I did as she suggested. The first two times I failed, but the third time, as if I had entered a kind of trance, I did touch the seagull. I went into that trance state again with the same positive result.
'Love creates bridges where it would seem they were impossible,' said my white witch friend.
I recount this experience here, for anyone who would like to try it.
The Art of Withdrawal
A warrior of light who trusts too much in his intelligence will end up underestimating the power of his opponent.
It is important not to forget that, sometimes, strength is more effective than strategy. When we are confronted by a certain kind of violence, no amount of brilliance, argument, intelligence, or charm can avert tragedy.
That is why the warrior never underestimates brute force. When it proves too violent, he withdraws from the battlefield until his enemy has exhausted himself.
However, be very clear about one thing: a warrior of light is never cowardly. Flight might be an excellent form of defence, but it cannot be used when one is very afraid.
When in doubt, the warrior prefers to face defeat and then lick his wounds, because he knows that, if he flees, he is giving to the aggressor greater power than he deserves.
The warrior of light can heal the physical suffering, but will be eternally pursued by his spiritual weakness. In difficult and painful times, the warrior faces overwhelming odds with heroism, resignation, and courage.
In order to reach the necessary state of mind (since he is entering a battle in which he is at a disadvantage and could suffer greatly), the warrior of light needs to know exactly what might harm him. Okakura Kakuzo says in his book on the Japanese tea ceremony: 'We see the evil in others because we know the evil in ourselves. We never forgive those who wound us because we believe that we would never be forgiven. We say the painful truth to others because we want to hide it from ourselves. We show our strength, so that no one can see our frailty. That is why, whenever you judge your brother, be aware that it is you who is in the dock.'
Sometimes, this awareness can avoid a fight that will only bring disadvantages. Sometimes, however, there is no way out, only an unequal battle.
'We know we are going to lose, but our enemy and his violence leave us no alternative, apart from cowardice, and that is of no interest to us. At such a moment, it is necessary to accept destiny, trying to keep in mind a text from the wonderful Bhagavad Gita (Chapter II, 16-26): 'Man is not born, nor does he die. Having come into existence, he will never cease to be, because he is eternal and permanent.
'Just as a man discards old clothes and puts on new clothes, so the soul discards the old body and puts on a new one.
'But the soul is indestructible; swords cannot pierce it, fire cannot burn it, water cannot wet it, the wind cannot dry it. It is beyond the power of all these things.
'Since man is always indestructible, he is always victorious (even in his defeats), and that is why he should never be sad.'
In the Midst of War
The film-maker Rui Guerra told me that, one night, he was talking with friends in a house in the interior of Mozambique. The country was at war, and so everything - from petrol to electric light - was in short supply.
To pass the time, they started talking about what they would like to eat. Each of them described his or her favourite food; and when it came to Rui's turn, he said: 'I'd like to eat an apple', knowing that, because of rationing, it was impossible to find any fruit at all.
At that precise moment, they heard a noise, and a beautiful, shiny apple rolled into the room and stopped in front of him!
Later, Rui discovered that one of the girls who lived there had gone out to buy some fruit on the black market. As she came up the stairs, she tripped and fell, the bag of apples she had bought split open, and one of the apples had rolled into the room.
Mere coincidence? That would be a very poor word to explain this story.
The Soldier in the Forest
Climbing a trail up into the Pyrenees in search of some where to practise my archery, I stumbled upon an encampment of French soldiers. The soldiers all stared at me, but I pretended to have seen nothing (well, we are all of us a little paranoid about being mistaken for spies...) and walked on.
I found the ideal spot, did my preparatory breathing exercises, and then I noticed an armoured vehicle approaching.
I immediately went on the defensive and armed myself with answers for any questions I might be asked: I have a licence to use a bow, the place is perfectly safe, any objections are the business of the forest rangers, not the army, etc. However, a colonel jumped out of the vehicle, asked if I was a writer, and told me a few interesting facts about the region.
Then, overcoming his almost visible shyness, he went on to say that he, too, had written a book and explained the unusual way it had come about.
He and his wife used to sponsor a child with leprosy, and that child, who originally lived in India, was later transferred to France. One day, feeling curious to meet the little girl, they went to the convent where she was being cared for by nuns. They spent a lovely afternoon, and at the end, one of the nuns asked if he would consider helping in the spiritual education of the group of children living there. Jean Paul Setau (the name of the colonel) explained that he had no experience of giving catechism classes, but that he would give the matter some thought and ask God what to do.
That night, after h
is prayers, he heard the reply: 'Instead of merely giving answers, try to find out what questions children want to ask.'