The years pass so quickly. The events of our lives rush past us as if they took place just yesterday, when they actually happened many years ago. Time is like water in our cupped hand, dripping through our fingers, no matter how tightly we hold them. Before you know it, all that is left is a few drops, like the memories we cherish, stll holding fast.
Those memories are bittersweet, yet we store them away with the other precious relics of our past, taking them out to gaze at or think upon, now and then. The past was never as good as we imagine it now, yet it offers so much more certainty than the unknown future ahead. It is filled with the familiar faces and voices of those we love that have either grown up or passed on, never to return as we knew them.
We too, change, whether we want to or not. Age catches up with us and life's slings and arrows chasten us.With humility comes wisdom, though we look at the young, smile inwardly, wishing we too could throw caution to the winds, once again. Living life on our terms, even if we lose, as we must in the end.
The poet said you can't go home again, and so it is. Some of my happiest memories are of summer days in Loutsa, a little coastal village outside of Athens. It was there that my children got their taste of life in Greece surrounded by family and friends. Back then the dirt streets were full of playing children, their laughter echoing through the neighborhood. Neighbors moved back and forth from house to house, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and trading small talk. The aroma of cooking wafted through the air as the sun, always ever present, warmed us with its luminescent light. The cicadas singing their song in the open fields like a choir with the surrounding trees as their audience.
I miss those lazy days of summer and the people who filled them. The generation that built those little cottages near the sea is now slowly disappearing. They had dreams of escaping from the Athenian hustle and bustle that they were condemned to by the changing times. They planted gardens, fruit trees, raised a few goats and chickens. They did what they could to recapture the simpler, more elemental life they had lost. Every year they scrimped and saved trying to fashion the dream to their own specifications.
Unfortunately dreams aren't permanent, often fading with time or neglect. The ruins of some stand in mute testimony to their transitory nature. They are in disrepair, covered by over grown plants and vines, waiting, even welcoming another generation to fashion dreams of their own...