Natasha Regehr
My apartment — Third floor middle balcony
It is my second morning in Morocco.
I was a bit of a recluse yesterday. I barely left my apartment. I indulged in sleep, sleep, and more sleep, and I spent the rest of the day cleaning and unpacking. Three of my suitcases are empty now, and tucked away in my closet until the next big adventure.
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.
“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
This is what my life looks like right now:
I am surrounded by people I just met, and I feel completely at ease.
Live sitar and guitar music permeate the ornate living space. My red wine matches the oriental carpet and beaded doorways. There are instruments everywhere. And a very tactile cat.
Adults are cooking. Young people are chatting quietly. A couple boys are giggling at the mishaps of various comical pets on a muted flat-screen TV. A big French guy is barbecuing. “Medium rare,” I say. He calls me “darling.” I guess he just calls people that.
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:
“Hey, are these guys any good?” I asked, gesturing at the Peterborough Singers brochures on the counter. It was February, 2008, and I was hauling yet another load of mistreated school band instruments to B Flat Music for a little TLC.
“Oh, yes, very good!” declared Peg McCracken.
“You’ve heard them, then?” I asked skeptically.
“Heard them? I’ve sung with them for eighteen years!”
Undaunted, I pressed her further. “What kind of music do they sing?” I was not into the flaky schmaltz that so many community choirs seem to thrive on. I made that immediately and unapologetically clear.
“Well, we’re singing Bach’s St. Matthew Passion in our next concert. You should join us!”
Wait. A. Minute. Are you telling me that a place exists in Peterborough where I can go and sing exclusively Bach for two hours a week, every single week, until May? Pinch me hard; I must be dreaming.
“Start by coming to our concert this weekend. If you like it, we can set up an audition.”
I went. The moment the choir started singing, Continue reading
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?
© 2024 Cosmic Prose
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
