Leaving Corfu

with a important discovery

Tomorrow we’re leaving Corfu, back to Oslo. I’ve been here since early May. Had a great stay with perfect weather. But it’s getting hot now and crowded with the summer visitors.

I started coming here, to Arillas, in the northwest of the mermaid-shaped island of Corfu, after a writer friend’s stories during Covid drew me in. Her tales about a swampy coastal patch where native Corfiots who’d immigrated to New York returned home to build guesthouses and restaurants, about the Osho devotees arriving decades earlier, once dressed in orange robes and dancing wild and naked on the beach, about the retreat centers that followed, attracting seekers from Germany, Switzerland and Austria, that has now grown to the healing and yoga and medicine music tribes. This alongside the regular holiday crowds from Great Britain and Ireland. After being fully seduced by the TV series The Durrells in Corfu, my husband and I drove down with our camper to see for ourselves.

That first time in spring 2022, I joined a five-day workshop of self-investigation and growth, that included dance and music and yoga and sumptuous evening performances and cacao ceremonies and everything between. I fell in love with it all even more.

I’m not yet retired, and the idea of weaving my own work––Alexander Technique, vocalization, movement and performing as a singer-songwriter and improvisor––into the community was intriguing. That first trip, I met a Greek guitarist, who was then performing with many others. I sent him some of my music and he wanted to play with me the next fall. So we returned.

Each time here, I get more fond of the place and the people. Yet I also struggle with fitting into its ever-increasing smorgasbord of offerings, into the sometimes cliquey community. Some old shadows of shame in me still surface here, alongside moments of real celebration. This place has strong energy and draws strong people, a gift and a challenge.

When a friend here invited me to stay in her guest cottage for this past May, I couldn’t resist.

Readers here may remember I’d broken my left arm and damaged my right thumb––over a year with no guitar or ukulele playing and no gigs. The idea of performing again (and at the ripe age of 72) was exciting and daunting. The Greek guitarist from that first trip has become a friend and we’ve done several gigs together over the years. This year we added a concert at one of the outdoor listening venues.

I practiced for weeks leading up to it. And yet, sitting on that stage a few nights ago the audience looking up at me, wide-eyed and expectant, felt overwhelming.

At the start, not sure I had the goods, I wanted to thank everyone for coming and quit the stage after the second song. Too out of shape, too worried about boring them. Performing on a bigger stage is a responsibility and takes chops. I felt like an athlete who’d been out on sick leave. People make an effort to come hear you; you want to honor that, to give them something of value in return, to help them melt into the music, escape. But I stayed, and the concert got better and better.

When we ended, after a few encores with the audience up and dancing, many thanked me for the music. But at the start, I’d almost killed it. Almost packed it up because it wasn’t perfect, because I wasn’t. That’s the trap: needing everything flawless before risking being seen. I can be my own worst enemy. Not laziness, but wanting too much, and nearly throwing it all away because it wasn’t my idea of perfect. It’s something I’ve been working on my whole life, with myself and my students, this moving away from fear and daring to be in the love. Yet, I’m so glad now, looking back, that I stayed put, that I gave what I could and did it the best I could with the whirl of everything passing through. I remember from my years on the road: you build up chops to survive that high-octane atmosphere.

It takes practice to be in the place of courage to peek out from behind the armor, to not care so much, to be even playful with it all. I can take a good full breath knowing I was better with all this than I used to be, that I gave people something real. And I believe the people that told or wrote to thank me, meant it.

By taking one risk, it makes the next that tiny bit easier. Like in my last workshop I gave a few days after the concert, with the same group that had frightened me years ago. I didn’t know, walking in, how it would go, you never do. But this time, I found myself in my genuine love of making sound, of moving, of playing with my own restless energy and from that starting point, it just flowed.

Yesterday, it went well, I could see in their faces, feel it in their changed energy that I’d helped them all get out of their way and more into their bodies and souls. I walked away high, almost giddy. I think going through with the concert had something to do with it. Facing my fear in front of an audience had already shaken something loose.

If there’s a risk you’ve been circling––a stage, a room, a blank page or canvas––I just want to give a gentle nudge to take that first small step, and then the next. Not to think of it as a formula, but the breathing in and breathing out with clear intention can be magical. The moment we stop waiting to feel ready, or waiting to be perfect, something can crack open. Maybe that’s all we get, not certainty, just the willingness to walk in anyway and to stay.

I’m sad to leave this very, very alive place, this tiny beach community that offers so much. I’ll miss my morning walk-abouts, warming up my voice, waving to faces I recognize, the sweet morning greeting of Kalimera, and all the learning that happens here.

Love to hear your thoughts on staying with something that’s scary, and on leaving and returning.

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