The Witch of Portobello Page 0,28

think you'd be better off finding something else to do?' She replied: 'No, I need this, I need to calm my soul, and I still haven't learned everything you can teach me. The light of the Vertex told me that I should continue.' I never asked her what the Vertex was, nor was I interested.

The first lesson, and perhaps the most difficult, was: 'Patience!'

Writing wasn't just the expression of a thought, but 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 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 did not only teach her 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 the 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 realise 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 honour 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, colourless surface and takes on the depth of the things placed on