On Sex and Monasticism
(This excerpt was originally going to be included in Book Two: Daughter of Odysseus: Searching for Ithaka. Here, the main character Christine reflects on the dichotomy between being faithful to her Christian beliefs and being sexually pure, and the reality of her fallen nature and the desires she struggles to fight against. ‘The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.’ Thus, is Christine’s predicament. Thus, is all of our predicament.) So central was monasticism to Orthodox Christianity, so strong a hold did it have over the religious conscience of the pious, that it had tempted Christine on many occasions. Reading monastic literature that elevated chastity and virginity over and above marriage and sex, fasting and praying with a religious zeal that would have put John the Baptist to shame, and visiting a monastery back in Australia where she cavorted with cloaked virgins in an enclosed world of prayer, prostration and praise all made Christine want to embrace this lifestyle with all her sacred strength. The hypocritical Christine could be oh so puritanical and was fiercely proud of herself for having been carnally celibate for six years. Carnally—for her mind engaged in fantasies that would have alarmed even the most hardened pornographer. But this did not stop from seeing herself as a born-again virgin. Born again in purity—hymen and all. Whilst the pious, holy life of sexless monasticism beckoned her temptingly. But she had stirrings within her, physical stirrings. Sometimes intensely so. Like she would explode any moment from frustration and desire. Like a frantic animal on heat howling for a mate. She made the mistake made by many pursuing the path of angelic ‘purity’ that Christianity had elevated. By negating the reality of her body, of the flesh and of sexual desire—by pretending to be both bodiless and sexless—she failed to perceive that the lust that had merely ‘slumbered’ would emerge more ferocious than ever, more perverted than ever. She failed to understand that her body and her sexuality were central to her very being; that humans were by their very nature sexual beings and that, deep down, she longed for a sexual love of such spiritual intensity she would at last find that androgynous wholeness and transfiguration that was akin to complete and utter union with her God. She rejected with all her soul that promiscuity and body cult of modern society. A cult that left modern man more estranged and degraded than ever. That saw women brutalised and abused sexually millions of times over. She grieved over a theology that saw women as the gateway to the devil; as a defected creature who existed merely to tempt the holy man on his path to perfection and union with God. Not a unique creature in her own right but only finding perfection by abandoning her evil feminine nature and embracing a sexless existence that monasticism preached. And angry—angry over a theology that had betrayed the spirit of the Gospel. For Christ did not shy away from women. He did not disparage or condemn women as temptresses whose sexuality ensnared the pious man. Did not condemn the woman who bathed his feet with perfumed ointment with her feminine sensuality and compassion. Did not discourage women disciples and who celebrated at the Wedding of Cana. Wholeness. Sexual wholeness. Spiritual wholeness. This is what Christine deep down longed for. Not a perverted lust. Not a shattered reality. Not a debased animal sexuality that merely led to corruption and emptiness. Not a bitter sense of estrangement from a patriarchal Church. Not a need to flee the world and find solace in virginity. She could not deny the centrality of monasticism to the Orthodox World. Of its holy men and women who did find wholeness and who grew in the likeness of God by attaining angelic purity. But she longed for her yang—that masculine energy that would complement her femininity—the heaven to her earth—the light to her dark. Where she would sacrifice her selfish ego and find a love that will bring completion and metaphysical reality to her world. That would bring spiritual fullness and holiness to her very being.
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On Depression, Faith and Hope
(Christine, the heroine from my series ‘Daughter of Odysseus’, reflects on her experience with depression, her journey back towards her Orthodox Christian faith and her determination to reclaim her roots in the land of her ancestors—Greece. This section has been deleted from the novel series). In the beginning was. . . A carefree youth revelling in the world of men, rejoicing in the inhabited world, delighting in the human race. Yet like the great Job, this rejoicing would soon turn to grief and unfathomable suffering and tears. Where one laments the day of their birth—cursing it and with it—the whole created order that had once delighted Wisdom herself. . . Where a world of cruelty, a fallen world banished from God’s presence, became flesh and clung to my body, creating this disease of depression that is as mystifying as the origins of the Word that took flesh and dwelt among us. When did this all happen—this depression—this psychological disease that consumed me—that threw me into some deep black hole, into a pit of despair? It seemed to happen so suddenly—so mysteriously—so unexpectedly. Where kin fled from me as if from leprosy; where the breath I breathed repulsed all around me; where my own bones clung to my flesh. Yet I feel a need to write it down—inscribe the words—engrave them on a rock so that they could live forever. . . The beginning. . .The origins? If I were to speak to a therapist, I could tell them when—according to earthly terms—when this depression started: ‘Oh you know, when I finished high school. . .everything just went black, as if this great change in my life forced me to reflect on my past, my present and the future and rather than seeing hope, I saw the angel of death smothering me with a black curtain and delighting in my suffering. But (I would continue to say) who can explain the mystery of depression—the mystery of the human psyche in its complexity—as created by God and as obsessed with by theologians and psychologists alike? So yes, Mr. Therapist, there was the great change in my life; of leaving the safe confines of high school, of routine and friends, and entering the big wide world and embarking upon the metamorphosis into adulthood. And yet the cruel memories of high school clung to me more insidiously than the happy memories and thus the trauma of this sudden change in my life could have caused my depression; stress coupled with a terrible low self-esteem that intensified with the slow abandonment and the outright hostility of friends I so cherished. And for what reason? I still don’t know. . . As for science? That too has an explanation. Could confidently explain depression as caused by a chemical change that affects how the brain functions. Did my neurotransmitters, my brain chemicals responsible for sending and receiving messages from the rest of my body stop delivering, correctly, those chemical messages between brain cells—disrupting communication? Did my brain chemicals, so central for our emotional state, decide to stop functioning properly? And who—damn them—told them to stop? Trauma of change, stress, cruelty, low self-esteem, and now neurotransmitters thrown in for good measure. But there is the genetic argument. That the disease of depression can run in families for generations and the individual is at the mercy of the hereditary gods. So, did it run in my family? Did I inherit a gene that made me vulnerable to depression? Did my father and mother suffer from it? Their forebears, some mentally tormented aunt or uncle, who closed themselves too in their room, drank the sweet nectar that numbed the pain and silenced the voices raging within them? Contemplated suicide whilst stuck in a world of illusion and delusion? As for the religious argument (for they too have a justification and explanation for this malady), what did it have to say? That a spiritually and physically corrupt world is the root cause of depression, despair and despondency. That the Fall of Adam and Eve distorted the heart and mind of man, alienating him from God and the entire Universe. Thus, everything became blackened; relationships between humans, between humans and the cosmos, humans and God. That a lack of faith in God led to the malady of depression; where the Shakina—the Spirit of God—ceased to shine its light and the darkness of despondency, this pitiless demon, plunged humanity into a black pit. That only through regeneration and recreation in Christ can the mind be renewed—can the Holy Spirit return—can depression and dejection flee—can the mind and soul be cured—can the person reject that existential despair where life has no meaning and purpose, where one can experience hope, love and everlasting life. Where one begins again to walk in the Garden with God in the cool evening breeze and commune with him face to face and without fear. . . At the puerile age of 18 I of course could not answer the why. Why I would lock myself in my room and weep, flooding my environs so that I drowned in my own grief. Why the sweet wine nourished me and numbed the pain if but for a while. Why this disease, which has left me mentally and physically scarred for life, why it took hold of me like an obsessed lover and left me fantasising about suicide which was none other than a scream for help and attention. Where I cut myself off from social contact, where my family became my enemy and my only activity seemed to be lodging my Social Security form. Where the walls of my room became my very own sepulchre and where the suburbs around me incarcerated me with their sterility and barrenness. So here I was—a socially useless being—a non-being—a nothing—a blob of flesh and muscle and tissue—an animal even where I just ate and slept and defecated. . . Yet within this mass of skin and bones, of blood and artilleries, of cells and fleshy tissue, a divine spark—none other than the breath of life breathed into the first man who was but then mere dust, stirred within me and imparted me with notions of hope and fulfilment. As if God had not abandoned me but was waiting—waiting for me to return to him—a much stronger person with character, with endurance and with trust. A seed implanted within my soul; of travelling and exploring; of language and culture; of history and poetry; of learning and teaching; of spiritual wholeness and meaning. And when I worked as a teacher with Maria, my depression withdrew momentarily; whilst camping in mysterious and isolating locations in which dwelt ancestral spirits I could not understand. Whilst I woke up to kookaburras singing heartily and kangaroos drinking in nearby lakes. As I climbed steep hills and walked across rickety bridges; as I got cut to shred by thorns and frightened to death by fake spiders and snakes. As Carlos wrote me love songs which at the time made me wince because I was too immature, selfish and frightened to appreciate genuine love from another human being. But depression lingered, like a pesky friend who just can’t get the hint and leave. It would come back for a ‘visit’ far too often than I wanted and tormented me with terrible nightmares and ghastly visions of such suffering and horror I often did not know who I was—where I was—and what was the purpose of this thing called life. My life, by this stage, it seemed, had become a cycle of joy and grief, of bloom and barrenness, a metaphoric spring and winter. The eternal mystery that is the cycle of the earth and of life and explained by my forebears through the story of Persephone and Demeter; a tale told to me by the almost mythical, flamboyant legend himself—my old Greek Teacher Mr. Panagos—when he spoke with such pathos and emotion it was as if he were experiencing the grief of Demeter herself at the loss of her daughter Persephone. Demeter the Mother he would call her as he elevated the myths of the past as representing the true spirit of the Greeks. This most beloved of ancient Greek goddess who gave to humanity the precious gift of the harvest, the one who taught humanity how to grow and prepare the grain that sustained and nourished them. The nurturer and provider who was intimately bound up in the everyday life of the Greeks; the source of life itself. . . But, he would go on to say with his theatrical eloquence and nationalistic passion, she truly became a part of humanity through her experience of suffering, grief and depression at the loss of her daughter Persephone, who was kidnapped by the god Hades whilst enchanted by the seductive aroma of the narcissus and snatched to the Underworld, forced to become the Queen of the Underworld—the dominion of the dead—never to see the light of day again. Demeter, upon hearing her daughters screams, frantically began searching for her daughter, traversing the entire world in search of a daughter who had disappeared as if into oblivion, yet in vain. Consumed by inexplicable heartache, loss and depression, her tormented state resulted in the barrenness of the earth. Too overcome with grief, she ceased her duties as the Goddess of the Grain and Harvest. The earth began to die, the plants withered and the people suffered, a metaphor for her own spiritual death. Upon discovering that her daughter was now Queen of the Underworld, and that Zeus had sanctioned this deceitful crime, Demeter—with a strong feeling of betrayal—departed from Mt. Olympus, declaring that until her daughter would return to her, Mother Earth would never see fertility again. The land would continue to remain unfruitful—sterile; the harvests would cease; agriculture abundance and the hope of new beginnings would vanish from earth. Humanity would experience an eternal winter. An icy despair in a hostile world of thorns and thistles, of death and hunger. Zeus finally gave into Demeter’s demands and Persephone rejoiced when she heard that she would be returning to her mother. But prior to leaving, Hades, deceptively, offered his beloved wife the fruit pomegranate to eat—the fruit of life—knowing that if she were to eat it, she would be bound to the Underworld forever. Persephone accepted, pressing the seeds to her mouth, relishing the sweet taste of the forbidden fruit. Having tasted of the fruit, Persephone was destined to remain in Hades forever, in the murky underworld away from her mother. But Zeus offered her the hope of returning to her mother, albeit for a while, before returning again to the Underworld. Thus, each spring, Persephone would return to mother earth—to her mother—and Demeter would resume her role as the Goddess of the Harvest, as the one sustaining humanity, with the budding flowers and signs of renewal proclaiming the reality of new beginnings, of rebirth, of the resurrection from the dead. . . But with the ruby red seeds of the pomegranate staining her lips, Persephone was forced to return to Hades and to her husband. Her mother would begin her mourning, her slide into depression and winter darkness would hence descend upon the earth, bringing with it again desolation and infertility. Until…Persephone returns again each year—spring returns—where the warmth replaces the cold, hope replaces hopelessness, resurrection replaces death. Representing none other than the dichotomy of human life, the reality that there are times of terrible anguish yet always the promise of joy and rebirth… A story I have always found captivating as it encapsulates the mystery of the human condition, the mystery of my life. Where we are confronted by a numbing deadness of the soul so that everything becomes hateful and hostile—even God himself. For it feels that Persephone will never return and everything will continue to remain desolate and gloomy as Hades itself. For me, Persephone came and went with baffling irregularity and capriciousness until. . .until a miracle happened. Spring came with such force and with such lushness I drowned in a sea of lilies and golden sunflowers, of pomegranates and the immortal ivy. For the seed that had been planted within me and which grew as I studied at University and thirsted for foreign shores, this seed growing slowly into a sapling became fertilised by none other than the intoxicating Spirit of God. . . How can mere words express what I had experienced when a bitter agnosticism transformed into an ardent faith; where I experienced my very own Damascus so that the scales fell from my blind eyes and I underwent a spiritual metamorphosis of such intensity, of such divine pathos, I understood St. Paul’s words when he recalled being taken to the seventh heaven and seeing the Lord himself face to face. Where I stood with a stupefied Nicodemus when Christ explained to him that one must become born again through the Spirit—emerge from the baptismal font a new creature; where I danced with joy within the walls of Jerusalem as Christ told the people that out of the believers hearts shall flow rivers of living water for the Comforter—the Spirit of Truth—will descend upon the person as it once descended upon the Holy Tabernacle of God. I now understood what it meant to be alive. Where the feelings of lethargy and alienation were swept away and replaced with a sense of dynamism and spiritual awareness. Where love replaced hate, hope replaced despair and peace replaced hostility and torment. Where I walked as if leaping on soft clouds, where I soared above the earth for the Holy Spirit that had raised Christ from the dead had seized me, burning within me like a flame of fire—tingling my senses, and restoring the flesh that had become pallid, where fat, slimy earthworms had already begun to attach themselves to a body covered in soil, where vultures gathered for they sniffed a corpse and hurried to the feast my body would provide. . . Sleeper awake! Rise from the dead, And Christ will shine on you. . . Can I say that I had been ‘born again’? That I was once dead but now alive? Yes, and although I had been baptised in the Holy Orthodox Church as an infant, had partaken in the Sacrament of Baptism and Chrismation, I now truly understood what it meant to be filled with the Holy Spirit—to be a new creation in Christ. I had seen the presence of the Transfigured Lord and experienced his deep compassion for the suffering and the lost. I was the lost sheep found by my shepherd, the prodigal daughter returning to her father, Eve returning to her home. I shall never forget my journey back to the Greek Orthodox Church. It happened one Good Friday evening, that moment when the congregation gathered around the symbolic tomb of Christ to celebrate the perfect Man Jesus who although now buried in the tomb—having experienced the terror that is death—could not remain dead for long. From the unusually bitter Autumn cold I entered the ark that is the church and I immediately felt the warm, dazzling brightness and presence of the Godhead as the women chanted hymns to the myrrh-bearing women who with boldness and love approached the tomb only to be confronted by the presence of an Angel proclaiming the Resurrection. . . O Christ, the Life, You were laid in the tomb, and ranks of Angels were amazed, glorifying your condescension. . . All generations offer a hymn to Your Burial, O my Christ. . . The myrrh–bearing Women came very early in the morning and sprinkled the tomb with myrrh. . . The melodious praises sung, the priest censuring the tomb with the sweet-smelling incense that made my nostrils quiver, the light reflecting off the icons with their vibrant colours of blues and greens, reds and yellows, the red and white flowers decorating the wooden and symbolic tomb exuding an aroma that mingled with the creatures made of earth and spirit, reaching up as smoke towards the heavens and cleansing the air. The people gathered around the tomb and following the priest as he proceeded to walk outside the church building—Gospel in hand; the only light that of the candles held by the faithful, a physical act symbolising Christ’s walk towards Golgotha yet his complete victory over darkness and death. How earthy, how physical, how stimulating worship is in the Orthodox Church. How it acknowledges that humans are creatures of sense: of sight, touch, taste, smell and hearing. How it glorifies the material world because it was created by God, not because it serves a selfish utilitarian function, that says all life is sacramental, that everything has a mysterious and divine worth—from the humble bread and wine transformed into the body and blood of Christ—to the foetus transformed into a living human being. From then on, I would give my life to the Orthodox Church—the historic church—the living body of Christ amongst a corrupt world. A faith that did not depart from ancient truths despite a world heading towards a hedonism and materialism unlike anything seen before. And when I took Father Nectarios’ advice and began some theological study, I was in my element. Studying the Bible from a literary, historical, cultural and theological perspective. From the Burning Bush and the enigmatic name of the God of Israel—to the Prophet Jeremiahs’ words of disaster towards the Israelites; from the literary brilliance of the Gospel of Mark where the end points to the beginning—the beginning to the end—to deciphering the mysteries within the Book of Revelation and coming to an understanding of the Alpha and the Omega of all human existence. It was all exhilarating and eye-opening. I grew, was challenged, felt threatened, went into despair, underwent renewal and matured in my faith in ways I never imagined. As I grew in faith (and after coming to a realisation that the same temptations can still linger around and try once again to ensnare you), as I studied with women who were training for ministry and as I came to the realisation that there is neither male nor female in Christ—that women served as ministers in the early Church—I began to hunger for the opportunity to serve the church and share the gifts I believe God had given me. Sometimes I regret completing my Honours Thesis in Theology but other times I recall the strong calling I felt to write it. Perhaps with blind devotion, or perhaps one day it will make a difference in the lives of some. Or it will scandalise many; my masterpiece in which I poured all my energy and wisdom in exploring the role of women in the early church and the intricacies of trying to interpret a mysterious past of fragmented documents and subjective male voices that muffled the voice of women and distorted her role for ideological purposes. It was my dedication—my ode to the women of the church—those silenced by male domination and a hostility emanating from the Fall. It was my hymn to equality which I wanted to chant to the world. . . The diversity of stories that surround women within the early Christian tradition is a terrible irony. Exalted as apostles and missionaries, women are likewise denied ministerial roles because there were only ‘male’ apostles in the early church. Such contradictions and inconsistencies illustrate the contention that surrounded the ‘woman’s’ issue’ in the primitive community, an issue that most certainly existed. Starting out as an egalitarian movement, the church attempted to maintain faithful to the egalitarian ethos of its roots in spite of growing hostility towards women and their role within the church. Indeed, this ambivalence can be seen in the actual hymns dedicated to women saints, hymns which degrade the feminine and constantly refer to the rottenness of female nature…The diversity and tension that exists over the role and place of women within the church—and as reflected by tradition—is indicative of the struggle between an egalitarian vision of the church and a vision more rooted in patriarchal Greco-Roman society…Although early Christian women like Junia and Prisca have been neglected and have become virtually unknown, to unearth their memory is to challenge those patriarchal myths that distort and simplify history and that work against women…The Orthodox Christian tradition abounds with stories that illustrate the egalitarian ethos of early Christianity and it is to this that the church must once again bring to light in order for it to be truly the body of Christ on earth—a Christ who took on all flesh and restored the disharmony between man and woman. . . In my determination and passion to make a difference through my writing and hope that women could somehow serve in ministry in this institution where the priesthood was strictly reserved for men, I of course failed to be aware of the controversy and scandal of what I was saying and what I represented to the Orthodox Church. Here I stood: gifted, devoted, determined, zealous and desirous to serve a church where the role of women had become relegated to that of baking, cleaning and organising luncheons for the Greek community. Important roles that I do not deny. With elements of dignity and holiness. But they were not for me. So, I resorted to fantasies, not really wanting to acknowledge reality; about studying and lecturing at seminaries, speaking in front of the great Bishops of the Church, of having my work read by thousands, of opening the door for the thousands of Orthodox Christian women frustrated with the male-dominated church but too weak and unsure to do anything about it. I began to believe that my suffering was for a purpose, this suffering that led me back to the church. That I had gained this wisdom despite my psychological wounds, that I had a gift and I had to enrich humanity, had to make the church relevant to a modern world where the status of women had radically changed forever. The reality check came for me, a reality check that was bitter and hurtful and which nearly plunged me back into the depths of despair—back into the arms of Hades. In my experience within the church, my dealings with the priests, bishops, in seminars, in theological groups where I got a chance to give talks to the dedicated few, with the chanters, with fellow lay-Christians, as I sat and observed the liturgy performed by the chosen sex, as I spoke with women who served their churches and looked forward to their ordination, I came to the terrible and soul-destroying conclusion—so bitter and harrowing for me—that there was no room for me in the Church. I was not wanted. I was not needed. I, with my ‘radical’ views in the egalitarian ethos of the gospel, was not welcome. When did I—in my idealism and devotion—realise this? Was it because my role in the Church was resigned to Sunday School Teaching and baking bread? Was it because I was barred from entering the Holy of Holies, impure and dirty? Was it because I saw young men flourishing in the church, declared theologians and praised as chanters, while I—despite the wisdom bestowed upon me by God—was an embarrassment—to be scorned and treated with derision? Was it because I was ridiculed when I talked about the woman’s issue as if it were a preposterous notion and women were treated perfectly fine in the church? Was it because I understood the bitter frustration and despair of having the gifts of the Holy Spirit and not being able to do anything with these gifts? Was it because the women’s issue was declared a ‘controversial issue’ within the church, a foreign concept and irrelevant, indeed, alien and blasphemous? Was it because I could do nothing with my Theological Degree, in spite of the years of time and energy I spent on it, labouring with love to serve God and his Church? Where I would hear the words: ‘Why are you studying theology – do you want to be a priest?’ And recoil at the sniggering and presumptuous arrogance of those who disparaged me but who secretly feared me. . . Was it because (and I shall never forget these words) I was bluntly and cruelly told by the same priest I confided everything to: If you give women too much freedom they will destroy the church… Indeed, was it because I came to believe in my own inferiority as the weaker sex, the demonic daughter of Eve responsible for the fall of humanity, a creature belonging to that cursed female tribe that only sought the destruction of the church as uttered by many? Humiliated, rejected, and abandoned, I realized that I am a second-class citizen—a woman—an educated woman in this medieval, conservative, patriarchal institution that—for me at least—has betrayed the gospel in regards to women. I did not or have not experienced the inclusivity and love that was found in Jesus’ ministry but rather the exclusivity and concepts of ritual ‘cleanliness’ and hierarchy found in the pages of the Old Testament. But I clung on, and still cling on with hope, in desperate struggle as if I am clinging on to life itself. I love the Church: its hymnology, its theology, its saints, and its liturgy. I relish studying the lives of the Saints, from St. Maximus the Confessor with his dazzling Christological reflections to St. Seraphim of Sarov, with his deep insights into the presence of the Holy Spirit and his overwhelming love and compassion for those around him. Then there is St. Thecla, who became a disciple of St. Paul and preached the gospel despite the persecution she experienced. I truly believe that even the ministerial role of deaconess is a right for women to have as we too are created in the Image of God—we too have charismatic gifts for the Spirit does not discriminate—for the Spirit is poured upon all flesh. And those words, those cruel words come back to haunt me time and time again, tormenting me with their pure malice—with their lies. . . If you give women too much freedom they will destroy the church Destroy, demolish, pull down, obliterate, annihilate, wipe out. . . Yet the only thing that had been destroyed was my hope and the only thing that could not be undone was the psychological scarring this rejection and humiliation had caused. Persephone had arrived with such splendour yet was beginning to wither away with the diminishing sunshine and the arctic bitter chill. Yet through this faith I have come to an awareness of my Greek heritage, a heritage I had always found irrelevant and embarrassing. Even though I do not see the church as an ethnic institution, I believe the gospel enriched my people and brought them to a new awareness of the divine that had been the topic of discussion by philosophers from all generations. That it was Hellenism that enabled the seed of the Gospel to be scattered throughout the world and it was in the language of Greek that the Word that was at the beginning of time took shape so that the message of salvation penetrated a world wallowing in sin. Greece, it has taken on mythical dimensions in my mind. Where churches and monasteries abound, where miracles are a part of the normal cycle of life, where (so I’ve been told), a vibrant parish life exists and where opportunities await me in the study of theology and a participation in an Orthodox Church speaking to a modern, western world. Where the church in its heavenly truth has room for me and which has a burning desire and need for people like me. Greece has become my hope. A place where perhaps I will find people who will listen to me. Where I will find a community that will encourage me and help me make a difference. Where I can chant in ancient churches and participate in the liturgical cycle—with the angels—that will lead to my ultimate divinization. Perhaps, as Andrew and Antigone state with a strange urgency, there I will meet my destiny and a consciousness of my purpose in life. Greece, in a way I never expected, has become my hope. And as I leave in a few months, I will ensure Persephone never abandons me; that the Spirit constantly renews me despite any obstacle I may face. An eternal spring? Only time will tell but I must take that chance. I must spring forth from this tomb I inhabit and put on the clothes of immortality. I must meet my past and my ancestors raging within me. I must live the present and I must sprout seeds so that future generations who are longing to emerge from me see the light of day and continue the work that I and others before me have started. REFLECTIONS ON A REVIEW
‘Daughter of Odysseus’ is ten years plus in the making. What started out as one novel of some 900 pages, transformed into a trilogy with the first--Ithaka Calling—finally published in September of 2017. Ten years plus! That’s a long time. I started the novel as a form of therapy, hurt and disappointed by my failed attempts to start a new life in Greece. This grief and depression became the seed that would lead to the flowering of my novel. Why did it take so long, you may ask? Firstly, I’m a perfectionist and rewrote and reedited countless times until I got it right. Always at the back of my mind the question lurked – what will people think of this? Will they like it, mock it, be inspired by it or see it as a waste of time? I had some trepidation of actually having the novel read only because my novel is so personal; it is based on my experience and I don’t want to be open to criticism. Within those ten years plus, there were two failed marriages, a second trip to Greece (where I met my first husband), University studies and a new career as a teacher, all the grief and joy that went with teaching, the pain of separation, battling depression, insecurity and intense loneliness, the desire for a family and much more. Despite this, I kept on writing and perfecting my work, which had become something precious to me: a jewel as it were, something that I clung on to as an emblem of hope and inspiration. It gave me light during black days of heartache and despair, it whispered to me ‘’There’s a reason you’re alive.” Only one person read part of my novel during those ten years, my brother-in-law. He gave me great advice, but as for someone else reading it, I couldn’t bear the thought. Silly, no doubt, as it’s a novel and it must have readers, so you’re going to have to put it ‘out there’ sooner or later. I took a leap of faith. I found an editor who I hired to look at the first hundred pages or so. And I’m glad I did for she was super supportive but super critical – and I thank her for that. It was she who recommend I transform my novel into a trilogy and so the fine tuning began. And it worked, I said to myself! It was meant to have been a trilogy all along. Now for the second leap of faith. Book One finished, I needed it to be professionally edited – from beginning to end. I found an ‘in-line’ editor from the U.S.A and we signed a contract. All the while I was thinking: gulp—what will she think? Will she tell me this is a waste of time and tell me to never have this published? Alas, my editor was a God-send and transformed a good novel into something professional and brilliant (in my eyes) and offered me wonderful feedback as well. It was time, time to take my baby and show it to the world. With my book cover finished, with a professionally edited novel, I realised that I couldn’t hold back any longer. I did my research, and finally, my novel became first available via Amazon Kindle. I told friends and family and hoped for their support. I didn’t know what to expect—how people would react—whether anybody would even want to read it. But alas, I received my first review on Amazon and was over the moon. It was a good review, a 4 out of 5. It wasn’t from someone I knew. Somebody had decided that they wanted to read my novel and graciously gave me a positive review, with the title ‘Deep and Lyrical.’ This is the first half of the review: Christine is an Australian teenager of Greek descent. Her family's all about being Greek, but in general the culture of the area is pretty anti-Greek (anti- everything non-Western European, actually). Christine has no real idea what to do with her life, so she's just cruising along until her friends turn against her and she sinks into deep depression that her family neither understands nor really tries to help with. This depression begins to turn around, however, with her discovery that she actually is interested in her Greek heritage after all, and most especially in the Orthodox church. But when things really get going is pretty far along in the book. The major turning point is when Christine goes to Greece. Before that, I liked the book (and recognized the symptoms of depression -- very realistic and not too heavy handed), but Greece's completely unfamiliar culture really struck me. Christine no longer really has anything comfortable to fall back on -- she has to sink or swim. I thought—wow—this is a great overall description of the plot and I thought it was interesting that the first part of the book resonated with them. I hope they really get to engage with Christine’s experience in Greece, which is where Book Two and Three are set. Now for their overall impression: This is the first book of a series, so we don't get to see her transform fully, but there's a major feeling that she will transform and spread her wings. Overall: I very much enjoyed the book. The author's writing is almost like singing at times, with complex and beautiful language transforming the most mundane things into poetry. Reading the depression was hard for me -- there was a lot of misery in the book -- but the glimpses of hope and light mostly made up for it. I felt a sense of joy and gratitude upon reading this last section. The reader senses that Christine will transform, and they are right. Transform to the point where she becomes a different person—whether for good or bad. That they enjoyed my book, a book that has become an extension of my own self, thrilled me and I couldn’t but help share this review to anybody who cared to listen! But what I appreciated the most was the way they describe my writing. I worked hard to make the writing deeply lyrical and poetic and rich in imagery. Believe me, it doesn’t come naturally. It is hard work but I am so glad it has paid off and somebody took joy and pleasure in this. I was struck by the comments about Christine’s depression and wondered, has the reader suffered from depression? Yes, there is a lot of misery but I wanted the character’s raw emotion and despair to really resonate with the reader; I wanted to show that, despite this utter grief, you can have hope—you must cling on to the life raft with all your strength and know that there is always new possibilities and new experiences and adventures. I hope to show this through Books Two and Three. So, dear reviewer, I really thank you from the bottom of my heart for making me see that—yes—you did the right thing by publishing this novel and even if it is the only review you’ll ever receive, it affected that one person and that is what truly matters. CRAZY CAT LADY
(Writers note: I wrote this as a sort of ‘Stream of Consciousness’ so there is not a lot of editing or fancy literary images. It’s my feelings and emotions poured forth – although perhaps calling it ‘Stream of Consciousness’ might be stretching it a bit) I am a woman, in my forties, single, I have no children and live with two cats. Aha – you say – I am a crazy cat lady. A sad, miserable failure who is in all likelihood a loony feminist who hates men and rather than seek the company of men, marriage and children, have chosen the opposite. Alas, I am a crazy cat lady; I read comments about women in my situation, about how we have ‘wasted’ our lives and our situation is a sign of disappointment and our hard-heartedness. We are most to be pitied, it seems. Crazy cat lady, crazy cat lady. I have been called that. Am I offended? No - I love cats – I love dogs – I love animals. I volunteer at an Animal Shelter (I work with dogs). Am I hurt? Yes, deeply so, because it makes assumptions about why I am in this situation; it lumps all women into the one box, it paints us with the same brush, it fails to recognise that the path that led me here – alone and with two cats – a path that perhaps I am partly to blame for - is more complex than what people want to believe. I have been married twice. ‘What, and no children?’ I hear you say. I know, strange right? It’s not like I haven’t been intimate with men. I have been intimate with many men, in fact, but always – always – I wanted the package. The marriage, the house, the husband, the children WITHIN marriage. That’s how I was brought up. I’m a Greek Orthodox Christian right? I must do the right thing. Marriage is holy, it’s a sacrament, my parents and all the generations before married then had children. That’s what people do, right? People say I’m fussy and perhaps I am. But I won’t be with someone for the sake of being with someone. I need to feel that special bond with a man – be it emotional, spiritual and physical. Nevertheless, I felt desperately lonely and thought – is there something wrong with me? Why haven’t I met the ONE? To cut a long story short, I married a man I met in Greece when I was in my early thirties. I had never been obsessed with marriage and children in my twenties and simply can’t change that fact. I had other plans – study, travel, career and more travel. Some of my dreams were fulfilled but not all. I did study and travelled, where, as already mentioned, I met Husband Number One. I brought my husband back to Australia, where we had a civil (wedding) service. It was rushed and very plain but to me, it was the prelude to the BIG day – the church wedding and the festivities to follow. I even bought a wedding dress – paid a lot of money for it. But I never got to wear it. I longed for a church service but he was not interested. Once we had the civil service that was it; in his eyes we were legally married and we could now proceed with the relevant paperwork to enable him to stay in Australia. In fact, and to be brutal – I was a means to an end for him. I was his green card and he was my Mail Order Husband. Pathetic – yes, I know. But when I met him on a Greek island, prior to my coming back to Australia after having spent a year in Greece – I fell so in love it was as if I was bewitched. Did I really know him before we got married? Of course not. Do you ever really know anyone? You could be married to someone for ten years and discover the most horrifying things about them. But once you’re married – you have to make it work. Even if the person changes straight after the wedding day – revealing their true colours and their real intentions. You must make this union with this complete stranger work – to be with them for the REST OF YOUR LIFE – in this institution called marriage because – well – that’s what society says. And I wanted to do the right thing. I was in love – he loved me – or so I thought. Our marriage would be forever, we would have children. There was a reason why I was on that Greek island at that time – it was destiny – fate – we were predestined to be together. My husband, as I learned in time, was a pathological liar of the most shocking kind. I can’t hate him for this – it reveals a sickness and upon reflection – also reveals a sickness of a world that forced him to create these lies. He told me he was half Greek, half Serbian. He was neither. In time, I came to realise he was of Albanian descent – a despised Albanian migrant. Oh, how the Greeks hate the Albanians – well – most Greeks. Perhaps he thought that if he had told me he was Albanian from the start, I would not have wanted him. I would have still loved him, but - what if and how come – it was all too late for that. I was married to an Albanian who continued to perpetuate lies about his identity. It was a bizarre situation I had unwillingly found myself in. Me – the patriotic Greek, the Orthodox Christian – stuck in a civil marriage with a despised immigrant who I thought was half Greek. Who couldn’t produce any baptismal certificates and even told me once that he was a Muslim! What the hell was I supposed to believe? Greek, Serbian, Albanian, Muslim, Liar…? Of course, I asked questions because so little made sense. I had never got a chance to meet his parents the two times I had been in Greece with him; there were always excuses. I thought it strange that he had an Albanian passport and when I questioned this, he even created a fanciful story about that!! He was always TEN steps ahead of me. It was crazy and it just didn’t seem logical that this sweet, charming man would lie so blatantly. I was in love – that’s all that mattered. He wouldn’t lie. Why would someone lie about their own identity?! My husband cheated on me. He was (and is) a sex addict. Again, he was so charming and so manipulative that I believed his stories time and time again. One day, I was having a conversation with an Aboriginal African woman about how she was with my husband the previous day – that his name was in fact Fernando – and that he was from Sweden. And she really liked him. Another time, I read an email from another girlfriend where she declared: ‘Because of you – I have learnt to love again.’ Another woman knocked on my door asking for my husband. ‘Oh, who are you?’ I asked in interest. ‘I’m his girlfriend.’ ‘Oh’ I said in shock, ‘I’m his wife. Nice to meet you.’ He had a lot of pornography on his computer as well, but I guess that’s the norm in this day and age. Somehow or another a wife has to put up with this. But it hurt. My husband was determined that I was not to fall pregnant. I could not understand it. I always imagined us having a son together; he would have his good looks and my intelligence (lol – just kidding). To this day, I imagine what this son would be like if he had existed, if he was present in my life today. Husband Number One came up with all sorts of excuses: wait till we get more financially stable, wait to we move to a bigger place, wait till I come back from Europe. Excuses, excuses, excuses. He insisted he wear a condom at all times. There was no way I was going to fall pregnant with him, unless I got him drunk and we had sex without a condom. But that was never to happen. He was adamant about the condom, which again I couldn’t understand. So again, I was left with the ‘whys’ and the ‘how comes’. Left with trying to put the pieces of this crazy jigsaw puzzle in some sort of order. He hates me, he thinks I’m useless, he plans on leaving me, he doesn’t really love me – these are the reasons why he doesn’t want to have a child with me. I’ve now come to realise why he didn’t want to have children with me. It was because of the lies he told that had created a false person with a false history. A false history can only lead to a false present and a false future. I was married to a fraud, and this fraud did not want to have children with me because his ‘stories’ would be exposed. The child would need to know his mother’s and father’s nationality, wouldn’t he/she? Of course, I displayed astonishing naivety but couldn’t fathom someone lying to such an extent. Being from Australia, I was completely ignorant of the notorious methodologies used by foreign men in Greece to snare a woman – especially one from the ‘prosperous’ nation of Australia. When Husband Number One met me, he must have thought – JACKPOT. Sweet, innocent, naive, stupid, no idea of the cunning nature of so many in this country of Greece AND from Australia. I recall the look of glazed disbelief on his face, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. Me and my Male Order Husband separated. It was a shockingly traumatic separation – I found out he was cheating on me again. He said words that bloodied me; that I was worthless and disgusting and hence, the reason why he did not want children with me. The words stung so badly I still feel the sting to this day – some eight years later. The pain I went through after was unbelievable. I have always been prone to depression, anxiety and even obsessive-compulsive disorder - but these conditions were magnified one million per cent. I poured my heart and soul into this relationship only to be left with…nothing. Yes, nothing. No house, no money, no children. Just lies, wounds, and a bleak future. Husband Number One got married again. In fact, had brought over his ex-Swedish girlfriend right after our separation (he clearly had kept in contact with her and concocted stories to her as well). They got married and guess what? They now have a child. I did get married again; my second husband was kind and sweet and super religious. He was the exact opposite of my first husband but at the same time – he was the same. I knew he was unable to have children before we married but I was in love and, deep down, feared I would be lonely and that nobody else would want me (after the trauma of my first marriage, I had shocking self-esteem issues). I thought – I can make this sacrifice – of not having children. Perhaps it is not my fate. Perhaps we can have children – there is always hope (thus I told myself). Yet I always imagined the child we could have had together. Again, it was another boy and he would look like his father. Beautiful blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. I could feel him, touch him, I would love him and hold him and take him before his grandparents and beam with joy. My second marriage failed. Lack of intimacy, indifference, drifting apart, nothing to unite us. It was painful. So now, here I am, in my forties, with two failed marriages behind me. No children, yet all around me I see happy couples with their children and I see the sense of fulfillment in their lives. It’s hard not to be bitter or feel ostracised from the ‘normal’ world of humanity. That as a woman with no children – I am but half a woman – if that. I imagine the son – or sons and daughters – that I wanted – that I still want. I can feel them in my womb. And I want to cry as I write this. Because I don’t know if there is another chance for me. According to the world, I am past my use by date – even though I can still have children and I look much younger than my age. It causes me pain and leaves me feeling emotionally fragile. I had always thought I was strong enough to endure being childless, but deep down know I am not. I just suppress my feelings, block them out, try to occupy my time the best way I can. Or avoid people and their ‘normal’ lives. I have my God, I have my faith, I have my love of writing and my beautiful family. I have my cats – my beautifully fat, furry, annoying, loving and devoted cats. That enable me to do something with this maternal instinct God created me with. Whilst I think about what could have been, and would still could be. Crazy cat lady? Yeah sure, why not – put a label on me. But know that deep down, our lives are complex and by putting people into a box, you’re not allowing yourself to listen to their unique stories and know their pain and hope. CHRISTINE CONFRONTS HER PAST “Aunt Dimitra, who had again transformed into a sweet, elderly lady with saggy breasts and grey bun, grinned at her and walked over to a building that was old and small and covered in hay and dirt. It was not more than two metres in height, and the whitewashed walls were crumbling, revealing old bricks of different shades and stones that had been haphazardly put together many years ago. Christine was intrigued by this small building. She wandered around its remains, ogling its decrepit wooden door, dirty white walls, jagged brown tiled roof, and crumbling façade. The building stood in the radiant sun, a memorial to the poverty of her forefathers. ‘This is where your mum was born, and this is where she was brought up,’ her aunt said, beaming with pride and excitement. Christine stared wide-eyed at the ‘house’, and was dismayed by the poverty of the place. She went closer and peeked through a miniature window smeared with dirt. She imagined her mother getting dressed and preparing herself for the day ahead. The house was tiny both in width and in height—the doorway barely allowing children to walk through. There were no rooms—indeed, the ‘house’ itself was the size of a room. Christine tried to imagine her mum as a small girl growing up into a young woman in such unbearable surroundings—and with all her brothers and sisters in such close range. The thought suffocated Christine, who valued her space, her freedom. ‘And this is the kitchen—and where Grandma and Grandpa slept.’ Her aunt stood in front of a rundown red brick house that stood opposite, its white paint completely peeled away—the home of her grandmother and grandfather. Christine could not grasp the wretched poverty of her forefathers, and walked into the small house. It had enough room for the oven and a bed. The house now covered in black soot, Christine tried to discern where and how her grandparents had spent the night. She spied a small space in the corner of dirt and hay and came to the realisation that it was from that spot that her mother had come into existence. Her thoughts went to her grandma, with her short round body, her round face and round eyes—laughing crudely yet joyously—and beyond that to her foremothers, slaving away at the little stone oven on a hot day like today, baking the life-giving bread that had sustained peasants for centuries. Cooking the lentil soup and preparing the olives that made the Mediterranean diet famous for its nutritious, life-nourishing qualities. The entire lot and the buildings had been abandoned years ago and left to disintegrate forever; corpses to be buried and forgotten; a cursed reminder of peasant drudgery and the dehumanisation that is poverty. ‘I don’t know what to say, Aunty. So much poverty . . . I can’t believe it . . .’ (Yet) as long as people remained in the village, as long as her ancestors came back to pay homage, the old house of the Giannopoulos family would stand—because once it fell, the village would be gone physically, culturally and spiritually. And nothing would be left to tell of their stories.” (Excerpt: Daughter of Odysseus - Ithaka Calling, Part 3, Chapter 11) |
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December 2022
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