Between Birth and Death

Two photos showed up in my Facebook Memories today, one taken days before my mother's death, the other taken one year later, weeks after my grandson's birth. And here I am, on death's side of center.

I don't have to write a memoir. My entire life story is right here:

"When you walk through a forest that has not been tamed and interfered with by man, you will see not only abundant life around you, but you will also encounter fallen trees and decaying trunks, rotting leaves and decomposing matter at every step. Wherever you look, you will find death as well as life.

Upon closer scrutiny, however, you will discover that the decomposing tree trunk and rotting leaves not only give birth to new life, but are full of life themselves. Microorganisms are at work. Molecules are rearranging themselves. So death isn't to be found anywhere. There is only the metamorphosis of life forms. What can you learn from this?

Death is not the opposite of life. Life has no opposite. The opposite of death is birth. Life is eternal."

                                   Eckhart Tolle

Man and Woman in Café

Man in blue striped shirt
watches woman in black leather boots
click-clacking heels across burnt red tiles
stretching long thin legs
that spread the short black skirt
that hugs the tight round bottom
that holds his gaze,
his head caught
in her gravitational pull,
his neck tugged long and along
by this heavenly body
as she passes and exits,
a flash of blond zest in her wake,
and a lump of envy in my lap.

I notice that he
hasn't noticed me
but on closer examination
I realize that I

held his outstretched neck
in my peripheral vision
while the center of my eye
climbed the length of her thigh
and met him at the summit
where we paused
in humble adoration
as the desire to have
and the desire to be
coalesced
in the wild fields
of imagination.

(2006)

hell's hungry gaping mouth

hell’s hungry gaping mouth 
bids me come and so
I do 
and beyond the gilded altar
I fall—
spiraling sprawling crying crawling
thinking my way down
as arms and legs thrash
at emptiness all around
at desert water and
arctic flames and
a void that enfolds me
with unscented aromas and
unsung songs that
fill my head with nothing
nothing until
my desire for nothing grows
swallowed not in darkness
but in the unfulfilled promise of light
surrounded by the absence of
a thousand other souls
no gnashing of teeth
no teeth at all
just the familiar bite
of indifference

(November 2003)

26 December 2004

I recently came across a folder of poetry that I wrote years ago. In honor of National Poetry Month, I've decided to share some of those poems, just as they are. It's one thing to be unfinished, and quite another to be unheard.

The 26th of December Two Thousand Four 

our planet wobbled on its axis

when the earth quaked
thirty thousand meters below the ocean floor
sending a ripple in the water
that grew as it traveled
on a course it did not choose

hundreds of thousands died

half a million injured
and countless cried

while on the other side 
of this wobbling globe
we celebrated my daughter’s twenty-first birthday
at a quiet restaurant
where nothing quaked
but the ice in my glass.

The Story: An Update

To my faithful few followers: I am officially pulling the plug on the blogging of "The Story." The story hasn't been terribly plugged-in at ChrysCrossing anyway, so from your perspective, nothing much will change. From my perspective, the story is a book, the book is in the making, and the making is taking on a life of its own.

I received two revelations of late. The first came during a 10-day silent meditation retreat last May. While meditating alone in my room, I received a vision of the book as a whole, something I'd been lacking all along. Immediately after the vision came the opening lines of the first two chapters. Plopped in my lap, just like that, word for word. Unfortunately, one of the retreat rules was No Writing. Fortunately, I break rules. Alone in my room, I pulled a pen and a notebook from my purse, and I wrote the words down. Gasp! I know, right? I'm such a rebel.

When heaven gives you a gift, you best shut up and receive it.

The second revelation, which came a few weeks later, was not about the book itself but about my relationship with the book. Ah, relationships. Suffice it to say, the revelation demanded that I divorce the story from this blog.

When heaven tells you to do something, you best shut up and do it.

So, while the book is taking shape in the hands of a rebellious wielder of pens, I'll see if I can stop by here from time to time to share tidbits and tales from this gal's daily life. If I am yet and again silent here for long stretches of time, it's because the book is a jealous and demanding sonamabeets.

Thanks for your patience, my friends. Na'maste kala.

New Year

Every new morning leads to the dead of night, which gives rise to another new day, and every 365 of these, another new year. Again and again and again. Everything always changes, and there is sameness in constant change.

Do you ever think about the fact that time doesn't really pass? How can time pass? Time is merely a method we use to count the earth's orbits around the sun and the earth's rotations on its axis. Time does not pass. We do.

We whoosh through the solar system around the sun, constantly, and as we do, so come and go the seasons and the years. All the while, we spin around and around like a spinning top, and as we do, so come and go the days and nights.

What if you step back and watch that movement from beyond? Step outside our solar system, where calendars and clocks do not exist, and watch the planets whoosh and spin, whoosh and spin. No years or seasons, no days or nights, nothing but the constant movement of planets around the sun.

Now, zoom in. Zoom in on planet earth, zoom in on one person. Yourself, for example. From that place outside the realm of calendars and clocks, watch your life. Watch those two wee cells from your parents' bodies fuse and then divide and grow and grow, watch yourself whoosh from your mother's body, gasp for your first breath, wriggle through infancy, into childhood, now your teen years, watch yourself develop and change, take steps and fall, make decisions and mistakes, win, lose, celebrate, grieve, whoosh, you're an adult, middle-aged, whoosh, lines on your face, white hair, whoosh, creaking joints, whoosh, keep watching, keep watching and don't stop.

What does that look like? What does your life look like from that place outside of time? You know what it looks like to me? It looks like the constant unfolding of a flower.

From that perspective, I feel glad as I watch the years "pass." From that perspective, I feel happy about turning fifty. And from that perspective, I feel peace even as I grieve at the grave.

Just over a year ago, we buried my father. This year, my daughter carries my first grandchild in her belly. And here I stand in between. Life is a flower, a flower in constant bloom. Do you feel it? Can you step back and feel the beautiful sameness of constant change?

For every petal that withers and falls, another opens from the center. When I think of the fallen petal as nutrients for the soil, soil that nourishes the new bloom, then who can take away my joy? Who can destroy my pleasure?

Nobody, no thing.

Happy New Year, my beloveds. May we know the beauty of the constant unfolding of this moment.

Whoosh...

--------------

And the years are rolling by me
They are rockin' evenly
I am older than I once was
And younger than I'll be, that's not unusual
It isn't strange
After changes upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same

      --Paul Simon, from "The Boxer"

Pseutra Not Sutra

I want to teach you a Greek word. Ready? Ψεύτρα. Pseutra, pronounced PSEFF-tra.

English speakers will likely see pseutra and hear it as sutra (SOO-tra). Do not make this mistake. You are not learning an English derivative of a Greek word. You are learning a Greek word. You must forget what you knew before and dive straight into the Greek.

Like a Greek, you will enunciate both consonant sounds in the letter ψι (psi), like upset or psst. None of this silent-p nonsense. The letter ψι is not a pseudo sigma. It is full of lips and teeth and breath. Do not let ψι pass through your mouth unless it passes properly. Psss!

ψεύ = pseff, rhymes with chef

τρα = tra, like the a in achoo. And for heaven's sake, roll the r. If you can't roll your r, then say the exclamation ta-da, and make it a contraction: t'da. pseff-t'da. You can usually fake your way through a rolled r by forcing a fast d over the tip of your tongue.

ψεύτρα = pseutra

Say it: PSEFF-tra

Say it like a Greek: Ψεύτρα! Accent the first syllable with a vengeance: Ψεύτρα! Say it with a snarl: Ψεύτρα! You might even spit at the end of the word: Ψεύτρα! Ptoo!

Ψεύτρα means liar. To my ears, it sounds more sinister than “liar.” To me, ψεύτρα is a vile wicked witch with devil eyes and a forked tongue.

And that’s what my uncle called me. Ψεύτρα! I wasn’t there when he said it, so I don’t know whether he spit at the end of the word. But I bet he snarled.

After three days together, my 90 year old uncle and I shared a tender goodbye. I kissed his cheek and his hand, and he took my hand in his, caressed my face, bid me a fond farewell, and invited me to return in March. The next day, while I strolled merrily around Piraeus, la la la, my uncle phoned my mother, his sister, to tell her that I am a ψεύτρα, ordering her never to speak of me or mention my name to him again.

For pity's sake. At least when I called his son Adolph Hitler, I had the courtesy to say it to his face. Okay, I did not call him Adolph Hitler. I said his ideologies were like those of Adolph Hitler. You just don't go around saying that an entire race of human beings should be swept off the face of the earth without expecting to be compared to Hitler. But that’s another story for another day.

For now, let's stick to our Greek word. I want you to see it, hear it, and say it like a Greek, so I made a video to help you. I hope you enjoy it.

A Tale of Two Airports

Detroit Departure. Here I am with nine beloveds who came to the airport to see me off. Nine! Gods and goddesses, every one.

Detroit Metropolitan Airport Wayne County (DTW)

8 January 2012

*  *  *

9 January 2012

Athens International Airport Eleftherios Venizelos (ATH)

Athens Arrival. Here I am with, well, here I am. Just past customs, travelers and greeters exchanged hugs and kisses while I stood alone looking for my cousin who wasn't there. I felt a little sad, but not much. I was prepared for moments like this, traveling alone. Then my cousin arrived. And so in shadow our tale begins...

  

The Good, the Bad, and the Opa

My first few weeks in Greece were largely a disappointment. I had trouble writing in the midst of disappointment. If I wrote honestly about the bad, I felt whiny, and if I wrote only about the good, I felt disingenuous. So, except for notes in my journal, I pretty much chucked the writing and went on having experiences.

If I can't tell a story with both good and bad, then I can't tell a story.

*  *  *

Not long after I returned to the US, an acquaintance asked me of my trip, "Did you have fun?"

If it was fun I was after, I would not have traveled to Greece during the coldest, rainiest season to work in fields, mop floors, and clean kitchens in remote villages where there are more goats than men. For fun, I would have traveled during the sun-filled spring or summer and stayed at an island resort, drinking and dancing and having a wild, passionate fling with a sexy hunk named Yianni fifteen years my junior so that I could then write every sordid detail and call it Eat, Pray, Opa! Next trip, perhaps.

I was asked a simple question; after a moment's hesitation, I offered a simple answer. "Well, yes. Yes, I had a wonderful time."

I did have a wonderful time, but "fun" is not a word that comes to mind when describing my trip. My cousin and my uncle disowned me, my plan to learn about healing with herbs was a bust, it rained the entire month of February, I cried myself to sleep most nights, and I failed miserably at blogging.

At the same time, I learned from a spiritual healer, gave a presentation to a gathering of English speaking expats, experienced a dream within a dream in Switzerland, revisited the land of the centaurs, conversed with the Muses, drank tsipouro on the Gulf of Volos and heart-opening wine on Souda Bay, under the influence of which I renewed a long-distance romance with a handsome bloke back home whose emails and calls sweetened my lonely nights.

Fun? Not always. Wonderful? Yes. The good, the bad, and the opa, baby. Every bit of it, wonderful.

-------------------------------------
Next up: "How I Managed to Piss Off My Relatives in Three Days," or, "The Devil Went Down to Athens, and I Don't Mean Georgia."

I Am

March 5, 2012

unseen body
merely shadow
a play of light

I am not here
and yet I am

invisible wind
swaying trees
rustling hair

I am not here
and yet I am

when death's cold finger
rests upon my brow
look to the shadows
listen to the wind

beloved
I am not here
and yet I am

 

On the mountain road from the sea to Akrimios.

Storyteller

Happy Birthday, Daddy. Thank you for the gift of life and for the gift of your stories.

Notes: Socrates in Greek is Σωκράτης, pronounced soh-KRAH-teess, or soh-KRAH-tee.

In the story, my father says that Socrates was found by Theia Anastasia and her family. That is the same Theia Anastasia who appears in the photo at the bottom of my post, Sky.

The family photo in the video above was taken in Asia Minor, before my father was born. The woman standing in the photo is my father's mother, Victoria Eugenides Hatzilias. Her first cousin (not pictured), Georges Eugenides, is Jeffery Eugenides's paternal grandfather. If you've read Eugenides's Middlesex, you will recall the story of Cal's grandparents fleeing Asia Minor. That is the same event in which Socrates's story takes place. Except this story is not fiction; is true story.

May the memory of my father Christos and of his brother Socrates be eternal, and may their souls rest in peace.

To Dream a Memory

The day I leave for Greece, I mail a letter to my father's cousin in Switzerland, Niko, and his wife Evelyn, whom I have not seen since 1977 (see Sky). I want to reconnect. I want to share with them the sad news of my father's death, and to let them know how much our travels together meant to me, then and now. I also want them to know that I'm coming to Greece, in the hopes we might have a chance to meet.

Not long after, I receive an email from Niko, Evelyn, and their daughter Aliki, offering condolences as well as an invitation to Switzerland for a visit. Switzerland! How can I afford to take a trip within a trip that I can barely afford? I must be crazy, but for this opportunity, I will spend my last cent if I have to. We may never pass this way again, as the song goes. After a few emails, we settle on March 17-21.





Two days before departing Greece for Switzerland, I surf the Internet to get to know my hosts' town and surrounding area. A little scrolling, a little reading, and one photo jumps out at me...








Murten. Time stands still. A sea of rooftops. Just like my dream. I hold my breath. I blink. No, it's a coincidence. Just a strange coincidence. And then. And then...

 

 
...my body lands in the medieval village. My god, this is it. This is not like my dream, this is my dream. My feet are on the ground, and yet I am floating. Nobody seems to notice.







As Evelyn and Aliki show me around Murten, I am filled with the sense that I’ve been here before. I don’t know what’s ahead or around the next corner, I can’t tell you who lived in which house, but every step I take feels familiar, intensely familiar.

Finally, I share my dream. Evelyn and Aliki are fascinated by my vision of rooftops, but when I add the seemingly insignificant detail about the plane flying over a body of water and my turning to see snow-capped mountains behind the plane, their eyes widen. “This is Lake Murten,” Aliki says, pointing, “and beyond the lake are snow-capped mountains.” All I can see are thick clouds. “Yes,” Evelyn says, “when there are no clouds, you can see snow covered mountains, there, over the lake.” To believe that a snow-capped mountain exists beyond the lake, like my dream, is a little too much for me right now. I prefer to believe the clouds.

I don’t know what to make of the dream and my visit two years later to Murten. I don’t know that I need to make anything of it. I will neither force conclusions upon the story nor trivialize it. Maybe my story and someone else’s story crossed paths, intersecting energetically, and some age-old wrong aches to be made right. Maybe it’s a story meant to stir up the story in you. Maybe it’s a story for story’s sake, a story simply to be enjoyed. Maybe all of the above, maybe none.

Whatever the story is or is not, it is this to me: a gift. The dream, the experience, my brief time in Switzerland, connecting and reconnecting with family, this is indeed a gift. And I am blessed.

Only a Dream

Two years ago, I awoke from a dream so incredible, the feeling of the dream stayed with me for days afterward, and the memory of the dream has stayed with me since. It was not a lucid dream in that I was not aware that I was dreaming, and I did nothing to control or manipulate the dream. Nonetheless, the visions and sensations were as vivid as those of a lucid dream. As is my habit, I wrote every detail of the dream upon waking. This is an edited excerpt from my dream journal, 5 March 2010:

I'm a passenger in a jet airliner flying over a body of water. I look out the window over my left shoulder, and in the distance behind the plane is a snow-capped mountain. The plane descends slowly, silently gliding over a sea of brown rooftops. As it continues its descent, the plane begins to fade, fading, fading until it disappears, leaving me alone, my body floating down, down, gently down, light as a feather, floating slowly, silently, relaxed but upright and straight as if in a tube, my toes pointed down toward the sea of rooftops, now dipping into the sea, floating down, down between buildings that seem to part in order to receive me, down into a narrow street, houses and buildings lined neatly together, open wooden shutters, wooden beams lining each building. It looks something like a Bavarian village.

With my feet hovering ten or twelve inches above the ground, I float my way down the street. People are walking in the street. The atmosphere is festive, yet quiet, as though a carnival or parade had recently passed. The village appears old, yet the pedestrians are dressed in contemporary clothing. As I float along, I wonder whether they can see me. They are all walking with their feet on the ground, and nobody seems to notice that I am floating above the ground, so I assume that they cannot see me.

I love this feathery feeling of floating. I continue floating through the village, enjoying the sensation and the sights.

Upon waking, I still carry in my body the feeling of floating, a felt memory if you will, not unlike the sensation of my body rising and falling in my bed after a day of riding roller coasters at the amusement park. Except in that case, my body really did ride roller coasters. This was only a dream.

Right?

Sky

1977. I'm fourteen years old. Dad and I are traveling around Greece for the summer, just the two of us. We spend part of our trip with our Eugenides family, Niko, Evelyn, and Theia Anastasia. Niko takes us to a beautiful hotel, Eagle's Palace, in Ouranoupolis. Ouranoupolis means City of the Sky.

Tonight, we sit outside, the adults over there, immersed in conversation, me over here, immersed in the sky. A sea of stars inside a mass of blackness covers the earth like a blanket. I love it. I could stay here forever.

Look, there, a swirling cluster, a spiral, a galaxy! My god. Time stops, my breath stops. Can I really see this with my naked eye? Am I allowed? It's a dream. A gift. Breathe. I tap my fingers on the arm of my chair, make sure I'm still here. The sky unfolds, my insides open. So vast a sky, so small a girl, the universe and me, swirling together on this mountain, so far from home, so close to the stars.

The moment, the experience, the feeling burns itself into my memory, wraps around my heart, sinks to my toes. This is what it's like to be in love. I don't think I will ever find the words to describe it.

On the road to Ouranoupolis. Theia Anastasia is on the right, and Evelyn's arm is on the left. Dad is at the table, off camera. Niko snapped the photo. I'm smiling with food in my mouth.