juro que vi flores

 Tu me contou

Que deu faísca na primeira vez

Que a gente se cruzou

Que a vida tem dessas trocas

Com a vida anterior

Pois eu tenho a certeza

Tu tanto já mudou

Desde um encontro que se deu

Naquela primavera

Ou talvez nem fosse ainda

Mas juro que vi flores

Que agora trago pra você

E sei que é lindo e vale infinito

Mas, tempo errado

E que é tão bonito, mas só pra amigo

Talvez noutra vida

Eu te encontro primeiro

E dá certo

Enche de cor

Os passos largos que vou dar

O caminho eu sei de cor

Sei de cor, sei de cor

Trilhas e até mistérios me levam pra te amar

Pra te amar, pra te amar

Sem espaço pra incerteza

Tem tanto sobre nós

Que leva a alma pra dançar

Os dois na estratosfera

Ou talvez nem tão pra cima

Mas, juro que vi estrelas

Que agora conto pra você

E sei que é lindo e vale o infinito

Mas, tempo errado

E que é tão bonito mas só pra amigo

Talvez noutra vida

Eu te encontro primeiro

E dá certo. 

Canção de Maro e Milton Nascimento

TELL YOUR FUCKING TRUTH

TELL YOUR FUCKING TRUTH

I have seen miracles happen, when people just tell the truth.

Not the ‘nice’ truth.
Not the truth that seeks to please or comfort.
But the wild truth. The feral truth.
The inconvenient truth.
The tantric truth. The ‘fucking’ truth.

The truth you’re afraid to tell.
The horrible truth about yourself
that you hide in order to ‘protect’ others.
To avoid being ‘too much’.
To avoid being shamed and rejected.
To avoid being seen.

The truth of your deepest feelings:
The rage you have been concealing, controlling, pasting over.
The terrors you do not want to speak.
The sexual urges you’ve been trying to numb.
The primal longings you cannot bear to articulate.

Finally, the defences break down,
and this ‘unsafe’ material emerges
from deep within the unconscious.
You can’t hold it back anymore.
The image of the ‘good boy’ or ‘nice girl’ evaporates.
The ‘perfect one’, the ‘one who has it all figured out’,
the 'evolved one', these images burn.

You tremble, you sweat, you come close to vomiting,
you think you might die doing it,
but finally you tell the fucking truth,
the truth you are deeply ashamed of.

Not the abstract truth. Not the ‘spiritual’ truth.
Not a carefully-worded truth designed to prevent offence.
Not a neatly-packaged truth.
But a messy, fiery, sloppy human truth.
A bloody, passionate, provocative, sensual,
untamed and unvarnished mortal truth.
A shaky, sticky, sweaty, vulnerable truth.

The truth of how you feel.
The truth that lets another person see you in the raw.
The truth that makes one gasp.
The truth that makes your heart pound.

This is the truth that will set you free.

I have seen chronic depressions and life-long anxieties lift overnight.
I have seen deeply embedded traumas evaporate.
I have seen fibromyalgia, life-long migraines, chronic fatigue, unbearable back pain, bodily tension, stomach disorders, vanish, never to return.

Of course, the ‘side-effects’ of truth aren’t always this dramatic.
And we don’t step into our truth with a result in mind.
But think of the massive amounts of energy it must take
to repress our animal wildness,
numb our feral nature,
suppress our rage, tears and terror,
uphold a false image, and pretend to be ‘okay’.
Think of all the tension we hold in the body,
and the damage it does to our immune systems,
when we live in fear of 'coming out'.

Take the risk of telling your truth.
The truth you are afraid to tell.
The truth you fear will make the world run.
Find a safe person – a friend, a therapist, a counsellor, yourself –
and let them in. Let them hold you as you break down.
Let them love on you
as you weep, rage, quake with fear,
and generally make a mess.

Tell your fucking truth to someone – it might just save your life, heal you from deep within, and connect you to humanity in ways you never imagined.

- Jeff Foster

Quando Vier a Primavera

Quando vier a Primavera, 
Se eu já estiver morto, 
As flores florirão da mesma maneira 
E as árvores não serão menos verdes que na Primavera passada. 
A realidade não precisa de mim. 

Sinto uma alegria enorme 
Ao pensar que a minha morte não tem importância nenhuma 

Se soubesse que amanhã morria 
E a Primavera era depois de amanhã, 
Morreria contente, porque ela era depois de amanhã. 
Se esse é o seu tempo, quando havia ela de vir senão no seu tempo? 
Gosto que tudo seja real e que tudo esteja certo; 

E gosto porque assim seria, mesmo que eu não gostasse. 
Por isso, se morrer agora, morro contente, 
Porque tudo é real e tudo está certo. 

Podem rezar latim sobre o meu caixão, se quiserem. 
Se quiserem, podem dançar e cantar à roda dele. 
Não tenho preferências para quando já não puder ter preferências. 
O que for, quando for, é que será o que é. 

Alberto Caeiro, in "Poemas Inconjuntos" 
Heterónimo de Fernando Pessoa 

I WANT YOUR ANGER. I WANT YOUR FIRE

“Don’t be spiritual with me, my love.
Be honest instead!

Get angry with me. Tell me how you really feel.
Tell me how pissed off you are.
Shout. Or cry. Show me your vulnerability.
Express what’s on your heart.
Say the wrong thing. Make a mess.
I don’t care. We can clean up later.
I just want to meet you. Now.

Don’t wait until you have the perfect words.
Don’t wait until your precious fire has gone out.
Or your tears have dried up.
There’s no shame in being a mess.
Anger is not ‘unspiritual’.
It is beauty. It is power.

I want to meet you beyond the mask.
Beyond the nice little boy, the good little girl.
The well-trained spiritual student.
The expert. The calm one.
The one who was never allowed to raise their voice.

I want to feel your fucking flames!
I want to feel your truth!
Your passion! What you need! What you desire!
Your unrequited longings! Your frustrated hopes!

Don’t worry about hurting me.
Just let life speak through you. Now.
I will take responsibility for my own pain.

Please. I’d rather receive your pure anger NOW
than years of stories, blame, resentment,
and passive aggressiveness.

Drop the spiritual bullshit.
Just tell me how I fucked up.

Get everything out in the open.
I will not shame you.

And we can go from there.”

- Jeff Foster
Art: Fire Dance by satiiiva

Underwater Choreography

Bluebird

Eugénio de Andrade, in "até amanhã" "until tomorrow"

É urgente o amor.
É urgente um barco no mar

É urgente destruir certas palavras,
ódio, solidão e crueldade,
alguns lamentos, muitas espadas.

É urgente inventar alegria,
multiplicar os beijos, as searas,
é urgente descobrir rosas e rios
e manhãs claras.

Cai o silêncio nos ombros e a luz
impura, até doer.
É urgente o amor, é urgente
permanecer.

««««« ««««« «««««

Love is urgent.

It is urgent a boat in the sea

It is urgent to destroy certain words,

Hate, loneliness and cruelty,

Some regrets, many swords.

It is urgent to invent joy,

Multiply the kisses, the crops,

It is urgent to discover roses and rivers

And clear mornings.

Silence falls on the shoulders and the impure light

, until it hurts.

It is urgent love, it is urgent

to stay.