Libellule

Body poetry, sound, Liontarakí and remembrance.

Libellule. It was one of my dads favourite words. French for dragonfly. Libellula is the Greek. λιμπελούλα. I found that out only a day ago when there was one flailing in the bathroom of the beach house. After the initial scream (this thing was pretty huge) Tina explained she’d seen a ‘libellula’ in the bathroom, I immediately felt calm. To hear that word aloud again. I was transported from the melodic heat of the current Greek evening to the memory of French summers in the vineyards. The pop of a bottle of wine, the hum of the cicadas, sardines on the bbq, my dad admiring the beauty of a passing libellule as much as luxuriating in the sound of the word as it left his lips. Libellule. Libellule.

I volunteered to remove it. Really I think, alongside looking noble, I wanted to be closer to the creature, to that word, to my father, to his luxuriating, his joy in sound, in language. If this was fiction I would say that I entered the bathroom, it landed on my pinkie finger, opened it’s incredible criss cross wings slowly like a blink. I’d say I took it out onto the terrace, the cats not even stirring from their sleep. I’d say I noticed the moon, just peeping over the mountain as if checking that all was settled before it started it’s ascent. I’d say I shook my hand gently and the libellula seemed to dance like the word itself does with the tongue, flying off in rhythm with the nights breeze. I’d say I could hear my dads voice repeating playfully libellule, libellule, libellule as it disappeared from view.

This is not what happened. The real version contains more squeals than I’d like to admit, a large bucket, the opening covered in a torn Greek newspaper, lots of distressed flapping and a libellula probably too stunned to fly off. Taken for a play-thing by one of the multiple stray cats that sleep on the veranda, where we found it lying in the morning. The other truth is, I struggle to hear my dads voice, no matter how hard I try to remember it. For the first few months I had his voicemail to ring, just to hear it and remember but that too, is gone. There is still poetry and romance in this story though, despite a lifeless dragonfly on the veranda come dawn. This is the closest I’ve been to recalling it in many years, just from hearing a single word said in a language not my own. A word that keeps dancing on the breeze of my thoughts. Perhaps not in the exact tone of his voice, but at least with a hint of his essence. His playfulness, his joie de vivre. Libellule. Libellule. Libellula.

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I’ve been luxuriating in sound since I’ve been here. It’s been hard to find any words. But there’s been sound. The cicadas, the waves, the meows of the strays, the braying of a donkey, the cockerel, the thudding from the winds that picked up, the church bell, the beautiful lilting Greek Tina and her mother speak to each other or I hear in the morning when Tina is feeding the growing number of local cats. Liontarakí or little lion for the ginger kitten who was born here last year. The i and the o are combined in greek to make a yo sound, like the yo sound in yoghurt or saying Eeyore (from Winnie the Pooh) really fast. Leeeyore-taraki. Its a beautiful sound. He is also the friendliest, cuddliest cat I have ever met despite being wild. Any time we come back from the beach, just a mention of his name and he comes running from wherever he’s been adventuring or napping waiting to be scooped up and deposited wherever we plan to sit and have our third greek coffee of the day.

So, less words but sound. And the whisper of memories, asking to be let back inside, gently mewing at the door like the cats. Procedural memory too. After at least five years, maybe more like a decade my body remembered how to dive. It wasn’t a big AHA moment. Sam and I were swimming from the jumping point in Andros near the stone house we were staying. Sam stood on the edge, bending his knees and bringing his hands into prayer above his head like a yoga pose saying he wished he knew how to dive. My dad taught me I said, but I don’t know how anymore. Again, a shiver of remembrance; my dad and I on the edge of a pool in France. Watching him dive in, swim two lengths underwater before coming back up for air.

I joined Sam on the edge and before I even realised what I was doing, I’d sliced through the waters surface like a knife through butter, fingers first, followed by my head and the rest, that wonderful mermaid feeling as the body carves a parabola (U-shape) underwater. The top of the skull appearing as if just in time with the up beat of a conductors baton.

So less words, more sound and more embodiment. A feat that i’ve found hard to achieve after years of chronic illness. I’ve been called to be in my body and that itself is a kind of poetry.

No words needed. Just felt sense. The tingle of memory calling you back and the trust to follow it.

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We’ve been eating one main meal here in the day. Usually between 3 and 5pm. It is too hot to eat before that, other than an early breakfast post sea swim and it feels too late and still to hot to eat a heavy meal just before sleeping. I fall asleep dreaming of breakfast. Sheeps yoghurt with silky peanut butter (the best I’ve had), a handful of nuts and seeds and fresh, flat peaches. Eaten while sipping a greek coffee made in the briki, one of my favourite processes. Watching and waiting for the water to bubble up and quickly take it off the flame to pour into the espresso cup. Or, to accidentally be too slow and watch it tumble over the edge of the briki and stain the kitchen top. Although apparently this means you will get lucky with money soon (so in theory Tina and I should become very rich in the not so far future, fingers crossed).

Yesterday for our late lunch / dinner we had prawns in tomato sauce with feta. Fava beans with capers and rusks and grilled aubergines with mushrooms. Slices of watermelon for desert and an alcohol free beer with lemon. More Greek coffee and a variety of biscuits, my favourite being one about the size of a 2 pence piece, melt in the mouth crumble, with ginger and tiny flecks of dark chocolate. This dipped into greek coffee is pure paradise.

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There is more to write, I want to tell you about the cliff jumping, the fear I felt, followed by total elation and a deepening sense of connection with my body. I want to tell you about each of the cats, their names, the tiny black kitten who ventured into the house this morning after being terrified of us all week. The cat at the beach who sits on my beach towel waiting for me, when I go to swim. I want to tell you about the full moon, how I sat on the rooftop in Andros at 2am just watching it, how it lit up a path across the water, how all I could hear was the sea’s song, the twinkling lights going out one by one across the island. Those musings are for another day, another moment when I’m ready to stand on the edge of memories waters and remember how to dive straight in.