Where Is Your Inner Cuckoo?

Reading the title, some of you may think this is about that well-known film, others may wonder whether it refers to something like a zodiac sign, and some, having long forgotten its literal meaning, may now recognize it only in its metaphorical sense… In this piece, we will first listen to my inner cuckoo, and then to yours. In other words, this is, in its own way, a rather personal reflection.

In the most vivid corner of my memory hangs Dino’s well-known painting, one of the moments that will always remain among the brightest in my memory jar. It is neither too early nor too late on a summer morning. Before the midday heat settles in and the world begins to burn under the sun, a gentle breeze drifts in, as if set on quietly bringing us a little comfort. It brushes past the knee-high bushes where tiny mountain flowers peek through, then moves across the window toward the field beyond, visiting each olive tree in turn, lightly touching their branches as though checking on them. The early risers of the household have already woken. My grandmother is quietly preparing breakfast without waking us. From the pan, already waiting to crisp at the edges, comes the familiar scent that tells me today is a bazlama day. My grandfather has finished his breakfast long ago and now sits in the storage room with his tea, likely preparing to step outside. Meanwhile, I linger in the cool bed, stretching and rubbing my eyes, quietly savoring the long stretch of summer ahead and the minutes I already know will later become some of my happiest memories. In the background, a melody unfolds, more harmonious and more soothing than any composition I know: a small cuckoo bird, never physically seen, yet inseparable from the calm moments in my mind, calls me gently into the day. Unhurried, timeless, seemingly detached from the world, yet convincing me that life is nothing more than this very moment: cuckoo… cuckoo… cuckoo.

The next scene: after a swim in the sea, we stop by our favorite place and eat ice cream topped with cheese halva, then rush home with the sun’s fading warmth at our backs. The scent of sunscreen mixed with salt and the day’s heat follows us into the air. A race to the shower begins. One by one, each person emerges with sun-warmed cheeks, eyes still tinged by the sea, and freshly washed hair that now smells of shampoo, lining up near my grandmother at the garden stove where she is roasting corn over embers as the evening cool settles in. Soon, we gather in the coolest room of the house, which doubles as the afternoon coffee room, to watch the sunset together. By the time we arrive, my mother and aunts have already finished their Turkish coffee and closed their readings of fortunes. A quietness mixed with fatigue fills the air. Once again, the same sound forms a new melody with the crackling corn over the embers, whispering the closing of the day to us: crackle crackle, cuckoo… crackle crackle, cuckoo… crackle crackle, cuckoo.

Another scene: night has fallen, and darkness surrounds everything. To see the stars more clearly, I turn off all the garden lights and step outside. Long rows of street lamps stretch along the road, softly illuminating the night. In the small playground in our garden, built by my grandfather for his grandchildren and as old as I am, I sit on the swing that has always been mine, gently swaying. The faint creaking of the slightly rusted chains blends into the silence of the night. Suddenly, my grandfather appears beside me on the swing to the right. With his arms and legs stretched straight, he grips the chain at its midpoint, pulling himself forward and back, his body forming a large curve as he swings. He begins to sing his favorite song, “Karakolda Ayna Var.” His voice feels warm and clear. I think to myself that it is as calming as listening to a cuckoo in the distance.

Years have passed. One day, somewhere by the sea, I suddenly realize that going into the water used to feel more joyful. Because it has been years since I last breathed in the scent of the sea, noticed the morning breeze brushing through the olive trees, tasted corn roasted over embers in the evening, seen the people who gave meaning to those moments, or heard the soothing call of the cuckoo bird. We have grown. In growing, we have moved forward in search of greater meaning, without slowing down, often without noticing how quickly we have accelerated. We have forgotten that what we truly need is to slow down and return to what restores us. And at times, the constraints we call circumstances have kept us from hearing the very sounds we need.

What I am trying to bring you to is not hollow nostalgia. Your memories are best where they belong, in the past, in that moment, at that time. Because if you were to step into that same water today, it would not feel the same. That favorite meal would not taste the same, the sea would not carry the same scent as it once did, and that ice cream with cheese halva would not be as delightful. Those towns, summer houses, and cities that you sometimes visit again and feel a quiet sense of loss for, even if they were to be recreated today as a period film set that faithfully reflects their original state, you would not be able to relive those days, because you are no longer the same person you once were. And that is exactly why your memory jar is so valuable. Do not fear that what is inside will fade or disappear. Once a feeling has been deeply experienced, it becomes a part of you. Knowing where your cuckoo bird is hidden, remembering it, and being able to call it back whenever you feel lost, that is enough. It is also important to remember this: there are melodies yet to be written with your cuckoo bird. The moments we will one day look back on with nostalgia are the ones we are living right now. You have the chance to fill your memory jar in this very moment. All it takes is to truly and deeply notice the details, the moments, and the small beauties that make us who we are, and that enter our lives across different periods. Now… take a calm, long look inward and ask yourself: in which moments, in which memories is your cuckoo bird hidden? And what kind of paths might these moments be writing for your future?