4 - The Oracle began upon arrival.

I was traveling through Greece on an archeological bus tour of twenty or so people with my friend Oscar.

Our bus arrived to the town of Delphi before six in the afternoon. It was early July so I knew we had at least three more hours of sunlight.

The hotel was located on the hills of mount Parnassus, which I admired all the way up from the road.

I told Oscar I wanted to climb the mountain as soon as we got there, even if it meant I'd miss my dinner. It was the only time I could do it, the next day we had the tour of the site of Delphi in the morning and after lunch we'd continue our trip through Greece.

One of the ladies on the bus, Susan (pictured here with me), overheard me and asked if she could join me. She's a lovely woman, athletic and easy to talk to, but I knew that if she came, we wouldn't make it to the top, which was my goal. But I could't say no.

We put our sneakers on and climbed about half the way up. The rocky and dry terrain was tiresome and the sun was setting fast.

We stood there for a few minutes, in silence, admiring the beauty of that mountain chain and the valley bellow. A soft breeze made the brilliant light of the sun sail on the waving grass and a peaceful beauty overwhelmed us both.
After a couple of "wow"s, I said "This is the best temple there is," referring to the mountains, to nature, since really no other can connect us more directly with the soul of life.

She agreed with a smile and a shake of her head, without a word.

I looked at Parnassus and said quietly to it, "You are the temple."

Of course, I didn't know then how important those words would be the next day.

We climbed down right before dark, and were still able to eat some dinner. 

Later on, a friend told me that when I didn't say no to Susan, I sacrificed my desire to make it to the top, which was my unconscious offering to the oracle. It may indeed still be a requirement, as it always was, and for a reason.

The "sacrifice" itself turned out to be deeply rewarding. The act of helping Susan climb up and down, and of moving slower to respect her pace, while keeping her company all along, took me out of myself, which is something that in those days I was not accustomed to. The etymological meaning of the word ecstasy is "out of the self and into the wild-erness."  It's that simple. So the act alone made me feel more human and more connected to my surroundings, more ecstatic, than I had been, which put me in a more receptive state during my time there.

What is most important though, is that without Susan there I probably wouldn't have verbalized out loud that the mountain is the temple, which would be crucial on the next day.

In Delphi, it turns out, the spoken word is truly special.