An essay by the Estonian poet Doris Kareva
An exhibition in book form recently opened at the Arvo Pärt Centre as part of the Year of the Estonian book. It is a surprising and multidimensional sensory experience, a hologram of the universe.
Delightfully, the exhibition will remain open for a long time to come. And it is merely the first volume of a coming triptych. Even in this first work, the full triad emerges through sound, word, and painting. A spatial volume that opens to the eye and reacts to touch reminds one of books’ inexhaustible meanings and possibilities: simultaneously scripture, story, and mirror.
The word ‘bible’ is the earliest form of ‘book’, literally meaning ‘scroll’ in the Hellenistic Greek. When reading, one thirsts for stories but encounters themselves time and again – a book is a mirror within a mirror. Or, in Arvo Pärt’s own words: ‘Behind everything is the Spirit. And the Spirit is the Number. And the Number is the Word.’
Some dreams can never be forgotten once had. As if a door briefly opens into a chamber of truth and your eyes fleetingly gaze upon supreme brilliance and harmony, peaceful and sublime pillars of order, and the flickering dance of light that flits between them in every direction.
That is akin to what I felt when I closed the book Tintinnabuli: A World on Music Paper, the most recent guiding star on a spiritual journey that has touched innumerable souls. Returning through the dusky pine forest, notes still sounding in my senses, I felt the music of being vibrate through my whole body.
A person walks through a dark wood. But the darkness is not fathomless. Tiny stars twinkle high in the heavens. At every step, the moment their foot touches the ground, a patch of light appears beneath it and a sound rings out. The walker cannot predict the pitch. It could also depend on the direction they choose. It’s impossible to move just anywhere, of course, as pine trunks and large boulders frequently block their way. But by hesitating or even taking a step backwards, the person can change their direction. Their life’s melody is formed by the rhythm of their footsteps and the inner melody they follow.
They need only lift their gaze slightly higher than the tree roots and stones to discover with joyful astonishment that another light surrounds them. It descends in three diffused rays, emanating from so high above that they cannot tell which celestial body’s radiance is reaching them. Wherever that person goes, they are perpetually accompanied or surrounded by the three alternating rays like a dotted circle of light that blinks to the rhythm of their footsteps.
The revelation takes away their fear. They no longer feel lost and alone in the dark wood. Suddenly, they hear a soft whooshing and realise that the sea has been there all along, just beyond the hall of pine pillars. The person inhales and a fresh, ethereal scent fills their nostrils. The way the music emanates from their every step, their every pause, something they create constantly, involuntarily, effortlessly, simply by walking, giving no thought to the creation itself, is such an all-encompassing experience that their body can no longer hold their spirit. Or what, then, is the source of those tears unconsciously flooding their eyes? Suddenly, the person no longer knows if they are walking or dancing. Are they someone who is moving, or are they themselves composed purely of movement, a soft rush, a current, a spring of light?
Khalil Gibran says that one person’s vision doesn’t lend its wings to another. It’s no doubt true that not one vision in this world can be lent – it is always a gift. There are lives that are but a dream, as Juhan Viiding wrote. The things that matter most are revealed in some dreams, in some lives, no matter whether in image or sound. Is the code of obedience hearing the Word? That world’s ancient laws are simple and clear. They do not lie outside of us, but exist simultaneously within us. Rebelling against them is futile; they cannot be outwitted. None of the laws are directed against us, but rather serve as a support, like loving parents. The pillars are invisible in the darkness but perceivable nonetheless, ones that can be leant upon when tired to regain strength – beauty, truth, and clarity.
Even so, drifting in harmony is nothing that can last a lifetime. It may be that you’re sometimes fed up with everything known, including the code of obedience; sometimes, adopted rules give rise to resistance with new rules that are even stricter. The dodecaphonic period, the democracy of sounds, arises in every life at one point or another and in one form or another. But one cannot live in that turbulence too long – the soul grows weary. Only when you slow down, stop, and allow every last drop of yourself to flow into silence will you return to nothing, to the beginning of beginnings where every sound can be greeted as a surprising event, listened to in wonder, nurtured like a newborn. Arvo Pärt has said: ‘I do not know what beauty is. But to find out what harmony is, it’s enough to take one sound and listen to its overtones.’
The mystic Rumi wrote in the 13th century:
Try and be a sheet of paper with nothing on it.
Be a spot of ground where nothing is growing,
where something might be planted,
a seed, possibly, from the Absolute. [1]
Arvo Pärt asserts the very same: ‘A beautiful moment is whenever you are in need, when you seem to be searching from nothing. First, you must make yourself nothing. There must be silence. You must accept your powerlessness. And that which is then given is like a gift.’
Exhaling all the air from your lungs makes space for darkness, for silence, for a moment of total self-withdrawal that may seem to last an eternity; that in a way perhaps does extend to eternity.
But only there, at the source of the beginning, can you begin to breathe again and move in your natural rhythm, gradually discovering in every blade of grass the majesty of the flower, the happiness of blossoming. I’m reminded of Leibniz: ‘Music is a secret exercise in arithmetic of the soul, unaware of its act of counting.’ Arvo Pärt’s conclusion is revealed in this, also: one plus one equals one. Blended duality points to a path of silence that leads to mystical unified consciousness: ‘Love is the most universal language. Love is the source of all arts.’
And inconspicuously, all-encompassing gratitude spreads throughout the soul. At first, its sound is soft and pure like that of a tiny bell, a reminder of tintinnabuli, but thousands of others slowly join in, coming from near and far, expanding in every direction like a wavering web that is barely audible and visible but nevertheless connects everything – a ripple of realisation, perceptible in all things, that the music of endless being is our own in every moment of life.
[1] English version by Coleman Barks.
Translated by Adam Cullen
* The essay was first published in Estonian in the online edition of Postimees newspaper on 6 February 2025.