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Great knowledge abundantly claims the merit of the artist to perpetuate, in a sui generis way, what is ephemeral.
It all started at the age of ten, but it started without me realizing it, without realizing the inherent features of the conjunctural attraction to a bizarre phenomenon that still shakes my soul. And it started with an Oscar film, full of the thrills of the old mysteries of the faith, the beginning of which still haunts me, related to the sobriety necessary for a very old monastery, along a piece of story that I would later see has too much in common with my life. The film is called “In the Name of the Rose”, a screen adaptation of Umberto Eco’s novel.
And that monastery, grandiose in the importance of protected values, also had a beginning, more difficult to understand to be fair, because every beginning needs another beginning to find its correspondent in a kind of treasure of the revelations of an authentically Christian life, led directly by God. And the beginning of the knowledge of the church, as well as the end of the story, had in the center of a whole range of relationships with God a huge library (like a labyrinth), housing thousands of volumes whose knowledge still haunts my soul with the mysteries of an art that, like any other art, relies on a long experience.
And there were so many books in that library, many more than anywhere, and each had a beginning and an end, as if greeting time with a welcome message: “Enlighten your souls with the Spirit of the Highest Knowledge.” And among so many books, each a little dustier than the other, I saw a more worn and dirtier one, and it was missing many pages, especially the beginning, but the end was still there. And it was as if, at that end full of mysteries, full of whispers and sighs, I saw the beginning of a message integrated into the symbolic image of a rose.
That one message, from a missing sheet, still making me revisit my past, I try to reconstruct now with nostalgia: “Every end has a beginning, just as every rose was once a bud”… It will bloom soon.
Leadership: Can you detach yourself from everything that supports the weight of your own ego, through an experience of rethinking a creation left behind much too long ago?
From the great and towering mysteries of the monastery, which a rather mature man described in such detail, there is nothing left. Not even the beginning, not even the end, as if they were part of some remnants of parchment, fallen from the scriptorium, and turned to ashes by an incomprehensible reality. Thus, I lived a part of my life, with a beginning that does not know its end, like a book that does not know its author and which lacks too many pages to ever be read.
The weight of my ego lies in the fact that I have tried to overlook what I will never be able to forget, as if I were passing by a book on an ancient construction, and I would not know the writer for the simple fact that I am inspired by his book. And if such a book is a creation of the beginning of maturity, does it mean that the usual succession of its pages has left my dreams behind, making me a mere traveler in a world in disguise?
In a way, I feel like I lived like a monastery full of books, which does not reveal its silhouette because of the very high walls that surround it. My reality and dreams were more important than the deep content of old mysteries that I could not decipher, or rather, they meant nothing to me. And yet, the beginning of a new view of spirituality, un refinado pretext para el studio de Dios, was intended to make its way into the journey of my life.
That is how it was meant to be. I sought beauty, fun, wealth, where there was nothing, just as Adso of Melk sought faith in an endless journey, but found in the sufferings of life spiritual peace. Above me hovered the image of the rose, a confession full of faith, perhaps because in my deep essentiality I wanted to obtain the agreement with something holy, above all understanding, through a Salonthenea, a divine breath that calls from darkness to light, from sin to repentance.
The place of the monastery was an oasis of peace, a reaction to compensate for those feelings of inadequacy, insufficiency, shame, which pierce the horizon of any young dreamer. Only later did I understand that. And if I went back to its beginnings, I would find myself in the position of a wandering son who began to straighten his life. Only in silence can you find your way in a labyrinth full of books, whose exit passes through the book, through countless books, through endless readings, through writings full of lessons, full of lyricism and sensitivity.
Leadership: Does everything that exists outside you serve moment by moment your path of self-discovery, as a reference of a subject to the same subject explored through an experience of the continuous present?
I do not know the end, but it most certainly expresses the most chosen knowledge illustrated in the form of a rose. I don’t know if life necessarily has an end, or a new beginning. Even the rose has a beginning of significance, manifested in the form of fixing the feeling of beauty and sublime in the picture of life, rivaling the succession of a multiplicity of abstract and cold concepts. Or planting a rose is the beginning of a new spiritual consciousness, its cutting representing the end of a path that always took me to the same place.
And if I refer to a much broader meaning, responsible for the evaluation of life, then my attention is directed to the end of Umberto Eco’s novel, where there is a dynamic adjustment of my creative self to the inherent qualities of the rose: care, patience and tolerance to conscious wisdom.
“The more I read these notes, the more I am convinced that the series of facts I am talking about is the result of chance and that it does not contain any message. But these unfinished pages have accompanied me all the life I have left to live since then, I have often researched them like an oracle, and it even seems to me that what I wrote then on these sheets, which you read, the unknown reader, are nothing but a mixture, un carme a figura, that is, a story with pictures, an endless acrostic that does not say nor repeat anything other than what those fragments reconstructed from worn and torn pages whispered to me. I don’t know if I’ve talked about them so far, or if they’ve talked through my mouth.”
It is difficult for me to explain what the sight of a rose expresses in me when I read these words. I have the feeling that I live with him, that I vibrate in unison with a unitary presence from the point of view of an infinite consciousness, and I delight in something that descends from a holy place. Unlike Adso of Melk, I did not find my chosen path around any master, but I found myself in the guise of a metaphor, a symbol of a rose, a symbol of the eternal present that will not let you forget anything of what you’ve experienced.
Leadership, from the hypostasis of a psychology of duplication, is the creation to which you confess through an experience of rethinking the self in terms of the image of your life perceived in the form of a sacredness to which you have the obligation to return.
Surely one day I will remember myself, the monastery, the library with thousands of volumes, I will remember Adso of Melk, the beginning and the end. After the flower dries, a new bud will begin to open. Then I will be free. I will understand everything. I will follow another life, with a different beginning, with different pages, written in other words in a simpler language. I will recognize myself when I return.
Every Rose Was Once A Bud, and the bud became, by a miracle we forget to observe, a flower. This process is centered around unity, revolving around the primary core of a universal fraternity.
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