On the morning before the rest of our group arrives, Tracy and I follow Google Maps through the twisting, narrow, congested streets of old Istanbul to a cafe I’ve found. I want a famous Turkish breakfast spread. The kind with multiple breads, meats, cheeses, olives, honeys, and jams. The kind that makes you linger into the next meal and fills you up for the day. We order two, barely finish one, and lick our sticky fingers as we sip our second cappuccino.
We sit alongside opened windows, fighting with the curtain blowing in the wind and the cat begging at our feet. Taxis and passenger vans and cargo trucks are parked haphazardly on the sidewalk opposite us. I smile when two pin each other in, watching to see who will yield first and how they’ll backtrack in this crowded street. It’s perfect. It’s all perfect. The food. The chaos. The cat. It’s all exactly as I remember it, always. In a place that’s so foreign, it’s nice to have predictability.
Tracy and I continue our conversation from the day before. It’s a little bit about me and also about what I want to convey to the women during the next few days in this city. My head is swimming with history facts that I know aren’t important, and I’m trying to articulate the underlying metaphor I know is here, especially in the stories within the Ottoman palace. My body knows these stories. I relate to the historical women I will share about. It helps to verbally process.
Tomorrow, we’ll go to the palace and spend time in the harem, the secured and walled section of the Sultan’s home where the concubines lived. But before we enter, we’ll stand in the throne room where the dignitaries were hosted and official business convened. The Sultan sat upon a cushioned chair low to the ground, and above his head was a gold latticed window with openings too small to see in but large enough to see out. On the other side of that window, during various reigns of young Sultans, crazy Sultans, otherwise incompetent Sultans, the wives and mothers and grandmothers listened and whispered instructions. In fact, for nearly 100 years the empire was held together by the “Sultanate of Women.”
There are multiple ways I cannot relate to the specifics of life inside the harem, but I know what it is to whisper instructions from behind a latticed window.
I’ve spent years in a virtually invisible role of influence while my husband holds the mantle of authority. It’s worked for as long as it has because of our partnership and mutual respect, but lately, we’ve both grown increasingly weary. He’s tired of sitting on the throne. I’m done wielding power from the dark.
This year’s trip to Turkey coincides with a big decision he and I have made in our counseling center. When we return, I’ll replace him as CEO and he’ll step into Clinical Director. I’ll be his boss. I will officially come out of the shadows, and he’ll step into what he enjoys more and does best. But it hasn’t happened yet, and I’m sitting there with Tracy, explaining what we’ll see tomorrow, feeling the weight of impending change.
As we will invite our group to do throughout the trip, I allow my current reality to locate itself in this place, to find my story among the ones I will share about. Being immersed in the metaphor unlocks something. Allows me to embody what comes out of my mouth: I have known those harem halls, but none other than me put me there. And it’s time to leave. The timing is sweet, for I could not have stepped into a new role without the inner shift necessary to own it. It’s time for me to change. It’s time for me to stop whispering.
Fully satiated, Tracy and I leave the cafe and continue up the hill. I have something special to show her. How fitting that it was built by the strongest of those Sultan mothers that ruled the empire through that window. Of course, it will involve more Turkish coffee. We are here for it.
Beth Bruno lives in Colorado where she and her husband get to create life-giving experiences and opportunities for aha moments around God and story. As owners of ReStory Counseling, they do this alongside a team of story-informed coaches and counselors. After living in Turkey for almost a decade, she designed and leads the boutique Lost Women of Turkey Pilgrimage for women each year. With the last of her three kids close to flying the nest, you may soon find her living in one of the cave homes of Cappadocia.
Beth, I want to hear more of this story. Wow! The juxtaposition of strange and familiar, the past and the present, whispers and speaking clearly. Grateful to have heard a part of this.
I love this Beth. Your writing is so beautiful and full of meaning. I find myself transported to the bustling Turkish streets and to the cafe and to the chaos and to the palace. I hear the weight of change that you name. I imagine the women behind the latticed window, crouching down, afraid to be seen, yet longing to be seen. I feel the aches in their bodies, as they rise to stand, after carefully and wisely listening from that crouched position, for when to speak, for such long periods of time. I can’t help but wonder what this unfolding has looked like for you, what it might feel like to “stand in the throne room”. I find myself curious about where I have crouched and hidden behind the latticed window and what it will look like for me to stand and move into the full light…You leave me longing to hear and experience more…Thank you so much for sharing.