Christmas came in a basket

Christmas is suppose to be the happy season for children. Well, in most cases that is only half true. Christmas is a joyful, hopeful season with a gospel both read and sung in hundreds of different tunes and fashions. I love the songs of christmas, the gospel of christmas, the smell of christmas. I did as a child too, but christmas had another dimension as well. One that far too many children have learned to recognize and braze themselves to face.
The great seasons put a pressure on us, many things must fall into place; the food, the decorations , the preparations, the parties , the gifts. Everything fancy and homemade, tinkling eyes and happy smiles, chestnuts roasting on an open fire...that sort of things. 
Christmas, with the poor infant sleeping on hay, greeted by angels. 
We weren't believers in my family. We didn't attend any services, not on christmas or any season. Our small school however, had a close relation to the local church and every year we were welcomed to sing and have schoolplays about the sacred family.

We had traditions, yes, but they were all about food and decorations. The timing was important, the position of decorations, the food prepared. 
Our house was mostly a mess. The night before christmas was crucial, if the cleaning wasn't done before christmas morning, all was lost. I knew my mother spent the night cleaning and finishing up what the rest of us was too tired to muster. She was no great cook or baker, most was bought.  Christmas used to be rather calm, but recent years had become different. It was the alcohol.  There was promises being made, no alcohol during christmas. But when things got bad ,those promises had a weak baring. We knew , we could almost sense it, smell it. It stuck like something you've eaten that made you feel bad once and when you next thought of it, the nausea came back to you. A sort of fear, uncalled for but present.

We knew this christmas was going to be bad. We were told there would be only a few presents and that money was scarce. The housecleaning was done in an absentminded fashion, almost as if the season already had passed.  I can't remember all details, perhaps we didn't even have a tree that year.What I do remember is that on christmas eve, there was none of the food we usually had. The cupboards where empty of christmas specials, hardly any food at all, actually and the unpayed bill in the local groceriestore was larger than usual. No more discount, no more credit.  When things where bad and alcohol was talking, we had to go down to the shop and leave the written note, pleading for only a few more days. This time that didn't work.
Christmas came with no food, no candy, hardly anything but decorations. 

Those were the alarming consequenses of alcohol. As a child you didn't think anyone knew, these things are best kept secret. But people knew alright, I just didn't understand until grown ups came up to me saying angry, accusing things about my family. In such a small community, that was devastating.
But there were exceptions, people that understood and acted with the best of intentions.
This christmas, I was rather deprived of the happy childhood christmases everybody talked about, or so I thought.  But the neighbours knew. And they didn't confront us with angry accusations or scorn. They came walking over with a basket. In that basket was food, cake, candy and some presents. No fuss about it, no teary eyed, softvoiced sympathy, no leaning heads and clunched hands. Just: we had a bit too much of everything and understood you had a bit short of it right now so if you don't mind we packed a few things down. " And so they smiled and returned into the darkness and rather snowy afternoon, to their own house.

I was deeply ashamed. But those particular neighbours were really very friendly in a natural sort of way, so I kept that feeling hidden.  It was a great relief to unpack the basket. Children
are practical, they want to survive and more than that.  Mum cried and made a fool of herself, but that was from my point of view. The whole thing was of course very sad and I often think of it, when I hear of children running from war, lacking everything a childhood should be, except loving parents.

We had loving parents, they just couldn't always live up to the standards and demands. It took many years before that knowledge and understanding could reach in and replace the bitterness and contempt in us.  
Blessed be those loving neighbours, they saved christmas that year and kept that very hopeful and convincing view alive, that goodness really does exist and that nothing is for granted. 
There was bad christmases both before and after this one, but this one, the basket Christmas, came to be the very best of the bad.  A proof of respect and kindness, the inner feeling and meaning of the christmas gospel although I didn't know at the time.
What did we learn? Eventually, that parents are no superheroes that can cope with every situation. We learned that nothing ever is for granted and that happiness is something you have to emerge and treasure when it comes to you, because it isn't the standard of life.  In our lives we also have a responsibility to bring happiness when we are able to, to those who lack it. Sometimes we give because we have plenty, or we give because we don't have plenty but giving makes us rich and happy. 
WE never promised our children anything that couldn't be kept as far as we knew and when we couldn't live up to parenthood, our children were the first to know about it because we have been speaking very openly to them about life, struggle and happiness.  Yes, sometimes we fail as well, but in the failure lies the mercy of grace.  Christmas can sometimes arrive in a basket, and be blessed even so.

Images of breaking ice

Monday
Dear diary!  So dull to wake up and find the room just as dark as when I fell asleep! I had such
a bad night, tossing and turning.  The moon woke me up, I forgot to draw the curtains of course.  Strangely  enough, as I got up to close them, I caught a glimpse of the meadows, the mist was drifting and I think I saw an animal mowing. Wolf? Fox, rather, this is no wolfland.'
I was too tired to get alarmed, maybe I just imagined it. And, seriously, how alarming is it to see an animal in the countryside? There are sheep nearbye, they would make fearful noices if they even scented a wolf. Or a fox. 
The day passed slowly, I didn't go out, the fog got thicker by the minute. I love the morning mass and the daily prayers. They gave us a few quotes from Mathew to meditate on. My closest neighbour is a woman in her sixties, we spoke a few words on arrival yesterday evening,before silence was at hand. I will speak to her again before we leave, she seemed nice.

Tuesday
Forgot the curtains again. Windows are old and large, the curtains are three meters up and rather heavy.  There was no clear moon, but some draft.  I went up to close the curtains, 
felt uncomfortable with the chilly night and the rough boards on the floor. I sat up reading a bit too long, otherwise I might have slept well with the draft and all.  I am reading that book about the people of Acts.  Anyway, I saw that animal again. At least, I think I did, that wretched fog covered most of the area around the mansion.  
I took a short walk, my neighbour returned when I got out, we just glanced and smiled. 
Fog is slowly retreating, ha ha, it may very well do so in this place!
I fell asleep over my book and slept over afternoon prayer.  Dinner was nice. Veal.  I sat for ages in the chapel, my back is hurting, those prayerstools are tricky.

Wednesday
Slept like a log. The morning cleared rapidly and I heard the sheep from a distance. After mass I went out. Last time I was here there was no passage over the mainroad. You had to run for your life, never saw such traffic!!  This year they had built a kind of bridge, I decided to try it, even if it meant walking a few miles extra. better than being overrun at least. 
It was bitterly cold. But it is march and winter will be yielding soon, I noticed the changes today.  Across the field where the horses run around in the summertime, I saw footsteps in the snow. Large ones, some kind of animal, the snow had melted a trifle. It made the tracks look alarmingly large. Wolf?  Perhaps the beast I saw the other night. Beast. I read too much in the bible my husband says. Colours my thinking. Perhaps.
I walked to the lake today, never saw it before. The air was a bit misty, temperature is slowly rising. I heard something new. Strange sound, it was the ice breaking!  It kind of moaned and whined and cracked. 
The elderly woman came walking from a farm south of the lake. She looked a bit absent minded but smiled and looked down again.  She looks a bit lonely. We all do, I suppose.
Dinner was good, fish. One participant have difficulties with his legs, he is using a segway. Mostly indoors, makes a wheezing sound when he arrives. 
I spent some hours in the library in front of the fire. My room is a bit cold.

Thursday
Woke up again tonight, around two. Looked out and there it was, the beast. It's a dog.
From one of the farms maybe, but up here by the mansion there is nothing but forest. 
Could be a Beagle, he turned and disappeared into the shadows behind the chapel.
Well, chapel, it's actually an old henhouse! Nice. Robust. I like it. We spend a lot of time there, five sessions a day. We got a new quote today to meditate on, I'm working on it right now but had to take a break, almost fell asleep. It's tricky, you sit alone with your candle and the bible.
All afternoon I spent by the lake. That sound!! I think it is similar to salvation. The ice that 
covers our souls makes it hard to see what lies beneath the surface. Only redemption can reveal the secrets hidden from the sunlight. We tend to keep our ice. It's safer. Todays quote was from John. The woman by the well.  Jesus broke her ice. 
What about mine? 

Friday
Slept through the night, forgot the curtain but it's dark when we wake up anyway. No moon I guess. Segway-man didn't show up this morning, I hope he is alright. Morning mass is something I could get used to.  We sit some seats apart, some sit on the floor, I did today. We have these Taizestools, low and crude. There are twelve of us this time, most of us are in the middleages, some work in church, most don't.  Well, we get a chance to exchange a few words before silence. Before we leave I hope to speak to some, that woman for instance. 
I have spent two hours reading, after lunch I'll take a walk.
Interesting turn on things! Up by the lake I saw the dog! He came strolling along the small road leading up to the upper meadows. He hesitated when he saw me and paused for a minute to take in my presence.  I was just about to move towards him when the woman appeared. The dog turned to see who was approaching and to my great surprise he ran towards her, tail wagging. She bent down and spoke softly to him, striking his back tenderly. 
Then she went on her way, giving me a quick glance. The dog looked at me, wagged tail but never got closer.
Supper was splitpeasoup, nice. I'm going to bed early, I have been sitting in the library with almost all of the others, only that woman was missing. This mansion belonged to a rather wealthy gentleman and his wife. They had no children so they donated the entire estate to the church who is now using it for meetings, retreats and education within the dioces. It's a strange place really, the main building is intact with paintings, statues and pillars. 
Tomorrow I have my third meeting with my mentor, we don't really match. Last year was better. 

Saturday
One day left!! I hate this day, it's hard to keep focus. Your mind is wandering, it's tempting to check the phone. You begin to think about the journey home and how things will be.
After the service tomorrow I'll take the bus to town, if nobody want's to share a cab. 
I took two walks today, before lunch I tried the forest, but its all wet and difficult now when the snow is slowly melting. So after noonprayer I went to the squeeking lake. I think I stood there for almost an hour, just listening to the sound of breaking ice. Looking closely, I could see the cracks running in a random pattern across the surface. Some cracks let the water appear, near the edges the ice was letting go and was actually moving. Fascinating. 
On these walks you have the time to think a lot. And pray. That's the general idea of these events, thinking and praying and listening.  Gods voice. Is it in the breaking ice?
The kind smiles from the others? The wheezing from Michaels segway?  The pouring of wine into the goblet?  Is Gods voice hiding in the good work done by the mentors of this retreat?
Right now, I'm on my way up to the main building for a late cup of tea. I'll bring a book.
Or maybe I will just sit by the fire. There are old, soft armchairs in oxblood leather. 

Sunday
I got up two hours early. Packed everything except toothbrush and went over to the chapel.
Since its sunday and our last day, mass will be celebrated after breakfast. 
We will have a common gathering after mass, the mentors will close the retreat and let the voices free again. I'll write some more on the train!
Always so intense, the sound of voices and cars and everything, when you have spent six days in total silence. We broke up after lunch, a bit uneasy, reluctantly turning to the next person for a chat. Some of us have met before, even twice. We can catch up a bit .We shared a cab, four of us.  That woman went along but she didn't talk much. She kept the distance. Since we were taking the same train , we took a walk in town, having an hour to spend.
 She is retired from university. Secretary at law school. Widow. Quite recently she began attending services in her homeparish. The approach was massive on her, she said.
Oddly enough she used the word "ice". She felt like the ice around her had melted, somewhat painful but neccesary.  I asked her about the dog.  She said the dog had been there on the first night, she couldn't sleep and went out. She had her room in the main house while I was in the lodge. No mystery with the dog, she loved dogs and had five at home, on vacation now with her children and one sister.  We didn't talk much, she got off the train long before I did. 
She seemed quite pleased with her week. I think I am too.
But I still wonder about the ice. The breaking of ice. I wrote a poem even, I call it Images of breaking ice. Now I have one hour left before I am home, better use the silence while I have it.

House abandoned

"There are few things more sad than an empty house. The more decay the closer to demolition. But before you even consider such a move, the house in itself must tell its story"  She was walking backwards, looking at the old shack of a house, standing somewhat crouching beneath the trees.

-A house is nothing but a pile of bricks, carpentry, plaster and paint. You build it, move in, move out, house decays, rats moving in, spiders webbing all over, windows breaking, villains use it as a coverup for narcoticdeals. Tear it down, I say, there is nothing to it!  It fits badly into this neat and precious neigbourhood of yours.  I mean, he had stopped his pacing and waved both hands in the air as if fighting off the villains ,  look at those gardens!! Roses, arches, goblins and gnomes, fountains, lilies and Godknowswhat.

- Hold your breath, dad, I haven't bought that house, have I, I was just being curious, you always told me to keep my curiosity alert, didn't you?  
She watched his hands fall down to the sides. He frowned at her, and she saw more signs of age in his face than last time . His hair had turned grey the day mom died, and that was almost ten years ago.
The rest of him seemed vigorous enough, but he never really spoke of her mother anymore.He had retired two years ago, somewhat premature but as he could afford it ,there was no hesitation.  He said he needed to live while he actually could. As a result, he bought a small house in the outskirts of Nice. She was an onlychild, when her mother got sick she had already moved out.

 Her Universitystudies where badly disturbed those dark and horrible years. In and out of hospitals and private clinics, sanatoriums and those healing trips to Nice. Her mother had loved France, dad hated it.  Always said that the french where pompous and selfconcious. Couldn't even speak english, could they??  Eventually he yielded, but that house was not bought until after the funeral.
Her childhood house and garden was for sale faster than she could imagine. Before she knew it, new
people moved in and all she could do was stand across the street and watch them alter everything she had held dear. Her father didn't look back for a second. He sold almost everything , she had to tangibly stop him from selling keepsakes from her childhood, stop him from burning albums and old pictures in old frames.

Two weeks ago she made the downpayment of a small cottage, she wanted him to see and approve of it. She had taken her Masters degree, a good employment had been offered to her and she had accepted. She wanted a good place to stay , as yet she was unattached, well, almost. The almostpart was unknown to her father, one thing at the time. She knew why that shack disturbed him so much,
he wasn't much for nostalgia, not much for imagination and dreams. Imagining what life could had been like within those old walls would force him to imagine the house he sold out, remembering the life that had been so vivid once and so sad and dark in the end. His house in Nice was untouched by his old life, nothing in it reminded him of her. It was all clean and neat.

- When can you move in, puppet? I'm staying two weeks, I can help you.
- Well, actually I am planning to start moving in next week. You can help me sort things out, paperwork, that kind of things. I have been packing since the contract was signed, they moved out long time ago and gave me free access. I told you when we spoke last month, remember?

- I still think I should have been involved in the actual process of choice. You know nothing of houses, what to look for and potential mishaps and inaccuracies. What it you have been tricked into a bad affair??
- I had some help dad, don't worry. Told you that too. I'm sorry you weren't involved, but I do need you to approve. I think you're going to like it, it's right up this alley here, see, you can see the chimney above those pinetrees.
- Pinetrees? We had pinetrees....
- Yes, we did . In the south corner, close to the playhouse you built dad,
- Yes yes, is that the house, that red one??
No, he wasn't much for talking of days past. A mere glimps of something that could cause a serious case of memories was wiped away like an irritating fly.  She watched his face with a vague sense of remorse, maybe it was wrong to mention the playhouse. She just wanted him to start talking. Start feeling. There had been no one for her to talk to, some friends, yes and this past year, Daniel. There was great disadvantage in being an onlychild, that had become obvious these years.

But that sharing of mutual life, of mutual memories, experiences, feelings was absent. She had an aunt living up north, much older than her mother. She took the train up to visit her, twice a year. Those were precious times for both of them, times for laughing, crying and blackcurrant wine. She usually stayed a couple of days, bringing the albums, taking time for afternoon tea and chickensoup. Her aunt was one for travelling memorylanes, she had loved her little sister dearly but they hardly spoke for many years. Her father wasn't too fond of her and her mother did nothing he wouldn't approve of.
But when she had her diagnosis settled, the bonds were almost visible and there was no stopping their relation from growing. And after the funeral her aunt had been rather lost and confused, she lived alone and had always done so, being a retired schoolteacher. Her focus had been the children and the churchchoir, after retirement she was more deeply engaged in the local church. She also took it upon her to care for her niece, and so there it was.
Daniel was another matter entirely, it was his doing she bought a house in this particular village. The old shack had been alive and bright when he grew up. He loved old abandoned houses and could scatter around for hours , peeking, touching and pondering.

- Well, here you are dad, this is my new home and castle, it even has a name you see, there is a painted board above the garden gate - Rosehip Cottage. They are growing in heaps in the backside, the rosehips. When they are in bloom, there is the most lovely smell and...
- How do you know? You just bought it and the blooming is over long ago.
He had that frown again, but he was eyeing the cottage with great interest. His keen and alert mind took it all in, the roses growing over the arch, the board on the arch, the small outhouse covered with
ivy, as where the actual cottage as well. The red bricks where visible here and there.
- I know the ivy will ruin the bricks, I have to remove most of it.
- You need to dig beneath it, the roots must be removed, otherwise it will grow again. It looks very nice, how old can it be? Hundred?
- 115 actually, wait 'til you see it inside, they have kept it soo well and done a great job in restauration. It has stonetiles in the hall , I will open up, wait a second now...
She found the keyes and got the front door open. It had an enormous doorclap shaped like a lion.
Slowly she swung the door open.
- And welcome to my mansion!
He took small steps, slowly he passed the treshold, gazing in to the dim hall. Words seemed to have failed him. He walked slowly from room to room. She walked quietly beside him. Oddly enough,
her enthusiasm was great but she felt no need to talk. She had been talking continously when Daniel was here but now ....
After a while she left him and went to pic up the basket in the kitchen. She had prepared lunch. There was a table and two chairs in the kitchen. She had brought a checkered tablecloth, one she had saved from home, and she lit two candles. Plates, glasses, food...where was he? She couldn't hear him.
-Dad? I have laid the table, let's eat!   Dad?
As she got no answer, she went looking for him, the house was not that big, the kitchen, a master bedroom and two smaller rooms on the groundfloor, one large on the second, with a fireplace.
There she found him. He was sitting on the floor, his arms folded around his knees. He was crying quietly.
Many hours later, when darkness had fallen, he had cleared his mind and heart for the first time in ten years. Never had they spoken like this and never would they ever again, but it was good enough.
In his mind he had refurnished the house he once abandoned, walked through the years and the rooms, allowing the pictures to come and go.  She joined him.
When they locked the door and walked silently to the trainstation, the air was fresh and crispy.
There is something sad about an empty house, but it can sometimes bring life to an empty heart.
-

Flick of a wrist - and innocence died.

I started listening to Queen already as a child. Killer Queen was heard every day on the radio.
One other early tune of theirs is "Flick of the wrist." from Sheer Heart Attack, 1974.
That title came to me this morning when I heard the news of a 14 year old boy committing murder in our country. What ever will become of him?? Why???It was indeed depressing news and I thought of the fact that the person who bombed the wedding in Turkey recently also was a teenage boy.
How easily a life can turn. From future to grave in a second, a flick of the wrist only. A moment of anger, hatred, or total disorder. Oh dear Lord, how awful isn't this ??!!

And so I remembered something that happened when I was about 10-12 years old, about 1975 perhaps?  This is something I will never forget, now perhaps I can share it.
I grew up in a neighbourhood of apartments in three, four and eightstory buildings. Most of my schoolmates lived in apartments and spent there sparetime in the yard or around the blocks, close to the small tobaccostores and groceriestores that kept us alive with bubblegum and candy. A few playgrounds completed the scenery but getting older that was forbidden grounds.  One tobaccostore in particular was popular, the owner always had time for us and if money was scarce he could hand us something anyway. His teenaged son was very friendly.
Many teenagers gathered in a gang. In this gang was , let's call him Marcus, a tall, blond boy about 16-17 years old. He was also very nice , strong, friendly and always laughing. His friends loved him . He was nice to us children too. The teenagers in our block where not so bad. 
Everybody was smoking in those days, few exceptions.  Teenagers stayed out late, we children did not.
As a young girl I was constantly in love with one or other of the older boys, but we knew our place and went home when teenage time started. Sulking a bit, perhaps.

This warm evening I went home, many of the older stayed out for a while, maybe school was out for the week, that part I don't recall..but we heard sirens that night, wondering about them until next morning when the disaster fell upon us:
There had been a murder and Marcus was dead. Marcus was dead!  Murdered. There was still blood where he fell. He was actually dead. It was incomprehensible. He stood there smiling friendly when I left, hours later he dragged himself bleeding in to the tobaccostore and died on the floor.  For a child this was so shocking that I didn't know what to say, feel or do.

Later we heard from his best friend, who saw him die, that there had been some arguing during
the evening. A gang from some blocks away arrived and started to make fuss. Marcus wanted 
everything to quiet down and started talking to them. They turned to him and asked for matches for their cigarettes and he declined because he wasn't a smoker, one of the few.
Somehow the voices raised and there was shouting and shuffling and everybody in that yard was getting nervous and before they knew, a fight broke out and all of a sudden Marcus screamed and the other gang made a quick departure. His friends saw him stagger and head for the store, hands tightly gripping his chest. He had been stabbed.  Blood was, they told us later on, flooding from him. I don't remember the details, we were all in shock, but his best friend, standing in the store, later told us this the most horrifying experience he had ever had. A nightmare.  Who would have thought it could happend where we lived?  

I was too young to notice much of what happened after those first days. If I did I don't remember any longer.  If the boy was captured, if Marcus's family got any help to get over it, how many people came to church, how his friends reacted, if there was any talk of revenge. My mother didn't know his parents. I so hope they are alright and got help . 
We talked about it for a long time, it was so strange and foreign to these times and our neighbourhood.  People didn't get killed like that. Only in the States, everybody knew that. A few years later that 16 year old schoolgirl didn't like mondays and shot her schoolfriends. That is when my world started to change badly. Being an outsider already , I started to see the world around me as an evil place. And evil was closing up.

"Flick of the wrist and you're dead , baby."  And now that is a truth spilling blood all over and all the time.  My innocent childhood died with Marcus. Like so many many innocent childhoods die every second.  We can't let this go on. We can't let evil flick its wrist every split second, destroying life and future in whatever name he uses.  There is a better name to use.
"He who is within you are stronger than he who is in the world"  When he flicks his wrist - evil backs off.  That's a flick I like.  Darkness can't prevail - the light is stronger. 
And the lyrics for that song is still very very current and valid.

Moments in time - shared in the present

There is something really appealing in old buildings, ruins and rocks. Wherever I go, my hands keep following the rough surface of ancient life. The cut edges, the broken fences, the carved pillars, tresholds all torn down by centuries of footsteps. It doesn't really matter if it's the remains of an old temple or just a farmers cottage. The treat of it lies in the voices echoing inside. At least in my imagination.  Buildings of all kind once contained life, voices, tears and laughter, praying, singing or perhaps chanting.  Loners or large families, farmers or knights, spectators or invaders.  All within the walls, within the fences the hopes and dreams, the fighting and the blessings. The starvation and the days of plenty. 

I have written in my other blog about houses on the countryside, abandoned when progress pushed on . This post is about the tales and emotions of ancient Greece. So much more absent in time and still so vivid in mind when you are walking right through it, lingering, stroking, breething and experiencing decades of life for a second. 

This was 1992. We went on our first trip abroad, just the two of us. We planned to be engaged, the rings where safely stored in a little grey box .  Simple rings, nothing fancy. We had been saving up for the trip, plenty of tours, plenty of sights we planned to cover. We had a faint idea of where to make this happend, the golden bond.  We had read about  Epidauros, the ancient town by the eastcoast, once a lively centre. There would be the theatre, no amphi but one of those halfcircle theatres. Epidauros holds the sanctuary of Asclepius. There was a cult in the area around the 6th century BC and centuries on. The theatre was situated close by.

There are more than 30 rows in here.  No comfortable chairs though for the long spectacles.

In the evening we arrived at the hotel, close to the harbour. There was a thunderstorm of the kind you can experience in the tropics. Before dinner, the rain stopped and we slipped down to the harbour, rings in pocket.  With the crickets chirping away and the sun setting, we exchanged rings. Our guide found out and raced into the kitchen, commanding the staff to present us with a bottle of champagne. On the double!!! He had that kind of appearence, nobody would say no and survive. Champagne it was.

Next day we stood there, awstruck in the centre of this pile of rocks, this grey and uncomfortable place. It's still in use. But the mind can't really get a grip of the decades that has passed and the efforts it took to create this pile of rocks.  Actually, this particular theatre
is worldandtimewide known for its accoustics. Breaking out of the almost tangible atmosphere we started to mount the stairs. It was a hot day after that thunder, the stairs where steep. At the same time, it felt like we ought to step very carefully, not destroying or disturbing something important. Delicate and rough at the same time.

We had learned that a voice would carry easily from the performer on the stage and up to the spectators at the top. So there we stood, viewing the valley below , the heat in our faces and spotting that small figure down there. She began to speak to us as if we were standing next to her. Every single word echoed clearly through the hot air and up to where we stood.
How is that possible? Many architects have tried to solve the mystery. Once, in the 20th century, a famous architect betted he could build a perfect copy at home, with the same accoustic qualities. He meassured and crawled, making calculations for weeks. But when it finally stood there in place, the accoustic was not there.  So great was his despair that he couldn't live with it.  That's the impact of history alive. You must treat it with respect.

And this is what happends when we step carefully in the landscape of times lost and forgotten, we pick up small pieces and glimpses of life once lived, moments of importance, thoughts and dreams being shared, dramatic events taking place beneath the cloudless sky of ancient Greece or anywhere, why not Ireland with its mystery cultsites.
 I don't believe in the forefathers spirits but we are created to bear forth our inner and outer efforts, making traces for generations to follow. Moments in time for us was lifetimes for someone else. We see but glimpses of entire lifespans and can only guess the conversations and actions taking place between people that once occupied this region and believed that to be the only life possible .
The known world. The known culture. The known ways of life. The once brand new theatre
and the daily activities in the town and out here by the sanctuary. It all falls upon us in a split second, moments of time becomes one with the present. It's hard to leave, my hand keep touching the stone.  But we know that our next stop is Delphi, and I know it will be an even greater impact on our minds.  The meeting with the ancient Delphi above the valleys of red earth is another story altogether.

Life unknown

"Twothirtie, can you put the kettle on?"
It was no great effort, she was actually passing the kitchen, heading for the xerox.
" I will, in a minu...hang on, phones ringing somewhere. "
" Phone? What kind of tune is that?"  He was teasing her . He raised his voice a bit;
"Yours, it must be. No one else left here"
" It's Lord of the rings, surely you recognize it!"
" I'm not in for fantasy, really. There it goes again, answer it!"
She was now running towards her desk but missed by seconds. She glanced at the screen, not
one of those again, insurance, trustfonds, Fitnesscentre...it went on again! Who was this?

Greg stood in the doorway, watching her puzzled face.
" Answer it, woman, or not, that tune is annoying"
She would have, normally, but she had a strange sensation in her stomach. Who was this?? She hoped it would just stop and she could forget all about it.
Two minutes. Three. Nothing.  She let it slip into her pocket and looked at Greg.
" Probably a salesman, real nuisance if you ask me!"
" Mmm, so ..... tea?"  He kept looking at her. She seemed nervous, kept fiddling with the phone in her pocket. He shrugged and turned to leave when the music started again. Lord of the rings, was it?
" There now, answer it!!  You answer, I'll put the kettle on, ok?"  He left the room.

She pulled it out of the pocket. The ringing stopped. Yes, same number alright. Why ??
Oh for heavens sake, not again!!   She started shaking it, as if shaking it would make the caller get dizzy and lie down for a rest.
Two minutes. Three. Gone.  Good, now she could relax.  She remembered the copies she was suppose to take, where did she leave them...?
Ten minutes later, they both sat by the table in the coffeeroom. Normally they would have a loud conversation about odds and ends, this and that, but he couldn't get her attention. The phone laid
on the table, she got the shell in Athens last spring, he recalled.  They both jumped when the tune
started again. She let it ring. And again.

" What is the matter with you? If you want to know, call them back! Or check the number out first if that makes you feel better"
" You're right. Yeah, I should. Really. Silly of me, I don't know why it bothers me so. I'll....check it...later"
He bent over her, picked up the phone and touched the screen to view the number.
" Here, I'll do it for you!"
" No, no, it can wait, it's not important, leave it"
" Sorry love, just can't do that.  Here....that's odd..."
She stiffened and stared at him " What? What is odd?"
" It seems to be from..... Budapest"
" What?? Give me my phone!"   She stood up now, eyes glowing and her face all red.
The tune started again and he answered it, it was just a whim, he wouldn't have done anything like that normally but this was different. Her face went blank and she sat down, heavily.
" No, but she's sitting here next to me, hang on..."     He handed her the phone, with the word "sorry"
in a quiet whisper. She took the phone without looking at him. She held it with two fingers. You could hear a voice coming from it: "Hello??? Miss Summers?? Hello?"

Greg held his breath. Finally she lifted the phone to her mouth and kind of croaked: "Hello?"
He badly wanted to stay and find out what was going on and he realized she couldn't move from where she was so he left the room and got back to his office. He tried not to listen to the muffled
voice coming from the kitchen. Ten minutes passed, he couldn't get anything done. He stared at his screen, shuffled documents around and counted paperclips. What was that? Did she say: "Goodbye?"

He heard her move the chair and get up. After a while she appeared in his doorway. She had been crying. Crying?? Oh no. This was his fault, he answered it, God, why did he do it, what an idiot!!
" Look, Cathy, I'm sorry...that was ..." She interrupted him with an absentminded wave. "Hush!"
" It was an undertaker. Hungarian. He, I.., you don't want to hear this anyway, Greg"
" Are you serious, I can't wait, I mean, if you're up to it"
" You remember I told you once my father died when I was just a baby?"  .  Oh yes he did, word by word.
" Yes, actually I do. Why?"
" Well, this man, this undertaker, called to tell me the sad news"
" What sad news? I didn't know you had relatives in Hungary"
" Neither did I.  I seem to have a lot of them. One has died now"
" I don't believe it, who could that be?? You must be all confused?"
" I am.  Really. You see, they told me that my father passed away two weeks ago and.... they have been searching for me since then.....what does this mean? Has he been alive all my life? What am I to do? " She stood there, readeyed, shoulders dropping a bit. Not her confident self at all.
He looked at her . This was his moment, his heart was pounding hard now;
" We'll figure it out, love, we'll figure it out"