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Warrior of the Light
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Previous Editions
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Warrior of the Light
Previous Editions
The sound of the train and all your wise reflections…you hear God’s voice of love…The Russia I grew up to fear…gorgeous landscape…and the sweet young Russian girls…with so much admiration. Paulo, *smiling @ you*.
Você é Especial !
Obrigada por dividir conosco esses momentos.
Beijos,
Mari Raphael.
Simply, fantastic!!!
It is awesome how close you were of the reality and how much experience you absorbed through that journey.
thanks for sharing this with us!
regards, Diego
I embrace you dear magician…this journey is awakening me that I have to let go the pressure that I feel coming from the outside and enjoy my coffee which I’m going to drink now.
I love to see the beauty of nature touching a soul by a loving hand.
Love
Hildegarde
Bellissimo Paulo, especial!!!
Besos
Barbara
Obrigada!
ainda conseguirei dar um abraço de obrigada como as leitoras desse episídio fizeram… então…
até mais :)
Paulo, I dont have a website.. And I’m from Brazil…
This video is wonderful…
And I really want to say to u, that I love you, more than u imagine… And see these images on this train, makes me feel so glad, and with a heart on my hand, you know…
I really dont know how to explain what I feel when I read or saw things that You makes….
Thnak you to save my life with: Veronika decides to die! (Veronika decide morrer).
I really want to talk with you in emails and say how you save my life with this book.
I love you, Paulo… I really love you.
Kisses from a paulistana,
Belisa
I really like getting to know something about your life and your thinking… it is - as always - a pleasure and a mind-opener :-) thanks for sharing with us!!
Anja
P.S.: Is it possible that the video abruptly stops at the beginning? As the woman’s sentence is cut off right in the middle? But maybe it is just some problem I experience…?!
La cosa más bella, ver a esas mujeres con sus emociones unas con sus risas y otras con sus llantos, dándote todo su amor por donde quiera que vayas.
Me emociona ver esta parte del mundo emocinándose contigo.
Un beso Paulo, yo también te amo.
For Anja:
It isn’t just you–the sentence is indeed cut off in the middle, BUT, the Italian transcription is complete. It reads:
“…ma quando lo tocca, immediatamente capii che ero li per altri motivi, per un’altra ragione.”
“…but when I touched him, immediately I realized that I was there for other motives, for another reason.”
Hope that helps!
Savita
Exile–in this clip, you speak of the subject of exile, of the tragedy and trials of those who are forced from their homes, forced to leave behind all that is familiar and loved and set out in a direction, toward an ultimate destination, that is not of their own choosing.
This is a subject that touches me deeply, as so often in life I have thought of myself as one who was born into exile. I know it sounds odd, perhaps, to suggest such a thing. As for me, I believe in reincarnation, and in karma, so it is not such a strange concept–the idea that one could somehow be exiled at birth, forcibly separated from all that is familiar and most beloved and sent to live in a strange land, among a strange people. (I know that everyone doesn’t accept the idea of reincarnation. And that’s fine. I don’t suggest it is the only way, or even the “right” way to believe. It just happens to be the frame through which I, as an individual, have chosen to view the world.) At any rate, I cannot recall a time, even in early childhood, when I felt that I truly belonged with the people among whom I was born. I have always, at least when at home–in the town, in the region, and even to some degree in the nation where I was born–I have always been tormented by the keen sense of myself as a “stranger in a strange land.” I have, in secret, so many times, looked around me and thought to myself: “These are NOT my people.” When I was growing up, even at a very early age, I cannot recall a time when I was not certain that I would leave as soon as I was old enough. This sense of displacement that haunts me even now, seems to be something that I was born with.
So I ask, is it possible to be born into exile? And if so, how does this come about? How is it that a child can come into the world and their very soul be somehow unfitted to the environment into which they are born? Or is this sense of discontent, of not belonging to this place and this people–is this just some retrospective element that I, as an adult, have superimposed upon the child that I once was? No, it can’t be. Because I can remember all too keenly the sense of dissatisfaction, of discontent, disillusionment, even shock and disgust at the people and the culture by which I was surrounded. Some might say that I simply read too many books growing up, and that is what caused the sense of segregation–of being somehow different and ill-fitted to my surroundings and my society. And certainly their is a hint of truth in that; but the books I read weren’t the cause. Instead they merely served to intensify the feelings already present. Paulo Freire would call it the process of “conscientization.” And that would be correct too, to a certain degree. The books I read as a child and as a teenager, they did serve to develop and enhance my conscious awareness of my self and my placement in the surrounding environment of political and social contradictions. The books I read, as well, surely served to spur my later rebelliousness against the oppressive systems which seemed to spread out around and above me like a great spider-web of injustice. Nonetheless, these theories don’t account for the feelings I experienced even before I could write my own name, certainly before I could read. So, my only conclusion is that some of us, by whatever twist of fate–karmic of otherwise–are born into a state of exile. And I don’t intend for this to diminish or negate the significance and intensity of the experiences of those who have faced actual physical exile. I only mean to suggest that, in addition to this physical form of exile, there is a type of exile of the psyche or spirit as well.
Thinking about this today has brought me to recall the story of Evangeline and the exile of the Acadian people in the 1750’s from what is present-day Nova Scotia. Many people are familiar with the story as it is recounted in Longfellow’s poem “Evangeline,” but there are actually many versions of the tale, most of them oral traditions that have never been written down. I happen to live not very far from the Evangeline Oak, and my mother’s mother was a Cajun (Acadian). She used to tell me, as a bedtime story, the tale of how, on the day of their wedding, Evangeline and her fiance, Gabriel, were separated in the crowd of exiles and forced onto separate ships, bound for different U.S. destinations. It happened so fast–they were literally wrenched out of one another’s arms–that there was no time even to say goodbye, much less to make a plan about where they might try to meet. Gabriel was sent to the Carolinas, and eventually on to Louisiana. The ship that Evangeline was forced onto landed much further north, somewhere in New England. Eventually, she made her way down to southern Louisiana and New Orleans, where many of the Acadian people had come to settle, attracted by the somewhat familiar culture and the prevalence of the French language. Throughout the region, Evangeline wandered for months, then years, seeking her lost beloved. Along the way, she occasionally got news of where someone thought he might be, or came across a place that he had been. But it would take her the rest of her life, before her journey would finally reach its end, beneath the Evangeline Oak, in St. Martinville, Louisiana. There, at a worker’s encampment, much like the temporary and always transient tent villages my grandmother grew up in, Evangeline finally found Gabriel. He was laid out on a cot, beneath the shade of that great oak, on the banks of the Bayou Teche. He had yellow fever, and in Evangeline’s arms, that very day–the day of their reunion–he died. Unable to sustain the grief that she felt, Evangeline continued to wander from place to place, from town to town, up and down the Bayou Teche, and in her wanderings, went slowly mad. In her mind, Gabriel was not dead–somewhere, her beloved was yet to be found.
I am moved, Paulo Coelho, by the sensitivity which you seem to express towards the varied form of oppression that plague the human condition. Exile is just one among many forms. Thank you for sharing your thoughts on the subject with us.
Savita Vega
`Yes’, my dearest Paulo Coelho, we are on this Planet as if we are in exile. We are strangers in a hostile, fearful world, but at the same time beautiful and full of God’s Love. If only we could open our Super-senses and ’see’.
I understand the emotions of the girls embracing you and crying.. It is the feeling of pure LOVE. THANK YOU.
LOVE,
THELMA
O gelo siberiano esconde segredos milenares e xamãs muito sábios. Mago, estou aguardando a tua visita no meu cantinho, preciso da tua ajuda por lá, seria de vital importância, acredite!!!Bjssss
Great! I love the rythm of the train
my Italian is improving too.
when i see the landscape and the train i wanna travel there too :)
Valeu a vida vivida, valeu a escuridão na mina abandonada,valeu….
Eu quero te abraçar para te agradecer Mago … esta viagem faz
avivar minha memória…..Machupichu em 1976.
Com 20 e poucos anos procurava algo que só hoje eu entendi…minha Fé, minha alma velha…
Realmente tudo tem seu valor,mesmo achando que é loucura .
Beijo carinhoso querido Mago.
Thank you =)
Dearest Paulo,
really, the magnetic girl’s talking was interupted too early and there is a crucial piece missing. Would you like to share more with us, or even better, might you write a book about this important meeting?
With love,
Dita