Greece is the word is the word is the word May 30, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , add a commentCounting down to our evening flight off this magnificent island of Keffalonia, one of the Ionian Islands off the coast of Greece.
I’ve been on Kefalonia for two weeks, and was lucky enough to see Myrtos beach, arguably one of the most beautiful beaches in Europe. I also visited Ithaca, a blessedly beautiful place with tiny beaches, emerald turquoise water finished with chalky clean-white stone edges, and countless tavernas and fishing boats, ancient men on scooters, minis full of coptic priests and menus that had half the items unavailable, and chilled golden beer, mousakka and calamari – all for 10 Euro. Actually every lunch and dinner, by the way ended up costing about 10 Euro – wierd!?
Ithaca is an island made famous in and by Homer’s myth. See Ithaca and find peace. I think that’s true actually. I put it down to the fact that Ulysses wife, Penelope wove the qualities of fidelity, love and peace into her tapestry and in doing so formed the sustainable bones of that Ithakan myth. At the heart of this peace is trust that the future would bring the return of her wayward husband.
Our Ithakan guide for the day, unfortunately lacked the charm of a greek accent, seeing as though she was from Britain. The Island of Keffalonia seems to have more Brits than Greeks. Myrtos beach was full of them, baking themselves with a frightening lack of sun-screen and if I might add, good taste in swim-wear. But there you have it. These British holidayers seem to have made Shirley Valentine a new religion.
Ithaca had a different feel to Keffalonia. It was peaceful, it was also picturesque, full of tiny protected harbours, pocketted by a soft palette of stone buildings, overhanging bouganvillea, faded shutters and spilling over rusted balcony railings. Everywhere you look was a blinding chalky white stone path leading further on to a vista of unspeakable beauty.
On Keffalonia, yesterday we found ourselves driving one way up the back passages of Assos, a tiny village built beneath a ruined castle. Looking up the steep sloping road, it took approximately 2 mintues to decide that the icecream was far more appealing than a sun-drenched climb up the fortress road. Yes, Castles and Ruins can lack both intrigue and the necessary charm late on a hot day especially when competing with Norgen-Vaaz tirimisu and rasberry ice cream.
So packing all our travel gear, our books, our sun tans and our hangovers (yes if you do drink toooooo much Retsina you will get a headache!), my sister and I are visiting an internet cafe prior to the trip to the airport.
Lasting images of our stay: goats with bells herded by wise and thoughtful dogs; old women i
n black who didn’t need to be costumed for their extra role on the 1940’s Captain Corelli’s Mandolin filmed a few years back on this island; Onassis style boats moored in tiny harbours; white stone roads that are impossible to traverse without at least one stumble; cypress pines that reach up into a star-filled night like cathedral spires; siestas where the shops shut for 3 hours after lunch; olives and fetta, Retsina and cool clear deep still water where the colours make you laugh out loud with heady delight.
Yassoooooo.
Ruins of the Past Inspire the Future May 21, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , add a commentThe scene was unlike any I’d seen or painted before. The structure was drenched in sunlight. Sharp shadows were cast by the gnarled olive trees, and dappled light defined a myriad of stone walls that ran in random lines
I had no idea what part of the structure was what as I tried to capture the scenes punctuating points; A collapsed roof, arched windows framing bold stone wheels and fragmented wooden presses, rusted gates, broken steps and rugged stone walls. 
How many years before had a family run this Olive press? Who was it that had lived in the adjacent homestead? When did they close shop and in what circumstances? Now the home was boarded up – its green wooden door and shutters, faded and stripped of color, were banded by steel cross bars. Intruders like myself could only guess what lay behind them. The many memories, stories, dreams, history were forever locked away behind resilient sun-drenched stone.
Was the Press in operation when Byron walked these island roads? Was the press as old as Francis of Assisi who had also lived on the Island?
The white chalky stones and terracotta tiles now fallen and almost embedded in the ground, are now awash with tiny white flowers, as abundant as the butterflies and bumble bees that traverse them. There is continual movement in this still stone ruined landscape. The wind now and then carried what sounded like laughter and the wonderful whooshing sound of the greek language.
The Press stands near the villa where my family and I are holidaying. It is one of many ruined buildings that seem to characterize Greece. From the splendor of the Acropolis and Delphi to these tiny roads around the Islands, the land seems to be at peace with transience.
Sometime later in the week we’ll travel to Ithaca – a destination that has been on my wish-list for many years. From the villa we can see Ithaca. On Friday, we will catch a small boat from the town of Fiskardo, 10 minutes away. We will walk on the ancient land trodden by the Greek hero, Ulysses and we will see what he saw. And will we go the land of the lotus eaters, and stay away as long as he did?
When I was little I pored over the Greek myths of gods and heroes. I watchd the movies in the 60s that tried to recreate the stories of Ulysses, of Jason and Argonauts and the Trojan War; the struggle between destiny and a personal hunger and striving for love, for eternal glory or to meet your destiny – no matter what.
A few days ago, I was at Delphi, beneath the mountain of Parnassus. Our guide told us myths and stories all the way from Athens. And as we passed the intersecting roads where Oedipus met his fate, and killed his father, I cried.
I cried because there as an actual road from which this extraordinary story took seed. I cried because there is something extraordinary about stories that last as long as that. I cried because I was now walking the same path that many seekers had walked. It was the Delphic Oracle that told Alexander the Great he would conquer the world. It was the Oracle that foretold of wars and caught Nero out on his plan to murder his mother Agrippa. And it was the Oracle that was built from bees wings and wax.
I could do with much, much more of these Greeks.
I have a wonderful nephew May 16, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , add a commentI had a farm in Africa… well actually I had dinner in Athens, in the Plaka, with my most extraordinary nephew!
We are thousands of miles from home. I am holidaying in Athens with my twin sister and her twins, Michael and Georgie, our closest girlfriend Rosey, my beautiful niece Madeline and tomorrow my sister Gabby.
So wer’e here miles from home and we are counting every blessing, every sight, every sound and every part of the story.
We spent the day in Delphi. Well my sister, Cate, Rosey and I went to visit the Oracle, whose advice “know thyself, and “no excess” (what dumb advice is that!) made us gob-smacked with awe, so much so that all we could do – on the return to Athens was retreat to a quiet taverna, order a gin and review the photos and mental shapshots of the day.
How do you explain to your dinner companions what it was that made you cry at Delphi? How do you translate that moment of gob-smacking, oh-my-god-I’m really here- response to hearing the guide say “down to your right is the road where Oedipus met and killed his father”. How do you explain why you want the Oracle to tell you, in 2008 what you you should be doing with the rest of your life?
It was my nephew who asked me “what was it that was so special about Delphi”?
“It was my nephew who “tweeted” with me today – and read what I saw at Dephi (while I was seeing it)
It was my nephew who offered to show me and Rosey around Lycabettus Hill tomorrow,
And it was my nephew- who at 4 years old told me to “go home to Australia and find myself a husband” (which, for you disbelievers, I did!).
It was my nephew who get’s what moved me today, who sees me in pursuit of gnosis and beauty.
I love you kid.
Beauty and the cloths May 6, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , add a commentOnce upon a time a simple little family lived deep in the woods of a land far away.
The husband was an old wise man. He had 2 children who were simple of heart and mind, called rooney and trooney. His much younger 2nd wife he named Beauty. He died in tragic circumstances and around the same time his simple children disappeared never to be seen again. So Beauty was left alone in the world.
She decided to pack up her possessions and leave the wooded house she’d known for the last 13 years. Her only possessions of worth were the cloths she had woven since being a little girl. She came from a long line of weavers and each generation added something unique to the craft. Beauty’s talent was an ability to weave almost intangible cloth, as light as wind, as soft as water and as bright as the sun.
Beauty could also embroider the cloth in such a way that it came to life and anyone who looked on it felt a deep longing and was immediately transported into the scene itself. Why it was even said, beauty could embroider feelings, such was her skill.
Most of beauty’s work had been sold at market. But she packed up what was left of her work into a parcel which she carried on her head. And she set off on the northern road. She walked most of the day, through all sorts of landscapes until she saw some farming lands in the distance. Coming closer to the verdant fields, she noticed a single cowherd and some dairy cows. He was herding the cattle into the barn.
Beauty asked the cowherd if she could spend the night in the barn along with the cows. He simply nodded. Beauty was touched by his gentle nature, and felt sorry for the cowherd who only wore the flimsiest of cloth. She reached into her pack and handed the cowherd a fine blue cloth the colour of midnight. Embroidered with the sun, the moon and a thousand tiny stars, the cloth was large enough to envelope the young cowherd, so that he disappeared into the night.
Beauty settled on the warm hay in the barn and was so tired she fell deeply asleep the moment her head touched the ground. The last thing she heard were the murmurs of the night and a single voice singing softly to the moon.
The following day there was no sign of the cows or the cowherd – for they had set off at first light to graze on other fields. She ate some cheese and bread from her pack and walked further on the northern road.
The road turned and twisted into a deeper darker wood. The ancient trees reached towards the sky, forming a cathedral like canopy above. She looked upwards marvelling at their grandeur and missed her footing, tripping on an exposed root. Down she tumbled – flat on her face in the mud.
Oh dear oh dear, said a voice to her left, what a mess you’ve made.
Beauty looked around for the voice and saw an orange dog and blue lynx.
Blinking twice at these strange figures, she heard the lynx chortle,
What a fine mess you’re in – you should have looked where you were going.
Beauty scrambled to her feet laughing, you’re right of course lynx – but if you could show me the way out of the woods I can dry off in the sun, and it will brush off – you’ll see. Perhaps, if you could also show me a river, I could wash my face and hands as well.
The lynx laughed, and pushed past her so quickly Beauty almost lost her footing again. But she 
chased after lynx until they emerged in the sunlight. Before she could thank her guide, lynx disappeared.
Beauty looked at this new vista – a field of wild and splendid poppies, as red and bold as the eye could see. Overwhelmed by the sight and the warmth of the day, she surrendered to the impulse and lay flat on her back gazing up in wonder at the sun above her. She was soon asleep – dreaming of embroidery the colour of crimson blood and rubies. When she awoke the sun was low in the sky and she knew she needed to quickly find another place before night fell.
She walked down to the river that ran through the poppy field and saw her reflection. Beauty laughed so hard at the messy sight she saw, she lost her footing and fell headlong, pack and all, into the fast flowing river. Beauty grabbed at overhanging branches but was unable to grab hold of anything for any longer than a minute – for the river current was too strong.
Just surrender, the water murmured, just go with the flow.
Beauty could do nothing else but give in. The river raced past fields of lavender, of sage or rosemary of thyme of sunflowers and finally a field of cotton, with their puff ball flowers she knew so well.
The river finally slowed and the water became golden and shallow. Beauty was able to stop and stand up on some rocks.
Thank you river, for I would never have made it this far without you. But the river was silent and she started to think she imagined hearing that voice earlier.
With the sun almost set, Beauty made her way to a nearby Cotton Mill. The door was open and inside the millers wife was setting the table for dinner. Beauty asked if she could dry off by the fire.
Well you’d better, laughed the miller, for you are drenched through and you’ll catch your death if you stay like that.
Beauty sat by the warm fire and unpacked her fine cloths – spreading them around her to dry as well. The miller’s wife watched all of this with greedy eyes – for she could see how valuable the cloth was. Beauty turned to thank her for her hospitality and the miller’s wife quickly set her features into a smile, hiding the greed and envy behind a warm and generous grin.
She fed Beauty a fine dish and poured goblet after goblet of wine, drugging the last goblet with a sleeping draught. Beauty was so hungry she ate it all and swallowed all the wine, marvelling at how wonderful it made her feel. She forgot all her sadness and fear of the future. Before long, she was sound asleep snoring as loudly as the pigs outside.
When she awoke she was on the side of the road with a very sore head and no parcel of cloths. Realising the miller’s wife had stolen them, Beauty started to wail and cry for all that she had lost and for her own stupidity.
So loud was her wailing that a passing tailor heard the din and stopped to scold her. Now the tailor was a wily fellow with a ready smile, a quick wit and big heart. But he had a twisted leg and walked with a limp. It certainly didn’t slow him down for he was born like that.
Now stop it right now, he scolded Beauty. Not given to self-pity himself, he said, why you have your health, you seem young and healthy, what could be so bad? You can come with me and I’ll put you to work in my shop.
Beauty was so startled by the tailor’s abruptness, she agreed and followed him to the next town where his shop was already set up and well established.
And so they worked together for many years. She embroidering and weaving cloth finer than ever before, with images of poppies, and cows and fields of sunflowers.
The tailor grew to love her and she him. Eventually they married. And people came from far and wide to see their fine work and buy as much as they could make.
One day many years later they heard that a miller’s wife had been robbed and murdered.
And of the cloths she stole from Beauty? Why some say one cloth forms the sail on a pirate ship, another forms the tent of a gypsy fortune teller, and another hangs in the queen’s own chamber. As fine as ever before.
The blossom alchemy April 7, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , 1 comment so farOnce upon a time, there was a fortress like castle that stood tall and bold in a verdant countryside. The castle could be seen from miles around.
It was home to lots of people: travelling merchants, artisans, storytellers and adventurers, cooks and wine merchants, blacksmiths, jewellers, dressmakers, butchers, grocers and all those in service to the family in charge of the castle. The castle was responsible for the well-being of so many. Each night it hummed with the sounds of songs, music and hard work of those who called the castle home.
The castle was secured by locks and chains. There were chains on the front door and chains on the bridge over the moat. Throughout the castle, there were chains on all the doors and windows. And down in the dungeons, there were chains that kept the prisoners under control. The chains were a part of the castle. They made the people feel secure.
The castle was surrounded by a moat. The moat appeared serene and still but deep below it was teeming with many fish and plants. Now and then, one could catch a glimpse of something moving – a shot of blue, a spark of green and a streak of deep and wondrous bronze – colours of a beautiful untouchable world.
Part of this untouchable world was the most beautiful fish imaginable. With scales the colour of moonlight and a tail the colour of falling stars, this fish had always lived in the moat. Its ancestors had swum up the stream that fed the moat a long time ago. But this fish had only known life in the moat.
It had been hatched from eggs deposited in a broken crystal goblet. The goblet had fallen to the bottom of the moat many years ago. The gold that decorated the goblet had long since tarnished. The crystal, so brilliant in the past was now embellished only by green algae. The fish and the goblet were one, linked at birth it was to the goblet that the fish returned each night.
Then one day the world changed.
Illness came to the castle. No one knew where it came from, perhaps a traveller, perhaps an animal. Like a wildfire it raged through the castle and the people became feverish, half mad with a desperate thirst, the people drank water from the moat. But it did no good. No soul was saved – children, women and men all died.
The castle chains were broken by desperate people wanting to get away. Even the prisoners were freed to take the dead out of the castle to bury them in the meadows. But once free, the prisoners ran away, and the dead were left to pile up on the castle keep. The family who owned the castle also died from the illness. The last person alive lit a fire on the keep and then left the castle for good.
In the days that followed, the fire burnt everything in the castle. Even the strong castles walls began to crumble in the inferno. The ash from the fire was blown into the low-lying moat and poisoned all the remaining life. The beautiful fish tried to hide in the goblet for as long as possible. But soon the dry winds, the harsh sun and smoke sucked up all moisture from the moat. With nowhere left to hide, she floated on her side in the broken goblet and looked up at the castle. What was left of the burnt and broken castle looked back at the dying fish and they watched each other die.
Some time passed. The winds blew the dust and ash away. The castle was broken down by the elements and soon became just a memory. One wall remained however, but only half as high as it had been. The moat too was barren and bereft with only dried cracked earth in its place.
Day after day, the sun swung over the desolate scene, alighting momentarily on the gilded edge of the broken goblet. Some seeds from the nearby meadows were blown on the summer breeze to land in it’s upturned cup.
And then the rain came.
It was soft and fragrant rain that continued for days and washed everything, making the world fresh and new. This rain felt like a blessing. And although it was too late for the castle and the fish, it served to cleanse and revitalise the land around. It fell into the moat, and on the seeds that had blown there.
And in the fish’s goblet, the goblet where she had died, a seed took hold. Kissed by the blessed rain, a tiny fragile blossom emerged shaded, in part, by the lone castle wall. Although it was black and broken and only half as tall as before, the wall was high enough to protect this new growth.
So now, in this land grows a beautiful and rare flower; with petals the colour of moonlight and leaves the colour of fallen stars. It grows in the shade of a broken castle wall and smells in a strange way like the sea.
Changing habits March 13, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , 2comments
Right at this very moment two of my girlfriends are changing.
One is head over heels in love and planning to get married in her garden. And the other has just resigned, rented out her home, and has booked a flight to Kathmandu to work on a community project.
It’s not the first time either of them has done such a thing.
What is it about our lives? We repeat things until we get it right, or hope to get it right, or get it almost right. In any event, who says what’s right except our own in-built moral compass. What interests me is that we keep repeating things.
Just this morning I was talking with friends about this process. How do we stay true to our path? How do we change the direction of that path if it reaches a dead end? And will we know the dead end when it appears? And what about those forks that lead you in circles back on the same path. The forks I call habit.
I’m aware that when we change one part of a puzzle other parts of the puzzle adjust, sometimes with resistance and other times to strengthen the new configuration.
Right now I am changing the way I live and work. I change the way I live in my house by decorating and moving things around. I change the way I work by linking to new media that enables me to operate from home in a far more global way than ever before. All fine because it’s just about me. Where it gets tricky is when other people come into the equation.
This darling soon-to-be-wed friend has had to change arrangements for the overseas trip we were going to take together. The sudden change raised a question of paying more money or losing money to adjust for that change.
My first reaction to the travel change was a default reaction to rescue the situation, to ensure someone else was made happy. To pick up the extra cost so she could be happy. But it didn’t sit right. Something tweaked in this newly-renovated-self. Something made me put my needs out there.
And here’s where the stress arose. If I told her what I wanted and needed, would this friend be angry? Would my needs outweigh hers? Would I lose her as a friend? Whose fault was it anyway? Why rock the boat!?
No need to worry, of course. Once all the information was laid on the table and because she’s a friend, her reaction was of course perfect acquiescence and love. I needn’t have worried.
But I did. Not that I worried for nothing. Rather I worried just enough for the lesson to be remembered well, and the dead-end behaviour to stop.
So I dare say we will keep doing the same things again and again. We’ll repeat the same lesson many times before we’re through. It’s how we do it, each time it comes up, that make the difference, not getting it right.
Ithaca is gorgeous February 4, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , 3comments
When you start on your journey to Ithaca,
then pray that the road is long.
So starts the remarkable poem Ithaca by K. P. Kavafis. The message of the poem is a simple one that most travellers have figured out. It’s all about the journey and not about the end.
I wanted to write my first ever blog about the surprises you get on the journey if you keep your eyes open. Luckily I have a very patient friend, James – who teaches me all sorts of things on the new media journey -who told me to start my blog with a story. So here we go..
I re-discovered Ithaca on a transatlantic crossing, when I heard the poem read aloud by a RADA trained, Greek actress one night on the QM2. Does it get any better? Actually it does.
I took a copy of the poem with me for the remainder of my trip to USA and Canada determined that the meaning in the poem – to live in the moment – wouldn’t be lost on me. It was especially pertinent, as the journey to America was to be a circuit-breaker following the death of my darling husband “bloke”. I had to get on with life, nothing was going to bring him back. And as I didn’t want to spend my 50th birthday alone - I took off on a whirlwind trip to spend it with my twin sister Cate, on a road trip through New England.
On all trips there’s a balancing act between wanting to stay in a gorgeous new place, 
And at the heart of this group is my brand new mate, Ismail. Now there’s a whole other story about the synchronicity of names (given the time of my life and the state I was in, but that’s for another blog). Ismail turned my head, for the simple reason he was wearing a T-shirt that read, Ithaca is gorgeous.
He and I hit it off immediately. We talked about painting, about Vancouver, about tarot, about study, about Amsterdam, about life, about journeys and destinations. ”What’s your Go-to (ie favourite) word?” he asked me one day. “What’s the word you go to all the time, the word you use, the word people associate with you?” It only took a minute to answer. Gorgeous. My Go-to word is gorgeous, which made his first day T-shirt all the more significant. He and the trip, and the actress, and the poem were all part of a great and gorgeous circuit breaker. Journeys are about that. Going all the way across the world to come back changed, altered, somehow healed and to pick up where you left off and get on with what you need to do.
Ismail and I keep in contact and he will be a friend to other good mates who are moving over to Vancouver soon. We play it forward – how gorgeous is that! And this year I’m off again to spend time with my family, to celebrate the 21st birthday of my twin niece and nephew. Guess where? In Greece on Kefalonia – just across the water from Ithaca.
