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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I was headed down to B&H Photo to pick up a new digital SLR camera for my trip to London and Paris. I was on the subway platform and I noticed a delivery man hopping on the subway car in front of me. What struck me was in his hands he had four dozen breathtaking long-stemmed red roses. it was as if the universe was giving me the roses itself simply by the gift of seeing someone carrying such beauty. I just had to follow him into the same subway car like a bull following the matador.
I sat down across from him, enjoying the beauty of the roses and wondered just who the lucky recipient was. Was it a lover declaring his love and intentions to his beloved? Was Romeo sending flowers to his Juliet? Was it a scorned lover? Was it a lover who did something so egregious and unjust that it warranted four dozen of the most beautiful red roses? The number of possible short stories were endless.
As I was imagining the story of the roses and enjoying their beauty I noticed another man standing right across from me, next to the one with the flowers. What caught my eye was I noticed that he was carrying a CD player with him, not an iPod. I had mine with me and I was listening to Lucia Popp’s recording of Song to the Moon from Rusalka. The man was tall with light-brown hair and dressed in a white shirt with khakis. He was not handsome, just ordinary. An average man on the subway perhaps going to a meeting. He struck up a brief conversation with the flower delivery man and my curiosity got the better of me as I tried to listen in on their brief conversation. But to no avail, it was much too loud on the train.
At the first stop many people stepped off the train in Times Square as one does in New York City. The man with the CD player that was standing across from me now sat next to me. The train hadn’t moved yet. Next thing I knew he is looking straight at me and I see his mouth moving. He had rather crooked teeth and and nondescript blue eyes.
I could not hear a word that he was saying since I was listening to my iPod so I removed my earphones. I heard him speak the words, “You are beautiful.”
Those unexpected words made me smile and blush. I replied, “Thank you. You are very kind.”
He then said, “I really mean it. You are very beautiful. I only speak the truth. Can I give you my phone number?”
I was laughing now and I said to him, “I’m very flattered. That’s the nicest thing someone has said to me in a very long time.” I laughed because I can see that I am on another journey with the universe again and it is giving us so much pleasure.
He asked me if I was seeing someone. Did I have a boyfriend? I pointed to the wedding ring on my finger and replied that I was married. At the same time I thought about someone that I had a slight infatuation with at the time and if things went wrong I’d consider being with him in a heartbeat.
Then the man asks with the most politeness, much to my delight and amusement, “Can I give you my phone number anyway if it doesn’t work out?”
Now I am genuinely and truly flattered. The words were so unexpected from such a shy, awkward-looking gentleman. Gawky. I was so surprised, but at the same time not surprised to feel so warm and secure knowing that the universe was conspiring in my favor.
I replied back to him gently with a warm smile, “No, thank you. That is much too kind. And, it’s very sweet. But no.”
When someone has so much courage and confidence to tell a woman that he finds her beautiful with such genuine generosity, you must be kind. One day when your beauty fades you will wish that someone gave you those same words and compliments.
Our conversation came to a pause then. I am looking at the flowers again and smiling. He looked at the flowers again, turned back to me, and then proceeded to ask, “If I buy you some flowers, may I give you my phone number?”
In return, I gave him a big smile and politely replied, “No, thank you.”
its a very cute story..nd u hve described it in an amzing way..i loved it.
I was working as a psychotherapist in South Africa when a client told me this story. He was a policeman in the brutal days of Apatheid and he was involved in the Soweto riots.
This poor man was abused himself by his father who told him he was worthless. His pain changed to deep seated anger and when an injured man is given a gun, the power corrupts……
He was only a 20 year old man when he was sent to Soweto. There was an uprising by black children who refused to be taught in the language of their suppressors ( Afrikaans) And they were rioting, which the Apartheidregime could not face and the police were sent into the townships and instructed to fire their guns. This man was told to shoot any black child wearing glasses as they are the intelligent children who were more prone to become “communists”……..
He saw the rioting mob and then he saw in the distance a young man wearing glasses and who was reading a book as he walked home…. He took aim, fired and instantly killed this 14 year old boy. Then he saw a woman bending over her son, crying out in agony. He took out his binoculars and noticed her face, the pain in her eyes.
That night, whilst he was standing guard, he heard a shuffling noise in the grass and when he switched on the search light, he saw THIS mother walking towards him carrying a tray with a few glasses filled with Cordial and she looked deep into his eyes and said caringly “You have had such a long day in the sun and must be thirsty. Have some
He was totally forgiven. Overwhelmed by sadness he took her gift. It was the life of her son, whom he took, who saved his life.
LOS CIEN BOLÍVARES
José está enfermo del espíritu…en una parada de autobús recuerda con tristeza su vida dolorosa y sin sentido, una vida que según él carecía de algún éxito y donde hasta el deseo de morir resultó en fracaso. El hambre no le permite razonar con claridad, un agudo dolor penetra sus entrañas y desesperado respira hondo para no llorar. Lo único que le queda en ese oscuro momento es pedir ayuda…. pero a quién?
Sentía que estaba completamente solo…veía pasar a la gente en la calle, cada quien con su vida, veía a la señora con la pequeña maleta azul marino, a la niña con el bolso rojo, a aquel señor moreno de bigotes pasando la calle, se cruzaron las miradas y lo vio casi con indulgencia, con amor, pero no se detuvo, caminaba detrás de él un indigente al cual a su vez le seguía un perro.
A pesar del hambre José no se atrevía a pedir ayuda, no tenía dinero para comer, tampoco ropa o zapatos más allá de lo que traía puesto…Lloró un rato y así como si el cielo escuchara comenzó a llover, cada gota lavaba su rostro y resbalaba hasta mojar toda su ropa, lo único que tenía, junto con su amor por Dios.
Se fue caminando cabizbajo, mirando las tapas de botellas, la basura y huecos de la calle. No tenía nada que perder y sin embargo no podía mendigar, estaba desesperado, no quería volver a su vida anterior y no sabía como iniciar una
nueva. Había tenido el valor para dejar el pasado atrás pero ahora la vida lo estaba poniendo a prueba de nuevo.
José cerró los ojos y pidió ayuda a su creador, se quedó largo rato sin hacer nada más que llorar quedamente y de cara a la lluvia…pensando en Dios, pidiendo a Dios; de la nada comenzaron a incomodarle las gotas de agua y sintió un fuerte pero agradable calor en la nuca que lo obligó poco a poco a bajar la cabeza, abrió sus ojos y allí estaban!! 100 bolívares… había puesto su mirada en ese lugar un montón de veces y nunca vio el billete…hasta ese sagrado momento, tomó el billete, lo observó sin poder creerlo todavía, aturdido del milagro…sus ojos brillaron esta vez, sonrió y dando las gracias, en sus adentros prometió que desde ese momento serviría a Dios.
La eterna ley lo había probado, era preciso saber primero si era merecedor de esos regalos, el de su vida nueva y su fe…y así sucedió… desde ese día José presta servicios a la eterna ley gracias a ese aparentemente simple acontecimiento que para él fue revelador, sencillamente transformador y ha sido apoyo para mantener su fe por siempre, comprendió que nunca estamos solos y que siempre existe una solución, aunque las circunstancias nos digan lo contrario.
En los momentos en que pensemos que nuestro mundo se cae a pedazos y no hay solución posible, esperemos lo imposible y aferrémonos a nuestra fe, es en
estos momentos cuando debemos estar más atentos a las señales del universo, ver las señales de Dios, eso es lo que marcará la diferencia en nuestra vida, una diferencia de vida o muerte, de luz u oscuridad. Busca dentro de ti, trata de recordar y ten presente tu propia “Historia de los Cien Bolívares” reflexiona con calma que de seguro Dios se ha manifestado en tu vida miles de veces, una vez que encuentres tu historia jamás la olvides, recuérdala con orgullo y haz de ella estandarte de tu fe y fortaleza, verás como eso será aliciente y dulce bálsamo en tus días difíciles y de prueba, el Universo no te olvida, recuerda tu Historia de los Cien Bolívares.
The most beautiful story ever told begins by an accident or divine intervention when two bruised, broken and fire-hearted people meet on an extraordinary summer night. They both feel there is something magical between then and fall in love during the next few moments. Soon they get married and plan to head for a brighter future together, come what may. However, one day the phone rings to give the saddest news there is – someone very close has died unexpectedly and mysteriously. Days and weeks, even months pass by in fear, anxiety and pain without any relief nor vision of the future anymore. Finally those two lovebirds fly away from each other still loving however being unable to stand the tragedy that faced them without any explanations.
Years pass, both of them live moderately full lives totally unaware of each others aspirations and longing for their first love they thought was forever lost. After a decade, she had finally realized that the path she has walked all these years proved to be a wrong one and was planning to end it somehow – she knew she would have to leave, one way or another. He was content with his path although there seemed to be something missing, the inner peace of his life.
Another mystical summer night after a thousand lightyears brought those two together unexpectedly. In just a minute they both knew that the spark that was lit so long ago was still very much burning. They both were still stuck in their old unsatisfying paths so they travelled back to their old lives after a brief conversation but in their hearts they both knew they belong together. They would have to be ready to fight to break free from the prisons of their old habits and start living instead of acting to live. Even decades, millenia or countless miles could not erase the spark from their hearts and their paths finally crossed after a billion tears and too many romances. There they had arrived home after all those years – broken, tired and bruised but they now knew what true love is by learning in a harsh way first what it certainly is not. It is everything worth living and fighting for.
Here’s a story that has a lot of resonance for me lately. My partner Liz Mangual and I have adapted it from a version by Jim May we found in More Ready to Tell Tales. I’m not sure about it’s original source.
The Precious Jewel
One day, a merchant packed his wares and set out on a two day journey to the capital city, hopeful to turn a good profit as was his custom and his luck.
At the end of the first day he arrived at an Inn, ate a good supper and retired to a comfortable bed.
That night he had a wonderful dream! In the dream he met another merchant sitting beneath a golden cottonwood tree who held in his hands a rare and precious jewel of magnificent proportions.
He traded for the jewel securing terms that would assure him a handsome profit.
The next morning he continued his journey and to his delight found himself at the very spot foretold in his dream. There was the cottonwood tree, and beneath it sat a man. But…not the man in his dream. Instead, there sat a holy man dressed in a simple robe , a begging bowl at his feet.
“Last night I dreamed I met a man right here, beneath this very tree, at this very hour, dressed exactly as you!” exclaimed the holy man. “Greetings and welcome!”
“I too had a dream, said the merchant. I dreamed that I’d come to this very spot, by this very tree, at this very hour. I too met a man… but not a holy man such as yourself. Instead, I met another merchant. I traded with him for a rare and precious jewel.”
Reaching into the folds of his robe the holy man pulled out a dazzling jewel. “Oh you must mean THIS,” replied the holy man. “Do you wish to possess it?.”
“Yes, Yes, I would like nothing more, that is… if we can come to favorable terms.”
“Terms? Terms?” said the Holy Man. “I know nothing of terms. But here, if you wish to have it, take it, it is yours, and be blessed on your journey.”
Hardly able to believe his good fortune, the merchant reached for the jewel, thanked his benefactor and walked on, as a man mesmerized, anticipating the great profit that soon would be his.
A week later, the path that led the merchant to the Capital City now led him back home. He came to the golden cottonwood tree, and there he found the holy man sitting in contemplation.
“Greetings again traveler! You have returned ….as in my dream.” Did you profit from the jewel as you had hoped and dreamed?”
Now, reaching into his own pocket, the merchant pulled out… the jewel.
“I have come to return this to you. I have no need for it. What I truly desire now is far more precious than this jewel! Now, what I wish for is to learn from you what allowed you to give it away to me so freely.”
What is that most precious thing that you seek?
The most beautiful story of my life is that I an abused child full of selfhatred and low sefesteem and unworthiness. Came before the throne of God and kneeled at the feet of my Lord Jesus and asked Him forgivness for my mislead life. I did not walk past and leave Him hanging on the cross (the place where He died willingly in my place) but then I invited Him down into my life. In that very moment of sweet surrender I was truly a new person. My broken heart was full of love, joy peace and selfesteem for the first time in my life I was 34 yrs old then. Well I knew the difference. God had heard my cries in the dark places of my soul. I was answered, I was changed, I still fall many times I have fallen I am human and will never be perfect. He picks me up and holds me tight, confirms His love for me and I know I am loveable again and worthy of the life He has bestowed upon me. So the beautiful part of this story is that He wants to hold us all. We must invite Him. ♥
so true… only god love and our faith in it can make us truly unconquerable by blows of time and world.
When I read Paulo’s book Brida, I had to stop because I was in shock , I thought “How could Paulo know about me”….why has this book come into my life. And now I say thank you Paulo. I felt like Brida was written about my life and had to stop and tell my soulmate about it. You see , I met my soulmate when I was 11, we were family friends, but i never recognised him. But I remember even then yearning for my soulmate or completion. It wasn’t until I was 26 and had had many experiences where I thought I had met “him”, but to find it not so, that I saw my soulmate after many years of not seeing him and only hearing about him and occasionally bumping into him. I received news sad news and went to see his family, when i saw him, I felt the pull of the Universe to go to him and embrace him, so I did. It was like the world stopped, the crowded room with peering eyes were as nothing and he was the only person in the room. I saw light in him, I saw everything, I felt like I never understood life until that moment. As we embraced I heard a voice say (Whisper), “he is the one…he is the man you will marry one day”, in fact you’ve already been married. I felt shock, disbelief, pure exhilaration. How could this man I had known most of my life be who he was. He stared at me and I knew he was experiencing something too. It took months and years of fighting and even period of silence to accept him and he me. I felt from that day I saw him that there was no one in the world I could love more and I needed to be a part of his life, that he was a part of me too. He ended up in a serious relationship, but nothing could stop our love, not even us. We rarely spoke, and if we did we spoke through the “language of the Universe”..our energy. I knew when he needed me even when he was miles away and he me. I write this now as me and my soulmate prepare to follow our dream and “chase our personal legend”. He really is a part of me and me him, our connection is spiritual,physical,emotionally, complete, perfect. The story of Brida came into my life when I too was searching for the secrets of the world. I had been trying to find understanding of things that I couldn’t understand (like my soul mates existence and connection).You see I had been talking to my soulmate about moving to Languedoc/France. For some reason I had felt like that was my home. I had had a very strong connection with a particular part and felt a connection with the Cathars from that area many centuries ago. When I read Brida, it was like lights going off, I finally understood my need to go there be there, the dreams I had been having and also my Cathar connections. Although I didn’t accept the idea straight away. That same voice from many years before resounded that in a past life I was a Cathar. I know this is an unbelievable story, but that is why I am sharing it. My religion and everything I was taught to believe went against the idea of re-incarnation. But how could I deny it after meeting/recognising my soulmate from a past life. If I had one life with him and memories of Cathar life then anything was possible. Thank you Paulo Coehlo for helping me to accept and appreciate the magic in my life. I believe Brida was book from God to me. Me and my Soulmate will be going to Languedoc to follow a dream of ours and life is truly magical, beautiful, wonderful. This is my story, it doesn’t have to be anyone elses, but I know and can tell you that soul mates do exist, if you are looking for your don’t ever give up.
The most beautiful story enraptures the heart as well as captivates the mind, it states virtue in the fluidity of emotion, it renders truth in the clouds of confusion and deception. To have truth is the highest form of beauty, for love and courage are born from it.
Halo…I know that this thread is already so old..that now that I’m replying it, it might not be read but here’s a story..
I heard this story from an evangelist who came to my church just last Sunday about a missionary he met in Singapore, during a conference.
There’s this one American missionary who, back then, years ago was, together with his other fellow missionaries including his fiancee was in China, ministering.
Those days was very strict. Christianity wasn’t allowed that they can only read the bible through torn pages which were hidden underneath their hats, socks or in any possible way they could.
Unfortunately, one day the missionarist and his fiancee were caught by the police. He was given the imprisonment sentence of 20 years while his fiancee was given the 5 years imprisonment sentence.
The one thing in his mind was that by the time he was out of the prison, he would have been 40 years old, and that is why he told his fiancee, that if she met somebody good who loved her, he would let her go.
He could have easily got out of the prison as he was told to simply deny Jesus to be set free. Each night in the cell, he would think that the next morning, he would deny Jesus and simply ask for God’s forgiveness later after he was set free…Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do that as he felt that somehow, God has always given him the strength to stand up tall with his faith.
And so 20 years passed…and he was set free…To his surprise, his fiancee had been waiting for him throughout the 20 years and was then reunited…and married…until now…
I find this story very touching and amazing…hopefully I have written it well for anyone of you who is reading to feel the emotion that they felt…
Have a nice blessed day!!
This is very touching & cute!! It teaches all of us a lesson: To follow God & never deny him & everything else can be solved later on with our faith in God’s presence by our sides!! Nothing is impossible when it comes to Jesus Christ :)
Thanks for sharing this. People need somebody to boost their faith up every now & then..
Aloneness – Pondicherry
Tamam Rishton ko main ghar main chod aaya tha… phir uske baad koi bhi ajnabee naa mila….
When I decided to take yet another trip alone, I was not sure what was instore for me but took the plunge anyway. The Idea of going to Pondicherry was always there so it seemed like the obvious choice to visit on new years eve…
So on 1st jan 2010, the moment I took off from Bombay to Chennai I felt a sense of independence & freedom. Which was beyond compare. The feeling of being on your own gives you a high in itself..the adventure of visiting a place which you are not familiar with, along with language barrier was thrilling to say the least. So when I landed at about 7 : 45 am I was wondering whether to take a car or a bus to Pondi…I started enquiring with the Fastrack counter…which informed me that the car would cost 2,450 rupees..which seemed like a lot of money considering my research on the net said, that the bus ticket costs about 80 to 150 rupees. So here I was in a fix, trying to makeup my mind on whether I should or shouldn’t…also, since the bus station was in the city & seemed far off.. just then a middle age man who seemed like a Chennai resident ,was also hiring a cab to go home…he saw me looking confused & started to suggest that I should not take a car but try & reach the bus station as many buses would be available for Pondi…he also offered to share the cab since he was going to the same area near the bus station. So here I was sharing the cab with him trusting this stranger instinctively & intuitively . As we drove through the city, we got chatting, soon he knew that I was a tourist who was travelling alone & didnot understand tamil language at all… he was shocked to learn this & thought I had lot of guts to take off like this all by myself… He was a kind , simple human being, who extended his kindness by offering to drop me at the bus station although he would have to pay some extra hundred for it…we reached the red bus station & realised there was no bus until 1pm…then he enquired & we went to another bus station which was a govt. bus stop…the local buses where as local as our ST buses…so he put me into the bus ensured that I was seated in a safe & comfortable seat…he also asked the conductor how far my hotel would be in Pondi from the place the bus will drop me & how much money I should pay to the autorik for dropping me…indeed a god sent angel…Mr. Sivaraman was of great help & I exchanged cell nos with him promising him to call him once I reach Pondi as I bid adieu to him… All through my way in the bus I wandered how kind he was & what a miracle it was to find him… he revived my faith in humanity & I truly bless him for his wonderful gesture. And what a beginning of a new year for him to start his day & year by helping a stranger. Salute him for his noble deed.
As I travelled thru the east coast of India , I admired the beauty of the coast, the tall coconut trees & the greenery left me with feelings of eternal bliss… the villagers & their simplicity , the innocence of the small town & the fresh air… refreshed me totally.
I reached Pondi, to my surprise or dismay Pondi was not exactly what i had imagined it to be….I had a vision of a french colony with white architecture etc… but it reminded me of Goa in many ways, it was a simple , down to earth town, with few french street names, a promenade or heritage walk which reflected the french riviera & a 150 yr old french church…. with the police wearing french style hats … it was a place to unwind & relax for sure.
The town had the most powerful Ganpati temple which I visited on the day of my arrival. the Aurobindo Ashram was a peaceful & enriching experience.. I also visited the Auroville & Maitri Mandir, unfortunately I couldn’t go inside but the entire place was so serene & beautiful…the Aurobindo philosophy indeed is before its time & needs an evolved understanding. Somewhere I felt it was a complicated version of the osho or secret philosophy. Though, haven’t read it in detail.
To cut the long story short, my experience gave me a sense of freedom, independence & the power to be alone…the difference between loneness & aloneness is something that one needs to understand…when you choose to give yourself some time to be alone, to be with your own thoughts,your own self ..you grow spiritually & otherwise…you are able to witness your own doings & life in a positive view…It is important to love yourself , give space to yourself & enjoy your own company… sometimes the lessons learnt in this aloneness are critical for our well being & our progress.
I realised the worth of my family, my friends, my friends, my work , my life … everything just looked so perfect when I distanced myself from it…suddenly, I was feeling blessed & happy about everything in life & appreciated every bit of it. The picture was complete & clear. The wholeness of it was a miracle which unfolded.
I strongly recommend, these “Alone” trips to all my friends, it is a great experience to be with yourself once in a while just to understand yourself & others better.
Was the Police wearing a French beret?
That’s something to make you ponder about…:)
hace muchos muchos años atras en un pequeño pueblo del pais vasco (ESPAÑA)vivia un doctor muy entregado asu trabajo y asus gentes.el doctor pasaba dias y noches encerrado en su consulta pensando y pensando como radicar con alguna vacuna la enfermedad del cancer tenia que intentar encontrar esa vacuna,el hombre se desesperaba por ayudar asus gentes.una tarde el doctor recibio una visita muy muy extraña.el demonio se habia presentado ante el para proponerle un trato,un trato muy interesante para el doctor.
-veras – le dijo el demonio al doctor
-tengo la vacuna del cancer atu entera disposicion para poder curar alos tuyos,pero acambio quiero tu alma.
el doctor no podia creer lo que estaba oyendo,no podia ser verdad.
-piensatelo -le dijo el demonio al doctor.
-bolvere dentro de unos dias para saber que as decidido.
el doctor no se lo penso dos veces y espero impaciente la llegada del demonio.pasaron los dias y aparecio.
-bueno aqui estoy! -dijo el doctor
-aqui me tienes…
el demonio le miraba extraño y le pregunto?:
-me bas a dar tu alma acambio de esta vacuna para curarles el cancer a esas gentes?
-si -contesto el doctor
el demonio le miro enfurecido y le dijo al doctor:
-no quiero tu alma pues es demasiado buena y pura,tu no me sirves! -y el demonio desaparecio.
el verdadero amor por los demas puede con todo el mal.jesus de nazaret,madre teresa de calcuta,ferrer y muchos otros que hacen una labor por amor alos demas quiero dedicarles este cuento.
y a usted señor paulo en especial,por darnos esta oportunidad y por muchas cosas mas que usted nos da…
The story is originally written in Chinese, but I have translated it here. If you can read Chinese, please read the original version (it’s very beautiful):
Long ago on a small island, there lived Happiness, Sorrow, Wisdom and Love, as well as other sentiments and feelings (states of being).
One day these feelings heard that the island was suddenly sinking. At once they prepared a boat in order to leave the island. Only Love decided to stay, she wanted to hang on until the very last minute.
A few days passed, the small island really began to slowly start sinking. Love realized that she too wanted to leave and so she waited by the seashore for a boat. At that moment, Prosperity in an enormous ship was just coming by the seashore. Love asked politely “Mr. Rich, can you help me by letting me come to your ship?” Prosperity answered: “No, my ship is too full with gold, silver and precious jewels; there is no seat for you.” As soon as he answered, he sped away in his boat.
Not long after, Love spotted a vain pilot on a small but very pretty boat passing by the shore. Love asked pleadingly, “Mr. Vanity, help me please!” Vanity did not care and refused: “Love, sorry, I cannot help you. You’re completely wet and you will ruin my pretty little boat.” He too took off after saying those words.
Some time passed when Sorrow and Happiness, steering on opposite sides, passed by. Love turned to them and pleaded: “Sorrow, let me come with you so I can leave here!” Sorrow replied crying: “Love, at this moment I’m just too sad. I can only stay and think of one being. Sorry, please go ask Happiness to help you.”
Happiness on the other side, was too happy and could not hear Love’s pleas and calls.
Then as Love felt desperate with no help and realized that she was at her last hour, she suddenly heard a friendly call out to her: “Please come here, Love. Let us come help you leave this sinking island.” Love felt so strange and looked to see who spoke these words. She saw an old, grey and ashy being. She quickly boarded his wooden boat and rode with him to shore. Once, the boat pulled in, the old being quietly walked away.
Once on shore, Love walked toward a being sitting and reading a book. Love asked him: “Excuse me, who are you?” Looking up from his book, he replied kindly: “I am Wisdom.”
Love then asked, “The one who just helped me, who is he?”
Wisdom replied, “That is Time.”
“Time?” Love asked puzzled, “Now, why would Time want to help me?”
Wisdom smiled and said, “Because only time has the ability to understand how great and powerful love is.”
wow…amazing way to put it across. only time.Ive thot to myself time n again….which is the greatest attribute to look for in a companion…love or Wisdom ?
wow! Time helping the love to endure…..great imagination…:-)
Thats good story and well done.
The story of my life is serve GOD! Hij does alot of work en i take take out of his hands even if it is a little thing…so how does that work on earth…well i make people there dream come true.Somebody’s can walk in my life and i look what type of person it is and what his/her dream is.Once i know and i know the person accept my help or the person is open for me then i take my power i have recieved from GOD and make that dream come true.In de start of the stadium i tell the person watch me and u will see what i mean and in de end of the stadium i take the person back to the first stadium to let them see what the whole plan was and what they got now.I open doors for people and give the the key!In every story with people in my life there is a Life story….and every goal i make is right given back to GOD…i pray on the end of the day and tell GOD that it was a nice and good to help GOD and i return my goals back 2 him because nothing on earth is owend by me!
Isa
The most beautiful story in my life was the exact moment when I became realise I was wrong, and I want to face my future in a different way.
I guess things are true in the moment,truth keeps on changing,guess if time does not exist,there’s nothing to be worried of because nothing really happened,yet everything did..everyone has his personal story and view of things..I guess it was not a question nor an answer,not even a fact nor a dream..the most beautiful story is not to come,nor did it happened because we never existed,fragile grain of sand..yet we make a story about who we are and what we have accomplished..but it will always been trapped in that hourglass..
The most beautiful story is always the one you write with your heart but it’s also always the one to come because with love,there’s always more to come.
this is a note i found on my cabinet while i was doing the cleaning one day. it says:
“Jakee, you are right. sometimes i act and think like a kid.i know it’s going to be a hard way aroung everything but i still wish things were like yesterday when we won’t sleep until the early signs of morning or until we’re dead tired from staying up and exploring the world you showed me. i miss your 4×4 outside my gate and your voice that calls my name when you are fatching me. i miss almost everything. sitting, standing, walking next to you. the feeling has sank in so deep it fails me to take it and throw it out. sometimes i wish i can just bury every memory with you somewhere so far that i wont have to remember you the way i’m remembering you now. because i still love you. i will always love you. it doesn’t really hurt.i know why and how these things happened.it’s just that i miss you so bad and i wish that the nostalgia i breathed in each time is something i would be able to bear.”
tears were streaming down my cheeks as i was reading the note. i remember everything very well. the girl who wrote it was so inlove but was blocked by circumstances. she can’t go on any further.
but she wears in her heart the love she has for the man. it was just all too patterned.she knows that one day, when the time is right, he’d come back again.
maybe after many many more months of staying in the rehab or a hundred more sessions of detoxification, thousands of hours driving highway. she doesn’t know. but believes the man will be back to the love that had awaken him from his sleep.
i wiped my tears. it has been years. and im still waiting for my Jakee.
everything will soon be well. God promised that.
Two simple stories that I have read somewhere which touched me so much that they left a lasting impression -
In a village which had not seen rain in years, crops were failing and people were dying. All the village elders decided to gather at the centre of the village and pray for rain. They asked every person to carry with them one object of faith to help in the prayer. When the crowd gathered, people had various objects in their hands – bible, pictures of God, prayer beads, etc. However one object stood out in the whole crowd – it was an umbrella that a little kid had carried. True symbol of faith in prayer. And it rained :)
A little boy on a beach was throwing the star fish which had washed out on to the beach sand back in the sea… there were thousands and he was throwing each one back …. a man who was watching said ” There are thousands, it won’t make a difference”. The boy continued throwing saying ” It makes a difference to this one, and to this one, and to this one”… little things make a big difference to some….
I loved these two stories, especially the first one, God bless you. Have faith.
Thanks for share these stories, true and powerful
Wonderful stories, in their simplicity and power (of faith and giving).
It was during vacation in a holiday camp.
Our teachers took us for a walk through the wood during night. It remains to be one of my beautifulsthere memory. Especially since in front of one kind of stone washbowl in the middle of a field, the teacher narrates us the story which follows:
“Once upon a time, Gnomes lived here. They worked on this field and in the forrest. When there was full moon, they came here to this washbowl.They sang.They sang but very sad…”them
“Why?”
“They sang for the moon.They wanted the moon to cry so tears drops here in this washbowl and they could drink it.The tears have magical energies!The legend says that they still cames here and sometimes the people out there can here them singing!”
In my youth, many decades before, i saw atop a barren mountain a solitary rose. Its leaves were tiny, its stem was bent, but its flower stood proud, beautiful, strong, a bright beacon among much desolation. I know not how it survived amongst the emptiness, on rotten soil, bitten by harsh wind, ravaged by snow, but it did, against all that cruel nature did throw at it. The sun was its only companion, dawn would beckon its lovely petals to open, it would always reach towards the unblinking orb, only to close its petals at days end, alone. I never plucked it for myself, but let it be in vain hope, sure in the knowledge that it would die in my hands. I instead watched it from afar in my minds eye, hoping it would flourish. But now i trudge up that same mountain, death’s decay cooling my weary legs, and i find to my amazement that it is still there, stronger than ever, more beautiful than before! For now, beside it has grown a grand oak tree, its vast trunk and massive boughs have grown to protect my precious rose,forever.
By my fiance, Phillip (written for me)
Oh, this is very beautiful. Thank you for sharing such an intimate story written for you by your fiancé.
The Prayer of The Frog has so many beautiful stories
I got it from the semenary I enrolled into
but I don’t have it anymore, because i was separated to the person i lent it to,,,>.<
“Jamila-a-a-a!” I shouted at the top of my voice.
“A-a-a!” came the forlorn echo.
“Jamila-a-a-a!” I shouted again and ran after them madly across the river.
Sprays of icy drops hit my face. My clothes were drenched, but I ran on, not seeing the ground beneath my feet. Then I tripped and fell. I lay there without raising my head with the hot tears streaming down my face. The darkness seemed to weigh down upon my shoulders. I could hear the thin stems of needle grass wailing mournfully.
“Jamila! Jamila!” I sobbed.
I was saying good-bye to the two people closest and dearest to me. And as I lay there on the ground I suddenly realised that I loved Jamila. Yes, she was my first love, the love of my childhood.
I lay there for a long time, my head buried in my wet arm. I was saying good-bye to more than Jamila and Daniyar–I was saying good-bye to my childhood.
When I finally straggled home at dark, there was a great commotion in the yard; stirrups jangled, people were saddling their horses, and a drunken Osmon was prancing about on his steed, bellowing at the top of his voice:
“We should’ve chased that stray mongrel from the village long ago! It’s a disgrace to our whole kin! If I ever lay eyes on him, I’ll kill him on the spot! And I don’t care if I’m jailed for it–I won’t permit every passing tramp to steal our women! Come on, djigits, he won’t get away, we’ll catch him at the station!”
My blood froze: which road would they take? But once I was sure they had taken the highroad to the station and not the one to the siding, I slipped into the house and curled up under my father’s sheepskin coat, covering my head so no one could see my tears.
How much talk and gossip there was in the village after that! The women vied with each other in condemning Jamila.
“She’s a fool to have left such a family and trampled her happiness!”
“I wonder what attracted her to this pauper?”
“Don’t worry, the little beauty will come to her senses, but it’ll be too late then.”
“That’s what I say! And what’s wrong with Sadyk? Isn’t he a good husband and provider? Why, he’s the best djigit in the village!”
“And what about her mother-in-law? It’s not many who have a mother-in-law like that! You’d have to look far and wide for another such baibiche! The little fool has ruined her life for no good reason at all!”
Perhaps I was the only one who did not condemn Jamila, my former djene. I, for one, knew that in his soul Daniyar was richer than any of us. No, I could not believe that Jamila would be unhappy with him. But I felt sorry for my mother. It seemed that when Jamila left, her former strength abandoned her also. She looked forlorn and haggard, and, as I now realise, she could not accept the fact that Fate could break all the old patterns so forcefully. If a great tree is uprooted by a storm it will never rise again. Before, my mother’s pride would never have permitted her to ask anyone to thread a needle for her. But one day I came home from school and saw that her hands were trembling, that she could not see the needle’s eye and was weeping.
“Here, thread it for me,” she asked and sighed heavily. .Jamila will come to no good end. Ah, what a housekeeper she would have made! But she’s gone. She’s renounced us. Why did she go? Was she so badly off here?”
I wanted to embrace my mother and reassure her, to tell her what sort of a person Daniyar really was, but I did not dare to, for I would have insulted her terribly.
But one day the innocent part I had played in the whole affair ceased to be a secret.
Soon Sadyk returned. Naturally, he grieved, though when drunk he said to Osmon:
“Good riddance, if she’s gone! She’ll die in the gutter someplace. There’s enough women to go around. Even a golden-haired one isn’t worth the puniest of fellows.”
“Sure!” Osmon answered. “I’m just sorry I didn’t catch him, ’cause I would’ve killed him on the spot! And as for her, I’d have tied her hair to my horse’s tail! They’ve probably gone south, to the cotton farms, or else to the Kazakhs. It’s not the first time he’s tramped about! But I just can’t get it through my head–how could it have happened in the first place? Nobody knew a thing, and who would have ever suspected it? The bitch fixed it all up herself! If I could only lay my hands on her!”
I felt like saying: “You can’t forget how she slighted you, back in the field. What a mean and petty soul you have!”
One day I was sitting at home, doing a picture for our school newspaper. My mother was fussing about the stove. Suddenly, Sadyk burst into the room, He was pale and his eyes were narrowed viciously as he ran up to me and shoved a piece of paper in my face.
“Did you do this?”
I was struck dumb. It was my first drawing. Daniyar and Jamila seemed alive as they looked at me from the sheet of paper.
“Yes, I did.”
“Who’s this?” he said, poking the page.
“Daniyar.”
“Traitor!” Sadyk screamed.
He tore the drawing to bits and stamped out, banging the door behind him.
After a long and depressing silence my mother asked:
“Did you know about it?”
“Yes.”
She stood there, leaning against the stove, looking at me with dismay and reproach. And when I said: “I’ll draw them again!” she shook her head sadly.
I looked at the scraps of paper lying on the floor, a hurt I could not endure choking me. Let them think I was a traitor. Whom had I betrayed? My family? My kin? But I had not betrayed the truth of life, the truth of these two people! I could not say this, for even my own mother would not understand.
Everything swam before my eyes, it seemed that the bits of paper were alive and moving about the floor. The memory of Daniyar and Jamila looking at me from the paper was so vivid that suddenly I seemed to hear Daniyar’s song, the one he had sung that memorable August night. Recalling their departure from the village, an irresistible desire to take to the road rose within me. I would go as they had, firmly and courageously, to enter upon the difficult road to happiness.
“I want to go away to study. Tell my father. I want to be an artist!” I said to my mother.
from “Jamila” by Chingiz Aitmatov, Translated by Fainna Glagoleva
Eu gosto da história de um dos capítulos do livro “I Fioretti de S.Francisco”, da biblioteca clássica volume XVI tradução de adelino capistrano, sobre : “DE como Santa Clara comeu com S.Francisco e com seus companheiros Irmãos, em Santa Maria dos Anjos”
São Francisco, quando estava em Assis, visitava Santa Clara frequentemente, dando-lhe santos ensinamentos, e tendo ela grandes desejos de comer uma vez em sua companhia, e pedindo-lhe isso algumas vezes, ele jamais lhe quis dar esta satisfação, pelo que, vendo os seus companheiros o desejo de Santa Clara, disseram a S.Francisco : Pai, parece-nos que esta inflexibilidade não está de acordo com a caridade divina : não atenderes a Irmã Clara, Virgem tão Santa e querida de Deus, em coisa tão pequena, como comer em sua companhia; e especialmente considerando que ela, pela tua pregação, abandonou as riquezas, e as pompas do mundo, na verdade, se ela te pedisse graça maior do que esta, deveria satisfazer a tua planta espiritual. Então S.Francisco respondeu: Parece-vos que eu devo atender? Os companheiros responderam : Sim, Pai, é coisa digna concederes-lhe está graça, e consolação. Disse então S.Francisco : O que parece a vós, parece também a mim. Mas a fim de que seja mais consolada, eu desejo que este comer se faça em Santa Maria dos Anjos; portanto ela esteve durante muito tempo recolhida em São Damião : pois a alegrará ver o convento de Santa Maria, onde ela foi tonsurada, e feita esposa de Jesus Cristo; e ali comeremos juntos em nome de Deus.
Chegando, pois, o dia marcado para isso, Santa Clara saiu do Monastério com uma companheira, seguida pelos companheiros de S.Francisco, e chegou a Santa Maria dos Anjos, e uma vez saudada devotamente a Virgem Maria diante do seu altar, onde ela fôra tonsurada e professara, a levaram para ver o convento, até que chegou a hora da refeição. Durante esse tempo, S.Francisco fêz por a mesa na terra chã, como costumava fazer. E a hora de comer, sentaram-se juntos. S.Francisco e Santa Clara, e um dos companheiros de S.Francisco com a companheira de Santa Clara, e depois todos os outros companheiros se acomodaram à mesa humildemente.
E pela vivenda desguarnecida, S.Francisco começou a falar de Deus tão suavemente, tão altamente, tão maravilhosamente, que, descendo sobre todos a abundância da divina graça, ficaram em êxtase diante de Deus. E estando assim em êxtase, os homens de Assis e de Bettona, os das regiões circunvizinhas, viram que Santa Maria dos Anjos e todo o convento e a selva que havia ao redor, ardiam fortemente; e parecia que se tratava de um Grande Fogo, que ocupava a igreja, o convento e a selva ao mesmo tempo; por esse motivo, os assisenses correram ali, com grande pressa, para apagar o fogo, acreditando de fato que todas as coisas ardiam.
Mas chegando ao convento, e verificando que não ardia nada, entraram dentro da casa, e encontraram S.Francisco com Santa Clara, e com todos os seus companheiros em êxtase diante de Deus pela comtemplação, e sentados em torno àquela mesa humilde. Eles naturalmente compreenderam que aquele era Fogo Divino, e não material, o qual Deus fizera aparecer milagrosamente, para demonstrar, e significar o Fogo do Amor Divino, do qual ardiam as almas daqueles Santos Irmãos, e Santas Freiras : por isso, retiraram-se com grande consolação no seu coração, e com santa edificação. Depois de muito tempo, voltando a si, S.Francisco, e Santa Clara juntamente com os outros, sentindo-se bem confortados com o alimento espiritual, pouco se preocuparam com o alimento corporal. E assim, feita aquela bendita refeição, Santa Clara, bem acompanhada, regressou a S.Damião, pelo que as Irmãs, vendo-a, experimentaram grande alegria; porquanto temiam que S.Francisco a houvesse mandado administrar algum outro Monastério, assim como já mandara Soror Inês, sua santa irmã, para Badessa, a administrar o Monastério de Monticelli de Florença; pois S.Francisco algumas vezes dissera a Santa Clara : Apronta-te, se desejas que eu te mande para algum lugar; e ela, como filha de santa obediência, respondera: Pai, eu estou sempre pronta a seguir onde me mandardes, e assim as sorores se rejubilaram fortemente quando a reouveram : e Santa Clara se conservou daí por diante muito aliviada.”
…
Existe nesse livro “antiquíssimo” outras passagens de histórias vividas por S.Francisco e Santa Clara. Mas o legal que eu acho além dos próprios contos é a maneira como era escrito…. o jeito deles falarem. Tem palavras que eu nem sei o que querem dizer de tão antigas que devem ser.
Tem um capítulo que Santa Clara é transportada milagrosamente na noite da páscoa até a igraja de S.Francico para tomar a comunhão dele.
Eu respeito tudo, mas a força mental e o amor deles era algo tão grandioso, que “tem lances”, muito loucos, mesmo.
Eu acho que aquela luz que toda imagem de Santa Clara tem; que ela carrega é parte do Fogo Sagrado. Realmente eram almas gêmeas.Eram seríssimos na conduta da missão que receberam de Deus/a ( pois ELA sempre esteve presente)e ensinaram e pregaram através do Amor. Muito lindo!
Beijos,
Mari.
there is a song,well first it was apoem bt Rabbie Burns,then a woman with a beautiful voice,Eddie Reader made it into a song-it is John Anderson,my Jo and it’s a story too of a long love affair of all of a life,it’s beautiful beyond words and echoes my heart felt wishes.
When was the song recorded?
some years ago i was very sick and always heard music
- just one track – to lift me up again.
it really works—-
when i was on the good side again in the night to my birthday – exactly in the second my ex-boyfreind attackted me – somsone left a birthday-message for me on mySpace.
i wondered how this person may know that’s my birthday – so i ask him.
and what happend then is really unbeliveable :-)
this man was not only my early love, who was searching me for more than 25 years. he although was the composer and writer of exactley that track that helps me years ago to suffer my pains….
those story are only told by life :-°
Thank you for posting this story. Truly the world is miraculous and your story is proof that even in the midst of terrible pain, there is love, hope, and eventually salvation from misery.
what is the song?i am intrigued….and bad at spelling!
Waw ! I’m really impressed
Vida!
cuando es niño, cree todo lo que le dicen, confía ciegamente en los demás, la inocencia mas pura, a medida que crece se va abriendo una especie de telón (como los que se usan en los teatros)que hace cambiar radicalmente su forma de ser, lo han engañado, promesas incumplidas, se encuentra con piedras en el camino y piensa:
Vale la pena esta vida?
Las personas se evalúan dependiendo a la ropa de vestir, el carro que utiliza, la marca del celular debe ser “blberry”, ah, no puede faltar las diversas operaciones que se deben someter las damas para estar a la moda.
¿Para esto viene el ser humano a la vida?, ¿Para competir, llamar la atención?
Pero siempre el sol sale para todos y Dios se encarga de hacer llegar su mensaje a las personas que son nobles de corazón y tienen esas inquietudes: muestra sus pinceladas de colores en el cielo con las nubes; demostrando que todos los días son diferentes, las caricias del viento suave como el algodón, frías en algunos lugares y calientica en otro, los diferentes olores de las plantas, ya sean flores, gramíneas, y los colores que se gastan los arboles, son películas gratis y que ningún artista puede imitar . Unido a esta maravilla, se tiene la fiel amistad que una mascota le demuestra a su dueño, esto solo lo sabe quien tenga uno, entonces se tiene respuesta a la primera interrogante, Si vale la pena esta vida!!! Solo hay que ver, oír y sentir mas allá de los hombros y aunque se encuentren piedras en el camino de la vida, se deben saltar y si hay caídas se levanta, quita el polvo y sigue.
thanks for giving me the strength to keep on believing that true love exist. I shall keep on waiting for him. It’s worth waiting. Somehow, I lost the will and sometimes,I felf despair, wondering all the emptiness I had to endure. But there is still a tiny light that burn inside me,which give me the courage to face through life and all these years of waiting. Until the day he came by me,it is when all the uncertainty vanished and the truth revealed. Somewhere, I read about this: the only truth is LOVE.
Una de las mas bellas historia que he escuchado se llama fabula cantada por Eros Ramazzotti sacado del libro de Hermann Hesse-Favola Di Amore
Fabula
Y
te cuentan como él se transformó
en árbol porque así lo deseo y se quedó
plantado alli mirando
la tierra en que nacían flores nuevas
fue
refugio del conejo y colibrí
y el viento le enseño a que saben sí
la miel y la resina silvestres y…
la lluvia lo bañó
y mi felicidad -decía para sus adentros-
eso… eso sé que ahora la encontré
eso… porque tengo
todo el tiempo ya para mi
ya no necesito más de nadie
toda la belleza de la vida es para mi
“y un dia pasaron por allí
los ojos de una niña
que le habían robado al cielo
el brillo de dos estrellas”
y se estremecieron
sus raíces
cuánto desconcierto de improviso dentro de él
eso que solamente siente el hombre sin la mujer
y alargó sus ramas
hacia ella
sintió que la felicidad no es nunca la mitad
del infinito
luego era al tiempo sol y luna
nube y música
era al tiempo risa y llanto
y entretanto
era un hombre que a la vida despertó
era
como el canto oue llenaba
sus enormes soledades
esa parte verdadera
que una fábula encantada
esconde en sí
para ser auténtica.
Y
te cuentan como él se transformó
en árbol porque así lo deseo y se quedó
plantado alli mirando
la tierra en que nacían flores nuevas
fue
refugio del conejo y colibrí
y el viento le enseño a que saben sí
la miel y la resina silvestres y…
la lluvia lo bañó
y mi felicidad -decía para sus adentros-
eso… eso sé que ahora la encontré
eso… porque tengo
todo el tiempo ya para mi
ya no necesito más de nadie
toda la belleza de la vida es para mi
“y un dia pasaron por allí
los ojos de una niña
que le habían robado al cielo
el brillo de dos estrellas”
y se estremecieron
sus raíces
cuánto desconcierto de improviso dentro de él
eso que solamente siente el hombre sin la mujer
y alargó sus ramas
hacia ella
sintió que la felicidad no es nunca la mitad
del infinito
luego era al tiempo sol y luna
nube y música
era al tiempo risa y llanto
y entretanto
era un hombre que a la vida despertó
era
como el canto oue llenaba
sus enormes soledades
esa parte verdadera
que una fábula encantada
esconde en sí
para ser auténtica.
Y
te cuentan como él se transformó
en árbol porque así lo deseo y se quedó
plantado alli mirando
la tierra en que nacían flores nuevas
fue
refugio del conejo y colibrí
y el viento le enseño a que saben sí
la miel y la resina silvestres y…
la lluvia lo bañó
y mi felicidad -decía para sus adentros-
eso… eso sé que ahora la encontré
eso… porque tengo
todo el tiempo ya para mi
ya no necesito más de nadie
toda la belleza de la vida es para mi
“y un dia pasaron por allí
los ojos de una niña
que le habían robado al cielo
el brillo de dos estrellas”
y se estremecieron
sus raíces
cuánto desconcierto de improviso dentro de él
eso que solamente siente el hombre sin la mujer
y alargó sus ramas
hacia ella
sintió que la felicidad no es nunca la mitad
del infinito
luego era al tiempo sol y luna
nube y música
era al tiempo risa y llanto
y entretanto
era un hombre que a la vida despertó
era
como el canto oue llenaba
sus enormes soledades
esa parte verdadera
que una fábula encantada
esconde en sí
para ser auténtica.
FLORESTA ANGELICAL
Autor: R. Elia Victorio
Capitulo I
Érase una vez, en un bosque, donde los espigados árboles de hojas naranja y púrpura se comunicaban con las nubes y el sol, había una casita blanca al frente de una inmensa laguna azul. La casita a pesar de estar rodeada de abundante llanura y cordilleras voluptuosas, brillaba por si sola ya que la habitaban las tres grandezas de la floresta angelical.
La casa no era grande pero si era amplia en su interior. Eran varias las claraboyas que en toda alborada, recibían los rayos de bendición de la estrella solar; la cual nunca fallaba en su rostro mostrar, pues al diario se plasmaba sobre el tejado de la casita que nunca dejaba de irradiar.
Según los pobladores de estas tierras encantadas, en el soplo de los vientos se lograba descifrar la lengua extraña de estas hadas de la luz. Entre ellos se comentaba que sus palabras hechiceras solo aquellos que poseían la fe y la alegría podían escucharlas.
Como era de costumbre, los geniecillos de orejas grandes y ovaladas se ocultaban tras los árboles, y a las distancia observaban como de madrugada un rimero de aves invadía el balcón donde reposaba la Reina de Las Aves. Ningún duende, por mas emocionado que estuviera, pretendía estropear aquella orquestra de pajarillos. Seria un gran lamento espantar al plumaje exquisito que en esos momentos presenciaban. La vista era de Pavo reales divinos, palomas enamoradas, canarios caribeños, pericos parlanchines, risueños majestuosos y sinsontes de realeza. Todos fusionados, con gran honor, le traían serenata a la reina.
“Despierta, O bella dama de las plumas,
Deja que mi canto alivie tus penas.
Ven a tu ventana con tus luceros cayados,
No me niegues el dulce néctar de tu labios.”
La Reina de la Aves al escuchar las gratas melodías, de su cama saltó y sin parpadeo corrió a la ventana para darles la bienvenida. Al abrir el tragaluz, los pájaros cantores trinaban de alegría; algunos de tanto regocijo en su cabellera dorada se alojaban. Ella gozaba plenamente el canto de las aves y nada la hacia mas feliz que emprender vuelo con ellas. La Reina, antes de lanzarse al vuelo, cubrió sus pechos aventureros con sus manos y a la distancia vislumbre como un extenso listón de plumillas de arco iris decoraba su cuerpo.
Ella se entendía muy bien con los pájaros, puesto que tenía el don de comunicarse con ellos. La emperatriz sabía que por medio de sus melodías ella tenía acceso a la magia del universo; así como también, al pleno vuelo de la Libertad.
Entretanto que La Reina de Las Aves se divertía en la bóveda celeste, el gorjeo de un ave lira despertó a la risueña Reina de las Flores; quien durante la magna romanza del alba, se encontraba dormida. La pequeña doncella, como siempre, buscaba en su centésimo sueño su próxima aventura. Ella era la más soñadora de las tres, creo que se debía a su inocencia y su frescura. Como era de esperarse a la Reina de las Flores le encantaba recorrer los campos, estar entre los ríos y la naturaleza, para nada le parecía estar dentro de un aula. Por allí comentan los duendes que por doquiera que pasaba la pequeñuela un sin fin de flores brotaban. Ella tenía el don de revestir lo lúgubre y triste a colorido y deslumbrante.
Dentro de la casita mágica nunca faltaban las flores; había gardenias, casablancas, tulipanes, jazmines, damas de la noche, la madreselva y rosales. El entorno de su interior era sereno, se respiraba una tranquilidad de verde esperanza. El perfume que La Reina de las Flores esparcía por todos lados evocaba armonía y gozo. Se cree que por las noches de lunas amorosas, La Reina de las Flores, en compania de los espíritus celestes, bendice el amor de los enamorados con flores.
Tierna creatura,
Fresca inocencia,
Es en cada pétalo tuyo que mis ilusiones afloran.
Flor del alma mía,
Retoño deífico,
En el eje de tu tálamo yo encuentro mi centro.
Divina Reina de las Flores,
Colma la mía vida con alegrías,
Deja caer sobre mi ser un sin fin de colores.
Y de colores esplendidos se cubrió por completo el ambiente de la choza aojada cuando apareció La Reina de las Mariposas, quien desde el rincón de los mil libros empolvados vigilaba a la pintoresca Reina de las Flores.
Nunca en mis infinitos deslices del cielo había presenciado a tan divina imagen. La suya melena era del color del abismo, tan obscuro como el fondo del universo pero luminoso por el brillo insoportable de los destellos que le adornaban. Se movía con tal gracia que bien pareciera que su ente dirigía a las ondas del aire. Los vientos adoraban con que delicadeza esta alevilla les bailaba.
Decir que era sabia es poco, lo místico le brotaba por los poros. En sus pupilas se albergaba, la ilusión y la esperanza. El gozo pleno y la serenidad era el color de su semblante. Poseía una seguridad que le brillaba desde el interior de su abdomen. Sin embargo, lo más sorprendente, por lo menos para este duende que la observaba a lo lejos, fue como de su boca salían hermosas mariposas cada vez que ella parlaba. Cada palabra que se formaba en su boca y lograba hacer contacto con los renglones en blanco de la vida venia acompañada de un sin fin de lamparillas que alumbraban el día.
¿Como esta tu corazón Vida?
Y es que escucho tu latir en las entrañas de mi vientre.
Que orgasmo incesante me provoca cada suspiro.
Gratitud por ti siento amante mía,
Un gran placer es explorarte entera,
¡Gracias!
Gracias espejismo de lo divino.
Y así fue como La Reina de las Mariposas le daba pie al rostro de un nuevo día, mientras se dirigía atender a la pequeña Reina de las Flores quien ya se disponía a entrar al mundo de las travesuras.
(C)Copyright R. Elia Victorio 2009
Kedves Paulo Coelho!
Tudom, hogy szokatlan, hogy anyanyelvemen, azaz magyarul , írok, de úgy hiszem, ha ennek a levélnek a kezében kell lennie, hát így is megtörténik, ha nem akkor pedig úgysem…
Soha nem írtam- csak a rokonaimnak és barátaimnak- levelet, így hát azon a nyelvezeten írok most Önnek.
Szép történetet kér a rajongóktól. Gondolom hogy az itt oldalakon keresztül íródott levelekben bizonyára nagyon sok- nem hétköznapi történetet írnak, osztanak meg Önnel a rajongók.
Magyarországról írok Önnek, lakosainak száma nem több 10 milliónál. és anyanyelvünket csak az itt születettek beszélik.
Országunk kicsi, de sok minden mellett zarándokútvonala Budapest-Mátraverebély,Szentkút (2006. óta most már része a Caminoi útvonalnak is a sárga gyöngysorral….)
E zarándokút magyarországi részén jártam nemrégiben, gyalogosan, barátnőmmel. Az út hossza 180km, az utunk 9 nap volt.
Nem fogom tudni Önnek egy email-ben leírni amire gondolok.
- Sem üzletek sem kávézók, sem internet, még mobilhálózat is jó ha van, és a szállások sem tülekednek..
Szóval ez az út az érintetlenségével, a próbatételeivel egy csoda volt, csoda amiben részünk lehetett….
Gondoltam Önre. Vajon Ön itt…?
Mielőtt útnak indultam megakartam kérni legyen a vezetőm egy zarándokút során. Nem azért mert híres és nagyon jó író. Semmi érdek nem vezetett és tudom hogy őrültségnek is hangzik. Egy világszerte elismert író és egy teljesen hétköznapi, lábos mögül kiugrott nő…
De tekintve, hogy Spanyolország messze van, és egymást sem értenénk….Nálunk nem hallottam még a RAM rendről. A gyakorlatokat sajnos nem tudtam csinálni- lefoglalt a térkép, és az útleírás hogy minden nap találjunk helyet ahol megpihenhetünk….
Még azt sem mondhatom, hogy úgy indultam, hogy tudom miért megyek. De azt tudom, hogy nem úgy értem haza ahogy elmentem. Azt tudom, hogy olyan dolgokat éltem meg amiket kimondani is félek. A Szentek jelenléte, a szerelem hangja, a bizonyosság, az a sok felismerés.. többek között, hogy amiben mindannyian élünk milyen túlzó, nagyravágyó, hogy a legegyszerűbb dolgokban élhetjük meg a legnagyobb érzéseket…
Ön nagyszerűen írta meg a Zarándoklat című könyvében az utat amelyet bejárt- minden tekintetben-. Csodálom Önt, azért, hogy a Mindenség működését is így szavakba tudta önteni az Alkimistában. Amit az ember “ott belül” érez, egyszer csak megtalálja az Ön könyvében teljességgel megfogalmazva.
Baráti üdvözlettel:
Eszter
one of the most beautiful stories i have read is “Hope for the Flowers” by Trina Paulus
its about love, life, hope and ambitions. the story is simple, as the books says it is for children and adults.
its about two catterpilars– stripe and yellow and they met on a journey that they thought was significant, turns out, it wasn’t.
(i suggest buy the book if you want to fully understand the story.:D)
namaste
~xara
that story is really beautiful!!!!!
This is an exert from yet to be published book “Baul in search of Achin-Pakhi (the unkonwn bird). This post is for those unknown bird/s (“Achin-Pakhis”) who wants to find the courage to fly again, find their lost tunes and the ‘Supreme Tune’ they are looking for……..
A Fox when lost own its tune became sad, hopeless and lost self- confidence. One day the Fox meets a Bird named “Achin Pakhi” (the unknown bird) – colourful, happy and flying in the sky singing own tunes. The Fox and the Achin-Pakhi Bird falls in love and decide to find the lost tune of the Fox and mix their tunes together to compose better tunes. They build a home in a far away land of dream and sing to each other in the hope of finding the lost tune. Soon the Fox was able to finds the lost tune back. And they start the creation of new tunes by mixing their own and composing “the supreme tune” together.
Fifteen years have passed since and the Bird has grown older and lost some of its shines and colors, and the wings have grown fragile at the same time. The Fox has also matured and became confident. The Fox and the Bird are still in love with each other – as they had vowed never to change each other but to accept the other as who they are.
The Fox’s family and friends who have been watching how the Bird and the Fox have grown together in happiness, expresses their desire to take part in their happiness. The Fox and the Bird both agrees to share their lives and the happy home with them.
But soon the the Bird realizes s/he can not play the tune the Fox’s family and friends want to hear. However the Bird keeps on trying for years but the family and friends get increasingly unhappy as they do not hear the tune they want to hear. The Fox also keeps on pressing the Bird to play the tune to the family and friends liking. After years of trying to play tunes to please others, the Bird at last admits to the Fox that the tune they want to hear can not be played by the Bird and the Bird can not try anymore to please them. The Bord wants to go back to the happy home they have lost. But the Fox suggests to the Bird that accepting changes is what the Bird must do.
The Fox gets very upset as the Bird gives up on entertaining the family and friends and be in the same home and accepts the changes. The refusal the Bird to comply with the new changes in their life makes the Fox extremly unhappy. One day the Fox demands that the Bird leaves the home if s/he can not live with the Fox’s family and friends and can not forget the dream of creating the supreme tune. The Bird does not want to give up the legend he was persuing to fulfill. However the Bird has by now grown old and forgot to fly and lost the shines and as for the past years s/he has not only forgotten own tune but also could not play the tune s/he would like to play. The Bird still has the wind of love in heart for the Fox, and keeps on hoping the Fox will soon realize the blindfold on own eyes. The Bird does not leave the nest they built, but sits by the window seal and tries to sing the lost old tune and keeps on hoping. However the tune s/he tries to play sounds too harsh as s/he has not been practicing own tunes for the longest.
Meanwhile the Fox becomes increasingly unhappy listening to the harsh tune as it was making the family and friends more disappointed. And the Bird would not leave the home either. And the Fox could not tolerate the birds chirping of harsh tunes anymore. Out of desperation one day the Fox calls in the neighbourhood Cats to scare the bird away. Though the Bird does not get scared; however the Bird at last comes to accept the fact that it is time to move on.
It was right before the winter and since the Bird forgot how to fly; s/he takes shelter inside a Bush. And as it started to snow the Bird realizes there was no food on the ground either. The other birds and the animals who have been watching everything for the past twenty years, comes forward and shares their little saved food and encourages the Bird to fly again and sing again, build faith in self and try to find the lost tune.
By the time next spring comes, the Bird gains the necessary strength in mind and soul from all the love and sharing s/he got from the other birds and the animals. One sunny spring day the Bird flies on to a nearby tree, and gradually starts to sing the long lost tune. The days passes by, the summer arrives, the Bird finds the courage to fly again in the sky and start to search for that Supreme tune s/he was originally looking for.
****
Whoever is loved is beautiful
Whoever is loved is beautiful, but the opposite is not true, that whoever is beautiful is loved. Real beauty is part of loved-ness, and that loved-ness is primary. If a being is loved, he or she has beauty, because a part cannot be separate from the whole. Many girls were more beautiful than Laila, but Majnun did not love them. “Let us bring some of these to meet you,” they used to say to Majnun, and he would reply, “It’s not the form of Laila that I love. Laila is not the form. You’re looking at the cup, whereas I think only of the wine I drink from that cup. If you gave me a chalice studded with gemstones, but filled with vinegar or something other than wine, what use would that be? An old broken dipper-gourd with Laila-wine in it is better than a hundred precious goblets full of other liquid.”
**** Rumi
With loving kindess,
Satora
i love this story and i think it’s true! thank-you for sharing it.
The most beautiful book I’ve read this year is called:
“The Gift of Story: A Wise Tale about what is Enough” by Clarissa Pinkola Estes.
This story is truely an enchanting gift.
It is a breathtakingly inspirational story of the simple things in life that we lose appreciation for, as we are blinded by greed.
The message in the book is about the power of story telling and it’s power to pass on life and love through the generations. And regardless of how big or expensive the gift is, it will never be greater than the gift of love, and that gift of love ‘is enough’.
I made drills to english gramar, and found a funny story. Guess many know that.
But I repeat, cause is great.
Is about two frogs, that once decided to leave their safe pond, and see the world. After a wonderful day, with sun shine and much fun, the saw a cat. They run for their lifes, and jump into a bucket with milk to hide. They try to get out, but not able . One frog try to swim, but tired get drowned. The other frog just keep moving, and the morning waking up noticed that was sitting on butter…
One of the most beautiful stories I ve ever heard about was told to me by my father during our trip to Prague.
By the time, he was reading or has finished reading “The Devil and Miss Prym” from Paulo Coelho, from which book he told me the story.
It is the story of Leonardo da Vinci, who has almost finished to paint “The Last Supper”…
only two aces he couldn’t paint: Jesus, and Judas.
… and at the end, he made both portraits from the face of the same person.
This story is extremely important for me, because it unveils what I believe to be the only real and true answer to the question: are people good, or bad?
So many times we hear saying “xy” is a good man; “z” is a bad man…
The truth is, that NOBODY is good or bad. Nobody.
Human beings are nor good, nor bad.
Human beings are FREE.
Jesus, the “Son of Man”, as he has called himself,
who really you could think about as “a good man”
told to somebody who called him “good master”:
“Why do you call me good? God only is good”
Only our ACTS can be classified as good or bad acts, not ourselves. Only the acts. And every day we are free to chose what kind of acts we do, and what we don’t do.
sorry for the typing mistake:
only two FACES he couldn’t paint
The Kiss
There are few occasions in your life when you feel that everything you have done in the past leads up to that very moment. When you can place your finger in the present and know that this snap shot of your existence is something you’ve worked so hard to get and you can appreciate it in real time. Like training for years to do the Tour de France and that moment when you cross the finish line. Someone takes a picture and all can tell forever what that meant to you.
Some people treat sex like a sport. In fact, for me, it’s a method of communication. You can convey in a kiss or in a warm gesture things that just can’t be conveyed in words. How many ways can you say the words “I love you?”. How many ways can you kiss the woman you love?
That day I knew I would be in one of those unique moments. A moment which has had an escalating buildup for almost one full year. A fiery cosmopolitan romance reaching its peak in one breathless kiss.
So I woke up early that day, didn’t need to set any wake up. Shot out of bed like a cannon ball, I was cleaning up my place like the Pope himself was coming for a visit. Floors were washed, windows wiped, sheets changed, towels replaced, dust was removed, kitchen was wiped, bathroom was scrubbed, boy was I busy those first hours. All the while I was anticipating our encounter. What would she wear? I knew she’d surprise me so there was no point in trying to recall things that she’d worn, except that I had no control and involuntarily my mind was scanning the pictures of our sporadic meetings throughout the year all over Europe and in America and how she dressed so sexily that my eyes just popped out when I saw her. I was thinking about what I was going to wear. In the heat of the summer, I didn’t want to put on something ordinary, you bet I wanted to let her eyes pop out too. I was so looking forward to seeing her and I could feel the excitement build up.
So, I showered myself. I had some important errands to run. The shower was a last shower, like the last cigarette. I knew my life was changing forever not to be the same. This was my last shower without her and I became aware of her absence contrasting with the way showers would be taken from now on. I could not say until when. The unhurried movements in the shower were deliberate. Touching myself and conscious of the soothing feel of soap on my skin. The running water created a tingling affect as it massaged then tickled my back then my neck and face. It felt good to be alive. I was planning what I would do with her in the shower because the next time I’d be there I would be with her. Sexy thoughts of her body close to mine and wet dazzled my imagination and colored all my thinking with one color white. I found myself murmuring her name under the stream – “Mary”.
A distraction made me emerge from those thoughts, I remembered my Dog, that needed taking out. So, after a quick shampoo, I was out of the shower, shaved purposefully and quickly jumped into my new jeans adding a cool looking T-shirt that I’d picked out a few days earlier that I knew she’d love. I took the dog out, made some last minute phone calls to clear away things and reduce distractions for the coming days. Then, I did some grocery shopping – I wasn’t going to bring her to a place with no food, no fruit, no wine or beer. I was going to spoil her in the days to come and I knew that most likely we would barely get out and would need a lot of nourishment. I bought some flowers to put in the center of the living room, something I never do but I knew it would impress her tremendously. She gets really amazed when I tend to details. My place is far from luxurious, so small things can make a significant difference.
I bought a nice bouquet and had the place stocked up with everything I thought I’d need. The yard was in the best shape possible, the dog was washed and his hair was shining. We’d spoken about the dog, because his name was Maple, she kept insisting that he was a female. She was in for a humorous surprise.
Everything was set so I got into the car and was driving off thinking intensely about the moment to come. When I see her walk out of the gates and we embrace. I was focused on her face, she’s be white even though she thought she was tanned. It’s funny that way because planes make you whiter. Her red lipstick would be calling me enabling me to zero in. Those red lips would be calling out to me to come to them, to run to them. I knew it might be embarrassing but I knew I wouldn’t mind. I had her and only her in my sight and in my thoughts.
As I was driving I was contemplating the affect of her delicious breasts so close to me and the scent of her bodily perfume filling the air around me. She would soon be mine and I could have her again and again. Allowing her to dress just so that I could undress her and have her again. I was nearing the airport and every inch of my body was hoping to be the first to touch her. The competition was fierce. The heart was pumping at full speed and force. I parked the car far from the entry because I knew the farther away the more kissing and intimate we could become.
I walked to the meeting place, the plane was landing, and my love was in Israel, on Israeli land, in my country. Just the thought of that got me excited. I was waiting not knowing what to do with myself. Finally decided to have a cup of coffee. Not that I needed it and caffeine wasn’t going to calm my nerves, but getting something hot in my stomach had the calming effect. Just as I sat down, I saw her come into the meeting area, pushing a huge cart laden with two huge suitcases. There she was. I was so happy. I ran over to her and hugged her first. Overwhelmed with joy we were kissing. Kissing madly and passionately. Her lips were on mine and her tongue was touching mine. Her body against mine. The world was turning and the universe was expanding and we were intertwined and connected and touching each other’s souls.
That moment had come and I knew it then and there. The moment when your life changes right before your eyes and a new lovely chapter opens full of hope and surprise. It was wonderful.
It was a great story…
I was with you, while reading it.
Very strong and discriptive!
Michah, beautiful story… It sounds a bit like my life. Except that i’m the girl, and my boyfriend arranged all these things for me, the first time we went to his place (which was two years into our relationship, since we lived in different cities.) We live in the same city now, and we meet as often as possible. Love is beautiful :)
im with you each line of the story…sooo full of emotions and yet LOVE is truly there
la historia mas bonita que he visto ha sido en una pelicula india, se titula devdas, son dos niños que crecen juntos y que en su infancia siempre estan uno con el otro, solo lo separan las castas, el nombre de ella era Paro y el era Devdas
el padre de devdas, era un hombre muy importante, mientras el de paro era solo un hostelero, un dia a devdas lo envian a londres a estudiar, y paro se sume en la desesperacion, queria seguirlo hasta londres, la niña encendio una lampara de aceite por el, ya que en su tradicion dicen que la luz de una lampara hace que la persona amada encuentre el camino a casa mas de prisa…pero el se tomo 10 años.
volvio todo hecho un abogado, y muy guapo, ella era las mas hermosa de toda la ciudad.
de regreso a casa, su madre lo esperaba ansiosa, pues no veia a su hijo en 10 años, pero el se detuvo en la casa de su paro, pero esta no dejo que el la viese, en fin al siguiente dia, ella lo fue a ver, y le reclamo porque ella le escribia 5 cartas al dia (18250 cartas en 10 años) y el solo escribio dos, le recalmo por cada segundo que su lampara estuvo encendida, el le dijo que el problema es que solo se recordo de ella una sola vez durante su viaje, ella le pregunto cuando y el le dijo “cada vez que respiraba paro”, esa escena me hiso llorar…
al final el padre de el no acepto que el se casara con ella, y humillaron de una manera muy fea a la madre de paro, y esta decidio casarla con otro, la casaron con el Señor de otr pueblo, que era mas rico que el padre devdas, este enloquecio, comenzo a tomar, y a tener malas amistades, paro intento rescatarlo, pero solo le pudo arrancar la promesa de que el estaria en su puerta el dia que muriera, y asi fue, su cuerpo no resistio tanto alcohol y murio en la puerta de la casa de su Paro, pero ella no lo pudo ver por que el maridp se lo impidio, le cerraron las puertas del palacio mientras ella corria hacia el pero ella no pudo salir, en cambio devdas murio mirandola correr hacia el, solo ese dia, la lampara que ella llevaba encendida se apago
Believing
She was sitting on the bench of the church while the tears rolled down her face. The dark sunglasses covered the sadness reflected on her eyes. She had been sitting there for hours holding in her hands her rosary. One thing she had learned from her mother was the art of praying. She had forgotten many things but she had never forgot how to pray. How could she when it seemed like every minute of her life there was something to pray about.
That day the reason was bigger than the other times. Her world had crumble down into small pieces for this time the cause was too much to bear. She was hoping for answers but this time God was silent and the only voices she could hear where the echoes of her fears. The happy ending was not longer feasible as life had revealed its true intention. She wondered how could she survive this ghastly discovery after all she had a deal with the Lord but what unfolded was not in the agreement.
When there were no more tears to cry she stood up and walk away from the smell of candles and the saints. The pain was still there but she knew now she would have to change her plan, her dreams, and her entire way of thinking. Life will not longer be the same not even the prayers would be the same but she will continue on living and believing that tomorrow would bring again the light.
feeling like i m reading my life story..thanks for sharing with us.
Querido Paulo, muito obrigado pelas històrias que nos conta nos seus livros! Deixo-lhe aqui um recordaçao minha! Esta història representa 10 pequenos minutos da minha vida, mas uma grande liçao para mim…
Somos o dia 6 de julho 2006, sao 18h, estou no comboio vindo de Paris em direçao a Luxemburgo, estou cansada, mas feliz pensando no sucesso da tese que acabei de apresentar para obter o meu curso de psicòloga. Lutei e trabalhei bastanto para chegar ao fim do meu curso… Depois de um divòrcio dificil, alguns problemas de saùde e conflictos familiares, continuei a lutar por este meu sonho!
Trago num dos meus livros, um marca pàginas que me ofereceu o meu pai hà 3 anos (pouco depois do meu divorcio), e leio uma vez mais o poema que contem:
“Uma noite eu tive um sonho…
Sonhei que estava andando na praia com o Senhor
e através do Céu, passavam cenas da minha vida.
Para cada cena que se passava, percebi que eram deixados
dois pares de pegadas na areia;
Um era meu e o outro do Senhor.
Quando a última cena da minha vida passou
Diante de nós, olhei para trás, para as pegadas
Na areia e notei que muitas vezes, no caminho da
Minha vida havia apenas um par de pegadas na areia.
Notei também, que isso aconteceu nos momentos
Mais difíceis e angustiantes do meu viver.
Isso entristeceu-me deveras, e perguntei
Então ao Senhor.
“- Senhor, Tu me disseste que, uma vez
que eu resolvi seguir-Te, Tu andarias sempre
comigo, todo o caminho. Contudo, notei que
durante as maiores atribulações do meu viver
havia na areia dos caminhos da vida,
apenas um par de pegadas. Não compreendo
porque nas horas em que mais necessitava de Ti,
Tu me deixaste sozinho.”
O Senhor me respondeu:
“- Meu querido filho. Eu te amo e
jamais te deixaria nas horas de provação
e sofrimento.
Quando viste na areia, apenas um par
de pegadas, foi exactamente aí que nos braços te carreguei.”
Quando acabo de ler o poema, sou incapaz de conter as minhas làgrimas…Numerosas foram as vezes que li este poema, mas nunca tinha compreendido a mensagem do meu pai… Durante todos estes anos, eu andei revoltada contra o meu pai, pensando que ele nao me tinha apoiado nos momentos mais dificéis da minha vida… Hoje, talvez porque me sinto em paz e bem comigo pròpria, compreendi que cada vez que eu pensei que o meu pai estàva ausente, ele nos seus braços me carregàva!
I lyk to express my views via my poems….
This poem that iam sharing today, is my story :)
wen i look into the mirror,
what is it dat i feel but dont c ?
a fealing, a fear or just insanity!
Ma heart leaps back to those 7 yrs,
the wounds still green.
I shall swim through it, i tel myself
but y do i c it seeping way too much into me?
m in a state of nausea that kills ma peace
a constant desire to b free!!
M in a trance, an Abyss between the crowd..
becoz f a mere fragment f memory!
D shadows of past hovers on ma present,
how shall i make ma future carefree??
I ask those eyes in the mirror..
have u sin??
n they abandon me in the lingering memories of 90s
M shocked at the tears streaming down my eyes
n yet i feel heavy!!
what is it dat i feel, but dont c?
sm pain, sm emotions of insanity?
I shall bear the curse
with my head held high
then y dis fear of going crazy?
Everyday i promise myself
ii shall forget and move on
and i break my promise at every dawn!!
The perception in the mirror
ask me to b strong
n sings to me a long lost song!
Yet wen i look back it… i ask it again!!
What is it dat i feel, but dont c?
May b a less rigid me!
May b i should stop consoling myself
dat i would be free!
coz inevitably my existence is from ‘those 90s’
wat happened in those 90s may be i can help u get back to where u want to be.
“La Femme Endormie”
Outro dia estava revirando caixas antigas, papéis, quando me deparei com um texto que há muito tempo não lia, mas que sempre me impressionou pela sua beleza e por se tratar de algo diretamente ligado à mim; a crônica a seguir, foi dedicada à minha bisavó, Zulmira Uchôa Cavalcanti Fernandes Barros, sem que a autora da matéria, publicada no jornal “Correio da Manhã”, (Carmen Dolores) soubesse nada à respeito da história verdadeira, do que inspirou nela, tal arrebatamento. Mas ela chegou muito perto com suas suposições…
meu bisavô, Miguel Fernandes Barros, encomendou ao escultor francês, Jean Magrou, que esculpisse para a sua mulher falecida, uma estátua em tamanho natural, em seu leito de morte.
O que se sabe é que meu bisavô ficou devastado com sua morte e jamais se casou novamente. Até hoje, há rumores en torno desta sepultura: alguns acham que ela foi uma “amante” do presidente, e coisas parecidas; todo ano, no dia de “finados”, publicam (junto com as reportagens de túmulos de pessoas famosas) a foto da sepultura de minha bisavó e as “lendas” que a cercam…
Eu também tenho a honra de carregar comigo algumas de suas cartas, endereçadas a sua filha mais velha, Maria Barros Werneck, minha tia-avó. São cartas lindas, onde ele conta com tanta delicadeza do amor e da falta que lhe fazia, sua amada “Zulmirinha”
Segue abaixo o texto original de Carmen Dolores:
O Amor e a Morte
Conta Zimmerman, que tendo um pobre homem de Zurich perdido a noiva que adorava, esculpiu uma rosa sobre a lousa do seu túmulo e escreveu embaixo, sem nome nem data: “Assim é que ela foi…”
Para sua alma simples e saudosa, aquilo bastava e reconstituia perante os seus olhos umidecidos de pranto a figura juvenil, viçosa e fresca da bem ornada esvaída. Ela tinha sido a túmida rosa de maio que perfumara as suas esperanças de amor, e rosa ficaria sempre sendo, eternamente, simbolicamente gravada nesse mármore puro que recobria oa seus restos mortais.
Quanto, porém, na atualidade, outra idéia mais bela sobrepuja em grandeza e poesia, em originalidade, em arrojo, em inspiração romântica, a tocante fantasia desse bom suiço! Na sepultura erigida por este, uma flôr rememorava a graça do ente querido; no incomparável mármore que meus olhos agora contemplaram, cativos, fascinados, é a própria morta que sobrevive à destruição suprema, eternizada pela arte no último abandono. E nunca pareceu mais verdadeira a frase tantas vezes citada e tão raramente confirmada:”L’amour est plus fort que la mort!” que há servido de eixo a mais de um delicioso romance conhecido. Qual, porém, a natureza do amor que sugeriu a obra imortal de que me ocupo agora? Não sei! Tudo ignoro. De um grande mistério todo branco, evocou-se apenas a evidência para mim de um sentimento poderoso e inconsolável, que insuflara ao artista o ideal da sua dor – pagã, se quiserem, mas admirável na concepção de seu desesperado intento de conservar intacta uma forma idolatrada. Essa dor maior, o seu suplício de Tantalo, arrojando longe de todos os moldes convenciomais da resignação cristã, sob forma de um anjo pensativo que aponta para o céu, ou de uma estátua chorosa que se reclina sobre uma urna – todas essas figuras de uniformidade mística na expressão rafaelesca do mesmo longo oval dos rostos, emoldurados por cabeleiras soltas: representam com suas grandes asas tristes a esperança de uma outra vida, além, no infinito azul…mas a dor que sonhou uma obra de arte para imortalizar o vulto estremecido, recusou todos os símbolos consolidadores da convenção religiosa, e pediu em brados a realidade cruel, torturante, mas humana, que esculpisse no eterno mármore aquela que partira, e no gesto da partida…
Oh! não sei, repito, qual a natureza do amor que ideou tal perpetuidade grandiosa da derradeira atitude de um ser estremecido, fora de todos os preconceitos estúpidos da morte, arranjada e enfeitada pelas regras funerárias, com as mãos inertes bem cruzadinhas sobre o peito do defunto, uma flôr aqui, uma corôa acolá, a cabeça disposta assim, os pés bem juntos, presos por uma fita, todas as formalidades do estilo. Mas acredito, mas ouso quase assegurar, que o sentimento que realizou essa aspiração excepcional, foi o amor – paixão ardente, refratário a todas as consolações, rebelado furiosamente contra os estragos de um corpo entusiásticamente adorado…e, se me engano, que importa? Deixem-me a ilusão desse amor e desse culto; deixem-me o belo romance, com a visão de um poeta que se evade dos sistemáticos convencionalismos do tributo à morte e largamente abre margem às reminiscências tantálicas da sua ternura, na concepção desse mármore original, formoso, imaculado, eterno…
Imagino assim o caso. Ela morreu longe daqui, no estrangeiro, ferida na plenitude da sua beleza e da sua mocidade. Nem a morte teve o tempo de alterá-la, em longos dias de sofrimento. Chegou a maldita, espreitando, viu a formosa criatura e fulminou-a em todo o esplendor das suas linhas soberbas. Era ela brasileira, francesa, italiana? não lhes posso responder. Ignoro…
e então, esse que a estremecia e hoje a pranteia, cobriu-a depressa com o mais fino e transparente lençol de cambraia de linho, ainda sobre o leito morno em que exalara o último suspiro, e correu a chamar um estatuário, um escultor – não um marmorista, vejam bem – ao qual exprimiu a idéia, filha das desesperadas lágrimas que seus olhos vertiam. E o artista compreendeu a secreta aspiração que latejava nessa alma poética e apaixonada.
Veio o óleo quente, o gesso e a carne inerte retomou uma aparência de vida efêmera, rosada sob o calor do molde que estreitamente cingiu e modelou o corpo inteiro, ainda flexível, na posição natural, graciosa e indolente, em que resvalara no infinito repouso. O mármore, depois, imortalizou esse molde dáprès nature, em toda a sua pujante verdade; e o seu dono pôde contemplar essa que amava no mole abandono da primeira hora do eterno sono, tão linda e perfeita, a cabeça um pouco virada para o lado, a boca risonha, o cabelo em voltas flexuosas, cheias de seiva e presa à moderna. Os braços languidamente caídos ao longo do corpo – ela toda um primor de escultura viva e palpitante. Não morreu:existe, dorme, repousa, com o seu belo peito forte dilatado pela respiração calma que o mármore não consegue figurar, em sua dureza de bloco imortal. Mas só falta isto – o hálito perfumado a fugir desses lábios ridentes.
Então o dono levantou-a assim adormecida nos seus braços delicados, transportou-a para bordo de um vapor e trouxe-a para nossa terra – talvez a dela ou a dele, quem sabe? No mesmo navio viajavam: os restos sujeitos à destruição e a efígie soberba desafiando a morte e o tempo.
Aqui repousam hoje esses restos mortais de uma mulher bonita numa sepultura do cemitério São João Batista.
A carne roída pelos vermes, jaz embaixo da lousa, invisível aos olhares mais ternos e saudosos, revertendo `a cinza das imposições cristsãs; mas, em cima dessa pedra mármore, como sobre um leito alvíssimo, cuja cúpola formosa fosse o vasto cetim azul dos céus, a morta adorada sobrevive à destruição do seu corpo, estendida em decubitus dorsal sobre todo comprimento do túmulo, e sorrindo de palpebras cerradas àqueles que a admiram, sorrindo aos beijos do sol, às borboletas ou aos passarinhos amorosos, que lhe posam em cima, na atitude abandonada de um simples descanço no silêncio profundo desse campo tranquilo.
Fino lençol em grandes pregas, modela castamente os seus membros emergindo apenas a cabeça vigorosa, um pescoço e a nascença de um peito positivamente esculturais, e um dos braços também perfeito, cuja mão, a convulsão da morte torce um bocadinho ou pendeu, no derradeiro esvaimento, assim contraída.
Todo o resto do corpo, esbelto e grandioso, se desenha através do tecido transparente da cambraia de linho, maravilhosamente tratado pelo cinzel do escultor, sentindo-se-lhe a finura e a leveza das dobras amplas, que envolvem sem oprimir; e uma das pernas cedeu um pouco a qualquer contração última, que a desviou ligeiramente da pose clássica, exigida pelas linhas da arte.
Mas não lhe mexeram:assim se imobilizou essa perna, assim ficou no mármore…
e mais humana é deste modo a bela criatura, dormindo como uma simples mortal o seu sono de imortal, eternamente gloriosa e eternamente pura, tocada de luz,radiante de perfeição plástica, serena, indiferente a essa horrível solidão dos túmulos, onde ela só, toda branca, representa ainda a vida e o amor entre rosas que florescem e as avezinhas que trinam aos pares sobre as árvores.
Murmuram alguns, que a idéia é pagã… pois eu acho admirável, única, divina…
Por que havemos de fazer da morte um pavoroso espantalho?
Já foi tempo em que a Idade Média inventava a Dança Macabra com seus esqueletos aa chocalharem furiosamente os ossos em contorsões sinistras, e que desapareceram gradualmente no princópio da época do Renascimento.
Os mortos, então, eram grotescos, riam sadônicamente, mascaravam-se de abades, de clowns, de velhas decrépitas, enchendo as vinhetas dos livros e até os vitrais coloridos dos claustros, das longas procissões de ossadas saltitantes, girando numa jovialidade fantástica e alucinamte.
Foi Holbein que resumiu com o seu gênio o lúgubre homorismo dessa temporada.
O cristianismo entrega o corpo à terra que o corrompe e só se ocupa da alma, que foge aos céus da outra vida, abandonando a forma mortal à podridões sem importância para a essência divina do ser.
Essa idéia, porém, consola apenas as resignações calmas e tranquilas. A pessoa morta está com Deus! Um dia, todos nós nos encotraremos lá, nas regiões celestes… sim mas essa esperança não basta de certo às afeições veementes, férvidas, vibrantes, que se estorcem de saudade, que se revoltam desesperadamente contra a eterna separação material da carne.
Nunca mais ver, sentir, olhar o ente querido, mas é atroz!
Debalde a vista se volve para as alturas e invoca as figuras angélicas da tradição religiosa, tão docemente serenas e consoladoras no seu vago contorno espiritual.
Qual! aquilo porque o nosso amor anceia é a figura terrestre e imperfeita, mas real tangível, do ente que partiu.
E saber que nunca, nunca mais a havemos de conteplar nas suas linhas naturais, nas suas proporções humanas, conforme ela ficou gravada na retina, onde contudo, ai de nós! As cinzas do tempo a vão lentamente, implacavelmente afogando numa sombra cada vez mais esbatida – eis o que é certamente o mais torturante dos martírios.
Depois, meu Deus! A lembrança dessa forma amada a apodrecer embaixo de uma dura pedra, a dissolver-se em lama, em líquidos esverdinhados, saponáceos, corrompidos – essa lembrança é inaturável, confessemos.
Ah, quanto a morte na Grécia Antiga, tinha outra beleza e outro prestígio! O gênio helênico exprimia por meio de uma letargia poética, o esvaecimento supremo.
Não se morria: dormia-se numa serenidade elísia de deuses. A chama purificava em seguida os restos sujeitos à decomposição da matéria e belíssimas estátuas de adolescentes apoiados numa coluna partida e calcando os pés um archote extinto, assinalavam apenas, branquejando divinamente entre a verdura dos loureiros, o desaparecimento de mais um mortal querido da superficie da terra.
É possível que, debaixo do estreito ponto de vista das convenções da morte, entre nós, esse admirável túmulo do cemitério São João Batista, represente uma idéia pagã…nada ali, com efeito, indica uma obediência às fórmulas estabelecidas. Não há cruz à cabeceira, nem anjo de asas abertas, nem urna, nem vasos, nem nome nem data…há, unicamente ela, só ela, deusa daquele altar, reclinada no seu divino mármore, sorrindo, toda branca, aos olhos saudosos que de quando em quando, a vão contemplar na sua forma sempre humana sempre verdadeira, sempre bela…
É o triunfo do amor sobre a morte… é o mais adorável tributo anônimo de um sentimento que recusa ostentações e vive apenas da satisfação íntima que só ele conhece e goza, ao estorcer de sua saudade. É finalmente a mais perfeita
e original obra de arte que eu jamais tenha visto e admirado num cemitério da nossa cidade, esplêndido bloco de mármore, onde apenas se descobre dissimulado num ângulo, o nome do estatuário, a palavra “Paris” e a data 1905. Mais nada!
Nós já temos na Escola de Belas Artes um quadro recente sob o título: Femme à la rose. Eu proponho aqui que se denomine a soberba figura do túmulo a que me referi com tanto entusiasmo nestas linhas: La femme endormie.
E possam as gotas frias da chuva e as lágrimas quentes do amor que a ideou, rolando sempre pelas suas linhas tão belas, conservar-lhe eternamente a pureza e a brancura divinas!
Carmen Dolores
(Correio da Manhã de 1.12.1906)
There is an instant sort of weakness that I feel when I encounter hay. Well, more specifically hay dust. I’ve described it in the past as, “the sort of feeling I imagine Superman feels upon being close to Kryptonite”…instant weakness.
It turns out that heat, and the glorious sun, produce the same effect in me.
Apparently this is not uncommon with the incurable ‘disease’ that I’ve been saddled with.
The past two days, I’ve taken my daughters to our local favoured swimming hole. It’s a gorgeous little piece of heaven that our dear dear friends Jay and Erin share with us. A Landscaper and a Zookeeper…how’s THAT for an amazing combination!!?!?!? One tells me that they haul dirt; the other how they haul animal shit. But whatever paths or vocations it is that brought us together, these past two days we have enjoyed the warm waters of our nearby lake sitting on land that belongs to our dear friends, who are warm and wonderful enough to share it with us. It’s a blessing.
The trees are a deep deep green; the water is sort of bluey brown and completely clear (and you can see to the bottom of the lake where it’s not too deep.) We share the waters with fish and snapping turtles; we share the land with numerous birds, squirrels, chipmunks, and blue-tailed skinks. We share the blue, white-puffy-cloud-dotted, sky with our neighbours. It’s incredible. Except for the heat.
Instead of penetrating my skin, diving under the epidermis and warming my Being, I find the sun exhausts me. I feel myself drained, exhausted beyond comprehension; dizzy; heavy; itchy; & pained while trying to smile for my gorgeous children who are frolicking gleefully in the waters. I make myself share and inhabit this time with them; I push myself to the brink of, what feels like, finality in trying to be something that I’m not…I’m not ok in this summer weather. In truth, I can manage maybe 10 minutes of this weather before I begin to literally, feel ill. I have to use Epispray and Benadryl, and Prednisone and a slew of other meds I’m supposed to…sometimes, epi pen. Anaphylaxis is no fun.
This is just wrong…part of me speaks.
However, it IS…the other part of me replies.
I manage about 2 hours, but I am ill for it. But I haven’t died. That sounds melodramatic, doesn’t it? We barely get home on our bicycles. I am thankful that it’s downhill the entire way home to our driveway. Our house sits on top of a fairly steep hill at the end of this bike ride. Of course.
It’s a blessed thing, this old farmhouse. It remains cool inside its walls…comfortable without any air conditioning unit buzzing away beneath the house or in the window. It’s sooooooooooooo comfortable in here. At home.
My oldest daughter, 11 and half, puts the kettle on for tea. She wants to make tea these days. Tea, in our family, is a right of passage. Signaling the onset of womandom, we are permitted to first fill the kettle; then, permitted to plug it in once we’d mastered filling the kettle to the point where it’s enough water for the teapot but not too much that it will bubble and spill over the lip of the shrieking kettle, spilling hot clear runny lava over the kitchen countertops and diving off the counter and onto the green painted kitchen wood floor. She has learned to make tea in a cup; and in a tea pot. Soon, we will learn how to make a tea party for friends; we will learn to serve tea. Tea is comfortable in a cooled farmhouse, on a hot summer’s day. My daughter’s offer acknowledges my physical discomfort, weakness and inability to make my own tea. This guts me on a deeper level. I’ve never wanted my children to parent me. I’ve said this to her before. Her response is this, “Mom, it’s just a cup of tea. It’s ok for me to make you a tea. Please sit down, rest and let me get you a cuppa, k?”
I refuse to flop on the couch, despite wanting to. I don’t want my children to see that I am a ‘flopper’ or a ‘flop’. I sit down. My bones hurt like I have the world’s worst flu, or someone has taken a mallet to my bones. I’m too young to hurt this much. My youngest daughter runs to get a story book while my oldest daughter puts the kettle on. Tea and a story in a cool farm house, on a hot summer’s day. Doesn’t get much better than that. And, despite wanting to close my eyes to fall heavily into a full REM sleep dream, I stay alert for tea and a story with the girls.
Tea is served now. Just in the past two weeks, she has been steady enough to carry tea from kitchen to living room. She’s doing great. The girls snuggle up under each arm, so that my shoulders are in that weird position that gives me a ready-made headache if I sit like it for more than five minutes. My shoulders are almost at my ears and my daughter begins reading. I’ll take the headache (I hurt already) because this way I can hold them each to close under my armpits, like a Momma bird encapsulating her babies under her wings.
We each take turn on a page and try to read with feeling; with passion; without fear…now, all three of us are fearless readers. “Little Missy Bossy” or “Mr. Bump”, “The Giving Tree” or “The Boy Next Door”…it’s so fun reading stuff with my children that I loved reading when I was their age. They have other tastes too, and I enjoy reading that stuff with them too, but there’s something poetic in shared books of enjoyment.
We can thank the heat for bringing us here.
Were I feeling ‘better’ I might be inclined to clean the house all day long until it was, well, past perfection. Ironically, no-one ever comes to visit on the days when the house is this clean. Instead, I’m settling for being aware of my own good fight these past couple of days. My fight to maintain as much joy and normalcy as I can muster, and not give in completely to the weakness that washes over me. I fight instead of settling for paralysis. I have to rest at some point; a certain point…and I’m learning where that is. But I know where it isn’t, and that’s at giving up. I haven’t given up. I hold out hope that we will find a cure. I hold out hope that one of my vital organs won’t fail me before these gorgeous girls hit High School, or travel the world, or go to University/College/whatever they want, or find life partners or make babies. So for one afternoon, I withstand as much heat as I can to make sure that they enjoy one of the many reasons that we moved up here in the first place…the lakes, the sun, nature and the water. I won’t give up.
So, instead of being pissed off at the heat for bringing me down; and for my failing body that can’t fight the strength of the heat, I’ll thank it for the tea and story time. It’s worth every moment of presence with these great children, and with myself as a mother, a woman, a mortal.
parfois des gens font du mal aux autrez, et ensuite en profite pour critiquer ceux à qui ils ont fait du mal par le biais dautres personnes. qui en plus en profite encore plus. étonnant n’est-ce pas ? détruire une amitié importante pour ensuite pouvoir mieux être le centre dattention et en profiter, certaines personnes sont vraiment tristes, et pas celles qu’on croient… il est clair quanna est tombée dans un piège… et les gens qui sont à l’origine sont bien tristes, pas anna…
Children of the Universe
When I was a child, I thought things were simple, and all problems were easy to solve. I thought I could change the world; I thought I could make it better just with a single word, single breath or a single idea. I knew if I wished something with strong belief and desire, all those wishes would come true. Therefore, I was careful with my dreams. Sounds familiar and funny, does not it? However, these simple childish thoughts unite us; they are the roots where we come from, all of us – the children of the only living planet in the universe, so far as our knowledge goes.
Just because the time and place of our birth and the paths of our lives makes us members of various families, societies, and countries all of which have unique traditions and religious beliefs, we think we are somehow different. And we look into each others’ eyes, the eyes of lovers and strangers, relatives and neighbors, friends and rivals, we are trying to find the truth.
Afterwards we spend our lives searching for this truth oblivious to our precious experience of childhood, when time was time, and time was life, – not just twenty four hours divided into working, eating, sleeping, and entertaining periods that day by day move us closer to our ends.
Even when the remembrance of those sweet days of our childhood come to us from time to time in dreams or in sobriety we are not able to see ourselves as children anymore, or we do it rarely. Why is it so difficult to imagine that those times have come back? Obviously, the reason is that years full of sorrows made us forget the precious knowledge and it is erased from our memory. So, if we want to find the truth, we need to recall the past and go back to the beginning; we have to look for it as naturally as children do; if we want to be loved we have to love as unconditionally as they do; if we want to be forgiven we have to repent as truly as the kids do. Then, there would be no need to act – to hide our weaknesses or exaggerate our strengths. Actually, there is no need indeed as we all are just the children of God.
It does not matter whom do you speak to and who or what you believe your God is – this was my first thought when I heard about the God. It happened quite late in my life than you might think, as I grew up in Soviet times in Soviet country in Soviet atheist’s family in Georgia, USSR. I remember my Grandmother used to pray every single night, and all her prayers would always end with: “God, if you really exist, somewhere, please save my family”. Is not it ridiculous? I listened to her and did not agree with the idea of asking something to somebody whose existence you did not believe. However, I have never asked her what those words meant to her and never dared to say anything, as I knew there would be reasons beyond my childish comprehension.
Now when I have grown up and learned more, I am still convinced that it does not matter what your God is, but how you reach it, not when or where you were born, live or die; but only how you live your life, this one tiny shiny second, incredibly short, granted by chance and taken by time.
If we realize, that despite the years, our lives are so insignificant compared to endless universe we may become able to understand that beauty of our short existence lies only in our true feelings and their continuity.
I believe that if we can love unconditionally, just as truly as children do without fear of time and betrayal, if we learn to dedicate ourselves to our aspirations as they do and learn to accept outcomes of our actions sincerely as they do, then, we could experience genuine joy of being alive.
Now, there is no dream greater than this one to me that I would wish to come true.
Tebro,
You reminded me my childhood that I spent in the US; my parents had a few problems then, and I would suggest the most naive and simplest solutions for them, being so sure they would work if they only got a chance!
And you also reminded me of the first time I was in love. Surprisingly, I was just thinking about that relationship, not the beautiful beginning though and how it started, but the end and how badly it hurt.
Thank you for reminding me of the innocence and beauty of childhood and love.
<3
I completely agree with what youre saying, we often look back and wonder why we had to grow up and how wonderful childhood was and how simple everything used to be.
but how do we now learn to be children?
i believe in loving unconditionally, in all my relationships i have done so. be it with a partner, friends or family. but when they hurt me, i find it hard to forget as simply as a child would.
therefore, i have all the capabilities to be happy and free and love like a child, but the rest of the people are not in sync with me, and i will never be happy.
what do you think a person like me is to do to be happy..
“Единственный путь стать великим,если возможно,неподражаемым,это подражание грекам.”(Винкельман) Филемон и Бавкида(Овидий “Метаморфозы”).Однажды Зевс и Гермес решили пересечь Фригию под видом двух путников.Когда они захотели отдохнуть,никто не дал им приюта.”Единственный-принял,/Малый,однако же дом,тростником и соломою крытый.”В этой хижине доживали свой век Бавкида и её муж Филемон.На колченогом столе она быстро накрыла для гостей скромный ужин.”Видят-наполнен кратер,вино подливается кем-то!/Диву дивятся они…Молят простить их за стол,за убогое пира убранство./Гусь был в хозяйстве один,поместья их малого сторож,-/Гостеприимным богам принести его в жертву решили.”Но гости их удержали.Внезапно старики заметили,что все соседние дома находятся под водой,только их хижина уцелела и даже превратилась в храм из золота и мрамора.В награду за гостеприимство Зевс исполнил желание супругов:он сделал их жрецами нового храма,наградил долголетием и дал умереть одновременно.Когда настал их час,они превратились в деревья,растущие от одного корня.”Вдруг увидел Филемон:одевается в зелень Бавкида;/Видит Бавкида:старик Филемон одевается в зелень,/Рот им покрыла листва.И теперь обитатель Тианы/Два вам покажет ствола,от единого корня возросших.”
Just over a year after losing my first teaching job, I found myself working as a substitute for an after-school child care organization. It was a part-time job that did not come close to paying my bills, but it was the closest I dared come to working in the field I had studied. After losing that first job, for which I had prepared for five long years in college, I was utterly demoralized. I felt as though I had wasted my education, and that I had failed at the one thing I thought I might be good at. I was afraid to try to teach again.
At this time, not only was I broke and underemployed, I was pregnant with my first child, often cranky and impatient, irritated to no end by the countless people who believed that it was okay for them to touch my belly simply because I was pregnant. Really, would we ever dream of doing that to non-pregnant women?
One day, the organization I worked for assigned me to work in a center in a very liberal, “hippie” area of Austin, TX. Earlier that day, I had gotten an ultrasound and learned the sex of my child – a boy. Near the end of the day, as parents arrived to pick up their children, a strange woman in a flowing gypsy skirt and tie-dyed t-shirt approached me. “Oh, boy,” muttered one of my co-workers. “This woman never made it out of an acid trip in the 60’s. She’s a little nutty, but harmless.” Great, I thought sarcastically, I really need some whacko giving me unsolicited advice about how to be pregnant. I haven’t heard enough of that! I braced myself to politely ignore her.
The woman purposefully strode up to me and placed her hands on my bulging belly. (Arrgh!). Then she looked me directly in the eye and said, “Your son is going to change the world.” At that moment, her own son trotted up to her, she took his hand and they walked away. I never saw her again.
I was a little shaken by the event, but put it out of my mind.
After Stephan was born, I realized that I needed to bite the bullet and get a teaching job in order to support my family. This time, my teaching was a success.
Years later, I was talking to the mother of one of my students, and I told her about being fired from my first teaching job and not going back until after Stephan was born. Somehow, the incident with the strange woman at the day care came up as well, and I laughed, saying that although I knew Stephan was a remarkable child, I didn’t really think he was going to change the world.
The woman did not laugh with me. Instead she looked at me seriously and said, “But don’t you see? He already has. It was because of him that you went back to teaching. Your teaching has changed the life of my child, and hundreds of others. They will all go into the world and do something to make it better, because of the influence you have had on them. Your belief and dedication to my child has changed me, because I now have faith in the goodness of people, and I trust that people can be generous and kind, so I try every day to be that way with others. So, you see, your son did change the world.”
Since then, I never underestimate the power of one person to make a difference, and I am constantly aware of how fortunate I am to have known people who have changed my life, and therefore the world.
:-) Nothing in this life is ordinary, is it? Thank-you Kristan!
beautiful story indeed :)
Wow, that was a really lovely story. I’m so glad I fell upon this forum. :)
This is the prologue from my book of poetry called :
«EARTHLY MOMENTS»
It s so beautiful to wake up in the morning and feel the sweet calmness of your home, to watch the morning sun’s reflection upon the purple walls, and after the Tai-Chi- Ch’uan, to enjoy your coffee in the sitting room, looking at the clouds that predict a storm ,and when it comes you feel good because you love rain – the summer was very dry and infertile-.
Rain fertilizes your thoughts, it brings your mind and body into function.
And then you start doing a thousand little things with joy and love and you start writing a new poem, because rain inspires you, afterwards you type the summer’s writings that are all around in small or large pieces of papers ,usually crumbling or torn.
Then you remember that noon is ahead, your daughter is going to come back from school, you prepare a meal always with love, you cut the carrots, parsley, you have already water boiling on the stove.
The music on the radio keeps you company as always on classical music, you peel onions and you cry and when you finish ,you go back to the typewriter ,you listen to the keys of the typewriter ,there is the smell of spices coming from the kitchen ,the music sweet- Vivaldi’s – Autumn-,
Outside is raining and you listen ,smell watch and feel the whole world to be there ,here, in a house on the fifth floor in Kipseli , and you know that this morning is unique and you love the uniqueness of the moment because you know that these moments of peace are the real ones, when you and yourself are together and enjoy the small or big things that life has to offer in every moment.
ATHENS 1987
Underneath is the Greek version of the above prologue.
………
Από την ποιητική μου συλλογή “ΓΗΙΝΕΣ ΣΤΙΓΜΕΣ” “EARTHLY MOMENTS”
Είναι όμορφο να ξυπνάς το πρωί και να νιώθεις τη γλυκειά ηρεμία του σπιτιού σου,να βλέπεις την πρωινή αντανάκλαση του ήλιου επάνω στους μώβ τοίχους,
να ψήνεις καφέ, μετά το t’ai-chi-ch’uan,και να τον απολαμβάνεις καθισμένη στο καθιστικό κοιτάζοντας τα σύννεφα που προμηνύουν καταιγίδα,κι όταν έρχεται, αγαλλιάζεις γιατί αγαπάς πολύ τη βροχή-το καλοκαίρι ήταν πολύ ξερό και άγονο.
Η βροχή γονιμοποιεί τις σκέψεις σου,βάζει σε λειτουργία το νου και το κορμί σου.
Κι αρχίζεις να κάνεις χιλιάδες μικροπράγματα με κέφι κι αγάπη κι αρχίζεις να γράφεις ένα καινούργιο ποιήμα γιατί η βροχή σε εμπνέει, μετά δακτυλογραφείς τα γραπτά του καλοκαιριού που είναι από δω κι από κει σε μικρά ή μεγάλα χαρτιά,συνήθως τσαλακωμένα ή σχισμένα.
Μετά θυμάσαι ,ότι έρχεται μεσημέρι ,η κόρη σου θα έρθει από το σχολείο,ετοιμάζεις κάποιο φαγητό, κι αυτό μ αγάπη, κόβεις καρότα,μαιντανό,-έχεις ήδη βάλει το νερό στην κουζίνα να βράζει.
Το ραδιόφωνο σε συντροφεύει όπως πάντα με κλασσική μουσική.
Καθαρίζεις κρεμμύδια και κλαίς,κι όταν τελειώσεις,ξαναγυρνάς στη γραφομηχανή,ακούς τα πλήκτρα, μυρωδιά μπαχαρικών έρχεται από την κουζίνα,η μουσική γλυκειά-το φθινόπωρο του Βιβάλντι- κι έξω βρέχει
κι ακούς και μυρίζεις και βλέπεις κι αισθάνεσαι τον κόσμο όλο νάναι εκεί, εδώ μέσα ,σ ένα σπίτι στον πέμπτο όροφο, στην Κυψέλη,και ξέρεις πως αυτό το πρωινό είναι μοναδικό κι αγαπάς τη μοναδικότηα της στιγμής,γιατί ξέρεις ότι αυτές οι στιγμές της γαλήνης είναι κι οι πραγματικές στιγμές, όταν εσύ και ο εαυτός σου είσαστε μαζί και απολαμβάνετε τα μικρά ή μεγάλα πράγματα που έχει να προσφέρει η ζωή σε κάθε στιγμή.
Οκτώβρης 1987 Αθήνα
Quando vi a oprotunidade de dizer o que de mais bonito eu já havia lido, foi o primeiro texto que me veio, e, em 2 segudnos, já estava bringando com mais zilhões de outras! :)
Mas fica a que veio do “brain storm”!
Abraço,
Eliane
A última crônica
A caminho de casa, entro num botequim da Gávea para tomar um café junto ao balcão. Na realidade estou adiando o momento de escrever. A perspectiva me assusta. Gostaria de estar inspirado, de coroar com êxito mais um ano nesta busca do pitoresco ou do irrisório no cotidiano de cada um. Eu pretendia apenas recolher da vida diária algo de seu disperso conteúdo humano, fruto da convivência, que a faz mais digna de ser vivida. Visava ao circunstancial, ao episódico. Nesta perseguição do acidental, quer num flagrante de esquina, quer nas palavras de uma criança ou num acidente doméstico, torno-me simples espectador e perco a noção do essencial. Sem mais nada para contar, curvo a cabeça e tomo meu café, enquanto o verso do poeta se repete na lembrança: “assim eu quereria o meu último poema”. Não sou poeta e estou sem assunto. Lanço então um último olhar fora de mim, onde vivem os assuntos que merecem uma crônica.
Ao fundo do botequim um casal de pretos acaba de sentar-se, numa das últimas mesas de mármore ao longo da parede de espelhos. A compostura da humildade, na contenção de gestos e palavras, deixa-se acrescentar pela presença de uma negrinha de seus três anos, laço na cabeça, toda arrumadinha no vestido pobre, que se instalou também à mesa: mal ousa balançar as perninhas curtas ou correr os olhos grandes de curiosidade ao redor. Três seres esquivos que compõem em torno à mesa a instituição tradicional da família, célula da sociedade. Vejo, porém, que se preparam para algo mais que matar a fome.
Passo a observá-los. O pai, depois de contar o dinheiro que discretamente retirou do bolso, aborda o garçom, inclinando-se para trás na cadeira, e aponta no balcão um pedaço de bolo sob a redoma. A mãe limita-se a ficar olhando imóvel, vagamente ansiosa, como se aguardasse a aprovação do garçom. Este ouve, concentrado, o pedido do homem e depois se afasta para atendê-lo. A mulher suspira, olhando para os lados, a reassegurar-se da naturalidade de sua presença ali. A meu lado o garçom encaminha a ordem do freguês. O homem atrás do balcão apanha a porção do bolo com a mão, larga-o no pratinho – um bolo simples, amarelo-escuro, apenas uma pequena fatia triangular. A negrinha, contida na sua expectativa, olha a garrafa de Coca-Cola e o pratinho que o garçom deixou à sua frente. Por que não começa a comer? Vejo que os três, pai, mãe e filha, obedecem em torno à mesa um discreto ritual. A mãe remexe na bolsa de plástico preto e brilhante, retira qualquer coisa. O pai se mune de uma caixa de fósforos, e espera. A filha aguarda também, atenta como um animalzinho. Ninguém mais os observa além de mim.
São três velinhas brancas, minúsculas, que a mãe espeta caprichosamente na fatia do bolo. E enquanto ela serve a Coca-Cola, o pai risca o fósforo e acende as velas. Como a um gesto ensaiado, a menininha repousa o queixo no mármore e sopra com força, apagando as chamas. Imediatamente põe-se a bater palmas, muito compenetrada, cantando num balbucio, a que os pais se juntam, discretos: “Parabéns pra você, parabéns pra você…” Depois a mãe recolhe as velas, torna a guardá-las na bolsa. A negrinha agarra finalmente o bolo com as duas mãos sôfregas e põe-se a comê-lo. A mulher está olhando para ela com ternura – ajeita-lhe a fitinha no cabelo crespo, limpa o farelo de bolo que lhe cai ao colo. O pai corre os olhos pelo botequim, satisfeito, como a se convencer intimamente do sucesso da celebração. Dá comigo de súbito, a observá-lo, nossos olhos se encontram, ele se perturba, constrangido – vacila, ameaça abaixar a cabeça, mas acaba sustentando o olhar e enfim se abre num sorriso.
Assim eu quereria minha última crônica: que fosse pura como esse sorriso.
(Texto extraído do livro “A Companheira de Viagem”, Editora do Autor – Rio de Janeiro, 1965, pág. 174. )
My beautiful story is actually a dream i had a few months ago.
In a room there was a cage with three little hamsters in it.They didn’t looked too good,they were scared and poorly nourished.I opened the cage and took one.While i was holding the brown&white hamster in my hand i began running my fingers through his short fur.He started to stretch his little paws as i keept petting him .
He was sooo happy and in such an excitement!!!It was everything he needed. I felt his happiness too and when i woke up, i woke up with the thought/will to ”pet”/touch everything around me as to bring joy and happiness.
Little tale
Once upon a time all human senses gathered together. Madness said: let’s play hide and seek… and they started playing it. The truth did not hide saying they will find me anyway, The Lie hid on the rainbow, The Reality hid in the ocean, The Laziness hid in the closest place, The Freedom hid upon the breeze, The Kindness was letting the places to others for a long time, the Faith hid in the sky, all the places were the love went were engaged…soon it found a beautiful rose bush and hid there.
The madness started seeking the hidden senses, it found all of them except The Love… soon it moved aside the rose bush and heard a scream…It seemed that Love had cut its eyes out on thorns and gone blind. Since then the Madness is carrying the blind love hand-in-hand.
I love this one!!! Thank you :o)
nice :) loved it..
Awww I very sweet and innocent! Thank you!!
itz so lovely nino.. thanku….:)
a lovely story…
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