Receptiveness

To truly feel is not to discover hidden things, but to recognize what your soul saw before you.

Time kneels before memories. From its depths, memory brings back an old scene: on the library table, my grandfather kept a wooden box carved with foreign signs. That wood seemed alive, like a silent messenger from another time, carrying the echo of another world. One evening, when the candlelight was breaking into trembling shadows, my grandfather said to me: "Open the box with your bare hands, so that it will recognize you."

Then something happened. I felt that it was not me touching her, but she recognizing me through touch. It seemed like a gesture of recognition between souls, not between objects. This was due to the power with which my grandfather planted in my mind the idea that that gesture had meaning, and my soul accepted it as an ancient calling.

His gesture hid a silent lesson: every carefully preserved thing carries a story. Touching it becomes a bridge between worlds that no longer need time to recognize each other. Grandpa knew that one day, I myself would learn to listen to the silences of things.

When I opened the box, I understood. Inside slept a city of ancient Arabian mysticism, a city that seemed to carry its own heart. The houses, the streets, the bridges were carved with painstaking pains, as if each detail had been written with the tremor of a memory. I blew lightly on it, and from deep within rose a barely perceptible murmur—a chorus of distant voices. I found myself before a living world, condensed into a dream come true. The box was an alphabet of the soul, in a universe where unspoken feeling became a sacred language.

Leadership: Are you attentive to the things that stare at you without eyes, but touch you more deeply than any gaze?

I looked closer and understood: each house vibrated with an unspoken memory; even the windows carried a sound, a fragment of life. Some sighed, others laughed, others were just silent for a long time. It was as if time itself had melted into those fragile forms, making them eternal, beyond the natural flow of reality.

There were the unfulfilled loves, the unspoken longings, the forgotten songs. Grandpa had not made a box—but a world. A world of resonances. In a moment of revelation, I felt I was touching life in its pure, immediate form, like a light caught in a grain of dust. The Arabian desert still sighed silently for the echo of lost souls.

I shuddered, knowing that this gift was not just an inheritance, but a calling. The box, preserved in the silence of the past, asked me to continue gathering the mysterious fragility of the world. To gather everything that the world lets go to waste: the silent breaths, the faded smiles, the thoughts that die before they are spoken. It was an initiation into receptivity—not that of the ears or the eyes, but of the heart. Only in that moment did I understand that sensitivity is not a weakness, but a form of knowledge—a wisdom that is felt before it is understood. The antiquity of an object is not the past, but continuity.

My grandfather had told me a phrase that has haunted me my whole life, and even now I can still hear its echo in me: "What you see is only the shell of the world." This phrase resonated again in the depths of my being as I held the box in my hands. In that deep silence, I felt reality lose its edges. I remembered a scene from The Little Prince, when the fox tells him: "You can only see clearly with the heart."

Thus, I understood that perception is not an optical act, but a form of faith. When you look with reverence, even the quietest things respond to you with unseen echoes.

Leadership: Can you sustain the image of a living continuity, so that it becomes a projection of time in your conscious present?

In that Arab city, stories of people who didn't know they had left their mark slept. There was a cemetery and a cathedral in it as well. I closed my eyes and saw the smoke of vanished lives rising like a thin cloud, while Antarah ibn Shaddad walked through the shadows with his sword stuck in legend.

I felt called to preserve their memory, not through the vibration of presence, but through words. It was as if silence itself had a hidden grammar—and I had to learn it. The box was a temple of memory, and I, the silent guardian of living stories. Then I felt that the world feeds on oblivion, and I myself was a fragile echo of things past. Everything we experience, if not truly listened to, is wasted.

But receptivity — that inner openness, that "Sonescence" (the ability to vibrate in harmony with the invisible) — is the only form through which we can restore the connection between what is seen and what is felt. The box is an altar of perception, a gateway between my world and my grandfather's world, between the world of the living and the world of memory. Worlds that seek each other, in an attempt to find each other. Therefore, the box remained my only living connection with my grandfather and the anchor of my inner vision.

Otherness begins when you no longer think about yourself, but recognize yourself in the echo of another remaining within you.

Since then, I began to collect the fragments of life around me, to carefully place them in the silence of my heart: a glance, a shadow on a window, a leaf falling silently — all were echoes of the city that the Arabian desert had hidden in the dunes of memory.

With each jolt of consciousness, with each subtle touch of the present, I felt myself reviving the vibrations of that miniature world. I called this process Inspiris: the act by which the soul inspires the presence of an absence that still breathes somewhere, without anyone really hearing it. Then I understood that receptivity is not a simple openness, but a form of otherness: you live through what resonates from you to the other. It requires the courage to receive not only the unspoken thought, but also the silent presence of the other.

To be receptive is to let the world inhabit you. It is like being an open window in a storm: you feel, you suffer, but you remain open to everything that comes from outside and settles inside, without asking why. In a way, this is the ultimate art of humanity — to keep open the door through which the unseen legacy of those before us can still touch us, just as my grandfather left open the box that contained more than things: it contained soul.

Leadership manifests itself when man becomes the object of his perception, reflecting within himself not only the image of the world, but also its secret vibration.

Receptiveness is what makes room for the presence of the other in the depths of your being. As for the box of fragile memory, it reopens whenever a soul chooses to hear what others pass by in silence.

Finally, I understood: I didn't open the box, but it opened me. Because that's how it is sometimes: destiny hides in an old box, and its essence can only be touched by hands that know how to feel before they touch. When you see a city enclosed in a box, it means you have learned to perceive the presence of absence with your whole being.