Month: October 2017

Love, what a bastard you are.

Love, what a bastard you are. When you come and when you go. What a bastard, when you linger. When you turn up uninvited, fucking gatecrasher, and make yourself at home with your feet up on the sofa and it’s like you were always there, but you’re just as likely to leave as you are to stay and there’s no telling which. When you loiter, fucking hooligan: kicking us over like rubbish bins so all our things spill out, when you set us on fire and watch us burn. When you scrape us from the inside, when you scrape us raw, when you scrape us clean of reason; not new but worse than new, not naïve but worse because we have known better, because we’ve known this before, but then you scrape us clean of knowing and there is only love. Fucking bomber planes in the sky, fucking minefields: explosions. Running wildly, in all directions, but not away – towards. Easy targets, lonely, frightened people, with our hopes despite, with our dreams regardless, with our romantic notions intact and our defences shattered. Scattered, all of our never agains and our better off alones, every I don’t need you and I’m not looking for anything, actually we’ve ever uttered; BOOM, lonely, frightened fools, fooling ourselves we can live without love. Running away as if there’s anywhere else to go. Fucking twister hurricane, spinning us round so we don’t know where or what or why but only who, this one person all of a sudden, and how the tides might turn, oh how they turn, when you think you’re standing on dry land and now you’re drowning. Fucking earthquake, and that deep rumble that means that the world is rearranging itself, that terrible screech as metal snaps and stone crumbles and everything collapses, defenceless, the wafer-thin structures that we cower within: I can live without you. Fucking asteroid, granting no wishes except your own, crashing into our lives and gouging holes into the nice, neat path that we’ve chiselled for ourselves so we can walk in a straight line and not stumble. The ancients were right: the sky does fall down on you sometimes, and the earth is flat, without love.

Fucking wonderful, fucking terrifying, to meet a soul that’s made like yours. When you hear them click, those two separate souls, above the noise, above the rumble. What a bastard you are, for granting us this without guarantees, what a bastard for putting us through this ordeal without promises. Fucking gypsy, preying on our hopes despite, our dreams regardless, tracing the lines in our palms and hinting at destiny, pulling the stars down from the sky and putting them in our hands and asking nothing in return except faith, all of our faith in impossible, wonderful, terrifying things like meeting a soul that’s made like yours. What a bastard.

Αν τ’ ακουμπήσεις λίγο κάτω, όλα αυτά που κουβαλάς

Μου ‘πε ο Γιάννης να γράψω μια ιστορία για τα ξύλα, κι εγώ είπα ίσως, ποτέ δεν ξέρεις, και γελούσα – μα ίσως να μπορώ, τελικά. Για τα ξύλα που τ’ ανεβάζω απ’ το ποτάμι, ανηφόρα και χώμα και δυο φορές σκαλιά – μία ώσπου να βγω απ’ το ποτάμι στον περιφερειακό κι άλλη μία από κει και πάνω ως το σπίτι – και τα ντανιάζω, όμορφα, πλάι στην αμυγδαλιά. Που πριν απ΄αυτό τα ψάχνω και τα ξεδιαλέγω, εδώ τα μικρά, εδώ τα πιο μεγάλα, εκεί κάτι κούτσουρα που με δυσκολία τα σηκώνω, αυτά για προσάναμμα κι εκείνα για ζέστη, και τα μαζεύω σε διάφορα σημεία, στρατηγικά, για να τα ξαναβρώ μετά, στην επόμενη βόλτα. Τα ξύλα που τα παίρνω τα μικρά στην τσάντα και τα μεγάλα αγκαλιά κι ανηφορίζω πάλι για το σπίτι, ιδρώνοντας και με κομμένη αναπνοή, κι ας μη φαίνεται τόσο μακριά. Έχει ύψος και κλίση και τα σκαλιά, ανομοιόμορφα, δε βοηθάνε κι εγώ πάντα κουβαλάω παραπάνω απ’ ότι μπορώ. Πάντα λίγο παραπάνω απ’ ότι μπορώ.

Μπορώ να γράψω για τα ξύλα πως με κουράζουν, αλλά μ’ αρέσει να τα μαζεύω. Μ’ αρέσει να πηγαίνω και να ‘ρχομαι, φορτωμένη. Να κουβαλάω πράγματα χρήσιμα, που θα με ζεστάνουν το χειμώνα. Μ’ αρέσει να κουβαλάω τα ξύλα, αντί για τις σκέψεις που κουβαλάω συνήθως, που δεν τους φαίνεται αλλά είναι πιο βαριές. Μ’ αρέσει, παρ’ ότι πονάει το σώμα μου παντού κι είμαι γεμάτη γρατζουνιές στα μπράτσα. Μ’ αρέσει που το σώμα μου μαθαίνει σιγά-σιγά στο κουβάλημα και τα πόδια μου πού να πατάνε στο μονοπάτι για να μην πέσω. Μ’ αρέσει να ψάχνω μες τα χόρτα για ξύλα, ν’ ανακαλύπτω κρυμμένους θησαυρούς που ‘χουν κυλήσει μέσα σε θάμνους ή σε γωνίες ή κάτω από σύρματα. Μ’ αρέσει που έχω αρχίσει να ξεχωρίζω ποια είναι ελαφριά και ποια είναι βαριά και ποια είναι κούφια, και πως όλα κάνουνε, όλα έχουν τη χρήση τους. Μ’ αρέσει η διαδικασία, και η ανάγκη της, πως πρέπει να την κάνω γιατί αλλιώς δε θα ‘χω ξύλα να κάψω για να ζεσταθώ. Μ’ αρέσει που πρέπει, γιατί το πρέπει αυτό είναι απλό και πρακτικό, όχι σαν τ’ άλλα που ‘ξερα παλιά. Στην άλλη μου ζωή.

Ήμουν τουρίστας στη ζωή μου εδώ μέχρι πριν λίγο. Ήμουν εδώ αλλά δεν ήμουν γιατί κρατιόμουν από αλλού. Γιατί έλεγα πως είμαι εδώ μα ζούσα, λέει, στο Λονδίνο. Εκεί που όλα μπορείς να τ’αγοράσεις μα δε σου μένει τίποτα. Εκεί που όταν αρχίζουν τα κρύα, την πρώτη στιγμή που κρυώνουν τα πόδια σου στο σπίτι, πατάς ένα κουμπί κι ανάβει η θέρμανση κι έρχεται μετά ο λογαριασμός. Και μετά πληρώνεις. Κι εδώ δεν είχα καν θέρμανση. Είχα κάτι καλοριφέρ του κώλου και τα ‘βαζα στην πρίζα και κρύωνα όλο το χειμώνα, αλλά δεν πείραζε γιατί ήμουνα τουρίστας. Ήμουν τουρίστας μέχρι πρόσφατα κι ίσως την περσινή χρονιά να μάζευα θάρρος αντί για ξύλα. Να μάζευα λόγους να ‘μαι εδώ, να μάζευα τρόπους για να μείνω. Μαθήματα. Κουράγιο. Το πλήρωσα, πάντως, κι αυτό μετά. Μετά πάντα πληρώνεις. Αλλά εγώ ότι είχα να δώσω το ‘δωσα, δεν έχω πια. Δυο-τρία πράγματα που έμαθα και λίγο θάρρος: αυτά. Κι όλους τους λόγους για να μείνω. Και να μαζεύω ξύλα, γιατί δεν είμαι πια τουρίστας και θέλω τα πόδια μου να ‘ναι ζεστά μέσα στο σπίτι.

Στην άλλη μου ζωή έπρεπε πολλά και κουβαλούσα άλλα τόσα. Και τα πλήρωνα. Κι αν μου λεγαν τότε πως θα μάζευα ξύλα για να ζεσταθώ και πως θα μ’ άρεσε, θα γελούσα. Αλλά ποτέ δεν ξέρεις. Κι αν τ’ ακουμπήσεις λίγο κάτω, όλα αυτά που κουβαλάς, κι αφήσεις χώρο για τα άλλα, ίσως ν’ αρχίσεις να μαθαίνεις. Πόσα μπορείς και δε μπορείς. Πόσα δεν ξέρεις. Πόσα αντέχεις.

Μ’ αρέσει, που εδώ προετοιμαζόμαστε για τα επόμενα. Μ’ αρέσει που δεν είναι όλα εύκολα, που πρέπει λίγο να τα σκεφτείς. Που δεν πατάς απλά ένα κουμπί κι όλα λύνονται. Όλα λύνονται, αλλά κάπως αλλιώς. Μ’ αρέσει που δεν ξέρω τίποτα και τα μαθαίνω, που έχω ανθρώπους δίπλα μου που θέλουν να μου τα μάθουν. Μ’ αρέσει που μαθαίνω πως δε γίνεται πάντα μόνη μου, δε χρειάζεται, κι ας κουβαλάω ακόμα πιο πολλά απ’ ότι αντέχω. Κάποια στιγμή θα μάθω ή ν’ αντέχω πιο πολλά ή να αφήνω κάτω αυτά που δε μπορώ να κουβαλήσω. Ίσως ακόμα και ν’ αφήνω κάποιον άλλον να σηκώνει αυτά που δε μπορώ. Και μ’ αρέσει που όταν πάω για ξύλα ακουμπώ τις σκέψεις μου στο σπίτι, για να ‘μαι λίγο πιο ελαφριά στο δρόμο μου, για να ‘χω χώρο στην αγκαλιά μου για όλα αυτά που θέλω να μπουν.

Δεν έχει άλλη ζωή: αυτή είναι. Κι είναι μικρή, κι ας φαίνεται μεγάλη. Δεν είναι για να κουβαλάς βαριά και άχρηστα και να ξοδεύεσαι, να σπαταλάς την αγκαλιά σου. Γι’ αυτό, απ’ όλα αυτά που κουβαλούσα κάποτε, κρατάω εκείνο το ποτέ δεν ξέρεις, και πάω για ξύλα. Να ανεβαίνω απ’ το ποτάμι φορτωμένη και να τ’ αφήνω όμορφα πλάι στην αμυγδαλιά. Να χτίζω βουνά από ξύλα. Αυτά, από τα πρέπει. Κι έπειτα: λίγο θάρρος, κι ανθρώπους δίπλα μου που θέλουν να με μάθουν, και να ‘χω ζέστη μες το σπίτι το χειμώνα. Αυτά που δεν τα πληρώνεις γιατί δε μπορείς να τ’ αγοράσεις – δε χρειάζομαι άλλους λόγους.

Apologies, once again, to the non Greek speakers among you. This piece is sort of about no longer being a tourist in my own life, and in this life they speak Greek; I need to adapt. But I will try to write an English version in the next few days.

Your soul is always where it needs to be

I’ve said it before, that you can’t be depressed in a place like this. I’ve said it many times, but it’s a lie. It’s a line I feed myself when I feel it coming on and I’m hungry for nothing; deplete of everything and wanting nothing. It’s a line for when I sense it circling and I’m frozen on the spot because there’s nowhere to run. It’s a line that I throw at other people when they ask about my life, when I show them the set I live it on: the fields of thirsty silver and gold, the perfect line between mountain and sky, toy churches glowing in the sunshine and smudges of pink bougainvillea, the horizons made up of Cycladic blue sea. It’s an exorcism, for when my soul is in the right place. How can you be depressed in a place like this?

With the sunshine picking out highlights in your hair and warming up your skin, how? How, when you have to lift your hand to shade against so much beauty, when there is more and more to love everywhere you look? When everything is so light, so weightless that you can imagine it just floating away on a jasmine-scented breeze, how can you possibly conceive of any kind of weight? But depression is the chill inside, where the sun cannot reach. Depression is the filter that turns everything flat and grey. It’s a desolate landscape. It’s the mathematical formula that multiplies everything by zero. Depression only understands love as lost, as unrequited; as regret. And it always tips the scales in its favour; there is no counterweight when your soul is in the wrong place.

At times like this, that sunshine, those endless, generous skies are like a personal affront. They hurt. Beauty hurts, lightness hurts when you feel ugly and weighed down by things you cannot see. Things you cannot hold or handle, cannot pick up and examine and toss aside, cannot show anyone and say look, see? Here is the thing that hurts me, so you can take it apart together and scare it away. Depression cannot be shared and when you’re standing in the sunshine against a sky of endless blue, that’s all anyone can see. A girl framed by light, and how can you be depressed in a place like this?

I’ve said it before, to guilt-trip myself into recovery, when depression has already taken hold. How self-indulgent, how ungrateful. How shameful, when other people would give anything to have a little of what you’ve got; how wasteful. But that’s depression talking, when it tells you you have the best of everything and yet you’re empty and poor. When it shows you all the love in the world, tantalisingly out of reach. When it says your soul is in the wrong place. Pinned down by grief, an inarticulated sadness, too heavy to flutter in the breeze.

It helps, to be in a place like this. It can help. You can take yourself for a walk to the top of a hill and gaze out to sea and place the magnitude of everything in context. You can force yourself to look at the spaces of sky between trees, all the entry points for light to filter through and heal you. It can help, to see depression contrasted with beauty, but it isn’t beauty that we forget about when depression takes hold; it isn’t beauty that we need reminding of. What we forget is that our soul is always in the right place. No matter how uncomfortable it feels, our soul is exactly where it needs to be.

I’d forgotten this yesterday, when depression took hold. It was with me when I woke in the morning and by late afternoon I could barely move for its syrupy embrace. I tried to summon gratitude as the antidote, but it is hard to be grateful for anything when there is nothing that you want. I tried to not be wasteful of the beauty all around me, but I sat in the sunshine and it just wore me down. I took my coffee outside and smoked a cigarette and gazed at mountains and sky, and there was only pain. Emptiness. A mockery of everything I could feel; everything I should, by rights, be feeling if my soul was in the right place. Pinned down by grief for all the love that was out of reach – but some instinct told me to reach. Only a little, only as much as I could. Only as far as sending my friend a message. Everything is shit, I said. I’m tired of everything. I don’t want anything at all. Will you come round?

And he came. And we sat on my terrace, on the sun-warmed stones as the sun began to set upon the fields of silver and gold. He didn’t ask to see the sadness, the intangible weight I was asking him to lift; he didn’t ask how, in a place like this, with the sunshine in my hair. We didn’t look at the sky changing colours in the west or the mountains turning to shadows behind us. Steeped in this beauty, we looked at each other, because all of it is background, the set we live our lives on, but the place is where our souls are at, and the people are what make it a living. Looking at the sea stretching out beyond your horizon can help you remember how small you are, how inconsequential your sorrows, but inconsequential talk between two people on a Wednesday afternoon is what will put you back in your place, right where your soul is at. A friend turning up to sit with you when you have nothing to offer, a friend bringing nothing but the fact that he came: that’s where it’s at. No matter what’s happening around you, in the background, on the set, this is the only place that matters. No matter how uncomfortable it feels, this is the place where you can never be depressed. How, when your soul is exactly where it needs to be, and love is never out of reach?

I am not making light of depression here; there is nothing light about it. But reaching out can help. It won’t be shared and it won’t be halved, but it might loosen its grip on you, to remember that you are loved.

Coincidentally, my friend Keith wrote about his own struggle with depression a few days ago. Read his post here.

What they mean by home

I’m at the port, watching the ships sail in and out. I watch them tear the sea open, like splitting a seam, sending waves crashing against the rocks and rippling out to the shore, making children scream before they reach the beach, with a whoosh, and froth, and draw back, shimmering, as they mix with the silvery sand.

They blow their whistles, sometimes briefly, sometimes prolonged. Sometimes not at all. Hello, goodbye. I’m here! I’m leaving. I’m gone. In and out. Bringing people, taking people away. Taking them back. For me, once a summertime guest, the direction of travel has been reversed: when the boat glides into the port, now, it’s always bringing me back. When the jagged edges of the island first appear, when its dark shape looms at night, gaining in substance as we get closer and dots of light start to grow and spell out villages, shops still open, homes still occupied by those, like me, who stay, I understand what they mean by homecoming. There’s nothing epic about it; it’s not like that. It’s just a gliding in, a slotting into place. A small click that only you can hear, the click that means that, after years of pushing yourself into the jagged edges of other shores, you found the part that fits. Like a ship that doesn’t need to blow its whistle as it drifts into the port: you just slip back into place.

When I step onto the jetty, it’s the same: a moment for shoe to connect with soil, for girl to connect with island, a breathing out of other places, and then nothing. Almost nothing. No fanfare and no one to greet me, no one to say welcome as if my presence here is remarkable. I drift past the wives and husbands, children if it’s not too late, taxi drivers and maybe one or two hotel owners holding up signs. I wind my way through, sure on my feet because my feet know the way. I slip past, almost unnoticed, and it’s in that that I understand what I have found: it’s in the nods of those, like me, who stay. A tuck of the chin, a tilt of the head, a hand half-raised, a smile. A quiet welcome back, acknowledging my unremarkable presence. It’s in the fact that, when the ships sail out again, the seam closes after them before long. Whether they blow their whistle in goodbye, whether they drift out quietly: before long, it’s like they were never there. And I stay. It’s in the pleasure that gives me, it’s in the comfort I draw from the sight of that unbroken sea, that empty horizon, that I understand what they mean by home.

This is work in progress. An excerpt from what might become my next book – tentatively titled We’ll still be here when you are gone. Or maybe not… I’ll be posting bits and pieces as they get written; sign up below if you’d like to get them by email.