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Meeting Volodymyr

Mary Elyn Bahlert

In the mid-2000’s I had my dna researched by several services to see if/how they overlapped. It was no surprise to me to learn that my dna was mostly connected to Eastern Europe, with a fair amount in Western Europe. And through dna research, the websites offered the names of others who share some of the same dna. There are ways to walk back through the generations to discover the exact connections, although I have not ever done that.

Many of the folks who have their dna work completed do so and then disappear, their curiousity apparently satisfied. I had thought to possibly connect with others who were interested in meeting others. But for the most part, that thought was not satisfied. One day, however, a message appeared for me – from a distant, distant – distant relative, a cousin. He was from the same place in Ukraine that my grandparents were from (I’ve written about them, both illiterate, in other posts).

And so, through the magic of the Internet, I met Volodymyr. For several years, we stayed connected with numerous messages on Facebook. If I’d text him, he’d respond. In these days of internet connections, I consider that a miracle! We learned about one another’s politics – and agreed to simply disagree with no more conversation!

In August, Jeff and I made a trip we look forward to each year. In the months leading up to our few days away with Rainier, Lia, and Celeste, who live in Seattle, we talk about places we’d like to see. This year, we traveled from our home in Oakland to Seattle by plane, and then we drove two cars from Seattle to Vancouver, B.C. Vancouver, where my cousin Volodymyr lives with his wife, Olesia, who had lately returned from a visit to Ukraine. In some (covoluted) way, Rainier is also related to Volodymyr.

Jeff and I, Rainier and Lia were all happy to meet our cousin and his wife, Olesia. When the seven of us met in at their high rise condo in downtown Vancouver, my cousin and I stood a few feet from one another, uncertain. He looked pleased to finally meet me. I felt happy, too. We stepped forward and gave one another a wam, welcoming hug! For this moment, I am grateful.

Volodymyr, Olesia, Rainier and Lia and Celeste, and Jeff and I spent several hours together, walking through downtown Vancouver, ending up on the shore of the West End of the city. Sometimes I walked alongside my cousin, and sometimes his wife. We chatted about our lives, about their trips to Ukraine. We shared photos from our phones. My cousin and his partner were generous with their time spent with us. We were happy to meet them and so happy to have those several hours together.

Volodymyr tells me that our common relatives were from (anglicized, of course): Buzifka, or probably Sabadash. He had on his phone a photo of a babushka, like my grandmother, a relative distant to me.

And so, I made a connection to that distant place. I had hoped to travel there again – I’d been in Ukraine in 1988, in the last years of the USSR – but the continuing war and the struggle there now prevent me from traveling, although Olesia had just returned from Ukraine. I am grateful for their generosity, and for their interest. Before we parted, we took a picture of us all along the water. I cherish this memory.

With family in Vancouver, August 24, 2025

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“When I am among the trees”, Mary Oliver

Mary Elyn Bahlert

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world,

but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, October 10, 2025, “Among the trees in my yard”
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A mind for it

Mary Elyn Bahlert

As an undergraduate at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, I majored in English. I didn’t say a word – at least not aloud, in class, as response to a question or to ask a question. I was silent, except when I visited with another student, someone who sat next to me in class, say. But I was listening. I had been silent in high school, too, although I joined a forensic society and was able to make presentations to my classes with ease. It would take several years – long years – after I’d graduated and moved on to my first position with the Federal Government as a Claims Representative for Social Security, assigned to the Field Office in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and even later, when I moved across country to study at Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, to settle into life in Northern California, before I’d break through the shell of the shame that kept me silent as my busy mind answered questions, wrote papers.

The name of the class intrigued me. “Theology and Literature.” And so, as was my way, I sat silently in class as the instructor – an Episcopal Priest who seemed to enjoy teaching (I remember that!) began the first meeting by explaining that we’d be writing papers, and that to receive an “A” in the course, we would also be expected to take part in class discussions. I knew that an “A” was out for me then – because I never spoke up in class. But I was an avid student; I loved the literature and I loved the focus we took. And I knew this: I had a mind for what we were reading, what we were studying, for what the professor brought to us.

I wrote the requisite papers and completed the semester without having said a word. And I waited along with the other students as the final paper of the semester was returned. And I waited also, to receive my final grade in the class. There it was: “A.”

I’d done it! And that “A” got my attention. It confirmed my thought that I had a way with this kind of thinking, for theology, for a way to bring together literature – which I loved – and theology – which I also loved.

*

My semester in a student in “Theology and Literature” came to mind today as my husband and I looked over the collection of a lifetime of poems I hope to have published. I’ve always thought: “someday.” It seems that in these elder years, the “somedays” of life are having to step into the light, or be banished forever from my hopes, my dreams. “Someday, I’d like to have my poems published.” The sting of jealousy that accompanies my experience when a friend publishes still arrives some days. But someday – my someday – seems to be now.

Now, now, now… photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 10/25

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If the world hadn’t stopped

Mary Elyn Bahlert

If the world hadn’t stopped 
its incessant orbit, 
its frantic motion – one day to the next –
if all the people hadn’t halted their wars, 
their value counted in barrels of oil, 
I expect I wouldn’t have seen the sun brightening, blue by blue, 
or known the smell of the morning air, fresh, 
as I go sniffing like a cat 
to catch a whiff of what has gone before. 
I would not have opened my window, grateful, 
or wondered at the sound of humans calling into the night to give thanks.

I expect I wouldn’t have stopped midday to pray,
my arms lifted beside the lonely tree, 
its branches lifted, also, in gratitude 
for the magic of the sun, the sky, the dusk and dawn. 
We would not have murmured together at the light 
of the lilies at dusk, 
at the quiet that hangs over the morning air, 
at the call of the crow hoarding its bounty: 
all of us inhabitants of this magnificent earth.






Mary Elyn Bahlert, 2020










Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, View Place, 2020