Put Down the Worry Beads

When Greek men walk down the street aimlessly, they often twirl a string of beads in their hand known as “worry beads.” One hand in their pocket and the other a blur of spinning beads that make muffled noises as they are flipped over the man’s hand. Click. Click. You’ll see these beads in action when the men are waiting for a bus or when street vendors are waiting for a customer, but sometimes you’ll see men using them for no apparent reason. This forces passersby to wonder, “What are they worried about? What are they waiting for?” Maybe they are waiting for something more than a bus or a customer.

As I was sitting on the beach about a month ago, I was overcome with a strange feeling—a feeling of loneliness but also of completeness. I took a deep breath and looked around at the beaches and mountains, the pink and yellow cities perched upon them, the white monastery with its silent bells, the trees looming on the cliffs above me. I listened to the sound of tourists splashing in the water and the crisp noise of Greek flags blowing in the wind. I felt the soft, balmy wind upon my face and the rocks of the beach against my skin—warmed by the sun, warmed from within.

All at once, it dawned upon me that this is real life. REAL LIFE. Not a movie, not a theme park, not a day trip.

I am really here by myself in this place, doing something for the good of a community. There’s no tour guide here to tell me it’s time to get on the bus and go back home. My mom is not here to pay for my hotel room and take me out to dinner. I am not here to tour the country and be a nomad of sightseeing. The crumbling cities that remind me of Disney World are real, the mountains in the distance that look like a movie scene are real, the water at my feet and the sun on my shoulders are real. It all exists, and my by choice, by my doing, and by my self.


Up until this realization, it’s like I had been spinning my own invisible Greek worry beads for 19 years. I was like the Greek men waiting for the bus—only I have been waiting for my real life to begin. REAL LIFE. Not the life of my childhood where people tell me where to go and when to leave; not the life of my teen-hood where I was a slave to schoolwork and teachers; not even the life of my unfinished college years where I remain enclosed in my own beautiful bubble of Gothic architecture and libraries. No, the world now is my bubble now—unprotected, unplanned, unassigned, and just as beautiful.


I think it strange that this feeling would dawn upon me like I was an actress that just realized I was no longer on the movie set. But it did, and I am thankful to Greece, to the Silva Project, to Duke, and to the Slane family, for providing me with this unmatched opportunity to find myself—for revealing to me the perfect time and place to rest my worry beads and no longer wait in limbo for real life to begin.