WRITE IN ITHACA, GREECE

      The Homeric Writers' Retreat & Workshop On The Greek Isle Of Ithaca

                                                                  August 1 - 7, 2013

Ithaca is a writer’s haven.  It remains unspoiled by the modern world. Even in the height of summer you can find a secluded beach or a rustic corner to contemplate your thoughts. On Ithaca you'll discover the island’s rich culture and the reason why it holds such a special place in the hearts of those who have visited its shores

The new Homeric Writers' Retreat & Workshop invites participants to their very own private odyssey on the island of Ithaca—a retreat about riveting one's writing through an intimate Homeric journey.

To learn more about the writing retreat, please visit www.hwrw.blogspot.com.

Retreat Attendees will receive:

Expert instruction on all topics of publishing

A comprehensive critique and market recommendations for your work.

Accommodation at Nostos Hotel with buffet breakfast, two dinners and excursions

Gift hampers on arrival, filled with traditional Greek goods

Our instructors this year are, Katharine Sands, a literary agent with the Sarah Jane Freymann Literary Agency, and Beatriz Badikian-Gartler, a popular performer in the Chicago area who often lectures on women's issues, art, and literature. In 2000 Badikian was selected as one of the One-Hundred Women Who Make a Difference in Chicago by Today's Woman magazine.

Fee: 1,550 Euro per person, all-inclusive. Enjoy special Excursions, including a guided walk to Homer's School, dinners, cocktails by the sea, village sightseeing, traditional dance and festivals. The clear blue seas and lush green valleys and mountains are home to one of the friendliest communities in Greece and the new Homeric Writing Retreat!

Contact:

Retreat Director: Jessica Bell

jessica.carmen.bell@gmail.com

NOTES ON FAMILY: a beginning

NOTES ON FAMILY

            “Families come in many shapes and forms”

has become a cliché these days.

 But for me it has been true for over 40 years. 

1.

            I order a Fuji apple chicken salad and a glass of water.  The cashier says “your suggested donation is…”  I look at her.  “What does that mean?”  She explains that this is a Panera Cares establishment – one of four in the entire country – where you pay what you can afford.  If you don’t have money, you eat for free.  If you can pay more, you help someone else eat.  There is a glass box in front of the cash register where customers drop the money.  My salad is $7.67. I drop a ten dollar bill.  She thanks me and moves on to the next customer.  I sit by the wall and look around at the clientele, admiring the spirit of this place.  One of the managers walks around asking customers how they’re doing, is everything ok?  She seems to know many of them by name and they know her.  Some even hug her.  I am waiting for my friend Claire.  We’re going to see a movie later. 

            The next day, Saturday January 5^th, Claire and our group go to Sonia’s parents’ house to celebrate Sonia’s name day.  We take roasted chicken, eggplant parmigiana, desserts, folding chairs, a card table. There are 20 of us including her brother and his family.  We sit around the tables and talk, we eat and drink wine, we toast to Sonia.  A name day is similar to a birthday party but more important in the Greek culture.  This would not merit much attention except for the fact that she is no longer with us.  She left us on September 13.  Yet we come to her parents’ house to celebrate her life.  Why do we do this? Who do we do it for?  Mostly her mother but is it for us too?  For her?  We are an unusual bunch.  Some of us have been close friends for over 40 years; others came later, but we are a family, by choice, and I, for one, depend on them.  

2.

            Sonia and I often met at the Panera on Clybourn Avenue for lunch.  She introduced me to the Fuji apple chicken salad and the black bean soup.  We’d sit for a few hours and talk about everything.  It was one of her favorite places.  Once, in February 2011, we were there with another friend – Maria - when the famous blizzard came.  We met for lunch on a Tuesday and watched the weather change dramatically over a few hours.  The wind took off to astronomical speeds.  Snow started to fall and then to blow everywhere.   We watched pedestrians struggle to walk through the parking lot, to cross the street, their bags flapping wildly.  We laughed, oohed and aahed.  Eventually it was time for us to leave.  It was close to 4 o’clock and the weather forecast predicted the worse to come after four.  Sonia’s car was parked right outside but it took an Herculean effort to walk those few steps and get into the car. 

             In her parents’ living-room there is a picture from 1982.  Sonia, Myra, Betty, and I are sitting on a stone, one of the ruins at Ancient Olympia, Greece.  We wear sundresses and squint to the camera.  Is it June? July?  I found that photo several years ago in my photo box and made copies for the four of us. Now, we all have that photo in our homes.  Mine is in the dining-room, next to the telephone, in a corner.  I see it every day, all the time.  It has become a tradition to take similar photos in other places, at other times. 

            After lunch it is time to cut the basilopita, the St. Basil cake traditionally served on New Year’s Day in Greece.  Tradition has it that a coin is hidden inside and whoever gets the piece with the coin will have good fortune that year.  The cake is not very big but Myra manages to cut 21 pieces out of it – one for the house and 20 for the rest of us.  Amy gets the coin.  

(TO BE CONTINUED)

A NIGHT IN THE VILLAGE - for Sonia

In 1982 Sonia and I went to Greece.  We spent a few days in her hometown.  I wrote this poem then, which I dedicated to her and is included in my collection Mapmaker Revisited.  I also dedicated the book to her.  She always found it funny and used to say: "Someday people will think we were lovers or something."  We were best friends.  I want to share it here again:

A NIGHT IN THE VILLAGE

                                                  for Sonia

salima said "the night is blue" but

here nights are black stars hang

from the sky like pearls around

an african woman's neck

when the moon's full we sit on

the balcony weaving dreams with words:

                        embroidery of cotton and silk

                        beads with opals, rubies for passion

the darkness blends our souls:

                        we become one with the moon

trees and old houses draw shadows

on the mountainside   crickets keep

us awake wounding a silence

as thick as plum

when the moon is new we count

the stars   try to guess their names  you

know the big dipper   i see it now too

the air is a knife's edge cutting through

                        our skins

                        our words

and we become many like the stars

one night in the village we became

all the women who've ever shared their lives

from the beginning of time