" She " appeared in my daily newspaper in the form of anguish and of unexplainable emotive torments. All things considered, it plunged me in my Hells... me which, until there, was smiling statue of a scientific and petrified certainty rationalisms. Me, which since childhood could neither cry any more, neither to ask, nor to depend.

If I call it " She ", it is that it is part of me which does not speak the language about words. I must be made the interpreter of it.

" She ", it is this part of me which deeply feels the life but which does not have words for the statement.

" She " speaks, certainly, but in images, feelings, physical symptoms, through my dreams, my emotions, or my intuitions.

" She ", it is what suffers and cries by me owe a certain silly thing, owe human unconsciousness... without never judging. It howls with oppressed, it fears for the life that one pollutes, it refuses the insignificance of this pretence of life that a significant share of my culture proposes to me like becoming. It cannot hear the arrogance of the technocrats any more. It claims in me another manner of living, of liking and of speaking. It would like to be able to sing and dance as it did it through me and with me when I was small. At that time remote of my life when the beauty of the sun, the softness of the summer, the vastness of the starlight nights, the freshness of the underwoods, still had the capacity to return to me happy and gave me the taste of the celebration...

Yes, now, this moving space, this anguish, this cry which remained always hidden in the shade of the throat or the belly, it was " She ", the most beautiful part of me which since was so a long time obliged to keep silent itself to function socially.

I was its more scorning prison warder. Today, I would like to testify for this Great lady, this forgotten Goddess, this failing Black Virgin, this half of our humanity which also has as a name: vulnerability-receptivity-emotivity-intuition-interiority.

Yes, it is the princess locked up in the heart of the keep of our choking patriarchal company.

Men and women we suffer in our major femininity, in this life without horizons, narrow, expensive heritage whose our children do not want That shouts of everywhere! Sometimes silently, sometimes violently. Not! Not! to this monster that we created by flee our suffering, and which insulates to us behind the windows from an untrue happiness, and gives to our faces smiles hideous.

I would like to speak today, starting from this space of myself which I fled like the plague, which seemed to me to separate from the others and to make ego a kind of " damaged " of happiness, an emotional wounded person, a social handicapped person.

She is in the heart of my humanity. Without it, I am only one robot which functions in a consumer society. Without this suffering, I am locked up in my ivory tower. It is it which gave me the taste of the others.

But what could be more difficult to hear than the Suffering? There his and that of the others. One bars to him the path with blow of explanations, morals, rationalizations.

One tries to find solutions to him.

As the path is long before simply being able to accomodate it, to suffer it, cry it, dance it.

Mysterious Suffering. Narrow gate of the major joy, the compassion and the Meeting with the Other. Only path of Crowned.