Simana’s Diaries – 18 – White Silence

Simana did not rise immediately after the call. After all, those who ascend to the heavens do not rush; those who rush are considered not yet firmly rooted on the ground.

Three nights passed in front of the beech tree. For three nights, he neither beat the drum nor lit a fire. He simply leaned against the tree’s trunk and listened. And for the first time, he looked at himself—something he hadn’t done in years.

Simana had dark skin. Her skin was weathered by the wind but still radiant. She was like a piece of earth born at sunset—warm, cracked, and alive.

Her hair was long, jet-black, and wavy. In her youth, it had raced against the wind. Now, it flowed loosely down her back, unbraided, as heavy as a river.

His eyes were large and still piercing. With every glance, it was as if an animal would shudder and a child would fall silent.
Her face was round, her nose was small. But her lips… They were still like a well where children sang.

She paused… waited… listened…

On the first night, nothing happened. This was to be expected. For the heavens do not trust those who expect an immediate response.

On the second night, the wind came, but it didn’t stir the branches. It was as if even the wind didn’t want to touch that tree. Simana knew what this meant: She was not the one who had been called—she was the one carrying the call.

On the third night, a very faint cracking sound was heard coming from the trunk of the beech tree. It was neither a snap nor a split… Rather, it was more like the stretching of an ancient secret.

Simana stood up. She placed her palm against the tree trunk. And she made the first notch.

This notch was not a mark. Nor was it a door. It was the answer to the first question the sky had asked itself: “I am here.”

In that moment, the world grew lighter. Simana rose, spinning like a silver feather. She felt neither a surge of speed nor the sensation of rising. It was simply as if the world had let go of her.

The air was no longer dense. There was no wind, no void. Rather, there was the whisper itself. It was as if everything remembered how to speak but chose not to.

Simana had no physical form. But she had thoughts. And every thought pulled her not upward, but inward.

The first floor was not, as one might think, up above. It was neither among the stars nor beyond the clouds. He realized at once: This floor was not the beginning of the path. It was the place where the path fell silent.

Then it stopped… It had entered something. But it was impossible to say that this was a place.

Everything was pure white. There was neither light nor darkness. Nothing was visible, yet nothing was missing. It was like a place where a hymn had fallen silent before it even began—a realm where language had not yet been born, and words were merely intentions.

Simana wanted to walk. Her feet didn’t touch the ground. She wanted to speak. But there was no response to her voice. This floor refused to let her speak.

And just then, a silhouette appeared. A woman was standing in the distance. Her back was turned; her hair was long and black. Her shoulders resembled Simana’s youth—the version of her before she had even begun to ask questions.

The woman turned around. She had no face. A face without eyes… But that lack of eyes allowed her to see far more than mere looking. Her lips, meanwhile, were sewn shut.

The woman held up two parchments. They bore familiar symbols—Kam hymns… the prayers Simana had memorized as a child… the words she had turned to for solace in difficult times…

The woman threw the parchments into the fire. There were no flames. But the papers burned. A pitch-black smoke rose and stained the white void.

Simana’s heart ached. She wanted to speak. “I…” she said. But the words wouldn’t come. Then she spoke from within: I want to find God. Only Him.

The woman shook her head. She neither agreed nor disagreed.

Simana continued because the silence weighed heavily on her: “I ask because I don’t know any other way.”

A woman took a step. And she touched Simana.

At that moment, thousands of voices passed through Simana. The hymns of the ancestors, the pleas of the wounded, the questions from her own childhood… But none of them could be heard from the outside. Because this floor was the one that kept the sound inside.

The woman raised her hand. There was only one thing in her palm: an unwritten word, an unspoken sound, a single initial.

And Simana understood: This realm would not respond. This realm would not ask questions. This realm would not accept prayers.

The first level was the place where a person had to leave behind their own voice before reaching God.

Simana closed her eyes. She neither sang a hymn nor invoked a name. She simply fell silent. And in that silence, she walked past the woman. But this was no ordinary walk. It was an act of abandonment—the abandonment of words, of sound, of intention.

When Simana opened her eyes, she was standing in front of the beech tree. The first notch had deepened.

And Simana thought this before making the second notch in the shaft: Ascending to the heavens begins not by speaking, but by daring to remain silent.

He slowly raised his head. The night was still there. The white silence of the first floor was behind him. The fire hadn’t gone out, but it wasn’t burning.

Her knees were still touching the ground. But her weight had shifted. It was as if something had been lifted from her shoulders, replaced by an indescribable sense of focus. She slowly rose to her feet. It wasn’t her bones that creaked—it was her mind. After the trance, her body felt as if it had returned from a mountain, but her spirit remained at the summit.

He headed toward the tent. As he walked, he realized: The wind wasn’t telling him anything, but it was showing him the way.

A wolf howled in the distance. It was not a threat; it was a presence announcing its location.

The scent rising from among the herbs whispered which season it was.

The ground was damp. It hadn’t rained yet, but rain was on the way.

Simana realized that listening wasn’t just about waiting for someone to speak.

To listen was to hear not fear in the animal’s voice, but distance.

It was about sensing the healing power in the scent of the plant.

It was about determining whether the stone was cold enough to be ready for carrying a load.

And it wasn’t about searching for an answer while gazing at the stars—it was simply about accepting that they were there.

When he arrived at the hut, he didn’t say a word to anyone. He sat down by the fire. He drank the water but didn’t rush. He paused as he crossed the threshold. He waited for a moment.

And this thought crossed his mind: The first floor didn’t teach silence. The first floor showed just how vast listening can be.

Because listening means accepting not just the sounds, but the way the world reveals itself to you.