147 gates - ebook

Ga­te 1.

The pro­tec­ti­ve shell which was the sup­port be­ne­ath our fe­et cracks. The sa­fe­ty of a known path slow­ly va­ni­shes along with it. Its exi­sten­ce al­most go­verns our li­fe.

The world spins and crum­bles… The crack de­stroys that which was se­re­ne and gen­tle up until this po­int. That which was known and to which we we­re ac­cu­sto­med.

Dry, crac­ked earth, a blow which can­not be re­ci­pro­ca­ted, a wo­und that do­es not he­al — they are in­vo­king ho­pe, se­ar­ching for depth, so as not to sink in­to ut­ter di­spa­ir, to find re­scue, to al­low us to bre­athe. To be able to tre­ad de­spi­te the chan­ges be­ne­ath our fe­et.

Ga­te 5.

Watch the glim­mer of li­ght shi­ning bri­gh­tly on the glass! You did not see it. You did not even as­su­me that it co­uld exist. You are not awa­re of ma­ny such glim­mers of li­ght. They ha­ve exi­sted for a long ti­me and with a gla­ring shi­ne em­bra­ced you, so that you may exist and not fall to a pla­ce whe­re you are una­ble to walk. You are una­wa­re of it, you stum­ble when sha­dows ve­il sur­ro­unds you.

Lo­ok at that lu­ster on the glass that has be­en the­re for an age, exi­sted, on­ly for you not to see it.

Ga­te 147.

In­ter­nal li­fe is dif­fi­cult to cla­ri­fy. It ap­pe­ars ever so sub­jec­ti­ve­ly and in­di­vi­du­al­ly. For that which is exter­nal, we ha­ve wit­nes­ses which see the sa­me co­lo­ur, sha­pe, co­ur­se of events. They no­ti­ce the sa­me cha­rac­te­ri­stics. We can spe­ak abo­ut the­se things and find con­fir­ma­tion of that which we ta­ke part in. May­be that is why it is so dif­fi­cult to trust one­self and to be­lie­ve in one­self, be­cau­se no­bo­dy con­firms that which hap­pens wi­thin us. So­me­ti­mes we find ac­cep­tan­ce, so­me­ti­mes un­der­stan­ding. So­me­thing re­pe­ats it­self, the sa­me thing hap­pens with others, but at a smal­ler de­gree. The lo­ne­li­ness of in­ter­nal wan­de­ring, next to all that dif­fi­cul­ty, al­so has ano­ther dif­fi­cult task, and that is to know how to trust one­self.

147 my­śli ubra­nych w sło­wa. Mo­ty­wu­ją­ce, pod­no­szą­ce na du­chu, re­flek­syj­ne i peł­ne na­tchnie­nia — bra­my otwie­ra­ją­ce no­we na­dzie­je. Le­kar­stwo na "zło" te­go świata

147 tho­ughts put in­to words. Mo­ti­va­ting, upli­fting, re­flec­ti­ve and full of in­spi­ra­tion — the ga­tes that open new ho­pes. The cu­re for the "evil" of this world.

AN­NA ERENC: sło­wo o so­bie

Je­stem… — wła­śnie nie wiem, kim je­stem. Od kil­ku lat za­da­ję so­bie to py­ta­nie, by po­znać isto­tę, któ­rej ży­ciem ży­ję, by ją od­kry­wać, za­pra­szać do ujaw­nie­nia się i śmia­łe­go mó­wie­nia swo­im gło­sem, z głę­bi swe­go ser­ca, by­cia w swo­jej nie­po­wta­rzal­nej for­mie. Wiem jed­no: w pew­nym mo­men­cie prze­bu­dzi­łam się do ży­cia. Nie sta­ło się to z dnia na dzień. Po­szu­ki­wa­nia trwa­ły przez la­ta, ale obu­dze­nie po­ja­wi­ło się jak pro­myk słoń­ca po dłu­giej, dłu­giej no­cy. Dla­te­go też ro­zu­miem i po­ma­gam tym, któ­rzy pra­gną wyjść z po­czu­cia bez­sen­su, za­ła­ma­nia, z de­pre­sji. Prze­szłam sa­ma przez te do­ły i mro­ki, pe­ne­tro­wa­łam je przez la­ta i wiem, że są bra­my, przez któ­re moż­na przejść, są wyj­ścia da­ją­ce lek­kość , na­dzie­ję i otwie­ra­ją­ce, gdy wcho­dzi się w ich otwar­tość. Fa­scy­nu­je mnie ży­cie, je­go nie­prze­wi­dy­wal­ność, je­go ma­gia. Uwiel­biam głę­bo­kie i szcze­re roz­mo­wy, spo­tka­nia peł­ne za­ufa­nia i sza­cun­ku. Mi­łu­ję mu­zy­kę Ba­cha, głos Stin­ga i B. Stre­isand, nie­któ­re ob­ra­zy, ko­lo­ry, ze­sta­wie­nia barw, na­sy­ce­nie ro­ślin desz­czem, ró­że,wnę­trza, tka­ni­ny. Za­chwy­cam się mi­sty­ką śre­dnio­wie­cza i fi­zy­ką kwan­to­wą. Kształ­ci­łam sie ja­ko fi­lo­log (ger­ma­ni­sta), po­tem ja­ko psy­cho­log, tre­ner roz­wo­ju oso­bi­ste­go, ale wciąż czu­ję,że bliż­sza mi jest fi­zyk a, ma­te­ma­ty­ka, ja­kaś geo­me­tria. Czy­ta­łam dzie­ła fi­lo­zo­fów, teo­lo­gów, my­śli­cie­li, by zna­leźć sens. Pi­sać za­czę­łam spon­ta­nicz­nie. Tak po­wsta­ło „147 BRAM” , po­tem „12Kro­ków. W czym jest ta si­ła, czy­li cze­mu trze­ba się pod­dać?”, „NO­WE DNI”, „BORN for My Me­lo­dy”. Do­pie­ro przy­ja­ciół­ka zwró­ci­ła mi uwa­gę na to, że to lu­bię. Kie­dy po prze­czy­ta­niu mo­ich tek­stów za­py­ta­ła stwier­dza­jąc jed­no­cze­śnie: „Ty lu­bisz pi­sać?”, od­po­wie­dzia­łam sa­ma za­sko­czo­na tym fak­tem: „Tak, ja lu­bię pi­sać.” To by­ło dla mnie od­kryw­cze.

AN­NA ERENC — abo­ut me

I am… — ac­tu­al­ly I don't know who I am. I ha­ve be­en asking my­slef this qu­estion for years, to get to know the per­son who­se li­fe I ha­ve be­en li­ving. To di­co­ver that per­son, to in­vi­te her to di­sc­lo­se her­self and to spe­ak with her own vo­ice open­ly, from the dep­ths of her he­art, to be in my uni­que form. I know one thing — at so­me po­int I wo­ke up to li­fe. It didn't hap­pen over­ni­ght. Se­ar­ching for an­swers la­sted for years but the awa­ke­ning emer­ged as a ray of sun­shi­ne after a ve­ry long ni­ght. The­re­fo­re, I un­der­stand and help tho­se who wish to get out of a sen­se of me­anin­gles­sness, bre­ak­down and de­pres­sion. I my­self went thro­ugh fe­eling low and mo­ments of dark­ness, pe­ne­tra­ting them for years and I know that the­re are ga­tes you can go thro­ugh, the­re are exits that bring li­ght­ness, ho­pe and open­ness, when we en­ter the­ir open­ness.

I'm fa­sci­na­ted with li­fe and its unpre­dic­ta­bi­li­ty, its ma­gic. I ad­o­re de­ep and ho­nest co­nver­sa­tions, en­co­un­ters full of trust and re­spect. I lo­ve the mu­sic of Bach, the vo­ice of Sting and B. Stre­isand, so­me pa­in­tings, co­lo­urs and the­ir com­bi­na­tions, plants dren­ched by ra­in, ro­ses, in­te­riors, te­xti­les. I am ama­zed with the me­die­val my­sti­cism and qu­an­tum phy­sics. I was tra­ined as a phi­lo­lo­gist (ger­ma­nist), then as a psy­cho­lo­gist and per­so­nal de­ve­lop­ment co­ach. Ho­we­ver I still fe­el clo­ser to phy­sics, ma­the­ma­tics and geo­me­try. I ha­ve re­ad the works of phi­lo­so­phers, the­olo­gians and thin­kers to se­arch for me­aning. I be­gan my wri­ting spon­ta­ne­ously. This led to "147 Ga­tes" and la­ter to "12 Steps. Whe­re strength lies, what to gi­ve in to?", "New Days" and "Born for my me­lo­dy". On­ly my friend was abe to help me re­ali­se that I li­ke wri­ting. On­ce, after re­ading my te­xts she asked me rhe­to­ri­cal­ly : "You li­ke wri­ting, don't you?" and I, sur­pri­sed by this fact, an­swe­red: "Yes, I li­ke to wri­te." It was a di­co­ve­ry for me.