Living Happiness

Many people have asked me over the years how I made the decision to move to Greece. And as I answer their questions and they discover that I neither knew no one in Greece–nor was I Greek myself when I chose to do so–I am also usually asked the next question: “God, how were you brave enough to do that?!”

The funny thing about moves like this is that, at the time that you choose to make them, the decision seems like the most natural one in the world. And even though you know you are making a leap of faith, you’ve usually been practicing with baby leaps for a good while. This is what was true for me anyway.

My act of faith sky-diving, as one friend called it, didn’t start ostentatiously with all kinds of bells and fireworks. In fact, it started much more quietly. In the darkness. And with a step so mundane, you would never have guessed it would have set me on the path to a new destiny.

Let me tell you how it all began … .

Labor Day Weekend 2005
It was 5:00 in the morning and graveyard quiet. The night animals had gone to bed, and the morning birds had not yet woken. I stepped out of my cottage into darkness, onto an unfamiliar path and, flashlight at my shoulder, took my first nervous steps.

I was scared. Not because I was scared of the dark so much as I was scared to death of snakes. Yet here I was in the heart of the South Carolina Low Country, at the tail end of summer, marching outdoors at the hour of morning where cold-blooded snakes like to warm themselves on the still-warm concrete.

As I slowly walked through the blackness (because it was black, truly black, not a single natural or man-made light around for miles), I prayed to dear God to please not let me see a snake. In fact, it was less prayer than it was mantra: Please don’t let me see a snake, please don’t let me see a snake, please don’t let me see a snake, I repeated as I walked with great trepidation down this Low Country path to a warmly lit dining hall and the breakfast that awaited me at the end.

This weekend was part of a promise made to myself at the beginning of the year to go somewhere where I could hear the still, small voice in my soul that wasn’t to be heard amidst the thunder, the fire, or the earthquakes that marked my life at the time. My promise had brought me here … to Mepkin Abbey, South Carolina–a Trappist monastery–for a weekend of silent retreat.

But now as I walked through the inky, pre-dawn blackness to the refectory and breakfast, I still wasn’t altogether over the jittery nerves that had plagued me since I’d arrived here just a few hours earlier.

From the moment my car had pulled into the graveled drive, I had been gripped by an incomprehensible, soul-quaking fear. A fear so strong that before I’d even made it more than a quarter of a mile into the Abbey’s gates, I had seriously considered turning the car around and just driving back the same way I’d come–which was 6 hours away!

This feeling of soul fear, along with my anxiety about the snakes, was still with me now as I made my way along the path toward breakfast.

Later that morning, I sat in my cottage bedroom looking out of the window, trying to listen to whatever I could hear amidst all this silence and not sure I was really hearing anything. But then my thoughts turned to my morning walk, and I had my epiphany.

I saw myself walking the darkened path earlier that morning, everything totally dark except for the small amount of light my flashlight had given off. I had been unnerved by the short range of its beam, wishing that it could have illuminated just a few more feet in front of me so as to ensure that there were no snakes, but it hadn’t, and I’d had to go foot by foot down that path, a bit at a time, before I’d finally made it to the refectory.

When this memory came to me, I realized that this image was my life. Mired in a job I hated, confused about what to do next, feeling the call of purpose in my life, and desperately trying to discern my vocation — literally my “calling” from the Latin vocare – my world seemed very black indeed.

But as I sat in my chair at the window, amazed by this realization, clarity finally came to me in a voice or a whisper or a knowing, “Trust the light (of wisdom and Scripture). Trust the path you’re on. Trust the community of people all around you, and they will lead you where you’re going. Your vocation will be waiting for you at the end.”

I knew then that I was being asked to have faith, to believe that even if I could only see a few feet in front of me at a time, I could be confident that what I wanted most earnestly would eventually be found.

Note — This post is the first of three that chart my journey from one life and into another.  For the rest of the story, you will want to read these posts:

• The Next Steps in the Journey (Part 2/3)
• When Walking Becomes Flying (Part 3/3)

Namaste.
Peace be with you.

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Dear readers: I would like to ask for your kind indulgence today to allow me to present the following story en lieu of my more traditional posts. This is a tale that came to me recently during one of my morning walks. My fiance upon hearing it said, “You have to write this.” And write it I have. I hope you will enjoy this contemporary folk tale, written from the recent experiences of my own life. May it touch you in some way. Happy Friday.

Once upon a time there was a traveler, a pilgrim in a strange land. She had journeyed there from afar and spent many amazing days and amazing nights discovering a new and unusual country full of treasures and heartaches. It was hard work for her, discovering this new land, and it came to pass that one day it was requested of her that she return to the city of her youth for a few months until such time as she was ready to truly enter into the life of this strange new country. And so she began a journey. A journey to a place that she had left several years before, curious as to what she would find there.

She walked and walked through the rocky terrain, the olive trees and the sandy limestone paths. Then the olive trees became fewer and the sandy paths became darker. Hills became less steep and mountains became more green. The birds overhead chirped a song that she knew, and the blinding sun (so usually strong during these months) became more gentle and allied itself with its friends, the rain clouds, and rain began to fall. As the trees became taller and the flowers became more numerous, the traveler knew that she was nearing her city, the place of her youth, and she began to make inquiries about a place to stay for the night. She knew that it would not do to be caught out in the cold with no shelter and, more importantly, no company.

The first fellow traveler she met along the way greeted her and said, “Hello, my friend. So you are going into the city, too? That is where I live. I have a home of riches and it has room for you. Come. You must stay with me. It will be an honor to me and my family.”

The traveler was warmed by this request and relieved that her task had been so effortless. Seeing that she was still quite a ways out from the city, she rejoiced and was pleased that she could now travel on her way, enjoying the approach into the land of her youth with only the concerns of the visitor who wants to fill her eyes with the sights and sounds of those things at once both unknown yet familiar to her. She heartily agreed to this invitation and she and her fellow traveler parted ways, agreeing to meet at the entrance to the city in three days time.

The three days passed quickly, the traveler’s steps quickening now as she anticipated her arrival and the warm reception she would receive in the home of this friend. But as she made her final approach into the city a series of bad omens began to give her pause. First she saw a blackbird. Then she saw a lame horse. And finally a pool of stagnant water. All of these were unsettling to her, and by the time she had reached the city’s gate, she had decided that she would not stay with her fellow traveler.

As they’d arranged, her fellow traveler met her at the gate to the city, but she found his entire demeanor towards her to be changed. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you mean to insinuate you were going to stay in my home? Be gone with you. There’s no room in my house for the likes of you.” And he quickly strode away.

The traveler was stunned and heartbroken. For although she had planned to obey the signs and refuse his invitation, this rebuke hurt her deeply and filled her with doubts. Not only that, but now she entered the city with no refuge, no place of rest to lay her head and lay down the burden of her travels.

Fortunately, it was early morning when the traveler finally stepped through the gate and entered the outer edge of the city, the sun just blooming over the horizon and promising to be as bright and gentle as it had been for so many days during the last part of her journey. So the traveler began to make inquiries in the town for a place to lay her head before nightfall.

The first place she visited was a nearby temple. The joyful faces of the worshippers seemed promising and a young supplicant, hearing her query, said, “Why, yes! I think I do have a place for you. My mother is in need of a companion and would welcome whatever companionship you could give during your days with us. Let me speak with her, and we will meet at the well in the middle of the city at noon.”

Again the traveler was pleased and relieved to have found such help so soon. So she agreed to their arrangement and took her leave to roam through the city’s streets until such time as their meeting.

She strode into shops, ambled through the market stalls, watched the blacksmiths working their metals, and the merchants selling their wares. She basked in the sights and sounds of people and their livelihoods, seeing in this return things she had never seen before. So much life was in this city!

At the appointed time, the traveler made her way through the city streets to the well brimming over at its center. It lay in a lovely square presided over by beautiful trees. Flowers lined the walks. What a beautiful place to wait. And wait she did.

As the seconds gave way to minutes and the minutes gave way to hours, the traveler knew that the supplicant was not coming. But just as she had resolved to leave, he arrived, panting and out of breath. “You cannot stay with us. My mother is traveling herself to foreign lands. Good luck to you.” And he was gone in the blink of an eye.

The traveler’s worries were now very great, for the sun had already reached its zenith several hours before and was now making its descent towards its slumbering bed. She knew that it would not be long before she herself would need to do the same, and as yet she had no place to rest for the night.

So she began to pass again through the city streets, inquiring as to where someone may have a room. One of the citizens hearing her inquiries said to her, “Check the house near the edge of town. I hear that there is a place there where you may stay. It is not the most comfortable or hospitable of places, but it may suit your needs for a time.” And the traveler set off in the direction that this citizen pointed out to her.

When she arrived at the place, she discovered an old woman in the front garden washing a basket full of clothes. Her back was bent over her washboard, her hands reddened from the scrubbing, and she looked up as the traveler entered her yard. “What do you want,” she barked, not kindly but not unkindly either.

“I am a traveler. I come from a strange land. But I used to live in this city and am looking for a room for the night.”

The old woman left her washing and came to stand before her. The traveler saw that the hair she had pulled back was sprinkled with grey and her eyes rheumy with the early stages of blindness. Harsh lines creased her face, and her voice (unused to conversation) cracked when she talked. Looking her over warily, the old woman finally said, “This place is only for females,” and turned back to her washing.

Shocked, the traveler opened her mouth in surprise, “But … I am a female,” she stated.

“Whatever you say, Mister, but this place is only for females and you don’t look like a female to me.”

The traveler puzzled, looked down at her garb, at the robe around her waist and the sandals on her feet, the rings on her fingers and the bracelets on her wrists.

“I do make exceptions, though,” continued the old woman. “If you aren’t a female, there are certain guidelines you can follow that’ll make it alright for you to stay here. If you’re still interested, that is.”

And, with hardly a pause in her washing, the old woman reached into her bosom and pulled out a sheet of paper which she handed to the traveler. However, as the traveler puzzled over the rules and searched her mind for an explanation, she soon became distracted by someone else entering the yard.

This visitor, garbed in similar attire to that of the traveler, nodded at her in greeting as she went by. But then the traveler noticed a curious thing: before reaching the old woman, this visitor reached into her robe and pulled out a mirror. Placing it in front of her face, mirror side out, the visitor then approached the old woman. “Excuse me, ma’am. Might I stay here for the night?”

“Only if you’re a female,” the old woman retorted.

“But I am.”

And the old woman, pausing in her wash, looked up and into the mirror, and smiled. “Ah, yes. I recognize you. You’ve stayed here before. You may go in.” And she resumed her washing.

Now more baffled than ever, the traveler watched a steady stream of guests begin to arrive, each of whom repeated this ritual, each of whom was greeted by a warm welcome from the old woman who, recognizing herself in the glass, proclaimed each visitor suitable for entry.

But this did not sit well with the traveler: neither the list of guidelines which denied her femininity nor the trickery of the mirror which would result in her own inability to see what might lie in front of her. And so, with sinking heart, she bade the old woman farewell and exited through the garden gate.

The day was now drawing to a close. The sun had sunk low in the sky and the evening birds had begun their songs in the trees. In the distance, the traveler could hear crickets chirping, and she knew that she must soon find a place to stay or be left out in the cold.

With anxious and heavy heart, she began to trod the city’s paths once again, pausing in darkened shop windows looking for the assistance of shop keepers who had already long gone home.

Finally, just as the traveler began to despair, she was greeted by a young man approaching her. “Excuse me, miss. Are you looking for a place for the night?”

“Why yes, yes I am. But I have found no one who will take me in, and the night is coming and I am not prepared to make my bed alone, under the stars.”

“Do not worry,” he said. “I know a place that may take you in,” and he proceeded to give her explicit directions on how to find it. Nodding gratefully, with tears welling up in her eyes, she bade the young man, “Thank you,” and set off on her way for, hopefully, the last time.

She wound through the city streets again, his carefully drawn map in front of her, and in just a few short minutes found herself before the door of a cheery-looking establishment. Flower boxes garnished the windows and lights twinkled from within. A cat mewed at her feet and curled itself around her legs, and bells tinkled as the traveler rang the bell. She could smell a stew simmering and the scent of fresh bread beneath, and her stomach growled in hungry anticipation.

Soon the door opened and a small, round woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were tired but kind, and her mouth was creased with the faintest lines of one who laughed often and much. “How can I help you?” she asked. And the traveler proceeded to tell her, “Please, madam. I am a traveler and have been a stranger in a strange land. Now I have returned to the land of my youth and need a place to stay for the night … perhaps for many nights. Everyone I have spoken to has turned me away. Might you be able to help me?”

And the woman, hearing the traveler’s story was touched by compassion. She could see the weariness in the traveler’s eyes, hear the worry in her voice, and understand the burdens she carried in with her. Knowing these things, she answered the traveler, “By all means, you may stay here. My house is your house. Stay for as long as you need.” And she opened the door wide and greeted the traveler warmly with a holy kiss. “Please come in.” And the traveler did.

That night as the traveler lay beneath the warm blankets, her belly full from stew and bread, she gazed through the window at the stars and thought about her journey. She thought about the man who had invited her and rebuked her, the supplicant who had assured her and failed her, and the blind woman who couldn’t even recognize her. But then she thought of the woman in whose house she now lived, and she was grateful. She knew that all of her steps had led her to this door and that these steps had been ordained even before the start of her journey. And she knew that whither she went from here, this place would always welcome her in.

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