5 NOTHING SHALL DISRUPT YOU.

 


"Nothing shall trouble you,

Nothing shall fright you,

Everything goes by

God never quits. ”

Saint Teresa de Avila.

Nothing shall bother you ... my father recited me when some setback in life reached me. My youth was offended by so much calm and my childish ignorance was frightened, while walking from mute to mute, looking for my place.

He was a strong, bohemian, philosopher man. I used to be lulled with his readings that other parents may have avoided. About to sleep, his voice used to decipher texts of some interesting book by personal development, philosophy or spirituality. Now I think it was his way of giving me internal foundations for the future. 

Among many, The Third Eye by Lobsang Rampa, with his signature stamped in 1967, which he used to sign at the end of every reading, remains in my bookcase as psycho-emotional aliment, with my signature below, dated twenty-one years later. 

In open spaces he used to whistle a special tune to call us, which gave him his nickname. He used to eat avocado by the scoop and could not stand a pet.

He painted the blackboards of his school and built his own chairs. Mostly honest, he issued me a certificate from his school, even though I never studied in it, and he graded me with scores of ten, such was his trust in me. 

During the dictations to his students he used to talk about both Zarathustra and Napoleon Hill, about Socrates and some catholic saints. 

He loved my mother and together they were reborn healing others and breaking habits and customs relatives where their lives no longer fit, leaving me an invaluable taste for the encounter with new ideas, philosophical disciplines and a deep respect for life.

He did not give up love, even knowing that he would be judged for it. 

He left his body at seventy-one, and his seed germinating in us, in his grandchildren and in his students. 

Chufizo, lives in my heart, in the red hair of my niece, in the incessant interest of my son for learning the human and spiritual nature, in the form of his younger grandson's mouth, in the resonance of the poems he repeated, in the strength of his first grandson, in the memory of his firm, white hands that caressed us without touching. And yet, having its forms, colors, poems, I look for him among the stars when he is missed in my heart.

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