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Writing wasn't just the expression of a thought but also a way of reflecting on the meaning of each word. Together we began work on texts written by an Arab poet, because I do not feel that the Koran is suitable for someone brought up in another faith. I dictated each letter, and that way she could concentrate on what she was doing, instead of immediately wanting to know the meaning of each word or phrase or line.
"Once, someone told me that music had been created by God, and that rapid movement was necessary for people to get in touch with themselves," said Athena on one of those afternoons we spent together. "For years, I felt that this was true, and now I'm being forced to do the most difficult thing in the world--slow down. Why is patience so important?"
"Because it makes us pay attention."
"But I can dance obeying only my soul, which forces me to concentrate on something greater than myself, and brings me into contact with God--if I can use that word. Dance has already helped me to change many things in my life, including my work. Isn't the soul more important?"
"Of course it is, but if your soul could communicate with your brain, you would be able to change even more things."
We continued our work together. I knew that, at some point, I would have to tell her something that she might not be ready to hear, and so I tried to make use of every minute to prepare her spirit. I explained that before the word comes the thought. And before the thought, there is the divine spark that placed it there. Everything, absolutely everything on this earth makes sense, and even the smallest things are worthy of our consideration.
"I've educated my body so that it can manifest every sensation in my soul," she said.
"Now you must educate only your fingers, so that they can manifest every sensation in your body. That will concentrate your body's strength."
"Are you a teacher?"
"What is a teacher? I'll tell you: it isn't someone who teaches something, but someone who inspires the student to give of her best in order to discover what she already knows."
I sensed that, despite her youth, Athena had already experienced this. Writing reveals the personality, and I could see that she was aware of being loved, not just by her son, but also by her family and possibly by a man. I saw too that she had mysterious gifts, but I tried never to let her know that I knew this, since these gifts could bring about not only an encounter with God, but also her perdition.
I taught her not only calligraphy techniques. I also tried to pass on to her the philosophy of the calligraphers.
"The brush with which you are making these lines is just an instrument. It has no consciousness, it follows the desires of the person holding it. And in that it is very like what we call 'life.' Many people in this world are merely playing a role, unaware that there is an Invisible Hand guiding them. At this moment, in your hands, in the brush tracing each letter, lie all the intentions of your soul. Try to understand the importance of this."
"I do understand, and I see that it's important to maintain a certain elegance. You tell me to sit in a particular position, to venerate th
e materials I'm going to use, and only to begin when I have done so."
Naturally, if she respected the brush that she used, she would realize that in order to learn to write she must cultivate serenity and elegance. And serenity comes from the heart.
"Elegance isn't a superficial thing, it's the way mankind has found to honor life and work. That's why, when you feel uncomfortable in that position, you mustn't think that it's false or artificial: it's real and true precisely because it's difficult. That position means that both the paper and the brush feel proud of the effort you're making. The paper ceases to be a flat, colorless surface and takes on the depth of the things placed on it. Elegance is the correct posture if the writing is to be perfect. It's the same with life: when all superfluous things have been discarded, we discover simplicity and concentration. The simpler and more sober the posture, the more beautiful it will be, even though, at first, it may seem uncomfortable."
Occasionally, she would talk about her work. She said she was enjoying what she was doing and that she had just received a job offer from a powerful emir. He had gone to the bank to see the manager, who was a friend of his (emirs never go to banks to withdraw money, they have staff who can do that for them), and while he was talking to Athena, he mentioned that he was looking for someone to take charge of selling land, and wondered if she would be interested.
Who would want to buy land in the middle of the desert or in a far-flung port? I decided to say nothing, and looking back, I'm glad I stayed silent.
Only once did she mention the man she loved, although whenever she was there when tourists arrived, one of the men would always start flirting with her. Normally Athena simply ignored them, but one day a man suggested that he knew her boyfriend. She turned pale and immediately shot a glance at her son, who, fortunately, wasn't listening to the conversation.
"How do you know him?"
"I'm joking," said the man. "I just wanted to find out if you were unattached."
She didn't say anything, but I understood from this exchange that the man in her life was not the father of her son.
One day, she arrived earlier than usual. She said that she'd left her job at the bank and started selling real estate, and would now have more free time. I explained that I couldn't start her class any earlier because I had various things to do.
"I can combine two things: movement and stillness; joy and concentration."
She went over to the car to fetch her cassette tape player, and from then on, Athena would dance in the desert before the start of our class while the little boy ran round her, laughing. When she sat down to practice calligraphy, her hand was steadier than usual.
"There are two kinds of letters," I explained. "The first is precise but lacks soul. In this case, although the calligrapher may have mastered the technique, he has focused solely on the craft, which is why it hasn't evolved, but become repetitive; he hasn't grown at all, and one day he'll give up the practice of writing, because he feels it is mere routine.
"The second kind is done with great technique but with soul as well. For that to happen, the intention of the writer must be in harmony with the word. In this case, the saddest verses cease to be clothed in tragedy and are transformed into simple facts encountered along the way."
"What do you do with your drawings?" asked the boy in perfect Arabic. He might not understand our conversation, but he was eager to share in his mother's work.
"I sell them."
