Love and Silence

How much of it is fate?

How much is it chance?

I don’t know why it makes me so sad listening to a man playing the piano. His fingers, just hopping from one key to another, dancing in such a perfect flow. Witnessing this sublime, radiant motions of his hands, I can see it is bringing me immense joy, this fresh, almost as never-before-revealed love. But then, after a minute or two, somehow like in a flash, I can see it’s bringing me sadness, it is bringing me regret, catching me completely off guard.

So I stop. I see this man. I did not know who he was, I didn’t know his name or his address, but like I knew him.

I see him, right there, playing the piano, gives me this childlike cheerfulness sprouting out of my whole being. It gives me hope. Like a fresh breath of air in the midst of a rainy day.

But in some moments, I look at him, and it hits different. Almost like in the same continuum, but on the completely opposite end. In those times, intense emotions of grim, heavy-hearted agony would appear. An almost fathomless sensation of anger, appears as the all-covering cloak of the originally deep-seated lamentations.

He is bringing me, somethings…

He is bringing me, more things…

He is bringing me especially, I now see

all the aspects of me, I before missed.

All the aspects birthed by some of the most beautiful moments of my life. Moments which at that time, submerged everything into inmost presence, extracting the deepest, most loving fulfillment. These aspects got impaired along the way, and these moments came to be only sorrow-evoking experiences. These aspects, then, I’ve put in some drawer buried deep inside, long forgotten. Listening to these dancing notes, shined a light right on this drawer. This drawer is the only thing I see now. I open it, and it’s full. And I didn’t even know it was there. But even if you leave it like that, unopened, you can see the things coming out on the sides. It’s fuller than any other drawer I ever had, and it couldn’t take anything else in it.

I remember my family not having the money to buy a real piano. I remember the excruciating shame that would follow my steps each class I would show up in the piano room, not having practiced the weekend before. My teacher, a nice woman she was, I felt the way she looked at me. I felt her resistance.

She would ask me: “Did you practice this time, darling?”

I would say “no”, in a shy tone covered by pure’ embarrassment.

“Your parents need to buy you a piano. Or a keyboard. Didn’t you say you had a keyboard? How big it is? You cannot come to classes if you do not practice. It is a waste of time. You can come and practice here too, ask someone to take you on the weekends, the rooms are empty. You can practice all you want.”

I knew I could. And I went, for a few times. But, I didn’t want to bother anyone. It didn't matter anyways.

I did feel sad. I never said anything to my father. Bless him, he was very supportive of my dreams. My mistake was, I would never really express them. But he would see what I’m drawn to. He would occasionally mention things that would show me this, he would give me encouragement. At last, he was taking the last money out of his pockets, making sure I always go to practice.

And on our way there, we would have so much fun. We would look in-between the crevices and investigate the hoary concrete that was paving the way to the Music School. There would always be little lizards skittering in and out of the cracks. He would tell me :

“Make sure you don’t grab them by their tail. Their tail detaches and they will run away, and then it grows back...look there? Can you see the line?" and I saw it in amazement.

"Why couldn’t we humans have such a thing?" I thought. We would have things so much easier...

And then we would catch it. He would put it in his hands, gently, not hurting it in any way. His hands always felt protective, in the most tender way. You would look at them, so pale and freckled, with occasional cuts here and there, almost fragile-looking, but in fact were the strongest, the steadiest hands in the world as soon as you'd witness their motion.

That one time, we took that little guy with us in the elevator. As the elevator moved, I was just peaking at his hands, scared it will run away. What if it did? Where would it go? It shouldn’t try to escape. It should stay. My dad will bring it back to his home. I wish I could tell him somehow, so he wouldn’t be scared.

Along with our little new friend, my father would walk with me to the second to last piano room on the third floor, and there I would wait for my teacher. He would go downstairs and wait for me in the hall. I would finish with my piano class, and there, on the plastic, orange, hitched together Yugoslavian chairs laid out on the delightful, comfort-inducing white marble tales, he would wait for me. Before I would step on the first step of the last block of stairs, his look would just patiently wait for me. And as soon as I did that first step, the liveliness in his eyes would increase with each next step I took.

And this voyage took place twice a week. It was such a wonderful time. We never spoke much. There was only silence and love.

.....love and silence.....

.......silence and love......

We understood each other well. He taught me a lot of things. Never directly anyway, he would never spend much of his words. But the way he carried himself, in the smallest bits, would bring me insight. And with my eyes wide open standing in the background, I would observe and learn.

The most important thing he taught me, the one that truly stayed, ingrained in my core, was how to love. He loved everything. Regardless of how, or even whether, the things would give their love back. He loved them. Without questioning why, or when. It didn’t matter.

He was not a perfect man. He didn’t make the best choices. Sometimes, by chance or better judgment, he would make a nearly decent one. On rare occasions, he would do the absolute best one – one that no one else in the world would think of. But he would always fuck it up. He would just always, somehow, let his hectic, murky aura overcome every glimpse of light that would appear on his path. I never liked him for that. I judged him. Thinking, it was only his fault. His responsibility. He should not let it be like that. He should be different. I had real animosity towards this part of him, and he knew it. But he didn’t care. He just continued loving me. All he had was love. And he would show it so openly. And sometimes it got too much for me. It bothered me. I didn’t understand it. How can a man like that, love? He shouldn't be let to love. Shouldn’t he be focusing on fixing himself, first? Could he love, really, with all these defects fracturing everything around him?

Well, he could. And he did, unconditionally. He didn’t want anything in return. I would never really accept that. I would reject it, and even dismiss it. I would never show any of my love, back. I would fiercely push it off. In times of his embrace, I would try to get out, and most times, I would. But then, he wouldn’t care. He would love me even more.

All he did was give love. All I did was resist. Looking back, I am pondering on the exact lesson this has brought me… I do see the regrets, clouding any nuance of insight I would try to peak into day by day and stop any feasible message from sinking in.

But once I let all of that go, I see it. I see it clearly. There is only love.

.......love and silence........

.......silence and love........

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