One Wild and Precious Life

Today, I am a traveler, not a lodger.   I took a very crowded bus (Saturdays are market days, after all) to the Ben Tbib stop in the Rouidate area.  I had to stand the whole way, but, no matter.  I find that I use a mix of French, English, and Arabic as I try to navigate my way.  To my neighbors, I say salaam alaykoum if they look Arabic, but bonjour if they look like they are from Niger.   I have gone to the Jardin Majorelle, a tourist attraction in the city of Marrakech.  At the ticket booth, I say “combined ticket” in English, and the clerk understands.  I use a credit card, and he asks where I’m from.  He says, “Welcome,” and I say, “ Shukran. Mae alsalaama ” ( thank you, goodbye – literally, go with safety ).  The greeter at the entrance sees my tattoo of the Tamazight letter yaz (also the ethnic flag of the indigenous Imazighen people and symbol of the struggle for Amazigh rights) and tells me that he is Amazig...

I have started Arabic lessons at a language school in Marrakech.  I walk to school.  It is thirty minutes.  I walk down the four flights of steps in my stairwell, through the courtyard between the buildings of the residence, past the stray cats and the playing children, past the guard who waves hello and the motorbike repair shop, onto Ave. Asharaf, past Les 2 Freres bistro and Cafe R&M, across the street and along the barren dirt path to the light at the N7.  I walk along the busy boulevard, past the men with their carts of melons and plums for the market, along the lots of construction equipment, broken glass, and plastic bottle caps.  I pass the women in their hijabs and caftans, with their children in their arms and their eyes cast down walking in the opposite direction; past the cars, taxis, motorbikes, and bicycles, without shade of any kind except my straw hat, until I turn onto the N9 at the roundabout by the McDonalds.  I pass the patiss...

     Dust came into the car through the open windows, covering our bags, our clothes, our hair.  Even with the air conditioning, the mountain breeze was needed, so we kept the windows down.  We wound in and around these villages on unpaved roads around hairpin curves and through narrow alleyways to this remote guest house in Tighza.  My turret room is on the top floor through the terrace of this riad.  I stand at the open window, the breeze lightly blowing the lilac curtains as the flies buzz in and out.  The men are all in the cafe down the hill watching the World Cup match between Spain and Russia.  I took my afternoon mint tea there, but feeling strangely in the way and invisible at the same time decided to retreat.  Now, in my room, the doors and windows open against the stifling heat, playing children's voices rise from afar, and I feel the dust still on my skin.  I don't want to wash it off.  I want to absorb it, have th...

"A journey of a thousand  li   starts beneath one's feet." (Laozi, Tao Te Ching , Chapter 64). journey - 1. (noun) an act of traveling from one place to another.      Tomorrow night, 9 pm, JFK, NY, I fly to Morocco.  It is a literal journey of 3,647 miles to Marrakech (5,870 kilometers, as I'd better get used to calculating).  It is far -- far from my home, my family and friends, my work.  Yet, not so far, truly, since I can have instant contact by text or Skype.  I think of Laura Ingalls Wilder and her family, her parents setting forth into the wide, wild prairie of undeveloped 19th century America, never to see their families again.  They might as well have been traveling to the moon. journey - 2. (noun) a long and often difficult process of personal change and development.      Figuratively, this journey actually began three months ago when the seed of an idea began to germinate.  I feel the press of time....

Somewhere around age 10 I was still eating cereal on Saturday mornings and watching cartoons, in between which were broadcast the  Schoolhouse Rock  series of animations to teach children the basic points of American government, math, and language (to keep our brains from being too-far-rotted by  Looney Tunes, Tom and Jerry,  and  Magilla Gorilla , I suppose).  Many of my own generation and even my daughter's can probably recall the lyrics to its  Conjunction Junction  or  I Am a Bill, on Capitol Hill ; in fact, singing one of those in front of my students will typically elicit a chuckle and a remnant of nostalgic recognition.  The more potent of the segments, for me, was the one on verbs:  I get my thing in action (Verb!) To be, to sing, to feel, to live (Verb!) (That's what's happenin') I put my heart in action (Verb!) To run, to go, to get, to give (Verb!) (You're what's happenin')* And so it goes, showing a...

This morning, at the farmer's market, I picked some Kirby cucumbers, carrots, and a basket of bright yellow lemons. With a coffee and an egg sandwich, I parked myself under a shady tree near the trio of buskers covering Clapton's "Lay Down Sally." ...rest hear in my arms... I've been trying all night long just to talk to you... An appreciated bite of fluffy, homemade biscuit in my mouth, I silently watched a tiny ant crawling over my shoe and a hawk slowly circling overhead.  The light breeze cooled my neck as the buskers launched into the Stones: You can't always get what you want... but if you try some time, you just might find, you get what you need.... Chucking the last bits of biscuit to a little sparrow, I lingered, relishing the perfection of the moment.  I wondered whether my mother's people, when they made the arduous ocean voyage and joined the Plymouth Colony nearly 400 years ago, could have envisioned this morning.  I wondered if my f...

Mary Oliver published the poem "The Summer Day" in 1992.  Some might be familiar with the final line, What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?  With that, you now know the origin of this blog's name.  Why did I choose that name? I love that poem.  I love writing poetry, and writing anything, in general.  Some of my writing has been published, but that is not my ultimate aim.  I write to express myself, to process my experiences, to steer the boat on which I am navigating life. I'm fortunate to not need to make a living as a writer because I'm a teacher.  I teach... writing!  It was my dream to become an English teacher, and I did, and I have been doing so for over 30 years.  So, why start a blog now? A few months ago, I traveled to Morocco.  My husband, daughter, and I have traveled frequently to many of the most wonderful places.  Again, I'm very fortunate.  However, this trip stirred something in ...