When I was a child he often told me to go outside and play. That was because I studied a lot and spent a lot of time indoors. Between books, which weren't just school books, papers, notebooks and pens, I didn't really understand the suggestion to ‘go outside and play’, because for me studying and playing with words was fun.
It was also during this period that I began to develop a passion for writing. I've already written about people who mean a lot to me here on this platform.
This post is dedicated to some people who encouraged me to play, others with whom I played and others with whom I later learnt that everything should be in balance and harmony. There are still missing a few people I've written about but haven't yet published, so they're not mentioned in this post.
I'll start this post with a little note dedicated to my father, one of the most sensible and thoughtful people I've ever met. The way he thought is also the way I write. With account, weight and measure, I try to make each word so valuable that I don't need to add too many.
From him I learnt the importance of relaxing, doing nothing, or doing something that feels so good that it's like you're doing nothing:
As I broke through the barriers of growing up, a person who had always been there appeared more strongly in my thoughts, like someone you glimpse in the distance, a silhouette through the dense fog of childhood memories. My Grandmother Alzira.
I could recognise her even blindfolded, through her laughter or the funny things she said, which had the power to put everything into perspective, as if all the weight of reality suddenly disappeared. With a ready response, the words came out of her mouth as fast as bullets. I played with her many times, and I still use her humour and ability to transform things, putting them into perspective, in my psychotherapy practice. These skills are not learnt on university benches, they are learnt on the cross roads of life.
With her in mind, yesterday I written this words:
Here
You´re forever absent,
they say, and yet,
You´re here,
Allways present,
Coming back from my childhood,
A living echo,
Like the awakening
Of someone,
Rising from a memo,
Returning from an old house.
Your desire to live forever,
Inside me,
Slowly,
Showing to the world,
How you made me strong,
And happy.
My childhood was filled with my cousin Andreia. She was about my age. Until the age of 6, she and I played together almost every day.
Today she's just a memory, but she's still here, as someone who takes care of us without being noticed. For me this means memories,
And when I needed it most, a decisive person appeared for me. I was immediately enchanted from the first day I saw her, as if there was a kind of magnetism that led me to her. The first book I gave to my wife Catarina was a book by Paulo Coelho called "Maktub". Maktub is a word of Arabic origin that means "it was written".
I need balance and harmony, and Catarina bring them into my life. She knows that she occupies a unique and very important place in this gallery of people I write about, and who are crucial to my writing.
She is a glimpse of perfection:
Some important people I have written about are missing here. Stay tuned for upcoming publications. They all contributeed significantly to my love for life and writing
I end this post with a remarkable poem, written by
, following a challenge I posed to him. Believe me, even without us knowing each other, he got it right.
Love this! Especially the poem dedicated to your grandmother.
Such wisdom! His commitment to an economy of words was especially relevant to my own style.