~ Waiting for a friend ~

There is a belief that the date palm trees are closely interconnected. If one tree is withered, its friend, who is nearby, grieves and never gives any fruit again. The female tree also withers if its love is cut. Time turns it into a dry branch, petrified of pain. We can see the beauty and sublimity of this closely interconnection and loyalty only in places where pure hearts live. Man is just one of many beings, who at some moments of his existence touched the halo of that beauty. If we have enough patience to look at the world around us for a little while, we can become part of those miraculous and unrepeatable moments, for which we sometimes think that they have left us a long time ago. After many years, they bring again light into our soul. Sometimes, our windows are turning to that light. All we have to do is to move the curtains and let it win the darkness. Only at these moments, when the light bathed our walls, we realize that we are overburdened with many unimportant things and that we have not stood by the window for a long time. Our view, which has long since forgotten how wonderful and beautiful the world behind the glass is, attracted by a strong light, after a long time begins to wake up. We realize that everything we have learned and discovered is created in this miraculous world, and that we sometimes need to take some time to return to it in order to renew our spiritual strength. While we observe, determined by nature, the communication of different beings, their games, first encounters and acquaintances, we again begin to believe that the long thread, which connects them all together, has never interrupted. I have always believed and I believe that those pure and exalted places, where sincere love and friendship reside, are protected by the halo of eternity, and that nothing could and will not be able to destroy them. Anyone who, with a pure heart, walked along the path of life can see and recognize them in quite ordinary everyday scenes and events. Each of these scenes and events writes a story, we just need to see it. This story began on an old stump, in the shade of a tall tree, not far from my window. I’ve always wondered why this stump stands in the same state for years, as if time never touched it. Nothing has ever grown on or around it. It seemed as if its tree was enough to cut it only once and that it never felt the desire to grow again. Every morning, at the same time, one woman left food on it. Sometimes she was hurrying, as if she was afraid she would be late. It took me a lot of time to find out who the mysterious beings were, to whom the food was left. I accidentally saw them. The two beautiful, playful nightingales came every day to the stump, happy to have someone to care for them. It looked as if they were constantly looking for that woman. Before leaving, they always rewarded her with a song. I listened to that song and those unusual sounds that can not be forgotten. They were all around me like a long braid, in which some, unknown to me, emotions and inexplicable world, about which we were reading in fairy tales, were involved. It seemed that the woman, who took care of these nightingales, managed to discover secret symbols of the song of two inseparable friends. For moments, her face expression changed, as if she understood their messages and movements. She watched with excitement two singers, who each day gave her a dance and a new song, which seemed to come from some other world. On their stage, two tiny beings performed a performance that means life. Their audience was only one person, enough for them to do their best to attract her attention. Trying to be imperceptible, I listened and watched them. I did not want to disturb the rare moments in which completely different beings were merged in a special way. It seemed as though the miraculous sounds came from heaven, as if they wanted to tell us that beyond the limits of our perceptions there are beauties that we still need to discover. They echoed for a long time, for days. These beautiful sounds were inviting my soul; they drove away the tiredness of my thoughts, and discovered some new sources of inspiration, which I long wanted. I completely left them to lead me to some new worlds of creation. One spring morning suddenly interrupted them. The Sun, instead of joy, brought deep sadness into our yard. I’m transposing it from my heart to you. That morning, with the hope that I will see two wonderful creatures again, I turned my, still dreaming view, to the stump. A solitary nightingale was standing on a wooden stage, waiting for its friend to appear from somewhere. After many days, for the first time, it stood there alone, frightened, upset, lost. Its gaze jumped from branch to branch, from the roof to the roof, but it did not stop anywhere. It wandered everywhere where there was the slightest hope that it would see its friend. The search was futile. Its sadness began and ended with the first Sun’s rays, who rushed mercilessly into the stump each morning, turned away from it and walked in an unknown direction. Untouched food was waiting for a friend. At the highest branch, near this miraculous stump, there was its watchman, who was searching for only one in the multitude of sounds, the one who would respond to its call and stop the pain, which, mixed with the whisper of leaves, produced the most beautiful tones, which can not be created on any one of, known to us, musical instrument. At that highest, last branch, which struck the Moon, a solitary nightingale sang its sad song to the deep in the night. It burst like an arrow in my heart and made me back on difficult days when I had to split up with many wonderful people. This miraculous song began to write my first verses. They came out of me like a swollen, unstoppable river. They stacked one after the other, not letting me stop. Every night, the words, for which I did not even know that there were inside me, weaved some new carpet of unrepeatable colors and mottles. Sometimes, seemingly utterly irrelevant events, which often invisibly pass by us, can change our life from the root, to launch something new in us. Many people leave this world without knowing that they had something in themselves, but that for some, often unknown reasons, it never came to the surface. It is left to sleep, engrossed in them, so that perhaps, in the distant future, it wakes up and passes on to some descendant. As I watched the silhouette of a lonely nightingale, I wondered where it would be so much power in such a small being that it would not stop, to believe, to love, to wait. Not even long rain, strong winds, thunderstorms and gloomy autumn could not stop it. It sang to the last breath, until the first snowflakes. Waiting for a friend, it stayed at the top of a big tree, standing forever frozen with pain, like a star on the top of a Christmas tree, which cold can not do anything, and which shines in the dark, telling the story that birth is always where something is light. On that tree, covered with snow, next to an untouched stump, there was a story about two friends and a woman who left them food for a long time in the hope that their song would once again echo.
Waiting for a friend, author Suzana Stojanović, May 2, 2018