She was raised in a family with three brothers, all very talented. She was probably the most talented of them all, but also the most modest. She studied philosophy and sociology. She knew ‘just a little bit’ about people and mankind, to use her own words. They would discuss these things at dinner. Meals were consumed amidst an accompaniment of always-sweet opinions, and the opportunity for everyone to say what they had to say.
Every member of the family was – or at least felt – politically active: they protested against war, they were vegetarian, and they donated part of their wealth to the poor and needy.
When they watched a film, almost always together, they tried to read a critical social or cultural allegory into it. They wanted to see justice in what they had just seen. The books they read – all of them tender intellectual interjections – were widely praised in highly regarded newspapers, so the idea that they might not be making the best use of their time never had an opportunity to come to mind.
In the midst of all this intellectual tumult, she had a secret. She adored a little book she had found years ago, one filled with wisdom the mind cannot reach. In the few moments that she was away from her warm nest, she read and practiced what the author wrote about, determined to reach a state far beyond the intellectual. She prayed and chanted. She hungered for the light she was reading about.
The more she practiced the more she felt her ground shaking. She no longer
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She was raised in a family with three brothers, all very talented. She was probably the most talented of them all, but also the most modest. She studied philosophy and sociology. She knew ‘just a little bit’ about people and mankind, to use her own words. They would discuss these things at dinner. Meals were consumed amidst an accompaniment of always-sweet opinions, and the opportunity for everyone to say what they had to say.
Every member of the family was – or at least felt – politically active: they protested against war, they were vegetarian, and they donated part of their wealth to the poor and needy.
When they watched a film, almost always together, they tried to read a critical social or cultural allegory into it. They wanted to see justice in what they had just seen. The books they read – all of them tender intellectual interjections – were widely praised in highly regarded newspapers, so the idea that they might not be making the best use of their time never had an opportunity to come to mind.
In the midst of all this intellectual tumult, she had a secret. She adored a little book she had found years ago, one filled with wisdom the mind cannot reach. In the few moments that she was away from her warm nest, she read and practiced what the author wrote about, determined to reach a state far beyond the intellectual. She prayed and chanted. She hungered for the light she was reading about.
The more she practiced the more she felt her ground shaking. She no longer criticised war but became sick of wars and aggression. She no longer wanted to read newspapers. She closed her eyes and ears to television. She could not bear to see strangers arguing or people being unfriendly, and her disgust made her also a bit happy, perceiving it as a signal of wanting to live differently – wanting to be different. She judged her intellectual capacity as something untrue or even impure. She hated those who strived to gain as much material wealth as possible, failing to see the parallels in her pursuit of maximum spiritual wealth. She wanted to be like Jesus but acted like Moses: always searching for a connection to God, forgetting that you cannot search for Him.
Her skin became pale. Her aliveness disappeared.
She hungered for love while being at war with herself and all that lives.
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