Two rivers define my life. Both are murky, deep and cold. In the Balkans, the Drava - in Africa, the Nile.

Their waters possess pieces of my soul, tiny fragments like shattered crystals scattered over their bed bank, their floor.

There is a mahogany tree on our farm planted by mama's shaky graceful hands, yet it grows strong and proud. A shadow it casts against the African sun.

Another, this one walnut, embraces a cobblestone yard in my grandparents' home. Grandmother brings in apron-fills of walnuts, cracks them with a hammer and her grandchildren gorge.

In Africa everything is warm.

In Balkans, cold.

Africa heaves and unfolds. Untamed drums beat, golden-skinned women ululate... dancing- henna flowers on their feet. Cloves and dead mint leaves swirl in teacups, English biscuits for tea are served and the muezzin calls. A dervish, swathed in his pea green robe, twirls and twirls unaware of the heat... of the oncoming sandstorm. A mad artist's palette of colors imbues every corner here, every home.

The Balkans, they ring like the stirring of that melancholy tamburitsa, like a valiant sparrow's call. Plump old women in scarves and aprons, crochet doilies. Young girls- all long limbs, silken blonde hair, rule the city like Balkan goddesses from dark forests that are no more.

Cherry blossoms fall like a fairy woodland snowfall- but in spring. Apple strudel. Tulips in plastic bottles, heart shaped red cookies on a china plate... plum brandy. Guests are coming.

Heaven calls for prayer when the cathedral bells spread their majestic call. These are the things that adorn many Balkan cities, many homes.

I want to sing my grandmother's folk song but paint henna flowers and hearts on my feet.

I want to strike my feet into the Balkan kolo dance but gyrate passionately to the thud of an African drum - in the distance.

I want to call both Africa and the Balkans my home....