The new year had just begun and, as every year, P. came to the chapel on the mountain to see his Master. It was getting dark and he had been driving for a couple of hours, but once he opened the door of his car, the ice cold wind woke him up for good. Taking a deep breath, he closed his jacket very tight. He had some trouble fingering out a cigarette and lighting it, but he managed and took a long look around while enjoying the tobacco’s sensation, before marching up through the little streets of the village.

He would never forget how it all had really started for him up there in the church, only a couple of years ago, when he had entered that same church after a long pilgrimage. His Master had already been standing there with a smile and, equally important, his sword in his hand. His whole world had changed since then. He had since become one of the most influential writers of the world and substantially wealthy, allowing him to live the life of his dreams and follow his dreams. But in his heart, he was still just a humble follower of the path of Tradition.

It was getting darker while he was walking up to the chapel and on the last piece of the way, he could know see it completely lit. He quickly finished up his cigarette and advanced towards the entry, beaming with excitement to see his Master again.

Just as he had entered and closed the door behind himself, his Master stood right in front of him with a smile and they greeted each other not only like Master and Disciple, but as friends. They didn’t lose much time with formalities or small-talk and proceeded to the altar in the front.
P. saw another sword lying on the altar. He recognized it immediately. Only a few weeks earlier, he had sent it to his Master, asking for his advice. P. had received it for his 60th birthday from a friend as a sign of admiration and expression for being eternal comrades in arms on the path. Yet, the sword had its own and strong energy, sometimes it felt even strange to handle it and P. wasn’t sure what to do with it. So after many months of debating with himself, he sent it to his Master to ask for advice. And obviously, he had an answer for him, tonight, which is why it was lying on the altar.

“Let’s pray together, dear brother”, said the Master. They silently put on their robes and started reciting the sacred Psalm of those who travel far to achieve victory. Then they spent some time in silence. With a swift movement, not usual for a man his age, the Master stood up and walked behind the altar. The candles beautifully illumined the Master’s golden breastplate and P. felt a deep inner peace in front of this scene, almost as if the world around them had stopped. He heard only his Master’s voice:
“Tonight, you are going to complete this cycle of your path and will join the Eternal Masters as a Gatekeeper of our Tradition. You receiving that sword was the sign we’ve been waiting for. He might be the one and you’ll find a way to make it difficult for him to receive the sword, so we can be sure. If he does find it, you’ll teach him as I taught you and help him as I helped you. As a Gatekeeper, this is now your obligation while you continue your own journey at the same time. Thus the last cycle of your path and our journey together is about to start, and we’ll spread the Tradition, its secrets and powers to the next generation through him.”

With those words, he lifted a small crystal pitcher and poured what seemed to be dark red whine into a golden skull on the altar. He lifted it up, reciting silently various ancient formulas, drank from it and in the meantime P. had joined him on the other side of the altar. He handed the skull to him and they completed their ritual there with the sword for another hour and a half.

Once they had finished, they left the church, closed the door and the gate in the surrounding wall and entered the little restaurant to the right of the church’s surrounding wall. Silently, they enjoyed the warm meal together and parted ways with only exchanging a few words.

Walking to his car, P. lit another cigarette. He didn’t feel to good about the task ahead. He feared that his power might be taken away from him if he had to teach another magus now. A creepy kind of feeling started to take him over. “I’ll make it impossible for him to get it and send him on a quest he can’t finish”, he thought.

Only minutes later, he laughed about himself, having remembered that he always followed the signs his benefit and the benefit of others. “I’ll still make impossible for him” he said to himself loudly and with a grin – and then started the engine of his car. He had many hours to drive tonight and enough time to think about how to set up the test.

Delayed products and products that should have never seen the light (Playbook), the infamous outage recently and seemingly everybody around you having either an iPhone or one of those Android devices… it seems that Blackberry is simply not relevant anymore.

I have carried a Blackberry with me almost every day of the last 10 or more years. I’ve been faithful and only for testing purposes looked at or parallely had other devices. In the recent weeks, it had become an increasingly frustrating experience. Only God knows why after having some trouble, I had updated to OS6. Because afterwards, instead of solving those troubles, I had more than ever, each and every day. Ultimately, those could only be stopped by downgrading the machine to an older operating system again.

No more freezing of the device when I just wanted to pick up a call, no more hour glass when I should have been able to type a quick message and no more daily battery-pulling just so the phone functions. Still convinced that I couldn’t have been wrong all these years, I finally upgraded to the latest Blackberry Bold 9900, the thinnest one yet and equipped with the beloved keyboard AND a touchscreen.

When I held that black beauty in my hands and everything was working smoothly, the anger and wasted time of the preceding weeks was simply forgotten; I dwelled in techno-lala-land: a brilliant screen with high-resolution graphics, a 5MP camera and HD video recording (720p), everything running quick — in many ways probably more than I need.

But then this nagging feeling comes up again. It’s the feeling of missing out on something, of being with the wrong girl. And I start thinking about the ease that my two and a half year-old son plays with the iPad and can already use it almost completely alone. I thought about the many cool apps I’ve downloaded on the iPad myself when I could almost never find them in the Blackberry App World.

I thought about the few but impressive (on me) email correspondences I had with Steve Jobs while never buying his product until recently, which has nothing to do with the product yet contributes to the whole mood. I thought about the Macbook Air I recently started using and how easy that was. And I’m feeling less and less as if I have a cool product in my hands, despite rationally all speaks for it.

And then another article pops up on my screen pulls me right out of the thoughts and back into reality, saying that “RIM investigates” delays — again? So I make my decision and order the iPhone, only adding a line to see how it goes with the smartphone without a keyboard. But deep inside, I know how it will go and it will be the end of a long relationship.

Also published on http://www.huffingtonpost.com/henry-freeman/blackberry-vs-iphone_b_1088348.html

After the original premiere 1978, the critiques were both positive and negative, maybe even more on the negative side. Derek Jewell of The Sunday Times called the show “quite marvelous,” “an unparallelled fusion of 20th century musical experience,” whereas Bernard Levin of The Times disliked it, calling it “one of the most disagreeable evenings I have ever spent in my life.”

That the show continued until 1986 for over 2,900 performances, just illustrates the importance of critics. The audience will find its way, anyway, despite them.

Theatre, opera, musical… sometimes people forget that all performing arts are just that: art. And as such, something that appeals to the mind, heart and imagination of the spectator as an individual. It is in the nature of it, that no two people will experience the same. So why even try to describe the experience or worse, judge it?

Now, when one leaves the Marquis Theatre in New York after watching Elena Roger, Michael Cerveris and Ricky Martin perform their art, it is hard (I’d even say impossible) to find any unhappy faces. The words that swirl through the space are “beautiful,” “great,” “wonderful,” combined with laughter and conversation.

As far as art can go, mission completed. There is a great disparity between that perceived positive effect the musical has on its spectators and what some wrote about it in the media.
Like many who live in Puerto Rico, I dutifully and curiously went to see Ricky Martin in a show of support for artists with origins on that little island. And when we looked into each other’s eyes at the end of the show, there was this moment of exchange, where I could take a dive into his soul and feel sincere emotion of a sensitive artist who was happy to have reached so many hearts.

I’ve got to admit, coming from the old world, I haven’t heard much about Eva Peron or the history of Argentina. But I did enjoy to follow her story from her humble beginnings to being the first lady. In fact, that much, that I already starting reading up on her. Heart: touched. Mind: stimulated. In addition, simply had a great time seeing a live performance of great artists, doing things I would never be able to.

But there is a parallel to the real world in the context of Ricky Martin playing Che, speaking on behalf of the people of Argentina. The island he comes from, Puerto Rico, is in a way like Eva Peron: Right now, it’s in the slums with crime rate through the roof, drug problems getting out of control, politicians seemingly more interested in their own careers and egos than doing a job and a very much beaten economy, that not really a lot that works as it should — topped only by having the political status of a colony of the United States with the “honor” of sending young men to the U.S. military, but not even the right to elect the U.S. president (despite being U.S. citizens).

But who knows, maybe Puerto Rico will soon rise, in an effort of the people, work itself out of its problems and reach the top — just like Evita did. Maybe it could even start with a short stint of the Evita musical in Spanish in Puerto Rico…

And for those stimulating thoughts, I thank you, Ricky Martin and your fellow actors. And of course, for letting me feel your soul. And for the critics, do what you do best (I guess), if you can’t help it — I hope the audience finds its way despite of you.

Evita, music by Andrew Lloyd Webber, lyrics by Tim Rice. Directed by Michael Grandage. Sets and costumes, Christopher Oram; choreography, Rob Ashford. At Marquis Theatre, 1535 Broadway, New York. Visit www.evitaonbroadway.com

Same article published on http://www.huffingtonpost.com/henry-freeman/evita-broadway_b_1416308.html

Funny enough that I should find that exact process in Paulo Coelho’s recently published book called The Aleph. And it is an astonishingly open look into his soul! Reading through it is a bit like diving into his eyes and getting to know him better. Of course, it is a novel and it is more than likely polished at a few places, but still, what shines through and what is the underlying thread of the novel, is an honest account of a person, who has seemingly everything, still feels as if somehow, something is wrong, and sets out on a long, two months trip, in order to process his inner situation.

How can this be true for someone who was written literary history, sold over 140 million books, is often called the most influential currently living author? How can someone, who has succeeded, where only a few succeed, has all his basic needs taken care off (and then some) still feel as if something is just not right?

Paulo didn’t have an easy early life and hasn’t always been successful, also not in the monetary sense of it. When he set out to make it as a writer, his first book didn’t really sell well and it was only later and thanks to the perseverance of his agent Monica, that with The Alchemist he experienced sort of a sudden, global breakthrough, where in a relatively short period of time a lot of money was available and all the perks that come with international fame and success.

People recognized him wherever he traveled to, he made real money, went from staying in pensions to staying at the best hotels, from taking a cab to being picked up by a driver, from flying commercial to owning his own plane, got himself the toys that money can buy – but having a good run can be difficult. And I don’t mean that sarcastically. It is exciting for a while and it gives a great sense of security. But once you have everything and paid everything you needed to, it becomes just another thing one has achieved and for a restless soul, who is never satisfied and always wants something better and for whom the grass might always be greener somewhere else, this can create a world of boredom. A boredom that is seemingly active and busy on the surface, but on the bottom of which is a frustrating routine that eats up all joy. With that kind of frustration one encounters Paulo at the beginning of The Aleph in a conversation with his guide in the spiritual tradition, of which he had been a part of for almost 30 years. The title of this first chapter perfectly corresponds with its content and only at the end of the book one understands that really the whole novel is about that problem. The first chapter is called “King of My Kingdom” and as J., Paulo’s guide explains, it is exactly his own kingdom that Paulo had lost and that was the reason why he felt so frustrated.

Imagine, you are king! You have achieved and have everything you ever dreamed of, wanted or needed. And then you notice that despite everything you have and everything you have learned over many years and through many struggles, the realities of the physical world as experienced lead to frustration more often than you want to accept that. And none of the magical rituals you have practiced gets you out of it, you end up more days unsatisfied than satisfied.

It is the same dissatisfaction for everybody. Doesn’t matter whether one is rich or poor, highly successful or still a student. That dissatisfaction comes from a deep place inside oneself and there is just one way to work it out: getting back onto your path, from which one has deviated once routine took over. And that is exactly, what J. suggest Paulo to do. The novel then is really about the personal experiences and encounters during that trip, which has taken place in the real world, visiting several countries before traveling on the Trans-Siberian train. He encountered his own reincarnations and reconnected with that woman he had loved and betrayed hundreds of years ago. And just as a clairvoyant at the beginning of the book had told him, that reconnection was key for his own reawakening and redemption.

Paulo Coelho could probably really be seen as the proverbial coagulated king, who has conquered his own imperfections during this journey he took. It is magical and encouraging that he struggled like everybody else with frustration and dissatisfaction, fear and inner conflict and then set out to resolve it. And that, in my opinion is the key: to claim your own kingdom, you need to get moving!

Some of the experiences described might be a bit “out there” and simply not everybody’s cup of tea. Magical things, as I have heard the other day, actually can only happen to those who believe in magic. But The Aleph of Paulo Coelho is definitely a wonderful narrative and mystic-magical inspiration. If it is your first book of Coelho, I’d recommend to read The Alchemist before or afterwards.

Also published at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/henry-freeman/the-aleph-coelho_b_1333333.html

That headline made me so curious that I spent a good amount of time since then to read up. How bad could slavery really still be? Didn’t hundreds of thousands of soldiers alone in the United States fight for an end of slavery long ago? Could it really be true that a being so intelligent like man, still hasn’t evolved to a level where slavery and abuse of others are just memories of a cruel past?

First stops are the websites of Unicef, FBI, the U.S. Department of State and some private initiatives.

And some real disgust starts to develop.

When I read that “an estimated 300 million children worldwide are subjected to violence, exploitation and other forms of abuse”, I find myself in utter disbelief. Even more so, when this number increases every year by millions and, as Ben Skinner points out in his book A Crime So Monstrous, “there are more slaves in the world today than ever before.”

UNICEF estimates that 1.2 million children are trafficked every year. They are sold by their parents or simply kidnapped or getting lured into a trap, that seems to offer something, which then it doesn’t. Their spirits are broken, often their bodies, too. The destinies are heartbreaking.

While I’m reading all of this, I can’t help but think of my little 2 year old. About the love that shines from his eyes when he sees me, how I feel when I watch him run or dance or trying to explain something to me… and then I read on — about the 10-year-old girl sold in Bucharest for 50 bucks to serve some 50-year-old pervert as a sex slave for how often and how long and for whatever he wants. How sick is this? Who are these pervs buying other humans like a toy and abuse them in whatever weird way and why are they doing this?

My friend and teacher, the Venerable Metteyya from Nepal, tells me, that the area of Lumbini in Nepal, where he comes from, is one of the world’s hotspots for human trafficking in the world, especially of children, little girls. Culture there is very different, girls get married with less than 15 years and they generally are seen as a burden by the parents as the families have to pay for their upbringing and don’t bring any return. So sometimes, obviously, parents just get rid of them by selling them. Alone to write a sentence like that feels like plastic, like that can’t be true, but it’s happening every day somewhere in the world, thousands of times! I’m positive, those parents try not to think about what they are doing to them and or must be so pressed by economical circumstances, that maybe they think they are doing these children a favour. I don’t want to think of any other possible explanations.

A few years ago, Metteyya set out to change that and created a school, from scratch, which is today serving over 900 children. Many of them girls, who otherwise would not have been able to get any education other than learning how to clean clothes in the river and cook some hot meals. The model of the school is simple: girls don’t pay and the families of the boys pay as much as they can. If the family is better off, they pay more and if the family has nothing, they pay nothing. And surprise, it works. With educating this next generation of parents, the consciousness of what is actually happening and that humans cannot just be sold like objects, is being changed. If they had the financial means, they could even serve many more children and expand to other locations. And already in the near future, we will come out with a project to help there from everywhere, over the internet.

But not even looking that far, the Ricky Martin Foundation in Puerto Rico, is working towards ending slavery and human trafficking. They are involved in education and concrete projects, for example a first holistic center, where victims can find help. And in my humble opinion, that education and raising of awareness is key in solving this problem.

Not everybody can dedicate his or her life or a huge amount of money or time to venture against this modern pest. But the least any of us can do, is to support those who actually do something. Even in the busiest month, we can find a moment to donate online to any such organization doing even little steps, and those little steps will lead to wave of awareness ending this modern slavery. The time is now. Every one person trafficked is one too many and we need to collectively win this fight.

Also published on http://www.huffingtonpost.com/henry-freeman/modern-day-slavery-say-wh_b_1131426.html

“I’m such an idiot. Why did I think that sword is for me and even expect it would be easy.”

I argued with myself and doubted very much that I had taken the right decision to fly all the way over the Atlantic to Barcelona and drive up almost completely to the West Coast of France. I thought of the work I had left lying there on my desk, my wife and my baby boy and considered whether to just stop it here, cut my losses and fly back home.

In that very moment, I suddenly saw a light in one of the buildings that seemed to be some kind of office. Perseverance took over and threw doubt just out the door. I walked into that office of the village’s mayor somewhere in the middle of nowhere in France and tried with my best years-old French to explain that woman that I’d been looking for a celtic monument. At first she was more annoyed than anything else but when she noticed I had no intention of leaving, she started to think how to help or get rid of me.

After about 15 minutes of that “conversation”, she remembered that in the next little village, there lived a retired Spanish history professor and that he’d probably be the only one able to help me. She pulled out a phone book and spoke very quickly in French so that I couldn’t understand a whole lot. But that much that she had managed to get me out of her office and talk to someone else.

So I drove the couple of minutes over to the next village and met with the guy. He was very friendly, but thought I had come looking for his church and wanted to give me a tour. I explained him in Spanish what I was looking for and he said, “then it’s not the church, but let me think.”

Well, long story short, he gave me THE tip, he knew “the place where women cook” and I was about 10-15km away from that place. So that was good and I thought as long as I have someone to ask, let me ask about the next thing on my list. Thank God I did that! If I should ever be able to find the celtic monument based on his idea, I just figured out that I wouldn’t be able to just continue on to Spain, as planned, but had to drive back a 4-5 hour drive into the area close to Toulouse. Because when I had prepared at home, translation of Paulo Coelho’s books had lost the letter “t” in Montsegur from Portuguese to English and so the Monsegur I was looking for next, was really Montsegur – and a long drive away.

I found the stone, the celtic monument and I drove over to Toulouse immediately from there, even when it was getting dark and started snowing.

But before all of that, I asked the man “please write me your name and address on this paper, so I can at least write you later and let you know what happened” – and he was happy to do so. When he had finished and gave me the paper, I saw what was written there, but time stopped and it became suddenly silent in my head. His name was “Jacques Camelot” – Jacques like James, like Way of St. James, Camelot like King Arthur’s Camelot, the very origin of the sword (it is a replica of King Arthur’s sword). I couldn’t think, I couldn’t move and when this long moment was over, I had some tears in my eyes, look at the old man and he was just smiling from his very vivid eyes. “It is for me”, was the only thing I could think and with goosebumps running down my back I said goodbye and left. Shortly thereafter I found the monument and left direction Toulouse. No sign of the doubts anymore. But speaking of signs, “Jacques Camelot” — really?

By the time I got close to the real Montsegur, it was already dark, after 9pm, and had started snowing. After I had passed the last village, there was only the uphill street and me, together with the darkness and so much snow falling that there seemed to be a grey wall in front of me. Nevertheless I continued driving up, noticing that the car didn’t always react exactly safe anymore, especially in curves. Then there came the mother of curves, a 90 degree left curve, with probably a good fall, if you missed it, where my car drifted and turned almost completely around. It had become so slippery, that I decided to leave the car parked in the corner of the curve, flashers on. And I continued to walk into the dark, without flashlight, and soon saw my flashers very far behind. I thought it couldn’t be that far anymore and any moment the old Cathar ruin would show up right in front of me. Good I didn’t know how far it still was. Suddenly I had this short flash of overwhelming fatigue. I stopped and listened into the dark.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked loud.

In that moment, I slipped, almost fell and only avoided that by grapping onto a tree on the street’s side. “Maybe it’s time to start looking for a place to stay for the night” I thought to myself and moments later the first car in about an hour appeared out of nowhere, driving back down the hill. So I decided to leave it at that and stay overnight somewhere – at whatever I could find at meanwhile after 10pm somewhere in the dark, way outside of Toulouse.

Early next morning, the way over to the Cathar ruins was a breeze, almost a reward. A beautiful day greeted me and from where I had parked the car at night, I could see it would have been a very long walk to even only get to the parking – because, what I hadn’t known, next surprise, I had to hike up for about 40 minutes to the top of mount Montsegur so as to be able to reach it and sit there. The feelings of satisfaction and joy once I was up there, alone, only with the sun as my companion, were immense and nourished me ever since and every time I go up that hill in my mind.

“I cannot even think one clear thought anymore; I always understood that this is where you wanted me to go, that I’m fulfilling your plans for me”, he said silently to himself – at the same time addressing the sky above.

Looking up, he complained: “Why aren’t you leading me better? I don’t understand your signs!?”

For many years he had followed the signs, he had learned to understand. But today, more than ever before, he questioned whether the signs had shown him the right way or if he had really understood them.

He was ready to give up.

His journey had taken a toll on his body and over the past couple of months, he felt increasingly unfocused and insecure. And then, there was the aspect of the dream, that scared him, that showed him, he would die in its realization. Sometimes he felt as if that couldn’t be true, sometimes he was sure of it.

“When will I finally be able to distinguish between what my hopes and dreams are and what God’s will is for me? God, I beg you, if you do exist, do send me signs that I understand. I have reached the end of my powers.”

It was a mild winter afternoon in January. The sun was just going down. And he continued to pray, complain and contemplate, kneeling under the old oak tree. Talking to his God as if he was talking to a friend in front of him.

Suddenly, right in front of him, a leaf that seemed to be made of light, fell on the ground.

He looked at it, then looked above, into the tree, which didn’t bear any leaves.

He looked back at it and it was still glowing white and pulsating slowly. Tiago reached out to grasp it and when he touched it, it seemed as if everything around him was filled with a bright light. Then he saw it: A woman, who seemed to be hovering over the river and progressing towards him, glowing exactly like the leaf. She was moving quickly and kneeled right in front of him, taking his hands into hers.

“I understand your desperation”, she said, “but following your calling isn’t always easy. You shall not give up! Continue what you are doing. You are doing well and we’re all and constantly around you to help!”

With an almost unnoticeable movement, she produced from under her cloak a small wooden statue and a column of jasper and handed it to Tiago.

“Use these gifts and build a church in my honor around them. The place is to be my house, the statue and column shall be the title and altar of the church.”

“What’s happening here is exactly what I’ve been dreaming since I was a little boy!”, he screamed in excitement.

“The dream that you came into the world with, originated in God’s soul. That’s why it’s important to remember it. Once you remember, your only task in life, is to follow the signs to fulfill it”, she replied. “Once you are on that journey, and whenever you are almost giving up, I appear in different forms. That’s why you always need to pay attention to the signs!”

“What’s your name?” he asked her. And leaning forward, she kissed him on his forehead and said “Maria.”

She disappeared as quickly as she had come. Only that she seemed to have taken his doubts with her.

“The signs I will follow”, Santiago said to himself.

When coincidences happen as if that was the normal way of things, that’s one way of the universe telling you that you’re following your dream. When you do, start paying attention. Attention to what you hear, feel, say, see, taste, smell. With that little exercise of paying attention, you connect the world of the senses to the world of the spirit. And when you have crossed that bridge, just follow the signs. They are really everywhere, just before we hardly saw them. This is from one point of my journey, where once more I didn’t know which way to go; car parked at the side of the street, three directions to go, no clue, I close my eyes and become still and pose that question: “Where do you want me to go” — then there’s just silence. I don’t know for how long, but when I opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw was a rainbow. And in that direction I continued my trip. Turns out, it was a good choice.

Let me just bring up some key words and facts to make my point:

It’s estimated that every year, about 1.2 million children are trafficked (CHILD TRAFFICKING) in order to exploit them; exploit them by forcing them to work, commercial sexual exploitation, prostitution and other forms of slavery. That’s about 4 kids in the two minutes it will take you to read this article and hover a bit over santiagosdream.com – or 3,287 per day! Raped, sold, beaten. Little kids.