Some (hopefully) seed-planting words I posted on Facebook:
“So where’d you get your information from, huh?” is a little line from this classic song that I sing every day.
The amount of censorship, cancel culture, defaming, disrespect, close-mindedness, “fact checking,” deplatforming, and thinkpol I’ve seen in the last two years toward scientists doing science and critical thinkers doing critical thinking is disgraceful. My last straw with LinkedIn occurred last week when a rational doctor was deplatformed on that site.
I’m excited to be closing my Facebook account soon when I’m done collecting my photos. I look forward to seeing you on a sane new platform in the future. Haven’t looked for one yet, but I’m confident that if it doesn’t exist now, it will within the next couple years. Hopefully many will, and we’ll be beyond monopolies.
Our world is rife with insane turbulence, and the legacy media and social platforms are a colossal part of it.
But I believe that we each have opportunities to invoke and embody more acceptance, fairness, curiosity, progressiveness, open-mindedness, solidarity, and authentic humanitarianism than we’ve ever seen in our lifetimes.
Psychology professor Mattias Desmet is one of many brilliant people these days who shows us ways we can do that. May his insight help save the world.
I had a strange encounter the first time I went to Pátzcuaro.
Pátzcuaro is a beautiful village in the center of Mexico known for its rich Indigenous and Spanish colonial heritage. At an altitude of 7,020 feet, it’s not the Mexico many Americans think of when they think of Cancun or Cabo San Lucas. It’s an artisans’ town in the Trans-Mexican Volcanic Belt, beloved for its handicrafts, particularly its Day of the Dead crafts. Deemed a Pueblo Mágico (magic village) by Mexico’s department of tourism, it was mostly visited by weekenders from Mexico City when my mom and I went there 17 years ago.
One day, we walked up an ancient side street from the Plaza Grande to the Temple Sagrario.
We each bought embroidered pillowcases and a Catrina figurine along the way, then stopped for a drink next to an outdoor market.
Across from us sat someone with the most intensely piercing eyes I’ve ever seen — by far the clearest and bluest eyes I’ve ever come across — eyes that glistened like sapphires with the clarity of supernatural intelligence, eyes that bored into my soul. This clairvoyant took a drink of my marrow that lasted minutes and plumbed the subterranean recesses of my being.
A soul penetration of that magnitude is not something one usually experiences in life. In death, perhaps, because it was as if Thoth and the 42 judges who preside over the Hall of Truth in the Egyptian afterlife were weighing my heart.
It was even more as though this other-than-human could see the after-death movie that shows you every single thing that ever happened in your life — every trial, every tribulation, every joy, every achievement, every loss, every honor, every transgression, every blessing, everything.
I think if you asked this haunt what engendered him to overstep ordinary observation, he would have said he was compelled to because he recognized me and was driven to appraise the development of my soul since we last met.
If he was Mexican — say, from Mexico City — his heritage was entirely European, as he had none of the features of Indigenous peoples of Mexico. If he was from Europe, I guessed his native land to be Spain, or maybe Basque Country. But his otherworldly bearing told me he was not bound by the figment of nationality.
And while this force with lapis eyes was as young as I was, he was old.
“So not all vampire lore can be true,” I thought, because he was sitting outside in the sun in the middle of the day.
Driving home the other day, I asked the universe to show me someone awesome.
Specifically, I said, “Dear Universe, please show me someone who’s fucking awesome.”
Within three blocks, I was at a stoplight in front of a house I’d never noticed before. A little boy, about four years old, was out on his lawn in a pair of black underpants (briefs) with no shirt and a little yarmulke on his head.
He was directing his older brother, who was about eight, on how to throw the ball to him so he could hit it with the tiny plastic bat he held in his hand.
As he instructed his brother on the rules of his game, I noticed how excellent his posture was — how square and natural his shoulders were. He had that perfect posture that babies are born with, that perfect posture that children retain until they learn our bad habits.
The way this little guy of four suns directed events as he went to bat in a pair of black underpants really amused me. He was indeed fucking awesome — for being four, for wearing just a pair of black underpants, and for having so much character.
I hope you’ll play this game, asking the universe to show you something you’d like to see.
I wouldn’t like to see anyone older than perhaps eight wearing a pair of black underpants on their front lawn, but you know what I mean.
You may not see what you expect, but you’re likely to be cheered if you ask for something uplifting.
For example, maybe you see too much illness, war, or hate.
Say to the universe, “Dear Universe, please show me peace.”
Then look around. Pretty quickly, perhaps on a very small scale, you’ll see, hear, or sense something ostensibly ordinary or slightly mystical — maybe a tree, a bird, a child, a song — that will stretch your perception with fresh awareness of the power of your intentionand your attention.
Most people don’t work consciously with these, unaware that they can set intentions for what they want and direct their attention (and, in more practical applications, their effort) to its unfolding. Our society didn’t have the wisdom to teach us this.
But when you play with this magic and witness it working, you’ll see how wondrous it is that you actually can draw in goodness. No, you can’t control everything, but yes, you can affect how you experience your reality.
But it’s not likely you’ll see the betterment you crave on TV or in a news article. Where you do see a glimmer is likely to be in a place that draws your attention away from the rampant negativity that loves to feed on the energy of your emotions.
I don’t think enough people realize the degree to which we’re at a turning point — one where there is uncommon opportunity for us to come together using our personal power to turn society around.
I think there’s a lot of hope of returning to “normal.” Yet the “normal” we knew involved war, hate, division, destruction, pollution, poverty, control, greed, ignorance, and insane governments. The “new normal” has all that too so far, with more division, and a frightening trajectory.
We can do way better than that.
Our future is connected to where we direct our attention. There’s a great story that when imprisoned in a concentration camp, neurologist-psychiatrist Viktor Frankl visualized himself standing at a podium giving a lecture called “The Psychology of the Concentration Camp.” Once he was liberated, he stood at a podium delivering that lecture.
Our minds are immensely powerful because they’re connected to the mammoth, if not infinite universe. It’s our responsibility to use them well.
Research on the Maharishi Effect indicates that “if 1% of the population meditates, it produces measurable improvements in the quality of life for the whole population.”
Will you be part of the one percent of the global population we need using the power of the mind to lift this planet up?
Arthur Eddington, British astronomer and physicist
“I regard matter as derivative of consciousness.”
Max Planck, Nobel Prize-winning German physicist
When you routinely focus your attention on the ever-streaming torrent of bad news and rely primarily on outside sources to tell you what’s going on, you’re not using the power of your mind as well as you are when you consciously direct your attention to what you want and rely primarily on your inner wisdom for your highest truth.
Play this game because it’s fun and we need you.
“Dear Universe, please show me [something good you want to see].”
Originally written as a Facebook post for my friends in Dec 2020. Updated Nov 2021, April 2022, Aug 2022.
When I was 24, I was suddenly struck with a novel illness.
This was a mysterious illness that brought me to my knees for a year and has taken me two decades to even begin to understand.
It started out like a virus with fluish symptoms. Then it escalated into an agony that doctors could neither diagnose nor effectively treat.
With a desperate kind of hope, I sought the care of a slew of MDs — from ER physicians to GPs and specialists.
I was given antibiotics and Flonase at the onset. Then the first in a series of jolting symptoms manifested. On a drive through the mountains, my ear canals suddenly became inflamed. It felt like my inner ears were being shredded with a knife. I’ve had ear and hearing problems ever since, and it’s notable that Flonase’s extensive list of side effects includes “ear and labyrinth disorders.” Then I broke out in hives, another noted side effect of both Flonase and the sulfa antibiotic I was given.
Vioxx & 139,000 heart attacks estimated by the FDA
Directly following the Flonase and the antibiotic, new pains assaulted me daily. I was given Vioxx, and suddenly I felt like a semitruck was parked on the left side of my chest. I couldn’t wear a bra and I could only take shallow breaths. For a year.
Headaches erupted, and there were several kinds. One was what I called the baseball-bat headache, where it felt like someone had taken a baseball bat and beaten me in the back of the head. Another was the bleeding-brain headache, where there was a feeling of blood trickling down the back of my skull as my head pounded.
The pain was so violent that I begged for the mercy of death.
Fortunately — presumably because I was young and because I didn’t take many doses — MRIs and CT scans showed that there was no damage to my brain or heart and that I was fine.
The good thing is that I was at no risk of taking Vioxx in “long-term high dosages” because within days of starting it, I knew that it and the other drugs I’d been given were not only useless for relieving my pain — they were adding symptoms to a growing list of horrors.
Out of what felt like nowhere, I struggled with a pounding heartbeat, and an unpleasant tingling sensation creeping through my body. These effects are associated with Zyrtec, which I was given for what was written off as “allergies.”
In addition to feeling like I’d been poisoned, I developed digestive problems that prevented food from moving down my esophagus. I have clear memories of trying to enjoy lunch with my grandfather, and feeling hopeless because I couldn’t get the food to move beyond the pain in my chest.
Because I couldn’t eat properly, I lost too much weight. I became so underweight that one of the helpful healthcare practitioners I eventually found wanted to take me by the arm and walk me into her office the first time we met. She later told me that I looked so frail at that time that she wasn’t sure I could walk on my own.
I spent the next few years overcoming all this (!) by seeking out integrative doctors and holistic health professionals. In the last 20 years, I’ve worked with virtually every healing modality you can think of. I have that difficult year to thank for catalyzing countless positive new ways of being, including my yoga and meditation practice, and two decades of wheat-freeness.
And because drugs like Vioxx, Flonase, sulfonamides, and Zyrtec were connected with the increase of my symptoms, since 2001 I’ve kidded that my motto is Just Say No to Drugs. I use that slogan from the Reagan years and the War on Drugs ironically.
What I try to stay away from personally are most prescription drugs because I know that much of what’s fashioned by pharmaceutical companies is not healthy or safe.
These facts I’m sharing are no judgment on any drugs you may take or have had your life saved with. I’m talking mostly about my body, with mention of other people’s fatalities — with acknowledgement that some drugs save sick people, and that contemporary medicine has certain strengths.
I share all this with you in the hopes that you’ll weigh the benefits and risks of the new vaccines very carefully.
As you know, these drugs are new and analyses of their safety and efficacy are dubious and scarce. Because pharmaceutical companies fund corporate-media television and journalism, emerging data and evaluations are not always likely to be unbiased. Because of the grave decline in diligence, truth-seeking, and accuracy in journalism, many reports will be anything but well researched. Rather, they’ll be jerrybuilt with wording pulled verbatim and unquestioned from press releases.
And I’m sure you’re aware that, in this intensely divisive world we find ourselves in, X is a data-proven fact to people on one side of an issue and Y is a data-proven fact to people on the other side of the issue. Numbers are pliable, and more frequently fraudulent than people realize.
In the case of Vioxx, about five years after it was pulled from the market (when the corporate media was publishing more stories in service of public interest), a New York Times article reported that a researcher revealed that data for 21 studies he had authored regarding the efficacy of Vioxx and other drugs had been fabricated.
While it was in use, there were studies that showed its lack of safety, which many doctors at the time were not fully aware of. When it was pulled five years after its release, an FDA analyst estimated that it may have caused between 88,000 and 139,000 heart attacks. About 30% to 40% were fatal. That same year, The Lancet published an editorialcriticizing both Merck and the FDA for continuing to make Vioxx available from 2000 until the recall.
I was given it in 2001. (And when I found early reports at the time indicating a connection between my headaches and chest pain and emerging data about Vioxx’s dangers, doctors dismissed me, saying such dangers were rare.)
In 2006, The Wall Street Journal reported that FDA data indicated “that patients in a Vioxx clinical trial had suffered more heart attacks than the original [New England Journal of Medicine] article about the trial reported.”
Not every prescription drug has a history as sordid as Vioxx’s or OxyContin’s. But many do (see why pharmacovigilance developed). And I’m talking about two often-intertwined things: the questionable nature of novel drugs and the safety of people.
Your body and soul know what’s right for you
And it’s still crucial to do your research. And because I know that you likely do do your research, I urge you to do it deeper. Because your health — and really your life — depends on it, take time to investigate what a report or statistic truly means. As part of that, really look at where you’re getting your information from. Most of what’s in the legacy media about the new vaccines is marketing material. The Canadian Covid Care Alliance breaks down clearly and simply why “95% effective” is misleading. The data use relative risk, which the FDA has said can create “undue influence” and “suboptimal decisions.”
“Patients are unduly influenced when risk information is presented using a relative risk approach; this can result in suboptimal decisions. Thus, an absolute risk format should be used.
In terms of what’s being reported in the media — whether it has to do with covid or something else — ask yourself, “Do I feel fear, anxiety, overwhelm, or hopelessness when I watch or read the news?”
The world has been rife with turbulence and horror for a LONG time, so that’s partly to be expected. But the best resources should make you feel enlightened by balanced wisdom and inspired to take safe, positive action in self-directed ways.
And really, to get truth now rather than five years from now, it’s wise to spend a good amount of time turning all media off and accessing your own deepest intelligence.
My experience has taught me that when you routinely focus your attention on the ever-streaming torrent of distorted information and rely primarily on outside sources to tell you what’s going on, you’re not using the power of your mind as well as you are when you rely primarily on your inner wisdom for your highest truth.
I understand that the virus is threatening and that each of you is doing everything you can to protect yourself and others. I know you’ll make the best decisions for yourself, and I urge you to respect the decisions that other people make too. A brand-new, novel, and fastest-to-market-ever vaccine with a KNOWN side effect of anaphylaxis is not for everyone, but it is for some.
A big question for everyone should be, “What, if any, might the known side effects be six months, or three years from now?” (Update two years later: here’s a population-based study of about three million Italians suggesting that “mRNA vaccines are associated with myocarditis/pericarditis in the population younger than 40 years.” This study is one of dozens around the world, if not hundreds, showing similar results. Heart complications are now often written off as “mild” and “rare,” but the reality is that even mild heart conditions, which are increasingly not rare, can have long-term consequences, which any thinking doctor would recognize as alarming.)
“Uncertainty” was a commonly used word in 2020. Its prolific use was often tedious, but it was an apt word because a lot was and is uncertain. That’s the nature of life, and it’s been compounded.
I think “Responsibility” is a word for 2021.
2020 crushed our systems because they were broken — and in 2021, it’s the responsibility of each of us to cultivate awareness and make decisions that will affect how we revolutionize everything in a completely new world. (The way you choose to educate your kids will affect how we rebuild education! How you choose to handle the virus will affect how we evolve healthcare!)
Our personal decisions might seem small, but they have boundless ripple effects.
With that, we’re more responsible than ever for our physical and emotional health, our ongoing development, our thoughts, our attention, our actions… and for making decisions that balance our individual choices with love, progress, open-mindedness, and freedom.
I also want to share with you that I think it’s important to be cautious about putting excess faith into the modern religion of Science. Science in its highest form involves humility (not finality) regarding the hypotheses that are tested, and it often involves time when it comes to testing those hypotheses or testing them again with different variables or new information. Equally innovative but somewhat less trustworthy is a scramble to create products that involve testing their long-term safety on millions of people.
As it’s phrased, it “provides that no vaccine manufacturer shall be liable in a civil action for damages arising from a vaccine-related injury or death.”
Let’s hope that in the events that it’s necessary, this “Additional Remedy” is honored: “a manufacturer may be held liable where: (1) such manufacturer engaged in the fraudulent or intentional withholding of information; or (2) such manufacturer failed to exercise due care.”
I’ve spent years doing personal and family healing with many different modalities, and years writing for companies whose work is about teaching people how to stay calm in a crisis and how to create a beautiful world that works for all.
This combo of personal work and career work has equipped me with a lot of tools, and I feel called to share a few. I hope you find my Top 4 Anti-Anxiety Tips for These Crazy Times handy:
1. Limit your media intake.
Make a sharp distinction between staying informed and constantly absorbing bad news. Every single time it makes sense to do so, turn the statistics and reports off and focus on shit that lifts you up. It’s not about not knowing what’s going on — it’s about honoring the fact that fear lowers immunity and love raises it.
2. Do Qigong or kundalini yoga.
Both are about moving old, painful energy out of your body and bringing fresh, healthy energy in. Search for people like this on YouTube: Lee Holden, Austin Goh, Daisy Lee, Roger Jahnke, Mingtong Gu, Gurutej Kaur.
3. Do 4-4-4 breathing.
This works best when you’ve made a practice of the two things above. It will help now even if you haven’t started doing those things yet.
Close your eyes and note in your mind this intention: “Every breath I take in contains peace.” Then note this: “Anxiety releases from my body every time I exhale.” Breathe in for a count of four. Hold your breath for a count of four. Exhale through your mouth for a count of four. After a few rounds of 4-4-4 breathing this way, start exhaling through your nose. Exhaling through your mouth at first is really great for releasing excess shit.
4. Reframe your thinking.
I’m really lucky that (actually this isn’t luck — I’ve carefully cultivated this) my friends are kind, loving, exceptionally intelligent people who care about the earth, the arts, humanity, our fellow animals, and all the things that matter.
With that caring, people often feel overwhelmed, powerless, and sometimes hopeless given all the insanity that’s been rampant for let’s face it — our entire lives.
It’s natural to think “Oh god what’s happening to the koalas/the icecaps/the Amazon/this country?” (In whatever country you live in.)
I urge you to replace thoughts of “those poor koalas” and “what if I get infected” and “that orange-haired asshole” with thoughts of WHAT YOU REALLY WANT for our world and your life. Train yourself to recognize thoughts of lack and anxiety when you think them, and to replace them with thoughts about your highest desires — the reasons why you’re alive.
As you likely know, this is not just a crazy time, it’s a crucial fucking time.
Across the entire planet we (and others) are going to be restructuring every system we’ve had in place: health, political, work, food, financial, education, transportation, everything. All those systems were broken in different ways. Crisis is an opportunity. Do all you can to usher change from a place where fear is minimized and your best intentions rule. ️
Louanna noticed that everyone on the ferry was feasting.
We were traveling from Ullapool, a village in the Scottish Highlands, to the Outer Hebrides island of Harris and Lewis.
I was 17, interested mainly in listening to Lonely Is an Eyesore on my Walkman, so I hadn’t been paying much attention to the people on the ferry.
But now that Louanna (my mom, who called her parents Jan and O, so I called her Louanna) pointed it out, this feasting was strange indeed.
I pulled my headphones down and looked up from Dracula.
“I wonder why these people are eating like it’s their last meal,” Louanna whispered.
Ferry food in those days (this might have changed) was limited to factory-made soggy sandwiches that had been slopped together years before inhabiting the snack counter. They were made of Spammy meats and blackened lettuce. You could also get packets of crisps and Cadbury chocolate. And weak tea served kinda warmish in small plastic disposable mugs that were oddly equipped with paper handles.
What heat the tea may have carried from the carafe was conducted to the action of melting the cup, which quickly crumpled on the bottom. These cups could therefore never stand up straight, and you could often find them hunkered in the blue corners of the ships, swept in one direction by the occasional wave that knocked them off the tables.
The fare on ferries was far from fair, so we couldn’t figure out why anyone wouldn’t wait to feast once we landed.
Certainly sometimes you’re hungry, and you’ll scarf anything. You might have a snack to tide you over. But these five people were storing up as if for a winter of want. We heard comments like “I’d much rather wait to eat a full meal rather than 50 of these little snacks,” but clearly, for some reason, they had to seize the moment.
And they were Scottish, by the way. They had some kind of insider knowledge that drove this strange action.
Each person had several packets of everything, and they ate together at two tables, not casually or individually like they were munching quickly along the way, but formally and unitedly like they were reaping a short-lived harvest.
They feasted like they knew they wouldn’t sup again for weeks.
And they stocked their bags up with extra packets of crisps.
I’m surprised Louanna didn’t ask them why they were dining on slim pickins with such zest. She loved talking to people. She loved learning about their likes and their lives and their ways and their whys. But she probably didn’t see a polite way into the convo, so she left the question in the air.
“What do they know that we don’t?”
We got our answer the moment we disembarked.
We had no idea that the Isle of Harris would be composed of black granite boulders and not a scrap of anything else.
There was nothing on Harris, which caused us no end of laughter (and hunger). This was the island of our people, and there was nothing on it. We’d never heard of the Isle of Harris before, but when, on our travelsthrough Scotland, we saw it on the map, we knew we had to make this pilgrimage.
And there was nothing as far as the eye could see.
Except for black stones and a little B&B.
There were no restaurants. There were no pubs. There were no grocery stores. There was probably a little market somewhere, but wherever it was, it was definitely closed.
There was fog, and there was descending darkness, and there was mist.
The mist turned to steady, cold, COLD rain, and it was all pretty Dracula, so we stayed in our room and read our books. I had three crisps in my possession, so we each ate one and split the other.
I know we ended up laughing about something, because I remember that the owner of the B&B yelled for us to be quiet. We were her only guests, and this area was so remote that we were probably her first and last guests for a long time.
I’ve been a night owl since I was born, so I’m sure I was up extremely late reading and writing.
In the morning, I could not get up. I was exhausted and for the life of me I couldn’t pull myself out from my slumber of the dead. And I didn’t even want to, because I was warm and sleep was delicious.
Louanna went to the kitchen for breakfast, and came back talking about oatcakes. Through my dreams I heard something about sawdust and how “those stony little fuckers could break teeth.”
Apparently not a drop of sugar, not a pinch of salt, not a splash of milk or a dash of cinnamon flavored the homemade hockey pucks.
We felt terrible that the owner of the B&B, a solitary woman in her 60s, had worked so hard and so thoughtfully to make us her special oatcakes — and not only had Louanna barely been able to choke a bite down, I hadn’t even made an appearance.
So I dragged myself up.
And then the owner started banging on the door.
“Checkout time!” she yelled.
I flew into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
“OK!” Louanna called as she went to open the door. “Sorry — we’re running a little behind. Can you give us 10 minutes?”
“Now it’s past checkout time!” the lady yelled.
She was tiny and feisty and steaming.
“It’s past checkout time!”
In the bitty bathroom I tore off my pajamas and threw on some clothes, and then we chucked our stuff in our bags, which were oversized duffel bags.
No wheels. No backpack straps. Just short handles for carrying each monstrously heavy bag in your hands. Those bags were cumbersome as fuck, and it was no easy task dragging them around.
“It’s past checkout time!” The lady was yelling. “Now it’s five past 10!”
We hauled our bags out of our room….
“It’s past checkout time!”
Down the hall…
“It’s past checkout time!”
Out the door…
“IT’S PAST CHECKOUT TIME!!!!!!!”
And to the gate…
Where the irate woman shook her fist in the air and screamed:
“AND NEVER COME BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
We were banished from our namesake homeland by a very angry distant relative.
We felt like jerks.
But really, we were not horrific assholes.
Sometimes people laugh at 8:30 at night. Sometimes teenagers sleep through breakfast. Sometimes people run late at checkout.
Sometimes angry people overreact.
In a state of laughing shock and guilty astonishment, we popped over to Lewis.
We caught a bus down the road from the B&B. It barreled us away from black granite desolation and dropped us on the other side of the island.
Lewis was verdant. It was an oasis. It had food, and nice people, and buildings, and shops, and we visited the awe-striking standing stones of Callanish.
When we saw the following photo for the first time, we nearly died.
We must have laughed for twenty minutes, howling, guffawing, falling on the floor in hysteria.
This was no representation of my beautiful mother. Rather, it comically captured how disarrayed we felt that day, rushed to check out, teeth barely brushed, hair wild in the damp wind, banished by an estranged relation, sporting bagged-out clothes the way you do when you haven’t seen a dryer in weeks.
Even in the hard times years later, we still referred back to this shot for laughs.
The other day I was cleaning out my sock drawer and decided to finally get rid of some socks I’ve been dragging around for over 20 years. I’d kept them because I bought them on Harris, along with my Harris tweed hat (which has long since been lost to time).
The socks are thick wool forest-green knee-high socks, which served me well during those damp, chilly weeks up in the remote Highlands.
Before I tossed the socks in the donation box, I thought I’d try ’em on.
They’re in perfect condition, and they are the softest, coziest, most wonderful socks for cold January days like these.
My mom’s last 20 years didn’t turn out the way we expected them to. She lived far from Costa Rica, where she had wanted to retire. We didn’t visit the pyramids in Egypt or go to Bali together as we’d planned.
But we had memories of our travels to lots of cool places.
I exaggerated about the landscape of Harris. The Harris side is bleaker than Lewis, but the entire island is stunning, as you can see in all these flickr pics. The actual population of the island is shockingly about 21,000. Our stay was a million years ago, and now there are loads of gorgeous Airbnbs.
In fact, Airbnb is now sending me emails that say “Hi Erin, if you’ve been eyeing Isle of Harris, look no further.”
This is very helpful. Cuz my heart’s in the Highlands.
I’d always wanted to go to Delphi, so last September I took a bus from Athens and fed my soul on the majesty of the ancient site.
I spent three glorious days sweating on the slopes of Mount Parnassus, and hour after hour traversing the ancient sanctuaries.
I stayed at the Kastalia Boutique Hotel, which I recommend if you’re journeying to Dephi. It is the embodiment of Greek hospitality. When I arrived, the owner said:
“Ask me anything you please, and your wish will be granted.”
And she meant it.
Cheaply I had chosen a street-facing room, and naturally it was loud. I didn’t sleep well my first night, so the next day I asked to switch rooms. It was no problem at all, and the owner even went so far as to not charge me the higher price for a room with a breathtaking view of the valley.
She also gave me clear instructions on how to get to the ruins, and how to ensure blessings from the goddess Athena.
The Sanctuary of Athena Pronaia
The iconic ruins are a short walk east from Delphi Village.
Athena’s sanctuary is further from the village than Apollo’s temple, but the owner of the Kastalia said the best way to take it all in is to go to Athena first because she’s always held the gateway to the main sanctuary.
There was a tour group wrapping up when I got there, and then I had the place to myself. I asked Athena for healing, and my month in Greece only got better from there.
The Castalian Spring
For millennia it’s been customary to make a stop at the Castalian Spring on your way from Athena to Apollo.
In ancient times, travelers purified themselves here, taking rest on benches that lined a beautiful fountain-house carved into the rock. The priests and priestess also used to bathe in the spring in preparation for divination.
Nowadays, you cleanse your feet under the modern fountain next to the ruins of the ancient bath. The water is said to be high in minerals and deeply healing, so I soaked my toes and filled my bottle up. From time to time, locals stopped by to fill 5-gallon jugs.
With blessings from Athena and purification from the fountain, I was ready for the main sanctuary.
The Temple of Apollo
It’s astounding enough to see the ruins of Apollo’s temple. To imagine the awe it must have commanded in its full glory is powerful when you’re standing among its foundations. (And in a weird way it’s less of a tease as a ruin, because Hephaestus’ temple is intact in Athens [as are others] — and I can’t tell you how much I wanted to go inside that one, though they rope that puppy off to protect it.)
Above the Temple of Apollo is a horseshoe-shaped theater:
Between Apollo’s temple and the valley you can see a treasury… cuz everyone who was anyone had a treasury at Delphi.
And above this sweeping vision is the gymnasium:
It was here that athletes competed in the Pythian Games in honor of Apollo.
I had always thought of Apollo as god of sun like Helios (which he was, until Helios took over the chariot of the dawn), but I learned that Apollo is also god of archery (which makes sense given the games)… plus knowledge, healing, protection (which makes sense given the heavenly feeling of this sacred site)… and much more.
The entire sanctuary is infused with peace.
It feels like holy land — intrinsic holy land — and the ancients made it more so with the sacred geometry of their architecture.
It’s so otherworldly that this is where the Oracle of Delphi, or the Pythia, gave prophesies from the divine.
Nowadays it’s believed that the high priestess’s oracles were gibberish induced by vapors emanating from a chasm below her tripod. Some even say that the priests translated the gibberish into false prophesies for political gain.
I believe it could have come to that. But soaking up the soul of the place, I could feel that the oracles began as trance-connections with the divine. I suspect that even their translations began as authentic.
It was gloriously hot.
I was wearing a thin white cotton shirt, a thin light-colored skirt, and sandals, and I was sweating bullets as I basically did interval cardio up the slope, stopping from time to time to absorb the atmosphere. I found it staggering that other people were wearing long-sleeved black shirts and tight jeans and socks with trainers as they climbed up — and they didn’t seem to feel the heat or break a sweat. And yet it was 34°C (93°F).
One thing that people did do, though, really impressed me. See the pert buttocks on this sarcophagus? (Look left)
A group was walking by this sarcophagus and a lady said, “Nice ass.”
A gentleman said, “Thank you.”
Oh, those magnificent days of delight and discovery.
I also loved Delphi Village.
There’s nothing like good, hot, dry weather and a landscape like this:
Surprisingly, Delphi Village was built around 1891.
Before that, villagers lived in what was called Kastri, right on the site of the ruins.
French archeologists moved the village to its current locale at the end of the 19th century so they could excavate the sanctuary.
Here’s what the modern village looks like above the Kastalia:
Years before I came here, I’d had dreams of riding a motorcycle down a street like this.
In waking life, a little further up this street, I had a magnificent Greek salad and souvlaki.
What I love about Greek food is that, everywhere I’ve eaten throughout three month-long journeys in the country, the food is always fresh and never pompous.
Down the street from my lunch spot was a pomegranate tree.
… this pomegranate picture has particular significance for me now in December, with Persephone stationed in Hades for the winter.
You know the myth of Persephone and Demeter?
Persephone was off limits to the menfolk as far as her mother, Demeter, goddess of the harvest, was concerned. But all the gods wanted Persephone because she was a hot young slice who embodied beauty and fertility.
So Hades, god of the underworld, swooped up and pulled Persephone to his realm.
Demeter was so distraught that she forbade the earth to fruit, and winter came.
Eventually she got wind of Persephone’s whereabouts, and Zeus made Hades return Persephone to the upperworld, marking the season of spring and the rebirth of life.
But Persephone had tasted the fruit of the underworld in the form of six pomegranate seeds, and became Hades’ wife. She has co-reigned his realm ever since for six months every year.
Where I come from, winter is indeed six months long, and the climate is so fierce that we could never grow mild-region fruits. Thus for the novelty I longed to pick a pomegranate, but they weren’t mine to pick, so I headed back to my room for a nap.
By my second night in Delphi, the waiter at the Kastalia knew how much I loved their hummus, their salads, their wine, their view.
When I was done with dinner on my second night, he said to me, “What is your little name?”
“Your little name.”
“‘My little name? Erin.”
“Erin, do you like chocolate cake?” he asked.
“I do,” I said, even though I’ve been gluten-free for 17 years.
He said, “Erin, because I like you, I will bring you chocolate cake.”
Another thing I loved about Delphi
was a peaceful moment while I was waiting for the bus back to Athens. There was a lusty breeze blowing between what I believe are chestnut trees, enormous and ancient, soaring above wrought-iron balconies with painted wooden shutters.
It was then that I noticed a restaurant sign that had the most wonderful typo I’ve ever seen.
It said lamp chops.
I’m an editor as well as a writer, so you might think I’m a spelling snob. But this filled me with as much happiness as drinking an Alfa under the hot Grecian sun.
When we arrived in Athens, I grabbed a taxi and was off to the ferry port, headed to the Akrotiri excavations of ancient Thira.
The first time I geared up to go hang gliding, I couldn’t stop smiling.
I had probably smiled three times in the three years before that because life had been incredibly difficult.
Now I was turning 40 and I was actually smiling because I was about to do something that my soul had been dying for. Something life-affirming. Something fun.
I wasn’t smiling on purpose — this was an autonomic phenomenon, like breathing or maintaining blood circulation with your heart. And I knew it — I knew that my perma-grin was rooted in every part of me — body, mind, spirit, soul, consciousness — all of me anticipating great joy.
And it was an immense feeling, setting off at high speed down the runway, taking flight into the summer sky. My guide and I were secured to a hang glider that was tethered to a plane that lifted us from a flat green field into waves of warm air. As we ascended I felt a joy like the joy I feel when taking off in a plane, but much stronger, with vastly more awe as the gentle breeze streamed against my face.
It was exhilarating to look down and see how small and far ordinary life was. It was delicious to look ahead as I drank in the sky at this height, 2,000 feet above the ground. It wasn’t like a view from a 35,000-foot airplane flight. It was infinitely more visceral because I was suspended in the open air.
Words like elation and euphoria form new definitions in your bones when you’re literally high.
This kind of floating felt exactly like a dream, one where I’m flying above treetops, getting a glimpse of how beautiful life can be. The universe showed me its expansiveness and I could feel more hope and goodness than I ordinarily imagine possible.
Anytime we got a ripple of wind it was like soaring up in a giant swing. When we disconnected from the plane, there was a little bounce-back, and jolting forward again was like a second taste of the takeoff.
I tried to cement every instant of the 15-minute flight in my memory, so the experience would be there for me to return to in detail whenever I want. It helps too that there was a GoPro on our left. Here’s a condensed version of the video, cut together with a little footage from my phone on my second flight:
Was I nervous? Wasn’t I scared? Isn’t hang gliding crazy?
All I was aware of was being thrilled. My brain had been starving for endorphins, and this was like manna on my tongue after a long famine.
Speaking of food, after our flights, my friend Angela, who loved the experience too, took me to a Mexican restaurant I’d never been to, where the beans were ambrosia. I’ve been back there since and they’re definitely good, but not like that magical dinner after a free-fly in the sky.
Though it should be said that I am afraid of heights in certain ways. My chiropractor, for example, has some virtual reality equipment that’s intensely realistic. There’s one beautiful under-the-sea program, and another grim futuristic city program. In that one, you’re on top of a building on a black, high-tech, dystopian space station. The building is probably 50% taller than the Empire State Building. Since it’s VR, you can theoretically step your foot out, but the experience is so real that my brain was convinced I would slip and plummet to my death. I couldn’t bring myself to stretch a toe out a millimeter. I think it had partly to do with being vertical, and significantly to do with an aversion to the antiutopia.
Hang gliding is different for me. Maybe because I’m horizontal like a bird, maybe because rural Wisconsin is beautiful, definitely because I feel carefree. I consider it no more dangerous than getting in a car. Or than living life for that matter, where we have no limit of frightening things like all the shit that’s in the news every day.
I meant to go hang gliding again this past summer, but I spent all the warm days working a million hours, and then in September I went to Greece, and it was halfway through October by the time I set off to get back in the air.
One of the things I love about going to Wisconsin Hang Gliding is the drive. You could definitely say I like locomotion. I live to travel ground that I don’t cover every day, and it intrigues me to see fresh landscapes. On the two far-apart occasions I’ve made the drive, every bend in the road felt new to me, curving with rolling hills, scattered with farms, wetted with marshland.
On this glorious October day, the orange and yellow leaves caught the sun as I cruised past untroubled cows, gnarled oaks, and pumpkin patches. At one point I saw a boy of about 10 fly off his school bus and race up the long drive toward his house. Was he running to get faster? Was he rushing to see something he’d missed all day? Was he thinking, “If I get to the barn before the dog barks, I’ll get what I want for my birthday”?
I dunno, but he was part of the idyllic scene for sure. He and his beautiful free soul.
When I got to Wisconsin Hang Gliding, the office was empty cuz Rik, the owner, was in the air. Danny the tow pilot was on the ground, out in the field, waiting for Rik to land. A student was nearby too, putting away some gear. So I messed around with my phone, taking pictures and shooting videos. Here’s Rik’s landing:
A minute after this, we were preparing for my second tandem flight. I was thinking about friends who’d said, “Hang gliding? Are you serious?” or “All I can think of is the hot-air balloon accident” or “I prefer to keep my feet on the ground.”
So I asked Rik and Danny:
“What do you say to people who think hang gliding is crazy, risky, or dangerous?”
Obviously I’m not implying that if this is your perception, you should go hang gliding. I asked because I have a different view of crazy, and I wanted to know if they do too.
Rick said that tandem hang gliding with an expert is probably the safest sport you can do in the sky. What Danny said was one of the best things I’ve ever heard anyone say.
“It’s only crazy in your mind.”
It’s only crazy in your mind.
Like, what do you consider crazy?
When I was thinking about leaving my full-time job, I thought, “I can’t do it. It’s crazy to give up health insurance and paid vacation and a stable income and a job I love.”
But I did it because I needed the freedom of working remotely for both my soul and my family obligations. And I’ve never regretted it. I was afraid to do it, but as soon as I did it, I learned that it had been crazy only in my mind.
That’s when I looked at it as doing something crazy because I’m sane. If I hadn’t done it, I would still be living the restrictive life that wasn’t good for me. I definitely wouldn’t have been able to take a 23-day vacation to Greece. And I sure wouldn’t be hang gliding on a Monday.
So now we were taking off again, Danny in the plane and Rik and me on the glider. We soared into the air and there was the wind again, streaming against my cheeks as I felt the freedom of flight. We soared up and the wind was invigorating. The fall colors radiated brilliance. Because it was my second flight and I was obviously a convert, this time we went to 3k high.
“Wouldn’t you love to be a bird flying in the sky?”
I thought of how my grandfather had asked me this years ago. We were in marshland at the time, and we’d just seen a blue heron lift out of the water and float into the sky.
My grandfather was a brilliant carver of birds, and a fervent collector of Owen Gromme prints. I wondered if he would have liked hang gliding like a bird. I thought he might, because for a mild-mannered chap he was a bit of an adventurer, especially when he was in his late eighties.
That’s when he took a helicopter ride over a volcano with me, rode in a rowboat in the choppy Pacific with me and my mom and my aunt watching for whales, and took a motorboat with us down the river and through the jungle of the Dominican Republic. He very well might have loved hang gliding.
I’d asked Rik if I could film a little on my phone, and he didn’t mind. I think it was because he could tell that if I dropped it, I would realize it was my own fault. I had my phone strategically placed in a pocket on the chest of my harness. Rik had given me gloves to wear because the wind was chill, and it was quite an ordeal to take each one off while up in the sky, tuck them in my cleavage like my grandma safekeeping Kleenex, unzip the little pocket, and wrangle my phone out.
It was tricky business, but eventually I succeeded. I got my security code pressed, and the camera app open, the slider set to video, and the video turned on. I filmed the 30 seconds you saw above and decided that was more than enough. It would help preserve the memory, but it was taking me out of the moment. It was better to gaze in awe, so I spent the rest of the flight locking every glorious detail in my mind. I even decided to consider taking lessons to become a solo flyer. If I could, I’d fly every day.
Now there are crazy things that are super crazy-crazy. Because crazy’s on a spectrum. But sometimes when you do something kind of crazy, it’s actually more liberating than you imagine.
What I think is crazy is not doing what you feel you will love. Of course, I’m not saying go hang gliding. If you don’t want to go hang gliding, don’t go hang gliding. What I am saying is:
Are all our fears for real?
Just about everything we do is crazy. Driving 4,000-pound steel boxes at 70 mph is crazy. Bombing people is crazy. Having healthcare that bankrupts people is crazy. Even having a child is crazy because of the physical, emotional, and financial risks it brings to the parents — and the risks of life it brings to the kid.
It’s only the weird stuff we classify as crazy.
But it’s only crazy in our minds.
Because it’s all relative.
When we landed, the wisdom of Danny’s words was still slaying me. I wiped my nose couthlessly with my borrowed glove and wondered if he’s some kind of Zen Buddhist master.
But as far as I know he’s just a guy who, like Rik, has been hang gliding for 40 years. They’re both in one piece, so that’s a good sign. Not only that, they look strong and healthy, as if they’re 25. At 58, Rik moves like he’s 16. Doing what they love seems to keep them young.
When we were leaving, Danny said that if he doesn’t get in the air after awhile, he gets antsy. He waved goodbye and ducked into his car wearing watershoes. I think he was headed for another crazy adventure. Maybe scuba diving.
When I drove away, I was still smiling. And I smiled all day.
In books and life, they’re places where people — unencumbered by excess space or distraction — retreat to deepen their relationships with themselves or others.
My enchantment with tiny houses began with The Smurfs because they lived in tiny houses like this:
As a kid, I loved the magic of the Smurfs’ forest, the conjury of Papa’s potions, the adventure of the journeys to visit sages and healers, and the earthiness of the medieval setting.
I loved the show so much, in fact, that when I spent weekends at my grandparents’ house, I would set the kitchen timer for an hour every hour on Friday nights all the way till 6 a.m. on Saturdays when the show came on. I would savor The Smurfs, and then go back to bed and sleep till Scooby-Doo came on at noon.
What I loved about The Smurfs was that they lived in a utopian village in the woods — and that each Smurf had his own mushroom. Or her own mushroom. Personal spaces of retreat where each Smurf worked at their own skill or nurtured their own nature.
Papa Smurf concocted magical brews in his own mushroom.
Greedy Smurf baked pies in his own mushroom.
Lazy Smurf slept and dreamed in his own mushroom.
Smurfette had a closetful of white dresses in her own mushroom.
I wished fervently for my own mushroom, because all the Smurfs lived so peacefully in those cozy self-governed cottages, but each was also part of the greater Smurf community.
Adolescent tiny houses
Later on, a book that captured my preteen attraction was V.C. Andrews’ Dark Angel.
I identified with the heroine, a girl who was sent to live in the mansion of her mysterious grandparents. My grandparents didn’t have a mansion, but their house was large to me when I was small and its size and contents were fascinating.
One day, while exploring the grounds of her forebears’ mansion, the girl discovered an English maze.
In its center she found a little cottage.
There lived a forbidden man who she fell in love with, and I was introduced to a contemporary take on the gothic romance.
I slight it here slightly, but it had a profound effect on my psyche. Like an enchanted mushroom, this cottage was a refuge for a character who was in the midst of growing up and developing her identity.
Speaking of which, that’s what Snow White was doing in the dwarves’ little house.
In The Uses of Enchantment(sometimes now spurned as outdated but still carrying interesting insight), child psychologist Bruno Bettelheim says that the plight of Snow White symbolizes her movement from childhood to pubescence, and eventually to love and marriage.
“The peaceful preadolescent period Snow White has while living with the dwarfs before the queen again disturbs her gives her the strength to move into adolescence,” Bettelheim wrote.
Taking refuge from the threat of having her childhood killed (symbolized by her stepmother’s orders that the hunter kill her), Snow White settles for a time in the tiny house of the dwarves.
What their cozy abode offers her is a bit like her ensuing sleep in the forest — a space for rest and pause. Once she leaves the dwarves’ little house, she’s more prepared to grow toward maturity.
The tiny house also promotes change for adults.
In Kate Chopin’s The Awakening, Victorian wife and mother Edna Pontellier is stifled by a lack of personhood. What she views as a “life of caretaking” impedes her desire to feel like a whole human being, someone who can be and do what feels right for herself.
This leads her to leave her husband’s mansion and move to her “pigeon house,” a small cottage that represents independence and liberation.
“The pigeon house pleased her,” Chopin wrote. “Every step which she took toward relieving herself from obligations added to her strength and expansion as an individual.”
For quite a spell the little house appeared in every book I read. There was the gamekeeper’s cottage in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, where Connie, like Edna, discovers a world outside the one she had been bred for.
I think, though my memory is foggy, that there’s a little house, or maybe a gazebo, in The Age of Innocence too, where Newland Archer and the Countess Olenska meet to discuss their love.
Naturally, the characters in books with little houses fare differently as a result of their time in their diminutive dwellings, but a common theme is that the little houses serve as havens where the characters experience something different from the norm of, say, the mammoth mansions they usually reside in.
This makes sense because of the expanse of space in a mansion: All those rooms are filled with distractions and psychic or familial weight and deluded, confining customs.
The wise one’s tiny house
Often in ancient lore, a shaman, medicine man/woman, or wisdom keeper lives in a small hut or cottage on the edge of the village, navigating the edges of consciousness.
In The Journey of the Hero, Friedemann Wieland describes Merlin’s outsider abode as “a small house, totally overgrown with moss and ferns,” nestled in the clearing of a forest.
Say what you will about Disney, but they certainly captured the atmosphere of his cottage beautifully:
Wise ones like Merlin live in small sylvan spaces to focus their energies not on physical expansiveness, but on soul expansion as priests and priestesses of nature.
The magical creature’s tiny house
One of the coziest tiny houses has to be Mr. Tumnus’s faun cave in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
In his tiny cave, Mr. Tumnus leads a quiet life, tending to a toasty fire that insulates him from the frost-bound tyranny of the White Witch’s spell. It’s his sanctuary, where he retreats to play his flute and dream of midnight dances with the dryads.
Of course there’s also the writer’s tiny house…
… the place where the writer finds the peace to create.
When I was in writing school (which is to say when I belatedly pursued my bachelor’s degree at a low-residency liberal arts college, which sadly no longer exists, and which helped me become what I always knew I was), I started my self-designed studies with a look at how other writers work.
I browsed a book called The Writer’s Desk with photos by Jill Krementz, Kurt Vonnegut’s wife, and became captivated by this image of E. B. White writing in his little boathouse in Maine:
That’s the tiny house, I thought, where the writer retreats in solitude to develop their work.
A couple years ago I attended a conference where writer Ann Handley talked about having built a tiny house to write in.
She also mentioned having pursued as many pen pals as possible as a child, and talked about creating different lives for herself to write to each pen pal about, so the tiny house wasn’t the only writerly parallel that caught my ear. But it certainly grabbed me.
For my part, I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a little house I didn’t like.
I remember lodging in a cabin on a lake in Ontario for a week one summer when I was five and feeling that it was a sanctuary.
When I was 11 and 12 I went to camp and reveled in the coziness of cedar walls and bunk beds, the surprising sanctity of vespers, and the smell of sulfury well water, sweet-scented bug spray, and coconuty suntan lotion — in a little cabin.
I guess I went to a crappy camp when I was 10 and that cabin sucked, but when I was 23 I stayed in a cabin in Northern California that nourished me. For a period of years I used to sojourn in a peaceful cabin on Lake Erie on my way to school in Vermont. When I turned 30 we spent my birthday up north in Wisconsin in a soothing cabin, watching the stars and listening to the lake water lap against the pier.
And a couple years ago I went to a writers’ retreat in the redwoods, where I felt like my tiny writer’s cabin was my own private mushroom.
Soon after that I started reading a book called At Home in France by New Yorker and New York Times editor Ann Barry.
Barry owned a little stone house in the south of France called Pech Farguet, or “the hill of the little forge.”
Composed of a living room and a kitchen on the first floor and a bedroom and bath on the second floor, it is indeed a little house. One day I’ll visit it and feel an affinity with a writer who for many years spent a week or two escaping her American life and reveling in the magic of the little house.
Recently, my soul has felt quenched in tiny cave houses in Greece:
Dream little houses
Right now I live in an average-sized house, but I’ve always found myself craving the envelopment of a tiny house.
My tiny house doesn’t have to be in the woods per se, but it should be nestled among pine trees and willows. It should be made of wood and stone. And it should embody the repose of Owl’s little house, or Frog’s or Toad’s.
It should, by the nature of its size and the simplicity of its nature, do what Gaston Bachelard said of dream houses in The Poetics of Space. It should…
“be a cottage, a dove-cote, a nest, a chrysalis.”
Because that’s what the tiny house is for those of us who crave one: A burrow that connects us with the home inside of ourselves.