Inheritance

Kneeling at my father's grave. Alone. I wipe dirt off his gravestone, trace my finger over his name.

Merry Christmas, Daddy. A tear falls onto the grave marker. I rub it in. A tiny smear of mud. Time has blurred. 

I’m going to Greece, Daddy. I know, crazy, right? I think you left something back there. I'm going to find it.

Daddy. You worked so hard, and you did so well, and then you gave up. Why? There could have been an inheritance by now, but there isn't. All that work, and for what? I'm whispering into my fist, wet with spit and tears. My god, you had so much potential, so much inside you -- wisdom, courage, strength, passion, love. That's it. That's my inheritance. You planted that in me, goddammit, and I'm claiming it.

And your stories. You gave me stories. There, too, is my inheritance.

Spirits stir. A yes rises from the ground all around me. Stories. Yes! A thousand times, yes.

Unfortunately, I also inherited whatever fool thing made you undermine your own success, so I have that to contend with. I'm not sure what I'll accomplish or find in Greece, but I'm going. And I came to ask your blessing.

I wait. I listen. Silence. Daddy? Nothing.

The ground is cold. My knees are cold. My father is cold.

It’s Christmas Day. The living are gathered a few miles from here, waiting for me. I get up, brush off my knees, and I leave the cemetery, my inheritance and me.  

And I go to join the feast.

Destination: Greece

I will arrive in Athens early in January where I will spend about six days visiting three generations of relatives, some of whom I’ve not seen in thirty-four years, some of whom I’ve never met. I am very excited to spend time with my family, and I’m sure six days will pass far too quickly.  

Around mid-January, I will embark on a nine-hour ferry trip to Crete, and I will make my way to the village of Maroulas, near Rethymno. There, I will live and work for about six weeks with Marianna, collector and preserver of the age-old skills and practice of herbal medicine.  

Marianna grows and gathers herbs on the unpolluted mountain. Using traditional methods and the Mediterranean Sun, she produces essential oils and herbal teas, which she sells at her quaint shop, Marianna's Workshop, in Maroulas. Marianna works closely with physicians, exchanging ideas and working together for the sake of natural health and well being.

I found Marianna on HelpX.net, an online cultural exchange where hosts invite volunteer helpers to work with them in exchange for food and accommodation. I first visited HelpX last July, simply curious to see what types of work situations were available in Greece. When I read Marianna’s listing, I immediately paid the HelpX fee (a modest $29 for two years) so that I could contact her. Since I didn’t know yet whether or when I could come to Greece, I wrote to Marianna simply to introduce myself and to express my interest in her work. Marianna responded with a warm greeting and an open invitation. I began making arrangements as soon as I was able.

I sought blessings for my trip from my daughters, my mother, my sister, and my brother. My daughters and siblings offered enthusiastic support of my plans. My mother offered these words: “You crazy! What’s a’ matter with you?”

Mom's right. I am crazy. And happy. And free. And... packing my suitcase!

Why Go?

Contrary to what some have suggested, I am not going to Greece to find myself. I am not going to Greece to define myself, redefine myself, and for heaven's sake, I am not going to Greece to find a man. I mean, you know, should I frolic on the sea with a fine fisherman, that’s my business, but given that there’s plenty of frolicking to be had in the USA, no, finding a man is not my motive for going to Greece.

Why am I going to Greece? Because I’ve spent more than thirty years wanting to go back and believing I could not. Because the time is right. Because I’m more free now than I’ve ever been in my life. Because I have family there. Because my father’s and my mother’s stories began there. Because I want to connect and reconnect. Because I’m overcome with wanderlust. 

Because I had an idea, and the idea became a desire, and the desire became a calling, and I am answering the call.

Sometimes, when you answer a call, there isn't much logic behind it, and you don't have a whole lot of planning to do. You just... go. And you find your way along the way.

I hope.

Letting Go, Part I

What was that I wrote in my profile about letting go? Did I say I'd let go "graciously?" Right. You should see me sifting through 25-30 years of memories (i.e., things), trying to decide what to keep and what to let go. My spirit is content to let it all go, but my hands are clinging like a stubborn child. Gracious, my eye.

I need my books, I can't get rid of my books. And my DVDs and CDs, my stereo, my rocking chair and footstool, my fountain pens of course, and all my paper journals, my desk, and golly I worked so hard refinishing my bedroom furniture twenty years ago...

This is me, beginning at 0:43, except that I can't carry everything I want to keep. And I'm not yelling. And my pants are pulled up. Other than that, this is me:

Fortunately, whether I keep or let go of my things, my departure date will come all the same. And I will take nothing but one suitcase. And a carry-on. And my purse. And that's all.

Pillar of Salt

Since referencing a pillar of salt in this post a few days ago, I've been thinking a lot about Lot's wife. Lot's wife. That's not a name. In the Book of Jasher, she is called Ado, or Edith. Good. Edith it is.

In the nineteenth chapter of Genesis, Edith and her family flee their home to escape God's destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Despite the angel's warning not to look back, Edith looks back toward her home in Sodom, and she becomes a pillar of salt.

Edith left her home, she left everything. She so deeply longed for what she left behind that she lost sight of her path. She was not mindful of her steps. Edith left her heart in her past, and she became unyielding, unable to move.

I can relate to Edith. My heart is so deeply attached to my past that if I do not let go, if I do not continue letting go, I will become the emotional equivalent of a pillar of salt: bitter, unbending, rigid.

Edith still lives. I know, because sometimes I hear her voice.

In my bedroom, sorting through one of a thousand boxes in the attic, I find a greeting card from my parents for my graduation from college in 2003. The card is written in my father's hand. His words are so sweet, he was so proud of me. I cry. I cry hard. I miss my daddy so much. And I don't want to leave my little house. I slump to the floor and cry until my eyelids are red and swollen. In this moment, Edith calls to me. Her voice comes as a shout from far away and a whisper from deep inside, saying, Let it go, beloved. Grieve, but do not remain at the grave. Look to your path. Continue your journey, and don't stop, don't stop. Don't stop.

Never stop.

The Path Before Me

I am having a harder time leaving my house than I had divorcing my husband. And divorcing my husband was hard.

I am having a harder time leaving my house than I had burying my father. And burying my father was very hard.

Someday, I will share stories of my marriage and its end, of my father and his death. Someday, but not today. Today, I feel such deep longing for the past that if I linger there, I’ll surely become a pillar of salt.

And so I look ahead. I turn to face the path before me, and my little house whispers as if from behind, Go. It’s time for you to go.

On the path before me lies this mountain village on the isle of Crete:

 

Uproot whatever the roots are that hold you to a smaller vision, and move into a much larger sphere so that you can see in new ways.
-- Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Brave

I cried in the shower this morning.

Such a safe place to have a good cry, wrapped in a cocoon of tile and steam, where the walls echo my sobs so that I hear myself as though somebody else, someone not me, so that I the listener can say to me the crier, “Shh. There, there, love. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

*  *  *

“You are so brave!”

That's what friends and acquaintances often say to me about my upcoming sojourn in Greece. “You are so brave!” These voices, all these enthusiastic voices racing in my head, “I admire you, Chrys,” “You are such a strong woman,” “You are so brave,” you are so brave, you are so, you are so, so brave, so brave.

Brave? I’m terrified.

I am not leaving my house in order to set out on an adventure. I am leaving my house because I have to. The divorce decree says so.

Happy Little House, 2004

Brave? Look at me! I'm crying like a child. 

I don’t want to leave my house. Not yet. I’m not ready. I love my little house, I always have. This sweet house has been a rock in my life, a comfort, a constant. I wish I could buy it. I wish I could buy it and fix her little problems and tend to her gardens again. I wish, I wish, I wish.

I wish I could just drop everything and go to Greece and live in a little village for a while and learn something new.

*poof!*

I raise my face to the stream of water, wash away the last of my tears. Brave, terrified, it doesn't matter. There are things I need to do today. I turn off the water, pull open the curtain, reach for my towel, and step out. Out of the tub, out of the crying, into the moment. 

That, my friends, is the bravest step I have ever taken.

Going to Greece for 80 Days

It's official. I bought my airline tickets tonight. Details to follow.