My eyes were dimmed by the shadows cast in the monastery. Such small places pop up unexpectedly in Symi The island, Odysseus' stop, or should have been if Homer had spelled it right before they changed it that is; the name of the island in other words wasn't Symi during the time of the Trojan War. The island had a king and a royal family and they lived in the Castro probably according to what I figured out, but who cares. I come from Symi and I wish the place was swallowed up by a volcano. Such absolute beauty unearthly beauty has no right to exist, right? You'll have to bear with me reader, you see I was also I believe abused. By my mother, but does that matter? Do I have the right, since I feel so completely put upon, do I have the right to tell the world that my mother abused me. Emotional abuse because of my brother's attempted physical abuse, retaliated by my mother's behavioral customs dictated by eons of civilization.
I'm here in Symi praying in the monastery of Saint Nikitas, high, higher in a mountain grotto, away from all civilization, built by saints; they had to have been saints, unbelievable to have built such a place without roads, rough terrain that billy goats have trouble navigating. The doors that shield the altar have a strange pyramid on the top. In the center of the pyramid is the eye, an actual eye, the eye of God. I am mesmerized. I accept it, without question, I am questioning it now because I am old and tired and burned out with civilization.
Mati, that's what we call it. The eye. Is it mother's eye, is she God. No, of course not, God is male. The eye of God on the altar is God's eye. It isn't mother looking at you, spying on you, catching you being weak. Language is ridiculous!
Today we went to Xysos. Xysos is a rather large tract of land situated between the monastery of Michael and the monastery of Myrtayiotissa to the Virgin. My uncle, my mother's younger brother, who also shares with me ambivalent feelings about his sister, my mother, acquired the land from his wife who got it from her family. It was like most of Symi is, a large tract of granite, boulders, rocks and walled terraces. Walled by saints, who else would have such patience, stone laid upon stone in perfect metric harmony surrounding acre after acre of land. My uncle has worked single-mindedly on that land for the past fifty years. You should hear my mother berating him for wasting so much time on that land, worthless she said it is. He, on the other hand, says that he toiled for forty-eight years to cultivate, build on it and to improve it. For him it was like showing respect to his wife. My mother was just jealous of his obvious love for his wife. You see, he was given other property by his father and mother, that he could have devoted so much time to improving.
His main source of income from Xysos was his harvest of honey. At first, he read about the bees, and, of course, being in competition with his older brother Vasily, who also kept bees as his father, and grandfather before him. My uncle Nicholas, the owner of Xysos, keeps bees in straight paths in Xysos. He built a refinery to process the honey. He has the bee suits and the cannery. It's amazing how the bees swarm around him as he deprives them of their food. Since I am spending the day here, he treats me to the actual process of harvesting honey from mountain, sugar fed bees. I was impressed and very respectful in distancing myself from his precious bees. His wife and I kept company in front of a very American looking fireplace, practical and functional. My uncle Nicholas, the owner of Xysos, that my mother puts down, has tilled, planted trees and his newest addition has been a modern compact yet impressive monastery dedicated to the Archangel Rafael. Also a separate building, similar in design, square, compact, precise, providing a comfortable dwelling including a private shower and bathroom were added on to the house. He has kept both the monastery and the house closed and boasts that they belong to his son who lives in Rodos. The rest of Xysos which also includes his home, a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom, separate warehouses for his bees, and, of course, a separate carpentry shed is nestled within his terraces of almond, pear, plum, grapes, fig, prickly pears and other trees and spices native to the island. This part of Xysos belongs to his other son George, who drove us there in his pick-up truck, and, of course, helped his Dad to cut the honey, our main reason for agreeing to this excursion. I stayed safely far enough watching as they smoked the bees by igniting pine needles and cone. The smell was comforting even for me as it was really meant to subdue the bees and to keep their swarming to a manageable height. The honey was delicious. I got some. I talked to his wife, I noticed she wore a mati, a round blue stone with an eye pressed glass, really. Why didn't I think to look for the Eye of God at the doors to his altar to the archangel Rafael? Because the whole island is merged, quiet grottos masquerading as shrines to the Virgin Mary, or to Archangels and occasionally another male saint, like a George pops up. But I am searching for my mother, the one who dragged me without my permission I might add across the world to Ohio of all places and left me like an uprooted fig tree to fend for myself. I looked home. I went home to find my mother, where she came from, what made her what she was. They were all my relatives and they were not my relatives. They were a poem. Oh, by the way, I do write poetry. I came back from Greece with a poem titled 29. My husband was born April 29, if that means anything and. of course, it must mean something, doesn't it?
