Ikaria July 1970

                                                                        Ikaria July 1970

There exist an island eight to eighteen hours from Athens, but in my mind no distance exist between us. We approach her cautiously, huddled tightly together on a wet deck of a slow churning ship. She rises majestically in the distant cerulean pelagos, delicately shrouded by the dawn’s early mist. Her ghostly presence stills my thoughts and races my heart. The morning fog, the temptress wind, the asperity of the mountains make a grand entrance fit for the noblest and virtuous of kings.

 

Shaped by the hands of nature a collage of air, land and water, she plays, she teases, she torments the inhabitants of her body and calls out to them. “Come play with my body and I will play with your souls”. She will not forsake them but in the end, survival is justified only for the living.

                                                          On the left there’s the sea

                                                          On the right there’s the land

                                                           And in between can be found man

Her winds whistle through the pines and race down her lonely rocky roads. Yes, I will not forsake you she whispers but in the end. Man will struggle and he shall survive with his plot of earth all within the face of time.

The village, nestled warm and snug, half way up the mountain side, revealed as a pattern of white specks, specks you could brush off your shoulder with a swipe of your hand. Your feet sing along on the winding road and in the night it becomes your captor. “Follow me,” it says, “Your destiny lies in me.” You follow one step after another, one thought after another, wondering about the scenes  your captor has witnessed and knowing for the moment you are part of them.

 

The light shines, it shines low and dim in the old house with the fading whitewash. The ancient stones planted in the patio greet your weary body and lead you towards its’ haven. First, the kitchen, filled with countless aromas seemingly still drifting from the cooking pots  carefully arranged in the fireplace . Solid wooden benches along the walls seat visitors coming to narrate the news of the day. The three tiny bedrooms, all with icons, closely watching and protecting their human spirits, providing respite for the slumbering souls. The store room, dark and dusty, permeated forever by the scent of olive oil. On its’ wall dangle the implements of survival, massive amphoras for oil, wine and water, a handmade wooden loom, and the universal tools used by farmers eons ago.

 

Here on this mystic isle you find love, you find hate, as you search for the dreams of man. So, in the end you too can say, “I played among those gods of the heart.” The sun is always high, the moon is always bright, and the stars parade before you every night. This island my friend is your world and you shall be all right.