{"id":63560,"date":"2026-09-28T05:00:40","date_gmt":"2026-09-28T04:00:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/eden-saga.com\/en\/?p=63560"},"modified":"2026-09-25T15:56:12","modified_gmt":"2026-09-25T14:56:12","slug":"age-of-love","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/eden-saga.com\/en\/age-of-love.html","title":{"rendered":"The Age of Love"},"content":{"rendered":"

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The age to love? What a mistake! There is no age to love. The baby loves, he is loved. The child too. The teenager? Uh… He likes soccer. And football loves him: he already plays well. The adult? He loves, we love… if he\u2019s lucky. If he has money, we don\u2019t like him, we envy him. Or we find it lame. Or both.<\/span><\/p>\n

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And the old man? He doesn\u2019t like an old man anymore? I believed in him for a long time. Now that I\u2019m there, I\u2019ve changed my mind. I love and I am loved. To be honest, I\u2019m a fake old man. When you see me on the street, I look like an old man. But those who know me better than by sight do not know this old man. They know Xavier. Ageless. Out of age. Many are those who love him. He loves them all.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

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\nRomance? What Romance?<\/h4>\n

At twenty years old, I was a French teacher in Macao, Portuguese China at the time. With my future wife. I taught at Santa Rosa de Lima, a college of nuns. All classes, from form 1 to form 6, that is, from grade 6 to grade 11. I had a great time there. My Frenchie sixty-huitard side made my little students laugh. I had removed the stage and put the schoolgirls in a circle around me. As soon as the atmosphere was right, they only had one request: Sir! Tell us your romance! Tell us your romance!<\/p>\n

What, my romance? My romance isn\u2019t over yet. But I understood that for the Chinese, romance is the period when we love each other, that is, before marriage. I was out of my head. Micha and I have loved each other for a good quarter of a century, and I still look at her with immense tenderness. I remembered a book that I loved and still love: Love and the West by Denis de Rougemont. He explains that this notion of love belongs only to the West. There he speaks of chivalry, the role of the Lady of the Court, who plays the Dame de C\u0153ur, and of the players who dedicate their tournaments to her. They are all in love with her, wear her colors and are her servant knights.<\/p>\n

Incomprehensible to my Chinese students. The refugees from Laos, Cambodia or Vietnam had experienced French colonization, the customs of our country, and our way of being. They knew that our conception of love is profound and dates back to the Middle Ages. As we know, it does not exist.<\/a><\/p>\n

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\"\"Denis de Rougemont,<\/span> L’amour et l’occident<\/em><\/a>Love and Occident<\/span><\/h5>\n

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Mud Men*<\/h4>\n

Since I became aware of this profound revolution, a weight has haunted me and lightened me at the same time. I have changed. I have changed. The disgust and hatred of myself cut me off from my childhood and from all my ages. These negative emotions died. I am in a physical body that I know and control. The outbursts of violence due to my inner allies are no more. And I don\u2019t mourn it. I live. I live again. I rejoice in living.<\/p>\n

My soul is spending more and more time inside me, like a great ally. We are talking to each other. It\u2019s so exciting!<\/p>\n

To refuse the stupid, often degrading responsibilities that this fake world imposes on us. To follow step by step the inner discipline of awakening: to act without expecting any other reward than the happiness of acting.\u00a0<\/p>\n

I have spent my life in clear and beautiful action. Seventy-seven years of pure and disinterested action eventually make a man standing*<\/span>. And not a man of mud*<\/span> in the mire of the system.<\/p>\n

*I fail to translate the pun I made in French : homme debout \/ homme de boue…<\/span><\/h5>\n

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It is thanks to the art of loving. It is a true art, the most beautiful of all. We are not asked to love everyone. But those we love, for them, we go all the way. Without mud. Stand up. The art of loving differs greatly from Christian love. Love your neighbor, whoever he is. Even Hitler. Same Stalin. Same Pompidou. Even your pedophile priest.<\/p>\n

If loving is an art, it is through the choices of the heart. The discernment of the subtle body. The approval of the aura. The heart chooses, reason does not interfere. The heart has its reasons that reason does not know.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

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\"\"Blaise Pascal, Thoughts<\/em><\/span><\/h5>\n

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…And I Love Myself!<\/h4>\n

If I was able to develop the shared dream, if I was able to infuse the real dream into open hearts, it is thanks to the art of loving. Until now, I shared my dreams with another person, only one. And this opportunity was offered to me. I gathered dreamers, or rather I invited volunteers. They gathered themselves. Did they experience what their dreams tell them? Hard to say. Did I weave the web that guided them all? Even more difficult to know.<\/p>\n

This world is false, I kill myself to say it. Is the other world within which we dreamed more or less false than the one where we are stuck? How can one know for sure? It is possible that each dreamer has hung on to the fragments of a life that is not his own. It may be that the choice of these lives was guided. By me? It is unbeknownst to me. By a much greater power? I believe it.<\/p>\n

Thanks to all of you, thanks to the incredible adventure we embarked on… I love myself at last! Thank you, the Living One. Thank you so much. Another life is starting for me. I wish you this chance.<\/p>\n

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\"\"Five dreamers, five shadows and so much light !<\/h5>\n

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…As I Am!<\/h4>\n

I love myself as I am, totally. Including the two three scoundrels who took refuge in my ventral tentacle. Entities. Allies in the Castanedian sense. Warriors from below who confront us to stay on this plane that pleases them. All of us are trying to rise to the higher plane. Multiverse rule.<\/p>\n

These allies are fire, and we are water. Water extinguishes the fire. Their fire still burns in my body. Sometimes it comes out.\u00a0 When the fire comes out of me, a few monsters leap out from the top of my skull. Not pretty to look at, they say. I don\u2019t see them, I am indeed the only one. Terror takes hold of the screaming spectators.<\/p>\n

Loving ourselves as we are, not as we would like to be, is the most difficult feat I have ever faced. I have succeeded. It is lasting. Definitive. It took a long life for me to achieve this: I am there, I remain there. I am kind, loving, endearing, detached. I am terrifying. I accept.<\/p>\n

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The Author<\/h2>\n