Igi Certification Vs. Gia

Eternity


From the window of my house, not that it is a nice place but at least you can see a glimpse of the forest ...



"Be careful to rate and juniper growing in cemeteries, baby,
their roots touched so much death,

not ever play"
(Swabia )

Illustration taken from Cyril Bouda Prazske Povest,
an old book of my dad on the legends of Prague.

Last night was a beautiful evening. Although all plants of this world.
I looked at the basket with things to iron and I thought: "Okay, now boxing anything else do not go out anymore." So I stuck the iron and then I made from this video that the father of a dear friend of mine uploaded on youtube and she sent me to publish on Circle Mrs. Trelkovski. Look at it. Really watch it. If you want to read this post you have to do it by listening to the music of this video and then looking at the pictures ... The I admit, I was excited - a lot - not so easy to do text, but last night I could not stop crying, with all the thoughts that this video has stirred ... and ironed while I cried (okay, okay, I'm slowly becoming a "human case") but mostly I kept repeating like a mantra of poetry Ikmet that the father of D. chose to go with the video:


"I love my century who dies and is reborn
a century whose last day will be beautiful:
my century will shine one day
like your eyes "


Time. The things that pass. Death. The green moss growing on the stone covering the statues of the "dear departed." The dear departed ... I'm currently reading a book about transgenerational trauma and reflect on both the "dead" ... on "dead" and what is ... what we bring in, on what I'm learning to loosen up on me and others ...

"My century will shine one day
like your eyes"

inheritance to heal, to heal, to love and let go ... old and new eyes at the same time ...
People often ask me how do I pay all my loneliness.
Here, I do not think I ever be alone. My secret is my strength.

Have you ever walked around cemeteries?


I do not know. I never thought of. It usually went in at the ground to be collected was in and out ... ... maybe a furtive prayer, a candle and go.
But no. Is not that what you do ...
Then about a year ago, I reflected on the words of a friend and I understood the importance of attending this strange that I was missing. A delicate dialogue, quiet but not silent, and no less pregnant with the many conversations that "wasted" each day. Talking with the dead. With the dead and pray for the dead. Praying for the dead ... And all of this regardless of the signs, the religions, "believe", the "pater," the "Ave", the Lares, the spirits of ancestors, genosociogrammi, inheritances, identities and entities ...

Have you ever walked around cemeteries?

Maybe through the lanes of Juniper those cemeteries in the country, between the red lights that pulsate suspended in the black of night, have you ever heard from inside the Prayer uscirvi direct to the marble of death, without capacitive madness which you pushed to do this? A prayer without a conventional form? To pray for Love?

Praying for Love.
For the Love of all.
For the peace of all.

Why is there something bigger ... and this is undeniable, it is called Cosmo or whatever you call it. We are a village, a dot, a quote in a book of hundreds of thousands of pages. But we Preziosi.

Learn to love the old cemeteries, old cemeteries. Get "explain" their forms ... or listen to what "they tell you."

Bubbio My maternal grandmother was a small village, not even a thousand people in the province of Asti. The fact that he lived his youth in Acqui Terme, before marrying and moving to Milan, had not made him forget where he came from. He had not forget the fact Bubbio cemetery. And every year, the Day of the Dead, he returned there. And we are back again, to take us to visit his sister, the Queen of the Tarot, as I call it. I love the cemetery Bubbio, ancient, the fog that envelops the Days of the Dead, some graves are very old ... ... the gates of the cemetery gates, let us ... if they are all small doors creaking, rusty at times, but it comes to doors or portals? And the plates? Ah, the plates move me ... what! I always buy it - when I can - at the flea market and puts us in my photos, or some clever plant important collections in very special moments. So I go after death. Or rather it seems to me to meet her, exceed ... And besides, for someone like me, born under the reign of the threshold and the afterlife, there's no better place than under a glass plate. Sooner or later you'll see me there, under a sheet. And I will not be sad. Things be crazy, you say. No, is that we lost poetry and thin coats not see them more, we do not stop often enough to reflect on the meaning of eternity. Eons infinite cosmic steps that we will never see. Really do not we ever see them? Yes, perhaps we will never see them, overwhelmed by the latest technologies that we use to help us and instead we use only to annihilate us ...

Once I had written something like this Gender:
"This whole fear of being considered like a dazzled," crazy ", mystics, wanderers in the opposite direction, lost his way in front of the Aeons all'incedere infinite universe of which we ... we are servants and masters. "

All our petty lose their meaning when we try to imagine the "Forever".

Have you ever walked around cemeteries?

There is a small cemetery on Alagna. An old mountain cemetery. Poetry that the old cemeteries in the mountains, those mountains with cold shoulders, leaning against the wall of the old church, a tomb on the other to gain space close to the bare rock. Spirits quiet in clean air. But I'm really quiet? Perceive them? Close your eyes and cry. Mountains make me cry and do not always know what I'd give to be able to read poems on the graves of an old mountain cemetery ...

Have you ever walked around cemeteries?

Cemeteries of seaside resorts, you can imagine that we have some buried pirate treasure with his child and would like to return for "being able to believe" that this story "treasure" is true and that one day you'll find it ("real dad that we will find the treasure?"), the salt air and seagulls playing with the air there, hundreds of feet above your head ... and the spirits who interact with the sand and melt in the din of the breaking wave, then return with the tide, and again the waves, eternal movement, Eternity.

Eternity.

Are we already Eternals, if we think in certain terms. Beyond Death and All over ...