Once I wrote the following short piece for a young woman who was feeling low. A physical problem was consuming, together with her body, also the energy that the body supports. She was English, I wrote to her in English; I had never seen her, I knew about her problem, she knew I wanted to help.
No contract or notified consent, but the condivision of a moment between a doctor and a patient, who would never be his patient, if not in the reliance/trust of a moment. The operation brought her 'luck'!
Please, don't ask me to translate it into Italian: it was conceived to be in English, but try and... fearlessly climb up!
"Come close… Once there was a steep trail that was sometimes chosen as a passageway by the rains in winter and much rarer by a solitary wayfarer. Never at night, though... the trail was always there, but it seemed that even the moon avoided it, so hidden amidst the thorns and bushes. Season after season it was shunned, viewed as inaccessible because it was out of the way or because there were less steep paths in the mountains.One day, unable to endure its fate no longer, the trail decided to slide down, tired with the life. It waited until the winter floods arrived, when the water wildly sweeps away all sorts of things in its path… and it threw itself into the downward descent during the first big thunderstorm… When it finally reached the bottom, the trail felt endless pleasure, stretching out in the plains, the sun warming every once inaccessible corner, and the sounds of a place that is no longer solitary, yet…... soon the trail became bored and longed for the steep thoughts it used to have alone on the western side of the tall mountain… The trail could no longer return uphill … so tired and dejected, it let the current carry it further down... ending up in the bed of a stream, where it found itself bathing the feet of a little girl … Slightly fearful yet curious, the trail – yes, that precise trail, so used to precipices -- climbed up the little girl’s legs… entered her thoughts… and silently convinced her to be taken once again to the mountain top, nestled now in her fresh, curious mind".
While thinking I would put this here as a post, to mean the use of energy in the theatre of life, I received a comment from Nina on Mr Hube's contribution. Incredible! A mountain there, a mountain here... Maybe telepathy does exist?! I've always believed it....
@ Nina -Indaco-
"...Because we come from water in the hapiest hours"
The story of the ‘path’ is my story.
Apparently, the journey seems to take shape at an extraordinary time of lull: the sense of exploration - vanished. I leave triumphs and victories to sadness, to a body that finds it hard to answer - it too thousands of years old.
This path - ‘ME’, is blocked, inaccessible, surrounded by thorny bushes and shrubs: not even that pale moonlight is soothing. The wonderful satellite is covered by a heavy layer of gauze. As if affected by blindness...it doesn’t enlight.
Does the journey stop at the departure?
No. The journey in which I was a Cortàzar’s Tiger in Humboldt, then Nina, in Checkov’s Seagull; now, definitely alone, I decide to be body and soul of a Sacred Mountain.
Answer: The exploration doesn’t end if I decide to stop.
Question: Compulsory stop?
Question: Have the signs disappeared?
Answer: I wait and, while waiting, I learn.We don’t know anything. We can sniff like dogs, leave it to intuition, welcome the pre-existent, enhance the mind, go along with the unconscious, found again the republic of the ‘I’ with drama and Ypnos.
Not exactly aware of having an unsuspected hurry, I find out that sadness is tired and it would like to set free from its sad condition.
And this is how I set myself the task of depressing depression, channelling a greater will, an energy that was thought exhaust and “scattered between brain and body” with the devastating fury of a storm on the peak of a Mountain: who was I – or the ‘I’ – or the Unconscious – or the Subconscious.
Does it matter?
It matters to know that I’ve lived this kind of paralysis forcing my Self to stone myself as if following a principle of self-harm.
This time I ‘slide down’ because I’m the one who decides to do it. Almost a shock-self-therapy.
And now a storm, like a frontal attack by fighter-bombers, comes like a benediction: I start rolling, I take with me all I encounter - including shrubs and thorny bushes; it’s a scuffle, a rough-and-tumble of stones, rocks, water, sticks and beating, clubs and clubbing…
“I’m not here anymore” I think, when I reach the valley.
The sun is warm, its warmth mitigates the pain. Finally light!
And yet…
…this valley is motionless. Nothing interesting happens here.
I know the journey doesn’t end here: I need to slide further down.
Down, further down, until I deposit my remains on the bed of a stream: “…Because we come from water in the happiest hours” he said.
If I came from water to get back to water, then I was still stuck at the departure.
No. Before being a Mountain, I had been a Seagull, and before that a Tiger, a woman, a child, a foetus. The origin, the sign, the language.
Universe: all in the Whole.
Photo: the caption to the picture that Nina has suggested is really good. It's from Jerry Uelsmann's Woman River. Because of copyright, we cannot show it here - we are not here privately, but with the sponsor of a Scientific Association - SSISCA. If you're interested, you can find it following these links:
http://www.uelsmann.com/
http://pdngallery.com/legends/uelsmann/
Translation, Thanks to E. Bianchi
