Finally, I am content with the tune. When I play even the simplest chord, the melody coming from the soundhole startles all the birds that are carefully engraved in the neck of my Paul Reed Smith (PRS) Parlor Guitar. Newly bought, she is splendid, handmade, all mahogany and ebony, with a delicate herringbone binding that frames the body, silver strings, and mother of pearl birds on the neck.  

I think I bought this guitar because of the birds. Birds have always been a powerful symbol for me, something I wanted to become: free, beautiful, wild-spirited, and carrying such a meaningful song. Birds have always been a part of our Ukrainian culture and symbolism. My birdie—this is how lovers often refer to each other in Ukrainian love songs and, of course, life. 

We love birds, and we have some favorites. Starks are probably the most cherished; they build incredible, loving, and faithful families. If a stark constructs a nest in the yard, it brings luck to the hosts, who believe their family will live a long and blessed life. The stark cries out loud when it flies away to escape a severe winter; this is how we cry when forced to leave home and fly to other countries for a better life. The cuckoo will tell you how long you will live. The nightingale will sing you the most touching and heartfelt song when the sun sets. It sings on behalf of all of us Ukrainians. The falcon fights on behalf of all of us; he symbolizes Ukrainian resistance and courage. 

There are many other birds we praise. We set them in national art and crafts—they are embroidered on the vyshyvankas (traditional Ukrainian shirts) and pillows. Every Ukrainian should have a vyshyvanka. Every true Ukrainian grandma has some pillows on display in her house, especially in villages. One pillow put on top of the other on the bed in the living room—definitely not for sleeping on, only for looking at. My grandma did this, too. Being raised in a village and exposed to birds in so many aspects, I wholeheartedly fell in love with them. 

Well, the birds on the guitar’s neck enchanted me right away, and I bought that instrument. After years of searching for a good-value guitar perfect for myself, I had almost lost faith in getting one. Some were too expensive, some too cheap. Others had neither flowers nor other ornaments in their design—too dull. Having had enough playing at bonfires and home jam sessions, I dreamed of getting a guitar that I could plug into the loudspeaker and finally sing out loud, sing big. I wanted a guitar that would stand out. And I would stand out. That was such a naïve thought—determining myself through the things I don’t have, thinking I could become better if only I had this or that, if only the situation I occur in would be this or that. 

Now I am looking at my PRS guitar, and it comes to me that it is probably the most valuable thing I possess. If the current events forced me to evacuate, I would hate to leave it home. Abandoning it would mean losing so many things I thought I have changed by learning to play the guitar well, the most essential of which was the metamorphosis of my self-perception. I thought the same way some 15 years ago when I picked up the hobby. 

While the birds are still settling into the nests of the frets, I remind myself of how this instrument helped me establish myself. The guitar was essential to the process of my growth and self-awareness, and it became a purpose and a goal. During my high school years, I collected the pocket money I was supposed to spend on my lunch to save enough for a great purchase. As a ninth-grader and teenager, I needed spiritual food more than any kind of snack. The image of me holding my own guitar was encouraging and inspiring. There was only one idea-fix: to buy a guitar before the summer break started so I could entertain my friends while we were hanging out during the humid, slow, and endless evenings, and so I could start writing my own songs. 

When a can-like box from my dad’s cologne with a weirdly carved hole for coins—AKA my piggy bank—was full, I unreeled a thick layer of transparent tape to open it. I carefully counted coins and banknotes in the hope of reaching a sufficient sum to buy the guitar. And I hadit! My dad and I went to the single store in my hometown that sold musical instruments. It was 2005, and Ukrainians' hearts swelled with the pride of their success in the Orange Revolution, in having won the Eurovision contest, and finally having truly started down their European path towards a brighter and better future. These years of 2004–2005 were reassuring for Ukraine—we finally were visibly pinning ourselves on the global map. 

In 2005, Ukraine hosted Eurovision. Trembita Guitars, a national guitar manufacturer, issued a special edition of their instruments with a Eurovision sticker: the Ukrainian flag, blue and yellow, in a heart. As the reader might guess, the money I collected was precisely enough to get a Trembita with that Eurovision sticker. This is how it started—the road to self-exploration and songwriting. 

My first songs had the most uncomplicated rhymes, like “night” and “fight,” “love” and “dove,” but nobody cared about these songs. On the one hand, it was disappointing that no one saw my great talent for songwriting. My friends cared more about me performing the covers of their favorite Ukrainian bands of the moment. These were explicitly songs of Ukrainian Independence, as I see it. We were singing the greatest hits and outstanding Ukrainian poetry performed by Mertvyi Piven, Plach Yaremii, Komu Vnyz, Skriabin, Kryhitka, and many, many others. 

The new Ukrainian image was authentic, independent, and self-sufficient. No one could forbid us from singing those songs, we would never be sent to jail for singing them anymore, and no one could persecute us for it. The dark Soviet times were over for us—we knew no more about them. We were kids of Independence, free to nourish our own culture, to enrich the symbolism, to sing Ukraine. 

We sang folk and national songs about love and relationships, about sorrows and hardships, but even more about beautiful Ukraine, freedom, hope, faith, and our devotion to our dear country. We enjoyed singing old patriotic songs, and we sympathized with their imagery. Still, we hoped we would never recognize ourselves between their lines. We marveled at how honorable it must have been to fight for independence and die for it but prayed we would never have to. These were the songs my Trembita was helping me to carry out.  

Now, I have my PRS with the birds. The Trembita is proudly standing on display in the living room corner at my parents’ apartment. So many years have passed. I didn’t have to break a

piggy bank to get the money to buy a new guitar; I work to earn enough and probably eat well, too. The simple rhymes have changed to more complicated patterns, though the themes for the songs stayed the same. I still sing about Ukraine, love and hope, Independence and freedom. I never thought history would repeat itself when I would have grown into an adult. Many people now can recognize themselves in the lines of those patriotic Ukrainian Insurgent Army songs. The whole generation is again hopeful to finally have a better, independent future, often paying with their lives. And of course, there is some Eurovision theme in the background. We won the 2022 contest.  

I am happy I still know how to play the guitar, even if I do it in the most unsophisticated way. Every time I hold it, the birds fly off my fingers when I start playing another tune—melodies by me and Ukraine. And the birds fly off free. They are all kinds of birds. They fly and sing. They are loud. They are big.