October 30 10:45 pm
I’m currently reading Naked by David Sedaris, having unfortunately finished Lamb, hitherto the funniest book I’ve ever read in my life. I read every word, went as slowly as possible, just to make it last as long as I could. Everyone should read Lamb; it’ll add a good dose of humor to your life, and to an otherwise un-funny history of a religion.
The second piece in Naked is about the narrator (whom I think is David Sedaris himself, though I’m a little confused) growing up mercilessly O.C.D. He has to knock each elbow on the front door seven times before entering, has to rearrange the kitchen, the bathroom, kiss the fourth, eighth, and twelfth steps, and lick a light switch, all before entering his bedroom. The walk home from school is worse. I didn’t laugh much at the chapter, though I thought it mildly humorous all the same. Being me, I more felt sorry that the kid had OCD and wondered if there was treatment for it. I ruin funny writing with such wonderings.
Naked did give me cause to ponder my own Moroccan mother, however. She is sick with some medical condition that neither gestures nor Fati’s English can describe to me. All I know is that she likes to be in bed a lot, and when she’s not in bed, she moves relatively slowly. (That could also be because she has breasts the size of small watermelons, but I’m not sure. I don’t have big breasts, or breasts at all, really, so I’m not a good judge of their effect on one’s speed).
She is sick this evening with some type of autumn sinus infection, and so was in bed when I got home. Zainab answered the door and my little three year old neighbor Laila pranced up to me to give me a kiss. (Laila and I are buds. I smile at her and pick her up and tell her she’s zweena (pretty), and she tries to carry on full fledged conversations in Moroccan Arabic with me. I think that she thinks I’m a native speaker, or something. The novelty of my whiteness has worn off, and I think now she expects me to talk to her. And then she must think I’m daft when I don’t respond and look at her blankly. It’s fun talking to Moroccan three year olds).
“Shhh,” Zainab said. “Mama mriDa” (mama is sick). To me this meant that the house should be silent because Mama was in bed, sleeping.
No sooner had I dropped my things in my room that Mama called, “Zainab ” I’ve always taken her constant yelling for Fati or Yassine or Zainab to be important or necessary — I have no idea what they’re saying, so I just assumed that it was important stuff. After my sick Mama started calling for her children tonight, and multiple times, and after Fati had closed her bedroom door to Mama’s calls and Zainab had fallen asleep (although the past few nights Zainab has made me lie to Mama and tell her that “Zainab nesa”, “she’s sleeping”, just so she can avoid whatever it is Mama has to say), I was left to wonder what the woman must be going on and on about. She’s ill, for Christ’s sake Why won’t she stop the constant yelling? What the hell could be so important that she has to call one of her children to her side, or at least get their attention from across the hallway, every five minutes, if not more frequently? I don’t get it.
And I’ve ignored it until now, until David Sedaris made me think about voices in people’s heads and obsessive compulsive behaviors driving people to do things they wouldn’t otherwise desire to do.
I wonder if my Moroccan mama is going batty.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
No such thing as a wasteland
October 21
“...one Prozac a day...”
–1985, Bowling for Soup.
We’re driving across a tan wasteland en route to Essaouira from Marrakesh. 1985 playing.
I hope that someday I’ll have something to say that will be helpful or beneficial to someone, somewhere. My experiences and stories to this point perhaps already are. Self-experimentation led me through a torrential stream of pain and grief, heartache and guilt — so should I continue to grasp what those things felt like and meant then, I may be able to retain compassion and understanding towards others who live through such feelings now.
I am thankful for driving through this Moroccan desert, for black and white lambs at the side of the road, for American students jumping stone fences to take a dump at the side of the road, and for the fact that I have no regrets.
It’s curious that for being able to learn so much and grow in academic and conceptual knowledge at a good rate that I take so long to learn the lessons of life. That I have to force myself through the smallest holes, run various painful gauntlets, fight until I’m battered, bruised, and sobbing until I learn anything.
That I had to dislike myself for so long, and that now I have to laugh myself through my own occasional awkwardness in order to actually love myself. And not regret myself. And not apologize for myself. Some people only learn the hard way, I guess.
And now I’m listening to Sandymount Set fast hornpipes. I can’t wait to dance in hardshoes again. Isn’t that strange.
Why do I have to be taken away from things to realize how much I love them?
goats in the argan trees. Morocco the insane.
“...one Prozac a day...”
–1985, Bowling for Soup.
We’re driving across a tan wasteland en route to Essaouira from Marrakesh. 1985 playing.
I hope that someday I’ll have something to say that will be helpful or beneficial to someone, somewhere. My experiences and stories to this point perhaps already are. Self-experimentation led me through a torrential stream of pain and grief, heartache and guilt — so should I continue to grasp what those things felt like and meant then, I may be able to retain compassion and understanding towards others who live through such feelings now.
I am thankful for driving through this Moroccan desert, for black and white lambs at the side of the road, for American students jumping stone fences to take a dump at the side of the road, and for the fact that I have no regrets.
It’s curious that for being able to learn so much and grow in academic and conceptual knowledge at a good rate that I take so long to learn the lessons of life. That I have to force myself through the smallest holes, run various painful gauntlets, fight until I’m battered, bruised, and sobbing until I learn anything.
That I had to dislike myself for so long, and that now I have to laugh myself through my own occasional awkwardness in order to actually love myself. And not regret myself. And not apologize for myself. Some people only learn the hard way, I guess.
And now I’m listening to Sandymount Set fast hornpipes. I can’t wait to dance in hardshoes again. Isn’t that strange.
Why do I have to be taken away from things to realize how much I love them?
goats in the argan trees. Morocco the insane.
I like you.
October 20 6:10pm
(parental advisory. There are bad words).
Kelsey and I road to the hotel in same taxi today; marveled at the beauty of the sunset over the Koutobia minaret while trying to ignore that we were inhaling more exhaust fumes than oxygen.
“Kelsey,” I said, “Do you know what I like about you? And I don’t think you’ll take offense at this, because I don’t mean it to be offensive in the least.”
“What?” she asked, looking out the backseat window.
I turned around in the front seat so I could look at her. “I like that you’re unapologetic about who you are. You’re just like, ‘I like who I am. If you don’t like me, fuck you.’”
She laughed. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I see that in you. And I like it a lot. Do you like yourself?”
“Yeah, I do. I like who I am, I like what I do. I have fun.”
“I can tell. There are some people who you can just tell that they like themselves. Then there are others who you can tell really don’t like themselves.”
“Yeah.”
“So, I hope that’s an accurate description. I like you.”
(parental advisory. There are bad words).
Kelsey and I road to the hotel in same taxi today; marveled at the beauty of the sunset over the Koutobia minaret while trying to ignore that we were inhaling more exhaust fumes than oxygen.
“Kelsey,” I said, “Do you know what I like about you? And I don’t think you’ll take offense at this, because I don’t mean it to be offensive in the least.”
“What?” she asked, looking out the backseat window.
I turned around in the front seat so I could look at her. “I like that you’re unapologetic about who you are. You’re just like, ‘I like who I am. If you don’t like me, fuck you.’”
She laughed. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I see that in you. And I like it a lot. Do you like yourself?”
“Yeah, I do. I like who I am, I like what I do. I have fun.”
“I can tell. There are some people who you can just tell that they like themselves. Then there are others who you can tell really don’t like themselves.”
“Yeah.”
“So, I hope that’s an accurate description. I like you.”
Traveling
October 18 11:30 am
Western travelers journey to marvel at the differences.
Eastern travelers journey to discover the similarities.
Why do you travel?
Western travelers journey to marvel at the differences.
Eastern travelers journey to discover the similarities.
Why do you travel?
Sunrise over Sahara
October 18 8:00am
I saw you this morning, at 4:40am.
Then I saw a shooting star through Orion.
I saw you this morning, at 4:40am.
Then I saw a shooting star through Orion.
Cliffs
October 18 5:00pm
We’re ripping around a mountain highway at blistering speeds. Each curve looks like certain death.
“Said, does he driver have any idea that he’s scaring the hell out of us?”
“I’m keeping an eye on him,” Said says.
The more terrified I get that I am going to die RIGHT NOW, the more peaceful the bus driver seems.
He’s chanting Qur’an now.
“Allahu akbar,” I think. “God is great.” And God is the only reason we haven’t gone off a cliff yet.
I wish the driver would watch the road a little more. And that he had put on deodorant this morning.
We’re ripping around a mountain highway at blistering speeds. Each curve looks like certain death.
“Said, does he driver have any idea that he’s scaring the hell out of us?”
“I’m keeping an eye on him,” Said says.
The more terrified I get that I am going to die RIGHT NOW, the more peaceful the bus driver seems.
He’s chanting Qur’an now.
“Allahu akbar,” I think. “God is great.” And God is the only reason we haven’t gone off a cliff yet.
I wish the driver would watch the road a little more. And that he had put on deodorant this morning.
A General Thanksgiving
October 18 12:10am
A General Thanksgiving
Accept, O Lord, our thanks and praise for all that you have done for us. We thank you for the splendor of the whole creation, for the beauty of this world, for the wonder of life, and for the mystery of love.
We thank you for the blessing of family and friends, for the loving care which surrounds us on every side.
We thank you for setting us at tasks which demand our best efforts, and for leading us to accomplishments which satisfy and delight us.
We thank you also for those disappointments and failures that lead us to acknowledge our dependence on the One.
We thank you for moments of clarity when we realize that emotions are transitory, that life, with all its problems, is beautiful, and when we recognize how dearly loved, and how undeserving, we are.
We thank you for times when we understand and embody the One.
Amen.
(Taken from the Book of Common Prayer; the end adapted by me).
A General Thanksgiving
Accept, O Lord, our thanks and praise for all that you have done for us. We thank you for the splendor of the whole creation, for the beauty of this world, for the wonder of life, and for the mystery of love.
We thank you for the blessing of family and friends, for the loving care which surrounds us on every side.
We thank you for setting us at tasks which demand our best efforts, and for leading us to accomplishments which satisfy and delight us.
We thank you also for those disappointments and failures that lead us to acknowledge our dependence on the One.
We thank you for moments of clarity when we realize that emotions are transitory, that life, with all its problems, is beautiful, and when we recognize how dearly loved, and how undeserving, we are.
We thank you for times when we understand and embody the One.
Amen.
(Taken from the Book of Common Prayer; the end adapted by me).
October 17 en route to the Sahara
“Emergency stop. Qehtahti has to pee.
Those of you who remain on the bus: don’t look right or left, only forward.”
The bus stops so about 12 people can go pee. Badrdine takes his mp3 player to the microphone and turns James Blunt’s “beautiful” up. We all groan. Badr flashes his cute grin at us, points both fingers to the back of the bus and says, “You’re beautiful.”
Those of you who remain on the bus: don’t look right or left, only forward.”
The bus stops so about 12 people can go pee. Badrdine takes his mp3 player to the microphone and turns James Blunt’s “beautiful” up. We all groan. Badr flashes his cute grin at us, points both fingers to the back of the bus and says, “You’re beautiful.”
Azrou
October 16 1:15 pm
The last time the sky looked like this, I was in Treblinka.
eery cloudy gray-blue. rare and spectacular.
I have no idea what this means.
“Watch out for the monkeys.
They’re aggressive.”
—Said.
11:30pm
I went jogging today in the pouring rain. Trucks splashed muddy water all over me, but I ran with a smile on my face. I talked to Steffa about rain and running and nature and beauty and living abroad. We saw two rainbows.
On the jog back to the hotel, we ran down a hill, and towards a breathtaking view of the small village of Azrou. Blue sky above, white puffy clouds parting and letting rays of sunlight hit the ground. I ran with my arms outstretched, laughing. “Steffa, this is amazing ” “I know ” she said.
We marveled at the mountain she had climbed earlier in the day, illuminated by the rays of sunlight as the clouds drifted away. It was breathtaking in the descending dusk. We discussed identity and religion and plans after graduation. We stared at a shepherd as he herded his sheep past us, and then our gaze returned to the mountain. We put our arms around each other and just looked at it.
It felt like fall today. Moroccan autumn smells good.
The last time the sky looked like this, I was in Treblinka.
eery cloudy gray-blue. rare and spectacular.
I have no idea what this means.
“Watch out for the monkeys.
They’re aggressive.”
—Said.
11:30pm
I went jogging today in the pouring rain. Trucks splashed muddy water all over me, but I ran with a smile on my face. I talked to Steffa about rain and running and nature and beauty and living abroad. We saw two rainbows.
On the jog back to the hotel, we ran down a hill, and towards a breathtaking view of the small village of Azrou. Blue sky above, white puffy clouds parting and letting rays of sunlight hit the ground. I ran with my arms outstretched, laughing. “Steffa, this is amazing ” “I know ” she said.
We marveled at the mountain she had climbed earlier in the day, illuminated by the rays of sunlight as the clouds drifted away. It was breathtaking in the descending dusk. We discussed identity and religion and plans after graduation. We stared at a shepherd as he herded his sheep past us, and then our gaze returned to the mountain. We put our arms around each other and just looked at it.
It felt like fall today. Moroccan autumn smells good.
En route to Azrou
October 16. 11:00am. Bus to Azrou
“I feel like I have a llama.”
“I feel like I have a llama. I went to eat it, and she took it ”
—Katie, in reference to Rebecca’s agile food-stealing
The joy that can be derived from juvenile potty humor and Moroccan bathrooms should never be underestimated.
Neither should the power of a good cup of ka’awa, the sweetness of the smile and conversation of the Moroccan gas station barista, or skipping toward a gargantuan tour bus arm in arm with your hilarious hijab-ed program assistant.
There are times when all I want in the world is to be at Common Grounds in Lexington wearing a faux-batik wrap dress, holding Clay’s hand, hugging my best friends, listening to Eric Ruppel and people laugh at his “Battle of the Sexes.”
But then there are the times when being an American women in Morocco is just too funny to leave. The times when I walk through the souks with Katie, who is badass enough to yell at Moroccan guys to get away from her, and when that doesn’t work, we hide in a clothing shop behind hangers of tacky Western clothes, “salaam”-ing and “lebaas”-ing the eager merchants, who promise us, “100dH, good price, good price” for a sequined halter top with feathers. Hmm.
The times when you have to laugh at the word “poop”, because “poop” is the root of half of your friends’ problems: either they can’t stop pooping, or they can’t start.
Poop has to be funny if you’re going to survive Morocco.
How could I leave Morocco when the best of times includes your host family laughing at you so hard they could cry, “hshuma”-ing you because you taught them the word “zucchini”, and to them it sounds like you just called dinner “ass.”
And then you bank on “zucchini”, using it as cultural currency to break the ice with otherwise sour-faced taxi drivers, who laugh until they cry and slap the steering wheel, charge you the right price for the ride, and shower you with peace and blessings when you leave the taxi. (I will bank on my “zucchini” revelation for the rest of my time here).
Caffeine and a smile will go so far in this chaotic country. Even so far as to make me invincible to bad poop-related ailments and bad experiences with B.O.-laden Moroccan men.
If someone gave me a free ticket to the States right now, I wouldn’t take it.
I’ll be home for Christmas.
“I feel like I have a llama.”
“I feel like I have a llama. I went to eat it, and she took it ”
—Katie, in reference to Rebecca’s agile food-stealing
The joy that can be derived from juvenile potty humor and Moroccan bathrooms should never be underestimated.
Neither should the power of a good cup of ka’awa, the sweetness of the smile and conversation of the Moroccan gas station barista, or skipping toward a gargantuan tour bus arm in arm with your hilarious hijab-ed program assistant.
There are times when all I want in the world is to be at Common Grounds in Lexington wearing a faux-batik wrap dress, holding Clay’s hand, hugging my best friends, listening to Eric Ruppel and people laugh at his “Battle of the Sexes.”
But then there are the times when being an American women in Morocco is just too funny to leave. The times when I walk through the souks with Katie, who is badass enough to yell at Moroccan guys to get away from her, and when that doesn’t work, we hide in a clothing shop behind hangers of tacky Western clothes, “salaam”-ing and “lebaas”-ing the eager merchants, who promise us, “100dH, good price, good price” for a sequined halter top with feathers. Hmm.
The times when you have to laugh at the word “poop”, because “poop” is the root of half of your friends’ problems: either they can’t stop pooping, or they can’t start.
Poop has to be funny if you’re going to survive Morocco.
How could I leave Morocco when the best of times includes your host family laughing at you so hard they could cry, “hshuma”-ing you because you taught them the word “zucchini”, and to them it sounds like you just called dinner “ass.”
And then you bank on “zucchini”, using it as cultural currency to break the ice with otherwise sour-faced taxi drivers, who laugh until they cry and slap the steering wheel, charge you the right price for the ride, and shower you with peace and blessings when you leave the taxi. (I will bank on my “zucchini” revelation for the rest of my time here).
Caffeine and a smile will go so far in this chaotic country. Even so far as to make me invincible to bad poop-related ailments and bad experiences with B.O.-laden Moroccan men.
If someone gave me a free ticket to the States right now, I wouldn’t take it.
I’ll be home for Christmas.
October 13 Goodnight
“Goodnight, mama.”
“Ah.”
“Goodnight, Fati.”
“Goodnight,” she smiles.
“Goodnight, Yassine.”
—PAUSE—
He doesn’t look away from the computer keyboard.
“Insha’Allah,” he finally says.
“Goodnight, baba.”
“Bye bye.”
“Ah.”
“Goodnight, Fati.”
“Goodnight,” she smiles.
“Goodnight, Yassine.”
—PAUSE—
He doesn’t look away from the computer keyboard.
“Insha’Allah,” he finally says.
“Goodnight, baba.”
“Bye bye.”
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Coffee and cigarettes
October 12 11:30pm
(A warning: I do bad things in this. Dance mommies.... don’t let your dance kids read this).
In Morocco, the proverb “This too shall pass” will only get you so far. Sometimes, you just get down. Like when your family won’t talk to you, and when your sister, who used to be your friend and giggle with you about boys, hasn’t really spoken to you in a week and gets perennially upset whenever you need her to translate rapid Arabic for you. Yeah, so Morocco can be tough sometimes.
But that’s when friends enter, and save the day I was having just such an icky night (family not talking and Fati being ridiculously moody; we’ll let that all slide........ they were fasting), and I decided to text-message Katie-from-Brooklyn to save me. Katie-from-Brooklyn is a ball of sunshine who takes great joy in describing in detail her “Egyptian” disease (that nice vomit/diarrhea thing) and her Moroccan sister’s 14-day constipation. “Poop ” It’s just a funny word. It’s especially grand when you over emphasize the “ooooo” and make the final “p” sound like a mix between “p” and “b”. Try it. It’s fun.
(Tangent: Katie’s Egyptian disease has subsided, and her sister finally pooped today, praise Allah. Katie recounted the story to me:
“So I went home today, and my sister told me she had pooped.
“Hamdulilah Was it amazing? ? Did the poop just rocket out of you?” she acted out her excitement. Katie is always excited, and always makes me laugh when she says poop.
“It was okay,” her sister said, awkwardly.)
So Katie and I took a walk and I vented about my moody Moroccan family, and we ended up at a sidewalk café on Mohammad II (for those who are interested, this café is situated right next to the trucks holding all the film equipment for Leo’s latest movie; we sat across from the balcony where they filmed a scene yesterday). We are brash young American girls, and so we sat on the sidewalk. Only Moroccan men sit on the sidewalk; it is their realm. We got over that a long time ago, and decided the men would as well.
We ordered café au laits and lit up.
“Thank you so much ” I cried. “I told myself I wouldn’t smoke in Morocco, but God I needed a cigarette.”
“I knew it right when you texted me,” she said. “It was just time for a cigarette.”
“No kidding,” I said, blowing smoke up into the night air. I love watching smoke as it comes out of my mouth. And I loved that cigarette. Oh how good it was.
We talked and laughed about poop and annoying people and Moroccan men and life in general. Rebecca from Oklahoma joined us and we talked about exorcisms and possessions and good and evil energy and mediums, we laughed and talked about sex....... I shant neglect to mention that.
It was a wonderful evening, made superb by an hour long conversation with Marcie on Skype.
The power of coffee and cigarettes and conversations should never be underestimated.
(A warning: I do bad things in this. Dance mommies.... don’t let your dance kids read this).
In Morocco, the proverb “This too shall pass” will only get you so far. Sometimes, you just get down. Like when your family won’t talk to you, and when your sister, who used to be your friend and giggle with you about boys, hasn’t really spoken to you in a week and gets perennially upset whenever you need her to translate rapid Arabic for you. Yeah, so Morocco can be tough sometimes.
But that’s when friends enter, and save the day I was having just such an icky night (family not talking and Fati being ridiculously moody; we’ll let that all slide........ they were fasting), and I decided to text-message Katie-from-Brooklyn to save me. Katie-from-Brooklyn is a ball of sunshine who takes great joy in describing in detail her “Egyptian” disease (that nice vomit/diarrhea thing) and her Moroccan sister’s 14-day constipation. “Poop ” It’s just a funny word. It’s especially grand when you over emphasize the “ooooo” and make the final “p” sound like a mix between “p” and “b”. Try it. It’s fun.
(Tangent: Katie’s Egyptian disease has subsided, and her sister finally pooped today, praise Allah. Katie recounted the story to me:
“So I went home today, and my sister told me she had pooped.
“Hamdulilah Was it amazing? ? Did the poop just rocket out of you?” she acted out her excitement. Katie is always excited, and always makes me laugh when she says poop.
“It was okay,” her sister said, awkwardly.)
So Katie and I took a walk and I vented about my moody Moroccan family, and we ended up at a sidewalk café on Mohammad II (for those who are interested, this café is situated right next to the trucks holding all the film equipment for Leo’s latest movie; we sat across from the balcony where they filmed a scene yesterday). We are brash young American girls, and so we sat on the sidewalk. Only Moroccan men sit on the sidewalk; it is their realm. We got over that a long time ago, and decided the men would as well.
We ordered café au laits and lit up.
“Thank you so much ” I cried. “I told myself I wouldn’t smoke in Morocco, but God I needed a cigarette.”
“I knew it right when you texted me,” she said. “It was just time for a cigarette.”
“No kidding,” I said, blowing smoke up into the night air. I love watching smoke as it comes out of my mouth. And I loved that cigarette. Oh how good it was.
We talked and laughed about poop and annoying people and Moroccan men and life in general. Rebecca from Oklahoma joined us and we talked about exorcisms and possessions and good and evil energy and mediums, we laughed and talked about sex....... I shant neglect to mention that.
It was a wonderful evening, made superb by an hour long conversation with Marcie on Skype.
The power of coffee and cigarettes and conversations should never be underestimated.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Dancing in Morocco
October 11. 10:30pm
Last night I started choreographing to the set dance “Hurry the Jug” (at 70), and today I was really excited about going to my dance studio early so I could practice. Jalila, my belly dancing teacher, said it would be no problem if I wanted to use the studio when it was empty. She’s beautiful and talented and one of the sweetest Moroccan women I’ve met. She’s sweet even after dancing for an hour, and after fasting all day. She’s a powerhouse.
My plan was going to work; I was going to get to Irish dance today I was excited all day long; I danced in my mind instead of listening to lectures; I choreographed the remainder of the step during the mid-morning break in Arabic class; I talked to Raquel and Maggie about dance and generally just dreamed about dancing all day. How glorious it was going to be to have free time to dance
“The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
Said (the longest-winded man here, but also the sweetest; he took 3 minutes to explain to us that we were going to attend a music performance while on the Southern Excursion next week, and he restructured the same statement in twenty different ways: “We will have the opportunity to attend a musical performance in ...”, “Musicians will perform for us...”, “A musical performance will be given...”, “We will be treated to a night of music...” and so on.... I sat in my seat, twitching and wishing I could do a jig. It was excruciating...) and Leonardo DiCaprio prevented me from getting to the dance studio early enough to practice before belly dancing started. Mr. DiCaprio is shooting a film in Rabat, on Mohammad V Avenue, the main street that I live off of and that I walk down every single day. How dare Mr. DiCaprio take over my street? Ah, well. As frustrating as it was to have dance taken away from me by crowds of people, trucks, and barricades, it was neat to see movie cameras and hijab-ed women and djellaba-ed men gawking at the scene. Moroccans are used to movies being filmed in their country, but Leonardo is special. No less than three Moroccan men have told me that “Lay-eeo-nar-do Dee-Cab-ree–oo” is here. They think that will break the ice and then I’ll let them talk to me, follow me, or buy me a coffee. Haha. Not so.
Despite Leonardo and the mob scene, I made it to dance with ten minutes to spare before I had to shake my butt and move my hips. With belly dancing music in the background, I free-styled. I made up new patterns to prepare for leaps (which were unusually high today—so exciting ) and “running mans, I practiced jumps, I fooled around and combined my own version of modern dancing with some Irish moves and the rhythms of Moroccan music. It was a great ten minutes.
Belly dancing class wasn’t that bad, either...... I just have trouble looking sexy while doing it. And instead of my butt shaking, sometimes my whole body gets away from me and everything shakes. Jalila just smiles when I say, “I’ll practice and I’ll get it.” “Insha’allah”, she says. “Insha’allah.”
Last night I started choreographing to the set dance “Hurry the Jug” (at 70), and today I was really excited about going to my dance studio early so I could practice. Jalila, my belly dancing teacher, said it would be no problem if I wanted to use the studio when it was empty. She’s beautiful and talented and one of the sweetest Moroccan women I’ve met. She’s sweet even after dancing for an hour, and after fasting all day. She’s a powerhouse.
My plan was going to work; I was going to get to Irish dance today I was excited all day long; I danced in my mind instead of listening to lectures; I choreographed the remainder of the step during the mid-morning break in Arabic class; I talked to Raquel and Maggie about dance and generally just dreamed about dancing all day. How glorious it was going to be to have free time to dance
“The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
Said (the longest-winded man here, but also the sweetest; he took 3 minutes to explain to us that we were going to attend a music performance while on the Southern Excursion next week, and he restructured the same statement in twenty different ways: “We will have the opportunity to attend a musical performance in ...”, “Musicians will perform for us...”, “A musical performance will be given...”, “We will be treated to a night of music...” and so on.... I sat in my seat, twitching and wishing I could do a jig. It was excruciating...) and Leonardo DiCaprio prevented me from getting to the dance studio early enough to practice before belly dancing started. Mr. DiCaprio is shooting a film in Rabat, on Mohammad V Avenue, the main street that I live off of and that I walk down every single day. How dare Mr. DiCaprio take over my street? Ah, well. As frustrating as it was to have dance taken away from me by crowds of people, trucks, and barricades, it was neat to see movie cameras and hijab-ed women and djellaba-ed men gawking at the scene. Moroccans are used to movies being filmed in their country, but Leonardo is special. No less than three Moroccan men have told me that “Lay-eeo-nar-do Dee-Cab-ree–oo” is here. They think that will break the ice and then I’ll let them talk to me, follow me, or buy me a coffee. Haha. Not so.
Despite Leonardo and the mob scene, I made it to dance with ten minutes to spare before I had to shake my butt and move my hips. With belly dancing music in the background, I free-styled. I made up new patterns to prepare for leaps (which were unusually high today—so exciting ) and “running mans, I practiced jumps, I fooled around and combined my own version of modern dancing with some Irish moves and the rhythms of Moroccan music. It was a great ten minutes.
Belly dancing class wasn’t that bad, either...... I just have trouble looking sexy while doing it. And instead of my butt shaking, sometimes my whole body gets away from me and everything shakes. Jalila just smiles when I say, “I’ll practice and I’ll get it.” “Insha’allah”, she says. “Insha’allah.”
Thursday, October 11, 2007
An exciting evening
October 10 11:30pm
My American mom has been telling me that my eager Stateside readers want to know more about my Moroccan family. “They need updates!” she says. Well, here is one. It was an interesting evening. I hope you enjoy.
Carly and I spent about two hours at Chaharazade (it is spelt that way on the sign outside the restaurant, and Sheharazade on the menus; Moroccans have some trouble with transliteration), doing homework while drinking café au laits and banana juice. (It’s quite good). Lots of Arabic, lots of fun. After about an hour of sitting in the café, this young guy (we had noticed him staring), came over and started talking to Carly.
“You study Arabic? I help you...”
He reached his hand across the right side of her body, and rested it on her textbook. “I want study with you.” His left hand rested on the back of her chair and he leaned in to her. “I help you.” (Carly: “I don’t need help, thanks..... No, I need to study.”) I sat there, disgusted. Harassment is a daily reality for all of the female American students. Some days it’s worse than others, some days it effects you more than others. Usually we let it role off, go in one ear and out the other, and we laugh about the funniest things we’ve heard guys say. (“Chinese? Japanese?” “Hello. I love you.” “Beautiful.” “How-are-you-want-a-date?” and so on.)
Tonight was different. Playing off of behaviors he’s learned from his culture, this guy was being more than a menace. He was asserting his superior male-ness, and Carly, given her personality and mistrust of guys, was shrinking away from him. She kind of folded into herself, and looked frightened and beyond bothered. I watched this interchange for a few seconds, and when I realized that Carly’s attempts to ward him off were doing nothing, I said in a stern and obviously annoyed voice,
“Hey you. Go. Leave. Go away.”
He looked startled, and he removed his hand from her textbook and chair.
“Okay,” he said. “I go.”
We finished studying and paid for our drinks, and exited the café and began our walk home. Joy of joys........ who did we find waiting for us outside but “I want study with you” and his comrade! We started walking faster through the parking lot of Marchée Centrale. He kept trying to talk to Carly, and she kept saying, “
We continued down Mohammad V, and hung back in the crowd so that they would get ahead of us. We took a sharp right turn onto Rue Souika (it’s ridiculously busy: men selling things in the middle of the street; one small lane of pedestrian traffic on the right side of the street going one way, and on the opposite side, across the huge tarps of teapots, sweatshirts, pirated DVD’s, hammam scrubbies, and toilet paper, a lane of pedestrians slowly crawling the other way). There were hundreds of people in the street, all moving like molasses. We squeezed our way through people, knowing that even if these guys tried to follow us, they’d have to trample a dozen people to get within arm’s length of us again.
I called Fati (my host sister) while we crawled along Souika, and asked her if Baba (dad) was home. He wasn’t, but she was very concerned and told me she’d come down to meet us on Mohammad V. “Fati, we’re not there. We’re on Souika, and stuck in a crowd of people. We think we lost them, though.” The connection was lost, but she called me back almost immediately. “Yassine and I are coming. We’ll see you soon.”
Carly and I made it through the Souika crowd and onto Mohammad V. We felt better, and I felt triumphant, that we had lost our harassers. I found Fati and Zainab (my 13 year old sister) near a hand-bag vendor about 300 feet away from my street. “Fati!” I waved. We said goodbye to Carly as she walked down the street that would lead to her home (the “food souk”, as the SIT students know it), and I told Fati and Zainab the story.
Apparently when I called Fati, she told Yassine (my brother) what was going on, and he decided to be “big-brotherly” about it, immediately dropping what he was doing (which was homework he didn’t want to do anyway) to come to our rescue. He called some of his friends, and I think he and they were hoping for some sort of showdown. (What a story that would have been! “Hey, guys, yeah, so the other night, my American sister — she’s cute, right — she was getting harassed by some assholes and so we beat them up. I think she likes me.” Ha. I can see it now...). Moroccan men do love street fights. Alas, no showdown, for when I found my family, the harassers were long lost.
It was funny and cute, though, to know that Yassine had been so eager to come to my rescue. I think it was more out of hope for something more exciting than homework —more joy at this sudden excuse to leave his typing behind— than brotherly affection that he came to my rescue, but nonetheless, it was a nice, brotherly thing to do.
Yassine grunts and whines and yells at his mom and dad, always sleeps in, is moody and grumpy in the afternoons, and often makes Fati do his homework for him. Despite all of these things, I like the kid. He walks into rooms and proudly states, “I am beautiful,” while touching his hand to his chest. He tells me he wants me to make him two bracelets (I’ve made friendship bracelets for all the women in my family), and that one needs to be black and one needs to be white, because these are the colors he wears all the time. They are part the quintessential Yassine “look”: slicked back curly hair, designer jeans (or faux designer jeans, rather) with a belt, and a black and white screen print shirt. He thinks he looks hot. For a Moroccan, he’s not that bad, really. Most guys smell kind of bad (many haven’t discovered the modern marvel that is deodorant) and wear dingy clothes. Yassine takes pride in how he looks (“I am beautiful”), and dresses like an American gay man. Most nicely dressed men in
Ah,
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
I've needed these good tears for so long
October 8.
Life in Morocco is a series of constant ups and downs, highs and lows. The smallest disappointments are easily magnified, but so too are the smallest victories. Every day is filled with prayers for victories and smiles, because that just makes time pass more quickly.
The present moment is a good one, a great one, even. I walked home from school and watched a little girl sitting patiently on a stool while her mother painted intricate designs in henna on her hands. Tomorrow is Qadr, the holiest night in Ramadan, when it is said that the “doors of the sky are opened, and all prayers heard”. I listened enraptured this morning as Doha, my substitute Arabic teacher, told us all what to expect for Qadr.
“Children will be dressed in beautiful Moroccan costumes, little girls will have henna. Children seven and eight years old will fast tomorrow for the first time. Families will be in the streets taking pictures of their children.”
“The sky will open, and prayers will be more heard on the night of Qadr than others.”
“The night of Qadr is better than one thousand months.”
Listening to Doha, I felt the same excitement churning in my stomach, the same welling up of joy and expectation and awe as I do during Christmas at home. I am spellbound by the beauty and belief that I witness at Lessons and Carols at Christ Church Cathedral. Christmas Eve services at Christ Church hold a tremendous amount of significance for me on the fundamental level of identity; they remind me of who I am and what religion is supposed to be. They remind me of what it is like to be a child again, staring in awe at the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree, and not being concerned about the commercialization of Christmas, at the commodification of religion, at the problems of American Christianity..........
I’ve found myself frequently nostalgic about Christmas and my Episcopal upbringing here in Morocco. Perhaps its because I’m surrounded by a culture so different, but in its own way so thoroughly faithful, so full to the brim with belief and awe at the power of God and the mystery that it is to be alive. Perhaps it’s because I’m so far away from home, and Morning, Noonday, Evening Prayer and Compline are what keep me grounded, are what remind me that I can go to Arabic class, I can live abroad and still be me, I can be connected to my Kentucky identity and to those whom I love. Perhaps it’s just because I’ve been too long and too far removed from the childlike simplicity of belief in the good in people, belief in the purpose of religion, and belief in God.
Jesus. Sitting on the blue and gold couches in the salon of my host family’s home, I am crying. And these are amazing, refreshing tears. My mind is flooded by memories of Domain summer camps and healing services, of crying while hugging friends and watching the sun set through the windows of that old wooden Cathedral; of Happening weekends and washing my hands in bowls representing sin—of pouring the water from those bowls into the ground, washing away everything that I regretted, of yelling CARITAS to the mountain, and hearing it yell back; of singing my first Lessons and Carols service, when my senses were so heightened, everything I saw looked chiseled and polished (my memory now even sharper than when I experienced it), everything I heard reverberated in the depths of me, the sounds from my mouth flowed freely and of their own accord; of being sixteen years old and understanding something new about Easter and God, of beating my hands on the marble altar at the Cathedral, sobbing, sobbing, weeping.
Morocco is reminding me of what it was for me to be religious, what it is to be religious, in the best possible sense. I am slowly peeling away the layers of doubt and regret, of anger and disgust and hurt, of incredulity, of philosophy and academia, of rites and rituals and should haves and should nots. And at the bottom of it all, I am reminded of what it all meant to me before. What religion meant to me before, why I cried before. I cried out of love, out of the realization of what it was to love and to be loved. I didn’t cry in amazement at the Bible, at literal interpretations or commandments or sermons. I cried then, and I am crying now, because I am re-learning what it all used to mean.
Sitting at the base of the Christmas tree, looking up into the pine needles and the lights, surrounded by shiny wrapping paper, and closing my eyes while singing Jesus Christ the Apple Tree in my head...........
all it ever meant was love.
“And it now appeared to him that it had been his inability to love anything or anyone that had previously made him so ill.” (51)
“I have had to pass through so much stupidity, through so much vice, through so much error, through so much disgust and disappointment and misery, merely to become a child again and to be able to make a new start...
I had to experience despair, I had to descend to the most foolish thought of all, the thought of suicide, in order to experience grce, in order to near OM again, to be able to sleep and awaken properly again. I had to become a fool in order to find Atman within myself again. I had to sin so that I could live again.” (52)
“The world...is not imperfect or on a slow journey toward perfection; no, it is perfect at every moment, all sin already bears forgiveness within itself...
Whatever exists seems good to me; death is like life to me, sin like sanctity, cleverness like folly; everything must be as it is; everything needs only my consent, my willingness, my loving comprehension, and then it is good in my eyes, and can never harm me...
I needed the most humiliating despair in order to learn how to give up my resistance, in order to learn how to love the world.”(77)
“They are physical things, and things can be loved. But words I cannot love... Perhaps that is what prevents you from finding peace, perhaps it is all those words...
I do not make a great distinction between concepts and words. To put it frankly, I have no high regard for concepts, either. I have a higher regard for physical things...
The things may be illusory or not, if they are, I too, am illusory, and so they continue to be of the same nature as myself. That is what makes them so dear and worthy of reverence to me: they share my nature. Therefore, I can love them...
love... appears to me to be the chief thing of all.” (78)
(All above quotes from Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse).
So on goes my time in Morocco. The harder moments end with tears of joy at the remembrance of what it is like to be a child, and to see everything for the first time.
I can’t wait until Christmas.
Life in Morocco is a series of constant ups and downs, highs and lows. The smallest disappointments are easily magnified, but so too are the smallest victories. Every day is filled with prayers for victories and smiles, because that just makes time pass more quickly.
The present moment is a good one, a great one, even. I walked home from school and watched a little girl sitting patiently on a stool while her mother painted intricate designs in henna on her hands. Tomorrow is Qadr, the holiest night in Ramadan, when it is said that the “doors of the sky are opened, and all prayers heard”. I listened enraptured this morning as Doha, my substitute Arabic teacher, told us all what to expect for Qadr.
“Children will be dressed in beautiful Moroccan costumes, little girls will have henna. Children seven and eight years old will fast tomorrow for the first time. Families will be in the streets taking pictures of their children.”
“The sky will open, and prayers will be more heard on the night of Qadr than others.”
“The night of Qadr is better than one thousand months.”
Listening to Doha, I felt the same excitement churning in my stomach, the same welling up of joy and expectation and awe as I do during Christmas at home. I am spellbound by the beauty and belief that I witness at Lessons and Carols at Christ Church Cathedral. Christmas Eve services at Christ Church hold a tremendous amount of significance for me on the fundamental level of identity; they remind me of who I am and what religion is supposed to be. They remind me of what it is like to be a child again, staring in awe at the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree, and not being concerned about the commercialization of Christmas, at the commodification of religion, at the problems of American Christianity..........
I’ve found myself frequently nostalgic about Christmas and my Episcopal upbringing here in Morocco. Perhaps its because I’m surrounded by a culture so different, but in its own way so thoroughly faithful, so full to the brim with belief and awe at the power of God and the mystery that it is to be alive. Perhaps it’s because I’m so far away from home, and Morning, Noonday, Evening Prayer and Compline are what keep me grounded, are what remind me that I can go to Arabic class, I can live abroad and still be me, I can be connected to my Kentucky identity and to those whom I love. Perhaps it’s just because I’ve been too long and too far removed from the childlike simplicity of belief in the good in people, belief in the purpose of religion, and belief in God.
Jesus. Sitting on the blue and gold couches in the salon of my host family’s home, I am crying. And these are amazing, refreshing tears. My mind is flooded by memories of Domain summer camps and healing services, of crying while hugging friends and watching the sun set through the windows of that old wooden Cathedral; of Happening weekends and washing my hands in bowls representing sin—of pouring the water from those bowls into the ground, washing away everything that I regretted, of yelling CARITAS to the mountain, and hearing it yell back; of singing my first Lessons and Carols service, when my senses were so heightened, everything I saw looked chiseled and polished (my memory now even sharper than when I experienced it), everything I heard reverberated in the depths of me, the sounds from my mouth flowed freely and of their own accord; of being sixteen years old and understanding something new about Easter and God, of beating my hands on the marble altar at the Cathedral, sobbing, sobbing, weeping.
Morocco is reminding me of what it was for me to be religious, what it is to be religious, in the best possible sense. I am slowly peeling away the layers of doubt and regret, of anger and disgust and hurt, of incredulity, of philosophy and academia, of rites and rituals and should haves and should nots. And at the bottom of it all, I am reminded of what it all meant to me before. What religion meant to me before, why I cried before. I cried out of love, out of the realization of what it was to love and to be loved. I didn’t cry in amazement at the Bible, at literal interpretations or commandments or sermons. I cried then, and I am crying now, because I am re-learning what it all used to mean.
Sitting at the base of the Christmas tree, looking up into the pine needles and the lights, surrounded by shiny wrapping paper, and closing my eyes while singing Jesus Christ the Apple Tree in my head...........
all it ever meant was love.
“And it now appeared to him that it had been his inability to love anything or anyone that had previously made him so ill.” (51)
“I have had to pass through so much stupidity, through so much vice, through so much error, through so much disgust and disappointment and misery, merely to become a child again and to be able to make a new start...
I had to experience despair, I had to descend to the most foolish thought of all, the thought of suicide, in order to experience grce, in order to near OM again, to be able to sleep and awaken properly again. I had to become a fool in order to find Atman within myself again. I had to sin so that I could live again.” (52)
“The world...is not imperfect or on a slow journey toward perfection; no, it is perfect at every moment, all sin already bears forgiveness within itself...
Whatever exists seems good to me; death is like life to me, sin like sanctity, cleverness like folly; everything must be as it is; everything needs only my consent, my willingness, my loving comprehension, and then it is good in my eyes, and can never harm me...
I needed the most humiliating despair in order to learn how to give up my resistance, in order to learn how to love the world.”(77)
“They are physical things, and things can be loved. But words I cannot love... Perhaps that is what prevents you from finding peace, perhaps it is all those words...
I do not make a great distinction between concepts and words. To put it frankly, I have no high regard for concepts, either. I have a higher regard for physical things...
The things may be illusory or not, if they are, I too, am illusory, and so they continue to be of the same nature as myself. That is what makes them so dear and worthy of reverence to me: they share my nature. Therefore, I can love them...
love... appears to me to be the chief thing of all.” (78)
(All above quotes from Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse).
So on goes my time in Morocco. The harder moments end with tears of joy at the remembrance of what it is like to be a child, and to see everything for the first time.
I can’t wait until Christmas.
Psalm 131
October 7
1:00am
Psalm 131
O Lord, I am not proud; I have no haughty looks.
I do not occupy myself with great matters;
or with things that are too hard for me.
But I still my soul and make it quiet,
like a child upon its mother’s breast,
my soul is quieted within me.
O Israel, wait upon the Lord,
this time forth for evermore.
1:00am
Psalm 131
O Lord, I am not proud; I have no haughty looks.
I do not occupy myself with great matters;
or with things that are too hard for me.
But I still my soul and make it quiet,
like a child upon its mother’s breast,
my soul is quieted within me.
O Israel, wait upon the Lord,
this time forth for evermore.
Cascades I
October 6
Noon, sitting at a café Cascades des Ouzoud
A Collect for Saturdays
from Morning Prayer II
Almighty God, who after the creation of the world rested from all your works and sanctified a day of rest for all your creatures: Grant that we, putting away all earthly anxieties, may be duly prepared for the service of your sanctuary, and that our rest here upon earth may be a preparation for the eternal rest promised to your people in heaven; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Noon, sitting at a café Cascades des Ouzoud
A Collect for Saturdays
from Morning Prayer II
Almighty God, who after the creation of the world rested from all your works and sanctified a day of rest for all your creatures: Grant that we, putting away all earthly anxieties, may be duly prepared for the service of your sanctuary, and that our rest here upon earth may be a preparation for the eternal rest promised to your people in heaven; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Siddhartha
October 5
Siddhartha (pages 58 and 76)
There was nothing, there will be nothing;
Everything is, everything has substantiality and presence.
Wisdom cannot be imparted.
Wisdom that a wise man attempts to impart always sounds like foolishness...
Knowledge can be imparted, but not wisdom.
Seeking means having a goal.
But finding means being free, remaining accessible, having no goal.
A person or an action is never totally samsara or totally nirvana;
a person is never totally saintly or totally sinful.
Siddhartha (pages 58 and 76)
There was nothing, there will be nothing;
Everything is, everything has substantiality and presence.
Wisdom cannot be imparted.
Wisdom that a wise man attempts to impart always sounds like foolishness...
Knowledge can be imparted, but not wisdom.
Seeking means having a goal.
But finding means being free, remaining accessible, having no goal.
A person or an action is never totally samsara or totally nirvana;
a person is never totally saintly or totally sinful.
live in the eternal now
October 4
Live in the eternal now.
“It’s not women who need development, it’s development that needs them.
The country cannot become developed without women.”
—
Lecture on micro-credit
2:32 pm
Carly’s mother is going into open heart surgery in half an hour. Carly has been in hysterics for a large part of the last 18 hours. I am in a lecture on microcredit, learning about women’s development and its relationship to a country’s development. I am content. It is a good day.
Carly has had a difficult time facing her host family during the last few days; her tears are met by, “Hayat, safi Safi ” (Carly, stop it That’s enough ) and her concerns are not understood. As she explained it to me, her Moroccan mother has said (in French/Darija and gestures), “Why worry? God will take care of it.” Carly cannot and does not think this way, and so her current pains with her »À^zœ ºz~Ç (Moroccan family) occur at the level of fundamental beliefs and worldviews.
The study abroad student’s worst nightmare is a reality for Carly. I must give this situation a moment for contemplation. I’m at ease with the sheer idea of this nightmare. What if my mother was going into surgery? I have no idea how I would react in the situation, but from my black chair in the back of this classroom, ignoring as I am the end of this lecture, I am convinced that my reaction wouldn’t be Carly’s. A moment of fear, horror, why?, and sadness, I believe would be overcome by a wave of peace and acceptance. This is life, these are the events of living. People come and go, people live and die. There is a time for everything, and everything ebbs and flows.
What if:
My mother dies, my fathers loses his job, my brothers become involved in drugs or worse, Clay leaves, Marcie and Charlene are in the deepest jungles of Africa and South Asia, respectively, and uncontactable.
What to do, where to move, what to think?
Eat, sleep, breathe?
Insha’allah, I give myself pause for grief. But then, deep breaths in and out, I move on and recognize all of these events not as detractions from but as additions to my life. How will these events make me more compassionate, more loving? How will these hlep me to avoid mistakes, to avoid hurting others? How will these events prove to be blessings in my life and in the lives of those I meet?
continue to develop the life of the self and Self and deepen my connection to all things.
I am not an island because my roots are deep and touch as much as they can. I learn to grow. I grow to understand. I understand to love. I love to live.
My prayer is that any hardship that I face, no matter how catastrophic, will teach me more about what it means to be alive. I pray that hardship will broaden this embodied experience.
Disaster should teach me to love and to open.
I pray that I never hate or close. I pray that I might face difficulties large and small with patience and kindness. I pray that injustice is met both by a desire to change it, and a calm to face the battles ahead.
I pray that I learn to temper my kneejerk emotional reactions with an acknowledgment of their transitory nature.
Do not let emotions control you.
Let truths lead you to Truth, and let Truth be the true guide for your life.
Do not let truths lead you down a path of self-destruction.
Let not truths lead you to a loss of Self, a clouding of perception, a loss of Reality.
reality is not Reality
truth is not Truth
emotion is not a building block of the Self.
self is not Self.
Live in the eternal now.
“It’s not women who need development, it’s development that needs them.
The country cannot become developed without women.”
—
Lecture on micro-credit
2:32 pm
Carly’s mother is going into open heart surgery in half an hour. Carly has been in hysterics for a large part of the last 18 hours. I am in a lecture on microcredit, learning about women’s development and its relationship to a country’s development. I am content. It is a good day.
Carly has had a difficult time facing her host family during the last few days; her tears are met by, “Hayat, safi Safi ” (Carly, stop it That’s enough ) and her concerns are not understood. As she explained it to me, her Moroccan mother has said (in French/Darija and gestures), “Why worry? God will take care of it.” Carly cannot and does not think this way, and so her current pains with her »À^zœ ºz~Ç (Moroccan family) occur at the level of fundamental beliefs and worldviews.
The study abroad student’s worst nightmare is a reality for Carly. I must give this situation a moment for contemplation. I’m at ease with the sheer idea of this nightmare. What if my mother was going into surgery? I have no idea how I would react in the situation, but from my black chair in the back of this classroom, ignoring as I am the end of this lecture, I am convinced that my reaction wouldn’t be Carly’s. A moment of fear, horror, why?, and sadness, I believe would be overcome by a wave of peace and acceptance. This is life, these are the events of living. People come and go, people live and die. There is a time for everything, and everything ebbs and flows.
What if:
My mother dies, my fathers loses his job, my brothers become involved in drugs or worse, Clay leaves, Marcie and Charlene are in the deepest jungles of Africa and South Asia, respectively, and uncontactable.
What to do, where to move, what to think?
Eat, sleep, breathe?
Insha’allah, I give myself pause for grief. But then, deep breaths in and out, I move on and recognize all of these events not as detractions from but as additions to my life. How will these events make me more compassionate, more loving? How will these hlep me to avoid mistakes, to avoid hurting others? How will these events prove to be blessings in my life and in the lives of those I meet?
continue to develop the life of the self and Self and deepen my connection to all things.
I am not an island because my roots are deep and touch as much as they can. I learn to grow. I grow to understand. I understand to love. I love to live.
My prayer is that any hardship that I face, no matter how catastrophic, will teach me more about what it means to be alive. I pray that hardship will broaden this embodied experience.
Disaster should teach me to love and to open.
I pray that I never hate or close. I pray that I might face difficulties large and small with patience and kindness. I pray that injustice is met both by a desire to change it, and a calm to face the battles ahead.
I pray that I learn to temper my kneejerk emotional reactions with an acknowledgment of their transitory nature.
Do not let emotions control you.
Let truths lead you to Truth, and let Truth be the true guide for your life.
Do not let truths lead you down a path of self-destruction.
Let not truths lead you to a loss of Self, a clouding of perception, a loss of Reality.
reality is not Reality
truth is not Truth
emotion is not a building block of the Self.
self is not Self.
Casablanca Part II
October 3
3:46 pm. Finally in a taxi.
A good portion of my afternoon was spent releasing frustration regarding Moroccan men, harrassment, and the unavoidable acknowledgment of my female-ness. This simple fact of life is impossible to ignore in Morocco, as a woman’s body is overtly sexualized and her femaleness commented on dozens of time daily. Being both foreign (read white) and a woman multiplies the difficulties of navigating this country.
Check in to a Moroccan hotel = leave your American, “ungendered” self on the airplane.
So, my spirits were considerably brightened when, after standing in the rain on a dirty Casablanca street while trying to flag down a taxi, one finally arrived.
I had been standing next to a middle-aged gentleman who was also trying to flag down a taxi, and also trying to get to the CasaPort train station. He had a sweet round face with wrinkles that showed he was prone to smiling. He and I tried to flag down taxi after taxi; each would stop, and he would ask them to take us to CasaPort. Each would turn us down and drive away — their intended route obviously not passing near Le Gare.
Finally I flagged won a taxi with only one seat available. I looked at the sweet faced man and motioned for him to take the seat. He motioned for me to take the seat, and bowed out of my path so that I might take it.
I smiled and thanked him as much as I could. God bless him for his generosity.
My love of Morocco was thus re-enlivened by the kindness of this smiling stranger.
6:00pm
Evening Prayer
Psalm 133 Ecce, quam bonum
1 Oh, how good and pleasant it is,
when brethren live together in unity
2 It is like fine oil upon the head
that runs down upon the bear,
3 Upon the beard of Aaron,
and runs downs upon the collar of his robe.
4 It is like the dew of Hermon
that falls upon the hills of Zion.
5 For there the Lord has ordained the blessing:
life for evermore.
3:46 pm. Finally in a taxi.
A good portion of my afternoon was spent releasing frustration regarding Moroccan men, harrassment, and the unavoidable acknowledgment of my female-ness. This simple fact of life is impossible to ignore in Morocco, as a woman’s body is overtly sexualized and her femaleness commented on dozens of time daily. Being both foreign (read white) and a woman multiplies the difficulties of navigating this country.
Check in to a Moroccan hotel = leave your American, “ungendered” self on the airplane.
So, my spirits were considerably brightened when, after standing in the rain on a dirty Casablanca street while trying to flag down a taxi, one finally arrived.
I had been standing next to a middle-aged gentleman who was also trying to flag down a taxi, and also trying to get to the CasaPort train station. He had a sweet round face with wrinkles that showed he was prone to smiling. He and I tried to flag down taxi after taxi; each would stop, and he would ask them to take us to CasaPort. Each would turn us down and drive away — their intended route obviously not passing near Le Gare.
Finally I flagged won a taxi with only one seat available. I looked at the sweet faced man and motioned for him to take the seat. He motioned for me to take the seat, and bowed out of my path so that I might take it.
I smiled and thanked him as much as I could. God bless him for his generosity.
My love of Morocco was thus re-enlivened by the kindness of this smiling stranger.
6:00pm
Evening Prayer
Psalm 133 Ecce, quam bonum
1 Oh, how good and pleasant it is,
when brethren live together in unity
2 It is like fine oil upon the head
that runs down upon the bear,
3 Upon the beard of Aaron,
and runs downs upon the collar of his robe.
4 It is like the dew of Hermon
that falls upon the hills of Zion.
5 For there the Lord has ordained the blessing:
life for evermore.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)