Owl

Owl

By: Josip Kolarić

(Based on personal story of Olga Demidova)

Life once brought me to Voronezh. I remember it as it was yesterday. Actually, my company sent me there for a month. Regular business deal, nothing really relevant, the more do I forget of it, the better. The city was interesting for a few days, when there were sights to see, when everything was undiscovered and new. But as usual, the feeling dwindled soon; the same buildings, the same streets, the same people, appearing in patterns, like everywhere else. Like in every other city actually, because in the countryside is different; you are closer to nature, but with locals it’s even worse, I often simply can’t correlate. In the cities, however, chances to find someone to talk to are higher; someone who thinks, someone who values personal freedom and isn’t afraid of the broader perspective. Unfortunately, these are rare, while conformists are much easier to stumble upon. Many of my new colleagues there seemed like they were moulded by that economic-capitalistic pattern. I didn’t like my job. I liked the money though. That was my only motivation. I even accepted the promotion that brought me higher salary, as well as responsibilities, at the expense of my freedom. This is how stupid I was. I forced my soul and body to do something I despised, silencing my emotions with new things. And it’s actually funny how I was focusing on money, thinking that was what I needed, exchanging time of boredom and unhappiness for the trinkets I didn’t need. Now I know; deep down inside I was mad, hungry was my soul. I guess I was one of those conformists I despised. I hated them because they reminded me of decay in myself. Now I know that I was focusing on the wrong thing, now I know that humans need little: food, drink, shelter, and something for the soul. Such an irony how I found happiness in poverty. Well, poverty and painting. It’s not really an irony, “just” enlightenment. When I was in Voronezh, my colleagues mostly spoke of business and their dull life which was spinning in monotonous circle of unawareness. I couldn’t listen to their complaints, but was trying hard to seem interested and smiling. I wanted to escape from them, and myself. I just left, didn’t knew where I was heading to, nor had any special plan. Anything was a better place than at work. I found myself in a forest. Ah, finally, alone in peace. No people, no traffic, just wind and birds. Leaves were my carpet, trees my friends! But I wasn’t alone. Strangely enough, forest appeared twice; first on Earth, second as an impression on the canvas of the red-haired painter. I craved for change, and now finally stumbled upon someone free and fresh. It was a delightful encounter. Next time when I saw her we were sitting in the coffee shop. We were having a conversation, and I don’t remember how it come to that, but she told me a story. It is peculiar how we forget most of our lives, like we subconsciously delete the irrelevant, but her and her story I remember as my name. She told me a story from her childhood.

When she was a little girl, her family had a holiday home near the forest. She and her brother would often walk into the forest. Once, she said, they went very far and stumbled upon old, abandoned cemetery. And an image appeared in my mind: grey tombs under the thin layer of early snow and wet leaves, surrounded by short trees and bushes under the sunset dyed sky. Why I imagined it like that, I cannot tell, it was an uncontrollable image, uncontrollable thought. Back to the story. Right to the cemetery was a huge oak tree and wooden hut, where an old man, watchman of the cemetery, lived along with his dog. She and her brother visited him several times and became good friends. She remembered his kindness, strong wrinkled eyes, and how he always fed them with apple pies. “Why do you live here?” – she asked him once, to what he replied: “I want to be nearby my wife.” She reminded him of the granddaughter he never had. He gave her a small wooden owl figurine which he carved himself, telling that it will protect her. And then came a long winter. They haven’t seen him for half a year. When they finally returned to the forest, they found only the oak tree. Cemetery, hut, old man and dog were gone.

I found the story interesting. “But are you sure it wasn’t just a dream? I mean, you were just a little girl?” – I asked her. But she only extended her hand and showed me a small, old, wooden owl figurine. An owl, a symbol of passing of life, mystery and wisdom, a bird that sees through the night reminds us that there are things invisible to humans. Oh, there are so many things which we cannot see. Darkness is only an absence of light, and mystery only an absence of knowledge. Or should I say wisdom, because to understand some phenomena we need consciousness and courage to accept it the way it is, open our eyes and admit that we are blind and oh so ignorant. We are surrounded by fantastical mysteries, which quietly reveal the ancient secrets. We only need to listen carefully, and think about real state of our world. No wonder we forget must of our everyday boring routine, because all our senses perceive much that is fantastical and mysterious around us. Isn’t it fantastical how a hawk can fly? Isn’t it mysterious how the oak tree, standing in some park, was sculpted throughout millennia to become the way it is now? And how liberating is it to discover the ancient truth in yourself? Truly, a fantasy can sometimes be more real.

She inspired me to take the brush and canvas myself and start painting. Things which cannot be seen now appear on canvas. Our surroundings show themselves in different perspectives. Oddly, I never saw Voronezh nor Olga ever again. But I remember them as my real name.