Marcus Aurelius writes to himself that “no one loses any life other than the one he lives, or lives any life other than the one he loses.” (Meditations, Book 2:14)
A long life and a short life both end in the same way.
The past is dead and the future doesn’t exist. Therefore, the only thing you can be deprived of is the present and “the present moment is equal for all.”
Sitting at our favorite tavern in Aliki, I feel the surrounding beauty penetrate my skin. It is a soothing sensation because beauty has healing powers. Despite a momentary urge to take a photograph, I don’t. It would be like trying to physically possess what I see. Instead I want to absorb the moment until we become entangled. I want to be a part of that photograph not taken.
Today is my blog’s 20th birthday. I started it after reading the Scientific Warning of 1992. It begins like this:
Human beings and the natural world are on a collision course. Human activities inflict harsh and often irreversible damage on the environment and on critical resources. If not checked, many of our current practices put at serious risk the future that we wish for human society and the plant and animal kingdoms, and may so alter the living world that it will be unable to sustain life in the manner that we know.
After reading it, I felt nauseated and very concerned about my children’s future. It was this concern that gave rise to “Art for Housewives”. The intention was to encourage the use of household trash to make beautiful and practical objects thus the blog’s motto “Make Art, Not Trash”. Initially, the response to the blog was very positive. However, after a few years, the platform I was using bit the dust and from one day to the next my blog was left homeless. My son suggested I try WordPress so I did. Nevertheless, the abrupt loss had changed the blog’s dynamics.
Seedlings from my Neighbor
In terms of ecology, has anything changed in these past 20 years? Yes, we are worse off than before. The irresponsible attitude of the western world simultaneously frightens and disgusts me. But to keep from feeling overwhelmed, I search for equilibrium. And hope.
In a few months I will be 70 years old. Life expectancy for women living in Italy is 84. Which means, based on this average, if all goes well, I can count on maybe another 10 productive years. And I intend to make these years the best years of my life.
Aloe Maculata in Bloom
The Greek slave Epictetus had his owner’s permission to study and, once a free man, Epictetus left for Rome where he taught philosophy. One of his students was Marcus Aurelius. In “Meditations”, Marcus praises his teacher who had taught him that: If you want to be beautiful, you must make beautiful choices.
Beauty is not an object. It’s a perception waiting for a beholder. And here I am, waiting to behold.
Lace Curtain and Grape Vine
Aging is an unpleasant but mandatory experience if you want to stay alive. Moms can help give much useful advice. But with their demise, we lose our most important ally and some of us are left to wander alone. Books can never take a mom’s place but they can be practical guides.
In the moment that Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher, Marcus Aurelius, began feeling that age was becoming his most loyal companion, he began writing to himself. In Book One of his “Meditations”, Marcus thanks those who had had a positive influence on his life. He expresses this gratitude to remind himself that no one is entirely self-sufficient, that we are all part of the Whole. The Whole is that unity which makes our existence possible. It is the interconnection of all things. And gratitude is a kind of glue that helps keep us connected.
Curtain with Shadows
“Meditations” is, for the most part, an anthology of the lessons Marcus Aurelius had learned in his life. It was written not for others but for himself. A personal patrimony to keep him on the right track.
If I were to copy Marcus’ example, what would I write to myself? What lessons has life taught me that would be useful at this time?
Parian Sunset
If I were to write a book, it would be called “Daily Aesthetics” and would focus on searching for beauty in everyday life. Because perceiving beauty is a form of consciousness and consciousness transforms us. Because aesthetics are ideals that give us a direction. Because beauty is a form of hope because it reminds us that not everything in the world is ugly.
But instead of writing a book, I will continue writing posts for this blog. Because, after 20 years, it has become a part of me.
To better understand the gods, it’s important to keep in mind that they are immortal and, after thousands of years of living the same life over and over again, they are bored and seek distractions. That’s why gods like novelty and begrudge those who annoy them.
Chronically restless, a bored divinity tries to keep himself entertained by interfering in the lives of mortals. As gods are self-referential, they are indifferent as to the harm they provoke.
Gods are Divinity Supremacists and want all the power for themselves. They are petty, vindictive, sadistic, and thrilled to torment those who help mortals in any way.
When still a young girl, Circe saw her uncle, Prometheus, being whipped then chained to a rock where an eagle came every day to rip out his liver. His crime? He gave fire to mortals so othey could evolve. This made the gods furious because they wanted to keep humans in a state of fear and misery making them more easily manipulated. The more mortals were powerless, the more powerful the gods were. It was then that Circe first began questioning the gods. Do they get satisfaction only by being cruel to the less fortunate. Are gods little more than privileged bullies?
Circe’s first love was the mortal, Glaucus. She loved him so much that she was willing to risk her father’s wrath by making him immortal. But after his transformation, Glaucus, instead of being loving and kind, treated Circe with contempt as now he had his eyes on the beautiful Scylla. The heartbroken Circe gave vent to her pain by using her powers to transform Scylla into a monster with twelve feet and six heads. But revenge had not made her feel better.
And now, once again in love with a mortal, Circe had no intention of repeating her previous mistake. To the contrary, she wanted to give up her own immortality so that she and Telemachus could grow old and live the rest of their lives together.
Immortality is not about happiness, it’s about power. Yet as a mortal, Circe had a power the gods didn’t have–the power of empathy.
Gods were born gods but it took millions of years for man to evolve into his present state. Empathy contributed greatly to this evolution.
Years ago a student asked anthropologist Margaret Mead what the earliest sign of civilization had been. After a brief hesitation she responded “a healed femur”. The femur is the longest bone in the body and important for walking. If fractured, it takes weeks to heal. During prehistoric times, a person in such a condition could survive only had someone been there to care for him. In other words, helping another survive gave birth to civilization.*
Empathy is not just a form of compassion. It’s also a form of rational thought and decision making based on the capacity to understand the feelings of another. Women, being mothers, are more empathic than men. Empathy enables women to communicate with babies too small to speak and children too young to properly express their needs.
Empathy is a form of interrelating. And interrelating with others is fundamental for our survival. The study of man’s evolution shows us that we are more likely to survive if we work together. For this reason, in prehistoric times, it was important to belong to a clan. Every member of the clan was expected to contribute to the needs of the community. Who didn’t contribute was exiled. Exile was a kiss of death because surviving alone without the clan was impossible.
Circe and Penelope helped each other survive. Thanks to empathy, they were able to recognize themselves one in the other. This common recognition was the foundation on which they built their friendship.
When you smile, empathy makes me smile, too. So please, smile as often as you can.
*Some scholars (male) claim Mead never made this affirmation. Whether or not she did doesn’t change the validity of such a consideration.
All my life there’s been a man around telling me what to do as if my only reason for existing was to fulfill his needs. Like my uncle who gave me away to some arrogant ugly man living on a boring little island. Then, once he’d collected his reward, my husband quite easily abandoned me and our child just to go off in search of glory. Could Odysseus or anyone else really believe that for 20 years I’d continue to be faithful to a man who preferred war to his family? That I’d think my life was so insignificant that I had nothing better to do than to weave and wait?
Then, ten years after the war had finished, everyone assumed Odysseus was dead since he hadn’t returned home. That’s when the vultures starting arriving. Although I was a queen, in a world of machos, women have no power.
At one point I had 108 suitors and decided the best way to manipulate them was by sleeping with all of them (obviously not simultaneously). It gave me a sense of balance because now my husband and I finally were on the same level—we were both unfaithful cheats.
And the whole story about me unravelling my tapestry every night just to be faithful to Odysseus was a joke. The only reason I held my suitors off was because I didn’t want another husband to sap me of my independence.
I knew Odysseus was still alive. I’d been instructed by the Moirai not to cut the threads from my weaving as it would also cut Odysseus’ life. He’d managed to survive all those dangerous adventures only because every day for 20 years I continued to weave, unravel, and reweave again the tapestry of his life. Only once he was back in Ithaca, Odysseus showed no joy nor gratitude in being reunited with his family. He was always belittling Telemachus saying that his son would never be the great man his father was. And despite Odysseus’ being dismissive with me during the day, at night he demanded that I fulfil his petty sexual needs. He was a lousy lover and maybe that’s why, jealous of my suitors, he had them all killed leaving their blood everywhere. And in his typical way, instead of cleaning up his own mess, Odysseus had my maids do the cleaning for him. His lack of respect for others totally disgusted me. So I stopped weaving and cut my threads. A few days later Oysseus died. I didn’t feel at all guilty but I understood that, thanks to the vultures, my life was now in danger. And, since everyone wanted to believe that Telegonus was responsible for Odysseus’ death, his life was in danger, too. Telegonus, Telemachus, and I had no choice but to sail towards Aeaea, Circe’s island.
Circe was relieved to see her son alive. And, although hesitant at first, Circe welcomed Telemachus and me. Having lived with Odysseus for a year and having been a victim herself of his ego and rage, she knew exactly the pain my heart had born.
Thanks to Circe’s magic, Aeaea was well protected so for the first time in years I felt relaxed. Circe not only let me use the loom Daedalus had made for her, she also taught me much about the magic of plants. But the real magic came from Circe’s Synergy & Solidarity. For the first time in my life, I finally felt accepted as I was and that it was ok for me to be me.
When Circe understood that she was in love with my son and I understood that I was in love with her son, we had a long talk. Both our sons had been fathered by Odysseus and it seemed weird to be in love with the son of a man we’d slept with. But Circe said there could be no shame in loving for wasn’t love the greatest gift one being could give to another? Furthermore, wasn’t it some kind of divine justice that the man who’d broken our hearts had left behind sons to mend them?
Now, mended and reborn, we had a chance to live the life we’d always wanted to.
Athena, feeling guilty about all the damage she’d done to my family, offered Telegonus an empire in the west where the gods were trying to expand their kingdom. So Telegonus and I quickly married and headed towards the area now known as Italy. Here our son, Italos, was born.
Circe and Telemachus also wanted liberation from the past. My son had no desire to claim his father’s kingdom but, like his father, he wanted to travel. And Circe, oh my, she was no longer a witch but a kitten who loved to purr. For the first time in her life, thanks to my son, she experienced a man’s sincere love (this made me so proud to be his mom). Telemachus’ love meant more to her than being a goddess. That’s why she decided to do something revolutionary for a divinity. For the love of my son, Circe decided to give up her immortality.
Circe’s the best friend I’ve ever had. And the perfect wife for my son.
The best way to live forever is in the hearts of others. Because to be physically immortal is wearisome and lonely. But to live in someone else’s heart is a form of eternal comfort.
In another life I lived in Tusculum, a lush lovely town in the Alban hills south of Rome. Surrounded by olive trees and vineyards, I spent much of my time growing plants for my beauty creams and medicinal concoctions—ilex for digestives, styrax for perfumes, and acanthus for my painful rheumatism.
Sometimes I would walk in the woods seeking new plants for my cures. It’s there that I first saw her. Although we’d never met, the weave of her cloak was her introduction. She was Penelope, Odysseus’ widow.
Although Penelope was discreet and kept to herself, everyone in town knew who she was. And not as the wife of a deceased hero but as the wife of Telegonus, son of Ulysses and Circe, and the mother of Italos, king of the Oennotrians.
It was an awkward situation as it was just the two of us there in the woods. I could hardly ignore her however, by the same token, it seemed a bit brash just to go up to her and start talking. But it was a useless worry as, once she saw me, she smiled and walked towards me. Introductions were made and then we easily talked about our mutual interest in plants and their magical properties.
After that Penelope and I would frequently search for plants together. And when the weather was cold and aggressive, we’d meet at her home or mine and, with a hot beverage, spend hours talking like we women love to do. That’s how I learned her story.
Penelope was a princess in Sparta as was her cousin, Helen. Helen was very beautiful and had many many suitors and Odysseus was one of them. Helen’s father, King Tyndareus, was a bit overwhelmed by the task of choosing among so many suitors afraid that the losers would rebel and seek revenge. So Odysseus suggested that all the suitors take a vow to protect Helen as well as the man she choose to marry. And (without knowing how her suitors’ vow would lead to the Trojan War) Helen picked Menelaus. Tyndareus, appreciative of Odysseus’ help, offered his niece, Penelope, as a reward.
Despite being her husband’s second choice, Penelope tried very hard to be a good wife. She moved to Ithaca where Odysseus was king and tried her best to love him. But then Odysseus’ ego got in the way. When their son was just a baby, Odysseus, with dreams of becoming a glorious hero, joined Agamemnon’s crusade against Troy. He left Penelope to defend herself and their baby on Ithaca, a small, rugged island with more goats than arable land.
Ten years later the war with Troy was over but Odysseus was nowhere to be found. He’d been gone so long that everyone assumed he was dead so greedy suitors began bombarding Penelope with their proposals to take Odysseus’ place. Although Penelope was the Queen of Ithaca, she had little power to protect herself. To placate them, she agreed to marry once her work at the loom was finished.
So far everything that Penelope had told me was more or less the story I’d always heard. But one evening when we were drinking mead instead of tea, a totally new version of Odysseus’ story came out.
(to be continued)
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Bibliography:
Graves, Robert. The White Goddess. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. NYC. 1948.
Walker, Barbara G. The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets. Harper Collins Pub. NYC. 1983.
The Narrative Within 