A beautiful story you have to tell us. Something you read, Something you listen, Something belongs to your tradition. Please share with us.
Storytelling is the only bridge left, when we see this Clash of Civilizations. This week, forum is about most beatiful story or stories.
3 weeks ago, I started a forum on poems. Now, I’m encouraging people to share their souls through storytelling, through art, through poetry.
PLEASE COPY/PASTE OR WRITE your most beautiful story here. It can be a personal story, a legend, etc. We all are looking forward to this.
Thank you.
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Wrath
By Babur Albayrak
Late 19th century, in the middle of a hot summer over the historic city. The retired old man was keeping up schedule with his routine. He was walking around moving his head here and there, repeating the verses he was destined to. “Whatever people do, they do it to themselves” the old man shouted out walking up and down the street. He walked aimlessly and not knowing what to do. Everyone that lived on the street knew him because of this routine he was going through every single day.
Everything was still and moving slow under the blazing sun of the summer until the nervous woman said to herself that she had enough of this old man continuously repeating his verse, he was destined to repeat. She decided to get rid of him and prepared poisonous pies for him. She made them out of a very poisonous spice and put them into a tin box, which she covered with a white piece of cloth to be given it to the old man. It seemed very easy for her to get rid of him and this way she will be able to relax without his verse echoing in the street when she is at home. She went outside with a furious anger, she did not have any more patience to get rid of the old man and put him into silence forever. The verse echoed in her mind. The nervous woman handed the tin box covered with a cloth to the old man passing by her house.
“You must be hungry, I baked these pies for you.”
“Whatever people do, they do it to themselves” repeated the old man and took the box out of her hands gently with a warm smile. He continued his journey up and down the street. The nervous woman was lighter and she was thinking that it will be so easy and the old man will die as soon as he takes the first bite. She could not wait long and was not patient enough to go into her house. She wanted to see the old man down but the journey continued with the old man carrying the box with him. He did not touch the pies yet. Therefore, she decided to go inside and wait.
The sun was about the go down as the young boy was heading home after years of military service out side of the city. The young boy walking fast as the earth he was stepping on was throwing him forward on each step he took. He was eager to go home and reach to his loved ones to tell them he was back for good. As he was getting close to his house, he noticed the old man carrying a box in his hand. The young man was still wearing his military uniform. The old man came to him and thinking he might be hungry, he passed him the tin box full of pies and said:
“You seem like you are coming a long way, you must be hungry. Please take this box of pies, it will endure your hunger.”
The young boy smiled at him and took the box of pies. He opened the white cloth and saw that it was just like the pies his mother used to cook for him. He accepted them with a smile and thanked the old man. He kept on walking towards home as if the pies will make his way home. The pies were going to give him a taste of home before he got there.
The old man went on with his routine he was destined to repeat. The young boy took a wild bite from one of the pies in the box. He fell immediately on his knees and his dead body laid still in the middle of the street. People around noticed the young boy in the middle of the street and gathered around him to see if there was anything to do with him but the young boy laid still no matter what people did, they were not able to bring him back.
The nervous woman was coming back from grocery shopping and she saw the crowd gathered around. She thought to herself that finally the old man was gone and the people around were talking about how it happened. She was happy with a smile on her face. As she got closer with curiosity, she came closer to the place of the event. She was at the tip of her toes to see what the situation was, she noticed her son there in his military clothes. The tin box was one side and the pies were on the other. Her son laid still, dead like a piece of rock.
The old man unaware of everything continued his journey up the street with his destined verse echoing from the old buildings:
“Whatever people do, they do it to themselves.”
The story named “Wrath (3)” is spoken by my Turkish family elders and is translated into English by Babur Albayrak.
one of my favorite stories written by Anthony de Mello.
Once lived the Teacher, he was very wise. One day his students decided to check, is it true that he knows everything. They came to the meadow, caught the butterfly and decided…that one of the students will go the teacher holding the closed hands… and will ask: is this butterfly dead or alive?
If teacher will say that alive, he will push his hands and butterfly will die, if teacher will say that dead-he will hold this butterfly and teacher will be not rigt.
Then student went to the Teacher holding butterfly in his hands and asked:
-Teacher, in my hands is butterfly, please say is it dead or alive?
Teacher looked to his hands and said:
- Everything is in your hands.
What a beautiful story! Thank you for sharing, Egle:)
Love
Anne S.
it was last spring. I was ill for some months. one man, whom I met only few times in seminars just get information about my ill and started to email me every day. what I learned from communication with him, what no matter that I couldnt move from my room, some days I didnt have power to get out from my bet, but in this time I so much discovered about this life, about people, about music, about cultures… I had feeling as whole world belongs to me… I learned to love the Life… one day I’ll ask him: are you a man or an angel :)
my fav short story is THE GIFT OF THE MAGI by O’Henry
Here’s it:
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”
The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling–something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: “Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”
“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.
“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”
Down rippled the brown cascade.
“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
“Give it to me quick,” said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation–as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value–the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends–a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do–oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?”
At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two–and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again–you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice– what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”
“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”
Jim looked about the room curiously.
“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you–sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year–what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs–the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims–just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”
And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ‘em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”
The magi, as you know, were wise men–wonderfully wise men–who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
THE END.
Essa história começa quando o meu irmão comprou uma oficina mecânica no final de 2006 e, com ela, vieram 5 gatos que lá moravam. Em janeiro do ano seguinte fui conhecer o local e me apaixonei por uma das gatas que estava prenha. Três dias depois meu pai saiu de manhã, como todos os dias, levando comida para os gatos. Na hora do almoço meu irmão retornou trazendo a comida de volta e dizendo que um dos mecânicos havia jogado todos os gatos fora, só deixando a “barriguda”. Na mesma hora me desesperei – como uma pessoa pode jogar fora seres vivos? Pedi que eles trouxessem a gatinha para ficar com a gente, lutando contra a minha mãe que não gosta de felinos e alegava que já tínhamos uma gata.
Foi um dia de choro, descrença, raiva e luta para que a gata viesse morar com a gente. À noite, contra todos os argumentos de minha mãe, eles chegaram com a “barriguda”. Ela, muito assustada, com toda a razão, entrou debaixo da geladeira e lá ficou. As pessoas ignoram que os animais são seres vivos, sentem dor, fome, sede e também o amor que temos por eles. São criaturinhas de Deus.
Com a promessa de doar todos os filhotes, ela ficou conosco. Quatro dias depois eles nasceram. Um de cada cor. Novamente tive que ouvir as reclamações e pressões da minha mãe – ora era o sofá, outra a sujeira e até que eles pareciam camundongos. Como prometi fiz vários panfletos e distribuí pela cidade. Consegui doar 2 gatinhos para uma pessoa e sofri com a dor da mãe procurando-os. Ela miando de um lado e eu chorando de outro. Com o coração partido, pensava: “Por que eles não podem ficar? Onde alguns ficam, a gente se aperta e os outros se ajeitam.” Depois de várias desistências de futuros donos, resolvi assumir o que eu queria desde o começo – ficar com eles. Agora eram 5 gatos – a gata que eu já tinha, a ex-barriguda que recebeu o nome de Noelle, em homenagem a Sidney Sheldon, já que ela chegou na semana em que ele se foi e seus 3 filhotes.
Assim fomos vivemos entre as reclamações em casa e o trabalhão que dava e que ainda daria, afinal só de fêmeas eram 4 e não queríamos mais filhotes. Em pouco tempo todos já estavam castrados e felizes. Certas vezes até pensava por que isso tinha acontecido, foram tantas lutas, tanto choro, tantas emoções. Se eu não soubesse de nada, não teria tantos problemas. Apesar do amor que sentia por eles, enfrentar a família todo dia era difícil, eles tinham direito de não gostar e eu de gostar.
No dia 31/08/07 Noelle deu uma escapadinha para o nosso quintal. Não deixamos os gatos no quintal sem alguém olhando, até porque é fácil sair de casa por lá. Como ela era gata de rua, a deixava um pouco livre nas raras vezes em que acontecia. Começamos a nos assustar quando ela não voltou. Eu já havia ido trabalhar, mas ligava a todo o momento para casa no intuito de ter notícias. Perguntamos a todos e ninguém sabia de nada. No dia seguinte meu pai falou com um vizinho que não havíamos falado antes e ele disse que alguns garotos estavam procurando uma gata grávida e ele achou uma na casa dele, deu para os meninos e ajudou a levar a caixa até uma favela próxima. Sim, ele havia dado a minha gata. Ele ainda tentou consertar dizendo que não era a mesma da foto, que estava prenha, enquanto Noelle já era castrada. Mas só podia ser ela.
No mesmo dia ele e meu pai foram até a favela onde os meninos moravam para tentar localizá-los, mas a avó deles disse que não tinha nenhuma gata lá. Se Noelle tivesse ido embora por conta própria, saberia voltar com certeza, mas dentro de uma caixa fechada…
Foi aí que começou a minha luta. Foram cartazes, idas à favela, recados pela Internet e nada. No sábado seguinte meus pais conseguiram encontrar os garotos em casa e chegaram com a boa notícia, só que a ruim era que ela tinha entrado num buraco de uma obra da casa vizinha e não saía de lá. Será que estava presa? Ferida? Foram dias de muita agonia. Imaginar ser tirada do seu lar seguro e largada numa favela com fome, sede, gente estranha, me atormentava. O que me chamava atenção, também, era que havia nessa história muitas coincidências. Ela nunca ia para o quintal e foi exatamente no dia e na hora em que umas crianças procuravam uma gata. E o vizinho saiu de casa ao mesmo tempo em que as crianças estavam na rua. E por que ela não pulou de volta para minha casa? Por que eles não encontraram os meninos logo no primeiro dia que foram lá? E ainda por cima a avó mentiu. Coincidências não existem, sempre acreditei nisso. O que era tudo isso então?
Nesse período li alguns livros que nos ensinam que tudo é possível, basta querer. Ouvia as pessoas contando histórias de gatos que tinham voltado para as antigas casas após uma mudança, mesmo estas sendo bem distantes da atual. Isso me deu muita força para seguir adiante. Munida de escada, ração e muita determinação, voltei até a favela para eu mesma olhar dentro do tal buraco. Me vi pulando o muro de uma casa vazia em obras numa favela do Rio. Gritei, chamei, sacudi o saco de ração. Olhei, me rastejei, me machuquei e nada. Ela não estava ali. A não ser que estivesse morta lá dentro.
Nunca desisti dela, nem quando um outro vizinho falou: “Não quero te desanimar, mas vai ser difícil ela voltar.” Nem quando recebi um telefonema de alguém que viu o anúncio no poste e me disparei até lá para constatar que não era ela. Ainda bem que a outra gata perdida já fazia amizade com a família. Teria ela um novo lar? Torci para que a resposta fosse positiva. Mas cadê a mãe dos 3 gatinhos que estavam na minha casa? Os dias passavam e parecia que cada vez mais as chances de encontrá-la diminuíam. Quanto tempo um gato fica sem comer?
Comecei a mudar a estratégia. Ao invés de mentalizar com todas as minhas forças que ela voltaria, comecei a agir como se ela já estivesse voltado. Chegava do trabalho com a expectativa de encontrá-la e quando não a via, não ficava decepcionada, mudava de pensamento imediatamente. Difícil? Tudo é possível para quem acredita.
Nessa época dava aulas de teatro às sextas-feiras pela manhã e tinha 2.30h livres até pegar minha turma de educação infantil à tarde. Aproveitava esse tempo para caminhar na Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas. Muitas vezes olhava a pista e, como estava totalmente livre, fechava os olhos e seguia imaginando ela em casa, com os filhotes, feliz, me esperando na varanda. Massacrava a minha mente com frases do tipo: “Tudo é possível”, “Podemos conseguir tudo o que queremos”, “Se eu imagino, posso realizar”, “A nossa mente é poderosa, pode fazer coisas que nem imaginamos”, “Acredite!”. Eu acreditava.
O tempo passava e nada. Os meninos falavam que ela havia fugido de lá e não a viram mais. Meu coração apertava, mas eu seguia em frente. Resolvi que não faria nada para comemorar meu aniversário dia 21/9. Ia ficar quietinha em casa. Nesse ano, a data caía numa sexta, dei minha aula, caminhei na Lagoa, voltei para a escola, trabalhando a tarde toda. Quando cheguei em casa, à noite, minha mãe me falou: “Olha para trás.” E tal foi minha surpresa ao ver minha gata de volta. “Como?” – perguntei. Para ouvir a explicação de que os meninos conseguiram pegá-la. Foi o meu melhor presente de aniversário. Exatamente 21 dias depois do seu “sequestro”, ela retornava. O que me chamou a atenção foram os 21 dias. Sempre escuto alguma coisa relacionada ao número 21. Existe oração dos 21 dias, limpeza espiritual dos 21 dias. O que o número 21 tem de tão especial? Eu não sei, mas sei que eu consegui, ela voltou.
Por mais que o mundo te diga que seu sonho é impossível, que você não vai conseguir, se você quer mesmo, não desista nunca. Nunca! O Universo não para de conspirar a seu favor. Acredite!
It’s the moments we remember in life, not the hours!
Sitting out looking to sea, the Adriatic! Watching the elderly man who made his way down to the waters edge, stumbling to get back to his lounge chair on the rocky beach, falling. I hesitated, having watched him make his way down gingerly on wobbly legs that had traveled many miles. I not knowing if he’d want me to help him, would pride say no? I finally got up and approached him, held out my hand, he said no, but thanked me for offering assistance. He then staggered back to his chair in triumph. I was sitting reading, “The Agony and the Ecstasy,” he asked me if that was the first time I’d read it, I said, yes. When he got ready to leave, he thanked me for offering to help him, saying, “I’m 85 and I lived in Italy when I was 35 for 25 years, I just wanted to stick my feet in the Adriatic Sea, one last time.” I thought of carpe diem, sieze the day, as I stared out to sea, imagining this man miles before.
hi..
this is a short story about a girl who grew up in a sunny country, in a small house from parents who were from different countries and cultures. This girl as she grew up she started seeing the world with different eyes from other people, seeing things from different perspectives or even seeing things that others didnt see. This made her feel different and she always found the excuse in herself that she was different because of her parents.. because she was mixed, not from one country not from the either. Travelling the world from small, she found fascination in history, culture and art and she felt attracted by art. So she started painting hoping that with this she will finally manage to express herself and her thoughts which nobody seemed to understand so far – not even her parents.
However what she achieved was just to make people tell her compliments that she has a talent in painting but the same people pushed her away from pursuing a career as an artist because this job wont bring money. So she started writing small stories,most of them kept for herself…
As the years went by, this girl grew miserable because she had no real friends, or even fake ones that she could pretend with and spend her time, at school her life was a living hell as everyone joked with her and ignored her, so she became bitter inside and deeply unhappy. Depression showed its cruel marks on her soul as she had found nobody to understand her or share her feelings with. this girl today is still alone, quite isolated and reading the fabulous book “Veronika has decided to die” from Paolo Coelho and seeing herself in it and thinking how the years pass by and people try to change try to immitate others so they can be like them and so find friends or people who look like them, feel like them, share common things, and live in a life routine full of problems, bitterness, working for a living, studying too many years in order to get a job, sacrificing things for her family and many things that make us cold inside, ignore our heart just because logic says different, logic says “follow the others”, “become like them” and things that she sees different and wishes to change, to find her inner freedom, to be her true self… and life goes on…
I am not a story teller, but this is a true story of one who found her misery was actually a beautiful gift from God, her ‘Dark Night’. This dark night has lasted forty-one years, and only recently has been discovered as a gift.
The little girl, four years old at the most, stood looking at the tall woman, who was beautiful with black hair and eyes, red lips, smooth pale skin, and a long dress on which the woman had made herself. The little brown haired brown eyed girl looked up, perplexed. Why had this mom-woman, who all along loved this little girl, suddenly started to hurt her so? Little Anna looked at her scarred hands, felt her empty stomach growl, longing for the hugs that came not a few month earlier. Now, all she had was abuse of the mental and physical kind. Her mom told her how much of a burden she was, how she wished she was never born, how ugly and stupid she was. Physical pain was inflicted at any chance. And on and on this went for years and years, till there was no more little Anna, only an empty shell of a human who thought she was a mistake made by God, and that God could not wait to throw her in hell someday. She grew up like this. Using her body because that seemed to be the only thing accepted and liked. But that was so empty and made her feel even worse. No one around ever stood up for her, not her three sisters, not her father, not anyone, because they were afraid of the mom-woman. It would get worse for little Anna if they even tried to help Anna. Anna grew up, never went to college (with no self esteem, it seemed hopeless to try, and the mom-woman told her if she went to college, she would suffer and be kicked out of the house) Uneducated, she took what work she could. She partied, suffered guilt, closed into herself even more. There is nothing left. She eventually married a loving, but not understanding man. Two children, the first sign that God truly loved her, came along. She now experienced her first sign of unconditional, pure love. The love of a child. How did her mom hate her so, when all she felt for these little ones was love beyond words? But she still had and has no self esteem. On and on, years and years like this, empty and wondering. God loved her enough to give her children, but why did that big hole full of pain and agony still reside inside her? Sleep left her. Depression set in. Self loathing was a normal thing. Nothing in this life was worth it, save the children. Finally, in Mass one day, God spoke. This is your dark night. It is your path to perfect union with Me, and the only way to get to Me. God loved Anna, and this suffering was His gift to her, to bring her closer to Him. The dark night is still going on, and will not end till God is through. The branding fire is strong, difficult, but yields spectacular results. Anna accepted and offered the suffering up for needy souls. And she finds peace, at last, anxiously waiting for her perfect union with God.
gracias por compatir
con amor
( sorry I post gain to correct some mistakes )
This is a story of love , sacrifice and devotion …
Once upon a time , there was a poor painter who lived with his daughter Leila in a small house , they were a little but a happy familly .
He spent his time drawing her portraits , he knew by heart the lines of her smile , her look , her hair … he cherished her to death , he lived for her …
One day , Leila got engaged to a rich gentleman and as tradition wanted , the bride’s familly should finance the wedding …
The painter refused to sell his daughters’ portraits , he spent that night thinking of a resource to provide his Leila’s wedding as nobody in the village wanted to land him some money .
He painted an allarmant but beautiful painting wich he sold and left the money to Leila with a note : I’m sorry , be happy with your husband , Love never dies ; Your dad …
The old painter desapeared since that day but nobody knew that he died bleeding as he painted that extraodinary last painting with his own blood..
Cheers from Morocco
Fairouz Tougui
I have two short stories I would like to share: Bridge between Cultures and The Pilgrimage.
Bridge between Cultures
_____________________________________________________________________
As a person of many cultural influences, I feel quite sensitive and observant to similarities and differences between them.
I now live in Spain, and I was riding the train one day on my way home from work. Next to me, I saw a Spanish family, and one of the sons had down syndrome.
Having spent most of my life in North America, I had never encountered a child of down syndrome quite like this…Although he was a teenager or young adult,
he was kissing and hugging different people in the family constantly, like a child with only love in his heart.
Tears came to my eyes as I viewed this selfless love…it made me realize how many of us are trained to not show this type of affection very early on in our lives. However, in a culture like Spain – where intimacy and affection is quite open for the most part, this gentle soul was able to spontaneously show love without embarrassment or social rules on his mind.
What a wonderful boy.
The Pilgrimage
____________________________________________________________________
As many of Paulo Coelho’s fans – by far the most significant experience in my life to date has been walking the Camino de Santiago. On this journey, I met myself, learned that suffering is a part of growth and evolution, and understood the importance of love.
I started my journey with a lack of attachment to my family, my work life and having just left my partner. I finished the journey a changed person for life.
Within the first few days of the Camino, I was truly surprised by how difficult the journey was – having started by climbing the Pyrenees mountains with way too much stuff in my backpack. Having prepared physically and being quite fit, I have never felt such pain in my entire life. I was sure the next day I would not be able to walk.
It took all my strength the next morning, but I woke up, emptied many contents from my backpack leaving them for the maid – and walked alone towards the next city. During the next few days, mostly walking alone during the 6 to 8 hrs of walking – two things really surprised me: the pain became much worse with blisters and the summer heat; and how much I thought about my family.
I fell in love at an oasis in the maseta (the desert), and after finishing 700 km, my foot was injured so badly, I could not walk any more. I had never been more peaceful and happy in my entire life.
From there, with encouragement from my love, I completed the journey to Santiago by bike, and now 4 years later – I live on my own in the Country that changed me, and have never felt more gratitude in my entire life.
One thing is clear as I reflect on my pilgrimage: Just like the beats of our hearts, the rhythm of life is a dance of challenges and love. Without challenges, we perhaps would not be able to feel gratitude and take the risk to accomplish to our true dreams. Love is the source of our spirit, and the only way to truly interact with each other is through this, not judgment or accomplishments, or reaching goals set by a society or culture.
Buen Camino.
Warm hugs,
Marie Pia Fazio
Amar a Lua
Por Daniela Garcia Mesquita
Olha só, ouça aqui
O que eu vou lhe falar
É uma história de amor
A que eu quero contar
Você sabe que a lua
Reflete o sol
E o sol ilumina
Bem mais que o farol
O faro direciona
Os homens do mar
E as esposas esperam
Seus homens chegar
E o sol irradia
Seus raios na lua
Nem liga, nem espera
Que ela retribua
É a lua que inpira
O amor dos poetas
Cantada aos ventos
E em melodias
Com amor e alegria
O sol irradia
Nem liga, nem espera
Tanta poesia
Ele sabe que é ele
As fases da lua
Nem liga, nem espera
Que ela retribua
A lua é charmosa
Mulher poderosa
No fundo se arruma
Toda para o sol
E o sol e a lua
Iluminam o mar
Levam para as esposas
Seus homens pro lar
Em dias de chuva
Sem sol e sem lua
É a luz do farol
Que ilumina o mar
E assim sol e lua
Se encontram no céu
Namoram escondido
Em lua de mel
My story with my daughter : I had a dream in 1990 when a young man who died asked me to be born again.He said that in his previous life had been a drug addict and also a homosexual,and only I could be your mother.I accepted and two weeks after this dream, my exams confirmed my pregnancy.I thougt it would have a boy but to my surprise I had a girl.She was a very beautiful baby despite being born with cerebral palsy.She was very much loved and I will forever love her.Anthea,this was her name,died in 1998,but for me she is my guardian angel.I hope to meet her in the eternity.I expect a lot.
Dear Paul,
it is the first time i read your thoughts great story, i actually enjoyed the fact it was very funny.
Meanings in life don’t have to be given only with serious or sad way but with humour too.
I have serious informations that God every now and then enjoys a good joke too but that is another story for some other time.
Last year, a neighbor’s rottweiller was unleashed by his master. Since “he did not get to close the house gate” his dog ran towards Buracho, our labrador who was leashed to our fence, and started mauling him. If the owner did not pull his dog away, Buracho could have died.
When Buracho recuperated, the village guards trained him to be a our street’s K-9. Because of his good working abilities, he helps them on their detection of vagrants strolling in the village. His daily runs made him bigger, stronger, and well-built.
One day, during one of his daily routines, Buracho saw the neighbor’s rottweiler running towards him, ready to maul him again. Since he was not in a leash anymore, he ran fiercely to his arch enemy, latched his jaws on the rottweiler’s mouth and face, trampled on him like a rotten banana, and wrestled him to the ground.
The rottweiler’s master came and helped break the dogs free. But this time, he cried when he saw his helpless bloody-faced dog.
We, however, secretly gave Buracho a pat on the back. He finally had his long-awaited justice. It was a fair fight. And If he could talk, he would have smiled and said: “I may be a friendly Labrador, but I also know how to give a good fight.”
TRADICION para compartir:
Los detalles del día a día, me ayudan a entender el ciclo de vida…trato de recibir el despertar del nuevo día con la alegría de ver un amanecer de luz que va iluminando la ruta…..caminos que transito cual río sin descanso, para ir topandome con los avatares de su curso…que puede ser de piedras filosas que necesitan de una caricia para ser torneadas como cantos…de orillas y vergeles que serán hidratados con mi presencia….de bebederos con los cuales saciare la sed de la inmensa variedad de seres vivos existentes en el planeta….de molinos y usinas que impulsare para que con la energía hidráulica dinamizada hagan de este mundo un lugar especial en el universo…para desembocar al final del día en el mar del sueño y el descanso…cual pequeña muerte…y asi poder evaporarme en la inmensidad de la nube… cuyo rocío de la mañana siguiente perlará los petalos de las bellas flores…las cuales con sus bellos colores y olores son los motivos por los que agradecemos la belleza espectacular del milagro diario de la Creacion y la Vida……NAMASTE!!!!!!!!!!
Aurora
When my Italian friend visited me last November he just asked: “So, now you see the moon for the next 6 months, day & night?”
And he was right. In the darkest months of winter, we do not have much daylight in Fairbanks. During those days, the sun shines reddish golden for 3 hours, and just runs along the Alaska Range.
But it is during the winter, that the aurora gives us light, swirling over the sky, making light-veils that move in waves. Once, it was all over the sky, symmetric swirls and waves, and a milky way of light. So much movement and light over the whole town. And at the same time, not many people saw it: it was 3am.
There are excellent scientific explanations for this phenomenon.
But my experience does not fit those:
- the colder it gets, the better and more intense is the aurora. Best, when it is -30F and below.
- the aurora starts always at a place. it looks as if somebody is turning it on.
- it is there when I look up to the sky, but when I start to enjoy, it just starts to become more beautiful & active.
-it establishes a connection to the universe, or?
P.S.
Susan I enjoyed your story. You often described exactly how I feel up north here. For me, Alaska, the wilderness, the space, the seasons, and people, all define home.
good luck with your extension and that you can continue to stay in Finland.
TM 3
MI 5
5-3 =2
e=mc2
The Most Beautiful Story is the story of Now!
This moment, with all its Magic and Glory,
This moment in time, a timeless existence,
This breath of fresh air
The scent of the Jasmine flower
Right now,
The Moon and the Stars,
Oh how near and how far.
Now, right now,
the beating of my heart,
the sound of the waves,
pulsating through my veins,
spinning me round and round
butterflies fluttering around my head.
Now, right now,
This paper this pen
Letting me write to you
all that’s in my head.
Now, right now,
The smile on my face,
Your delicate grace,
An amazing face.
Now, right now,
Not yesterday or tomorrow,
Before or after,
Now, right now writes
The most Beautiful story.
Love,
C
Comon, at least something more difficult!
The book
The German officer grabbed Klara’s cold arm and threw her helpless body on the snow. Many people of the Birkenau death camp looked at them, but nobody dared to move.
“You can kill me but I won’t ever do what you want!” she screamed.
“You will. You don’t have any choice,” the officer said calmly as he grinned. His eyes were invidious.
He dragged her to the nearest empty building and ripped her shirt. Suddenly, he stopped moving. For a moment, he looked at her strangely and crushed to the floor. Behind him, a young boy, Damian, stood with a knife in his hand and blood on his shirt.
Born in 1920, her name was Klara Nowicki. After her husband died, she lived alone in a small house in the woods near Kraków. “I chose to be a hermit. Now, I have knowledge of things I would never learn in the chaos of our world,” she once said to me. Her house was tiny, surrounded by a colorful, fragrant garden of herbs and fruit.
I visited her many times; she was my book of wonders, hopes, and wisdom. I still remember the last time I saw her. I got there on time. She was boiling water for some tea. The deep wrinkles on her hands looked like a map of the thousands of roads she had walked in her life. She poured water into the sapphire, hand-made cups, and I smelled the intense fragrance that the tea leaves released into the air. Warm apple pie and coconut cookies that she put on the table tempted me to reach for them. Her cat was gone again; he was too independent to stay at home and be her friend. “He does what he wants. He has more freedom than any human being. I envy him,” she said almost whispering like it was a secret as she sat in her favorite rocking chair. We talked for long that day, not noticing the dusk let in by the wide open windows.
Her face didn’t appear old to me; I always pictured her as a young girl from her stories about war and love. Her silver braid contrasted with the dark clothes she always wore after her husband’s death. The smooth and graceful way she walked always amazed me; her feet barely touched the floor. Her gentle voice always calmed my senses, as I listened to her reading “Crime and punishment” or telling amazing stories that I was never sure whether or not they actually happened. She would say every word very carefully, like each of them had another story to tell.
Her body couldn’t keep up with her mind. Her young thoughts struggled in an old body, but the smile on her face never disappeared, and her deep-blue eyes always sparkled betraying the strength she had to face every new day. Were she here today, she would disagree with me. She was one of those people too humble to admit her strength and wisdom.
She was a survivor. Her bravery and confidence were unchangeable; she never hesitated for a moment. She rescued so many Jews during the war without any fear: She kept them in her house, gave them safety and shelter from the threat of death, and helped them escape to Russia. She knew she could die for saving “garbage” that littered the German superior race. “I just did what my heart told me. Our hearts are the voice of God,” she told me. She gladly joined the underground world of volunteer soldiers, teachers, and messengers. Her deep love for God, people, and her strong faith that the world contains more good than evil, were shining examples to many others.
She ended up in the Birkenau death camp among dying people that she could not help. “I felt worse for the poor Germans because they were the ones that needed help. But you can’t help people that don’t realize they need it,” she told me. While their hatred made them humble, torture, and kill innocent people, she was teaching and taking care of children who had lost their parents. Damian, who saved her life, was one of her “adopted” children. “He appeared hateful and cold, but his heart was pure and loving. He taught me more than I had ever taught anybody”, she reminisced to me.
Klara died on May 4, 2002. She left an empty house, a garden to grow wild, a cat to roam free, and my book of wisdom gone. As I stood at her grave, covered with flowers of every kind, I suddenly realized that the only thing she would say is: “Start writing your own book.” So I did.
© Agnieszka Biczak
Hi All,
This is a story of pursuing a dream. A story of determination and strong will. A story that shows nothing is impossible if we really want something in our heart.
Finland, a warm place for my heart and soul
By Susan Fourtané
Seeing through the dark and cold winters it is possible to see the beauty of Finland. You just need to open your heart and feel the love coming from the land of your dreams.
Finland is my home, the place I live, where I belong. It is where I can breathe and feel pure energy invading my body, filling my soul with the sweet knowledge of having found my place in the world.
I have always believed that some of us don’t belong to the place where we are born. I believe that some of us have a strong conviction of knowing that our place in the world is somewhere out there and it is in us to trust our inner Self and go on the adventure of finding that special place in the world.
After living for many years in different places, I came to Finland on vacation to visit some friends who had told me wonderful stories about Finland saying it was a place I would certainly fall in love with. It was in September 2005 that I came to Finland for the first time. It was then when I had the feeling I had been yearning for, for so long time, a warm feeling difficult to describe, a tingly feeling like when you fall in love, you can’t explain why you fall in love with a certain person and not with another one. With that growing feeling I went back to Prague, where I lived for three years, making plans to move to Finland in a year. That year a pickpocket stole my wallet and emptied my bank account in eight minutes. The mistake I made was to have my credit card and pin code together. This was in March 2006 and I had only five months left. I courageously made the move to Finland in September of that year.
With no Finnish boyfriend or husband, no job or university waiting for me -the only three reasons the Finnish government considers valid for extending a resdence permit and I was only in love with Finland, trying by all means to follow my dream, my ideal, my heart. I spent the three months allowed on my tourist visa trying to find a job and making connections. With everything that had happened with my bank account I didn’t have much time to waste as I was living on my savings. The circle was always the same, when applying for a job they asked me for a residence permit and for the residence permit I needed a job offer, it was a catch 22. I only had my determination to make my dream come true, the certainty that Finland was going to be my home and that I was going to fight for it.
At the end of November, with the expiration of my three month tourist visa I had to leave the EU for 90 days. I went to Tallinn, Estonia and dedicated my time to writing short stories that I would soon lose when my laptop crashed unexpectedly. It was now a time for deep meditation, a time for reflection, a time for introspection.
Back in Finland on March 1st and with another three months ahead on a new tourist visa, I got a job offer from a company that later on helped me in the process of starting my own business. I applied for my first residence permit and after a long wait I finally received it in September 2007.
What do I like about Finland? Finland is the most peaceful country I have ever been to. I enjoy living in Helsinki where I can get the benefits of a capital city plus the beauty of being close to the sea and the forests, all the wonderful nature Finland has to offer. I love to see the changes of seasons, the colorful fall, the white winters, the flourishing spring and the unique summer with its midnight sun, a star-less night. I love picking berries and mushrooms in the company of a good Finnish friend who teaches me about the intimate forest and its wondrous magic.
Finns are human beings worth discovering, with a rich inner life and the wisdom of knowing when to remain silent when not having anything worth saying. I like the appreciation of silence, as is in silences when it is possible to achieve wisdom, observation and contemplation. Finns are incredible friends who don’t need to be boisterous to express their feelings. Finns look deeply into your eyes and talk. It’s a magical form of communication. I have met a majority of wonderful Finns in these two years.
Working with Finns is a pleasant experience. They teach and share what they know and when you learn the way they do things, all the pieces seem to fall into place. You feel you belong and they integrate you to their world. I have loved my experience in the Finnish company, where I felt they are my family. We still do business together, as nowadays I have my own business and also work as a freelance journalist.
In Finland I have found my place in the world. I belong to this quiet, small and beautiful country. I love to listen to the sounds of silence in the forest, to the sounds of nature flowing through the core of my being. I love to observe how this land speaks to me.
It’s not important where I was born as I never felt that my homeland, a part of who I am. Finland is the place where my soul fits comfortably like a glove. Finland is a warm place for my heart and soul.
Sometimes when people ask me where I am from I simply say I am a citizen of all but only Finland holds my heart.
. . .
This story will have an update after next week, when I apply for the extension of my residence permit. My dream will be then in the government’s hands.
Felicidades:
Por tener el valor de perseguir tus sueños, creeme ,los alcanzaras, por que luchas con la pasion necesaria para lograrlo.
No se si eres creyente, yo si lo soy y Dios dara siempre la energia que necesites a tu vida. Sigue con fe ese camino, sin miedo.
La bendicion del Señor este contigo en todo lo que emprendas.
Los Guerreros de la luz ,no se dejan vencer.
I just watched one of Grey’s Anatomy old episodes. I think the series have some good stories. The one I just watched ended with Grey saying “What would you do if today is your last day on earth?” – something sounds like it.
I run my life like there is no tomorrow. Or at least, that’s how it is for most of about at least 1000 of my recent days. I put my best in all I do and currently, I’ve got whatever I need. Well, except holidays. But if I were to go now, I have no regrets. If grey anatomy is supposed to make people think, I’ve done my homework since years ago and I’m all set now.
That sounds pretty snob, isn’t it? It’s not that I haven’t done anything that I regret and wish I’d had done it another way, but I’ve fixed the damages the best I could and that’s all I could do then and that’s still all I could do now. No more.
The TV series got me into another thinking though – of how I’ve let the man I love slipped out of my life. It’s one of the things I regret but there is too little to do to fix the damage. I no longer wish I could have done things another way. I just wish someday that person knows how much I love him without ever knowing that I did let alone how to express the feeling ~ not then, and definitely not now. It felt even really hard to just write the words “i-love-him”. This kind of thing just sounds too gooey to me but with him, I think that’s just the exact word to describe my feelings.
You see, I’ve been thinking and talking about awareness, spiritual stuffs that are meant to be one thing with what is on earth and I still exclude and shut out some things from my life, i.e. that gooey thing. It just shows how much I still judge, then pick and choose one thing from another. Not really aware, isn’t it?
So, grey anatomy – how many people really go into as much and as complicated thinking as this after the show?
Vivo o agora, fotografo o agora. Do passado retiro as lições , o futuro me joga as incertezas e o presente eu persigo como tal … um presente que me é dado todos os dias desde o momento que acordo.
Esta historia li quando era apenas uma menina nunca me esqueci e desde então passei a admirar as coisas simples da vida, pois aprendi que a vida é breve, apenas um sopro no universo.
ESCRITA POR UM SOLDADO ANTES DE UM COMBATE NA SEGUNDA GUERRA MUNDIAL.
“Escuta Deus: Jamais falei contigo.
Hoje quero saudar-te: Bom dia! Como vais? Sabes? Disseram-me que tu não existes, e eu tolo, acreditei que era verdade, nunca havia reparado a tua obra.
Ontem à noite, da trincheira rasgada por granadas…Vi teu céu estrelado.
E compreendi então que me enganaram.
Não sei se apertarás a minha mão, vou te explicar e hás de compreender.
É engraçado! Neste inferno hediondo achei a luz para enxergar o teu rosto.
Dito isto, já não tenho muita coisa a te contar…
Só que… que… tenho muito prazer em conhecer-te.
Faremos um ataque à meia-noite. Já não sinto medo.
Deus, sei que tu velas…
Ah! É o clarim! Bom Deus devo ir embora.
Gostei de ti… Vou ter saudades…
Quero dizer: Será cruenta a luta, bem o sabes,
e esta noite pode ser que eu vá bater-te à porta!
Muito amigo não fomos… É verdade.
Mas… sim, estou chorando! Vê, Deus, penso que já não sou tão mau.
Bem, Deus, tenho de ir. Sorte é coisa bem rara.
Juro, porém: já não receio a morte!”(autor desconhecido)
Esta oração que foi encontrado em pleno campo de batalha, durante a Segunda Guerra, no bolso de um soldado americano desconhecido. Ele foi estraçalhado por uma granada e no pouco que lhe restou foi encontrado intacta uma folha de papel com esta oração.
Ele sabia seu passado, desconhecia seu futuro e vivia o seu presente!!!
I just want to share this little story of mine..
One weeknight, I was traveling in one of the busy streets of Metro Manila. It was along Quirino Highway. It may not be as busy as the main highway but traffic is quite bad at some parts.
I was on an ordinary bus. Many people would prefer to ride the aircon bus but I rode the ordinary bus to feel the night breeze and also to appreciate the beauty of the night as it was lit by the moon, the stars, and the street lamps.
As the bus stopped at one of the cemeteries along the highway, a man rode the bus. I actually never noticed him because I was busy listening to my ipod. What caught my attention was he is a scruffy looking man with a staff (perhaps from a branch of tree since it is not polished) and he did not take a seat though there was a vacant one. He is one of those men that you would think would preach about the “end of the world” or would ask for alms from the passenger.
My attention was caught once again when he started to deliver a speech to the audience which is us, the bus passengers. Actually, I was reluctant to listen to him because I thought that he was just some old guy going to talk about “end of the world” stuff.
But what was special about his speech is that, it is positive. Yes, he may look like a guy with nothing good to say but his speech was quite moving. His premise was that he was going to scrutinize the driver,the conductor and the bus. He said ” You know this bus driver? He is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo………nice! He makes sure that all of us would get to our destinations safe and sound while we can just sit back,relax and let him worry about how we are all going to get our destinations. And this conductor, he is sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo………. honest!He makes sure that we get our change and asks us for consideration if he can’t give out or change and then later on, he would remind us that he still needs to give us our change.”
You see, I was deceived with what I saw. Most of the time, we just look at the outside appearance and we don’t actually observe or scrutinize what really is around us. Like this man. Have not I listened to him, I would have thought that he is just explaining why he wants to ask alms or “help” from us. He was just simply spreading the message of love. Even though he looks like that, he just wants to spread the news of love. He was asking us to love each other and be kind to one another. See? A simple message from a simple man. Not only was he delivering his message, he was also interacting with the passengers as well. He would say “We’re here now at holy cross? Who is getting down here? Mr. driver, there is someone going to come down here.” And the finale is the most entertaining because this is what he said:” You know who is getting down here at Holy Cross Memorial Park? diyan diyararan ran diyan diyan diyan!!!!! Me!!! Good night and I love you all.”
Sometimes, we get too attached with ourselves that we overlook the wonderful things around us. Have I not removed my earphones and listened to this man for 10 minutes, I wouldn’t have heard his message of love. Have I not rode that ordinary bus and rode a much more comfortable air-con bus, I wouldn’t have appreciated the beauty of the night in Manila.
From time to time, I think it is important to detach ourselves from the comfort of the modern world and live a simpler life so that we can further bask in the beauty and simplicity of life.
Thank you for reading!
~Lorie Arboleda from Manila, Philippines
Eu tinha um amigo. Um desses que você espera ansioso a hora de encontrar somente para desfrutar a delícia da companhia. Nossa amizade começou no jardim de infância e foi seguindo pela vida. Mesmo quando ele me deixava na pracinha para ir brincar com os colegas, eu gostava dele; mesmo quando ele se atrasava porque estava tomando sorvete com os primos, eu gostava dele. Mesmo quando ele não vinha, estava comigo, sempre. Amizade não se escolhe, acontece. Sente-se. Vibra-se.
Até que um dia percebi que ele mentia pra mim, manipulava a minha amizade de acordo com o que lhe era conveniente. Nesse momento, me senti muito pequena. Um micróbio virou um ser maravilhoso perto de mim.
Estava na praia, lembro-me bem, sentada na areia, de frente para o mar. Era um dia importante para mim, era o meu dia. O meu aniversário.
E ele não veio. O meu coração contribuiu para a festa de cores naquela praia derramando lágrimas rubras que ficaram carimbadas na areia. Na verdade meu coração se dilacerou e, com ele, nossa amizade, já que residia lá no fundo das entranhas mais profundas da carne humana.
Dizem que não se deve destruir um coração, pois você pode estar lá dentro. E é verdade! Quando o coração quebra, também quebra a admiração pelo outro.
Você já parou para pensar quantas pessoas te ajudarão se você pedir? Às vezes o auxílio não vem daquele ente querido e sim de alguém que está ali por perto e você passa por cima e nem “vê”. Quantas pessoas falam “eu te amo” apenas da boca pra fora. Quantos parentes vêm com aqueles presentes enormes no Natal, mas não se interessam por suas ideias. Talvez, alguém que esteja mais distante, que nunca falou “eu te amo” ou esteve presente num dia importante pra você, carregue um sentimento muito maior do que aquelas que vemos diariamente. Talvez ela nunca tenha a chance de demonstrar isso.
Por isso, hoje em dia, busco em cada sorriso, a simplicidade da vida, sabendo que ali pode estar um novo amigo.
This story is about my personal legend, Eternal Light, enlightenment, an invisible world beyond a visible world and maybe the other half.
For a long time, my legend had been kept secret but it was awaken with really surprise-fantastic. At last, we met.
In 2004 I read his book, The alchemist.
In those days I was about to step on the path of my dream after the initial door on the path was opened with unbearable hidden sorrow. It was yearning about a person. A crystalloid of yearning noticed me the place that buried a treasure.
I SEEKED the place. Then I realized that a treasure existed not head but heart. My lord existed in my heart.
Because my thought(reason) commanded to my heart(spirit), “Please stop!” but my heart didn’t obey.
Heart memorized the deep-desired things or person. Never forgetting.
But I didn’t perceive that the way would be the right way, led me to come to a secret place behind a white semitransparent veil, came down from the air of our consciousness. That period was a gestion period of consciousness. I saw a round shiny crystal ball at the place. I felt it was love in my mind.
There is a calm and empty-fully space just one-stepped into our consciousness in our inner world. At that place, I saw the universal besprent stars through human’s eyes. One of them was Paulo Coelho.
If I read other author’s book, how did I feel? Anyway, he made a sense to me on the path with another woman author’s poem.
He dropped his work, wearing clothes of his soul aged of 38, on my knees across the universe. Slowly my knees were being dyed like a red petal painted on an achromatic color. Still not yet climbing up my mind.
Till then I didn’t know what the veil was.
But, now I know a role of the veil.
Human can be reborn.
Human can return to our consciousness’s birthplace.
Human can hold God, the Light’s energy ball in the middle of chest.
Now, I know human can be spiritually awakened, become enlightened and go forward Energy of Light’s world.
A miracle occurs in humanbeing at present.
After I experienced many emotion’s change, I could see a bright light at much more closer place.
But, anything interrupted in front of me. It was a curtain. It was a curtain of fear.
I KNOCKED the curtain of fear as an insomniac while four months constantly.
It was never easy, but at last, the door opened at an unpredictable moment.
The moment was the instant’s reborn.
After the curtain got removed, I was surrounded by brilliance.
A marvelous spectacle spread around Child of Light across the universe. A Child of Light watched it in the middle of truth with joy and ecstasy. It was stories of world, a value system and love of neighbor. Stories was flowing like a crystalline water at that place. It was a River of Truth.
And I saw many images and heard the holy voices with Light.
He said, “I’m your God.” “You were born from me and I am your father. You are my child.”
It was very holy voice. I never heard such a holy voice ever. The light is not burning forever.
I heard another many voices. I couldn’t know the holy voice come from anywhere. The contents was in a Bible.
The miracle of light happened to me as a magic. Actually there is an invisible world beyond visible world.
There is like a virgin forest hearing the holy voice under the Light.
An eye at the middle of the forehead is the eye’s role of the world of God, soul’s eye.
Because there was no correspondence from someone else, the echo was scattered meaninglessly in the air soon.
So, I started to seek someone to talk about it positively.
After reborn, I called to mind his book, the Alchemist. I didn’t know the reason but my heart led me to him.
I tried to meet someone to talk about it.
I met priests, a believer in Christianity and tried to meet other people, but they didn’t know about it or didn’t open the door. I wanted to meet Coelho more and more strongly. Surprisingly, after several days his new novel was published in the serial form on the web, located in my blog site. Nevertheless, I couldn’t contact with him. At last, I found out this blog. I contacted with him. He opened the door as he waited someone.
I found another treasure at this blog.
It was the rest piece of my heart. I felt my soul’s storm.
When I started to read his book, Brida, I was more convinced of him than the former. Through my inner journey, I learned about many things and met a precious person.
Now, I know God exists because of hearing his voice.
God is the energy of Light spreading at the universe.
Love is not one of several values.
I saw the light through my eye at the middle of forehead.
When I thought, “Light exists in my chest and I exists in the universe’s light.”, I heard his voice,
A gestation period of consciousness is the time to return to a flowing River. (About 1125 days in my case)
River flows in you.
I say, “Love is a God’s perfume that breaks a crystal ball behind a white secret’s veil.” Paulocoelho say, “Love is the energy that keeps stars and planets in the sky.”
Love is an eternal energy of all existence.
World is a huge one based on love energy.
MISTAKE
When I thought, “Light exists in my chest and I exists in the universe’s light.”, I heard his voice,
Pôr-do-Sol no Velho Chico
“A escrita deve ter nascido da necessidade de não esquecer.”
Luis Fernando Veríssimo
Anotações esparsas em pedaços de papel, quando disponíveis. O resultado não poderia ser outro: esquecimento.
Guimarães Rosa registrava a linguagem do povo em suas andanças. Levava lápis e caderno. Na maioria das vezes, eu nem levava a digital, quando estava com o celular, ainda tirava umas fotos. Estava lá para rever a família e as paisagens desde menina conhecidas. Muitas histórias para contar olho no olho, outras muito pessoais e há ainda as impublicáveis. A cada dia me convenço de que não nasci para escritora, sou mesmo uma contadora de histórias, preservo a tradição.
Este pôr-do-sol no Rio São Francisco em Piaçabuçu foi uma das mais belas imagens clicadas. Não tomei banho em suas águas, no entanto, todos os dias, ia para a beira do rio olhar aquela imensidão, observar os pescadores, as lavadeiras, o mergulho das crianças, recordar o tempo em que levava até sabonete e me assustava com o burro se refrescando e acompanhado do dono que enchia as latas para abastecer os casebres. Ah, o Velho Chico não pode acabar!
A luz se arrasta para a escuridão.
A claridade retorna e traz consigo aquela beleza de cores, formas, sons e cheiros.
A calmaria recuperou minha energia e a esperança de dias pacíficos.
O rio é dela, da minha mãe alagoana.
O rio é de todas as mulheres desta terra farta e abençoada.
O rio é do nordestino que, embora sem muitas condições de superar a miséria, tem amor às suas raízes e se mantém na terra, com uma fé só compreendida por quem convive com este povo forte do interior.
Certamente, preciso voltar muitas vezes para desvelar histórias que ficaram adormecidas na memória coletiva.
Fátima Campilho
Publicado em http://blogstoriasessenciais.blogspot.com/2009/02/por-do-sol-no-velho-chico.html
The most beautiful story isn’t known yet although it lies somewhere we all know.
Isn’t it being written every single minute of every day!? :-)
The are so many beautiful stories and while I was trying hard to find the one that I like best, I remembered something that happened to me some time ago. It is maybe not the most beautiful story I know but it was an important experience that taught me among other things the power of prayer:
It was a Saturday. That day it was possible to visit some beautiful old buildings in town that are usually closed to the public. My husband and I decided to visit two of them. We started out with a small palace close to a lake. The other building we had picked was a former church on the other side of that lake. After two hours in the palace I was already exhausted. I have a disability and can‘t walk very long distances. The next bus stop was far away, no taxi in sight. We could see the church on the other side of the lake and really wished we had a boat. We bought something to eat and sat down close to the water to decide what to do.
Just as we sat down a young man with a small motorboat approached us and offered to bring us to the other side. There was no proper landing to secure the boat and the safest way to get into it was from the front and over the windshield. I was worried. Such a climb on an unsteady boat with my poor sense of balance was not a good idea. Besides, we had just started eating and the water was still cold. But it was the boat we wished for! So I pushed my worries aside, we negotiated a price for the trip and I started to climb very carefully with the help of my husband and the boat driver. To my own surprise I managed to get into the boat without falling into the water. I was really happy and we continued eating. But the boat didn‘t start. I told the driver with a big smile that I was sure that the boat would start as soon as we had finished eating. He looked doubtful. The boat started when we almost had finished. Now, the driver mentioned that it might be difficult to get on land on the other side. He clearly thought that my adventurous climb into the boat was the easy part. When we got closer I saw what he meant: The exit was going to happen on a steep stone wall. Maybe half a meter above the boat there was a small step. And than it was another meter straight up before one reached the grass. A man and a woman were sitting there, happy about the possibility to take a boat over to the other side. And I was really scared. But to go back to the other side again? No. The boat driver tried to keep the boat as steady as possible, the man from above gave me a hand and I dared to get to that narrow step. It went well. But than I was stuck. I barely reached with my arms over the edge and I did not have enough strength to pull myself up, not even with the help of the friendly stranger. My husband who was still on the unsteady boat could not lift me up, either. I looked down and realized that if I lost my balance now I would most likely end up between the boat and the stone wall. That was the time when I was very close to panic. I was asking myself what I was doing here. How could I have been so stupid to get myself into such an impossible situation? Of course that didn‘t help, so I did the only thing that I could think of: I prayed. As soon as I finished my prayer, everything became easy. The man mentioned „thief‘s ladder“, so I stepped with one foot into the folded hands of my husband and he pushed me up. No problem whatsoever. For me it was a miracle (the second). In fact, my husband tried to do exactly this before but I was too scared to think straight and did not realize it. In the end everybody was happy. The waiting couple got a ride to the other side (for people without a disability it wasn‘t a big deal to get into or out of the boat), the boat driver had new customers and we could visit a very special church.
para mi esta poesia que es como un cuento guarda un especial recuerdo en mi mente pues me la aprendi de memoria y la profesora pedia que la recitaramos, pero yo no me atrevia pues era muy timida, al final alzé la mano y todo salió muy bien es de Rubén Dario.
Poesías
Margarita
Margarita, está linda la mar,
y el viento
Ileva esencia sutil de azahar;
yo siento
en el alma una alondra cantar
tu acento.
Margarita, te voy a contar
un cuento.
Éste era un rey que tenía
un palacio de diamantes,
una tienda hecha del día
y un rebaño de elefantes,
un kiosco de malaquita,
un gran manto de tisú
y una gentil princesita,
tan bonita,
Margarita,
tan bonita como tú.
Una tarde la princesa
vio una estrella aparecer;
la princesa era traviesa
y la quiso ir a coger.
La quería para hacerla
decorar un prendedor,
con un verso y una perla,
una pluma y una flor.
Las princesas primorosas
se parecen mucho a ti:
cortan lirios, cortan rosas,
cortan astros. Son así.
Pues se fue la niña bella,
bajo el cielo y sobre el mar,
a cortar la blanca estrella
que la hacía suspirar.
Y siguió camino arriba,
por la luna y más allá;
mas lo malo es que ella iba
sin permiso del papá.
Cuando estuvo ya de vuelta
de los parques del Señor,
se miraba toda envuelta
en un dulce resplandor.
Y el rey dijo: “¿Qué te has hecho?
Te he buscado y no te hallé;
y ¿qué tienes en el pecho,
que encendido se te ve?”
La princesa no mentía.
Y así, dijo la verdad:
“Fui a cortar la estrella mía
a la azul inmensidad”.
Y el rey clama: “¿No te he dicho
que el azul no hay que tocar?
iQué locura! iQué capricho!
El Señor se va a enojar”.
Y dice ella: “No hubo intento;
yo me fui no sé por qué;
por las olas y en el viento
fui a la estrella y la corté”.
Y el papá dice enojado:
“Un castigo has de tener:
vuelve al cielo y lo robado
vas ahora a devolver”.
La princesa se entristece
por su dulce flor de luz,
cuando entonces aparece
sonriendo el Buen Jesús.
Y así dice: “En mis campiñas
esa rosa le ofrecí:
son mis flores de las niñas
que al soñar piensan en mí”.
Viste el rey ropas brillantes
y luego hace desfilar
cuatrocientos elefantes
a la orilla de la mar.
La princesita está bella,
pues ya tiene el prendedor
en que lucen, con la estrella,
verso, perla, pluma y flor.
Margarita, está linda la mar
y el viento
Ileva esencia sutil de azahar:
tu aliento.
Ya que lejos de mí vas a estar,
guarda, niña, un gentil pensamiento
al que un día te quiso contar
un cuento.
Rubén Darío.
Essa é mais bela história de que ouvi falar nos últimos anos.
É a história de um músico da Nicarágua chamado Tony Melendez.
Tony nasceu sem os braços, por isso aprendeu a tocar guitarra com os pés. Tony foi morar nos Estados Unidos devido à sua deficiência física, pois segundo ele, a medicina da Nicarágua não era tão avançada.
Quando criança, não entendia porque não tinha braços. As crianças zombavam de Tony, e seu coração doía. Mas ele foi persistente. Aprendeu a usar seus pés. Queria fazer suas coisas sozinho.
Aprendeu a escrever, brincar, dirigir, tocar guitarra, enfim, fazer tudo com os pés.
Ele reconhece o amor e o sacrifício de seus pais para que ele tivesse uma vida o mais normal possível. Um amor que os fez saírem de seu país para que seu pequeno filho tivesse um tratamento médico digno para que pudesse aprender a viver sem seus braços.
Tony tocou e cantou em uma homenagem ao Papa João Paulo II, que o abraçou e disse: “Meu desejo para você é que continue a dar esperança aos outros e continuar no que está fazendo.
Hoje Tony é casado e tem 2 filhos adotivos. Ele relata que Deus o deu forças, deu sua família e a música, através da qual ele se sente conectado com O Criador. Essa conexão o fez crescer e se sentir inteiro, mesmo sendo um homem sem braços. Ele faz palestras e usa a música para falar com os jovens do mundo inteiro.
Sua mensagem é de perseverança, pois a maioria de nós tem um corpo perfeito, tem saúde, e mesmo assim diz “não posso!”. Ele diz que nós podemos. Basta levantarmos e dizermos: Eu quero! Eu posso! Eu vou adiante!
Tony Melendez é um exemplo de esperança para todos, por isso, ao ler o post de Paulo Coelho sobre a mais bela história, eu não podia deixar de transcrever sua história aqui.
There are Many beautiful stories…but, this one came to me recently, apparently true….and, I think beautiful,
The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned
To their first ministry, to reopen a church
In suburban Brooklyn , arrived in early October
Excited about their opportunities. When they saw
Their church, it was very run down and needed
Much work. They set a goal to have everything
Done in time to have their first service
On Christmas Eve.
They worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls,
Painting, etc, and on December 18
Were ahead of schedule and just about finished.
On December 19 a terrible tempest – a driving
Rainstorm hit the area and lasted for two days.
On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church.
His heart sank when he saw that the roof had
Leaked, causing a large area of plaster about
20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall
Of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit,
Beginning about head high.
The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor,
And not knowing what else to do but postpone
The Christmas Eve service, headed home.
On the way he noticed that a local business was
Having a flea market type sale for charity, so he
Stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful,
Handmade, ivory colour, crocheted tablecloth
With exquisite work, fine colours and a Cross
Embroidered right in the centre. It was just
The right size to cover the hole in the front
Wall. He bought it and headed back to the church.
B y this time it had started to snow. An older
Woman running from the opposite direction was
Trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The pastor
Invited her to wait in the warm church for
The next bus 45 minutes later.
She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor
While he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put
Up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor
Could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and
It covered up the entire problem area.
Then he noticed the woman walking down the center
Aisle. Her face was like a sheet. “Pastor,”
She asked, “where did you get that tablecloth?”
The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check
The lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into It there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had Made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria .
The woman could hardly believe it as the pastor
Told how he had just gotten “The Tablecloth”. The
Woman explained that before the war she and
Her husband were well-to-do people in Austria .
When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave.
Her husband was going to follow her the next week.
He was captured, sent to prison and never saw her
Husband or her home again.
The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth;
But she made the pastor keep it for the church.
The pastor insisted on driving her home. That
Was the least he could do. She lived on the other
Side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn
For the day for a housecleaning job.
What a wonderful service they had on Christmas
Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the
Spirit were great. At the end of the service, the
Pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door
And many said that they would return.
One older man, whom the pastor recognized
From the neighborhood continued to sit in one of the
Pews and stare, and the pastor wondered why he
Wasn’t leaving.
The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on
The front wall because it was identical to one
That his wife had made years ago when
They lived in Austria before the war and how
Could there be two tablecloths so much alike?
He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he
Forced his wife to flee for her safety and he was
Supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and
Put in a prison. He never saw his wife or his home
Again all the 35 years between.
The pastor asked him if he would allow him to
Take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten
Island and to the same house where the pastor
Had taken the woman three days earlier.
He helped the man climb the three flights of
Stairs to the woman’s apartment, knocked on
The door and he saw the greatest Christmas
Reunion he could ever imagine.
True Story – submitted by Pastor Rob Reid
PS! I am starting to dread Monday, because the story telling will go in the background and out of center of attention.
This has been a great week, full of so many different stories and so many different people, pitching in with their souls and stories that their souls feel should be shared. And also colorful reactions to these stories.
I believe, many can identify. We are thankful for this week.
Every day, we have a possibility to learn something new, or change something in us, in the world. Wether I know (,acknowledge myself) everything I’ve learnt or experienced this week, I know, I have. And I’m thankful.
Love,
L.L.
Não considero uma história…
Apenas algo que saiu de mim e publiquei no meu blog!
Espero que goste…
“Ela”
Salta à vista o olhar dela…
Ninguém sabe se é anjo ou demónio…
Apenas sabem que no olhar dela está a verdade e a mentira!
Ela é um livro aberto e a introdução está nos olhos,
mas só quem lhe sabe ler a alma, pode dizer que a conhece!
Estes olhos não choram em público, ela mantém se forte e fria aos olhares dos outros!
Porque só a vê chorar quem ela quer, e só entra no mundo dela, quem ela deixa!
Ela ama profundamente, devassamente, alegremente, de corpo e alma…
E odeia do mesmo jeito!
O coração dela é do tamanho do mundo, mas nem toda a gente sabe disso..
Não!
Ela viveu sofrendo tanto tempo, que não se permite ser verdadeiramente feliz,
mas o espírito dela é alegre, e apenas as cicatrizes mostram aquilo que ela não deixa ver!
Ela sonha com a felicidade, mas sente-se à vontade com a tristeza!
É algo a que está habituada!
Ela gosta de atenção, mas mostra-se desinteressada, porque um dia já foi o centro da atenção de alguém e acabou em areias movediças, sem saber como sair de lá!
Eventualmente saiu, mas nunca esqueceu o que passou lá dentro!
Ela dá e espera algo em troca, mas não repudia quem não retribui, seria incapaz!
Conhecem-na?
Talvez pensem que sim…
Boa noite Paulo
A história que lhe conto hoje , é o meu encontro com a Vida . O dia 21 de Setembro – 21-09 – é o dia em que celebro o estar “viva” .
No ano de 1995 – no dia 21 Setembro . Trabalhava há pouco , feliz e contente no meu primeiro emprego . E sendo feriado da cidade fui com as minhas colegas jantar fora. Ao chegar a um cruzamento, com sinais
- semafores – o nosso carro que tinha passar , foi atingido por uma senhora , completamente distraida . No embate a senhora entrou do meu lado , já que eu vinha sentada no banco de trás,da minha colega. O batimento não foi muito forte , mas deu para o carro fazer uma pirueta , e ficar encostado a um poste . Eu fiquei cheia de escoriaçoes no rosto , á primeira vista . Quando cheguei ao hospital fui consultada , nada parecia estar partido e lá fomos de seguida jantar. Ninguem levou o acidente muito a peito , e a condutora culpada, assumiu a responsabilidade dos seus actos.
Passado um ano – 21 Setembro 1996 – Novamente um jantar para comemorar o convivio dum velho grupo de amigos meus . Ao sair comentei o facto de no ano anterior ter tido aquele percalço. Longe de imaginar o que iria acontecer . Ao sairmos do jantar , num outro cruzamento . A minha amiga condutora , não parou no sinal Stop . E ao entrar na estrada , veio uma carrinha e entrou literalmente do meu lado . Para variar iá atrás da condutora. Só que desta vez eu e a condutora ficamos inconscientes. Confesso que fui ao ceu e voltei . Voltei feliz por ainda me darem mais uma oportunidade . O ano passou , mas não foi muito fácil sarar as feridas e os ossos partidos . Dái que a 21 Setembro de 1997 , fiquei sossegada no meu ninho .
Contudo a vida é para se viver . E nunca perdia a alegria de sair e conviver com familia e amigos . Então em 1998 , vindo de um fim de semana de casa de família . Mas desta vez eu a conduzir – a 21 de Setembro . Na estrada da serra , insinuante e apertada , tinha de estar no meio da estrada um calhau . Um pedragulho perdido , bem no meio do asfalto. Na direcção oposta um camião enorme . Sendo uma estrada pequena , o motorista do camião não conseguiu desviar do pedragulho . Conclusão , o calhau foi projectado , para o meu carro . A sorte é que bateu na roda e fiquei com o pneu furado e a jante partida. Nada pude fazer a não ser , parar o carro na curva , da estrada apertada da Serra . Saí e pedi ajuda á primeira alma caridosa . O motorista do camião nem ao trabalho deu de parar , ou ver se estava bem . Mas naquele momento , estava mais intrigada com o facto de ser 21 Setembro – e mais uma vez um embate .
Claro que agora , neste dia não pego num carro . Por cumulo na Europa , coincide com o dia Europeu sem carro .
Um factor que tambem faz com que celebre este dia é porque é o inverso do dia que nasci – 12 junho – 12-06.
Procuro viver cada momento . Sim porque cada dia , temos um motivo para agradecer e celebrar . Mas , há dias em que notamos mais …
Cumprimentos
Tudo que acontece uma vez pode nunca mais acontecer. TUdo que acontece duas vezes, acontecerá uma terceira.
Agora terminou – mas voce faz bem em lembrar e agradecer.
Minha história também tem a ver com o número 21 e se finaliza dia 21/09, que por sinal é o dia do meu aniversário.
Já vou postá-la.
Caroline Geurtsen
Another Sound Friday, August 21st 2009
Allready two weeks in Turkey, the country where I used to live for more than ten years, I enjoy most of the known and some of the new sounds and movements, although some of them shock me very much.
After twelve years I still love to come and stay here for our holiday every year. II get excited the moment the plane takes off from Schiphol Airport. It’s really like my home away from home. This year I make a trip down memory lane first, via Kalkan and Antalya, two of the places I used to live, after which a 7 hour drive from the South Coast through Middle Anatolia brings me to Ürgüp, Cappadocia, the natural wonderland with its typical fairy chimneys.
Volcanic and chalk stone formations, shaped by centuries of storm and snow, leaving behind strange figures, with cave houses and underground cities sometimes as deep as twenty floors down.
Here the first Christians lived, hiding away for the Romans, and leaving behind a legacy of countless churches both above and underground , full of burial places and icons everywhere. A magical landscape where these days the old cave houses are still inhabited by the most poor people of the area while sometimes less than hundred meters further the most beautiful 4Starr-hotels are being newly build or old cavehouses renovated, all situated deep into the volcanic chalk stone rocks. Old and new alike make use of the natural climate control and perfect isolation of the thick walls. No airconditioning is needed in the summer and in winter a modest heater suffices.
Last night the ‘Davulcu” woke me for the first time, a ritual drum player who traditionally walks the streets to wake up everybody long before sunrise in order for them to have ‘Sahur’ , a good breakfast before there long day of fasting starts. Which means at the same time the official start of the month of ‘Ramazan’. Today will be the first day that a good part of the Turkish population will not eat food, drink, smoke or have sex between sunrise and sunset, in order to honour Allah and to contemplate about the things they are normally taking for granted and count there blessings.
I am glad to be here once again during the Ramadan because of the special atmosphere, and I do respect the people who start and maintain the fasting during this holy period, although personally I consider it a very unhealthy way and certainly not a detox in the real sense although it is said to serve this purpose in order to get more people to join. Detox is hot, also in Turkey. Fasting without any liquid at all, may it be water or tea, during more than twelve hours , is very much opposite from draining toxin’s from the body, let alone in combination with the copious meal which is eaten just before going to bed at night. It will not become any body’s metabolism.
No matter how much I am an ambassador for taking time off for a time-out from the regular routines, cutting down on abundance and luxury in order to get more than usual in touch with authentic cords strung by our soul and detoxing from major and minor addictions, I can not agree with this rigid, in my eyes very unhealthy way. I remember too well, when I was working here as a guide, to have to talk my driver into going to the side of the road and eat, as he was looking gray while postponing starting to eat until the mosque would give the time of ‘Iftar’ , breaking the fast , in the evening. It might be interesting to know that according to the faith of Islam travellers do not have to compell, nor the ill or the pregnant, or the old and children for that matter.
In that heat, in a bus still without airconditioning in those days, without having a sip of water the hole day, it was totally irresponsible, both for himself, all the passengers as well as everybody else in the surrounding traffic.
None of my friends and only some of my acquaintances are living according to the Ramadan rule of the Koran. They are either non-practising Muslims, Alevi’s or atheïst and most of them are principally against the more orthodox religious ways in their from origin, at least since 1923 seclusive country.
Since ten years, especially after Erdoğan became prime minister, religion and politics are getting more and more entwined. His party knows itself financially supported by Ülker, a huge national company chain which shares are for the bigger part into the hands of Erdoğans family. He himself is shareholder of three different distribution firms. All, what a surprise, working with Ülker.
The friends I stay with refuse to buy any Ülker products, like so many others I am finding out these days. Even if they have to travel far to get another brand. Even when, like a friend with a heavy gluten allergy, there are hardly any other gluten-free products to find on the market than from Ülker. There is hardly any food, drink of diary product, which they do not produce or distribute under their name. They were the ones who put the figures of Cocoa Cola to an unknown low in favour of ColaTurka. And although I am not a Cola fan at all, it frightens me to learn that Turkish Airlines flight attendants claim that THY at the request of the governments increasingly substitutes CC for CT and where it used to be in general in all fridges next to and in equal amounts of water, this development is very scary to me.
Even so, and being in the religious orthodox area of Central Anatolia , shop owners will order the wanted brand, even though they are strongly believing people themselves, the pomegranates juice which my sons father ordered, arrived the next day in the ‘market’.
Turkey has a long secular tradition since Atatürk in 1920 started Turkey’s reformation and since my first visit in 1985 I do not know of a stronger and popular integrated opinion that state and church should stay separate and the non-Islamic legal system of justice should be maintained. So there is in general a lot of resistance against this revival of Islamic politics. As might be common knowledge, the Turkish military has always been in favour of a secular state and will do everything to prevent islamisation of the system, so it might not come as a surprise that there is no Ülker product to be found in the whole big army apparatus, they are said to even have initiated the boycot.
Talking about old and new sounds: it is amazing how many I-Phones I have seen here in those weeks since my arrival, they total more than I have seen the whole last year in Holland. With, to my surprise, the two daughters of friends of ours, 9 and 14 years young, who both use their parents ‘old’ one. How old can they be :)
And they look with deep frowns at my son when he declares his confidence in Samsung in general and his Pixon in particular. His dislike of I-Phone and Apple is not understood at all. You can see them think: “Saka yapiyorsun” (you must be kidding), although they are too polite to say this out loud.
New I-tunes come, the Davulce of the old days is no more , the one I remember from the days when I was living in Antalya, hitting a traditional drum ans singing his nasal hymn. The sound of last night is sharp and irregular; certainly does not produce the deep tones I remember , and the song (Manii) I was nostalgically waiting for last night, seems forgotten on the way.
My ex-husband says that these days it seems that the Davulce is hitting on an oil drum and he can appreciate it even less than I remember, this disturbance in the nights to come. So the plan the campaign is clear for everybody, where the drummer of the Ramadan band would normally come around the doors at the end of the fasting period, with his ID card to gain his yearly pocket money, in this street he will be asked to pass as quietly as possible and he will get his money upfront, as to thank him for doing so.
Before it comes to this nights ordeal we have the choice of either climbing on the mountainbike through this amazing landscape of fairy chimneys or letting myself be lured by the fairytale-like performance of the Whirling Dervishes , real mystics who pray their prayers dancing, inviting the Universe to impregnate the earth with its energy, accompanied by this really traditional and well known sounds of Sufi music: flutes, drums and snare instruments as well as wonderful nasal singing. For me it will be the latter, the men will choose for exercise tonight, although my 16year old son will accompany me some days later when I can not stay away from this meditative dance ceremony on our last night in this amazing country.
Dear Carolien, I read your story three times, very interesting, thank you so much. Also had some questions today and you answered them! It would be a pleasure to see the beautiful dancing with my own eyes one day.
Much Love To All, Jane : ) xo
Ela olhou dentro do seus olhos. Seu coração disparou. A pele se tornou rubra, com manchas pelo pescoço, e, como se o chão faltasse aos seus pés e a respiração gelada, ela sorriu e ele retribuiu. Os dias se tornaram loucos, mornos. Depois daquele sorriso, abriu-se uma porta e dois amantes enlouquecidos viveram intensamente cada momento dessa louca e doce paixão. Cada dia era intenso, doce e cheio de ternura. Alucinados viviam o momento sem pensar em nada. Só queriam estar juntos, sem pecados, sem medos, sem promessas, sem hora.
As vezes no meio da madrugada o para choque preto, parava em seu portão. Ela saia no seu vestido preto, linda e apaixonada, a pele quente não disfarçava o desejo, o mais puro sentimento. Eles se abraçavam e se beijavam e partiam para o amor.
Foi um momento mágico, inesquecível! Cheio de circunstancias engraçadas e apimentadas. Um dia ele colocou um anel no seu dedo, ela mandou gravar, Amor demais da Conta. As vezes ele apenas fazia a barba, e ela olhava. Outras vezes ela passava, apenas para olha-lo. O amor era tão grande que não cabia no peito. Foi intenso e perfeito. Então, um dia ele ligou para e pediu; Voce me espera? Sem entender o significado do pedido, ela respondeu; eu espero! Os meses se passaram e ele voltou, diferente, distante. Só ela era rubra, só o coração dela doía no peito. Ele se afastou, ela respeitou. Ela sem ele já não fica mais rubra, o peito não queima, o amor se foi, assim como chegou sem avisos, sem cartas. Talvez o amor esteja em algum lugar esperando, esperando…
I have sent the following message to the Elders as a Message for peace.
Education -
The future – are our children -
Have you noticed how smart they are ?
- they don’;t hold grudges -
It’s time we grow up – by rewriting the History books – to obtain peace -
Marie-Christine
This is a story I wrote. It’s of course not the most beautiful story (I already posted my favourite one), but let the moderators decide if they like it or not.
Unto Us
August 26, 2008, 00:02 am
The rain came down in torrents. The office-goers quickly took shelter under the nearest metro-station and then there was much dispute between the shelter-takers and the metro-passengers.
“Oh god! This is a curse! I’ll be so late for my office…” one irritated old man said.
“It’s the result of global warming! Our own sins!” replied a clever environmentalist.
But the street-children, (who had no office, nor even schools to go to) danced in the rain, splashing water at each other, cackling in laughter.
*
The sun glared at the earth in a frenzy of wrath. The office-goers took out their umbrellas and grumbled.
“God it’s so hot! Feel’s like an oven! God’s curse on us!” said the agitated old man.
“It’s because of carbon emissions, out own sins!” replied the clever environmentalist.
But the street-children ran bare-foot on the hot concrete, playing cricket.
*
Spring brought with her the sweet-scented southerly winds. The old office-goer clutched his muffler tighter: “This time of season-change is so dangerous, I could catch so many disease! It’s one of God’s curses on us!” He remarked.
“It’s our own fault! The offices should be closed in spring. All this imitating what the British began…” the clever environmentalist (who was also a patriotic man) stated.
But it was just the correct time to fly kites in the open heavens.
Interesting.
she found herself somewhere she didnt belong………………….. she longed to be there and had always dreamt of it everytime that she would take leave of her physical surroundings.Then why ?…she thought…..why do I fell so out of place ? So lost and even scared may be, to be here?
She didnt want anything more, not since she could remember.
Thinking it best to ignore her mind’s wandering, she let go of the butterflies in her stomach, those that she had been trying to tame……………. and they soared………they did…….and there she was …….standing in the middle of the grassland……..by the flowing river, looking around……….full of excitement ………..like a little girl, the same girl that she had left behind long ago but had never meant to.
She always felt happy …………every time she sensed the girl in her……………….. Oh blymee! she thought………………..no more thinking,I will jump right in…….just like dad always would tell me.
She ran towards the river,fascinated by the sparkling waters,she even laughed at herself ,calling herself a silly little girl.
No more worries, no more what do they call it…..ahhh! stress induced paranoia……………. big term wasnt it she thought…………..people funny old thigs huh……….first they worry and then they worry about what term to use for it!…………..and she laughed at this thought…………….cant wait to tell this one at work……………. and they tell me I dont have a sense of humour……………. pretty silly they should feel now.
She had ,had enough of thinking ……….. it was time to do it……………. take the plunge like they say. But wait …she thought…….. lets not forget……..it has to be exaactly like the dreams…………… she looked left and she looked right and then with a twinkle in her eye………she let it drop………… she stood there in nothing…….her white dess was now on the grasss…….and before she knew it……she had jumped right in!
OOOOOhhhhhhh……………this is soooooooo……………..cold. But who cares anymore…………. I am living my dream.
And she was……………away from all the madness…………….. she was now one with the river………….clear water and nature,and she in all her glory splashed around in the water. This is it……….. all of it is being washed away……………. all of it, and I shall not let it come back………. I am free now……….free of all my fears. She could fell the warmth of the sun on her skin and she wondered if that was how dew drops felt when the sun shined on them in the mornings, oooh how I’d love to hear it from them, sad though …….the fact that they couldnt talk………………. who knows may be they could……probably I am not listening!
Well dew drops…..she screamed…………… Talk now ………. for I am listening……….and she laughed again……… I must be out of my mind.
But she wasnt………….. she was closer than ever to being her true self……………….and all of nature could see that …………… she was smiling , aware inside her some where………..that she was not alone.
free as a bird ~~~~~~~
A Childhood Photograph
When my matrilineal grandmother – Teeta – died, found in her night table drawer was the most important photograph she’d carried with her throughout her life.
Teeta came from what remains one of the oldest and richest families in Jerusalem. My great grandfather was a man I never met, but about whom I still hear many great stories, both in terms of his incredible business mind and generosity to his children and community.
Apart from owning much of the farmland in Jerusalem, my great grandfather also owned much of the downtown core where the family home still stands, now a famous hotel, along with 56 shops remaining, both of which are on the same street as that of The Church of The Holy Sepulchre. Weekends and summers were spent in Ashkelon, once known by its Arabic name: Al Majdal, where Teeta swam every morning in the pool surrounded by their orange groves, and rode every evening as she was a trained equestrian.
My great grandfather was a very pious man and when he died, he wanted to make certain the following two things happened: (1) That his children worked hard to ensure their own children were well taken care of; and, (2) That the community would benefit from his riches. For these reasons, his will indicated that for the duration of the lives of his children, they would receive the rental fees from the shops in the Old City, as well as any money generated by their farm lands. When the last of his children die, all of this money is to be funneled directly into the social welfare system for the needy (specifically: for orphans).
Although he spoiled his children, there was a limit to that grace and he taught them well that obligation and responsibility began with one’s family, and spread to the community.
It was a lone and particular photograph of Teeta and Saa’da – meaning ‘happiness’ – which was found in her night table after her death. Saa’da, an Arabian horse, was gifted to my grandmother by her father.
A black and white picture of my 12 year old Teeta with blonde hair, fair skin and hazel eyes. She wore a white dress, white socks and white shoes to match the white horse, perfectly groomed they both stood. Saa’da was sideways facing, looking at my grandmother, who was staring directly into the camera, filled with mischief, happiness, pride, and a million secrets ready to burst out of her as soon as the picture was taken. The energy of her leapt out of the photograph, and one couldn’t help laugh – not just smile, but actually laugh – when they saw the beauty of her youth, which is in so many ways, one of the purest of art forms gifted us by God.
When I was younger, I didn’t much pay attention to the relationship between Teeta and Seedo until the summer she had to go to the hospital. Seedo hardly ate, hardly slept, would spend his entire day next to her in the hospital – and when she came home, I remember standing at the top of the stairs as he held her hand and gently and patiently walked up with her, half-way stopping and bending his head to kiss her hand and tell her that the house had been filled with darkness in her absence. After 50 years of marriage and seven children, they still liked one another.
When Teeta died, Seedo stopped living, and died shortly thereafter.
As deeply as Teeta loved her life with Seedo and her children, she would occasionally tell me about Saa’da, and about the freedom of riding her. There were no rules for her while she was with Saa’da, neither obligation, nor consequence in the endless hours she’d spent with her.
Teeta had very strong opinions and was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted something; anything she pursued, she did it with justice and not a shred of selfishness. She ran her house with equal amounts of iron and love and her children and husband worshipped her for it. Being the first grandchild, I always remained a novelty and had access to secrets and stories the others didn’t.
She was a free spirit, Teeta, this being so obvious in that photograph with Saa’da. This spirit was dulled and fragmented by the hardship of war and occupation, that wouldn’t allow my Teeta to visit her childhood home in Ashkelon from 1948 – 1967. All of the land we still own, but the farmland is no longer workable as when Israel became, they placed a ban on the watering of farmland and so my family’s orange groves died, except for the few trees that stood beside the swimming pool. These same trees still stand today, but the orange groves were never rejuvenated.
More importantly was that Teeta’s own brother was murdered by the IDF in Khan Younis, after the nationalization of the Suez Canal. Awakened and pulled from his bed, alongside all of the men in the neighborhood, my great uncle and Teeta’s brother in law were among the first to be lined up against a wall and shot dead because they were young Palestinian men and that made them a danger; pre-emptive strike the essence to the actions of the State of Israel.
Later, she would have to endure the imprisonment of her husband for nine months, as he was deemed a political threat. Worse still was that her youngest boy would be taken to jail for being a part of a protest and while in jail, beaten so badly that he walked out a man with epilepsy.
The smile on Teeta’s face as a young woman always told a story far removed from the pictures themselves and the surroundings within. Eternally, there was something happening behind her eyes, always standing out from the rest of the men and women in the pictures. Even though it was until the day she passed that she had a strange mix of innocence and naughtiness, pride and humbleness, the young woman who once pulled you out of your reality and into her photograph was lost after 1948.
It’s only as an adult that I understand the seduction of Saa’da. It is innocence in a distilled form, and freedom in the greatest sense. Not as entirely real as Teeta or any of us ever imagine it to be, but when captured in a photograph, the feelings and representations are encapsulated, frozen and melancholy. Where we often lack perfection in every day, we find it in the stories we tell and the pictures we hold tightly.
It was no surprise to her children when they found a photo of Saa’da but none of themselves, as Saa’da was Teeta’s lament for freedom in all of its varied forms.
thank you so much for sharing.you can see a lot in a photograph you say it so beautifully, “it is innocen ce in a distilled form and freedom in the greatest sense”"she had a strange mix of innocence and naughtiness pride and humbleness” It is almost coming to life.
Thank you so much.
Love
Marie
Thank you for your story, it reminded me my own teta..
May they all rest in peace, allah yer7amhom..
<3
this is a true story…
This is the story of a girl who was born 32 years ago in Medellin, Colombia. She was the girl between an older and a younger brother. She grew up not with a lot of money but always had what she needed. One day when she was at the age of 15..the age were you are supposed to find yourself, to be inmature, to be rebelious..etc. her mother wanted to surprise her husband (her dad) because it was his birthday, by going to his office..but when she got there he was with another woman. After this their marriage ended, and this young girl thought that eventhough he was no longer with her mom, he’d still be there for her.
Her aunt had lived in Indiana, USA for a long time, and her mom decided that she, and her little brother should go and live with her to the usa. After overcoming a lot of problems with the usa visa at the age of 22 she went to live in Indianapolis, and with the fact that she didnt want to leave her grandmother, who had had a (derrame cerebral) like a stroke..and couldnt be on her own. When she got there she learned how to speak english, and she met the love of her life. Besides having to learn english, she had to do like a year on ingeneering, because she was a sertified ingeneer from Colombia, which there met she was not good enough, and she had to learn to live with the colombian imigrants have to live every day..questions like..”colombia? pablo escobar?” (who died like 15 years ago)or”colombia? drugs…or colombia? poverty.or colombia? do you have cars over there?? or what is colombia? in africa?” but eventually she learned who to manage those questions…
she got married with a man full of love for her, and when he visited colombia he loved it. They had been married for over 5 years and she got pregnant. She loved it, she was really exited and bought a lot of stuff for her baby girl and was ready for her. The day the baby was born the doctors were very mysterious..she was born with down simdrom. She didn’t know what to do, she really loved the “baby” but she felt empty, she felt counfused, she felt to ask why? and the most,she hated herself for even feeling sad..because she felt like she wasnt suposed to be sad. She was like a clock ticking bomb..well her moods..she wanted to give so much love to her baby..and she did..but she couldnt help wonder how things could’ve been.One week after the baby was born, looking through the internet about this condition she found an article called “welcome to netherlands” which had the story about some ppl who where on a plane on their way to italy, and somehow they landed in the netherlands..at first they didnt want to be there just because they expeccted sth else, but then they learned about this country and the learned how to discover and love their magic.
After reading this somehow she felt better..she bautised her baby and no longer felt ashamed of how she had felt..she looked for a support group and started to talk about it and to feel more confident. Now it is 2 months since the baby was born..and she is just trying to live everyday, trying to avoid the thoughts of what the life that was awatinf for her baby.just live one day at the time..knowing that she wasnt perfect, and that things happen for a reason…
A beautiful sadness.
Hello,
I would like to tell you all the story of a young man and his encounter with an Angel.
Our young man grew up in, a place so off the beat and path that even to our young man it sometimes felt like a dream place. It was a place he had left many years before our story begins. For our purposes you need only know that he was from a small town. As for the Angel in our story, for now you need only know that she was from a small town as well, and that they both grew up feeling they must escape. The Angels small town was in the south of France. The young mans was in Texas.
Our young man had traveled the world. He saw things that most of us only dream of being able to see or experience. Things we see only on the discovery channel. Yet, of all the things he had seen and done since his escape form his small town. The one you are about to hear about is the most important of them all.
He sat wondering at the fate he had drawn in life. Wondering where the path he was on was leading him. So much had happened in such a short period of time.
Now, with the lights off and at an hour in which sleep should have long ago over taken him, he sat up in bed. Forcing himself to draw breath into his lungs. Each breath was taken with slow deliberation. He sat on the edge of the bed knowing why he could not sleep. He sat knowing the other side of the bed was unoccupied. That side of the bed was supposed to be occupied by his soulmate. Now that space was empty. That side of the bed, where she was supposed to be only a pillow now lay. Now that space was cold.
Each breath came rasping out of his lungs. Lungs that had been put to the test as a result of the great amount of smoking. The great amount of smoking which was the only comfort he had allowed himself at this time. This was a time of great confusion. A time when all he thought was, he found was not.
Four and a half years ago he met our Angel. He had loved before or at least thought he had. He had been hurt before or at least thought he had. At this point in our story he is all alone in the world. Not in a sad lonely way but simply alone and happy to be alive in the world. He had experienced a bit of life, love and hurt which can come with it. Yet at the beginning of our tale he found himself in complete contentment. He had taken all of the past loves and put them in a safe place in his heart where their memory could grow sweeter with time.
Then he met her.
The most beautiful Angel God could bare to part with and put on this earth. It was at this point that he started to understand why all of the songs have been written about love. Why all the poets through time have written the beautiful words that make hearts soar.
He was about to learn why all of those tears can be seen falling from smiling eyes. Upon meeting the Angel, he fell in love just the way the poets write it.
She was perfect. She too was from a small town just like him and they could speak about many things they had in common. So what if she did not speak English very well. So what if he did not speak French at all. The trivial concern over language was the only difference. In all other ways he believed that they were the same soul. He believed this from the very first hug. From that hug on he knew that all he was searching for in life, he had just found. Even though he was actually not looking for anything and truly believed that he was as happy as one can possibly be. This Angel just by being and armed with the knowledge that she was on this earth increased his happiness beyond measure. The fact that she was in his presence, well, not even poets can describe to true joy he felt.
They had met on the introduction of a friend on a night of dancing and merry making. They had this immediate connection and dance every song fast and slow just to have an excuse to be near to each other. Though when our young man became carried away and tried for a kiss he was refused. He was refused, as might be able to guess, because the Angel already had a young man in her life. One she had been living with in Paris for the past four years.
The fact that she denied the kiss created a great respect for her in the young man. This slight movement of the head proved to our young man that this beautiful Angel had morals as lofty as her looks. That is to say, he believed her to be more perfect and to be in all things and in all ways everything he had ever wanted in a woman. This was something that he knew that first night. That first night spent in a small bar in Barcelona.
To this day he can call up in his mid every image of her on that evening. Starting with the form of the green blouse. A blouse that fit just right and matched the color of her eyes so closely that you might have thought they used her eye color to create the top. Right up to the Mango jeans that that had slide over her curves tightly but not uncomfortably so. They too were perfect, practical and sexy. He can recall exactly the smell of her skin from that first day all the way to this very day. The smell that was intoxicating him as he leaned in to hear her ask why his friend had just told her that our young man thought he was in love.
Now our young man had said this to his friend and it was true. The young man was surprised that his friend, who knew him and knew that he was happy alone. A friend that had previously told him to just ask the Angel, “Vous le vous couche avec moi c’est soir?” Which our young man did not do but replied to his friend upon hearing this silly suggestion, “I think I am in love with her.”
Well, from this moment on the Angel and our young man were almost inseparable. Though they did have a mutual friend that was with them always. A friend, that was first known to our young man as they had met in Florence years before. This same friend who just happened to be staying in the same apartment in Barcelona as the Angel. This friend will have a large role in all that is to come just as he did at the beginning. The mutual friend was always there. This worked out perfectly, as the Angel as you may recall has a boyfriend and they needed an excuse to get together. The friend was perfect for the role.
This time in Barcelona was a time of magic. A time that these three will remember for all of there days. From having breakfast on the terrace of the Angel and the friends apartment before going down to the beach to soak up the sun and play in the water. To renting cars to go on small trips. Going out for dinners and movies and Dancing. Never a frown to be found among our group. Smiles were the order of these days.
Let me make it clear though that nothing sexual happened between the Angel and our young man. It was only longing looks and long hugs. Speaking until all hours of the night in a broken sort of sign language/English/French/Spanish. As they set on steps or park benches or any other place they could find. They only had a desire to know each other better and to be around one another.
Allow me to give you an example. On one such night, a night of speaking on Las Ramblas it started to rain. Our young man and the Angel were caught out in a storm with no shelter very late at night as they has simply been walking and talking for hours that evening. They searched for a taxi, and found an open patio umbrella on the paserella in the center of the street. It was here that they held each other with rain falling all around them eyes closed tight saying nothing. Taxi after taxi passing them by and going completely unnoticed now by these to embracing tightly drinking in the smell of one another. It was on these door steps, park benches, long walks, and under umbrellas in the rain that is love story truly begins.
These three had one month of this magic time. The Angel had gone back to Paris and returned from time to time. On each occasion the young man shed tears at her parting and again tears on her return. Then the summer was over and the magic time had to come to a close. The young man had to go to Munich for the month of August. The Angel had to return to Paris to see her boyfriend and then go to the South of France to see her family.
This time in Munich was a time of torture for our young man. He could not call her and there was no e-mail address to which he could write. He did write letters even if he had no place to send them for he longed to have a connection to this Angle to feel what they were feeling on those doorsteps and walks in the night. The thought of her eyes alone was enough to drive him almost to the point of no return to sanity. He went out with friends and could not stop speaking about this Angel he had found and had aspirations of keeping as his very own.
During this month he had a trip to Iceland. Which was one of his favorite trips he had ever taken. He could not help himself he had to call her. He simply had to share with her the beauty of what he was seeing. This was a bad idea. He left a message on the answering machine of her and her boyfriend. In the end it all worked out as she forgave him for his intrusion to her life with her boyfriend. After this trip to Iceland he returned to Munich for only a couple of days before once again going south to Barcelona. The city where he had found the Angel, magic and love.
Meanwhile, our Angel was in Paris and having talks with her boyfriend who was miserable. He wanted out of Paris and wanted her with him and she wanted other things in her life. Our young man fore most among those things she desired.
Next we find our young man sitting in a café with their friend as the rain came down outside. It was starting to get a bit cold in this wonderful Mediterranean town of Barcelona as it was mid September.
As he is speaking with the friend he feels a cold wet hand caress his cheek a hand that belonged to none other than our Angel. The Angel had spoken to the friend and set up a surprise trip so see our young man. Oh, what a wonderful surprise it was. He jumped up from is chair, and hugged the Angel. They held this embrace and felt once again their two souls melting into and mingling together to be one soul. She had come down for a weekend only and was staying in a hotel. She had come down because she wanted to make the young man happy and also, because she knew that she need to see him as much as he needed to be with her. She stayed at this only one night at the hotel. The other two nights that she spent in Barcelona were spent in his very small bed in a rented room, of a three bedroom apartment. Not much more than a closet in reality, though it was home for our young man and the Angel at the moment. With her even fully clothed in the bed only sleeping beside him it was a palace fit for a king. To them nothing could compare to the splendor of this cramped little room. It was perfect bliss.
As they parted from this all to brief period of bliss they felt so fortunate to have been able to share. He knew that it would be a long time before he would see her again. He had a trip to Australia planned. She of course knew this and that is part of the reason that she came for the visit, but he felt the distance.
The tears flowed as she boarded the plane.
When the time came for him to leave he had no tears. He loved his time in Barcelona but, now it was time to go home, at least in an emotional sense, to New York if only for a few days before catching his flight to Oz.
After missing the flight that he was supposed to be on, because another friend of his had decided it would be a good idea to go out all night for his last night in The City. He was on his way.
Heart and mind and soul filled with feelings, thoughts, and the warmth of his Angel.
Three thousand dollars in phone bills later and the countless hours on the phone that it bought along with the countless number of e-mails which they had now exchanged, as they now had access to this for of connection as well. He was able to change his return ticket from Oz/Hong Kong/NYC to Oz/Hong Kong/Paris/NYC. He was to have a few days with the Angel just before Christmas.
These days were filled with love. Shared by our yojng man and his Angel. They never left each others side. Though he was staying at her fathers apartment as her father was away she was and she was “staying” at her apartment. They never left each others side. At this point the boyfriend was in a small Pacific island to be away from all of the pressures of Paris and because his relationship was coming to an end with the Angel.
At this point there was much kissing and hand holding and fondling and snuggleing and going on between our couple. Though when he got on the plane to go to NYC to do as usual and spend his Christmas alone in a bar. Nothing more than ths had happened.
She went to her small town that know one had ever heard of to be with her family.
He went to New Orleans to spend his New Year with a friend. She stayed with her family for hers.
He went form New Orleans to Miami. He went to Miami to spend time with yet different friends. Our dear friend from Barcelona was among them. The young man related the full story to this good friend and told all that had happened between himself and the Angel. They had many long talks on beaches at sunset and sunrise, sometimes during the same conversation in order to get the story told. They spoke about the Angel in lounges and clubs at restaurants and in all sorts of other places about the whole of his relationship with the Angel. For our young man was out of control in love. (The only kind of love there is.)
For this reason he could not stop speaking about her. The Angel and he spoke on the phone five times a day. When they were not speaking they were writing e-mails to one another.
Then one day as they spoke, they came to the decision that she would fly to Miami for the weekend. They could no longer take being apart.
Her “boyfriend” was set to return to Paris from his three month trip and this made her decide that she needed to see our young man again before she parted ways with him once and for all.
This development as you may be able to surmise filled our young man with the greatest of hope and love and desire. He stood on pins and needles in anticipation of her arrival.
As a side not, they had not told there good friend from Barcelona, (who happens to be from Belgrade), that she was coming. So after she arrived at the airport and he met her for her first visit to the U.S.A. They went back to the young mans apartment. Our young man had insisted on our good friend from Barcelona coming by, after of course giving himself and the Angel time to hug for a few hours.
When our good friend knocked on the door and the Angel answered he was in shock. Complete and total shock. He never would have imagined that this love could have grown to the point that she would fly in for a weekend to visit our young man. What a happy surprise. What a wonderful time they had the three of them together again.
It was during this time sitting on the beach with his Angel that our young man finally understood what the Angel was to him. When he first put it into words. She was his someone to be alone with. For being with her was not like being with anyone else on the planet. He was as comfortable with her as he was in his own skin.
It was after this statement was made on the beach that they made love for the first time. Eight months after they had met and become friends. Eight months after our young man fell in love. Eight months of countless e-mails and enumerable hours on the phone. After all of this they made love in a fever of passion. Such a fever in fact that her dress did not make it all the way off and was in the process soiled. Upon this discovery, the couple laying in each others arms more content than they had ever been in all there lives, laughed. A laugh that was, comfortable, warm and loving. They laughed until tears of joy and peace rolled down grateful cheeks.
This weekend was one of wonder and discovery, both for them as a couple and for her as it was her first time in America.
He did his best to show her all that he could of the splendor of his country. Miami is not the best place for that but she went away at the end of the weekend a lover of the country and of the young man.
You may be asking yourself at this point, “What happened to the boyfriend?” Well he was due to arrive in Paris five days after this weekend of bliss. Of course it was over between the He and our Angel an he but she was determined to make it as easy as she could on him. Unfortunately for our young, man that was to make it all the harder for him. It took her two weeks to end the relationship.
When she told our young man the news, he took the last of his money and bought a plane ticket to Paris. He had an associate from work that gave him a place to stay for money he planned to live off of love and fresh water, as the saying goes in France.
This plan he proceeded to fulfill and this was such a happy time in their lives It was perhaps moving a bit to quickly but for those of you reading this that have had a grande passion in your lives, you know that it was not moving fast enough for our new lovers.
After a month or so of this bliss they had found in each others arms. They decided to go to London for a month. They each had there own place yet only one would be used at a time. From there they preceded to Barcelona. After one month there they were off to Paris. Then off to Milano, New York Australia, Rome, Sardinga, Africa, the South of France, Texas, Los Angels and all places in between. They returned often to Paris to stay for some time. They also had to spend some time apart. Though, this love story endured in the most passionate of ways. Even when they were apart it was only the thought of being together again that put smiles on there faces.
Our good friend from Barcelona was there with them in many of these place and always he was a constant in there hears.
You could hear the wedding bells ringing in the wind if you would but stop and listen.
The our Angel felt she needed to go with a friend of hers on a trip around the world for six months.
Before you get any big ideas let me explain why she was doing this. The friend she was going with was her best friend from childhood. This friend of hers had just lost her little sister to Leukemia. Her little sister was only a child and was now gone. Since this was a trip that these two friends had planned since they were little girls and her friend truly needed to escape for a moment. This seemed like the perfect time to go.
Where was our young man during all of this you may ask? He was living his life. Running around the world. No that is not correct, he was going through the motions of his life. He was in New York and San Francisco and Paris and Milano and many, many other places. A shell of who he was when the Angel was with him. The places that the Angel went with her friend were places not often seen. Places where it was not even possible to communicate with other places. No internet, (though our young man wrote her every day). No phone, no way to know if the other was doing well or was happy or in need. Nothing. The Angel, after three months, had to return to Paris for a few days of work. Our young man took the next flight he could get from New York in order to see her. Once in each others arms again the sky opened and heaven cam back to earth. The Angel had very little to say about her trip though. She only wanted to know what was going on in his life. She was simply shut off to that part of who she was, and was not willing to share it with our young man.
She left Paris to finish her trip with her best friend and another friend of hers for the final three months. He stayed in Paris for a few days with our good friend from Barcelona.
He needed a friend.
When those days were over, he returned to New York to continue with his life or at least to go through the motions of it.
At the end of this trip the Angel came to him in New York and it was there that their life was to start. The wedding bells were more pronounced now, you no longer needed to sit and be quite to hear them in the air around you.
The found a little apartment. They made it their own. They returned to Paris to take all of their belongings back to New York with them and finish the arrangements for the wedding. It was at this time that the Angel decided the wedding bells were a bit to loud in her ears. She informed our young man that they needed to post pone. Our yound man was crushed again. Thou, he decided that this was indeed the woman for him in all the world. He had found his Angel, and he was not about ot let her fly away. The wedding was put off for a time.
They went back to New York with all of their things and now that little apartment on Sullivan St. was theirs. Their history their life and there love were all compiled in this small flat.
Not long after this time, our young man had to go for another trip for he had a job that required a lot of travel. He had to go to Milano for tow weeks and to Paris for another tow weeks.
While in Milano, after the first week the Angel became very cold towards our young man. She had nothing to say to him and only ever asked him w\how he was. This continued through the rest of his time in Milano and through the time he had to spend in Paris. He took comfort in the fact that he could spend time with his good friend from Barcelona while he was in Paris. Though it was still almost unbearable for our young man to have virtually no information about he Angel.
She just did not have anything to say.
At long last the trip he had to take was over. He could return to the arms of the Angel and all would be well again.
When he got off the plane and called her she was at her new job. She asked him to come and see her there. A request, which of course he granted, after which she went home with him to their little apartment that contained their life they did have and represented to start of a new one.
They made love.
Something did not quite feel right.
What it was they did not know or at least did not speak about for some time. Not mind you a very long time. The two of them just could not quite understand what it might be.
Finally, the Angel, after a night in which they went out with friends, threw the coffee pot and the teapot off the stove into the wall screaming. Our young man got out of bed. He started to put things in order again as best he could. Then he sat down at the kitchen table, lit a cigarette and waited. She laid down on the floor with tears in her eyes. For some time there was no noise in the place other than breathing. The sound of smoke going in and out of his lungs and the quiet sobs coming from her.
The ensuing conversation boiled down to this, the Angel did not want our young man in her life anymore. Alone she said is how she wanted to live, to live only her life.
Something the Angel had never done. She stated this in the most certain of terms that this is what she wanted. After many tears shed and in a state of disbelief our young man went to sleep on the couch and the Angel went to bed.
A short time later, a matter of a couple of weeks, our young man found out that it had nothing to do with being alone. For the friends she seemed to have made during his trip to Milano and Paris turned out not to be just friends.
Now we come back to where we began our tale. Our young man is sitting alone in the apartment, that they were going to begin the rest of their lives, taking each breath with deliberate thought.
It was then that he realized that it was all gone. The Angel was in the South of France with her Family. There was no chance of redemption. All that they had become is now what was, and they each lived happily ever after.
The end.
I have been a reader all my life. I see writing, story-telling and poetry as one of the most sacred forms of art. I never cease to be amazed by the power and feelings that we can pass through words, so this request from Paulo for us to share what is the most beautiful story to us is something that I greatly identify with and appreciate in his proposal.
With this in mind, I have to say that I have read many beautiful stories throughout my life, many that touched me and moved me in many ways and, that in one way or another, have shifted the path of my life. However, from all of these stories, I should distinguish one, from its indescribable beauty, power to change our lives, to open our eyes and guide our souls… it is a story of magic and beauty, of tears and darkest times, but also of joy, pleasure and golden moments. It is a story of perfection, a story without time. This story is the story of the Asetians. A mythology of very ancient times, from an empire of beauty and divine power, held in Ancient Egypt. A story of immortality, of enlightenment, and of truth. A truly must read for literally everyone, being one of those books that hold the power to change lives…
That story, myth and lost ancient culture can be found in a rare book entitled Asetian Bible by the Portuguese author Luis Marques. (It is available in English)
The book was published by an old and private order of mysteries known as the Aset Ka. For those that wish to give a look into its contents, there is a preview with several pages from the book in their official website: http://www.asetka.org/AsetianBible.html
Grab a copy and give it a look, you would be astonished by what you will find hidden within those pages.
Thank you Paulo for this proposal and also for your words, books and work. It is a pleasure being able to have some contact with you, in any form, through the web. Also, if you ever read the book I mentioned, please send me a quick private email sharing your opinion. I would be delighted to hear your thoughts on it and give you my further impressions.
Blessings to everyone.
La serpiente encontró el círculo…
Olá, Paulo,
Parabéns pela sua iniciativa em instigar as pessoas para a criação de textos. Certamente você tem aqui uma incrível base de dados de criatividade. Realmente, gostei imenso dessa ideia. Bem, também deixo aqui a minha contribuição.
“Desembarque”
Agora já não havia hipótese para arrependimento, a minha escolha tomou formas de realidade e o meu passado, com tudo aquilo que lutei para conseguir, acaba de se transformar em meras memórias. O avião aterrou. O piloto deu-nos o comando para soltarmos os cintos de segurança. Durante todo o trajeto, esse foi o primeiro momento que senti insegurança e deparei-me com a realidade de agora estar sozinha e do quanto estava distante da minha família e dos meus amigos. Seguindo um procedimento normal desse tipo de viagem, saí do avião e fui em direção à sala de recepção de bagagens. Em alguns instantes, pessoas acumulavam-se a olhar fixamente para uma esteira que girava, de onde surgiriam, como por um passe de mágica, as nossas malas. Olhava para o rosto das pessoas e ficava me perguntando em que estavam pensando, que sonhos e experiências estavam encerrados naqueles compartimentos tão ansiosamente esperados. Quanto a mim, dentro das minhas malas estavam porções de um passado recente que me ajudariam a não me perder de mim mesma, a não perder a minha identidade, além de sonhos e expectativas, pois parti do meu país em busca de uma nova vida ao lado de uma pessoa amada. Já estive nesse lugar uma vez, mas, como já dizia o filósofo grego Heráclito, não podemos entrar duas vezes no mesmo rio, porque, ao entrarmos pela segunda vez, não serão as mesmas águas que estarão lá e nós mesmos já seremos diferentes. Enfrentei algumas tempestades pessoais da outra vez, que águas me recepcionarão desta? Lá vinham elas… duas malas, grandes, do tamanho dos meus desejos de ser essa a escolha certa para a minha vida. Vinham dançando na esteira, felizes por estarem frente a alguém amigo, pareciam querer pular para os meus braços, para seguirmos juntas pelo mundo afora. Esse realmente foi um momento íntimo e único, em que só os meus neurônios foram testemunhas dos meus pensamentos e angustias. Coloquei-as em um carrinho e caminhei para o portão de desembarque. Comparo esse, ao instante do nascimento de uma criança. Estive desse lado da porta durante tantos anos… o que será que me espera do outro lado? Como uma contração, a porta abriu-se e fechou-se rapidamente, uma pessoa nasceu naquela altura. Agora era a minha vez. A porta abriu-se, inteira, plena, para me deixar passar. Respirei um novo ar e fui recebida pela pessoa que mais amo deste lado do mundo. Lá estava ele… acolheu-me em seus aconchegantes braços e deu-me as boas-vindas a esta, que será para nós, uma vida nova.
He is driving to work, approaching the bridge, traffic crawling at a snails pace. He decides to get off the freeway, head into the suburbs and catch a train the rest of the way into the city. He is already half an hour late for work. The sun is shining. The traffic is so slow that for the last half hour he has been able to observe every facial expression of the people in the cars nearest to him. The sun is shining, the radio is playing cheerful music, and he is late for work.
As the traffic crawls towards the nearest freeway exit, he starts to indicate, getting into the left lane. Suddenly he is moving, like being released from a heavy current, shooting off the exit ramp and off at a good pace. He finds a street he knows, heads towards a railway station.
He just misses one train, checks the timetable, the next is in 20 minutes. He makes a phone call to let his client know he will be about an hour late, and gets out a book.
Standing in the sun and reading he is absorbed in a tale of a man in search of love, he reads how the man walks over thin ice to touch a statue and how he asks God for guidance. He reads like this for half an hour, and realises the next train is canceled. He smiles and keeps reading. He gives thanks for the slow traffic, the canceled train, and the chance to read in the sunshine. And what happens because he is late? What disaster befalls the workplace? What urgent task goes undone? Nothing. No disaster. No task goes undone.
Thank-you for the comments! Time is so interesting isn’t it!? We spend it all the time, even sell what little we have, but it can never be bought. Then again, in the eyes of the infinite, time is nothing, so why worry? :-)
Carolena, it always helps to have a great book on hand. ;-)
With love,
Daniel
A história mais bonita que já presenciei nasceu de um episódio trágico. Tudo aconteceu em Uberaba/MG há 3 anos atrás. Apresentei um amigo meu da faculdade, Gustavo, pra minha prima, que considero uma irmã pra mim, que se chama Camila. Os dois começaram a namorar e em um dia de feriado, saímos para divertir em um bar e na volta pra casa, Gustavo bateu o carro em uma das Avenidas principais da Cidade. Estávamos todos sem cinto de segurança e Camila como estava sentada no banco da frente, quebrou o nariz ao bater a cabeça no vidro da frente. Chamado o Corpo de Bombeiros para devido resgate, acompanhei minha prima ao hospital. Estava apavorada, pois reclamava de dor e seu rosto sangrava muito a ponto de ficar irreconhecível. Chegando ao hospital, levaram ela diretamente para tirar Raio-X, para confirmar sobre a fratura no nariz. E quando chegamos na sala da radiografia, o radiologista, de nome Henrique, me perguntou “Qual o nome dela? Ela tem namorado?” e naquela hora me deu um baque pois num momento tão tenso vendo Camila com o rosto ensanguentado aquele cara me pergunta se ela tem namorado? Respondi que sim e logo cessou o assunto. Passado quase 2 semanas do acidente, Camila me liga dizendo que Henrique havia a encontrado na internet através de um site de relacionamentos e que os dois começaram a conversar. Com o trauma, talvez, Camila terminou o namoro com Gustavo. E todos os dias o tempo da conversa com Henrique só aumentava e a curiosidade em conhecê-lo, também, pois no fatídico ela não se lembrava de nada. Camila morava nesta época, na cidade de Uberlândia/MG, e pouco depois de 2 meses de tal ocorrido, convidei-a para vir em uma festa em Uberaba/MG, onde lá conheceu melhor Henrique e a partir disso, começaram um romance. Em abril do próximo ano Camila estava grávida, em maio sa casou com Henrique e hoje ao lado de Otávio, de 1 ano e 7 meses vivem felizes os 2 anos e 3 meses de casamento e a cada dia multiplicam esse amor que nasceu por ironia do destino, talvez, por coincidência do acaso! E eu? Sou testemunha desse amor!
HOMENS DE POUCA FÉ, OLHEM PARA A CHAMA.- Uma estória real.
Começo dos anos oitenta e eu estava em desenvolvimento espiritual na busca de várias filosofias.
No meu aprendizado na umbanda, certa noite aconteceu um fato que marcou minha vida para sempre.
Ao entrar num centro espírita um de meus guias espirituais me soprou no ouvido : Hoje vais aprender sobre preconceito.
Ele pediu uma vela preta a acendeu aos pés da imagem de Jesus Cristo.
O centro espírita veio abaixo , com mil críticas, e as pessoas ali presentes ofenderam meu amigo espiritual, chamando-o de demônio, e quanto mais o agrediam mais ele ria e sorria para todos.
Após dois minutos ele se posicionou em frente ao altar e disse à todos :
- Homens de pouca fé, olhem para a chama!
This is my beautiful story:
The boy and the alchemist were arrested as it was assumed that they were spies. The alchemist told the tribal leader why they were crossing the desert, he gave away the boy’s gold, and told the leader that the boy was an alchemist.
“What is an alchemist?” he asked, finally.
“It’s a man who understands nature and the world. If he wanted to he could destroy this camp just with the force of the wind.”
Finding this both amusing and implausible, the tribal leader offered a challenge to the alchemist and the boy. He said that they had three days with which to do just that, destroy the camp with the wind. If they succeeded they could go free, if not they would die. Needless to say, the boy was petrified.
In the days that passed the boy came to terms with death, and realized that it changes very little in life. He listened to his heart and to the desert. On the third day the tribal leader and his aides went in search of the boy. The boy, the alchemist, the leader and his officers sat upon a cliff. Then the boy began to speak with the desert. He spoke of love in an attempt to enlist the help of the desert to accomplish this most difficult task before him. The desert realized its limitations and advised the boy to bring up this matter with the wind. The wind, a proud element, presented itself to the boy, who then asked if the wind could help him turn himself into the wind for just a few moments. The wind was curious, and although it felt that it had no limits, it did not know how to turn a person into the wind. Acknowledging its own limitations, the wind suggested that the boy ask the heavens how to proceed in this most difficult task. The wind blew up a storm, filling the air with sand so that the boy could look to the heavens without blinding himself and talk with the sun, meanwhile unnerving the soldiers who looked on. The boy spoke with the sun. The wind was interested to hear what the sun would say. The boy asked it for help and the sun acknowledged its own limitations. Instead, the sun suggested that the boy ask ‘the hand that wrote all’.
The boy turned to the hand that wrote all. As he did so, he sensed that the universe had fallen silent, and he decided not to speak…The boy reached through to the Soul of the World, and saw that it was a part of the Soul of God. And he saw that the Soul of God was his own soul. And that he, a boy, could perform miracles.
(p. 154)
From The Alchemist.
Love Genni
A young girl who wanted to fullfill all her dreams
she wanted to become a polis officer and she worked day and night to realize this dream could become a true
she had her long time boyfriend who they had been together for 5 years
at once all her dreams becomes a nightmare when find out that the person she trusted most of all (him) was the one who would distroy her dreams and future, he had planned a very dirty crime and set her up to the crime and then put her in jail.
the is a true story worth to read,…
please email me to find out more
I tried …what happened?
Email me please.
:0
Written on:
9/11/08
It has been 7 years now. This day brings me back to my life as a New Yorker, walking the streets, oblivious to what’s really going around me. I always felt safe on the streets, it was my home and will always be. I love NY, it sounds cheesy but it’s true. NY taught me many things, unforgettable moments, all mixed up like a haze of truth that smells good it gets you high. It is a dreamworld with reality. People are just as interesting as the small shops, corners, alleys you find. Each corner has a smell, style and feel of it’s own, no street or block is the same, each represents a country just like the boroughs of NY. You can be in China one minute and then Korea the next. People everywhere stressed, happy, worried, tired, sick, in love, out of love, angry-EVERYWHERE.
We are all one in this city, we all have one attainment.
Thankyou Sorived!
I have loved every beautiful story so far, but must say that for me the most beautiful stories are the “every day” and mundane ones, when nothing special happens to mark them. They are beautiful stories to me because someone has stopped to notice them, even though nothing spectacular happened.
And in the telling, something remarkable does happen, Annie becomes a forest again! :-)
With love, Daniel
A história da minha vida…
Tudo começou à 60 anos…nasci numa cidade pequena, era uma menina muito alegre que adorava imitar as passistas das Escolas de Samba.
Com 13 anos, fui paraninfa da Escola Primária de minha cidade, pois minha família ia mudar p/ uma cidade muito grande…São Paulo e foi uma maneira de homenagearmos… Lá se foi uma família composta de 8 pessoas,uma empregad doméstica morar numa grande Metrópole!!!!
Assim passei quase toda minha adolescência em pleno Ano 60, curtindo a melhor época que a Humanidade já passou…sem medo de ladrões, sem medo de Ser Felizzz!!!!
A Jovem Guarda estava no auge…havia muita alegria mas sem qq tipo de droga, pois vivi neste lado da Juventude Romântica e bem criada.
Saimos desta grande cidade cinco anos mais tarde, direto para Belo Horizonte, pois meu pai foi transferido do Banco que trabalhava.
Fiquei muito triste pois adorava São Paulo e meus amigos que conquistei lá…Fiquei lá mais um mês aproveitando as férias escolares e depois fiquei muito tempo chorando, com saudades de tudo e de todos.
Em Belo Horizonte terminei o segundo grau fiz o Curso Normal e depois entrei para a Melhor Escola de Artes da América Latina a
“Escola Guignard…Qdo estava no primeiro período, conheci meu futuro marido na rua, quando voltava de um trabalho em grupo na casa
de uma amiga…Namorei, noivei e casei em um ano…tudo como uma tradicional família mineira faz.
Continuava os estudos e depois tive que trancar a matrícula pois mudei p/ São Paulo…Fiquei por lá um ano e lá nasceu minha filha Daniela…Voltei p/ Belo Horizonte, voltei p/ a Escola Guignard; nasceu minha segunda filha, Renata… aí minha vida de tradicional mudou radicalmente… nasceu com 39 cm,q 4,120kg, parto normal sem dor…mas com um problemão. Notaram um endurecimento no abdomem dela,
e começou as investigações…é isto é aquilo e aí foi por alguns dias; quiseram me aplicar uma injeção p/ secar o leite e eu não quis de jeito nenhum…com isto deixou de ser totalmente cobaia da medicina brasileira…O caso dela na épocañão encontrava nem em livros aí todos queriam aparecer e conhecer. Os médicos mesmo encaminharam toda a tragetória que fizemos…Com dezoito dias, constatou que tinha que operar e foi retirado o tumor que era do tamanho de seu rim direito.A biópsia do tumor pela medicina do Brasil era de câncer altamente malígno, e como os médicos estavam em dúvida, enviou para os Estados Unidos para ser estudado lá. Só que eles tinham os estudos no Brasil, que o câncer era altamente malígno. Quiseram prosseguir o tratamento pois a pressa era vital e não sabiam quanto tempo os estudos dos Estados Unidos iam chegar.
Então fez radioterapia por um mês…e ela tinha apenas um mês.
Não havia ninguém no Brasil que me pudesse consolar, pois o caso de radioatividade que sabiam era de uma criança de cinco anos,que possuia o organismo com mais anticorpos…mas mesmo assim eu vi a criança cuja pele ficou negra devido à radioatividade. Me consolou pouco, pois ela ´so tinha um mês!!!
Fomos até o fim com a dose mínima de radioterapia.
Aí aflorou em mim o lado Espiritual…conscentrava nela, uma proteção de um vidro muito denso p/ a radioatividade ñ penetrar pois pela minha intuição feminina, ela não tinha absolutamente nada… o meu leite não secou, pois não deixei os médicos aplicar a injeção; a pele dela não queimou; não caiu o cabelinho; era para vomitar muito e não vomitou…Milagre…pois ela superou tudo.
Depois de oito meses chega dos Estados Unidos o resultado constatando que o tumor era benígno,não poderia fazer radioterapia pois poderia atingir a coluna vertebral e ela não cresceria. Ela havia feito e, então?
Com três anos nem precisou fazer a radiografia da coluna vertebral, pois ela estava maior do que uma criança desta idade.
Hoje ela é o adulto maior da minha família…tem trinta e quatro anos, dois filhos saudáveis, mora em Portugal…conquistou esta cidade profissionalmente, é de uma alegria contagiante!!!!
O caso dela é na época o primeiro caso do Brasil e o sétimo caso do mundo.
Ela se chama Renata cujo significado:”Que renasce”…e eu uma viúva há 23 anos…Que ama a vida,muito feliz, com três netos maravilhosos e uma família abençoada!!!!!!!
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