Today the universe played a little trick on me… When this old photo came back to me in a context that I find as beautiful as it is symbolic.
Minna Kulmala, the photographer behind this bed of flowers, just now published it on her pages. Together with a poem by Kahlil Gibran: Song of the Flower.
I was so astonished and even shaken by her choice of poem but then reminded myself – there are no accidents in life. This poem was meant to come back to me, to remind me of something.
You see, some ten years ago, Serge and I visited a wedding of friends in Lebanon. It was all arranged in true Lebanese style; grand hospitality, extraordinary setting, even a trip to Syria for the full wedding party.
On that trip Serge and I, who share a soft spot for adventure in our souls, decided to hop off the air-conditioned, comfortable bus in the middle of nowhere on the mountains of Lebanon, to discover the real country, the real people.
So we stumbled upon this village where Gibran had lived. We visited his old home that dates further than a hundred years back. There still was power, incredible presence in that humble little house. It felt like Gibran’s heritage was present absolutely everywhere in this tiny little town, although he’d only lived there as a young man.
I read the Prophet.
We met some absolutely extraordinary people.
A young man took us to a hiking trip to the mountains, where Maronite Christian priests had built secret churches and hiding places over the hundreds of years of oppression. Carefully, after a while, our guide confided in us. He’d also had to leave Beirut during the civil war. He too was a Maronite Christian, had participated in some forbidden protest and the police and army had his name. So he had left in the middle of the night, leaving behind his university education, his family and absolutely everything, and disappeared to these mountains. In the early years he had even lived in the woods but now he dared to openly live in the town, a known emotional stronghold of Maronite Christians, dating back to Gibran’s days and beyond.
Still, he didn’t dare to go back to Beirut. He had settled to a life in exile, in his own country.
Hindina. A young woman who had been in a car crash so severe that her legs and pelvis were completely crushed. As we walked past her family’s house, this lively and open Sweetness started chatting with us, even if we only shared a few words of the same language. However, we were able to understand so much that she invited us to her home for dinner – strangers from the street.
We went. Their tiny apartment was so welcoming, so full of warmth, that we instantly felt at home and could almost look past the poverty that was all too overwhelming. They cooked the food on some kind of camping style fire and kettle, we sat on the floor and I helped Hindina’s old mother to peel the potatoes. They seemed to only eat what their tiny piece of land was able to produce and the elderly father was able to cultivate. They smiled, talked and hugged a lot.
Hindina and her mother liked to hold my hand. They spoke a lot, with laughter or tears in their eyes. I felt as if I understood although I didn’t get the words.
The little niece kept on carefully touching my hair, it seemed to be the first blonde hair she’d seen.
Hindina’s sister and niece taught me to dance local dances, very much like belly dancing. We laughed so much.
The morning we left, Hindina cried and held onto me like she didn’t want to let go. She’d given me her phone number and address and repeated Please write… Don’t forget me…
I wrote, sent photos of us dancing, but never got a response. The postal system to the mountains was so bad I’m afraid she may never have received my letters. Once I got a call through, and we repeated the 2-3 words we shared in the same language till the connection died.
But I will never forget her.
Here it is. My Lebanon.
Song of The Flower
I am a kind word uttered and repeated
By the voice of Nature;
I am a star fallen from the
Blue tent upon the green carpet.
I am the daughter of the elements
With whom Winter conceived;
To whom Spring gave birth; I was
Reared in the lap of Summer and I
Slept in the bed of Autumn.
At dawn I unite with the breeze
To announce the coming of light;
At eventide I join the birds
In bidding the light farewell.
The plains are decorated with
My beautiful colors, and the air
Is scented with my fragrance.
As I embrace Slumber the eyes of
Night watch over me, and as I
Awaken I stare at the sun, which is
The only eye of the day.
The voices of the birds, and dance
To the rhythmic swaying of the grass.I am the lover’s gift; I am the wedding wreath;
I am the memory of a moment of happiness;
I am the last gift of the living to the dead;
I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.But I look up high to see only the light,
And never look down to see my shadow.
This is wisdom which man must learn.
~*♥*~
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