Will the Real WhoaMamma Please Stand Up...

There is a scene from Lewis Carroll's 'Alice in Wonderland' where Absolom the pipe-smoking caterpillar turns to the bewildered Alice and asks:

"Whoooooooooooooooooo .... are youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu...?"

Alice, in a state of confusion, replies:

"I knew who I was this morning, but I've changed several times since then."

Ah Alice, I know the feeling.

Sometimes I feel like I am a thousand souls leading a thousand lives.

Nothing and everything.

The product of hundreds and thousands of years of love-making from my ancestors. Their DNA weaving a tapestry in my veins. All these people in my blood-line came together and now... I am Here.

I am as ancient as the ruins in Athens yet I'm just beginning.

I am Mummy. A beacon and an example to my girls.

I am Agapi, the Wife. My love unconditional and my support unwavering.

I am Big Sister Jess who parents and guides my sweet, precious siblings.

A Daughter and Granddaughter of migrants who will carry on the legacies and family traditions.

A friend for Life.

A smile to let you know you make me happy.

A shoulder to cry on.

A hug of gratitude.

The first lips to kiss you good morning, the last lips to kiss you goodnight.

The girl who wants to dig for treasure.

The woman dressed in black that wants to paint the town (and her shoes, lips and nails) red.

I am equal parts kick-ass and demure.

I am a little bit o' this:

With a dash of this:

and, maybe, just a hint of this:

I want to glisten, yet I hide.

I like quiet yet I want to scream.

I'd like to laze in a hammock and sprint up a mountain.

I love to sing but close my mouth if there's an audience.

I am the People Pleaser and the Do-Gooder.

I Make Things Happen.

I am undying in my loyalty and my love has no bounds.

I am lazy like a cat but can be fierce as a lion.

Romantic daydreamer.

Kinky vixen.

Beware of the Quiet Ones.

I want to go crazy and dance.

I long for adventure but want to take them alone.

I'd offer you anything I have if you need it more.

I am a cherry in a bowl of bananas.

I'm a Keeper of Secrets and a bearer of Truths.

I come alive when inspired.

Sometimes my Spirit feels too grand for my body.

I'm the licker of cake-bowls and picker of flowers.

Child-like.

I will stare at rainbows till they disappear like ghosts in the golden sky.

I am a journey and I'm enjoying the ride.

Who are You?

I am linking up with my blog-crush Edenland as part of her Fresh Horses Brigade. Giddy-up!

The Miraculous Hand

This is a story of miracles and guardian angels, and one in particular, that saved my life.
I was 7 years old and it was Summertime. My 3 siblings and I were holidaying at my grandparents.There weren't many toys to play with so we used to make up our own games. On that particular day the game de jour was scaring each other to death.
My younger sister was the master of this game. I was sitting innocently on my grandmothers orange velour couch, drinking pink milk when my dastardly sister leaped out from behind the sofa with a grizzly roar, startling me so much that I sprayed my yummy milk all over my pretty yellow sundress.
'Haha! I'm the winner' declared the brat. 'I'm the best Scarer, you can't beat me!'
'We'll see about that...' I muttered under my breath as my sister skipped away to terrorise the cat in the backyard.
Now, to find the perfect hiding spot.
I was going to startle my sister so much that not only would she spill her pink milk, she'd wet her pants. Stealthily, I headed to my grandparents bathroom. It was an ocean of 1950's turquoise mosaic tiles and aquamarine enamel. Aha! I ducked into the shower stall, a pebbly cave of blue. My white sandals splashed in a shallow puddle of leftover water. The damp plastic shower curtin clammily clung to my sundress and my hair everytime a breeze blew. My plan was to stay there until my sister went to the toilet and had to come into the bathroom to wash her hands. Then I'd jump out and scare her. Surely I'd be the winner then.
I waited.
And waited.
The sound of drip, drip, drip from the the dripping basin tap was making me want to go to the toilet. Too much pink milk.
Suddenly I heard the bang of the back flyscreen door. I could hear my sister running down the hall, past the bathroom and into the kitchen where Grandma was calling out for her.
Ok. Slight change of plan.
My bladder could hold out no longer.
I ducked out of the shower and leaned back stealthily against the bathroom door, blending into the shadows. I heard my grandmother say to my sister, 'Here, take this out to Papou'. Papou was preparing a barbecue lunch for us outside.
Aha! She'd be heading my way again. I would jump out just as she reached my doorway.
My heart was racing, building up in excitement and anticipation.
I heard the sound of my sister's squeaky steps as she scuttled along the yellow plastic hall-runner my grandmather used to protect her plush-pile tangerine carpet.
She's nearly here, I thought to myself excitedly.
I was just about to pounce when suddenly I felt It.
The Hand.
Firm, but gentle on my shoulder.
And a voice, inside my head, also firm but gentle, that simultaneously spoke the words 'No/Stop'.
I turned behind me but there was nothing there.
Except there was. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it.
Her.
A Lady.
And she felt tall, as tall as the ceiling, because I felt my head looking up towards 'her', where I felt her beautiful 'face' would be. All I could see was sunlight on my face and a calm, blissful serenity took over my body.
I turned back towards the doorway and watched my sister run past. She was oblivious to me. I watched her charge down the hall with a big sharp knife held out infront of her.
And then I understood.
If I had leapt out when I'd intended, my sister would have impaled me with that kitchen knife, most likely killing me.

My Guardian Angel saved me.

That Voice has guided me on several occassions in my life. The night I met my Husband, and the night my father died. I trust it and it makes me feel safe. I know that Everything Will Be All Right. Even when I'm alone, I know I'm never alone. 
There are real miraculous moments in this world. We just have to be open to them.

Do you believe in Angels?

I'm linking up this post with the gorgeous Edenland as part of her 'Fresh Horses Brigade'. Be sure to check out all the other fab bloggers linking up too!

A Song for When I'm Gone: Pink Champagne, Funerals and the Fresh Horses Brigade

I opened up my laptop, eagerly searching for Eden from Edenland's latest blog post, which would divulge the newest task for those joining in her 'Fresh Horses Brigade'. Last week we were asked to share our handwriting. This week we've been requested to.............................................

"Tell Me Your Funeral Song"

(gulp!)

My funeral song? I didn't want to think about it. I don't want to think about dying, I just want to focus on the 'living' part of my life and make the most of it.

I'm not afraid to die but I am terrified of losing loved ones. Too distressing to consider. We've lost a few members of our close-knit family and I don't want to think about losing more.

My first experience with death came with the passing of my grandfather when I was 16. It was the first time I'd ever seen my father cry. I remember going to a viewing at the funeral parlour. Family, friends and strangers were lining up to pay their respects to my grandfather. He was laying in an open casket. I was so scared. His face looked different, not the right colour, almost waxen. Old Greek women dressed in black were supporting my grandmother on either side, propping her up. She looked so small and lost. People in the line in front of me were leaning into the casket, kissing my grandfather goodbye. My turn was next. 

I froze. I looked at his mouth and could see tiny stitches keeping his lips together. I wanted to kiss him but I couldn't. I was scared. I stepped back from the queue and returned to my seat. After a brief blessing by a Greek priest who rattled a golden bowl of smoky incense over my grandfathers body, making the form of a cloudy cross, people were invited to pay their final respects before the coffin was sealed. My father took my hand to lead us towards the exit. But I couldn't leave. I had to give my grandfather a final kiss goodbye. As terrified as I was, my heart would ache with regret if I didn't. And so, with all the courage I could muster, I strode up to the coffin  and thanked my darling Papou with a final kiss, grateful for all the love and wonderful moments we'd shared.

My next encounter with Death came many years later. I was living blissfully in Greece, engaged to the man of my dreams. Life was idyllic and we didn't have a care in the world, until Sadness came to visit. My future father-in-law suffered a sudden heart-attack. He went in for routine heart surgery and didn't make it. I remember seeing him before his surgery. We were gathered in his room, my fiance, his two sisters and I. He was apprehensive about the surgery and we all assured him, promised him, he would be okay. Only, he wasn't. I still remember his big sparkly blue eyes smiling away at us under his white bushy brows, his thick white moustache dancing as he grinned and waved. The wheels of his bed squeaked as they whisked him away down the corridor. I was blowing kisses until he was out of view, the surgery doors closing  behind him. Hours later, the doctor called in the immediate family members to make his grim announcement. My father-in-law was dead.

I was not prepared for what was to follow.
Funerals: Greek style.

We left the hospital and drove 45 mins back to my fiance's house. Women dressed in black were swanning about the house, carrying trays of liquer, offering them to the mourners who were gathering. Old men, with their heads bowed, were solemnly sitting on the balcony, puffing  at their cigarettes and swinging their worry beads. My sister-in-laws and I were met out the front of the house by an elderly aunt and ushered into one of the bedrooms. We were to change out of our clothes and dress in black immediately before greeting mourners. The living room was filling with friends and family. All the sofas and chairs were placed around the edges of the room leaving a large space in the centre. Strange, I thought, it's looks like a dancefloor. Only there'd be no dancing today. Everything was eerily quiet except for the hustle and bustle of the aunties in the kitchen churning out little cups of Greek coffee and platters of koulouria biscuits served on silver trays lined with only the best crocheted doilies.

    I was dressed in a black jacket, black skirt, black top, black stockings and black heels that had been freshly polished by an over-zealous aunt. Suddenly I heard wailing. I entered the lounge and noticed that the empty dancefloor space had been filled. With my father-in-law: his open mahogony casket set on an ornate gold stand, a giant pillar of a candle at the head of the casket, a silver plated icon of the Virgin Mary resting on his chest. Now that the body had entered the house, people were free to wail. And wail they did. My mother-in-law, seated at the head of the coffin, shrieked, smacked her head about, yelled at my father-in-law for not looking after his health, yelled at him for leaving her to live all alone. My husband-to-be was a mess. I'd never seen him break down like that. He loved his father so much. And so did I. He was a humble, kind-hearted, angel of a man who always put his family first. My face was a non-stop parade of salty tears as I clutched my fiance's hand and my heartached to see my loved ones in so much pain.The aunts took turns wailing and singing traditional Greek mourning songs. Parades of people would enter the house, kiss my father-in-laws body, kiss the icon of the Virgin then take each of the family members by the hand for condolences. The parade would go on for 24 hours. In Greek tradition, the body of the deceased is kept in their house for the first 24 hours after death. All the doors and windows of the house are to remain open so that the Soul of the deceased can enter and leave freely. It was a chilly autumn in Greece and the house was so very cold I couldn't stop trembling. 

   Funerals: Greek Style. Black, black and more black. 40 days of fasting: no meat, no dairy, no partaking in joyous festivities or celebrations, no music, no sex (!). There was a Priest's Blessing on the 3rd Day After Death, at the grave, where sweet red wine and a bowl of boiled wheat flavoured with icing sugar and cinnamon and decorated with raisins in the form of a cross are offered for the soul of the dearly departed. A 9th day blessing at the grave, a 40th day blessing, followed by a feast. There was a 2 month blessing, a 3 month blessing, a 6 month blessing, a 9 month blessing and, finally, the 1 year memorial service and feast. I'd never visited a cemetery so many times in all my life.

The hardest funeral I ever had to attend was that of my darling Daddy. I will not write of it here, but you are welcome to read a post that I've dedicated to him ("On Love and Loss: My Dad, the Butterfly").

As for my own funeral, I don't want the focus to be on Death and Grief. My experience with funerals, especially the traditional Greek ones, have left me yearning for the opposite. I don't want my loved ones to lament and wallow in sorrow. I don't want them to abstain from Joy. I hope that they remember me with Love in their Hearts and a Smile on their lips, everytime.

I see a picnic on the beach, pink champagne, lemon gelato, kids running around blowing bubbles, a celebration of Love and Life.

And my song choice?

'Somewhere Over the Rainbow.'

I've always had a child-like fascination for rainbows, I always stop and stare at them in awe everytime I'm in the presence of one. They make me happy. I sing this song to my children as a lullaby. It's hopeful and calming.
This is my favourite version by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole.

I also love Johnny Cash singing 'You Are My Sunshine'

Though, maybe I'll be a bit cheeky and throw in Marilyn Monroe singing 'Running Wild' from the film 'Some Like It Hot' . I'd love to think of my Spirit running wild and free (and playing a ukelele).

Do you have a song you'd like to be remembered by? 

Letter to Eden: Riding the Fresh Horses Brigade

I am coming out of my bloggy hiatus (laziness) to join in the sassy Eden Riley from Edenland's 'Fresh Horse Brigades' weekly task (read all about it here). 


This week's task is to share your handwriting with the world.

So here it goes......

I love writing by hand, although now it's mostly delegated to the realm of grocery lists and signing permission slips for school.

When I was younger I used to keep journals where I'd write my deepest secrets and pine over unreciprocated loves. I loved writing weekly letters to my best friend who'd moved to the country. I'd use  different coloured pens with scented inks and decorate the envelope with handdrawn flowers and lipstick kisses.

I love stationary stores and still swoon over pretty journals and gorgeous jet-black ink fineliners.

In this day and age of emails and texts and writing on Facebook walls, I still treasure the delight of receiving a handwritten letter or card in the mail.

Some of my most precious gifts from my husband are little love notes he left about the house for me to find.

Do you write letters? When was the last time you received a handwritten letter? What does your handwriting reveal about you?