Morocco: and a tale of Winter coping mechanisms, Part 2: color

Winter.  Cold and dark.  And mostly just grey.  {Sigh, shall we just go back to bed?}
{And what's with wearing all that black, all that charcoal, all that brown?}  

No, this won't do.  This won't do at all.  

Think color, yes color.
Reach for the vivacious reds, the chatty pinks, the audacious oranges.  
Dig out the glittering yellows, the electric blues, the effervescent greens.

Wear it:  on your neck, your shoulders, your waist.
Paint it:  on your lips, your cheeks, your nails.
Unfurl it: on your bed, your table, your couch.

Wrap it around you.  

And don't forget....
                                to dream in color, too.

{Feel Better Campaign, brought to you by Me.}

Morocco: and a tale of Winter coping mechanisms, Part 1: alive

A left off a main boulevard, down a narrow street and then around the corner.

And there it is.

The prettiest shop in Essaouira Morocco, the prettiest. It’s Winter, and it’s scarves-and-shawls-and-hats-chilly. But there {Can it be?} it’s always Summer.

Warm spices for doctoring your tea piled in baskets, one after another.

 

Bundles of growing things, why, everywhere.

{and some pinned to a blue door just like that}

Vow to create Summer beauty today. And then do it. If even just for you.

{Feel Better Campaign, brought to you by Me.}

Marrakesh: and a tale of jumping for joy

I told her the news, the good news.  
The news that involved her playing with her friends for four hours straight in a wonderful place.

She jumped straight up into the air, Masai-like.  Jumped.  

 I wondered why I didn't jump for joy, when joyous.  I should, I thought.  I will.

Here's hoping you jump for joy this weekend.  I think you should.

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PS I'd jump for joy to have these Moroccan mosaic tile and marble floors. Oh!  Sublime.

Marrakesh: and a tale of (inadequate?) parenting

My best friend's children are supremely talented violin players.  

They dutifully practice for hours and hours each and every day.  Schedules are organized around violin lessons and violin camp.  At national violin competitions, they routinely place first or second.  

Their violins -- purchased on trips to London -- are worth tens of thousands of dollars, more than their parents' cars.  

These are not one note children.  They do well at school.  They ride horses. They have time to play, to draw, to watch TV.  They are polite, funny and curious.  They are enthusiastic huggers.

I am not jealous of my best friend and her two children.  In fact I love them with a love so fierce and a pride so vast that it's nearly unreasonable.  But I do wonder about myself, about my own parenting. I wonder, well, if it's been adequate.

Malcolm Gladwell, author of the Outliers, says that it's not so much the gift that counts, but the persistence.  That children must be given opportunities to find areas that they like and encouraged to really excel in them.  That 10,000 hours of practice is the key to success.  10,000 hours, supported and orchestrated most often by, well, parents.

I can't help but wonder if I've measured up as a parent.  Perhaps I've been too caught up in other things -- too captive to my work and too captive to my interests.  Perhaps I've been too selfish.  

Maybe he could have been a champion tennis player

Maybe she could have written her first novel.

Maybe they could have spoken 3 languages fluently.  

Maybe..........

                    maybe if it hadn't been for me.