On a quiet, tree-lined street in Gávea, with no sign or nameplate on the façade, stands Bárbara’s coffee shop. It is not a place of meetings, but of discoveries. In an old house, its walls covered with books and embraced by the gentle sound of blues, jazz, or bossa nova, one can enjoy the finest frappés, cappuccinos, and espressos in the city. The barista is a woman of enchanting and singular personality. Some years ago, she decided to forge an original path: she closed her psychoanalysis practice to open the café. Yet she never abandoned the mysteries of the psyche. Two days a week, without prior notice, at the end of the afternoon, Bárbara climbs onto a small lectern to speak about the sorrows and joys of the soul, free of academic jargon, but with the depth required for the subject to become a tool for living well. The house overflows with people. At times, at any hour of the day, her keen sensitivity prompts her to excuse herself and sit at the table of someone who needs to go where they have never before dared to be within themselves. There is no use asking for advice or requesting consultations. “This is not a therapist’s office. It’s a coffee shop,” the young barista warns. In truth, it is much more than that.

That day, as usual, there was not a single table available. I took the opportunity to settle into the pleasant inner garden of the house, in one of the armchairs facing a comfortable sofa, beneath the broad canopy of a centuries-old mango tree. Perfect for me, since I had planned to end the afternoon immersed in the fantastic universe made possible by literary novels. I ordered a double espresso, took my book from my backpack, and returned to the pages that narrated the adventure of a woman who abandoned a solid social structure, full of stability and security, yet devoid of any evolutionary purpose, in order to live experiences that offered her existential meaning. Driven by a passion without guarantees and destructive in nature, yet one that made her feel alive, she experienced days alternating between immense joy and intense agony. It was an overwhelming and contradictory feeling, filled with ambiguities, nuances, and layers, making it difficult to understand. Was she a strong woman, drawn to the intensity of risk, willing to steer the helm of her own life rather than remain at the mercy of other people’s tastes and whims, or was she a lost and tormented soul searching for something that even she could not define? It was a fascinating read. I resumed the journey from where I had left off, traveling through the landscapes and roads proposed by the author, when I was interrupted by a woman whose features were as beautiful as those described in the novel. Distracted as usual, I had not noticed her. She was seated in the armchair beside me.

Although she was no longer as young as the novel’s protagonist, she retained the freshness of youth despite the many decades that had passed. Her beauty did not come from her skin, already lined and marked by time. It came from the gaze typical of those who reject empty lives. She possessed the same thirst for life as the character in the book. She radiated the desire to deepen experiences and emotions, something impossible for those unwilling to take risks. There are no achievements without risks, the phrase she often repeated was not a passing idea, but a personal mantra. Liz had been like that ever since I met her in college. Forty years had passed. We had both changed considerably. Our bodies and souls were no longer the same. Much had been transformed. What had not changed was the light in her eyes.

Given her overwhelming personality, back then we used to say that Liz was like a locomotive, capable of carrying many people along with her. And that was exactly what she did. Certain that she would have many stories to tell, I put the book back into my backpack and changed my plans for the afternoon. I wanted to listen to that fascinating woman. Liz told me about travels and romances, meetings and farewells, adventures and misadventures. Exotic places and interesting people, absurd and amusing situations. Intense emotions invested in fragile relationships; stable relationships in lives devoid of feeling. She spoke of gains and losses, prisons and escapes. Smiles and disappointments, embraces and abandonments. As she recounted the events and episodes she had lived through, without realizing it, the narrative led her into her own heart. Little by little, the light in her eyes faded, giving way to a heartfelt tear. She confessed that she was living through a period of profound sadness. A sadness so immense that she had believed it existed only in works of fiction.

It was at that moment that the barista approached and asked if she could join the conversation. Since Liz did not know her, she questioned me with her eyes. I nodded in agreement. Bárbara then pulled up a chair, forming a triangle with the armchairs where we were seated. Next, she gently touched the arm of the woman whose luminous eyes were now filled with sadness, asking her to continue from where she had left off.

Liz reminded me of our college days. Even back then, when we were still very young, she used to say that she would never marry. Her parents had died in an accident shortly before the course began. Inácio, her only brother, ten years older than she was, a mature and hardworking young man, took over the family business and allowed the young woman to live life as though tomorrow were merely a detail of little concern. Referring to her brother, she used to say that she had already been born with the man of her life by her side. She needed no other. Therefore, she would never marry. Inácio was her support and her refuge. And so it remained for four decades. She travelled extensively around the world, dated with the same intensity and passion. She loved both men and women, made friendships as though she knew there would always be other puddles to splash in after the rain. Throughout that period, she visited the company’s headquarters only to sign documents she never even read. Her trust in her brother was absolute. She never had any reason to doubt him. There was always more money in her bank account than she could possibly spend. Nevertheless, she spent it without guilt or concern. She felt free and happy.

Life, however, has its twists. Everything changes, almost never with the courtesy of asking permission before imposing life’s bitter reverse upon the sweet reality that had previously been allowed. Tired and ill, her brother decided to retire, handing control of the company over to his son. Liz approved the transition. It seemed like a natural process that required no special concern. She was Igor’s godmother. The nephew she had once carried in her arms as a little boy was now sitting in Inácio’s chair. New documents were signed, different powers were granted. A few months later, she was startled when her bank manager contacted her. Her monthly income had dropped to little more than one fifth of the amount that had been routinely deposited. Her account balance was in the negative, something that had never happened before. When she sought out Igor to understand what was going on, she was met with disdain. Her nephew mocked the irresponsible life his aunt had led for so long. It was time for her to come to her senses. Unlike his father, he would not work to finance his aunt’s extravagances. The new investments the company required, before resorting to bank loans, would be drawn from the shareholders’ dividends, with the greatest burden falling on those who had never worked. In this case, Liz. She turned to her brother in the vain hope that Inácio could persuade his son to abandon the idea that would alter her way of life so brutally and cruelly. Her brother explained that Igor, now president of the company, had full autonomy to determine its direction, especially in an increasingly competitive market. There was nothing he could do. Nor did he wish to. He had prepared his son for this moment over many years. Igor had his complete confidence. The decision had been made, documented, and was irreversible.

These events had taken place nearly two years earlier. Liz did not want to be seen as a frivolous woman. Without question, she had spent a great deal of money over the decades. But it was her money. Although she was far from facing material hardship, she was forced to change her standard and style of living drastically. She had to deal with budgeting, learn moderation, and choose her expenses carefully. That would not have been a problem for Liz if the same financial restraint had applied to Inácio and his son. Neither Igor’s salary nor the dividends distributed to his father under the new guidelines would be reduced. One because he had spent forty years leading the company, the other because he now bore the responsibility of guiding it into the future. She understood the measure’s element of fairness, yet she felt saddened and disappointed for not having been warned beforehand, when she could still have made a different choice. She believed she would be supported and protected by her family. She was mistaken. There had been a lack of consideration, affection, and respect. They denied her the right to choose. She felt deceived and betrayed by those she had loved the most.

Gently, Bárbara brushed away the tear resting on Liz’s face with her fingertip. Then she asked, “What do you intend to do for yourself in the face of these events? If you do not react quickly and appropriately, you will become ill”. The beautiful woman replied that she needed to forgive. She wanted to free herself from the corrosive feeling that constantly brought the situation back to her mind. She longed to live again with the same intensity as before. She pointed out that intensity was not a matter of money, but of taste. The barista welcomed her resolution with an approving smile. Although Liz understood the necessity of that essential step, she admitted that, no matter how much she wanted to forgive, she simply could not. There were days when she even believed she had made progress, only for some event or even an unexpected thought to arise in the very next moment, poisoning her heart once more. She did not know whether it was hatred or resentment. Bárbara explained that they were the same feeling: “Hatred is rejection, aversion, or anger in its vaporous state. Resentment is hatred solidified by age, after being kept inside us for a long time”.

Liz wanted to understand why she found it so difficult to forgive. The barista reflected, “Profoundly disappointing events rarely allow forgiveness to come immediately or within a short period of time. It is a process, a sequence of inner movements capable of untying the knots of rigid thinking and feeling that generate so many misunderstandings. Forgiveness has many nuances and layers. Although the act was committed by someone else, we move forward only to the exact extent that we come to understand more deeply who we are and, in doing so, understand how the event wounded us so profoundly that it left us emotionally in ruins. This understanding is essential, because only then are we ready to begin an existential reconstruction founded upon different and better principles. No one is able to forgive without moving from where they stand. Forgiveness has nothing to do with the other person. It is a gentle and silent journey, full of advances and retreats, along the sacred route between the mind and the heart, capable of leading one to truth, a place unknown to the crowds, a city the wise call peace. There is no greater wealth or power”.

Liz asked her to explain further. The barista clarified, “Every case has its own particularities. You structured your life with Inácio and your family as your pillars and your fortress. When they were no longer there for you, or turned their backs on you, your world collapsed. This happens whenever the foundations of one’s existence are placed outside oneself rather than within. That is what people call chaos. Once the storm has passed, what keeps a person standing are the inner structures built through the hardships of life: the virtues acquired and the truths attained; mental clarity, emotional balance, and steadfastness in one’s actions. Chaos exists to sweep away every disguise, performance, and mirage. If the foundations are not solid and deep, nothing will remain”. Liz wanted to know more about these so-called foundations. Bárbara replied, “A foundation is the traveller’s baggage. It is not what the traveller possesses, but everything that lifts them up and enables them to move forward. It is the core that sustains, strengthens, harmonizes, legitimizes, and provides meaning and direction. The way a person deals with the world is merely a reflection of the inner journey they have already travelled and overcome, even if no one else understands or approves”.

The beautiful woman returned to the question that tormented her. No matter how hard she tried, she could not forgive. Since forgiveness was a process, she needed to understand how it worked. Bárbara explained, “The initial movement is the firm and sincere decision to forgive”. Liz interrupted to point out that she had already made that decision. She insisted she was being honest. The barista reassured her, “I do not doubt that for a moment. The point is that, because forgiveness is born of the will, its construction is mental rather than emotional, as many people believe. That is why they fail. People wait for a pleasant feeling to overthrow the empire of resentment. That feeling will not appear out of nowhere. The love and compassion that will replace resentment or anger are the consequences of a movement that begins in the mind and only afterward finds a home in the heart. The will is the fundamental and sacred seed; then a philosophical arc of understanding and comprehension becomes necessary to create fertile soil, and only then will forgiveness find the proper conditions to blossom in the heart”.

The barista continued, “Forgiveness will not come as a free gift from time, through a magical touch, or after a swim in the sea. It is a construction of consciousness”. The beautiful woman argued that, if she had already chosen to forgive, she must already be in the second stage of the journey: the philosophical arc of understanding and comprehension. Bárbara nodded and anticipated Liz’s next question. “That arc is a mental road that will lead you to truth, where you will find clarity, balance, and strength for ever firmer movements, though never deprived of gentleness and grace. Never forget that truth is both gentle and courageous at the same time. Truth is the source of every transformation”.

The beautiful woman admitted she did not understand this mental road she was supposed to travel. She wondered whether she had been following the wrong path. Bárbara observed her for a few moments, like someone who knew the time had come to reveal the narrow and unwanted door that nevertheless had to be crossed in order for the journey to continue. She called the waiter, asked him to bring cups and a coffee pot, then posed the crucial question: “What do you expect from Inácio or Igor?” Surprised by the question, Liz replied that she expected nothing from either of them. It was an answer still driven by pride and anger, not by truth. The barista recognized the contradiction, waited a few seconds for the beautiful woman to gather her fleeting emotions, and repeated the question, adding, “Before you answer, ask your heart. To censor your own feelings is to flee from yourself. That will keep you far from forgiveness”.

Liz’s eyes shone once again. This time, because of tears. The beautiful woman took a deep breath, clasped her hands in prayer, touched them to her lips, and went to the very centre of herself. When she returned, as though confessing a forbidden desire, she admitted, “I long for the day when Inácio and Igor, full of regret, come to ask for my forgiveness. I imagine that moment every time I remember what they did to me. And that happens almost every day”. Bárbara revealed the door Liz refused to see. “Do you realize that by conditioning your forgiveness upon the actions of other people, over whom you have absolutely no control, you are transferring the centre of power of your own life to them? That feeling of helplessness, born of misguided desires and flawed reasoning, leaves you trapped in suffering. Worse still, the gesture you are waiting for may never happen. The folly of that expectation is what keeps you captive to hatred and tears you apart with silent yet devouring pain. The way you deal with the rigidity of your own thinking and feeling is what keeps you far from forgiveness. Forgiving does not depend on any action by someone else. It is an intensely personal act; in other words, it is a power that belongs exclusively to the individual. It would be absurd to believe that a person’s healing and liberation should depend upon another person’s whim”.

The beautiful woman argued that her brother’s and nephew’s repentance was an indispensable ingredient for forgiveness. It would be an act of justice. The barista replied, “Be just to yourself. Seek your own healing without waiting for anyone’s permission. Free yourself from the suffering that crushes you and fills your days with bitterness”. Liz wiped away her tears and confessed that she felt lost in an existential labyrinth. She did not know which road to follow to reach forgiveness. Bárbara explained, “The doors of existential labyrinths never open outward. The exit always leads us inward, into unknown universes. What you seek is not in the world. It awaits you within your own consciousness”.

The barista was emphatic. “You refuse to burn bridges”. The beautiful woman admitted she did not understand. Bárbara explained, “We are taught to build bridges and fight to keep them standing in our relationships. Without question, that is an important evolutionary principle. However, even the best principles allow for valuable exceptions. There is not a single good reason to preserve bridges that serve only to bring suffering, illusions, and mistreatment. In truth, such behaviour merely dims the light. Darkness and pain prevail and dominate the heart. Without respect, love cannot survive”.

She then concluded, “At times, we must destroy bridges so that certain crossings are no longer permitted, nor even contemplated. It is not always easy to burn bridges we have crossed for a long time, to end connections that have shaped part of who we are. Yet who we have been has brought us to this point; to move forward, we must become someone else. No one can do that without a few demolitions, without which there can be no reconstruction. Breaks are indispensable for closing existential cycles. One story must come to an end before another can begin. Whoever tries to live two stories simultaneously ends up losing themselves in both. No one can embark on a new journey while still held captive by the previous one”.

She waited for the waiter to place the coffee pot and cups on the small table between our armchairs before concluding, “Waiting for a crossing from someone who no longer values or respects you not only nourishes resentment, but also allows life to drain away through the cracks of emotional subjugation and mental rigidity. Although you wish to move, you are rendered incapable by the lack of understanding that afflicts you. Thus, at times, breaks are essential to forgiveness. Destroying the bridges that lead us to harmful places is an urgent act of self-love. It is a movement toward the light that leads to forgiveness, the city of peace”.

Bárbara poured coffee into our cups. Then she excused herself and stood up. She needed to return to the counter. With a kind wink she said, “Today’s coffee is on the house”. She left before Liz could even ask her to stay a little longer. Alone, we drank our coffee slowly and without saying a word. The silence was necessary to make room for thoughts and feelings. The beautiful woman broke the silence, surprising me. She murmured that, contrary to what she had always believed, she had never truly lived a real adventure. Yet every day was perfect for embracing life. There was no greater or better adventure. Liz was speaking of the life she had neglected within herself. Then she whispered, as though sharing a secret: “No one is free while standing upon someone else’s pillars. Chaos is a blessing. Breaks and destructions, at times, are as well. Reinventing oneself is the only adventure capable of transforming reality”. She was determined to learn to rely upon herself as her own pillar, support, and fortress in the face of life’s inevitable reversals from that day forward. It would not be easy, but neither would it be impossible. Life never withholds the exact tools required for its essential works. One simply has to understand where they are kept. There was an incomparable light in her eyes. She gave me an affectionate kiss on the cheek, thanked me for the conversation, and left. She was happy to be departing. It was an unusual journey. The Liz she knew was going in search of the Liz she had yet to discover.

I remembered the novel I had been reading, in which the protagonist abandoned a solid family structure of shallow experiences to cast herself into turbulent yet profound existential waters. Liz had lived many adventures throughout her life. Unlike the fictional heroine, hers had lacked depth. She expected nothing from them except amusement. Inácio had been her safe harbour, where she could dock with a damaged hull and torn sails whenever necessary. Repairs were guaranteed. There were no risks, only protected recklessness. The beautiful woman had taken many journeys without ever truly going anywhere. Then came the storm. Not to destroy her, but to tear away everything that no longer served her and postponed her true adventure. Chaos, as it always does, arrived as an invitation to journey toward unexplored places, toward inner discoveries and victories.

To venture toward the centre of herself, she would have to return to the world, with all the risks inherent to it, an exercise essential to self-knowledge and the refinement of the soul. Without those constant departures and returns, the movement would be nothing more than escapism. Every understanding is useless unless it is tested and refined through action. Liz would learn to become her own safe harbour, where she could find refuge on dark nights before setting sail again the following mornings. This time, she would travel driven by new interests and different priorities. She herself was her destination. So it is for everyone. I looked around and smiled. The coffee shop in Gávea was not a coffee shop, nor was it a therapist’s office. It was a harbour.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic

Madureira is one of the most iconic neighbourhoods in Rio de Janeiro. Home to resilient and hardworking people, it has its own characteristics, cultures, and traditions. And a few enchanted corners. In one of them, located on a quiet, tree-lined street that crosses the train station, lives Aunt Francisca, the faith healer. A thin Black woman; simple, humble, and loving; endowed with unusual wisdom and refined speech. Of indeterminate age , I have known her since childhood, when my father, anxious and desperate, would lead me by the hand in search of improbable solutions for a scatterbrained and disruptive boy , she welcomes everyone who seeks relief from the misunderstandings that cause so much suffering. Her prayers serve, among other wonders, to undo quebrantos, a popular term used to refer to the dense energy that surrounds and harms a person when they are mentally or emotionally vulnerable and unsuspecting, trapped in a conflict-ridden relationship steeped in ill feelings. Hatred, as well as sadness , which is, in truth, a kind of hatred disguised as abandonment , may be among the typical effects of a quebranto. The healer warns everyone who comes to her: “Driving away slow and corrosive energies does not free us from them forever. Constant and effective inner work toward self-improvement is necessary. Good thoughts and good feelings are essential in building the work of oneself. No one attracts what they desire; we attract in exact measure to our affinities. We are akin to what we are”.

Maura had learned to sew from her grandmother. After finishing high school, she went to work at the atelier of a famous fashion designer devoted to haute couture, whose custom-made and exclusive garments catered to a select group of women who could afford to pay dearly for pieces of fabric cut and assembled with mastery. Besides being an excellent seamstress, the young woman possessed innate talent. She had a gift for designing patterns and creating models of rare beauty. Joana, the designer and owner of the brand, recognized her employee’s gift and encouraged her to study patternmaking and enroll in a Fashion degree. By adding technique to talent, Maura expanded her abilities beyond imagined boundaries. Although the creations continued to bear the owner’s signature, the employee became the brand’s principal designer. In dealing with clients, learning their tastes, intentions, and preferences, Joana remained at the forefront, introducing the young woman as her assistant. Although the owner tried to conceal it, the dresses increasingly bore the unmistakable personal touch of her employee.

Their partnership proved prosperous for nearly a decade, until Maura, encouraged by her husband Hugo, a promising lawyer, decided to forge her own path and established her own brand. The separation occurred without apparent trauma. Joana appeared understanding about her former employee’s choice and regarded the end of their professional relationship as something natural and inevitable. She wished her luck and success, as she said on the day of their farewell.

Maura rented a house in Jardim Botânico, one of the city’s upscale neighbourhoods. With little money, but abundant dedication and creativity, she transformed it beautifully. The space became bright and airy, ideal for welcoming clients into the spacious ground-floor room. The workshop would operate upstairs.

Even before the renovations were complete, two seamstresses who had worked for Joana for many years sought her out. They wanted to change jobs. They appreciated the lighthearted and youthful way Maura treated everyone, making no distinctions based on social class, ethnicity, or any other condition inherent to a person or chosen by right. Maura explained that, for ethical reasons, she could not hire them without first speaking to Joana. She did so, and her former employer raised no objections. Gradually she assembled and expanded her team as the business grew. Some of Joana’s clients began frequenting Maura’s atelier, dissatisfied with the new designs, which no longer carried the traces of the young designer’s style. It was not difficult for them to deduce who had been responsible for the graceful lines of their dresses over the previous years. Maura’s reputation spread beyond the walls of parties and into the intimacy of afternoon teas. Her brand grew to the point of rivaling that of her former employer. Every penny earned was reinvested into the business. Just when the dream seemed tangible and real, everything began to collapse. Many orders were canceled without explanation. Clients vanished as though fleeing a contagious disease. They no longer answered phone calls or replied to messages. Bewildered by the succession of events devoid of reason or explanation, Maura drifted from despair into depression. She could no longer pay salaries or rent. She was drowning in debt. If nothing changed quickly, she would have to close the atelier. She felt defeated. Worse still, she could not identify where she had failed or what mistake she had made.

One of the seamstresses, empathizing with the designer’s suffering, proposed taking her to Aunt Francisca’s house. Maura thought to herself, without saying anything, that a prayer, even if it helped in no way, would do no harm. They arranged to visit her the following morning. However, on the previous evening, when Hugo returned from work, he brought shocking news. A malicious campaign of defamation was underway. During a hearing he had attended that afternoon at the courthouse, he encountered one of Maura’s clients, who was also a lawyer. In a venomous remark, the woman spoke of money supposedly embezzled from the atelier of the former employer and used to finance the opening of the young designer’s business. As if that were not enough, she advised Hugo to open his eyes, for his wife was allegedly having an affair with the husband of her former employer. The proof, she hissed, was that Joana had recently divorced. Maura, she claimed, had been the cause of the marital breakdown.

That day, I had arrived early at Aunt Francisca’s house. I had gone for no particular reason. I had simply felt a strong and sudden urge to visit her. When I entered, she seemed to be waiting for me, seated in her worn blue armchair, “the colour of Our Lady’s mantle,” as she liked to say. She greeted me with a warm smile and confirmed my impression: “I was expecting you,” she remarked, treating the extraordinary as though it were commonplace. Astonished, I did not understand. Aunt Francisca smiled again, pointed toward the simple altar adorned with images of Master Jesus, Mother Mary, and Saint George, which stood in the nearly unfurnished room, save for a few white wooden stools upon which visitors sat to speak with the healer, and instructed me: “Sit on one of the stools, close your eyes, and remain in prayer”. Understanding even less, I was about to ask for an explanation when she calmed my heart: “Soon you will understand”. That was how I became an intruder in Maura’s misfortune.

“It is all lies,” the young designer declared during the only moment she managed to speak without crying. I had no doubt about her sincerity. Aunt Francisca’s gaze confirmed that truth. Yet the former employer narrated her story so skilfully and with such abundant detail that it was difficult not to believe the cruel and absurd version of events that had never happened. Some people possess such extraordinary power to manipulate lies that we sometimes feel no one will ever believe the truth. Maura had spent weeks frightened, desperate, and sad, but now she felt anger. Great anger. The atelier was on the verge of closing. She would lose everything. What she had built with immense effort had collapsed from one moment to the next, without warning or reason. She was determined to take revenge. Through clenched teeth, she vowed to be merciless. Immediately, the healer corrected her: “If you do that, only then will you truly lose everything. The one who will take it from you is your own revenge”. Then she added: “Whoever possesses themselves has lost nothing”.

Dissatisfied, Maura asked in an ironic tone whether she should offer the other cheek. Unshaken, Aunt Francisca nodded and confirmed: “That is the right thing to do”. The young woman declared that she would not allow herself to become a punching bag. The healer corrected her: “I did not say that”. Furrowing her brow, she said firmly: “To offer the other cheek is to present light to those who know only darkness”. She paused before concluding: “Whoever repays evil with evil hands over their own heart as currency. The best revenge is forgiveness. One must free oneself from hatred in order to be happy again. Being happy is the best revenge. No one achieves this without first forgiving”.

Maura argued that the clients would not even listen to what she had to say. There was urgency. Bills were piling up, and the dream was on the verge of turning sour. She needed to cry out to the world. She had a truth to tell and needed to make herself heard. Aunt Francisca explained: “There is no need to tell the truth to everyone. Repeating the truth to all is an invented necessity. Live the truth in every gesture, step, and gaze. Actions will always reach farther than words. Truth is not discourse, but attitude. It is a pillar of conscience and lives in those who breathe in peace. Become the truth through the way you live. Make truth a silent characteristic of your identity. Truth has no need for commotion. Fear and hatred are loud, cowardly, aggressive, and anxious. Truth is courageous, calm, quiet, and knows how to wait. Lies require complicated plots. For truth, a simple yes or no is enough”. As though stating the obvious, she shrugged, smiled, and concluded: “Truth is like that because it knows it is truth”.

The designer confessed that bankruptcy loomed near. If the clients did not return to the atelier, it would be impossible to avoid ruin. She could find no other solution than seeking them out… “To convince them to change their minds,” the healer interrupted, completing Maura’s reasoning as though exposing an inconsistency. Without understanding, the designer widened her eyes as if asking, what else can I do?

Aunt Francisca took the young woman’s hands affectionately and reminded her: “Only fools waste their lives based on someone else’s opinion”. Then she reflected: “Life is full of pivotal moments and, therefore, transformative ones. These are delicate situations because of the risks involved. On one side, we can allow others to decide whether we will stay or leave; whether we deserve our share of their gifts, favours, and beliefs or not. On the other, we can build who we are and where we want to go. Any existential movement, when it concerns a right, requires no one’s permission. These crossroads define the degree of maturity, moral integrity, and personal courage. They determine who will be the author of their own story and who will settle for being a mere character in someone else’s plot”.

Maura swallowed the arguments she intended to use in rebuttal. They were too shallow in the face of the responsibility that, at that moment, awakened within her. She admitted that if she accepted dependence on two dozen clients to define her life, she would be surrendering control of her destiny to others. She would be guided by a will other than her own. She did not want to live that way. She said she did not deserve it. No one deserved it, she added. The healer reminded her: “Each person is where they place themselves, or where they allow themselves to be placed. You may be mistress of yourself, or live like a train traveling on random tracks”. The young woman asked how she could build an authentic path within the existing situation. It was then that Aunt Francisca called on me to see whether I could help in some way.

Although I made every effort to remain in prayer before the altar, I had heard the conversation. I could not avoid it. The healer knew this. She had not seated me there to pray. Maura could not depend on her clients reconsidering their opinions to define her life. That would make her a prisoner of the world’s whims. She needed to forge a new path based on her talent and effort, without being at the mercy of anyone’s moods or malice. She had experience in patternmaking, design, and sewing. She simply needed to chart a different professional course, one in which the target would shift from a specific and restricted center to the margins, always broad, sometimes forgotten, sometimes despised. It is always possible. A solution occurred to me: betting on prêt-à-porter. The term means ready-to-wear. These are high-quality clothes designed by creative designers and manufactured on an industrial scale with the purpose of making elegant clothing accessible, in contrast to the exclusivity of expensive made-to-measure haute couture garments. The proposal is to dress well, with elegance and originality, at low cost. By offering access to many, she would no longer be trapped in the hands of a few.

For an instant, Maura’s eyes sparkled at the idea, only to dim in the next second. The rent for the house in Jardim Botânico was expensive. At that moment, she had no way of bearing the cost. Furthermore, because it was located in a residential neighbourhood, it was forbidden to set up a factory there, even a small one. In truth, she had no means of paying rent anywhere at that time. Aunt Francisca’s eyes sought mine. There was an unspoken request in the light of that gaze. It was neither difficult to understand nor to answer. I owned an empty warehouse a few blocks away, where the printing division of the advertising agency in which I had been a partner for many years had once operated. When the partnership dissolved, the property had come into my possession. For a long time, I had unsuccessfully tried to rent or sell the warehouse. Since then, it had brought me nothing but taxes and maintenance costs. I smiled at the healer and proposed to the young designer that we sign a five-year lease agreement. There would be a grace period with no rent due during the first twenty-four months. After that, she would pay me the market rate. It would be good for both of us. Maura thanked me for the offer. Indeed, it was excellent, but she argued that she lacked the funds to set up the factory, hire employees, and purchase the machines.

If Maura sewed clothes, Aunt Francisca sewed lives. The healer smiled slyly at me. I shook my head no, and she replied with a yes in her eyes. I drew a deep breath, like someone who cannot believe he is about to take the next step, and, in the measured voice of one who reasons while understanding what he says, I proposed a partnership to Maura. She would contribute the design and sewing expertise, while I would invest in purchasing the machines and setting up the factory. I would also use my experience as an advertising executive to create a prêt-à-porter brand. Few times in my life have I seen a smile as beautiful as the one that lit up the young woman’s face. She was back in the game. In an unimaginable way, I too was returning to creation, an old passion. That was when I understood the reason I had gone to Madureira that day. Dreams do not grow old.

We exchanged phone numbers so that we could speak over the next few days. We had much to discuss. Maura asked Aunt Francisca to bless her. The elderly woman explained that the prayer had already been made and answered: “The best revenge is to live well. When you understood that, the quebranto was undone. Your smile is proof of victory over the impositions of the world, possible only because you overcame the bad inclinations that were consuming you”. The designer felt well and renewed. She wanted to pay for the prayer. Aunt Francisca smiled and concluded the consultation: “Go to the altar and thank Our Lord Jesus Christ. To Him belong all honour and glory. To me, nothing is owed”. Then she asked for the next person in line to come in.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic

I was missing Sedona, the small town nestled in the mountains of Arizona, where Starry Song lived, the shaman who had the gift of preserving his people’s ancestral wisdom through the lyrics of the songs he sang or the stories he told with rare mastery. I carried within me an inner discomfort, like a kind of mild anguish, without any apparent explanation. The stretch of road from Flagstaff, cutting through forests of pines and oaks along cliffs of unmatched beauty, had always brought me a pleasant feeling, as if my heart anticipated that something good was about to happen. Yet what is genuinely good almost never arrives without effort or the need to face an inner challenge. This time was no different.

I was welcomed with Starry Song’s usual serene joy and strong embrace. After leaving my backpack and suitcase in the guest room, we sat on the porch cooled by the gentle breeze of autumn afternoons. We were chatting about trivial matters when we were surprised by Kenai, a young man of about twenty, whose parents had long been friends of the shaman. The boy needed to talk. He was very upset. Kenai worked at one of the region’s luxurious resorts to help support his family. Besides covering basic household expenses, he contributed so his parents could pay for his sister’s university education, she being a few years older than him. Once she graduated, it would be her turn to give back so that Kenai could attend college, should he wish. Though he belonged to a family with scarce financial resources, good feelings, values, and noble principles served as the bond that kept that small nucleus united as if in a single heart. An immeasurable wealth. Despite living in a house where meeting basic material needs was a daily struggle, Kenai lived in a home where love overflowed and dignity was part of the air he breathed. He was a gentle, calm, and cheerful young man.

Kenai told us that Peter, the manager and the owner’s son, had suddenly begun treating him rudely for no apparent reason. They were about the same age. At first, the boss assigned him the most unpleasant tasks, such as dealing with garbage and cleaning the bathrooms in common areas. Where there had once been rotation to avoid overburdening anyone, these duties became exclusively Kenai’s. Although he noticed the unexplained change in the distribution of tasks, he carried them out without complaint. I interrupted to argue that in some companies, similar practices are used to evaluate an employee’s level of commitment. In some cases, only those with greater potential for professional growth are tested. The young man explained that for a time he had even considered that possibility. However, the manager’s behaviour escalated in harshness. The criticisms were excessive and senseless. Some bordered on rudeness. In meetings, he would always make some sarcastic or mocking remark, invariably targeting Kenai, sarcasm is a disguised form of aggressiveness in which humour masks the intent to hurt; mockery shows contempt, a vile desire to humiliate through ridicule. Although he had learned that the final destination of evil lies with the sender and never with the recipient, he felt uncomfortable with the recurring way he was being treated. Kenai emphasized that each person is where they place themselves or allow others to place them. If things are not good, one must leave without delay, unless it is possible to change the nature of the relationship. Relationships without limits inevitably become abusive and harmful. Boundaries are essential tools for respect, self-respect. A fundamental gesture of dignity and therefore indispensable to self-love. Starry Song nodded in approval.

The young man confessed he could not understand Peter’s behaviour. He had already tried to talk to him, without success. He had been met with irritation and disdain. No matter how diligently he performed his tasks, the work was never good enough in the eyes of the hotel heir. He did not understand why he had not yet been fired. On the other hand, in recent days he had been considering the possibility of resigning. A delicate decision, as it might harm his sister’s studies, whom he loved deeply, if it took him time to find another job. He had come seeking Starry Song’s advice.

While listening carefully to Kenai’s afflictions and uncertainties, the shaman filled his unmistakable red-stone pipe with tobacco. When the story ended, he lit it, puffed a few times to ignite the tobacco, looked at the young man with deep respect, and said: “Doubt is a fog; every decision defines a path. No one chooses a good route before clearly seeing the reasons for their own movements, as well as where they intend to go”. He watched the smoke dance before his eyes for a moment and continued: “Calm your heart so you can see what you need to see. Hurry, irritation, and anxiety close the window of lucidity. Consciousness withdraws. Distorted emotions obscure the best solutions. If the traveller is lost at the crossroads, it is because the road has not yet revealed itself to him. Not everything on the journey is just walking. In every journey there is a time to be still, to observe, and to understand. That is when the path reveals itself to the traveller. Then he will be ready to move on”.

The first star appeared in the distance, standing out against the dark cloak of night. Kenai glanced worriedly at his watch. Every Friday, at the head of a country band, he sang in a warehouse that, on weekends, among the enormous unfinished works of a visual artist, transformed into a delightful bar and an improvised stage. A pleasant place for expressions of talent and gatherings. He wanted to continue the conversation, which was far from over. But he had a commitment. Starry Song asked if we could attend the show. The young man said yes with a beautiful, joyful smile. As he passed through the gate, he mounted his motorcycle, nicknamed Frankenstein by the townspeople, as it had been built from discarded parts of different brands, reborn through Kenai’s hands, and rode off.

I remarked that the young man, though not conventionally handsome, possessed incredible magnetism and undeniable charisma. From his posture and ideas, it was not hard to recognize his talent for dealing with difficulties, always in a gentle and serene way. He seemed capable of drawing on great doses of creativity and boldness to find unimaginable solutions. The motorcycle was a perfect example. The ancestral features of his Navajo heritage, along with his unique way of dressing, speaking, and acting, gave him unmatched charm. Above all, he had something precious: a good heart to guide his steps. The shaman nodded. I confessed that I had often witnessed similar scenes of persecution in different situations, never understanding the reason for such behaviour. I asked if Starry Song knew why the wealthy Peter was persecuting humble Kenai. The shaman nodded again without adding a word.

It took us a while to reach the venue. We spent a good time talking about other matters. Shortly before leaving, I mentioned that one of my former partners, from the time we ran an advertising agency, had, after our split, leveraged the company to become one of the largest in Latin America. He had accumulated several international awards and amassed a great fortune. Starry Song looked at me deeply and drew the bow: “Why is that information important to our conversation?” I brushed it off, saying it was mere curiosity. Then the good warrior released the arrow: “I sensed a tone of bitterness and regret in your voice”. Somewhat uncomfortable, I insisted he was mistaken. Nothing more was said. It didn’t need to be. The arrow had already pierced my conscience.

When we arrived at the warehouse, the street was full of parked cars. We left the shaman’s worn pickup in a distant spot. As a wise alchemist of souls used to say, chance does not exist. Nearby, we saw a beautiful convertible Mercedes park. A very handsome young man, tall, well-built, elegantly dressed, stepped out of the car accompanied by two women who looked like they had come straight from a fashion catalogue. Like someone carrying trophies in human form, he walked with a beauty on each side. From another car, two burly men emerged and followed them at a safe distance, ready to intervene if necessary. They were security guards. As if the scene were important for understanding the story correctly, the shaman said that the handsome young man was Peter, the owner’s son, with whom Kenai had recurring problems.

The place was fantastic. Minimalist and elegant at the same time. When we entered, a beautiful young woman was singing a pleasant song that required a rare vocal tone. She performed it with incredible perfection. Heavily applauded, as she stepped off the stage she was embraced by Kenai, with whom she exchanged a passionate kiss. Then it was the young Navajo’s turn to command the stage, accompanied by a band whose members were his childhood friends. He sang half a dozen cheerful songs, making people dance with joy. At the end, he was enthusiastically applauded by the audience. I praised the quality of the songs. Starry Song revealed they were his own compositions.

I noticed that both Peter’s table and Kenai’s table were full of people. However, I had the clear impression that they were gathered there for different reasons. Expressions and behaviour made that evident. While around Kenai there was laughter, friendship, and camaraderie, around Peter there prevailed formality, business, and an unmistakable tension. One table was driven by virtues and mutual admiration; the other by interests and a staged relaxation. I also noticed that Peter, though trying to hide it, watched Kenai with strange attention, as if caught in a kind of fascination.

When I told the shaman what I had observed, he asked me a subtle, concise, and precise question: “Do you understand?” I admitted I did not. Nothing in that context seemed logical enough to explain the relentless persecution of Kenai. Although the two young men frequented the same bar, they inhabited different worlds. Each with his own tastes and flavours, his delights and difficulties. There was nothing wrong with that, I argued. Starry Song looked at me firmly and revealed the reason for Peter’s behaviour with a single word: “Envy”.

I strongly disagreed. Even though Kenai was an extremely virtuous young man, he was poor and lived a very simple life, without any material luxuries. On the other hand, Peter had been born into a millionaire family, with access to the most sophisticated consumer goods imaginable. All he had to do was want something to have it. Kenai was a low-level employee of Peter. It made no sense at all for envy to be the driving force behind that persecution. There had to be another reason. Starry Song shook his head in disapproval and explained: “Being bothered by what someone else has is the most well-known type of envy. However, there is another, deeper kind of envy, and for that very reason, it is almost never perceived: the bitterness of not being who the other person is. And this says nothing about money, fame, or social power. It speaks of virtues and talents; dignity in the way one treats others and peace in the heart. It relates to a great capacity to forgive, to love, to have friends, to be happy, and to move forward. It reveals those who already understand and live genuine freedom. To be much, it is not necessary to have much. It is necessary to understand the priorities of life, and to truly live them. It requires lucidity, emotional balance, and strength of movement. Few are ready. A wealth desired by many, a treasure that money cannot buy”.

How could someone who could have almost everything envy someone who had almost nothing? It was hard to understand. That was not how I had learned about envy. Starry Song stood up and asked me to follow him. We passed by the counter and entered the kitchen. An elderly woman with short white hair welcomed him warmly. It was Doris, a longtime friend and cleaning assistant at the establishment. She immediately told the staff she would take a short break. Removing her apron, she grabbed three beers from the freezer, handed one to each of us, and led us outside the warehouse. At the shaman’s request, after just a few minutes of conversation, she told me that she had worked for a long time in Peter’s parents’ mansion when he was still a child. The father, as a partner in one of the casinos in Las Vegas, was almost never at home. The mother was always absent, dazzled by the frivolities of luxury. The boy grew up disoriented by the purchasing power of money. Expensive things and never-denied whims served to compensate for the lack of emotional warmth in that family. A routine of shallow feelings led him to trample principles and people. Important virtues such as humility, simplicity, gentleness, compassion, selflessness, moderation, among others, having never been taught, seemed to him nothing more than laughable theories preached by failed philosophers and obtuse religious figures. Peter had never built anything. Without any effort, he had always bought or been given everything he wanted.

Then Starry Song concluded: “Without realizing it, this created an inner emptiness without apparent explanation, along with a sad inversion of values guiding his conduct and choices. Even without understanding the exact dimension of his own perception, he recognizes something in Kenai that is more precious than everything he possesses. He feels it but does not understand where it comes from. Peter is a construction with expensive ornaments, beautiful contours, and no foundation. That is why, from an emotional and existential standpoint, he is extremely fragile and unbalanced in the face of life’s adversities. Kenai is simple, but he has solid pillars. This gives him tenacity and consistency to deal with the inherent difficulties of daily life. Pillars are built according to the virtues added to one’s personality. They are the beauties of the soul. This is not for sale. It must be earned. Peter wants this treasure, but he cannot win or buy it. The young millionaire has not learned the meaning of the verb to conquer. So, by instinct and impulse, he decides to destroy what he does not know how to possess. The persecution is unconscious, driven by a feeling he does not understand and therefore cannot control. Envy guides him, just as currents and tides guide ships without a rudder or a compass”.

At that moment, Kenai arrived. He had noticed our absence and, worried, came to check if we were alright. But that was not all. He told us about a disturbance that had just occurred in the bar. Peter’s father had arrived looking for his son. They had a heated conversation. People nearby overheard that they were arguing over a huge gambling debt the young millionaire had accumulated in Las Vegas casinos. The father was being pressured by his partners to settle the debt, which he had previously ignored. He was furious at the contradiction of, as a gambling financier, seeing his son behave like the reckless gamblers he so despised, whom he called losers.

With no need to speak, the shaman exchanged a meaningful glance with Kenai, as if asking whether he had understood. The young man nodded. Peter was trying, through erratic and impulsive movements, to fill the existential void he felt, but was unable to understand it because he did not know the origin of the feelings that drove him. Despite having almost everything money could buy, something was missing within him that disoriented, unbalanced, and weakened him. He felt it but did not understand it. He looked again at Starry Song and asked if the issue was that Peter perceived in him, Kenai, the existential pillars he himself lacked. A perception without understanding makes us act through impulses and instincts, movements driven by fear that take us in the opposite direction of the light. The shaman’s silence confirmed his reasoning. Kenai had understood the feeling that fuelled Peter’s persecutory behaviour.

Kenai showed compassion, stating that Peter was a victim of his lack of self-knowledge. Starry Song agreed: “Without a doubt. This understanding is extremely useful so that you do not harbour resentment toward him. Because of the imprisonment it causes, when we nurture resentment, we remain supporting actors in someone else’s life. Because of the freedom it offers, forgiveness brings us back to the leading role in our own lives”. He paused and added: “However, it is necessary to defend yourself from evil. His behaviour has been escalating in imbalance and aggression. He does not fire you because he feeds on humiliation and contempt, empty sensations of false superiority. He is still far from understanding the harm that afflicts him. At this moment, it is advisable that you distance yourself from Peter and, therefore, from your current job”.

Kenai admitted he had been considering that decision for a few days. The shaman’s words confirmed what his intuition had been whispering to him. He wanted to form a band with his girlfriend and some friends. The success they had in Sedona could resonate throughout the world. However, it was a difficult journey that, even when successful, usually takes time to mature. For now, he needed something immediate to support himself and help his family until music showed whether it would become a career or remain, no less important, part of the essential art of his life. At the same time, he would set up a motorcycle workshop in his garage. He already had good experience with that. Between repairs, he would build other Frankensteins to sell. He confessed that the mere idea of change already filled his heart with joy and enthusiasm. After a period of stillness and reflection at life’s crossroads, the path was revealing itself to Kenai. Not the destination, but the direction to follow. In this way, it became possible to adjust the route and course of his personal story. A movement always necessary. Starry Song curved his lips in a faint smile of approval. The young man thanked us and returned to the warehouse. He wanted to share his decision and invite his girlfriend and friends into the adventure that was beginning.

Resilience is the virtue that, despite the harsh circumstances and pressures that life sometimes imposes, does not allow us to be deformed by them. On the contrary, through difficulties, we reinvent, rebuild, and refine ourselves. Then we reach unimaginable places, within and beyond ourselves. Referring to Kenai, on the way back to the house, I remarked that the young man had understood the lesson life had proposed. Thus, he would be able to go beyond himself. Without taking his eyes off the road, Starry Song returned the question: “And you, did you understand?” I replied that I had learned a lot about the deceptive traps of dense feelings such as envy. It would be easier to recognize it when it arose in me and, in doing so, to master it before it mastered my heart and my choices. The shaman pulled the pickup over to the side of the road, looked at me seriously, and replied: “Did you really understand?” After a moment of confusion, my conscience brought back the comment I had made earlier about my former partner’s success after our business split. I admitted that his petty and selfish behaviour, which had caused the breakup, made it difficult for me to have good feelings toward him. I confessed that his success bothered me. However, it was not envy. The feeling existed because I had been betrayed and harmed at the time.

Starry Song clarified: “At that moment, you made a choice. Right or wrong, take responsibility for your decision and move forward. Never remain tied to regret over a mistaken choice or to the behaviour of others. Experiences are schools or prisons, depending on how we deal with them. Feelings as well”. He furrowed his brow, as if to say he would not elaborate further, and added: “What we lack is not what was left behind, but what we have not yet accomplished. Understanding this truth makes the root of maturity sprout”.

He paused before continuing: “Without this understanding, no one can leave the crossroads where they stand. They will drown in feelings that, because they are considered of low standard, they will deny their presence and influence. Envy is one of the most difficult feelings to admit because it is treated as a mark of personal inferiority. However, all feelings pass through our depths. The best and the worst. Without exception. The problem is that, through denial, envy moves from the heart to the mind through the dark alleys of misunderstanding, like a shadow in the night of consciousness. No one defends themselves against what they believe does not exist. Ignored feelings gain power to distort reasoning and behaviour. Without the humility required to admit their presence and influence, it becomes impossible to transform them into something better. Worse still, the individual remains captive in someone else’s life, to which they have bound themselves through a corrosive connection. This keeps them on the margins of their own life, a typical stagnant and self-destructive behaviour, the cause of much pain, more common than many believe”.

I remarked that time would help me process my feelings. Only then would I be able to reprocess that situation and reach a better understanding. The shaman corrected me: “Time does not change or fix anything. It may distance the pain, but it does not extinguish it. Feelings do not change like the seasons. Not rarely, many people go through an entire lifetime without undoing the harm they cause themselves. They prove incapable of dissolving the bitterness of poorly processed experiences, growing accustomed to suffering as if there were no cure, or waiting for a magical day that will never come”. He paused briefly and continued: “As ancestral peoples taught, where there is will, there is a path. Everything else is excuses and escapes. There is no replacement of one feeling by another without an effective inner movement first. What dissolves a dense feeling is the firm and conscious decision to no longer carry it within. Will is the primordial force that pulls one out of the mire of stagnant and painful days. It is what drives the search for a better understanding of unpleasant events, to look at them from a perspective previously unimagined, yet revealing and redeeming. Then, from a better understanding, and only then, the feeling transforms into another, dissolving bitterness and offering clarity. The heart finds a new direction to move forward with balance, firmness, and serene joy. Otherwise, even if one recites refined theories to justify distorted reasoning and erratic behaviour, one will remain like a lost traveller at the crossroads of misunderstood feelings”. Then he ended with the uncomfortable question: “Did you understand?”

I nodded. However, seeing a door does not mean one is ready to walk through it. As anticipated at the beginning of this text, what is genuinely good almost never comes without effort or the need to face an inner challenge. No one returns from Sedona the same as when they arrived. This time was no different.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic

It had been a difficult day at work. Among several problems common to the daily life of a company, I was dealing with the growing demands of Fátima, a talented illustrator of a series of children’s books written by various Brazilian authors, still unpublished. It was her responsibility to create the images that populated the narratives of the different dreamlike universes. She did so with rare skill. She held several awards for her excellent work. The first published titles had been a great success. Many stories were still waiting in the pipeline of editions. Texts that needed refinement, drawings awaiting creation. From the original idea to the final work, there is a long and laborious journey. The fact was that, each day, the talented illustrator became more demanding, interfering in the functioning of the publishing house in sectors that were not related to her field of activity. She argued that everything in the publishing house was interconnected and, therefore, affected the way her work was seen by the public. Thus, in her understanding, she was merely exercising a legitimate right. She demanded changes in methods and attitudes, always with the threat of withdrawing from the project already underway if her guidelines were not followed. She imposed changes in the texts, in the font used in layout, in the type of paper used for printing, and much more. These were responsibilities that did not belong to her to decide. Although all sectors of the company were connected, not all decisions were pertinent to her. Other professionals were responsible for their respective areas, according to their specific skills. As she had great prestige and was sought after in the market by several publishers, out of fear of losing her, even though I considered her demands unfounded, I always gave in. In the routine of employees and collaborators, an unconscious care to always please her took hold, even if it displeased everyone. Despite the success, I was not well.

I was thinking about this as I walked through the cross streets lined with trees in Gávea, heading toward Bárbara’s café, the barista who had given up her psychology clinic without, however, abandoning the mysteries of the psyche. Located in an old and well-preserved mansion, it served espressos, cappuccinos, and frappés with unique flavours. Although there was no sign or lettering on the door, the place was always filled, with tables occupied in its various rooms, decorated with bookshelves and harmonized with the sound of jazz, soul, and bossa nova, audible yet soft, so that no one needed to raise their voice to be heard. The inner garden, with sofas and armchairs shaded by a leafy mango tree, was the perfect setting for afternoons of reading. Twice a week, in the early evening, without any academic formalism, but with the simple and necessary depth within everyone’s reach, Bárbara gave brief talks about the pains and pleasures of the soul. At times, at any hour of the day, upon noticing an anguish on the verge of eruption, she would sit at a table to offer words capable of awakening flashes of clarity and doses of serenity. No matter how complicated a problem may seem, where there is lucidity and balance, there will be a good path. However, it was not possible to request a consultation. The barista chose the interlocutor. She brushed it off by saying that this was not a clinic, but a café. In truth, it was much more.

There was no free table. I went to the counter to wait. To my surprise, I ran into Maria Clara, a school friend of one of my daughters. She smiled when she saw me. It had been years since I had last seen her. The young woman said she was married to Gabriel, a doctor she had met when they were both students in medical school. They had three small children. Although she had also graduated, she had specialized in general surgery after a difficult training period in the emergency room of a busy public hospital, she had left her career to dedicate herself to her family. This allowed her husband to devote himself more intensely to his profession. In addition to being intelligent and charming, he had become a sought-after ophthalmic surgeon. They had acquired a beautiful apartment in Leblon, one of the most upscale neighbourhoods in the city. The children studied at an excellent school, and every year they travelled abroad. She had the life of a princess, she said.

“Princesses usually have a sad joy,” we heard from a voice behind the counter. It was Bárbara. The barista served us two espressos as a courtesy for the wait and, before I could make any mention of the evident contradiction in the expression sad joy, she explained: “I refer to the joy of living the dreamed world, contrasted with the disappointment of not finding within oneself the feelings expected upon arriving at the desired destination. Then, an incomprehensible pain arises”. Maria Clara said she did not understand. The barista clarified: “Outwardly, everything perfect. Inwardly, nothing satisfied”. The young mother admitted that, in fact, there was in her a senseless sadness. She suffered from depression but was medicated. Although she knew there was no pharmaceutical capable of curing the pains of the soul, she claimed there was no reason to feel sad. She would soon be well. She had a perfect life. Bárbara shrugged and reflected: “Perhaps you are missing from yourself. Then, everything will be too little”.

The waiter interrupted us to inform that a table had become available. He asked if we would sit together. We agreed. That conversation needed to continue. Bárbara joined us. After we were seated, the barista went straight to the point: “Princesses choose their clothes, shoes, jewellery, the brand of the car, and the restaurant where they will have lunch with their friends. In some cases, even where the family will go on the weekend. In short, they have enormous power to decide about existential trifles”. Maria Clara asked her to explain better. The barista clarified: “The issue lies in the power to decide about one’s own destiny. I am not referring to the destination of summer vacation. I am talking about living according to one’s own perceptions and choices regarding the direction one wishes to go beyond appearances and superficial decisions. In the person one plans to become and the internal revolutions one needs to carry out. I am speaking of emotional balance, mental clarity, and material autonomy. The maturity of the soul requires the rupture of all types of dependency. Until that happens, the mold will be someone else’s model, never the choice of one’s own way. The fear of losing something or someone we consider fundamental to our well-being inhibits the growth of who we originally are. We end up yielding beyond the limits of personal identity. We become someone other than ourselves. The insistence on a lifestyle that does not align with the essence that animates and expresses it, although often within a socially desired and considered ideal standard, is also a cause of depression”.

She took a sip of coffee and commented: “If I have a wonderful life, why do I feel sad? Princes and princesses ask themselves this every day. Feelings that seem to make no sense are messengers of unknown truths. What so perfectly completes one person may not fit another. It is not a matter of number and size, but of seasoning and flavour”.

Maria Clara seemed uncomfortable. She said the barista was flirting with rudeness. Bárbara asked that her words, although hard and strong, not be received with any trace of aggression. That was not her intention: “I merely propose lines of reasoning that, by opposing ideas, concepts, and standards previously accepted without much questioning, tear the colourful fabric of a reality with pleasant features. However, behind it hide contradictory feelings, incapable of sustaining deeper moments of happiness. As long as the origin of the pain remains misunderstood, despite a life with perfect outlines, this sad joy will persist as a reminder of the forgotten essence”.

The young mother shook her head in denial. She loved and admired her husband. She loved her children and lived the dream of a perfect and comfortable life. She lacked nothing, she assured. Bárbara fell silent for a few moments. She recalled the teaching of an old alchemist of souls who said that until you have yourself, nothing will be enough. However, that had already been said in another way during the conversation. She slowly took a long sip of coffee, as if weighing the power of her next words, and finally decided on the necessary blow: “You went through sleepless nights of study for college exams, you interned on the brink of despair in the emergency rooms of public hospitals, only to, in the end, merely find a husband and become a mother..”., she paused deliberately before finishing the question: “…or is there something equally valuable that was left behind?” There was a silence like a confession. Without waiting for the suppressed answer, the barista reminded her: “It is necessary to reclaim what was abandoned within yourself. No one abandons a gift in vain. We all have a gift. Yours is to heal. Every gift reveals the sacred love of a soul for life and better equips the individual to climb the mountains of existence”. Then, referring to the apparent conflict between family and profession, she concluded: “Does one choice cancel the other, or, in many cases, is there room for a harmonious coexistence between interests of such important value?”

As if her soul were laid bare, Maria Clara looked at her, unsettled. The barista continued: “Each individual must trace the map of their spiritual development. It is not easy, for the sacred must manifest itself in the ordinary situations of daily life, not only within churches and temples as many imagine. A person evolves by what they do, never by what they think or feel, no matter how noble their thoughts and feelings may be. The degree of difficulty increases when we realize that there are no two identical maps. If perceptions and sensitivities are different, and they always are, the routes must also be. Therefore, no comparison is sensible”. The young wife asked her to speak a little more about this so-called map. Bárbara explained: “The map of spiritual development is an original project of self-construction. There is nothing wrong with those who spend their mornings by the seaside, between Pilates classes, conversations with other mothers at the school gate, and the reading of good novels or delightful teas in the middle of the afternoon. They can follow their children’s development more closely and are always well-disposed at night. Not without reason, many desire the routine of these peaceful days. Not for lack of good reasons would they consider it madness to give up this wonderful tranquillity in exchange for the stress and daily anguish of trying to save lives bathed in blood, bodies pierced by bullets or broken in accidents. However, what is hell for many is the true gateway to heaven for a few”. She looked seriously at Maria Clara and concluded: “There are souls forged to bring light to those lost in the darkness of deep pain. They will not know authentic joy while they remain distant from their original purpose”.

Maria Clara’s coffee had gone cold. I made a gesture to ask for a replacement. She looked at her watch and declined the offer. She said she needed to pick up the children at school. A bit embarrassed, she thanked us for the conversation, said goodbye, and left.

Bárbara looked at me as if to say that reaction is common when one glimpses the destiny waiting ahead. She asked the waiter to bring two more espressos. Doubles, I added. I needed to think. In some way I still could not understand, that conversation had affected me. The barista smiled and provoked: “How about talking a little about the sad joy that overflows from your eyes?” I was surprised. I said I did not know what she meant. Bárbara explained: “When we set aside choices out of fear of consequences or losses, we allow a weed called dependency to take root, capable of suffocating the soul, provoking sadness and, over time, giving rise to depression. A product of fear and the mistaken belief in one’s own inability to overcome the inevitable difficulties inherent to existence, dependency brings along another illness of the soul: stagnation, which makes one’s spirit, life, and dreams rot. A grave loss. Even if, apparently, everything around is perfect, the heart is not satisfied. It is necessary to react. Every dependency makes us less when we could be more”. It was not difficult to associate those words with the growing demands and absurd interferences of the illustrator of the publishing house’s children’s book collection. Although I considered Fátima’s behaviour abusive, I was afraid that, by opposing her wishes, I would no longer have her talent in the publisher’s works. An unhealthy relationship that, as a natural consequence, left me unwell, despite the excellent financial returns.

I commented that any interpersonal relationship must deal with the factor of the other. There will always be before me a person different in many aspects from who I am. Perspectives and intentions, perceptions and sensitivities, choices and desires. Bárbara did not disagree, but reflected: “Differences can be highly positive elements of interaction, provided they serve to teach and indicate unthinkable possibilities for growth. Each person is a certain way. Therefore, every relationship involves two distinct universes that coexist in search of healthy coexistence. The intersection between these universes will never be total, it will always occur in part, with greater or lesser interaction, depending on the harmony and affinities they share. However, this is not a problem. On the contrary, when well handled, it will drive unlikely solutions and mutual learning. For this, no one should settle in another’s shadow. It is necessary for each person to learn to walk with the clarity generated by their own light”.

I said I could not fit those words into the situation with the illustrator. The barista explained: “I am referring to the dilemma between coherence and convenience”. She took a sip of coffee and continued: “Coherence is the exact action aligned with the understanding of one’s conscience. Doing what is right without fear of material consequences. Coherence is the foundation of selflessness, the virtue that prioritizes spiritual values over worldly advantages. Convenience, in turn, dialogues with fear and complacency, accepts dependency, and allows itself to be corroded by stagnation. When convenience abounds, coherence is lacking. Where there are privileges, there is no justice. Coherence demands risks and sacrifices, while convenience signals comfort and the illusion of security. Genuine joy is never in the pleasures of the world, but in the dignity of the spirit that animates, identifies, and expresses each individual”. She emptied the coffee from her cup and concluded: “Coherence is one of the pillars of ethics, the art of nobility in virtues applied to all situations of daily life. On the other side of the coin is opportunistic, deceitful, and cowardly convenience. It offers shortcuts that lead us back to the starting point, in a sad repetition of vicious cycles. Coherence is the narrow door of evolutionary refinement, of the dignity in making the right moves, of the freedom in living without fear, and of the inner peace gained on a journey carried out along the tracks of conscience. Without coherence, love is shallow and happiness will remain a mere fiction”.

We were interrupted by the sudden and abrupt arrival of Maria Clara. With swollen, reddened eyes from sincere and irrepressible tears, she gave a gentle kiss on the barista’s cheek, opened her purse, showed a stethoscope as if revealing a secret and a decision. She whispered thank you very much and left. An inner revolution had begun that afternoon. We smiled.

Then Bárbara stood up to return to work. Without needing to say a word, she left me with an unusual content, full of stimulating elements for me to reflect and decide between the coherence and the convenience of my recent actions. The fact is that, after we understand the meaning and reach of certain behaviours, choices are reduced to freeing the soul or keeping it imprisoned in fear and dependency. The decision is defined between the joy or the sadness of our days. When the choice matures, it becomes simple and inevitable.

The following morning, some changes took place at the publishing house. I had a frank conversation with the illustrator. We wanted to continue working with her, but she should restrict herself to her professional field. Understanding limits is essential to living with respect. With the same inconsistent arguments, Fátima refused to accept the new conditions. She resigned. We had to look in the market for a new illustrator. As it took longer than expected, the project was delayed and we suffered a considerable loss. Nothing that affected the well-being of living in harmony with the principles and values that guided my conscience. With coherence, without yielding to the temptations of convenience. Despite the losses and the uncertainties that awaited me due to the necessary course corrections, which always take us to unknown places, I was at peace. I felt a joy that would seem strange if I had not been given to know its true origin.

Just as no one is the same as anyone else, the style of two artists is also different. When we hired Jonas, the new illustrator, the solution found was to divide the collections. The new collection brought unpublished texts, now illustrated by another artist. A different title was necessary to register the difference in styles. As habit and taste can become a paralyzing addiction, it is worth noting the absurd habit of comparing differences: what is unique fits within itself, with its own sorrows and beauties, and it is inappropriate to use the same measure to evaluate something extraordinary precisely because there is nothing else like it, like you and me, at first, the public found it strange and rejected the lines they did not know. With time, and little by little, talent, quality, and dedicated work end up flourishing. Until one morning, after a few months, upon arriving at the publishing house, I was surprised by the news that the new collection had matched the previous one in readers’ preference. Sales reflected this. Certainly, the lucidity that life never abandons those who move toward its authentic meanings. Certainly as well that the café in Gávea offers far more than delicious espressos, cappuccinos, and frappés.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic

No, that’s not true. This can’t be happening! That cry tore through the silent dawn of the monastery. I woke up startled, still unsure whether that despair came from a bad dream or from the voice of some monk in a nearby room. I calmed myself to listen more carefully. After a few moments, despite the stone walls, it was possible to hear sobbing that resembled deep weeping. I went out into the corridor in an attempt to discover who needed comfort. Without having to walk far, I realized the lamentations were coming from the room next door. The one who occupied it was Hermes, a Greek monk, a resident of Athens, nearly seventy years old. A sensible, kind, and pleasant man, greatly admired by everyone in the monastery, a member of the Order for more than three decades. Trained in Economics, he was a professor at the country’s main public university. Hermes embodied the ancestral values of ethics, aesthetics, and mysticism advocated by Plato, a compatriot from millennia past. He relied on a precious personal code of conduct, crafted throughout his life, always questioning whether his actions and choices favoured what was good and just. He gave in exact proportion to each person’s merit, regardless of the feelings he held for them. Although he practiced physical activities and maintained a healthy Mediterranean diet, taking care of both body and appearance, never out of vanity, but as an exercise in self-esteem, his ultimate concern lay with the aesthetics of the soul, the highest ideal of beauty. Mysticism, in the original sense of the word, encouraged him to seek truth beyond the furthest limits reached by science. Always balanced and attentive, he was often sought out by younger monks in search of guidance and advice.

We knew of the recent passing of his wife. Unlike other study periods, this time he had arrived deeply shaken. Despite his usual delicacy and politeness, Hermes had become somewhat withdrawn. In his free time, he isolated himself on the veranda or took long walks in the mountains. Everyone understood the change in behaviour given the impact of the event. It was a specific situation. The constant reflections were necessary to rearrange life within himself, from now on, without having by his side someone with whom he had celebrated the good moments and shared the anxieties on the reverse side of the best desires. By definition, mourning is the pain arising from a loss. Any loss. There are different kinds of losses. Some are more significant and harder to deal with. The greater the attachment to what was lost, the more entangled the individual becomes in the webs of suffering. When the loss represents the only pillar of support, the person collapses.

Healing from grief requires a restructuring of one’s perspective and, often, a reconstruction of one’s way of being and living. Depending on the loss, it is not uncommon for a complete reinvention of oneself to be necessary. As we are not always ready and open to the indispensable transformations, without realizing it, we allow suffering to take root. Some roots remain for so long that the person begins to consider suffering as an inherent part of their personality. It is not. The intensity and duration of pain vary according to the level of awareness, depending on the capacity to process the experience accurately, extracting immeasurable doses of love and wisdom from it. Then, suffering dissolves forever. Until that happens, pain will spread through the depths and leave a bitter taste in the heart. According to this reasoning, and knowing the enormous capacity for resolution and overcoming of the Greek monk, we believed he would soon be well.

That is why the strangeness of the weeping and the cry coming from his room. When he opened the door, I was startled. Before me, I found a shattered man. Chaos strips away everything that is not attached to essence. It takes away what is ornament and appearance. Those who do not build the foundations that will keep them firm and secure within themselves will be left destroyed after every storm. I did not recognize him. I simply embraced him for long minutes. It was not a time for words. That white-haired man cried like a lost child.

After letting the emotions that suffocated him overflow, I invited him to go with me to the monastery’s canteen. Hermes needed to speak, and I was willing to listen. He agreed. I prepared a pot of fresh coffee and placed it on the table. When I went to get the mugs, I heard a voice behind me: “Three, please.” It was the Elder, as we affectionately called the oldest monk of the Order. He sat at the table with us, looked at Hermes, curved his lips into a simple, yet sincere and beautiful smile, to say, without the need for words, that he was willing to use his own heart in an attempt to rescue him from the turbulent seas of suffering. Those who have already drowned in the waters of misunderstanding or found themselves caught in the currents of grief know the value and importance of such rescues. They are immeasurable.

As he exposed the depths of his pain, I was surprised. Helena’s departure, his wife, to the Highlands was not the primary reason for his despair as I had imagined. Although he loved her deeply and missed her every day, he had learned not to treat death as a loss, but as a boarding platform, the point of departure for a new stretch of learning and achievements, making use of new and unthinkable tools and circumstances, in favour of one’s own evolution. Helena deserved to continue and advance. Death would offer her renewal and regeneration under conditions more suited to the levels of awareness she had achieved. Death would never mean an end or a loss. It was a necessary and important transformation. Never a punishment, but an act of love from life toward life. Like the fruit that, whether consumed or decayed, is reborn revitalized through its own seed.

Undoubtedly, the longing he felt for Helena was immense. Contrary to common understanding, longing was not a reason for sadness. It was a source of joy. After all, we only feel longing for good moments. Not longing as nostalgia, from the absurd desire to go back in time, but from recognizing that longing exists only where there is love. The absence of longing may indicate the emptiness of an existence. On the other hand, its presence narrates the best chapters of our lives. Love once lived brings joy, hope, and dynamism to the movements we still have to make. It also reminds love itself that there will always be many reasons to keep loving more and better.

The Elder smiled again. This time in approval of Hermes’ full understanding of this complicated, yet delicate and beautiful phenomenon, inevitable and natural, called death, still so poorly understood. The problem, commented the Greek monk, was that in the wake of Helena’s departure, other difficult events had arrived. In recent months, some friends had also departed for the Highlands, while others were struck by illnesses that took away their motor autonomy or their ability to express their will. This saddened him greatly. There were also friends who had moved far away, in order to live closer to their children and grandchildren. Helena and he had a son, Andreas, who had also graduated in Economics, but lived in America, where he worked in the financial market. For Hermes, New York was a wonderful city to visit, too frantic to live in. Although his physical mobility and mental cognition remained intact, his health showed signs of decline. Not only the loss of muscle strength and reflexes, common with age. In his case, arthritis and arthrosis, genetic inheritances, forced him into frequent physiotherapy sessions, in addition to permanent medication. It was as if a warning had been lit about the expiration date of his body.

As if that were not enough, a few hours earlier, unable to sleep, he decided to check his email inbox. The Greek Congress had enacted a law establishing compulsory retirement for professors from the age of sixty-five. As he had already passed that age, the university informed him of his removal from the position and duties he had carried out for decades and which still brought him joy and pleasure. He loved teaching and being around young people, full of ideals, dreams, and an immense will to live. He felt good in the freshness of the academic environment, from which, suddenly, he had been cast out. With retirement, he would suffer a drastic cut in his income. Helena’s treatment had drained the savings accumulated over the years, he did not complain about this. She had deserved the best doctors and care. The fact was that, that night, with the reduction in earnings, the losses seemed to have reached their peak, at a level he had not imagined even in the worst scenarios. Among other losses, he had just lost not only social and professional status, but also access to goods of consumption and comfort. None of this had been part of his plans. As if life had turned into an enemy, and, wielding a razor-sharp blade of dreams, precise and insatiable, it took everything away, not only what he possessed, but also the man he had been. At that moment, an internal rupture seemed to occur, between who he had been and who he would become. This unexpected fragmentation caused an unspeakable suffering. He would have to settle for less in all aspects of life. He would need to reinvent himself, to find new reasons to live. He doubted whether he could. The losses seemed irreparable.

At this moment of unimaginable changes, he lived a profound inner contradiction. Even though he carried knowledge about the arcana of life, he missed Helena, running counter to the truths he knew. A strong and loving woman. By her side, he had never felt fear or insecurity. Together, they proved greater than the greatest of problems. They shaped the future according to the achievements of the present. That faith had also been lost, for even though he tried to avoid thinking of events as losses, he perceived life collapsing. Facts appeared more convincing than ideas. He considered the possibility that the belief that losses were illusory might be wrong. Perhaps they were real. That night, he had the horrible sensation that, given the overwhelming pace of recent days, increasingly corrosive and harsh, soon he would lose what he had, the references he possessed, who he had been, and everything else that pleased him. Only the ruins of himself would remain. He did not know how to deal with this, he confessed.

The Elder listened without any interruption. He took a long sip of coffee, as if searching for the exact words, and argued: “Every loss can be real or illusory, depending on how the individual deals with events. When one refuses to accept the inevitable movements of life, one becomes bound to the futile attempt to retain something that can no longer be possessed or to remain beside someone who has already gone. Then, the loss reveals itself as real and painful. Not because of life’s fault, but as a result of the inability to find the wealth hidden behind each departure. By understanding that life takes from us what no longer belongs, we waste the fertile ground of creativity and the unpredictable. Do the best for yourself, offer the best of yourself, and let life surprise you. Whether people and moments, or learning and growth. Life is abundant and generous, although we do not always perceive it that way, especially during chaos. The immature judge chaos by the degree of destruction, the wise take advantage of it for the opportunities of renewal. The foolish treat chaos as a curse, the mature walk through it as a road of regeneration. To regenerate is to rebuild oneself from one’s own core. No one can do that without knowing themselves more and better. There is no greater wealth. For them, chaos is sacred.” Before the Greek monk could intervene, the Elder anticipated his thought: “There is no age for this.”

Since he had joined the Order, Hermes claimed to have learned to face the setbacks of existence, for he knew well that, beyond being inevitable, they are renewing and constructive movements. He had prepared himself for all those situations. If the younger monks sought him out to talk, he would be capable of giving a lesson on the subject. However, he showed enormous difficulty in applying theory to practice. Perhaps because of the many involuntary changes in a short span of time. The joint processing of all those experiences made the best resolution more difficult, he considered. The Elder nodded and clarified: “Life has a logic and a way of operating that is almost never easy to understand. As no one is the same as anyone else, the application of the pedagogical method also differs from one person to another. Therefore, comparisons are inappropriate.”

He set his mug on the table and remarked: “Although the rapid succession of unpleasant events has momentarily affected your balance and your lucidity in facing the torrent of changes, jamming the gears of your driving force, there is nothing that prevents you, at any moment, from regaining power over yourself to move forward. Even if you understand that losses are illusory, they become real when the exact grief that surrounds them is not understood. Then, little by little, the pain spreads and establishes an empire. The individual becomes lost within himself. Every feeling has a name. Until you identify the true reason for the grief, you will not be able to reclaim yourself. You will remain dominated by a suffering that, as long as its origin remains hidden, will make healing impossible. There is no remedy for an unknown pain.”

Hermes asked what he meant. The Elder explained: “You are living the grief of old age.” The Greek looked at him, startled by the use of the word old age, as if it were forbidden or in poor taste, especially coming from someone always so gentle and kind. The good monk warned him: “Do not be afraid of words. Using beautiful words does not diminish the problem. On the contrary, it often masks it, creating a mistaken sense of lessening or disguising its severity. No one changes reality with fine speeches, only with good and correct actions. Everything else is deception and makeup. Using the exact word to describe the exact situation is of great value for understanding and facing the truth.”

The Greek monk nodded. The Elder continued: “Humanity, still lost in its immature longings, is not prepared to deal with the road of time. It is a kind of ignorance by denial. By avoiding the truth, crowds throw themselves into the abyss of isolation, abandonment, or despair as the journey approaches its final stretch. We look at aging as one who hears the whistle of the approaching train of death. A grave mistake. It is necessary to deal with old age as the opportunity to leave behind the tools that were once necessary, but from now on, we must learn to move forward without them. This speaks of autonomy and teaches much about freedom, dignity, and peace. It applies to everything we like and to everyone we love. We lose things, but we keep the good experiences they provided us. People disperse along the path, after all, each has their own direction and needs for learning and evolution, but they leave with us the love and the stories that give meaning, colour, and sweetness to life.”

Then, he asked a simple rhetorical question: “Have you ever noticed that we were never trained and educated, when young, to project life during old age?” Without waiting for the obvious answer, he continued: “Even those who attempt the exercise do it with unrealistic idealizations, softened by sweet scenes of mere fiction. No one wants to look at the inevitable limitations, restrictions, and changes imposed by aging. It will be different with me, they lie to themselves. Because we are unprepared for the final phase of the cycle, we end up facing old age as if it were an accumulation of losses, wasting the fantastic opportunities that the twilight of existence offers. One grieves, maintaining painful losses, in a place within us where wonderful findings could exist.”

The Greek monk’s eyes asked what those findings might be. The Elder listed them: “Life is wise. The growing limitations of the physical body open space for the blossoming of the soul. It is the final call to reposition the pieces on the board of priorities. We hand over the heavy pieces to value the use of those that offer lightness. If there is attention and detachment, the game will become favourable. What truly has value fits in no box, needs no signature, and serves as no currency.” He curved his lips into a beautiful smile and listed: “Forgive everyone, trust yourself, and move forward. To be free, love without holding on. To live in peace, guide without trying to convince. To be happy, act without possessing. To be dignified, truth is enough. For love to germinate, virtues applied to everyday life suffice. All these achievements depend only on perception and sensitivity. Nothing more. There is no greater wealth. I know we know this, but we do not always remember it. So, in the splendour of its wisdom, life offers us the old age of the body as a sacred elixir for the rejuvenation of the soul. Sacred is everything that makes us better people. The art of aging speaks of being more with less.”

He looked out the window for a few moments. The sky was beginning to take on the pink and yellow tones typical of morning. He emptied his mug and added: “Old age takes many things from us. Some of great importance. However, it offers us others even more valuable. It is not an exchange, but unmissable chances for transformation. Exchange has a price, transformation has value. The evening of existence can provide treasures such as emotional balance, material detachment, better acceptance of others’ wills and truths, a clearer perception of reality and a deeper understanding of life, greater lucidity and conscious freedom. There is no time more suitable for plenitude.” He set the mug on the table and concluded: “These are perfect days to review concepts, customs, ideas, feelings, attitudes, and habits. A final opportunity for reconstruction, this time using only one’s own essence as raw material. More than a finding, the final stretch of the journey can provide the most important achievements of a lifetime.”

No one else said a word. Hermes needed to reposition himself before himself and before life. He could cower, hide, and lament. He could also be thankful, rise again, and dance with life. There are always choices. The Greek monk’s open smile of gratitude ended the conversation. His teary eyes said the lesson had been learned. A silent decision had been made.

A few days passed. I noticed in Hermes a youthful restlessness. I do not mean immaturity, but the vitality and freshness typical of youth, whose best meaning reveals itself in the irrepressible will to grow and achieve. When he was not attending classes, he remained focused on notes and exchanging messages. I found it strange and commented to the Elder. The good monk reassured me: “There is no reason for concern. Hermes decided to make use of all his years of study in Economics and the enormous amount of available time, thanks to everything he once considered a loss, to begin an old project. Together with a businessman friend, who passed the direction of the company to his children, they will start a business school, with the aim of training new entrepreneurs. Studying Economics and Administration is only part of what is needed to face the many difficulties common to the complicated and competitive world of business. This lack of knowledge causes many small companies to fail to withstand the initial obstacles, generating frustration by aborting ventures that could have been prosperous and far-reaching. He is very excited to reverse this scenario.”

I asked the Elder whether, in his opinion, the school project would succeed. He reminded me: “To remain young is to continue having dreams, goals, and purposes, regardless of one’s age. It is not giving up nor settling. It is continuing to refine one’s actions, keeping them good, just, and healthy. Do not be alarmed if there are days of relapse and discouragement. Results will sometimes not be as expected, and at other times will take longer than planned. That is how it is. This does not translate into defeat, but invites exercises in versatility, lucidity, discipline, and faith. Victory resides in the light of the best actions, not always in the shine of the desired results.”

He gifted me with a beautiful smile and concluded the conversation: “In recent days, Hermes has grown younger and brought an end to his losses. He understood and accepted the challenge of evolution. The process of improvement must continue, now with different tools and under new conditions. He is about to live some of the most enchanting experiences of his life. No matter what happens, there will be many findings. True success consists of victories over oneself. He is on the right path. He only needs to continue.” Then he said he needed to prune the rose bushes in the monastery’s inner garden. I watched him walk away with his slow, yet steady step.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic

I am a lover of sunny mornings, but I confess that a starry sky or a night with a waxing moon brings me an indescribable inspiration of transcendence. That early morning, as I walked from the train station to Loureiro’s workshop, the shoemaker who loved red wines and books of philosophy, through the crooked and narrow streets of the small and charming town near the mountain that sheltered the monastery, I had as my companion a most beautiful full moon that recited poems impossible to translate. Those were days of excitement, concern, and anxiety. Moments like these tend more to cloud the mind than to clarify it. I had recently gone through a pivotal transition. After decades as an advertising professional, I had left behind an important professional chapter to begin a career as a publisher. The business moved forward with the difficulties common to young enterprises, which, like any immature being, required the experiences offered by dark nights not only to mature, but also to allow the purest originality to blossom.

I am like steel forged in fire, cry out the warriors. I am like clay shaped in the potter’s hands, whisper the monks. The former rely on strength to overcome obstacles, while the latter choose gentleness as the means to pass through them. Warriors fight bravely to survive the dark nights. Monks simply navigate them. For the former, the nights are enemies; for the latter, valuable teachers. They do not exist to hinder, but to teach. I was a warrior. I moved through passion. The days were filled with battles and, for that reason, remained unfit for navigation.

The day was still far from breaking when I entered Loureiro’s workshop. I found him crafting a beautiful burgundy leather bag, with the same mastery with which he stitched ideas together. I was welcomed with a sincere smile and a tight embrace. The elegant shoemaker wore a light blue linen shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows so as not to interfere with the work, and finely tailored khaki trousers. The leather shoes were of his own making. His white beard was short and neatly trimmed, unlike his abundant hair which, though also white, was rebellious and dishevelled. Without delay, he prepared a pot of fresh coffee and placed two mugs on the heavy wooden counter. The conversation flowed with the usual naturalness of two friends who connect topics as if they were stretches of endless roads.

Despite the difficulties inherent in new businesses, the publishing house’s performance exceeded the best expectations. Thanks, above all, to the exceptional work of a couple. He, a writer; she, an illustrator. They had translated into the universe of graphic storytelling the book The Voice of the Silence, a classic of Theosophy by Helena Blavatsky. By changing the format of the work, they made it accessible to a larger number of readers. The various teachings drawn from Buddhism by the writer became easier to understand. The poetic and somewhat hermetic language used in the original text was replaced by images of action. Although the text became more direct, it exposed in a simple way some fundamental practices of enlightenment that had until then been misunderstood by much of the Western public. The success was enormous and immediate. I had acquired the international publication rights. The experience in some countries of Latin America had been successful. It was time for the big step: the Northern Hemisphere.

I was extremely excited. And somewhat worried as well. It so happened that, in the wake of the success, the authors received a fabulous proposal from a powerful multinational company to change publishers. This company was, in fact, a huge conglomerate of publishing houses, present in almost every corner of the planet. The couple, of course, loved the idea and the offer. The multinational had undeniable publishing power and reach, something unthinkable for my small publishing house. Yet it was my chance to grow. I was passionate both about my business and about the literary universe. I did not even consider the idea of terminating the contract. Even if they had offered me a good indemnity, in the long run my profits would far exceed the conglomerate’s offer. Moreover, I wanted to produce the edition of a work that had been discovered and had taken shape within my small publishing house in my own way. That enchanted me and had made me fall in love with the entire process, from conception to realization.

With the conglomerate, the couple would quickly make a great deal of money. Like me, they had dreams. What separated us was the matter of time. They were in a hurry. It was impossible for me to follow the new rhythm proposed to them. As a result of this impasse, I had become the defendant in a lawsuit whose purpose was to force the termination of the contract. I hired a renowned law firm so that my rights would be respected. The law was on my side, they assured me. Although they guaranteed me enormous chances of success in this legal battle, a favourable verdict was not an absolute guarantee. Worries and uncertainties surrounded my days. In two months there would be the first hearing. My nights were restless. For the moment, I was still managing to resist anxiolytics. I did not know for how long.

I recounted these facts to the shoemaker even before taking the first sip of coffee. Anxiety overflowed in my rapid speech and impatient gestures, as if time were an enemy for taking too long to fulfil my wishes. Loureiro listened attentively without any interruption. At the end, he commented: “The sum of all your worries, insecurities, and fears is incapable of altering your destiny. Do not dwell on them. They are of no use. Only your actions have such power. If you do not learn to deal with the adversities inherent to existence, understanding the educational aspects they offer and how to react in the best possible way, you will end up crushed by the avalanche of events that fall against the direction of your desires and truths”. I argued that I was facing a difficult battle that could indeed define the future of the publishing house. I was passionate about what I did and was determined to make the company prosper. I also said that passions were powerful levers for progress and struggle. I affirmed that I would emerge triumphant from that fight. The shoemaker shrugged and remarked: “You will never win until you understand the mechanisms of action of the enemy”.

I asked if he knew something about the couple that I did not. Loureiro shook his head and clarified: “I am not referring to the couple. I am talking about passions”. I asked him to explain better. The shoemaker reflected: “A brilliant French alchemist wrote that passions are like horses. If tamed, they are useful and valuable. When wild, they throw their riders. If you do not master your passions, you will become their slave until nothing authentic remains in your life. Neither your wills nor your desires. No route or direction. Nothing will belong to you. Passion will become your owner, making you nothing more than a riding animal”.

He took a long sip of coffee before continuing: “Passions are part of human nature. Therefore they are neutral, neither good nor bad at first. The way we experience them establishes the positive or negative pole. When mastered, they are well used and serve to propel the most beautiful achievements. If misunderstood, they dominate the individual and crush him in a sad process of self-destruction”. He paused briefly and added: “The problem with passions lies in the excesses linked to desires, to wanting without measure, to unrestrained wills, or to extravagant needs”.

He placed the mug on the wooden counter and continued: “It is at this point that we trample the rights of others with the same insensitivity with which we begin to treat our own dignity. We act toward people in ways we would not like them to act toward us if the roles were reversed”. I interrupted to ask how it is possible to identify the domination of passions over our consciousness. The shoemaker clarified: “Notice whether the mind is creating twisted reasoning to justify the absence of virtues or to alter the truth, so that choices may adapt themselves to derailed passions. One of the evident signs of the supremacy of passions over inner truth occurs when we want to become the owners of situations so that, at any cost, our wills and needs prevail over those of the other people involved. Passions that run off the tracks of reason and justice foster selfishness, jealousy, greed, fanaticism, manipulation, coercion, blackmail, lies, among other behavioural vices. Hatred, resentment, and bitterness are the feelings that follow uncontrolled passions. We lose what is best within us. We give space to the shadows to the detriment of the light”. Then he concluded the reasoning: “Truly free individuals strive only to be masters of themselves. The choices concerning their own lives are enough for them. For that, they keep their passions under control. Believe me, it is no small thing. Events, as well as the truths and wills of others, are merely tides, sometimes favourable, sometimes contrary, through which they navigate with love and wisdom, without any resentment”.

I argued that this speech did not apply to my case. There was a contract guaranteeing me the international publication rights. When I decided to bet on that work, their manuscript had already been rejected by several publishers. It could have failed and I would have lost the investment made, something common in the literary market. I had not forced them into anything. On the contrary, perhaps I had been the couple’s last chance. It was even possible that they would have abandoned the book if I had not recognized its value when no one else cared about them. It was not fair to let them leave at such a promising and decisive moment for the business. Loureiro drew me into the threads of the philosophical bow with a question: “Why keep them tied to you?”

I became irritated. I asked if he did not perceive the ingratitude and injustice of the couple in wanting to break the contract after I had brought them into the spotlight. They would never have received any millionaire offer if I had not edited the book so carefully. The shoemaker tapped the wooden counter with his index finger to emphasize his words and remarked: “I am not referring to money. I am speaking of freedom, dignity, and peace. Do not worry about anyone else’s mistakes or successes. Focus only on your own. It is not up to you to give direction to the actions of others. Take care to do things differently and better, in a way never attempted. If you know how to think, you will understand that it is not the choices of others that define the joys or the bitterness of your days. Life delivers to each person according to their actions. Not a gram more, not a gram less”.

I commented that agreements could not change just because reality had changed. Loureiro unsettled me: “Why not?” When I hesitated to answer, he argued: “Without a doubt, keeping one’s word is very important for the security of relationships. When it does not manifest as pride and vanity, it is an exercise of dignity, freedom, and peace. However, relationships also require other qualities to remain healthy. It is natural for the will to change when the gaze changes. So why maintain a model of relationship that no longer serves and no longer pleases?” Once again, I had no answer. The shoemaker reflected: “There will never be a good reason to force someone to stay who wishes to leave. Wanting to leave reveals someone’s perspective about a situation; not opposing the departure reveals a sublime manifestation of respect on the part of the other person. If there was ingratitude or injustice, the problem is not yours but theirs. The evil that most affects us does not come from others; it is the one we practice. Not forcing someone to stay who wishes to go, regardless of the promises made, is also an exercise of dignity, freedom, and peace”.

I asked whether he considered it wrong for me to fight to maintain the contract. After all, it had been the agreement from the beginning. Loureiro reflected: “You will be right like many. But if you do differently, you will be right like few”. I said I did not understand. The shoemaker explained: “There is nothing wrong if you decide to fight to keep the contract. That is what the laws, contracts, and businesses determine. It will be financially very good for the publishing house. However, you will force them to walk by your side against their will. Something that is not good for anyone. If, on the other hand, you let them go, you will end the jailer-prisoner relationship that was established the moment perspectives and desires changed. In return, you will lose a considerable amount”. He shrugged and concluded: “The price of a mastered passion is never easy to pay”. He frowned and increased the seriousness of his tone: “It is up to you to decide what you want to gain and lose”.

I asked the reason for such difficulty in mastering passions. Loureiro answered promptly: “Mastering passions requires abnegation, a rare virtue”. My gaze asked him to say more about the matter. The shoemaker understood: “Abnegation is the virtue that changes the measure of existential priorities. Instead of using the ruler of material achievements to measure the success of a life, one begins to use spiritual achievements as the parameter of success and victory”. He emptied his mug and concluded: “Right and wrong, just like good and evil, have many layers of understanding. Very few are ready to go to their deepest layers and then emerge with a light of almost unknown intensity and, for that reason, little recognized. Only the selfless are allowed such a plunge within themselves”.

Dawn was arriving. The rays of the sun entered the glass door of the workshop without asking permission or offering apology. My ride ,  the pickup truck that every day delivered fresh bread to the monastery ,  would soon depart. There were many new ideas to metabolize. Some were almost ready, others would need more time to mature properly. I needed to think. There was a dilemma, but also an opportunity. I needed to prepare myself if I wished to go to unknown places within me. Only then would it be possible to move through the days in a way I did not yet know.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic

I had been strangely tired in those days. Even in the morning, right after breakfast, before my duties at the monastery, I already felt exhausted, wanting to lie down. There was a discouragement that doctors could not identify. Clinical exams showed nothing wrong with my health. I loved the study periods at the monastery for all the good they brought me. Throughout the year, I would wait for those weeks of learning and renewal. Pivotal transformations in my life had their origins in that place. However, that time, everything was different. Within me, there seemed to be neither joy nor pleasure.

I even considered the end of my cycle at EOMM ,  Esoteric Order of the Monks of the Mountain ,  a brotherhood with which I had been associated for many years. The idea lost its meaning when I recognized the greatness of the purposes behind the activities carried out there. That morning, I asked Heitor, the Argentine monk, to replace me in the classes on The Sermon on the Mount, a text contained in the Book of Matthew, a mandatory course given to novice monks, the primary axis of all other studies at the monastery. Although I loved that sacred text for the clarity it revealed, at that moment I lacked the spirit to teach the classes. My mind seemed clouded. My strength, drained. My reasoning was dulled, without the slightest condition for the indispensable progressions and expansions of consciousness. I sat in the cafeteria to try to understand what was happening to me. Almost at the same time, the Elder entered, as we affectionately called the oldest monk of the Order. He took two mugs of coffee, without asking permission, placed them on the table, and sat in front of me. As if he knew how I felt, he stated in his usual gentle and unhurried voice: “You do not know how to think. This ends up draining your vital energy. When it happens, the days lose their colour. It is necessary to learn to think urgently. Otherwise, you will be crushed by your own thoughts.”

I smiled with a certain dose of irony. Everyone thinks. We have always thought. We think all the time. We think even when we do not want to think. If there was something I did not need to learn, it was how to think. The good monk corrected me: “I am not referring to the uninterrupted flow of thoughts, something common to all people, but to the way we deal with each one of them. That defines the illnesses or the health of the soul.” Immediately, my sarcasm disappeared. I realized the importance of that conversation. Noticing my interest, he continued: “Every day we are invaded by torrents of ideas from the most diverse origins. Recent and distant events, good and bad memories, achievements and frustrations, expectations and assumptions, elaborated or prefabricated ideas.” He fell silent for a few moments, as if searching for a metaphor to help my reasoning, and said: “Thoughts are not ready-made dishes. They are ingredients. When used and mixed without criteria or control in the kitchen of the mind, they create chaos in the restaurants of the world, where we hold our existential suppers, whether each one with oneself or in interpersonal relationships. Without a good cook to select, prepare, and harmonize the ingredients, the dishes will have very unpleasant flavours. At times, they may poison.”

I asked him to explain further. The Elder was generous: “Ingredients cannot be used without due care. One must clean the fish, remove the pineapple’s peel, and measure the salt. Some need to hydrate; others must wait for ripening. So it is with thoughts that have, among other origins, the results of experiences arising from relationships and events. All of them generate conclusions, which serve as the basis for the formation of beliefs. Do not narrow the concept of belief to religion. Understand belief as everything we accept as true. At times, we are right and have a quality ingredient to prepare good dishes. We feast on the delights of life. At others, we are wrong and make use of rotten ingredients. The result is disastrous. The days turn sour.”

The good monk added: “Beliefs, in some cases, originate from lived experiences, at the extreme limit of each individual’s perception and sensitivity. An internal elaboration may be good or bad, bring clarity or cloudiness, depending on each person’s capacity. It is common for the very same situation to be understood in several ways by different people.” He took a sip of coffee and continued: “In other situations, belief arises from an external idea that reaches us ready-made and we accept it as true; whether by logic, serving to scale tones of understanding, or by convenience, as a way to keep us comfortable in a place we do not wish to leave. Likewise, uncomfortable thoughts are received as invitations to transformation by some, while by others they are immediately rejected for appearing malformed. Thus we choose the ingredients we use in our spiritual meals. We are the exact reflection of the truths we believe. They shape our behaviour and our choices. They forge character and destiny. Progress or decline, movement or stagnation, joys or sorrows, achievements or frustrations, encounters or escapes, each person lives the reality possible at the last frontier reached by the truth they have built within themselves and for themselves.”

Then he concluded: “In short, everything begins and ends with learning how to think. Poorly selected or poorly constructed thoughts lead to mistaken choices. The opposite also applies: good thoughts and well-elaborated ideas serve well-being and evolution. This defines the sweetness or bitterness of life and, consequently, the willingness or discouragement along the journey. All power and balance reside in the mind.”

My eyes asked him to deepen his reasoning. The Elder understood the unspoken words and reflected: “From there, it becomes easy to understand that existential storms are directly proportional to the mistakes in the truths we believe and to the errors made in the conclusions about the situations that involve us. The opposite also applies to people who are already able to bring a radiant sun into their hearts. It is necessary to create good conditions in the mind so that good thoughts find reasons to stay. By habit ,  nourished by a type of pleasure that, as long as it remains unconfessed, we will not be able to tame ,  we are attracted to tragedies. This explains why the media focuses on this kind of news. Tragedies, in turn, create favourable conditions for bad thoughts to direct disastrous choices and behaviours. However, habits do not translate anyone’s essence. Our essence is light. Habits arise from sociocultural influences and conditioning, shaped by ancestral inheritances built upon conflicts, disputes, fears, guilt, resentments, and other behavioural vices linked to feelings of inferiority ,  such as pride, vanity, greed, envy, and jealousy ,  which, to a greater or lesser degree, still integrate us, compose us, and are part of our personality. On the other hand, habits can also be changed, being reshaped from a new posture with which the individual decides to relate to themselves and to the world.”

I asked how much of an individual is subject to transformation. The Elder replied: “As many layers, disguises, deceptions, and rough edges that hide the essence as need to be discarded and rebuilt. No one is born ready. Yes, everyone has habits, behaviours, personalities, and temperaments. However, contrary to what many imagine, these characteristics are not static or immutable. In truth, they were acquired along the road of time. Therefore, they are transient and dynamic. It is essential that this be so, otherwise they would serve nothing in the process of evolution which, by principle, demands infinite changes. In the sequence of continuous transformations, little by little, consciousness matures and acquires the conditions to express its originality, the root of individual beauty, which reveals the aspects of being and living that make us unique, generating authentic feelings of peace, dignity, and joy, even during the difficult and turbulent moments of our days. The origin of this genuine existential revolution is in accordance with the ability to select ideas and elaborate experiences to use them in favour of one’s own evolution. Everything and everyone around benefits. Learning how to think is essential if we are to love more and better.”

The Elder reflected: “When one does not learn how to think, bad thoughts overlap the good ones, corrode the mind, crush the individual, and sour reality. They install a dark empire of bitterness and suffering. The best thoughts are banished to the repressed consciousness. They remain exiled in the unconscious. Mistakes, misunderstandings, conflicts, abandonments, resentments, demands, and confusions become increasingly common in daily life. Little by little, we lose the best that dwells within us, we become unbelieving and irritable, tired and discouraged. Love, joy, hope, and faith are left homeless. The house becomes empty of good residents. Remember that each person lives within themselves with the thoughts they have chosen as company. Thoughts build and destroy inner universes.”

The good monk returned to the kitchen metaphor to clarify my question: “It is necessary to remove the peels of superficiality to find the deep meaning of events: there resides the sweetness of love manifested or the sourness of love suffocated. Behind the truth of spoken words lies the unconfessed truth, still misunderstood. This reveals much more than the former. There is more about who we are in what we deny and silence than in what we say. So it is with everyone. But do not worry about discovering these things in others. First, take care to find them within yourself. That will be your wealth and your power.”

I used the same analogy to ask whether there was a recipe for good thoughts to once again prepare good dishes to be served at my existential meals. He nodded yes and detailed it: “It is necessary to cleanse from others’ words the meanings that do not belong in them, which so often annoy, deceive, mislead, steal energy, and thus manage to pull us away from our axis of light. Very little of what is said has to do with us. Likewise, almost nothing of what we say has to do with others. When someone speaks, they express a viewpoint or a feeling, not necessarily the truth. They show reality as they understand it, the abysses they see and the bridges they have crossed. Some abysses pointed out across the world are often nothing more than inner voids. Likewise, although they serve many, not every bridge will support everyone’s crossing, for they lead to places many do not wish to go. When someone remains silent, they leave a void that cannot be filled with assumptions. Only patience and respect, indispensable to the maturation of truth. Remember that slow cooking is essential to refine the flavour of the finest delicacies. The high flame of passions does not serve the delicate texture of love and wisdom.”

He took a sip of coffee and concluded the recipe: “Measure expectations and worries in minimal quantities, so that life may never lack the honey of dreams, a dessert that must appear on every menu. On the other hand, make generous use of sensibility, as a safe way never to slip into the excesses typical of daydreams nor into the scarcity caused by fears, guilt, and resentments, always so bland, sour, and unnecessary. Likewise, one must not confuse the balancing and strengthening mechanisms of dignity with the coercions typical of moralism which, upon closer analysis, always hide immoralities marinated in base feelings. Above all, good thoughts sustain good attitudes, even if no one understands, agrees, or wishes to accompany us. Never forget: your conscience is enough to validate and authorize your movements. However, have the maturity to deal with the inevitable consequences. Whatever they may be.” He shrugged and concluded: “A kitchen commanded by a chef will always offer a menu full of marvellous dishes. Without a good cook, it will be a catastrophe foretold.”

I asked who the chef in the kitchen of the mind would be. The good monk promptly answered: “The conscience.” I asked how to know or ensure that the conscience is always in command. The Elder clarified: “We cannot confuse ourselves with our thoughts. This is a common and vulgar mistake. Ideas of the most diverse kinds pass through the mind every day. We all have good and bad thoughts; there is no way to avoid them. However, we have the power to decide which ones we will use as ingredients for our meals. Therefore, even when besieged by catastrophes, disappointments, betrayals, frustrations, or news about the sewers of the world, we have the choice to discard ideas that serve only to sour the dishes.” He furrowed his brow and added: “Whoever ignores or does not recognize this power is still a puppet of circumstances. The owner who does not understand what happens in the kitchen is far from becoming the true master of his own restaurant. No complaint will be valid if the patrons are of poor character or if the meals remain contaminated.”

He went on: “Refuse thoughts that do not serve the task of goodness and of healthy personal transformation. But first, identify their origins and motives. That is, where they came from and for what reason. Only then will it be possible, little by little, to reduce their presence, until they become insignificant or, before that, until you are able to discard them more and more quickly.” He sipped another mouthful of coffee and suggested: “Let remain those that sustain virtues and expand truth, for they are indispensable to emotional balance, mental clarity, and therefore essential to the refinement of choices and to well-being. Even if the world, shouting, demands the adoption of an idea, embrace your conscience if, in a whisper, it suggests a different posture. An original menu is created only by using unique recipes.”

Finally, the Elder addressed the issue of feelings, the seasonings that enhance or spoil the flavour of the dishes: “The relationship between thoughts and feelings is symbiotic. There is a powerful, both healthy and dangerous connection that feeds them back into one another. Dense emotions have the power to spoil good ideas. Subtle feelings have the strength to dissolve bad thoughts. Just as salt enhances flavour, feeling well refines thinking well. To understand the processes of the mind, it is necessary to understand the movements of the heart. Until that happens, we will live clumsily trying to manage the consequences of incessant mistaken decisions, without admitting that we were the ones who caused them. We will continue in the long and painful vicious circle of transferring responsibility, cursing bad luck, and lamenting the injustices of the world in a behaviour that keeps us in immaturity and drains our will to live.” He shrugged, reminded me of the tiredness and discouragement that had been weighing on me without apparent explanation, and ended the conversation: “Spoiled ingredients contaminate the dishes; the diners fall ill. Good food restores health. This applies both to the body and to the soul.”

The Elder claimed he needed to prepare for the lecture that afternoon and stood up. Recipe given, conversation ended. For him, not for me. It was necessary to arrange those ideas on the shelves of the mind. Only then could I make use of the power that, although it had always belonged to me, I insisted on wasting. An inner movement that would not only restore authorship over my direction, but would also allow me to recover the joy and enthusiasm lost in the dark alleys of my misunderstandings. With his slow and steady steps, I watched him walk until my eyes could no longer see him. In silence, I thanked him for yet another recipe. Transforming it into the finest spiritual suppers was the task that belonged to me. Provided, of course, that I wished to become a good cook.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic

This story happened almost a couple of decades ago. Fausto, whose godfather I was, the son of one of my best friends, had graduated in Civil Engineering not long before. Contrary to his expectations, his professional progress had proven slow, quite different from what he had imagined, as he told me when he sought me out. The jobs offered were far below his capability. They were positions and roles in which he would never have the chance to display the talent he possessed. His paths were closed. Impassable. All attempts had proven fruitless, without any apparent good reason. Something abnormal was happening. Fausto remembered the stories I used to tell about Aunt Francisca, the faith healer from Madureira. He asked me to take him to her. He was certain the good lady could help him. I hesitated for a few moments, unsure whether that was truly what he needed most at that time. However, since prayers can only do good, I granted his request.

Rio de Janeiro is filled with fantastic characters who seem to move between reality and fiction because of their incredible personal traits. Aunt Francisca was one of those people. A resident of Madureira, one of the city’s most iconic neighbourhoods, cradle of brilliant artists and tenacious workers, the faith healer lived in the same simple house where I had first met her as a boy, led by my father’s hand, worried about that child who seemed to inhabit several distinct worlds at once. Despite her humble habits and conditions, she possessed a cultured and refined way of expressing herself, making prose fall in love with poetry. Always with her doors open, she welcomed distressed souls who could not understand the apparent incoherences of life. I watched many people leave there with a light in their eyes that had not been there when they arrived. When they wanted to pay for the prayer, she would offer a sweet smile, point with her chin to the altar and say, almost in a whisper, sincerely: “Give thanks to Our Lord Jesus Christ, to Him all honour and glory. To me, nothing is owed”.

As usual, I found her seated in the worn blue armchair, the colour of Our Lady’s mantle. I introduced my godson to her. With a gentle gesture, she suggested that Fausto sit on a small wooden stool in front of her. At the elder’s request, I sat beside them. Without needing to be asked, the young engineer, distressed, explained the unlikely difficulties that prevented him from climbing the professional steps he deserved. He asked her to intercede with the good Spirits. His paths were closed. It did not seem natural to him to face so many barriers and obstacles. Then he listed several of them. The faith healer listened with infinite patience, without any aside or interruption. At the end, she smiled tenderly and said: “First of all, never forget that God, regardless of how you understand Him, does not favour the supplication of one child with more attention or interest than that of another. There is no distinction. Take care only that your request is in accordance with your needs, never with your desires. Also make sure that it is imbued with justice and love. Under these conditions, everyone is answered. Never according to worldly imagination, always in favour of learning and spiritual evolution”. She made a brief pause before clarifying another aspect of utmost importance: “No serious place or person will promise what lies outside their sphere of realization. No one has the power to open another person’s paths”.

Fausto objected. There were churches and temples, as well as gurus and religious leaders, who guaranteed such a feat. Aunt Francisca corrected him: “You must have misunderstood or they failed to tell the truth. There are various places and people capable of offering the indispensable tools for that purpose. However, the work is personal and non-transferable”. She looked at him with compassion and continued: “Although, as far as possible and reasonable, everyone should help everyone else, paving the path and the consequent advance are individual tasks. And it must be so, otherwise we would remove from life its pedagogical function of fostering the indispensable transformations so that we may become different and better people”. He objected again. He argued that he was traveling on an impassable road. He was hardworking and intelligent. He had studied a great deal. He harmed no one. It was necessary that another existential road be granted to him, one in which there were means to achieve what should belong to him by merit. The faith healer shook her head no and explained: “Whether you understand it or not, everything is as it should be. To each person belong the exact pains and delights of the days they cross”. Then she declared: “If the road is bad, do not lament or complain. Simply change your way of walking. Otherwise, the path will remain the same. No one will be able to help you”.

The young engineer took a deep breath to contain his impatience, as if to say he had not gone to Madureira to hear those words. Before he could speak, Aunt Francisca proposed a prayer to calm his heart: “Emotional imbalances cloud mental clarity. That is why prayers and meditations, as well as good readings, have great value. When reality goes against the unreal image we have of who we are, we are left destroyed. Knowing yourself more and better is the foundation of truth and virtue. They are the pillars of personal reconstruction. The opposite of this leads us to imbalance, stagnation and suffering, without us being able to understand that we have caused the effects that surround us and, consequently, we end up planting a flag in an undesired destiny”. He fell silent so that she could bless him. After a few minutes, nothing had changed, except for a small yet clear sense of serenity in Fausto’s features. A sign that his listening was a little less obstructed.

More out of courtesy than conviction, Fausto asked how the faith healer could help him change his way of walking so that, at last, the paths would open. With the generosity and patience that were typical of her, the faith healer explained: “The one you are today has brought you to the present existential moment, but does not have the power to take you forward. Who you are has exhausted the capacity for movement. To move ahead, you will have to deconstruct yourself so that a new internal construction, different and better than the current one, may rise. No one changes the way they move through the world and life without modifying their own behaviour. Understand behaviour as the way of acting, reacting and making choices. Habits do not define anyone’s essence, they only demonstrate the current level of consciousness, which can always rise, if the individual has the firm determination to change their way of looking at and dealing with themselves. All habits, however old and deep-rooted, are subject to transformation, if the individual understands that these usual behaviours prevent the flourishing of the best that exists within. Life always responds in the exact rhythm or lack of rhythm of our steps”.

The engineer’s eyes showed interest. Aunt Francisca went on: “To change behaviour and, therefore, one’s own story, it is necessary to transform the way of thinking. Thoughts define routes which, in turn, determine destinies. The mind is the window through which the soul observes, understands and manifests itself. Subtle or dense thoughts have the power to open or close windows, to leave the mind clear or clouded, to allow consciousness to expand or to retract. Thus, thoughts have the power to widen or narrow reality – the dynamic perception that each person has of the world and life – the place where paths present themselves or hide. Pay attention to the kind of ideas that occupy your mind most of the time. There is no way to prevent corrosive thoughts from invading us, but we are able to let them pass without allowing them to take root. Almost all storms have them as seeds”.

The young man argued that, from time to time, he made commitments to change with himself. He said he knew the importance of constant transformations. She looked at him with enormous compassion and asked: “What happens after this internal dialogue?” Fausto admitted that nothing changed. He confessed he did not know why. The faith healer explained: “Commitments without viable plans and accompanied by tireless actions directed toward the final goal translate into dreams that never come true. Routine is fundamental to success. Routine is the very structure of the path. No routine survives a lack of discipline and determination. It must necessarily contain all the essential elements for intrinsic modifications so that they may sustain extrinsic achievements. There will be crossroads, where choices will prove decisive as manifestations of truth and the most intimate will. There will be no shortage of storms to show how firmly the pillars of consciousness are built in shaping a new way of being and living. Storms serve to carry away what in us no longer adds or propels anything. Then they make room for the new. The gaze becomes clearer; the heart learns to remain serene and joyful at the same time. Thoughts gain altitude, not by the leaps of daydreams, but by the wings of love. Passions become mastered, no longer mastering us. They begin to serve as impulse, no longer as frenzy or lack of control. Thus, unimagined paths say yes to us”. She shrugged and concluded: “They were always there; we simply did not see them”.

Fausto commented that those words, filled with poetry, had little practicality. The change, at least the one he intended, did not depend on him. He claimed to be imprisoned by external circumstances. Improbable obstacles prevented the natural continuation of his journey. He repeated the arguments about inconsistent jobs and insufficient pay. Positions and functions beneath his capability. He said the job market operated in an unfair and cruel manner. To undertake a business required money he did not have and involved very high risks. A dreadful anxiety, accompanied by growing anguish, settled in as inevitable feelings. What to do when nothing can be done, he asked. Aunt Francisca reflected: “No one is imprisoned by the circumstances of the world, but by the beliefs they hold about themselves. Pride, vanity, and greed are fruits of imperceptible or unconfessed feelings of inferiority”.

The young engineer vehemently disagreed. There was no feeling of inferiority in him. On the contrary, he felt more prepared and capable than most people. The faith healer shook her head and asked: “Do you now understand the origin of pride, vanity, and greed?” Not understanding what she meant by that question, he did not answer. The elder clarified: “Pride, vanity, and greed are feelings born from weaknesses we refuse to admit. That is why we call them shadows, for they still dwell in the dark alleys of the mind. We have difficulty perceiving and admitting their manifestations. Always harmful, we use twisted reasoning and fallacious adjectives to justify them. Although they may appear as strength and power, they are nothing more than rigid armour used to disguise a fragile mind and a shattered heart. To believe oneself better than someone else is an act of betrayal of the mind against the conscience, in a vain attempt to avoid the effort of internal reconstruction that sooner or later will have to happen. All suffering is proportional to the denial or ignorance each person has about themselves”.

She took a sip of coffee from a mug resting on the floor beside the armchair and reflected: “The path will remain impassable to the traveller who refuses to dismantle their own mental traps. There is no greater deception than believing we deserve victory even before fighting for and rightfully achieving it”. She placed the mug on the floor and added: “Transferring to the world the responsibility for our dissatisfactions and failures will help nothing. The revolution is interior. The victory as well. The beginning of every transformation starts with the courage to recognize one’s own weaknesses. That is how the strong are born. That is how true achievements are structured. This is also the source of genuine love for one’s own spiritual evolution, the essence of life. A powerful feeling arising from a conscience that neither fears nor yields to difficulties”.

Finally, she concluded: “No work is unworthy. Accept and do what is within your reach. Treat everyone as you would like to be treated if roles were reversed. Be grateful for opportunities with respect and attitude. Every dedication will be rewarded. Live at the limit of your capacity, without forgetting to rest and enjoy yourself. Every day, in any situation, always offer the best that is within you. Repay evil with good, for this is the only way to rid yourself of all wickedness. However difficult the tribulations and disappointments may be, do not forget that the world is perfect for personal refinement and improvement. Live in peace and with joy. Peace does not consist in the absence of storms. That is called calm. Peace lies in maintaining mental clarity, emotional balance, and strength of movement during storms. Likewise, joy does not reside only in pleasant events. Those are blessings. The secret of joy lies in the ability to find the wonders of life while facing and overcoming difficulties. It is when we manage to bring forth the hidden beauty of the soul. There is no greater victory”.

“Moreover, as Our Lord Jesus Christ taught, pray and keep watch at all times. Not over others, but over yourself. The greatest power of prayer is to ask the help of good Spirits to inspire us in the struggle against bad thoughts. The result of this good combat will determine the opening or closing of paths. Everything begins or ends with thoughts. This power is yours. It has always been in your hands. Learn to use it”.

The conversation was over. Fausto thanked her, more out of politeness than satisfaction. Yet I noticed something different in his eyes. Even without understanding why, he was unsettled. A seed had been planted. If it found fertile soil, it would bloom. I said goodbye to Aunt Francisca and we left. On the way back home, Fausto did not say a word.

We never spoke of the matter again. Various commitments and personal projects distanced me from my godson. When we met at some celebration, we had nothing deeper to talk about. Until, one Sunday morning, I was surprised by a phone call. He wanted to thank Aunt Francisca. He said he would pick me up at home. We would talk in the car, he promised. Fausto was different. Not because of the beard he had not worn before, but because of the light in his eyes that had not existed before. He was happy. He said that a few days after that meeting, somewhat reluctantly, he had accepted a job as a stock clerk in the warehouse of a construction site at a large construction company. A position subordinate to that of engineer, for which he had graduated. In moments of dissatisfaction, he would push away thoughts of resentment and remember the faith healer’s words. As the months passed, he began to understand that that position offered him the opportunity to learn subliminal aspects of construction that he would never have grasped had he started at the company already as an engineer, as he had initially intended. As a clerk, he had the opportunity to talk with bricklayers and suppliers, to hear their complaints and suggestions more closely. He had access to the backstage of construction. He was the first to arrive and the last to leave the site. He acquired a differentiated perspective by being able to understand construction from an unusual angle, impossible for the company’s engineers and directors. A knowledge that strengthened him as a professional. Fausto impressed with his confident and assertive opinions. Gradually, he gained the trust of the board.

At the first opportunity, Fausto rose to the position of engineer of one of the projects. Soon that construction developed in a distinctive way. The workers not only obeyed him; they respected him, both for his dignified posture and his meticulous knowledge. That week he had received another promotion. He would be the chief engineer, responsible for all the company’s engineers at the other projects. The directors admired and trusted him. I asked whether he believed that one day he would be invited to join the board. Fausto replied that he would not involve himself with that idea. He would remain focused on the work, carrying it out in the best possible way. Nothing more. After all, the paths had opened when, in his daily coexistence with his thoughts, he let pass, like an afternoon breeze, the ideas of pride, vanity, and greed, while finding a good reason and place for humility to set down roots. He had learned that there was nothing good in letting himself be led by bad thoughts. Fausto prayed and watched over his own thoughts at all times. He did not want to lose power over himself again. His pact was with good ideas, with work, and with light. Unlike all the Fausts of literature and of the centuries, he no longer wished to find the gates of his destiny closed.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic

It was the end of the afternoon on an ordinary Wednesday in Rio de Janeiro. I was exhausted after an extremely difficult day at work. Problems of every kind were piling up, demanding nervous and urgent solutions. I had the unpleasant feeling of being trapped in a vicious circle. In short, the movements that had helped me reach that existential moment, the way of being and living that had made me who I was, no longer served me. My lifestyle had become obsolete. I am not referring to clothes, profession, or entertainment. The way I understood myself no longer fit inside me. In order to grow, I would have to break the shell of behavioural patterns that kept me stuck, inside and out. Who I was had brought me that far, but to move forward a reconstruction would be necessary. Or a reinvention. We live, out in the world, the reality built within the universe. No more, no less. This defines our range of possibilities, as well as our joys and sorrows. Reality expands or contracts at the limits of perception and sensitivity attained. What is impossible for some is reality for others. I am not talking about financial conditions, but about the movements made possible by the extent of truth understood and the virtues added to one’s personal baggage. This establishes the boundaries of living. The problems I have signal the transformations that await me.

Knowing the theorem does not guarantee the solution. One must work out the equation. No one is what they know, but what they do. When life is bad, change is necessary. Inner changes turn behaviour inside out. We become another person. The problem was that I did not know what was wrong or what to change. I decided to go home. I needed to think. I wrapped up work and called a taxi. On the car radio, Norah Jones was playing. The music transported me to the tables of a pleasant café in Gávea, hidden on a quiet, tree-lined side street. I asked the driver to change the route. With no sign or nameplate on the door, the old house, built in the mid-1950s, seemed enchanted, in the most transcendental sense of the word. Divided into several rooms, it was possible to listen to jazz, blues, or bossa nova without having to raise one’s voice in conversations accompanied by espressos, frappuccinos, and hot or iced mochas. There was a central garden shaded by a centuries-old, leafy mango tree, where comfortable sofas and armchairs made the setting perfect for spending afternoons in the company of books interspersed with cappuccinos.

Bárbara, the barista and owner of the establishment, made the best coffee in the city. Trained in Psychology and a lover of Psychoanalysis, she had given up clinical practice some time ago. Nevertheless, she had never abandoned the mysteries of the psyche. To that end, twice a week, always in the late afternoon, she would climb onto a small pulpit set up in one corner of the main hall to speak about some topic related to the pleasures and pains of the soul. Even without any publicity, the place overflowed with people. With her arms covered by countless tattoos on pale skin, she changed her hair colour according to her mood, moving from red to lilac, from the black wings of the grackle to the golden rays of the sun. At times, Bárbara would ask permission to sit at someone’s table. This happened when her keen sensitivity indicated a disoriented traveller at a crossroads, waiting for guidance. Then she would offer a gaze translated into concise and precise words, capable of revealing passages through the walls of misunderstood events. There was no point in asking for an appointment. It was the guide who chose the traveller. “This is not an office, it’s a café,” she insisted on repeating. Yet it was much more than that.

That day, Bárbara’s hair was blue. I did not know what that colour meant, nor did I ask. I greeted her with a smile. She observed me for a brief yet expressive moment. Then she suggested that I sit at the counter. I said I would like to stay in the garden. I wanted to be alone, drink a coffee, and think. I needed quiet to find myself. The barista remarked: “No doubt, you need this moment. We all do. However, I suspect it might be interesting if today, when you go to the garden, you take with you some different ideas, capable of leading your thoughts to places they have never been”.

I accepted the offer. She brought me my usual double espresso and asked: “What troubles you? I’ve never seen you like this”. I explained that I was entangled in a web of endless problems. I had the feeling they would never end. I said I considered myself a contemporary Sisyphus. I alluded to the mythological character condemned to carry a heavy stone to the top of a mountain. The thing is that, day after day, as he approached the summit, the stone slipped from his arms and rolled back down the mountain, forcing him to endlessly restart the exhausting task. Bárbara smiled and asked: “How do you understand this myth?” I dodged the answer by saying there were a thousand interpretations, all valid. The barista nodded and clarified: “Sisyphus was punished for deceiving death, whose name is Thanatos in the Greek text. Of the many possible interpretations, I like the one that treats death not as the demise of the body, but as a symbol of the closing of evolutionary cycles. We can be born and die many times in a single existence, and this is wonderful, as long as we understand the end of a cycle and are willing to begin a new and unknown existential journey. It is not easy to give up personality traits that, despite the damage caused by restricting important intrinsic movements, are often sources of pride and pleasure. Or to accept the imperfections of twisted reasoning, erected to serve the shallow comfort of a consciousness that refuses to go further. In some cases, a renovation is enough. In others, it will be necessary to demolish the building in order to construct another, with new and different foundations”.

She gave a mischievous smile and explained: “It is easier to deceive Thanatos and deny the need for continuous renewal of evolutionary cycles. Then life repeats itself indefinitely without adding anything. There is no greater punishment than living a life empty of content and usefulness. Even if only for a brief period, it will be a waste. Sisyphus never manages to take the stone, the dead weight of himself, to the top of the mountain because he refuses to free himself from who no longer serves him within himself. Reconciliation with Thanatos is equivalent to accepting the existential challenge of beginning a new journey of learning and transformation”. She shrugged and concluded: “The problem is not the problems. They are merely the messengers of necessary changes. Do not blame the messenger because you dislike, or do not understand, the meaning of the message”.

I asked whether she meant to tell me that the problems I was experiencing were caused by my pattern of behaviour and were therefore my responsibility. Bárbara nodded again and added: “If the problems are yours, the responsibility will be as well”. I argued that I had problems of different kinds. And there were many. Whether with booksellers, printers, authors, illustrators, designers, or employees. The barista reflected: “These are issues you label as commercial or business-related, but which, in essence, are relationship difficulties”. She paused before unsettling me: “Your difficulties, not theirs. That is why you live with so many problems with so many people”.

With my irritation under control, I explained that I was faced with senseless requests, demands, or conditions. People seemed to have lost all sense and judgment. Bárbara fell silent for a few moments, as if weighing the need to go deeper, and then argued: “People are the way they are, with their views, tastes, and interests. They have just as much right to that as we do. When we fail to understand this process, we leave room for problems to arise. This is called conflict”. I was on the verge of being unable to contain my irritation in the face of those arguments. I knew what a conflict was. I didn’t need anyone to explain it to me. For me, the problem lay in the impossibility of agreeing with other people’s senselessness. The barista corrected me immediately: “I didn’t say agree, but respect. They are different behaviours. Confusing one with the other is the cause of many problems”.

I complained that the world was becoming increasingly strange. She corrected me again: “The world changes as people’s needs and aspirations change. It has always been that way, and there is nothing wrong with it. This affects relationships when we refuse to understand social rotations and translations”. She tapped her finger on the counter to emphasize her words and reminded me once more: “Respecting the elements that shape another person’s point of view, even without agreeing, is an act of dignity typical of those who already know the roots of freedom and peace”. I asked her to explain further. She was generous: “We must remain loyal to the convictions that guide us when another person’s stance brings us harm of any kind. That is the moment to give thanks and leave. The departure should happen without suffering, resentment, or bitterness. In this way, emotional balance and freedom of movement are acquired. As in any cycle, partnerships and friendships also come to an end. It is natural. However, at times, we will be offered an unfamiliar truth. That is when it is time to change something within ourselves, to be grateful and stay. Clarity of vision is gained. Reality expands”.

She then added: “We always have the choice to be enchanted by another’s perspective or to move forward with our own perceptions. What matters is never forgetting that no one is obliged to agree with or accompany anyone. Where for many there is a problem, for others it is merely an exercise of autonomy and freedom”. She waited for me to take a sip of coffee and concluded: “A flexible and dynamic mind will always be stronger than a hardened and static one. Rigid mindsets are clouded and slow, never open to the new or to evolution”.

I argued that I was not inflexible. However, I remained loyal to the truth as far as I understood it. The barista explained: “There is nothing wrong with loyalty to your perceptions and convictions. On the contrary, there is great virtue in preserving them when they maintain a harmonious dialogue with conscience. However, there is a subtle boundary between loyalty and stubbornness. There are corners within us that remain misunderstood. Behind excess and rigidity there is much incomprehension and rejection of who we are. Moralism hides acts or desires of immorality; airs of superiority conceal unconfessable feelings of inferiority; nostalgia reveals the difficulty of accepting change. Stubbornness, because it involves an exaggerated attachment to one’s own ideas and, consequently, a rejection of the new and of differences, hardens and hinders the movements of renewal and regeneration that are essential to the evolutionary process and to living well”.

Bárbara continued: “The secret of problems lies in not dealing with them as if they were tragedies. Nor even treating them as something unpleasant or bad. Live them as pedagogical experiences, available to teach something you do not yet know. Not only about things, but above all about yourself. While the problem persists, or repeats itself, it means that the experience is still in progress. It must be worked through in another way, with other elements of reflection, refined truths, and better virtues”. I asked when I would know that a given experience was finished. She replied at once: “When that kind of situation is no longer a problem. The primary purpose of experiences is not to learn how to solve problems, but to discover inner riches. Only these are capable of dissolving them. Everything else is mere postponement”.

I fell silent. I drank the rest of the espresso without haste while Bárbara prepared other coffee orders. I had been over sixty years old for some time. I believed that I should be teaching, not learning from younger people. I mentioned this when she returned. The barista smiled and said: “We learn and teach all the time. Everyone with everyone. The dynamics of life make us students and teachers full time”. She looked at me with compassion and provoked me: “You are still ignorant, my friend”. I found the remark aggressive. She clarified: “I do not mean the pejorative sense of the word, nor schooling, diplomas, or titles. Do not cling to the common prejudice. I am speaking of the philosophical meaning of the term ignorant: one who does not have full awareness of himself and of his infinite possibilities. In this respect, make no mistake, we are all ignorant”.

She was right. I confessed that I would have to revise myself thoroughly. The draft was still far from the final version. There was much within me awaiting change. Despite my advanced age, a new way of being and living had become indispensable. Bárbara was didactic: “Our lifestyle is the result of lived experiences. This creates a behavioural pattern for dealing with the problems and difficulties inherent in daily life. A kind of model of defence or emotional survival that, as long as it generates problems, will signal the need for improvement. To modify the pattern, it is essential to seek new experiences, but from now on, lived and appreciated with bolder perspectives that have never before been tested. Problems reveal the pulsating misunderstandings of the soul”. She ran her hand through her blue hair and reflected: “When business does not go well, often there is nothing wrong with the business. When we are faced with complicated people, sometimes there is nothing complicated about them. Not infrequently, the issue lies in our own misunderstandings and stubbornness”.

She then clarified: “By improving the relationship we have with ourselves, we improve the relationships we maintain with the world. New experiences, when worked through with different elements of understanding, will be of enormous value for reprocessing old ones. By connection and consequence, from resentment will arise learning, from fear will be born courage, guilt will disappear to make way for responsibility and the commitment to do better from then on. Until from bitterness we find honey, from tragedies emerge hidden wonders. It is healing, love, and freedom all at once. An immeasurable conquest translated into joy, peace, and dignity”.

Without my asking, she placed a large mug of brewed coffee on the counter, winked, and joked: “For my adorable ignorant, this one’s on the house”. We laughed. Then she pointed with her chin to an empty armchair in the garden. I had much to think about. Still, that day I carried with me some different ideas, important to help me discover something I did not yet know within myself. It would be an interesting and very valuable journey. Sisyphus was willing to throw away the stone. For that, it was necessary to reconcile with Thanatos: to bring to maturity the changes that could no longer wait. Then others would come, and yet others. I thanked her and went to the garden with a single certainty: the Gávea café really was enchanted. An incredible portal to a fantastic inner dimension.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic

Squeezed between the sea and the mountains, Rio de Janeiro is a city fragmented into several regions with their own characteristics and cultures. The birthplace of some of the most traditional samba schools, a cradle of brilliant artists, a factory of tenacious workers, the setting of a famous and democratic dance held beneath a viaduct, whose trademark is irresistible choreographies synchronized with pulsating Charme music, Madureira, a place of simple and honourable people, shelters some of the most incredible individuals I have ever known: Aunt Francisca, the folk healer. A Black woman, short in stature, very thin, with completely white hair, the same colour as her dresses, also known for her elegant, almost poetic conversation. Ever since I have known her, she has lived in a very humble and tidy house. In the living room, perfumed by the herbs of the fumigator, rosemary, benzoin, and lavender are her favourites, there is an altar with images of Master Jesus, Mother Mary, and Saint George, the warrior saint. She receives everyone seated in a faded blue armchair, “the colour of Our Lady’s mantle”. With naturally gentle gestures, she is always available to those in need of a strong prayer to ease the afflictions of the soul. Using sprigs of rue, which she passes over the bodies of the supplicants, eyes closed, she utters words that come from the depths of the heart. Regardless of the magnitude of the suffering, I have never seen anyone leave that house without a sliver of hope on their lips or a light in their eyes that had not existed before. To those who wish to pay for the service, the old woman merely smiles and says, “Kneel before the altar and give thanks to Our Lord Jesus Christ. To Him, all honour and glory. To me, nothing is owed”.

Her age is a mystery. Her appearance has always been the same since I first knew her, still a child, led by my father’s hand, worried about that distracted boy who could spend hours enchanted by unimportant things. I liked Aunt Francisca as much as I liked her house. It was as if we entered a temple set apart from time and the world. The silence and stillness of that place flooded my heart with peace. The prayer did me good, but the brief conversation we had afterward was even better. Followed by a welcoming embrace, her gentle, sweet, and wise words revealed the good side of the worst situations. They not only soothed my heart but also clarified my gaze. The folk healer always showed sincere affection for me. No matter how long I went without visiting, when I did return, she asked about my terrible grades in Mathematics, a subject I hated, and my good grades in History, a topic that fascinated me. Then she let out a mischievous laugh and whispered so my father would not hear, “We must not like something just because someone else likes it or believes everyone should like it. There are no two people alike. Each one has their own way, with their beauty, charm, and power. To flee from this is to deny the magic that was granted to us”.

As an adult, I continued to frequent the good old woman’s house. However, many years had passed since my last visit. Through distraction and carelessness, we remove from our routines tasks that are fundamental to the exercise of happiness. Nothing is worse for distancing us from who we are and from who we can become. Then happiness withers. Only through routine is it possible to trace the route toward the Light. Given the time that had elapsed, I believed she might have departed for the High Lands. As Aunt Francisca was averse to telephones, social networks, and other modernities, there was only one way to find out: it was necessary to go to Madureira.

To my joy, everything was exactly as it had been the last time. Both Aunt Francisca and her house. I did not dare delve into the mysteries of time. I carried with me other, more urgent concerns. Because of serious financial difficulties the publishing house had gone through, I had sold half of the company’s shares. The honeymoon with the new partner was brief. He soon implemented a series of changes that he believed were necessary to reverse the negative cash flow. I agreed with some of them. I did not merely agree, I applauded them. They were not only indispensable but also intelligent and creative. However, others I did not like. One of them, in fact, bothered me greatly. They would begin publishing shallow works, written by opportunistic authors, such as instant celebrities, yanked into fame due to scandals, media crimes, or launched into the stratosphere of popularity by social networks, without having performed any action of justifiable value. Despite their undeniable commercial appeal, they were empty of artistic, pedagogical, or philosophical content. In a few months, the face of the company I had taken years to sculpt would be disfigured. It was not a matter of criticism or prejudice against those who explored that niche; I simply did not want it for my publishing house. I was accused of intransigence, purism, and naivety.

After listening to me without saying a word, Aunt Francisca prayed over me. Then she embraced me for interminable minutes, as if she could hear the sensitive words of the heart, unpronounceable by hurried and afflicted lips. She offered me some water taken from a pitcher that rested on the altar: “It has been energized; it serves to bring calm to the soul”. She waited for me to empty the glass and asked, “How do you understand success?” Although I had not grasped the reason for the question, I replied that success happens when an individual achieves desired goals or surpasses their own expectations. The good old woman continued, “What happens if what was achieved is lost for any reason?” Still without understanding where she was leading me with those questions, I said that in such cases, from success comes failure. She went on, “How can we ascertain a person’s success?” I explained that the most common criteria were fortune, fame, or political and social power. Aunt Francisca curved her lips into a slight smile and asked, “What happens when, for some reason contrary to our desire, money disappears, fame frays, or power is usurped?” I answered that from achievement comes the fall. And the fall is the cruellest of failures. It is better not to reach the top than to plunge from it. The folk healer frowned and commented, “Success is frightening. It scares me. I do not want it for myself”.

I tried to correct the reasoning. I clarified that fame, fortune, and power were common parameters, not necessarily mine. For me, success was being happy, dignified, and free; loving deeply and living in peace. The good old woman looked at me with compassion and reflected, “Universal truths are indisputable and impressive in the beauty of their idea. However, almost no one turns them into action. It requires effort, self-denial, and courage to apply them to daily life. Very few are willing to change. Change hurts. One must admit mistakes, deconstruct false truths, and accept the effort of personal reconstruction. Leaving behind ways of being and living that, because they are so intimate, we believed immutable to our personality, is not easy”. I asked her to explain further. She exemplified, “Everyone claims to desire peace in the world. I believe they are sincere. However, they cannot maintain it even in their own homes. They demand that others act according to their taste, do not tolerate differences, fight when contradicted, and curse uncomfortable truths. They consider these behaviours an inevitable part of who they are. No one reaches the right destination by traveling the wrong road”.

She sipped a gulp of coffee contained in a small enamelled iron mug that rested on the floor beside the faded blue armchair and commented, “Everything that can be taken, lost, or disappear by the action of time or of someone else is with me, but it is not mine. It is a loan or a concession. In either case, it is a transient experience whose greater purpose is my evolution. What is mine, nothing and no one can steal, because it neither ages nor rusts. It does not depend on laws, political systems, or economic policies. It does not fit into accounting or frames, nor can it be kept in safes or serve as currency in the market. The origin of most suffering arises from the anxieties over achievements that unravel according to the variations of days and the world, without our being able to prevent it. These do not fit in the luggage toward the High Lands. We know this, yet we continue to attribute them as fundamental to success”. She looked at me gently and whispered as if telling a secret, “To a person belong the virtues they have added to the soul. No more, no less. An inner construction emanated in serenity, balance, and strength of movement”.

She furrowed her brows and warned: “Bankruptcies, layoffs, illnesses, betrayals, slanders, unwanted separations through divorce or the death of loved ones are just a few examples of situations that make the world collapse for many people. Success is the foundation that keeps us standing when everything around us falls apart”. She shrugged and concluded: “If we have not built these inner pillars, we still do not know success. If we already have them strong, we are free to move forward without depending on any external circumstances such as fortune, fame, privileges, favours, or positions of any kind. Nothing and no one will be able to prevent us from flowing through the adversities of days. Intrinsic success stabilizes, protects, illuminates, propels, and guides. Extrinsic ones, although they shine brightly, often lack light”.

I asked how to achieve this kind of success. The folk healer explained to me: “Contrary to common belief, it is not protagonism in extraordinary events, stages filled with spotlights, plump bank accounts, happiness fabricated through perfect photographs, trips to paradisiacal places, positions of authority, or attendance at luxurious ceremonies that determine a life full of achievements. Success is an inner construction that allows us to live with joy, serenity and clarity, balance and strength of movement, regardless of the events around us”. I commented that, judging by the old woman’s words, it was a very valuable power and within everyone’s reach, since it depended solely on each person’s will. I asked why we were so far from this important conquest. Aunt Francisca smiled and recalled: “To find and enjoy something, it is necessary to understand the search and the purpose. Whatever it may be. As for deep success, what prevents it are the small undue permissions we grant ourselves day by day, driven by the impulse of unbridled desires and senseless interests. This makes us choose brilliance over light, going against truth and virtues. Without realizing it, every day we move a little farther away from who we could become”.

She furrowed her brows again as she increased the tone of seriousness and commented: “Forget the idea that we are in a bad place because of someone else or bad luck. Each person is where they placed themselves. The fall does not come from the bad influence of some friends or the neighbourhood. We listen to the words that flatter our affinities. Each one is responsible for themselves and for the consequences they have caused. No one has a cursed destiny. We are the exact product of our incessant factory of choices”.

She took another sip of coffee before concluding: “Nor would it be fair to attribute failure to great and sudden catastrophes. No one trips over mountains, my child. Life collapses outwardly only after it has crumbled inwardly. This takes time. The waste of an existence happens little by little, in the small daily concessions we authorize out of dubious interests, comfort, or lack of courage. It is necessary to reverse the routine of the relationship each one maintains with themselves. There is no other path to success”.

She paused briefly so I could connect the reasoning and suggested: “At every moment, bring to the surface of consciousness the hidden feelings that drive your choices, for they speak of the genuine intentions behind each decision. We do not always decide for the reasons we like to justify and believe”. Then she asked a simple rhetorical question: “Do you understand what distances us from true success?”

Seeing that no answer was necessary, she added: “The sincere analysis of the feelings that propel or restrain reason is an indispensable part of a good routine. Recognize them, accept them, and transmute them when necessary. Thus we define choices and destinies. Choices serve to craft routes that, in turn, bring us closer to or farther from genuine success. Feelings reveal the habitual behaviours that lead us to walk in circles. All feelings have a name. Until we decode them precisely, we will continue without understanding the gears of reason. We will continue without understanding the authentic foundations of our own decisions and the reason we cannot move forward, even after so much effort. No one understands where they are going before knowing themselves more and better. Deep success will always lie offshore from those who refuse to make the movement toward their own core. To find the essence is to understand the genuine feelings that move thoughts, for they are essential in the process of expansion or contraction of existential advances. Success occurs as a natural consequence of this understanding, as well as of the transformations indispensable to refining the inner foundations, indispensable to facing the adversities inherent in life”.

She looked at me seriously and concluded: “Without understanding the Path, in the frantic search for positions and privileges of apparent success, we will not know personal magic”. I asked what that magic consisted of. She explained by example: “Peace is not the absence of storms. Peace is feeling serene, balanced, and strong during storms. This is success. There is no more powerful magic”.

Aunt Francisca was right. Genuine victory will never be about permissions and authorizations. Any conquest whose maintenance does not require merit, but depends on the variations of the world, can become a prize in reverse. In truth, success would be like a ship, although small ,  or even invisible to the belief of many ,  it was very well built, proving itself capable of safely and autonomously navigating the uncertain and treacherous seas of existence. It involves a set of conquests of the soul. The idea of dignified, free, and firm inner movements, strong enough to sustain external displacements according to one’s own gaze, taste, and will, possessed irresistible arguments and charms.

However, I still had not understood how that conversation applied to the problem that tormented me at the publishing house. Aunt Francisca explained: “The model of apparent success manifests itself in various ways. It is not always in the unbridled desire for fame, money, or prominent positions invested with power. The exercise of control and dominance among family members, friends, or in the work environment reveals nuances of this surface power. There is nothing wrong with wanting things our way. What is wrong is entering into conflict when contradicted. We have the right and the responsibility to conduct our lives in our own way, driven by interests and flavours that are akin to us. For this, it is necessary to understand the limit of action. Both desire and freedom have insurmountable boundaries. No one is obliged to agree with or accompany anyone. This rule applies both to us and to others. If the matter concerns intimate issues, we have the right to stay or leave, say yes or no, do or undo. When it intersects with another’s right, dialogue and sensibleness become necessary, knowing that others have interests and desires not always equal to ours. We may agree or disagree; however, accepting the choice that belongs to the other by right is an act of respect. Welcoming differences of opinion and taste without resentment or rancour is an even nobler act, whether for the dignity contained in it or for the freedom self-granted”.

She sipped a little more coffee and argued: “The conflict of ideas requires dialogue for a healthy solution. The difference in perspectives is not about who is right or wrong. Clear, gentle, and sincere communication serves to find a point of light in the relationship, where those involved can yield and coexist without betraying their own essence. Without vanity and pride, with humility and honesty. In relationships like this, driven by goodwill, there can never be a loser or a winner. We win or lose together. These are the basic rules for winning a game called success”.

I argued that this point of communion is not always possible in relationships. Concessions need limits so they do not become abusive. Some people do not understand this. The good old woman reflected: “When one of those involved prioritizes surface success over deep success, driven by feelings they cannot understand or do not wish to change, they will act driven by illegitimate intentions or impulses devoid of any virtue. By not knowing the inestimable value of unmonetized wealth and truth detached from obligation, whatever the result, they will make themselves a loser, without anyone having pushed them toward defeat”. She looked at the image of the warrior saint on the altar, as if seeking inspiration, and commented: “One may head toward bad conflict or choose the good fight. To defeat the other or oneself. Genuine love for the world requires detachment from the things of the world. With each choice we define the type of success we seek and, consequently, the destiny that awaits us”.

Once again, the good old woman was right. My publishing house was not mine alone. The new partner was a good man, full of virtues, and had found excellent solutions to serious problems. He simply had a different view from mine in some business aspects. Something natural and not necessarily bad. I needed to dialogue with myself to understand the boundary between what was inadmissible and what was mere captiousness, between intolerance and respect, between pride and humility. I needed to understand whether the problem lay with me, with him, or with both. Then I would invite him to a frank yet gentle conversation. Something within me told me we would find the point of light: a place in the heart where we could coexist well and in peace, despite inevitable differences. I only thought this, without saying anything to Aunt Francisca.

The folk healer smiled and, as if guessing my thoughts, asked me for a hug. She wanted to listen to my heart just to confirm what she already knew. Then she said: “Vanity grants the illusion of success. That is why it is so difficult to overcome it. Among other traits, vanity manifests itself in the exaggerated desire to be right about everything and every subject. A futile attempt to fill an existential void that will continue to distort behaviours and choices as long as it is not understood. You will go on believing that applause, subservience, and reverence will make up for the lack of something that, no matter how much you search, you will never find in the world. What fills the inner void is an ever more refined understanding of oneself, wrapped in good feelings. Nothing else will suffice”.

She held my hands tenderly and brought the conversation to a close: “Genuine power lies in the richness of the elements that build consciousness. When you discover them and bring them to the surface of life in the form of virtues, in the way you treat yourself and everyone else, you will gain access to personal magic. A way of crossing through the days with authenticity and originality, but also with lightness and gentleness. In other words, without giving up your values and directions, you will be able to move without conflicts, resentments, guilt, or fear. Even if belittled or misunderstood, only these will know success”.

The prayer had ended. I thanked Aunt Francisca for the blessing with a loud kiss on her cheek and left. Like the others, that visit had done me a great deal of good. I left carrying with me the enchantment of finding joy and beauty where before there had been only agony and sadness. Along with two certainties. One is that when conflict is imminent, it almost always means there is a route available that has not yet been perceived. It is the path to success, or, if you prefer, the route of light. If success and light are not aligned, the road is wrong. The other certainty is that I needed to return to Madureira more often.

Translated by: Cazmilian Zórdic