The truth Within

(by compassion we fall)

Why do we suffer and die?
Why do we keep fighting still?
What’s the hope?
Where does come from the faith in humanity… in our humanity?

Sometimes I let myself go… by myself, I would never make it.

I’m simply too distant to be touched… but You…
If we can love… if we can feel we may give, simply give… someone to whom we really feel linked in to… the magic starts… we are taken far above, far inside, far within…

Why do we keep fighting?…
Because we still didn’t loose faith in people.
Because we keep loving – even when we are not aware that’s the only reason that keeps us going.
It is not fear that moves our world – it is hope.

Behold the energy that drags this ragged body, this bleeding soul – one step after another – to keep going, reaching…

That is the force that moves me to embrace – even when thorns shred this flesh time after time…

Oh how I fear – I fear each of those who hurt me – and still, I love them.
Each who left behind a blade inside me - still I take it with both hands.
A blade which, after, would wound someone else when I tried to reach… and touch… and feel… and open…
Still, time after time, the hope takes me - from the ashes the fire is reawaken - and I’m dragged again upon my mortal legs, the ragged body which limits are so many, that keeps walking, keeps reaching, dragging on the floor so many times, dishonoring my true nature… still, going towards where the Sun Raises in the West…

(With hope we endure… and we linger)

From living pulsating hearts of flesh and light in to armored giants we may pass...
Beings unaware, that hurt so much when following the need to hold and become hold in someone’s arms…

Hurts then - to take out all those blades, all that iron steel garments we – unaware - assumed all over the years of being stranded from home…
Hurts the loneliness, hurts the presence… still – what else we may do, unless endure in this long march towards home?...

So much noise, so much confusion over the symphony that springs from the free spirit…
How less we may hear from the echo of this Cosmos inside the hollow mind helmet…

How much filled with love we become on those providential moments – Kairos – as love bursts from within and becomes tears, and smile, and feeling of belonging… when we become the home we long for…

Open chest, bleeding heart… that is being alive.
It is not the safe environment the mind offers instead – it is not the safari of emotions offered behind an armored glass…

It is to dive, to jump, to come in to this realm of existence and to cry… to really cry – moved and touched from within with all the humanity around… that is the one that blossoms within…

It is to cry and to praise life because of our mortal nature – so capable of being lost and so able to cry aloud and shake the heavens with it’s intense feeling, it’s burning love…

I don’t now – I truly don’t.
Each step towards what I feel inside seems madness to the mind.
All the clues say I’m being trapped and getting lost… raveled in a realm of chaos, ignorance, wandering souls going nowhere… a plot to enslave the free spirit… and, still…

How many times we are warned - the voice of the call, the sound of creation – has lost it’s sense in this veiled place? And, still…

Still – sometimes shines a flame – so clear, so bright, so intense it trespasses me as a living lance… and I bleed, feeling compassion, feeling really inside that moment, that humanity... inside that reaching people of stranded children trying to find way in to home…

How lonely, how lost those who come here and are brutally introduced in to the ways of ignorance from above, of numbness to the sound of eternity.

How torturing when our wings are thorn apart by the force of the noise from this realm, by it’s gravity, it’s overwhelmingly weight, the iron chains holding the soul, the torturous paths loosing the sight of the green hills far beyond..

How reaped in to wounds, as we try to embrace and thorns are there to welcome – killing the life within and turning it in to a vane fog, a cold empty cave of shades and twisted visions where glances of light shift in to dense particles of deep obscurity…

Still – one moment lights eternity, one second unleashes the tears long held inside, one simple gesture embraces a vast plane of sorrow and loneliness…

How deep it is the nature of Man – as deep as the fall to truly embody it’s essence – and strange, when contrasts define the nature of the one who thinks and feels it is – then being not so anymore…

This ever shifting entities. running under the forest of dreams, turning in to light or shade as their wandering soul passes under the trees of knowledge or the sun light of warmth belonging. So many curves and crossroads to travel here… so magnetic the descent… wonderland of smiling cats and tyrant queens of hearts…

Hold me in your hands – YOU who gave existence to this essence of mine.
Hold me as I wander in this strange place… hold me when - so many times - I loose sense of home...

Still – I believe, I believe the path keeps open… maybe hidden, maybe veiled by so much noise… but it is still there…

Oh YOU who dwells within, oh YOU who waits beyond…

Listen to those who search light, love us within this shifting realm of entwined natures… we will blossom… we will…

(May we by love be redeemed)

“Crash” the movie of contrasts and shifting colors with “Vincent” from Don McLean…

Thirty Minutes in Tuy- part I

As I dive in to my preferred places, in to my realms of joy – I always remember Tuy as one of the most special ones.

Starting in the main square, we will step in to ancient stony streets, in to cathedrals and medieval churches, in to the echoes of faith, religion, history and culture, as well as the magic of the hills and the river, the spirits of shaded places under Autumn rain drops falling sloth from the rooftops of narrow streets.



There is joy and pleasant feeling as the children invade all - with their parents at the side. The end of the afternoon is filled with colours, laughter and children’s voices everywhere. Good to see this relaxing family moments – since in the other side of the river – people is still working and then going home to another day of work… no place to see this in my home town Valença.



As we advance through the ancient stones, we finally get our steps upon the yellow arrows and shelves of the Camino de Santiago – Portuguese branch.
It leads inexorably towards the Cathedral of Tuy – major point of the road with Braga. Two Episcopal places of much importance since the time of Adrian – the Roman Emperor



The gates tell the silent story only understood by those who know how to read on the book stones of old. Inside cloisters, gardens, myths and legends… The famous “Torquemada” - the bishop who led the inquisition in the middle age, is buried inside…


There is always magic – even in simple things. We turn a corner and there’s a little square with vases and flowers and granite walls with iron worked windows… here a little window of my personal likings – settled apparently in mid of nowhere – it gives beauty to a nude wall… the beauty amongst the harsh… the flower on the sidewalk of the city…



I follow now the setting Sun rays on the maze of streets and echoes that lead towards the river bank – down the slope of the hill that harbours the cathedral and the most of the old part of the town. Churches, crosses, history and religion melt in one over the streets of the simple, the homes of the brave…



There’s always a special corner, a new square filled with echoes of other times. This square is right in the “refugio de peregrinos”. The double crucifix – Mary on one side and Jesus dying on the other – is an ever-present icon all over these galician streets…



Shades and echoes which become laughter and young groups meeting during the night. Lonely streets filled with joy when the numerous pubs open their wood and iron doors to the lovers of the Lady, the Citizens of Shadows, the devoted souls of Pan…





Streets of contrasts in which I lay my spirit to wonder over the echoes of my footsteps. They lead inexorably to the river side and to the temples of old and the new ports that guard the slope of the hill…




As the turn abouts lead from shades to light, from light to shades, I advance on the Minotaur’s maze of the mind following the delicate voice of my own Ariadne thread… a route filled of delicate and subtle messages which demands the full attention from the wandering soul to fill it’s journey towards fulfilment…


Now - Blogger blocked the upload of pictures... so I will have to post the rest of the journey in anew post.
Always a new light, always a new space to unravel, a new hope to be reborn...

Letter of a Fallen Angel to a Wandering Soul

If you are there for us – if I feel you have a little bit that listens and doesn’t fight back – I would stay all night long, I would stay until I fell to the side – just giving, fighting, as well as reaching further to listen to you above my own noise…

I love you for all you are.

I simply melt when you cry, I rejoice when your crystalline laughter invades all my being.
I love your simplicity as well as smile as a proud watcher to your childish ways.

I get as the warrior though, when the child that is hurt inside develops all that power to bend the world around.
When the “seductive you” comes in to the surface – not as the irradiation of your heart (that is freedom, gentle harmony echoing everywhere) but as the one that bends all in its way.

The one that puts people in to serve, the one that faces those that resist as a challenge.
I feel I may release you from that… as much as you are releasing me from my own willingness to keep and not “raise” after the “fall”.

My child let itself in your arms. It laid down helpless as you took care, as you let me cry and feel fragile… I was freed for moments of the tension of being in control, of the fear of being hurt, of being manipulated…

And I feel we still have to dive in – to recognize which part is hurt there, which part feels so much pain it bends love in to magnetism so reality is controlled in a way it doesn’t hurt anymore.
This is killing the power of the Universe that exists to teach us – bending reality to our own will is accepting that the “Dark Lord”, the “Guardian of Mind” – knows where it is going so it may use any means to achieve it’s ends.

Sorry but I do not trust “Mind”…I do not trust that any mind knows the truth or the way.
“Mind” is a tool that became too powerful when fear induced defensive behavior…

Talking honestly about how I used tools to defend and bend the world around is admitting my responsibility about choices that could have been done different and acknowledging the trust and hope they will be well done and well chosen.
I believe in humanity as well as my own humanity – though I suffer so much when it hurts itself and humanity around because of fear.

I’m aware the tricks of mind exist… how I know I may be “low” when threatened…
I try to expose my self so you may see, truly understand…instead of fearing me: so you start to embrace me as a whole.

I believe we walk together and may heal each other, we may be free together, we may truly love in each step – truly reaching beyond the bounds I thought were impossible to breach…

For you to enter I need to let you in – any effort will reinforce the defense… and so happens with you.

As much as I believe you may be free – from fear and the illusion of a reality distorted by it - I can’t use too much strength to try to show it to you.
The noise of the friction between those two forces – the ego that’s being exposed and my own will to expose it so it may be loved – healed - will make the harmony we truly are too distant to be “heard”.

Fears and ego based responses happen in any means possible.

I try not to judge – accepting the responsibility of having chosen to hide something I could reveal as a way to guard my ego under the excuse of guarding you…
Though trusting I may always learn and progress - so stepping forward, taking the risk, paying the bill, feeling the pain and then being free…

Fearing to expose who you are or how you behave is using reason as an excuse to keep deceit; is a way to reinforce the ways of the fearful ego – that simply defends a part of you – a part that denies, a part that doesn’t admit it may deceit, lie, hurt – and is fearful to be also denied by other people around.
A part that doesn’t forgive itself and seems to believe there’s no redemption, no meaning, no truth behind suffering on the passage from appearance of lie and mind to truth of heart and life.

Not true – reveal it, jump in the void so you may see the illusion: being denied by what you are is false.

You are loved… be free.

I want to embrace you as a whole – for that there has to be a whole to embrace, you need to let me in and to be naked and exposed… so do I.

All this war is not as much to be “right” or “wrong”, though it sometimes becomes that and I’m so sorry for those moments I let myself go on the mind game and it’s reign of ignorance and fear.

But these moments are meaningless compared to those others…those when I feel so much relief by being hold in your arms helpless, so much freedom from laying down control and the borders I assumed towards people (those same borders that were killing life in me, strangling the stream of existence in to thin lines of pale light).

By saying "borders" I do not mean being physically alone though. You could be a “socialite”, recognized by many persons because you are sensitive enough to feel what people wish to see in you… that is the ultimate deceit and the absolute loneliness – surrounded by people, living under a mask, expressing half of you – still – never fully loved, never totally embraced.

To build a character based on what people wish to feel, using the gift of sensitiveness (the same that makes you so vulnerable to people’s shit and lies) as a way to control situations and avoid exposure and being hurt – this is the “Gollum trap”: the alternative life, the “sensible way” to live, the reasonable path, the “mature” pact to keep life exactly as it is – nowhere.

As – when you fear to enter in an environment where you represent a role – where people feel you are a “saint” – fearing the mask may fall and suddenly become “judged” by what your relation with life truly is.
“Return to Innocence” – fight truthfully, be free.

Truth will set you free – appearances will doom you, me, all those you love, everyone around – to a world that never existed… that is the hollow world, the world of shadows and echoes, the world built over the life robbed from the spring of life itself – a spring the ego needs to drain to survive.

This is the “disease” of our time, the one we need to embrace and vanish in the warmth of love, over the solidness of truth, under the ocean of hope…

I know this disease too well and I believe as much you can set me free, I may set you free…

We are ONE.

And I know better than anyone the beauty of your child unleashed, the harmony of your laughter - free over everything and everyone – because my child touched yours and they smiled to each other long ago… our mind is the one having trouble with it.
The redeemed child will tear apart most of the world based on appearances and illusions, on power and control built over fear of not being accepted and not accepting fully what we are in the moment.

“The king is naked!” said the child among the people as the royal troupe passed by.

Be free – to love or to feel friction. Each time friction is within (and you may use other word – that doesn’t change the base feeling) you hate. And there is no problem with that – stop punishing yourself because of it…

Not loving is hating, yes.
Truth is always truth, when it is not is lie – no middle term to make it easier for the mind to use it as deceit.
Love or hate, live or die, lie or be truthful – let me embrace you whole.

And – I love anyway.
When you deceit – you are beautiful.
Deceit is not denying truth – it’s the promise of truth to come if you start acknowledging the lie in first place.

When you fail in an effort – that’s because you may do it next time or simply because you got in to a border of yourself.
One way or another – failing is being in motion towards the center, towards truth.

Children never use creative imagination. They never needed to.

They are in the center, they are in the Eden, they don’t need the Serpent to tell them they can be as gods if they eat the apple – they are the all loving ONE, the “one in it’s center”, that which IS.

No need to use creative sentences, no need to use will to bend the world – they are in the center of the universe, they live in their hearts – not in their minds… we are the ones who teach them how to come outside of the center, we are the ones that force them by magnetic energy to get out of the kingdom and “fall” in to this realm… the realm of lie until we fully embrace truth.

Ego desperately needs to reproduce itself inside the silence of the child – otherwise that truthful mirror may reveal the deceit of a realm of shadows.
So the first thing we teach to children is to smile and to avoid tears, to respond to our will for them to be happy, to separate in two what they are as ONE.

The blind become the guides, the ignorant become the teachers and the lost become the rulers.

The “neverending story” until we lay down all that was not truth and become naked in front of the waters of life, hold by the hand with the one who loves us, our true name spoken clear so we may pass to the other side.

To go from “here to there” children do not need to bend space and time so they come closer… the space and time run towards them because they love, they are in the heart, they are in the center.
Space and time spring from child’s heart, the child doesn’t dwell in space and time.

Coincidences, feeling things are as they had to be, the realm of the simple, the world of the innocent, the universe of those poor in the mind, accepting all and embracing everything… not needing, not running towards any end, no effort to become as we already are… just being…

The power of will serves to give itself to love. No other means…

Our will serves us to die to the moment – to give away our fear and to embrace the pain. Gethsemane and the Cross as the way to enter the kingdom…
Using the power of will otherwise is denying our true essence – the power of love.

It is to believe we are in the peripheries when we are exactly were we have always been… in the center.

This is the deceit the mind needs to endure – otherwise the divine reveals itself and the mind is melt on to the wholeness… but this is spiritual transcendence and philosophy as well as the true wisdom of the soul that only a child may teach to any adult.

To enter the kingdom we must be as the child… the child inside.

Grasp my hand, smile gently to me.
Show me your nakedness, show me your soul and all it’s wounds…
I wish to love them all, to kiss them all, to embrace them all…

And I also know I wont do this by simply saying it – because some wounds simply overwhelm our power to reveal them.
I will do this by learning devotion, commitment.

By listening carefully and truthfully. Being “MOMO” to you…
And I know I’m still a bad student in this – but I trust I will learn… I truly do.

I had to say all this now though – as I say what I feel.
I need to learn balance in order to keep this above intact AND to learn how to listen to your truth… help me with this please.

Thank you for this good fight – we are revealing the true fighters here.
The mind is learning how heart may beat it in any field.

Fight with me and let us feel united in one embrace – mind, heart in one.
Child hurt, child singing in one – free from pain, from fear, from bondage of mind work.

Die Unendliche Geschichte

The world it is not as it is… now – for any that reads this – it is as we see it.

The truth can’t be torn, twisted, forced in to bend so it may fit the desire of the mind. Fear can’t use truth – it will always be a lie that way…

There was a boy – who loved so much books – that one day he did what any Man does when passion knocks on his door – he stole a book from a bookstore.

This was not any ordinary book – it was THE book – and he knew that deeply since the first moment he saw it upon a table, read by the bookkeeper.
It could be his most precious book… but Bastian had to do it, he had to take it.

This boy was fat, he had no mother, his colleagues had beaten and insulted him frequently, he was not good with exercise nor with any other subjects at school, his father was a dentist always absent in his work… still this boy could tell stories, he had imagination… and he loved books and stories of adventures.

And then he knew Fantasia.
And he knew about the Child Empress and the “Nothingness” that menaced to destroy Fantasia forever.
And he met Atreyu, the olive skin boy with purple mantle who had no father or mother and was the child of all…

He found that the very essence of the “nothingness” – is what we call “lies” in this world.
Each part of fantasia that was taken by the nothingness was twisted in here as a lie, each fantasian that jumped in that magnetic void was transformed in to a lie – used to any means in the human realm.

He cried, he laughed, he went all along with Atreyu until the end in his quest to save fantasia and the Child Empress…


And then – the end was a new beginning… and Bastian (this was the name of the boy ) started a new world.

He wished to be strong. He wished to be smart. He wished to be powerful.
And so he was.

Using the symbol of the empress – the Auryn - he discovered a sentence on it’s back – a sentence Atreyu seemed not to notice when he himself used it: ”Do what you want”.

All his wishes started to build a new fantasia… with them grew different new stories and different new realms.

He learned about all this but there was a hidden truth in Fantasia – as much as he desired, as much as he forgot about who he was before or where he had come from.

As much powerful and self sufficient he became, as far distant he was from Atreyu.

In the end – he fought Atreyu, and he hurt that who he loved.

He wanted to become emperor of fantasia – and that meant oblivion since all those who desired it before became as hollow lost beings forever.

Atreyu saved him risking his own life in an epic combat in front of the Ivory Tower – the place of the Child Empress.

And then – Bastian – alone and naked, wondered… trying to find out his last wish – the one that could return him back to his world, his last memory…

It was the memory of his father…
But it got crushed by these strange entities he had transformed – in vane ignorance – from sad and horrible beings, in to strange bizarre ever laughing creatures…

Then he was all alone…
No hope, no memory of home…

On the last moment – when all desire was gone, and all that he thought important (as strength, good looks, wisdom, power) was useless; when he had to face the waters of life and to step in to the heart of both worlds – it was the hand of Atreyu, mortally wounded but not dead when Bastian fought him – that took him and said his real name to the ever lasting waters.

And so – Bastian – returned.
And he brought back those waters.
So we may drink, so we may be free from the appearances of this “NeverEnding Story”.

Esquecimentos...

(Timorense vendendo cartões para telemóvel em frente à embaixada Portuguesa)

I beg for pardon about this post that follows in Portuguese.

I gladly sent my opinions to “Timor Online” – a Portuguese blog that I had previously linked here and in which information that respects East Timor is periodically published.

As ever – I try to give my scope of the situation.
This time though – maybe by technical problems (I would like to think so) my post was cut, so just the first part - concerning the contrasts of the Australian external politics towards the field in conflict – were post. The rest was omitted.

To repose the truth of the post and its view, I had to post a comment explaining the total content of my thoughts about the situation.

Now – as I feel that justice was not made and possibly information was manipulated – I want to post the original text as it was sent to the “TimorOnline”.

Timor has troubles, and troubles come from external interference.
They have always been so and maybe they will keep.
Still – I trust the Timorese spirit more than any other means - to endure chaos and restore peace.

Pictures were added to this blog edition.

"Poderão dizer o que quiserem.

Disseram que os GNR são “pontapeadores de cabeças”.

Poderão sentir que – realmente – não fizemos muito pelas colónias.
Escreviam que apenas tínhamos uma estrada em Timor… é verdade.
Só esqueceram um pequeno pormenor – é que as estradas que tínhamos em Portugal nem eram melhores nem muitas mais comparadas às necessidades.

Não apoiamos a invasão Indonésia.
Não fizemos acordos petrolíferos com eles enquanto os Timorenses morriam pela independência.

Sentem os Timorenses esta aversão para com os ex-colonizadores?

Sentem distância relativamente aos Malae de 20.000km mais além?
Ou sentem distância relativamente aos Malae do lado?

Agora…

Quando se montou evacuação, quando se pretendia por toda a gente para fora… sabem quantos Portugueses abandonaram voluntariamente o famoso Dili em conflicto?... Nenhum.

Enquanto se passeava nas ruas assistindo ao queimar de casas, óculos de sol e automáticas em mão vendo algo que não diz respeito durante uma semana – os GNR (os famosos pontapeadores) começam a fazer o seu trabalho.
Prender quem queima e destrói em falta de uma polícia efectiva.

Não se pinta o português com intenções de boa vontade e de companheirismo – obviamente, estados não fazem favores nem aos seus próprios cidadãos.

Contudo – um visto para nacionalidade entre as duas nações – marca a diferença de distância.
Quem está realmente mais longe?
As distâncias – meus queridos Aussi – medem-se por dentro.

Não é só que se apostem carros e motas em Díli pela selecção portuguesa durante o Europeu.
Não é só que se encontrem gentes de idade que – orgulhosos – mostram os documentos antigos de nacionalidade Portuguesa como mostra de orgulho durante uma ocupação ignorada pela Austrália.

É que – no fundo – as distâncias vêem-se por dentro.

(o post foi cortado aqui - tal como as correntes e grades da porta da embaixada e as filas ao Sol de gentes que procuravam o que era seu por direito antes de '76)

Quando todos os interesses na zona se evaporarem, quem ficará?

Se todo o petróleo se esvaísse e o comunismo fosse tão bem aceite como o capital-neo-liberalismo – quem ficaria?

Se o Islão fosse visto com a mesma condescendência que o catolicismo romanizante – quem ficaria?

Quando já não houver governos a pagar ONGs para os representar no terreno – quem permanece?

Hoje Portugal é um mal menor para o povo Timorense.

Mas – no fim – só ficarão aqueles que amam, os que estão perto… por dentro.


Agora – um apelo à lusofonia de terras entre Minho e mar:

Não pensem que se luta pelo orgulho português encarando o Australiano pintado nas notícias.
Como nós – há gente que critica duramente a actuação do seu próprio governo e que mexe as mãos fazendo algo para ajudar, além de estadismo ou crítica gratuita.

O orgulho português não se salva no fetiche másculo de armas a entregar como tampouco se salva na defesa das quinas atrás de um couro em campo relvado.
O orgulho português salva-se quando se exige melhor qualidade para os serviços a que – constitucionalmente – temos direito.

Salva-se quando sabemos exigir qualidade nas nossas vidas para além das primeiras companhias e das quintas dos famosos.

Salva-se quando exigimos justiça social, quando salvaguardamos as tradições portuguesas do assalto anglosaxónico – SE, E SÓ SE – sentirmos que temos algo positivo a contribuir para o bem-estar comum… global.

Por isso – irmãos de sangue – olhemos para o nosso nariz, para o nosso olho, e vejamos se há lá algum cisco a apontar antes de ver traves algures.

Lembrem que temos Lages à muito.
Que cedemos à OTAN à muito.
Que nos vendemos a postas às medidas comunitárias à muito.
Que somos campo de férias para o mesmo “turismo internacional” que – agora – queremos rebater.
Que temos quota-parte de responsabilidade pela desorganização Timorense, visto nunca termos formado quadros de raiz que fossem viáveis como governo próprioquando tivemos oportunidade.

Se fizermos o trabalho de casa, talvez sim – depois – possamos dar algo a alguém.

Por enquanto – a vã glória de mandar – seria um fracasso total.
Nada podemos ensinar lá fora – a Mauberes ou “Aussis” – se nada temos cá que sintamos ser verdadeiro e verdadeiramente “nosso” para se partilhar.

Como dizia um Peça algures no tempo…
Já agora – vale a pena pensar nisto.

("Che", uma criança Timorense e um Jipe U.N - sempre escolhendo males menores para este povo de homens-criança que lutam arduamente pelos seus valores desde à séculos)

Mas – realmente – a forma como somos recebidos pelos Timorenses, leva-me a crer que somos um mal menor.
E que eles também sabem disto.

Daniel Almeida Pinto"

Maubere

I remember… and I feel…

I remember when I first contacted the people… freedom is an expression we will never know fully here in the “westernized nations”, until we meet and live among those as great as the Maubere… in Timor Lorosae.

I learned with them… about my half life, about the half choices my land seemed to offer me.
With them I learned what it seems to be truthful, honorable, whole...

I learned what’s peace… because – when a Timorese in Oe-Cusse approaches - you will feel tender, curiosity maybe, kindness, silence… peace…

You will feel an ocean around and inside… as much as the deep routes of the land… and the echoes of ancestral sounds.
Tradition, culture, truthfulness.
Something we started to forget among all these rituals from other places…

I have nothing against meeting people (I love this) and other cultures.
But I feel – loosing the routes to the land we are is loosing the routes to the soul we belong.

Then I knew Díli.
In there I coordinated a Mission in an NGO that was part of a vast web of interests concerning more with echonomical foreign benefits than with people’s identity and capability to self-determination.

There was always the thought – Timorese can’t do it by themselves.
There was always the look from top to down.
There was the virtual feeling our so called politeness and developed technology were greater than their simple ways and humble appearance.

In this I saw the budgets of projects born from dust – never from demands or needs expressed by Timoreses themselves.
Saw how reports were not read or simply ignored, since Lisbon had the idea of what they intended before the intention came from the field.

I saw the donors – IPAD, ECHO.
Then I heard the international community in personal talks.
Portugal is a non neutral supporter.
National Bank, (re)Construction Contracts and Oil interests…

I saw the money USAID and other entities flushed down the toilet of draining people from their independent kind of life so they became prisoners of external founding and foreign contracts.

I saw how tribal traditions were hardly tried to be washed away by the so called “Universal” new church of democracy…

I saw how international interests used everything at hand to bring mayhem and chaos as an excuse to stronger inner interference and rulership.

When I came back from Timor, barbed wire was on the main streets of Dili and brother against brother in ignorance fighting – seemingly under the excuse of Religion – truly under the money and advice from external potencies.

AlKatiri was the target then.

AlKatiri is the target now.

Not supporting him or other – I must say it is such coincidence with similar actors behind this I simply feel stranged…

The need for hurried U.N end of assistance.
The oil contracts definition ending right now and then… this.

From foreign military bases denied in Timorese Soil, to oil contracts frustrated by the government’s decisions…

There are so many influences…

I would dream a nation in which Maubere could simply live their own way.
No need for Portuguese as official language, no need for democracy instead of tribal traditions, no need for foreign judges or laws instead of local family clan rule…

Wise and strong as the routes of very old trees… which endure dry season and rejoice with the first rains.
This “children” people, this deeply human land would be – more than a “under aid” land – a “teacher of nations”…


I give them my most profound recognition.

I tell them how I admire, how I recognize their freedom and their character.

How I do know Maubere have no war inside… the weapons that entered there always came from different far countries, from far and not so far people.

In this world of alliances that are dark and grey they need support to endure.

Hope they may endure as free as I knew them.

I do not wish for their smiles the ones I saw in Bali, in the streets.
I do not wish for their freedom the bondage of a taxi cab as a way to serve the “Malae”... us.

Guerra “la hia” no coração Maubere.
There was never war in the Maubere’s heart…

Quem a leva consigo para além mar – que volte para sua casa…
Those who bring war in their hearts – may return home…

Ontem as desculpas para armas nas ruas são as mesmas que hoje…
Yesterday – the excuses to put guns on the streets were the same we have now…

Não parece que aprendemos da história.
We seem to learn nothing from history.

There we do again those “help” missions that endure years of weapons walking the streets…
Repetem-se as ajudas para manter a paz que duram anos passeando armas nas ruas…

Missing my little village on the woods…
Saudades da minha aldeia no mato.

There was no weapon on the streets… never would be…
Onde não havia armas nas ruas… nem nunca houve.

Awakenings

Awakenings…

Not, not the movie… the real ones… if there are such things…

In the morning… what do we feel?
What drives us to leave the comfort of our dreams and jump in to imperiousness of day stream?

What?

May we feel hope? May we feel the unexpected is about to jump on us after turning the corner?

Do we feel the magic of the unknown vibrating on the new air as we breath after the death of the senses and the peace of mind?

Or – are we trapped?

By the same day of yesterday?

As if repeating the moment – an eternity?

Feeling the same walls…

The same water of the shower running through our half asleep skin?

The same numbness… the same taste of oblivion… the lack of a dream waiting outside…

Commanded by need, by routine or simply by fear of letting all behind and simply… stay.

Daring a totally different day. A day in which the faces would be different, the feelings totally new…

The unexpected everywhere… the eclipse of mind over the burst of light when letting all go… challenging death by simply jumping on it… the death of the world known for the desire of the darkness in front…

Stepping in the nothingness… nothingness that can be a whole new universe… just by missing work… just by missing that appointment… just by taking the car, the bus, the train – with no direction….

Taking the first one… and go. With no clothes, with the money we have in the wallet… just going…

Defying the rule of usage, taking the farthest road possible…

Do we ever thought about this? Craved for this absolute insanity of entrusting our steps to unknown moments, unknown persons, unknown landscapes?

Would there be a “straight path” that would lead beyond the circular world we step each day?

Some distant shore in which there was no sea but just the nothingness… so we could jump… and be… and be… until being no more?

Then what?

Do we really know?

Do we really know where we are going? What we do in here? Do we really feel that certainty?

No?...

Then why do we hold on so much to these days, these moments we already know about? What do they give us?

How cheap do we sell our freedom for the comfort of the slavery… the known feeling of security that kills the moment… that ends the circle and closes the world upon us…

How much do we value ourselves.. how much costs a second in our lives…

How much do we feel and think about this in the numbness of the new day?

The Bridge of Khazad-Dum

There is a path – a thin path to travel.

The only way out possible from the maze of Moria… that – in greek – is linked to "Moira" - the three women that decide Men's “destiny”.

Led by a pale light, nine companions fly from horror…

There are two main figures that oppose on the bridge…

In one hand there is shadow and flame.
A Balrog - “demon of power” - was standing in one of the bridge ends…
This is a creature far more scaring and threatening than the movie of Peter Jackson may show...

It was a vast and dense void, a moving shadow that scared both enemy and ally.
In it – a human shape could be guessed and – within – flame sprout and threatened…
Whip of fire stings in the dark and a horrid cauterizing sword of flame destroys the world around…

It is a “Maiar” – an “angel” of fire lore from Tolkien's realm.
A fallen conscience whom serves oppression and is mounted in power and will.

In front we have Gandalf… the “Olorín” from Valinor – his name means “Dreams”…
He’s also known as “Mithrandir” – the "grey wanderer", or as “Incanus” – "the ruler of mind".

He’s another Maiar.
Another “angel” of fire – this one dwelt a long time on the forests of Lórien – the Lord of Dreams.
When he “resurrects” he does so in “Lothlórien” – the blossom of Lórien - in this Middle Earth… the realm of Galadriel.

His shape is that of an old man dressed in ragged garments. It’s power is advice and counsel against evil.
He has a walking staff in one hand and an elvish sword that glitters in the dark if orcs are near.

Now – the interesting.
Gandalf is “a servant of the secret fire, a wielder of the flame of Anor”.

He serves the fire that will never be known by the mind and he wields the flame of Anor – the Sun.
The Sun – on Tolkien’s realm – is a female… so truth.

She lights the way – and it is the male principle – Ithil, the moon – which is empty and reflects the light of life within.

The power he wields is light…
It is harmony – and so appears in P.J movie when facing the “Nazgul” (the wraiths) and their dreadful power in front of the walls of Minas Tirith - a delicate song and a stream of light that drive the shadows of despair away.

The Sun that gives life.
The Sun that nurses life on the dusty earth.
The Sun that lives in each cell of this planet… “Fusion” it’s the name of the miracle, using science terms.

Against it stands the will of power and dominion.
It is shadow and obscure human shape.
It is “Fission” and nuclear power in a twisted and abominating form.

The two sides of the bridge are a mirror image.

Each a path, each an end…

We have nuclear Fusion – the energy we receive from the Sun – which creates and maintains life and harmony.

We have nuclear Fission – the energy we create from nuclear weapons - and which causes death and aberration, an energy that comes from fear and will to dominate…

Both at the ends of the bridge…

The “Angel that rises in power” against the “Angel that wields life”…

Notice as well…

Sauron - "(Lord) of Abomination" , who was also called “Annatar” – "lord of gifts" - has no shape at the time of the Third age – he’s as lidless eye…

The Wraiths are shapeless again – they are terror and hollow servants of power…
Their victims become wraiths as well and pass to the shadow realm as hollow servants of power… naked in the dark, with no Sun to warm you… no light of life… just shadows and despair…

The Elves are different incarnated entities… they travel both realms and know the “straight path” towards Valinor after the closing of the world.
They are immortal because they do not dwell in time – but may be killed by war or melancholy…

Mankind is a middle step.
Incarnated – they may turn to the light or to the shadow, they have free will to choose one or the other.
No Elf ever turned to the Shadow by their own will – though they did lots of mistakes and wrong deeds.

Then you have the Orcs…
Elves corrupted by evil until they turned to animals that prey and war everybody including themselves.
They hate nature and all existence – they are trapped and are ruled by fear of their masters – not by hope or any value or virtue.

Think how much your back has bowed because of fear and pain in these last years… until your heart is so veiled that you start to seem as an orc – walking with low shoulders, hidden chest, fearful of sunlight and doing things in life ruled by fear of non having, non being…

"Ser astronauta... e voar"...

A night in the world of “Wonderland”… that’s walking around with Telmo…

He’s a gifted lad… he is smart, sensitive, good friend and an artist… and he’s a looney… a free young man, prisoner of this insanity around… this disconnected world…

I went to see him in his new place of work. He has hanged around bakeries and pubs. Now he’s on a coffee shop.

(me and Telmo- this night - in front of the coffee shop where he works now)

We went to his home (his mother and step father’s home). Then we went to Tuy and walked a bit on the night environment. This person has such an easiness to make friends; he’s so pure and given to give… and – still – he’s not adapted… he’s one of that crescent group of young people who do not believe on the values their predecessors try to pass them – without deeds – just with words and rules…

Walking with this gentle soul, with all his way to be different, is to question so much the world in which we make concessions to deal with each day. In which we don’t embrace life until life finally drops us. Is to question the direction my life takes in each moment I detach myself from being who I am… I have part of the responsibility to destroy lives as these using my truth as a lie…

I am part of the example of non fulfillness that leads to disappointment and revolt on our youngsters. I am the illusion that guards their way in to freedom. I am the spoil in the eye that keeps people from seeing…

But – now – I want to change.

Now I want to be as the song says, to dream again and become an “astronaut” and to fly; to wake up, put the feet on the ground, take the first clothes at hand and go. To cry in front of those I love when I feel pain;

Eu queria ser astronauta (I wanted to be an austronaut)
o meu país não deixou (my country didn't let me)
Depois quis ir jogar á bola (after I wanted to play football)
A minha mãe não deixou (my mother didn't let me)
Tive vontade de voltar á escola (Ihad desire to return to school)
Mas o doutor não deixou (but the doctor didn't let me)
Fechei os olhos e tentei dormir (closed my eyes and tried to sleep)
Aquela dor não deixou (that pain didn't let me)

Ó meu anjo da guarda (oh my guardian angel)
Faz-me voltar a sonhar (make me dream again)
Faz-me ser astronauta e voar (make me become an astronaut and fly)

O meu quarto é o meu mundo (my bedroom is my world)
O ecrãn é a janela (the screen is the window)
Não choro em frente á minha mãe (I don't cry in front of my mother)
Eu que gosto tanto dela (me who loves her so much)
Mas esta dor não quer desaparecer (but this pain doesn't want to go away)
Vai-me levar com ela (it will take me with it)

Ó meu anjo da guarda (oh my guardian angel)
faz-me voltar a sonhar (make me dream again)
Faz-me ser astronauta e voar (make me become an astronaut and fly)

Acordar, meter os pés no chão (waking up, put the feet on the floor)
Levantar, pegar no que tens mais à mão (getting up, taking what's closer at hand)
Voltar a rir,voltar a andar (return to laugh, return to walk)
Voltar Voltar (return, return)
Voltarei (I will return)
Voltarei (I will return)
Voltarei (I will return)
Voltarei (I will return)

Voar, Tim (xutos e pontapés)

This is the way to free the world – to be, to feel, to do – what I really am.
Any excuse it’s a lie – with them, beautiful souls have to cry and be twisted by the majority of us whom stay in the shades. I want to light up the Sun in me… will you join?

The child in us

Another day in which the Man inside tries to transcend his inner state by the force of will…

Another day in which I’m broken in the attempt… and then they appear… and teach the path of simplicity with silent wisdom…


Someone said – in the past… a past always present – those who wanted to enter the Kingdom, had to become as a Child…
The kingdom of plentiful ness, of truth… that’s their kingdom… and they come here to teach these minds of ours the truth about ourselves, our nature - the non conditional love…

So I’ve hold them, I’ve dived in their absolute wisdom.

This is a homage to them – in each of us…

This is a reminder – honor the child in you - it will show you how much we become distant from the heart by following the spirit of will and power…

(he's Daniel... it is a "me" distant and far... however so, so near... thank you big being, for helping me to remember what I have forgotten so many times... the truth is silence... is peace... the truth IS)

Just that – enjoy what you like, share what you love…

Just this – enthusiasm and spontaneity…

Just being little - so much that we never question - the size or aspect of our outside garments since we are so big in the size of our inner truth…

Ave YOU – the child in us…

(the day ends - I pray to the "Sun that is born on the West"... to hope from dispair, to truth from the illusion... to silence in the noise... to the miracle among the discipline of effort... to that we call Love - the warmth that burns inside each of us is the same Sun we see each day outside)

Lothlórien

There was a call… a light filled call… a door… a loud and captivating vibration which took me in to this world of both mists and bright green fields…

And there I am…lost in this realm where impossible contrasts build homelike colors… a palette of creation which fills me with tender and fear, desire and confusion, need and fulfillment…

And I wonder, my feet stepping in both paradise and hell…

There’s a heart beat echoing everywhere… so overwhelmingly deep that no mind can imagine it’s meaningful value… it’s transcendent light… it’s true nature…

As the warm forest surrounds me I hear a melody…

There’s a young girl whom smiles as the breeze through the plains – free and light.

There’s a woman with heart of a child – bringing joy and easiness when she shines the day with all that’s simple and pure in her…

And she sings without voice…

There’s a sound that is so delicate, so precious – the sound of a free soul… a sound which no mind can even start to grasp… a melody just the heart knows…

I’m lead to the plains by the child’s voice… and I see a flaming light on the horizon…

There’s a bold spirit that challenges bondages each time bounds are there to stop it’s way – a burning spirit that raises over the mind, a spirit as free as the noble horse in the virgin planes of ancestral memories…

Running after this immense living flame, I’m lead to a mysterious lake… an island … a hidden cave …

There’s a wise woman – in modern clothes – sharp sight, hands with the knowledge of Man’s nature… a female spirit beyond the images carved in rock by stony minds…

In front of me there’s a glooming bright image on the waters…

A white swan that dwells in the lake… a sword hidden in it’s feathers… a sharp edge that cuts when the eagerness tries to take over the freedom of such idyllic dream…

I cross the waters non touching the whiteness gliding in the silver… smiling gently to the wise woman I enter the cave…

There are reflections more than possible to tell – a precious uncarved stone which gives back the light of life with astonishing new colors… depending of where the observer stands… and what it looks forward to see…

I look on the seeing glass… feeling hope, truth, strength, meaning…home…
Suddenly an impossible scream breaches the horizon in two… all trembles… the cave starts to crumble… the crystal is shattered in a million parts that fly everywhere… and I’m cut by it’s sharpness in a thousand bleeding wounds…

As doubt reigns and mind rules I get projected for another place, to time that stands still… a place of poisonous fumes and rotting nature…

I see a swamp where the lake dwelled… and waters never more run towards the unknown sea… enchained in the cage of time… repeating the fate of mind… marsh land and still waters… hollow grey landscapes that extend till the horizon…

Life fades from me… light takes all around…inside… I float in a non existing realm… then, nothing around… just a shape shifting figure upon me…

There’s a lamb – tender and warmth – with a serpent inside.
Both home and punishment, both honey and fel…

I take that entity in to my chest… inside… both redemption and doom…

Standing in the edge of a cliff… the wind of an unknown sea blows…

There’s a satyr playing around with stranded souls; there are siren songs that smash in to the hard rocks of oblivion those foolish sailors whom venture on unknown waters…

And – there’s a light… warmth…

In mid of the cutting wind of salt, there raises a Sun in the West…
The rays of that essence pierce and transcend my skin… I’m blown apart in to sand as the truth penetrates my lie…

As dust I wonder… as dust I feel the Sun light upon me and remember how much I was sun light until I let myself dive in to the realm of shades that leads to lie…illusion… empty spaces and hollow moments… that’s the truth of the mind… that’s the trap of senses…

Now I’m the dust that wonders… on this realm of impossible landscapes and never finished contrasts…

My mind says never

My heart says ever

I wonder as dust

I wonder…

And staring at the raising Sun of the West I lay down to oblivion…

Until the Sun light bursts from the dust and lights the darkness inside.

We have Faith, Hope and Love… of the three – Love is the greatest… embrace IT because IT embraced YOU long time ago… when time didn’t even start to exist…

In to the West

(somewhere in the camino... )

To know me a bit better… see the Sun rising in the West.

As we follow towards Finisterra – towards the “Costa da Morte” – Death’s Coast – we walked all we could…
We laughed and we cried…
We gave and we took…

We were bright and we dived in the shades…

We gave hope and we took it… we searched for love and love found us…

To know me is to know my work as well – for me – it reflects a bit of this “Camino of life”…

So here it is – under Tolkien’s light…
With some pictures of Today's work…

"In to the West" - Annie Lennox - "The Return of the king"

Lay down, your sweet and weary head.
Night is falling.
You have come to journey’s end.

(There was a little faerie there in the mid right... say that to our friends of camino of life... those little ones will love it)

Sleep now,and dream of the ones who came before.
They are calling,
from across the distant shore.

(the mother was taking a picture while this premature baby - Sílvia - was being nursed under the tender look of Sara - her sister)

Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see.
All of your fears will pass away.
Safe in my arms,
you’re only sleeping.

(she's still - in my arms - only sleeping... do we see the difference in the end? Do we see the difference in our hearts? the same baby's essence on a different shell - when will we learn to the important more than the illusion?)

What can you see,
on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea,
a pale moon rises.
The ships have come,
to carry you home.

(the ships have come to free you from the net... to unravel your light and carry you away... as I walk during lunch time I feel how differences are in the mind... how must see the heart... how all beings melt in to one... on that river... over those grey boats... free from the nets of time)

And all will turn,
to silver glass.
A light on the water.
All souls pass.

(a light on the water we passed... when someone pulled us out... now I see no bridge to pass to the other side... Ágape pontifex maximum)

Hope fades,
Into the world of night.
Through shadows falling,
Out of memory and time.

(as I enter in my room, while the clock ticks the time to get back, I look at the memories that fight to keep you alive - a scarf with the scent of Life, Post Cards of a Distant Journey, a Guitar that tries to Sing to keep hope alive... a window that points - In to the West)

Don’t say,
We have come now to the end.
White shores are calling.
You and I will meet again.
And you’ll be here in my arms,
Just sleeping.

(he will return... to the Hospital; again a mother taking a picture of her Child who's in my arms... will you return? And - how much of me departs each time you go away? How much?... But - in this here and now - the three of us smile to each other)

What can you see,
on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea,
a pale moon rises.
The ships have come,
to carry you home.

(when all the threads of this life unravel, we will get to the grey ships which will carry us away... over the waters of the river of life, towards the sea of existence... how many times, how many knots... how long will this circle run around itself? This I think as I stumble towards home again)

And all will turn, to silver glass.
A light on the water.
Grey ships pass
Into the West.

(as the day fades and hope lingers, I look through that window of future, trying to find out some glince of light that gives meaning and sense to this circle of life)

Here is a day of work and the thoughts or feelings that wonder around… inside me. The pictures show how I see things – in a semi poetic, semi melancholic, semi festival way – this circle of life we travel, this camino we repeat once after another…

Be blessed…

(mural painting of group of pilgrims fading in the mists... you wanted to depict the mother leading the child... here it is)

Here...

This is me… now.
No beard (just a scarce one, or CIA would take me in as Taliban… you know). No bag, no smell, no destiny – just fooling around… or maybe not.
The place is Caminha, a bordering line with Spain and the sea. Worked there for a year before going to East Timor as Volunteer.



Someone asked before – “How to return to the routine after opening our soul?”…

With Love I may guess… I have no other answer.

Lots of questions about “who” or “what” I have found during these days of truth, faith, hope… and devotion.
People asking about what could I possibly mean when I told that – now – I knew love exists…

Well – no easy or magical answer here… the road of Man is to believe in each moment; is to nourish that gift in each second; is to offer devotion and truth to the bliss of being touched by love’s grace. This is a “camino” of life, this is an oath to the very foundation of our existence – to discover, accept and worship that love which makes us in to being.

Now – for those who don’t know me as I use to be on my normal “camino” of life: here are some pictures of day life places.

(my way to work - this avenue leads to the health center in which I work - it's 8 in the morning and the day is good for walking)

(This is my "meditation" rock, or the place in which I had lunch - it's a small iland in the River Minho called "Castelinho", and it's near by - here in Cerveira, where I live. As the "Petit Prince", I love to see the sun set here - just walking a bit and I'm there)

This is my favorite beach – it’s called "Moledo" – and it’s less than 10 mins by car from where I live. The mount in front is in Spain – and has Celtic settlement ruins – it’s called "Saint Tegra". I usually walk on the sand that is on the right of the picture, and then stand on the rocks until the sun-set. The waves on the rock remind me of some ancient secret that I almost grasp with my wandering mind… but the heart knows for sure, my brain is the one that simply doesn’t get the message

As the blue fades in to silver, the secret of the lady in the waters becomes clearer… sometimes hard as rock, sometimes flown as the waves, sometimes…

Hemingway would know… just those who die of love would know… I asked this old man, which was the secret of his sea… and he told me…

This is the “Praça da República” square… in my beloved Viana do Castelo. I spend hours and hours in here – staring at people passing by, reading my latest book, tasting some coffee and cake… The picture is in Christmas, so – now in Spring and Summer – the square gains even more life and color

A grey day… this is Santa Luzia, in Viana – a hilltop with a replica of the “Sacre Coeur” of Paris and a Celtic settlement ruin next by. It’s a sacred place that I visit quite often. There are sacred moments that are silver, others even gold, some others are grey – but all of them sacred nonetheless.

Home... one day

(o meu primeiro acorde... um "Dó" que mete dó... mas logo se verá)


São as três da manhã… de um dia intenso.

Ainda neste dia era peregrino, ainda neste dia vestia, sentia, cheirava a peregrinação…

Cheguei, tirei a barba de um mês, visitei pais, colegas de trabalho… reencontrei o mundo de onde partira… só o tempo dirá as mudanças que se passaram cá dentro… mas resulta tão complexo rumar de volta à maré…

Aqui ficam as fotos do dia – já tenho a “Elbereth”, a minha guitarra.
Vim de Espanha, passei por Vigo, vi-a e voltei lá depois para a trazer. Fui a Viana, ter com um amigo que toca num grupo, e já sei os meus primeiros acordes. Logo música sairá dos meus dedos… magias da vida diária…

Já tenho o Principezinhoe e o “Cyrano de Bergerac” do Gerard Depardieu prontos para começar o meu Francês (é a próxima língua do caminho para mim).

Agora falta o Reiki no segundo nível – depois mestria.

Talvez o Tai-chi, voltar ao Kung-Fú, ir a meditação Vipassana mais a frente…

Depois, Índia…

Depois…

Ultreya!! (always further)

(eu e a "Elbereth" em casa do meu amigo músico)

Finisterra

Um Sol-pôr...

Uma chama na ravina de rocha, esvaindo-se lentamente numa brisa marítima. Com ela se queimam os redutos de um “eu” que pertence ao passado – assim reza o Peregrino, este peregrino – à medida que o astro Rei marca o caminho do Homem até às águas da Noite...

Caras esturradas de mil quilómetros contemplam o horizonte, cada rosto uma história que converge neste “final simbólico”, cada um representa um desafio, uma partida, o sonho de um encontro...

A Lua se levanta quando o Sol se esmorece no horizonte. Como cada um dos cruzeiros do caminho na Galiza Mágica – que têm uma Maria amparando um Jesus nascente ou um Jesus já morto. Pensavam que matariam a Luz do Mundo, mas ela se mantém viva na face brilhante da Senhora das Marés.

Só mesmo os homens para inventar uma fé que fala de amor, sem sentir que o varao aprende a amar pela devoçao da fêmea que o traz ao mundo.

Só as águas permanecem – primeiro vermelhas com o ultimo suspiro do que se vai, depois prata e ouro numa cadência suave.
Vagas de crista branca lambendo as rochas lá longe.

O Peregrino sente que se encontra mais liberto, que está cada vez mais perto do seu sonho.

Queimei o velho, mergulhei na água salgada e descobri que é o amor que nos faz caminhar sobre o mar.

Pedro – tu nao sabes o que é amar... é o princípio da palabra amargura... mas é o único caminho que é verdade e que devolve a vida...

Bem haja

Negreira

Para quem pensa que os caminhos terminam quando se obtem o que se pretende…

O Caminho continua.

O Peregrino cedo se precata que nao sabe bem o que procura; logo intui que obterá o que precisa – talvez nao exactamente o que desejava.

O Peregrino nota que se fez humilde o suficiente para admitir que é aluno da vida; poderá criar mundos de sonho mas - para encontrar verdade - terá de se despojar do que é, do que sabe, do que pensa ser…

Agora vou a caminho de Muxia – onde a Senhora arrivou numa barca de pedra.
Procuro um sonho – sonhem comigo…

Depois, Finisterra…talvez.

As minhas roupas já rasgadas - de outros anos, de outras tentativas, de andar em círculos - serao ali queimadas enquanto o Deus – Lugh – se some nas trevas do Oeste, para nos redimir numa nova manha…
Morte para o velho, purificaçao no fogo, água salgada de banho final e novo renascer… depois…nao sei.

Um abraço desde o caminho – agora bem mais simples e com menor efeito de história, monumentos, gentes… só as Lendas e os ecos Celtas a caminho de Fisterra…

Santiago

O caminho entra em Santiago...nele convergem as pessoas e o poder de ver a luz onde – em contraste – poderiamos ver apenas a nossa sombra.

Chegado é o momento no que todos nos alegramos – pela humildade, pela partilha, pelo reconhecimento do comum realçado nas diferenças; pela fé – no amor que une e se dá em abraços, em gestos de alegria pelo próximo, em promessas de visitas a paises distantes, em troca de oferendas e agasalhos...

Comentamos os dons da viagem – as gentes que nos abençoaram, os locais que connosco foram gentis.

Celebramos a simplicidade e confiamos que esta se espalhe - como uma doença virulenta - pela vida que nos resta.

Pensamos no amor que bate à porta sob rostos de outras paragens, nos abraços dos que – outrora desconhecidos – caminham agora como companheiros...

Este é o Santiago que eu conheço e celebro.
Nao vejo pedras, nem ouros.
Nunca noto outras liturgias que nao as da Universalidade desta corrente de vidas - que se mesclam como águas de nascentes mil e rumam para Um mesmo Mar.

Bem haja a todos os que caminham – sois a luz do mundo.

Caminhemos pois em Verdade, caminhemos pois no amor que une – nao sua sombra: o medo que separa.

Cacabelos

Passou León... passou Astorga... passou a Cruz de Ferro, o Tomás Templário...

Passaram as florestas e as montanhas e estou no Bierzo... o Berço...

Caminho com um Anjo - e luto o meu trilho de vida em cada passo - o gume da sua espada é afiado e nao permite nenhuma menira - tenho de ser fiel e verdadeiro...

Agora tenho o Cebreiro em frente - um milagre de humildade que fala de um Pastor e de uma manha de neve nas montanhas...
Era Domingo - o Padre preparava-se para benzer o pao, quando a porta da pequena igreja se abriu de par em par - o vento e o frio invadiram o pequeno recinto. O pastor entrou de mansinho - com reverência - e o padre perguntou espantado: "Que fazes num dia como estes por aqui?"
O bom pastor la foi dizendo "Vim receber o Senhor". O padre pergunta atónito "E arriscas a vida na montanha por um pedaço de pao?!?!"... Nesse momento a óstia sangra... a mesma que agora se encontra encerrada em ouro num altar simples...

Caminho para um sonho, caminho para a verdade - espero que vocês também caminhem comigo.

Montanhas onde a voz de Deus ecoa tao alto que vibra e zune nos ouvidos... tanto que é impossivel nao a sentir de dentro para fora - rebentando todo o gêlo que aprisionava a Primavera da Alma.

Bem haja a quem caminha - que a vida se faça caminho.

Até Breve