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Authors: Sue Monk Kidd
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I notice the lavender-tinted Athena on one of the bills, wearing her plumed helmet. In Greece, she is everywhere. At home, with the exception of my left ring finger, she is nowhere to be found.
I dreamed about her once. She emerged from a dark nowhere, a distant black hole in the universe, growing bigger and closer until she was right beside me. She wore a robe that was lit with actual stars from the cosmos. “You can see me anytime you want,” she said. “All you have to do is dream.” Then she was gone. It was one part divine, one part Everly Brothers. That was over a year ago; I hadn’t been able to conjure her again.
I’ve been reading about her, though. I think for a moment about her unusual birth story, how she emerged fully grown from her father Zeus’s head. It’s interpreted as having cut Athena off from her feminine roots. She’s described as a “father’s daughter” who portrays masculine traits. But I think of Athena’s qualities of bravery and autonomy, even her warrior energy, as inherently feminine, right along with her wisdom and creativity. I always return to the idea of her virginity, how it symbolizes self-belonging. I believe the possibility of that exists in a woman. It’s the territory I keep trying to define for myself.
I wander through the shop, inspecting the T-shirts displayed on the wall, thinking I’ll buy one for Scott. I try to picture what he’s doing right now. Probably tracking tropical storms, looking for the beach with the best surfing. He has promised to teach me to surf one day. Scott has a way of pulling me into the Wide World of Sports . . . and maybe into the wide world itself.
I spot a T-shirt with Aphrodite laid out like a fish on ice, completely naked. “Why not just put some bunny ears on her?” I say to my mom, who looks at the shirt and rolls her eyes. I pick a blue one with HELLAS printed in white letters.
As the clerk rings it up, Mom hands me a small plastic bag with my pomegranate inside. I watch as she takes off the silver chain around her neck and slips her pomegranate onto it. Her chain already has a bee charm on it. I’m not sure what the bee is about, but it’s not unusual for my mother to find inspiration in nature. At the moment, I’m not wearing a necklace so I slip my pomegranate inside my shoulder bag along with Scott’s shirt.
A block later, we stop again so I can sign a petition requesting that the British Museum return the Elgin Marbles to Greece. I write my name and where I live into the thickly bound book sitting on a wooden stand on the sidewalk, then glance at the addresses of the other names recorded on the page: Frankfurt, Barcelona, Houston. Now, Charleston. I love the place, but I walk the rest of the way trying not to think about how I ended up there.
I spot a body shop with rolling garage doors, then across the street, a restaurant. Mom points at it. “That’s the one.”
“I don’t believe it. I’ve been to that restaurant before!”
“No kidding,” Mom says, sounding surprised.
How is it possible that in a city the size of Athens we’ve come to the very restaurant I ate in when I was here before? It’s so unlikely it feels almost purposeful, and for a few seconds I have the feeling I will walk inside and bump into the ghost of myself seventeen months ago—the girl who came to Greece and figured out how to belong to herself and feel at home in the world. The doorway is low. Mom and I duck our heads as we slip into a waiting area the size of a walk-in closet. Yes, the same place .
“Is this where you danced with . . . what’s his name?” Mom says.
“Demetri.” I’m slightly embarrassed that she’s brought him up. “I met him somewhere else,” I explain. “ This is where Dr. Gergel brought a few of us on the first night we were in Athens.”
I’d told Mom about Demetri before we left home. I had to—in the last letters that Demetri and I exchanged, we had arranged to meet during the trip. The plan is
I dreamed about her once. She emerged from a dark nowhere, a distant black hole in the universe, growing bigger and closer until she was right beside me. She wore a robe that was lit with actual stars from the cosmos. “You can see me anytime you want,” she said. “All you have to do is dream.” Then she was gone. It was one part divine, one part Everly Brothers. That was over a year ago; I hadn’t been able to conjure her again.
I’ve been reading about her, though. I think for a moment about her unusual birth story, how she emerged fully grown from her father Zeus’s head. It’s interpreted as having cut Athena off from her feminine roots. She’s described as a “father’s daughter” who portrays masculine traits. But I think of Athena’s qualities of bravery and autonomy, even her warrior energy, as inherently feminine, right along with her wisdom and creativity. I always return to the idea of her virginity, how it symbolizes self-belonging. I believe the possibility of that exists in a woman. It’s the territory I keep trying to define for myself.
I wander through the shop, inspecting the T-shirts displayed on the wall, thinking I’ll buy one for Scott. I try to picture what he’s doing right now. Probably tracking tropical storms, looking for the beach with the best surfing. He has promised to teach me to surf one day. Scott has a way of pulling me into the Wide World of Sports . . . and maybe into the wide world itself.
I spot a T-shirt with Aphrodite laid out like a fish on ice, completely naked. “Why not just put some bunny ears on her?” I say to my mom, who looks at the shirt and rolls her eyes. I pick a blue one with HELLAS printed in white letters.
As the clerk rings it up, Mom hands me a small plastic bag with my pomegranate inside. I watch as she takes off the silver chain around her neck and slips her pomegranate onto it. Her chain already has a bee charm on it. I’m not sure what the bee is about, but it’s not unusual for my mother to find inspiration in nature. At the moment, I’m not wearing a necklace so I slip my pomegranate inside my shoulder bag along with Scott’s shirt.
A block later, we stop again so I can sign a petition requesting that the British Museum return the Elgin Marbles to Greece. I write my name and where I live into the thickly bound book sitting on a wooden stand on the sidewalk, then glance at the addresses of the other names recorded on the page: Frankfurt, Barcelona, Houston. Now, Charleston. I love the place, but I walk the rest of the way trying not to think about how I ended up there.
I spot a body shop with rolling garage doors, then across the street, a restaurant. Mom points at it. “That’s the one.”
“I don’t believe it. I’ve been to that restaurant before!”
“No kidding,” Mom says, sounding surprised.
How is it possible that in a city the size of Athens we’ve come to the very restaurant I ate in when I was here before? It’s so unlikely it feels almost purposeful, and for a few seconds I have the feeling I will walk inside and bump into the ghost of myself seventeen months ago—the girl who came to Greece and figured out how to belong to herself and feel at home in the world. The doorway is low. Mom and I duck our heads as we slip into a waiting area the size of a walk-in closet. Yes, the same place .
“Is this where you danced with . . . what’s his name?” Mom says.
“Demetri.” I’m slightly embarrassed that she’s brought him up. “I met him somewhere else,” I explain. “ This is where Dr. Gergel brought a few of us on the first night we were in Athens.”
I’d told Mom about Demetri before we left home. I had to—in the last letters that Demetri and I exchanged, we had arranged to meet during the trip. The plan is
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