On Christmas Eve, the king invited the prime minister to join him for their usual walk together. He enjoyed seeing the decorations in the streets, but since he didn’t want his subjects to spend too much money on these just to please him, the two men always disguised themselves as traders from some far distant land.
They walked through the centre of the city, admiring the lights, the Christmas trees, the candles burning on the steps of the houses, the stalls selling gifts, and the men, women and children hurrying off to celebrate a family Christmas around a table laden with food.
On the way back, they passed through a poorer area, where the atmosphere was quite different. There were no lights, no candles, no delicious smells of food about to be served. There was hardly a soul in the street, and, as he did every year, the king remarked to the prime minister that he really must pay more attention to the poor in his kingdom. The prime minister nodded, knowing that the matter would soon be forgotten again, buried beneath the day-to-day bureaucracy of budgets to be approved and discussions with foreign dignitaries.
Suddenly, they heard music coming from one of the poorest houses. The hut was so ramshackle and the rotten wooden timbers so full of cracks, that they were able to peer through and see what was happening inside. And what they saw was utterly absurd: an old man in a wheelchair apparently crying, a shaven-headed young woman dancing, and a young man with sad eyes shaking a tambourine and singing a folk song.
‘I’m going to find out what they’re up to,’ said the king.
He knocked. The music stopped, and the young man came to the door.
‘We are merchants in search of a place to sleep. We heard the music, saw that you were still awake, and wondered if we could spend the night here.’
‘You can find shelter in a hotel in the city. We, alas, cannot help you. Despite the music, this house is full of sadness and suffering.’
‘And may we know why?’
‘It’s all because of me.’ It was the old man in the wheelchair who spoke. ‘I’ve spent my life teaching my son calligraphy, so that he could one day get a job as a palace scribe. But the years have passed and no post has ever come up. And then, last night, I had a stupid dream: an angel appeared to me and asked me to buy a silver goblet because, the angel said, the king would be coming to visit me. He would drink from the goblet and give my son a job.
‘The angel was so persuasive that I decided to do as he said. Since we have no money, my daughter-in-law went to the market this morning to sell her hair so that we could buy that goblet over there. The two of them are doing their best to get me in the Christmas spirit by singing and dancing, but it’s no use.’
The king saw the silver goblet, asked to be given a little water to quench his thirst and, before leaving, said to the family:
‘Do you know, we were talking to the prime minister only today, and he told us that an opening for a palace scribe would be announced next week.’
The old man nodded, not really believing what he was hearing, and bade farewell to the strangers. The following morning, however, a royal proclamation was read out in all the city streets; a new scribe was needed at court. On the appointed day, the audience room at the palace was packed with people eager to compete for that much-sought-after post. The prime minister entered and asked everyone there to prepare their paper and pens:
‘Here is the subject of the composition: Why is an old man weeping, a shaven-headed woman dancing, and a sad young man singing?’
A murmur of disbelief went round the room. No one knew how to tell such a story, apart, that is, from the shabbily dressed young man sitting in one corner, who smiled broadly and began to write.

Based on an Indian story.
Translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa

Lord, protect our decision, becasue making decisions is a way of praying. Give us the courage, after our doubts, to be able to choose between one road and another. May our YES always be a YES, an our NO always be a NO. Once we have chosen our road may we never look back nor allow our soul to be eaten away by remorse. And in order for this to be possible…

Lord, protect our actions, because Action is a way of praying. May our daily bread be the result of the very best that we carry within us. May we, through work and Action, share a little of the love we receive. And in order for this to be possible…

Lord, protect our dreams, because to Dream is a way of praying. Make sure that, regardless of our age or our circumstances, we are capable of keeping alight in our heart the sacred flame of hope and perseverance. And in order for this to be possible…

Lord, give us enthusiasm, because Enthusiasm is a way of praying. It is what binds us to the Heavens and to Earth, to grown-ups, and to children; it is what tells us that our desires are important and deserve our best efforts. It is Enthusiasm that reaffirms to us that everything is possible, as long as we are totally committed to what we are doing. And in order for this to be possible…

Lord, protect us, because Life is the only way we have of making manifest Your miracle. May the earth continue to transform seeds into wheat, may we continue to transmute wheat into bread. And this is only possible if we have Love; therefore, do not leave us in solitude. Always give us Your company, and the company of men and women who have doubts, who act and dream and feel enthusiasm, and who live each day as if it were totally dedicated to Your glory. Amen.

But i hardly even noticed that i was growing up. That’s just it.

Broken this fragile thing now
And I can’t, I can’t pick up the pieces
And I’ve thrown my words all around
But I can’t, I can’t give you a reason

I feel so broken up (so broken up)
And I give up (I give up)
I just want to tell you so you know

Here I go, scream my lungs out and try to get to you
You are my only one
I let go, there’s just no one that gets me like you do
You are my only, my only one

Made my mistakes, let you down
And I can’t, I can’t hold on for too long
Ran my whole life in the ground
And I can’t, I can’t get up when you’re gone

And something’s breaking up (breaking up)
I feel like giving up (like giving up)
I won’t walk out until you know

Here I go, scream my lungs out and try to get to you
You are my only one
I let go, there’s just no one who gets me like you do
You are my only my only one

Here I go so dishonestly
Leave a note for you my only one
And I know you can see right through me
So let me go and you will find someone

Here I go, scream my lungs out and try to get to you
You are my only one
I let go, there’s just no one, no one like you
You are my only, my only one
My only one
My only one
My only one
You are my only, my only one

“Are you writing a story about what we’ve done?  Is it a story about me?”

His grandmother stopped writing her letter and said to her grandson:

“I am writing about you, actually, but more important than the words is the pencil I’m using.  I hope you will be like this pencil when you grow up.”

Intrigued, the boy looked at the pencil.  It didn’t seem very special.

“But it’s just like any other pencil I’ve ever seen!”

“That depends on how you look at things.  It has five qualities which, if you manage to hang on to them, will make you a person who is always at peace with the world.

“First quality: you are capable of great things, but you must never forget that there is a hand guiding your steps.  We call that hand God, and He always guides us according to His will.

“Second quality: now and then, I have to stop writing and use a sharpener.  that make the pencil suffer a little, but afterwards, he’s much sharper.  So you, too, must learn to bear certain pains and sorrows, because they will make you a better person.

“Third quality: the pencil always allows us to use an eraser to rub out any mistakes.  This means that correcting something we did is not necessarily a bad thing; it helps to keep us on the road to justice.

“Fouth quality: what really matters in a pencil is not its wooden exterior, but the graphite inside.  So always pay attention to what is happening inside you.

“Finally, the pencil’s fifth quality: it always leaves a mark.  In just the same way, you should know that every thing you do in life will leave a mark, so try to be conscious of that in your every action.”

If you could go anywhere right now
Where would you go? 
And would you miss me when you get there? 
No place that I would rather be.

Please don’t let me go falling from the sky
The “fasten seatbelt” sign just needs to go out
If only you could be right here by my side
Home wouldn’t seem so far from here

Passport, customs, carry on, remember
To shut off all of your electronic devices
Fell asleep on tuesday woke up monday afternoon
I slept right through your international date line.

Be like the flowing river,

Silent in the night.

Be not afraid of the dark.

If there are stars in the sky, reflect them back.

If there are clouds in the sky,

Remember, clouds, like the river, are water,

So, gladly reflect them too,

In your own tranquil depths.-Manuel Bandeira-

I might take half an hour to write each page: I’m sitting at my computer, concentrating on what I’m doing, with books all around me, ideas in my head, cars driving past outside.  Everything seems perfectly normal, and yes, during those thirty minutes, 3,000 people have died, and 6,200 have just seen the light of the world for the first time.

Where are those thousands of families who have just begun to mourn the loss of someone, or to smile at the arrival of a son, daughter, nephew, niece, brother, or sister?

I stop and reflect a little.  Perhaps many of those people were reaching in the end of a long an painful illness, and some people are relieved when the Angel comes for them.  Then again, hundreds of those children who have just been born will be abandoned the next moment and will go on to form part of the death statistics before I have even finished writing this page.

How strange.  A simple statistic, which I happened to read, and suddenly I’m aware of all those deaths and entrances, those smiles and tears.  How many of them are leaving this life while alone in their rooms, with no one relizing what’s happening?  How many will be born in secret and then abandoned outside a children’s home or a convent?

I think to myself that I was once part of the birth statistics and will, one day, be included amongst the numbers of dead.  It is good to be aware that I will die.  Ever since I walked the road to Santiago, I have understood that, although life goes on and we are all eternal, this existence will one day end.

People do not think very much about death.  They spend their lives worrying about absurdities; the put things off, and fail to notice important moments.  They don’t take risks, because they think it’s dangerous.  They complain a lot, but are afraid to take action.  They want everything to change, but they themselves refuse to change.

If they thought a little more about death, they would never forget to make that much-postponed phone call.  They would be a little crazier.  They would not be afraid of this incarnation coming to an end, because you cannot fear something that is going to happen anyway.

The Indians say: “Today is as good day as any to leave this world.”  And a wise man once said: “Death is always sitting by your side so that, when you need to do something important, it will give you the strenght and the courage that you need.”

I hope that you, dear reader, have got this far.  It would be foolish to be frightened by death, because all of us, sooner or later, are going to die.  And only those who accept this fact are prepared for life. -(Paulo Coelho)