It is my first morning in Morocco.
I am swaying on my rainbow hammock, eating my breakfast and taking in the sights, sounds, and sensations particular to this new habitat of mine.
Cosmic Prose
Natasha Regehr
Tag: decisions (page 3 of 3)
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final boarding call for Royal Air Maroc flight 209 to Casablanca. All passengers should now be seated on the plane for take-off.”
What? How did that happen? An hour ago, there was still a whole hour left to wait. I was blogging furiously, trying to get that “in transit” story posted while I was actually still in transit. I heard lots of Air France calls for flights to Paris. Every 30 seconds a smooth voice urged me, in loud, clear, unmistakable English, to head directly to France. I was not a fool. I knew that it was a trick. I was not going to France. Silly airport!
What a whirlwind. How else can I describe the flurry of these last few days? I’ve been spinning in circles from one house to the next, one car to the next, and one suitcase to the next. And now I’m here, sitting at Gate B25, waiting for my boarding call.
Many of you have been kindly emailing, phoning, texting, and dropping by, and the questions are always the same: “Are you excited? Are you nervous? Are you ready?” Continue reading
My practically perfect house is more than perfect. It is flawless. I am sitting in my beautifully staged living room, enjoying the clean, airy feeling of a place that is ready to “show.” And it will be shown, tomorrow, I hope, before my strategically placed flowers begin to wilt.
For those of you who have been kindly offering advice and making inquiries on my behalf, here’s the deal (or lack thereof…), when it comes to my house:
Sometimes life strikes me as a continual circuit of hopes and disappointments, with a minor victory thrown in from time to time, just to keep the optimism from completely expiring.
Is this a morose perspective? I suppose so. On my better days, that sentence might read, “Life is an ongoing adventure of hopes and challenges, ever prodding us on to new forms of optimism.” Victory has nothing to do with it, from this viewpoint. It’s all about the effort.
But perpetual effort can be tiring, don’t you think? Without little victories, the circuit can wear us down, no matter how resilient we may be. We become caught in this flux of energies, which we constantly misplace and rediscover, in varying proportions. Does anyone else ever feel this way?
I have a lovely little h
ouse. It is, as my childhood idol would say, “practically perfect in every way.” And I am learning, in increments, to let it go.
Part of moving to Morocco, you see, is selecting someone else to inhabit my treasured domicile while I’m away. So far, that has been an emotional process. It requires trust — both in the potential tenant, and in providence, to provide that tenant when the time is right. Strengthening one’s “trust muscles” can be a gruelling task, especially when one feels interminably caught in Fortuna’s spinning wheel.
FOR RENT: CHARMING BRICK HOUSE IN THE HEART OF PETERBOROUGH
My beautiful little house is looking for someone to love it while I’m away in Morocco for the next two years. Might you be the one?
Who would have thought that moving to Morocco would arouse a sort of grief?
But it has – a strong and foolish grief that has me paralyzed with inactivity. I call it house grief. And I don’t mean that I’m feeling inconvenienced or annoyed (as in, “This broken zipper is causing me grief”); no, I’m embarrassed to say I am grieving over a carefully constructed pile of bricks.
No, really, I am.
I have been tormenting my friends and acquaintances for days now with cryptic comments about exciting new developments in my mundane little life, and the day has finally come when I can shout it from the rooftops: I’m moving!
I just signed a two-year teaching contract with an international school in the legendary city of Casablanca. I’ll be teaching music to students from Kindergarten to Grade 5: my dream job, my dream climate, my dream of dreams in every way.
I asked my dad two questions today, as I stood beside his grave.
I, who walk upon this earth that covers him, have before me an uncertain future (as do we all). I have decisions to make that will steer me upon this earth in any number of unspecified directions, in circles or meandering lines, with a maddeningly undetermined end point.
“What would you say, Dad, if you were still alive? What should I do? How should I choose? What would matter to you?”
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