world

Cyprus: A Magic Place That Feels Like Home.

 

The crimson petals seemed to take on a florid radiance as the crepuscular sky was melted in aureate light; gold overtaking opal in the heavens set the poppy aflame.

My eyes were weary, travel-worn, narrowed into gritty, sensitive slits that beheld the rugged coast and ruins with tremulous appreciation, squinting in the yolky light of midday overpowering a pastel morning.

So wonderfully different to be outside after being in enclosed vacuums of space while traveling, the hermetically sealed chambers of air travel that stifle the body.
My pulse quickening with fervor like the sanguine petals shivering in the sun, I felt alive again.

Just as the feverish flowers shimmied the last cool gray air off of them, I felt the lethargy of the flight flutter off my skin in the brightening Cyprus day.
It’s a magic place, and it feels like home.

At The Archeological Site Of Kato Pafos, between The House Of Dionysus and The House Of Orpheus — beings of myth that have connections to both the heavy, chthonic press of the cool earth and the wild abandon of the lilting heart in dance and song — I breathed in the sea air among the blood red flowers dancing the world around me into a song of riotous revelry, and I felt revitalized in that liminal space, that threshold of shade and brilliance.

But even here, on the island of Aphrodite, the grim reality of current events close in; I heard the murmuring of Russian voices, Cyprus being a popular haunt of theirs, a place of escape.

Perhaps a forced levity in their tones, as they too try to shake off the oppressive weight of somber hues and heavy, enclosed spaces.

I don’t begrudge them their refuge, all living beings seek to feel the vitalizing warmth of life, to avoid the cold intrusion of the underworld: repressed realms, areas the mind avoids, places in the shadow regions that contain fear, decay, death.

It must feel good to breathe in a space that doesn’t know your sorrow, that doesn’t entrap you in a cage of fear or judgment for the particulars of your existence.

I passed through Istanbul on my way to Cyprus, and there, among the women in veils and the men with watchful eyes, I felt enclosed.

I felt captured in a place where the people around me, were they to know the ways that I moved through life, my innate aspects, would judge me.
Judgment is the least of the troubles people like me may encounter in countries with oppressive regimes and fundamentalist overlays.
This is simply a truth.

While I wished to be transported to a place far removed from the wars and worries of the day, I was grateful in my staggering state to feel compassion for the Russian couples I encountered.
The men, walking with a barrel-chested bravado and the women in their wind-stirred spring skirts, wafts of cologne and perfume carried on the breeze overpowering any local flora.

The liberal application of fragrance is something I remember from my time living with Russian men in Tel Aviv.
The strength of the olfactory experience alone always evokes a fondness that invites a wry smile to my face with its recollected resonance.
A smile that’s shivery and flickering as the sunlit petals and skirts.
I breathed in a happy rush as I felt connected to all the living things around me, just trying to enjoy their time in the sun.

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Maren Zweifler enjoys teaching Yoga with a focus on free movement and intrinsic shapes, emphasizing spinal fluidity and innate, primal posture. Deeply inspired by movement systems that embrace nature like Sridaiva and Continuum Movement. He completed a 500-hour certification in SF and has taught both there and in Austin where he honed his skills teaching private classes tailored to the individual needs of his clients. He created a wellness/yoga program at a non-profit. These experiences allowed him to explore both the unique individuation of the physical experience in one-on-one sessions, and the commonalities of the human form that can be witnessed in large groups. You could connect with Maren on Instagram.

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