She wrote the below poem partly inspired by the small paradise of Milia. She loved Milia and the inspiration of the place - the sounds and fragrances and the moonlight under a full moon - will never leave her.
Many thanks for sharing it with us, you are an amazing person, soul.
Enjoy it ...
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I am not Greek. I am xénos, a stranger. I wander. I am curious. I am slow. I am still, listening. Even when I am loud and laughing, I am listening.
Don’t be precious. Crete has many stories. Crete smiles and tells the truth. Come over here! Listen to me. Believe me. Look at these rocks. Look at my feet. See the sunlight. Feel the ground move. See the old ones walking. You can see two worlds at once.
Crete has humans on it, but it is older than humanity. The generations dance and work and love and die. Like flowers, like rocks. Crete stays forever. The center of the universe.
I am not Greek. How did I come here? But I feel it inside me. It wells up in my gorge and in my eyes. It wants to live. It says it wants to live again. I don’t understand. Everything falls away and I am undivided. Perhaps the mountain claimed me when she tasted my skin. I cried out to the sea. I felt it. I felt it.
The souls fly up the mountain and chase love back down again. Always for love. We call it work, but it is love. They bring power and sweetness. The master of souls stands and smiles with his skin exposed. He understands.
I am not Greek. I have eyes, though. Theologians plant trees and smile, lips and eyes and whole body. The cross is there, but it rests on her pale gold flesh that works and works and carries the code. If you look, if you see.
Gnarled hands, smooth skin, rough hair, silky, blue, green, brown, black eyes. Lithe, long, bold, short, full of emotion. Emotion. Emotion. Emotion as bread and salt. Emotion as art. Emotion flowing. It is daily tribute. It is required.
There is darkness. It is exactly what you expect. And it is more. It is more. You can learn things from this darkness. It has form and nuance. Shadows step up and say, come and listen. Ask a question. If you attend, I will live again. Then the light comes. Crete is undivided.
I am not Greek. I am xénos, a stranger. I wander. I am curious. I am slow. I am still, listening. Even when I am loud and laughing, I am listening.
Crete is calling.
By D.I. Scott Smith
