book slips on the knees, the gaze wanders through the landscape,
the voices around are fading away. The velocity of the car makes the
viscosity of the forest play games with the imagery of the mind. A
continuously changing scenario of leaves, branches, trees, brown,
green, yellow and gray, a dazzling multitude of views and gradations.
As mist envelopes the landscape with a liquidity in which forms and
colours fade away, the horizon melts with the sky, as if everything got
swallowed by the inside of a cloud. Like one of those late winter
afternoons in the hills, when the land covered by snow and the cloudy
sky form a continuous body that has no spots, no edges, no curves, no
ends, no beginnings. As if life would be happening on the inner surface
of the globe of earth and the whole sky had moved inside, a round
world of white silence and hidden tales. Closing the eyes suffices to
be carried on this white track to somewhere, somewhen. Keeping the eyes
closed is the trick that reveals the visited time and space to the
mind, the trick that makes seeing possible.
White. Snow. Hills. A little boy playing at the edge of the village.
The feel of the snow on his cold hands, the soft cracking under his
feet, the cold evening zephyr on his cheeks and humid lips, the dancing
snowflakes dying on his eyelids set the rules of the game. The boy is
humming softly at the just born snow creatures, as if whispering them a
wordless tale. Stars start glittering on the sky like a reflection of
the lights getting sharper in the village down the valley. Village dogs
barking their ways around accompany the walk back home. Shoes off,
cheeks wiped, the little boy goes sitting on the floor near the low
table. From near the fire, the smile of a woman fills the candlelight
in the small room with blessings. His mother. The scene gets veiled in
the flavours of the rice soup she is cooking.
A young woman holding her son’s hand reaches the temple. The
formalities are simple, the boy stays, the woman returns to her
village. Fed on the life at the temple, the young boy becomes a young
man. He wants to see the world. Holding a letter from the lama in
his right hand, he leaves. Few countries far away, an old monk lives in
a small, isolated hut. Home. Silence. Humbleness. The old monk never
asked for anything, while always listening to what the things around
him needed. There was calmness and patience about his being, as he
would move around completing his daily rituals and routines with
perfection, without superfluous gestures, until his last breath.
Austerity and objects of rite decorate the martial arts temple advised
by the old monk. The practice reveals its wisdom as a reward for the
diligence towards each action. Celebration. Pilgrims. Demonstration. It
was one of the rare days on which the temple opened its doors to
laymen. The young man performs. His gaze crosses the face of a woman
in the audience. Something about her eyes, her smile reminds him of the
winter evenings in the village of his childhood, the rice soup, his
mother. He decides to see her.
On the busy streets of the metropole, people with all kind of origins
and destinations follow their paths towards
something that shows them a next mark. Crossings. Challenge. Change. He
stays at a hostel near the central market. It
take long until he is charged with running the hostel. A woman from a
nearby city enters his life in a secret, unexpected way. A story of
love and recognition. The memory of the village keeps calling him, as
if there was a reason to return.
In the old house everything feels the same. His mother living her last
days. Her smile was thanking the universe for having her son listen to
her call. He was there with caring presence until her last breath. Not
far is the temple where he grew up. Would the monks and
lamas still be there? They exchange smiles and salutations, briefly
some words. “Is there anything you left unfinished throughout
journey? There is where you need to be”. Return. Village.
The same hostel, the same city, the same work. The woman. As
the children grow up, they learn to play with snow in the hills
outside the city. In any game everything can and might come together.
Time. Departure. Destination. His body falling slowly, surrounded by
love. His mind, like the wind, in a flash revisits places and people he
crossed through the journey. The image of a small, empty castle shows
The Sage: Time... it's not what you think it is.
it the key I'm searching for?