Like the Flowing River: Thoughts and Reflections (17 page)

D
uring the last fifteen years, I have had three consuming passions, of the kind where you read everything you can find on the subject, talk obsessively about it, seek out people who share your enthusiasm, and fall asleep and wake up thinking about it. The first was when I bought a computer. I abandoned the typewriter for ever, and discovered the freedom this gave me (I am writing this in a small French town, using a machine that weighs just over three pounds, contains ten years of my professional life, and on which I can find whatever I need in less than five seconds). The second was when I first used the internet, which, even then, was already a larger repository of knowledge than the very largest of conventional libraries.

The third passion, however, has nothing to do with technological advances. It is…the bow and arrow. In my youth, I read a fascinating book entitled
Zen in the Art of Archery
by Eugen Herrigel, in which he described his spiritual journey through the practice of that sport. The idea stayed in my subconscious until, one day, in the Pyrenees, I met an archer. We chatted away, he lent me a bow and some arrows, and, ever since, I have hardly let a day go by without practising shooting at a target.

At home, in my apartment in Brazil, I set up my own target (the sort you can take down in a matter of minutes when visitors come). In the French mountains, I practise outside every day, and this has so far landed me in bed twice – with hypothermia, after spending more than two hours in temperatures of −6°C. I could only take part in the World Economic Forum this year in Davos thanks to powerful painkillers: two days before, I had caused a painful muscle inflammation just by holding my arm in the wrong position.

And where does the fascination lie? Being able to shoot at targets with a bow and arrow (a weapon that dates back to 30,000 bc) has no practical application. But Eugen Herrigel, who first awoke this passion in me, knew what he was talking about. Below are some extracts from
Zen in the Art of Archery
(which can be applied to various activities in daily life).

When you apply tension, focus it solely on the thing that you require the tension for; otherwise, conserve your energies, learn (with the bow) that in order to achieve something, you do not need to take a giant step, but simply to focus on your objective.

My teacher gave me a very stiff bow. I asked why he was starting to teach me as if I were a professional. He replied: ‘If you begin with easy things, it leaves you unprepared for the great challenges. It’s best to know at once what difficulties you are likely to meet on the road.’

For a long time, I could not draw the bow correctly, until, one day, my teacher showed me a breathing exercise, and it suddenly became easy. I asked why he had taken such a long time to correct me. He replied: ‘If I had shown you the breathing exercises right from the start, you would have thought them unnecessary. Now you will believe what I say and will practise as if it were really important. That is what good teachers do.’

Releasing the arrow happens instinctively, but first you must have an intimate knowledge of the bow, the arrow and the target. When it comes to life’s challenges, making the perfect move also involves intuition; however, we can only forget technique once we have mastered it completely.

After four years, when I had mastered the bow, my teacher congratulated me. I felt pleased and said that I was now halfway along the road. ‘No,’ said my teacher. ‘To avoid falling into treacherous traps, it is best to consider that you have covered half your journey only when you have walked ninety percent of the road.’
^*

I
was talking to a Catholic priest and a young Muslim man over lunch. When the waiter came by with a tray, we all helped ourselves, except the Muslim, who was keeping the annual fast prescribed by the Koran.

When lunch was over, and people were leaving, one of the other guests couldn’t resist saying: ‘You see how fanatical these Muslims are! I’m glad to see you Catholics aren’t like them.’

‘But we are,’ said the priest. ‘He is trying to serve God just as I am. We merely follow different laws.’ And he concluded: ‘It’s a shame that people see only the differences that separate them. If you were to look with more love, you would mainly see what we have in common, then half the world’s problems would be solved.’

O
ne day, the Persian poet, Rumi que Mo’avia, the first of the Ommiad caliphs, was sleeping in his palace when he was woken up by a strange man.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I am Lucifer,’ came the reply.

‘And what do you want?’

‘It is the hour for prayers, and yet you are still asleep.’

Mo’avia was amazed. Why was the Prince of Darkness, who seeks out the souls of men of little faith, reminding him to fulfil his religious duties?

‘Remember,’ Lucifer explained, ‘I was brought up as an angel of light. Despite everything that has happened to me, I cannot forget my origins. A man may travel to Rome or to Jerusalem, but he always carries the values of his own country in his heart. Well, the same thing happens with me. I still love the Creator, who nourished me when I was young and taught me to do good. When I rebelled against Him, it was not because I did not love Him; on the contrary, I loved Him so much that I felt jealous when He created Adam. At that moment, I wanted to defy the Lord, and that was my downfall; nevertheless, I still remember the blessings bestowed on me and
hope that, perhaps, by doing good, I can one day return to paradise.’

Mo’avia replied: ‘I can’t believe what you’re saying. You have been responsible for the destruction of many people on earth.’

‘Well, you
should
believe it,’ insisted Lucifer. ‘Only God can build and destroy, because He is all-powerful. When He created man, He also created, as part of life, desire, vengeance, compassion, and fear. So when you look at the evil around you, don’t blame me; I merely reflect back the bad things that happen.’

Mo’avia was sure that something was wrong, and he began to pray desperately to God to enlighten him. He spent the whole night talking and arguing with Lucifer; but despite the brilliant arguments he heard, he remained unconvinced.

When day was dawning, Lucifer finally gave in and said:

‘You’re right. When I came yesterday to wake you up so that you would not miss the hour of prayer, my intention was not to bring you closer to the Divine Light. I knew that if you failed to fulfil your obligations, you would feel profoundly sad and, over the next few days, would pray with twice the faith, asking forgiveness for having forgotten the correct ritual. In the eyes of God, each one of those prayers made with love and repentance would be equivalent to two hundred prayers said in an ordinary, automatic way. You would end up more purified and more inspired; God would love you more; and I would be still further from your soul.’

Lucifer vanished, and an angel of light took his place:

‘Never forget today’s lesson,’ the angel said to Mo’avia.

‘Sometimes evil comes disguised as an emissary of good, but its real intention is to cause more destruction.’

On that day, and the days that followed, Mo’avia prayed with repentance, compassion, and faith. His prayers were heard a thousand times by God.

‘W
hat do you think of Princess Martha-Louise?’

The Norwegian journalist was interviewing me on the shores of Lake Geneva. Now, generally speaking, I refuse to answer questions that are unrelated to my work, but there was, in this case, a motive behind his curiosity: the princess had had the names of various people who had been important in her life embroidered on a dress she wore for her thirtieth birthday – and mine was amongst those names (my wife thought it such a good idea that she decided to do the same for her fiftieth birthday, adding the credit ‘inspired by the Princess of Norway’ in one corner).

‘I think she is a sensitive, courteous, intelligent person,’ I replied. ‘I was fortunate enough to meet her in Oslo, where she introduced me to her husband, who, like myself, is a writer.’

I paused, but then decided to continue.

‘There’s one thing I don’t understand: why has the Norwegian press started attacking his literary work now that he’s the princess’s husband? Before, he used to get very positive reviews.’

This was not really a question, more a provocation,
because I could already imagine what the reply would be. The reason the reviews had changed was envy, that most bitter of human emotions.

The journalist, however, was more sophisticated than that.

‘Because he broke the Law of Jante.’

Since I had clearly never heard of this law, he explained what it was. As I continued my journey, I came to realize that it was, indeed, hard to find anyone in the Scandinavian countries who had not heard of the law. It may have existed since the beginning of civilization, but it was only officially set down in written form in 1933 by the writer Aksel Sandemose in his novel
A Fugitive Crossing His Tracks.

The sad fact is that the Law of Jante doesn’t only exist in Scandinavia. It is a rule that applies all over the world, however much Brazilians may say: ‘This could only happen here’, and the French may affirm: ‘That’s just the way it is in France.’ Since the reader must, by now, be getting irritated – having read half of this and still having no clear idea what this Law of Jante is – I will try to summarize it here, in my own words: ‘You are worthless; no one is interested in what you think, therefore you had better opt for mediocrity and anonymity. Do this, and you will never face any major problems in life.’

The Law of Jante puts into context the feelings of jealousy and envy that can prove so problematic to people like Princess Martha-Louise’s husband, Ari Behn. That is just one negative aspect of the law. There is, however, another far more dangerous one.

It is thanks to this law that the world has been manipulated in all kinds of ways by people who are not afraid of what others might say, and who often end up achieving their own evil ends. We have just been witness to a pointless war in Iraq, which continues to cost many lives; we see the great gap that exists between rich countries and poor; everywhere we see social injustice, rampant violence, people forced to give up their dreams because of unwarranted and cowardly attacks. Before starting the Second World War, Hitler signalled his intentions in various ways, and what made him continue with his plans regardless was the knowledge that no one would dare to challenge him – because of the Law of Jante.

Mediocrity can be very comfortable until, one day, tragedy knocks on the door, and then people wonder: ‘But why didn’t anyone say anything, when everyone could see this was going to happen?’

Simple: no one said anything because
they
didn’t say anything either.

Therefore, in order to prevent things from getting even worse, perhaps it is time that an Anti-Law of Jante was written: ‘You are worth much more than you think. Your work and your presence on this earth are important, even though you may not believe it. Of course, such ideas could land you in a lot of trouble for breaking the Law of Jante, but don’t be intimidated. Continue to live without fear, and you will triumph in the end.’

S
he was standing in the pedestrian precinct on Avenida Atlântica, with a guitar and a handwritten notice: ‘Let’s sing together.’

She started playing on her own. Then a drunk arrived and another old lady, and they started singing with her. Soon a small crowd was singing, and another small crowd provided the audience, applauding at the end of each song.

‘Why do you do this?’ I asked her, between songs.

‘So as not to be alone,’ she said. ‘My life is very lonely, as it is for nearly all old people.’

If only everyone solved their problems like that.

T
here are times when we long to be able to help someone whom we love very much, but we can do nothing. Circumstances will not allow us to approach them, or the person is closed off to any gesture of solidarity and support.

Then all we are left with is love. At such times, when we can do nothing else, we can still love – without expecting any reward or change or gratitude.

If we do this, the energy of love will begin to transform the universe about us. Wherever this energy appears, it always achieves its ends. ‘Time does not transform man. Will-power does not transform man. Love transforms,’ says Henry Drummond.

I read in the newspaper about a little girl in Brasília who was brutally beaten by her parents. As a result, she lost all physical movement, as well as the ability to speak.

Once admitted to hospital, she was cared for by a nurse who said to her every day: ‘I love you.’ Although the doctors assured her that the child could not hear and that all her efforts were in vain, the nurse continued to say: ‘Don’t forget, I love you.’

Three weeks later, the child recovered the power of
movement. Four weeks later, she could again talk and smile. The nurse never gave any interviews, and the newspaper did not publish her name, but let me set this down here, so that we never forget: love cures.

Love transforms and love cures; but, sometimes, love builds deadly traps and can end up destroying a person who had resolved to give him or herself completely. What is this complex feeling which, deep down, is the only reason we continue to live, struggle and improve?

It would be irresponsible of me to attempt to define it, because I, along with every other human being, can only feel it. Thousands of books have been written on the subject, plays have been put on, films produced, poems composed, sculptures carved out of wood or marble; and yet all any artist can convey is the idea of a feeling, not the feeling itself.

But I have learned that this feeling is present in the small things, and manifests itself in the most insignificant of our actions. It is necessary, therefore, to keep love always in mind, regardless of whether or not we take action.

Picking up the phone and saying the affectionate words we have been postponing. Opening the door to someone who needs our help. Accepting a job. Leaving a job. Taking a decision that we were putting off for later. Asking forgiveness for a mistake we made and which keeps niggling at us. Demanding a right that is ours. Opening an account at the local florist’s, which is a far more important shop than the jeweller’s. Putting music on really loud when the person you love is far away, and turning the volume down when he or she is near. Knowing when to say ‘yes’ and
‘no’, because love works with all our energies. Discovering a sport that can be played by two. Not following any recipe, not even those contained in this paragraph, because love requires creativity.

And when none of this is possible, when all that remains is loneliness, then remember this story that a reader once sent to me.

A rose dreamed day and night about bees, but no bee ever landed on her petals.

The flower, however, continued to dream. During the long nights, she imagined a heaven full of bees, which flew down to bestow fond kisses on her. By doing this, she was able to last until the next day, when she opened again to the light of the sun.

One night, the moon, who knew of the rose’s loneliness, asked: ‘Aren’t you tired of waiting?’

‘Possibly, but I have to keep trying.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if I don’t remain open, I will simply fade away.’

At times, when loneliness seems to crush all beauty, the only way to resist is to remain open.