I don't have a clue, I really don't...(Part 7,562)

Gorey understands... 

There are some days when I really truly don’t have a clue. I seriously wonder what on earth I’m doing.  I look in the mirror and wince.  I think about the rest of my life and wonder…why?  Why?  It’s not depression.  At least I don’t think so.  It’s simply a total complete lack of comprehension.  Nothing makes any sense. 

In Greece I had reached a sort of peace.  Before that, I’d tried pushing; tried again and again to make things happen; to prod and poke the universe into some semblance of (what seemed to me to be) order. It hadn’t worked. Just left me exhausted and sad at my failure.  I couldn’t figure out what it was all about.  But in Greece, watching the waves, I kinda got the Zen thing. I was content just to let go, to allow what would be to be. To let life unfold whichever way it so wished.  I decided that there were no choices to be made.  And that was fine.

Yet some days it isn’t fine.  I guess it’s allowable to have bad days.  I just freaking wish I didn’t think so much. Wish I didn't feel so much. 

‘I don’t get it,’ says Adrian frequently.  Not now, exactly (sort of), because he’s not here (he’s in a five star hotel in St Petersburg with a butler…actually this does make me smile). ‘I mean, why d’you think about these things?’ he has said, frequently (and doubtless will say again).   And, come to think of it, given I wrote this some time back but didn't post it until now (?), he isn’t even there now – he’s on his way to Norwich.  Possibly.  Depending on when you read this, of course.

But that’s it, isn’t it?  What?  Where? When?  As everything we think of as real is just energy converted into signals converted into a mental representation of experience?  As time is purely created in the temporal lobe of the brain and is not really objective in any way, shape or…time?  As infinity is about everything happening all at once?  And love?  Simply a response created in the mind by chemical reactions in the brain?  Based on what?  What do we mean by love?  Is it simply a crutch?  A panacea? A story we tell ourselves?

Adrian’s right of course.  Thinking, puzzling, probing…just makes us unhappy. 

‘Why do you put yourself through it?’ he says. 

‘Don’t you ever think about this stuff?’ I say. In wonderment.

‘Nope,’ he says.

I need a head transplant.

Anyhow. Today I walked the dogs up to the hill fort.  And for a few minutes the sun was shining and the world looked very beautiful.  I sat down on a log and drank in green.  And I believed in the moment, in just being, in being conscious, present, connected, in this precise second.  And thought, why wait until I get home to meditate – why not do it here and now?  So I did.  Breathing in green.  Trying not to think about how the world is really colourless and odourless and tasteless.  And it was fine.  Just fine.

And then Asbo bit me.  J

Near death experiences, cancer and drinking champagne

‘You should read this,’ said Hilary.  We were sitting on the beach (yeah, yeah, in Greece) watching the waves.  I looked at the book.  Dying to be Me by Anita Moorjani.  My first thought was that I didn’t like the cover (yeah, I’m shallow like that but really - it IS foul, isn't it?).  Then I read the subtitle: ‘My Journey from Cancer, to Near Death to True Healing’ and my second thought was ‘Eeek, no way.’

I have a pathological dislike of cancer. Not because I dwell on getting it myself particularly.  It’s probably a hangover from my father dying of it…maybe more of a habit now than anything else.  But still. 

And then, on the day I was leaving, I talked to Hilary again.  One of those conversations where, for every word spoken, another fifty were unspoken but the meaning caught.  It was a good talk/nottalk and, at the end, she said it again.  ‘You should read this.’  I sighed.   

Anita Moorjani was diagnosed with cancer in April 2002.  In 2006, she was rushed to hospital as an emergency, as a terminal case. Her organs were on the verge of shutting down and, to cut a long story short, she went into a coma and did all the usual NDE stuff – watching what was going on; going off to the place of unconditional Love; realising being dead would be totally cool; being given the choice and deciding to come back to life.  But she didn’t just come back – she came back healed, to the total stunned amazement of all the medics.

I checked her out with my sceptical cap firmly on but her story is pretty watertight and firmly backed by oncologists.  It was a spontaneous and downright miraculous recovery.  Which is great, of course, for her and her family…

But…for the rest of us?  What did she discover, what did she discover?  This is what I found really interesting – as often it goes directly against a lot of the perceived wisdom in handling cancer – and other diseases.

She felt that illness is often caused by suppression (and I have long had a suspicion about that link with cancer in particular):  “When we judge some of our emotions as being negative and try to deny them, we’re suppressing part of who we are.  This creates a blockage within us and prevents us from expressing the fullness of our magnificence. It’s about not being afraid to feel anxiety, sadness or fear, rather than suppressing everything until those emotions pass. It’s about allowing myself to be true to who I am.’

She says that she used to be terrified of negative emotions because she feared they would attract negativity into her life. “It’s about allowing what I’m actually feeling, rather than fighting against it. The very act of permitting without judgment is an act of self-love. This act of kindness towards myself goes much further in creating a joyful life than falsely pretending to feel optimistic.”

She felt that her cancer was her own unexpressed power and energy, turning inwards against her body, rather than outward.  “I knew it wasn’t a punishment or anything like that. It was just my own life force expressing it as cancer because I didn’t allow it to manifest as the magnificent powerful force of Anita.’

She discovered that there is no condemnation in the ‘other realm’ because there is nothing to condemn – we are all pure consciousness.  “I believe that people who hurt others only do so out of their own pain and their feelings of limitation and separation.  In fact they need the most compassion – not judgment and further suffering in the afterlife… I realized in the NDE state that it was myself I hadn’t forgiven, not other people.’

She realized that there really is no time.  “In the NDE state, I realized that every moment in all our lives, past, present, future, known, unknown, and unknowable – exist simultaneously.’ And that we can effectively alter our past by the moment-to-moment choices we make…  “I feel that the present moment is the only point in time we have to create our reality.” 

She learned that religion is immaterial.  “It doesn’t matter whether you believe in Jesus, Buddha, Shiva, Allah, or none of the above. What matters is how you feel about yourself, right here and right now.”

She found that there is no one right diet, one right way to eat, drink, live, be.  “I used to be paranoid about what I ate. I thought everything caused cancer.  I used to eat very healthfully, but I did so out of fear. Now I eat what I’m drawn to. I enjoy chocolate and a good wine or champagne from time to time.  I think that’s it more important to be happy than anything else.  It’s no fun eating all the so-called right foods out of fear of getting sick and being miserable about it.”  

Above all, she says, we should try to be kind – to ourselves.  “We always attract the perfect results, and like calls to like. So the kinder I am to myself, the more outward events will reflect that. The harder and more judgmental I am toward myself, the more my situation will match it. The universe always proves me right in my opinion of myself.”

Bottom line?  “Don’t take yourself or life too seriously. If I ever had to create a set of tenets for a spiritual path to healing, number one on my list would be to make sure to laugh as often as possible throughout every single day – and preferably laugh at myself. This would be hands down over and above any form of meditation, prayer, chanting, or diet reform.”

Kind, good-looking, intelligent, a hero - just, unfortunately, also a pervert

Warning: adult material which may offend. (This warning is, of course, hugely ironic - but hey ho, protocols must be followed... :) 

If you were to see a photograph of my grandfather you’d probably smile.  He had what people call a ‘kind’ face.  He had, apparently, been a very good-looking man when he was young.  Even in his eighties he was a striking figure: his hair was soft and white, his posture upright and direct. He had a great sense of humour – his mouth easily curling into a smile; his eyes crinkling when he told a joke.  And, so they say, he was a highly intelligent man, and also deep-thinking.  My mother used to tell me how, when she was little, he and his friends would sit around the table discussing religion, psychology, philosophy, music, literature, politics… everything.  Oh, and he was brave as well – a soldier in the First World War. 

It was just a shame really that he was an abuser.  A paedophile.  A perv.

I can’t tell you all of this tale – it’s not mine to tell.  But I can tell you about  how he affected me – that is mine to tell.  When I was very little apparently I refused to sit on his lap – I used to run away and hide behind the sofa.  A child’s instinct?  Of course everyone was horrified.  ‘Your poor grandfather.’  ‘How can you be so cruel?’  ‘He loves you so much and you run away? You horrid little girl!’

His first wife – my grandmother – had developed religion. Not just a case of prayer-fests and arranging flowers in church. She’d gone hardcore - joined the Plymouth Brethren and basically turned her back on her family, including her young children.  She died at 32 when my mother was just two – having refused treatment for pneumonia.  My grandfather had allegedly 'adored her'. He married pretty swiftly: the ‘girl next door’; my ‘Nan’ (‘to look after the children’) - not much more than a child herself when they wed. 

I used to go and stay with them for holidays, down in the Somerset countryside – and here’s the strange thing.  Their cottage had two bedrooms.  My grandparents usually slept in the smaller bedroom, which had twin beds.  Yet, when I stayed, my Nan would move out and sleep in the larger bedroom, with its double bed, while I was put in with my grandfather.  Why?  ‘Because he snores,’ she said.  Huh?

I can remember that room so clearly.  My bed next to the window; my grandfather’s bed next to the inner wall. The two separated by two small bedside tables.  There was wallpaper with a pattern of flowers; a window seat; my grandmother’s dressing table with its three mirrors that fascinated me – the first time I’d ever seen my profile; the back of my head. 

But, come bedtime, I used to panic.  I remember desperately trying to get to sleep before he came to bed.  Do I remember being abused?  No, I don’t.  But when, years upon years later, I heard what he had done to other girls, I questioned.  I wondered.  I figured this was obviously what lay behind my ‘issues’; my incapacity to have relationships; my reticence about sex.  I tried everything to find out, to bully my unconscious into giving up the information – I even had hypnosis to take me back. I wanted to know. I like to know what's what - to look things straight in the eye; to know the worst. But I drew a blank.  At a certain point, the curtain would come down each and every time.

‘Does it really matter?’ asked one psychotherapist.  ‘I mean... Whether he did or whether he didn’t, he very probably wanted to. So the psychic intent was the same… and the psychic damage.’  I couldn’t really argue with that.

So that left me as…what?  A victim.  For a while that felt okay – it was good to have someone to blame.  I was part of a tribe, the huge silent shameful tribe of the abused. 

But it didn’t take long for that to wear thin.  I’d seen how buying into victimhood was pretty pernicious.  If you become a victim, if you wear that label, then you have let the bully, the abuser, the one in power, win.  Fuck that! I thought. ‘Fuck you!’ I’d be damned if I’d let him win.  And that was fine, that lovely righteous pure anger.  I swore that this ended right here and now, in this generation.  That the pattern damn well wouldn't continue, sick and swept under the carpet, down through the bloodline. 

And then I went through that too; and – you may find this hard to believe but I actually felt sorry for him. Because really, what kind of place are you in if you want to touch up little girls?  If you want them to give you blow-jobs? If you want to screw them?  I mean, really, how appallingly sad is that?  What kind of hell was in his head?  

But, y’know, I don’t even feel like that anymore.  I was talking about this the other night, to my quasi-guru, and I realized that what I actually feel now is... nothing.  Nothing at all.  It’s just history.  I simply don’t care.  Because whatever happened or didn’t happen, is actually immaterial.  The only reality is how I let it make me feel here and now; the emotions and thoughts I choose to let it stir. 

We cling onto our stories, don’t we?  We allow them to dictate how we feel, what we do, how we live.  For years I clutched grimly onto beliefs fostered by my father’s death, my grandfather’s perversion, my family’s relative poverty.  I watched myself become ill and miserable. I psycho-analyzed myself into tighter and tighter knots.  What a bloody waste of time and energy.  And please...I'm only talking about me here...your reality may be very different and I am not judging, not remotely. How could I?  

Anyhow. Why am I telling you this?  I have absolutely no idea.  Just that I was sitting in the garden just now, smelling the roses (literally) and watching the dogs sprawl in the sun and I felt…the urge. Make of it what you will. :-) 

What Katie said...

So I was sitting on the couch in the Green Room at Serenity Retreat (bear with me, I will shut up about it soon, I promise).  It’s a little room Kim uses for sessions, meditation, courses, stretching and so on – on the odd occasions when the weather doesn’t play ball.  I’d thumbed through the bookcases but nothing had really caught my eye.  But then, when I got up to go, I noticed a paperback sitting next to me on the couch.  I assumed it belonged to someone but, as everyone started leaving, it still sat unclaimed.  So I went to put it back on a shelf but paused. 

‘It’s probably meant for you,’ said Hilary with a smile.

‘Maybe it is,’ I laughed and popped it in my bag.  But I didn’t really believe it – just went along with it for the smile.  I was feeling a bit cynical back then…had lost my faith a little in life bringing me exactly what I need; had abandoned the trust. 

And when I got back to my patch of beach, I pulled it out my bag and took a look.  Loving What Is by Byron Katie.  Hmm. 

And the blurb reads:  

Who would you be without your story?

"The Work of Byron Katie is a way of identifying and questioning the thoughts that cause all the anger, fear, depression, addiction and violence in the world." 

Hmm again.

Another self-help book with all the answers?  But then I checked it out and, well, she wasn’t charging megabucks for workshops or whatevers…in fact, you can do ‘the work’ for free on the website. 

And I started reading.  And she was talking about business. 

'I can find only three types of business in the universe,’ she said. ‘Mine, yours, and God’s.’

God’s?  ‘For me, the word God means ‘reality’,’ she explained. ‘Reality is God, because it rules. Anything that’s out of my control, your control, and everyone else’s control – I call that God’s business.’

Ah, okay. So that’s like me trying to keep the airplane up in the air by force of pure willpower, when really I should leave it in the hands of the pilot and God?  Makes sense.

She nodded.  ‘Much of our stress comes from mentally living out of our own business.  When I think, ‘You need to get a job; I want you to be happy; You should be on time; You need to take better control of yourself, I am in your business.  When I’m worried about earthquakes, floods, war or when I will die, I am in God’s business.’

Fair enough. 

‘Do I know what’s right for my self?' she went on. 'That is my only business.  Let me work on that before I try to solve your problems for you.  Just to notice that you’re in someone else’s business can bring you back to your own wonderful self.  And, if you practice for a while, you may come to see that you don’t have any business either and that your life runs perfectly well on its own.’

Yup. I’m with you, Katie.  I am.  I think.  And then she said…’You see who you are by seeing who you think other people are. Everyone outside you is a reflection of your own thinking. Everyone is a mirror image of yourself – your own thinking coming back at you.’

And yes, I do believe that too. 

And then she lost me with her four questions malarkey.  You’re supposed to take a thought  about someone or somethingy and ask:

1. Is it true?

2. Can you absolutely know that it’s true?

3. How do you react when you think that thought?

4. Who would you be without the thought? 

Ummmm.

‘Try it,’ said Katie. ‘Don’t just think about it, write it down.’ 

Pfff!  I’m too impatient for that… 

‘It won’t work unless you do, sweetheart,’ she said with a smile.  

‘Oh FFS, Katie.’

But because I was on a beach and the waves were soothing me, I wrote.  She gives prompt questions:

1. Who angers or saddens or disappoints you?  What is it about them you didn’t or still don’t like?

2. How do you want them to change? What do you want them to do?

3. What is it that they shouldn’t or should do?  Be? Think? Feel?

4. Do you need anything from them?  What do they need to give you or do in order for you to be happy?

5.What do you think of them?  Make a list.  I.e. Bob is greedy. Bob is selfish. Bob drives me crazy.

6. What is it that you don’t ever want to experience with that person, thing or situation again?  

And then you turn it around, finding how all those traits you find so revolting in the other person are all there, mirrored in your own experience. Oh so clearly.  It’s kinda hard to explain in a blog post without boring you beyond belief so, if it sounds like something of interest, check out the book or the website…you can try out the process – what Katie calls ‘the work’ - there. 

I came to love it.  Try it on anyone – your nearest and dearest (she says our families are our greatest teachers); the random person who pisses you off at work; on the bus; at the school gate.  Try it, above all, on your worst enemies, the people who really REALLY piss you off.  

‘There’s no such thing as verbal abuse,’ said Katie firmly. ‘There’s only someone telling me a truth I don’t want to hear.’ Oh yes!  I'm with ya, sister.

‘Find an enemy!’ she said joyously, warming to her theme. ‘They won’t give you sympathy. You go to your friends for refuge, because you can count on them to agree with your stories.  But when you go to your enemies, they’ll tell you, straight up, anything you want to know, even though you may think you don’t want to know it.’

It’s tough love, for sure.  ‘If I think someone else is causing my problems, I’m insane,’ said Katie with a shake of her head.  ‘Pain is the signal that you’re confused, that you’re in a lie. I am everything they say I am. And anything I feel I need to defend keeps me from full realization.’

And finally, she said, when you drop all the lies, all the bullshit, all the avoidance and the hiding, you become alive and you become free.  ‘We are really alive when we live – open, waiting, trusting, and loving to do what appears in front of us now.’

Really?  ‘What we need to do unfolds before us, always…’  She promised.

Always?  ‘We never receive more than we can handle, and there is always just one thing to do.  Life never gets any more difficult than that.’

Okay, Katie.  :-)

Check it out here: http://www.thework.com/index.php

PS – if, like me, you’re going, ‘Oh, but what about serious stuff  - like serious illness, and debt and war and rape and so on’, she has answers for that too.

The Stone and the Sea...

Whom did I meet in Greece?  Well, Jane Matthews for one.  I’ve been tweeting with Jane for several years and loved her book Have the Best Year of your Life (O Books). So the opportunity of doing one of her courses was too tempting to pass by. 

Jane’s book is all about encouraging you to try different things, every day of the year. Some are fun, some are comforting, some are nourishing and nurturing and some aim to push you outside your comfort zone. I like that she’s not prescriptive – it’s very much do what you can, do what you fancy, try things out. Then again, she warns that, if something really pushes your buttons, if there’s something you really really don’t want to do – well, hey, that’s probably exactly the thing you need to do the most.

So, in lovely Nikiana, just three of us met, very informally, and talked and meditated together.  Jane was as delightful as I'd imagined - warm, kind, supportive, generous in mind, heart and spirit.  

She suggested some simple exercises – often just asking a few questions that, yes, pushed the buttons.  She asked us what we felt deprived of, what we yearned for. ‘If you suddenly had a free day and no limits of any kind what would you do with it?’  Oh.

One day Jane showed us a little canvas she’d painted – all bright and positive and sparkly.  I suddenly thought how nice it would be to do something similar for James.  He had asked for a Greek god but they were thin on the ground (seriously guys, you’re missing a marketing opportunity here) so I thought I’d paint him a picture instead.  To show my love for him.  Something pure and joyful.

It all started off so well…I sat on my terrace and painted the canvas a cheery clear yellow. Then added a bright orange and red heart.  I figured I’d simply put LOVE in big letters across the whole thing.   Keep it simple.  But my mind strayed…away from the pure simple love of a mother for her child...and my fingers followed suit.  The colours darkened; I gave up on the brush and let my fingers smear paint while a fingernail tore spirals…

Oh hell.  And I moved back to the edge of the sea, to that inbetween place, twixt sea and shore and watched the waves again.  And then I gave up on paint and turned to words…which tumbled out like this...

Love isn’t simple and neat.

It’s not a pure red heart with sharp clean edges.

It gets messy. 

It changes shape, the colours merge.

You uncover things, you discover things…

about yourself, about the other.

It isn’t always hearts and flowers.  It’s thunderstorms and ice.

It’s turbulent seas, waves lashing the beach…trying to hurt the stones.

How can you hurt a stone?

But slowly, slowly, the sea dissolves …and the stone gives in…

Becomes smaller, less stone…until finally, sand, it is swept up by the sea.

Raptured.

Is it an equal partnership, this wearing away?  This dissolving, this giving in to a relentless battering?

How would it be to be two waves instead?

Dancing. Separating. Coming back together.

Never ever truly apart…just differentiating from time to time…

Before joining again. 

Joy-ing?

My unapologetic sales pitch on behalf of Greece...

A room with a view...

As you might have gathered by now, I loved Lefkada and the quiet little village of Nikiana where I stayed.  My first impressions, however (if I’m very honest) weren’t great.  It’s an unassuming village, a strip of shops straddling either side of the main (but not terribly busy) road.  It’s no architectural stunner – no winding streets, no great ‘Oh My GOD!’ photo opportunities. 

Its delights are more subtle, less obtrusive, tucked away, shy.  You have to look beyond the brash and the overt.   It’s very Greek.  Yes, it has tourists, by dint of its position, right by the sea – the  beautiful, enigmatic, mood-shifting Ionian.  But visitors tend to be Greek or Italian on the whole, so you’re unlikely to hear the imperious bray or the inebriated slur of the stereotypical Brit on holiday, nor stumble over his or her typical hang-out joints – the ‘Irish pub’, the karaoke bar, the restaurant serving English breakfast or fish and chips.

The  beach outside...

The sea, of course, is a total delight – every day, every hour, every minute showing a different face; playing peekaboo with the mountains beyond.  Some days the horizon was a watercolour in undulating lines of grey and blue; other days you could pick out every detail of the shoreline beyond – every striation of the rock rearing up towards the clouds. A small Olympus all of our own.

But the people were the other joy – warm, honest, humorous, with twinkling eyes and ready smiles.  I love the fact that the Greeks are one of the few European peoples who actively love it if you try to speak their language. However much you mangle it, they won’t mock or frown in disdain but will be openly delighted and encouraging. How many times did I say 'Kali mera' or 'Yassous' on the short journey from my apartment to the high street?  I'd lose count. 

For sure, Nikiana has the odd oddball, so to speak.  Like the man who walked into the café every day wearing a thick jacket and motorbike helmet and drank his coffee without removing his headgear.  Why?  Why?

strolling...

But generally the people of Nikiana are plain delightful, embracing visitors with ease and grace. Are they concerned about the Euro crisis?  Sure.  But, as they pointed out, this isn’t Athens.  They live very simple, very frugal lives here – there’s not a whole lot to lose.  So no children will be given away and nobody will be jumping off buildings (really, how, how, how can these things happen? What are we thinking that this doesn’t shock us to our core??). 

There will be far less Greek tourists this year of course, but the villagers will get by (or so they say with a wry shrug).  How? The way they always have, by working hard (and yes, they do work hard actually, darn hard), expecting little and pulling together.

I have never, truly, been made quite so welcome in a place. I have always loved Greece (both the islands and the mainland) – and the Greek people – and this trip confirmed and amplified that love. 

When Kim thought about setting up Serenity Retreat, her first idea was to build a tailor-made retreat centre.  Then she looked around and changed her mind.  ‘The people here were so open-hearted and generous and kind to me,’ she said. ‘How could I take away their business? Wasn’t it better to use the local amenities and give back to this wonderful community?’

Nikiana Beach Hotel...

And so Serenity doesn’t own anything – it rents apartments (from the very simple to the divinely smart); it suggests good local restaurants (my favourite was the Nikiana Beach Club taverna presided over by dear Tassos and his family where my supper usually cost a ridiculous 3.50 euros) and cafes (lovely Pepe le Pew where you could make a drink last all day and nobody would bat an eye). She points out the bakery (warm from the oven baguettes, croissants and local pastries), the ‘supermarket’ with ripe fresh fruit, huge rounds of cheese and vats of olive oil and olives.  The trips are all run by local people.  The only incomer is Jane, Kim’s second in command, who provides wondrous bodywork.  And she isn’t taking work from anyone as there isn’t a local touting Amma fusion or Thai yoga massage.  In fact the locals are eyeing up her menu with a mix of curiosity, relish and nervous anticipation.

 

a calm day...with mountains

Anyhow.  The original purpose of this post was to persuade you all to go to Greece – and ideally to support lovely Lefkada.  Greece needs tourists this year more than ever and, trust me, they won’t hold you responsible for their troubles.  But then, last night I read that British holidaymakers are taking advantage of the crisis and snapping up crazy deals on holidays.  Which I suppose is better than not going...but, oh…

All I can say is, for whatever reason you choose, do go…  If you’re a solo traveler and fancy a bit of optional meditation or just hanging out with like-minded people,  then for pity’s sake check out Serenity Retreat.  If you’re a couple, or a family, then go to Nikiana under your own steam – just say hi to the locals for me, okay?  If you’re a non-stop party animal or can't live without your Guinness or bacon sarnies then…hmm…nah, it’s not for you.  

The Great Big Mattress Quest and the Island of Doom

‘You have to get there early,’ insisted Kim.  ‘If you want to get the best mattresses.’

Max, Denise and I frowned in unison.

‘The MS Christina isn't a big boat,’ Kim clarified. ‘And they lay mattresses out on deck.  Let’s just say that you need to get there before other…um…more forceful nationalities.’

Ah.  Okay.

And so…yeah.  We still ended up being the last on board.  And yup, the proprietorial towels were down and territorial glares were given as we edged along the deck and found the last free spot, at the very very front tip of the boat.  The word that springs to mind is snug.  Let’s just say it was a good job we were friends and didn’t have serious personal space issues.

But, y’know…it was just perfect.  As we set off, I wriggled up even further until I was a de facto figurehead, all wind-tousled and sea-swept, hair flying every sea-witch way as we powered down the Meganisi channel.

I’ve never done this chuntering around islands on boats thingy before. The nearest I ever came was off the East Coast of the States when my brother had a half-share in a boat. But that was actually pretty stressful as it involved a lot of narrowly avoiding rocks while downing excessive amounts of hard liquor (come to think of it that was probably why we kept nearly crashing into rocks – nobody could see straight). 

But this was…lovely, just lovely.  Sea air and pans au chocolat mellowed everyone down pretty quickly and the frontiers started easing.    

We dropped anchor just off the island of Formeluka.  ‘Anyone fancy a swim?’  I adjusted my five layers of clothing and shook my head. A gaggle of already inebriated Swedes in miniscule bikinis jumped in followed by a cohort of earnest Germans and a brace of determined Dutch.   

Next up was the ‘forgotten’ island of Kastos where the population has shrunk to virtually nothing. We moored at the harbour and walked up through what was effectively a ghost town, the buildings mainly boarded up, the erstwhile school playground returning to scrub.  A quick drink and then we were off again to anchor off a tiny deserted beach.   The sun kissed my shoulders and so I plunged into the water, a patchwork of turquoise and emerald; slipped on a snorkel and floated, face down, letting the waves pull me wherever they so wished.  Beautiful.

Onwards to Kalamos, a sunken mountain, ancient pine forests clasping its skin. The pristine beach of Asprogiali where toes touched down onto soft white sand.

Finally Skorpios, the island of the doomed, the damned, the dead.  The Onassis island.  We shivered slightly and, while others plunged merrily into the waters by the beach supposedly the favourite of Maria Callas, we stayed on board.  Superstitious maybe.  The crew threw bread and fish raced in, gobbling it up in a feeding frenzy as we heard the story of how Jackie Onassis contested her husband’s will because three million wasn’t enough.   And one of the Dutch women told us her sister was dying of cancer; that this was probably their last trip together.   And I couldn’t help the obvious correlation - that all the money in the world can’t buy you happiness and love and life.  

And then again, I thought, as we left our little spot at the end of the perfect day.  

You don't always get to choose the mattress you want.  But somehow it will always turn out okay. In the end. Hopefully. :-)