O Tao que muitos não compreendem mas que eu peço ajuda da sua fé.

Querido amigos,
 
Primeiro eu no meu eterno contar peço de cara que se você já experienciou isso e tem uma opinião oposta não me conte porque eu não to conseguindo dar conta. Não, não é uma questão politica, nem cultural nem religiosa. É a cortisona que estou tomando e a vasculite que carrego.
 
Muitos de vocês sabem que eu tive um AVC que acabou finalmente mostrando ao mundo que tenho vasculite cerebral. Vasculite Cerebral é uma doença auto imune. De cara me mandaram tomar um imunossupressor e eu recusei depois tomei, e recusei e resolvi ficar so com a Cortisona e fui para Asia.

 
Quando estava por lá encontrei com o Pancho que é um senhor americano quem mora na Asia há mais de 30 anos. De cara ele me contou que ele foi me procurar em 2013 para dizer que sentia que eu tinha fadiga Adrenal. Eu dessa vez, disse, pancho quase morri em 2013 mas to bem e estou tomando cortisona.

 
De cara ele me deu uma aula da qual não ouvi por dentro. Falou do fato crucial que tomando cortisona meu sistema de produzir cortisol estava parado. Parti e disse que aceitava o que tinha e ele me disse que o caminho é de evolução e que eu estava apática. Não liguei muito.

Sei que começaram entrar em mim desgates emocionais, nervosismos, desejo de sal, de açúcar, um sono que tomava meu dia, e um acordar pela noite. E a parte mais assustadora foi o encontrar então o desejo frequente de morte. Sei que eu aqui em Lima sozinha me veio a cabeça o cansaço, a fadiga e veio o Pancho e eu tao acordada numa noite fui ler tudo de Fadiga da Adrenal e caia em quase tudo daquela descrição.
Fui ler sobre a Cortisona e vi que um dos seus efeitos colaterais era o Glaucoma. Fazia dias que meu olho estava pesado. Entao decidi que ia parar de tomar. Primeiro não ia contar a ninguém. Entrei na net e de cara soube que não produzo cortisol entao tinha que fazer de maneira equilibrada e aos poucos.
 
Contei ao André e a minha mae e a minha avó. E debati conto ou não conto para Dra Euthimia e Karen. Claro que contei. Comecei ontem a redução. Sabendo que tenho vasculite e que ela pode deflagrar de novo com consequências muito graves. No entanto, na cortisona não consigo bancar. Dra. Euthymia é um presente do universo falou comigo ontem e ficou claro preciso re-estruturar a maneira de dormir das 11 as 7.
 
A partir de ontem reduzi o remédio 5 gramas. Ou seja estou tomando 35 gramas. Dormi apenas meia hora pela tarde e fui dormir as 9 e claro acordei as 1,20 mas voltei a dormir 1,30 ate as 6 da manha. Devo ter dormido mesmo 9 horas o que está ótimo.
Voltei a busca do Yoga. E hoje e ontem pratiquei sozinha em casa. Pratiquei meditação. Andei e tive sim oscilações de emoção. Mas consegui observa-las mais de fora.
Conto tudo isso simplesmente porque escrever me faz bem, contar a verdade da dificuldade que é um caminho também me faz. Fico extremamente feliz de estar em Lima. Claro, que meus pais queriam que eu voltasse ao Brsail mas estar num lugar calmo onde não tenho obrigações e nem ninguém que apareça na minha casa é maravilhoso. Quase um retiro.
Vi que o Mujica diz que precisamos priorizar viver. 

Vi que o Papa Francisco disse “ser feliz é reconhecer que vale a pena viver a vida, apesar de todos os desafios, incompreensões, períodos de crise. Ser feliz não é uma fatalidade do destino, mas uma conquista para aqueles que conseguem viajar para dentro de si mesmo. Ser feliz é parar de sentir-se vítima dos problemas e se tornar autor da própria história. É atravessar desertos fora de si, mas conseguir achar um oásis no fundo da nossa alma.”

Vi monja Coen falando que uma criança se machuca e sozinha se cura e vai brincando e nós vamos criando carapaças para sentir a dor e nos prendermos a ela.

Dalai Lama diz da importância que é desenvolver a paz interna que não pode ser comprada num supermercado. Budismo ensina ter uma experiência realista. Se Existe um problema, entenda o. Uma vez que conseguimos entender um certo problema. Isto não atrapalha mais a nossa mente.

Então é isso que estou tentando fazer. Entender a origem da minha doença auto-imune. Fiz uma decisão que não vem sem medos, mas vem sem dúvidas. Não é feita pelo caminho do risco total de simplesmente jogar a cortisona depois de 5 meses fora mas de ler muito a respeito e pedir ajuda a todos. A ajuda não é ninguém vir para cá. É o oposto é entender que me deixa em conforto estar num lugar pacifico e num retiro.
Peço sua oração, e o seu respeito pela minha busca de cura pelo caminho de outra estrada. Entendo todos que querem tomar o caminho profundamente alopático. Eu não o quero. Hoje quando meu coração palpita, quando vejo mal, quando fico confusa não sei se é consequência do remédio ou da vasculite. 
 Prefiro saber a origem. E apenas eliminando os remédios saberei que o que virá é de mim mesma. Então escolho mudar minha alimentação, fazer meditação, yoga. 

 
Sei que todos nos vamos morrer um dia. Sei que posso ficar paralisada sem tomar o remédio. Mas também meu corpo pode se confundir muito por tantos remédios jogados nele que tbm posso ficar paralisada. Sei dos riscos. 
Não o faço porque acho que sou heroína. O faço porque quero evoluir como disse o Pancho e sei que nesse caminho que estou eu acabo por me jogar pela janela. E isso eu não quero faze-lo. Eu quero aceitar a minha vida como ela é. E buscar os caminhos da cura dentro de mim. 
E do fundo da minha humildade peço sua ajuda por reza. Pois eu confio nelas. Ninguem nuncas imaginou que eu sobreviveria bem depois de 2013. Ninguem achava que era solido ir a Birmania mas me trouxe mais paz ir para lá e mais fé.

Aprendendo dos Quechua em Barranco.

Hoje é domingo e tinha ficado marcado que viria aqui a Vilma para limpar. Naquele dia já tinha conhecido ela e Fernando seu filho de 10 anos. Acabaram de partir daqui. Mais de cinco horas de trabalho e conversas dos quais eu e o André nos sentíamos mal por ela fazer tanto. Eu tentava estimula-la a fazer menos, em vão.
 
Íamos tentando fazer umas coisas para ajudar nao ajudou muito. Saímos daqui para almoçar tarde no lugar orgânico e convencidos que não estariam mais aqui na volta. 

Deixamos dinheiro, falamos que podiam comer o que queriam mas quando voltamos ela tinha lavado, secado e passado as roupas. Organizado a casa. Feito de um tudo. Uma limpeza de uma sujeira que deve ser da idade da casa.
 
Quando chegaram antes do nosso almoço contei ao Fernando que tínhamos uma surpresa para ele. Demos o lego que eu tinha comprado para o André e ele ficou encantado. Depois sentaram os dois montando e o Fernando lê o manual atentamente. Andre brinca com ele. 

E no final ele tira o seu saco de tesouro. Lá havia um outro lego e brincam mais. Quando fomos almoçar fora de cara o porteiro confirma a minha intuição “O Fernando não tem pai.” Eu tinha ficado impressionada pela sua atenção e pela amizade instantânea que se desenvolveu com o André.
 
Como ela está aqui na volta para nossa surpresa converso muito com ela que me conta que aquele canto do filme da peça que contei é Quechua. E ela e sua família também são. Conta que foi abandonada gravida e que partiu para essa cidade sem contar para ninguém que estava gravida. Ela e é de Puno. Trabalhou na casa de uma senhora de 90 anos até o bebe nascer. Volta para Puno e fica lá ate o Fernando ter 4 anos. Tem uma família que os acolhe. E me conta que a exploração dos trabalhadores em Puno é maior por isso voltou para cá.
 
Eu conto que quase morri na Ásia em 2013 e que tinha tido um AVC mas que nao tinha medo de morte mas tinha de semi-vida. Ela me conta que não tinha e me conta que num único ano quando ela tinha 13 perdeu dois irmãos. Um que pediu a ela caramelos e ela deu 4 e ele insistiu e naquele dia disse queria mais e disse um tchau de alguém que não volta. Não voltou. Morreu afogado num rio aos 15. 
Seu outro irmão morreu numa mina. Uma pedra desabou. Contei a ela que minha avó também  tinha perdido um irmão num rio. Pode tudo parecer tenebroso mas falamos disso normalmente vida-morte como dizem os budistas.
 
Insisto para ela fazer menos coisas porque está ficando tarde para ela ir embora e já está mais limpo do que necessário. Conto para ela que tinha percebido que Fernando se sentia carente de pai. Ela me diz que a escola diz que ele não tem que ir no dia dos pais. E ela diz para ele ir porque um dia ela vai ser pai. Ela pede para ele cuidar das plantas como se fossem filhos. E ele não se esquece de colocar a agua na quarta feira.
 
Fernando me agradece tudo que eu dou. Chocolate, Laranja, Chá. Não pede nada. Semana que vem perguntei se ele não quer ir comigo na feira das flores para comprar vasos porque está faltando aqui. De Fernando ela não se separa. Não teve novos namorados. Sua atenção é para seu filho e a dele é calada e doce para tudo que ele toca.
Esse feriado era o dia do Peru. Andamos todos os dias e o sol se apresentou. As casas são tao coloridas nesse bairro que eu escolhi pela internet.

 Uma cidade plana. No centro tem um lugar de escadas em direção ao mar. E as noites são populadas de musica e barres e cafés. Há bandeiras do Peru por todos os lados. É lei. Nesse tal dia se não colocar a sua bandeira é multado. Tem quem ache que o nacionalismo venha de uma grande luta pela independência. Já as leis parecem mais claras.

Tudo que vi nesse festival foi bonito. Todas essas cores me inundam de felicidade. No entanto, o que mais me tocou foi conhecer a Vilma tão melhor. O que mais me tocou foi ele dizer
 
“Sofrer é um luxo que nunca pude me permitir. Cai e levantei e continuei caminhando. Fiquei feliz de te conhecer”

Burma- Kalaw as crianças e o meu primeiro dia em Shan.

Acordo as 4 da manhã porque ontem dormi as 8. Cedo demais e fico na cama e falo pelo face talk com minha avó que adorou meu ultimo post e o lugar que estou ficando e me informou que seu IPad quebrou.

Na hora do café saio para passear. Chove e graças ao conselho e o presente utilíssimo da minha mãe tenho otimo casaco de chuva e guarda-chuva.

Saio passeando e nem penso em entrar nas lojas. Paro na frente de uma escola porque vejo muitas crianças rindo . Passo quase 15 minutos olhando e uma hora uma menina diz “Hello”. Começo a dar olas e mais criança vem me ver. Eu fico do lado de fora fazendo sinais para as crianças que depois de muita vergonha quando uma diz “Hello”mandam beijos.

E eu lá debaixo de um guarda-chuva digo “umbrella ” e elas repetem e mandam dessa vez são beijos voadores. Elas têm uns 6-7 anos. Não tenho coragem de entrar porque não vejo a professora. 

Sei que ficamos ali brincando por quase uma hora. Eu mostro um dedo e elas sozinhas sabem contar até 10. Elas sabem dizer “goodbye” e fico mostrando partes do rosto e os nomes e elas repetindo. Realmente não dá para explicar como é divertido e me lembra eu dando pseudo-aula de Inglês em Isaan. 

Isaan é a província mais pobre da Tailândia. Na verdade antes era Laos por isso até meu pouco Tai era inútil e lá só a Horm que falava um pouco de inglês. Lá eu fiquei um mês e foi a minha primeira vez no sudeste asiático em 2009 sem poder falar bem com ninguém. Foi maravilhoso.

Engraçado pensar nisso enquanto eu faço quase igual o que fiz com as crianças de Isaan. Isso me resgata o passado e o princípio do meu amor pelo Sudeste asiático. Resgata em mim a memória da menina Australiana jovem que ia a Birmânia e lembro que foi lá em Nong Kai que me deu vontade e vocês sabe nunca dava certo.

Não sou supersticiosa e mesmo 3 sendo o meu número favorito eu não decidi que não era nessa vida. Quando deu muito errado na terceira vez.  Tentaria a quarta.

Quando paro debaixo de chuva dando risada com as crianças que falo para ficarem cobertas eu me sinto grata que não tenha dado certo antes. Hoje eu estou consciente de cada ato que me é dado. Antes não seria tão especial como agora.

Sinal de aula começar. Mando beijos voadores e ando ainda mais. Como estão felizes essas crianças.  Vou andando e entro em mercado de comida, de flores, de Tamei e Long Ji e esses são feito à mão e são dessa província Shan.

Compro mais Tamei e Long Ji. Um casaco para minha avó, e uma blusa. Uma bolsa. Eu que nunca compro nada viajando fico encantada por essas coisas feitas à mão. O vendedor me dá de presente o símbolo daqui. Aqui naturalmente tem Pagodas, mas também tem Mesquita e para minha surpresa um templo Sikh. E eu caminho vestida como uma mulher daqui.

Ando ainda mais e tem um milhao de agências. Escolho a esmo uma agência. O menino parece desanimado. Não confia nesse governo .. Mas falo tanto com ele que ele me conta dos turistas. Tudo que eu já sabia. Aqueles que pensam que dinheiro compra tudo.

Decidi que fico aqui até dia 14. Amanhã vamos caminhando para uns vilarejos. Caminhada de poucas horas e voltamos e se tudo transcorrer perfeitamente nos outros vilarejos também vamos caminhando nos dias seguintes. 
Ou seja estou estacionada para dormir no meu belo hotel. O guia se chama Kimá Inhê ( como eu aprendi)

Dele eu aprendi ” Tuijátá-uãtá-patê”
Foi um prazer te conhecer. 

Graças ao meu livrinho vermelho e ao senhor Win ele sabe dizer Julieta. Na língua daqui é assim:

Partindo de Yangon

Eu acordo quase 5am. A mala já está pronta. Posso tomar banho, pagar a conta. 7 mil kyat. Pelos dois almoços, jantar, garrafas de água, coca colas, e chás.

Na conta considerando 1000 kyat para 1 dólar da 7 dólares. Conta exagerada deve dar uns 5. Conto 1000 pq sei que é fácil e assim acho que gastei muito mais do que gastei 🙂
Hoje pego as 8 um ônibus para Bagan. Café da manhã as 6. Taxi até o ônibus as 7. E dizem que chego lá às 5 da tarde. Tentarei um hostel que também tenha net e que não seja muito extravagante. Não apenas por economia mas porque as pessoas são mais legais nesses e agora minha avó até sabe me ligar pelo face talk 🙂
Pronto hora de café. Todos limpando tudo muito cedo. E eu agora vou comer e é hora de partir de um lugar que já gosto.

Conto da viagem depois 🙂 de lá! Esqueci de contar lá na minha foto está a chave do meu quarto número 9 🙂

A Tamei reminds me we all discover the other.

    
My travelling style brings my life back to me. Seriously I can’t barely remember I was in a hospital weeks ago. Instead first I feel piece by piece my life is being given back to me.

I wake up at 6am. I am still in mixed time. I go down and there is sweet small mangoes, eggs, coffee and tea. There is a little cattle in every single table. I eat and feel delighted and I tell the ladies of the hotel I need to go to the shop.

“Well it is not open.”

I show the women by stretching my loose Indian pants that I have no underwear. I forgot this item in Brazil.

” Oh :)” and they laugh and they ask a boy to give me a ride to a simple market. It is so close and I tell them I will come back walking. I find the underwear and ask where is the toilet. Well, I found the underwear by seing and the toilet I did not. And no one understand. Nor did I 🙂

So I enter the little shops and saw the Tamei and Long Ti. I am so amazed by them. And since they do not understand the bathroom I ask them to put them on top of my lose Indian Pants. 

I am amazed. It is so beautiful. I get 3. For André and even Netinha who works in our house in São Paulo sees the picture and is delighted and I am definitely I will bring it for her! 

She follows my Brazilian blog and is amazed by Asia. She is the Angel of our life and came from the north of Brazil. I am amazed that in fact so little people know this place exists.  Burma that  had to change its name in 1989 because of the Junta and became  in 2011  accepted by the UN  as the Republic Of the Union Of Myanmar. It borders India, Bangladesh, China, Thailand and Laos. And the embargo of the opposition on tourism was lifted since China and Thailand kept their commercial relathions.

I am so happy she loves seing the photos, the Portuguese post. It is Fundamental for people to know what I always did: There is no difference between “social class” but rather it constructs dis- information. 

Disney is given as dream but never the beauty that there is in the East. Real beauty that does come with flaws and not fake perfection.

Anyway, as I am back home here, I meet my Burmese friends and we take pictures, we sing. And they love Adele. I am amazed and remember my youth when I knew lyrics and had no idea what they meant. They have perfect accent singing. And I am told Adele is the greatest success here in Burma. 

I see Korean and music from here. The music of Burma makes me feel joy. This time it is a band. Looks like the Burmese Beatles 🙂 oh yes, of course they all have phones, and an a tablet so I can see soooo much.

I decide that it is maybe time to see more things and in this gorgeous day they look at my Tamei and say lets gets it properly tied. So they take it to be tailored. How can I tank them? 

I told them thought I had paid two nights I can take the night bus and they tell me I should stay at least until tomorrow. You should return. You should bring André. 

I go walking and walking and seeing this lovely city that is populated by people in traditional clothes. There are modern houses, fancy houses, and also really old ones, worn out ones. Markets, vendors. There are temples and so much.

I see people in Hijab, I see people who were Hindu. Open markets, stores, roads and more roads. Shops and more shop the old world being invaded by the new world. 

Suddenly I feel I have walked a lot. Time to return I should not be suddenly hungry and sleepy. 

I come back and my Tameis are ready. I seat and I eat. Fried noodles with vegetables. I find it is great. I seat to talk to my Burmese friends and we talk, we laugh. 

 I wonder what is the powder that I see in people’s face all over. “It is Tanaka- sand wood”. I always thought it was makeup but they tell me it is good for the skin. So I end up in more and more talk 🙂

I sleep and wake up when other tourists have arrived. I had never seen them because I left too early and returned when they were out.

” What did you do? Did you go bla, did you go bla” I am asked

And I say I have not done almost anything. It is a precious lie. I got my life back. I followed by body, my desire. I have wonderful clothes, I made friends. I learn about their lives. Their customs. I even sang. Something I so rarely do. 

I can even write to share to those who wished to come. I feel so grateful that Netinha, a woman who was born in a poor region, in a family poor of money but reach of humanity and love is now following me in Asia while taking care of my grandma. 

She is dazzled to find out that another world that is so beautiful existed. She loves the Tamed. I am so glad. She asked me what was the price and I told her it was 5 dollars. She asks me whether I could bring it to her and she would pay me. 

Of course I can. I was already going to give 4 people a gift. My grandma, André, my mom, and Netinha. Now I know what to give her as a gift. 

I did not tell her I would not charge it. I told her the value of it. Because she would love to know she could afford it. And I love that she says Asia is so beautiful. 

In my day of doing so little that was so much I am back in place. We are human beings. We all should strive to see other human beings to give value to all that exists.

The Babushka

It took me a while to realise I should write here about the Babushka.

Most of you who have touched the Diary or read this blog know the idea of the Diary came out of an encounter I had with a lovely 18 year old Australian exchange student in Brasil. We met in a slum. My Aunt works in a Waldorf ( Rudolph Steiner) school… and they have an amazing project in the outskirts of Sao Paulo and we were both there.

We met there and she told me of her idea: of sending a Babushka through the world. The Babushka carried some missing words.. to a sentence already written in another Babushka in the final destination. The first one was sent by post and the second she wanted to have people carry it. She asked me whether I thought it was a crazy idea! I loved the the idea.

And since she could not find a Babushka I came out with the idea of the Diary. Matilde loved my idea… and she told me that I should do it. I was very inspired by her and within days I had my Diary in my hands knew its story.  Matilde did not have the same luck… she could not find in Brasil a Babushka that easily.. but eventually she did get the Babushka.. and asked me whether I would like to be its first carrier.

I was beyond joy. I fully understood the idea. I had just gone through the process of finding the right person to carry the Diary. And I knew I was the right person to carry her doll.  Not only because we talked so much about this idea.. but because I believed in it.

I thought it was brilliant. Especially because there was something of sacred, serendipity about it, but essentially human. Trusting the path, but trusting in people.

And when she finally got her Doll and asked me to carry it I had already sent my own little treasure to the world. So it was like an exchange. A nice gift from her and the Universe

So I carried the little doll, through Brasil, then France, and then briefly in Belgrade, then Israel and the West Bank and back to Israel.

And suddenly I knew quite well who I had to give it to. I had met people who were going exactly to the final destination…. but I knew we had to choose the right person, and not the destination. I knew precisely well who I trusted to give it to. Not only trusted but wanted to give it to. It made more sense than anyone else.

It had to be to someone very special, and I was given the chance to give it to the most special person I know. We had met once in India, then in Italy and then he happened to be there in Tel Aviv when I was also there. Someone I really wanted to see. But most important of all, someone I trusted would understand the doll, if I were able to explain it. He would understand the purpose of the journey.

We met in the street. It was no easy meeting for me. It was someone too special, that I had not seen in too long, and that I wanted to see so much for so long. And yet, I myself I knew no longer very well who I were then. I gave the doll to him.

We talked about it. I confess I remember the place, but not the words. But as he left I wanted to take it back. How could something so precious just go away?

I sat in a park crying. Seeing it go. Both of them… the carrier, and the babushka. I was for the first time totally opened and fragile there. I was for once letting it go of all my shields. Experiencing reality… not dreams

And the Babushka, like the Diary, took her path.

I wonder what happened to her. Just like I wonder about the Diary of The Unsaid.

I have some kind of fear that she got lost, and forgotten… a fear of abandonement. It belongs to me this fear. And it is funny to notice as I write.

I did not mean to put anything inside  the doll even though Matilde encouraged me to do so… In the end I did. Some cloves and cinnamon. Not sure why.

I loved those things in the Middle East. And they also were reasons so many people journeyed the world in the past. Why they had gone around the World.  “My world” was discovered, destroyed, and rebuilt in the “possibility of the New”, because of these Boats that sailed looking for spices.  It reminded me of a Brazilian book Gabriela clove and cinnamon. That it is all I added to the Babushka. Spices, History, literature and the possibility of something new.

And as I sat crying I saw them… they all left. The sweetness of the cinnamon, and the strong flavour of the clove. And I had to understand, for then, it was over. We need the space. The time. I cried…as I was not really ready to let them go. T

hey all left. And I stayed. And I got weaker and weaker. And one day…. I came home to Brasil. To reconcile with my own country. My own Brazilianess. My own existence in the world. And I got so sick. I was really very very sick and thought I would die.

And now, I know beautiful Matilde is about to leave as well from Brasil. She cries…. and maybe that is why I write now. Because my page has turned. And so will hers. And she will have to go home and reconcile herself with where she comes from. Before she returns, or moves anywhere. She has to reconcile with herself with where she comes from. This is the harder journey of all.

Brasil is the land of the possibility of the new. She can always come back. But first, as the babushka does the journey for her… she should go home and deal with all that we flee from. While my Diary travels I recover. Little by little. Following by some kind of mystery his path. But this is another story. And here we are for the Babushka. Whoever has it. Thank you. Be careful and watch it closely because it will change your life. Just watch it closely. Be Gentle, and Kind.

Jules

The Page Has Turned

And so I have no idea where the Diary of the Unsaid is.

Now, I do know, however, that the unsaid is Unsaid because either you or the other is not preapared for it.

So the act of saying now later,  feels like it frees us, but in the end it feels like  the universe make us have to deal with what we left Unsaid. I know what I left unsaid. And it was not only for that person, that person is fundamental,  but the message was for me. It really was for me I needed to tell that message.

I have been so sick that I thought I would die lately. So sick that I could even recognise to the dearest people of all I did not care about dying at all. So sick that I was sooo disconnected to it all.

I could not speak, read or write, nor see, nor eat… nor move too much. And now I am in the path of recovery, a true recovery. A recovery of my body, but mainly of my soul.

I am starting a new journey… my journey , which now is populated by all the people I want, and most importantly that I need. They all teach me soo much about this human enterprise. I was trying to search connection with the metaphysical. Now I understand, I need the human contact here.

The human sense of it all. With all the complications that comes with it. I no longer search for perfection. I confess I want full inperfection, with people who can stand that we are incoherent, and imperfect… and we will stay after the “vase  has been broken”

So. I have no Idea where the Diary is. And it feels good. First it felt desperating. Then meaningless. And yet one day. One of the saddest days I had this year,  while in France, with my Grandmother, and Cousin when it all seemed pointless I got a messge from Ilan that the Diary had been passed in Colombia.

Ilan never wrote his story. And I, that day, just felt contentment that it did not matter how disappointed I was… the page had been turned. Life kept going.

Now I am about to go to Colombia where the Diary was passed. And a few days before I do it I meet Ilan. And I hear the story. I know exactly where it was passed. Ilan has now told me the story. Not only the story of the Diary. But also his story 🙂

But here I ll only tell the story of the Diary…

He carried the diary for months not knowing who he would give it to. Then he went for work to Colombia.. and could not find the right person. So, he decided to to go to some beach on his last day ( without the Diary)… and there as he got there he saw two girls. An Australian, and an English girl. They were writing in their own diaries. So. He went to them and told the story of the Diary of the Unsaid.

They were very excited about it.  They were marvaled by the idea. He knew they  were the right people. But he did not have the diary with him. They talked for a while as it probably it happens when You find the right person… And you are about to  give to someone something  like  “the diary of the Unsaid”.. and they formed an agreement he would leave they Diary in the Hostel in Cartagena. They would come and get it a few days later.  He knew they were the right people so he did it like that.

He called 4 days later from England to Cartagena. He had left the Diary with a Colombian lady who worked in the Hostel . He left it there with the instructions to give it to these two girls. And  four days later, the lady confirmed two girls had gotten the Diary.

I was so happy to hear it. Especially when, I am about to go to Cartagena now. Now I can visit the place from afar, or inside. Whatever makes sense. The page has once again been turned. And I by total ramdoness, chance, serendipity ( who knows)  can go and see where it turned…

Whoever carries it with you. Thank you.

The Unsaid- Other People’s Stories

I have created on this blog a Section called “The Unsaid- Other People’s Stories”.

This sections is destined for anyone to write a story they are willing to share. I have just received the first story. It is the story of a girl I met while travelling India. She has become a dear friend. If you wan to read her story go the above section called “The Unsaid- Other People’s Stories”.

If you want to have me post your story please send me a message.

 

The Beginning

And now it is all ready. In about three days I wrote it all. I got lots of friends excited about the idea. And now, I seat again on the newly discovered cafe waiting for the first carrier. I wait for him knowing fully well it is him. What a great feeling that is.

 

Life is quite ironic. Once I told my friends about it I had very mixed responses. Ivana who is a psychologist said ” Julieta but do you understand you have only the power to choose the first person? Once it leaves your hand you have to trust others. I know you are a control freak so that is going to be very good for you”.

 

I barely slept that night thinking about this. It is true, I realized, I have but the power to choose the first person. And then when I had finally come into terms with that I decided it was time for me to find the right person. I knew it had to be a traveler. I am a traveler, I recognise them, but not here in my own town. Here I had no idea where to find them.

 

So I let destiny take me. I drove my car aimlessly and stopped in a trendy street. I entered a hostel and looked at total strangers realizing it immediately that it could not be them. I felt totally powerless. How could I find the right person?

 

And then I found this beautiful cafe. “La da Venda” it is called. It means from the store. It is a lovely cafe/old store themed place. I sat and told the story to the lady who worked there. She sympathized with the idea and said that maybe I could find someone here.

 

I turned on my Ipad to write and suddenly an Israeli friend told me I was going about it totally the wrong way. I could not search for the right person. He asked me why did I not go there and deliver the message myself, why did I not say it to the person? And I explained to him what I had realised while writing the Diary. I did not simply want my message to be delivered. I wanted to connect to a sense of serendipity, a sense of fate. I wanted for the message to arrive through the blessings of the people I connect most to: travellers. And so he completed, “then you must wait for the traveler to find you!”

 

It was a poignant moment to be seating in the most bucolic place ever and to realise the irony. I did not even have the power to choose the first carrier. My power relied on recognizing the carrier for its specialness. Retrospectively, I knew exactly who they could have been… Michal, Sara, Vesna, Francis, Luiza, Caue, Fred, Nick. It could have been so many people I encountered. I would have recognized them.

 

What my friend statement seemed to imply was that not only I could not control things, but that I needed to do what I am the most disastrous at doing: I needed to be patient! I drank my last sip of coffee, looked around at the white wall, which is filled with green vases; I looked up at the blue sky, down to the pebble ground. I looked at all the colours in the little cafe and felt if nothing else the diary had given me already a lot.

 

I then drove home knowing it would probably take time till I would encounter the right person.

 

The irony of life never seizes to amaze me….. As I reached home I got a message from Ilan.

 

When I lived in Nong Khai I became close friends with a Brazilian couple who were finishing a one year trip around the world. It was somehow quite rare to find Brazilians in the hidden places I go to. They came and I just wanted them never to leave. They had to leave, and were going to meet Ilan in Laos. They told me then that I should meet him since he was such a great guy.

 

I broke my foot in Thailand and came back to Brazil. One day out of the blue Ilan sent me a message saying that considering we had so many friends in common and that we had lived and had travelled so many similar places he thought we should meet. I replied jokingly that I d become friends with any Brazilian who knew that Laos existed.

 

And so when he randomly wrote me just as I had stopped searching for the right carrier I knew in my whole body it was him. I asked him if he wanted to be the carrier, and even before I explained anything he said yes!

 

And then, he had a million ideas. He was excited. He called it “our” diary.  He said it was “A treasure”. He wanted to write a book about. All that dismay feeling I had disappeared. What an illusion power and control are. The greatest gift that this diary has already shown me is that if we let it go a bit we can be witness of the mystery of the universe.

 

I seat here under a blue sky. I am back at La da Venda. Where else could I pass on my diary? Where else could the diary seize to be mine to be freed to do whatever is intended for?

 

In the mood of recognizing synchronicity everywhere I received and e-mail from the great jazz pianist Yonathan Avishai. We had spoken of this feeling of connection. We spoke of music. Now as I am about to let my words fly out there, I feel like a musician, whose music transforms, and is transformed in the path. I remember that cry of the gypsies of Rajasthan, I remember the klezmer. I remember that nothing is ours, but temporarily in our company. I am about to let go of the Diary of the Unsaid and I feel great joy.

6 hours later. We drank teas and coffees, we travelled through distant lands. We recognized a million synchronicities. The weather changed. And I let the Diary go… I feel a bit of hesitancy, a bit of fear, but yes, I feel great joy.

 

The Diary of The Unsaid

First of all if you are reading these words Thank You! It means that you are probably a Diary carrier, or that someone has told you the story of this idea. And what is the idea?

Do you remember the story where a message inside of a bottle crossed the ocean to arrive somewhere else to give the right message to someone? I met a lovely Australian girl here in my native country Brazil who wanted to attempt to do just the same. Instead she wanted to send a message inside of a Russian doll, and give it to a traveller who would carry the doll, passing hand in hand to other travellers till it would hopefully eventually reach Australia.

When I heard the idea I volunteered to take the doll on its first leg of the journey. Unfortunately the idea did not come through, but I thought it was such a good one that I ended up coming up with an alternative plan. Why not sending a Diary? A diary that would carry its story on the first page.

It would also carry a secret address, to a secret receiver. The diary carried something I had left unsaid. I wanted to know whether only through the hands of travellers and destiny it could ever arrive to its final destination without anyone ever using the post.

I decided for a Diary so that the people who were willing to carry could also write their own message on the Diary and what they had left unsaid to someone special to them. Something they wished somehow in an unexpected way could arrive to that person.

The Rules contained in the Diary are:

1. Read the Introduction

2. Feel free to read what others have written on the Diary.

3. Start your message by putting the date, and place where the diary was passed on to you.

4. Write your message. Write in the Diary what you have left unsaid adn wished could have said to someone.

5. Carry the Diary with you till you encounter the right person to hand it to. The right person is someone you trust will carry the Diary and give to some other traveller she/he trusts. It is someone who wants to take part on the journey of the Diary. Someone who has left something unsaid. The Diary has to arrive to its final destination. It does not matter the path it takes. The most important rule is that it cannot be sent by post. It has to be carried by travellers. That is why it is very important you choose the right person. Choose a person and not destination.

6. Once you have given the diary away whenever you have time email me  and please tell me your story with the Diary, how was it that they diary came to you, how was it giving away etc. I will post it on the blog http://www.thediaryoftheunsaid.worpress.com.

7. If you want your unsaid message to be sent by me to someone anywhere in the world please let me know. Email me the message and let me know whether you want me to email the person or whether you want me to send a letter. Make sure to send me the address and/or email of the person. Write your message in any language you want.

8. Please on the message that will be written on the blog keep secret both the final destination, the person the diary is intended for, and the unsaid message.

9. If you are the last person and by the time you reach the final destination years have passed and the person no longer lives there, please contact me by mail. Actually, feel free to contact me anytime.

10. Smile you are part of a crazy idea.