Meteora

Literally, in mid-air: a place of poverty, obedience, will, and prayer. I am touched by this place, its asceticism and soundlessness. Such sensations aren't meant to be shared or allotted. They may be articulated, but not really voiced. There aren’t enough pages to purge them in writing; the tropes are too trite for the blog. There aren’t enough hours or hotels to disabuse ourselves in other ways.

I climb to the top of the rock. I summit it. The heights are dizzying, vertiginous, closer to God, perhaps, than sky. All the vows and vistas ensure that you are alone with him and yourself; no one can change this or ease this or accept this on your behalf. It is a place I inhabit already. Tour buses come and go, and I am admitted without charge. I am not a foreigner here.

But first they furnish a skirt. They lend me the chastity that I lack, the modesty, the propriety. I make friends with a nun who is not mute, who would really rather talk than hum, and a tortoise-shell cat, alone and distracted like me. I hit my head. The gardens were closed at the nunnery of the saint and martyr I am most interested in, but temptation comes in many forms. It’s electrifying at the edges. With each new altitude there is another nudge, a little push, to fall, or to fly.