The morning walk is sacred in our house. We go every day without fail unless there’s something falling from the sky that makes it too dangerous. No worries about that on this day. It was a beautiful summer morning.
The sun shot through the rows of trees, lighting up the mossy rocks and stumps. It can be hard to get the camera to see things the way you do. (You’ll see more if you click on the photos to enlarge them.)
But sometimes a snapshot captures the moment perfectly.
The past few weeks have brought hot, humid weather to the Northeast. Morning after morning, I hustle Karina along our customary walk, swatting away the multitude of flies and mosquitoes that swarm around us all along the way.
The heat and humidity make it hard to focus, and if I were to have a coherent thought, typing while my fogged-over glasses slide down my sweaty nose (and this is after a shower), is nearly impossible. To top things off, my computer went haywire, the cursor skipping around from sentence to sentence, clicking on ads and other links of its own accord.
I was wallowing. A lot.
It started in early June. A piece that I had put my heart and soul into didn’t get published when promised. It may soon see the light of day, but its timely lead is no longer timely and it is deeply personal. As more time passes, the more nervous I feel about people reading it.
As June progressed, and the weather got hotter and hotter, I deflated and drooped a little more each day. Pretty soon I was comparing my publishing success to that of others….always a sure road to nowhere.
To be fair, June has a history of being difficult. It is a month of anniversaries that clearly demarcate the all-too-swift passage of time. Forty-one years since I became motherless, and 30 years since I became a mother. Yes, I have a child who is 30 years old. That particular anniversary, more than the other one, hit me hard this year.
In mid- June I pulled some muscle or other in my thigh. Swimming and walking are fine, but rooting around in the garden isn’t possible, and so, I’m letting it go feral this summer. Like everywhere else, it’s too hot and buggy in there anyway.
As if I weren’t already feeling decrepit enough, my dermatologist implied that my multitude of freckles/moles were solely due to too much sun. Sun? Really? In the Northeast? Haven’t you heard of genetics, Bub? So I wallowed in that for a while… until I noticed a woman at the pool. Deeply tanned, her skin was covered with large dalmatian-like spots.
Sometimes, comparison is helpful.
Then my computer went kablooey, and there were histrionics.
The atmosphere inside our little house got even hotter, and to escape, I started reading a book with an angry woman narrator. I am so into that book right now (The Woman Upstairs by Claire Messud). And I can’t wait to discuss it with the friend who gave it to me — especially the comment my local bookseller made as I was buying it for another friend. He said that he found the opening paragraphs “a little too shrill.”
Female anger is such a bummer, especially for men. My husband can handle it though. As he told me after the histrionics subsided, “… it’s good that it wasn’t directed towards me.”
But today, things are looking up. First off, the temperatures are in the 80’s not the 90’s and I can actually type this post without dripping all over the keyboard.
Yes, my computer has been fixed.
New track pad: $90.
Having a place to vent: Priceless.
And, I have had some writing published this summer. Climate change, always on my mind, came to the fore and I submitted a couple of posts to Moms Clean Air Force. One on how Climate Change has hit home, the other on how it is threatening New England seafood. By the way, you don’t have to be a Mom to join, just an engaged citizen, and if you haven’t already, I’d urge you to take action.
Then, a couple of days ago, the brilliant D.A. Wolfe reminded me of how lucky I am that my sons are independent, that they still want to share their lives with us, and that both are doing work that they and we can be proud of.
Shameless plug: older son’s band is releasing an album on October 8. Freckles or no freckles I’m still cool enough to rate an advanced copy. I’m listening to it now and the music has enough energy to make even the most lethargic among us want to get up and dance.
And you know what else? My garden is doing just fine without me.
In so many ways, I am a free woman!
We all need work, we all need purpose and I’m glad that those are the things I’ll be obsessing about this summer — rather than who’s publishing where, or who or what is or isn’t to blame for my spotty skin — because the day we stop looking for work and purpose is a day when the wallowing has gone too far.
In the interest of good diplomatic relations and international connectivity, I thought I’d take a page from my friend Heather’s blog and do a color-themed post.
The truth is, I’d been meaning to capture all the spring pinks and blues in my yard before they disappear. I almost missed my chance because a heat wave this week has wilted many of them. So I rushed through the yard last evening, clicking away.
Does anyone else remember Polish director Krzysztof Kieślowski’s “Three Colors” trilogy? It came out in the early 1990’s and at the time, “Bleu” was my favorite. As it turns out, bleu in all its variations is my favorite garden color, but pink is nice too.
False indigo
Columbine
Sadly, this Little Miss Kim lilac has lost all her color. Before her flowers opened, they were the bright color of Welch’s grape jelly. But what you can’t see here — or smell — unfortunately, is her fragrance which filled the yard yesterday morning after the heat hurried up her blooms.
More columbine
These geraniums grow wild in the woods behind my house. They are welcome “volunteers” in my garden. Even when the flowers are gone, I love the shape of their leaves.
Wild geraniums
Ditto this wild flox.
Wild flox
And these pansies ….. I planted them by Boots’s grave last fall and, surprisingly, they came back after the winter’s cold and snow. It feels as if Boots is giving us a little wave. Pats to you, dear Boots.
And speaking of beloved pets, and in keeping with today’s theme, isn’t Karina’s polka dot collar just the thing for spring? (Click on the photo for a closer look.)
And, of course, like some of the prettiest flowers, she has a very pink tongue.
The last few mornings I have reluctantly pulled myself from a dreamy, pleasant sleep. It’s not so much the dreams that I want to hold onto, but the peaceful, satisfied feelings they leave behind.
Maybe they are my way of remembering Morocco. For almost two weeks I was blissfully free of my usual, and (fortunately) mostly mundane worries. Day followed day, each unique and memorable in its own way, allowing me to use my brain and senses in ways I rarely do at home.
I started keeping lists of words in the local Berber dialect, along with lists of names. When people told me their name, they often told me what it meant. Karim, the name given my son, for example, means generous.
Two different Moroccan cooks showed me that you can make delicious food with just a bowl, one simple knife, the right ingredients, and two strong hands. No measuring cups or fancy appliances required.
Couscous
Daily bread
By the way, in case you are wondering, I have several photos and videos of these cooks in action, but I can’t share them here. That’s another thing I learned. Putting your image online is considered shameful for Moroccan women — it is interpreted as showing yourself in a way that is not appropriate.
Moroccans grow a lot of their own food and they even know how to farm in the desert.
Young date palms
Desert wheat
As we were driving over the Atlas Mountains at the beginning of our long journey home, Paul turned to me, and said, “Wherever we decide to go next, I want to have a reason for going there. There has to be something specific we want to see or do.”
I knew exactly what he meant. Travel will never be the same again. We will no longer be content to just visit a country’s museums, stroll along its streets, or loiter in its cafes without some other goal in mind. Whether our objective is to learn a new language, take a cooking class, or understand a specific event, we won’t be satisfied to simply scratch the surface.
If Morocco taught us anything, it’s that finding common ground with people from other lands and cultures, no matter how insurmountable the language barrier may seem, is worth the effort. We will carry Morocco’s people in our hearts always, just as we will forever be grateful to the one who brought us there.
My son’s home in Morocco is right on the edge of an oasis. You only have to walk out his front door and turn right to step into an amazing landscape.
Karsten walks through the oasis on a daily basis. On this day, we were going to a friend’s house for lunch. We walked across a streambed, alongside an irrigation trough, and underneath a grapevine. Paul was a bit under the weather, so I had my son to myself that afternoon. After a year of missing him, it was treasured time.
We passed groves of date palms and olive trees.
Like every other meal we were invited to in Morocco, this one included extended family. Our host’s parents, sisters, and nephews all joined us. A shy, but impish 4-year-old giggled as he rolled around on the floor with his djellaba-clad grandfather. After a delicious lunch of cous cous, we went outside and into the family’s walled garden.
The small figs that go into savory dishes, like cous cous, grow here. (Click on the photos for a closer look.)
As do dates. In the U.S., dates come separated in a plastic tub. In Morocco, you buy them in boxes and they are still attached to their stems. Until this garden tour, I had no idea what they looked like on the tree. These dates will be ready to pick in a few months.
There were almond and pomegranate trees. The red flowers are pomegranate blossoms.
At the end of the day, our host and his father walked us back across the oasis and home.
It has been a little more than a year since we dropped our son, “Karim,” off at Boston’s Logan Airport where he began his journey to Morocco as a Peace Corps volunteer. While modern technology has kept us well-connected, we yearned to see him in person and experience a slice of his life there.
Our reunion took place in Marrakech, a crazy, bustling place. We walked to the old medina through unmarked streets that were filled with scooters and exhaust-spewing cars — this is a developing country after all. Between the sights, sounds, and smells, and the joy of being with our son again, it was a lot to take in. The camera stayed in Paul’s knapsack.
The next morning, we climbed into our rental car and headed to Essaouira, a beach town. Much less intense than Marrakech, it was a good place to start our journey. Karim has friends there, who are also in the Peace Corps.
The name of the riad where we stayed, Les Matins Bleus, reflected the town’s color scheme.
Tourists’ jackets also reflected the decor.
The blue carried to the waterfront, where Paul took over camera duty and captured the fishing boats.
At the docks you can buy fish directly from the fishermen. Then, back in the medina, stop at the market for vegetables, before taking these purchases to a restaurant where they grill your food to perfection and serve it to you with bread – which also functions as your knife, fork, and spoon.
Eating in Morocco is a communal event: not a lot of cutlery or plates required.
The next leg of our trip took us back towards Marrakech and over the Atlas Mountains to my son’s site in Tinghir, where the real adventure began.
This past weekend we lost an hour as we turned the clocks ahead to daylight savings time. The change feels a bit premature, as we are still deep in winter here on the east coast. The hard cold is gone for the moment, but I’m still chilled. (In fact, I’m writing this while under a down comforter with a heating pad and Karina at my feet.)
We’ve had a few glimpses of the sun, but overall its been pretty grey. In fact, we had another snowstorm on Friday.
The rose of sharon that hangs out under our front window put on its winter hats yet again.
In this house, we are all a bit weary of hats, gloves, scarves, and snowshoes or ice cleats — all necessary for a walk in the woods.
I won’t be sad to see winter go, but I will miss its mysterious and beautiful light. It makes me pay attention.
It’s another snowy Monday in the neighborhood. The weekend’s storm only left a few inches, but it’s sticky stuff. It clung to tree branches and blackened their trunks with its wetness.
How weary I am of winter and how I long for a change of scene. But no matter what the weather, Karina needs her morning walk. So when we set out this morning, I tried to focus on the lovely details.
I stopped to take some photos, and Paul and Karina went on ahead. While hurrying to catch up, I was stopped in my tracks by a gory remnant, left right in the middle of the trail. (Warning: the next two images may disturb sensitive readers.)
Paul told me that he had spotted a set of lone paw prints, unaccompanied by human boot tracks. A coyote must have captured the unlucky possum.
As we continued our walk, I thought about all the activity that happens in these seemingly peaceful woods when we are not here. There must be some wild goings-on behind the scenes, so to speak.
In these woods, as in life, there is so much mystery just beneath the surface.
And speaking of hidden worlds, I highly recommend this documentary that is showing on HBO entitled, “Birders: The Central Park Effect.” Here is the trailer.
At first it was pretty. Then it got pretty exciting. Karina didn’t know where/how to do her business in snow deep enough to swallow her. Cabin fever set in. And then today, a beautiful walk on snowshoes through our local woods.
Shifting Gears 