Thank you Emm from the USA for encouraging me and letting me know it is okay to talk to myself, although of course Emm, if you were listening, I wasn't talking to myself was I? Thank you for being a good fairy at the birth of this blog.
Today I had an encounter, an extraordinary encounter, and I must write about it, although I hesitate. Senhor H said he told me his story after I used the word 'soul'.
'And I used the word soul with soul' I replied and he nodded, tears in his eyes. (In French it's even better, because the word for soul is 'âme', try saying it, with a good ahh and an mmmm, it's delicious.
JC and I want to finish some work in our bathroom, and I went to order a decorative border. Sometimes beginnings are banal.
Senhor H, who has run the tile shop with his wife for over 30 years, was there to greet me. He is an irritable little man, and I am an irritable big woman, and we've already had one spat. It was over the phone, when his shop failed to order the desired decorative border and managed to order the wrong sort of white tile, causing a 6 week delay in our building works, much consternation among the building workers and a downgrading of my artistic vision. (The truth is, I can admit now, I like the wrong white tiles better than the ones I chose). When I phoned up to re-order the decorative border, he was nasty and I slammed the phone down: perhaps he doesn't remember that. With hindsight, I would say that he didn't have his heart in the selling of decorative borders and I didn't have my heart in the buying of them. I had sworn NEVER to go this shop again, but I wanted a matching border and I couldn’t get one anywhere else, so I had to swallow my pride.
We went in to his office to fill in the order form, he wasn’t happy because his wife deals with all the details and she wasn’t there. He begrudgingly allowed me to write my name down on a post-it pad for her to contact me. I asked, as I do, if the financial crisis was affecting his business, and he said a little, but his business was diversified enough, so there was always something which worked, but the worst thing for France was the Gulf War. I expressed surprise and said I hadn’t noticed the same effect in England… somehow Senhor H rolled into a rant. He said it was about time the English got rid of the Queen. He said Princess Diana had done more for the world than the entire English population. I was struggling with his Portuguese accent and wasn't quite sure I followed.
''The English are asleep!' he raged.
Most people would have smiled politely, made excuses and left at this point, but last time I went to England I also had the strong sensation that the English were asleep, so I was interested. I didn't want the conversation to go into hateful political and national condemnation, so I said,
'I agree with you, but we can't condemn a whole country, we must remember the individual souls, the people who try to help.'
At this Senhor H fixed me with a powerful stare and said,
‘Do you have faith?’
I hesitated, ‘Yes – but not in the way most people would understand’
(in French the question is are you ‘croyante’, ‘are you a believer’, and I always hesitate when asked this because you can’t believe in something you don’t believe in can you?).
At precisely this moment Senhor H decided to stop being irritable and to reveal to me that he is a man unlike any other. Well, he didn’t entirely stop being irritable.
Senhor H shook his head in agreement, spread out the fingers of his left hand, and said, 'I am not Catholic,’ he counted off one finger, ‘Not Islamic, not Jewish, not Buddhist, and not...Protestant!’ (people in France have a tendency to think of Protestantism as a religion in its own right, quite separate from Christianity).
‘Not Hindu!’ I added.
He nodded. ‘We are all asleep! Everybody, we know nothing! I am full of energy, like a man who is 20 – and I’m 67!’
‘You wouldn’t know it!’ I said.
‘I have no more pain, not from here’ he touched his head, ‘to here’, he touched the point of his dapper shoe. ‘For five years I have been glowing with health. I never go to the doctor; I never need to take any medicine.’
He reached behind him to a rack of files, and pulled out a newspaper in Portuguese. He showed me a picture of a religious dignitary in robes,
‘This is my cousin – and this is me – and I wrote this piece’, he tapped it vigorously. ‘This is read by the people in power. I have messages to pass on to the most powerful people in the world! I have to reach them. I have to pass on the messages, that – God’ he pointed above, ‘sends me’. All the time! My mind is full of thoughts and ideas, I hardly sleep, I don’t need to, I feel well, and I have so much to do’
He waved the newspaper in my direction.
‘If you know someone who can translate this, I will give it to you!’
Today I had an encounter, an extraordinary encounter, and I must write about it, although I hesitate. Senhor H said he told me his story after I used the word 'soul'.
'And I used the word soul with soul' I replied and he nodded, tears in his eyes. (In French it's even better, because the word for soul is 'âme', try saying it, with a good ahh and an mmmm, it's delicious.
JC and I want to finish some work in our bathroom, and I went to order a decorative border. Sometimes beginnings are banal.
Senhor H, who has run the tile shop with his wife for over 30 years, was there to greet me. He is an irritable little man, and I am an irritable big woman, and we've already had one spat. It was over the phone, when his shop failed to order the desired decorative border and managed to order the wrong sort of white tile, causing a 6 week delay in our building works, much consternation among the building workers and a downgrading of my artistic vision. (The truth is, I can admit now, I like the wrong white tiles better than the ones I chose). When I phoned up to re-order the decorative border, he was nasty and I slammed the phone down: perhaps he doesn't remember that. With hindsight, I would say that he didn't have his heart in the selling of decorative borders and I didn't have my heart in the buying of them. I had sworn NEVER to go this shop again, but I wanted a matching border and I couldn’t get one anywhere else, so I had to swallow my pride.
We went in to his office to fill in the order form, he wasn’t happy because his wife deals with all the details and she wasn’t there. He begrudgingly allowed me to write my name down on a post-it pad for her to contact me. I asked, as I do, if the financial crisis was affecting his business, and he said a little, but his business was diversified enough, so there was always something which worked, but the worst thing for France was the Gulf War. I expressed surprise and said I hadn’t noticed the same effect in England… somehow Senhor H rolled into a rant. He said it was about time the English got rid of the Queen. He said Princess Diana had done more for the world than the entire English population. I was struggling with his Portuguese accent and wasn't quite sure I followed.
''The English are asleep!' he raged.
Most people would have smiled politely, made excuses and left at this point, but last time I went to England I also had the strong sensation that the English were asleep, so I was interested. I didn't want the conversation to go into hateful political and national condemnation, so I said,
'I agree with you, but we can't condemn a whole country, we must remember the individual souls, the people who try to help.'
At this Senhor H fixed me with a powerful stare and said,
‘Do you have faith?’
I hesitated, ‘Yes – but not in the way most people would understand’
(in French the question is are you ‘croyante’, ‘are you a believer’, and I always hesitate when asked this because you can’t believe in something you don’t believe in can you?).
At precisely this moment Senhor H decided to stop being irritable and to reveal to me that he is a man unlike any other. Well, he didn’t entirely stop being irritable.
Senhor H shook his head in agreement, spread out the fingers of his left hand, and said, 'I am not Catholic,’ he counted off one finger, ‘Not Islamic, not Jewish, not Buddhist, and not...Protestant!’ (people in France have a tendency to think of Protestantism as a religion in its own right, quite separate from Christianity).
‘Not Hindu!’ I added.
He nodded. ‘We are all asleep! Everybody, we know nothing! I am full of energy, like a man who is 20 – and I’m 67!’
‘You wouldn’t know it!’ I said.
‘I have no more pain, not from here’ he touched his head, ‘to here’, he touched the point of his dapper shoe. ‘For five years I have been glowing with health. I never go to the doctor; I never need to take any medicine.’
He reached behind him to a rack of files, and pulled out a newspaper in Portuguese. He showed me a picture of a religious dignitary in robes,
‘This is my cousin – and this is me – and I wrote this piece’, he tapped it vigorously. ‘This is read by the people in power. I have messages to pass on to the most powerful people in the world! I have to reach them. I have to pass on the messages, that – God’ he pointed above, ‘sends me’. All the time! My mind is full of thoughts and ideas, I hardly sleep, I don’t need to, I feel well, and I have so much to do’
He waved the newspaper in my direction.
‘If you know someone who can translate this, I will give it to you!’
‘You know, I do have Portuguese neighbours but I’m afraid they're too busy to translate…’
He laughed, ‘I know, I know you can’t translate it. This – This’ he said ‘would have to be translated by someone who really knew how to translate the subtle meaning behind each word, or it would be worthless!’
At this point I went from calculating mentally: I am 20 years younger than him and twice his height and that if he turns nasty I should be alright unless he has a concealed weapon, to calculating mentally that this man really knows something about the power of words!
‘This is marvellous. You have a great responsibility. But what you are doing is very tiring for the body and the spirit, it’s an incredible work. You need to take great care of yourself, you need to make sure that you are always centred in…love.’
Senhor H shook his head in agreement and reached inside his shirt and pulled out a cross.
‘This is no ordinary cross. I carved it myself – from olive wood. This cross has been blessed by the Pope’. He didn’t much hold with the role of Pope, but he showed me a press cutting of the blessing, by Pope John-Paul. He sent the cross to Jean-Paul as a present, via his cousin, and John-Paul blessed it and gave it back, multiplied in love, saying, ‘Give this back to your cousin, he has more need of it than I’.
He went on: ‘If only you knew that in the Lord’s Prayer, the Ave Maria and the Santa Maria…everything is contained. I pray every night, every night…’
‘I do too, I say the Lord’s Prayer every night to my children, and every time I say it, something different unfolds!...’
‘Good, good, keep on!’
We were both very happy now, the spiritual equivalent of two drunks who find each other in a bar and slap one another on the back.
I said, ‘The English have pretty much done away with Mary in religion’ and I asked him again the name of the other two prayers and wrote them down on a post-it pad.
I was really curious now. ‘And how does this affect your family, those close to you?’
Senhor H heaved a great sight. ‘I read the Bible every night’
‘You must understand it differently now?’
‘Oh yes. But only the New Testament. And it is written that the Disciples never managed to convince their own people. I have changed so much. My friends don’t know me…’
‘But surely you are more loving with your family?'
‘No!’
‘You mean you are nastier?’
‘Yes and no. I can no longer support injustice, not in my family, not in the world. There is so much injustice, so much that needs to be done; I cannot simply carry on as I was before. I have to act. Another example, I can’t watch television with my family any more. These little cartoons and programmes for children, everyone thinks they’re fine for children, but just listen to what they say, just listen to what they are saying!’
I'm excited now, this is my kind of subject.
‘It must have turned your life upside down’ I said.
‘Nothing is the same as before! But, now, after five years, they are beginning to believe. But my wife does not want me to talk about it to customers! I want to talk about it. I have to talk about it.
‘I understand that. You talked about it to me because you knew I would be able to listen.
He nodded, and I went on: ‘You spoke to me because I gave you signs I would understand, you can’t talk about these things to people who don’t understand! He nodded and nodded, so I said, ‘I’m very happy you spoke to me, so surely she wouldn’t mind?’
‘None of that makes any difference to her! She doesn’t want me to talk about it and that’s all!’
‘When did this – great change – occur?’ I said.
‘It was in 2000, when my mother died’.
His mother was 90 when she died and in good health. 3 days previously she had gone round to her friends for coffee and a chat as was her custom. She got up to leave, set off, paused, and then came back. 'Have you forgotten something?' her friends said.'No, I have not forgotten anything at all. But I am going to die in 3 days'.The friends said come come now, don’t say that, and they embraced once more and took their leave of each other.
She was perfectly well, but three days later she was at home with Senhor H’s brother and Senhor H’s wife, and she turned to the brother and said she felt unwell, that she really didn’t feel well at all. They called an ambulance. After they had travelled 5 miles to the next village she said to her son, if you could sit me up, perhaps I would feel a little better. By the time she reached the hospital she was dead. Mr H came over from France and buried her himself.
‘Ever since then, I only had to talk about my mother, I only had to think about my mother, and all the hairs rose on my arms and my whole body tingled. She knew she was going to die. She had a vision. That is when I changed, when everything changed, after the death of my mother’.
‘She’s helping you?’
‘Yes yes, and there are others, don't worry, I have lots of helpers over there’
‘Lots of people said it was such a tragedy that Barack Obama’s grandmother died before he became president, but perhaps she had it all planned, and she’s chosen just the right moment to go over to help him.’
‘We must have hope for Barack, yes.’
He reached round behind him again and took down another folder. He told me the story of how he had an audience with the foreign minister of Portugal in the Algarve last August. He showed me photos of the minister, the embraces, the minister’s wife and their grandchildren, and the body guard who got him in, standing proud on the beach.
‘I must talk to all the world leaders. I have to.’
‘Do you have the same message for all of them?’
‘I’m given different words for all of them. The world leaders don’t know what to do. They don’t understand that this financial crisis, it signifies the END’.
‘The end of the system, of this way of doing things?
‘YES! It must be broken!
‘But this world economy, this capitalist construction that we have made, we hold it above us, it’s a terrible burden, but if we just let it drop, if we break it, it will fall on us and destroy us! We have to deconstruct it very carefully!’
‘You are right; it has to be broken carefully, bit by bit’.
He showed me some more folders, one for Jacques Chirac, of whom he had a very low opinion.
He showed me the registered post receipts of the carved olive wood crosses he sent to those who expressed an interest.
‘None of that makes any difference to her! She doesn’t want me to talk about it and that’s all!’
‘When did this – great change – occur?’ I said.
‘It was in 2000, when my mother died’.
His mother was 90 when she died and in good health. 3 days previously she had gone round to her friends for coffee and a chat as was her custom. She got up to leave, set off, paused, and then came back. 'Have you forgotten something?' her friends said.'No, I have not forgotten anything at all. But I am going to die in 3 days'.The friends said come come now, don’t say that, and they embraced once more and took their leave of each other.
She was perfectly well, but three days later she was at home with Senhor H’s brother and Senhor H’s wife, and she turned to the brother and said she felt unwell, that she really didn’t feel well at all. They called an ambulance. After they had travelled 5 miles to the next village she said to her son, if you could sit me up, perhaps I would feel a little better. By the time she reached the hospital she was dead. Mr H came over from France and buried her himself.
‘Ever since then, I only had to talk about my mother, I only had to think about my mother, and all the hairs rose on my arms and my whole body tingled. She knew she was going to die. She had a vision. That is when I changed, when everything changed, after the death of my mother’.
‘She’s helping you?’
‘Yes yes, and there are others, don't worry, I have lots of helpers over there’
‘Lots of people said it was such a tragedy that Barack Obama’s grandmother died before he became president, but perhaps she had it all planned, and she’s chosen just the right moment to go over to help him.’
‘We must have hope for Barack, yes.’
He reached round behind him again and took down another folder. He told me the story of how he had an audience with the foreign minister of Portugal in the Algarve last August. He showed me photos of the minister, the embraces, the minister’s wife and their grandchildren, and the body guard who got him in, standing proud on the beach.
‘I must talk to all the world leaders. I have to.’
‘Do you have the same message for all of them?’
‘I’m given different words for all of them. The world leaders don’t know what to do. They don’t understand that this financial crisis, it signifies the END’.
‘The end of the system, of this way of doing things?
‘YES! It must be broken!
‘But this world economy, this capitalist construction that we have made, we hold it above us, it’s a terrible burden, but if we just let it drop, if we break it, it will fall on us and destroy us! We have to deconstruct it very carefully!’
‘You are right; it has to be broken carefully, bit by bit’.
He showed me some more folders, one for Jacques Chirac, of whom he had a very low opinion.
He showed me the registered post receipts of the carved olive wood crosses he sent to those who expressed an interest.
One yellow folder for José Bové.
I reacted ‘Oh, he’s wonderful, he gives his whole life to help us, it’s his mission. He is helping to save our daily bread, what could be more vital?’
Senhor H. could not agree more.
‘I have a burning question’ I said. ‘Have you changed the way you eat?’
At this Senhor H rose from his chair and took something off the windowsill, he held it out to me, it was a white paper napkin.
‘This’ he said, ‘is my evening meal’ and he opened it. Inside was a solitary apple. I understood immediately. I too rose from my seat and shook him by the hand and congratulated him, and he spread his arms wide and cried. He cried because for once somebody understood, and somebody understood how hard it is to be different in a world which doesn’t understand, and how lonely.
‘Can you get organic food around here?’ I said.
‘I don’t need organic’.
‘Do you eat meat?’
‘Once a week’.
He took down another folder, ‘It’s all in here, what I must eat’
‘The instructions were given to you?’
‘Yes: I won’t show it to you, I won’t show it to anyone’.
‘Of course’.
‘A while ago I saw my neighbour come out of his house. He was walking like this’ he got up and slid his feet slowly one in front of the other, ‘He could barely make it to the end of the path. I said to my wife, what is wrong?. She told me he had cancer. The next time I saw him I rushed out, we got talking, I showed him my cross, and he looked interested. So I made him one, and he was very happy. Now, he walks with a spring in his step. He plays with the grandchildren. He has painted the house! And last week, he went hunting. Hunting, yes!’
Senhor H. leaned forward. ‘I know the secret of good health. It’s very simple. It’s all about…’
I’m afraid gentle reader, I cannot reveal the secret of good health, because at that very moment, the drama in which I had become involved took a new turn. Enter stage right, Senhora H.
‘Don’t let on what we’ve been talking about!’ hissed Senhor H.
‘I’m only here for the decorative border’ I said in a loud voice.
‘1 meter should to it, at four per meter...ah, my cherie’ he effused, ‘You have come at just the right time!’ he opened his arms, and then turned to me ‘You see Madame; you did well to wait, for here she is!’
Senhora H, beautifully and sensibly turned out with the uplifted posture of a dancer, turned her gaze upon me, and began a Queenly conversation with me, the sort that should be carried out with a gloved hand upon your wrist. Was she warmed by the charged atmosphere of the little office and what had passed between me and Senhor H, or was she fishing for information, trying to assess how much damage had been done? We had a lovely little chat, on loving subjects, children, their differences, how one never judges, but accepts each for what she and he has to give. How strange was this situation, here was a man receiving clear and detailed information from his mother, a host of angels and God himself, who was prostrate before his wife, quite practised at deceiving her and doing so without a qualm! I surpressed the urge to giggle, and shout out ‘Hallelujah’ and give the game away.
When she left to fetch something, Senhor H. said that if ever I and my husband wanted to come and see him, to tell our stories, to talk, he would be there Monday mornings, he was always here, but on Monday mornings the shop wasn’t open and he would be alone.
Senhora H. returned, we busied ourselves with the order. Suddenly Senhor H decided to call on his wife as a witness.
‘We were talking about our sick neighbour, who had cancer. Tell her what happened!
‘Well, after seeing Senor H, our neighbour’s morale was raised, he felt much better. He wasn’t cured of course…’
‘I didn’t ask you to comment on that, I want to you tell us what he did!’
‘Well, he walked well, he played with the grandchildren…’
‘And, and?’
‘He painted the house…’
‘He painted the house, exactly!, and what else, what else?’
‘He went hunting!’
‘There you see, he went hunting!’.
‘His morale was raised, he felt so much better. He wasn’t cured of course’ said Senhora H kindly. Senhor H growled. I had the impression that Senhora H was not so much the power behind the throne as the Queen herself, and under her noble reign Senhor H found protection.
Senhora H turned to me, ‘And would you believe it, next Monday, Monsieur H is going to start English lessons’
‘Marvellous’ I said.
‘He’s been saying he wants to for some time’
‘And music lessons’ said Senhor H
‘What instrument?
‘Guitar. And accordion’. And so we chatted about the wonder of music…
If you want to understand more, then read Gopi Krishna’s book, ‘Living with Kundalini’ (Shambhala Dragon Editions) - what a tale! Gopi was an Indian civil servant, who carried out his spiritual directives to the letter for over twenty years, until one day he was unexpectedly rocketed into enhanced state of consciousnessby the lopsided awakening of his kundalini energy. It nearly cost him his sanity, it nearly cost him his life, but in the end, in the end – well you will have to read the book to know what became of him. What touched me, is that he too had a wife who was his mainstay.
‘And, and?’
‘He painted the house…’
‘He painted the house, exactly!, and what else, what else?’
‘He went hunting!’
‘There you see, he went hunting!’.
‘His morale was raised, he felt so much better. He wasn’t cured of course’ said Senhora H kindly. Senhor H growled. I had the impression that Senhora H was not so much the power behind the throne as the Queen herself, and under her noble reign Senhor H found protection.
Senhora H turned to me, ‘And would you believe it, next Monday, Monsieur H is going to start English lessons’
‘Marvellous’ I said.
‘He’s been saying he wants to for some time’
‘And music lessons’ said Senhor H
‘What instrument?
‘Guitar. And accordion’. And so we chatted about the wonder of music…
If you want to understand more, then read Gopi Krishna’s book, ‘Living with Kundalini’ (Shambhala Dragon Editions) - what a tale! Gopi was an Indian civil servant, who carried out his spiritual directives to the letter for over twenty years, until one day he was unexpectedly rocketed into enhanced state of consciousnessby the lopsided awakening of his kundalini energy. It nearly cost him his sanity, it nearly cost him his life, but in the end, in the end – well you will have to read the book to know what became of him. What touched me, is that he too had a wife who was his mainstay.
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