The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [40]
Placing his hands on Solomon, the newest disciple, the dreamseller said, “Great human beings are at the margins of society. Here is someone who has very little and yet has everything. Thank you for selling us your dreams.”
Looking for Life Among the Dead
THE NEXT DAY, THE SUN’S FIRST RAYS BROKE OVER THE horizon and shone down on our makeshift beds, inviting us to a new day of discovery. As always, Bartholomew was the last to get up. I imagine that if he were in a comfortable bed he’d sleep the entire day.
Before we headed out, the dreamseller extended an unusual invitation, one that would become an integral part of our story. He invited us to one of the most important tasks of the mind: to do nothing, merely experience the art of observation.
He led us to a busy tree-lined avenue. There he handed each of us a crumpled sheet of white paper and pens and asked us to write down all the sounds and images that excited us. Anything man-made didn’t count. The traffic noise was deafening, the air polluted, the commotion intense. What could excite us if not the colorful stores, the stylish cars, the shape of a stranger? And what does that have to do with changing human thinking? What does the art of observation have to do with selling dreams? To me, it was a boring exercise with no intellectual appeal.
It wasn’t long before the dreamseller prodded us.
“Anyone who doesn’t develop the art of observation is missing the fullness of life. He may be a warehouse of information, but he will never construct great ideas.”
I remembered that the day before I hadn’t seen the complex human being hidden behind Solomon’s rituals. I was a terrible observer. I saw what every “normal” person acknowledged. Edson and Dimas also didn’t know what to write. Bartholomew hummed to summon up inspiration, but none came. He looked up, then to the sides, and remained inert. Minutes passed without our observing anything interesting. Solomon was the only exception. He calmed his compulsions and began writing ceaselessly. He was excited, saying frequently, “Hmm . . . Wow, amazing . . . Fantastic . . .”
He was writing, and I was stumped. The dreamseller gave me a nudge.
“You will develop the art of observation only if you learn the most difficult art of the human intellect.” And he didn’t provide the answer.
“What is it?” I thought.
“The art of calming the mind,” he said eventually. “Minds that once were brilliant have lived a mediocre life because they didn’t calm their thoughts. Great writers, notable scientists, magnificent artists have shattered their inspiration because they had a cluttered mind. The thoughts, mental images and fantasies that can make our creativity take flight can also clip its wings, if excessive, robbing us of our intuition and ingenuity.”
“That’s my problem,” I thought. My mind was a dark cavern of disturbance. Thinking foolish thoughts was my specialty. Silence was always my enemy. But for the dreamseller, I tried to silence the voices within. It wasn’t easy; I was inundated with images racing through my mind faster than the cars on this street. My thoughts were choked by intellectual pollution.
My friends were also lost. But little by little we entered the infinite world of silence. Starting at that moment, our perception was heightened. I began to make out the sharp songs of a bird. It strummed a beautiful melody with unbelievable fervor. I jotted it down. Then another bird sang a mournful song. Moments later, a dove performed a courtship ritual with