Traces of Perfume: The time is now - by Valeria
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There are moments of our lives as full expansion during which we are immersed in a kind of timeless time, absorb every drop of this around us bringing it inside, expanding it. Moments in which we have not eyes enough to watch, lungs to breathe in enough.
It looks like the description of an altered state of mind so we unaccustomed to live.
Yet, looking at our past, distant past, we can easily remember to have them tested.
I remember one rainy afternoon at the home of an aunt. Through the windows of her kitchen looking at the flower garden and the apple tree laden with fruit. In the room the smell was spreading that the land which returns thanks to the rain that nourishes the quenches, the sprinkles.
The atmosphere was full of joy emitted from the soil, beautiful flowers, rose from the tree that its branches, if possible, more in another, and each blade of grass that had stepped up its green color.
And we laughed. I girl, her elder. Accomplices, the antithesis of life and for this both able to listen to that joy. Because she had nothing to lose, because I had yet to be discovered.
That moment had no boundaries, it had no commitments it weights, I had no fears expectations.
It was only the second. It was enough in itself.
Then life takes to accelerate. Before the search for new experiences, then the escape possible by new disappointments.
But accelerates. And we lose every drop of perfume. Some live in the memory, many have forgotten.
Loads of weights lifted burdens and frustrations we travel have completely replaced the joy of this.
As closed systems do not communicate more with the outside world, no longer listen to the mysterious force of life.
But if we could take back some time, even for just a few minutes, moments of complete immersion in the present, would produce such a deep and intimate contact with ourselves by touching strings long dormant vibrant and the pleasure of existing.
Traces of Perfume. Thought impossible - a connection - By Valeria
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I have a dear friend. Actually they never made long talks together, we always met ... from a distance.
Instill I know little, not sure exactly where he lives, I do not know how it made her home, do not even know what salary gains.
I know so little about him that nobody would believe me if I say that is a friend.
Yet I feel so.
There are people who know a long time, we know them so many things, but what we see is only the surface layer.
She does not hear and they hear us even if maybe you Tugging at her love when they meet us, but we are seeing, not really.
We meet people and establish human relationships sometimes respectable, but they are and will remain forever the unknown.
This is because we have not listened to their hearts, and they did not heed our own. We laughed and joked with them. Sometimes a fight. But the image that we like is printed on a photographic plate in two dimensions.
Maybe we do not like to admit it for fear of being alone. But that solitude, although we can not accept it, is all.
Very rarely, an extraordinary meeting, but we could not remain indifferent, because more often than not we listen.
We do not know they want to look in depth remain on the surface is easier, less painful.
The farewells cost nothing, the meetings do not fear the inevitable, subsequent separations.
Each is closed in its shell, to the idea that has drawn the other. And all is consumed there, on the surface.
Joys and sorrows are just images of fantasy. Just because a small event, a new emotion, to move all the attention elsewhere and friend who believed in the shadow disappears quickly, leaving inexorably from our thoughts, our field of perception.
But with true friends, those "heart", the connection does not stop ever.
They remain close to us, even if we say no, or not openly manifest.
They know we know, and that is enough.
You believe that there are no friends of this nature?
Traces of Perfume. In my hands rose petals - By Valeria
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The smell spreads in the air as an offering.
We observe the intense red color, the soft shape and smooth, velvety surface, seem small waves that propagate in the palm of your hand.
Life has a live issue, so strong that only a brave heart he can sustain the sight.
Quell'ardimento each of us took him to himself when he was a child but the time, then turned it.
The weather, disappointment, boredom, the sound of this era that does not grant a truce, does not allow pauses or silences, have transformed the desire to be crossed by life in fear of being touched, just touched.
But listening motionless, harvest, sometimes you can find, leaving only the silence is acting in its own way.
And let it expand, can emerge a distant memory, the memory of ancient times, an old ferryman message.
Emerges from the depths of his being something, a kind of relic that reappears, bringing with them the flavor of the times in which the austere beauty, strength, tragedy, will, everything was contained in a few gestures, few definite and simple acts.
Then comes the certainty that ... yes, you can do.
Traces of Perfume. And 'how to fly in the fog - By Valeria
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It is only water, in one of its many forms ... It consists of tiny droplets suspended in the air.
The items are wrapped in a whitish halo, and visibility is reduced, the forms appear almost softened, time seems to undergo a short suspension.
A feeling of silence spreads around to us and also within reach.
When the fog is very thick produces a mixture of confusion, pleasure, sense of mystery.
Look through a memory but I can not see clearly, the details fade away in the folds of time, I would like to know, but I do not know. I would understand, but I do not understand.
Something we did not anticipate coming sometimes as a simple sea breeze and can dissolve the mist, showing the forgotten truths, vibrating strings dormant.
It can have a surprising power. The images are more crisp, clean lines.
Getting up in the air then is able to grasp anything with their eyes, the details get smaller but the world is manifested in all its breadth and beauty.
A comprehensive fills us with the lungs, large eyes like everything that they can embrace as large as all that the heart can feel.
Past, future and all distances seem, for a moment, gather in one place, and an overwhelming joy pervades us.
The thin air and cold water tastes martial.
We and only we, suspended in the air without a doubt, with the power intensity.
But then the wind drops, the fog spreads everywhere, and a new fear arises. When you lose the horizon, all communications must be clear.
Let my heart will not lose the track that leads me back to the ancient mansion.
Traces of Perfume. Emotional substance. By Valeria
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Amber is a fossil resin.
Millions of years ago, pouring down the trunk of the conifers, imprisoned insects and other small animals suffocating them and keeping them virtually intact over time.
Like insects in amber included, we live embedded in a dense, smooth emotional substance. We feed off of emotions, I rejoice and suffer, remaining constantly embroiled.
The result prevented any movement.
Life around us is constantly changing and yet we pause in what we have always been, only a few wounded and a few more wrinkles.
The hardening of the resin and its transformation into amber is a very particular process of fossilization which makes it transparent enough to allow, often, to see with the naked eye bodies stored on it.
We, like insects trapped, we float in our emotional substance of which, as we stand completely submerged, we do not have perception.
We do not know in time to change our gestures mechanical, our responses, the language we use, our perception of the world.
All processing is inhibited.
If it can emerge, even for a few moments, we realize the terrible feeling of friction that this "dense matter" produces, as a vast center attractor in which all the vital energy dissolves.
As a result, every action "alternative" to what is in our psychic patterns seems impossible, impractical, each evolution only a chance postponed until tomorrow.
As soon as you emerge, life resumes motion, force.
Passion, intensity, will take over the convictions of the mind, on our fears and absolute.
Our life then becomes impossible and the possible, the "maybe it will happen tomorrow" to "I am now", "the new is only now."
"That's one small step for man one giant leap for mankind" (Neil Armstrong)
Traces of Perfume: Shadow and Dust. By Valeria
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How long trampled on, how many steps taken at random from my past ...
A new year has arrived, with all its freight of expectations, with its weights and good intentions.
Now, for a moment, a silence falls especially where I can move freely, can come together and take stock of my platitudes.
A stream has marked the way, follows the path of least resistance.
Drop to the valley in a track that has not chosen him, following precise laws, which will be influenced by gravity, friction, obstacles, or less permeability of the soil, slope, and by many other factors.
Will continue its run in the same bed for a long time and, over time, will dig deeper into the ground so tirelessly digging the furrow of its destiny.
Perhaps only a flood wave, a frightening, unpredictable flood wave will allow him to break a natural levee and the river downstream then can get free, divided into a thousand rivulets, gather, compact resume its run along new paths, to other depressions and other grasslands.
But the pain in that wave of flood that has made fools of the places where, calm, the stream has passed for so long.
Metaphor for life? Maybe you.
For years and years we meet people, places, events, obstacles, or interesting new seductive and yet all this only occasionally induces a mutation within.
Our "inner maps' are substantially unchanged, our thought patterns are identical, each new experience we will use it basically to validate our subjective view of the world, our convictions and our deep-rooted fears.
Only a rut again. Another stiffening.
Sometimes a traumatic event disrupts our lives and only then emerges a new opportunity, a chance to understand something new.
But until the pace is slow, rarely a meeting, an event, a place they can open their eyes, but these occasions seem to doors that open to new and broader horizons.
The difficulty is to see these ports, locate them.
Are no different in appearance from any "ordinary door" (life experience).
They have nothing special; meetings are like any meeting, like many other events.
There are easily recognizable, there is an indication, a coordinate, a neon sign.
And once you enter one of these ports (probably by accident) would appreciate not being confronted with something new, we will not accept easily the idea of disturbing our peaceful sleep, to subvert what we believe to be our consolidated balance.
I do not have good intentions for this year, I have only one desire: to recognize these steps and trespass.
The rest is shadows and dust ...
Traces of perfume. Soapdish - By Valeria
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Step by step, day after day, the scent of rain forest, the fragrance of the night, the terrain climbs and I climb, laboriously, but climb.
I wonder where I go, where fate, silently, is leading me.
I feel like a blind man who continues his journey into the heart of the night and not know why.
Move the stick in a vacuum and are convinced of that just touches the stick.
The rest simply do not know it's there.
Meeting so many people on the move, like me ...
Each is enclosed in its own "bubble of subjectivity", each convinced of his point of view of its interpretation, sometimes only temporary (and thus passes from one belief to another), others permanent.
Like soap bubbles collide, bounce, and sometimes break their hearts but never touch.
There are only varying degrees of conviction.
Meet people who are fragile, easily change their minds. Depending on how the wind turns also run them; today in a way tomorrow in another.
Other stoically convinced, never a "but" it "maybe" or "we think".
They know everything, understood everything, sharp as swords go straight to the point ... Oh how brave, strong-willed, no doubt ...
But the Great Ocean contains the whole spectrum of colors, contains the day and night, even on overcast and cloudy.
The Great Ocean does not include an option without its opposite.
I have known many men "wise" men who have tried to understand, to remove the veils, to understand. Very often the most extraordinarily full of certitudes.
But it is curious to see how their "truths" are different from each other so deeply move them away from each other increasingly, more and more divided, more and more solitary in their way, more and more convinced that they are surrounded by idiots incapable.
Certainly those who have convictions will center an easier target, increase the effectiveness of an action, but there is a real danger that much power to dissolve the instant perceive that he has reached any result and not what most his heart.
This always makes me fall into a "potential well", I do not understand and still do not understand it, but maybe I'm wrong because it spontaneously arises naturally.
Perhaps mine is a belief, an unreachable absurd expectation.
But I like to think that there is an opportunity to converge the energies of many beings towards a common direction because, I believe, the deepest possibilities of transformation is contained all here, in the case "all together".
Traces of Perfume. Looking for a book. By Valeria
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I dreamed I was looking for a book.
An old book with yellowed pages and fragile, fragrant dust and moisture.
I was in a crowded downtown library, targeted by an explosion of colors, improbable best seller, useless gifts, noise and constant drumbeat of popular music in the background.
People collected Christmas parcels, a breathless collection of last-minute unwrapped gifts under the tree without poetry they heat, joyless it's true intention.
Long established private power of ritual magic and transformed into commercial operation.
That congestion of objects, emotions, frustrations, and kept me from such a hurry to get my bearings, to understand where to look.
I turned to a contract which, judging by the expression, had lost all chance of contact with customers and even with itself, acted like a robot and, at my suggestion, typed on a computer keyboard keywords to find the placement of the book.
But the outcome of the research was rather confused, and went out topics related titles, headings and similar texts suggested. She looked away and said, "Try that way."
With a resigned sigh, I began to wander randomly in the library hoping more like a fluke.
Suddenly I found myself in front of a door leading to a hall deserted and silent.
I entered.
In this space, the colors suddenly went out.
There were thousands of books stacked backs perfectly placed in wooden shelves. At first glance they all looked alike, not printed to be sold but to be read.
They had no claim to do well, would not appear indispensable much less compelling.
Kept silently moved out there by their authors traghettandolo over time, ignoring the frantic voices coming from adjacent rooms.
They were there available to everyone yet no customer of the shop seemed remotely interested in crossing the threshold to get into a room so quiet and austere.
But all those books were really a lot ... and I suddenly seemed impossible that search.
I felt all alone and unprepared for so much loneliness, and frustration surfaced unexpectedly and sense of inadequacy.
Sniffed the smell of ink, dust, paper, and finally closed eyes.
The world seemed to gather in one place where everything is contained in each book is a single book, all spaces are only one, all men on the planet a single man.
In the confusion can be imagined to have found the silence gives birth to the certainty of not understanding ...
You need great courage ... to face the silence, to walk into the unknown, the unknowable, the unfathomable.
There remains the suspicion that perhaps it is a delusion ...
A great delusion and greatest adventure.
Traces of perfume. Their sight restored - by Valeria
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The first time I heard someone say that people basically "sleep" I honestly wondered why they should not.
It seemed to me that "sleep" continuously could be a good anesthetic not suffer too much.
The suffering is for everyone, even the rich and the lucky ones who still have to deal with the disappointments, disease and death.
I found then, in the face to those words, good enough reasons to consider useful to open your eyes and look around all that much more carefully.
It occurred to me, however, saw a movie many years ago, a blind child could have their sight restored when subjected to a delicate and expensive surgery, the family did not have the money needed but somehow managed to scrape together the whole sum The surgery was performed and succeeded perfectly.
The surgeon then advised the boy not to stare down the sun because the light intensity would render useless the operation it is again blind.
But in a few days that child saw many bad things around him that his blindness had spared.
And so he decided to stare at the sun long enough to lose his sight again and forever.
I find that the metaphor is very fitting to what we all (or almost) every day.
At the bottom (then thought) to know, have a clearer vision of life's events, adding pain to pain.
I must say that in time I deeply changed her mind.
What has changed is probably "the angle of observation," since "seeing" involves not only realize what is happening around us but, first of all, what happens inside us.
Very often we feel spectators of life, then we are not aware of what we engrave ourselves and our environment, we live with the feeling that touches us through it and not even the idea that perhaps someone is facing us.
We believe that everything happens despite ourselves short while but, in our "microenvironment", we constantly interfere and profoundly contributing to the climate that affect breathing.
Proceed on a path of greater understanding of it may therefore be a real point of departure in order to act.
Otherwise there is a risk of being perpetually trapped in a mindset more akin to resignation, which gradually leads to a sort of paralysis.
But to say that there are still many people (though perhaps a few percentage) in their lives to trying to understand something if their mental mechanisms of the reasons why we are driven to react in one way rather than another.
Yet I think they are rather rare ones who have managed to produce a real change in them.
More than anything else happens that these attempts at understanding are transformed easily into a sort of mental hyperactivity that runs continuously vacuum without coming up with nothing.
Indeed, this exercise of mind soon became a movement that disperses almost all of our available energy.
Despite the effort, all you "thickens" in a tangle of ideas and preconceptions that do not help to shed light but are likely to confuse us more.
So what?
It really looks like a losing game from the start.
There must be a way. But it is difficult because the mind always travels the same roads, interprets, filtered according to their own ideas and prejudices.
Should be in a sense transcend.
How?
Perhaps trying to constant desire to observe, what we like and what we dislike. As it is, simply.
Traces of perfume: Nocturne. By Valeria
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It 'a point, a small spot that expands faster than I can rationalize.
It is a moment, a magical moment in which everything changes: the emotional wants its part in this story and in an instant I find myself walking down the street, kidnapped by a dream.
I try to bring attention to the sound of my footsteps on the pavement. It is not enough, then listen to your breath, take him down, I look at my hands ...
Here I am damn, here, not there. But it's hard.
The emotional is bored and wants to play. But I know from experience that escapes from the hands then all too quickly, the pretense of governing emotion liberated even seems absurd.
I'll be back with my mind at present, the here and now.
It's just a dream, I say, do not run after us, it makes no sense.
But my heart is swollen and he wanted to laugh.
How is it that in the end it all comes down always and only to a duty?
Earning a paycheck, graying and interact with people off, and then do the usual things every day alike to themselves.
But why not take a moment to rest? A little vacation symbolic? Why not treat yourself to a daydream while the eye rests on nothing more than all the window panes and rain down copious?
Just a moment, just a moment, then close it and not think about it anymore.
Yeah, it sounds like: "just one more cigarette and then." Imagine!
Evening falls. The day is gone, another page of my life over, forever.
The dark covers me and I can finally turn off the light and hope to get some sleep '.
The night is hot and I was laying on him like a mantle of black cloth. What a silence!
Now that I'm falling asleep I lose the will to remain firmly anchored to the present, to reason, from what I have and I must not be, what is right and what is not.
I close my eyes and my mind has already flown away.
He runs into a boundless space beyond the limits of the possible, running up to a desire to the joyful innocence and cares about the consequences.
But waking up at night is abrupt and seems sandpaper on the skin.
Tell me this does not happen to you ...
The world is made of daydreams.
Unfortunately, very often come true those facts of anger, resentment, fear.
The desires that spring from the heart, as bright and joyful as it is likely to remain unfulfilled prayers carved on a piece of cloth left in the sun to fade ...
Walk on the beach, footprints washed and polished by the first wave of the morning.
Traces of perfume: the last train. By Valeria
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My image is reflected in the water ... Who am I?
For a long time I have mirrored in foreign eyes trying to discern in fragments of my soul.
But we found only turmoil of the mind in a way today, tomorrow another.
A tortuous and incomprehensible, a tangled forest of opinions, judgments, preconceptions, convenience ...
So, who am I? Everything is teeming with life, but I do not understand this life.
The screams of the children during the game ... children to adult eyes that seem so innocent ... But many of them already reside the seeds of cruelty.
I try to imagine the planet Earth seen from afar, a speck in the universe that turns blue in the silence of the starry spaces.
Since it is impossible to understand this silent immensity swarming decomposed that every day is done under the sun.
This cruel game I really do not understand ... One day I met eyes in which I could not specious.
I was hoping to find there the answers and instead those eyes did not give them signs of encouragement and even a hidden reproach.
Nothing. Just silence. Sometimes interrupted by word that perhaps they wanted to be especially "fillers", just to make me feel uncomfortable.
But from that long background noise I'd never wanted to part.
He remembered a fragrant underbrush, a stronger contact with nature, an open window on life as it is, without filters or brokerage, or sedatives without lenimenti ...
There are silences that result in a reflection. Life really has a meaning, or we try in a desperate attempt to fill a void otherwise scary?
But perhaps the question is misplaced ... because unfortunately in this world "addicted to materialism" we have learned to give more importance to the container that the contents ...
It is clear that material wealth is a tool for better living, but confusing the tool with the goal we end up feeling so empty as to forget that life, if nothing else, it is worth living.
As it is lived without it filters brokerage. A great opportunity. Once a friend of mine, terminally ill, he said: "I realized only now how beautiful life is."
He may then, after chasing appearance for so long, he found himself.
And suddenly his life had gone out from the eternal gray of everyday life and was filled with meaning. And it's really a shame to take only the last train ...
Tracce di Profumo: l'angolo di Valeria
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Appassionata di montagna, chimica esperta, praticante di Yoga da diversi anni, Valeria ha anche il piacere di scrivere. Collabora con altri Blog e ho pensato di ospitare anche qui i suoi articoli, in una rubrica dedicata.
La trovate nel menu, in alto a destra, prima del link al sito di Artemisia.
I suoi articoli passeranno come gli altri in home page, ma verranno raccolti nella pagina a lei dedicata, che si chiama, appunto, “TRACCE DI PROFUMO”.
Il perchè del titolo, sia del primo articolo che della rubrica, lo spiega lei, qui di seguito. Vi lascio quindi alla lettura.
Grazie mille Valeria e in bocca al lupo.
Cathe
TRACCE DI PROFUMO
A volte accade che stiamo convogliando gran parte delle nostre energie nel rincorrere qualcosa che riteniamo vitale per noi.
Poi un giorno, per pura fatalità, può capitare l'occasione di impegnarci in qualcos'altro di totalmente diverso e del tutto inatteso.
Potremmo allora scoprire che a questa attività ci dedichiamo con sorprendente quanto insospettabile piacere.
La scrittura riveste un fascino particolare ma ciò che fin dal tempo in cui ero molto giovane ho sempre trovato estremamente seducente è l'idea delle combinazioni e della casualità.
Mi riferisco al fatto che con sole 21 lettere dell'alfabeto si può scrivere la lista della spesa ma anche la Divina Commedia, così come una sequenza di caratteri del tutto senza senso.
We put a monkey typing random letters on a computer keyboard, if you could have - say - a few billion years of life, could write - for purely probabilistic effect - as well as an endless series of meaningless symbols, even phrases senso compiuto e, addirittura, interi versi della Divina Commedia, qualche poesia di Leopardi o chissà quanti altri capolavori ancora.
Così ai miei occhi la scrittura diviene una sorta di strada, di cammino.
Abbiamo una certa probabilità di comporre un “cammino armonico” così come disarmonico; pregnante o del tutto dissonante e vuoto di contenuto.
Tutto con soltanto 21 simboli.
Gettando parole su un foglio di carta e ascoltandone passo dopo passo la musicalità, può lentamente delinearsi una “forma” che spesso riflette il nostro sentire più profondo.
Ecco che le frasi, come una sorta di tracce che si svolgono sulla pagina, sembrano segnare una via; ricordano Pollicino che getta sassolini bianchi sul sentiero che si inoltra nel bosco per poter, infine, ritrovare la strada di casa (la via verso se stesso).
Allo stesso modo anch'io getto parole e frasi che si snodano in un intricato labirinto, e che mi sospingono alla ricerca di tracce di profumo da tempo perdute eppure mai del tutto dimenticate.
Attraverso il blog questi testi divengono come messaggi in bottiglie di vetro abbandonati all'oceano informatico.
Chi li raccoglie potrà ripercorrere le stesse strade, i medesimi sentieri che ho percorso io durante la loro stesura.
Tuttavia, poiché l'interpretazione di un contenuto letterario è sempre soggettiva e del tutto individuale, forse per qualcuno i testi potranno richiamare alla memoria frammenti del proprio peculiare “profumo perduto”, o il suono di un'eco lontana, un'onda che risvegli qualcosa di antico, portatrice di un remoto messaggio interiore.
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