I lift my legs one at a time, methodically ascending the craggy hill as a yellow Sun continued to descend on far horizon.

I feel somehow both exhausted and energized by each step, more than 25,000 into a long day I had waited for a very long time; a golden pinnacle awaited me another few hundred meters above my head, built on limestone, schist and thousands of years of human history.

The Acropolis.

Cecropia.

City in the air.

This was my 6th day in Athens, and roughly my 9,000th day of Athenian dreams. I had circled this auspicious klippe many times during the week, absorbing as many perspectives as possible as I awaited one particular day- that most special of boons to a broke backpacker, ‘free museum Sunday’.

Today I began with sunrise at the Panathenaic way, ceremonial portal into the ancient city; I wandered past exquisite graves and whorehouses, spent hours envisioning the rhythms of daily life in the Agora with the sounds of philosophers, politicians and merchants just beyond my ears, then circumambulated through Roman ruins to the Arch of Hadrian with its inscripted demarcation of Hadrian’s city on one side and the city of Theseus on the other. From there I turned back to the Acropolis and began this fated ascent in earnest.

Below me I hear a new busker take up the mantle of performance from another, public offering of the pure beauty of music celebrated in this land for so many ages past. I climb upwards in the intermingled mist of two time periods, modern vehicles and ancient methods blended together. How blessed we are, to have spaces like this preserved for a millenia as human society continues to evolve and expand. The ancient Athenians who built this path must have had a similarly timeless experience, as they ascended to a holy place with its own long history of Mycenean lore and divine myth. Human cycles of days, seasons, and aeons all laid atop one another.

I don’t in truth know where I am at the moment, just that the Acropolis is above me and any path that leads that way will do. Green grass studded with small flowers escorts me upwards, around weathered stones and thin pine trees. Vibrant new life and memories of the past. An ageless sun continues to blanket my skin in warmth, even as it fades for the day. To my left I notice a marker for the sanctuary of Dionysos Eleuthereus: god of many names, liberator, symbol of death and rebirth, keeper of the Mysteries, source of wine and ecstasy and the creation of theater as we know it.

Theater. It suddenly clicks in my mind- I am about to see the Theater of Dionysos. I had no idea this was where I had been headed, but of course fate has led me here. Of all the traditions and Greek culture, this is the one that resonates most at the center of my soul. Citizens of Athens would procession out to this hillside theater and through the act of dramatic portrayal, they would undergo emotional catharsis together, as a community. This was not a diversion, a fleeting escape for entertainment purposes; they went to be transformed through empathic connection, to be pushed away from comfort into a spirit-shattering epiphany. They came so they could be brought to tears.

And most strikingly, they came to see plays centered not around Athenians, but around foreigners and enemies. The tears would flow as they recognized eternal humanity and suffering in The Persians, in the lineage of King Oedipus of Thebes, in Medea, in even more ancient Egyptians and Myceneans. They would flow as the spectators understood how Story could be a mirror, an external instigation of deeply internal reckoning. They would flow without shame, without stiff suppression; they would flow in concert with one another, an entire citizenry sharing in this soul-baring release.

I approach the theater as they once did, and am met by a statue: not of a god or violent warrior, but a beautiful sculpture of the dramatist Menander, the folds of his robe lovingly detailed. A few more paces, and the theater is fully revealed: arcs of stone benches divided into 13 wedges, the front row complete with seatbacks for those of highest honor, all around a flat half-moon stage. Behind the theater rises the imposing walls of the Acropolis, surrounded by shades of living green under effervescent blue sky. I am utterly transported; the sight is more than I could ever have imagined. This is not a theater shut off from the world, ensconced in a dark corner- it is prominently in the middle of a wide, magical reality. The landscape of Athens rolls across the backdrop, life in all its forms a constant chorus to the drama at hand.

I tarry there for a time, images of Aeschylus and Sophocles and Euripedes in my head as they watch their plays come to life before receptive audience; I see Socrates, Plato and Aristotle in the audience, hear riotous laughter and tragic silence on the stone. Ominous choirs fill the air, a deus ex machina introduced to resolve stories in mysterious ways, fate and destiny as unmanageable as ever by human hand. The acropolis above beckons, but I don’t want to leave this austere moment. A bird calls; the human busker below sings back. Life continues.

I walk up the hill, then circle back to a spot behind the amphitheater. I want to sit as if I am a member of the audience, to let the drama of this scene unfold before me. People pass by on the path next to me, but they quickly become an invisible white noise. It is only me and the theater, cycles of time once more aligned in my pineal view.

Suddenly, I am in tears.

Not a droplet, not a trickle; a full flood waterfalls out of my eyes and down my face. My soul begins to empty itself, as if it had waited patiently for this exact moment. There is no escaping this fate- I am fully in their power. The theater before me remains, but is also transformed- I am in a Broadway playhouse, watching the courtroom climax of To Kill a Mockingbird through this veil of tears; I am in an Opera hall, struggling for breath at the unbearably stark ending of Death of Klinghoffer; I am in a marching band dome, heart racing as Juliet proceeds to her death accompanied by the incomparable power of Wagnerian brass. I am a 13 year-old boy in a small Oklahoma movie theater, weeping for a doomed Bruce Willis on an asteroid; I am a 36 year-old man in an Amsterdam cinema, overcome with sobs at the conclusion of West Side Story.

Sun and clouds continue their motion overhead; tourists continue their own procession through ruins around me. The busker down below sings the ‘Shallow’ song from A Star is Born. But I am lost in time and space, connected only by heart and soul to this long human lineage of catharsis. Subject to that most unique of gifts- the power of stories to connect us all, no matter our heritage or ethnicity. Without this capacity, the history of homo sapiens would not be possible. This is what empowers us to travel the world, to gather in societies of immense proportion; it is what enables us to choose love over selfishness, and to find our own true inner peace.

It is how we find the light in each soul, reflective of our own.

I move on, as I must. I will go on to the breathtaking heights of the Acropolis, and more ancient delights to come. But nothing will compare to this moment, this lightning bolt from the heavens.

This catharsis.