Книга - Like the Flowing River: Thoughts and Reflections

Like the Flowing River: Thoughts and Reflections
Paulo Coelho


A breathtaking collection of reflections from one of the world's best loved storytellers, Paulo Coelho.In this riveting collection of thoughts and stories, Paulo Coelho, the author of ‘The Alchemist’, offers his personal reflections on a wide range of subjects from archery and music to elegance, traveling and the nature of good and evil.An old woman explains to her grandson how a mere pencil can show him the path to happiness…instructions on how to climb a mountain reveal the secret to making your dreams a reality…the story of Ghengis Khan and the Falcon that teaches about the folly of anger – and the art of friendship…a pianist who performs an example in fulfilling your destiny…the author learns three important lessons when he goes to the rescue of a man in the street – Paulo shows us how life has lessons for us in the greatest, smallest and most unusual of experiences.‘Like the Flowing River’ includes jewel-like fables, packed with meaning and retold in Coelho's inimitable style. Sharing his thoughts on spirituality, life and ethics, Paulo touches you with his philosophy and invites you to go on an exciting journey of your own.









Like the Flowing River: Thoughts and Reflections

Paulo Coelho


Translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa











Be like the flowing river,

Silent in the night.

Be not afraid of the dark.

If there are stars in the sky, reflect them back.

If there are clouds in the sky,

Remember, clouds, like the river, are water,

So, gladly reflect them too,

In your own tranquil depths.

Manuel Bandeira




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#ub901ba67-6041-5d18-aa31-3d5de8905488)

Title Page (#ubba54d18-7bfc-5bd7-b8f3-a7e1c4e20415)

Epigraph (#u00774fd3-45b9-506d-a191-2e9dc53cab64)

Preface (#u0b5fa282-ca90-5115-ade2-a896683dd60f)

A Day at the Mill (#u46e7e5d6-6247-5d79-82bf-76db50ecc9d7)

Prepared for Battle, But With a Few Doubts (#u80416f08-edec-5d35-9ac8-2aaaefa946d9)

The Way of the Bow (#ufd3fdc22-df9d-54ba-b9d5-7a641d6c1e68)

The Story of the Pencil (#u417fa535-b952-5f32-ad4b-3a97fea19ff4)

How to Climb Mountains (#u281219d7-e9f6-5558-bbda-ea94ef4c6790)

The Importance of a Degree (#u9100836c-b408-5327-8c79-97e4f5407538)

In a Bar in Tokyo (#ucf97caa2-9215-5d8d-9a82-cfe369756081)

The Importance of Looking (#u7dc54703-5844-507f-8904-b059abca9ee3)

Genghis Khan and His Falcon (#u35d782bd-2e77-50c7-a14f-e4dbf88a5105)

Looking at Other People’s Gardens (#u35865b6a-cd4d-58d9-a831-9c5595c82df1)

Pandora’s Box (#u0f8ad781-c3ec-5477-ab3d-575862a7279a)

How One Thing Can Contain Everything (#u9ee6d8e7-f2b1-536a-b409-ac4c2f1c885a)

The Music Coming from the Chapel (#u2a0dc1b9-15b6-5cab-a383-a6224f10cdf3)

The Devil’s Pool (#u9343f748-0f31-5c93-9b28-0c73734e6442)

The Solitary Piece of Coal (#u8dd9da03-0383-5c5a-b722-bcc652bd2b80)

The Dead Man Wore Pyjamas (#uc69d459a-5409-5b10-ae0d-226521aa328d)

Manuel Is an Important and Necessary Man (#u988a2c08-7a68-54ae-b7b6-51ee931400c7)

Manuel Is a Free Man (#ubaa5415b-065a-59fd-b724-21386359e583)

Manuel Goes to Paradise (#ufbc47d6a-f011-58e2-b01a-f0f0e3109705)

In Melbourne (#uab600ccc-1f44-51d4-92ec-916348bc02ce)

The Pianist in the Shopping Mall (#u7302a399-d2e6-593f-b3c7-13645e1f47f3)

On My Way to the Chicago Book Fair (#u015b9737-2f09-5395-9c9e-43029e9990f2)

Of Poles and Rules (#uaedf5c5e-3470-5b24-aac8-0225f194bebf)

The Piece of Bread That Fell Wrong Side Up (#uee08adce-9c98-50d6-8094-cfde843fff34)

Of Books and Libraries (#u1791617b-7229-5c2c-acb9-194b95034a64)

Prague, 1981 (#u9361d6fb-32f7-5dfb-8710-5d0b0ce4fd13)

For the Woman Who Is All Women (#uc292b7b6-7ec1-52ca-bd38-eeef04268a0c)

A Visitor Arrives from Morocco (#u382f3318-968d-52e6-8e3a-0545f0986a9f)

My Funeral (#ue0c26051-91da-50f3-bd5f-fadd2e87317c)

Restoring the Web (#u8c525430-2225-5225-bcf9-0380b69832c6)

These Are My Friends (#u989158e1-cea6-5aae-925a-a957d92a8d8f)

How Do We Survive? (#u01e2937c-ba93-527b-a289-0c7c25241f89)

Marked Out to Die (#ue0bc5180-8c50-5b0d-9443-a05f602a4fe0)

The Moment of Dawn (#ubd080fec-566e-56e8-8940-620f75ed3d74)

A January Day in 2005 (#u9faa7a34-4e0d-5f62-935e-0756c779643f)

A Man L ying on the Ground (#u8e342909-7523-535f-8b4d-2f0455bca7e5)

The Missing Brick (#u649e4d4d-960e-51bf-9110-8697e4814e20)

Raj Tells Me a Story (#uda043c0a-55a0-57cf-b780-ff12486cc5b4)

The Other Side of the Tower of Babel (#u66cdee80-c764-5074-9776-1b0e56559be6)

Before a Lecture (#u9351d57d-b79d-57f3-ae7b-e069da46d54c)

On Elegance (#uf989c267-2f30-58e7-8f43-d369e6424441)

Nhá Chica of Baependi (#u67b45231-9f0f-59ae-96ef-5ed2a6e45cf6)

Rebuilding the House (#ue35185a6-375f-5b2c-bd0b-eb43a916d789)

The Prayer That I Forgot (#ueef7fd27-1501-5a3a-9d3b-a1637c269cbf)

Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro (#uc6570b1d-fe41-5c00-84b3-ffd8ecb6a6ae)

Living Your Own Legend (#u3e49278e-44f7-59f9-8c24-eee4ef384c8a)

The Man Who Followed His Dreams (#u4cc37a90-a8d4-51c8-a70b-dad2a04dd3b4)

The Importance of the Cat in Meditation (#u4cb3a69a-1c92-51db-9b0c-156c621615e1)

I Can’t Get In (#uafdf0972-fa78-51c2-8314-0ceb3b1cc013)

Statutes for the New Millennium (#u45bb3f7e-2906-5b13-8cc1-c584290ac94b)

Destroying and Rebuilding (#u8656c38f-be7f-5528-a8dc-60e81f4bbc89)

The Warrior and Faith (#u8daded78-a148-5b15-9f26-a3c672bd7516)

In Miami Harbour (#u4fe23946-5b15-586c-be6b-1a443298a2e4)

Acting on Impulse (#uc2203916-78c2-592e-bfe0-9f070dfcb2a4)

Transitory Glory (#u64b11450-aa95-5218-93be-8234b43c3494)

Charity Under Threat (#u74affa5a-f3b2-5e1b-bec6-afef78adba90)

On Witches and Forgiveness (#u9857a9e9-d16d-543d-a63a-744055ce6911)

On Rhythm and the Road (#u98aa6493-82e3-5b85-81f0-9f14c1cdfd09)

Travelling Differently (#ue081db4d-ad75-59ce-b136-da8eb687120c)

A Fairy Tale (#u91e4d344-6354-563d-8aba-b8aa8b002555)

Brazil’s Greatest Writer (#uafa3e60e-be99-559a-8503-288bb94dd3b5)

The Meeting That Did Not Take Place (#u4d920a74-4cec-5671-b8a1-209c3ba33677)

The Smiling Couple (London, 1977) (#ud0c42afe-e2f0-5487-8f31-802251226554)

The Second Chance (#u3fca94be-e2dc-5be4-8dae-410fb590e7dd)

The Australian and the Newspaper Ad (#uc14f89a2-94e1-54ab-a48f-46b1a524100e)

The Tears of the Desert (#u5ebee521-6954-5041-a354-96cb56f36e2b)

Rome: Isabella Returns from Nepal (#uef995e5c-c788-5258-be40-4fa436b0e9a9)

The Art of the Sword (#uf5d7cc1d-91b8-5ab4-b21c-d85d0a596a93)

In the Blue Mountains (#u414ab1df-62b2-56be-8181-0ad16a84eb50)

The Taste of Success (#uaf6e0729-065b-59c8-a254-c6624e445ae4)

The Tea Ceremony (#u1e632877-02dc-5cf5-affa-9d9f04eb8f4d)

The Cloud and the Sand Dune (#u6d25ee5e-064c-5578-b81c-d5edf2a74faa)

Norma and the Good Things (#ub20b5ad8-ffea-548e-8309-1a26d3d361d9)

Jordan, the Dead Sea, 21 June 2003 (#u44f0aa2d-aede-5ce3-bdc2-7d22b1508236)

In San Diego Harbour, California (#u999b95bf-afae-5cc8-bad4-008f527109af)

The Art of Withdrawal (#ue944606c-f4fa-5cf0-9115-adb3872458da)

In the Midst of War (#ue79c1005-6f49-55a6-9c93-9d49b41f65a7)

The Soldier in the Forest (#uc6459514-05c1-5701-bb90-634069318924)

In a Town in Germany (#u40cbc7a4-bd14-514d-af34-8db31cefaf6c)

Meeting in the Dentsu Gallery (#u5b9310a5-c1bc-53c7-a798-8b6c205ce832)

Reflections on 11 September 2001 (#u879c718f-11bb-582f-8186-fba40a9fc2f5)

God’s Signs (#u2754983f-fcc8-5e84-9c73-ff8097800e44)

Alone on the Road (#u9734602e-052f-51c6-ad89-e2420c8c6f9d)

The Funny Thing About Human Beings (#u6fe136e2-374c-590c-9653-fde781ee5dc0)

An Around-the-World Trip After Death (#u77d9a2e5-9ef5-53c3-a301-2eed50c92387)

Who Would Like This Twenty-Dollar Bill? (#ue4c2289e-2e84-5062-8c26-570fea0468ea)

The Two Jewels (#uf708d9b2-7995-54a2-bf02-cbf7ea1ebd04)

Self-Deception (#ua053b10c-14b1-5aae-aa0f-06c85ec4b673)

The Art of Trying (#ub10c8eba-74bc-5a0b-b433-ba4faef9ebce)

The Dangers Besetting the Spiritual Search (#u9d1d64c3-25f4-5f4c-a380-cc276a5b8956)

My Father-in-law, Christiano Oiticica (#ub8c69b8e-67ce-52f5-840c-dd31dfbdd1c5)

Thank You, President Bush (#u0fea1331-efc5-599d-8a90-94ddadb21e8a)

The Intelligent Clerk (#u8a755e25-2f7c-529f-8d3f-930d2ef03b45)

The Third Passion (#u6f9eab07-3e91-5db0-a769-868c660c39f4)

The Catholic and the Muslim (#ue605b268-5f9e-50fb-8fc8-a9c16fb00172)

Evil Wants Good to Prevail (#ud6d14bbb-225a-5fc1-90ef-e4caaf762e73)

The Law of Jante (#u5581e222-148f-5596-a8c2-a28b20f6030a)

The Old Lady in Copacabana (#ufb14aa74-f11c-53d3-8104-ba6655528da2)

Remaining Open to Love (#u3331cb17-e69c-5e8c-a9c1-8918fbf11029)

Believing in the Impossible (#ue2682a7f-d723-59ef-b990-f71e17d8efce)

The Storm Approaches (#u11030e6a-93f8-5ac9-be1f-d4094c247856)

Some Final Prayers (#u64fc8a8f-6ac9-5a38-bfb1-ebf677a578bf)

More about Paulo Coelho (#u40f43a09-42ee-5466-88d1-f2894b4dda19)

Author Biography: Paulo Coelho (#uf21c5819-a433-5123-b7f1-4d91e166623e)

Paulo Coelho The Witch of Portobello (#u00e32bc8-db3b-567e-aeae-2de40f14ec98)

Heron Ryan, 44, journalist (#uf67fc8fa-c241-58c1-b608-88dfbad610ae)

Life is a journey (#u9d1c1798-8b79-5384-a6c1-e26db9bb1cf4)

Feeling inspired? (#uf082d6d1-7fc6-5181-b629-b58802f56f9a)

Also by Paulo Coelho (#u0addd6e2-f305-5af8-a717-d6130b3bccf6)

Copyright (#u616d699f-6177-5d18-b65e-2ee094624f54)

About the Publisher (#u11dc5384-025f-5015-a8c5-c05598050784)




Preface (#ulink_07c7f044-ea62-5ffb-9895-a98a128aaa26)


When I was fifteen, I said to my mother: ‘I’ve discovered my vocation. I want to be a writer.’

‘My dear,’ she replied sadly, ‘your father is an engineer. He’s a logical, reasonable man with a very clear vision of the world. Do you actually know what it means to be a writer?’

‘Being someone who writes books.’

‘Your Uncle Haroldo, who is a doctor, also writes books, and has even published some. If you study engineering, you can always write in your spare time.’

‘No, Mama. I want to be a writer, not an engineer who writes books.’

‘But have you ever met a writer? Have you ever seen a writer?’

‘Never. Only in photographs.’

‘So how can you possibly want to be a writer if you don’t really know what it means?’

In order to answer my mother’s question, I decided to do some research. This is what I learned about what being a writer meant in the early 1960s:



(a) A writer always wears glasses and never combs his hair. Half the time he feels angry about everything and the other half depressed. He spends most of his life in bars, arguing with other dishevelled, bespectacled writers. He says very ‘deep’ things. He always has amazing ideas for the plot of his next novel, and hates the one he has just published.

(b) A writer has a duty and an obligation never to be understood by his own generation; convinced, as he is, that he has been born into an age of mediocrity, he believes that being understood would mean losing his chance of ever being considered a genius. A writer revises and rewrites each sentence many times. The vocabulary of the average man is made up of 3,000 words; a real writer never uses any of these, because there are another 189,000 in the dictionary, and he is not the average man.

(c) Only other writers can understand what a writer is trying to say. Even so, he secretly hates all other writers, because they are always jockeying for the same vacancies left by the history of literature over the centuries. And so the writer and his peers compete for the prize of ‘most complicated book’: the one who wins will be the one who has succeeded in being the most difficult to read.

(d) A writer understands about things with alarming names, like semiotics, epistemology, neoconcretism. When he wants to shock someone, he says things like: ‘Einstein is a fool’, or ‘Tolstoy was the clown of the bourgeoisie.’ Everyone is scandalized, but they nevertheless go and tell other people that the theory of relativity is bunk, and that Tolstoy was a defender of the Russian aristocracy.

(e) When trying to seduce a woman, a writer says: ‘I’m a writer’, and scribbles a poem on a napkin. It always works.

(f) Given his vast culture, a writer can always get work as a literary critic. In that role, he can show his generosity by writing about his friends’ books. Half of any such reviews are made up of quotations from foreign authors and the other half of analyses of sentences, always using expressions such as ‘the epistemological cut’, or ‘an integrated bi-dimensional vision of life’. Anyone reading the review will say: ‘What a cultivated person’, but he won’t buy the book because he’ll be afraid he might not know how to continue reading when the epistemological cut appears.

(g) When invited to say what he is reading at the moment, a writer always mentions a book no one has ever heard of.

(h) There is only one book that arouses the unanimous admiration of the writer and his peers: Ulysses by James Joyce. No writer will ever speak ill of this book, but when someone asks him what it’s about, he can’t quite explain, making one doubt that he has actually read it.

Armed with all this information, I went back to my mother and explained exactly what a writer was. She was somewhat surprised.

‘It would be easier to be an engineer,’ she said. ‘Besides, you don’t wear glasses.’

However, I did already have the untidy hair, a packet of Gauloises in my pocket, the script of a play under my arm (The Limits of Resistance, which, to my delight, a critic described as ‘the maddest thing I’ve ever seen on stage’); I was also studying Hegel and was determined, somehow or other, to read Ulysses. Then a rock singer turned up and asked me to write words for his songs, and I withdrew from the search for immortality and set myself once more on the same path as ordinary people.

This path took me to many places and caused me to change countries more often than I changed shoes, as Bertolt Brecht used to say. The pages that follow contain accounts of some of my own experiences, stories other people have told me, and thoughts I’ve had while travelling down particular stretches of the river of my life.

These stories and articles have all been published in various newspapers around the world and have been collected together at the request of my readers.









A Day at the Mill (#ulink_6723d3ff-bec0-5f7b-a3ed-5759255157b4)


At the moment, my life is a symphony composed of three distinct movements: ‘a lot of people’, ‘a few people’, and ‘almost no one’. Each of them lasts about four months of the year; and although there is often a little of each during one particular month, they never get confused.

‘A lot of people’ is when I’m in touch with the public, with publishers and journalists. ‘A few people’ happens when I go back to Brazil, meet up with old friends, stroll along Copacabana beach, go to the occasional social event, but mostly stay at home.

What I want to do today, though, is to talk a little about the ‘almost no one’ movement. Right now, night has fallen on the two hundred inhabitants of this Pyrenean village, whose name I prefer to keep secret and where, a short while ago, I bought a converted mill. I wake every morning at cock-crow, have breakfast, and go out for a walk amongst the cows and the sheep and the fields of maize and hay. I look at the mountains and – unlike during the ‘a lot of people’ movement – I never think about who I am. I have no questions and no answers; I live entirely in the present moment, knowing that the year has four seasons (yes, I know this may seem obvious, but we do sometimes forget), and I transform myself just as the countryside does around me.

At the moment, I’m not much interested in what’s going on in Iraq or in Afghanistan: like anyone else living in the country, the most important news is the weather forecast. Everyone who lives in the small village knows whether it’s going to rain, whether it will be cold or very windy, since this directly affects their lives, their plans, their harvests. I see a farmer working in his field. We wish each other ‘Good morning’, discuss the likely weather, and then go on with what we were doing – he with his ploughing, me with my long walk.

I come back, look in the letter-box, and there’s the local newspaper: a dance in the neighbouring village; a lecture in a bar in Tarbes – the nearest big city with its forty thousand inhabitants; last night, the fire brigade was called out because a litter bin was set on fire. The subject agitating the region at the moment is a group thought to be responsible for cutting down a line of plane trees along a country road because they blame the trees for the death of a motorcyclist. This news takes up a whole page, and there are several days’ worth of articles about the ‘secret cell’ that wants to avenge the boy’s death by destroying the trees.

I lie down by the stream that runs past the mill. I look up at the cloudless sky in this terrifying summer, during which the heatwave has killed five thousand in France alone. I get up and go and practise kyudo, a form of meditation through archery, and this takes up another hour of my day. It’s lunchtime now; I have a light meal and then, in one of the other rooms in the old building, I suddenly notice a strange object, with a screen and a keyboard, connected – marvel of marvels – by a high-speed line, also known as a DSL. I know that the moment I press a button on that machine, the world will come to meet me.

I resist as long as I can, but the moment arrives, my finger presses the on-switch, and here I am again connected with the world: Brazilian newspapers, books, interviews to be given, news about Iraq, about Afghanistan, requests, a note that my plane ticket will arrive tomorrow, decisions to be postponed, decisions to be taken.

I work for several hours, because that is my choice, because that is my personal legend, because a warrior of light knows that he has duties and responsibilities. But during the ‘almost no one’ movement, everything on the computer screen seems very far away, just as this mill seems like a dream when I’m caught up in the other movements – ‘a lot of people’ and ‘a few people’.

The sun is setting. I switch the computer off again, and the world goes back to being the countryside, the smell of grass, the lowing of cattle, the voice of the shepherd bringing his sheep back to the pen beside the mill.

I ask myself how I can exist in two such different worlds in one day. I have no answer, but I know that it gives me a great deal of pleasure, and that I am happy while I write these lines.




Prepared for Battle, But With a Few Doubts (#ulink_bd3b2aaa-f5ba-5be9-b81b-cd99080b7719)


I’m wearing a strange green outfit, full of zips, and made from a very tough fabric. I have gloves on, too, in order to avoid cuts and scratches. I’m carrying a kind of spear, almost as tall as I am. The metal end has three prongs on one side, and a sharp point on the other.

And before me lies the object of my attack: the garden.

With the spear in my hand, I start to remove the weeds growing amongst the grass. I do this for quite a while, knowing that each plant I dig up will die within two days.

Suddenly, I ask myself: am I doing the right thing?

What we call a ‘weed’ is, in fact, an attempt at survival by a particular species that took Nature millions of years to create and develop. The flower was fertilized at the expense of innumerable insects; it was transformed into seed; the wind scattered it over the fields round about; and so – because it was not planted in just one place, but in many – its chances of surviving until next spring are that much greater. If it was concentrated in just one place, it would be vulnerable to being eaten, to flood, fire and drought.

But all that effort to survive is brought up short by the point of a spear, which mercilessly plucks the plant from the soil.

Why am I doing this?

Someone created this garden. I don’t know who, because when I bought the house, the garden was already here, in harmony with the surrounding mountains and trees. But its creator must have thought long and hard about what he or she was doing, must have carefully planted and planned (for example, there is an avenue of trees that conceals the hut where we keep the firewood) and tended it through countless winters and springs. When I moved into the old mill – where I spend a few months of each year – the lawn was immaculate. Now it is up to me to continue that work, although the philosophical question remains: should I respect the work of the creator, of the gardener, or should I accept the survival instinct with which nature endowed this plant, which I now call a ‘weed’?

I continue digging up unwanted plants and placing them on a pile that will soon be burned. Perhaps I am giving too much thought to things that have less to do with thought and more to do with action. But, then, every gesture made by a human being is sacred and full of consequences, and that makes me think even more about what I am doing.

On the one hand, these plants have the right to broadcast themselves everywhere. On the other hand, if I don’t destroy them now, they will end up choking the grass. In the New Testament, Jesus talks about separating the wheat from the tares.

But – with or without the support of the Bible – I am faced by a concrete problem always faced by humanity: how far should we interfere with nature? Is such interference always negative, or can it occasionally be positive?

I set aside my weapon – also known as a weeder. Each blow means the end of a life, the death of a flower that would have bloomed in the spring – such is the arrogance of the human being constantly trying to shape the landscape around him. I need to give the matter more thought, because I am, at this moment, wielding the power of life and death. The grass seems to be saying: ‘If you don’t protect me, that weed will destroy me.’ The weed also speaks to me: ‘I travelled so far to reach your garden. Why do you want to kill me?’

In the end, the Hindu text, the Bhagavad-Gita comes to my aid. I remember the answer that Krishna gives to the warrior Arjuna, when the latter loses heart before a decisive battle, throws down his arms, and says that it is not right to take part in a battle that will culminate in the death of his brother. Krishna says, more or less: ‘Do you really think you can kill anyone? Your hand is My hand, and it was already written that everything you are doing would be done. No one kills and no one dies.’

Encouraged by this recollection, I pick up my spear again, attack the weeds I did not invite to grow in my garden, and am left with this morning’s one lesson: when something undesirable grows in my soul, I ask God to give me the same courage mercilessly to pluck it out.





The Way of the Bow (#ulink_058b09ba-67ee-5995-97ec-53623c35b2b7)

The importance of repetition


An action is a thought made manifest.

The slightest gesture betrays us, so we must polish everything, think about details, learn the technique in such a way that it becomes intuitive. Intuition has nothing to do with routine, but with a state of mind that is beyond technique.

So, after much practising, we no longer think about the necessary movements: they become part of our own existence. But for this to happen, you must practise and repeat.

And if that isn’t enough, you must repeat and practise.

Look at a skilled farrier working steel. To the untrained eye, he is merely repeating the same hammer blows; but anyone who follows the way of the bow, knows that each time the farrier lifts the hammer and brings it down, the intensity of the blow is different. The hand repeats the same gesture, but as it approaches the metal, it understands that it must touch it with more or less force.

Look at a windmill. To someone who glances at its sails only once, they seem to be moving at the same speed, repeating the same movement; but those familiar with windmills know that they are controlled by the wind and change direction as necessary.

The hand of the farrier was trained by repeating the gesture of hammering thousands of times. The sails of the windmill can move fast when the wind blows hard, and thus ensure that its gears run smoothly.

The archer allows many arrows to go far beyond the target, because he knows that he will only learn the importance of bow, posture, string and target, by repeating his gestures thousands of time, and by not being afraid to make mistakes.

And then comes the moment when he no longer has to think about what he is doing. From then on, the archer becomes his bow, his arrow and his target.




How to observe the flight of the arrow


The arrow is the projection of an intention into space.

Once the arrow has been shot, there is nothing more the archer can do, except follow its path to the target. From that moment on, the tension required to shoot the arrow has no further reason to exist. Therefore, the archer keeps his eyes fixed on the flight of the arrow, but his heart rests, and he smiles.

If he has practised enough, if he has managed to develop his instinct, if he has maintained elegance and concentration throughout the whole process of shooting the arrow, he will, at that moment, feel the presence of the universe, and will see that his action was just and deserved.

Technique allows the hands to be ready, the breathing to be precise, and the eyes to be trained on the target. Instinct allows the moment of release to be perfect.

Anyone passing nearby, and seeing the archer with his arms open, his eyes following the arrow, will think that nothing is happening. But his allies know that the mind of the person who made the shot has changed dimensions: it is now in touch with the whole universe. The mind continues to work, learning all the positive things about that shot, correcting possible errors, accepting its good qualities, and waiting to see how the target reacts when it is hit.

When the archer draws the bow-string, he can see the whole world in his bow. When he follows the flight of the arrow, that world grows closer to him, caresses him and gives him a perfect sense of duty fulfilled.

A warrior of light, once he has done his duty and transformed his intention into gesture, need fear nothing else: he has done what he should have done. He did not allow himself to be paralysed by fear. Even if the arrow failed to hit the target, he will have another opportunity, because he did not give in to cowardice.




The Story of the Pencil (#ulink_10593661-1eaa-5722-93f3-a0f6b7d8177c)


A boy was watching his grandmother write a letter. At one point, he asked:

‘Are you writing a story about what we’ve done? Is it a story about me?’

His grandmother stopped writing her letter and said to her grandson:

‘I am writing about you, actually, but more important than the words is the pencil I’m using. I hope you will be like this pencil when you grow up.’

Intrigued, the boy looked at the pencil. It didn’t seem very special.

‘But it’s just like any other pencil I’ve ever seen!’

‘That depends on how you look at things. It has five qualities which, if you manage to hang on to them, will make you a person who is always at peace with the world.

‘First quality: you are capable of great things, but you must never forget that there is a hand guiding your steps. We call that hand God, and He always guides us according to His will.

‘Second quality: now and then, I have to stop writing and use a sharpener. That makes the pencil suffer a little, but afterwards, he’s much sharper. So you, too, must learn to bear certain pains and sorrows, because they will make you a better person.

‘Third quality: the pencil always allows us to use an eraser to rub out any mistakes. This means that correcting something we did is not necessarily a bad thing; it helps to keep us on the road to justice.

‘Fourth quality: what really matters in a pencil is not its wooden exterior, but the graphite inside. So always pay attention to what is happening inside you.

‘Finally, the pencil’s fifth quality: it always leaves a mark. In just the same way, you should know that everything you do in life will leave a mark, so try to be conscious of that in your every action.’





How to Climb Mountains (#ulink_37ce19c0-b3d6-59f5-aa93-b226ed25ee37)

Choose the mountain you want to climb


Don’t be influenced by what other people say: ‘that one’s prettier’ or ‘that one looks easier’.You are going to put a lot of energy and enthusiasm into achieving your objective, and you are the only person responsible for your choice, so be quite sure about what you are doing.




Find out how to reach the mountain


Often you can see the mountain in the distance – beautiful, interesting, full of challenges. However, when you try to reach it, what happens? It’s surrounded by roads; forests lie between you and your objective; and what seems clear on the map is far more complicated in reality. So you must try all the paths and tracks until, one day, you find yourself before the peak you intend to climb.




Learn from someone who has been there before


However unique you may think you are, there is always someone who has had the same dream before, and who will have left signs behind that will make the climb less arduous: the best place to attach a rope, trodden paths, branches broken off to make it easier to pass. It is your climb and it is your responsibility too, but never forget that other people’s experiences are always helpful.




Dangers, seen from close to, are controllable


When you start to climb the mountain of your dreams, pay attention to what is around you. There are, of course, precipices. There are almost imperceptible cracks. There are stones polished so smooth by rain and wind that they have become as slippery as ice. But if you know where you are putting your foot, you will see any traps and be able to avoid them.




The landscape changes, so make the most of it


You must, naturally, always keep in mind your objective – reaching the top. However, as you climb, the view changes, and there is nothing wrong with stopping now and then to enjoy the vista. With each metre you climb, you can see a little further, so take time to discover things you have never noticed before.




Respect your body


You will only manage to climb a mountain if you give your body the care it deserves. You have all the time that life gives you, so do not demand too much from your body. If you walk too quickly, you will grow tired and give up halfway. If you walk too slowly, night might fall and you will get lost. Enjoy the landscape, drink the cool spring water, and eat the fruit that Nature so generously offers you, but keep walking.




Respect your soul


Don’t keep repeating, ‘I’m going to do it.’ Your soul knows this already. What it needs to do is to use this long walk in order to grow, to reach out as far as the horizon, to touch the sky. Obsession will not help you in the search for your goal, and will end up spoiling the pleasure of the climb. On the other hand, don’t keep repeating ‘It’s harder than I thought,’ because that will sap your inner strength.




Be prepared to go the extra mile


The distance to the top of the mountain is always greater than you think. There is bound to come a moment when what seemed close is still very far away. But since you are prepared to go still further, this should not be a problem.




Be joyful when you reach the top


Cry, clap your hands, shout out loud that you made it; let the wind (because it is always windy up there) purify your mind, cool your hot, weary feet, open your eyes, blow the dust out of your heart. What was once only a dream, a distant vision, is now part of your life. You made it, and that is good.




Make a promise


Now that you have discovered a strength you did not even know you had, tell yourself that you will use it for the rest of your days; promise yourself, too, to discover another mountain and set off on a new adventure.




Tell your story


Yes, tell your story. Be an example to others. Tell everyone that it’s possible, and then others will find the courage to climb their own mountains.





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