; it makes it easier for it to disappear without resistance. What feels more honest is to share with care, to offer enough context and grounding that what is being presented cannot be so easily replaced by projection.

There is no perfect line, and I am still learning where mine is. But I am beginning to understand that sometimes the act of sharing is not about giving everything away, but about leaving a trace that something is still here. That there is still a path, even if it is not immediately visible. And that, for those who are willing to stay with it, to move through the uncertainty rather than around it, that path can still be found.

Ways to support my work:

• Support The Sogorea Te Land Trust, an Indigenous women-led organization working to return ancestral land in the San Francisco Bay Area to Indigenous stewardship and restore cultural relationships with that land. Through practices they call rematriation, they focus not only on land return, but on healing the ongoing impacts of colonization by revitalizing cultural traditions and rebuilding reciprocal relationships between people and place.

• Join “На Пороге” (At the Threshold) is a four-week online communal rite in which I provide guided sessions that combine historical context, clear structure, and experiential practice. We will learn to work with the state of mind that allows us to access things that cannot be seen or felt. You can join a May Session or a June Session.

• Book a Reading: Medvedista Reading (not date specific), Flower Moon Reading on May 1st or Blue Moon Reading on May 31st.

• Shop my Digital Zines or Vintage Goodies and Treasures.

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Across cultures and across centuries, humans have acted pretty much the same in the face of mortal danger: when life brushes close to death, the human instinct is not to analyze — it is to call. To call their mother, or to call their God (which, if you ask me, are very close in essence).

The saying “In the trenches, no one is an atheist” is often associated with soldiers of the Second World War and was very popular in my homeland growing up. Historians usually trace it to 1942, when a U.S. military chaplain used the phrase to describe what he witnessed among soldiers preparing for battle. Faced with the immediate possibility of death, even those who rarely spoke about faith suddenly found themselves praying.

The phrase endured because it captures something deeply human. When life brushes closely against death, the ordinary structures of the world fall away. Titles, plans, and explanations suddenly feel fragile. What remains are the relationships and beliefs that live deepest inside us.

Across cultures and across time, people have turned to prayer, to saints, to God, to ancestors during these moments. Birth, illness, war, loss — these thresholds have always carried a spiritual charge.

I find this to be true within both my Slavic and Finno-Ugric ancestries. In times when wars or illnesses swept through Erzya communities, people would call upon their Прявт (“pryavt” - usually the most respected elder of the community and a spiritual leader) to organize communal prayer. These gatherings were highly ritualized and took place in sacred groves, where the community assembled together to ask for protection, healing, and guidance.

In my own life, I have often felt the presence of my ancestors, or what some might call guardian angels, in moments when danger suddenly appeared.

Once, I found myself alone at a bus stop late at night, face to face with a man holding a knife in his hand and a violent hunger in his eyes. The primal terror of that moment is hard to describe. There was nowhere to run. I was only minutes away from home, moments away from safety, yet completely exposed.

Then a white car suddenly pulled up to the bus stop. The door flew open, and a man inside shouted, “You look like you’re in trouble.” I got in the car, and he drove me home.

I don’t remember his face. I don’t remember his name. He didn’t ask for anything in return. He was simply passing by and saw someone who needed help. But sometimes I wonder what even made him look in my direction at that exact moment? What made him stop? Was it his ancestors or mine who whispered in his ear: “Look to your right”? Who pleaded: “Please, stop”?

I don’t have the answer. What I do know is that there have been many moments like this in my life, situations I escaped by the skin of my teeth, dangers I saw coming, and others I likely never noticed at all. When I look back at the long chain of events that led me here, it sometimes feels like a quiet miracle that I am still alive to tell it.

I suspect my “Род” (“Rod” - lineage, ancestors) may have always answered me, even when I didn’t yet know the number to call.

My first time consciously calling upon them during a liminal time was when I was giving birth. There’s an understanding within our culture that a woman giving birth is someone who “descends into the world of the dead” to retrieve her child. This spiritual understanding comes from a very practical danger of giving birth; not every woman can survive the process. I was very aware of that, and in preparation, I made a red thread from nettle fibers and tied it around my wrist. Nettle has long been considered a plant of protection in Slavic folklore — something that guards the boundary between danger and safety.

As I waited for labor to begin, I thought about the women who had given birth before me, generation after generation. I thought about the long chain of ancestors whose lives had led to mine. Like trees in a forest, families grow upward through time while remaining connected below the surface, their roots intertwined in the same soil.

And then there was a moment when the pain became unbearable, and I truly felt that I couldn’t go on any longer and was close to death. In that moment, there was nothing left to analyze, no philosophy to lean on. All that remained was an instinct. I held onto my Nettle Thread and called upon all the women who came before me, asking them to share the burden of the pain with me. Suddenly, the pain was gone, and my daughter was born within minutes.

In Slavic folk culture, the dead were never considered entirely gone. The ancestors remained part of the household. Their names were spoken. Their graves were visited. During memorial days, families brought food, sat near the graves, and shared a meal in their presence. The boundary between the living and the dead was understood less as a wall and more as a threshold.

Even during the Soviet period, when religion was officially suppressed, many of these practices quietly endured. Churches could be closed, priests could be persecuted, and theology could be pushed out of public life. But the memory of one’s grandparents, the tending of graves, the stories told about those who came before — these were things the state could not easily erase.

In some places, belief continued quite literally underground. Groups of elderly women, grandmothers who refused to abandon the prayers of their youth, gathered secretly in basements and cellars to read the Psalms together. Out of sight, they continued a spiritual life that official ideology insisted no longer existed.

Historians sometimes call this vernacular spirituality: forms of belief that live in households rather than institutions. They are carried not through doctrine but through relationships.

I think our belief in supernatural forces is not only one of our primal links to nature, but also a way to process the fragility and preciousness of human life.

Today, as wars spread across continents and unrest shakes societies once thought stable, we are once again reminded not only of the fragility of a human life but also of the whole world order. Moments like these have appeared throughout history, and they often awaken a deep spiritual hunger. Soldiers in the trenches, women in childbirth, communities gathering in sacred groves — all of them stand in places where life brushes closely against death. In those moments, people remember something ancient: that we are not isolated individuals moving through time alone, but part of a long human chain stretching behind us and ahead of us.

If these turbulent times lead us back to that understanding, then even in the midst of war and uncertainty, there remains the possibility that something deeply human may grow again.

And perhaps one day, when those who come after us stand at their own thresholds between life and death, they too will remember the voices behind them — and call upon us.

Supporting the work:

Researching and writing about ancestral traditions takes time and care. You can help sustain this work and allow me to continue sharing essays on folklore, ritual, and the quiet wisdom passed between generations.

You can support me by:

– Finding ways to exchange labor and skills within your community, instead of money;
– Share this piece with someone who needs a little reassurance in these liminal, uncertain times:
– Support my classes, zines, and offerings;
– Become a subscriber in whichever capacity is available to you.

Низкий Вам Поклон,

Власта

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I like to start with a metaphor that I think explains things very clearly. Imagine a lush green landscape, with a forest in the distance. You hear the gentle purring of a river, the buzzing of bees, the serenading birds, and the occasional owl breaking the joyful, carefully orchestrated cacophony.

Straight ahead, you see a house. The doors are open, and you walk in, slightly on edge, wondering why this seems so simple. There’s a table full of food and people sitting around it. They call you in, but first, you must take off your shoes. There are rules of respect that all the guests abide by. Will you accept this first initiation? Say you do, the house feels so joyful and so warm, the food smells so inviting, that you can’t pass up the opportunity.

You walk in, and while the house feels open, there are rooms you are told you cannot enter. Some are closed for now. Some may remain closed to you indefinitely.

So to answer our initial question: yes, it’s open. And yes, it’s closed.

Can’t we have things be simple for once? But alas.

To make matters more complex, “Slavic” is not a monolith — it is the furthest thing from it. Even within Russia alone, Slavic groups vary greatly across regions, despite centuries of colonial pressure attempting to flatten those differences. Over centuries, there were countless tensions between Indigenous groups and state power. Ethnic conflict was often far more layered than the simplified narratives we’ve inherited.

This diversity and decentralization leave tremendous room for error — and for overly bold, modern reinterpretations that ignore nuance.

I also often see confusion when people try to identify Rodnovery, Starovery, and Folk Magic Practitioners. These are distinct currents, though they overlap and influence one another (not one group exists in a vacuum). To lay out this structure in the most accessible way, I will give you short descriptions of each that hopefully will make sense:

Old Believers (Starovery, Staroobryadtsy)

Old Believers are a Christian group that separated from the Russian Orthodox Church in the 17th century. Many were persecuted and later marginalized under Soviet rule. Because of their closed, insular communities, they preserved language, ritual forms, and pre-reform traditions with remarkable continuity. In many ways, they function as a cultural time capsule.

Rodnovery

Rodnovery refers to modern Pagan and Neo-Pagan movements seeking to revive pre-Christian Slavic spirituality. The movement is decentralized, some branches lean heavily into nationalism and historical revisionism, while others focus sincerely on land-based ritual, ecological restoration, and reconstructionist practice.

Folk Magic Practitioner (Povetuha, Vedunya, Koldunya, Ved’ma, etc)

Folk Magic (or folk traditions) is what most people historically practiced. It is the structure that holds daily life together. For many Eastern Europeans, folk practice is an amalgamation of Christian and pre-Christian elements, interwoven with family customs, local ecology, and neighboring cultural influences. It is lived, practical, and often quietly transmitted.

Coming back to the original point of this article, let’s define:

What is considered open:

• Seasonal celebrations;

• Folk practices tied to the lands, home, bread, and herbs;

• Reconstructionist practices based on historical sources;

What is considered protected and closed:

• Specific regional rites that are held by living communities;

• Family-transmitted magic, healing recipes, zagovors, etc.;

• Practices preserved during Christianization or Soviet Repression;

• Anything that was never meant to be extracted, aesthecized or monetized.

Legitimacy within a Slavic Eastern European tradition does not come from self-declaration. It comes from:

• Who taught you;

• Who trusts you;

• How you behave;

• Whether you are accountable to place and people.

You can not:

• Treat Slavic beliefs as interchangeable “aesthetic witchcraft”;

• Ignore living cultures in favor of “vibes”;

• Claim authority or priesthood without community recognition;

• Erase regional specificity.

So is Slavic tradition closed? The better question might be: closed to what, and open to whom? Traditions are not commodities. They are living ecosystems — relational, place-bound, accountable. You may be welcomed to the table, but welcome is not ownership. Entry is not extraction. If you are willing to take off your shoes, to listen more than you speak, to credit your teachers, to respect what is not yours to touch — then you will find that many doors open naturally. And the ones that remain closed are not barriers, but boundaries that keep the house alive.

If you’ve found yourself welcomed into this house, and you wish to help keep the fire going, here are a few ways you can support my work:

– Make a meal and share it with friends;
– Share this piece with someone who approaches tradition with care;
– Support my classes, zines, and offerings;
– Become a subscriber in whichever capacity is available to you.

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I haven’t written anything here since the end of August last year, and it would be a beautiful fairytale to say that I went to the Mountains of Altai, communed with trees and shamans, and rediscovered the meaning of the world. I haven’t. I would love to say I took a break, rested, and returned rejuvenated. I didn’t.

I went quiet in August, not out of emptiness, but out of necessity. The work I was doing didn’t translate into posts or paragraphs—it lived in repetition, in care, in attention that couldn’t be rushed or witnessed. Silence, in that season, wasn’t absence. It was a taxing manual and emotional labor.

Instead of writing, I was doing endless loads of laundry. Washing floors and dishes until my back hurt. Cooking breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Wiping tears. Crawling on the floor to look for toys under the couch. Much of that work was ordinary and therefore invisible—care that repeats itself, days structured around someone else’s nervous system, a household that needed tending more than reflection. It reminded me how many forms of labor never become stories, how much wisdom lives outside of language. In my lineage, this kind of work was rarely named as work at all, yet everything depended on it.

What I eventually realized is that my attempt to consistently create (while maintaining a household without childcare) had quietly become another form of self-abandonment. A familiar one. Being “the good girl.” Posting regularly so people wouldn’t unlove me or leave. Overdoing and overdelivering so no one would be disappointed. A neat survival trick I learned as a parentified child.

I first tried to write this exact article back in September. The working title was “The War Is Over — I Lost.” That was the moment I finally admitted to myself that motherhood had taken a serious toll on my health, and that there was no magic system, no secret routine, no clever optimization that would allow me to do everything and still perform competence for the world.

So instead of keeping up appearances, I poured what little energy I had into the unglamorous work: securing consistent childcare and facing financial debt head-on. With all the complications of public schooling, it took nearly three months to get my daughter placed—and that was only the beginning. There’s the adaptation period: hysterical crying, emotional whiplash, and the inevitable viruses that move through the entire family like a ritual initiation no one asked for.

Now, finally finding myself on “the other side,” I can say that the seeds I planted last year—even while overstretched, overtired, and barely resourced—are preparing to sprout this spring.

When I sat down to write this article again, I realized I didn’t want to keep the original title, because I don’t believe I lost anything. Maybe I lost a battle. But I didn’t lose the war.

What changed is that I began to look at my life with clear eyes. And what did it consist of? Invisible labor. When people see an idyllic image of an attuned mother staying at home with her child, what they don’t see is numbers: from birth to age three, a child will take more than two thousand naps, eat nearly eight thousand meals and breastfeeding sessions combined, and require around six thousand diaper changes. I was there, performing each of those tasks myself. Sixteen thousand times I chose care—when my body was tired, when my mind was elsewhere, when the world demanded more than I had to give.

And of course that number doesn’t include the tears I wiped, the nights I woke to console her, the games we played, the clothes I washed, the emotional regulation I provided when mine was already depleted. For years, I placed my body and my labor in service of my daughter’s growth and expansion. And now she has grown enough for me to truly reclaim my own interior life—to have space in my mind for myself.

With all of this, a familiar theme emerged, the one I know well through folklore: disappearance and trial are often required before initiation.

Within my lineage, women’s initiations were, for the most part, different from men’s. Where men often left the village to undergo a visible trial, women remained within the bounds of daily life, where initiation merged with routine and became inseparable from it. Even when a woman was “traveling to the underworld” (for example, through birthing rituals), she was still factually staying within her household.

That is what was happening to me. Only there was no visible village. I was crossing the threshold of matrescence, held by a connection to my ancestors that I have nourished over many years. As I write this, I can feel the weight of their hands on my shoulders. I felt it, too, in the moments of giving birth to my daughter. The women of my lineage, mothers of my lineage, have held me through this year, and I feel an incredible sense of pride and power in the spiritual practice I have shaped for myself—quiet, embodied, and sustained through repetition rather than spectacle.

This past year was my initiation into self. Baba. Bolshukha. Khozyaika. But not the self defined by labor of motherhood, or partnership, or daughterhood, or performance, but an integration of all of it together, and the self that permeates and guides those roles.

2025 marked something significant: I finally released emotional responsibility for my mother. Something I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying for thirty-six years. As an extension of that, letting go of managing my partner’s emotions came as a bonus feature. In 2025, I also completed my long and intentional journey of breastfeeding. It was such a defining part of motherhood that it feels like it deserves its own piece.

So while there was little to show outwardly, everything shifted internally.

I see myself now like a tree with deep roots permeating the soil. You can’t see the roots from the surface—but you can see that the tree is not bending, not collapsing, not riddled with parasites. It stands.

I am still a seeker of esoteric knowledge, rooted in Erzya and Russian folklore and the occult. The internal work has been done. Now it asks to be lived. What comes next will be more direct—more conversation, more exchange, and more moments of gathering in the physical world.

I’ve been sitting with the idea of Sunday Service in The Trees for some time now—a space to bring community together face-to-face, to share Erzya tree wisdom, to hold space for embodied connection, joy, and ease. For free. Rain or Shine.

Alongside our long list of traumas, Russians have also inherited dark humor, sharp irony, and the ability to laugh in the face of misfortune. How else do you survive having war after war after famine after a once-in-a-century complete government collapse (aside from listening to Kino)?

Our sayings are not just words — they are survival strategies, polished over centuries of wars, famines, poverty, and absurd bureaucracy. They teach you how to endure, how to mock fate, and sometimes, how to laugh at yourself when there’s nothing left to do.

What follows is a collection of Russian sayings and euphemisms — some old, some modern — grouped by theme. By no means is this an extensive list, which would be impossible to achieve in a blog format. However, each one offers a glimpse into the Russian worldview: where tragedy is never too far from comedy, and where resilience comes wrapped in sarcasm.

Fatalism

«Авось да небось до добра не доведут»
"Maybe and maybe not won’t lead to any good."
Warns against relying too much on chance — yet we often live by авось.

«Судьбы не минуешь»
"You can’t escape fate."
An ancient belief in inevitability.

«Бог дал, Бог и взял»
"God gave, God took away."
Life’s gains and losses are beyond human control.

«Не родись красивой, а родись счастливой»
"Don’t be born beautiful, be born lucky."
Fortune matters more than appearance.

«Чему быть — того не миновать»
"What is to be, cannot be avoided."
An acceptance that destiny will always find you.

«Где родился, там и пригодился»
"Where you were born, there you are needed."
Your place in life is predetermined; you belong where fate put you.

«Хотели как лучше, получилось как всегда»
"We wanted the best, but it turned out as always."
A resigned comment on how good intentions often lead to disappointing or predictable results.

«Не было бы счастья, да несчастье помогло»
"There would be no happiness if misfortune hadn’t helped."
Sometimes bad luck brings unexpected good outcomes.

«Думал дно, но постучали»
"I thought it was rock bottom, but someone knocked from below."
Things can always get worse, even when you think you’ve reached the lowest point.

«Никогда такого не было и вот опять»
"This has never happened before, and here we go again."
Used ironically to highlight a recurring problem or absurd situation.

«Сгорел сарай – гори и хата»
"The barn has burned, let the house burn too."
When disaster has already struck, you might as well surrender completely — fatalism with dark humor.

«Нищему пожар не страшен»
"A beggar fears no fire."
If you have nothing to lose, disaster cannot harm you.

«Живы будем – не помрём»
"As long as we’re alive, we won’t die."
A tautological but optimistic saying: life goes on.

«Где наша не пропадала? Везде пропадала, нигде не пропала.»
"Where have we not disappeared? We’ve disappeared everywhere, but never vanished completely."
A paradoxical, humorous way of expressing resilience despite repeated failures.

«Здоровья погибшим»
"Wishing health to the dead."
A sarcastic toast or remark — wishing something meaningless or too late.

Pragmatism

«Дело время, потехе час»
"Business has its time, fun has its hour."
Work first, play later.

«Семь бед — один ответ»
"Seven troubles, one solution."
A pragmatic “we’ll deal with it all at once” approach.

«Бережёного Бог бережёт»
"God protects the cautious."
Better safe than sorry.

«Спасибо что взяли деньгами»
"Thanks for taking money."
A sarcastic relief when the loss was only financial, not worse.

«Дают – бери, дерут – беги»
"If they give, take; if they beat, run."
Take advantage of opportunities, but know when to escape.

«Если проблему можно решить с помощью денег, то это не проблема — это расходы.»
"If a problem can be solved with money, it’s not a problem — it’s an expense."
A pragmatic view that money is replaceable, unlike real problems.

«Жили мы бедно, а потом нас обокрали»
"We lived poorly, and then we got robbed."
An ironic way to describe how sometimes you think you don’t have much, yet to some, you have enough to steal.

«Не жили богато – нечего и начинать»
"We never lived richly, so no reason to start now."
Resigned acceptance of poverty or modest living.

Work Ethic

«Дело мастера боится»
"Work is afraid of the master."
Skill makes work easier.

«Семь раз отмерь — один раз отрежь»
"Measure seven times, cut once."
Care and patience are key to success.

«Кто рано встаёт, тому Бог подаёт»
"God gives to the one who rises early."
Diligence and discipline bring reward.

«Любишь кататься — люби и саночки возить»
"If you love sledding, love carrying the sled too."
Pleasure comes with effort and responsibility.

«Где труд, там и счастье»
"Where there is labor, there is happiness."
True joy comes from honest work.

«Терпение и труд всё перетрут»
"Patience and labor will grind through anything."
Perseverance overcomes obstacles.

«Лучше живот от пива, чем горб от работы»
"Better a belly from beer than a hunchback from work."
A celebration of leisure over hard labor.

«От работы дохнут кони, ну а я бессмертный пони»
"Horses die from work, but I’m an immortal pony."
Work is deadly, but I’ll outlast it with humor.

«Наши топоры лежат до поры»
"Our axes lie in wait until the right time."
A saying about patience and readiness — no need to rush into action.

«Глаза боятся, руки делают»
"The eyes are afraid, but the hands are doing."
Even if something looks intimidating, once you begin, the work gets done.

«Плохому танцору яйца мешают»
"A bad dancer blames his balls."
Excuses for failure often sound ridiculous — the problem is usually with the person, not the obstacle.

Irony

«Смешно, да не до смеху»
"Funny, but not a laughing matter."
Absurdity with a bitter edge.

«Ум хорошо, а два лучше»
"One mind is good, but two are better."
Wisdom increases when shared — though often said ironically when too many cooks spoil the broth.

«Век живи — век учись, а дураком помрёшь»
"Live a century, learn a century, and still die a fool."
A sharp reminder of human limits.

«В семье не без урода»
"No family is without its freak."
Every group has its odd one.

«С волками жить — по-волчьи выть»
"If you live with wolves, you must howl like a wolf."
Adapt to your environment — sometimes cynically.

«У соседа курица — всегда утка»
"The neighbor’s chicken is always a duck."
Irony about envy and exaggeration.

«Мозги не видны, но их отсутствие заметно»
"Brains aren’t visible, but their absence is obvious."
A sharp remark about foolishness.

«Была бы голова – а тараканы найдутся»
"If you have a head, the cockroaches will find it."
Everyone has their quirks or mental chaos.

«Дурака учить – мёртвого лечить»
"Teaching a fool is like treating the dead."
Some efforts are useless no matter how hard you try.

«Дуракам закон не писан, дураками он написан»
"Laws aren’t written for fools — they’re written by fools."
A cynical commentary on authority and bureaucracy.

«Картина маслом»
"An oil painting."
Used ironically to describe a complete, absurd, or ridiculous situation, like a vivid picture, or to describe something so very beautiful that it looks like an oil painting.

«Картина Репина: “Приплыли” – всю ночь гребли, а лодку отвязать забыли»
"Repin’s painting: ‘We’ve arrived.’ Rowed all night, but forgot to untie the boat."
A metaphor for wasted effort or tragicomic failure.

«Мне твои приветы как мертвому минеты»
"Your greetings are as useful to me as oral sex to a corpse."
A very crude way of saying someone’s attention is meaningless.

«Извините что без драки»
"Sorry there’s no fight."
A tongue-in-cheek remark when things are too calm, lacking the expected drama.

«Так, сказал бедняк»
"So it is, said the poor man."
A laconic phrase expressing humble acceptance of hardship or used when someone who doesn’t have a place to ask for things starts trying to tell people what to do.

«Да нет, наверное»
"Yes-no-maybe."
A very Russian way of answering without answering — indecisive, contradictory, but somehow clear.

Escapism

«Что у трезвого на уме, то у пьяного на языке»
"What’s on a sober man’s mind is on a drunkard’s tongue."
Drink reveals truth.

«Пьяному море по колено»
"For a drunk, the sea is knee-deep."
Alcohol gives false bravery.

«Гулять, так гулять!»
"If you’re going to party, then really party!"
Encouragement to go all in.

«Была не была — наливай!»
"Come what may — pour it!"
Surrender to fate with a drink.

«Пьяному и горе не в горе»
"To the drunk, grief is no grief."
Alcohol dulls sorrow.

«На пьяного и счастье садится»
"Even happiness lands on a drunkard."
Sometimes fortune favors the foolishly carefree.

«Раз пошла такая пьянка – режь последний огурец»
"Since the drinking has started, cut the last cucumber."
If you’re already indulging, go all the way.

«Утром выпил – весь день свободен»
"Drink in the morning, and the whole day is free."
Drinking early eliminates the burden of responsibility — cynically humorous.

Friendship & Community

«Не имей сто рублей, а имей сто друзей»
"Don’t have a hundred rubles, but have a hundred friends."
Money can be lost, but friends are a more reliable currency.

«Старый друг лучше новых двух»
"An old friend is better than two new ones."
Value the people who have stood by you — loyalty outweighs novelty.

«Друг познаётся в беде»
"A friend is known in trouble."
True friendship reveals itself during hardship.

«Один в поле не воин»
"One man in the field is not a warrior."
You can’t fight life’s battles alone — strength comes from community.

«С кем поведёшься, от того и наберёшься»
"With whom you go, from them you will learn."
The company you keep shapes your character.

«Где любовь да совет, там и горя нет»
"Where there is love and counsel, there is no sorrow."
Harmony in relationships and friendships protects against hardship.

«Вместе тесно, а врозь скучно»
"Together it’s cramped, apart it’s boring."
Community isn’t always easy, but it’s better than loneliness.

«Поделённая радость — двойная радость, поделённое горе — полгоря»
"Shared joy is double joy, shared sorrow is half a sorrow."
Friendship magnifies happiness and softens grief.

Optimism

«Мечтать не вредно, вредно не мечтать»
"Dreaming isn’t harmful, not dreaming is."
Encourages hope and imagination.

«Век живи — век учись»
"Live a century, learn a century."
Lifelong growth is valued.

«Не всё коту масленица, будет и Великий пост»
"Not every day is Pancake Week, Lent will come too."
Joy alternates with hardship — balance is inevitable.

«Где любовь да совет, там и горя нет»
"Where there is love and counsel, there is no sorrow."
Optimism through unity.

«Терпение — мать учения»
"Patience is the mother of learning."
Growth and knowledge come with endurance.

«Будет день — будет пища»
"If there is a day, there will be food."
Trust in life’s basic provisions.

«Житьё — бытьё, а хлеб насущный превыше всего»
"Living is living, but daily bread is above all."
Gratitude for simple survival.

«Лучшее лечение – это профилактика»
"The best cure is prevention."
Classic practical wisdom: avoid trouble before it starts.

«Были б кости – мясо нарастёт»
"If there are bones, the meat will grow."
Where there’s a foundation, the rest will come in time.

«У всех по горю, да не поровну. У кого жемчуг мелкий, у кого суп жидкий.»
"Everyone has grief, but not equally: for some, the pearls are too small, for others, the soup is too thin."
A way of saying everyone suffers, but in different measures.

«На безрыбье и рак рыба»
"When there are no fish, even a crayfish is a fish."
In the absence of better options, you settle for what’s available.

«Лучшее – враг хорошего»
"The best is the enemy of the good."
Perfectionism often ruins what is already good enough.

«Всё было в общем-то неплохо, пока не стали улучшать»
"Everything was fine until we started improving it."
A cousin to the previous saying — change can make things worse.

When you read these sayings, you may notice a pattern: almost all of them balance on the edge of despair and laughter. They acknowledge hardship, but also mock it; they accept fate, but never without irony. In a way, they are small rituals of survival — phrases passed from mouth to mouth to remind us that no matter how bleak things look, humor and resilience are still within reach.

Whether you use them as proverbs, punchlines, or simply a reminder that someone, somewhere has already found the words for your situation, these sayings are proof that language itself can be a form of endurance.

Ways to Support

1. Subscribe & Share — As another proverb goes, «Не имей сто рублей, а имей сто друзей». Your subscription (free or paid) and sharing this article are worth more than rubles.

2. Buy a Zine — If «Лучшее – враг хорошего», then my zines are “good” in the best sense. They’re filled with folklore, ritual, and drawings, and every purchase keeps this work alive.

3. Book a Reading — They say «Глаза боятся, руки делают» — “The eyes are afraid, but the hands are doing.” If your eyes are afraid of the future, let’s pull some cards together and see what your hands should do.

🌻 Support Ukraine

As a Russian who has taken the stance against the war in Ukraine, I encourage everyone who is of Russian lineage to consider donating to Razom for Ukraine. They provide critical humanitarian and medical aid, helping Ukraine endure and resist.

If we want to carry ourselves forth into the future with any semblance of dignity, we must look not only at the good things we learn from our culture, but also at the bad.

If Russian sayings teach us anything, it’s this: resilience isn’t about blind optimism — it’s about laughing in the dark and still finding the strength to keep walking.

I’m writing to you while trying to figure out how to pay down credit card debt, how to rest while parenting full-time, and how to create when everything feels urgent. In other words, I’m writing to you from yet another grave that I dug myself—curiosity got the better of me, and my desire to get to the root of the problem became the actual problem. I swear, I only started digging with the scientific curiosity of soul exploration… but, as it often goes, I’ve ended up falling in.

Since my birthday trip to Oregon, I’ve come to see just how much of my life is ruled by fear and duty. Duty to my daughter, my husband, my mother. Duty to the idea of what it means to be a good, caring person. And then there’s the fear of what might happen if I stopped trying to hold it all together.

I thought I had healed after realizing how deeply my mother normalized self-sacrifice and how angry she gets when I refuse to lose myself in responsibilities the way she did. But healing isn’t linear. It’s more like a vortex you try to climb out of, and if you get distracted, you find yourself being sucked back in.

I’ve come to realize how many times I’ve sacrificed my health, safety, and financial stability simply because my sense of duty or morality demanded it. How many times I’ve donated profits I couldn’t afford to give, because the cause felt more urgent than my own survival.

The truth is, I do deeply admire the capacity to give of yourself to ease someone else’s suffering. But perhaps I haven’t yet learned how to live with the consequences of that kind of giving.

Creating art, making videos to raise awareness, donating to support the fight for freedom in Ukraine and Palestine—these all felt imperative. I had to do something. Even if it meant losing work opportunities, even if it meant not being able to pay bills. And yet, the wars rage on. Children are still starving. And now I find myself in a place where I can’t even meet the needs of those who rely on me, myself included. In the end, it seems only the enemy gains from this trajectory.

Let me be clear: this isn’t nihilism. It’s not even regret. This is simply an acknowledgment: this is the ditch I dug with my own hands. I can’t complain now that it lacks accommodations.

I’ve been here before. Not in this exact ditch, but something like it. Each time I claw my way out, I take something with me—a tool, a lesson, a scar, a deeper understanding.

The question is - HOW does one climb out?

How does anyone get out of an emotionally dark place or a financial crisis? I’m not sure there’s a universally accepted path, but I can share mine. If it’s not obvious by now, I’m a connoisseur of sorts, and I like to call it character development.

I believe that while my ancestral lineage may have handed me a heavy set of moral obligations—chief among them, self-sacrifice (we still need to have a serious talk about that)—but it also gave me the tools to endure, to recalibrate, to survive.

Resilience and Humour

The phrase I’ve heard most often in my life is, “We’ve been through worse.” It might not sound like much of an affirmation to those outside my lineage, but to me, it offers hope. It reminds me that I’ve inherited enough resilience to get through just about anything. Our people tend to thrive under pressure and to decompose in the absence of any adversity—maybe that’s why we’re so good at creating our own problems. But that’s a conversation for another day.

Resilience’s steady partner is humor. I don’t think this absolute weapon always gets the credit it deserves (especially when it comes to building community). If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry has become my life motto. Humor doesn’t just keep you afloat; it keeps you connected.

At the end of the day, if you can laugh at your fears, are they really that scary?

Here are some of my favorite sayings that could help you lighten the mood:

“Хотели как лучше, получилось как всегда.”
“We wanted the best, but it turned out like always.”
Famously said by Viktor Chernomyrdin, former Russian Prime Minister, during a press conference in 1993. Now, it's a national proverb for good intentions gone wrong.

“Не было бы счастья, да несчастье помогло.”
“There wouldn’t be happiness if misfortune hadn’t helped.”
Optimism with a sigh. The Russian equivalent of a plot twist, healing your life.

“Авось пронесёт.”
“Maybe it’ll blow over.”
A sacred phrase of chaotic survival. No plan. No safety net. Just vibes.

“Думал, дно. Постучали.”
“I thought I hit rock bottom. Then someone knocked from below.”
Possibly the most poetic way to say it could get worse.

“Не откладывай на завтра то, что можно вообще не делать.”
“Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can just not do at all.”
Wisdom meets existential burnout. The only true freedom under late-stage capitalism or a dictatorship.

I may need a separate article on these sayings, because I have so many more. Let me know in the comments if you’re interested.

Spiritual and Physical practice

My spiritual routine (rituals and hygiene) is the structure I lean on when I feel lost, unsure of where to start or where to turn. Even when I’m not actively practicing, it’s still there: steady, waiting, available.

Over the past month, the message I kept receiving was simple: “Take care of your home.” At first, I took it literally—I cleaned, organized, and made my space more comfortable. But the repetition of the message made me pause. I began to suspect I was missing something.

Then it clicked: by “home,” they meant my body—the one true home any of us has. They were right, I have neglected the home of my body for way too long.

My first morning run brought an omen, proof that I had finally heard my ancestors right. Just as I turned the corner of my building, I saw her …lying still beneath a bush of pink flowers.

In Slavic tradition, butterflies (similarly to birds) are messengers. They are seen as carriers of ancestral messages, or even as temporary incarnations of our dead.

Her death wasn’t random. It was the mark of a message delivered.

Now, the message during my last session was different: “Change routines to change perspectives.”

As I look for a way out of the darkness, the solution is elegant and simple: shift the inside, and the outside will follow.

My ancestors called me to overhaul my routines so I can create the life I want and deserve. They knew that first I had to start with my health, because “Здоровье дороже золота”- health is worth more than gold, or like my Erzya grandpa would say, “В здоровом теле – здоровый дух” - A healthy body holds a healthy spirit.

Decentering shame

This one definitely pushes against some deeply ingrained cultural habits—and I’m still working on it myself—but learning to decenter shame and guilt for things outside of my control has been crucial. I know that there’s no shame in admitting you’re struggling or asking for help. But like… do I KNOW know it? Do I know it in my body, or do I know it as a concept I keep repeating?

Shame often functions like an inherited control system—quiet, internalized, and generational. It teaches us to police ourselves long after the external pressures are gone. It whispers: don’t be a burden, don’t ask for too much, don’t fail. But all it really does is isolate us when we most need connection.

It’s also rare to find people who can truly hold space for you without rushing to fix things. Most of the time, we’re not looking to be “saved”—we just need someone to listen, to witness, to simply be there with us.

I would never hold your struggle against you, but do I do it to myself?

Hope is confidence. Confidence is hope.

Maybe it’s the post-Soviet upbringing that is marked by struggle from the moment I came out of the womb, but by now, at 36, I’ve lived through so many things that once felt unbearable. And yet, here I am: whole, strong, and unyielding.

I used to think hope was fragile—something soft and sentimental. But I’ve come to understand it differently. Hope isn’t passive. It’s not about waiting for things to get better. It’s the quiet confidence that you can get through it, even if you don’t yet know how. It's choosing to keep going—not because the road is easy, but because you trust yourself enough to walk it anyway.

Hope is also, despite everything, believing in the goodness of people. It’s me growing up with a constant feeling of hunger, but neighborhood kids teaching me to eat wood sorrels and showing me their secret spots of raspberry bushes. It’s me running from a drunk guy on my way home from a party, but someone stepping in to make sure I’m safe and walks me home.

So if you find yourself deep in a grave or just in a ditch you dug for yourself out of curiosity, survival, or sheer habit—know that you’re not alone down there. The climb out may not be graceful, and the tools might be mismatched, but they’re yours. Passed down, patched up, rediscovered.

We don’t need perfection to get out—we just need persistence, a sense of humor, a little ritual, some time in community with others without having to find solutions immediately, and the quiet, stubborn kind of hope.

You don’t have to know exactly where you’re going. Just know that you don’t have to stay where you’ve been.

For many people who are aware of my existence, I am a Russian girl. Which is true only to an extent, being “Russian” is also a hard wall to break through when you are also an Indigenous person. Being from Russia does not necessarily make you fully ethnically Russian (I’m half-Russian). Still, it certainly does mean that you’ve been raised in a culture with an ever-changing government structure that has thoroughly subjugated its people throughout history and violently colonized others. So much so that even if you leave, you will always remain “a Russian”. Even our great Indigenous sculptor Stepan Erzya, who spent most of his life in Argentina, who chose “Erzya” as his last name to raise awareness about his people in the world, was called “The Russian Roden” for his unique skills and talents. Even after escaping Russia, he could not escape the fact that all his achievements would be attributed to Russian statehood, rather than to the wisdom and skill of his people.

My upbringing made me absolutely complicit in the spreading of the statehood propaganda, so there’s no blame on others who, even after knowing me in real life, still are not aware of my Indigenous identity. I myself am still reviving that fire within.

On that note, I would like to segue into discussing one of my favorite aspects of Erzya spirituality: our Cult of the Trees.

The Cult of The Tree

I have previously written extensively about The Magic of Trees from an Indigenous Erzya and Eastern European Slavic perspective in my zine, “Drevo Zhizni” (The Tree of Life), and now I will provide a comprehensive overview in this article.

The "Cult of Trees" is an ethno-religious tradition associated with the Finno-Ugric peoples, specifically the Erzya (Moksha and Shoksha as well), who currently reside in the Republic of Mordovia and throughout Russia.

While the concept of the "World Tree" or "Tree of Life" has existed since ancient times among different ethnicities, in the territory of modern Russia, the Erzya have seen the Sacred Tree as the center of their core beliefs. Living amongst lush green landscapes covered by endless forests, Erzya people had a very poetic and mystical perception of Trees. Therefore, the image of "Ine Chuvto" arose: the Great Tree, the World Tree, the Tree of Life. Ine Chuvto is divided into three parts: the roots that stretch to the underworld of the ancestors, the middle part personifies those living on earth, and the branches extend into the world of the Gods. This way, the Tree links all three worlds together in perfect harmony.

Erzya people believe that Trees are living beings with their own innate wisdom and consciousness. Sacred trees are viewed as messengers of divine thought, and it's prohibited to cut them down. Erzya generally treated nature with care, revered the forests, and had a healthy fear of the Mother of the Forest, Viryava (Vir-forest, ava-mother).

Even in the present day, people entering the forest greet Viryava by bowing in respect to the birch trees. In some villages, it is still customary to go to the forest before one's death and to ask Viryava for forgiveness for all the broken trees. Some of the more important trees revered by Erzya people are Birch, Oak, Rowan, Apple tree, Aspen, and Linden.

Consistently, people would gather under a Sacred Tree (often an Oak), send one of the wisest people in the community to climb its branches, and ask him the most burning questions. The wise person was supposed to receive the answers from the Gods; those answers could only be heard amongst the branches of the Sacred Tree, and only after a few cups of Puré (a fermented drink).

Honestly, that makes complete sense to me, because I am convinced that if I were to find myself inside a tree, I too would finally discover the truth about this world. (The few times that I did climb trees, I was always rushed to come down, and no one seemed to have any pressing matters I could consult the Gods on. So I can’t really attest to what that’s like, but it’s on my bucket list!)

”Kelei” or the Birch tree.

Kelei traditionally represented fertility and feminine energy. According to Erzya lore, the first-ever Birch tree grew on the grave of a beautiful and brave girl, Kill, who fought with the Turks, so the Tree was named in her honor. The birch tree is often associated with the world of the dead (as the feminine often is), so traditionally, they were planted on graves. However, in the context of the wedding celebrations, the Birch tree symbolizes the bride's beauty and grace.

Hitting one's back with the Birch rods and decorating the wedding procession with Birch branches was done to protect oneself from evil spirits and the wrath of the Gods. Women often would pray to the Birch tree for health and fertility.

“Tumo” or The Oak Tree.

Oaktree is definitely the most popular Tree amongst both Erzya and Moksha people ("Tuma" in Moksha, "Tumo" in Erzya), which represents stability and masculine energy. Gods would often meet on the branches of the Sacred Oak to discuss their plans for the future. During the communal prayer ("Ozks" ) that included ritual sacrifices, Oaktree was where all the offerings were brought.

The ceremony was done around a specific tree, and in most cases, people prayed for the rain to come and nourish their crops. In the Chamzinsky region, these rituals are still performed. Children are often sent to the "prayer Oak" ("oznomo tumo") to ask for some extra precipitation. While Oaktree was seen as benevolent and helped guard people from misery and illnesses, one should not be near it during a thunderstorm. The God of Thunder Purginepaz (the son of Ineshkipaz) would punish you for that by turning you into an Oaktree.

Pizelks or The Rowan Tree

Rowan ("pizelks" - for both Moksha and Erzya) is a well-loved tree, its striking red berries represent protection and fertility. According to folk legends, it would even protect one's house against harmful magic. Thus, it is often planted on both sides of the front entrance to ensure the house stays safe for many years to come.

During a wedding ceremony, a branch of Rowan was placed inside the bride's and groom's attire for good luck. Branches were also often placed in windows or used as room decorations to ward off the evil eye. Farmers buried Rowan berries and branches in corners of their barns whenever they needed to restore the fertility of their livestock.

”Umarina” or the Apple Tree.

Appletree ("marlyu" - Moksha, "umarina" - Erzya) is often a symbol of female beauty and world harmony. In Mordovian mythology, the Apple Tree represents the balance of the world as its large branches cover the sky and its strong roots pierce the soil on which it stands.

People often look for the Sacred Apple Tree in a meadow in the middle of an immense, dark forest. The apples on that Tree are supposed to have two colors: red in the East and white in the West.

The main Erzya God, Ineshkipaz (or Neshkipaz, Nishke), protects the Sacred Appletree. He often gathers all the Gods under its branches for feasts and celebrations.

Ritual offerings and sacrifices

TW: Mention of animal sacrifice

Sacrifices are an integral part of the pre-Christian religious beliefs and rites of Erzya. Sacrifices and offerings were made with the intention of gaining the protection of gods, ancestors, and spirits. Farm animals and birds (horses, bulls, cows, sheep, pigs, goats, geese, chickens), fish, food (bread, millet, meat, honey, butter, pies, and cakes), alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, blood, money, all of this could be used as an offering to the Gods.

The first written evidence of ritualistic sacrifice among the Erzya is found in the Italian merchant book "Journey to Tana" (15th century), which he describes as mainly a communal activity. If the entire community decided to perform a ritualistic sacrifice, then the entire community also contributed money to buy the sacrificial animal, and a specific deity usually required a specific animal.

Before the sacrifice, cold spring water was poured onto the animal's back (usually a cow). If the animal shudders and shakes it off, the deity is pleased and accepts this specific animal.

The blood of the cow was usually poured at the roots of the sacred Tree (most often an oak); the skin of the animal would be hung on the branches, and oftentimes, multiple holes would be made on its surface to ensure that it wouldn't be used for anything else. There would also be a basket containing other sacrificial gifts (foods, grains, alcoholic and fermented beverages). The tongue and the sirloin - the most tender parts - were thrown into the fire, as a part of the ritual of "feeding the fire". The rest of the meat was boiled in huge cauldrons and shared and eaten right on the spot.

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• Buy a Zine – My digital and print zines are labors of love rooted in folklore, magic, and ancestral knowledge.

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  • Native Land Conservancy – Protecting sacred land by and for Native people.

  • IllumiNative – A Native woman-led initiative challenging the misrepresentation of Indigenous peoples.

It didn’t feel like discovering something new. It felt like remembering. Like returning to something I had lost—not in this life, maybe, but in a deeper one. I always knew that being back in a familiar climate and landscape would stir something in me, but I didn’t expect it to feel like this: like my soul had finally come home.

Walking the streets was surreal—birch trees on every corner, raspberry bushes heavy with red jewels. One of my clearest childhood memories is lying in raspberry bushes at my grandfather’s dacha, eating them straight from the branch. I’ve carried a dream with me ever since: to give my daughter that same feeling of peace and belonging. When we arrived at our first Airbnb, there it was—a massive raspberry bush. A gift from the ether. A whisper: “See? It’s possible. You deserve this.” And when my daughter tugged my hand and asked to go pick “yagodku,” I felt a kind of exalted alignment I can’t fully describe. Something clicked into place.

Every moment of this trip felt like an invitation to stay. Like the land itself was calling me, reminding me: you’ve always belonged here. And yet, at times I was afraid to fully open myself to it. I feared that if I allowed myself to sink into that communion with nature, I wouldn’t be able to return to my regular life—it would be too painful. My eyes welled up at the thought that I could be walking these green trails every day, losing myself in the songs of nightingales, letting the forest wash over me and carry everything else away.

I found myself inspired to photograph again—a calling I thought I had left behind for good. But here, surrounded by all this beauty, I wanted nothing more than to slow down and witness it. The forests, the rivers… they pulled something out of me I didn’t know was still there.

I realized the emptiness I’d been trying to fill with constant motion—with entertainment, with doing, with shopping that I can’t even afford, could be filled instead by something so simple: the warmth of the sun on my face, my eyes closed, listening to the river rush through the forest.

I don’t think I’ve ever truly needed anything more than this. To visit the trees. To humble myself at their roots. To exist in quiet, glittering peace alongside them. That’s all.

One thing that struck me as unusual about Portland was how much most people kept to themselves (there was however one lady that stopped me on the street to tell me I’m brave for carrying my baby in a sling, becasue back in her day that was unacceptable and gave my husand a lecture on how he needs to take more pictures of me so our daughter doesn’t hate him when she grows up, I loved it ngl). Generally, there was plenty of polite acknowledgment—smiles, nods—but little real desire to engage. It made me realize how much I’d taken the diversity and openness of Los Angeles for granted. For the first time since leaving Russia, I found myself in a predominantly white space. I’d look around a restaurant and not see a single person of color. I won’t lie—it was unsettling.

This place, so rich in natural magic, felt like it held a secret I was only beginning to glimpse. As a white, good-looking, well-dressed woman, I would likely have no issue building a life here. But would that be true for my husband? For my daughter? Would they be seen as too Mexican? Too “other”? People seemed to express progressive views on the surface, but the shadow of racism lingered beneath (it was the week of the 4th of July, so it could be just the people visiting Portland from other states and not the ones who live there). There were moments—the assessing stares, the passive-aggressive comments about a space suddenly feeling “too crowded” when we walked in—that reminded me that not everyone here would be welcome in the same way. And then others would overcompensate, as if trying to make up for that discomfort they saw.

I’d be curious to hear from Portland locals—was I picking up on something real, or was it all in my head? Portland felt safe, yes, but there was an unspoken understanding that if we wandered too far out, that safety might evaporate.

It hit me then: I don’t really know the United States. I know New York City. I know Los Angeles. But those are bubbles—diverse, progressive, and loud. Outside of them, a different America exists. One I had forgotten to consider. I used to believe that outdated, harmful worldviews were limited to some far-off, backward place—but clearly, they’re not. They’re here. That’s why we have the president we do. That’s why ICE has the funding it does. That’s why my tax dollars go toward building things like Alligator Alcatraz.

Los Angeles is chaotic, dry, and grimy. But I let out a sigh of relief when I returned and heard Spanish again.

Throughout our trip, we kept wondering aloud what it would be like to move here, to live in this lush green place (as a Russian, the rain is hardly a concern), to feel this deep connection to the earth every day. But I also found myself asking: would it be worth it? To give my daughter a profound connection to the land—but at the cost of taking her further from her culture, her language, her people?

I don’t know if I’m overthinking it—or thinking just the right amount.

I did an in-person event with my friends from Seagrape Apothecary and my friend Leah (here’s her Substack) , and I could see how amazing each and every person was, eager to develop communities, to serve the good of all people. It felt amazing to be in the presence of so many like-minded individuals. Maybe the Green Man of Portland is asking: If you truly love this land, what will you do to honor and defend all who belong to it?

Ever since we got back, we haven’t stopped talking about how scary it feels to raise a child in L.A. These days, it feels like we’re either burning, being raided, or taxed just for breathing (what do you mean you don’t have 10% sales tax?!). Our neighborhood is riddled with crime—there are shootings almost every week, break-ins aren’t uncommon, yet we pay the same amount for rent as someone who lives in Sellwood. At this point, an Earthquake just might push us over the edge enough to pack our bags (I’m only half-joking).

I’m writing this as part of a growing series of articles dedicated to sharing the stories, traditions, and resilience of my people—the Erzya. We are a Finno-Ugric nation, Indigenous to the Volga region, whose language and culture have survived centuries of colonization, forced assimilation, and silence. And yet, like so many small nations, we are slowly disappearing. Our songs are harder to hear. Our prayers are harder to find. But they are not gone.

Though the Erzya homeland lies far from the plains, forests, and coastlines of North America, the stories of our colonization share haunting similarities with those of the Indigenous nations across Turtle Island. In both cases, we see a centuries-long campaign to erase language, destroy spiritual practice, and sever people from the land that birthed them.

Russian expansion into Erzya territories began as military conquest in the 12th century, much like the early European incursions into Indigenous lands in North America. Calculated waves of Christianization followed, carried out not just through religious conversion, but through violence, forced relocation, and cultural suppression. Just as boarding schools in Canada and the United States were used to sever Indigenous children from their language and families, Erzya children were taken from their ancestral knowledge and placed into a Russian-language world that taught them to be ashamed of who they were.

Language loss, too, echoes across both histories. In the Soviet era, Erzya was gradually stripped from schools and public life, demoted to a domestic dialect barely allowed to exist. Many of us have had to relearn our own mother tongue from fragments (personally, I wasn’t even able to do that). This mirrors the fate of many Indigenous languages in North America—targeted, outlawed, and now the focus of desperate revival.

These connections are not meant to collapse the distinctiveness of our struggles, but to affirm the shared experience of Indigenous peoples who continue to resist erasure.

Across continents, colonization has followed a similar pattern: invade the land, erase the spirit, replace the story. But across continents, the response has also been the same: remember, resist, return.

The work done to write this article feels small and insignificant, but it is my offering nonetheless. A way to keep the threads of memory woven tightly enough that they don’t fray. I want this information to remain current, alive, and accessible—not just as history, but as a living practice of identity and return. Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read, share, and care. Your attention is part of our survival.

Brief History of the Erzya people

The history of the Erzya people is one of resistance, endurance, and deep cultural memory. Long before their lands were carved into someone else's empire, the Erzya formed their own state “Erzyan Mastor“with leaders like Inyazor Purgaz who are still remembered in oral traditions and recorded in early chronicles. This period, stretching from the 10th to the 13th century, marks a time of relative sovereignty, when the Erzya governed themselves and shaped their world in their own image.

That autonomy began to fracture in the 12th century, as the principalities of Vladimir-Suzdal launched repeated military campaigns to conquer and subdue the Erzya territories. In 1184, the first recorded invasion took place, and it would not be the last. Over the next five decades, violence became routine. Settlements were destroyed, families enslaved, and land devastated. In 1221, the founding of Nizhny Novgorod on Erzya territory symbolized a new, brutal phase of colonization. In 1229, Purgaz himself led an armed attempt to reclaim the city—but his campaign failed, and the suppression of Erzya independence continued.

By the mid-16th century, the Erzya were fully absorbed into the expanding Muscovite state. The conquest of Kazan under Ivan the Terrible brought the final blow to Erzyan Mastor’s political autonomy. What followed was a slow erosion of cultural and spiritual life, enforced through religious conversion, land displacement, and the silencing of traditional practices. In 1629, Tsar Mikhail Romanov issued a ban on the communal Erzya prayer known as Rasken Ozks, outlawing one of the most sacred rituals of the Erzya spiritual world.

Still, resistance flared. Erzya fighters joined Stepan Razin’s rebellion against the tsar in the 1670s, and uprisings continued into the 19th century. The most notable came in the early 1800s, led by Kuzma Alekseyev among the Teryukhan Erzya, who rebelled near Nizhny Novgorod in a final attempt to reclaim cultural space. These moments—though crushed—preserved a memory of agency, a whisper of what was once theirs.

The 18th and 19th centuries brought forced Christianization, particularly under Catherine II. Erzya families were uprooted and resettled into distant Russian-controlled steppe regions. The ancestral practices that once defined their relationship to land and spirit were now forced underground. And yet, a quiet revival stirred in the 19th century. With the development of a written Erzya language (first using the Ilminsky system) came the beginnings of a new intelligentsia: poets, thinkers, and cultural workers who would begin to write Erzya identity back into history.

Then came the Soviet century, which brought both recognition and repression. A standardized version of the Erzya language was approved in 1925. By 1934, the Mordovian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic had been established, though it grouped the Erzya and Moksha peoples into a single “Mordvin” identity that many rejected. By the 1930s, the same system that had given the Erzya a republic began arresting and executing its cultural leaders during Stalin’s purges. By the 1950s, the Erzya language had been pushed out of schools and public life, surviving mostly in private homes.

And yet again—resistance returned. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Erzya activists reignited efforts to reclaim their language, traditions, and sacred practices. In 1993, Erzya Language Day was established. And in 1999, for the first time in 370 years, Rasken Ozks was held openly again in the village of Chukaly. It was not just a ceremony—it was an ancestral homecoming.

Traditional Erzya costume

The traditional Erzya costume is not simply clothing—it is a visual and tactile language, woven with memory, identity, and ancestral wisdom. At its core is the pokay, a long embroidered linen chemise that serves as the foundation of the outfit. Adorned in red and black wool thread, the embroidery is rich in texture and meaning, using ancient stitches and motifs passed down through generations. These patterns—crosses, diamonds, and stars—are not borrowed from neighboring Russian traditions, but rooted firmly in Volga-Finnic symbolic language.

Over the chemise, Erzya women wore layers that added movement, sound, and story. The pulai//pulagai or some sources call it pulokarks, a distinctive back apron, is perhaps the most striking. It jingles with coins, beads, cowrie shells, and metallic fringe—each element chosen with intention. While originally reserved for married women, younger girls eventually began wearing them too, transforming the pulokarks into a joyful, communal expression of Erzya femininity and pride. As the woman moved, the ornaments danced and sang—a sensory reminder of beauty in motion and a public declaration of identity.

Atop the head, married women wore the soroka, a soft embroidered headdress, cylindrical in shape and often stiffened to hold its elaborate decoration. Like the back apron, it was adorned with sequins, beads, and sometimes small mirrors or plaques. The layering of textiles, the tactile weight of metallic elements, and the rhythmic sound they created all contributed to a powerful presence—a woman quite literally carried her lineage, her creativity, and her status with her as she walked.

Each element of the costume was made by hand. The chemises were embroidered by the women themselves, while more elaborate pieces like the headgear and decorative aprons were often made by local specialists. Wearing this costume meant wearing hours—if not months—of labor and devotion, an intimate and public act of cultural survival. In a time and place where identity was often suppressed, the Erzya woman’s dress became a resilient gesture: quiet, insistent, and unforgettable.

The First Priestess

Raisa Stepanovna Kemaykina (Erzya name: Mariz Kemal), born in 1950, is a renowned Erzya poet, cultural activist, and a pivotal figure in the modern revival of Erzya paganism. Under her Erzya name “Mariz Kemal,” she has been a leading voice in the instruments of language and ritual, guiding the community through the complex process of reclaiming ancestral identity.

In 1990, Kemaykina helped establish Mastorava, an intellectual and cultural association devoted to reviving Erzyan traditions, folklore, and pagan rites through ethnographic and linguistic research. As the movement evolved, a more focused faction—Erzyan Mastor—emerged, explicitly advocating for pagan worship and challenging the dominance of Christianity in Erzya life.

By 1992, supported by Erzya entrepreneurs, Kemaykina organized the first public national pagan ritual in centuries. Participating villages learned ancient prayers once thought lost, and Kemaykina was formally proclaimed the first priestess of the Erzya people. Television coverage of the event reverberated across Mordovia, stirring a genuine revival: the so‑called “Pagan question” began to be openly discussed in villages, universities, and political circles.

Beyond her religious leadership, Kemaykina is known for her literary contributions to the Erzya language. Under the name Mariz Kemal, she published poetry and essays that engage deeply with Erzya identity, folklore, and memory, from children’s poems in the 1980s to philosophical collections like “Shtatol” (“Candle”) in 1994. These works consistently affirm her national pride and cultural mission.

Sources:

• Zeleneev, Yu. A., and O. V. Zelentsova. Средневековая мордва по археологическим данным [Medieval Mordva According to Archaeological Data]. vol. 1, Volga Archeology, 2012.

• Abramov, V. K. Акай Боляев и Крестьянская война 1670-1671 гг. В Мордовском крае [Akai Bolyaev and the Peasant War of 1670–1671 in the Mordovian Region]. vol. 2, Finno-Ugric World, 2020.

• Yushkin U. et al. 'Mordovia Narodnoe Iskusstvo' [Mordovia, Fok Art] Saransk, 1985

• Nikolaev V., 'Chuvash Tume' [Chuvash Costume] Cheboksary, 2002

• Razina T. et al. 'Folk Art in the Soviet Union' Leningrad, 1990

• Sychev, A. A. Культ леса в системе экологических верований мордвы [The Cult of the Forest in the System of Ecological Beliefs of the Mordovians]. vol. 2, Finno-Ugric World, 2015. p. 25.

• Titov, A. A. Терюшевский бунт [Teryushevsky Rebellion]. vol. 8-10, Russian Review, 1893.

• Tyazin, E. N., and T. V. Vasiliev. Незабытый сын мордовского народа [Unforgotten Son of the Mordovian People]. vol. 3, Socio-political Sciences, 2012.

• Martyshkin V. N. Vasilyev Timofey Vasilyevich — patriot, lawyer (on the first international lawyer in Great Britain), Eurasian Advocacy, No. 1 (2), 2013.

• Mosin, M. V., and T. M. Sheyanova. From the History of the Terminology Creation in the Mordovian Languages[Из истории создания терминологии в мордовских языках]. vol. 4, Regional Studies, 2012. p. 81.).

• Molotova L. 'Narodnoe Iskusstvo Rossijskoj Federatsii' [Folk Art of the Russian Federation] Leningrad, 1981.

One of the most beautiful depictions of this night, in my opinion, has been created by Andrei Tarkovsky in his movie Andrei Rublev. Here are two clips that portray the ritual itself, and they have been occupying a massive amount of space in my brain for years since the first time I saw the movie, at times I feel like I try to hold people hostage just to share these visuals (thank you for being here voluntarily lol). Unfortunately, these are screen recordings with no sound, but you can watch the whole clip with sound on YouTube here, it will start right at this moment:

It’s hard to explain the sense of excitement, mixed with fear and simultaneously belonging, I feel when my mind gets lost in the torchlights of women running into the water. It’s raw, haunting, tactile, and visually hypnotising.

The following clip I’ve watched so many times that it is burned into my retina at this point (you can watch here with sound):

Now I could end this article here, drop my imaginary mic on behalf of Tarkovsky, and exit the premises. I genuinely don’t know if I govern my words as well as he conjures the fear and awe with his cinema. Alas, I shall continue.

Ivan Kupala is one celebration I’ve never participated in back home, and I deeply regret that. However, I'm also grateful that I was spared from getting involved with the nationalistic Rodnovery circles that practiced it most often back in the day. I say “back in the day” because there is currently a resurgence of this ritual in many Eastern European countries, and it’s now very popular, even among city dwellers; people gather for it in the same way people in the US gather for Coachella (only all ages are accepted and it’s free).

The Night of Ivan Kupala

The celebration of Ivan Kupala traces back to pre-Christian Slavic times, when the solstice marked a powerful turning point in the seasonal and spiritual calendar. Long before the name “Ivan”—a nod to John the Baptist—was appended to the festival, Kupala rites honored fertility, light, water, and fire. These rituals were tied to agricultural rhythms and cosmic balance. Kupala was the height of summer, when the sun stood still for a breath before beginning its slow descent, and the earth's body was at its most fertile. These were the days of ripening grain and swelling rivers, a sacred window when nature’s forces were not only visible but intensely felt.

Spiritually, Kupala Night is a liminal moment, a time when the veil between worlds grows thin and the unseen becomes tangible. It’s a night of thresholds: between fire and water, youth and adulthood, human and spirit, love and loss. Girls float flower wreaths to divine their romantic future. Boys seek the mythical fern flower, a symbol of inner illumination and forbidden knowledge. The bonfire becomes a living altar—offering protection, purification, and transformation. Water is both healing and dangerous, inviting participants to confront what lies beneath. These rituals were never purely symbolic. They were enacted with the deep understanding that nature’s forces could not just be honored but entered into a relationship with.

Practically, Kupala traditions were embedded in the land itself. The herbs woven into wreaths—mugwort, St. John's wort, yarrow, nettle—were not chosen at random but for their protective and healing properties. Jumping through the bonfire wasn’t just a game but a rite of passage, a test of courage and a spell of cleansing. Bathing in the river or rolling in the dew before sunrise was believed to grant health, fertility, and luck. Even the timing—held on the eve of July 6th into the 7th, aligned with the Julian calendar’s summer solstice period—was chosen with precision. These were not merely folk amusements, but carefully timed ceremonies tied to land, light, and the invisible currents of fate.

Today, many people are returning to Kupala with a new intention. In rural parts of Ukraine, Belarus, and Poland, it remains a community celebration. But across the Slavic diaspora, it is also being reclaimed as a personal ritual of belonging. A quiet wreath cast into a river. A solo fire lit in a backyard or on a beach. A whispered song or a barefoot dance under the moon. In this remembering, the celebration shifts—it becomes a way not only to honor ancestors but to step back into right relationship with the land, the body, and the rhythms of the earth that still pulse beneath the noise of modern life.

Rusalka Week and the Festival of Rusalii

Rusalka Week, or Rusalnaya Nedelya or Zelyonïe Svyatki (Green Svyatki in opposition to Winter Svyatki), is a sacred and dangerous time in Slavic mythology, particularly in early June when the rusalki (water spirits) are believed to be at their most powerful. During this week, rusalki leave their watery homes to roam the earth, swinging from birch and willow trees, dancing in the moonlight, and interacting with humans in ways that can be both seductive and deadly. Swimming during Rusalka Week is strictly forbidden, as it’s said that anyone who enters the water during this time risks being dragged down and drowned by a rusalka.

The rusalki, in this context, are primarily spirits of young women who met untimely deaths, often by drowning, but also general ancestral spirits. They are tied to water and fertility and possess an ambivalent nature. While they are occasionally seen as protectors of crops and fertility, they are also feared for their malevolence and unpredictability, particularly during this week. Anyone who joins in the rusalki's nocturnal dances must dance until they collapse and die, consumed by the relentless, supernatural force of these spirits.

Rusalka Week traditionally takes place between June 10th and June 16th or June 20th to June 27th, depending on local customs. This period marks the peak of the rusalki’s activity when they are closest to the human world. While feared for their potential danger, rusalki are also honored and respected for their role in the fertility cycle of the land. It is during this week that peasants and farmers, particularly in agricultural communities, would seek to balance their relationship with these spirits—offering respect to ensure good harvests while protecting themselves from the rusalki’s more destructive tendencies.

The Festival of Rusalii

Rusalka Week is also intertwined with the Festival of Rusalii, an ancient Slavic fertility festival held in early May, approximately 18 days after the feast of Yarilo (the springtime fertility god). Traditionally, this festival aligns with the time when rye is blooming, and its rituals are tied to ensuring agricultural fertility. Initially, Rusalii began as a Roman festival of roses called Rosalia, but over time, it evolved into a Slavic festival dedicated to the rusalki and later became integrated into Christian traditions as part of Trinity Week.

During Rusalii, homes are decorated with green branches—often from linden, birch, and maple trees—and the floors are covered with fragrant herbs like wormwood and calamus to honor the spirits. Special care is taken not to offend the rusalki during this time, as they are known for their connection to weaving and washing. Therefore, sewing, washing linen, or weaving fences are considered forbidden tasks during Rusalii Week, as these activities could provoke the rusalki to cause misfortune, such as the loss of cattle or poultry.

The week is also marked by rituals intended to ward off weather damage and ensure a good harvest. Young people would circle the fields, carrying torches and adorning the land with green boughs as offerings to the rusalki. These boughs, often hung in barns or on the horns of cattle, symbolized a plea for the spirits’ protection and the fertility of the land. Another common practice involved burning herbs to fumigate livestock, driving away malevolent forces that might harm the animals.

Honoring the Dead During Rusalka Week

Many believe that rusalki are the spirits of ancestors, particularly those who died prematurely. Therefore, during Rusalka Week, rituals for the dead are an essential part of the festivities. Food and drink, especially pancakes and red eggs, are placed on the graves of the deceased, and libations of horilka (Ukr.), samogon (Rus.), or other spirits are poured over the graves to honor the dead and ask the rusalki to help the souls transition to peace.

These offerings serve to appease the rusalki as well. By honoring the spirits of the dead, the living sought to gain the rusalki’s favor, asking them to bless the crops and prevent storms or floods from destroying the harvest.

Banishing the Rusalki: The Ritual Conclusion of Rusalka Week

At the end of Rusalka Week, a ritual banishment or burial of the rusalka takes place. This practice is vital for ensuring that the rusalki return to their watery homes, leaving the human world for the remainder of the year. Such rituals were performed as recently as the 1930s in Russia and often took the form of community entertainment, though they were later banned by Soviet authorities.

The banishing of the rusalka also marks a crucial turning point in the agricultural cycle. By mid-June, peasants no longer desired more rain, as the crops had usually received sufficient water. What they needed was sunlight for their fields and hay to dry, ensuring winter food supplies for their livestock. Therefore, the symbolic act of sending the rusalka away represented a plea for drier, sunnier weather, which was necessary to complete the growing season successfully.

Despite this ritual farewell, the relationship with the rusalki remained essential throughout the agricultural year. While they were temporarily "banished," villagers knew they would need to call upon the rusalki again later in the summer or fall, as droughts could be just as dangerous as too much rain. Thus, maintaining a balanced, respectful relationship with the rusalki was crucial to ensuring the community’s survival and prosperity.

Every time I sit down to write about the Erzya people, I feel a hollow ache in my stomach. A quiet voice asks: who am I to speak for “us”? Am I Erzya enough to write about our traditions, our survival, our pain? I worry that I might misrepresent something or overstep, especially when so much has already been taken from us. Simultaneously, I know that silence, too, is dangerous. We are already so few, and so much of what we once knew has been erased. If I don’t say anything, if I stay quiet out of fear, then I become part of that erasure.

The modern Erzya are descendants of the Indigenous Finno-Ugric peoples who lived along the Volga River long before the arrival of the Slavs. Under Kievan Rus’, Tsar Russia, Imperial Russia, and later Soviet rule, our communities—often grouped with the Moksha and renamed under the exonym Mordva—were stripped of land, language, and lifeways. The work of colonization was quiet and thorough. But still, we endured. Resilient and stubborn, we preserved what we could. Today, each fragment of language, each remembered ritual, each footnote in a Soviet ethnography feels like a lifeline. I cling to them.

My father is Erzya. My mother is Slavic—Russian and Ukrainian. I was raised between two cultural inheritances, with all their contradictions and entanglements. I remember my family encouraging my grandfather to teach me the Erzya language. He shrugged them off, laughing: “Just add ‘-as’ at the end of every word you know. No one speaks it anyway.” I didn’t understand then how deep that resignation went. What I now hear in his words is surrender—to the shame of poverty, to Soviet assimilation, to the belief that nothing of his was worth passing on.

He was a complicated man. He could read and write, but that’s about all the education he had. However, he built his own house, grew his own food, made wine and pickles, and told me to honor the forest, bow to the earth, and ask trees for advice. He also cheated on his wife. Made sexually charged passes at me when he was drunk. I was eight or nine. I can’t quite remember. What I do remember is how deeply confusing it was—how someone could hand you sacred knowledge and harm you in the same breath. I live with the knowledge that sometimes violence and wisdom come from the same mouth.

He came from deep poverty. One of eight children in an Erzya village, where survival trumped sentiment. He didn’t even know his date of birth. My great-grandmother once told my mother she only kept him because he was a boy. If he’d been born a girl, she would have drowned him in the river. The logic of desperation sounds monstrous, but I’m sure the reality that prompted this thinking was equally heavy. I don’t know how much humiliation he carried, how much Soviet cruelty he experienced, or how much internalized shame he bore for the language he stopped speaking and the gods he no longer called by name.

My maternal grandmother shaped my understanding of Russian culture. She was the only person I have ever felt completely loved by. Gentle, devout, deeply kind. She made me memorize Orthodox prayers but also took me to a zhakharka—a folk healer—on the growing moon to have my hair cut. In her, Christian piety and Slavic magic coexisted without contradiction. She moved between worlds effortlessly, the way I now try to.

The story of Indigenous erasure in Russia is not abstract to me—it has played out in the most intimate spaces of my life. I was harmed by people who saw me as belonging to those who had historically harmed them. I was protected by people they had been taught to despise. That reversal has left me disoriented. Sometimes it feels like I’m walking through fog with only broken compasses to guide me.

And yet, I choose to be both. I am Erzya and Russian. Not because it’s simple, but because it’s true. I won’t pretend my identity is whole or unfractured. It isn’t. But I also refuse the myth that belonging must be pure or complete. I carry what was good, what was wise, what survived. I honor both lineages, not equally, not perfectly, but consciously.

I write from the in-between. From the parts that don’t make it into textbooks or rituals. I write because someone has to say: this is what it looks like when history lives in the body. This is what it feels like to remember in pieces. I don’t speak for all Erzya. I speak as one of many. And I speak so that the next generation has more than silence to inherit.

Much of my recent self-acceptance I owe to the writings of Robin Wall Kimmerer. Braiding Sweetgrass, Gathering Moss, and her essay Serviceberry have become sacred texts to me—books I return to the way others return to scripture. I remember reading about her journey to relearn the language of her people, a language spoken fluently by only a few remaining elders. Something broke open in me then—and something else began to mend. For the first time, I didn’t feel alone in the aching, stumbling search for fragments of a heritage that was nearly severed. I wasn’t the only one trying, and often failing, to learn a language with no one left to speak it with. In her grief and persistence, I recognized my own.

The wisdom Robin Wall Kimmerer shares on behalf of her people has healed me from afar. So much of what she writes about—the reverence for land, the reciprocity between humans and the more-than-human world—feels deeply familiar, as if I’ve always known it. Her words don’t just resonate; they affirm what I’ve carried quietly in my bones. It reminds me that Indigenous knowledge, though shaped by different geographies and languages, often shares a common root. This profound, ancestral wisdom transcends borders and reminds us that we are not alone in our perspective on the world.

I feel affirmed in my devotion to trees, in my belief that stones and rivers carry soul. Their quiet, effortless wisdom continues to be a source of endless fascination for me—reminding me that reverence doesn’t need justification, only presence.

Who are the Erzya People: Brief Introduction

The Erzya are one of the two major Indigenous Finno-Ugric peoples of the Middle Volga region, alongside the Moksha. Though often grouped together under the exonym Mordva—a Soviet-era umbrella term that many now reject—Erzya and Moksha are distinct in language, identity, and tradition. Our ancestral lands stretch along the Sura and Moksha Rivers, with centuries of history rooted in animism, matrilineal clan structures, and agricultural ritual.

Erzya cosmology sees the natural world as sentient and sacred. Trees, rivers, stones, and animals are not just resources but beings with agency, memory, and spirit.

Despite centuries of Russification, forced conversions, and Soviet suppression of Indigenous practices, Erzya language and identity persist—fragile but alive. Today, the Erzya language is considered endangered, spoken fluently by perhaps a few dozen thousand people, many of them elderly. Efforts at cultural revival continue through grassroots education, ceremonial gatherings, and linguistic reclamation.

In 1992, Erzya activists held the first publicly recognized pagan ritual in modern times. A woman was proclaimed the first Erzyan pagan priestess, symbolizing a reconnection to pre-Christian spiritual traditions, especially the once-robust, animistic heritage centered on reverence for land, sky, and living beings. This revival formalized what had long endured underground: the deep, natural wisdom of Erzya cosmology.

The gateway into my spiritual voice—into intuition, clarity, and power—always begins with the space I create around me. Sometimes that means choosing a specific time of day to practice. Sometimes it’s about the sounds, the smells, the rhythm of the body. A short walk, a stretch, even a burst of exercise can help clear the mind and drop me deeper into myself. But one of the most grounding, undeniable ways I cement intention is through clothing—specifically, my traditional garments.

When I put on my Рубаха, it’s more than just an outfit. It’s a signal to my household members (human or otherwise): “Mama means business. Do not disturb.” Over the past six years, I’ve gathered a small but powerful collection of traditional pieces made from reclaimed antique garments sourced from Russian villages. These clothes have become part of my magical process, and most of them were made by Elena from the brand Onsitsa. Each time I wear one of her creations, I feel the presence of the women who came before me—their grief and grit, their laughter and labor. I hear the echo of songs half-whispered while sewing. I feel the stitching of generations holding me in place. The most accurate workings and readings I’ve ever had were done while wearing my traditional clothes. They don’t just clothe me—they open the door into the past, into the energetic field of my Ancestors.

My first ever magical garment was this Red Rubaha, which you see in the photo above. This specific design is typical for Kursk region in the beginning of the 20th century. It is made out of antique hand-spun Nettle, and if you’ve read anything on my Substack at all, you know the reverence I have for this plant. The combination of the red color and Nettle thread imbues this rubaha with an incredible protective power. She is always my go-to when I engage with my practice, go out to procure some tools for a working, or give a public talk.

In Eastern European traditions, especially across Slavic lands, clothing and fiber arts were never merely practical—they were sacred. Every thread spun, every pattern embroidered, carried memory, magic, and meaning. At the center of this ancestral loom stood Makosh (Mokosh), the Great Mother, goddess of fate, fertility, and weaving. She was the spinner of destinies, the protector of women’s work, and the keeper of household abundance.

To weave was not just to make cloth—it was to take part in shaping the world. For young girls, learning to spin and weave wasn’t a hobby; it was a rite of passage, an initiation into womanhood and power. And with that skill came autonomy. Women in many rural Slavic communities owned the threads, the garments, and the income from their craft—a rare and profound form of economic agency in a patriarchal world. A dowry wasn’t just wealth—it was a map of a woman’s hands, dreams, and social power. Clothing was layered with symbolism: geometric motifs for protection, colors aligned with seasons and rites, and stitches meant to bind blessing into the seams. To dress yourself in handmade cloth was to wear a piece of the world you had spun into being.

Including traditional clothing hasn’t just deepened my magical practice—it has transformed it. These garments aren’t costumes or props but containers for generational wisdom. Understanding the historical and spiritual significance of fiber, especially for women in Eastern Europe, has carried me through some of the most tender and powerful seasons of my life—especially pregnancy and early motherhood. To dress in these Rubahas, to wrap myself in Nettle stitched with ancestral echoes, is to feel held by generations of women who knew the weight of care and the sacredness of labor. I hope, one day, to pass these pieces on to my daughter—if she feels drawn to them, if she senses their value. They are part of a lineage of protection, dignity, and everyday magic. And that is something I want her to inherit.

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Interview with Elena Tash, founder and creator of Onsitsa

Every once in a while, you find an artist whose work doesn’t just speak to you—it becomes part of your practice, your rituals, your sense of self. For me, Elena Tash is that kind of artist. The founder of Onsitsa, a brand that reimagines traditional Russian clothing with spell-like intimacy, Elena creates garments that feel like portals into the world of magic. I reached out to Elena not just as a fan, but as a fellow traveler on the path of remembrance, magic, and resistance.

Elena Tash is the designer behind Onsitsa, a slow-fashion brand that stitches ancestral memory into every seam. Her journey began in Moscow, where she studied at the Stroganov Academy of Art and Design and first worked as a book illustrator. But it was a transformative trip to the Altai Mountains that shifted her path toward clothing—a calling that led her to learn pattern-making, listen deeply to materials, and build a practice shaped by intuition, ritual, and soul. Now based in Istanbul, Elena continues to make garments that carry quiet power.

Onsitsa’s pieces are not just clothes—they’re acts of devotion. Made from vintage and antique textiles, many over a century old, each garment draws on folk shapes like the рубаха or понёва and translates them for today’s world. The brand name comes from an Old Russian word meaning “someone,” a nod to its essence: to wear Onsitsa is to step into becoming, into connection, into lineage.

Your pieces often feel like portals—every time I wear one of your shirts, I feel the true strength and magic of previous generations. In your view, what does a person step into when they put on Oonsitsa clothing? Memory, a spell, a story?

In every item I create, I place a kind of spell—you could also call it a prayer—about the person, their fate, their daily life, their connection to the past, the present, and the future. From the very beginning of the process—the patterns—all the way to the final moment of packaging, I remain in a kind of inner meditation. It’s a state of concentration on the moment, but not of holding it—rather, of letting it pass through me. I call this divine energy—flowing through me, through the body, through the hands.

In the case of antique shirts, the power of other people joins that meditation, so the attention and presence of several generations become united in a single piece.

Many people who wear my clothing tell me they feel something similar, and I’m glad that it’s truly felt.

Original answer in Russian: В каждый предмет, который я создаю, я закладываю определенное заклинание - это можно назвать также молитвой - о человеке, о его судьбе, повседневной жизни, связи с его прошлым, настоящим и будущим. От начала создания до последней точки - запаковывания предмета - я остаюсь в некоей своей внутренней медитации, концентрации на моменте, но не удержании его, а пропускания - я называю это божественной энергией - через себя, через тело, руки.

В случае со старинными рубахами к этой медитации присоединяется сила других людей - и выходит, что внимание нескольких поколений соединяется в одном предмете.

Многие, кто носит мою одежду. говорят мне, что ощущают похожие ощущения, так что я рада, что это действительно чувствуется.

For me, your clothing is part of my magic and rituals—I physically can’t practice without my shirts. Do you have any personal rituals when sewing or designing? Maybe you light a candle, listen to music, say a prayer, or enter a particular state?

Before beginning any design or hand-sewing, I wash my hands and face with cold water up to the elbows. This simple ritual clears away the ‘heaviness’ that might have accumulated throughout the day or night, and it helps me gently enter the process I need to be in.

If I put on music, I usually choose mantras (I’ve got a whole collection, but I especially love Craig Pruess), classical music (like Stravinsky), or folk music (like Dakha Brakha).

It’s also important for me to touch the material—give it my full attention, feel the seams, the fabric, to ‘remember’ it again, to return to the point in the process where I left off and continue from there.

Original answer in Russian: Перед созданием дизайна или шитьём руками - я хорошо вымываю холодной водой руки до локтя и лицо. Этот простой ритуал очищает всё “тяжелое” накопленное за день или ночь, и так я легко вхожу в нужные мне процессы.

Если я включаю музыку, то чаще всего выбираю мантры (у меня целая коллекция, но очень люблю Craig Pruess), классическую музыку (например, Стравинского), народную музыку (например, Dakha Brakha).

Ещё для меня важно потрогать материал предмета - дать ему внимание, швам, ткани, “вспомнить” обратно, вернуться в точку процесса и продолжить его.

In my own practice, the phases of the Moon often guide my actions and energy. Do you ever find yourself led by intuition, dreams, or signs when creating a piece?

I can definitely say I’m a very intuitive person—I quite literally feel in my body how something needs to be sewn, which fabrics should be combined, in order for the piece to become what it’s meant to be. Among my designer friends, we jokingly call this ‘holistic design,’ haha.

As for dreams—I see a lot of them. And sometimes, I encounter signs that make their way into my collections. For instance, in collection 024, you can find small equilateral crosses. They practically begged to be included—I dreamt of them many times in different forms. And once I researched their possible meanings, found my own associations, and finally laid them onto the fabric—the dreams stopped. And the garments took on a sacred meaning.

Original answer in Russian: Могу сказать, что я очень интуитивный человек, я буквально чувствую телом как именно нужно сшить и какие ткани соединить между собой, чтобы получился тот самый предмет, который должен был получится. Между моими друзьями-дизайнерами мы называем это холистический дизайн хаха.

Что касается снов - их я вижу много и периодически встречаю разные знаки и вытаскиваю в коллекции. Например, в коллекции 024 можно встретить равносторонние небольшие кресты. Вот они, буквально, просились быть включенными в вещи, снились мне много раз в разных итерациях. И когда я изучила, что они могут значить, нашла свои ассоциации и положила эти кресты на ткань - сны закончились, а вещи приобрели сакральный смысл.

What’s the most magical or unexpected moment that’s happened to you while sourcing materials?

One of the most magical moments happened to me in India, when I went to a huge market in search of beads to use as fasteners for shirts. I wandered around for a long time but couldn’t find anything—and I was honestly on the verge of giving up. But something told me to keep looking, just a little longer.

At one point, I was standing at a stall, looking over some beads that weren’t even close to what I needed—and suddenly, I spotted one. It was exactly what I’d been searching for. I showed it to the seller, and without saying a word, he looked at me, reached under the counter, and pulled out a large, antique, deep dish filled with hundreds of similar beads.

It felt like a confirmation of intuition—and like the childhood joy of discovering buried treasure.

Original answer in Russian: Один из самых классных моментов случился со мной в Индии, когда я пришла на огромный рынок искать бусины для застёжек на рубашки. Я очень долго ходила по рынку, но ничего не находила, уже буквально отчаялась, но как будто бы чувствовала, что надо ещё немного поискать. И в какой-то момент, у прилавка, я стою разглядываю совсем неподходящие мне бусины и вижу одну - вот прям как я искала - показываю её продавцу - он смотрит на меня и, без слов, достает из-под прилавка огромное старинное глубокое блюдо, наполненное сотнями разных похожих бусин.

Это ощущалось как подтверждение интуиции и детский восторг нахождения сокровищ :)

In an era of fast fashion and constant novelty, returning to slowness and meticulous handwork can feel like an act of “fighting the dark.” Do you feel your work is part of that resistance?

I used to spend part of my energy on that kind of fight—but I’ve come to realize that fighting is a misdirection of energy. So I stopped. I understood that my true responsibility is to create and share as much as I can of what might help another person—others—feel a connection to something greater, more joyful, more meaningful than just consumption.

To show that there is an alternative path—a different way of paying attention to one’s body and one’s thinking. And to support those who already feel and live this way. For me, that’s where the real strength lies—in connection. And that connection feels more important than resisting anything.

Original answer in Russian: Раньше я тратила часть своей энергии на эту борьбу, но нашла свой ответ, что борьба - это трата энергии не туда, куда её стоит прилагать. И перестала это делать. Поняла, что моя ответственность - это как можно больше создать и показать того, что может привести другого человека, людей, к ощущению связи с чем-то большим, счастливым, важным, чем просто потребление. Показать, что существует альтернативный путь внимания к своему телу и мышлению. И поддержать тех, кто уже так думает и ощущает. В этом для меня хранится большая сила соединения с другими, и она как будто бы более важна, чем сопротивление чему-либо.

You’ve said that clothing can give people strength. What kind of strength have you needed most recently—and has it found its way into your new pieces?

The past two years have been deeply challenging for me, spiritually. I went through a major transformation of self—brought on by the loss of constant physical connection to my home and several people who were close to me (they’re okay—it wasn’t about health or harm).

As I began building new bonds—with the place I now live (Istanbul didn’t open its arms to me right away, but eventually we became friends), and with new ‘my people’ (a reminder to myself and to you that there are wonderful people everywhere, always)—I found myself needing inner calm more than anything. Trust in the world. A belief that nothing is ever truly broken or disconnected, that everything is still linked.

That search for faith and unity deeply shaped Oonsitsa’s recent work. I started experimenting more with fabrics, inventing new details for garments—and, most meaningfully for me, combining textiles from different countries. That act, in itself, became a kind of manifesto—an embodiment of the inner strength I’ve found.

Original Answer in Russian: Последние два года были для меня очень сложными духовно - я прошла через сильную трансформацию личности через потерю постоянной физической связи с моим домом и несколькими людьми, которые были близки мне (с людьми всё впорядке). В процессе выстраивания новых связей с местом, где я живу (Стамбул не так легко меня подпустил к себе, но в итоге мы подружились), с новыми “своими” людьми (напоминаю себе и вам, что везде и всегда есть много замечательных людей) мне особенно нужна была сила внутреннего спокойствия и доверия миру, вера в то, что ничто не обрывается и всё соединено.

Этот поиск веры и единения сильно повлиял на вещи Onsitsa - я стала больше экспериментировать с тканями, придумывать новые детали для предметов, и, что очень важно - соединять ткани из разных стран между собой. Для меня это буквально является манифестом найденных внутренних сил.

Which character from a Russian fairytale feels closest to your spirit right now? Has that changed over the years?

I think my favorite fairytale character has always been the Silver Hoof (Serebryanoe Kopytse). It always reminds me—wherever I am—to simply be myself, and to scatter precious gems, just because I can.

*[Serebryanoe Kopytse / The Silver Hoof] is a character from a Russian fairytale written by Pavel Bazhov. The story tells of a magical deer with a silver hoof that, wherever it steps, leaves behind precious gemstones. It’s a tale about wonder, generosity, and the quiet magic that lives in the everyday.*

Original answer in Russian: Наверно, самый любимый мой персонаж из сказок - это Серебряное копытце. Напоминает мне всегда и везде про “будь собой и сей драгоценные камни, потому что можешь”.

If you could dress one woman from the past—real or mythical—in Onsitsa, who would you choose?

I can’t choose just one—but what came to mind was how wonderful it would be to organize an exhibition with my work, sketches, and reflections, and invite my entire lineage. That would be the party of the century!

And I would so love to meet Natalia Leonidovna Shabelskaya—a remarkable woman and a collector of traditional costume. I think we would have become great friends. Of course, I’d offer her one of my uncorseted pieces to try on—and she, in return, would probably toss on some extravagant hat with flair.

Original answer in Russian: Выбрать одну не могу, но представилось то, что было бы классно сделать выставку с моими работами, скетчами и размышлениями и пригласить туда весь мой род. Это могла бы быть вечеринка века 🙂

А ещё очень хотелось бы познакомиться с Натальей Леонидовной Шабельской - великой женщиной, коллекционером традиционного костюма. Я думаю, что мы бы очень подружились и, конечно, я бы дала ей попробовать мои некорсетные вещи, а она бы накинула на голову какую-нибудь эпатажную шляпу.

And one last, more personal question. As someone who deeply misses my homeland, I want to ask—what do you do when you feel homesick?

I keep herbs from my grandmother’s garden at home, tucked into little pouches she sewed. And when I feel truly heartachey, I brew myself a tea and imagine I’m sitting in her garden—with her and my mother—listening to them tell me how their day went, how the cucumbers have grown, that one of them is ripe already, and we can go pick it and eat it.

Sometimes I also pull out maps and wander through cities—remembering where I’ve been, what I felt there, and where I still absolutely must go.

Original answer in Russian: Храню дома травы из бабушкиного сада, в сшитых ей мешочках - и когда мне очень тоскливо - я завариваю себе чай и представляю, что я сижу в её саду - с ней и с мамой, и они рассказывают мне как прошел их день и как подросли огурцы, и что вот там уже один поспел, и можно пойти сорвать его и съесть.

Или же открываю карты и брожу по городам, вспоминаю, где я была и что чувствовала, и куда я ещё обязательно поеду.

Every year, I try to perfect the art of making Thursday salt, and if I’m being honest, I usually fall short (in my eyes anyway). In theory, it's an exciting and cozy idea: a whole day dedicated to cleaning the home and roasting the salt. In practice, it’s nearly impossible when you’re juggling work and a child.

So if you didn’t get to make it this year, I’m right there with you. I dropped the ball entirely, as per usual, overwhelmed by the mundane. I did manage to post reminders for others, hoping that at least someone out there would get to honor this tradition. That counts for something, right? Thankfully, a few years ago, I made a generous batch and still have some left, will have to ration it to last me the whole year.

When it comes to Thursday salt, the bad news is that if you didn’t get to make it on the day, you have to wait till next year, because it can only be made once, on the Clean Thursday before Easter. The good news? If you take even just a pinch of Thursday salt and mix it in with regular salt, the whole blend carries the potency of the ritual. Makes me think about the intention behind that- making sure that everyone gets to partake in the benefits of the salt, regardless of whether they got to make it themselves or not, a magical compromise, so to speak.

Thursday Salt in Slavic Tradition: Origins, Rituals, and Regional Practices

The folk tradition of Thursday salt (Chetvergovaya sol’) is deeply rooted in Eastern Europe (especially among East Slavs and Orthodox Christians), and it involves roasting or burning salt with bread or herbs to imbue it with protective and spiritual properties. The result is a charcoal-black salt (brown or even off-white, depending on the roasting process) that has long been revered amongst our people for its powerful protective and healing properties.

Practical Magic of Thursday Salt

Let’s get to my favorite part first! Every time I talk about a tradition or a ritual, the most exciting part for me is uncovering its practical reasoning and application because it reflects the wisdom and cunning knowledge of our people. I’m absolutely giddy with excitement to unearth how every tradition we practice has a deep spiritual meaning baked in together with an important practical aspect. Our people wasted no effort. All actions were deeply intertwined, woven into each aspect of their lives.

First of all, why salt? It’s pretty simple: in the pre-modern Eastern Slavic world, salt (along with sugar) was a rare and expensive commodity, and peasants often had access only to coarse, unrefined salt that could contain impurities like dust, clay, mold, or organic debris. This was especially true when salt was mined locally or evaporated from briny lakes and not industrially processed.

From a scientific standpoint, salt itself (sodium chloride) doesn’t burn, but roasting it with organic matter (like bread, herbs, or rye mash) at high temperatures could help sterilize it, killing bacteria, burning away organic impurities, and even mildly transforming its mineral content.

So while krestyane (peasants) may not have known the chemical details, the act of burning or baking salt in the pechka (oven) had the added benefit of making it safer, cleaner, and more effective for medicinal and culinary use. It was a low-tech way of sanitizing and enhancing a valuable household staple.

Spiritual Panacea vs Church

While the current tradition of making Thursday salt has been “church-ified”, we know that it’s not an originally religious tradition, simply because it was never officially sanctioned by the church. In fact, the 16th-century Russian church council known as the Stoglav Sobor explicitly condemned the preparation of Thursday salt as a superstition with pagan (“Hellenic”) roots. The council’s decree forbade burning straw or placing salt under the altar on Holy Thursday, calling such rituals heretical, and threatened to defrock any priest who facilitated them. To no one’s surprise, despite clerical disapproval, the custom persisted at the grassroots level, passed down through generations as a treasured piece of folk magic.

It seems clear to me that the custom of making Thursday salt dates back to pre-Christian times. Salt itself is considered a magical and protective substance in many cultures across the globe, and Early Slavic people had no doubts in it’s ability to purify, protect from evil forces, and heal from illnesses. The addition of fire in the roasting process was seen as a way to enhance these protective qualities, since fire itself symbolized purification in folk belief.

Thursday is the chosen day for cleaning because among pre-Christian Slavs, Friday was a day of rest and restriction, especially tied to women’s spiritual practices and the veneration of household spirits or female deities. Friday was considered sacred to feminine forces, often associated with the Rozhanitsy, Mokosh, or other earth and fate goddesses. Thus, any kind of housework—especially spinning, weaving, or sweeping—was forbidden on Fridays. Violating this could anger the spirits or invite misfortune.

Regional Variations

With each article on this Substack, my goal is to decentralize Russia and to do my best to find regional varieties. Sometimes I fall short, but this time I’m glad to share some of the variations I was able to find. I will note that my access to archives and literature to create a cohesive comparison leaves to be desired, so I’m always open to feedback from representatives of the cultures mentioned in the article. And for those interested in my personal recipe, it can be found at the end of this article.

The tradition of Thursday salt is widespread amongst various Slavic regions, and the core idea behind its purpose is the same everywhere. However, there are regional nuances in how it is made, what it’s called, and how strongly it survives today:

• Ukraine: Among Ukrainians, четвергова сіль (“chetverhova sil’”) has been a beloved tradition, especially in rural areas and historically in Cossack communities. Ukrainian villagers would prepare it on Chystyi Chetver (Clean Thursday), calling it “sviata sil’” (holy salt) or simply Thursday salt. The classic method with rye flour or bread was common, and Ukrainian folklore ascribes the same uses – protecting cattle, adding to a baby’s first bath, etc. In some Hutsul and Carpathian regions, local herbs from the highlands were added, giving the salt a mountain fragrance. Even through decades of Soviet secularism, many families quietly kept the knowledge.

  

• Belarus: In Belarus, the practice is known (in Belarusian) as чацвярговая соль (“chatsviargovaya sol”) with very similar preparation. Being largely Eastern Orthodox historically, Belarusian villages shared the custom of roasting salt with bread dough on the Thursday of Holy Week. Many Belarusian families would keep a small sack of “Thursday salt” in the kredens (cupboard) as a remedy and safeguard. While detailed documentation is sparser, it’s understood that Belarus, lying between Russia and Ukraine, inherited elements from both. For example, herbs like wormwood (piroŭ) which are common in Belarusian folk medicine were often added.

• Russia: In Russia, четверговая соль (“chetvergovaya sol’”) was historically widespread in central and northern provinces and later in Siberia. It was especially common among old believer communities and rural households. Regions like Kostroma, Yaroslavl, Vladimir, Moscow, and Nizhny Novgorod were known for this custom. The Russian recipes often used rye bread or kvass wort, sometimes along with healing herbs or even cabbage leaves, roasted in the pechka. After a decline in Soviet times, the practice is seeing a revival in modern Russia. Ethnographers and chefs have renewed interest in it as part of authentic cuisine – for instance, the Kostroma black salt has been recognized by the Slow Food Foundation as a unique heritage food​.

• Poland: In predominantly Catholic Poland, the specific custom of preparing salt on Maundy Thursday was not as deeply ingrained as in Orthodox Slavic lands. Polish Easter traditions center more on the blessing of prepared foods (święconka) including salt, rather than the home-ritual of burning salt. However, salt is indeed a symbolic element in Polish Easter, and ordinary salt is included in their Easter basket to be blessed by the priest, symbolizing purification and prosperity​. This blessed salt was sometimes kept to treat livestock or added to butter churning for luck, showing that similar beliefs in salt’s power existed. I’ve found scant evidence that Polish villagers independently made black salt in the past (apart from Polish-speaking areas of today’s Ukraine or Belarus). One possible influence could have been from the Eastern borderlands (Kresy), where intermixing with Ukrainian and Belarusian populations occurred – there, a Polish family might adopt the Orthodox neighbors’ practice. In recent times, however, Poland has seen a growing interest in “sól czwartkowa” (Thursday salt) as part of a broader rediscovery of Slavic folk culture. The Polish name “sól czwartkowa” is now recognized among folk craft circles, even if it’s not a mainstream custom.

• Bulgaria and the Balkans: Interestingly, the practice is not limited to East Slavs. In Bulgaria (a South Slavic, Orthodox country), Holy Thursday salt (“черната сол” / “четвъртъчната сол”) is a known tradition as well​. Bulgarian sources describe almost identical rituals: women wrapping salt mixed with sourdough or flour in cloth, placing it in a clay pot or old shoe, and burning it in the hearth on the night of Holy Wednesday to Thursday. The resultant “черна сол” was used for health, livestock, against evil eyes, etc. Bulgarian folk magic includes Thursday salt as a component for certain spells and house cleansings, showing a remarkable convergence with East Slavic lore. This suggests that the practice may date back to common early Slavic or Orthodox influences. Other Balkan countries with Orthodox communities (Serbia, North Macedonia, Romania to some extent) have analogous notions of burnt salt for Easter, though it may not be as widely known today. For example, North Macedonian tradition on Veliki Četvrtok (Great Thursday) focuses on dyeing eggs, but some ethnographic notes mention roasting salt with flour as part of Holy Week preparations in the past, especially in rural mountain areas. In Serbia, the custom is less documented, but folk practitioners are aware of “četvrtkova so” from wider Slavic lore.

Preparation Rituals and Recipes

We’ve already established that Thursday salt is a once-a-year ritual that traditionally takes place on the night of Holy Wednesday to Thursday or early on Clean Thursday morning. It’s important to note that the salt itself also has to be bought on Thursday.

To make Thursday salt, coarse rock salt is mixed with organic ingredients like rye bread, rye flour, or kvass dregs and optionally blended with healing herbs such as mint, wormwood, or calendula. The moist mixture is then tightly wrapped in linen or placed in a clay pot and roasted in a hot oven or stove ashes for several hours, until it turns black. Folk tradition warns that any negative words or thoughts during this time can strip the salt of its power, so silence or prayer accompanies the roasting. Once cooled, the hardened salt is crushed into granules, often with continued prayer. The final black salt is rich in minerals and earthy in taste, and is either taken to church for blessing or spiritually empowered simply by the ritual itself. It is then stored near icons, to be used throughout the year for protection, healing, and sacred meals.

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My Magical Salt Recipe and Ritual Applications

Generally, I don’t paywall my articles because I believe anyone deserves a chance to reconnect with their Slavic or Finno-Ugric ancestry, and access to resources like this blog shouldn’t be limited. I do my best to contribute to that freely and generously.

Simultaneously, there are things that are personal to me that I took a lot of time and effort to nourish and create. If we were to meet in person, I would share them with you freely without hesitation. However, in the vast void that is the internet, I want to acknowledge my paid subscribers, who made a decision to contribute to my well-being in this ruthless capitalistic environment. I want to reciprocate their investment by sharing some bits of my intimate magical practice. Thank you for your support and understanding!

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As an immigrant, I often long for the feeling of home, for the sense of belonging. You know that feeling when you step away from the party and look at your group of friends, chatting away and eating snacks, and it just makes you feel so loved and complete? Or when you walk out into a familiar landscape that you’ve walked hundreds of times before, and each time you see it, your body settles and your mind instantly clears? If I’m being entirely honest, even though I associate that feeling with Mordovia (a republic within Russia where I spent a lot of my childhood), I’m not even sure I would feel that sense of belonging if I went back there. On most days, I feel suspended in the air, desperately reaching to touch the ground. And yet, being suspended has its benefits: it grants you a bird’s-eye view of patterns and systems that might be harder to notice otherwise.

The only real sense of belonging I’ve found—outside of the occasional gatherings with my fellow immigrant friends—has come entirely thanks to the Hispanic communities in Los Angeles.

My home is in the moment when the woman selling fruta recognizes me and my daughter, and instantly hands her a banana because she remembers how much she likes them. My home is in us returning the next day with fancy Russian candies, eager to surprise her.

My home is in the small talk with the men stocking the shelves at the local marketa, who light up when we speak to them in Spanish—a language my daughter and I are committed to learning, because we don’t want to let them down.

My home is the swap meet that my husband and I have been coming to since the day we were dating. The ladies who sell agua frescas saw me pregnant, saw me coming there with the newborn, and now have full-on conversations with my toddler.

My home is in the friendship I’ve found with a single mom at the playground we often visit, where I was invited to her daughter’s birthday party. There was a big bouncy castle for the kids and tequila under the table for the adults. My home is in these warm, treasured moments of community. For that, I will be eternally grateful.

I know my daughter won’t truly know my culture. She might speak the language, recognize the food, and understand a few scattered references. But she won’t know it in her bones—the relief and joy of “shopping” in her babushka’s garden and falling asleep in the raspberry bushes after eating too many berries. She won’t know the thrill of reading the signs in the movement of kamysh (cattail) to see if Rusalka is hiding by the lake. She will never know what it feels like to be Russian the way that I do.

But she will be proudly, joyfully Mexican—and I will make sure of that. I wish for her to grow up with a strong voice and bold opinions, surrounded by a loving army of cousins. She is the heir to centuries-old traditions and a culture that is immensely rich and alive all around her. She will know her people, even if she won’t fully know mine.

One day, I might feel regret that my own child is almost a stranger to my culture, but when I look at her, I see so much of her father in her—his eyes, his kindness, his steadiness, his warmth. She is different from me, and there’s beauty and power in that.

I look at this country, and the future of Hispanic communities here seems foggy. It is harrowing to know that there are so many men like my husband—hardworking, loving fathers and partners—being picked off the streets, detained, and deported. Families shattered. Children waiting at the window for a father who will never come home.

I don’t let myself fully visualize my little girl not having her dad come home, it’s too much. And while my heartbreak is abstract, the reality for so many communities that have embraced me and given me a sense of home is cruel.

I always come back to Anthony Bourdain’s words, describing the Mexican coworkers who shaped his life:

“In nearly 30 years of cooking professionally, just about every time I walked into a new kitchen, it was a Mexican guy who looked after me, had my back, showed me what was what, and was there—and on the case—when the cooks like me, with backgrounds like mine, ran away to go skiing or surfing or simply flaked.”

That “Mexican guy” who has your back is my husband, it’s my father-in-law, it’s my husband's nephews and cousins, it’s those men who stock shelves at the market, who laugh with my daughter, and teach us new words.

And now, I see them being hunted. The lawless behavior of the Trump administration is taking pages from the KGB’s playbook. Disappearances, fear-mongering, scapegoating, state-sponsored cruelty—it’s a pattern our ancestors knew too well.

This is where the bird’s eye view comes in handy.

What’s happening in the United States now is not identical to what people lived through in the USSR, but the emotional terrain is starting to feel eerily familiar. In the Soviet Union, people lived under surveillance. There was a sense that “the party” (communist party) was watching, listening, waiting for a reason to strike. A wrong word could ruin your life. A wrong friend could make you disappear. And yet what made it unbearable wasn’t only the fear—it was the gaslighting. The insistence that everything was normal, just, and necessary.

That same gaslighting is happening now. Under the banner of “law and order,” people are criminalized for seeking refuge, for dissenting, for existing in the “wrong” body or belonging to the “wrong” faith. Protesters are being surveilled. Families are being separated. History is being rewritten in schoolbooks. Books are being pulled from shelves. Libraries closed. Teachers are silenced. The fear isn’t loud yet—but it’s humming in the background, and those who recognize the tune are growing anxious.

In the Soviet Union, the law was never about justice. Trials were performative. Guilt was predetermined. The legal system became a tool of control, not truth. That too, is happening here. When protesters face harsher consequences than corrupt officials, when journalists are criminalized, when asylum-seekers are denied protection while the powerful commit crimes in plain sight, the message is clear: the law protects power, not people.

Let’s be clear, Los Angeles is Tongva land. But even beyond California, we all live on the land stolen from Indigenous people, where, for some reason, white supremacy gets to decide who is its “rightful owner” and who is “too brown” to be here. But no one can own the land, we are all here to serve it, and that is the only truth.

While I’ve inherited the stories of survival from a regime that taught my people to stay small, to stay quiet, not to ask too many questions. But I also inherited their resistance. Their memory lives in my bones. And when I look around and see the patterns repeating, I know that while I can still talk, I can’t stay silent.

We’re not past the point of no return. But we are standing on dangerous ground. And those of us who have seen it before—or whose ancestors have—have a responsibility to speak up, before the silence becomes permanent.

Right this moment, the Trump administration is gauging how much they can get away with. Don’t let them get away with anything. Speak up.

The other day, I brought my daughter to the playground. I played tag with her and her little friends—laughing, running gently, tapping them softly on the shoulder with one finger, just enough to say you’re it without causing harm. One child I didn’t know wanted to join in, and of course I welcomed him in. But a few minutes later, his mother approached me, scolding me for touching her child (tapping on his shoulder). I immediately apologized, baffled how could’ve I been so careless and had bypassed someone’s boundary. She looked at me and said coldly, “I don’t need your apologies, you need to be more considering.”

I stood there in the middle of the playground—my own child smiling at me from the other side of the climbing structure—and I felt like I had done something terribly wrong, though I knew I hadn’t. I had been kind. I had been present. I had made space for someone new. Should I have considered another way to play tag? I felt like I was being treated like a villain. And it hurt? Which is surprising, because misunderstandings happen and I usually move on quickly and don’t get hang up on things like that. Especially in a situation where I know a mother is in her right to protect her child when she feels she needs to, whether I liked how she did it or not.

I know now that this wasn’t about the playground, this “crack in character” revealed something deeper—how tender and stretched I already am.

I went from a person who normally gets sick once every few years, to being continuously sick for the past 4 months. I feel like I live on %7 change. My bones are tired. Some of you may know that we live with my mother, who we care for and financially support. She immigrated here two years ago (because of the war and multiple other things) and has yet to make at least one friend or utter at least one phrase in English. She spends her days mostly on her tablet and all of my attempts to inspire her to paint or sew have been futile. She does help me with childcare (which I greatly appreciate), but mostly I feel like I’m her emotional lifeline—just as I was when I was a child.

I recently had a conversation with her: gently but firmly asking her to engage with life again. To take responsibility for her joy, her body, her mind. To live. And in response, she made me feel like I was cruel. Like I was kicking her out of the house. Like I was asking too much.

It’s a familiar feeling. I’ve lived in that dynamic with her for most of my life: where my efforts to set boundaries are met with silence or shame. Where I am always the one expected to hold it all together, to never drop a thread, to quietly make everything okay for everyone else.

But then something opened.

In the softness of the dark, after my daughter had finally fallen asleep and there were no more distractions or needs to attend to, I let the hot rivers flow from my eyes. I looked at the outlines of my daughter’s face and thought that I work so hard on being present because I want to live my life fully, I don’t want to half-ass this motherhood thing, I want to crack myself open for magic and want to create a good life for her. I want to exude joy and abundance SO MUCH that it becomes her baseline in life.

I had an epiphany: my mother sees self-harm as an expression of her love and care for others, and in some deep, invisible way, she resents me for not doing the same.

She has tried in the past to take her own life. She did it twice, when I was a child. The doctors saved her both times. I don’t want to disrespect her privacy so I won’t elaborate on how or why she did it and will focus only on my part of the story.

I remember laying in my bed at night after seeing her almost lifeless at the hospital. My world was crushing down. The sting of the rude words of my father “don’t cry, you’re making everything worse” when I saw the nurses trying to hold her up so she would acknowledge me. I cried my little eyes out alone that night, thinking I had lost my mother. My father, absent, didn’t care to hold me through this pain.

Here I am again: the child inside me crying, “Please don’t die.” Believing that if I don’t give enough, if I don’t soften enough, if I don’t cross my own boundaries and offer my entire self—she will disappear. And it will be my fault.

I watch her everyday withdrawn from the world. Unmotivated to enjoy the endless sun, nature, art and culture of California. I realize now: this, too, is a form of slow self-erasure.

I had my own brush ups with suicidal thoughts. First time when I was married to my abusive ex (a conversation with a childhood friend had put me on the path away from acting on my thoughts). Second time during my PPD that coincidently started when my mother moved in with us (my dear husband gently held me through it). So I do understand how one can get to the point where life becomes too much to bear.

My mother carries a deep ancestral wound, that she has put on the altar and worships like it’s a Holy Grail of Ancestral Wisdom. It’s the belief passed down from generation to generation: that mothers must die, in body or in spirit, for their children. That daughters must trade their lives to keep the family whole.

But I do not believe that anymore.

And the relief that came with that realization was like air returning to my lungs.

I believe this: trauma of wars and poverty pushed my ancestors to have no choice but to die for their children, but I know they wish for us to live fully for ours. I refuse to believe that this self-deprecating pattern is who we are. We lifted each other up through community, through music, art, through our connection to nature and I will preach that ‘till my gums bleed. These wounds are a part of our history, but it’s not the culture we will carry into the future.

We are not here to fix our mothers. We are not here to die in their place. We are here to feel the grief, the guilt, the pull—and choose life anyway. Not just for ourselves, but for the ones who come next.

We are allowed to rest. We allowed to be kind and still say “no”. We are allowed to live free from the mindset that equates suffering with nobility and character strength. Suffering has broken more people that it has built. The love we were given is what keeps us alive.

Let me end with a letter—to the child inside me, and maybe to the child in you, too:

To the little one inside me—

I see you. I know you’ve been carrying the weight of someone else’s survival for far too long. You were just a child, and you thought: If I’m good enough, maybe she’ll love me the way I need. You tried so hard. You were careful, generous, watchful, kind. You became what she needed, hoping one day, she would become what you needed.

I want you to know—you didn’t fail. You never did. You were never meant to fix her, save her, or hold her life in your small hands. That wasn’t your job. It never should have been.

You didn’t kill anyone by choosing yourself. You didn’t break the world by saying “enough.” You are allowed to rest. To breathe. To be safe in your own body. You are allowed to want joy. You are allowed to protect your heart.

You are finally the mother you needed and now you will never be left behind. You will always be loved. You will not be asked to disappear.

The snake that can’t shed its skin is doomed to perish.

To me, this isn’t just a proverb—it is a lived truth. One of the pillars of my personal practice is animism. For the past five years, I have worked closely with the spirit of the Bear—its strength, protection, and ancestral wisdom a steady guide through times of embracing ancestral pain and becoming a mother. But in recent months, I’ve felt a shift. The Bear has begun to step back, and The Snake has emerged.

At first, I dismissed this shift as a coincidence—after all, it is the year of the Snake, and I was born in the year of the Snake. But the signs have continued to surface. I remembered vividly the day a snake crossed my path in the forest while I was pregnant. She stopped, turned her head to look at me, and I stood still, unthreatening. I took a picture of her and only later noticed: she, too, might’ve been carrying life? That moment, initially fleeting, now feels deeply significant—a mirror of the liminal space I was inhabiting then, between one life and another. The Snake seems to appear (physically or spiritually) in the moments when a change is needed.

More recently, I’ve felt an urge to cut my hair—a strange impulse for someone who has always treated her hair as a sacred connection to my land, I’ve never dyed or experimented with my hair. Since giving birth, I’ve watched it grow, a symbol of accumulated wisdom. But wisdom doesn’t come only from gentle moments. It is forged in experience, often through pain. This urge feels like a bell tolling, an inner call to make space for what’s next.

The snake has long symbolized the power of rebirth—the ability to shed the old self and emerge transformed. I have reached a point where I know: I will perish if I do not shed. So many elements of my life are coming to a halt. Something must give. Something must change.

To honor the beginning of this transformation, I offer this exploration of the snake's lore in Eastern Europe—not only as research or history, but as a personal invocation of what the serpent teaches: to leave behind what no longer serves, and to step into the unknown, raw and renewed.

In the vast terrain of Eastern Europe, where dense forests meet ancient steppe, the snake slithers not only through the soil but also through the stories, spells, and symbols that have endured for centuries. A creature feared and revered, the serpent occupies a liminal role in Slavic and Russian cultural memory: at once a harbinger of death, a vessel of prophecy, a symbol of divine protection, and a force of transformation.

The lore surrounding snakes in the Eastern European magical imagination is rich and contradictory. Tales from religious chronicles, practices of folk magic, and artifacts like zmeeviki amulets reveal a worldview in which the serpent is a figure that defies categorization. Transformation—whether of the body, the fate, or the soul—is at the heart of these narratives. Through the snake, people sought to change their fortunes, protect their lives, and even overcome death itself.

The Snake Beneath the Skull: Prophecy and Fate

In one of the earliest and most famous magical stories of Kievan Rus', the Tale of Bygone Years recounts a chilling tale from the year 912. A magician foretells that Prince Oleg will die because of his horse. Taking precautions, Oleg abandons the animal, only to mock the prophecy years later upon learning of the horse's death. But fate is not so easily outwitted: visiting the horse's remains, Oleg is bitten by a snake that emerges from its skull, and he dies shortly afterward.

This story is more than a simple moral about hubris. It reveals the snake as an agent of transformation, from life to death. The chronicler’s subsequent digression into biblical and early Christian magicians underscores the tension between condemning magic and recognizing its power. The snake, crawling forth from decay, becomes a vessel of prophecy fulfilled.

Tongues, Skins, and Talismans: Folk Magic and the Snake

In the world of folk practitioners known as kolduny, the serpent was a source of potent materials for transformation and defense. One spell involved killing a black snake, extracting its tongue, and sewing it into green and black taffeta to be worn in the left boot. When paired with garlic and a towel tied over the right breast, the charm was believed to protect its bearer in court or battle.

Snake parts were also used in household magic: snake-infused water healed fevers and marital discord, while the dried head of a serpent could be rubbed on the dead to bring them back to life, as in the bylina of Potuk Mikharla Lanovich. A snake hung on a birch tree summoned rain. These rituals point to the belief in the snake’s ability to mediate between worlds—to transmute illness into health, conflict into peace, and the inanimate into the animate.

In many Slavic regions, snakes were also associated with the ancestors. Killing a snake near the home was forbidden, as it could be a domovoi—a household spirit or the soul of a departed family member. Snakes appearing in dreams or visions were often interpreted as messages from the otherworld, guiding the dreamer through a transformation or rite of passage.

Zmeeviki: Amulets of Dual Faith and Dual Power

Perhaps the most iconic serpent artifact in Eastern European culture is the zmeevik (from zmiaja (Belarus),zmeya (Russia), zmiya (Ukraine)). These medallion amulets are marked by syncretism: one side bears Christian imagery (saints, angels, or the Virgin), while the other reveals pagan or magical motifs such as the Gorgon head with radiating snakes or a mounted warrior spearing a serpent.

Zmeeviki embodied transformation in a literal and symbolic sense. They were worn by commoners and elites alike, and even donated to monasteries. Some featured inscriptions like "Seal of God" or "One God, vanquisher of evil" alongside Greek or Church Slavonic prayers. Others carried the hystera motif, meant to ward off illness and she-demons such as Lilith or Antaura. In a world where spiritual safety required more than orthodoxy, the dual nature of zmeeviki allowed wearers to move between realms of belief, uniting Christian protection with ancient magical wisdom.

The Mounted Warrior and the Serpent: The Icon of Victory

The image of a mounted man piercing a serpent or dragon appears on seals and amulets from as early as the 10th century, long before it became officially associated with St. George. The figure likely evolved from representations of Solomon or other warrior saints such as St. Sisinnius, and served to ward off demonic illness and evil spirits.

In these depictions, the serpent or recumbent demon symbolized illness, infertility, or misfortune—forces to be transformed, conquered, and reabsorbed into a restored order. Over time, this iconography was absorbed into national symbolism: the rider became central to Muscovite seals, and eventually to the Russian coat of arms, where he remains today, spearing a dragon on the breastplate of the double-headed eagle.

The Alchemy of Belief: Amulets, Animals, and Magical Medicine

In addition to snakes, other animals played transformative roles in Slavic magic. Snake water, dried frogs, bat wings, and toad bones were part of healing and divination rites. Unicorn horns (likely narwhal tusks or mammoth ivory) were used as antidotes to poison and tools of royal power. These practices were not mere superstition—they represented a worldview in which nature itself held keys to change and protection.

In Slavic cosmology, the world was often imagined as resting upon or encircled by a cosmic serpent or dragon—a guardian of order and, when provoked, a bringer of chaos. This being served as a link between the upper world of the divine, the earthly realm, and the underworld. As such, the snake symbolized not only transformation but also the very structure of the cosmos.

Ivan the Terrible, who both practiced and persecuted magic, owned "unicorn" staffs and donated zmeeviki to monasteries. The paradox of a tsar who wielded magical symbols while punishing witches only highlights the deep cultural entrenchment of these practices. Transformation, in this sense, was not just individual but political: an assertion of divine right, mystical authority, and control over fate.

The Snake as Symbol of Shifting Worlds

In the lore and material culture of Eastern Europe, the serpent is never just a snake. It is a symbol of transition—between life and death, sickness and health, paganism and Christianity, nature and spirit. Whether buried under a birch tree, pressed into metal, or worn against the skin, the snake has long been a companion to those navigating change.

In embracing the snake, our ancestral traditions reveal an ancient belief in the power to transform one's reality. Through talisman, ritual, and myth, the serpent becomes a guide through the shadows, offering not only protection but the possibility of profound metamorphosis.

P.S. My toddler also wanted to add that some snakes only poop once a year.

Motherhood is full of lessons—especially about human nature. As the mom of a toddler, I’ve learned that saying “Please don’t touch that” is practically an invitation to do exactly that. This daily game of defiance got me thinking about a much bigger pattern: how people throughout history have been drawn to the very things they were told to avoid. And, as it turns out, this tendency has played a huge role in shaping magical and folkloric practices in Eastern Europe. When the Church and State tried to suppress certain beliefs, they often ended up spreading them instead—just like my toddler spreading paint where she absolutely shouldn’t. But why are we wired this way? Before diving into history, let’s take a quick look at what psychology says about our love for the forbidden.

When “No” is an invitation

When someone tries to take away our freedom to choose, we tend to dig in our heels and want it even more. This is called psychological reactance, and it’s why banning books, music, or behaviors often backfires—suddenly, what was once just another option becomes a must-have. Tell people they can’t do something, and you’ve basically handed them a reason to do it.

Then there’s cognitive dissonance, which is our brain’s way of making sure we always feel like the good guy. If we break a rule but still see ourselves as decent people, we need to make sense of it somehow (is that what Trump voters are doing right now?). Changing our behavior would solve the problem, but that takes effort, so instead, more often, people justify it: “Sure, I wasn’t supposed to sneak out, but that rule is dumb anyway.” And just like that, all is right in our minds.

Ever tried to cover something up and only made it worse? That’s the Streisand Effect. The moment you try to ban or erase something, people suddenly have to know why. It’s human nature—tell us we shouldn’t look, and we’ll look twice as hard. This is why censorship often does the exact opposite of what it’s meant to do.

And then there’s Deviance Regulation Theory, which explains why some people love breaking the rules and others avoid it at all costs. If rebellion makes you look cool, people will line up to do it. But if breaking the rule makes you look foolish, suddenly, no one’s interested. It all comes down to how the forbidden thing is framed—make it feel rebellious and attractive, and people will rush toward it. Make it seem embarrassing or ridiculous, and it loses all appeal.

Magic and Divination in Popular Belief

How did this play out in Slavic folk and magical practices? Exactly the way you’d expect. The more the Church and State tried to stamp out certain “dangerous” ideas—whether religious, magical, or political—the more they accidentally spread them. It’s like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. Every condemnation just made people more aware, more curious, and more likely to think, Hmm, maybe there’s something to this after all.

To make matters worse (or better, depending on your perspective), priests were handed detailed lists of magical and sexual practices to interrogate their parishioners about during confession. So even if someone had never considered, say, summoning a wizard or doing something scandalous with a candle, they were now aware of the possibility. This blurred the line between “high” (educated, elite) and “low” (folk, everyday) culture because, whether the authorities liked it or not, these ideas were circulating everywhere.

Muscovite Russia was so tightly controlled by the Church and State that even your weekend activities were their business. In 1649, the governor of Verkhoturye sent a memo to the town commissioner of Irbitskaya sloboda with a long list of things people weren’t allowed to do. No talking in church. No getting drunk. No watching traveling entertainers. No calling on witches or wizards for medical help. No fortune-telling, no pouring wax to see the future, no playing dice, cards, chess, or knucklebones. No leading bears through town (I’m actually with him on that, leave the bears alone). No singing “devilish” songs or—heaven forbid—dancing. And if you did any of these things? You got a beating. Just to make sure everyone was on the same miserable page, Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich sent similar lists to other provincial governors, making sure fun was properly extinguished across the land.

The strictness didn’t stop there. One particularly stern Moscow patriarch in the 1600s refused church burials for people who drowned while bathing or fell off a swing—because, in his view, these were self-inflicted deaths and therefore counted as suicides. This kind of puritanical attitude toward “sinful” frivolity stuck around well into modern times.

By the 18th century, there was still a long checklist of activities that could get you into serious trouble, including some that seem downright ridiculous today. Burying gold (a Yuletide game with a divination element)? A sin. Playing blind man’s buff? Absolutely not. Listening at windows for marital omens? Forbidden. Playing music? Suspicious. Using any kind of folk remedy involving salt, ointments, tar, or honey? Dangerous. Even things as simple as rolling in the snow, listening to the way thunder rumbled, or carrying water in a sieve—common divination practices—were considered suspect.

And of course, omens were everywhere. If a mouse ate your clothes, trouble was coming. If a moth chewed your coat, same deal. A mouse building a nest high in the corn? Grain prices would skyrocket. Aching bones meant a journey was ahead. Itching palms meant money. Itching eyes? Tears were coming. The sound of creaking huts, crackling fires, and squirrels jumping around in the trees? Bad news.

It’s clear that magic and divination were deeply woven into daily life in Muscovite Russia. What’s even more interesting is what’s missing—hardly any mention of the fertility rites and agrarian rituals that we know were central to village life. Maybe they weren’t seen as “magical,” just a necessary part of survival. Either way, despite the best efforts of the authorities, people found ways to hold onto their traditions, and, just like my toddler when I tell her not to do something, the more they were told “no,” the more they found ways to say “yes.”

Below is an extensive list of the prohibited practices and omens in Russia from the book by W.F. Ryan, “Bathhouse at midnight”.

Prohibited practices

• Burying gold (a Yuletide game with an element of divination);

• Playing blind man's buff;

• Listening at thresholds and windows (a form of marital prospects divination);

• Smearing one's face with soot (a Christmas season masquerade custom);

• Wetting one's head with cloths;

• Beating with cloth twists (a game);

• Playing musical instruments;

• Playing chess, dice, or cards;

• Looking at hands or allowing a magician to read one's own or one’s children’s palms (chiromancy, which is not recorded in Russia before the eighteenth century);

• Using salt, ointments, turpentine, oil, mercury, human blood, animal or human milk, honey, dew, tar, or hops for rubbing the body (various medical or magical procedures, often accompanied by spells);

• Listening to thunder (for divination by the Gromnik; this likely refers to interpreting the direction of thunder for omens or to the magical practice of bathing during a thunderstorm);

• Rolling in the snow (a form of marital prospects divination);

• Carrying water in a sieve (a well-known motif in folklore; in many proverbs, this symbolizes attempting the impossible—see Dal’s Tolkovyi slovar', entry for reshetka; cf. Pliny, Naturalis Historia, XXVII.iii.ii–iv.12. The task of carrying water in a sieve is often assigned to simpleton heroes or devils in folktales);

• Listening to dogs, cats, geese, ducks, horses, or oxen for omens (animal oracle practices);

Omens:

• A mouse eating one’s trousers (this omen appears in the Volkhovnik or "Book of the Wizard");

• A moth spoiling one’s clothes;

• A mouse building its nest high in the corn (an omen of rising grain prices; see Dal’s Tolkovyi slovar', entry for mysh');

• Aching bones and an itching knee predicting a journey;

• Itching palms foretelling money;

• Itching eyes, signifying coming tears;

• Various encounters with animals and birds;

• Creaking huts, crackling fires, murmuring forests, and squirrels jumping (omens recorded in the Volkhovnik);

• Performing magic on livestock using stones, iron, frying pans, and icons;

• Consulting wizards, heretics, impious old women, or witches, particularly on St. John's Night (one of the most magical times of the year);

• Bathing with herbs in the bathhouse (a practice associated with midsummer magic, especially herbs gathered on the feast of Agrafena-Kupal’nitsa, June 23);

• Cutting off a child’s first hair (a practice common in churches—Giles Fletcher, writing about Russia in 1591, noted: "After the baptism, the custom is to cut off the child’s hair, wrap it in wax, and place it in a secret location within the church as a relic or monument");

• Pregnant women giving bread to a bear—if it growls, she will have a girl; if it remains silent, a boy;

• Divining with a key in a psalter;

  Disclosure:

  While I strive to decenter Russia in my research and writing, the first sources available to me at this time are primarily Russian. As a Russian, these materials are the most accessible, but my intention is always to explore a broader perspective on Slavic and Eastern European traditions. Additionally, I only use the conjunction of Slavic in instances of shared history; however, I do not ignore or minimize the importance of regional and ethnic individuality in these traditions and practices.

“Each of us begins our life as the recipient in what Genevieve Vaughan has called a “maternal gift economy”, the flow of “goods and services” from mother to newborn. When the mother nurses her child, the boundary of the individual self becomes permeable, and the common good is the only one that matters.”

Robin Wall Kimmerer, in The Serviceberry, describes how the systems of nature teach us reciprocity—how giving and receiving exist in a balance that strengthens the whole. This resonates deeply with me, especially when I think about how community works at its best. The way we care for one another, not just in times of crisis but in small, everyday gestures, is what builds a real sense of belonging. It’s something I saw firsthand in my own apartment building.

We live in a small building with only twelve units. All the neighbors know each other, and we have had a group chat since the early days of the pandemic. When my husband and I moved here in 2018, I imagined our building as a little village, a space where neighbors could rely on one another. At times, this vision has worked beautifully, with community movie nights and food swaps, but the harmony often shatters when residents move out and new ones arrive.

Currently, my husband and I are the only married couple, and we also have a daughter—the darling of the whole building. When she was born, the community felt like an extension of the maternal gift economy. One of my neighbors even made me a dozen burritos for postpartum meals—an offering of care that felt deeply personal and necessary.

But things have shifted.

Last year, there was a major exodus from our building. Long-time residents, who had formed the foundation of our little community, moved out, and in their place came people who saw the building as just another stop on their way elsewhere. The communal spirit we had cultivated—where we looked out for each other, shared meals, and helped in times of need—began to unravel. Gone were the impromptu gardening sessions in the courtyard and the small, thoughtful gestures of checking in on one another.

I think about my late neighbor, Ming. She used to share her chili with me—the first chili I ever tried, and the only one I ever want to remember. Ming has passed now, and I hold onto her memory by refusing to let anyone else’s chili replace the taste of hers. I barely knew her, but her kindness left an imprint on me, and this is my small way of honoring her. That’s what true community felt like—care, even in small ways, without expecting something in return.

Now, neighborhood interactions have become purely transactional. A neighbor would message only when they needed something—a missing ingredient, a borrowed tool—without any inclination to build a deeper connection. And I understand. Life in Los Angeles is demanding, stressful, and often isolating. It’s easier to move through it without attachments. But a lack of connection breeds disarray.

One of the new neighbors recently learned that the trash man is, in fact, not a Santa Claus, and he can’t magically take out the garbage when the access is blocked by their car. Then, there are the serial offenders—the ones who don’t bother breaking down their cardboard boxes for recycling, others who block your garage with no notice, or those who leave the washing machine covered in pet hair after cleaning their dog’s blankets. The lack of consideration chips away at the already fragile threads of community.

I used to give people grace, assuming we were all adults just having a hard day, making one-off mistakes. But as time shows, these aren’t isolated incidents but patterns and habits. And the neighbors who have been here for years—the “seasonal” residents who have weathered these cycles of change—are starting to lose patience.

So, we’ve begun addressing things head-on. While I have generally been the sweet and understanding one, recently, I had to change my attitude. It’s remarkable how people don’t consider that “the nice one” can become confrontational if pushed too far. At one point, I had to send a message that read: “Please do not relay the responsibility of cleaning up after you onto me—I already have one child.” If you know me, you know I was at the end of my rope to have the audacity to say something like that.

Motherhood has taught me to embrace the very qualities that society often criticizes mothers for—assertiveness, directness, setting firm boundaries, and prioritizing our mental and physical well-being. I have learned to love and respect my anger, and I fully envelop myself in “darkness” without guilt.

I can still be a shoulder to cry on, but that doesn’t mean you get to wipe your snot on my blouse. You know what I mean?

Truth be told, in the early days of parenting, I often overworked and overextended myself, taking on more than I could handle (*parentified childhood enters the chat*). I felt the need to be everything for everyone and do everything myself, but eventually, I reached a point of complete depletion. I was a walking void, a shell of myself.

I remember catching my reflection in a glass wall at a store while running after my toddler and, for a brief moment, thinking how funny it was that some lady was wearing the exact same outfit as me—only to realize it was my own reflection. I didn’t recognize myself. My face was grey and drained of color, my back hunched, and my hair a frazzled mess. The sight stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t just about disliking how I looked—it was the realization that my outward appearance had finally caught up with how I felt inside, something I thought I was hiding very well from everyone.

I realized that in order for me to survive motherhood, I had to ACTUALLY take care of myself and invite other family members to step up to help. Sounds obvious, but I took a few wrong turns to reach that destination.

Motherhood, in a way, saved me from myself.

Now, I have extended this principle beyond my family and into my interactions with my neighbors. I no longer act solely as a giver; I also make requests and set boundaries, ensuring that the shared responsibilities within our building are distributed fairly. What I have found is that when I stand firm in my expectations, the entire community benefits. And this is something I believe to be true on a larger scale— when women take charge of their well-being, it has a ripple effect on society. I love to see women assert themselves within their households, set boundaries, and demand fair treatment. When we advocate for ourselves, we also model what it means to balance care with self-preservation for others—our children, our peers, and even strangers. The societal structure begins to shift as more women recognize their right to well-being, autonomy, and mutual support. Communities become more resilient, not because of blind self-sacrifice, but because they are built on equity and shared responsibility.

Despite the current frustrations with neighbors, I still believe in the necessity of community. People need to feel a sense of belonging before they can understand its importance. So I continue reaching out first, offering help first, but also setting clear expectations. I remind my neighbors that we are on the same team, that they can count on me and that this building is more than just a collection of individual units—it’s a shared space where small acts of care and consideration can transform the city living experience.

Community is an ongoing negotiation, a balance between generosity and boundaries. And while it’s not always easy, I hope that, with time, we can restore a sense of camaraderie—not through obligation, but through mutual recognition that we are all in this together.

It’s like “the motherhood economy”, when the mother sets the price, everyone benefits.

Find a community garden near you in Los Angeles to volunteer or get access to fresh local food.

Initiatives that foster community engagement and provide support in Los Angeles:

Neighborhood Councils: Established by the city's charter in 1999, Los Angeles' Neighborhood Councils are city-certified groups composed of individuals who live, work, own property, or have a connection to a neighborhood. There are currently 99 such councils, each serving as a grassroots platform for residents to influence city decisions, receive early notifications of upcoming issues, and present annual priorities for the city budget. These councils operate with a degree of independence, allowing them to set their own agendas and determine their own leadership.

Community Coalition (CoCo): Based in South Los Angeles, CoCo is a grassroots organization composed primarily of youth and adult residents. The organization focuses on dismantling systemic racism and economic inequity by addressing root causes to create sustainable change. CoCo's initiatives include youth leadership programs, civic engagement, and the development of the Center for Community Organizing, a national school for community organizers and civic leadership training.

Los Angeles Community Action Network (LACAN): Operating in the Skid Row area, LACAN is a grassroots organization that organizes low-income and homeless residents through advocacy, community organizing, litigation, and education. The organization prioritizes the leadership of those directly affected by issues such as housing rights and civil rights of the unhoused population. LACAN's projects include the EcoHood initiative, which aims to build affordable and energy-efficient housing, and the publication of reports highlighting structural racism's impact on women in Skid Row.

Concerned Citizens of South Central Los Angeles (CCSCLA): Founded in 1985, CCSCLA is a non-profit organization working for social justice and economic and environmental change within the South Central community. The organization involves community members in identifying areas of concern and provides tools to engage with institutions to enact change. CCSCLA's initiatives include organizing block clubs, affordable housing projects, youth development programs, and environmental health campaigns.

Los Angeles Neighborhood Land Trust (LANLT): LANLT focuses on contributing to the equity and well-being of neighborhoods through the development of parks, gardens, and community-driven organizing. The organization works to create green spaces in underserved areas, fostering community engagement and improving residents' quality of life.

It’s no surprise that within Slavic and Finno-Ugric cultures, hair has long been entwined with ancient spiritual beliefs and traditions. As a relatively young witch (35 feels a bit green in witch years, doesn’t it?), I’ve gathered some insights that I believe are worth sharing.

Across both cultures, hair was generally a symbol of health, beauty, vitality, and spiritual strength, and how one’s hair was presented could tell a lot about a person, particularly a woman.

Young, unmarried women traditionally wore a single braid adorned with a ribbon. If the ribbon started at the top of the braid, it signified that the woman was actively seeking romantic pursuits. In contrast, several ribbons starting mid-braid indicated she was in a committed relationship and soon to be married. During the wedding ceremony, her single braid would be untied by her girlfriends amidst tears and songs lamenting her lost freedom, this ritual was called “rozpletiny”. Her hair was then brushed and tied into two braids, symbolizing her new status as a married woman. While covering the hair was not necessary prior to being married, after the completion of the marriage ceremonies, the hair would always be covered.

After giving birth and years into my marriage, I naturally gravitated toward wearing two braids—or my “crown,” as I like to call it. It wasn’t a deliberate decision to follow tradition but rather a personal preference. I find this style not only beautiful but also incredibly practical. Caring for a young child often made self-care an unattainable luxury, and this hairstyle has the added benefit of looking even better after a few days without washing your hair.

For me, the most intriguing aspect of hair magic begins with the untying of braids. “Unbound” hair was often essential for performing magical rituals and was frequently associated with demonic possession. A woman with her hair down was seen as extending an invitation—for intimacy, for magical forces to connect with her, and for dark spirits from other worlds to leave her messages. I have often wondered why that is?

In both Slavic (Russian) and Finno-Ugric (Erzya) folklore, most characters and spiritual entities are depicted with long, unbound hair. Two of the main Erzya goddesses, Vedyava (Goddess of water) and Viryava (Mistress of the Forest), are described as having long hair covering their bodies and faces. The Russian Rusalka is also known for her flowing hair, which she continuously brushes under the moonlight. Figures like Vodianoi, Domovoi, and Leshy are portrayed with long, often messy, unbound hair. Interestingly, even in Vasnetsov’s depiction of the half-woman, half-bird, Alkonost (the happy one with socially accepted behaviour) has her hair neatly tucked away from the viewer, while her troubled sister Sirin is shown with her hair loose, fraying in the wind.

If we are to consider my thoughts as having merit, my conclusion is this:

The symbolism of unbound hair lies in its association with the animal world and its untamed, primal qualities. It represents someone less bound by the social norms of “this world” and, as a result, more deeply connected to “the other” world.

With this understanding, everything else begins to fall into place. In burial rituals, where the plakalshitsa would “tear her hair out” in agony, she was ritualistically engaging in a socially unacceptable act—an unbound flow of grief and tears, roaring with the raw, untamed power of the wild bear. In birth rituals a mother would often wipe her newborn’s face with her hair as a symbolic move meant to protect the child from evil spirits. In abundance and prosperity rituals women would run around naked in the fields with the hair flowing in the wind all to make sure that the spirits would grant their communities a good harvest.

In my personal practice, while I don’t have an opportunity to run around naked in the fields of rye (regrettably), I always perform tarot readings and rituals with my hair freshly washed, unbound, and brushed. This is both a conscious nod to tradition and a personal preference, as I feel more open to receiving spiritual messages and ancestral wisdom when my hair is free and exposed to the elements. I ensure my hair is freshly washed to prevent the residue of daily worries from interfering with the process. The ritual act of brushing my hair helps me spiritually “arrange” my energy, clearing the path for messages to come through directly rather than “getting lost in the tangles.”

To make the act of brushing even more potent, I’ve wood-burned Erzya symbols and runes into my brush. This not only symbolizes my personal commitment to my Erzya heritage but also honors our traditional crafts, such as wood-burning, which are deeply rooted in our relationship with trees and the ethnic practices of Tree Worship.

The presentation of the hair, the tools used to brush, adorn hair and especially the material of the hair itself were all an essential part of a magical practice of our ancestors.

One of the most famous divination rituals is where young unmarried women would brush their hair with “greben” (a crest), saying: «Суженый мой ряженый, явись ко мне наряженный, расчеши мне волосы» ("My betrothed, my adorned one, appear before me dressed up and comb my hair") and placing the crest under her pillow to see the face of her future betrothed in her dreams. In another popular ring pendulum divination performed during Svyatki, the hair of a happily married woman (or sometimes the hair of the person performing the ritual) was tied to a ring to create a pendulum.

Hair (and nail clippings) was often carefully guarded because it was believed not only to be a potential tool for curses but also an essential element in the afterlife. At the Last Judgment, one would have to account for every part of their body. This belief explains the dismay caused by Peter the Great's edict requiring Russian men to shave their beards. A fascinating account from Captain John Perry in 1716 tells of a carpenter who, while obeying the law and cutting off his beard, kept the hair hidden inside his shirt so that he could eventually be buried with it and present it to St. Nicholas on Judgment Day.

While I don’t collect every hair I’ve ever lost, I do belive my hair to be the conduit for energies. I rarely wear my hair down in social gatherings or even errands (unless seeing my very close group of friends that I trust) because I’ve found it makes me uncomfortable, emotionally frazzled and leaves me feeling vulnerable. I tend to have my hair in a bun, a braid or the two braid style tied around my head. On especially vulnerable days (first few days of follicular phase, waning moon, low health days) I tend to veil either with scarfs, dad hats or nestle my head in a hoodie.

To finalize the article I’ve put together a list of my beliefs and guidelines around hair, some are just personal and some are cultural:

• I intuitively have mostly stopped getting haircuts since I became pregnant. My child is now almost 3 and I had only one haircut by a professional (just to cut off dead hair) and the rest I’ve been cutting myself, only tiny bits of the ends on the waning Moon to let go of the past cycle. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding crazy, but I feel like my spiritual stamina has multiplied because of that.

• I have never colored my hair. At first, my parents wouldn’t let me when I was young, but around 19-20 years old I remember taking a picture of myself in the field of wheat and I just loved how much my overall complexion matches the colors of the landscape and ever since I feel like the color of my hair carries a bit of my native land with me and I don’t want to let it go.

• Performing rituals and readings only with my hair down, freshly washed (but dry) and brushed.

• Rarely wearing my hair down in social gatherings, but I will use any opportunity to brush my hair on a tree when I’m alone in nature:

• Doing nettle hair rinses (just water from steeped nettle leafs) as an added layer of spiritual protection;

• Brushing hair with a wooden brush with a tool that carries meaning and is personalized to me. Mine has wood-burnings of Erzya symbols, alternatively you can write your own symbols and sigils on it;

• Veiling with scarfs, hats, hoodies (you can additionally put a protective sigil on all of those too);

My goal is to create more hair accessories that not only offer protection but also infuse my personal style and tradition into my look. Next on my list is a nakosnik or kosnik—a beautiful ornament worn at the end of a braid, traditionally made from birch bark and beads.

Before I dive back into sharing more about ancestral lessons and traditions, I want to take a moment to acknowledge the immense grief weighing heavily on me personally—a grief I’m sure many of us are feeling collectively.

Living in Los Angeles, being a progressive (not that I love labeling myself politically, but it’s where I sort of land), and married to a Mexican man, there’s a lot of uncertainty in our lives right now. We just returned home after being evacuated due to the fires and immediately dove into catching up on work, childcare, and the mountain of household tasks that had piled up. And just as we started to regain our footing, we were hit with the devastating news of upcoming raids that have left us deeply concerned for our Mexican friends and family.

The anger and anxiety that have been my constant emotional backdrop for a while (since the start of the latest invasion in Ukraine) have now reached a new level of intensity. Honestly, after the whole TikTok ban fiasco, I crashed. I needed time to let my nerves settle before I could come back online with thoughts that felt meaningful and grounded.

I spent so much time with my head spinning and my mind racing, caught up in the endless pursuit of trying to reinvent the wheel. What new approaches to organizing haven’t I explored? Where have I fallen short when it comes to supporting my community? Have I been doing enough?

After some much-needed therapy (see below), I think I have the answer.

I’ve realized once again (I seem to conveniently forget every time) that I do more than enough and often push myself past the level of exhaustion in order to show up for my family, friends, and neighbors. I’m constantly aware of other people’s needs and aware of my surroundings, ready to jump in and waste la migra’s time with my “no piki inglish”. I watch over my child and any child in my eyesight, and I analyze any man who seems to follow them too closely. I wait for the girl who is walking to her car alone at night to make sure she locks her door and drives away safely, the list goes on.

It’s not that I, individually, am not doing enough—it’s that I’m alone and fail to recognize just how much others are doing alongside me. Because I’m quite literally not there to see it?

If the LA wildfires have taught us anything, it’s that we know how to come together and support one another. We’re ready to jump into action in times of crisis. I only wish we could collectively channel that same energy into our daily lives.

The need to physically be close to nature and community is a human need wired by our biology and supported by our cultures and centuries of traditions. We all know this to be true in our minds, but I want everyone to remember the physical feeling of relief, peace, and energy in your body after being in a community with your people. I’m grateful to have been brought up with this knowledge, and I feel like this Substack is ultimately for sharing all the ways we can be in community with each other through the prism of my cultural knowledge.

Today, I want to encourage us all to adopt a beautiful Eastern European tradition common in Ukraine, Belarus (талака́), Estonia, Poland (tłoka), Latvia, Lithuania, and Russia (although I will specifically discuss the one from Russia since that’s what I have intimate knowledge of).

TOLÓKA

“Tolóka”(South of Russia) or “Pomochi” (North of Russia) is a form of communal labor in rural communities. It is traditionally performed when someone is pressed for time and needs many hands to complete a task—whether it is building a house, cutting wood, or harvesting crops. People come together and get the work done, no questions asked, and no payment is expected. However, once the task is complete, the hosting party throws a feast for everyone.

Things like “Tolóka” feel like second nature to me, but I recognize that it’s a challenging concept for many to embrace in the era of late-stage capitalism. We’re all stretched so thin, toiling away for our billionaire overlords, that even the idea of unpaid labor can feel daunting. Perhaps we also don’t trust one another enough to be certain that a “feast” will be waiting for us at the end?

Still, I challenge you to look at this kind of communal work more closely. It’s by far more fulfilling and rewarding than it might seem at first. It allows us to come together, create change with our own hands, and witness the power of collective action—something I think we’re all deeply missing these days.

What forms of modern-day Tolóka do you see possible for yourself and your community? Neighborhood cleanup, meal prep, planting a garden in your friend’s yard, helping a friend move, or a collective childcare swap?

I love you, and I wish I could hug you in person.

Низкий поклон,

Власта.