Fly born crawl fly not. Born to crawl cannot fly - folk wisdom and meaning
Everything flows, everything changes
However, changes in society encourage us to reconsider certain common truths inherent in the consciousness of our ancestors. A striking example is the proverb that states that the one who is predestined to grovel will not be able to rise up. The laws of elementary logic state that in this case the opposite is also true: one born to fly cannot crawl. But, of course, the essence of this proverb does not provide for such an interpretation. This is just an oxymoron, designed to emphasize the irrelevance of these words. Why? One cannot but agree that most examples of folk wisdom have not lost their rational grain and are applicable in our time too. But this particular wording - born to fly cannot crawl - perfectly shows the attitude modern man to those elements of ancient stereotypes that put before our ancestors some kind of framework that is unnecessary now.
Words are lost in the change of times
What is this about? We are talking about the fact that every person is given a narrow range of opportunities from birth, and no one can go beyond it.
Roughly speaking, the place and time of birth determines the being, the quality of life and, perhaps, even its duration. No, of course, in some ways this is true even now, because a person from a wealthy family has great opportunities to improve the quality and lengthen his own life. However, in our time, we can safely say that most of modern human civilization has gone beyond rigid classes. “Born to fly cannot crawl” - these words have become as incorrect as the original form of the proverb in question.
Wing clipping pride
By no means should it be argued that the conditions modern life give complete freedom of self-realization, but we can safely say that the purpose of the existence of any civilization is precisely the opportunity to give wings to everyone who is part of it.
Even if you do not delve into all sorts of “strategies” for gaining success in life, do not talk about how important education, investments and other attributes of career or creative growth are, but simply talk about consciousness in general. After all, the mind of modern man, his spirit, his creativity are essentially devoid of fetters. It remains only to accept your own freedom and use it. There are many examples of personalities about whom it can be said in all seriousness that a person born to fly cannot crawl. Because either the framework erected by social stereotypes, or their own ego prevents them from looking at things realistically, and not trying to rise above others.
The indefatigability of the spirit is indispensable for flight
As for that part of humanity (there is a hope that we are talking about the majority), which looks at things soberly and optimistically evaluates its own capabilities, then we can safely say about them that the saying “one who was born to crawl cannot fly” is not about them. . By and large, they have already taken off, because the awareness of one's own potential, the impulse to realize it and the strong will that embodies this impulse in life are already wings in themselves. However, one should always remember the words of the famous contemporary Russian poetess and musician Zoya Yashchenko: “It is not so important that there are wings; it is important that they carry us.” That is, the very life of a person who wants to take off must turn into an eternal overcoming of all those shackles that hold back his impulse. And then the words that the one born to crawl cannot fly will be forever lost under a hail of successful attempts by those who are bold in heart, bold in spirit and sober in mind. To have a generous harvest, you need to sow seedlings.
Freedom of personal development - freedom of spiritual flight
So is it possible to say that in our time it is still worth talking about some self-evident restrictions imposed on each of us at birth? Of course, everyone has their own conditions, but at the same time, any person has the potential that allows him to turn the shackles of the situation and circumstances into a launching pad for flight. That is, to realize oneself as a unique personality. And then those who claim that it is not given to those born to crawl to fly will be forced to stop their grumbling and either forget about pride, or remain exiles in the skies of the human spirit free from conventions. Because a person is always drawn to a person, and talent, even if doomed to some kind of loneliness, will never really be alone. Talent always exists for someone and is embodied together with someone. Therefore, the freedom of the spirit guarantees participation in something greater than just one person. And it is this “something” that leads all of humanity forward, to the development of each of its particles.
Before me is "The Song of the Falcon" by Maxim Gorky. I read it twice. The work, literally, is amazing - by the amplitude (climbing-falling) of the lines and the depth of the meaning invested in them!
From the very first lines, a picture of human existence breaks into the soul, in which the main characters of life are clearly and honestly placed:
Those who are trying to mechanically (physically) cognize the height of life, how to crawl onto it, while leaving themselves limited in perception (“crawling”):
“Highly crawled into the mountains Already and lay down there in a damp gorge, curled up in a knot and looking at the sea.”
Those who, climbing, ascending, gain height (not even mountains - the sky!), And not for looking down, but only for the subsequent flight, for radiance:
The sun shone high in the sky, and the mountains breathed into the sky with heat ..
Those who do not climb anywhere, and smash, to smithereens, their lives, dreams and hopes, on the stones of reality, on the rocks of everyday life:
“..and the waves beat against the stone below ...”
And further down the text, another clash of the elements - a mountain stream and the sea: a strong, assertive, stubborn, narrow (in the eyes? In dreams?) A stream of melt water literally crashes into a wide (soul!) Sea space:
“And along the gorge, in darkness and spray, the stream rushed towards the sea, rattling stones .. All in white foam, gray-haired and strong, it cut the mountain and fell into the sea, howling angrily.”
And so it begins! - It! - Main battle human life! - opposition - Uzhey and Sokolov - opposition - "able to live" and "able to fly"! - opposition - Mariengofov and Yeseninins! - a contradiction - "lecturing about tears" and "crying"! - confrontation - "celestial" and "celestial"!
“Suddenly, in that gorge where Already curled up, a Falcon fell from the sky with a broken chest, in blood on feathers ..”
“Already scared .. crawled closer ..:
- What, are you dying?
Yes, I'm dying! Falcon replied, taking a deep breath. - I lived a good life! .. I know happiness! .. I fought bravely! .. I saw the sky .. You will not see it so close! Oh, you poor thing!
- Well, what is the sky? - an empty place .. How can I crawl there? I feel great here... it's warm and damp!... Fly or crawl, the end is known: everyone will fall into the ground, everything will be dust.
“And the Falcon shouted with anguish and pain, gathering all his strength:
- Oh, if I could rise into the sky at least once! .. I would press the enemy .. to the wounds of my chest and .. he would choke on my blood! Oh, the joy of battle!
And I thought…”
At this point, I suddenly became acutely aware of the fundamental difference between how they fight - Falcons - the children of heaven, and how the snakes - children of the earth fight: enemies, choking them in someone else's blood!
That is why, the Adders defeat the Falcons on the ground, and the Falcons defeat time.
“And I thought: “It must be really nice to live in the sky, since he moans like that! .. And he suggested to a free bird: “And you move to the edge of the gorge and rush down. “Perhaps the wings will lift you up and live a little longer in your element.”
And the Falcon trembled and, proudly shouting, went to the cliff, sliding its claws along the slime of the stone. And he approached, spread his wings, sighed with all his chest, flashed his eyes and - rolled down.
And he himself, like a stone, gliding over the rocks, he quickly fell, breaking his wings, losing his feathers ..
The wave of the stream seized him and, having washed the blood, dressed him in foam, he swept away the sea.
In reality, I see how Yesenin, mortally wounded, having beaten his wings against the stones of judicious writer's eyes, goes to the cliff, “sliding with his claws”, splashing desperate cries-convulsions from his throat, which bounce off the armored hearts of fellow writers - mediocre not in the inability to express their thoughts but in a sense of beauty! I see how he “approached” the abyss cut down by thousands of skillful, intelligent hands, how he “spread his wings, sighed with all his chest” of his last most wonderful poems, how he “rolled down ... breaking his wings.” And what is surprising: the sea or the abyss of life, having swallowed everyone, brought to the shore of eternity - Yesenin's poems - his soul! - him, a thousand times this and that! - and none of the "not smashed to smithereens" - none of those who were, sort of, "better: more moral, smarter" than him! - this is the point, for all time, puts God in the dispute between Uzhey and Sokolov.
Meanwhile, the song continues. The second, climactic part of the story begins:
“Lying in the gorge, For a long time I thought about the death of a bird, about passion for the sky ..
- And what did he see, the dead Falcon, in this desert without bottom and edge? Why do people like him, when dead, confuse the soul with their love of flying into the sky? What is clear to them? But I could have learned all this by taking off into the sky, at least not for long.
He sincerely does not understand the Falcon, his "passion for the sky"! The falcon "confuses" his peace, his straightforward, progressive life "with his love of flying into the sky." He already feels that behind the Falcon there is not some kind of naive bravado, but a huge, unknown, unattainable for the Uzh, the space of life, the essence of which fits in one word: "flight", in the very word that is not in the Uzh's lexicon at all. So he decides to try...
“Told and done. Curled up into a ring, he sprang into the air and flashed in the sun like a narrow ribbon.
Born to crawl - cannot fly! ..
Forgetting this, he fell on the stones, but did not kill himself, but laughed:
“So that’s the beauty of flying into the sky! She is in a fall! .. Funny birds! Not knowing the earth, longing for it, they strive high into the sky and look for the sky in the sultry desert. It's just empty. There is a lot of light, but there is no support for the living body. Why pride? Why reproaches? Then, to use it to cover up the folly of your desires and hide behind them your unsuitability for the work of life? Funny birds!
But now their speeches will not deceive me any more! I myself know everything! I saw the sky. Let those who cannot love the earth live by deceit. I know the truth. And I will not believe their calls. Creation of the earth - I live on the earth.
And he curled up in a ball on a stone, proud of himself.
Amazing monologue! It contains the whole life philosophy of a smart, kind, caring, creative, ordinary (in feelings, in dreams, in dedication, in selflessness) person. Moreover, an “experienced” person is voiced, a person who allegedly knew the sky! - flight, the state of life of a “poet”, and who came to the conclusion: they say, there is nothing special in the “sky”, in the “poet”, in “flight”, there is no “fly”, they say, everyone or many can! - He jumped down, slammed against the earth's firmament, put his bruised head in order from momentary stress and “curled up into a ball, proud of himself”! - that's all the art, that's the whole feat, the whole "flight"!
Is it not these people who “know” and “depreciate” the sky - “laughing at birds”, at poetry - find earthly, practical use for it - write poems for thoughtful philosophical leisure, or organize creative competitions so that with the help of rhymed poems - slogans to make the life of ordinary people “even more ordinary”, even calmer, more humane, sweeter and more carefree!? - Is it not these "flying snakes" who authoritatively and verbosely debunk poets, sort of scoundrels who died because of their bad habits, because of "the madness of their desires"!? – aren’t these people, easily and without a twinge of conscience, using the sky of poetry as a place of rest, as a space for pleasant leisure, as a bench for exchanging everyday impressions, under the husking of verbal seeds!?
It turns out that it is possible, sincerely and enthusiastically, to do something that is not quite your own, spending dozens of years of your life on it, showing diligence, “banging the Adder into the sky” a thousand times, creating piles of words that tell, color, scold or elevate ordinary - not selfless life, and with all this, do not bring - either to yourself or to people - any benefit! - remaining in a position clearly indicated by Marina Tsvetaeva: "empty gestures over empty pots"!
Divine gift - words? - Yes! - but, first, the Divine gift - the feeling of beauty! – performed in combination with the highest self-sacrifice – is not available to everyone and everyone – who, in an evil way or in a good way, lives an earthly life! - to everyone who sincerely or intentionally made a mistake with his destiny, with the place of application of his spiritual efforts, and became, for example, an “eternally promising bad poet”, or a “non-flying Falcon”, thereby depriving himself of the charm of everything earthly “and Already ”, even more so, the delights of heaven!
"Oh" is not bad! "Uzh" does not contain the direct cause of the death of the "Falcon". He is the one who, having filled the sky with his "smacks", in one way or another, contributes to the fact that the "Falcons" in the world become less and less. “Oh” is a smart and tearless, reliable and dangerous, terrible and tragic, unfortunate and massive substitution of a creeping sky for a flying sky!
“The sea shone all in bright light, and menacingly the waves beat against the shore.
In their lion's roar, a song about a proud bird thundered, the rocks trembled from their blows, the sky trembled from a formidable song:
“We sing glory to the madness of the brave!
The madness of the brave is the wisdom of life! O glorious Falcon! In a battle with enemies, you bled to death .. But there will be time - and drops of your hot blood, like sparks, will flare up in the darkness of life and ignite many brave hearts with an insane thirst for freedom, light!
Let you die! .. But in the song of the brave and strong in spirit, you will always be a living example, a proud call to freedom, to light!
We sing a song to the madness of the brave!
Everyone has a favorite piece, and I'm certainly no exception. So that I have only three favorite-favorite works. These are absolutely all of Zweig's Novels, I know almost everything by heart, because I reread it every summer. Of course, the Little Prince, an untouchable fairy tale, if someone tells me something bad about this hero, I do not answer for myself, I am jealous of this. I actually cried when I finished reading the book. And now tears well up in my eyes when I read that paragraph that I quoted in the last message.
And I also love the Song of the Gorky Falcon. I remember in the 7th grade they forced us to learn this passage by heart, but this is difficult, there is no rhyme. Everyone howled and many even hated. Not me! I still remember this passage by heart, do not miss the opportunity to recite at least a part, and once every half a year I definitely reread it so as not to forget the details. This is really powerful stuff!! And I could not help posting my favorite passage here :)
"Highly crawled into the mountains Already and lay down there in a damp gorge, curled up in a knot and
looking out to sea.
The sun shone high in the sky, and the mountains breathed heat into the sky, and the waves beat
down on the rock...
And along the gorge, in the darkness and spray, the stream rushed towards the sea, thundering
stones...
Covered in white foam, gray-haired and strong, he cut the mountain and fell into the sea,
howl angrily.
Suddenly, in the gorge where Already curled up, the Falcon fell from the sky with a broken
chest, in blood on feathers ...
With a short cry, he fell to the ground and beat his chest in impotent rage against
solid rock...
I was already frightened, crawled away quickly, but soon I realized that the life of a bird was two or three
minutes...
He crawled closer to the broken bird, and he hissed right into her eyes:
- Are you dying?
Yes, I'm dying! - answered the Falcon, sighing deeply. - I lived a good life! .. I
I know happiness! .. I fought bravely! .. I saw the sky ... You will not see it like that
close!.. Oh, you poor thing!
- Nu that same - the sky? - an empty place ... How can I crawl there? me here
beautiful ... warm and damp!
So already answered the free bird and chuckled in his soul at her for these
nonsense.
And so I thought: "Fly or crawl, the end is known: everyone will fall into the ground,
everything will be dust..."
But the brave Falcon suddenly started up, got up a little and led along the gorge
eyes...
Water oozed through the gray stone, and it was stuffy in the dark gorge and smelled of
rot.
And the Falcon shouted with anguish and pain, gathering all his strength:
- Oh, if I could rise into the sky at least once! .. I would press the enemy ... to the wounds
chest and ... he would choke on my blood! .. Oh, the happiness of battle! ..
And I thought: “It must be, it’s really pleasant to live in the sky, since
he is so groaning! .. "
And he offered to the free bird: "And you move to the edge of the gorge and down
rush. Perhaps the wings will lift you up and you will live a little longer in your
elements".
And the Falcon trembled and, proudly shouting, went to the cliff, sliding his claws along
slime stone.
And he approached, spread his wings, sighed with all his chest, flashed his eyes and
- rolled down.
And he himself, like a stone, gliding over the rocks, he quickly fell, breaking his wings,
losing feathers...
A wave of the stream seized him and, washing the blood, dressed him in foam, sped off into the sea.
And the waves of the sea with a sad roar beat against a stone ... And the corpse of a bird is not
it was visible in the sea space ...
Lying in the gorge, For a long time I thought about the death of a bird, about passion for the sky.
And then he looked into that distance that forever caresses his eyes with a dream of happiness.
- And what did he see, the dead Falcon, in this desert without bottom and edge? Why
such as he, dead, confuse the soul with their love of flying into the sky? What do they
is it clear? And I could have learned all this by taking off into the sky for a little while.
Said and done. Curled up in a ring, he sprang into the air and narrow
glittered like a ribbon in the sun.
Born to crawl - can't fly!.. Forgetting about it, he fell on the stones,
but not killed, but laughed ...
- So that's the beauty of flying into the sky! She is in the fall! .. Funny
birds! Not knowing the earth, longing for it, they strive high into the sky and look for
life in the sultry desert. It's just empty. There is a lot of light, but there is no food there.
and there is no support for the living body. Why pride? Why reproaches? Then to her
cover up the madness of your desires and hide behind them your unfitness for business
life? Funny birds! .. But now their speeches will not deceive me anymore! I myself
I know everything! I - saw the sky ... I flew into it, measured it, knew the fall,
but not crashed, but only stronger in myself, I believe. Let those who love the earth not
may live by deceit. I know the truth. And I will not believe their calls. Earth
creation - I live on the earth.
And he curled up in a ball on a stone, proud of himself.
The sea shone, everything in bright light, and menacingly the waves beat against the shore.
In their lion's roar the song of the proud bird thundered, the rocks trembled from their
blows, the sky trembled from a formidable song:
We sing glory to the madness of the brave!
The madness of the brave is the wisdom of life! O brave Falcon! In battle with enemies
you bled to death ... But there will be time - and drops of your blood are hot, like sparks,
will flare up in the darkness of life and many brave hearts will be kindled with insane thirst
freedom, light!
Let you die! .. But in the song of the brave and strong in spirit you will always be
a living example, a proud call to freedom, to light!
To the madness of the brave we sing a song!..
How often one hears the favorite demagogy of pessimists who refer to bitter phrases connected with the fact that born to crawl cannot fly.
Allegedly, wings behind their backs are a congenital pathology of the widespread success of such seasoned oligarchs as Mr. Abramovich.
Inspiring themselves with lack of luck, many people do not achieve their goals. It is convenient for them to attribute everything to the futile encroachments of a little man.
Folk wisdom, which identifies this statement with events in people's lives, should not predetermine the final outcome of any undertaking.
In my humble opinion, it is better to stick to the interpretation of "from rags to riches." It is the most appropriate, but only misunderstood by losers.
Born to crawl are down-to-earth, spineless creatures that don't make enough effort to grow wings behind their backs.
Based on my personal life experience, everything happens exactly the opposite. And this is in most cases, dear friends.
One who is born with wings on his back tends to waste his natural talent as a great master. And as a result, it goes into the category of reptiles.
Remember your school years, if your age has already “ripened” to the optimal time.
Excellent students and favorites with high personal self-esteem, accustomed to the fact that their parents fastened their wings behind their backs, later failed in difficult life situations.
And those who were known as “white crows” and quiet creatures crawling between them rose beyond recognition. Do you know at whose expense?
This is due to the correct active life position, which implies at the very beginning of any formation a competent ability to crawl, and only then, as in the cartoon “33 Parrots”, persistent attempts to successfully take off.
On this occasion, my very close friend spoke imposingly. Here is a short quote from his literate speech:
Born to crawl, he cannot fly. But this is not because wings are not visible behind him. Wings require a span and the ability to soar over the abyss without collapsing into the underworld. While a wingless man, confidently crawling, will never fall down, because instead of a swing, he is destined for a completely different life path associated with a squat takeoff.
That misinterpretation of gloomy laymen who see the greatest achievements of their kind as the result of manna from heaven never contributes to personal growth.
With small steps, moving towards the goal from the very bottom, you can jump, but not fly up to the pedestal.
The meaning of all the words spoken is the formation of the correct philosophy in the folk wisdom of a figurative meaning.
The sea - huge, sighing lazily near the shore - fell asleep and motionless in the distance, bathed in the blue radiance of the moon. Soft and silvery, it merged with the blue southern sky there and sleeps soundly, reflecting the transparent fabric of cirrus clouds, motionless and not hiding the golden patterns of the stars. It seems that the sky is leaning lower and lower over the sea, wanting to understand what the restless waves whisper, sleepily crawling ashore. The mountains, overgrown with trees, ugly curved north-east, raised their peaks with sharp waves into the blue desert above them, their severe contours were rounded, dressed in the warm and gentle darkness of the southern night. The mountains are importantly thoughtful. From them, black shadows have fallen on the lush greenish crests of the waves and dress them, as if wishing to stop the only movement, to drown out the incessant splash of water and the sighs of foam - all the sounds that break the secret silence that is poured around along with the blue silver of the radiance of the moon, still hidden behind the mountains. peaks. “A-ala-ah-a-akbar!” quietly sighs Nadyr-Ragim-oglu, an old Crimean shepherd, a tall, gray-haired, dry and wise old man, burned by the southern sun. He and I are lying on the sand near a huge stone, torn off from our native mountain, dressed in a shadow, overgrown with moss, near a sad, gloomy stone. On that side of it, which faces the sea, the waves threw mud, algae, and the stone hung with them seems to be tied to a narrow sandy strip that separates the sea from the mountains. The flame of our fire illuminates it from the side facing the mountain, it shudders, and shadows run across the old stone, cut by a frequent network of deep cracks. Rahim and I cook fish soup from freshly caught fish and both are in that mood when everything seems ghostly, spiritualized, allowing one to penetrate oneself, when the heart is so pure, easy and there are no other desires except the desire to think. And the sea is caressing the shore, and the waves sound so kindly, as if asking to let them warm themselves by the fire. Sometimes, in the general harmony of the splash, a more elevated and playful note is heard - this is one of the waves, bolder, crawled closer to us. Rahim lies with his chest on the sand, with his head to the sea, and looks thoughtfully into the muddy distance, leaning on his elbows and resting his head in his hands. A shaggy lamb's hat has slid down to the back of his head, freshness blows from the sea in his high forehead, all in small wrinkles. He philosophizes, wondering if I listen to him, as if he were speaking to the sea: - Faithful to God man goes to heaven. And who does not serve God and the prophet? Maybe he is in this foam ... And those silver spots on the water, maybe he is ... who knows? The dark, powerfully swept sea brightens, in places carelessly thrown glare of the moon appears on it. She has already floated out from behind the shaggy peaks of the mountains and now she is thoughtfully pouring her light on the sea, sighing softly towards her, on the shore and on the stone by which we lie. “Ragim!.. Tell a story…” I ask the old man. - Why? Rahim asks without turning to me. - So! I love your stories. - I already told you everything... I don't know anymore... - He wants me to ask him. I ask. Do you want me to tell you a song? Rahim agrees. I want to hear an old song, and in a dull recitative, trying to keep the original melody of the song, he tells.
