Perfect Imperfections

Perfect.  What a deliciously alluring, seductive, tempting word.  Purrfect. A word that Eartha Kitt owned and would growl out on demand of which I've had the personal privilege of hearing.  In most cases, perfect, is hard to achieve, almost impossible.  We can only strive to be perfect, always falling short for most, and for the rare few, just out of grasp.  But is it really something to aim for?   And for which part of your life do you pour all your energies in to perhaps reach perfection? Wealth, health, relationships?  Something's got to give, right? 

Well, this house is certainly not perfect.  Except for this ceiling.  There is nothing more perfect than this ceiling.  Ok, I may be exaggerating...the house location is perfect and the view!  Lord have mercy, the view is beyond perfection!  But I had no control over that.  My father did, and he chose perfectly.

Every piece of the coffered ceiling  was cut and placed by hand, no prefab mouldings here.  A true coffered ceiling of this calibre adds the best of architectural details and elevates the worth of the house.  There can be no flaws in its geometry and I threatened Boufeas (my mihanikos) that if there was it would be horribly obvious and would have to be taken down at his expense.  He was leery at first because he said that this was a Greek house not an English house and we don't install these types of ceilings.  Having taken him again outside of his comfort zone and having to admit that he never erected one, he cleverly discovered that our foreman, Dimitri, was quite the expert on coffered ceilings.  Perfect.

I always admired the look of a coffered ceiling and how it truly does finish a room and make it grand.  The house's main floor high ceilings presented me with a rare opportunity to indulge and completely surrender to this fantasy.  It was a true labour of love, as most all good things worth fighting for are, and in this rare instance resulted in pure magic!  It was worth the wait and the cost.  It is by far, the best feature of this house.  When I finally saw it this summer, it took my breathe away.  Success!

And isn't it funny that when you want something real bad, you start seeing it everywhere!  Like a new car that you're thinking about purchasing and you see it at every turn. As many times as I've visited the Acropolis, it wasn't until this last visit that rocked my world.  As I looked skyward up the long length of the doric columns, I was delighted to only discover, you guessed it, coffered ceilings! They were suddenly everywhere! Up high running across the top of Parthenon and various other temples on the grounds, and pieces of it, down low on the ground, on its sides.  Despite dissenting voices, I couldn't help but grin and giggle as I stood there and relished that my house indeed was as Greek as it was going to get. Heh, Heh...perfect.

Am I a bit of a perfectionist?  Perhaps.  And as a culture, we tend to reward perfectionists for setting high standards and trying to meet them which is addictive.  And while I said that the ceiling is perfect, I also admitted that the house is not.  Success in some areas and failure in others.  Perfection may always equal success,  but will success bring you perfection?  Arianna Huffington was in Toronto recently launching her new concept called, the Third Metric, at a fundraiser for Women's Brain Health Initiative.  And while I do admire her willingness and ability to reinvent herself, something that I always strive for, I find this concept of taking success to another new level, a little abstract and pedantic.  Nevertheless, something she said resonated with me.  That "failure is not the opposite of success." 

 



I immediately thought of my hot yoga/fitness practice.  While its great for slowing down my monkey mind and building physical strength (success), I am otherwise absolutely horrible at it (failure).  Try as I might, I will likely never be able to do  the scale pose asana, the peacock asana, the standing splits or any kind of splits!  But I have learned to at least make an authentic attempt and reflect inward.  Trust that wherever you are in your pose, that is exactly where you need to be.  Imagine that in your minds eye that you are performing the pose/asana perfectly. 

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius

and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring."

Marilyn Monroe

I am learning that perfection doesn't have to be something that everyone sees, but rather a feeling a connection, to something or someone.   And that we treat it as a rare gift, because it sustains us and feeds into other parts of our lives.  It makes us feel more normal, more creative, more inspired and more strong.  Trying to live an authentic life is way more difficult than yoga asanas and building houses, but I am learning to try and be successful in smaller portions and aspects of life.  I am learning not to fear failure because its not the opposite of success!  It is after all, our imperfections that we relate and bond with one another. It is how we handle our failures and weakness that makes us truly great.

 

I close my eyes and imagine that my Greek house is perfect.  I imagine away the pergola, the window wells, the retaining walls, the front door, the kitchen door, its illegal status and that there is no window on the west side of the house.

I love my Greek house... and all its perfect imperfections.

 

Can the Apple Fall Far from the Tree?

Never thought that I'd find myself doing tequila shots in an orange grove, in Kalamata, with my 84 year old Uncle.  But there I was, dusting the shoulders of the bottle, a long forgotten gift, while my Theo (Uncle) fetched the lemon and salt. 

"Να ηρεμησεις" (Na ee-remisis), To calm yourself, and then you'll tell me what happened on the Mountain" he said while he cracked the seal of the 35 year old bottle and I wondered if tequila ages well.  "Kοιτάξτε εδώ, θείο" (Key-taxte edo, Theo) "Look here, Uncle, let me show you how the Mexican's do it."  He was playful and eager. He mirrored my image, with a grin on his face, as he licked the salt, took the shot and sucked the lemon.  He chuckled after and sat forward to pour us both another.  I love him. 

He would have been an awesome father.  He and his wife were never able to have children.  And why is it that the people who have the best dispositions for children often are the ones that end up childless?  A cruel puzzle the universe imposes. 

Theo Yianni (John) is my mother's second eldest brother.  Pericles, the eldest of six children from the Parthenios family died 5 years ago.  A gentle soul with a loving heart, shockingly handsome and fiercely patriotic, also remained childless. 

They both fawned over me when I'd visit and lived the Greek expression that they modified, " το παιδί της αδελφής μου είναι δύο φορές παιδί μου".  "The child of my sister is twice my child".  As a young girl, I never felt more loved and cared for and cherished.  And I most certainly returned their affections.  We were three peas in a pod...now only two. 

There is no doubt that Theo Yianni has mellowed over the years, but his opinions and loyalty is unwavering.  He may be 84 but he stands tall and straight with no stagger in his gait.  He has the thickest mass of white wavy hair and the laugh of a young man going on an adventure. 

He said to me, "that while your father and I tolerated each other, this Verga house he built  was really a gift to me. He made a mess of it and who else would come and try to fix it...but you, my Katerina. I pray that Boufeas takes forever to finish it." 

My eyes swell and I feel so comforted and protected by those words.  And yes, he is the only one that calls me Katerina, my third name, because he simply likes it best.

After the third round of tequila shots, between laughter and tears, he presses me to reveal what exactly happened on the Mountain.  "It's like you've seen a ghost or a monster!"  I felt like such a child as he held my face and pleaded with his eyes for answers.  I went to my dad's Horio, his village and Theo Yianni was right, I encountered a red-headed monster. 

I had an afternoon suddenly available to me.  I was supposed to be in Athens shopping for a kitchen, but it didn't turn out that way, regretfully.  But I was excited when I told Theo Yianni that I'll be heading up the Mountain for a drive and to visit the grave of my dad's brother Nikita.  The drive up the Taygetos was joyful and lighthearted and I relished all the familiar twists and hairpin turns that  it has to offer. 

But the afternoon turned tragic, once I encountered her...my father's doppelganger.  I felt like I was 12 years old, vulnerable and small. As she hollered and insulted me just like my father did. She made up bizarre situations in her head about how poorly she is treated by the family and how I caused my father's cancer and what I'm doing to the Verga house is scandalous and that the names of my children are disgraceful. WTF.  She has turned into him...perhaps she has always been like that.   And I turned into jelly as her expressions and words and glances and hand gestures morphed into my father. It was as if he was standing right there. I froze in horror. And then ran from her. And while doing so I broke the heels of my shoes.

To steal an expression from a close friend, "I pressed the delete button" about a thousand times  as I was driving down the mountain.  My father's sister has now been...deleted.

Theo Yianni was empathetic and had a rebuttal for all the nasty comments she made.  But he asked a very sage, very pointed question, "You are no stranger to this kind of verbal attack, you are an exceptionally strong, confident woman....tell me why you are trembling? You know none of what she said is true, what revelation have you had?"  And there it was, the answer, it just tripped off my tongue, like its been waiting there on its mark for the starter pistol.  "I'm afraid I'll turn into them...him! Will I?"

He sat back and while I waited for his response, I felt relieved.  The unspoken was spoken.  I know that I am related to them, but how can I possibly be?  I feel so different, I feel most times like I don't belong.  I looked up at the orange trees with its boughs full of fruit and thought, can the apple fall far from the tree?  Or in this case, the orange?  lol. 

Theo Yianni has never said an unkind word about my father, ever.  So when he offered his answer it was the classiest most respectful response and a little shocking.  "You are like him.  You have skillfully pick the best parts of your father and that is what makes you.  And you have taken the best parts of your mother, your sweet nature...its what every parent hopes for."  "Now, let's go see your scandalous house, it always makes you happy!" 

Father of the year, I say...or Lifetime. Some are just born with it.

Earlier that day, the window and doors arrived from Athens and likely they had been installed.  I was aching to see it. There was about two hours left of sunlight to an already long and eventful day. And it seems that whenever I come to Greece, I have the most...enlightening experiences.  lol. 

We drove silently up the winding road to the Verga house.  I welcomed the calmness that driving provides me and the security of my Theo next to me.  As we pulled up to the house and parked we both just sat there for a moment and stared at it.  It was magnificent.  He held my hand and said, "It has your energy and spirit."  And with those words, the events of the day just disappeared. 


We didn't except to find anyone working at the house so late in the day and was surprised when the foreman, Dimitri, greeted us at the door.  "You have windows and doors.  What do you think?", he asked proudly.  "It's finally a real house", I said.  And then he reached into his pocked and held something out to me and rather coyly asked, "would you like the key to your house?"  I beamed at Dimitri and held out my hand. 

Theo Yianni was grinning from ear to ear, as I just held the key by its end to examine its uniqueness.  "Kαλοριζικο, Katerina mou" (Kaloriziko, good-root or luck my Katerina).  I was silent.  "Well, I'm off" said the foreman, "be sure to lock the door when you're done."  Stunned, I thanked him and only wished that Peter Boufeas was here to share in this delightful moment. 

We toured the house and checked all the new windows and doors. There were a few minor errors, but I knew that Boufeas would take care of it in a New York minute.  Besides we were both so delighted with the outcome and Theo Yianni was quite impressed with the quality and I was happy that he approved.    I handed him the key.  "You lock up the house for the first time Theo."  His chest puffed up as he reached for the key. 

As the key turned and clanked 6 times, I imagined shutting the door and dead-bolting the earlier events with the red-headed monster.  I imagined dead-bolting out all the negative, toxic and unrelenting memories that this house once represented.  The next time I come I will unlock the door and my children will run through it, clearing out any leftover unwanted ghosts, with their laughter and joie de vivre.

And I'm ok with where the apple has landed.  It has fallen far enough away from the tree...this Verga house was built after all on a mountain side. LOL.

 

Well, it certianly looks like a "capsule"

I'm increasingly obsessed with how time keeps moving faster as I get older.  Once again, it's Spring time in Greece and as the country blooms with colour and beautifies with natures tremendous gifts, so does my house in Verga.  It's turning into a jewel.  And with each day that passes it continues to blossom and will likely be done by end of July.  While I'm in no great hurry, time certainly seems to be. 

Four years have come and gone since my father's death. It seems that when he passed the days just seemed long and tedious, filled with endless tasks.  Now the sun rises and sets with such briskness that it leaves me winded at the end of the day, wishing it would slow down.  All I want is more time.

Time for what, exactly?  Time for adventures and experiences that are indelible. Indelible not only to me but perhaps, with any luck, to others as well.  A life well lived, with no regrets.  Full of faults, of course, but admired for its gumption, ambition and regardless of any fear factor, made an effort. 

And you know what?  That's how my father lived. 


This house that my father built over a decade ago and was left as a shell, with all its problems, was indeed a direct reflection of his endeavours as a whole.  But there must be more to my dad.  At least I have hoped and prayed that there will be more. 

So I've embarked on a memory finder mission.  And it all started with the concept of a time capsule.  Yup. Some call it a cornerstone, others a memory box, but "time capsule" is the preferred vernacular.

The idea is to consider an item, whether real or contrived, that reminds them of Steve, dad, and then place it in the time capsule.  My brothers think it to be a fine idea and once I told them, they have been busy chatting with family and friends about what they should put in.  Then we'll find a day either this Summer or Fall, to all congregate at the Verga house for a memorial of sorts to place the time capsule in the ground.

In my mind I have envisioned a quiet sunset moment, family and friend gathered around the open time capsule, each holding a memory of Steve in our hands.  Then one by one, with great laughter and joy, we place that memory in the capsule.  Idyllic. Poignant.  Sentimental.  And STUPID!  What was I thinking!  Anything involving Steve is never that tender, or gentle or just...easy. The time capsule turned into a time bomb!

Early on before I involved the brothers, I asked Peter Boufeas, my minhanikos, to set aside a spot in the ground near the house to place and bury the time capsule.  I told him that it will be a small, rectangular box, 19.8 x 18.2 x 10.3 inches, made out of composite material that can withstand large temperature fluctuations (-40F to 250F).  Easy to seal, watertight, lightweight that can be buried with no fuss.

No such luck.


My older brother really showed an interest in this project, so I thought to hand it over to him to run with.  He decided that the time capsule that I wanted, which would come from a company that specializes in time capsules, wasn't good enough.  So without further consultation, he went off and had one designed and built in a matter of days.  No one said he wasn't a doer.  What resulted was nothing like I had described.  In fact, it's the complete opposite.

Steel time capsule

"Well", I said to him, "it certainly looks like a...capsule".  "How on earth will you get this past customs?  It looks like a missile...a bomb."  Well, if his time capsule doesn't start WWIII at customs, it certainly started one at my house that afternoon.  Sigh. 

It's made out of steel and weighs a ton.  Seriously, I broke out in a sweat just moving it to take this picture.  lol.  It will require a gasket that my brother says will be hot silicon glue. On site?  Who is going to facilitate that?  And when you place the items in the cylinder, you can't view them after because its stacked.  And how do you bury it? 
 Vertically??? But, it will be water tight and endure temperature changes....oh and of course, a nuclear bomb.  



Steel time capsule open

My brother and I had a cold war for about a week after, but I've come to terms with it.  He left it in my foyer as punishment for being ungrateful.  lol. He did paint it to make it look nice and purchased archival sleeves, pens and paper.  I know what he did came from a good place.

The only problem I have with it now is that it's triple the volume than the original small discrete box.  What will we fill it with?  I only have one small item.  I'm worried.  Will our memorial for dad turn into a trip down nightmare lane  rather than memory lane?  Do we have enough "memories" to put in it? 

I only want good ones...



 

It's not like it's Plato's Olive Tree!

View from the dining room

There is this olive tree on my property that I've been threatening to cut down.

It stands right outside my dining room picture window.  I've said repeatedly to whomever would listen that it obstructs my view of the mountain and the yard that my boys will eventually play.  The only person on my side is Theo Yianni.

Τραβήξτε το από τις ρίζες του με το τρακτέρ που έχετε εδώ τώρα, έτσι ώστε δεν θα φυτρώσει ξανά. "Remove it by its roots," exclaims Theo Yianni,  "with the tractor that you have here now so that it won't shoot up again".  At first Peter Boufeas was horrified at the idea of cutting it down and shocked that I would even suggest it.  But now he just rolls his eyes and smiles every time I suggest such a thing.  Olive trees are like that.  They can get injured and look like they are near death, yet miraculously sprout new shoots and will even bear an olive or two in a short time.  They are like the mythical phoenix, they rise from the ashes. (yes, its very dramatic, lol)

Even with Boufeas' indignation, I found the opportunity recently to express my concern about the olive tree and its unfortunate spot on the property, with the foreman, Dimitri. 

He is a slender man, middle aged, with a bushy moustache and a solemn look.  Seems to me that he hadn't smiled in a while and who can blame him considering the current economic crisis he finds himself and his country in.  And it was yet another rainy, moody day on the mountain when Boufeas first introduced me to the foreman Dimitri, which didn't do much for anyone's disposition. 

Coffered ceiling sample

I began to ask him about the very decadent lux coffered ceiling that I'm considering having installed and of which he himself had done the sample.  His answers were short, to the point and unemotional.  Hmm.  I told him that I liked his mill work and that indeed it will add fine architectural details to the interior.  He nodded, thoughtfully.  Hmm.  I moved to the dining room picture window  and commented on how foreboding the mountain looked today, especially knowing that it was once an active volcano.  The foreman Dimirti, spins on his heel and looks at me with a raised eyebrow. 

He seemed pleasantly surprised with my knowledge of his town, little does he know that I excel at Trivial Pursuit, lol.  Quite satisfied with my ability to finally break the ice with the foreman, we actually chatted about the dormant volcano and our mutual affection for the Taygetos Mountain.  But it wasn't until I turned once again to the window and proclaimed, half jokingly, that I will indeed cut down this dreadful olive tree, that I got the most visceral of reactions!  

All I hear are gasps from the men that have accompanied me.  George Giannopoulos, mutters, "Apokliete", (No Way),  the Architect Dimitri, turns to Boufeas and quizzes with disgust, "what is she going to cut down?" Boufeas just breathes out and says, "here she goes again" and runs a hand across his forehead in exasperation.  A look of horror washes over the face of  the foreman Dimitri and challenges me rather aggressively, "You will do no such thing!" 

Plato's Olive Tree now lives in Verga, Kalamata

I proceed to tell the foreman the reasons for my disdain for this particular tree, but he begins to offer alternatives like, pruning it to make it less imposing.  Perhaps we can build a small rock wall around it as to encourage people to sit underneath it for shade, was another.  I could not be swayed.  I drove the point further by suggesting, with a chuckle,  that I will need firewood for my three fireplaces and this tree would be a good place to start.

"Look", the foreman pressed, "its one of the oldest trees you have on the property and it has the most olives on it too!  What does that say to you?  Doesn't that mean anything to you?  To cut an olive tree down is blasphemy."

Blasphemy.  How do you respond to a person who has just described the cutting of an olive tree as blasphemy?  I take a moment.  It's quiet as I contemplate the future of the tree and turn to the foreman and say with a great big smile, "Fcku, it's not like it's Plato's Olive Tree!"  Γαμώτο, δεν είναι ελιά του Πλάτωνα!

Hearty laughter echoed through my cavernous house.  The foreman Dimitri especially impressed and amused by my reference, responds with great joviality, "You never know, it could be!  It very well could be, Tzaki!"

Actually, no it really could not.  I've actually seen Plato's Olive Tree and it's not in Verga.  And the craziest part about me making that comment was that two months later, on Thursday January 17, 2013, the real Plato's Olive Tree was cut down...for firewood!  And part of me went with it.  Have you ever been on a pilgrimage? I have.

I was 14 years old when I caught partway through, an obscure BBC documentary with a very passionate white haired bearded man, talking about an unlikely landmark in the middle of a busy thoroughfare.  As he was dodging traffic, with horns blaring, he managed to cross the road and convey that he indeed is standing next to, wait for it....Plato's Olive Tree.  "Behold", he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

I was memorised.  What is this?  Where is he?  "I'm going", I said to myself and nothing was going to stop me.

I was 15 years old when I stood in the presence of this unremarkable and rather ordinary olive tree. What made it interesting to look at though wasn't just that it was thought to be more than 3,000 years old,  but that it had been nurtured back to life after being hit by a bus in 1976.  Which almost happened to me trying to find it!  At the time, its gnarled trunk had split into four pieces. From what I understand, the largest of these was taken to the Agricultural University of Athens, where it has been on display ever since.

Legend has it that the tree was part of the alleys that surrounded Plato’s Academy, and it was among the twelve olive trees that marked the twelve gated entries to the property. This part of Athens was later, and still is, named ‘Eleonas’ (olive grove) because of those ancient olive trees.  The Iera Odos (Sacred Way) lies on the ancient route between Athens and the town of Elefsina (Eleusis). The remains of Plato’s Academy lie near the tree, giving the area the name Akadimia Platonos.

Where the original Plato's Olive Tree once stood

And now nothing remains there, except for a big hole.  Local media reported that it was very likely uprooted and stolen to serve as firewood.  Hmm.  Fuel costs have sky rocketed and due to austerity measures the majority refuse to pay the increase and have resorted to heating their home with a wood-burning fireplace or stove.  It was calculated that the stolen part of the tree weighed more than 1,000 pounds, nevertheless it was removed without anyone taking notice.  Imagine that.

And it truly boggles my mind that Greeks would do such a thing, especially considering how revered and sacred the average, non-school of Athens, olive trees actually are to the majority of Greeks...and I do mean majority, not just my small cross section of natives!

I cried when I read the news report that the olive tree under which Plato is believed to have taught his students 2,400 years ago, is now gone.  And I bet I know someone else who cried too.  It is blasphemy, Dimitri the foreman was right. 

How can I ever even consider harming my "Plato's" olive tree?  That's its rightful name now.  I won't ever cut my olive tree down now, I could never ever! Αποκλειεται! Apokliete! 

My Olive Grove, all trees intact and lovingly maintained!

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