April 11. The dogs are restless. I look at a dead volcano in the distance. It is incredibly early in the morning. The moon is low. Like ghosts from the past, wisps of mist barely move above the open holes in the half-frozen lake. In the thin air at this altitude of more than 2,000 meters, the little man in the moon is sharply outlined in the milky blue of dawn.

Due to the inexplicable workings of my memory, I suddenly think of the 17th-century Italian Jesuit Riccioli. He was the first to give all those lunar seas, mountains, and craters their wondrous names: Mare Tranquillitatis – Sea of Tranquility, Lake of Dreams, Bay of Rainbows, Sea of Fertility, and so many others unreachable places. I can’t identify any of these names on that dark little face and wonder what I am doing with this knowledge, here in this village where about 200 families live according to the rhythm of the day. Where they routinely tend their livestock, plant potatoes and/or carrots at the right times, and now and then catch a fish from the lake. Life here consists only of fulfilling basic needs. Waking up tomorrow and having something to eat.

Money is scarce. Oranges from Batumi are traded for cheese. Another trader with a minibus full of trinkets trades his goods for kilos of potatoes to sell later at the market in Tbilisi. Milk is picked up at the barn doors to be taken to the cities. From high atop the lampposts, the storks watch stoically and quietly form their opinions. Around noon, the men of the village gather at the entrance of the little shop. Here, regional news and daily gossip are shared. As far as language allows, the people here are open and hospitable. They enjoy being photographed and are proud of what they have. Without realizing it, I took a picture of a wolf in a stable yesterday. I framed and focused on the horse, and then saw him in the left corner of my viewfinder. The empty pelt of a wolf against a wall. When I wanted to photograph it more clearly, the farmer intervened and quickly made it clear that it was not allowed. “Prison, prison,” he said, laughing and pointing at himself. A friendly poacher I’d gladly join someday.

The whole day was a strange experience. All the seasons were crammed into one day. In the morning we got a pleasant spring breeze with constantly changing light and stunning sunbeams. Around noon there was a scorching summer sun, quickly followed by rapidly advancing and threatening autumn clouds. Within fifteen minutes, the temperature dropped far below freezing. Not long after, a terrifying snowstorm hit. I was cold to the bone. The dead couldn’t care less.

I think back to that wolf pelt against the wall, to its staring empty eyes. I look at the volcano in the distance. What if that volcano had eyes and a memory? What would that mountain remember?

Time here feels like syrup. Emotionally, it seems to stand still, yet at the same time it vanishes faster than ever before. I think… After all these years, I finally find myself in the now.