I took a picture of this house in Monemvasia on my trip to Greece last year. This year I spent a wonderful night there. I didn't know last year that the house was owned by an acquaintance of my friend T. Then I knew only that I liked the look of it--the door and the rock wall and the way the steps turned and the geraniums. I was actually sitting at the dining room table in the house when I looked at the photos from last year's trip and realized that the sole house I had photographed on that trip was the one I was now inside of.
This morning as the man who loves me drove me home to my place, I talked to him about the anxiety attack I had in Greece this year. I told him how terrified I was of falling off the narrow mountain roads that had few guardrails, no center lines & blind curves. "I need a healer," I said. "I don't want to take drugs."
Tonight a healer held my hand in a the bar of a Mexican restaurant. She happened to be in town visiting the friend I have drinks with on Tuesdays. We laced our arms through margarita glasses and coffee cups and reached across the table and she held my hand for a long time. She took some negative energy away, she said. We had been talking about my divorce and the on-going grief.
I can't quite explain why, but the marriage, the divorce--it seems to me the anxiety is woven through all that. They're not really separate.
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