Paths Crossed: Notes from the Island

On being alive.

Two truths can be held at the same time. My heart fills through the littlest, gentlest, most mundane gestures made by strangers and friends; people are incredible. At the same time, at least once a day, my eyes fill with tears when I witness the acts of those with calcified hearts, humanity buried below their own crud (it’s not for me to understand or pathologize, though it carries a pretty obvious energy).

“No man is an island,” popped into my mind today as I looked out the window onto the sea while eating a tahini and honey sandwich in my surrealistic reality. Our world, with its artificial borders, sure hasn’t woken up to that stanza, with a few bad men leading the charge for the worse—which is why I’ll allow the gendered phrase. (Which is why it’s as important as ever for you good men to keep modeling your good men-ness wherever you go and in every interaction you have. Thanks in advance.)

Do you know how this poem ends? It’s been awhile since I looked, but it rings loudly right now while rivering into the horrors that will imprint on too many generations to come, as we repeat our mistakes over and over and over: “Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

To the truth I can control: I’ve come to realize that being happy is actually a practice, one I have to tune my dial toward each day so that I don’t miss the moments when this spirit comes, quietly tapping on my walls to say, There you are, Rachel, please register this feeling. I’ve been attuned to a lot of sorrow, and am slowly surrendering, calling upon silly, giddy, girly me to quietly scaffold her way into a newer groove, peering over the falsely-staked tension built around my heart in the name of protection. (It still brings tears to my eyes when I see all the stories around this falsely-staked construction.)

. . .

My favorite early-morning (or sunset) walk on the island wends its way along the cliffs up to a church built into the rock. It’s the hike that wakes me up to my senses and to seeing the crazy beauty of my life. Just me, the rocks, and the occasional goat. When I arrived to the church this week, Saint Photis as it’s called, I went inside and took a moment to look at the religious art, wondering what the centuries had brought to this space (sometimes it’s better not to know; I would crumble in Berlin if I could be shown the layers of time I walk atop, though that’s not a reason to hold onto history, for I would never have met some dear friends on this plane).

Soon, an older Greek man came up the path. He was clearly the caretaker of the church, opening the side room and pulling out chairs. As he, Theo, told me, a couple weeks from now 500 Kalymnians would be coming up this footpath to celebrate this particular saint’s day, as they do at other churches to other saints on other days around the island. He was preparing for the festivities—music and dance and a sleepover for some who wait for daylight to safely walk the path home.

I asked him if there were matches to light a candle and he pulled out some oil and water, set up some wicks in a bowl, and invited me to do so. I told him Christianity is not my religion but community and ritual is. We exchanged a few words, and he showed me where the matches were for any next time I’m there. I said my mom’s name out loud to the wind and set a couple of intentions, not just for me but for all. He asked me if I had enough water to get back, insisted on giving me another bottle, and as I sat on the stone wall in the shade of the one fig tree, I smiled at the simple, kind interaction—two humans just living in the world.

As I thread each of these filaments of interconnectedness into each new day, I hope it fortifies a trust, openness, and bravery on the path. I, too, want to lean into the somewhat unfamiliar stanza that I’m not only an island, instead tuning toward love as a safe, steady feeling to twirl around the scaffolding.