The other day I was talking to my friend’s adorable little girl. She was disillusioned that adults don’t play. I asked her what it means, in her opinion, to be an adult and she said that an adult is a serious man, who sits all day and works, and who does not know how to enjoy himself. I asked her if, when she was an adult, she would play. She replied that she would play with her children. I asked why she would only play with her children, and she firmly replied that this is how it is done. That’s what adults do. A seemingly trivial discussion, but which hides deep truths, which I later reflected on. We forget to play. We become serious and important. Caught up in the illusion of reality, we forget our perfection.
We kneel and allow ourselves to be kneeled by infirmities that are not ours, we lose ourselves among disappointments and sorrows that are not ours, we carry burdens that we have appropriated without really belonging to us. We are divine essences and what truly belongs to us is our own greatness, of which, deep down, we are aware of, but which we are afraid to claim.
Maybe because we have been told so many times that we are not worth much, that we are meant to live a limited life, dragging our steps behind us, because time passes and the years lie heavily on the body, or because it is not possible to be fresh and optimistic, but serious and important, this being the proof that we really accomplished something.
Losing the game on the altar of rigidity, not allowing ourselves to be spontaneous and alive, in a fluid flow through life, means moving away from the source, becoming dramatic and locked in artificial patterns and conjunctures, mimicking living. We notice the stream of life passing by and often not respond to it. We sink into a vengeful silence, sadness or resignation, a language of stagnation, regrets and the past.
We don’t hear the torrent flowing through our ribs, or we hear it very weakly. Sometimes we pretend not to see it and thus, miss the great chance that life sends us every day. That of living, flowing, starting over again and again, abandoning thoughts and worries as useless baggage, feeling and paying attention to what is inside us and around us. Life means feeling, it means release. Life is the song of immortality laid on ephemeral notes. We just have to be attentive and listen, awakening in us that faint whisper at first, then more and more consistent, following the urge to sing our own song, as part of the great symphony of the world. Unique and unmistakable.
very nice beautiful