In this new collection of memories and meditations, author David Roomy explores the union of some of life's great opposites. He considers human nature as possessing a duality: spirit and flesh, refinement and passion-"English" and "Greek" aspects of our own natures. Through prose narrative and poetry, he recalls his experiences in England and Greece and with their respective cultures through the lens of this duality. Part memoir, part collection of verse, Spirit and Flesh, Englishman and Greek reflects on life's nature with beauty and intensity. " Spirit and Flesh, Englishman and Greek is the product of fifty years of contemplation and meditation on the life of flesh and soul. David Roomy, with his Greek and American heritage, has traveled and lived in the world and in his psyche, with the struggle between his Dionysian and Apollonian sides. His beautiful prose and poetry capture the feeling of both the people and landscapes of Greece and rural England. The result is that the opposites are united under one cover in a profoundly moving way. His words reverberate and resonate within the reader's psyche long after the book has been gently placed down" -John Allan, PhD, Professor Emeritus, Counseling Psychology, University of British Columbia and Jungian Analyst, IAAP
Spirit and Flesh, Englishman and Greek
By David RoomyiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 David Roomy
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-2085-0 Chapter One
Greece
It takes many people to tell about Greece.
I will tell you about Greece in the words and experiences of four architects who went there with me.
The essence of these words and stories comes from conversations in Greek restaurants and tavernas under summer skies.
The four architects have different points of view; each went seeking something, and each found something different—not just from one another, but from what they were seeking.
That is Greece.
They were in the airport bus that ferries travellers from planes to terminals. In the evening sun, the Athens terminal shone almost like midday. Aristotle, one of the four American architects, boomed, "But I am Greek!"
Only a few minutes before, he had told his friends about a dream he had had just before coming to Greece. In the dream he said, "I am Greek," and an old man challenged him with "You don't speak Greek, you are not second-generation Greek-American, and your family are no longer Orthodox." In the dream, Aristotle had stood up and, staring the old man down, insisted, "I am Greek!" It was at this point in the retelling on the bus that Aristotle's voice rose.
* * *
But Aristotle had his doubts too. The river of noise outside his hotel window intensified his fears. What if he couldn't sleep? Reading Zorba the Greek in bed at 2:30 a.m. was no comfort. Would his earache get worse? Would he be able to find a doctor in the little town where he was going? It was strange, he thought, to come to Greece looking for his spiritual heritage. What was even stranger, he thought as his misgivings really took hold of him, was that he should conceive of such a search as one that could be synchronistic with the search of some of the monastic communities who were looking to early Greek Christianity as an alternative to a spiritually bereft West. The noise of the people below and the cacophony of unmufflered mopeds reminded him of sounds cascading off canyon walls, a deep and desperate noise that invited a desperate plunge. He couldn't let down his anima, his soul, by giving up on his vision.
When he finally slept, he dreamed of a single tear, the love between his wife and him. Light went into it, and it turned into a diamond, indestructible. His deep sleep, although short, seemed like hours, and during this sleep appeared a powerful spiritual figure from Greece itself, a man in gold robes, a monk, carved out of Greek rock, strong, able to hold his spirituality within his powerful torso. He gave something to Aristotle, as Aristotle later told us. It was a miracle: the figure took up residence in Aristotle's body, and the force of all of its power formed in Aristotle's legs and pelvis.
* * *
Homer was one of those solid Americans whose family had been on the North American continent long enough for him to carry himself without apology—a man whose suits were worn but of the finest quality. Homer knew Jean Paul Sartre and Graham Greene and had been to parties with T.S. Eliot. He was studying Greek, and he knew more about Greece than any of the others, although he had no particular connection with the country. In fact, his nose, with its hazardous bend, identified him as a member of an Ayrshire clan.
He told the others that C.G. Jung had told him that what was special about the Greeks among all Westerners was that they had never had a Reformation. The Greeks were still in touch with all their gods, all their instincts. For them, there was no radical break between the mind and the patterns that had governed and guided their lives through the centuries.
* * *
One evening Homer met a Zorba-like character. He described the experience to us by reading aloud a letter he was sending home:
Last night I had an unbelievable experience—one of those things that happen sometimes. Greece was playing Russia in the European soccer finals, and when Greece won, all the Greeks went crazy mad. You can't imagine the noise—everyone honking their horns, the streets filled, cars driving absolutely wild. I met a couple of black Canadians in my hotel and suggested we go to the Plaka. Our hotel was on a very busy city artery that came down from the stadium, and I got a cab just as the crowd broke loose and was piling out. Yes, the driver would take us to the Plaka, about four kilometres away. Horns were blowing, and he was wild, screaming, "Greece is number one!" Then he said, "You won't be able to get back from the Plaka tonight because all the taxis will go on vacation." Then he said, "I will get you back." It was one of those wild, generous things.
I said, "We don't have much money," but it turned out he charged about the regular price. It was true that no one else was working. On the avenue as we were returning from the Plaka, I noticed that everyone was walking—no taxis.
I have experienced Greece when it was wild, ecstatic!
* * *
The Athenians like to spend time at Syntagma Square, also called Constitution Square. Foreigners gather there, sitting at the small tables with small glasses of water and smaller glasses of ouzo. You can even go there at ten in the morning, and it was about that time when Homer suggested that Phil do just that. The four architects and I had just had a late breakfast, and Phil was nervously twitching his cigarette and asking Homer whether he should take a flight to Crete for the weekend or hire a car, take in Sounion, and return to Athens for another long night in the Plaka. Homer said, "Just go and sit and have a coffee in Syntagma Square."
Phil told us later that no sooner had he sat down than he saw an old friend of his from Detroit who was going to Delphi with his young wife. They asked Phil to come along, and they had a warm time together. Phil received a letter from his friends later, while we were still in Greece. They sent this:
Conceived at Delphi
They stole away to Delphi. The couple stayed
where rocks reach out to touch the air
and gods would play if gods did anywhere.
Their bed on the lip of infinity was laid,
and drunk with sky, they clove to mortal frame.
In such a fold a civilization could fare
forth; in such a fold our earthly pair
conceived a child above the olive plain.
Lie peaceful, little baby, in mother's fold.
Much later, when down lies dark upon your face
and stones are dreamt like those, may you be told—
should you be led this reliquary to trace—
they stole away to Delphi. What vapours rolled,
what tale of destiny in this moment of embrace?
* * *
It was late one evening in the Plaka. The four had found a tavern—a restaurant—toward the end of the Plaka in the direction of the Agora and the modern flea market. In the restaurant were only...
