Cosmic Prose

Natasha Regehr

Category: Inspirational (Page 2 of 3)

O, Canada!

July 1, 2016 / / 3 Comments

O, Canada! How do I love you? Let me count the ways.

I love the way your cars travel in placidly parallel lanes, staying obediently between the dotted lines, graciously allowing each and every vehicle its own personal space. I love how I can always tell with reasonable certainty whether it’s safe to enter your blessedly perpendicular intersections;  I love how I can see your traffic lights no matter where I am, and people wave at me to say, “Please, you go first. I’d rather wait.” I love it that I have been here for thirteen days now and I haven’t heard a single honking horn or shrieking whistle. I love how your cyclists get their very own lanes, your signs tell everyone to share the road, and people are happy to take turns. O, Canada, I love your pretty roads. Continue reading

Start, Stop, and the Sounds in Between

June 6, 2016 / / 1 Comment

Let me tell you the story of a class.

When I met them in September, I was perturbed. I was more than perturbed. I dreaded Thursday mornings, when I knew that they would tumble through my door with raucous disregard for my precious routines and expectations.

You see, I expect my classes to line up quietly outside my door and wait to be invited in. I expect them to walk quietly, single file, to the blue line on my floor, and wait quietly to be invited to sit on the carpet in alphabetical order. I expect them to sit quietly while I read over my class list, study their (very similar) faces, and practice their (very similar) names. I expect them to remain still and silent until I can say every name without looking at my list. This may not sound like a stupendous feat to you, but believe me, it is, when you are new to a foreign school and you have four hundred nearly identical students that you only see for 50 minutes a week.

But back to my story. In September, we had to practice lining up outside my door over and over every single time the students came to class. It took five or six tries to walk to the blue line and get settled at the carpet. And it took an agonizingly long time for me to practice their names, because I couldn’t concentrate with all the hooliganism going on before me. At one point one of the students blurted out insolently, “This isn’t music! This is just names!” And, wearily, I agreed. Perturbed, indeed. Continue reading

Taroudant, Part 2: Entrez!

January 26, 2016 / / 5 Comments

Last month I met an old man who totally hijacked my vacation.  You can meet him here.  And now, the rest of the story…

We sleep comfortably on the third or fourth floor of the mid-medina palace. It is plain enough on the outside, but on the inside it is equipped with no fewer than five salons, each capable of seating at least twenty friends and relations. Hospitable people, these. The sunshine from the terrace skylight shines down all three grated floors, so even the bowels of this vertical mansion have natural light. And yes, on this penthouse floor, there is a waiting toilet. It only takes a few twists and cranks to figure out how to flush. Easy.

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Taroudant, Part 1: Mangez!

December 30, 2015 / / 2 Comments

“Ask him if you’ll need your passport,” I suggest smartly. Smartly, because this is a perfectly reasonable question to ask when an 81-year-old Moroccan offers to take you to his village to buy argan oil. Never mind that his village is only an hour away, and you’re just going for the day, and there are no border crossings in sight. Moroccans in uniforms of various sorts like asking for passports. It’s their way.

Haji, our esteemed elder, is holding a red vinyl bag and gesturing towards his argyle cardigan. “Deux,” he says. “Two.” One for today, one for tomorrow.

I guess we are staying overnight then. I’d best get packing. Toothbrush, underwear, just the essentials. Quick. He’s waiting. Tapping his watch. “Vas-y! Vas-y! Go there! Go there!” Yes, sir. I’m going, sir.

We drive for a little while. Twenty minutes, maybe? And then we stop outside these big metal doors in the middle of Moroccan nowhere. Haji starts banging. Bang, bang, bang. Finally the monstrous gate opens and we drive through.

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Seconds

December 15, 2015 / / 1 Comment

This has been a trying week of red tape, traffic jams, dripping fridges, and medical angst.  But a few weeks ago I actually had a successful day on the town.  Let’s focus on that.

There is something to be said for going to the same place twice. And I am going to say it now.

Today I had an appointment in the city, after which I set off in search of waterproof shoes. I simply must have dry feet this winter, and the rest of the Moroccan populace has transitioned instantly from flip flops to Uggs. Everything is binary here, it seems. Morocco is not about in-betweens.

The lovely lady at the reception desk kindly directed me to a nearby shoe store, which did not have waterproof shoes. But while I was there, I remembered that I had forgotten to pick up my receipt, and so I trotted smartly back to the office I had just left. This was my first second visit of the day.

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Sound-Off!

November 29, 2015 / / 0 Comments

A sonic environment can be a powerful thing. It can take you places, or leave you places; its presences and absences can be more telling than the most articulate guide.

Notable absences from the sonic environment I have enjoyed without interruption for the past three days: the impoverished bleating of sheep and goats; the mournful mooing of cows; the soulful, yet soulless call to prayer; the sprightly chattering of hundreds of little mischief-makers; the vigilant ringing of schoolbells, cell phones and alarm clocks; the guttural exoticism of the Arabic tongue; the overly-welcoming harassment of preying street vendors and slick Don Juans; in short, the persistently present reminders that this Moroccan mayhem is my life.

And in their place? Zamfir interpretations of Celine Dion hits piped through the poolside surround sound system in the morning, and perky American party playlists in the afternoon; the perpetual, muted gurgling of the heated pool’s water filtration system, and the satisfied splashes of swimmers who are neither hot nor cold; canned ocean waves lapping through the massage room speakers, and real ocean waves wooing one beachward; the dignified German, English and French conversations of fat, white Europeans in speedos and bikinis, or their skinny white counterparts, also in speedos and bikinis (I, incidentally, fall squarely in between the two); the distant clattering of silverware being moved from one place to another by hands that exist to satisfy one’s every gastronomical whim; in short, all that is most certainly not Moroccan.

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2015 Gratitude List

November 26, 2015 / / 2 Comments

My dear Canadian friends have had to wait a full six weeks longer than usual to read my annual Gratitude List.  Sorry, guys.  I was in the desert while you were being thankful, so I’ve jumped on the American bandwagon and given thanks today instead.

For those of you who are new to this quirky tradition of mine, here’s the scoop: Every night before I go to sleep, I write down a few causes for gratitude.  I try not to repeat myself (keeps the thankfulness muscles limber!) but I’m certain you’ll notice an emerging theme or two.  Each Thanksgiving, I post the list for the world to ponder and puzzle over.  For me, it’s a grounding practice of putting days and years in perspective.  For you, it’s either funny, or inspiring, or TMI.  Whatever.  It’s not about you.

I suspect that no one but my mom actually reads the list from start to finish, but should you wish to try, godspeed!

Beginning in October, 2014, here is my year, chronicled in thanks!

A hearth, a family, a sharing of lives

A new form of freedom

Eschatological laughter

Acceptance and openness

What I have is enough

Decisions made = settledness. There is security in having chosen.

Fiction fabulousness Continue reading

Exultant!

October 27, 2015 / / 3 Comments

What I Learned at my First Moroccan Choir Rehearsal:

  1. Our voices are part of what makes us who we are. Use them happily!
  2. Funny sounds are welcome here. They help us find our missing courage.
  3. Mistakes are welcome here. We enjoy being human.
  4. We are capable of great beauty. Just look at the smile on our conductor’s face when he hears our sweet crescendo.
  5. We (every one of us) can access, activate, and feel that beauty. Just look at everyone else’s faces. Our souls are showing.
  6. People are welcome here. Even people who still think in English. We don’t mind helping them wade through the French if they get a little stuck.
  7. We like each other. You can tell from all the kissing.
  8. We both use and do not use sheet music. We’re flexible that way.
  9. We are all so glad to be here; we have found our musical home.

Morocco Me: Surf’s Up!

August 13, 2015 / / 0 Comments

I am beginning to think that everyone in this world has an analogue somewhere on another continent. And that a great many of them live in Morocco.

I’m sure you know what I mean: that niggling feeling that someone reminds you of (or perhaps is) someone else. In fact, one of the very first people who greeted me in Casablanca has a vocal cadence much like one of my synchronized swimming buddies in Canada. So, in my head, I call her “Morocco Sharon.” In the confines of this small campus, I have also met Morocco Dave, Morocco Catharine, Morocco Sarah; Morocco Tania, Stephanie, Krystal, Vera, Crystal, Paul, and Darlene; and, most curiously, Morocco Snow White and Morocco Barbie.

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