Lifting the gate hatch, I cross into church territory and tuck my camera deep into my pocket. I quietly pass the monastery and walk towards the trail head that plummets to the Aegean Sea. Cold wind catches in my mouth as I begin to hike alone, down a muddy eroded staircase that twists and winds. Goats stop and stare at me, their collar bells chiming in the wind.
At the bottom of the staircase is a cave dwelling, a quiet place where monks stay on certain soul-full nights. There’s an altar set up inside with golden icons and beeswax candles. As I continue walking, I realize that I’m standing atop a giant ancient archway that overlooks a gorge. So I swing my purse over my back and scramble down the side, using branches and roots for support. My boots crunch against the marble rocks and the sound hurls itself like a slingshot. Slab walls tower above me. In the center of the stone valley, I’m completely exposed.
It strengthens your heart to be alone in the wilderness. And I've never been so alone. You can lose your identity in vastness.
The gorge opens onto the sea and everything is crooked. Moon-rock cliffs shoot out at odd angles from the shoreline like beached flying saucers and the sea seems to be tipping onto land. I sit down, thinking I’ll meditate or at least contemplate this feeling. But nothing comes and I get up— almost too nervous to make the trek back. Marching through the gorge, I envision mythical heroes wandering through these landscapes, courageous people who never blurred boundaries. They kept their categories, their culture, their position, their limits, their strength.
But with the sea crashing at my back,
I find myself evaporating into impermanence with a rapidly beating heart.
