Mastic harvesting season in Chios Island, time to dry and clean the ‘tears of trees’. Olympi, Chios
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Mastic harvesting season in Chios Island, time to dry and clean the ‘tears of trees’. Olympi, Chios

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On a night, blew by plateau breeze, by Mont Blanc, My path crossed with a bard; He sang me a tune of clear waters Far lands and his bare foot on the wet soil... Daintily, carried me to familiar village paths and to meadows on which he sang before to ladybugs and spotted cows. The mountainous soft wind coloured the hills to purple. On the night, we found a quiet hill under the brightest consolations Gazing at a little piece of sky; He gave me a little journey of moving stars On the way back to the meadows for a late sleep, The ravishing shadow of sycamore in the night sky, whispered an ancient lullaby of this unique haphazard.
There was a large fire burning on the hearth, and one could smell from far the fragrant reek of burning cedar and sandalwood. As for herself [Calypso], she was busy at her loom, shooting her golden shuttle through the warp and singing beautifully. Round her cave there was a thick wood of alder, poplar, and sweet smelling cypress trees.
Homeros, Odysseia 5.58
Tale of Mastic Trees As leaving from Cesme shore and sailing on the Aegean Sea, I looked on for some traditional and local things in Chios Island and just found out that however the mastic trees (which is the local product of Chios) can grow anywhere where the climate provides average humid and warmth but they don’t give mastic gums in any other place but Chios. Mastic is called the tears of tree; so, I had my first question for the first night to ask a local random friend. I found the answer in the most delicious restaurant ‘Agyra’ in the neighbourhood I stayed where I was welcomed so warm and heartedly. “So; why do the trees cry?”
Morning discovery by the Aegean Sea and Smyrna over the water. Azure corners create beautiful corridors for the warming sunlight and refreshing sea breeze to awaken the mastic trees.
Megas Limnionas, Chios

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Tale of the Golden Apple I’ve grown up listening to this tale from my grandma’s voice. I mostly remember the memories of evenings. The twilight passage that street lamps one by one light and little colourful bulbs shine on fruit vendor stands, the dancing hazy light on chestnut smoke... Evening shoppers moving from bakeries to florists, from dessert shops to pickle sellers, fast steps on cobblestone of main square, warm lights of each window in which behind the families gather around the table... And mixed smell of walking crowd, of cold evening, of fresh-baked breads, roasting chestnuts... And the profound smell of wood and coal smoke, covering all vividness and smells and lights with a misty curtain of soot. We were one of those families with uncles and cousins and sugared tea scented living room games and long casual dinners with sofa chats and blankets. After all those games and jokes, my grandma was telling me this -probably Balkan rooted- tale to sleep. ‘’The tale moves forth as we go aback...’’
On my first night in the island, a little travel-sore, salty and sea touched, after being warmly welcomed by Stroubis landlady Georgia, settled in the room and took it as ‘my home for 3 days’, I had an evening walk after listening to ‘the tale of crying Mastic trees’, a few glasses of ouzo treats by Agyra and neighbour tables’ cheery talks reaching my ears. On the way back, I slowly paced to hear the crickets’ late summer tunes and enjoy the night view of sea, the small market, little warm family taverns under street lamps, hanged clothes on balconies, curved mastic trees by the Aegean Sea and evening-volumed neighbour talks... All simplicity was so generously beautiful and sincere that I delivered the only word to ‘my neighbours for 3 days’ that I knew in Greek, ‘’good night’’. Then thought of some traditions of neighbourhood, of leaving flowers on the doors, of asking a cup of sugar, making a bowl of soup, of sharing and supporting. This, ‘being neighbours’ may be a unique kind of relationship... Megas Limnionas, Chios
The stars around the fair moon fade Against the night, When gazing full she fills the glade And spreads the seas with silvery light. Sappho An evening walk by the sparkling sea, Chios Island
‘The Hero’s Journey’ and A Carpet It should have been magic when the ‘hero’ began the journey. And when the far tunes of a stranger daintily carried me to the familiar village paths and to the meadows on which he sang to ladybugs and cows, To a homeland from randomly crossing roads… And gave me his voice of clear waters, And there was magic in a gaze at a little piece of sky on the hill I’ve heard the magic in the sound of that unique tree, whistling an early dawn lullaby for mountains, harmoniously moving his hundreds of branches in the notes that were carried on the plateau breeze… Long after the dancing tree, and green starry hill, On a night, her ancient words, heard by ears, spoken to soul, hurled us to north and south with a balmy wind. She cloaked us with a velvet magical blanket and warmed by breathing on us a fairytale… And thinking back, as the spell might have begun when the ‘hero of night’ have decided to ride for a late and missed road. Simply, It was the boy in the fairytale, who lit a candle every night. And the carpet… The one, building castles in the air, Who turns the fabric, the smell, and spices, into a carnival. Embellished by the luminous wings of gliding little fairy-mosquitos. If you see Judith the storyteller somewhere, let her remind you…

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Mi Padre Era de Francia A medieval themed Sephardic romance by Janet & Jak Esim... From a magical night in a small, secretly hidden luthier atelier in an old, cobblestone street... -- My father was from France and mother was from Aragon I was her most beloved daughter I got married in my early age My husband was from Istanbul He was sleeping on a feather bed I slept on a straw He drank the finest wine I drank water He had the finest meat And I had the bones One day on the way to well, I fell asleep In my dream A handsome boy kissed me on my cheeks I said “my husband would kill you!” “Better i kill myself before him” he said. And added "but you are my love".
Tr-
Babam Fransa’lıydı, annem Aragonlu’ydu Ben onun ev sevdiği, Küçücük yaşta evlendirildim. İstanbul'dan gelen biriyle evlendim O rahat yatakta yatıyordu, ben hasırda yattım. O en iyi şarabı içti, ben suyu. O etin en iyisini yedi, ben kemiklerini. Bir gün çeşmeye gittim, Yolda uyumuşum. Rüyamda, bir genç, yanağıma iki tane öpücük kondurdu “Ama kocam görürse öldürür seni!” dedim. O da, “o öldürmeden ben kendimi öldüreyim” dedi. Ama delikanlı, “sen benim aşkımsın” dedi.
Defeating the Cuckoo “In springtime, when we wake up, our elders force feed us with bread crumble. Even though we resist, they try to put crumbles in our mouth. Why they continue this tradition is the belief that when the cuckoo begins to sing in the early morning, if we are caught up by its song before eating, then we would feel weak during the whole summer. If we eat before the song, we would feel much stronger.” Local myths say a lot about the culture. ‘Defeating the Cuckoo’ myth is told by Caner, in their village, Ğayna.
Tale of A Dune Wanderer (part 2) Once upon a time, there was a humble dune wanderer named Ashashi. He was known for his invincibility through the hardest adventures. Most of the nights, he has been narrating his epic stories to the villager kids of the desert. Then one day, he is given a quest by the king to be gifted with king’s daughter or to be punished… This tale of Ashashi and the lion is told by Rıdvan, the modern time troubadour from Belgium.
Tale of A Dune Wanderer (part 1) Once upon a time, there was a humble dune wanderer named Ashashi. He was known for his invincibility through the hardest adventures. Most of the nights, he has been narrating his epic stories to the villager kids of the desert. Then one day, he is given a quest by the king to be gifted with king’s daughter or to be punished... This tale of Ashashi and the lion is told by Rıdvan, the modern time troubadour from Belgium.
Hemşin Yaylalarına !.. Climbing up to heights from Çinçiva, closing fork road for Zilkale, Karadeniz tunes followed up to forest paths, rivers and valleys. This traditional intro is sung to begin Horon and it’s known as “karşılama” (greeting) as the phrase flows and answer follows. — (Tr) Hemşin yaylalarina Yattım uyuyemedum oy yattım uyuyemedum Aradum sevduğumi Daha dayanemedum oy daha dayanemedum Hemşin yaylalarina Gidilur mi karadan oy gidilur mi karadan?.. Artık kavuştur bizi Yeri goği yaradan oy yeri goği yaradan Salla da uyut beni (oy oy oy oy oy) Yüreğum bulaniyi Çinçiva’dan bir güzel Peşime dolaniyi (continues gibberish ! ) — (Eng) On the plateau of Hemsin I laid down, couldn’t sleep I’ve looked for my lover I could bear more not To the plateau of Hemsin Does the road reach overland? May he/she unite us One who created the earth and sky Sway me to sleep My heart is cloudy A beauty from Cinciva Wanders around me
Black Sea discovery, Çinçiva, Çamlıhemşin

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Can Cana (Soul to Soul)
Some things take a while to infuse. As the memory of each word, glance, open heartedly welcome and the serenity of sharing silence is so deep and only would come to surface from deep when it is kindly the right time for it. After almost a month on motorbike, we had stopped by Keban Dam and had a lake bath at sunset, surrounded by curving roads up on the hills. After the bath, we drove up to north, to Sivas. We curved up along to valley villages and found ourselves in a little village square beneath grape leaves, facing the green valleys. Murdurra was the name of this small Alevi village. As we enter, a greeting committee of locals warmly welcomed us on a terrace in the center of small village, told their story, how they had to stay hidden, such pressure was on these villages for their belief and ethnicity, the way they make living with coal, how they had to care about any service normally given by state, rural exodus, changing population and characteristics of cem ceremonies in which they met, sang, danced and blessed the goodness of human... And the governmental tryings for changing the real name, Murdurra, as this once was an Armenian village... We spoke and listened for hours, simply, sincerely. Melancholy lies in Anatolia, and some lands are so fragile to touch, I knew. Still, being in the lands of goodness, where true essence is appreciated, seeing with my own eyes that history written by big forces grubbed up the culture, tolerance and warmness; was a clear and sad reality. Hours and hours of speaking, sharing on their table, tasting homemade goat cheese, tasting their special grapes, being accepted to their homes and invited for winter comeback; tied a link between us. I felt we were connected and so then we had a door that would open before us.
Before leaving they hugged us and said ‘’can cana’’ (soul to soul). Driving away from Murdurra, I kept watching the trees on heights, wondering their uniqueness and first time, with a new glance, seeing the soul in them, soul of the land. Cem of souls. And the wind dried my tears of joy.
Each time I think back of them, I feel a dolorous lump in my throat and my stomach aches peacefully for happiness.
Bougainvillaea lullaby, nighttime flow, stone path towards a southern village...