The Spring Is So Imminent
Everything is still drowsy from the heavy reign of sleep, everything is still quiet. I am standing in complete silence which is occasionally broken by an uncertain cry of a bird that quickly retreats into shadows of thick tree crowns, majestically humming with last night’s dreams. Grass, bent low to the ground under the weight of morning dew. Under bare feet the earth is still warm with night’s breath; toes digging in deeper for that comfort. Standing in the middle of the patch clinging a cold metal bowl to my stomach, I am trying to be as still as possible so not to miss a single moment of this peaceful garden right before the day breaks.
I am here to pick the first day’s offering of fresh strawberries that I will take back to my grandmother to eat for breakfast. The house will stay cool throughout the hot day. I will sit in the shadow of fruit trees, looking up at small green beginnings of sweet tart apples and honey-like pears, and sour cherries. We will go to church that lures me in with its heavy smell of incense and sorrowful hymns that embalm the heart into gentle peace. And I roam through the days with that feeling of completeness, and I take in all the beauty around, and I know what happiness is.
I come from a small town of Uman, located in central Ukraine, about 2 hours away from Kyiv. Last time I visited in October of 2021, I had a strong desire to commemorate so many of the feelings, of my heart I left behind in Ukraine. If only I could push through that panic, through my body’s initial reaction, I thought I could get to the origin of pain of leaving my home and my country. Memories tend to slip and mold and redefine themselves. So, I photographed instead because images don’t lie. They create that visual permanence that doesn’t fade and skew with time. As I walked though familiar places and looked at them through the viewfinder, my heart whispered words of endearment, tenderness, and longing.
These days I look through many of those photos to sooth the dull ache of a wounded heart. There’s an image of an icon of Jesus Christ, a family relic that gets passed on from generation to generation. Last year while visiting, my grandmother wanted me to have it. I told her that she should keep it for protection until she comes to live with us. There were no signs or premonition of war to be waged against my country and my people. These days I look at this photo with a whisper of Otche Nash barely audible, an atheist praying for all that is sacred and dear. As I live through images, I realize Ukraine is more than just a country of my birth. Ukraine tended to my soul’s lyricism with its beautiful landscapes and rich folklore. It poured strength with its history and poetry of resistance, of overcoming and of soaring against all obstacles. Ukraine is not a ruin, nor a servant. Ukraine is freedom and independence. Ukraine is the bread and salt of me and every Ukrainian.
Darya Husak
Darya Husak (b.1986) is a Seattle-based photographer who was born and raised in Uman, Ukraine. After immigrating to the United States with her family she picked up photography as a hobby that quickly grew into means of self-expression and exploration. She creates independent images that question place, identity and belonging through intimacy and immediate experience, weaving their own narrative.