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The Indispensable deconstruction

I had never thought about becoming an editor. It was a bittersweet beginning. It all started at the monastery when the Elder, as we affectionately called the eldest monk of the Order, invited me to take care of a collection of texts that we published. It was a compilation of various studies conducted annually on philosophy and metaphysics, the result of our classes, debates, and reflections. New perspectives are always welcome. Old views on certain issues remain relevant, although they require proper understanding and exact adaptation to be used as precious tools in everyday situations. Often, we use them out of context. We don’t always realize what we know but cannot use. Thus, we fail to become all that we could be.

I was very excited. As the coordinators of each area handed me the texts, I read them carefully to organize them in a sequence that seemed logical to me, allowing the monks, as they read, to escalate their reasoning and expand their ideas, so that each study added to another, advancing the frontiers of understanding. As the Elder taught: “First, put on your socks before your shoes.” Since the book had a page limit, not all texts produced in the monastery each cycle could fit into the publication, making it my difficult task to select those that would be included in each edition. Despite causing jealousy and dissatisfaction, everyone understood the rules, developing their own shadows, a good evolutionary exercise. They showed themselves polite and kind, even when their studies were excluded. Whether it was mere appearance or a sincere expression of individual essence it was not always perceptible to less sensitive eyes.

Despite dedicating myself to doing a good job, it was always the case that some monks made suggestions and criticisms. It was common to hear comments that the texts would be better organized in a different way or that excluded studies should be included. Rarely do we manage to please everyone. Different perspectives multiply truths. Here lies the richness and also the difficulty of relationships.

Years passed. I got used to walking this delicate line of selecting some while disregarding others. Making choices means bringing something into our lives; it also represents the elimination of what has been set aside—an important matter deserving much reflection. It was common for excellent works to remain excluded. When this happened and some authors came to talk to me, I reminded them of the important evolutionary exercise of anchoring our joy in the value of action without clinging to the result, which does not always reflect the quality of the work or the artist’s talent, as it depends on circumstances beyond our control. In some way, everyone seemed understanding of the final selection. In the effort to be fair, I developed objective criteria, although traces of subjectivity proved indispensable. Several times, texts of my own authorship were removed from the editions by me. I also needed to practice detachment from power and results. The care with which I handled the publications increased. Over time, the advent of new technologies arrived. I started using a different font, changed the layout to make reading more enjoyable, invited a friend, a visual artist, to create a new, more elegant and minimalist cover. I replaced the type of paper, using one of better quality, less prone to mold and moths. Books are creations that deserve to last for centuries. Everything was going well until, at a certain moment, one of the monks, Paul was his name, responsible for theosophy studies, on his own initiative, contacted the printer and, without informing me, inserted a text into that year’s collection.

After they were ready, the printing press sent a copy to each monk. I was at home when I received mine. Since I had already read all the texts before publication, I was satisfied to just analyse the physical aspect of the book. I smiled with joy, unaware that there was an unauthorized addition to the content. I simply placed the book on the shelf and went about my business. A few days later, I received a call from a monk, a close friend, praising one of the articles. It was a study on a classic of theosophy, “The Voice of the Silence” by Helena Blavatsky, whose hermeticism made the insights offered by scholars well-versed in the author’s coded language particularly valuable. I found it strange. I didn’t recall this specific text. I went to the book. As I began to read, I was certain it had been added without my consent. Upon contacting the printing press, I received explanations. The person in charge claimed to have acted in good faith, believing the addition had my authorization. I was infuriated by Paul’s intrusion into a sector under my coordination. It had never happened before. It wasn’t right. Discipline and respect are fundamental to evolution.

As a new study period at the monastery was about to begin in a few weeks, I decided to wait to personally discuss the serious incident with the Elder. The days of waiting were dreadful. I felt outraged and disrespected. The bitter taste that had begun to accompany me was intensified by a series of messages I received. They all praised Paul’s article in glowing terms. Despite there being several other excellent articles, the one that offered an interpretative essay on the book by the Russian author was deemed the most enchanting by the majority of the monks. I disagreed with this misjudgement. My irritation prevented me from recognizing any value in that text. I had to restrain myself from expressing the absurdity of this evidence. In the solitude of my thoughts, I seethed with indignation at all the circumstances surrounding the incident. I had many sleepless nights.

My flight was delayed, so I arrived at the monastery late at night. After greeting everyone, I went to talk to the Elder. I urgently needed to resolve the matter. Deeply unsettled, I needed to expel the monster gnawing at my insides. I found the kind monk sitting on the balcony, accompanied by a book and the beautiful star-speckled sky. Upon seeing me, he offered a sincere smile and invited me to sit beside him. I immediately brought up Paul’s matter. I expressed my dissatisfaction, backing it with sensible arguments. I wanted Paul’s insubordination addressed at the beginning of the study period; no abuse should be allowed. Such behaviour could not go uncorrected, lest it become a harmful habit, where all monks might feel entitled to the same. Disorder and chaos would ensue; the light would fade. Boundaries are indispensable in all relationships for the respect they establish. I recalled that Paul himself had once complained about another monk’s undue interference, as he covered the same theosophical topics in his own classes. I emphasized that we should not write letters we wouldn’t want to receive.

In the end, the Elder clarified that Paul had brought the text directly to his attention because he had finished it only after the deadline. After reading it and understanding its value, he exceptionally authorized its inclusion in the latest edition. As editor-in-chief and the highest authority in the Order, he had that right and authority. I knew this. However, he believed Paul had informed me of the change, leaving the inclusion of the text to me, as it was my duty and responsibility. He didn’t know Paul had sent it to the printer without even informing me. He admitted there were two mistakes: Paul’s and his own, as both should have informed me. He apologized and said he would talk to Paul later. Before I could delve further into the matter, as I had intended, he moved on to other subjects. He spoke about how he noticed clear signs of evolution among the monks, manifested through calmer behaviours yet with greater intensity. The monastery’s psychosphere was imbued with colours of joy and delicacy. He mentioned it was a moment of great light, urging everyone to make the most of it. I was unable to read between the lines of his commentary.

I couldn’t return to the serious matter, as I had wished. I went to bed with the feeling that I hadn’t received the proper attention and, furthermore, with the certainty that the outrage I had suffered had not been handled with the deserved severity. I felt disrespected. My dissatisfaction grew; sleep eluded me. The next morning, upon arriving at the cafeteria, I found Paul surrounded by other monks. He was thanking them for the many compliments received on his text. They were requesting he do the same for “The Lost Book of Dzyan” by the same author, given its occult language. Paul mentioned he had almost finished such a text. Upon seeing me, he excused himself from the others, approached me to apologize for what he considered a misunderstanding and even an indiscretion on his part. He claimed he believed that, since it didn’t fit the established criteria, the Elder would inform me about the text’s inclusion. I mentioned that I found it strange he didn’t even attempt to speak with me, and instead sent the text to the printer. I felt disrespected. Paul argued that, since it was an exceptional situation, he preferred to approach the Elder directly. Regarding the printing, he wanted to spare me the trouble, since he had been authorized to include the text in that edition. I accepted his apologies, more as a formality than out of conviction.

Paul informed me he was finishing another text and promised to deliver it to me this time within the deadline for proper review, according to the established criteria. I simply nodded in acknowledgment. After a few days, I believed I had moved past the incident. I attended a morning course while teaching another on alternate days. Afternoons were reserved for readings, reflections, and debates. In some evenings before dinner, we gathered in the hall for short lectures given by the Elder. Perhaps these were the most anticipated moments of the study cycles. Despite his advanced age, or perhaps because of it, the kind monk always had an innovative outlook on everything. He possessed the gift of transformation. For some unknown reason, no lectures had occurred that year.

Everything changed when Paul sent me the new text for review. It was up to me to decide if it would be included in next year’s edition. Undoubtedly, it was of undeniable quality—well-written and with brilliant content. However, I decided to exclude it from the publication. Paul’s behaviour the previous year had not been correct; he needed to reflect more deeply on his actions. Leaving his work out wasn’t punishment, but the exact lesson, I told myself, justifying my decision. I didn’t mention anything to anyone; they would only know when I announced the selected texts. Although I didn’t rationalize to avoid admitting it, I enjoyed the pleasant feeling of power I had grown accustomed to.

There is no lie more devastating than the one each person tells themselves. Without understanding why, my joy disappeared. The lightness of the days vanished without saying goodbye. Though I maintained polite surface interactions personally, there was no longer kindness or delicacy, essential for deep relationships. Something felt amiss within me, as if a subtle tension had taken up residence in my gut. Impatience and lack of concentration became chatty neighbours. I was overwhelmed by anxiety, knowing the explanations I would have to provide when they found out I had excluded Paul’s new, excellent, eagerly awaited text. I crafted several arguments. There were other interesting texts on subjects not covered in previous editions, which was not untrue. During sleepless nights, I was assaulted by the truth that genuinely moved me. In the mornings, I pushed it away; there will never be a shortage of convoluted reasoning for this. I began to live in preparation for the inevitable conflict. “He who fears the truth is not yet worthy of freedom,” I quoted to myself a memorable phrase from an ancient sage, using it out of context. I needed to deceive myself. Without admitting it, I feared the truth. I had become my own tormentor, despite my efforts to assign that role to Paul. Without understanding, I had also become the jailer of the cell in which I imprisoned myself.

The bitterness deepens the shades of relationships. I decided that if the dissatisfaction with my decision to exclude Paul’s text became too great, I would resign from my position as editor. The Elder himself had not given me the support I deserved at a time when discipline should have prevailed. With extreme fondness, I had dedicated years to the role; what they were doing was not fair. They were welcome to find someone else to take my place. No one in the monastery seemed to recognize my years of effort in crafting the publications—a betrayal, especially from the Elder. “I will show them that I do this out of love, not attachment. It’s necessary to know when to leave,” sulking, I spent afternoons talking to myself, sitting on one of the stone benches in the monastery’s inner garden. From a distance, I noticed the Elder observing me several times.

Then they announced there would be a lecture in half an hour. I sat in the last row of chairs in the large hall like a child sending a message: “Leave me alone in my corner.” I was feeling confronted. Without admitting it, there was the unconfessed desire that the lecture would be a session of reconciliation, where they would publicly apologize for their mistakes. Starting with the Elder. Then Paul. Like a good man, I would accept the apologies but resign from my position. My cycle had come to an end. They would miss me. Unable to comprehend, because my thoughts were obstructed and feelings clouded by shadows, this action was nothing more than foolish revenge. Revenge driven by pride and hatred, manifesting in varying degrees and ways. Behaviour with clear traces of primitiveness and childishness. But what drives pride other than the fear of being discovered as fragile? Hence the irritation, one of the initial forms of hatred. Hence the bitterness, the residual taste of hatred.

The Elder surprised everyone. Right from the start, he asked who admitted to feeling fear. Almost everyone raised their hand. Then he went on to ask about pride, vanity, and greed. Here and there, some monks admitted to the intense presence of these shadows. Contrary to what many believe, this isn’t a sign of backwardness. They are far ahead of those who deny them. However, something different happened when he asked about envy. No one raised their hand.

With his customary calm voice, the Elder elucidated his thoughts clearly. Without preamble, he dove straight into the subject: “When we deny our shadows, we allow them to roam freely within us. Gradually, they gain volume and power. Without warning, they take command of our consciousness. The light fades. The absence of joy is one of the signs of this revolt. To keep us deceived, shadows convince us to seek moments of euphoria. Euphoria is bitterness disguised as joy; a false sense of well-being driven by elements of numbness used to mask emotions we cannot bear to feel. The escape through drugs that anesthetize reality, sex as an illusion of power, hollow laughter that lies about happiness, noisy places to drown out the soul’s voice, are some of the many lies offered. Another, very common, are the fallacious reasonings we construct to justify our lack of control, error, and intolerance, another form of hatred disguised as reason. We believe we find reasons where they never were. In the need to forget existential bitterness, we have an internal shelf easily accessed by pride, vanity, jealousy, greed, and other shadows. All of them are species of numbing agents of reality. They are daughters of fear, stemming from our ineptitude in dealing with certain truths. The difficulty increases when envy permeates our emotions.” He shrugged and reflected, “Envy? I do not have it. No one has it. We admit jealousy and vanity quite easily, pride and greed with a bit more difficulty. Almost everyone feels fear; hence the absurd effort to justify it as necessary. It’s pleasing when we find reasons to escape from ourselves, from uncomfortable truths. However, envy, the most odious of shadows, does not reside in anyone.” He arched his lips in a slight smile and joked, “It’s the dinosaur of emotions. Extinct among us.”

He paused to allow everyone to acclimatize to the idea and continued, “Pride, vanity, greed, and jealousy are constructions built on the pillars of fear. Fear of feeling weak, unnoticed, impoverished, deprived, forgotten, slighted, or abandoned. Yes, these are still us. Not knowing how to deal with fear, we seek mechanisms to keep it discreet within us. When someone shows us the ineffectiveness of these gears, they also reveal how fragile we have chosen to be. Then, we hate them for it. We hate them for showing us reality without fantasies, bare and uncomfortable. We hate them for making us confront unwanted truth. If we venture to the root of hatred—or intolerance, irritation, or any other euphemism we like to use to soften reality, because some words still scare us, especially when associated with the savagery of our thoughts, emotions, and actions—we will be surprised. We will find envy. Hatred germinates in the soil of envy, hidden in the subconscious underground. The fact that someone dares to reach a place we never dared to travel causes such discomfort that it generates the need for an antagonistic and aggressive reaction. Someone has challenged the lie we’ve held sacred. We consider it an outrage, an offense. Every reverse hero of our story’s script is treated as if they were a villain.”

He reminded, “All power beyond oneself is sustained only by virtue and love. When it becomes a tool of pride, vanity, and coercion, it exposes a structure doomed to collapse.”

Observing the discomfort in the audience with compassion, he added, “The other possibility is to accept the challenge. I’m not talking about engaging in a stupid duel to see who is stronger, more competent, or shrewder. This conditioning from the dawn of civilization, still present in the smallest of attitudes, urgently needs deconstruction to make way for the emergence of a new individual, not with illusions of strength derived from ignorance about its sources and purposes, but from a precise understanding of it. Intransigence is a force opposed to light, manifested in the stubbornness of an individual who refuses to admit their weakness, nor has the courage to accept their own mistakes. Intransigent people insist on remaining stagnant in maintaining a power that genuinely never existed. Hence, they collapse.”

The Elder’s words functioned like an unwelcome mirror: “Intransigence feeds on hatred and revenge. We still struggle to understand it this way. We are rigorous under the pretext of being just and needing to establish necessary limits. We use the best arguments in a context far from the truth. In reality, we want those who put us at risk subdued or pushed away. Risk of exposing a lie we like to believe in. It will be even harder when we discover that intransigence feeds on envy. Envy in admitting that someone was able to fly when we thought running was the ultimate frontier. As if wings nullify the usefulness of legs. We will seek, and find in distorted reasoning, motives and reasons to disqualify the flight; we will argue about its dangers, discourage the audacity that reminds us of our own fears, and show the clumsiness of birds. We will demand punishment; we will ask for the wings to be clipped. Envy will move us to this. Of course, we will say it is about prudence or justice; we will proclaim with the inflexibility of laws and the rigor of rules. We have an infinite capacity to mask the truth with fallacious arguments.” He shrugged again, “After all, envy does not reside in anyone. Not even in the devil.”

He furrowed his brows and reminded us, “Not every movement signifies progress; nor does strength originate in light. Luminous strength demands lightness; it has the gentleness of a smile and the simplicity of a lantern. Value your essence; it identifies and individualizes you, but do not cling to the character you have constructed to reside in. We have all been conditioned to this. Therefore, it is necessary to build oneself without clinging to the building. Construct yourself, but deconstruct soon thereafter, then rebuild yourself again. Gradually, the character will disappear, giving way to who we truly are; a taller and more beautiful building, with fewer bricks and walls. Otherwise, time will leave you in ruins, inevitably destroyed for denying its logic. Intransigence is strength without balance and love; hence, a force of demolition. Deconstruction is the voluntary, gentle, and virtuous force towards light. Demolition is the irrational, brute, and shadowy force of denial towards transformations. The difference between deconstruction and demolition lies in intrinsic balance. It demonstrates the distance between the light and the shadows within us. The source of perfect balance lies in proximity to the essence of who we are and in the acquired virtues, genuine signs of refinement. Balance is not achieved without perception and sensitivity; without being accustomed to infinite deconstructions. The magic of balance consists of adding equal doses of love and wisdom in the cauldron of consciousness. Without balance, all strength descends into disguised forms of containing what or who supposedly threatens us. We deny the signs of evolution.”

As words from the Elder settled into place, he continued, “The actions of others bother us when they have the power to show us who we are not, how far we still have to go. We imprison ourselves in the foolish conditioning to defeat others instead of overcoming our own difficulties. We allow the imperceptible envy, like a hidden influence, to take command of our consciousness. Then strength becomes mere brutality, manifesting in rigidity, severity, and vengeance in the need to measure strength and subjugate those we see as challengers. There is no challenge when someone simply wants to live their tastes, dreams, truths, and gifts. If someone’s actions bring forth my difficulties and mistakes, I should not oppose, resist, or punish. It is time to be grateful. Then, propel my deconstruction so time does not leave me in ruins. It is not easy to learn to live like this; it is a genuine and wholesome challenge. We believe that simply adding indefinite floors to an old building is enough. It is no wonder they collapse; we see it happen all the time, yet we refuse to learn. Renovation hinders evolution because it retains remnants of backwardness; one cannot build a robust building on corroded pillars. It is necessary to bring down the building to erect another within myself. With different foundations and unimaginable improvements. This is also the engineering of being to accommodate living well. It is an endless movement.”

He looked at the monks and asked a rhetorical question, “When do we know it is time for deconstruction?” Then he concluded, “Bitter days signal the moment for the primordial, prior, and necessary movement towards the construction of a new building. To avoid being destroyed, the artist regenerates himself in his own work as an indispensable transition from shadows to light.”

Absolute silence followed. The tears were not only mine. For countless reasons, those words showed many the necessity of accepting the inevitable effort of infinite reconstructions. It was time to cease with the patches that weaken the existential structure of who we are, collapsing under the slightest pressure. When weakened, even unconsciously, I remain unbalanced. Any progress will be hindered.

In that moment, I saw clearly what I needed to do differently and better, both within and beyond the universe. In silence, I expressed gratitude. There, a style of being and living concluded to make space for another creation. I was overcome by intense, strange, and sincere joy—a typical enchantment of someone starting a new journey within the Path. A different way of being with myself and living in the world.

I watched the Elder walk away with his slow yet steady steps, without looking back.

Translated by Cazmilian Zórdic.

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