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  • Writer's pictureŞarkılara Mektuplar


Updated: Dec 13, 2021

Alone but

Not lonely.

The stage is endless

lines unlimited,

roles are temporary.

Gifts without address,

blessed by the one who are aware,

emancipated by the acceptor

on stage.

Nets knitted with love,

Are ready to untie loop by loop

To set free

The lover and the beloved

Every flap of wings;

A smile,

A companionship,

And Oneness.

We're born into the world alone and the adventure ends alone. In the meantime, we have comradeships that we choose or that we find next to us. We share the scene called life with all our co-players. Some take part in the first scene, some towards the end. We don't even realize who is going in and out of the stage, or we want some of them to be on stage with us throughout the whole play, wishing to share our timidity, our fledgling excitement.

Perhaps the thing we feel most belong to is the life we ​​have been given. In the scenario that we think was written just for us, we often feel like the lead actor and assume that the others are extras. Yet no one's role is less important than another's. Each complements the other. If a line is missing, the script loses its integrity and it is as if a brick had fallen from the bridge that made it possible for us to cross step by step. Even if we are not aware of it, each of us behaves as the role requires for the moment, we play our memories during that scene. The experiences of the roles shed light on our steps on the path of life, and they make us grow, sometimes by being traumatized and sometimes by wrapping them up. As you look at the scene below from the lodges of the theater, we can see not only our stage mates but also ourselves when we are in the play, but also on the rare occasions when we are able to witness the play. Those precious times offer important clues about the directions we cannot see while we are in our life journey, the stops we will decide to get off, and the crossroads we cannot choose.

The things we embrace most while living are those that exist in that life; Our loved ones, the family we were born into, our traveling companion, our child, our house, our cat, our property, everything we believe belongs to us... Yes, our moral and material values ​​that we find meaning with their existence, hold on tight, never want to let go, that we see as our integral part.. This is actually a very human perception. This perception of owning may be due to our innate need to belong, share, maybe a little bit of ego, a little bit of fear of not being able to cope with oneness, the different meanings we attribute to the concept of love and the way we live love in our own way, maybe we find a controlled life safer, who knows? For whatever reason, aren't our perspectives and expectations about possession too ambitious? This is the picture we can mostly see within our perception of reality. So is it the truth?

The world has opened its main arms and welcomes us. We wander like particles in the cycle called life, and then we are sent off to mother earth, who is waiting for us with great affection. If we are the passers-by, who owns who, which owns? With the answer to this question, the truth emerges from the saddlebag that nothing we own actually belongs to us, and that the only thing we have is perhaps our illusions. Things that seem to belong to us, maybe our relics or just our gifts. They are not even our gifts, they are gifts of life. Gifts that are unclaimed but recognizable, visible, and bestowed in an unknown time period. When we look at it with this acceptance, that tiny circle that we take shelter in and cling to with our possessions begins to expand, those knots that we put a lock on a lock unravel, and as that circle expands, we are liberating, we are liberating. Maybe the nets we knit with love are unraveling stitch by stitch, and in fact, true love frees both the lover and the loved one. Just like a cicada, our wings come out of their sheaths, dry their moisture and open. Side by side, in front or behind, but under the same sky, we flap our wings to realize ourselves.

Meltem Altinkaya

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