Taormina, Sicilia. Thursday, May 10

Taormina, Sicilia. Thursday, May 10

Dear Trail Friends,

Today was a lovely day for me. After breakfast Chris and I walked up to the Madonna Della Rocca (on a foot path paved with bricks and rocks and with the Stations of the Cross along the way) and then on, up to the neighboring village of Castelmola (on the hill above Taormina). In the afternoon I hiked down almost to the sea and back up. I always feel better on days when I can walk, especially if I can walk through beauty in solitude. Both walks were away from the crowded city streets, and on the afternoon hike I was totally alone. 

I wish now that I had photographed the stations of the cross. There are ten of them - large lifesize or larger than life sculpted reliefs of scenes from Jesus being sentenced by Pilate to carrying the cross to being crucified, being taken down from the cross, and finally the resurrection. 

I asked Chris how one could approach these scenes and their story mythically, and she mentioned St. ignatius. St. Ignatius suggested that one contemplate each scene, and try to imagine Jesus’ experience (or perhaps the experience of others who are present).  The contemplation then opens to the discovery of life experiences of one’s own that might in some way resemble those of Jesus. 

It is so interesting to enter the Christian story as myth. Not to ask if it is literally true or not, but to ask what I can learn from it about my own life and story. 

Chris had talked at breakfast about a class she had taught at Douglas (Rutgers college for women) with a younger colleague who had just been denied tenure. It was the 1960s and they were both sympathetic with student activism and engaged students in designing course exercises for helping engage experientially with the concepts being taught. This particular exercise involves pulling a word out of a hat and going to contemplate it for 20 minutes. One student selected “death” and another “life.” When they came back to the group the “death”-student wanted to dance with the “life”-student, but the life-student did not want to dance with him. The colleague who had just been denied tenure drew the word “failure.” He did not want to contemplate it and put it back. But he drew it again a second time, and yet again a third time. 

As I contemplated the stations of the cross I thought of my experiences of failure, especially my failure to conceive a child and become a mother, and my failure to write novels and poetry that were compelling enough for others to make a significant contribution to literature and to the community. I could see how certain moments in my life felt like Jesus might have felt when being sentenced by Pilate - 

For example the time when Chris sent my manuscript to five friends (or friends of friends) involved in the publishing industry and their responses seemed to me uniformly discouraging. It felt as if my dream, my purpose in life, was being given a death sentence. I felt similarly when I could not become pregnant. 

It was interesting to contemplate Jesus carrying the cross, falling to the ground, getting help carrying the cross, having Mary (or Veronica?) wipe his brow, being nailed to the cross, being taken down from the cross and placed in his sepulcher and finally rising from the dead triumphant. 

I realized that my retirement from therapy and my self-publishing two books of poetry were like dying on the cross for me. I was relinquishing the dream of fixing my relationship with my mother by getting it right, first with my own child (who I was never able to conceive), then with my clients (who I was never able to fix/cure of their suffering). I was never going to write the great poems I had hoped to write. As I embraced and blessed the ones I did write, I relinquished my dreams for really giving back to the tradition of literature (which had saved my life and given me a sense of belonging in the distress and loneliness of childhood). 

When Chris and I reached the top of the stairs and I saw the risen Christ I associated immediately to my happiness on the trail. My dreams - and so the sense of self organized around them - had died. The happiness I experienced on the PCT seemed very much like the joyful uplifted arms of the resurrected Jesus in the last station of the cross. 

I think that the discovery that one’s own experience can be draped onto the template of a myth, a story that has existed for a long time, one that has given meaning to many human lives over many centuries and generations, is profoundly comforting. There is a sense of belonging and precisely the experiences that most tend to isolate us become a source of connection. 

I could see how failure - the death of a dream or life purpose - is really a lot like death itself. I feared failure so much but when I finally embraced it I think I could have gone back to my younger frightened self and told her calmly and honestly, just as Persephone told Demeter in Chris’s story last night, “yes, it’s a different world (after failure, after the death of a dream). But it isn’t as scary as you think.”

I wondered, as I contemplated the stations of the cross, if failure might not be an Eleusynian mystery for me, if by learning not to fear failure I might learn not to fear death itself. 

I also reflected on all the love and support and genuine connection that has poured in from you after I mentioned my longing to receive emails that said “I love your blog. “ It occurred to me that the joy I have gotten connecting to others through this blog is probably greater than anything I could have experienced if my dream of greatness as a writer (and giving back to the great tradition of literature that gave so much to me ) had come true. I was far too fragile to handle the demands and projections that come with fame. Similarly, I have come to believe that I was too fragile and wounded to mother a child skillfully, much as I longed, with all my heart, to do so. I never got to “fix” the mother-daughter relationship and to make it right - not with writing, not with a child, not with my clients. But writing this blog - on the other side of accepting those failures - has given me the joy of touching you with my words and being touched in turn by yours in response. The uplifted arms of the resurrected Christ associate for me to my happiness on the trail and to the magical connections I’ve felt through this blog. 

After we climbed to the church of the Madonna Della Rocca (there’s a miracle story associated with this church but I don’t at the moment remember it) and went on walking to the neighboring village on top of a higher hill, my thoughts became less mythological and more mundane. The beauty of the view. The color of the water. Flowers. The fragrances, shapes and colors. 

Photo 1 is looking back on Taormina as we climb. 

I was so absorbed I failed to take photos of the stations of the cross. You can see the old Greek-Roman amphitheater in the upper right. 

Photo 2 is a version of the symbol for Sicily (three legs, usually three sheaves of wheat symbolizing fertility, and a head of Medusa - though typically made pretty and though it is supposed to represent the protective power that Medusa’s severed head conferred when placed on Athena’s shield, and thus to suggest that Sicily is protected by Athena and so Medusa’s Head, it does not look like a face that could turn anyone to stone).  I like the way the building across the street is reflected on the window and so superimposed on the image - the way myths and their stories become superimposed on our lives and experience. 

As we headed back down from Castelmola, Chris pointed out that the little car (whose hippy paint job I had admired) had only one eye and so was a kind of cyclops. This associated to Chris’s talk prior to our visit to Mt. Etna, when she had told stories about how Odysseus outwitted Polyphemus, the cyclops, and put out his eye. I didn’t mention that story because it had no strong resonance for me - but I did like the idea of this little car as a latter day cyclops. It doesn’t really look like a monster who could casually eat Odysseus’ men for supper, but what do I know about man-eating monsters?

On the way home, walking back down from Castelmola, I also noticed this little house with its prickly pear cactuses (cacti?), and it’s little relief of a satyr drinking ( or blowing on a pipe?) at the center near the roof. 

I’m getting very drowsy and it’s past midnight. At home I usually have lights out by 9 pm! 

So let me show you a photo or two from my hike down toward the sea (photos 5 and 6)

And then also I want to tell you that we had a gathering where the group shared thoughts and experiences. In addition to lots of appreciation for Chris and her lectures, there was a lot of appreciation for the caring and inclusiveness and bonding of the group. There were a lot of tears and a lot of laughter - one sweet moment was when Kiki spoke of how empowering she had found it to connect with Medusa and how she was more able to set limits and boundaries. Nixon quipped “I notice your hair has been getting curlier.” Another was when John said he first heard Chris lecture 38 years ago and Peter (Chris’s son) said he had  first heard her lecture a long time before that. Chris mentioned my idea for a new tour “Following in Freud’s Footsteps” visiting London, Prague, Vienna, the Dolomites, and Rome. There seemed to be a lot of interest. So stay tuned. Maybe some of you will walk with us in the flesh if that tour really happens - and maybe others will share that one via this blog. 

Meanwhile its past my bedtime. I feel very lucky and blessed. I love how you love my blog (I love it too). It wouldn’t be at all, without you. 

Sweet dreams, golden dreams (sogni d’oro). Tomorrow we return to Siracusa and see Oedipus at Colonus performed (in Italian) at the ancient theater. 

Thank you as always for walking with me.