Welcome to Multilayered!
Think of this installment as a page from a larger, unfolding story—a glimpse into my journey through psychic intuition and dreams, my evolving relationship with my mother and late grandmother, and how these experiences have guided the choices I make today, including the very new journey of worldschooling my son.
I've always lived an alternative life. Surviving war as a child, enduring the turbulence of my parents’ divorce, left by my mother in the most fragile years of my youth, and transplanted to a foreign country—all of this shapes you in ways you never expect. It creates a very different kind of human, one forged from the raw edges of survival and loss. Different from the self I knew before these events wrote my story.
But even before those events, I recall sitting on the wooden windowsill of our balcony, gazing at the distant hills I never ventured beyond. I would ponder what lay hidden beyond their curve. These memories, from before the war, hold the echoes of my wonder. I envisioned oceans, forests, or entire imaginal worlds just out of sight, but within my reach, their mysteries cloaked in invisibility. Day after day, I sat on that windowsill, imagining new landscapes unfolding behind those hills.
I loved being alone in nature. I knew even as a child that's where the enchantment resided.
That's where my strength was, listening to and conversing with the green world and her invisible beings. I don't know how, I didn't need to know, just like to this day, it happens on its own.
My mother would dismiss my curiosity, vision, and dreams.
She didn't believe in myth, magic, or spiritual means.
When her mother passed away—my great-grandmother Slava—visited me in a dream the night after her departure. In the dream, we drove around a winding mountain road for what seemed like hours until we arrived at a village where all our great-grandmothers resided. She had joined them. There were waterfalls, crystals catching the light from the mountains, ripe fruit, birdsong, and a peace so deep and whole—one that no woman in my lineage, and perhaps in most of ours, had ever truly known.
I looked at my grandmother, and we laughed, understanding the connection made through our hearts. It was a kind of peace free from men, from the rigors of life, work, chores, societal expectations, limitations, inequalities, and burdens they carried.
They were knitting, eating pies, sitting in circles, tending to plants, brushing each other's hair, telling jokes, and sharing stories. A large pot of stew was cooking over an open fire, a stream flowing nearby, and a towering quartz mountain surrounded them. So many generations of my great-great-grandmothers gathered in one place. Finally, they have stopped allowing the over-responsibility to steal their creativity.
My grandmother visited me to show my mother that she was at peace, revealing what was possible—a reminder that our bodies and spirits are part of nature, not separate in some fantasy heavens. The heaven religion preaches isn’t beyond; it’s here, in the bones, roots, and stories of this world.
Of course, when I shared the dream with my mother, she scoffed and said something like, "Ah, you and your dreams. You always had such a wild imagination."
Gut punch. Anger. Disappointment. But what did I expect? Any time I had a gut feeling, an intuitive hunch, or a psychic vision, it would be dismissed. This time, though, I was more versed in the imaginal realms and plant communication. I trusted myself more. Even though I had stopped seeking her validation a long time ago, she's still my mother, and it still hurt when she was dismissive and inflexible. I wanted to tell her, "You're a woman! You have a gift! You know these things deep inside. You, too, can access these truths. Your intuition is so powerful! What scares you? What obscures you? What prevents you from trusting your gifts?
It so happens that almost 12 years after my grandmother's passing, every year on the dot, the day after her death, she visits me in a dream, always with a message for my mother. She also visits me at other times, guiding my path, but on the anniversary of her passing, it becomes a ritual between us.
No matter the state of my relationship with my mother, I don't give up on her.
My mother grew up in a patriarchal household under communism, where she couldn't choose her own path; her work was assigned to her. She survived the Bosnian war alone in her thirties, with two small children, living in fear, ongoing trauma, and poverty. She faced countless expectations, always pressured to conform to others' demands, leaving many of her dreams repressed and aspirations unmet. Like many of us, past and present, my mother too was conditioned to see her body as object of desire, rather than vessel of magic.
I know she feels the ancient wisdom of our ancestors in her soul. She may not admit it or understand it fully, and I may spend my whole life trying to prove it to her—perhaps foolishly—but I know she feels it. Each time I share a dream with her, a message from her mother, I see it in her body: her eyes swell, her hairs stand on end, her face flushes, her breathing changes, and she becomes uncomfortable, often trying to shift the conversation quickly.
But the body always knows.
"You can dent the soul and bend it. You can hurt it and scar it. You can leave the marks of illness upon it, and scorch marks of fear. But it does not die, for it is protected by La Loba in the underworld. She is both the finder and the incubator of the bones."
— Clarissa Pinkola Estés
That young girl sitting on the windowsill, imagining new worlds and landscapes, has grown into a mother who continues to dream. She has the opportunity that was taken so suddenly and painfully from her parents.
I find myself in a new phase right now, navigating another uncharted territory.
Most kids Aki's age are now in institutional settings, either preschool or early ons. After spending a lot of time in playgrounds over the past few months, where we often shared the space with various preschools, I was deeply unsettled by what I witnessed. Preschool teachers yelling, spanking kids, pulling them aggressively by their arms, using inappropriate language, and showing a general lack of care. I've visited three parks in our neighborhood, observed around six preschools, and met many kids Aki's age. Yet, I never saw a teacher engage with the children in a playful, educational, or imaginative way or allow them the freedom to explore and be curious. Instead, the focus was on what they were allowed and not allowed to do.
Often, Aki and I would dive into play with the kids, and they'd eagerly join in as they watched us being goofy and creative. I'd invent games for everyone, and we'd have a sweet time together. The teachers would thank me as they left the playground, which felt gratifying and puzzling. Thank me? For doing your job? I'm tempted to speak up each time, but I hold back.
After all, the children are all ours.
I believe oppressive systems shape much of human behaviour, but if we truly want to create change, we need to put in the effort—an effort that involves actively making things better for our children and our communities.
Public education, for the most part, creates little consumers, workers, and obedient citizens, often at the expense of their imagination and connection to the world of spirit.
Most of the time, I'm met with questions like, "But what if your son likes school? What if he wants to go to university? How will he meet friends and be social?" My response is simple: if he wants to go to school, he can—and will when he's ready. He's social when he wants to be. He's been on countless road trips, nature outings, art classes, and group activities. There's always a way to ensure he grows up with rich social experiences and opportunities for learning. Worldschooling feels more vital to me than confining him to a classroom to absorb trivial lessons. He can learn far more through play, at home, among peers, and out in nature—immersed in real-world experiences, discovering life firsthand. The world itself is a far richer classroom that no outdated curriculum can match.
I want him to know his body and his intuition, understand consent, communicate his feelings, and undergo the sacred initiations that come with each stage of life, among many things. I want him be taught by the wisdom of the natural world and enchantment of dreams, loved and supported by us and our community, and not shuffled off to indifferent adults just counting the hours until the day ends.
Like many paths in my life, I've committed to choices before feeling fully prepared. The fear—of making the wrong choice, missing out, or falling short—can be overwhelming, especially when you're responsible for another human being. But despite it, this is where we are now. Just as great art emerges from practice and great stories are written through living, so too will our journey unfold.
This undertaking is far from easy. While I acknowledge the privilege of having the option, I hope for a future where creating new paradigms becomes accessible and supportive for everyone. Imagine that.
Our path might shift and evolve as we go. What matters most to me is staying open, flexible, and creative—trying things out, with steadfastness, and trusting the vision within me that has brought us to this point.
I remind myself that I get to do things differently. I get to be the mother who dreams and lives those dreams out, showing my son how to honor the bones, roots, and stories of this world through the whispers of his ancestors. I get to guide my boy naturally and intuitively, and support his growth into his true self. I get to build. I get to dream. I get to create.
I want him to know about his great-grandmother Slava, a lifelong public school teacher who was deeply loved and cherished. Even from decades ago, her students came to her funeral and sang her songs. It was she who planted the seeds—teaching me to read and write at home, guiding me through many pieces of literature, and inspiring me to weave my first short stories, all from the heart of our home.
She dedicated her life to nurturing children and serving others, and while she may not entirely understand my worldschooling path, I know she embraces it wholeheartedly.
In her eyes, every decision rooted in love will find its rightful place.
With love,
Vanja
After finishing this letter, we took a family trip to the Bluffs for a nature scavenger hunt and synchronistically ended up helping an Indigenous park ranger and his wife save baby turtles, guiding them back to their mama in the pond after the storm had washed them into the lake. The ranger invited us to explore the park—offering kids' programs, nature hikes, owl sightings, and more. Worldschooling in action!
Got this amazing original art by Haitian artist Prospère Pierre-Louis at a garage sale! I’d never heard of the artist before, but his work immediately caught my eye, my spirit. As a result, I’ve been diving deep into Haitian sequin vodou art and the influence of sacred Yoruba rituals that weave through them.
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THIS!!!!! Thank you for sharing so many specifics examples from your life. So nuanced, thoughtful and hopeful. They resonate so so deeply and help me feel connected and not alone in my experience. Ahh this was absolutely lovely to read.... your younger self, the many variations of mothers and grandmothers, navigating this world whilst holding firmly to creating new ones. Magic Vanjaaaa! THANK YOU
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