segunda-feira, 30 de junho de 2025

Sisyphus Incarnate


Marc Perez



Downhill momentum.

Meshing minds in Chaos.

Such begets helter-skelter energy
roiling like shreds of flapping plastic tarp
red ones
blue
white
mud-caked
blood-soaked
effigy smoked
seedlings all.

Victimizations grow victims
knowing long chains of iron or thorn
can never bind tight
without the first link locking.

Claiming bias neutral,
as if enabling is life’s free pass
begetting saplings diseased
infecting institutional buildings to despair
governing order into collapse.

Anger lashes out.

Anger lashes in.

Brick of principals… crumbles.
Metal of order… rusts.
Time normally in gradual transit… jettisoned.

Like our non-sentient feathered and scaled friends,
survival choices are fraught with both physical and mental peril.

Corridors of growth and passage
change reality from rock to sand,
inviting spore and weed,
anxious mind-scapes crash,
both innocence and guilt alike.

Downhill momentum increases.

Humanity's desperation,
like congregating tumbleweed,
huddle,
wait,
while choices made-for,
some made-by,
continue forging this precarious determination
from sprouting to full bloom.

Some of growth’s exposure collapse behind
like sprouting seeds choked of tears,
finding solace behind life's gardening sheds,
among plow blades mixed with orange safety cones,
piles without order,
without care.

Momentum picks up.

Covetous of outlaw freedom
corruptness crowds wildflowers and dust
into gasping lifeless air of tangled strangulation
below razor wire enforced eight-foot fences
with abutments of concrete,
becoming one with the great out-of-control,
swirling winds of drought,
depression's storm.

All while life’s utility boxes corrode.

At night
lifeless used car lots
become yesterday's syndrome of want over needs,
mobility once entertainment of smiles,
now but vinyl flags without wind,
faded color,
becoming black and white,
with nary a glint or flash
from lights gone dead.

Down the shadowed road
family SUVs and Harleys,
once sparkling of waxing pride,
now fill dirt lots of roadside rest,
meadowed among cattails and fledgling nests,
as anxious famine claims orphan lands.

Such is the possibility of a people-less paradigm
A country of Sisyphus Incarnate?

To be unprepared to love,
not hate,
is unforgivable.



Odin Roark




Sisyphus

 







After awhile, I no longer remembered
why I was being punished, and after that
I was not sure it was punishment at all. There was enough
to do with checking the weather each morning,
selecting the right clothing—waterproof for rain,
my slatted sun hat for bright afternoons, a heavy shawl
pinned round my shoulders on frosty mornings. Then a bite
to eat, choices there too, oat cakes or bread, honey
or marmalade, so many decisions
before starting the work of the day. And each day
was different. There were small blue flowers
breaking through the cracks when the weather warmed,
huge dusty turtles I had to swerve to avoid,
the occasional passerby, too far for conversation,
but close enough to study the new styles
of hat and jacket, each one’s way of walking,
a shuffling gait, a jaunty step. And then
the rock itself was never the same. My fingers
would penetrate encrustations, caress
slopes worn smooth as powdered skin,
its touch remembered these many years,
dimly remembered, like morning rain
find sparking grains that embedded themselves
in tiny dimples. But always, behind the flux,
keeping confusion in check, that constant cycle,
that slow plod upward, that weight against my chest,
measuring my muscles, my soul, inevitably followed
by a wild mad dash to the bottom, the moment
of joy, of mad release. I was often overwhelmed
by the complexity of it all, and only rarely
had a recollection of something
I had meant to do, a time when I had said
When I reach the top, then … but I could not find
anywhere, in my mind, what I had intended.



Judy Barisonzi



domingo, 29 de junho de 2025

O Mito de Sísifo








O mito de Sísifo fala sobre um personagem da mitologia grega considerado o mais inteligente e esperto dos mortais.  

Entretanto, ele desafiou e enganou os deuses e, por isso, recebeu um castigo terrível: rolar uma grande pedra montanha acima por toda a eternidade. 

Sua história foi usada pelo filósofo Albert Camus como representação da inadequação do ser humano num mundo sufocante e absurdo.

Na mitologia grega, Sísifo, filho do rei Éolo, da Tessália, e Enarete, era considerado o mais astuto de todos os mortais.

Éolo foi um dos filhos de Heleno, filho de Deucalião, e reinou sobre a Tessália. 

Enarate era filha de Deimachus.

Éolo e Enarete tiveram vários filhos: Creteu, Sísifo, Deioneu, Salmoneu, Atamante, Perieres, Cercafas e Magnes, e filhas, Calice, Peisidice, Perimele, Alcíone e Cânace.

Sísifo foi o fundador e primeiro Rei de Éfira, depois chamada Corinto, localizado na região do Peloponeso, onde governou por diversos anos. 
Casou-se com Mérope, filha de Atlas, sendo pai de Glauco e avô de Belerofonte.

Mestre da malícia e da felicidade, ele entrou para a tradição como um dos maiores ofensores dos deuses.

Segundo Higino, ele odiava seu irmão Salmoneu; perguntando a Apolo como ele poderia matar seu inimigo, o deus respondeu que ele deveria ter filhos com Tiro, filha de Salmoneu, que o vingariam. Dois filhos nasceram, mas Tiro, descobrindo a profecia, os matou. Sísifo vingou-se e, por causa disso, ele recebeu como castigo na terra dos mortos empurrar uma pedra até o lugar mais alto da montanha, de onde ela rola de volta.

Segundo Pausânias, ele tornou-se rei de Corinto após a partida de Jasão e Medeia; nesta versão, Medeia não matou os próprios filhos por vingança, mas escondeu-os no templo de Hera esperando que, com isso, eles se tornassem imortais.

Sísifo casou-se com Mérope, uma das sete Pleiades, tendo com ela um filho, Glauco. 
Ele também teve outros filhos, Ornitião, Tersandro e Almus.
Certa vez, uma grande águia sobrevoou sua cidade, levando nas garras uma bela jovem. 
Sísifo reconheceu a jovem Egina, filha de Asopo, um deus-rio. 
Mais tarde, o velho Asopo veio perguntar-lhe se sabia do rapto de sua filha e qual seria seu destino. Sísifo logo fez um acordo: em troca de uma fonte de água para a sua cidade, ele contaria o paradeiro da filha. O acordo foi feito e a fonte presenteada recebeu o nome de Pirene.

Assim, ele despertou a raiva do grande Zeus, que enviou o deus da Morte, Tânato, para levá-lo ao mundo subterrâneo. Porém o esperto Sísifo conseguiu enganar o enviado de Zeus. Elogiou sua beleza e pediu-lhe para deixá-lo enfeitar seu pescoço com um colar. O colar, na verdade, não passava de uma coleira, com a qual Sísifo manteve a Morte aprisionada e conseguiu driblar seu destino.

Durante um tempo não morreu mais ninguém. 
Sísifo soube enganar a Morte, mas criou novas encrencas. Desta vez com Hades, o deus dos mortos, e com Ares, o deus da guerra, que precisava dos préstimos da Morte para consumar as batalhas.

Logo que teve conhecimento, Hades libertou Tânato e ordenou-lhe que trouxesse Sísifo imediatamente para as mansões da morte. Quando Sísifo se despediu de sua mulher, teve o cuidado de pedir secretamente que ela não enterrasse seu corpo.
Já no inferno, Sísifo reclamou com Hades da falta de respeito de sua esposa ao não o enterrar. 
Então suplicou por mais um dia de prazo, para se vingar da mulher ingrata e cumprir os rituais fúnebres. Hades concedeu-lhe o pedido. 
Sísifo então retomou seu corpo e fugiu com a esposa. 
Tinha enganado a Morte pela segunda vez.

Outra história a respeito de Sísifo trata do ocorrido quando Autólico, o mais esperto e bem-sucedido ladrão da Grécia (que era filho de Hermes e vizinho de Sísifo), tentou roubar-lhe o gado. Autólico mudava a cor dos animais. As reses desapareciam sistematicamente sem que se encontrasse o menor sinal do ladrão, porém Sísifo começou a desconfiar de algo, pois o rebanho de Autólico aumentava à medida que o seu diminuía. Sísifo, um homem letrado (teria sido um dos primeiros gregos a dominar a escrita), teve a ideia de marcar os cascos de seus animais com sinais de modo que, à medida que a res se afastava do curral, aparecia no chão a frase "Autólico me roubou". Posteriormente, Sísifo e Autólico fizeram as pazes e se tornaram amigos. Sísifo também seduziu Anticleia, filha de Autólico, que mais tarde se casou com o rei de Ítaca, Laerte; por este motivo, Odisseu é considerado, por alguns autores, como filho de Sísifo.

Sísifo morreu de velhice e Zeus enviou Hermes para conduzir sua alma a Hades. No tártaro, Sísifo foi considerado um grande rebelde e teve um castigo, juntamente com Prometeu, Tício, Tântalo e Íxion.

Sísifo recebeu a seguinte punição: 

Foi condenado a, por toda a eternidade, rolar uma grande pedra de mármore com suas mãos até ao cume de uma montanha, sendo que toda vez que ele estava quase a alcançar o topo, a pedra rolava novamente montanha abaixo até ao ponto de partida por meio de uma força irresistível, invalidando completamente o duro esforço despendido. 

Por esse motivo, a expressão "trabalho de Sísifo", em contextos modernos, é empregada para denotar qualquer tarefa que envolva esforços longos, repetitivos e inevitavelmente fadados ao fracasso - algo como um infinito ciclo de esforços que, além de nunca levarem a nada útil ou proveitoso, também são totalmente desprovidos de quaisquer opções de desistência ou recusa em fazê-lo.




Significado do mito: um olhar contemporâneo

A história de Sísifo existe desde tempos remotos. 
Entretanto, essa narrativa revela muitos aspectos que servem como ferramentas para a reflexão de questões contemporâneas.

Percebendo o potencial simbólico dessa mitologia, Albert Camus (1913-1960), um escritor e filósofo francês, usou o mito de Sísifo em seu trabalho.

Ele desenvolveu uma literatura que buscava a libertação dos seres humanos e questionava as relações sociais absurdas que rondavam o século XX (e que ainda se mantém).

Uma de suas obras mais famosas é O mito de Sísifo, lançada em 1942, momento em que ocorria a Segunda Guerra Mundial.

Nesse ensaio, o filósofo utiliza Sísifo como alegoria para tratar de questões existenciais como o propósito de vida, a inadequação, a futilidade e o absurdo da guerra e das relações de trabalho.

Assim, Camus elabora uma relação entre a mitologia e a atualidade, trazendo para o nosso contexto o trabalho de Sísifo como uma tarefa contemporânea cansativa e inútil, onde o trabalhador ou trabalhadora não vê sentido em fazer, mas precisa continuar a exercer para conseguir sobreviver.

Muito combativo e com ideias de esquerda, Camus compara o terrível castigo do personagem mitológico ao trabalho exercido por grande parte da classe trabalhadora, condenada a fazer a mesma coisa dia após dia e, geralmente, sem consciência de sua condição absurda.

"Esse mito só é trágico porque seu herói é consciente. O que seria sua pena se a esperança de triunfar o sustentasse a cada passo? O operário de hoje trabalha todos os dias de sua vida nas mesmas tarefas, e esse destino não é menos absurdo.
Mas só é trágico nos raros momentos em que se torna consciente. Sísifo, proletário dos deuses, impotente e revoltado, conhece toda a extensão de sua miserável condição: pensa nela durante a descida. A clarividência que deveria ser o seu tormento consuma, ao mesmo tempo, sua vitória. Não há destino que não possa ser superado com o desprezo."

Albert Camus
in, O mito de Sísifo

SISYPHUS’S ACCEPTANCE


winterstreet


 



These days only he could see the rock,
so when he stopped for a bagel
at the bagel store, then for a newspaper
at one of those coin-operated stalls,
he looked like anyone else
on his way to work. Food—

the gods reasoned—
would keep him alive
to suffer, and news of the world
could only make him feel worse.
Let him think he has choices;
he belongs to us.

Rote not ritual, a repetition
which never would mean more
at the end than at the start . . .
Sisyphus pushed his rock
past the aromas of bright flowers,
through the bustling streets
into the plenitude and vacuity,

every arrival the beginning
of a familiar descent. And sleep
was the cruelest respite;
at some murky bottom of himself
the usual muck rising up.

One morning, however, legs hurting,
the sun beating down,
again weighing the quick calm of suicide
against this punishment that passed for life,
Sisyphus smiled.

It was the way a gambler smiles
when he finally decides to fold
in order to stay alive
for another game, a smile
so inward it cannot be seen.

The gods sank back
in their airy chairs. Sisyphus sensed
he’d taken something from them,
more on his own than ever now.


Stephen Dunn




HISTÓRIAS TRÁGICAS

 

Foto de Arquivo
Guerra da Coreia




Oh histórias trágicas
Encontraram uma morada em nossos corações.
Esses olhos tristes, essas bochechas fundas e amarelas
São as marcas sombrias de tua presença
Oh galhos da dor
Cem primaveras e outonos indo e vindo
Brotos murchos com corações dilacerados
Cem bloqueios e cem caravanas passam
O Faraó morre e a história de Nimrod termina
Ainda que estejas jovem e fresco
Recém saído do útero do jardim

Oh miséria ardente
Deixe a expansão de nossos corações
Não são as únicas coisas pelas quais vale a pena queimar
Por uma única vez, passe na casa de outro

Oh histórias trágicas
Sua companhia nos oprime
Se não buscam uma nova casa, devem ter cuidado
Amanhã vamos deixar as tristes ruínas da vida
E vocês ficarão miseráveis e descobertas
No limbo do tempo
Sem qualquer morada


Nadia Anjuman




Despedidas Impossíveis

 







"Um romance inquietante e belo que é um hino à amizade, uma elegia à imaginação e, acima de tudo, um poderoso manifesto contra o esquecimento.

SINOPSE
Numa manhã gelada de dezembro, Kyungha recebe uma mensagem da sua amiga Inseon -internada num hospital de Seul na sequência de um ferimento grave a cortar madeira - pedindo-lhe que a visite urgentemente. Quando Kyungha chega à enfermaria, Inseon conta-lhe que veio de avião da ilha de Jeju para ser tratada urgentemente e implora-lhe que vá a sua casa dar de comer e beber ao seu periquito, que de contrário morrerá.

Uma tempestade de neve fustiga a ilha à chegada de Kyungha e muitos dos autocarros foram cancelados ou sofreram atrasos. As rajadas de vento e o nevão constante não a deixam avançar e de repente a escuridão invade tudo. Kyungha não sabe se chegará a tempo de salvar a ave - nem mesmo se sobreviverá ao frio tremendo daquela noite; e não sabe também a vertigem que a aguarda em casa da amiga, onde a história há muito sepultada da família de Inseon acaba por revelar-se, em sonhos e memórias transmitidas de mãe para filha e num arquivo diligentemente organizado que documenta um terrível massacre ocorrido em Jeju.

Despedidas Impossíveis é um hino à amizade, uma elegia à imaginação e, acima de tudo, um poderoso manifesto contra o esquecimento. Como um longo sonho de inverno, estas páginas belíssimas formam muito mais do que um romance - iluminam uma memória traumática, enterrada ao longo de décadas, que ainda hoje ecoa no peito de muitas famílias."

in, Wook



Uma brancura tingida de sangue

Imaginemos um cenário branco, ainda que nem sempre totalmente imaculado, por terras da Coreia do Sul. Essa brancura, por vezes pura, outras conspurcada e invadida pelo sangue outrora derramado, é o cenário de Despedidas Impossíveis, de Han Kang (D. Quixote, 2025), livro que, em conjunto com a restante obra de Han Kang, valeu à escritora nascida em Kwangju o Prémio Médicis 2023 e o (tão merecido) Nobel da Literatura.

E é nesse cenário que as duas protagonistas se aventuram numa viagem, que mescla realidade com sonhos e espiritualidade, dor com memórias, e muitas feridas que teimam em manter-se abertas. Falamos de duas mulheres que construíram uma forte amizade ao longo dos anos, ainda que o tempo e a geografia as tenha separado.

Essas mulheres são Kyungha, escritora e habitante na capital Seul, e narradora deste livro, que vive um momento emocionalmente conturbado relacionado com o seu passado, constantemente assaltada por terríveis sonhos, e que luta diariamente para conseguir a melhor versão do seu testamento, algo que tarda em acontecer; e Inseon, artista multidisciplinar que se distinguiu como realizadora de documentários, habitante da Ilha de Jeju, local que foi palco do massacre que assolou a Coreia no final da década de 1940, fruto do terrível processo de descolonização por parte do Japão e que deu origem a cerca de 30 mil mortes.

Além de terem partilhado alguns trabalhos, juntas tinham, em tempos, combinado em fazer um documentário que traduzisse os sonhos de Kyungha, mas o projeto foi adiado, pelos menos por uma das partes, e a distância entre as duas cresceu. Foi devido a esse afastamento que Kyungha estranhou a mensagem de Inseon pedindo que a visitasse urgentemente no hospital (Inseon cortou os dedos quando estava a cortar madeira) numa manhã gelada de um dezembro marcado por uma tempestade de neve. A razão de toda essa urgência relacionava-se com um favor que Inseon queria pedir à sua amiga: ir a sua casa para alimentar o seu periquito que, caso contrário, não sobreviria sem comida e sem água.

A esse pedido juntou-se a preocupação de ver o estado de Inseon que na sequência de ter cortado a ponta de alguns dedos tinha de ser picada a cada três minutos por uma enfermeira para garantir que os tendões não perdessem a vitalidade. Apesar de muito preocupada, e assustada, Kyungha aceita a demanda, ainda que tenha noção de que a viagem vai ser muito complicada, pois o mau tempo ameaça e muitos voos de avião e autocarros foram cancelados ou estão atrasados. Mas a forte amizade que as une é o motor que faz com que Kyungha enfrente a fúria da Natureza para tentar salvar a vida do pássaro.

Com muita dificuldade, lá consegue apanhar um autocarro e é na quase exclusiva companhia do motorista que chega perto do seu destino, pois depois de se apear ainda tinha de percorrer um longo caminho até à casa da sua amiga, trajeto que pouco ou nada se lembrava e que vai ser um dos maiores desafios da sua vida, pois à medida que é engolida pela neve, frio, vento e escuridão da noite, e a lutar contra enxaquecas e espasmos abdominais, também a sua sobrevivência está em jogo. 
Felizmente, consegue chegar ao seu destino e, ao entrar na casa de Inseon encontra um mundo sepultado nas memórias da família da realizadora e que traz à tona memórias e fantasmas do passado relacionados com o massacre de Jeju.

Com essas premissas como ponto de partida para um romance que olha para o luto de um povo atormentado com o passado, Han Kang constrói uma narrativa deliciosamente descritiva, dividida em três partes, em que gradualmente os factos contextuais vão dando lugar às metáforas (em especial através do rigor dos caprichos de um Natureza palpável, ora doce, ora agressiva) e a um mundo de sonhos e surrealismos líricos (os periquitos Ama e Ami, ou os troncos que assumem as figuras humanas representadas nos sonhos de Kyungha) vincadamente dolorosos.

Como na leitura de um diário, os capítulos de Despedidas Impossíveis alternam entre o presente e os ecos de um passado vivido por ambas as protagonistas, juntas ou separadas, em que os flashbacks e os itálicos toldam e moldam os sentidos do leitor em camadas emocionais pautadas por momentos de brutalidade, compaixão, melancolia, entre o desabafo e o medo, entre a luz e a sua ausência, e em que tudo vale para vencer os pensamentos que atormentam as almas frágeis, nem que isso signifique dormir com uma serra de arco debaixo da cama para afugentar as tormentas. Pelo caminho há ainda espaço para refletir sobre o poder da mulher, a liberdade, a opressão e violência sobre um povo “legitimadas” sobre uma bacoca supremacia do invasor face à fragilidade do invadido, a solidariedade e, acima de tudo, a luta contra o esquecimento. 

Não sendo um livro “fácil” e que exige alguma resiliência ao leitor, como, por exemplo, algumas passagens da obra de Jon Fosse, Despedidas Impossíveis é um bonito exercício de catarse que condensa décadas de sofrimento individual e coletivo de um povo que continua refém de uma história guardada em pedaços de jornais rasgados, livros, fotografias e cartas à família, através dos quais se misturam dor e esperança, sonhos e pesadelos e em que a neve está sempre presente.

Carlos Eugénio Augusto 






GUERRA DA COREIA

A Guerra da Coreia foi um conflito armado que ocorreu na Península Coreana entre 1950 e 1953, envolvendo a Coreia do Norte e a Coreia do Sul, bem como seus aliados, no contexto macro da Guerra Fria. O conflito foi um dos principais pontos de tensão da Guerra Fria, com a Coreia do Norte apoiada pela China e pela União Soviética, e a Coreia do Sul apoiada pelos Estados Unidos e outros países da ONU. 

A guerra terminou com um armistício em 1953, mas sem um tratado de paz, deixando a península dividida e em estado de tensão até hoje. 

Após o fim da Segunda Guerra Mundial, e com a rendição do Japão, a Coreia foi dividida em duas zonas de influência, com o norte sob domínio soviético e o sul sob domínio americano, ao longo do paralelo 38. 
Em 1950, a Coreia do Norte invadiu a Coreia do Sul com o objetivo de reunificar a península sob um regime comunista. 
Em 1953, foi assinado um armistício que encerrou as hostilidades, mas não um tratado de paz formal, deixando a península dividida ao longo da Zona Desmilitarizada Coreana (DMZ). 

A Guerra da Coreia causou milhões de mortes e deixou um legado de divisão e tensão na península coreana, com a Coreia do Norte e do Sul mantendo-se em estados de alerta militar até hoje. 

O extermínio de civis (homens, mulheres, crianças, bebés, idosos) começou logo em 1945, após o fim da Segunda Guerra Mundial.

A Coreia foi governada pelo Japão desde 1910 até ao final da Segunda Guerra Mundial. 
Em agosto de 1945, os soviéticos declararam guerra contra os japoneses, como resultado de um acordo feito com os Estados Unidos (sem o conhecimento e aprovação do povo coreano) e libertaram o norte do Paralelo 38. 
Tropas americanas, logo em seguida, se moveram para ocupar o sul da península. 

Em 1948, como resultado do início da Guerra Fria entre os Estados Unidos e a União Soviética, a península coreana foi dividida em duas regiões, com governos separados. 
Representantes da zona sul (capitalista, de influência americana) e da zona norte (comunista, de influência soviética) afirmavam, cada um, ser o legítimo governo da Coreia, e nenhum lado aceitava as fronteiras da época como permanentes. 

O conflito escalou para uma guerra aberta total quando os norte-coreanos, apoiados belicamente pelos soviéticos e chineses, invadiram o sul, em 25 de junho de 1950. 
Naquele período, o Conselho de Segurança das Nações Unidas reconheceu isto como uma invasão ilegal e exigiu um cessar-fogo. 

A 27 de junho, o Conselho da ONU aprovou a Resolução 83, condenando a invasão e enviou soldados sob a bandeira das Nações Unidas para restabelecer a paz na península coreana. 
Cerca de vinte e um países comprometeram forças militares para a missão da ONU.

A guerra arrastou-se por três anos até que, em 27 de julho de 1953, um armistício foi assinado. 
O acordo firmou a Zona Desmilitarizada da Coreia a fim de separar o Norte e o Sul, e permitiu a troca de prisioneiros. 
Contudo, nenhum tratado de paz formal foi assinado entre as partes envolvidas, o que faz com que as duas Coreias estejam, tecnicamente, ainda em guerra. 

Cerca de três milhões de pessoas morreram na guerra, a maioria civis, tornando-a no conflito mais mortal da Guerra Fria.
Samuel Kim classifica a guerra como o conflito mais mortal no Leste Asiático — a região mais afetada por conflitos armados relacionados à Guerra Fria. 
Embora apenas estimativas aproximadas de fatalidades civis estejam disponíveis, 
a percentagem de vítimas civis na Coreia foi maior do que na Segunda Guerra Mundial ou na Guerra do Vietnam.

Desde então, ambos os países continuam com provocações mútuas e até atos de violência, com os governos a ter muita animosidade um pelo outro. 
Em abril de 2018, os líderes das duas Coreias reuniram-se na Zona Desmilitarizada e concordaram em trabalhar para assinar um tratado de paz para encerrar oficialmente a guerra.
Após anos de tensões e agressões mútuas, uma nova tentativa de paz foi feita a27 de abril de 2018.
Foi reportado, após os líderes das duas Coreias se terem encontrado na Zona Desmilitarizada, que negociações estavam em andamento para finalmente assinarem um acordo oficial de encerramento do conflito. 
Não foi divulgado se outros pontos sensíveis, como a desnuclearização da Península Coreana ou o reconhecimento de soberania de cada lado sobre a zona desmilitarizada, fariam parte das negociações.

No entanto, nada mudou até hoje.





CRIMES DE GUERRA

Houve inúmeras atrocidades e massacres de civis ao longo da Guerra da Coreia cometidos por ambos os lados, começando logo em 1945. 

De 2005 a 2010, a Comissão de Verdade e Reconciliação da Coreia do Sul investigou atrocidades e outras violações de direitos humanos ao longo de grande parte do século XX, desde o período colonial japonês até à Guerra da Coreia e além. 

A comissão escavou algumas valas comuns dos massacres da Liga Bodo e confirmou os contornos gerais dessas execuções políticas. 
Dos massacres ocorridos durante a Guerra da Coreia que a comissão foi solicitada a investigar, 82% foram perpetrados pelas forças sul-coreanas, enquanto 18% foram perpetrados pelas forças norte-coreanas.

Milhares de assassinatos políticos, tiveram lugar nas cidades e aldeias. 
Militares sul-coreanos, policiais e forças paramilitares, executaram milhares de esquerdistas e simpatizantes comunistas( que se alistavam em troca de sacos de arroz) 

Espancamentos, fome, trabalho forçado, execuções sumárias e marchas da morte eram comuns.
Os corpos dos mortos eram muitas vezes despejados em valas após fuzilamento, ou então fuzilavam os civis à beira-mar e quando a maré enchia levava os cadáveres.

Ainda hoje, muitos coreanos não comem nada que venha do mar, porque os peixes e crustáceos alimentaram-se dos cadáveres dos seus familiares.

TUDO ISTO É RELATADO NO LIVRO.







domingo, 15 de junho de 2025

Mundo Interior


Antonius Andry Suharto Djumantara





 Ouço que a Natureza é uma lauda eterna 
De pompa, de fulgor, de movimento e lida, 
Uma escala de luz, uma escala de vida 
De sol à ínfima luzerna. 

Ouço que a natureza, - a natureza externa, -
Tem o olhar que namora, e o gesto que intimida 
Feiticeira que ceva uma hidra de Lerna 
Entre as flores da bela Armida. 

E contudo, se fecho os olhos, e mergulho 
Dentro em mim, vejo à luz de outro sol, outro abismo 
Em que um mundo mais vasto, armado de outro orgulho, 

Rola a vida imortal e o eterno cataclismo, 
E, como o outro, guarda em seu âmbito enorme, 
Um segredo que atrai, que desafia - e dorme.


Machado de Assis
in, Ocidentais



Money is Energy

 




What message lies under fear, 
living healthily with money, and 
not stepping into a familiar trap. 


“In the quiet flicker of red-light emotions, I choose not to run but to listen; each whisper is a map, guiding me home to my Shen, where truth waits patiently beneath the waves of overwhelm.”


Have you ever been swept away by a flood of powerful emotions that left you breathless, moments when a word, a glance, or even a memory pulls you under, and you’re left wondering, 
“Why does this hurt so much? 
Why is this feeling back again?” 

Do your emotions sometimes seem like uninvited guests crashing through the stillness of your spirit, demanding attention? 
If so, you're not alone; more importantly, you're not broken.

In this journal, we journey into the heart of emotional understanding, not to fix, avoid or numb ourselves, but to finally listen on a more profound level. 

  1. What if our most intense emotions, often called ‘negative’ feelings, were not signs of weakness or ‘wounds’, but sacred messages? 
  2. What if our anxiety, sadness, or frustration weren’t problems to avoid but messengers inviting us to follow them home to our truth?

Drawing from the timeless teachings of Taoism and the practice of wu wei, effortless effort, we’ll explore how our emotional patterns reveal hidden beliefs and how self-compassion and alignment with the Tao can transform pain into wisdom
Together, we’ll understand how to shift from overwhelm to observation, from resistance to realignment. 

Let’s begin by honouring the red-light feelings for what they truly are: 
Our Inner Child crying out for help, guidance and understanding, not warning us of doom, but pleading for reassurance, resilience and someone that can be trusted, even in the most challenging of moments.



When Emotions Speak, Listen

In the wisdom of Taoism, everything is part of the flow. 
Emotions are not anomalies; they are part of the natural rhythm. 
When we interpret emotions as problems, we oppose that rhythm. We resist the current and call the river dangerous. However, emotions are not the fault, but rather the consequence.

Think of a red light on your dashboard. 
It doesn’t mean the car is broken beyond repair; it signals that attention is needed deeper than the dashboard light. 

The same is true of red-light emotions, which seem disruptive, painful, or overwhelming. 
Sadness, rage, jealousy, and fear do not arise without purpose. 
They rise when we have strayed from our flow and become lost in a ‘Maze of Confusion’, separating from our truth, honesty and integrity.

The Inner Child, ever hopeful for safety, seeks to control our world, often not with malice or defiance, but with desperation masked as urgency. 
When it perceives a threat, whether real or imagined, it does not respond with reason but with an emotional burst: fear, worry, anxiety, or even anger. 
This, however, is not misbehaviour; it is a child’s communication. It is a heartfelt signal from a part of us still anchored in the past, where emotional reactions once ensured survival. These are not tantrums to be punished, but questions to be answered with wisdom.

Yet, many of us have only ever learned to respond with suppression or surrender. 
We may have soothed ourselves by giving in to the Inner Child’s narrative, changing course, avoiding risks, abandoning plans, all in the hope that the emotional storm would pass. 
But in doing so, we rarely reach the deeper layers. 

We offered distraction instead of direction, comfort instead of clarity. We silenced the cries without addressing the unresolved issue beneath them. 
It is like quieting a fire alarm by removing the battery rather than locating the source of the smoke.

This is where the actual teaching begins. 
The cries of the Inner Child are not meant to be obeyed unthinkingly nor dismissed coldly. 
They are invitations. 
When we choose to pause, not to react, not to placate, but to listen, we begin to decode these cries with mature curiosity. 

We ask, 
“What belief is fuelling this reaction? 
What misunderstanding has led to this fear?” 

In doing so, we step into our role not as victims of emotion, but as educators of our emotional world.

A counter-argument might suggest: 
“But isn’t reacting a sign of being human? 
Isn’t it authentic to express how we feel?” 

Indeed, it is. 
But expression without understanding becomes a cycle of repetition rather than growth. 
The Tao teaches us that authenticity is not raw emotion left unchecked; it is alignment. 
Genuine authenticity arises not from uncontrolled reaction, but from a harmonious response rooted in clarity, compassion, and responsibility.

When we respond to our Inner Child with loving boundaries and thoughtful inquiry, we create space for transformation. 
We move from chaos to coherence, from control to conversation. 
We teach the Inner Child that safety is not achieved through panic, but through understanding and awareness. That its voice matters, but it must learn the language of truth, not fear.

This profound shift in how we relate to our own emotions is one of the greatest gifts of Taoism and wu wei. It teaches us that every emotional spike is a doorway
Every reaction holds a lesson. 
And every moment of inner conflict is an opportunity, not to suppress or obey, but to educate, guide, and realign with the gentle, powerful rhythm of the Tao.

Our beliefs do not just create our emotions. 
They are crafted from them in a self-reinforcing ‘Carousel of Despair’, and we can become fearful of our fear! 

In Wu Wei Wisdom, we teach that every emotional feeling is born from a thought or belief. 
Nothing arrives without reason. 
We are not at the mercy of chaos, but can be guided by our spiritual inner compass, if only we would listen.



The Pendulum's Wisdom: Balance Over Extremes

Emotional experiences often swing like a pendulum between extremes: 
Elation to despair, confidence to doubt. 
These oscillations are not flaws but part of the Tao’s rhythm. 
But where we suffer is when we get stuck or addicted to the swinging.

Taoism doesn’t offer a life free of emotional contrast; it provides wisdom about where to stand. 
In the wu wei centre. 
In alignment. 
In observation. 

The Tao Te Ching, in Verse 59, reveals: 
“From restraint comes clarity. From clarity, alignment. From alignment, compassion.” 

Here is our emotional centre, where wu wei arises, the effortless effort of returning to ourselves without force or fear.

Many of us have been taught to escape emotions, to distract, fix, medicate, or rationalise away. 
But avoidance only invites repetition
Emotions are not cured by avoidance; they are not resolved by ‘giving in’. 
They are resolved by being seen, understood and accepted lovingly and compassionately. 
And then resolving the issue.

This is where the power of self-responsibility awakens, not blame or shame, but an honest reckoning: 
“What do I believe created this emotion? 
And does that belief serve me any longer?” 
This question is the beginning of transformation.



The Inner Child’s Mirror: Reflections of Belief

Our Inner Child holds tight to old stories, not because they are true, but because they are familiar. Beliefs such as: 
  • “I am not enough,” 
  • “I must please to be loved,” or 
  • “I will fail if I try” 
become the script by which emotions are created.

When we encounter life through the lens of these beliefs, emotions rise to match the narrative. 
A comment becomes an attack. 
A challenge becomes a confirmation of failure. 
A silence becomes rejection. 
But it’s not the moment causing the pain. It’s the belief and perception underneath.

So, we begin our healing by looking not at the emotional wave, but at the ocean floor. 
  1. What core belief is calling for our attention? 
  2. What misunderstanding is our Inner Child begging us to revisit, hold their hand, and resolve?
Our teachings use the Golden Thread Process to trace emotions to their roots. 
This is not an intellectual exercise but an act of deep self-honesty. 
Through this, we don’t simply manage emotions; we transform them. 
When we change the belief, the emotion changes.



Compassion, Not Coddling

Genuine compassion isn’t indulgence. It’s education. 
When we approach the Inner Child compassionately, we say, 
“I understand why you believe this. 
You believed it kept you safe, but we don’t need it anymore.”

  • Self-compassion means we stop calling ourselves weak for crying, or broken for fearing. 
  • We stop criticising ourselves for repeating lessons. 
  • We learn to speak with truth, honesty and integrity, 

Of course this hurts, because it matters.
And perhaps, if we dare to look a little deeper, we may begin to question the power we’ve granted these red-light emotions. 

  • In our rush to escape or bury them, have we unwittingly transformed them into monstrous shadows, larger and more fearsome than they are? 
  • What if these feelings we dread are not dragons to slay, but misunderstood signals guiding us inward?

We might marvel at our survival if we pause, breathe, and soften our resistance, even just a little. 
After all, haven’t we weathered every storm of emotion and still found ourselves here, reading these words, wiser and more capable than we often allow ourselves to believe? 

This isn’t weakness; it is lived experience. 
Perhaps we are emotional experts in disguise, those who have faced the tempest of feeling and endured. With a new understanding, we can step out of the role of victim and become the compassionate observer, curious and willing to listen and find a resolution.

When we recognise that our emotions are not truths but messengers, sometimes loud, sometimes misguided, we create the space for transformation. 
Through this lens, self-compassion is no longer passive sympathy; it becomes an act of profound courage, the first step in reclaiming our inner harmony and returning to our wu wei flow, where acceptance becomes effortless effort.

The I Ching, Hexagram 61, teaches: 
“Inner truth brings connection. 
Sincerity is the bridge to harmony.” 

When we are sincere with ourselves, we begin to trust. 
And where trust grows, so does healing. 
  1. We stop reacting and begin responding. 
  2. We stop defending and start directing. 
  3. We stop surviving and begin thriving.



Embracing the Imperfection of Emotions

Let us not forget that life and our emotional journeys are imperfect by design. 
We will falter, repeat, and feel intensely. 
And this is not wrong; these are life lessons for us. 

In our modern world, perfectionism has masqueraded as a form of self-improvement. 
But Taoism teaches a different path: not a linear race toward flawlessness but a spiral inward, returning always to the wu wei centre.

  1. We do not aim to stop feeling. We strive to overcome our fear of our feelings. 
  2. We do not seek to control emotions. We strive to understand what they reveal. 

This is the heart of wu wei, not striving, but synchronising and not fighting our emotions, but flowing with the wisdom they offer.




Stepping Forward: One Breath at a Time

And so, where do we go from here? 
We take small steps, not because we are small but because wisdom is quiet. 
Healing is subtle. 
Progress in Tao is not measured by speed but sincerity.

  1. We begin by meeting each emotion with curiosity instead of contempt. 
  2. We question the beliefs that have guided us into pain. 
  3. We choose compassion over criticism, understanding over avoidance.
  4. We stop comparing, criticising, and being judgmental (CCJ), especially ourselves. 
  5. We remind our Inner Child that being seen is not dangerous but sacred. 

Each red-light emotion invites us not to panic but to pause, listen, understand, and align. 
As we do, we reclaim our power, not as force but as flow.

We close with this affirmation, drawn from the depths of Taoist truth:
“With each red light, I listen deeper. I honour the whispers under my emotions and align with my Shen. I walk not with fear, but with grace. Each feeling leads me home.”

  1. So, let us trust our emotional red-lights, telling us that something deep within our belief system needs our loving and compassionate attention. 
  2. Let us walk gently, consistently, and honestly, without expectation or punishment, one breath at a time, one belief at a time. 
  3. Let’s meet each red-light not with dread, but with curiosity and self-respect, knowing that behind every challenging emotion lies a message from our Inner Child, a call to pause, breathe, and see ourselves more clearly.

Remember, you have already survived every difficult moment you thought might break you. 
You are here. You are strong. 
And you are learning to move not through fear, but through understanding. 
This is the promise of “Honouring the Whispers under the Red Light” that even the most complex emotions can become stepping stones, not stumbling blocks.

There is no perfection to attain, only presence to return to. 
If this teaching resonates with you, try it today, not all at once, but in the smallest ways. 
Pause when emotions rise. Ask yourself gently, 
“What do I believe creates this feeling?” 
Be willing to challenge that thought. 
Be willing to stand with your Inner Child as a loving guide, not a harsh critic.

Growth is not about doing more; it’s about doing things differently and honestly. 
Keep going. Keep showing up for yourself. 
Let consistency be your companion and kindness your guide. 
And as you walk this path of truth and grace, know this deeply: 
You are not behind. You are not failing. 
You are uniquely unfolding, beautifully, courageously, and in alignment with the Tao.

Let us honour the whispers of our Shen under the red-light feelings. 
Let us return again and again to our natural flow. 
And each time we do, we come home to who we already are.


 





The Invisible Weight We Carry

  1. Have you ever watched money vanish as quickly as it comes, no matter how hard you try to hold on? 
  2. Do you find yourself living with the nagging belief that no matter what you do, it’s never enough? 
If money has ever felt like an unpredictable guest, distant, fleeting, never quite yours to keep, you’re not alone. 

But what if the issue isn’t truly about money at all?

This journal will explore something more profound: 
The energetic, emotional, and spiritual dance between money and our Inner Child. 

‘Flowing Worth’ invites us to look beyond our bank statements and into the inherited beliefs, fears, and narratives that shape our relationship with abundance.
 
Why is this subject so vital? 
Until we heal the money flow, we continue to work harder and not smarter, always trying to patch the surface of a much deeper ‘wound’.

Let’s understand how Taoism and Wu Wei Wisdom can reframe money not as a constant uphill battle but as a river we can learn to flow with. Let us pause and listen to the nagging fears of our Inner Child and lovingly guide them toward a place where safety, worth, and abundance are not distant dreams but gentle realities and a birthright.



The Inner Dialogue of Scarcity

For many of us, money becomes more than coins and bills; it becomes a symbol. 
To the Inner Child, it may represent love withheld, approval dangled just out of reach, or the fear-laced silence of nights when parents argued about what wasn’t enough. If we grew up seeing money lost, hoarded, or weaponised, we likely absorbed more than financial lessons; we absorbed beliefs that root deep into our sense of safety and self-worth.

The Inner Child doesn't calculate budgets or understand income streams; it reads emotions. 
It recalls the dread on adult faces and associates money with fear. 
It listens when people say, 
“Money doesn’t grow on trees,” and concludes, 
“We must not be safe. There’s never enough.” 


From there, scarcity becomes a recurring story. 
It plays quietly beneath the surface, whispering: 
  • “We can’t afford to relax.” 
  • “We’re not lucky like others.” 
  • “Who do we think we are to have more?” 

These thoughts are not logical; they are emotional truths that a part of us, still frozen in past experiences, believes.

And then, an even more tangled belief begins to form: 
“If I save money, it might be taken from me. 
If I build anything, it could vanish.” 

The Inner Child, fearing the pain of loss, may sabotage savings or avoid building wealth altogether. Better, it thinks, to spend it quickly, use it before it disappears. 
But this spending is not rooted in joy or alignment; it is often an anxious attempt to prove something: “Look at what I can buy. Look how much I’m worth now.” 
This fragile sense of value becomes tied to the idea of being bigger, better, and brighter. 
We compare, trying to feel superior, but each purchase is a temporary patch over a more profound uncertainty.

This is how we measure ourselves against others, using money as a mirror, reflecting our supposed success or our secret shame. 
And so, the cycle continues. 

The more we try to keep up, the more disconnected we become from the quiet voice within that wants to feel enough. 
Without pausing to notice, this inherited scarcity becomes the blueprint for how we live, spend, and judge our place in the world.


But we can change this. 
By understanding the root of these beliefs and gently reassuring the Inner Child that safety no longer lies in spending or proving, but in alignment, presence, and trust, we begin to release the fear.  
 
Money returns to what it truly is: not a symbol of worth or weapon of comparison, but simply energy, here to be directed, enjoyed, and used wisely in the flow of wu wei.




The Tao of Energetic Flow

Taoist wisdom gently shifts our understanding of abundance. 
It does not force, demand, or chase. 
The Tao does not fear the future; it flows into it. 
And so must we.

In Verse 48 of the Tao Te Ching, we are told: 
“In the pursuit of learning, every day something is acquired. 
In the pursuit of the Tao, every day something is released.” 

This gentle paradox invites us into a new kind of wisdom, not accumulation but release. 
Instead of badgering, 
“What can I gain today?” 
how about 
“What can I let go of?” 

Perhaps it’s a limiting belief, long worn like an old coat that no longer fits. Maybe it’s an outdated story about lack, or the restless need to control every corner of the financial future. These are not light burdens; they are the unseen weight we carry.

And sometimes, the release can be beautifully practical. 
A tender beginning could be as simple as opening your wardrobe and noticing what no longer serves your life as it is now. 
Are there clothes you haven’t worn in twelve months? 
Items that once promised transformation but now only gather dust? 
These pieces are more than fabric; they are silent symbols of who we thought we had to be, purchases perhaps made to impress, soothe, and compare. Letting them go is not just clearing clutter; it’s making space for truth.

Sell what you no longer need, and in doing so, invite fresh energy to enter. 
You create an income, yes, but more importantly, you create space. 
Space for calm. Space for clarity. Space for your Shen to breathe and re-align with what matters. 

This simple act, rooted in presence and wu wei, teaches us that order and abundance begin with what we release, not what we cling to
Let today be a soft declaration that you trust the flow more than the fear and welcome who you are becoming in releasing what once defined you.

Money is energy. 
It is neither inherently good nor bad; it mirrors our beliefs, emotions, and level of alignment. 
When we act from fear, money often eludes us. 
When we act from openness, trust, and purpose, we find that it flows in ways we couldn’t have predicted.

This does not mean ignoring reality or avoiding wise planning. 
Taoist alignment is never passivity; it is effortless effort, wu wei. 
It’s an action born not of panic but of presence. 
It’s understanding that to work with the Tao is to engage with life thoughtfully, compassionately, and without the heavy chains of comparison, criticism, or being judgmental (CCJ).




Rediscovering what was lost

Reclaiming your financial freedom means creating more and aligning more deeply with your Shen, shifting from a reactive to a responsive approach, from clinging tightly to trusting gently. 

This isn’t just about managing money, it’s about rediscovering the living, breathing essence of who we are beneath the fear. 
When we stop gripping and start aligning, something remarkable begins to happen: 
energy moves, ideas stir, and possibilities whisper to us again.

So, pause here and look within. 
  • Is there something resting quietly in your Shen, your true spirit, that you’ve longed to do but told yourself you couldn’t? 
  • A creative spark, a small dream, an idea that’s sat in the waiting room of your life for too long? 
Perhaps you’ve convinced yourself it’s not the right time, not practical, or that others won’t understand. These excuses may seem harmless, but over time, they create stagnation, not just in your creativity, but also in your Qi —the flow of life-force energy that fuels inspiration and abundance.

When energy stalls, so too can our financial flow. 
Not because we’re being punished or are unworthy, but because what is not expressed becomes blocked. Our Shen longs to create, not just consume. 
So today, why not take one small, brave step? 
Not a leap, not a perfect plan, just a beginning.
Start the project you’ve always imagined. 
Write the first line, plant the first seed, make the first call. 
Choose something genuine and honest that reflects your authentic self.

And when your Inner Child begins to panic, whispering fears of failure or futility, breathe. 
Drop your shoulders. 
Reassure that part of you is safe to try. 
Not to succeed immediately, not to impress anyone, but to move. 
Because movement is flow, and flow is where energy becomes abundance.

This is the quiet revolution of wu wei, not forcing, not striving, but choosing with clarity. Creating is not done out of pressure but from presence. 
When we align with our Shen, we stop trying to chase security and instead become its source: one inspired breath, one authentic action, one supported step at a time.



Challenging the Inner Narrative

Healing the money story begins not with spreadsheets, but with understanding. 
  • What did your Inner Child learn about money? 
  • What scenes shaped your view of worth? 
  • Were you told rich people are greedy, that money changes people, or that it disappears as fast as it arrives?

To create new patterns, we must lovingly confront these stories, not with blame but with curiosity. 
Tell your Inner Child, 
“I see why you’re scared. I know you want to feel safe.” 
From there, we reframe, re-educate, and replace scarcity with self-trust.

Instead of repeating the mantra “It’s too hard,” we ask: 
“What small step can I take today?” 
Instead of shrinking under the weight of “We’re not good with money,” we affirm: 
“We’re learning. We’re growing. And it’s safe to succeed.”

Even creating a budget, tracking spending, or setting financial goals can become spiritual acts when done with intention and mindfulness. 
These are not chores; they are conversations with the part of you that needs reassurance, that says, “We’ve got this.” 

  • Each choice made from love instead of fear breaks the cycle. 
  • Each small win builds confidence. 
  • Each aligned step rewrites the script.



From Blockage to Flow

The shift from a state of lack to one of flow is a spiritual awakening. 
We stop seeing money as something outside of ourselves and begin treating it with awareness and presence, as we do our thoughts, breath, and energy.

Hexagram 26 of the I Ching speaks of ‘accumulated strength and controlled release’. 
It suggests that true power is built over time, quietly, internally, until it flows out in wise, steady action. This is how we shift the financial flow. 
We build strength in stillness, gather wisdom in patience, and move only when aligned.

So, how does this look in practice?

  1. It begins with gratitude, not performative thanks but genuine recognition of what we already have. 
  2. It includes releasing the habit of CCJ (comparing, criticising, and being judgmental) of our progress or past. 
  3. It involves noticing when scarcity thoughts arise and responding with kindness, rather than panic.
  4. It may mean learning about money in new ways, not from fear of what we don’t know, but from excitement about what we’re ready to master
  5. It includes honouring our Shen by refusing to settle for financial stress as a permanent state. 
  6. And it always means choosing presence over pressure. The Tao never rushes. Neither must we.



Trusting in Flowing Worth

As we come to the end of this journal post, let us return to the question at its heart: 
What if the money struggle was never really about money?

‘Flowing Worth’ reminds us that healing is not in the numbers but in the narrative. 
Money flows through effort, belief, trust, and energetic clarity. 
We are not meant to hustle our way into worthiness. 
We are meant to remember that we have always been enough and worthy.

Let us promise this to ourselves and our Inner Child: 
  1. We will not doubt our strength again. 
  2. We will not tie our value to income or equate abundance with struggle. 
  3. We will take small, manageable steps, budget with clarity, learn without shame, and affirm our right to stability and ease.
  4. We release the old beliefs, drop the ‘poor’ narrative, and align with the Tao, where money is not an enemy but a messenger.
  5. We are not controlled by scarcity; we are creators of flow. 

This is not about riches for the sake of status. 
It's about safety, security, and the serenity that comes with being supported.

Let’s choose trust. 
Let’s choose presence. 
Let’s choose ‘Flowing Worth’. 
And from this place of gentle power, let the current of abundance carry us forward, one breath, one decision, one loving step at a time.

  • Have you ever found yourself stuck in the same patterns, again and again, wondering why, even when you know something isn’t working, you still keep doing it? 
  • Do you ever whisper to yourself, “I don’t even know why I bother,” as you retreat into silence, resignation, or routine? 

As frustrating as it may seem, this paradox is a powerful key to our transformation. 
It speaks to the Inner Child's longing: for safety, certainty, and control. 
But what if the very things we cling to for security are the same things holding us back?

In this journal, we’ll explore what we’ve come to call the Inner Child’s Paradox: 
the painful contradiction of craving change while clinging to what doesn’t work. 
We'll uncover why our Inner Child chooses familiarity over freedom, and how, with gentleness and clarity, we can guide it into a new way of perception. 

Through the teachings of Taoism and the wisdom of wu wei, we’ll discover how to move from stagnation into flow, not by force, but by understanding. 
Let us journey together into this delicate space, where the past echoes loudly, yet the future still calls our name.



The Illusion of Safety

The Inner Child often equates familiarity with safety. 
This isn’t irrational, it’s innocent. 

In many of our earliest emotional lessons, the Inner Child learns that consistency, even if it is painful, offers a predictable outcome. Even if it causes suffering, the Inner Child clings to old strategies, beliefs, and narratives because they are familiar and comfortable. 

It might echo:
“At least I know how this story ends.” 
“Better the devil you know.” 
This logic is simple yet powerful.

Here lies the contradiction. 
The Inner Child desperately wants relief from discomfort but refuses the unfamiliar path that might lead to peace. 
It might cry, “Nothing works, so why even try?” 
But this hopelessness isn’t the truth; it’s a misunderstanding. 
This is not a sign of defeat but a cue for more profound compassion.

The Tao Te Ching beautifully addresses this in Verse 52: 
“Knowing the mother, we return to the child. 
Holding the child, we find peace. 
When we close our mouths and quiet our senses, our spirit will be safe.” 

This ancient wisdom doesn’t suggest avoidance or silence out of fear; it invites a return to essence, to innocence, guided by understanding. 
Safety does not lie in control but in trust, in ourselves, in the Tao, and life’s unfolding.



Why Nothing Changes When Nothing Changes

If our Inner Child keeps pestering, 
“This is safer,” 
even when the consequences grow heavier, we must ask: 
“Safer for whom?” 

Often, it’s safer for the version of ourselves that feared criticism, that was hurt by unpredictability, that learned early on that being quiet, agreeable, or invisible meant surviving. 
But we are no longer that version. 
The Inner Child isn’t wrong; it’s outdated.

Teaching wu wei, or effortless effort, offers a gentle remedy. 
We do not demand that the Inner Child leap into the unknown; 
we guide it, step by step, to: 
  1. Trust that the unknown is not abandonment but transformation. 
  2. That change is not loss but liberation. 
  3. And that staying stuck is not safety, it’s smallness. 

We often expect immediate clarity or progress when we take that first courageous step into the unknown. But the Tao, in its quiet wisdom, invites us to pause, what Taoism beautifully calls “sitting in it.” 
This is the sacred moment where we don’t rush to fix or force, but instead allow space for the unknown to soften. In just a short while, what seemed uncertain begins to feel familiar. 
It’s in this stillness that transformation gently takes root.

The Inner Child may initially resist this space, misinterpreting stillness as stagnation. 
But if we stay present without judgment, the unfamiliar slowly becomes known. 
Once it feels safe, the next step becomes natural, unforced, unhurried, and harmonious with the Tao. 

This is the essence of actual change: 
A series of small, consistent steps that, over time, reshape our entire reality. We are not building a new path through pressure, but through presence. This soft, subtle unfolding rewires our deepest beliefs, not through dramatic leaps, but through steady, compassionate pacing.

Some might argue that change requires boldness and urgency, but Taoist wisdom reminds us that urgency often comes from fear, not truth. In contrast, the path of wu wei honours rhythm over reaction, alignment over ambition. The Inner Child must not be pushed; it must be partnered with. 
It requires us to show, not tell, that the unknown is not a void but a gateway. 
And once it sees that what was once unfamiliar can become safe, even comforting, it begins to trust the process.

So, we teach with presence. 
We step, we pause, we ‘sit in it’. 
And in doing so, we become fluent in the language of the Tao, turning unknowns into stepping stones, not by conquering them, but by walking through them gently. 
This is the true power of wu wei: a return to harmony, one calm and loving step at a time.

Every cycle we repeat can be seen not as failure, but as a call to reassess. 
The ‘Carousel of Despair’ spins only because we stay seated. 
If we rise, even slightly, we create space for a new possibility. 

The fear of failure, the desire for control, and the resistance to the unknown are simply the Inner Child’s protective habits. They are not our truth.

Hexagram 48 of the I Ching says: 
“The Well. Although old, it is not worn out. The source is deep. Clear it out, and you may draw freely.” 

This is our teaching. 
Even if our inner well has been neglected or polluted with doubt, it is not broken. 
It only needs clearing. 
And this clearing begins not with force, but with curiosity: 
“What do I believe, and why?”



Guiding the Inner Child into Curiosity

One of the most compassionate steps we can take is to gently redirect the Inner Child’s focus, not with commands or corrections, but with loving presence. 
When it cries out, “It’s hopeless,” 
we do not challenge or dismiss it. 
We listen. We honour the weight of that belief, and we respond with quiet assurance: 
“Yes, that’s what it seemed like before. But what if there’s another way?” 

At that moment, we are not solving; we are softening. We offer the Inner Child what it truly craves: the safety to be seen without criticism, comparison, or being judged.

This is the art of curiosity, not as a push for performance, but as an invitation to possibility. 
Our Shen whispers gently, 
“Let’s see what might happen if we try something new.” 

This delicate shift, this opening, creates space for transformation. 
And it is within that space that the power of wu wei unfolds. 
We align, we do not push. 
We follow the flow rather than force an outcome. 
We listen for the quiet rhythm of Shen, our spiritual essence, and in doing so, we teach the Inner Child a new language: one of connection, not control.

And here, the Golden Thread Process becomes our most sacred tool. 
This gentle inquiry, 
“Why do you believe that?” is not a trap or interrogation. 
It is a doorway to freedom. 

We lovingly guide the Inner Child to answer honestly: 
“I believe this… ’because’.” 
That simple word, ‘because,’ is a thread that leads us out of confusion and back to clarity. 
The journey begins at the red-light feeling, the emotional signal of discomfort, and rewinds to a core belief. This belief is never irrational to the Inner Child; it once made perfect sense. 
And now, in the light of compassion, it can be understood, expressed, and gently re-examined.

The Inner Child finally finds its voice in that sacred space, free from CCJ. It reveals what it once chose to believe to survive. And we, as loving guardians, hold their hand and say, 
“Thank you for protecting us. Let’s see if this belief still serves us.” 
From this new understanding, we walk together, not down the old, well-worn paths of fear, but along a new trail of intention.

Some may ask, 
“But isn’t this too slow? Don’t we need to be more decisive?” 

But real change is not made in haste. 
Quick decisions often arise from fear, not truth. 
Taoist wisdom teaches us that transformation does not bloom through speed but sincerity. 
A belief lived in for decades will not vanish through willpower; it must be met, honoured, and slowly transformed through truth, honesty and integrity.

With each question, each “because,” we gently unravel what no longer serves. 
We are not tearing anything down. 
We are simply clearing the way so the Inner Child can walk freely, led by curiosity instead of fear. 
This is how protection becomes authenticity. 
This is how the golden thread leads us, step by compassionate step, into alignment with the Tao.

So let us ask, listen, and follow that thread with patience and love because every small answer opens a bigger truth. And every bigger truth brings us closer to freedom.

As noted in our previous teaching, ‘Turning Negatives into Positives,’ we often hear the Inner Child use restrictive language: “I want to, but…,” “I can’t because…,” “It never works.” These are not signs of laziness or defeat but emotional echoes of earlier beliefs. 
By identifying and softening them, we help the Inner Child find new phrases: 
“I wonder if I could…” or 
“Let’s try just this one step.”



From Resignation to Reclamation

We do not need to jump into the unknown. 
We only need to take the next step with intention. 
Each step, however small, reclaims our power from the old scripts.

Let’s offer the Inner Child a new mantra: 
“I honour your fears, but they do not bind me. 
I create new possibilities, one choice at a time.” 

This is not denial, it’s expansion. 
When the Inner Child is heard, it becomes more willing to follow. 
It begins to trust that safety does not mean sameness.

In Verse 63, the Tao reminds us, 
“Do great things while they are small. 
Handle difficult things while they are easy.” 

This wisdom teaches us the value of consistent, gentle steps
We do not wait until we’re free of fear; we begin while afraid, with compassion.

Each act of kindness to ourselves, each refusal to fall into CCJ (Criticism, Comparison, and being Judgemental), is a brick laid on the path of emotional safety and self-acceptance. 

We are not here to force the Inner Child to grow up. 
We are here to grow with it and guide it into maturity by showing that life is not an endless repetition of unresolved issues but a spacious canvas awaiting new colours.



Honouring the Familiar Trap

So let us name the paradox not as failure, but as a map. 
The ‘Familiar Trap’ is not a prison but a well-worn doorway asking us to step beyond. 
We do not need to tear it down; we need only to walk gently to its edge and look beyond.

Let’s remember: the Inner Child is not broken. 
It is trying to protect us using outdated tools. 
Our task is not to shame it, but to educate it lovingly. 
By honouring its innocence while introducing it to the Tao’s wisdom, we transform from fear into flow. 

Let us affirm: 
“You are not trapped by what was; 
you are free to create what will be.”

And in those moments when we begin to doubt, let us return to this truth: 
transformation does not happen through pressure but through permission. 
The ‘Familiar Trap’ is not our fate. 
It’s just a pause in our journey, a place to gather insight before we rise again. 
With each breath, we create spaciousness. 
With each step, we forge new paths.

So let us take small, manageable steps, without expectations, without CCJ, and walk into the mystery, trusting that wu wei will guide our stride. Because the Tao does not rush, yet everything is accomplished.

This is our time to rise, softly, steadily, and truthfully. 
Let us choose freedom, not from fear, but from the false security of the familiar. 
‘Familiar Trap’ no more. 
Let’s walk out together and make that familiar not a trap.


The Quiet Art of Flourishing

Have you ever paused long enough to notice the hush between your thoughts? 
The hush that doesn't ask you to try harder, be more, or do anything at all? 
That quiet space, so often overlooked, is where inspiration gently breathes. 
But how often do we drown it out, thinking flourishing must come from striving, perfection, or control?

Flourishing, as Taoism teaches us, isn’t about blooming into something else; it’s about uncovering what already lives within us. It's not a race to become; it's a graceful return to being.

We flourish not by pushing but by aligning with the Tao, with our Shen, with the quiet wisdom already pulsing through us. 
We don’t need fixing. We need to trust the rhythm of life and step with it, not against it.

Our Inner Child may believe flourishing comes only after we’ve earned it, after we prove, perform, or please. But in wu wei, the principle of effortless effort, we discover the sacred truth: 
we flourish most when we stop resisting ourselves.

Inspiration arises when we make space for it. 
When we release the “shoulds,” stop comparing, and listen to the small, powerful voice of our Shen. 
Let this be a week where we pause, breathe, and trust.

Affirm: 
“I am already enough. I flourish not by force, but by alignment with the gentle rhythm of my spirit. I welcome inspiration as my natural state.”


Let’s carry this spirit forward. 
This week, may we choose to flourish, not by doing more, but by being more present. 
Honour your inspiration. 
Let it bloom.





David James Lees