Strings of Time: what Playing the Lyre in Thessaloniki Taught me about Living

I never imagined I'd find myself strumming an ancient Greek lyre in a quiet room in Thessaloniki, the same city where philosophers once strolled, where Alexander the Great’s legacy still lingers in the stones and shadows. But there I was—fingers trembling slightly—holding the instrument of Apollo himself, and listening to its soft, celestial voice echo through a space that felt suspended in time.

I booked the lyre workshop out of pure curiosity. I’m no musician. My experience with instruments peaked in middle school with a plastic recorder. But something about the idea of reconnecting with something ancient, something that predates even the classical symphony, called out to me. Maybe it was the Seikilos Epitaph—the oldest complete musical composition known to man. Maybe it was just the need to feel closer to a deeper rhythm, something more enduring than Spotify playlists and notifications.

The experience took place at the Seikilo Museum, a small but beautifully curated cultural space in Thessaloniki. This city, Greece’s second-largest, has always held a different kind of energy than Athens. It’s softer, perhaps more introspective. Roman arches blend with Byzantine churches, Ottoman influences meet modern street art. Thessaloniki breathes history without shouting it. It’s a city that doesn’t just exist in time—it weaves through it.

Our guide and instructor, Lina Palera, greeted us warmly. She didn’t feel like a teacher in the usual sense—more like a modern-day priestess of sound. With calm, clear enthusiasm, she showed us the lyres: handcrafted by Luthieros, they were beautiful objects in their own right, made of wood and gut strings, curved like crescent moons. She placed one in my hands, and instantly, I felt like I was holding something sacred.

The lyre was central to ancient Greek education. It wasn’t just a musical tool—it was an ethical one. Young boys learned to play not to become musicians, but to shape character. The idea was simple: harmony in music builds harmony in the soul. Plato wrote about it. Aristotle insisted on it. And here I was, centuries later, being offered a glimpse into that same method of formation—not through lecture, but through touch, rhythm, breath.

We began with listening. Not just to the lyre, but to silence. The room had a way of inviting quiet attention. Then, Lina played the Epitaph of Seikilos, a haunting melody carved into stone nearly 2,000 years ago. “While you live, shine,” it begins. “Have no grief at all. Life exists only for a short while, and time demands its due.” I wasn’t prepared for how moving it would be. Those notes, fragile and ancient, seemed to bypass the mind and go straight to the chest.

Then, we played. And to my astonishment, it wasn’t hard. The lyre doesn’t ask for virtuosity. It asks for presence. You don’t need to read music or master chords. You just need to be willing to listen, to let your fingers fumble and find their way. Within minutes, we were echoing the melody of Seikilos ourselves. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

What I took from that experience wasn’t just a new musical skill—it was a philosophical reorientation. The Greeks didn’t separate art from life. Music, ethics, mathematics, movement—it was all part of becoming fully human. Playing the lyre reminded me that simplicity isn’t primitive. It's powerful. In a world full of complexity, speed, and noise, the lyre whispered something else: stillness, grace, rhythm.

Since that day, I’ve noticed changes. Small ones, but real. I’ve been more patient—with others, with myself. I’ve started to listen better—not just to people, but to the spaces in between our words. I take more pauses. I hum melodies without meaning to. The world feels less mechanical. And that short phrase from the Epitaph lives in my mind like a mantra: “While you live, shine.”

Lina had told us, gently, that the lyre wasn’t meant to impress—it was meant to express. And maybe that’s what struck me most. We spend so much of our lives performing—trying to be good enough, smart enough, productive enough. But in that sunlit room in Thessaloniki, I was just a man with a lyre and a few ancient notes, letting them carry me somewhere deeper.

Take-away tips from my lyre journey in Thessaloniki:

• The lyre is one of the oldest known string instruments, central to ancient Greek education and philosophy.

• It’s surprisingly easy to learn, even for complete beginners, and offers a uniquely tactile, calming musical experience.

• Thessaloniki, with its deep historical layers and relaxed tempo, is the perfect setting for reconnecting with ancient rhythms.

• Ancient Greek philosophy saw music as a form of moral development—playing the lyre offered a glimpse into that mindset.

• Slowing down, listening deeply, and embracing imperfection can profoundly shift how you experience daily life.

If you’re ever in Greece and want more than just sights and souvenirs. If you want something to carry back in your heart, spend an hour with a lyre. It may teach you far more than how to play. It might show you how to live.