Ariadne and Me – Stumbling Toward the Divine by Arianne MacBean

I went to Crete because I longed for some kind of communion with Ariadne. Each time I gathered in ritual with the women on my trip, I hoped She would speak to me, or that I would feel something and know that She was in me, or I within Her. At Paliani, I had these same wishes as I walked toward the over-1000-year-old sacred myrtle tree. Set back in the corner of the quiet convent, I was struck by the contrast between the tree’s black bark and surrounding black fence set against the hopeful flickering of silver ex-votos that filled each branch. I walked around the back of the tree on a slight upper landing and searched for a branch within reach. Finding a spot where I could rest my forearm, albeit awkwardly, I leaned in and waited for Her.

I had heard many stories of women feeling the pulse of the earth when they touched the sacred myrtle. Indeed, some of my sisters from the trip later shared they had this experience on that very day. But what I felt was the scratchy bark against my skin, the uncomfortable arc of my arm above my head, the hollow worry that there may be no Ariadne for me. After some time feeling this aching disappointment, I tied my votive, and abandoned the tree to observe my friends. Sitting against the chapel wall, I watched my sister pilgrims in their contemplative communion. I wanted to know what they knew and feel what they felt. One woman had both arms draped across a large branch so that her form was reminiscent of Jesus on the cross. One woman crouched near the fence, trying to sit as close to the tree’s trunk, separated by the bars. Still, she curled in as tight as a baby in utero. Their earnestness was palpable and sweet. I felt tender warmth towards my sisters, and yet, where was I?

Just then, an old man passed in front of me carrying two white plastic grocery bags. An odd sight to see in an ancient convent. My eyes followed him as he passed quietly in front of the sacred myrtle, now decorated with hanging, swaying, and curled women. He took no notice of them. He walked up a small set of narrow stairs to what looked like the front door of an apartment, probably belonging to one of the convent’s resident nuns. Taking much time, the old man set the bags in the corner of the doorway, meticulously arranging, then rearranging the contents within the bags, setting things right up, then laying them down, then right up again. Finally adjusting everything to some precise coordinate known and understood only by him, he stood and gave the bags one last satisfying look. He turned to face the courtyard with the tree and the women, took two steps down the stairs toward us, straightened his belt and then hocked the biggest loudest loogie I have ever heard, spitting into the beautiful lavender bushes at which we had all earlier marveled. Absolutely no one stirred, so deep were the women in their prayer.

I bit my lip hard to keep from snorting out a guffaw and then horrified by my impulse to laugh, picked myself off the bench and scurried off as far away as I could get. Humiliated by my inability to drop into mindfulness at the myrtle tree, I now found myself completely confused by my sense of giddy mirth. There was something absurd about the contrast between the old man’s precise and ritualistic arrangement of grocery items for whomever lived behind that doorway paired with his gross disregard for the women in deep connection with the sacred space around him. What was wrong with me? Shouldn’t I feel rage at his desecration of this ancient and powerful place? In a way, it was a perfect metaphor for the way the matriarchal societies were defiled by patriarchy. But all I really felt like doing was shake my head and release the cackle I felt compelled to suppress. I plopped down in a corner near the convent entrance. I closed my eyes and tried to re-establish some sense of order within. Sitting there in the hot Cretan sun, I remembered one of my friends telling me, If you get the chance to just sit and listen, you might be surprised by what you hear. And so, I told myself, Just listen.

The heat of the sun pricked my skin. There was no breeze. Far off, I could make out the rustling of movement, people were stirring from their seances. I doubted myself again. What could there be to hear? My heart beat. Beads of sweat formed on my collar bone and dripped down my torso. Then, right above my head, through a slightly open window behind me, from deep within the interior rooms of the convent, I heard the voices of women laughing. It took a second for it to register, but when it did, my body lit up. The soft delight of nuns laughing. Divinity dancing in the air above my head.

Can there be glory in the alter of plastic milk bottles laid at a nun’s doorstep juxtaposed by the primal spit into its surrounding flower bed? Does the universal web exalt in the sad beauty of a tired fenced-off tree and its persistent believers? And as for me, can the divine live in an ignoble yet inspired celebrant, watching, listening, wondering? I ask Ariadne. She laughs.

BIO: Arianne MacBean is a writer, educator, and Artistic Director of The Big Show Co. – an LA-based dance-theater group. She recently graduated with an MA in Counseling Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute and currently works as a Somatic Psychotherapist as a registered Associate Marriage & Family Therapist (License #139718) in Los Angeles, CA employed by Here Counseling and supervised by Connor McClenahan, PsyD. You can find more of Arianne’s writing at her Blog Write Big.