Mali: and a tale of the flyaway girl

I was born on the back of a camel.

Okay, I wasn't really born on the back of a camel but I almost was.  I was born to a man who fell in love with a beautiful girl with long, glossy black hair and big, dark lashed eyes,  spotted in a foreign airport.  She ignored him but he pursued her all the way to her country.  Then he wooed her and took her away. 

They lived near the Sahara desert.  There were camels there.  And that's where I was born.  

I think it was there, in that moment, that my love of travel began.  And it's never ended.  It's taken me over mountains, over seas, across countries, across continents, into places of harmony and into places of war. 

And so it's been that I've become the fly away girl.  Always flying, flying to my next destination.

I type these words to you in the airport. 

See you, see you............ when I land.

 
 
Shot at Peacock Pavilions.

Magic: an Indian tale of color

It was all because of the green, you see, the green. 

But let's start over.

She was of marrying age and her mother had tried to find her a suitable mate:  someone responsible, from a good family,  and kind.  She had found what she thought was the perfect man for for her daughter but the astrologer/fortune teller didn't approve.  And so went the way of the second and third and even the fourth man she found.  The answer lay in the stars,  the stars.  And along with the stars, the sun and the moon were no laughing matters either.  

And so the mother was hesitant when she went in for counsel a fifth time.  She clutched in her hand a piece of paper with the pertinent information: the times, the dates, and the locations of birth of the would-be pair.   And in a closed envelope was a picture of the suiter in question.  The wise man looked at the paper and stroked his chin thoughtfully.  Hmmmm he said.  Hmmmm......Then he said quietly these words, If this is the right man for your daughter, there will be green in the picture of him.  Green. 

Then he opened the envelope.  And took out the picture.

Now, this is the part of the tale where the mother's eyes gleamed.  Because there was green in the picture.  There was!  You see, the drapes behind the man were solid green, the color framing his face.  It was clear -- as clear as could be.

And so it came to be the daughter's wedding day.  The bride wore red, of course.  But it was only green that mattered.  The green. 

   
Shot in India.

Kashmir, India: and a crewel tale of book making

Dear Friends,

I've missed you.  I feel like I've been away for, well, forever.  But books are special things, you see. They are filled with words that have to make sense page after page together.  Oh my. 

It reminded me of when I was in Kashmir, watching the crewel workers.  They were quiet when they worked.  No raucous music.  No chatting.  No outbursts or demands. Because the stitches counted. They had to pay attention.  They had to watch where the needle went in and where it came out.  They didn't want to make mistakes because they wanted it to be just right. 

I want that, too. 

I think I can learn a thing or two from the crewel workers of Kashmir.  About stitching.  Or perhaps, about writing. 

But for now, my book manuscript is in to my editor.  Thank you for your sweet wishes and support.

love,
Maryam in Marrakech

 
 

 

Afghanistan: and a tale of the ending

As I got in the plane, as I fastened my seat belt, as I lifted off the runway, I thought of all that I was leaving behind. 

 I thought about how we all skim along the surface -- how little we ever know, really know,  about each other.  Looking down with my forehead pressed against the glass, I contemplated all those lives, just dots, just points of light from a plane window.  But behind the points of light,  people, real people, who suffered, who were elated, who hoped.   I felt a kind of wonder, a kind of distress, a kind of sadness that I would never know them.  That I would never sit in their living rooms listening to their stories -- of the important things, the things with meaning, the things that counted.  That I would never hear the moments that had changed them, that had made them think differently, that had altered their views of the world. 

Distance would separate us, time would separate us, circumstance would separate us.  Religion, color, culture, politics and fear would come between us.  And we might never meet but for the briefest, most cursory encounters.    And we would stay -- all of us --  just skimming,

skimming the surface.

PS.  Thank you so much for those of you who voted for My Marrakesh in the Bloggies.  I appreciate your support!:-)