Greece 2

 A hawk flew over me as I lay there, alone on the deserted beach, hovering in the air, my anima. It's a good omen for me, I've always thought that, ever since i was a child. Any bird of prey that appears is a good omen.

Wandering through the pine groves, how can I keep from singing? I'm not actually singing as I walk but my body is singing from the hike.

The mountain is silent in the midday sun. The trees have their own song and I'm listening now. The heat is really getting to me, I'm sweating profusely but my mission is to reach the chapel, the white unblemished chapel. 

I'm not thinking as I climb higher and higher, its steep but I'm on a strange pilgrimage to the little chapel. No pain, no thoughts. The sea is disappearing from sight below me. The essential oils of pine and thyme are rich and heady in the air. My body is singing and sweating as I climb. I'm on a pilgrimage. I have to get to that holy place.

My breath is heaving, sweat is pouring out of me as I get slowly closer. This could be dangerous, there is no one for miles around, no one knows I'm here. The heat shimmers in the air around the rocks, a lizard scuttles off the path where I set my feet. The hawk is nowhere to be seen now, there are no birds, the white walls of the chapel can be seen up ahead.

The church is not particularly pretty, I have been to a few already on the island. This one is small and hidden away high on the mountainside, secluded by stately pine trees, the path up to the courtyard is paved. The stone is worn down by the years, slated by the seasons, by the salt carried in on the wind. 

Who knows when last anyone visited this sacred place. I open the blue door and the air inside is old and stale but the light falling in through the window illuminates the far wall of icons. There are various portraits of the saints, Jesus and Mary, just like in any other Greek church but there is something different about this one. 

I practically collapse onto the stone floor from exhaustion. I made it. The silence of the place is disturbed by my labouring breath, I need to regain my composure. A soft breeze flows in through the open door, cooling me somewhat. I lye there on the chapel floor, the saints are watching me from the walls but they are not judging me. 

I sit up, the place is only a couple square metres wide. Simple chapel, made with dedication, plain upholstery, no glamour and yet there is an ambiance pure, true, honest. It fills me with respect which startles me, I rarely feel a reverence such as this and I start to pray, kneeled on the floor. 

I pray for my family, I pray for my friends. I beseech the icons to watch over them. I thank the saints for the life I have lived, I thank them for the consolidation. Here where i am no longer mystical. Here where I am no longer clairvoyant. Here I pray silently and in earnest because I feel I must. 

I do not pray about the many years, I do not pray about the pain. I do not question my fate. Then I just sit there, alone in the remote chapel, alone on the remote island. 

For a moment I hope to die there. Its been a long time since I thought about death. There was a time when an ending was always on my mind. I want to die there on the floor of the tiny church in the arms of the icons, in the arms of the Mother Mary. I want to die for the love that is lost though its not a bitter or wretched feeling at all. Just a kind of surrender.