Like the Flowing River: Thoughts and Reflections (14 page)

I
n Madrid lives Norma, a very special Brazilian lady. The Spanish call her ‘the rocking grandma’. She is over sixty and works in various places, organizing promotions, parties, and concerts.

Once, at about four in the morning, when I was so tired I could barely stand, I asked Norma where she got all her energy from.

‘I have a magic calendar. If you like, I can show it to you.’

The following day, I went to her house. She picked up an old, much scribbled-upon calendar.

‘Right, today is the day they discovered a vaccine against polio,’ she said. ‘We must celebrate that, because life is beautiful.’

On each day of the year, Norma had written down something good that had happened on that date. For her, life was always a reason to be happy.

O
n the table next to mine sat the King and Queen of Jordan; Secretary of State Colin Powell; the Representative of the Arab League; the Israeli Foreign Minister; the President of the German Republic; Hamid Karzai, President of Afghanistan, as well as other notable names involved in the processes of war and peace that we are currently witnessing. Although the temperature was touching 40°C, a gentle breeze was blowing in the desert, a pianist was playing a sonata, the sky was clear, and the place was lit by torches scattered about the garden. On the other side of the Dead Sea, we could see Israel and the glow of Jerusalem’s lights on the horizon. In short, all seemed peace and harmony, and suddenly I realized that, far from being an aberration from reality, this moment was what every one of us dreamed of. My pessimism has grown in recent months, but if people can still manage to talk to each other, then all is not lost.

Later, Queen Rania would remark that the place had been chosen for its symbolic significance. The Dead Sea is the lowest body of water on Earth (401 metres below sea level). To go any deeper, you would have to dive; but in the case of the Dead Sea, the water is so salty that it forces
the body back up to the surface. It is the same with the long, painful peace process in the Middle East. We cannot get any lower than we are now. If I had turned on the TV that day, I would have learned of the death of a Jewish settler and of a young Palestinian. But there I was, at that supper, with the strange feeling that the calm of that night would spread throughout the region, that people would talk to each other again as they were talking then, that Utopia was possible, that mankind would not sink any lower.

If you ever have the chance to go to the Middle East, be sure to visit Jordan (a marvellous, friendly country), go to the Dead Sea, and look at Israel on the other side. You will understand then that peace is both necessary and possible. Below, I give part of the speech I wrote and read during the event, accompanied by improvisations from the brilliant Jewish violinist Ivry Gitlis.

Peace is not the opposite of war.

We can have peace in our heart even in the midst of the fiercest battles, because we are fighting for our dreams. When our friends have lost hope, the peace of the Good Fight helps us to carry on.

A mother who can feed her child has peace in her eyes, even when her hands are trembling because diplomacy has failed, bombs are falling, and soldiers dying.

An archer drawing his bow has peace in his mind, even though all his muscles are tense with the physical effort.

Therefore, for warriors of light, peace is not the opposite of war, because they are capable of:

a distinguishing between the transient and the enduring. They can fight for their dreams and for their survival, but respect bonds forged over time, through culture and religion.

b knowing that their adversaries are not necessarily their enemies.

c being aware that their actions will affect five future generations, and that their children and grandchildren will benefit from (or suffer) the consequences.

d remembering what the
I Ching
says: ‘Perseverance is favourable.’ But they know too that perseverance is not the same thing as stubbornness. Battles that go on longer than necessary end up destroying the enthusiasm necessary for later reconstruction.

For the warrior of light, there are no abstractions. Every opportunity to transform himself is an opportunity to transform the world.

For the warrior of light, pessimism does not exist. He rows against the tide if necessary; for when he is old and tired, he will be able to say to his grandchildren that he came into this world to understand his neighbour better, not to condemn his brother.

I
was talking to a woman from the Tradition of the Moon – a kind of initiation path for women that works in harmony with the forces of nature.

‘Would you like to touch a seagull?’ she asked, looking at the birds perched along the sea wall.

Of course I would. I tried several times, but whenever I got close, they would fly away.

‘Try to feel love for the bird, then allow that love to pour out of your breast like a ray of light and touch the bird’s breast. Then very quietly go over to it.’

I did as she suggested. The first two times I failed, but the third time, as if I had entered a kind of trance, I did touch the seagull. I went into that trance state again with the same positive result.

‘Love creates bridges where it would seem they were impossible,’ said my white witch friend.

I recount this experience here, for anyone who would like to try it.

A
warrior of light who trusts too much in his intelligence will end up underestimating the power of his opponent.

It is important not to forget that, sometimes, strength is more effective than strategy. When we are confronted by a certain kind of violence, no amount of brilliance, argument, intelligence, or charm can avert tragedy.

That is why the warrior never underestimates brute force. When it proves too violent, he withdraws from the battlefield until his enemy has exhausted himself.

However, be very clear about one thing: a warrior of light is never cowardly. Flight might be an excellent form of defence, but it cannot be used when one is very afraid.

When in doubt, the warrior prefers to face defeat and then lick his wounds, because he knows that, if he flees, he is giving to the aggressor greater power than he deserves.

The warrior of light can heal the physical suffering, but will be eternally pursued by his spiritual weakness. In difficult and painful times, the warrior faces overwhelming odds with heroism, resignation, and courage.

In order to reach the necessary state of mind (since he is entering a battle in which he is at a disadvantage and
could suffer greatly), the warrior of light needs to know exactly what might harm him. Okakura Kakuzo says in his book on the Japanese tea ceremony: ‘We see the evil in others because we know the evil in ourselves. We never forgive those who wound us because we believe that we would never be forgiven. We say the painful truth to others because we want to hide it from ourselves. We show our strength, so that no one can see our frailty. That is why, whenever you judge your brother, be aware that it is you who is in the dock.’

Sometimes, this awareness can avoid a fight that will only bring disadvantages. Sometimes, however, there is no way out, only an unequal battle.

‘We know we are going to lose, but our enemy and his violence leave us no alternative, apart from cowardice, and that is of no interest to us. At such a moment, it is necessary to accept destiny, trying to keep in mind a text from the wonderful
Bhagavad Gita
(Chapter II, 16-26):

‘Man is not born, nor does he die. Having come into existence, he will never cease to be, because he is eternal and permanent.

‘Just as a man discards old clothes and puts on new clothes, so the soul discards the old body and puts on a new one.

‘But the soul is indestructible; swords cannot pierce it, fire cannot burn it, water cannot wet it, the wind cannot dry it. It is beyond the power of all these things.

‘Since man is always indestructible, he is always victorious (even in his defeats), and that is why he should never be sad.’

T
he film-maker Rui Guerra told me that, one night, he was talking with friends in a house in the interior of Mozambique. The country was at war, and so everything – from petrol to electric light – was in short supply.

To pass the time, they started talking about what they would like to eat. Each of them described his or her favourite food; and when it came to Rui’s turn, he said: ‘I’d like to eat an apple’, knowing that, because of rationing, it was impossible to find any fruit at all.

At that precise moment, they heard a noise, and a beautiful, shiny apple rolled into the room and stopped in front of him!

Later, Rui discovered that one of the girls who lived there had gone out to buy some fruit on the black market. As she came up the stairs, she tripped and fell, the bag of apples she had bought split open, and one of the apples had rolled into the room.

Mere coincidence? That would be a very poor word to explain this story.

C
limbing a trail up into the Pyrenees in search of some where to practise my archery, I stumbled upon an encampment of French soldiers. The soldiers all stared at me, but I pretended to have seen nothing (well, we are all of us a little paranoid about being mistaken for spies…) and walked on.

I found the ideal spot, did my preparatory breathing exercises, and then I noticed an armoured vehicle approaching.

I immediately went on the defensive and armed myself with answers for any questions I might be asked: I have a licence to use a bow, the place is perfectly safe, any objections are the business of the forest rangers, not the army, etc. However, a colonel jumped out of the vehicle, asked if I was a writer, and told me a few interesting facts about the region.

Then, overcoming his almost visible shyness, he went on to say that he, too, had written a book and explained the unusual way it had come about.

He and his wife used to sponsor a child with leprosy, and that child, who originally lived in India, was later transferred to France. One day, feeling curious to meet the
little girl, they went to the convent where she was being cared for by nuns. They spent a lovely afternoon, and at the end, one of the nuns asked if he would consider helping in the spiritual education of the group of children living there. Jean Paul Sétau (the name of the colonel) explained that he had no experience of giving catechism classes, but that he would give the matter some thought and ask God what to do.

That night, after his prayers, he heard the reply: ‘Instead of merely giving answers, try to find out what questions children want to ask.’

After that, Sétau had the idea of visiting several schools and asking pupils to write down everything they would like to know about life. He asked for the questions in writing, so that the shyer children would not be afraid of asking too. The results were collected together in a book –
L’Enfant qui posait toujours des questions (The Child Who Was Always Asking Questions).

Here are some of those questions:

Where do we go after we die?

Why are we afraid of foreigners?

Do Martians and extraterrestrial beings really exist?

Why do accidents happen even to people who believe in God?

What does God mean?

Why are we born if we all die in the end?

How many stars are there in the sky?

Who invented war and happiness?

Does God also listen to people who don’t believe in the same (Catholic) God?

Why are there poor people and ill people?

Why did God create mosquitoes and flies?

Why isn’t our guardian angel beside us when we’re sad?

Why do we love some people and hate others?

Who named the different colours?

If God is in Heaven and my mother is there too because she died, how come He’s alive?

I hope some teachers, if they read this, will be encouraged to do the same thing. Instead of trying to impose our adult understanding of the universe, we might be reminded of some of our own, as yet unanswered, childhood questions.

‘I
sn’t this an interesting monument?’ says Robert. The late autumn sun is beginning to set. We are in a town in Germany.

‘I can’t see anything,’ I say. ‘Just an empty square.’

‘The monument is beneath our feet,’ Robert insists.

I look down. I see only plain slabs, all of them the same. I don’t want to disappoint my friend, but I can’t see anything else in the square.

Robert explains: ‘It’s called “The Invisible Monument”. Carved on the underneath of each of these stones is the name of a place where Jews were killed. Anonymous artists created this square during the Second World War, and continued adding slabs as new places of extermination were discovered. Even if no one could see them, it would remain here as a witness, and the future would end up finding out the truth about the past.’

T
hree gentlemen, all immaculately dressed, appeared in my hotel in Tokyo.

‘Yesterday you gave a lecture at the Dentsu Gallery,’ said one of the men. ‘I just happened to go to it and I arrived at the moment when you were saying that no meeting occurs by chance. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves.’

I didn’t ask how they had found out where I was staying, I didn’t ask anything; people who are capable of overcoming such difficulties deserve our respect. One of the men handed me some books written in Japanese calligraphy. My interpreter became very excited. The gentleman was Kazuhito Aida, the son of a great Japanese poet of whom I had never heard.

And it was precisely the mystery of synchronicity that allowed me to know, read, and to be able to share with my readers a little of the magnificent work of Mitsuo Aida (1924–91), poet and calligrapher, whose poems remind us of the importance of innocence.

Because it has lived its life intensely

the parched grass still attracts the gaze of passers-by.

The flowers merely flower,

and they do this as well as they can.

The white lily, blooming unseen in the valley,

Does not need to explain itself to anyone;

It lives merely for beauty.

Men, however, cannot accept that ‘merely’.

If tomatoes wanted to be melons,

they would look completely ridiculous.

I am always amazed

that so many people are concerned

with wanting to be what they are not;

what’s the point of making yourself look ridiculous?

You don’t always have to pretend to be strong,

there’s no need to prove all the time that everything is going well,

you shouldn’t be concerned about what other people are thinking,

cry if you need to,

it’s good to cry out all your tears

(because only then will you be able to smile again).

Sometimes, on TV, I see tunnels and bridges being inaugurated. Usually, a lot of celebrities and local politicians stand in a line, in the centre of which is the minister or local governor. Then a ribbon is cut, and when the people in charge of the project return to their desks, they find lots of letters expressing recognition and admiration.

The people who sweated and worked on the project,
who wielded pickaxes and spades, who laboured all through the summer heat or endured the winter cold in order to finish the job, are never seen; those who did not work by the sweat of their brow always seem to come off best.

I want to be someone capable of seeing the unseen faces, of seeing those who do not seek fame or glory, who silently fulfil the role life has given them.

I want to be able to do this because the most important things, those that shape our existence, are precisely the ones that never show their faces.