Today the clouds came to Monólithos and without the blue everything took on a shade of wheat. Even the whitewash stone shone a soft buttermilk. Today the writing, writing, writing found its form, admittedly with the most considered of prompts from our mentor. In the morning, at the local Monastery, I found a transformative moment and a way to build the poem around it. By the end of that session something cracked open and the light shone through. We ate and then siesta. I slept the sleep of satisfaction and of great relief.
We swam in a grey and green sea swirling with buoyant waves and a subtle current. Later we wrote of journeying and creating our own personal myth. The muses danced among us and we found our source of strength. This makes for greater appetites, and we walked up the hill to Emmanuel’s for several courses of the best fresh produce in the village.
Tomorrow I hone the poems I’ve written and sift through the lines and lines, getting to the shiny stones I’ll keep to craft.