This week is like God flipped a switch and Patmos turned on to its full summer glory. With temperatures in the upper 70's, gentle breezes and warmer water, Patmos is suddenly the Patmos I have known in all my past visits. Without yet being flooded by tourists – I daresay it's almost a perfect Patmos – the Patmos you want to bottle and take with you. It makes the idea of leaving almost painful – like throwing away a flower in full bloom.
Yet Patmos is so much more to me now. Instead of being the place of summer perfection it has always been in my mind, Patmos is now a community – a place with complexity and seasons. I have seen the cold, the times when only a few cafes and tavernas are open – where locals huddle together. The time when Patmos is sleepy and only those who love it most are here to tend it – and each other.
Best of all, I know the community in a new way. As I drove into town today, I realized how many people I recognized and how many I am obliged – and happy to – wave to when I see them. Many I know by name, and just as many or more are people I pass everyday – people with whom I exchange nods and greetings: the newsstand owner, the owner of Petrino Cafe, the owner of Mostra Cafe, the people with the little grocery store on a side street, the guys who work at Tzivaeri Taverna, the ladies who run Theo and Giorgio motorcycle rental – including the Australian lady who used to be a server at Netia Taverna, the really nice lady at Xeres Bakery, the two guys always sitting at the cafe at the front of town, the water truck guy who lives across the road. Other than the few Greek pleasantries I know, we haven't had conversations – but we're part of each other's lives in some small way and we have watched one another progress through a season.
These casual connections have the interesting effect of letting me know who the real Patmians are – who belongs. I know the counter of the community in a new way – who are real locals, who are visiting workers, who are business owners come for the summer. I can spot visiting tourists and distinguish whether they are Greek or foreign – staying on the island or cruise passengers. The locals show me the courtesy of not treating me like one of these "common" tourists. Now they tell me their stories, tidbits and what they think of whatever may be going on. I'm a trusted acquaintance who has some role and even stake in the town and the island.
Like anywhere familiar, I've begun to intuit the nuances of how things work. I can't say why I knew to stop parking in the town square – because a few people still do. However, unlike back in March and early April, that parkings is for a few elites who can escape parking tickets. I know the back ways through town which locals use as shortcuts and that if I wanted better zucchinis, I should come to the produce market earlier – but they are too kind to tell me other than with their pitying glances. I know I should want my bougatsas (stuffed pocket-pies) cut into squares and my request for them not to is no longer scandalous, but a mystery they have yet to solve. I eat lunch too early and use the ATM no local would use (because it doesn't matter for me since it's a non-bank ATM, so I might as well go to the less crowded one!). I definitely don't drink enough coffee and the fact that I order decaf when I do is concerning.
I have also taught myself to read Greek. A combination of memories from school, Fraternity Row at UW, variants of COVID, paying attention to product labels that often show names in both Greek and English and studying certain signs has enabled me to decode enough to read the words accurately – whether or not I understand them. This has changed my entire understanding of Patmos. Emily and I had an entire system of names based on certain signs or appearances of locations. For example, one taverna says OYZEPI - which is what Emily and I called it – Oy-zepi. It actually is Ousery – a taverna featuring Ouzo. The second word we totally ignored – Hiliomodi. It's Ousery Hiliomodi, not Oyzepi. Or the restaurant we referred to as Osteria – as if that was its proper name – is actually Taverna Tzivaeri – which happens to be an Osteria. Taverna Leonidas near Lampi Beach we used to refer to as Puppies – because when we first came to Patmos their dog had a litter of puppies who played in front. In our defense, their signage is not so visible. At least we always got the AlphaBeta Supermarket right….
If one of my goals for the trip was to experience Patmos as a semi-local and to know it off-season, then I have succeeded. Besides offering me space and safety, Patmos gave me the richness of being part of it and finding a rhythm here.
Becoming a semi-Patmian, or perhaps more accurately someone in the Patmian orbit, is not something that happens accidentally. Moving further into the circle requires intention and respect. One has to pay attention, make eye contact, give nods, exchange pleasantries, crack the code on the parking, show gratitude, solicit conversation in just the right amounts, appreciate what they do – and sometimes for the requisite reasons. It also doesn't hurt to give them the opportunity to raise you up – to advise you on when to get the better zucchini and try the bougatsa cut into squares even if you don't like it as much. In a sense, assimilating is a practice.
I've come to realize the biggest successes of the trip have been yoga and writing. I went in with the intention to do both everyday and I have. EVERY DAY. Of course it's premature to measure the value and implications on this journey, but I think those two things have done me a tremendous amount of good. I can thank them for progressing through my thoughts and feelings to a better place in which I feel more equipped for whatever's to come.
The differences between a practice and a routine are intention and consciousness. Most of us settle into a routine because they give structure to our lives. From the time we're born there's feeding time, nap time, diaper changing time – and throughout our upbringing and schooling, we're told "it's time for _____." People need to create order from chaos and even when we lack purpose or direction, a routine can keep us together.
A practice has a goal. While there may be repetition and symmetry, there is a honing of skills, intention, a path to follow, a state of mind to reach – and an implicit understanding that there is no destination. In a practice, we never arrive. A practice ideally should create awareness. When I do yoga each day, even if I sometimes do it mindlessly or with my thoughts running elsewhere – I am aware that I am unfocused or don't have my heart in it. I can note when my body is tighter or more flexible and wonder why. Over time, things that seemed hard or impossible start becoming more possible. While there are a few exceptions, most of the time I can't tell you what day something became easier or possible. But looking backward, I can remember when something easy today was painful two years ago. The practice is sort of a positioning mechanism – it allows me to see myself in space and know where I am in relation to the universe.
Today during yoga, I realized that while I haven't picked up a pen for almost ten weeks now, my right hand remains very tight. I still clench it at night or in stressful moments. I'm trying to work through that.
Most amazingly, this blog – my writing – has been a practice that has served me so very well. Some people reading this know I did a blog everyday for the year Emily and I traveled after getting married. So it may not be a complete surprise that I can continue to generate content. That said, I actually worried a little bit about this blog. Our First Year Everywhere had a lot going on – we traveled the world! There was new stuff all the time from the places we visited to knowing each other more deeply. It was a year of adventure. This has been my longest period blogging since and things have been pretty static. I have literally not stepped foot off this island. Even in Summer 2019, we took day trips to nearby islands and an extended weekend in Kusadasi, Turkey. Plus there were the many interesting anecdotes about the kids and capturing the dimensions of a family adventure. This was just me in one place.
Still, I came with intention – to go through this juncture in my life writing each day. In the beginning, I was a touch fuzzy on how I would go about it – what my format and focus would be. Then, within a few days of arriving, I realized if I didn't make this blog a place to be honest and open, then what good would it be? And how would it really serve me? So I threw myself into it in a way I like to think has been more raw and open than any of my previous work. I had to make the decision both that it may not be something a lot of people would want to read and that if they did, I needed to be okay with whatever they might feel and think. In this blog, I have tried to curate the writing itself, but not the content.
The benefits seem many. I have worked through a lot of emotions and thoughts. I feel I have grown in ways I might not have otherwise. The blog has held me accountable for thinking and processing – for paying attention and developing perspective. I have to face it everyday, so if I don't want to write crap, I need to engage myself. It has shaped my days – giving me an occupation and experiencing certain places I haunt while writing, which in turn give my perches and perspectives on life here. I'm quite sure part of my identity here on Patmos is "The American guy who always sits there on his laptop". This process has proven to me that structuring my life in a certain way could open up considerable time for writing and making real progress in writing or any project of the heart. I also like to think it's sharpened my writing. After all, in a practice, the constant work and repetition are how we improve even if every day isn't our best. We learn and become aware through the very act and motions of our practice.
Best yet – and most importantly – I probably could have gone to therapy for years to accomplish what I have writing a blog for almost ten weeks now. For some reason, I didn't get just honest and open – but I decided to dig in. Sometimes I felt sick afterward. I've cried more in the past ten weeks than in the past two years – and that's saying a lot. The day I wrote about grief, the staff at this one small cafe just left me alone as I was obviously trying not to come undone. That was one of the hardest posts to write although there were a few posts that felt like having something removed or unblocked. Others left me happier, lighter and with a sense of completion. (This isn't the last post by the way, even if it's starting to sound like it)
How often is anyone afforded the opportunity to do what I have just done – to take ten weeks out to get oneself together, to take inventory? For those that do take time, how many use it well? I don't claim to have done anything perfectly, but I feel blessed with this opportunity and proud to have used it toward practices that have benefitted me. I have used the time well.
I am also incredibly grateful to you, The Reader (one of my favorite terms thanks to Oren Campbell who was our publisher at The Daily). I have so appreciated everyone who has been part of this process – who has read, communicated, supported and to use Mr. Rogers' term, "loved me into being."
Grief is the set of feelings around losing someone who in some way or another, loved you into being. This journey has in no small part been about grief – dealing with the potential and likely loss of someone who has loved me into being. And worrying about its impact – my impact – on two little people I have loved into being. But how grateful I am for all of the people who have reminded me of their love and support. How helpful it is at a time of loss to remember we have been loved into being by many, not one or even a few. In turn, we love others into being – and that chain, the web of interconnectedness is what helps us to clot, scab, heal – and then hopefully move forward and grow again.
One of the hardest things to remember sometimes is that love is neither finite nor solid. There are always more people to love us – and for all of our limitations as human beings – we have an unlimited capacity to love, if we want to. Just as wonderfully, love doesn't come in hard blocks and unwieldy shapes – love is not Legos – but can leak in through cracks, find its way under doors and fill in the spaces we imagined were empty, void and bereft.
In my panic and desperation – the intense and Herculean labors of trying to hold back back a crisis and turn the tides – I stopped thinking about what love is, how it works and where it comes from. I decided my love could prevail – would have to prevail – could be enough for all of us. That isn't so – and it shouldn't be. Whatever comes next, love needs to flow from me, to me, to others.
