Wednesday, October 4, 2017
(from my journals)
It is already morning. Not sleeping a lot here, which is unusual. I love to sleep! Watched the sun come up again from my bed. My sleepless nights are not out of melancholy or stress, or even from the romantic rendezvous. Deep down, I stay awake because I know my time here is short and want to take it all in – I really can’t get enough of this place. I love it so.
Why? Why do I love it so? There is not any one thing; it’s the combination of it all. It’s the moon, the sea, the land herself. It’s the ruins, the wind, the rocks, the herbs, the goats with the little bells around their necks, the lion shaped mountain standing guard, the elephant rock in the water. It’s the people, it’s the food, the history – it is everything. People talk of their spirit animals, this feels like my spirit land. How am I so connected to this place? I feel it in places within my being that I never even knew existed. As if this land opened up a new room in my soul.
The wind is so strong this morning, I imagine it is carrying stories. I listen, but I cannot hear. How do I catch the stories? Yesterday, as I swam in the waters at the gorge, I laid on my back, relaxed deeply, and let the water carry me. It was quite effortless, the waves are so gentle. For once in my life, it was easy to let go. Ah, let go. Why are we so reluctant to let go? No matter the thing. So reluctant.
In the water yesterday, there were stories too. The beach is full of pebbles and rocks and as I laid on my back, ears submerged in the water, body relaxed and receptive, those rocks sounded like a thousand tiny voices.
I attempted to focus on one voice, but it is not possible. I am distracted by my mind, but it is the heart who has the ears to hear. My mind knows these sounds are only the motion of the ocean waves moving the rocks. My mind tells my heart to stop with this silly nonsense. But my heart is still listening intently, convinced there are messages for her.
The heart is clever and she wonders, “is it not the vocal chords that produce the sound of our voice with their vibration? Then is it not possible that it is the motion of the waves that gives voice to the ocean?”
My mind has lost patience with my heart.
I wanted to write about what happened today. There is so much to write! Everything has a deepening. My words feel softer, more purposeful.
We walked silently in a line up the hill to the ancient site. The Sanctuary of Asklepios, in Ancient Lebena, was a sanctuary of healing. He is the father of Hygeia, Goddess of Health, Cleanliness. What am I here to heal? What in my heart needs to be cleaned? I am faraway again, listening to something deep within that I cannot seem to really hear. Why am I so desperately wanting to hear a message?
We walk some more in silence. A tourist walks by me, says hello, and I break the silence by saying hello to him. I am disappointed in myself for that. Always so polite, Liz? This is a sacred, silent moment. Then I remember I had been trying so hard to hear something, and I heard something! Hello! I giggle. The sacred need not be boring. Lighten up, I tell myself.
We walk. Until now, I have only seen this path in the moonlight, as I excitedly walk to meet him. Him. I can’t think of him too much, I’ll get lost. I notice how pretty the path is in the day, though much less exciting. As I walk, I keep having this sense that I must think of something quite big and profound to ask for at the Sanctuary, but what? Wait. Am I to be listening or speaking?
I arrive at the sacred site. They give us instructions that I don’t hear because I’m thinking too loudly. I follow their lead and witness a bit of the mystery in expression. Memories surface. How is it that as a young girl I pretended at all the things I do now? When I was quite small, I remember practicing slow processionals on the long walkway to the porch. I was some kind of priestess, on my way somewhere important. I was 4, and suddenly it is one of my earliest memories. Am I having a life review? Where are these new memories coming from? Maybe I did have a secret room in my soul open. Another memory surfaces; I used to draw a woman, over and over and over again. Just one woman in the center of the page, wearing the most incredible clothing. I was 7 years old in this memory. She is remarkably similar to the woman I still make, in the center of the page. At 9, I pretended to be a shopkeeper, selling my drawings of the woman – until my little brother told me they weren’t very good (as little brothers are wont to do).
Is it that life has a way of orchestrating itself so you are always at the right place and time gathering just the right knowledge in order to advance to the next place? Or is it that we are organizing it from within?
The memories stop. All is quiet in my mind, for once.
In that timeless space, I make an offering at the Sanctuary and say a prayer.
My prayer is unique in that there are no words. All that thinking, all those words clouded around me as I proceeded up the hill to this place, and now my prayer is silent? It has never been silent. In this place, I pray to a feeling, a sensation of peace and knowing that lies beyond words. I take that feeling, picture everyone I love – there are so many of them! I love so much. I recall lovers, friends, family, strangers. All manner of people who have touched my heart in some way. There are those I loved once, and those I still do. There are streets, and houses I lived in and passed by. I wrap everything in this prayer of peace. It feels like a gift and a witnessing.
I hold everyone close in my heart.
And then I let it go.