موارد دیگه ای هم هستن که باید به نوشته ی قبلی اضافه کنم:
ششم اینکه وقتی می خوای تغییر بزرگی بکنی باید آماده ی این باشی که دنیا باهات مقابله کنه. واقعیت اینه که چه آدما چی شرایط هیچکدوم از تغییرات عمده ای که تو رو از محدوده ی نرمال منحنی جابجا می کنن خوشحال نمیشن. همه دوست دارن تو رو پر از اینرسی در جا زدن و تغییر نکردن ببینن به چند دلیل: یکی اینکه این تغییرات تو رو با اونها متفاوت می کنه و اونا انقده دوستت دارن که نمی خوان ازشون دور بشی دوم اینکه شاید این تغییرات تو رو از اونها بالاتر ببره و اونها انقده تو رو دوست ندارن که بخوان ازشون بالاتر بری. تو با تغییرت به نوعی نه تنها علیه خودت شورش می کنی اکثرا علیه اطرافت هم در حال شورشی و این خلاف پایداری و تعادل سیستمه. تو داری مثل یه پالس عمل می کنی که تعادل اطرافش رو تغییر می ده و این رو کسایی که تعادل رو دوست دارن دوست ندارن.
هفتم اینکه باید عاشق باشی. عاشق خودت، عاشق دیگران، عاشق همه.مهمتر از اینکه عاشق باشی اینه که متنفر نباشی. تنفر مانع اصلی رشده، مانع اصلی تغییر و بزرگ شدن. تنفر مثل زندانیه که فرصت هر تغییری رو ازت می گیره.
رشد شخصیت فرد نیاز به پیش نیازهایی دارد که تا تامین نشوند این رشد اتفاق نمی افتند:
یکی خودآگاهی نسبت به نیاز به رشد است. رشد شخصیت در دوره ی پس از بلوغ به شکل ناخودآگانه کمتر رخ می دهد و اگر هم رخ دهد بسیار بطئی است. آنچه نیاز اصولی رشد شخصیت فرد است احساس نیاز به رشد است. آدمی باید از خود به جان آمده باشد و نیازمند برآمدن از خود باشد. این اصلا به این مفهوم نیست که شخص به خود علاقه نداشته باشد بلکه به این معناست که شخص خود را در حد فراتر از این خود موجود توقع داشته باشد. کسی که می خواهد رشد کند باید حتما به خودش علاقه مند باشد اما لازم است آنقدر به خودش علاقه مند باشد که از آنچه که هست ناراضی بوده و به آنچه باید باشد و نیست فکر کند. این انگیزه مهمترین نیاز رشد است.
دوم ... الان باید برم علی رو ببرم فرودگاه. بیام اگه یادم باشه می نویسم. :)
قبل از اینکه برم سراغ دومیش مهمه که باز تاکید کنم کسی که از خودش بدش میاد یا کسی که خودش رو انقدهم کامل میدونه که نیازی به تغییر ندازه، هر دوشون فرصتی برای رشد ندارن.
خودآگاهی یعنی اینکه به خودت انقده علاقه داشته باشی که بخوای رشد کنی و در عین حال بدونی که هنوز خیلی جا داری که رشد کنی.
حالا دوم. تغییر در جهت رشد در کنار خودآگاهی نیازمند جهشه. نیازمند اینکه یه تصمیم بزرگ گرفته بشه برای رشد و آدم با تحمل سختی هاش بتونه از مرزهای موجودش بیرون بیاد. همین جهش بزرگه که کار رشد رو خیلی سخت می کنه حتی اگه خودآگاهی برای نیاز به رشد وجود داشته باشه. موضوع بازتعریف مرزهاست. موضوع اینه که حس کنی مرزهای موجود شخصیتیت به هیچ وجه در حد توانایی هات نیستن و باید گسترشون بدی و این گسترش نیازمند اینه که با یه تصمیم بزرگ (و شاید سخت) از خودت بیرون بیای بکشی بالا. تخمت رو بشکنی و متولد بشه. پیله ت رو پاره کنی و پرواز کنی. یا اینکه پوست تنگت رو پاره کنی. همینجوری همینجوری نمیشه تصمیم به رشد گرفت و رشد کرد. رشد نیازمند انرژی زیادیه که مصرف کنی تا حدی که شاید همه ی نات رو ازت بگیره.
و سوم، بدون خوشبینی نمیشه رشد کرد. باید به هدفت خوشبین باشی، تا بتونی سختی های رشد رو به خاطرش تحمل کنی. باید جس کنی این همون چیزیه که می خوای و سعی می کنی که بهش برسی. تو نگاه دینی یکی از بزرگترین کمک ها و نیروها اسمش توکل و اعتماده. اینکه خودت رو به خدایی بسپری که فکر می کنی تشویقت کرده که اینکارو بکنی.
و چهارم، اینکه به اهداف دراز مدت نگاه کنی و از شکست های کوتاه مدت نترسی. این خیلی خیلی سخته. هر لحظه ممکنه ناامید بشی و جا بزنی. هر لحظه ممکنه فکر کنی ظرفیت هات در این حد نیستن. باید یاد بگیری که مهمترین موضوع واست این باشه که در راهی. اینکه داری میری. اینکه نزدیکتر میشی. اینکه تو راه بودن حتی شاید مهمتر از رسیدن باشه. و باز هم اگه توکل کنی سختی های کوچیک واست آسون میشن. جلو میری بدون اینکه بترسس.
و پنجم، این رو گفتنشوخیلی سخته. بحث به قول اینوریا دیستراکشنز. اینکه چیزایی که همه ش حواست رو پرت می کنن. نمی تونم خیلی از بدیشون بگم. چون همینا کلی چیز یادم میدن ولی خیلی وقتا هم باعث میشن فراموش کنم که قرار بوده رشد کنم. درساشون خوبه ولی وقت تلف کردناشون نه. پس بهتره خیلی مواظب باشم و پای هیچ چیز فرعی بیش از اندازه وقت نزارم. حتی بعضی وقتا سخته که بفهمم چی فرعیه و چی اصلی.
گفت که با بال و پری، من پر و بالت ندهم
در هوس بال و پرش، بی پرو پر کنده شدم
تا حالا بهت گفته بودم من اینا رو نمی نویسم؟ خودشون اینجا نوشته می شن؟
این روزا روزایِ غریبیه. آرومم و سنگین. خسته نیستم. منتظرم. منتظر خیلی چیزا. منتظر آتیش، باد، بارون، رعد و برق، آفتاب، رنگین کمون. منتظرِ دریا، خواب بعدازظهر، تنهایی، مرگ و تولد.
مدتهاست که از آدمیت مسخ شدم، ققنوس شدم، اینو میدونستی؟ مدتهاست دردکشان می سوزم، به دست خودم خاکسترم رو به باد و بارون میدم، صبورانه زمان رو نگاه میکنم تا سلّانه سلّانه پیش بره، و باز زاییده میشم، خاکسترا رو کنار میزنم، نفسی میکشم، بالی میزنم و پرواز میکنم، این بار بلندتر، این بار زیباتر، این بار قویتر.
این شده کار همیشهی من. همینه که باعث شده روزمره نشم، حالم از خودم به هم نخوره. یا وقتی حالم از خودم به هم می خوره ترجیح بدم بمیرم.
هین سخن تازه بگو تا دو جهان تازه شود
و من هیچوقت تا این همه مشتاق باززایی نبودم.
Mozart looked at me with intolerable mockery.
"How pathetic you always are. But you will learn humor yet,
Harry. Humor is always gallows-humor, and it is on the gallows you are
now constrained to learn it. You are ready? Good. Then off with you to
the public prosecutor and let the law take its course with you till your
head is coolly hacked off at break of dawn in the prison yard. You are
ready for it?"
Instantly a notice flashed before my eyes:
HARRY'S EXECUTION
When I came to myself I was bewildered and exhausted. The white light of
the corridor shone in the polished floor. I was not among the
immortals, not yet. I was still, as ever, on this side of the riddle of
suffering, of wolf-men and torturing complexities. I had found no happy
spot, no endurable resting place. There must be an end of it.
In the great mirror, Harry stood opposite me. He did not appear
to be very flourishing. His appearance was much the same as on that
night when he visited the professor and sat through the dance at the
Black Eagle. But that was far behind, years, centuries behind. He had
grown older. He had learned to dance. He had visited the magic theater.
He had heard Mozart laugh. Dancing and women and knives had no more
terrors for him. Even those who have average gifts, given a few hundred
years, come to maturity. I looked for a long time at Harry in the
looking glass. I still knew him well enough, and he still bore a faint
resemblance to the boy of fifteen who one Sunday in March had met Rosa
on the cliffs and taken off his school cap to her. And yet he had grown a
few centuries older since then. He had pursued philosophy and music and
had his fill of war and his Elsasser at the Steel Helmet and discussed
Krishna with men of honest learning. He had loved Erica and Maria, and
had been Hermine's friend, and shot down motorcars, and slept with the
sleek Chinese, and encountered Mozart and Goethe, and made sundry holes
in the web of time and rents in reality's disguise, though it held him a
prisoner still. And suppose he had lost his pretty chessman again,
still he had a fine blade in his pocket. On then, old Harry, old weary
loon.
Bah, the devil—how bitter the taste of life! I spat at Harry in
the looking glass. I gave him a kick and kicked him to splinters ....
I was now, as I perceived, that good-looking and ardent boy whom I had
seen making so eagerly for love's door. I was living a bit of myself
only—a bit that in my actual life and being had not been expressed to a
tenth or a thousandth part, and I was living it to the full. I was
watching it grow unmolested by any other part of me. It was not
perturbed by the thinker, nor tortured by the Steppenwolf, nor dwarfed
by the poet, the visionary or the moralist. No—I was nothing now but the
lover and I breathed no other happiness and no other suffering than
love. Irmgard had already taught me to dance and Ida to kiss, and it was
Emma first, the most beautiful of them all, who on an autumn evening
beneath a swaying elm gave me her brown breasts to kiss and the cup of
passion to drink.
I lived through much in Pablo's little theater and not a
thousandth part can be told in words. All the girls I had ever loved
were mine. Each gave me what she alone had to give and to each I gave
what she alone knew how to take. Much love, much happiness, much
indulgence, and much bewilderment, too, and suffering fell to my share.
All the love that I had missed in my life bloomed magically in my garden
during this hour of dreams. There were chaste and tender blooms, garish
ones that blazed, dark ones swiftly fading. There were flaring lust,
inward reverie, glowing melancholy, anguished dying, radiant birth. I
found women who were only to be taken by storm and those whom it was a
joy to woo and win by degrees. Every twilit corner of my life where, if
but for a moment, the voice of sex had called me, a woman's glance
kindled me or the gleam of a girl's white skin allured me, emerged again
and all that had been missed was made good. All were mine, each in her
own way. The woman with the remarkable dark brown eyes beneath flaxen
hair was there. I had stood beside her for a quarter of an hour in the
corridor of an express and afterwards she often appeared in my dreams.
She did not speak a word, but what she taught me of the art of love was
unimaginable, frightful, deathly. And the sleek, still Chinese, from the
harbor of Marseilles, with her glassy smile, her smooth dead-black hair
and swimming eyes—she too knew undreamed-of things. Each had her secret
and the bouquet of her soil. Each kissed and laughed in a fashion of
her own, and in her own peculiar way was shameful and in her own
peculiar way shameless. They came and went. The stream carried them
towards me and washed me up to them and away. I was a child in the
stream of sex, at play in the midst of all its charm, its danger and
surprise. And it astonished me to find how rich my life—the seemingly so
poor and loveless life of the Steppenwolf—had been in the opportunities
and allurements of love. I had missed them. I had fled before them. I
had stumbled on over them. I had made haste to forget them. But here
they all were stored up in their hundreds, and not one missing. And now
that I saw them I gave myself up to them without defence and sank down
into the rosy twilight of their underworld. Even that seduction to which
Pablo had once invited me came again, and other, earlier ones which I
had not fully grasped at the time, fantastic games for three or four,
caught me up in their dance with a smile. Many things happened and many
games, best unmentioned, were played.
When I rose once more to the surface of the unending stream of
allurement and vice and entanglement, I was calm and silent. I was
equipped, far gone in knowledge, wise, expert—ripe for Hermine. She rose
as the last figure in my populous mythology, the last name of an
endless series; and at once I came to myself and made an end of this
fairy tale of love; for I did not wish to meet her in this twilight of a
magic mirror. I belonged to her not just as this one piece in my game
of chess—I belonged to her wholly. Oh, I would now so lay out the pieces
in my game that all was centered in her and led to fulfillment.
SteppenWolf