I wasn't as surly as I could have been. Really. But by the end of the first week, traffic dwindled to an occasional sheep-drive-by, with their throaty little bells. Perfect.
The second decajour saw my first visit to the real village - about 18 kms down the mountain. There is only one bus a day out of this area - and getting to it involves a three-kilometer walk in the mornings before dawn, interfering with my current ~cough~ 'lifestyle.' Which is to remain unconscious for as long as possible each morning.
Why? Because I wake up to this: "Oh. Quentin is dead. No, wait. That can't be right..." I squeeze my pituitary for another amber drop of soporismo, but a few minutes later the truth of it comes rolling through. "Quentin AND Sarah... " There, in the chiaroscuro of my sleepstyle, young master Chevy Chase is reading from a news desk on the set of SNL, "I repeat, Quentin and Sarah are still dead."
Fuck. Fuck, I say. Back to sleep.
~~~
A taxi ride up and down the mountain costs about the same as renting a car for a day, so a few days ago I decided to pick one up from a small town about 40 kms from here. My goals were to visit a sanctuary near Ioannina, and round up provisions for a two-week hermitage with The Writing.
Goddess he'p me but I am an American. As soon as I was behind the wheel of that little Nissan, my entire demeanor changed. I suppose this has something to do with the way Americans interpret the word 'freedom,' and how that is expressed in velocity. Velocity and wanderlust: besides worshipping sleep, in this season of grief and sudden grace I revere not-knowing. Not knowing the human sounds (a.k.a. language) surrounding me, not knowing how capital flows into my world, not knowing who I will kiss this week or next; and best of all, not knowing whether I've taken the high short road, or the long low one ... until I've arrived.
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This week seemed especially rough on my people back in the States -- as Paris went briefly under siege on a signal day - Friday the 13th. Venus'day and Her lunar count - we did not miss the implications. Three of my younger friends spun out pretty hard, a dear one who supported last year's journey to Cyprus is wrangling a stalker, and other darlings are breastdeep in a feeling of indefinable malaise, or are grimcheerfully swinging from their rosaries, mantra volume up to 10.
This transformational scheiss is not for the lily of liver, I tell you.
~~~
It being November, my own emotional and spiritual tasks have been typically Scorpionic: what/how/when am I feeling? Mourning my children alternates with a kind of happiness that seems to have no sugarburn to it, no ache that comes with the secret story of our transience. Not to suggest that I am in a two-colored rainbow; this week, others' suffering has dislodged another layer of my own - probably biological at its root. So now I learn to distinguish grief from the vespers of a sinking thyroid (2).
The trip to the sanctuary also brought some new information I am still processing. The effable story is that last year's hero-dog, Hector, died two months ago - but I was accompanied by his daughters during my overnight at the temnos. And having left my little offering, there is a new layer in the emotional body - a form of postpartum elation tinged with sadness.
Like giving birth, one is no longer 'inhabited' - but there is something new in the Time stream; its qualities and effects still enfolded, tight as a morning glory.
Not-knowing doesn't mean ignorance or foolery, it means not-knowing-yet.
And that is precious - possibly even sacred.
I just don't know... yet.
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1. A measure which seems to be slow in catching on, despite clear evidence of eight other planets, a Moon and a Sun.
2. Not to worry. I have requested an herb that brought the matter to heel last year, and it will be here in 10 days or so.
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