"The first symptom of the process of our killing our dreams is the lack of time," Petrus continued. "The busiest people I have known in my life always have time enough to do everything. Those who do nothing are always tired and pay no attention to the little amount of work they are required to do. They complain constantly that the day is too short. The truth is, they are afraid to fight the good fight.
"The second symptom of the death of our dreams lies in our certainties. Because we don't want to see life as a grand adventure, we begin to think of ourselves as wise and fair and correct in asking so little of life. We look beyond the walls of our day-to-day exist
ence, and we hear the sound of lances breaking, we smell the dust and the sweat, and we see the great defeats and the fire in the eyes of the warriors. But we never see the delight, the immense delight in the hearts of those who are engaged in the battle. For them, neither victory nor defeat is important; what's important is only that they are fighting the good fight.
"And, finally, the third symptom of the passing of our dreams is peace. Life becomes a Sunday afternoon; we ask for nothing grand, and we cease to demand anything more than we are willing to give. In that state, we think of ourselves as being mature; we put aside the fantasies of our youth, and we seek personal and professional achievement. We are surprised when people our age say that they still want this or that out of life. But really, deep in our hearts, we know that what has happened is that we have renounced the battle for our dreams--we have refused to fight the good fight."
The tower of the church kept changing; now it appeared to be an angel with its wings spread. The more I blinked, the longer the figure remained. I wanted to speak to Petrus, but I sensed that he hadn't finished.
"When we renounce our dreams and find peace," he said after a while, "we go through a short period of tranquillity. But the dead dreams begin to rot within us and to infect our entire being. We become cruel to those around us, and then we begin to direct this cruelty against ourselves. That's when illnesses and psychoses arise. What we sought to avoid in combat--disappointment and defeat--came upon us because of our cowardice. And one day, the dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to breathe, and we actually seek death. It's death that frees us from our certainties, from our work, and from that terrible peace of our Sunday afternoons."
Now I was sure that I was really seeing an angel, and I couldn't pay attention to what Petrus was saying. He must have sensed this, because he removed his finger from my neck and stopped talking. The image of the angel remained for a few moments and then disappeared. In its place, the tower of the church returned.
We were silent for a few minutes. Petrus rolled himself a cigarette and began to smoke. I took the bottle of wine from my knapsack and had a swallow. It was warm, but it was still delicious.
"What did you see?" he asked me.
I told him about the angel. I said that at the beginning, the image would disappear when I blinked.
"You, too, have to learn how to fight the good fight. You have already learned to accept the adventures and challenges that life provides, but you still want to deny anything that is extraordinary."
Petrus took a small object from his knapsack and handed it to me. It was a golden pin.
"This was a present from my grandmother. In the Order of RAM, all of the ancients have an object such as this. It's called "the Point of Cruelty." When you saw the angel appear on the church tower, you wanted to deny it, because it wasn't something that you are used to. In your view of the world, churches are churches, and visions occur only during the ecstasy created by the rituals of the Tradition."
I said that my vision must have been caused by the pressure he was applying to my neck.
"That's right, but that doesn't change anything. The fact is that you rejected the vision. Felicia of Aquitaine must have seen something similar, and she bet her entire life on what she saw. And the result of her having done that transformed her work into a work of love. The same thing probably happened to her brother. And the same thing happens to everyone every day: we always know which is the best road to follow, but we follow only the road that we have become accustomed to."
Petrus began to walk again, and I followed along. The rays of the sun made the pin in my hand glisten.
"The only way we can rescue our dreams is by being generous with ourselves. Any attempt to inflict self-punishment--no matter how subtle it may be--should be dealt with rigorously. In order to know when we are being cruel to ourselves, we have to transform any attempt at causing spiritual pain--such as guilt, remorse, indecision, and cowardice--into physical pain. By transforming a spiritual pain into a physical one, we can learn what harm it can cause us."
And then Petrus taught me the Cruelty Exercise.
The Cruelty Exercise
Every time a thought comes to mind that makes you feel bad about yourself--jealousy, self-pity, envy, hatred, and so on--do the following:
Dig the nail of your index finger into the cuticle of the thumb of the same hand until it becomes quite painful. Concentrate on the pain: it is a physical reflection of the suffering you are going through spiritually. Ease the pressure only when the cruel thought has gone.
Repeat this as many times as necessary until the thought has left you, even if this means digging your fingernail into your thumb over and over. Each time, it will take longer for the cruel thought to return, and eventually it will disappear altogether, so long as you do not fail to perform the exercise every time it comes to mind.
"In ancient times, they used a golden pin for this," he said. "Nowadays, things have changed, just as the sights along the Road to Santiago change."
Petrus was right. Seen from down at this level, the plain appeared to be a series of mountains in front of me.
"Think of something cruel that you did to yourself today, and perform the exercise."
I couldn't think of anything.
"That's the way it always is. We are only able to be kind to ourselves at the few times when we need severity."
Suddenly I remembered that I had called myself an idiot for having laboriously climbed the Peak of Forgiveness while the tourists had driven up in their cars. I knew that this was unfair and that I had been cruel to myself; the tourists, after all, were only looking for a place to sunbathe, while I was looking for my sword. I wasn't an idiot, even if I had felt like one. I dug the nail of my index finger forcefully into the cuticle of my thumb. I felt intense pain, and as I concentrated on it, the feeling of having been an idiot dissipated.
I described this to Petrus, and he laughed without saying anything.
That night, we stayed in a comfortable hotel in the village where the church I had focused on was located. After dinner, we decided to take a walk through the streets, as an aid to digestion.