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Life is imperfect and impermanent and it remains one of the most difficult things for me to comprehend.

As a kid my parents taught me to not respect material things, to be ready to pick up and move on at the drop of a hat and to be unattached to people and objects. Childhood friends? I had one, for a few months and even if I don’t know her last name or where I would ever find her again, Esther, is the best friend I ever had and the longest friend I ever got to know. I have one photo of us together and it’s my prized possession from childhood.  My mother burned the rest and I still remember suitcases filled with photos that I frantically pillaged through, rescuing as many as I could before they were destroyed.

The irony is that I now try to keep and save and preserve all that I can, be it people or memories or letters. I am sentimental for history, symbolism and objects, but probably most of all, I am sentimental for the connections I clumsily forge with people who I let (or struggle to let) into my soul.

No matter how brutal my mother was with her views, she wasn’t wrong. She was brutal because life was brutal, but she was right.

Life is imperfect and impermanent and it remains one of the most difficult things for me to comprehend. Even if we try with promises and titles and great and noble efforts, trying to hold people or a moment is like trying to hold water in ones hands.

Although we cannot hold on to anyone, sometimes who and what we love holds onto to us.

Even a memory travels as it wants in and out of consciousness anywhere in my body. It’s on vacation and returns to stick in my throat or wash out my eyes at the most inconvenient of times. Once you think it’s gone for good, a sound, a regret, a pleasure, a dream brings you back, right back in bed in Casablanca or sitting on a rooftop overlooking the city. It’s unresolved. It’s guilty and messy and dirty and beautiful and gone until it returns again without an invitation.

What do I do about that? Nothing, except accept that I don’t know what to do about that, even after all these years.

I hope I have learned somethings in the last 10 years in the lonely corners of Casablanca filled with silences and not the excitement of New York. With fire in my belly still, I say to my older and slightly wiser self, “You cannot hold on or keep or preserve or try to…this isn’t yours to keep.”

Although I won’t burn my photos or send the majority of journals to the trash bins, because although they mean the world to me, but they also weigh me down even if they were made to preserve me…the truth is that they can’t be kept forever and I am not that girl anymore who wrote them. I am more than these things that I have collected. I am even more than what has collected me.

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Our thoughts form the world

I arrived home even though Shiyara really wanted us to stay in America. She loved New York.

I would love to live in New York again for a few months at a time but as I told Shiyara, we would still need to go home to Casablanca to at least pack our things.

We returned to our friends who just had their first baby and he is as beautiful as his mother. They confessed they would be going back to America within the year. I will be losing my best friend and it hasn’t let me sleep at all but as I watch MasterChef and drink tea I noticed some words of wisdom written on the paper attached to a string, “Our thoughts are forming the world.” This is what I said to myself an hour earlier as I tossed and turned trying to sleep thinking of my friend leaving.

We can’t control the outcome of most anything in life but we can control how we see the world and it changes everything. This is what I came back to Morocco to do. Finish all that I started and sit with the discomfort of learning what I need to learn, going through the difficulties, be patient so I can move on in due time from this stage of evolution literally and metaphorically. So for tonight I pray that all the things she and I want for our families come true and that no more rest is lost worrying over what may or might arrive because of course no matter how painful or abandoned we will feel, we can handle it.

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Pessah in Casablanca

The best part of the seder is being surrounded by family, anyone’s family especially dysfunctional ones. I love the noise and the bustle of children playing and adults chattering and everyone having an opinion and where you don’t need to be polite anymore because you are with your crazy noisy big ridiculous family. I am sitting with an exes family and even though we are finished being a couple, his family to me is not finished. If we married people for their families I would have married lots of men. Families here remind me of my own big family with 5 sisters and an older brother and an aura of beautiful chaos.

 

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The Rabbi's children - Casablanca

Blog, Casablanca, children, culture, Judaism, living abroad, love, Morocco, People, Personal, Photo, Photography, Pictures, Random, reflections, relationships, Travel

The Rabbi’s children – Casablanca

The Rabbi's children - Casablanca

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Life: She is my little sister, my little girl. May I always do right by her.

I enter my home and I yell out “Shiyara!!!!” and she yells back “Mama!!” The pitter patter of her running feet match my heart. I wait for her big smile to appear around the corner! I throw my purse down and jump down to kneel on the floor, like I am asking everyday to marry an angel, to open my arms and wait for her to rush in. The seconds don’t race as fast as my heart and it skips…for her. “Come come come!!!!!” She makes it to me and I can only grab on for a split second and then she’s gone.

Without her there would be no home and no where to return to. She is my home.

I went to visit a woman in a beautiful house with a beautiful husband who has done very well in his life. She wants for nothing but I would never switch a day in her shoes for all the wealth in the world. My house has Shiyara and with her all the life and love and fun and warmth that I could have prayed g-d would grant me.

Even as I break in my low moments, even when I scold myself for not being the best mother… my one honest joy no matter the state of the world outside is seeing her in it sleeping beside me…my daughter is a strong willed beauty.

She is my little sister, my little girl. May I always do right by her.

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you are my lost lamb and i am the author of sheep

there are lines on my body that one does not cross
and there are lines on my body that tell everything
there are lines that want to become curly
and lines that want to be caressed

you have once crossed
twice read
three times curled
and many times caressed

but i am still a stranger to you
and you an immigrant to me
you with your language
and me with my ridiculous ideas
we have no common reference like sisters or brothers
but you understand me sometimes
like i try to be understood

i am not correct like any equation that makes sense. We are 1 + 1 = 3
but it is not my intention to hurt you
even if you take me as an offense
what do you do when you are misunderstood?
when waiting for the other shoe to drop?
waiting for someone to break your heart?

am i that fragile?
no
but i have steered my heart to things and people that cannot break me
and i wonder, ‘how long can you deny that you are a creature of habit?’
you love Love
you love

i think of you
often
and i know you are happy where you are
or at least i want to imagine you so

i imagine you with your life
in your bed
with your one and only
and i say, i know
and
I want only the best for you
only the best

and i am sorry that it wasn’t me
and that it can’t be
so we will let life finish the story.
make it until the end,
and remember me.

as i remember you
in moments
little moments when i catch your words running through my head
and your friends in front of me shopping at the King’s supermarket, Acima

i remember you as you were
and i love you
it was a little story, a blimp in time but
i never stop loving the ones that have entered into my body
they live in me

you
live
in
me

still

and

always

without

guilt

without

judgement

there is room for all my mistakes and feelings

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“Don’t deny it. Let it go back to where it came from.”

“One person not in life is going to love it and the others are going to hate it. I will disappoint them and disrupt who I am supposed to be for them.”

Before she left to Kuwait she let me film her and speak to her on camera about her mother, her lover, her feelings of leaving home. In the morning I woke up at 6 and sat down stairs listening to her run around quietly. She slipped a bottle of perfume in my bag and kissed me. The rest of the family came to sit with me. The silence was unbearable that I felt only then like I had to keep myself discreet and far from crying. She instantly stood and left the room. I followed and found her in the bathroom already washing her face. She is like a bigger sister, one of my best friends and I have never seen her crying. She hugged me and told me in English that she loved me. I could only say, “One year. It will only be one year.”

She walked into the bedroom where Iklas slept. She laid her head at her feet and cried. I walked away and waited by the door.

Working, traveling ,leaving home, leaving your heart behind. Her image stays with me.

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i need your hands

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unconditional surrender

“Exile is the only country without a geography. It has, however, a climate, a culture, an ecology, an archeology and virtually a national smell.”

“The map of the unreal, the imaginary. And it is only then that they express precisely the immeasurable experience of exile.”-Ugresic

Remembrance is possession. Memory is object(s).

Jerusalem

Writing on an author for class, I find that against my will i love these writings in The Croatian that are both scholarship and memoir, impersonal facts and personal stories in between record and invention on this feeling of being displaced.

Searching for home, being in love, loss, exile, feeling displaced…has been the subject of my poems since coming to America at ten. It’s the spirit that makes me hunt genealogy records and save all pictures and all my father’s jewelry. When asked why i am this way, why i do these things, i could never explain it well enough.

All the objects, idols, images, tangibles we’re taught to disrespect but whose importance to me all the same is wrapped up in a story i read.

A Bosnian friend remarks that there are two kinds of refugees, “those who have photographs and those who have none.”

On this particular day the Bosnian-Serb general/war criminal by the name of Ratko Mladic noticed that the Sarajevo home of an acquaintance was on his bombardment list. Mladic phoned him to tell him that he had less then five minutes to collect his photographs and leave.

“The general, who had been destroying the city for months, knew precisely how to annihilate memory. That is why he ‘generously’ bestowed on his acquaintance life, with the right to remembrance.”

All photographs are mementos mori. “To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to…relentless melt.” – Susan Sontag

Jerusalem Art Project

remembrance is possession, and i am relentlessly possessed.

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transverse unshamed, take it as a souvenir

your toothbrush is resting down the hall
I shut my eyes
entwined in your legs
aware you will be traveling soon.
I find us,
waking up in the dark with
five interwoven parts, persuaded, won over,
seduced, converted, seduced the other way.
in the night praying hands come out of
a wetness on these finger tips,
un-self consciously wandering across your back.
in the night I lay quiet
listening to you speaking in tongues
watching you sleep with me, traveler.
traveling into your dreams
tugging on to kites and hemlines
running through space
where we’re nearing the lighthouse,
I close my eyes
tighter,
you’re almost at the gate,
I smile, I want to thank you
for this…

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Post Script: broke in Rabat

the man outside of L’Belle Vie who was trying to give me directions to go to the Embassy and the Main Bank Au Marque next door couldn’t quite understand why i insisted on walking. “It’s really far Lalla. Just take a taxi it’s only maybe 20dhs.” He is distinctively calm. And unlike most young men from around this way, he has a gentle way of being that never insists that “you must…” He’s young and has the most beautiful eyes I’ve seen on a man. If there is one word I would use to describe him, I might initially say “sweet” but when you say “sweet” you smile and it’s said in the same way that something sweet is consumed–quickly. it’s not that he’s “sweet” or even cute as much as he is soft…like the way you say “soft” quietly, softly, prolonging such a small word.

he’s searching for the reason i really really just want to walk and i’m quick and in contrast to him. “Yes, I want to walk, just tell me how to get there and I’ll find the way.” He tries to explain looking outward to the roads and back to me as I look at him intensely, trying to listen to (his silences)…his directions. After a long five minutes of him slowly trying to explain he says, “but the roads are wild and you will find it hard to get there.” he looks at me with concern and i think i can actually tell this man and i think he will understand. even though we’re the same age he seems so much older than me and even though he’s a man and he’s gorgeous he doesn’t seem to know it/believe it, and even though I’m foreign he doesn’t seem to care. “It’s cheap miss, it’s only 20dhs.” He’s looking at me as if he’s asking and i think i can tell him that, “I have no money to take a taxi” I have to walk. “Not even 20dhs.” I don’t say anything. Not that I gave the last of my cash away to the girl on the bus who needed to get home, thinking i could get more for myself from the ATM later. He’s looking at me with these big eyes that are so concerned. He doesn’t take a second to think this through before he says, “it’s not a problem. here, wait right here, I’ll be back, I’ll give you the money.” “NO!” I stop him from going into the store. “Why? you need it don’t you?” “i don’t want it, i can’t take it, i’ll walk.” “no…i promise this is okay.” He waits outside in the sun with me as a store full of shoppers look on. He’s looking at me, waiting for me, just saying, “it’s okay. it’s really okay. it’s okay.” and with that I breeeeeeath, let my hands fall to my sides and warn him that I think I might cry. he’s quiet, he waits for me there, without saying a word as the tears are now streaming down my face. he’s waiting with me, witnessing me, not saying a word.

He leaves and returns, puts the money in my hand. tells me that if I have a problem with the bank to come back, that he works here as the director. I tell him this is shuumah (shame) for me to take this and he says no. if i want and if i can and only if i would feel better, than pay it back when i can, but if not, it’s not shuumah. He looks at my red cheeks and tells me to wait again. He comes back gives me a bottle of water and tells me that everything will be okay. i get in a cab and cry in silence. he made me cry, but the irony and beauty of this whole thing made me laugh.

“You might as well say goodbye to that money” for the next 2 months as apparently this has happened before to them. Charles gives me 10 bucks at the American Em. His grandmother went to Smith and he tells me, “I hear you’re losing your dining rooms.” How the hell does he know that. “How do you know that?” The Herald Tribune/New York Times and Shirley, the Smith alum who offers to take me in after the feast/holiday here that i am spending with my family. i need to get around still to film so i am resolving the problem:this one anyhow. i wait. ready to laugh that you have inherited me. yes that penguin with wings that can’t fly, flopping about, cute but useless. (a mess)

PS: there is a kid (maybe 4 years old) shouting into the phone in front of me (that he can’t quite reach up to just yet) of the teleboutique. he’s all by himself talking to the person on the phone about his zween girlfriend with all these formal introductions as the old grandfatherish man behind me grumbles into his cell phone!

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love is an irreverent infidel

if i knew this day would be all i’d have left of this incarnation of my self i would tell you everything…

my mother kissed me saying that i wasn’t insane “just bubbly”

i ask her to say a little prayer for me

i feel so ill, so love sick.

my brother david is so calm and sweet to me. and his memory is sharp as he remembers everything i’ve ever said, especially when it hurt his feelings: “remember when you said i was wrong.” i can’t remember but i can imagine saying something stupid like that. and after all this time he still remembers.

i kiss my sisters head even we carry on in our usual screaming and fighting matches like we always do until Bryan asks us why we do that. i don’t know. i tell her she’s so pretty. she’s gotten even more beautiful because she’s in love. beautiful and knows it and fully expects us to pick up after her now that this has occurred. i tease her, i kiss her, i wrap myself around her and yes, she loves me. i know she does as she asks for me to sleep next to her and she wants me near her before all others but something still pains her. so much so that when we leave the California wineries and the host tells faithy he thinks we’re all beautiful but that “the blue eyed one is gorgeous”, it still stings her a little. it doesn’t sit well like the wine glass she throws at me in the car which nearly shatters on my chest. i tell her “that’s enough” and she slumps down and falls asleep on my shoulder.

my other sister keeps reminding me that she’s going to do an odd thing and date a white boy even if she’s the whitest sister we have.

we’re all half-breeds but we are one family because we have one mother

i’m getting fat(ter) although nothing seems to catch my appetite

except for this red

this love…an irreverent infidel

if i knew love

if i knew this day would be the last incarnation of myself

i would tell you that i love you

manou

i look at mom’s depression handbook next to her dresser.

“it’s been this way for six years.”

six years of her partner dying

but it’s maybe been longer than that…more like twenty-one years of not being very much like her six or eight or even nine year old self.

My uncle tells me: “she use to chase the neighborhood boys down for beating up her brother. she was younger but she’d chase them with her baseball bat.”

My mother says: “dad would take me fishing…he would even play baseball with me because my brother wouldn’t. i was a tomboy. i was so shy but all i wanted to do was win. i once had to find this four-leafed clover on a hunt and i couldn’t find it. i looked and looked and finally grabbed an extra leaf and added it to a three-leafed clover. of course i was so young and thought this would work so i kept going back to the lady but she’d say, “now darling this isn’t a four-leafed clover. i’m sorry love.” i kept at it and tried her again and again until she ended up giving me the prize. the prize was rock-candy. even though i wanted to win, i promised that the next time i’d find out what it was i was trying to win for.”

Her laughing at her story, makes me laugh too.

…i’m always laughing with her although my sisters are giving her the sideway glances of “weirdo”. am i the only one that thinks she’s funny?

I remember my uncle telling me: “your mother she was so head strong as a kid.” i have to imagine this for a moment.

i have no clue as to what woman they are speaking of. my mother has been afraid my whole life. where has she been my whole life? i’ve known her as afraid. unsure. someone who looked for comfort in me. someone i gave protection to. she was not the matriarch that girls praise as showing them how to live in the world. i never…i never was one of those women who could breathe easily in their bodies from having mothers who showed them how. i was the five year old modeling myself in opposition to her…from the smallest things like refraining over and over again from naturally sticking out my tongue like she did when she was concentrating. so i’m sitting here looking at her with wide eyes as she is becoming this beautiful creature.

“i tell my boss where to go these days. when i was taking care of dad, i was too sad to deal. i had to do one at a time. it’s only now that am i finally able to tell my boss off. the boss calls me in and i grab my notepad. i enter with a smile: “hello, you wanted to see me.” my fingers a flick away from writing down everything we say. the boss tells me a lie. i tell her that it/she isn’t correct. she’s shocked. i tell her that i don’t think her tone is very respectful. another shocked look again from her. at least now she has a real reason to dislike me *chuckling*. but that’s not to say i do what i should in the moment. sometimes you know i’m just too stunned to respond.” i nod listening to my mom. i know.

but i don’t know this woman. this is not the same woman crying that she didn’t want the task of supporting the entire household alone and then crying that she would be unable to keep her job…

i don’t know what happened to my mother but i like this woman who is coming.

we all die. death carries you away, brings you again, born new. in her sadness something died with him, as she is not as she was. she’s changed since dad’s death like she changed the day she saw her father die as she was playing in the yard. her father’s plane blew up in the sky above and came crashing down to the base below. he died as his plane was led into another by a drunk air-traffic controller and was burned so gruesomely that they refused to let his wife see him. he lived only a few hours and when he died she lost her self. she lost the one parent that wanted her and said so.

she lost her father and friend who took her fishing and who’d share a pint of ice-cream with her and two spoons. who’d read Shakespeare to her on the train. who was the only person in the world she would give g-d up for if he asked.

she lost hold of her spirit holding onto grass that was floating on water. nothing held still and it showed in the wet beds her mother would throw her from in the morning and in the years after when she left her family for a place that cast out all her smiles and grew her down versus raising her up. in our births she found small moments of liberation.

she’s died so many times.

i’ve died so many times.

so i listen to my mother ramble about things that I can listen to all day.

My mother thinks of her grandmother saying, “she was 80 lbs of anger and she could fight everyone. i’m not like her but i’m becoming more of a bitch these days.”

My mom mutters about an overactive mind: “movies…i kind of rerun them in my mind. so it’s hard to watch them late at night.”

My mother talks about being too messy for white culture: “i fit in to […] culture more because i’m considered by most to be too emotional.”

Me to my mom: “you need to put some cream on your legs mom they’re looking ashy.”

Mom to me: “i know but my legs break out from the vitamin-c cream i was using.”


On return to college, someone asks me: “Tell me how he died?”

I don’t want to. I want to talk about my mother. Myself:

“no. i’ll tell you how she lived.”

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when i will reach home

life holds your hand and breaks your heart.

it tells you that a broken heart isn’t bad. each break is an opening.

so i put trust in love just as the dream ends, lying in bed touching the one i love. the dream ends and like magic it expands out anew like a sand timer opening up on the other side.

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Election Day 2004

alone

The years here have been marked by the world change that began weeks into her first year at school. A change that has left the world she ran from stained that no war on terrorism can remove. Already dangerous to be in a landscape she was never groomed for but a place she ran to for shelter where ladies asked, “Aren’t you luck to be here!” Honored and breached at the same time sitting with her superiors, answering, “Yes. I am lucky like others are lucky to have been born to the families they belong to.” But sitting back undressed in the bleachers of convocation she wonders if the likes of her will ever have her name called out.

Weeks later it doesn’t matter anymore as she watches over and over, again and again, the planes, the planes, hitting and falling, crashing and burning into her mind even after she walks away from the tube. Television became like horror to her that she should maybe take with humor like good people do, but her god damn sensitivity and her desire to avoid unnecessary fear keeps her from it. She stopped watching when the news became the same, as the same story’s been on repeat since she was eighteen.

It’s been three and half years and the heroes of her teenage years and the programs she licked up are consciously ignored. Protesting at rallies, escorting women in the health clinic, keeping up with the National Organization for Women, the news programs, nightly CNN perspectives, political pundit debates, and Christine Amanpor use to keep her so well versed in a world she can’t even bare to look at. She hasn’t watched the Latest News like she hasn’t renewed her membership never mind even considering to continue her run as vice-president.

When she glances up from a conversation to the crowd in front of the television over the years, the view gets smaller as the screen gets crowded with graphics and colors and morning show personalities, making CNN look no different from Fox News, and liberal views around her reminiscent of group mentalities that terrorize her.

NOW calls from California asking her to come back to them like the television beckons with friends who adore it. If not for her lovers and their affliction with cartoons and music videos she could count on one hand how often she’s watched since. It doesn’t matter since the screen that she purchased her first year, thinking it was necessary, is now in another’s room flipping the late late night shows. Just as well since it only kept her up at nights for the same reasons that do these days. The company of beauty or its absence when their work or lovers call.

Marked on the back of her neck by a hickey kiss, the sea change from the violence of her first moments in college have come full circle to mark her in the last year. A last answer to the questions that she asked…her name, called. (Scream.) she didn’t fail. or blush. or gag. at a time when failing and falling have become easier, along with dancing in public, admitting her name, getting played, and being shamed.

A little…little scared. That’s why she hides her face behind her hair hoping that her eyes don’t give it away. She needs to drink and get high, finding some peace to partner with for the evening. Would it look desperate to ask you to pray for her soul. Pray for her body. Ask for hands to bless her. Sitting before the television into the early morning she catches glimpses of her future in a screen she only glances up to from time to time. She listens with one hand over her eyes, the other between her legs, supporting a heavy head. It is here where crying is quiet and secret behind the occupied seat in front of her. She didn’t know when it began, this, that she would really really care.

And I’m scared. I already care. I already care about you. I care about all of our collective futures that are marked like her on her leg, me on my neck, you on your heart. all marks we want to hide. Put your hands on me god, wrap me in purple blankets, so that she won’t have to.

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To the girls who cannot sleep

You say you can’t sleep.  you say that you lay on your bed with your eyes open in the dark.  you replay the conversations, you think of the world, big and small, yours and mine…lonely and brillant and sweet. This is you tonight.  i don’t know how to change the night.  but i know that i care about you.  that you are too good to feel crazy like us.   I wish that I could sit up in your bed and keep my fingertips on your hair. tell you that i have your dreams and your fears in my chest. so shhhh… close your eyes. I’m here. go to bed. I’ve got you.

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What it would be like to date myself

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A year ago I pondered on how I would feel if the son I don’t have were to date me.

…well I had never thought about it but now that I was thinking about it, it was a definite no way.

Why?

It was enlightening to stand in the streets coming to a full stop thinking about this. It wasn’t that I was a bad person but I wasn’t…someone I would want.

Why was I not good enough? I thought. Well I wasn’t fundamentally bad but I put my finger on somethings I had not ever thought about before…like I was angry most days.  I was holding others to account for myself. I was in need and not a separate clear autonomous entity in orbit around her own sun.

Since then I have been rather quiet on this blog. I haven’t spent a lot of time now writing about love or its loss. I am asking if any of my loves have been loving.  Somewhere in this time I stopped caring to keep people and admitting I would like to actually love. So I did the craziest thing and started to express my feelings no matter how ridiculous they made me look and feel.

I stopped being cool. Cool like the kind that says she doesn’t care when she does or that she doesn’t want to feel anything when in fact I do.

Boys have still come and gone but I am not my traditional self.

I don’t blame others for not being where “I think” they should be and just see them as they are.

This month I met a guy and liked him. Not long after it started I saw he couldn’t seem to say it was over but in every concrete way, he had backed off enough to be distant but close enough to keep holding on. Now normally this could go on for months or years. I noticed and waited only a day. My friends said give it time and don’t scare him away. Scare what away? I am not trying to get something. I am just trying to learn something perhaps in the company of witnesses.

I sent him a message and explained that we didn’t need to blame each other but we could have been more honest.

How unusual of me, I thought as I pondered on the quick break up and his happiness and gratitude.

I love people easily but what is love?

I don’t have the full answer but from where I stand today, my exercise which had been hard in the past to do was painless.

Giving is love. This I have some practice with but it’s just that…a practice. If you stop you lose how to do it.

There is no one you love more than you children. You don’t love them at first sight. They make you feel crazy and there are moments when you want to throw them out the window but you come to love them more than anything.

Today months later from when I first asked myself the question of if I would let my son date someone like me, today to my surprise I say yes. I see myself and say… why not?

I would be happy with that.

Why?

I don’t know exactly but I kind of like myself these days. I am sort of badass. I voice all the contents of my heart and my vulnerability and I idolize no one.

I like how upfront I am and even if the men that I meet that can’t stay in this country or continue in a couple they tell me repeatedly they love my honesty. I make them laugh. I am not selling a car. I am not selling myself. I don’t worry if they like me. I hope they do but I don’t feel it’s the end of the world if we don’t hit it off. And if they like me, it’s a vulnerable funny person they meet who is searching for answers but won’t define herself on them.

I can love people in 5 minutes and I leave in 2 seconds if that’s how it has to be but everyone leaves an impression and helps me learn.

I am happy I didn’t always get what I wanted because what I have is better than what I would have prayed to get for myself.

 

 

 

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Sign the Petition Against Anti-Semitism at the Rally this Sunday in Casablanca

http://www.jpost.com/Diaspora/Demonstrators-execute-fake-ultra-Orthodox-Jews-at-pro-Palestinian-protest-in-Morocco-430081

https://www.change.org/p/a-messieurs-les-ministres-de-la-justice-et-de-l-int%C3%A9rieur-marocains-pour-la-condamnation-des-appels-au-crime-contre-les-juifs-au-maroc?recruiter=24849165&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink

Yesterday in my city of Casablanca, thousands of demonstrators attended a rally that has gone viral, where people chanted for martyrdom, held guns to the backs of people dressed up as religious Orthodox Jews, who then proceeded to smash a model of the al-Aksa mosque before being pretend-stabbed and shot. I am not surprised by this but for the few Jews left in Morocco that I have run into, many are shaken by what they heard and saw, as there is no separation between apparently being a Jew and deserving to be executed. While most protests are shut down in Morocco, these sorts of displays are more than welcome. A petition has been set up at Change.org to ask the government to respond to the anti-semitism displayed at the rally.

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This Year I Made A Decision To Leave

008__AOS9645_20150613FThis year I made a decision and decided to leave Morocco. I bought my tickets and hoped for the best, telling myself that this was the correct decision and on paper it still is.

There is more money to be made elsewhere (and I own no worldly possessions to pass on to my daughter), the region is unstable (especially for us Jews), my daughter is getting older (and according to my mentors, so am I, so I should rush rush rush to get a job elsewhere now)…I know what smart decisions look like and I know leaving is a smart one for a host of materialistic and career reasons, except there was one little thing missing from everyone’s thought process including my own that crept up on me in the quietness of many nights.

Outside of career, outside of society’s perfect marriage with a 2.5 child unit, outside of all social norms of status…if I looked only at my center, at my gut… there were only two questions:

Might I be running away from something difficult and painful to face?

Might I be chasing something that isn’t anything tangible that I can feasibly catch?

In the review of my life in these months before Yom Kippour, I realized there was a host of people I have blamed and circumstances that YES have been difficult but that I have used as excuses to not do what scares me.

When I was doing well, I had no time. When I was doing badly, I had no money. I said that I never had enough time or money to do what I knew I had to do.  I used distractions and excuses, love stories and amusement to pass over my duties.

Which duties am I talking about? You know which ones. The ones we all have. Those callings from inside ourself that make us cry out for justice; those gifts from Hashem that we have from birth and from life experience that we can utilize to help ourselves and this world become better and yet we wait for someone else to do them for us, someone better and more “qualified”.

Changing countries to avoid my responsibilities will not make me feel better. These past two years have been a painful process that I have tried to run from. I have used anything and everything including changing countries to get out of facing myself. I have been avoiding pain, avoiding responsibility, avoiding the subjugation of my fragile ego. I have been avoiding my bigger and wiser self. Avoiding the duties that might make me more enemies than friends; that may bring me mockery and ridicule and rejection when I so desperately wish to be loved.

And yet, although I am afraid, every time I have used my voice, every time I have taken the full weight of myself and my ideas and resolved to take the backlash…every time…I have felt a weight lift off my back.

I am not as smart as I think I am.  I can be so wrong. I am not always as brave as I want to be…but I continually show myself that I am brave and can be so brave.

The potential of myself is so beautiful and so attainable and yet I have avoided it for so long.

Changing lands and changing places will not make me proud of myself. Sitting in my pain, in the silence in the discomfort…this is the only way I can leave pain and discomfort.

I wish life was from down to up. But it’s up down up down up down up down.

As soon as you learn, you fall again. It’s getting up and up and up again. Continually.

So I am staying one more year, to give my daughter one last year to know her Morocco before our community is down to the tens instead of the hundreds and giving myself one more shot at finishing or rather starting what I have failed to do. So that where ever I go I can be proud and sure I am not escaping, I am only moving on.

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“We only lose only what we cling to.” – author unknown

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All scars are art, so my arms are then art history partly because my mother gave me my skin.

I hear myself saying, “Wear your skin with pride, even if you feel naked.”

Somewhere between thinking of romantic love and body shame, I walked past police barricades standing guard around my daughter’s Jewish school, only making me aware that we are targets.

“Even if the worst happens”, I try to reassure myself as I stare at the machine guns of the guards at the corner of school, “we will still be able to laugh after because even if You hate us, we can love ourselves.”

As a wise wo/man wrote: We only lose what we cling to.

We can lose people, we can lose life, we can lose everything but not love. There is infinite love and all rejection is an illusion and all hate, rightly or wrongly, an inversion of our love.

Love is racing through me at so many moments in the day…for some it’s driving in a fast car down the coast with music blaring, flying to earth from a plane like a bird, dancing while a little tipsy, charming a member of the same or opposite sex, doing something noble and courageous, fulfilling a duty, winning a challenge, falling in love, seeing a happy moment for a loved one on a holy day and a holiday. They might not notice but their chests are racing with love.

 

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