Relatives

Story from “My Road to Myself”

Some people, despite the distance of kilometers and centuries, somehow seem like family.

Not by passport.

Not by blood.

And by worldview.

By actions.

By the Spirit.

One of these people for me was Hryhoriy Skovoroda.

Apparently, this story is not finished yet. And for some reason it seems to me that it will have a continuation. But I want to start it right now.

I probably got my love for calligraphy from my dad.

He had an exceptionally beautiful handwriting. He even served as a clerk in the army for a while... He has a bright memory.

And since childhood, I have loved drawing all kinds of swirling strokes, adding them to letters and words. I have always been fascinated by how a few simple lines can turn into something alive and unique.

So when I saw Hryhoriy Skovoroda's cursive writing course, I didn't hesitate for long. It surprisingly combined two topics that were close to me: calligraphy and the world of Hryhoriy Savich.

At that time, I had no idea that this course would become not only an introduction to ancient writing for me, but also the beginning of a completely different journey.

I was captivated by the beauty of his thoughts, then his letters. I read with great interest about how he taught his students, and later I began to discover the man himself.

Not the one we study in school.

And the living Grigory Savich.

A person who was not afraid to follow his own path.

Who sought not glory, but freedom.

Who taught not only with words, but with her whole life.

And the more I read his works, letters, and memoirs of contemporaries, the stronger I felt a strange feeling.

It's like we've known each other for a long time.

While teaching students, I sometimes wanted to consult with him. And I often asked myself: What would Hryhoriy Savych say about this? And sometimes I even turned to him in my mind.

And I knew the answers. Maybe I found them in my own heart. Or maybe some of the ideas really came to me from him.

As if there were not centuries between us, but just one long conversation that life had once interrupted so that one day we could continue it again.

And despite the fact that I haven't read many of his works yet, I'm still studying the Master's calligraphy, and the cursive writings are still waiting to be completed, this strange connection hasn't disappeared. I feel it. Like a warm memory of an old friend.

I wonder if he can look at our world through my eyes?