The threads of the story are long, and they often intertwine so unusual, so sophisticated, that they form a pattern and a pattern where, seemingly, there can be no pattern or pattern..

I will tell you a parable.

One person lived. He was born in the family of a warrior, he studied philosophy at a recognized school, he learned many languages. I was preparing to devote myself to God or to teach others, to become either a priest or a teacher of children, and I tried myself both there and there, but none of this was possible: karma, as they say in ancient sutras, is a bitch.

But he began to preach his teachings and he had students. He went traveling, and traveled for thirty years. He spoke with the disciples. He spoke to the powerful of the world and the weak of the same world.. He spoke of three worlds, one of which is a man and the other a book.. He spoke of truth and Truth, spoke of affinity and two essences of the world, spoke of nature, of a beginningless world, and of a world like a wheel - or a snake biting its tail. He spoke in a mixture of languages, and all people understood him, although not everyone loved him.. For thirty years he has traveled many roads and wrote many words.. And then he was tired and decided to die. Therefore, he dug his own grave, and then went, lay down and died.

This philosopher was a Christian (or, at least, considered himself as such), but in essence spoke of many gods and one god at a time, spoke of God as a person and man as a god. The philosopher of this was called "our Socrates," but rather, it would be appropriate to call him "our Buddha.". For, like Siddhartha Gautama, who was called the Buddha, he loved to walk the roads and teach people, and he loved the Middle Way, not exhausting body and mind, but giving the opportunity to go its own way.

Like Siddhartha Gautama, who was called the Buddha, this philosopher loved music, and life, and conversation, and students. Like Siddhartha Gautama, who was called the Buddha, he spent decades on the road and philosophy. Like Siddhartha Gautama, who was called the Buddha, he was calm and wise.. Like Siddhartha Gautama, who was called the Buddha, he approached his death in detail, warning others about it, and took care of its consequences.. Like Siddhartha Gautama, who was called the Buddha, he found his Truth.

On the grave of the philosopher it was written: "Svit catching me, she did not spit". It was, of course, on our, Ukrainian land. And his name was, of course, Grigori Savvich Skovoroda.

He was the first and greatest philosopher not only in Ukraine, but in general of all Slavic peoples on this side of the Vistula.. There were legends about his life.. He was a teacher both for his followers and for other philosophers - those who followed him..

In independent Ukraine, his portrait was printed on the largest bill - not a military man, not a ruler, not even a writer - but a philosopher. He set and put monuments. His face is printed on T-shirts.. In rural huts and a century after his physical death hung his portraits - or images?.

And next to these images often hung other. On which, with Buddhist tranquility, looking at eternity, orientally, like a Buddha, cross-legged, looked at this illusory world another symbol of the Ukrainian soul - Cossack Mamai.

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