Some places scream to be written about. I’m in a place like that right now. The scream, the invitation seems to come from outside, but of course I know that it comes from within. This place doesn’t need someone writing about it in order to exist. Not at all, actually.

(my beloved herb field....)

Still, the biggest illusion that a writer must cherish is that what she writes about, matters. That it matters that I tell you about this piece of land on Lefkada, Greece, between Athani and Katsiki, just one corner from the crossing that leads you either deeper into the islands’ hilly forest, or descent down to its gorgeous beachy edges, like we just did. Somehow it matters that I tell you that it smells like the most precious perfume of olive wood, sun, thyme, oregano, pine trees and an herb with small, fluffy leaves that I don’t know the name of. How the only sounds that I hear is an orchestra of crickets, bees, flies, birds, the wind and the bells of goats that are grazing on a hill nearby. And how the view matters! Fresh green from pine bushes, silvery green olive tree tops and at least 20 other shades of green, together with the brown and gray shades of the rocky earth and old tree trunks against the most breathtaking, open blue sky there is. All of this on a descending hill slope that makes the horizon of pure, open ocean rise up like wallpaper around me.

So why would it matter if I tell you about this place? It matters since it’s the only thing I could possibly add to it. Because really, what more can we bring to our favorite places like these except traces; plants and bugs crushed under our feet or our pee? All we can do is leave a piece of ourselves behind, our respect, our gratitude, a prayer. We touch down our hand in the ground and offer it.

Namaste,

Geertje