In the middle of my long convalescence in 2017 from a shattered right foot, I went to the island of Kos in Greece. Two years before, I’d had had a powerful lucid dream in which a friend appeared, his face aglow, telling of the wonders of Kos. I knew about Kos from studies, about Asklepius the god of healing, about its dream temples from classical times, where the ill were put into special rooms and visited in their dreams by a healing divine force.

I was fascinated by the idea, but never intended to visit until my own misadventure. Prompted by inner urges, and by my family, who probably with some justification felt I was a drag to be around, I went to Kos, not knowing anyone there nor having a distinct plan.

For the first ten days, I stayed at an Airbnb not far from the main town, and coincidentally about five kilometres from the Asklepion, the archaeological site of the ancient temple, mostly open to visitors. The first night I lay in bed and wondered what I was doing on Kos. At the very least I could have a beach holiday. Except that it would have been far cheaper to stay where I lived, on the Sunshine Coast of BC,  very near ocean beaches and mountain forests. That would have been too easy, of course. The next day I took my walking stick and limped to the temple site, on the quiet mountain road, the air scented by the fragrance of pine and cedar trees, the fields shared between farms and grazing pastures for sheep.

Walking amidst the temple columns, I tried to summon some of the ancient energies. All I managed to attract were a few bees. On my third visit I had a minor vision of underground tunnels at the temple. I realized that it did not matter whether the vision was mere fantasy or was a glimpse of the physical reality. But I wondered whether the vision had a symbolic significance for me.

After three days, I concluded that my journey to Kos was not a holiday. Even while I was walking every day on Kos, I was seeking another Kos, the Kos that was the key to transformation. On my daily walks, I absorbed impressions as I also maintained awareness of my body and inner state and opened myself to the messages of orioles, doves, and warblers. My attention was so focused that years later I still remember the details of the side roads, the eucalyptus trees near the beach walk, the olive trees by the main road which led inland to the mountains. There was the scent of the occasional orange and lemon trees. Every tree, every stone wall, every shrub—all that I looked at exchanged blessings with me. Fortunately, I was alone, so that I did not have to divide my attention nor explain my unfettered sense of lunacy.

Not far from the temple site was an institute devoted to the study of Hippocrates and the principles of modern medicine. It is a place known especially to physicians and researchers throughout Europe. Without knowing why, I visited and spoke to the director of education services for over an hour. I told her about some of my interests in art and healing, and she shared some of her history. She was curious about my motives for visiting the island. I was not a conventional tourist, and I was not a medical researcher. Could I tell her I was sent by a dream? That answer would have been in line with ancient, classical thinking, but I lacked the courage to share this information on a first visit.  I was not Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Dante, who had all been inspired by dreams to create life-changing, possibly world-changing poetry, nor was I one of numerous artists who had not chronicled their dreams but created significant art inspired by them.

Many of my encounters occurred after I left Kos town, which was too touristy for my purposes while the outskirts were too isolated. I always need my café—that special place that can offer both solitude and conviviality.

In Kardamaina I found a breakfast café I really liked. By the sea, it served wonderful coffee along with simple toast—my meal of the day. I was there early and witnessed the café owner go to the front of the café and bless the four directions with his censer of burning incense. I loved that he gave the impression that he was performing something he considered a duty, not something that created an ecstatic feeling or a sense of specialness within him. Breakfast was a time when I wrote in my journal and scribbled in my sketchbook. I asked to be directed or shown something during the day. But of course, anything and everything was special. And who was I to demand insight?

I talked to anyone who would enter into conversation. These simple talks helped a little in dissipating suspicion about me. Who was I? I did not spend the entire day on the beach; I was alone; I was not part of some group that had invaded a hotel for a conference; nor did I not go clubbing or boozing; I did not seem to be trying to hook up with anyone. I was not a researcher investigating the Asklepion ruins. Because I was on Kos for a month with no juicy scandal to share, I became a part of the background and accepted as just another eccentric.

Every day I went to the beach for a one-hour swim and lying on the sand. You could see the coast of Turkey because Kos was only about six kilometres away. But aside from the geographical and historical interest in the co-proximity of Kos and Turkey was the fact that the constant wars and insurrections in the Middle East had created thousands of refugees seeking to escape to Europe. More than once, overloaded boats seeking to make the apparently simple crossing had tipped over and most of the refugees had drowned. On one occasion, I had placed my towel near some bushes on the beach. When I emerged from the sea to dry off on the towel, I saw scraps of children’s clothing trapped by the branches. And it seemed as if I could hear the voices of the children in the waves. During my time on the island I met a Special Forces Greek soldier, but he was not part of the military base on the island. He was suffering from PTSD, after pulling the dead bodies of children out of the sea and so he had been given a few months’ leave. We shared a look, but I couldn’t find any words. I met him a few times but we never progressed beyond that wordless communication.

Kardamaina, on the coast, roughly in the middle of the island, was known as a party town. Ironic, because I had not come to party. I found a quiet, small hotel on a side street.  It was not going to be idyllic, however. Every night, the music of Tom Jones and others would blast out from the party hotel across the narrow road. Obviously, a hotel for the older set, and they loved being ushered into the music of their youth.  So my nightly contemplations were physically contextualized by Tom Jones, very loudly. It felt hallucinatory. But I survived. Every morning I walked from my small hotel to the café, and I still remember not only the route, but the pavements, the stained walls, the birds, and then in the narrow street lined with tourist shops, none of which especially appealed to me, the entrances to the beach, where I stripped to my bathing suit and ran into the sea as if I were about to miss a voyage. I walked with as much every-moment attention as I could muster. I spent much of the day walking. With breaks for meditation and contemplation and my spiritual practice called the latihan. For me it is easy to become enamoured with the inner worlds, which are really infinite moments. Simple activity like walking or physical labour intensifies and grounds the inner work.

Could I not have done this back home and saved myself from getting into debt?

What was I looking for? Even though I told myself I was not looking for anything, I still had ideas about how my day should proceed.  I could see Bodrum and its ferries on the Turkish coast. Turkey, Asia Minor, and the gateway to Central Asia. I had already been to Turkey once, a wonderful trip, and I had always been attracted to the idea of a pilgrimage to the heart of Asia. Fantasies of going to Baghdad, Khorasan, Samarkand, Balkh, and many other storied places, steeped in Sufi lore. On my trip to Turkey in 2015, also inspired by a dream, I had gone to Konya, paid my respects to Mevlana and Shams, with my partner and our 7 year old daughter, and also to Cappadocia to pay my respects to Haji Bektash Veli, and to make sure my partner, Nancy, and our daughter, Daphne, got their desert horse-riding experience.

But this was Kos, still a part of the Western world. Just across the water were the caves where Pre-Socratic philosophers contemplated the nature of the universe. Here, on Kos, the beaches attracted tourists from all over Europe—many from Britain, Russia, Scandinavia, Germany. But as I sat on my towel after my daily swim, I also knew that the Aegean was the scene of many drownings of refugees from Syria attempting to navigate the short, apparently safe distance to Kos, among other islands like Samos and Lesbos. The pieces of children’s clothing in the bushes by the beach, reminded me we never truly escape if we have our eyes open. Whatever we see attracts us, unless we are very careful, and once we are attracted… It was difficult for me to stop thinking. Over the centuries, how many times had overloaded boats sunk? That probability created a dark, pulsing vein in the picture of sun worship and desire for rapture that inspired tourists. At least for me, wagers with Nature and the laws of physics are wagers that humans will mostly lose.

Many visitors came to Kos to escape dullness and the apparent ennui of their lives for a week or more of intense pleasure. Afterwards they would have the motivation to continue their routine lives. I understood the desire to escape from the cities to the warm Mediterranean.

Everywhere in Greece there are reminders of Apollo, Poseidon, Aphrodite, even Dionysus. For me the statues and images of the gods were not kitschy or sentimental because I saw these gods as real. Not in a cartoonish way, but as sacred emblems. Aphrodite was not simply the ancient god of beauty and sensuality, but a reminder that everywhere the corporeal is filled with the spiritual.  An acquaintance showed me a statuette of Aphrodite she had found ten meters from shore. She thought it might have fallen from a boat that had lowered anchor briefly. She kept it even though she was not sure why.

The ruins of a temple to Apollo were close to Kardamaina.  Apollo was not just the god of order in the universe, a reminder to look for hidden harmony. Apollo was also connected to healing, but very specific ideas of healing and not necessarily easy ideas to understand. Apollo would first wound those he agreed to heal.  The wounding was connected to the healing. Such a paradoxical notion was typical of ancient Greek thinking. I found it appealing even though I could not quite get it for a while.

At night it was hard to sleep. I could see children and their mothers reaching in futility for the light as they swallowed sea water. I devoted part of the night to creating the intention to connect heaven and earth for those perished in the sea. For those who had not made the safe journey to the spiritual worlds I tried to intercede on their behalf and lent my wish to theirs.  What hubris! And yet?

Knowing that a particular action or belief defies logic and still being prepared to go through with it if it seeks to benefit others. That’s the wager we can all make.  Could I walk without pain? Could I sleep without pain? And yet I sought to help those no longer alive. I could extend this thought to my journey to Kos. What if it was not a divine call, but just an egotistical extravaganza? What psychologists might call grandiosity. Be willing to subject yourself to the mockery of the invisible worlds. As in—do you, Ramon, think that the Universe gives a hoot about whether you go to Kos or stay on the West Coast of Canada? Or remain in Montreal? What part of the cosmic unfoldment will be ruffled by your decision?

So I accepted the dance with the Absurd. And with a sense of my own unworthiness made intercession on behalf of those drowned children who had not asked to make the passage to Kos.

In my dreams, there were also flamingos in the marshes. Tall, elegant watchers. They became the image of being alert in the margins. They became my reminder of how to be in the world.

My life in Canada was hard work and striving. The future would probably be the same. This month was a zone of freedom from the responsibilities and frustrations on the West Coast or in Montreal.

I learned nothing specific, but I did create a performance about healing that invited audience participation. I heard the whispers of drowned children in the waves that will always remind me how much we are prepared to sacrifice the lives of children for the sake of our ambitions. And I realized that Kos was close to millennium-long arenas of conflict: Greece, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Palestine/Israel. Much of that geography was also beset with earthquakes and volcanic irritability.

There were not going to be any literal answers for me. Kos was simply the place where you realize you are lost. You know where you are geographically, you know how to move from place to place, from country to country, you know how to converse with strangers, how to negotiate difficult situations, you know how to create paintings, how to write lyrically and honestly, you recognize the position of Kos in the geopolitical situation between Greece and Turkey and the Middle East. You can feel the ancient roots of Kos and its connection to the volcanic subterranean energies. You have a regular spiritual practice and turn to it for answers, when that might be an error, when all you are meant to do is hold the question. You have some experience as a traveller and you have the means to travel occasionally, when so many in the world do not.

And yet.  And yet you are lost. Maybe it is time to accept your aloneness in the universe on a planet and a solar system and a galaxy that is spinning in sonorous rhythms within the Void.

The voyages of Old like those of Odysseus were inspired by a sense of duty to the gods and to ancestors. The voyages were also a seeking for home, as in the case of Odysseus. But Odysseus was a king, not a schlub, and so even if one had no aristocratic pretensions, one still had to think and act like royalty, treating everyone kindly and justly, and take responsibility for every action.

Sitting on a boulder marking the edge of a field, I feel the intense heat from the June sky, the sun misted over with satin clouds; I note the cicadas making music as they labour, the kestrel diving at the sudden scampering of what must be a field mouse, the moths and butterflies, the silence of the Earth in the midst of screaming millions. For breakfast I’d had toast and honey with my coffee (an unusual choice for me, but with Greek honey what choice did I really have?). I decide to take a short cut to a higher elevation of the road, and as I walk across the field, I am visited by bees that circle my head, a few resting on my shoulders, and one on a lip. These are joined by three or four butterflies. I am not bothered but can’t help but be alert. Eventually when I reach the crest of the hill and go back onto the road, the bees and butterflies have abandoned me. Did I hear their message? I decide to believe that their visit had nothing to do with my breakfast choice.

I imagine receiving one of those airmail envelopes from years ago. Who could be writing me? Inside is a single sheet of paper, empty of words. I—you have to write the story of your journey on this one sheet of paper. You don’t have to have any answers, but you might consider holding the question.

Ramon Kubicek www.ramonkubicekart.com