I have heard you are a wonderful teacher, so I thought I’d drop a few lines to get a better understanding of what your branch of expertise is. I always seem to make the same mistakes and not much learning has come out of it. Can you help?
Since your last visit in town some people have rumoured you have healing powers, no drugs are recommended to heal wounds and make the pain go away, you’re more in favour of natural remedies. “Let it be, let it be, let it be,” my mother always sings when the good mood strikes her. And when I ask her why she’s so fond of it, she replies that one day Time will make me see things not for what they appear, but for what they are.
So tell me, Professor Time, can you also predict the future? Only a few days ago my sister went to visit an old fortune teller, she claimed her heart was broken. I am not sure what she exactly meant, but the old lady explained she was living in the past or projecting too much hope in the future and Time was covering up the present moment, therefore her unhappiness. “Time is an illusion,” The old fortune teller concluded with her eyes wide open.
I do not believe it. Adults say the same about Santa Clause. Only this Christmas I sit beside the fire to write you a letter because I have heard there is no such precious gift as the gift of Time. I was curious to see what special present you could leave underneath the tree since I chose you over Santa. I am aware you are a very busy man and your clock is always ticking fast, but if you could spare a few moments to stop by I would be the most grateful. I once read an article about you which said Time is the greatest traveller, you never visit the same place twice. Learn the lesson and then let it go. Again, what is it that you teach?
Whatever it is you do, you must be really good at your job because your fame precedes you: Time is money, Time is precious, Time is change. People think highly of you.
Only my grandfather does not seem to like you very much, he once said you were a thief. And when I asked him what is it that you had stolen from him, he replied: “Chances.”
I must have looked confused because then he added, “That miss moment which passes and never comes back.” I must have looked even more puzzled because he said,” Do not worry Time will come to teach you the lesson, he will make you understand, he will make you learn, just remember to use every moment wisely.”
Thus, I got reassured, I cannot wait to meet you. You are the greatest teacher of all.
The Spirit of a child.
The idea of writing a book always stayed at the back of her mind, but “who would be interested in reading it?” she thought. Even her mum was finding hard to keep up with that busy and congested world of thoughts inside her head. She would visit the library, she would go to the park, she would sit in cozy coffee shops with no result. Where on earth was this inspirational place? “Perhaps was not on earth,” suddenly dawned on her. So she looked at the sky and said: “I’ll only start writing if I receive a sign.” The only possible sign was to find somewhere a white desk in front of a window.
After a few weeks her mother asked the girl to go and find an antique vase in the loft. That old room had been locked in years: no one in the family had ever dared to enter it after a fortune teller had told them that the room was haunted. The girl was not afraid of ghosts, she was more afraid of spiders that were hanging from the dusty corners of the wooden ceiling; she half expected them to show their big teeth every time she would look at them even though she wasn’t sure whether spiders had got teeth.
It was also a cold place to be: the fresh breeze of March would blow through the drought hidden behind the curtains eaten by moths. All those books, broken furniture and carton boxes scattered all over the floor spoke to her about abandonment and long forgotten times. She pulled the curtain on one side and let the weak patch of sun coming through the opaque glass and, in her great surprise, there it was: a large white desk positioned in front of the adjacent window made wobbly by the heavy chairs placed on top of it.
How long was this desk kept here? How much time she had lost to look for the perfect place to inspire her.She grabbed an old notebook, a pen and started writing. Yes perhaps the room was cold and dusty, perhaps spirits would gather there at night, “Well be it!” She exclaimed out loud. She would listen to their stories and write tales of far lands and ancient castles where kings and knights once lived. No more time to waste. This was now her own secret place, the kind of place where only writers and their imagination go to.