This story is about a girl once living in a cardboard house, who, exiled by her family up in the mountain, one day found a pen some passer by forgot under a tree besides the lake. From that day, she visited the tree regularly, took pieces of paper from the trash littering the lake, dried them in the Sun and wrote on them words she felt, the dreams she saw.
In her scribbles she was whatever she wanted to be, one day a Goddess of the wild seas, the next just a grain on a leaf of the tree welcoming her comfortably. She explains in her writings very descriptively how the air blew sideways at times, sweeping all the light particles, making them fly…or dance with it.
One other day she saw fire, on the other side of the lake, rising… wished the air wouldn’t blow sideways over it, but the air did and brought fire right under her feet, to make shoes for her bare limbs. Described how she run, how she always runs away from anything attempting to cover her nudity. She did scream – once at safety soaking inside the lake, only her eyes rising above the water surface, the perfect hideaway, she turned around to see flames drawing flowers in the night.
All over, all around, war in the wilderness… her tree a warrior to be, her scribbles first scattered, now dancing ashes, dust in the wind… she cried. Further up a volcano erupting, pouring lava, the light – orange turning black as it cooled, creating roads in between the flaming trees. Man has since built towers and cement cemeteries near by the skeletons of the warrior trees.
When quiet came, sorrow grew from the remains, these are the results of catastrophe. When one doesn’t care to find space within, rather strives to accept his very own nudity by covering everything that isn’t his.
She traveled, to remind herself of that tree once sheltering her dreams, found new ones in Italy and in Greece. She lives in a train ever since, drinks coffee and wine, draws pictures, dances some times, but she always writes, she writes endlessly. In the air she breathes there is always a smell of burning leaves and of the lake’s hideaway, hints of thy.
She carries all of her experiences into her nostrils.
Now she is old, hair from dark grew gray roots and white curls fall down her spine, she smiles at every image caught by her eyes, donations to her sight.
Sits by the lake, at times, imagining… of those times she had the power to sink in it. Waiting for the moment to slip gently back, right into safety.
This story is a little token to an old lady I saw the other day… dressed in rugs, carrying a large luggage, begging in the festive streets of Thessaloniki, and smiling so candidly. Passed by me, my son and his dad together sat drinking coffee and lemonade, we gave her some coins, wished for me to have another baby this year: “a girl in 2016” I thanked her, she walked, then stopped as she was already at least 2 meters away from us and looking at me spoke:
“Don’t you worry! He – and looked at the sky – watches over us!”
I don’t have blessings to share for the new year, that lady said it all, deprived me of the power to wish for anything… I just hope for her belief to keep her safe.
Well, I do hope for you the same, to wrap gently into your beliefs and keep safe, for as long as these beliefs don’t hurt anybody.
Lets keep each other safe!