Wish Jars

The moon is hanging low and yellow at the end of Solonos street tonight, smeared with drifting clouds. It's full.

When I was in Epheses with Hande, we went to the house where it is believed Mother Mary spent her last days. There's a church there now where people go to pray, and a board where they leave their wishes (prayers), tied with a rag to the wishes of others and assembled into a sort of cottony jumbled heap of white. 

I was having trouble knowing what to wish for, standing their with my pen hovering in the air and searching for what was the essence of everything I wanted or needed at that moment in time. Hande was watching me struggle.

"I would start with your health."

So starting with my health, I wrote down three separate wishes (prayers) and tied them to the board. Hande did the same. As we walked away she told me that her mother comes all of the time to this place.

"Why?"

"Sometimes to ask for something, and many times to thank her for answering."

I should mention that Hande's family is technically Muslim.

Nearly one month later, I have to plan a trip to Izmir to thank the Lady for granting one of my wishes, if not two, considering I'm still walking, talking, moving, breathing and bleeding as does any healthy human being.

No, I'm not telling you what the wish was. There are still two more to go. I don't know how these things work; is it a package deal? All or nothing? Does uttering one out loud dispell the others?

I've been working a lot of positive magic lately. I have a jar full of torn paper from writing down nice things that someone in particular does for me. I did this because I was getting crabby about things that I maybe don't consider so nice. It was an attempt to refocus my attention.

I'll restate that the jar is full and still growing.

I have a lot of jars. It goes along with my obsession with honey which has only grown stronger since living in the Mediterranean where there are happy bees. Anyone who's seen Greece in the Spring could see why. Flowers are shooting out of the pavement here. Anyway I go through a jar of honey about every two and a half weeks, and we're not talking the little plastic bear size. There's Pooh Bear, and then there's me. That's all.

The result is that each time I finish the honey, I can't let go of the jar. It's a memory of that wild Greek honey I enjoyed every morning for breakfast and every night in my tea... or just the fact that I'm having wild Greek honey twice a day, which is certainly one of the highlights of my decisions upon coming here.


I have these jars and I want to do something beautiful and artistic with them but I can't decide what. I want them to benefit other people. I want the happiness that I had each time I opened the jar and dropped my spoon into that thick amber matter, had a little taste, a small moment of ecstasy on the tongue, I want that to be transferred to someone else. I can't decide, it's true, but I do have some vague notions competing for the gold.

They require little tokens, symbols, and messages. Maybe old photographs. Feathers. Buttons. Strips of poetry. A gold coin.

I imagine them being found on windowsills or the hood of cars. I'm not bothered by thoughts of them going unappreciated (most beautiful things aren't) It's just important to me to have my camera battery replaced so that I can document them before I send them out into the world. My poor camera battery has been in need of being replaced since before Izmir. Maybe I should have made four wishes....

Went to Ancient Corinth again today. On the road between the ancient site and Nafplio there is a row of farmers' booths selling wine, oil, fruit, herbs, and honey. I don't know how it got started but George started stopping at one in particular and I've become their customer. The honey they put in the jars comes from pine trees. It's heavy and sweet, thick and opaque compared to the crystalline stuff in the supermarkets. Sometimes we take clients by so they can sample the different honeys. Most of them had no idea there is such a thing as "different" honeys. The two farmers that run the stall don't speak a lick of English but their smiles say everything when they see the black van rolling up. It doesn't matter if we buy one apple or ten bottles of their garage produced wine; they're happy to see a frequent customer.

We were running late today. No time for wine and honey sampling. We were about to roll on past, the farmers just waving hello, when George wheeled to the side of the road and said "You have two minutes. Go and get it."

The clients were a bit puzzled but I think in the end they found it amusing that the American assistant buys her honey on the old road to Nafplio.

November, Friendly Helpers and a worthy goal.

A beautiful morning. My underwear is flapping on the line like Tibetan prayer flags, to quote a comparison by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love and someone who I'm compared to frequently by both friends and acquaintances after hearing a little of my story up until today.

I've had two big dreams since I was a little girl. 1) To be an artist. 2) To write books. I used to write and illustrate books that I gave to my cousin. When I was six. In my thirty years I've probably started twenty, then left them there like marble statues not freed from their blocks. I've even contemplated what it would be to publish a book of book concepts. There would be so many chapters it would need to be in the reference section of the library.

So now, at half past thirty, where do I stand?

 I've become an artist. Don't look at whether or not I make my living from it or how often I spend my days at the easel, in the galleries, mingling with the artsy crew... it's become integrated in me and my mind is always working even when my hands can't. When I wake up in the morning, it is with an artist's heart. When I look out the window, it is with artist's eyes. When I'm struck with an idea, I write it down. I draw it out. What is art? For me, it is the way you go through your every moment, looking for the spectacular and doing your damndest to communicate it somehow so the world can see it the way you do.


This is open for discussion because there will never be an easy definition for Art, or art, or a-r-t, but I believe it's arrogant and presumptuous to dismiss the simple woman who is constantly rearranging the tops of her table, using a critical eye and an aesthetic point of view specific to her, as anything other than an artist. The punks putting time and effort into their grafitti work, also artists. The cook arranging the beets around the cut cucumbers with love and attention, the man who adheres objects to a cement post for no other reason than he believes it's something that should be done... all of these are artists and the world is a better place for having them.

So, dream one, accomplished. The only thing lacking is steady, concentrated application, a little luck and a mustard seed of ambition. The hope is that one day I'll get to do it all day, every day and people will be knocking down my door demanding more. It would be nice, and it's not, actually, so unrealistic in my head. I'm still a little green is all. Only thirty? The little girl version of myself wasn't wishing to be a trendy up and comer. The eighty year old version of myself prefers to look back at someone who slowly marinated, progressed and matured with grace and in the end puts out something that is a window to another universe, one that gives sparkle and changes the way you see the little things, the forgotten things, the unseen. The eighty year old version of myself will probably still be doing it, should I and the world both make it together.

:


Last November, I got a mysterious email in my inbox from a supporter known only as "Friendly Helper." Friendly helper shows up in my inbox from time to time with just a message, a note, a link to an article, a photograph, a quote, a poem, an idea... and to let the mystery continue, these things are ALWAYS pertaining to what I am going through at that specific point in time. An example: I was deliberating making a drastic change of lifestyle, selling everything and getting the heck out of the USA.

THIS

when the blog writing had stalled, an email with just this as the subject:

........w......r......i......t.....e.......

 and these links.

http://www.bravenewtraveler.com/2008/01/03/the-50-greatest-travel-books-of-all-time/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Travel_literature

http://www.travel-writers-exchange.com/

And last November

THIS

Something I didn't know about. An organization trying to pump up all of the would be writers in the world, get them to work at a crazy pace for the period of one month. While all of the rest of the world is preparing for obscene holidays of decadence and overconsumption, dope up on coffee, burn your retinas by the light of your laptop and write your bleedin' heart out.

I signed up, but I hadn't geared up. It didn't take and I said, "Next year."

My 100 day challenge began 38 days ago. That's 38 posts ago. I hear it takes sixty days to form or break a habit. I factored that in along with 100 days to form a plot and a little extra because I hate being crunched for time. This means I started my 100 day challenge 200 days before the month of November, when I intend to check into a little room (at this moment the thought is the village of Delphi where I get close access to the oracle, lucky me) until the 21st of November when I intend to fly to San Francisco and participate in a write-a-thon fundraiser to support creative writing workshops for children across the country (the American one.)

Those who know me are surely so staggered at the idea of my doing all of this pre-meditating, calculating and planning that they've started rereading... sure that they got something wrong, but it's a real dream, an attainable goal, and I've already sent out some emails asking for sponsorship.

So now it's really real.



By the way, FH had this to say about Elizabeth Gilbert in an indirect way:

"There is a difference between sounding funny, candid and likable and sounding petty, conceited and fickle. I was genuinely surprised by the lack of empathy Ms. Gilbert had for anyone. Every situation, every comment, every sidestory pointed squarely to herself and her personal problems."

"This book reminded me of a quote that's served me well in life: "It's a sign of maturity when you begin to fall out of love with your own drama." The author clearly hasn't reached this stage on her path to "enlightenment"!"

"You can get through this section of the book fairly quickly by skimming paragraphs replete with the personal pronoun. If you see a lot of "I" this and "I" that, you are in a section on spiritual insight and can just move on."

"She wants to appear as a hip, clever, wise soul-searcher. Instead she comes across as a self-absorbed, vain teen-ager. "

"I'm embarassed to have bought this."

"After then seeing her on Oprah and watching all these bored housewives talk about how insightful she was it felt cult like, like all these people needed to be told by some wack-a-doo that they are worth it? Please..."

The comparisons to Ms. Gilbert have started to make me wary...

My book will probably not be about myself. Or at least not intentionally. Rather, it will be a window to another universe to remember the forgotten and the unseen. Why change subject matter just because I'm in a different medium?

Because from my understanding the people reading this are friends and people who care, I really believe in your positive thinking. Would you keep it coming, please? On my honor, I'm returning the favor. My opinion of this place called Earth is not the glowy, promising one that I had when I was a little girl. Not even the one that I had when I was twenty, but when I sit back and admire some of the people I've collected around me as true friends, I'm astonished at my good fortune. Tomorrow I'm going to write about someone who hasn't been as lucky.

See you then.

New Ideas, New Endeavors, New world

Today I roamed the city with Despina who was helping me scout out territory for a secret mission. So secret I am going to continue to write about it here in such a way that my mother will surely suspect I am trying to get pregnant, because that is usually where her imagination jumps to first.

We, I mean, SHE, made phone calls, discussed, bartered, circled, mapped, and taxi'd us around the city. I nodded my head "Yes," "No," and smiled for the nice people she introduced me to. It is good to have an ally like Despina and I could not have asked for better company today. No, I'm not writing this just because I have learned that she is among the now estimated seven people reading my posts.

Because I insist on remaining mysterious, I'll move quickly along to my next new thing which was born as of tonight in preparation for tomorrow.

For all of the Texan artists needing reliable local representation overseas, I offer you my services.

Tomorrow I will be meeting with the people of the Half Note and introducing them to the talents of Randy Weeks, Jim Keaveny, and Shand Walton. These three artists will be the first of many Texan musicians to storm Athens, Greece, and then, who knows. Maybe we'll take Istanbul.

Back when I was living in Austin, I was just a groupie of these three. Our friendship started by inviting their female counterparts/companions/PR managers over for tea and pecan pie. I adore these women, my powerpuff girls, my sisters in strangeness.



This picture is minus ms. Mary Lyn Vernon who, somehow, I don't have a picture of. I wonder if she would even like it if she were on the internet... somehow I don't think so.

Regardless, they took me in, drove me to shows, we hung out, they tossed back beer, I was heavy in my tea drinking phase then so I was usually, well, the dork with the teacup in the sawdust floor dance halls. Man, those two years were filled with a lot of really good times.

Their guys are amazing musicians, full of stories and intellect. They're all wandering souls who love to play, playing so they might continue to wander. Not long after I got here I was showing them off to a colleague who suggested I try and pull together a Texas Music Festival in Athens, Greece. I kicked around the idea, asked them what they thought and as I suspected, they loved the idea of introducing Greeks to some good folk sounds. I made a big fuss about them sending material to take around to venues and not long after, Ms. Reliable, Ms. likely internet shy, ML, put a fat stack of Randy Weeks cds in a box and shipped them off to Greece.
Three months later I got Jim's.
Two months after, I went back to Texas for a spell, slept over at Alexandra and Shand's place and took with me the press album from Shand Walton and the All Amigos Club.

The "Siga-Siga" approach to life fits on artists and musicians like a nice, wooly chullo. (refer to photo of ladies in chullos.) But we can also believe that all things happen in their proper time, which is more the approach I'm going with. There's been an awful lot going on in all of our lives and a big reunion in Athens wasn't something I wanted to rush through and get wrong, but Siga Siga, art and music is making a re entry into my life.

The Half Note is expecting me tomorrow. I'll let you know how it went when the Texas Music Festival hen is nice and fat.


PS

I repeat, if any Texan musicians are looking for solid representation abroad...

 PPS

A little demonstration of the artists' talents