My first time in Greece, I can’t fully understand which old stones matter most. The ones that have been cut and organized by humans, or the ones simply there, being stones…

Assuming I can tell them apart.

In this land of ancient civilizations, I start to harvest the teachings of Old Stone.

It’s a bewildering, unexpected initiation.

First, I spend hours and days hiking through fields of stones.
Climbing rocky cliffs. Following rocky paths.
Roaring wind and furiously raging sun, dry.

My searches for the familiar humid womb of the forest are useless. I find spiky bushes, again and again. My lips are red and swollen from the salty sprays – exposed.

It is a land of nude rocks.

Stairways of rocks, alleyways of rocks, slippery smooth trails of rocks with painted red dots, and marble rock stairs.

Bright-white plastered stone houses.

Labyrinths of Roman aqueducts and crumbling Byzantine fortresses. Grids of low stonefield walls where lizards and cats, and olive trees stand still, and I burn – squatted, leaning against the Old Stone backs.

Standing still. Millenia-old Minoan cities of rocks, cairns on piles of rocks. Reminders of a trail to the past. I circle back around.

Hellenic temples.
Medieval castles and churches and chapels.
Orthodox monasteries built from rocks, perched on rocks.

All piled up rocks staying, watching civilizations rise and fall.

Cooking, curing in the sun, and holding. Forever slapped by gusts from the sea.

I resist and feel faint, until I find a flinty voice to shout back at the Great Provider.

Gathered up and coughed out from the centre of my chest. I whistle back to the wind. My skin dissolves in salt sprinkles, and pulls, cracks, expands.

Shiny freckly brown.

I find myself in a field of spiky bushes, again.

Goats appear and disappear with humorous grins, offering tricky riddles. The wind fills my ears and the open void in my head fills with deep, silent voices.

Who’s whispering, meandering in the sandy tracks? And the one goat stands on the boulder, facing me. Who’s whispering, is it me? And I hear the Old Stone Teachers everywhere, from the ruins and the cliffs, all of us.

Witnessing at this very moment-place, attuned in harmony, immobile in circular time-space, observing the unfolding. Who’s whispering?

I circle back around, dizzying blast of Eastern wind playing with my mind. I fall in a downward spiral and rise up.

Just enough time to record a glimpse of the ancient civilizations of the Aegean sea.

Landing in the cradle of an old stone, carved to collect offerings. I flash, light-speed, sweep the walls of buried cities and reveal the goddess cult mysteries.

I split in countless ways, draw hieroglyphs and sacred geometry that had been stolen from my memories.

Under the newly restored Temple of Athena, carved in the face of the cliff by our very Mother, vibrates the pagan magic of a cave that will never need restoration.

I spiral in and out, down and up.

Just long enough to receive a piece of sacred knowledge from the Old Stone Teachers.

Marie, her blue angelic wings foam in pleasure. Roll, ripple and dissolve. It’s a timeless back and forth, push and pull that takes me in, swelling up and down.

Singing a silent lullaby, melodies of fluidity, weight and fullness, and woah –
Absence of gravity.

Am I on the sea, in the sea, or outside, looking at her?
Is it the call back?

When I stare at the waves, there is nothing else than a dazed eagerness for their changing forms. Dissolution in sound.

Dreamtime, again.

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