The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [51]
Besides talking about cuts in lifestyle, he sold the art of observation that we did weekly. And he concluded his ideas by saying:
“Life passes quickly in this small interval of time. To live it slowly and meaningfully is the great challenge of mortal men.”
These words made me remember that in the past, the days sped by so rapidly that I didn’t notice. Now, with this uncommon family, my days stretched long and lavishly. We lived intensely.
Just as he was speaking, the dreamseller began to feel dizzy. The stress of the beating and the strain of the speech had drained him. We helped him down from the wall, and Solomon and Dimas took him by the arm and led him outside.
He left to warm applause and went to rest under the Europa Avenue Bridge across the street.
One man caught up to him just to say, “I’ve never heard so much craziness in one day. You’re a fraud!”
We turned purple with rage. But the dreamseller calmed us and responded: “I hope my ideas are those of a crazy man and yours are those of a sage.” And he walked away.
People were watching the dreamseller as he left.
“Maybe he wants to found a new society,” one said.
“How will I find the strength to make the necessary cuts in my excesses?” another told a friend.
Some wanted to go live in the countryside, grow orchids and raise animals. Others wanted to make a fresh start in society, change jobs or work as volunteers for children’s hospitals or cancer centers. They went home haunted but fueled by the dreamseller’s words. None of them slept well, understanding that each needed to lose the fear of getting lost. As it turned out, our teacher wasn’t only a seller of dreams but also of insomnia.
As we were leaving the temple to electronics, a well-dressed woman, seeing the dreamseller’s weakened condition, approached him. We told her it wasn’t the right time, but the dreamseller ignored his dizziness and gave her his attention.
“My wonderful daughter Joana, six years old, has cancer,” she said, on the verge of tears. “When the doctors said she probably had only three months to live, my world collapsed. I wanted to die in her place. Worse, I can’t even stay at home. I’m here because when I look at her I drown in despair, and she’s so special that in those moments she tries to console me.”
We were stirred and, once again, ashamed of our insensitivity.
“My dear, I have no supernatural power to help little Joana. But I can say this: Three months lived badly pass like seconds, while three months lived fully are an eternity. Don’t bury your daughter in the tomb of your fear. Go home, discover her and let her discover you. Live intensely with her during the time she has left.”
The woman left encouraged, eager to make each minute a unique moment with her daughter. We didn’t know if it would help Joana live any longer. But we were certain that in those three months, they would live a richer life than most parents do with their children in a span of thirty years.
I thought about the job I had done as a father. And I felt like running to John Marcus and begging his forgiveness.
The White-Hot Spotlight
AS WE WERE HELPING THE DREAMSELLER TO A PLACE WHERE he could rest, Bartholomew separated from the group. A reporter wanted to write a story about us, in particular about our mysterious dreamseller and his intentions. Seeing that during his speech Bartholomew had asked a question, the reporter called him aside and asked for an interview. Bartholomew was excited, unaware he was entering dangerous territory.
The journalist wasted no time.
“Is it true that this man called you all to follow him, without promising money or offering the least bit of security?”
“Yes,” he replied simply.
“Is it true that you actually live under a bridge?”
“Not just one,” he answered. “We live under lots of bridges.”
“Why? Who are you all? Who do you follow?”
Not being able to give any precise answers, Bartholomew, without