Invitation

Spare rooms, sparks, and living in sin.

Some mornings here, before the sun comes out, as the roosters crow and the street dogs howl, I lie shivering under the blankets on my very hard mattress, and wonder:

What have I done?

What if it doesn’t work? What if I can’t hack village life, especially since we are currently without a car, because cars in Turkey are exorbitantly expensive? What if the poet and I don’t work out? What if I’m stuck here alone in Grape Village? What if I never get any work again? (Admittedly, this last one is a freelancer’s national anthem.) What if I can’t hack it up here? What if I can’t hack it anywhere?

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“Start with a room.”

This was the advice of my teacher, Mira, after my friend May visited, and we re-ignited our spark of a dream to start a meditation centre. Mira and my other teacher, Derek, both separately advised that instead of thinking we had to fundraise and start a huge project from scratch, to find a house with a spare bedroom, where anyone interested in learning about meditation and creating community could come and stay for a while.

That same week, I’d made plans to see a house. It was a village about 20 minutes inland from Fethiye, perched on the edge of a small mountain. It had not only one spare room but two, and a garden big enough to grow food in it. It had a fig tree and a pomegranate tree, and a balcony with a hell of a view.

After five minutes, I knew I needed to live here.

And that I wanted the poet to come with me.

I know, right? Yes, this is the same woman who just a few weeks ago had a commitment-related crisis. But lately, I’ve been starting to trust my inner knowing. And it told me, in no uncertain terms, despite lack of car/having known the poet for less than 6 months/etc. etc. etc., that this is what I should do.

The name of the village the house is in translates as “with grapes”. And they grow everywhere, spilling out over the stone fences into the streets, the smell of them, first fresh and then fermenting, filling the air. There are pomegranate trees everywhere, too—a beloved Tarot symbol, and one of my favourite foods. There’s a used book exchange that’s open 24 hours, a pottery studio run by a ceramics professor from Casablanca, and a cafe where there are weekly painting and ceramics classes, and live music on the weekends. On the other side of the mountain behind the house, are the ruins of city that date back to 5000 BC. With an amphitheatre, and a temple.

Since I left my life and my marriage 8 years ago, I’ve been searching for a more connected life. I’ve wanted to live in some kind of community, and to be close to my food sources (and if possible, be part of cultivating them). I didn’t know if I would ever find such a place. And if I did, whether I’d have the guts to unpack for long enough to see if I could make a go of it.

On our first walk through the village, the poet and I met an architect from Ankara. She spoke perfect English, and as our dogs leapt around the street, she explained that she moved here to start a sustainable architecture firm, but also that she wants to create a community space with a shared garden, and a cafe with local food, where musicians can perform and people can gather around a fire pit and exchange ideas.

She invited us inside for coffee, and we talked for half a hour.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” the poet said. “But you seem younger here.”

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When I have my moments of doubt and uncertainty and neurosis, I clip on Django’s leash and we go for a walk.

We walk around tumbledown ruins of abandoned stone houses. We pass chickens and cats and kittens. The breeze here smells more beautiful than I can describe. But my favourite thing is passing the elderly residents in the street, the women in their scarves and village pants (village pants are another topic that deserve their own post), the men with their walking sticks and caps. They’re usually chatting over cups of tea, shelling walnuts and putting out peppers or grapes to dry in the sun. Sometimes they say hello. Other times they look at me suspiciously, this woman walking alone with her dog on a rope, baring her legs for all to see. One time a group of them offered me a chair, and we had a lovely chat in halting English about what Canada is like.

No matter what manic thoughts are racing through my tiny brain, 20 minutes walking here and I am back in the present.

I don’t know how long we’ll stay in Grape Village. I don’t know if I will plant my own garden here, or just help out with a shared one. Of course I can’t know if it’ll work out living with the poet. May is back in New Zealand for now. We don’t know how long for. But we still meet on zoom once a week to keep moving on our dream.

And this place is reminding me that none of us know anything, anyway. The pomegranates will fall off the trees. A dusting of snow will settle over their carcasses. People will come and go from this place.

And I have a room.

Two of them, even.

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