Don't Tell Me

Please don't tell me I should hug,

Don't tell me I should care.

Don't tell me just how grand I'd feel

If I just learned to share.

Don't say, "It's all right to cry,"

"Be kind," "Be fair," "Be true."

Just let me see YOU do it,

Then I just might do it too.

~ Shel Silverstein

Where the Sidewalk Ends
40th anniversary special edition

~Thank you Marcia and Kayla for introducing me to this American classic by getting it for Jannah-Rae for her 5th birthday.

The Last Time

From the moment you hold your baby in your arms,

You will never be the same.

You might long for the person you were before,

When you had freedom and time,

And nothing in particular to worry about.

You will know tiredness like you never knew it before,

And days will run into days that are exactly the same,

Full of feedings and burping,

Diaper changes and crying,

Whining and fighting,

Naps or lack of naps,

It might seem like a never-ending cycle.

But don’t forget…

There is a last time for everything.

There will come a time when you will feed

Your baby for the last time.

They will fall asleep on you after a long day

And it will be the last time you ever hold your sleeping child.

One day you will carry them on your hip then set them down,

And never pick them up that way again.

You will scrub their hair in the bath one night

And from that day on they will want to bathe alone.

They will hold your hand to cross the road,

They never reach for it again.

They will creep into your room at midnight for cuddles,

And it will be the last night you ever wake to this.

One afternoon you will sing “the wheels on the bus” and do all the actions,

Then never sing them that song again.

They will kiss you goodbye at the school gate,

The next day they will ask to walk to the gate alone.

You will read a final bedtime story and wipe your last dirty face.

They will run to you with arms raised for the very last time.

The thing is, you won’t know it’s the last time

Until there are no more times.

And even then, it will take you a while to realize.

So while you are living these times,

Remember there are only so many of them

And when they are gone, you will yearn for just one more day of them.

For one last time. 

                                                                                                  ~author unknown

The Final No

The Well Dressed Man With a Beard

After the final no there comes a yes
And on that yes the future world depends.
No was the night. Yes is this present sun.
If the rejected things, the things denied,
Slid over the western cataract, yet one,
One only, one thing that was firm, even
No greater than a cricket’s horn, no more
Than a thought to be rehearsed all day, a speech
Of the self that must sustain itself on speech,
One thing remaining, infallible, would be
Enough. Ah! douce campagna of that thing!
Ah! douce campagna, honey in the heart,
Green in the body, out of a petty phrase,
Out of a thing believed, a thing affirmed:
The form on the pillow humming while one sleeps,
The aureole above the humming house…

It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.

~ Wallace Stevens, The Well Dressed Man With a Beard first published in: Parts of a World (1942), in Collected Poetry and Prose of Wallace Stevens (Library of America ed.), p. 224.

Window Dressing

For a cold Sunday morning activity we decided to "do Christmas." While we do not celebrate Christmas, there was no reason why we couldn't join in the merry. Just like we found a way to be part of Halloween and make memories, I thought we could get into the happy Christmas spirit without having to share the beliefs of the holiday. With Yousef napping, Jannah-Rae and I decided to go shopping for decorations.

Michael's as everyone in the US knows is a monster arts and crafts store with a sale going on almost every day of the year. With Christmas approaching and a lull in the business, it decided to put everything Christmas on 40-60% off creating a perfect opportunity to shop. Armed with another 20% off entire purchase coupon, JR and I amassed two bag fulls of festive for less than $15. She even stopped by the demo table and made an elf.

Back at home JR unpacked her purchases and set to work. She spread out the branches on the artificial mini tree, opened the mini ornaments and hung up the star. She found the perfect place for her tree on the window sill and moved to frame her work. Snowmen in an array of media found their way onto the window; gels, paint, stickers. Then the snowflakes came, and the lights on the railing. Finally, she laid out what gifts we had already received, and made sure to put out the reindeer flying dust she made at the Winter Wonderland.

She stood back to inspect her work. "Will people see our decorations?" she asked. Of course, came back the reply. "Will they love it?" "I love it," I said, "do you?" "Yes, mama." "Then, that is all that matter," I stressed and continued to compliment her on her work.

Since then whenever she comes back from school, she wonders about our window; can people see it from their cars, do they look up as they are walking, do they stop and stare. Part of her afternoon routine has become to adjust the stickers that are coming off, check if the paint is still holding, make sure the ornaments are not falling, and keeping her brother away from the window. "No, Yousef, do not touch," is constantly echoed in the living room. But of course Yousef touches, and the fun begins!

Happy Holidays!!!

Donate Your Voice

It has been quiet around here this week. Why? Because I had been putting my "voice" elsewhere.

Did you know you could donate your voice? Your actual spoken voice? The one you use to be heard at demonstrations, strikes and rallies? The one you use to yell at the kids, shout at the reckless driver, scream out for help? The one you use to connect with friends? The one you speak quietly with in the early hours of the morning, whisper softly with at night, and connect with tenderly to your loved ones? The one you use for authority, for credibility, for presence? The one you sometimes choose not to use and instead decide to sit down with in silent meditation?

Did you know you could give it to someone who doesn't have one? Someone with severe speech disorder, without much of an ability to formulate thoughts into words? Someone with great ideas and many needs who is unable to reach maximum potential? Someone who cannot call for help or ask for assistance? Someone who is frustrated with the eternal quietness.

I didn't; until recently.

I heard it on the radio! It was a rerun of a segment from March. I was lucky to have a second chance to hear it. "How Do You Construct A Voice?" the segment was called. And it got me listening, thinking, and talking. I had been wanting to get involved in something bigger than my immediate and extended family. So I did. I donated my voice and became a surrogate talker.

Dear Ranya,

Thank you for your interest in becoming a voice donor. We need every voice – both young and old - to capture the texture and richness of the human voice!

Together, we can change lives!

Sincerely,

The VocaliD Team

And with that I  set up my online account and my virtual recording studio. All I needed was a laptop with a microphone, and a voice. In the early hours of the morning when everyone is sleeping and the sun is beginning to rise, I log in and read words and sentences from the screen. Average, everyday words and sentences like hello and goodbye, sorry and please, how are you, and it's good to see you, and what have you been doing. And less used one like "this is an emergency," and "this tiramisu is to die for." One after one they flash on a screen that highlights what is called the period table of speech. Once all the lights on the table are shining bright, my role would be done: I would have read all the sentences and contributed fully to the Human Voicebank. Once the team receives all my input, the magic happens: speech analysts and technology combine my voice with that of others to create "personalized vocal personas" for those who need them.

I still have a ways to go on this project. It might take me another week, or it might take me more. It all depends on how many mornings I spend on it. I am not eager to complete it as quickly as possible. I am more bent on enjoying the opportunity to be part of a global community working towards a greater good. Changing lives happens at home; I am grateful this home is one helping with the change.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
VocaliD is an organization working to help the millions of people who use computerized devices to communicate in unique voice. It is dedicated to making synthetic voices more humam . To learn more about them, visit their website https://www.vocalid.co/

Weaning Yousef

It was the night before weaning and everyone was asleep; everyone that is except me. I sat there watching Yousef sleep. How many nights had I done that? How many days did I wear him while he napped, held and cuddled and sat? How many hours did I spend nursing him to sleep, and then nursing him again back to sleep? Nursing him for nutrition and nursing him for comfort? Twenty one months and seven days.

Everything comes to an end, and things always change.

I don’t do well with change; never have and I am not sure I ever will. I try as best I can to prepare myself but ultimately I need my mourning period. I need time to let things that had grown on me go. And this is no different.

I spent many sleepless nights trying to get Yousef to nurse. We helped him and tricked him. We nudged him and taught him. We used my boob, tried a tube and used a bottle. We supplemented with formula. I medicated my infection, hired a breastfeeding consultant and nursed through pain. I held on steadfast to my I wanted to nurse my last baby just I like nursed my first. I tried to convince myself otherwise but I couldn't bring myself to give up on nursing. It would certainly have been easier, less painful, more convenient but it wasn't what I wanted to do. I could’ve listened to my friends and family who had my best interest in mind and given up on the ordeal altogether, after all formula these days is a remarkable source of nutrition, but I didn’t. It was more than just a matter of ease and convenience, and it certainly wasn’t all about the food. It was about me. And him. About the bond, the connection, the attachment, the experience. It was about being together with Yousef like I had been with Jannah-Rae. And I was not about to give that up, or away. And I didn’t. Until I had to.

And I had to too soon; again. It’s always too soon. It always comes too fast. I am never ready. Twenty one months and seven days isn't long enough. I don’t think it would have ever been long enough. But it is time, or at least that’s what I am told.

So I nursed him one last time, one last go-back-to-sleep nurse, one last comfort. I had been nursing him “one last time” for the past week. One last Friday. One last Saturday. One last mid-morning nurse. One last nurse in public. One last nurse instead of food. I had “one last” for everything I could think of. Until it was really the last one.

At 3:21am he woke up. "Nan-nan," he called. And, with nan-nan I responded. He fell back to sleep on my chest. I tried to move him but he crawled right back on. I think he felt I was up to something. I am sure he has understood the many conversations we have had about leaving him and JR with Grandma and Granpa while Jeff and I went to New York. I am certain he knew that the "end" was near; he had heard us talking about it over and over again. I believe he knew exactly what was coming, and when, and wanted to draw it out as much as he could. Just the day before he would not let me put him down for a minute; he asked me to hold him all day long. 

At 3:45am I had to lay him beside me, I needed to get up and get ready, our train left at 5:20am. He didn't want to let me go. He squealed. I patted his back and gave him a kiss. I made sure he was slumbering. I got up and got dressed. I packed my bag and slung my pump to my shoulder; I hadn't used that pump in over a year and a half. I didn't even say goodbye. 

At 4:45am I was told he woke up again looking for me. I wasn't there. Elmo on the iPhone took my place. He seemed content. I didn't push the matter. The last time had come and gone, unceremoniously ~ again. The journey was difficult, then easy, then hard. Begrudgingly, and with support, is the only route; there is no way I would have been able to wean him voluntarily, just as I would never have been able to wean his sister before him. 

In two days I will come back. I am not sure what to, but I am hoping to a still-loving son. 

Letting go

Waking up to watching, in a dream, my only son go flying down from three stories up holding onto his favorite toy car, arms wide open, laughing out loud, is not how I wanted to start my Thankgiving morning. I could see it very clearly: blue faded second-hand jeans, new navy blue sweater from H&M that I had bought in the summer on sale, white GAP socks that used to be his sister's, red car in hand. He was about his current age. We were at my late grandmother's house in Hazmieh, and I was on the phone. The other adults, my mother and another woman were somewhere in the house supposedly minding the kids. I was on the balcony talking on the phone. It must have been winter as he had a sweater on, so why I was on the balcony I am not sure. I must have needed some quiet. He came after me to play. I was focusing on the conversation, maybe with a friend but it might also have been with a business. All of a sudden he was climbing the railings.

I know these railings well; I spent many an afternoon in these enclosures.

I visited with Teta Hajjeh and Jeddo Ramez, had meals with aunts and uncles and played with cousins. We had lemonade and coffee and tea, ate popcorn and deep-fried starch chips. With the TV hooked inside and the screen turned out, we watched a soap opera or followed the news. We listened to the radio, played catch and cards. We called for the maid in the kitchen, for others down below, for each other from inside. When by herself there, Teta would not hear us when we rang the bell, or the phone when we called, so we got her a long-corded phone then a wireless one. I remember the question, and its response very clearly: "wein 2a3deen? (where are you sitting)?" "3al balcon (on the balcony)."

She bought vegetables from the peddlers pushing their carts, and pulled the groceries up with a basket attached to a rope. She yelled at us for picking the flowers in the garden and at her son for using too much water to water the trees. She hollered to neighbors and caught up with their news. She monitored traffic and the car wash business.

During the days of the war it was our "outing" from the shelter. On days without power, we sat by candle light, and on some days with power, we sat by candle light, too; long, white tapered candles would burn the hours away. As long as we had enough vape to burn we were good to watch the stars.In the spring we would bring out the chairs and tables and invest a lazy afternoon watching the cars go by. The folding chairs would be moved from the east balcony to the west balcony with the sun and brought in with the moon. In the summer, grandma would make apricot jam with the apricots from her tree in the garden below.

Those railings are well engraved in my mind. The white, pink and grey tile floor leads up to a ledge that holds the sturdy metal rods in place. Narrow rectangular bottom and support rails run across north to south and hold the rectangular balusters together. At regular intervals there are support posts dividing the railing into sections. The railing extend out to hold white laundry lines. The design is concluded with a top rail, wide enough to rest a coffee or tea cup on; or a little foot.

The doors leading out to the balcony are not really child-proofed. Once tall enough to reach the handle, they easily turn open and you are out on the balcony. Sometimes Teta or the maid or whoever was there last would forget to close them and we would run out. Curiosity used to make us want to lean out as far as we could. Take a step on the first landing, put a foot on the bottom rail and you are taller than you were a few seconds ago. Reach up the top rail and lean out and your body is half-way into the sky. I do not remember what it was that we had wanted to see so bad. Some days it was my uncle down below, others it was a car that had just pulled in, and others still we were just monkeying around. We would be cautioned and called out to to "get down." Some days we headed quickly, others we had to be prodded on or even physically removed. Some days we tried to squeeze between the balusters and got an arm or a leg stuck.

On this day, though, the door was already open and I was out. Yousef must have snuck up behind me to be close. I saw him there with his car in his hand. Being the climber he is, his first thought must have been to try out this new experience. I watched him put one foot up, then the other. I called on to my mom to come take him down, "Yousef is climbing," I said, and I went on with my conversation. For some reason I did not bother taking him down myself. "Is someone watching the boy?" I asked again, still on the phone. This time he had both feet up and was proceeding upwards. Car still in hand, he reached the top railing and went flying. I was standing there, phone in hand. I saw it all. I could have dropped the phone. I could have yelled at him, stopped him, distracted him. I could held him back. I could have jumped after him. But I did not. I just let him be. I let him off the ground and into the air. I saw him soaring, then falling. I heard him laugh. I saw him smile. My last thought was "at least he went down happy." With that in my mind, I woke up. He was laying on my chest snoring away.

I am not sure what prompted this dream. Maybe it was a book I had read, or the joke Jeff and I keep, or the upcoming trip Jeff and I are taking without the kids. It might be my anxiety, or my attachment, or the Facebook status update I read before bed. Whatever it was caused me to see my only son, the one I labored and struggled and beat many odds to bring into this world, take flight. I didn't rush after him. I didn't lend him a hand. I didn't stop him. Maybe I wasn't meant to. Maybe I couldn't have. It was probably time to let him go. So I let him go. I should probably let him go.

Piggy Bank ~ Yousef edition

From what  I can see, Yousef will surely be following Jannah-Rae on her charity path.

Piggy Bank

Of all the things I can teach Jannah-Rae, one thing I know I cannot furnish her with is a generous heart; that has to be of her own making. I can set an example, lead her on the way, entice her to give to others, reward her with encouragement and cheers when she does, talk to her about helping those in need, and about reaching out to those on the sidelines, tell her stories, show her pictures. What I cannot do is do it for her. It has to come from her. It has to be self-propelled.

Jannah-Rae was born with a heart of gold. She is emphatic, sympathetic, kind, and warm. She is loving, gracious, and appreciative. She is also very very generous. And yet it is so easy to forget these qualities when she is having a fit over this or that matter, throwing a tantrum because I said "no" to something or crying because she couldn't have "her way".

Fortunately for me, I get frequent glimpses into Jannah-Rae' heart. Not long ago she wanted to send cards for the kids receiving assistance from the food bank. On Friday  she told me that she was going to play with one of her classmates on the playground, "because no one else does."Last week she became sad when she inquired about one of her classmates and I told her she didn't come to school because although her mother works hard, she could not afford the tuition. She suggested we help her out and insisted on getting a guarantee on when she will return to school. But one of the most touching things she has done is her answer to a fundraising call from Howard County Library. 

It was one day after school when we decided to drive by our mailbox to pick up the mail. Jannah-Rae loves to get mail and so I handed her a piece that looked like it could be for her; it had a picture of kids on the front. I had not closely inspected the item at the time but simply wanted to give her something to amuse herself with while I sorted the other "more important" mail.

"Who is it from, Mama?" I glanced quickly. "It's from the Library." "What do they want?" Another hasty look. "Money," I said quickly and without much thought believing it was going to end there. "How much," was her sequel. "Sixty dollars," was the first number I saw, although when I went and looked again they had tiered donation levels with the sixty centered in the pamphlet so that it was the first I saw when I looked.

What came next, unsolicited, left me speechless. "Do I have sixty dollars in my piggy bank?"

Jammah-Rae had been depositing coins in her piggy bank for years. Recently she and Teta embarked on a new savings scheme: finding pennies on the street and collecting them. She has no less than five boxes she calls piggy banks in her walk-in closet in Columbia,

and two at Teta's house. They are all heavy with metal.

"I am not sure, Jannah-Rae. When we get home we can look and see." And before I closed the basement door behind me, she was already in her room carefully examining a handful of bright pink slips of paper.

"Do I have enough?" she implored.

When Grandma was here, the two of them spent over an hour on a special project: sort, count and record how many of each coin category she had in each box and total all the individual sums for a grand total.

She was a few dollars short. "You only have $56," I said. Her face fell, but only for a brief moment. It then lighted up and beamed. "I will give them all of it!"

And that was that!

post note: JR then called Teta and told her the library was asking for money. I do not have enough, she said. Could you give me some more, she asked. That little girl was determined to give all she can to a cause she believes in. 

I wonder how she would have reacted had I quoted the lesser amount noted on the solicitation mailer. Would she still have given them all she had, or would she have given just what was asked. Either, though, I am certain she would have given, without any reluctance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Of all the heartbreaks in Beirut, and there are many, the Syrian refugees stood out the most on this trip. There have always been Syrian kids hustling cars at stoplights for spare change and a thousand Lebanese lira, often in exchange for some trinket or a packet of tissues. But this time there are many, many more. Dumpsters are raided on a daily basis, usually during the afternoon or early evening, for any edible scraps of food or something that can be re-used. On every corner and almost every light you will see a Syrian mother with her children begging for change. One time on the way from the grocery store I dropped a couple of coins into the hand of one of these mothers. Jannah-Rae asked what I was doing and why, so I explained to her that some people don't have food or clothes, or a place to live, so it's good to help them. She noticed the children of this refugee and after we walked a few steps away, she said "I want to help them." So, on her own, she asked if she could give something to the children since they had none. She took her mom's hand and walked back to the children, and gave the first one her treat, a chocolate croissant. As she was walking away she noticed another child had nothing, so she asked to give this one her other treat. Again, walking away, she noticed a third child. But she was out of treats, so she asked her mother for something to give. Ranya gave her a coin, and Jannah-Rae happily gave it to the third child. I have never been so proud of or humbled by my daughter. Not just because she did a good deed, but because of the expression of pure joy on her face for having done so as we walked home, without her treats."                                                                                                                       ~ Jeff on Jannah-Rae January '14 

Jannah-Rae in Rawche ~ November 2013

What Happy Is

This Life

Becoming

an inspiration for today. 

Gratitude

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow."

~ Melody Beattie

Today I am grateful for being able to enjoy a sit down breakfast with my family ~
on a weekday!
manakeesh bi zaatar, olives, tomatoes and tea. 

The Journey

“The journey was never meant to lead to some new and improved version of me; that it has always been about coming home to who I already am.”

~ Katrina Kenison, 

Magical Journey: An Apprenticeship in Contentment

home

Abundance

"Abundance isn't success. Abundance isn't perfection. Abundance isn't some fancy word for money. Abundance is simply being content with what you have, and who you are right now." 

~ adapted from the Abundant Mama Project

and right now I am a wife, a mother and a daughter.
for now that is enough. 

Winter outside, Summer inside

"In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." 

Albert Camus

Painted Toes

Some time ago I signed up to receive Emerging Women's newsletter in my inbox. Every week I get an email and most of the times I immediately delete it without going through its content first. Every once in a while I stop and read in the hope of finding a message that resonates with me, words of wisdom I can take and make my own, actions I can foster and form into a habit. Last week I heard my calling.

The email, received on February 2nd, was titled "The Power of Choosing Your Words Wisely." I had an "Ah-ha" moment. For some time now Jeff and I had been discussing the power of words and how words affect our perceptions, and our actions. But discussing and seeing are different things, at least to me. Some people learn by hearing, some people learn by seeing. I am of the latter. Seeing the words on paper struck the cord that Jeff had been trying to strike for years. I copied the quote, published it on my blog, and proceeded to read the post.

There were a few items on the agenda but only one that stopped me in my tracks: "From Stupid to Silly with Self-Love." The item summary went as follows: "It’s not only the words we say that have power, but also the words we think." Another "Ah-ha" moment. Another lesson I have been trying to learn. I clicked on the article and read on. It made sense. I wanted to delve deeper. I clicked on another link. It lead me to the Self Love Movement. I was skeptic but kept on reading. Both kids happened to be napping together, the dishes were done, the house was clean, dinner was ready and laundry was growing behind the bathroom door, so I had time to explore.

And explore I did. And downloaded the free e-book offered on the site. It was free so I had nothing to lose and so much to gain. And gain I did. I have only had the book for a few days and read through the first few chapters and yet I can say with confidence that it has had changing effects on me. I had posted about my change in perspective and how I was finally good and ready to perceive what has always been in front of me. Well now I am starting to put this change in perspective into action.

Throughout the book Daylle poses exercises to aid in breaking the pattern of negative self-talk and foster self-love. And while I am yet to fulfill many of these one that I have been consciously and duly applying is showing myself love randomly throughout the day. From lighting a scented candle, to taking a shower, to eating chocolate I have been mindful and deliberate in my effort at being kind and loving to me. So rather than doing the dishes today, I painted my toes. The bottle of manicure had been sitting on the shelf since we arrived in Ifrane, and before that it had sat unopened in the bathroom cabinet for at least three seasons. It was a gift from my mom and I had been too lazy and too cheap to try it out; I did not want to spend the money on nail polish remover and I could not be bothered to take it off even if I had had the nail polish remover on hand. Today, though, I said "enough!" It was time I made time to enjoy the little things, like red toes. And so, I painted them and marveled at how little time it took to do something "nice" to myself. And by doing that, I made myself feel good, which in turn translated into having a better day. Why had I waited so long for this? Because, I was just not good and ready yet!

Daily To-Do List

Lesson reminders: rules to live by

Last year things were rough. To keep our family functioning Jeff and I had to make exceptions, bend the rules, change plans on the spur of the moment.

This year, things are different. We are in a new culture, surrounded by different people, varied expectations, many unknowns and little to do. To keep our family from complete isolation Jeff and I find ourselves having to make exceptions to what we otherwise would not allow. Last week brought an opportunity to remember an old lesson, and learn a new one.

The date was October 31st, 2012 and Jeff and I had a medical emergency. It was a Wednesday, the third day without power for a lot of  people after hurricane Sandy hit our area Monday evening. We were lucky to have not lost power but we had to brave the storm on Monday to check on my cervix. We were sent home that day after seeing the substitute doctor and being quoted a research study that indicated I was not a candidate for a cerclage. I was anxious about his decision and very uneasy. My preterm labor started Wednesday morning. We found ourselves on the road again, unprepared and without child support. We called on my close friend and she, as usual, came to our aid. It was Halloween. JR needed the distraction; she dressed up and went trick or treating. I sat in a hospital room being stitched up, working hard to help save our baby. It was team work.

A year later, we celebrate Yousef's miracle. We also come upon Halloween again. We still do not celebrate Halloween, but everyone else around us does. With moving here, we thought that certain holidays would not be observed; we were wrong. The community here decided to organize itself around Halloween and bring the kids together for chaperoned trick or treating and a pot luck dinner afterwards. I wanted to include JR, but on our family's terms: no costume and just attend the after-party. I was quickly given a reminder of my lesson in bed, and sent a message that I should be so wise as not to forget: rules provide a great structure; knowing when to bend them is a virtue.

Happy Halloween!
JR ended up being a ballerina,
and she participated in trick or treating, albeit minimally.

Thoughts and Things

I sit here and ponder. The sun has not risen yet, the rest of the family is still in bed. It is nearly 7 in the morning and the only sound I hear is that of the refrigerator starting and stopping, my fingers tapping on the keyboard. In the distance a dog barks. It is quiet all around.

Ifrane is a sleepy town. Nothing starts early. No one starts early. The weekend days are long and lazy. The week days start just a tad sooner, the hustle is in the first morning hours when the sun comes around and then it dies. Before 8 and after 9 nothing exists but God. Between those two hours students rush to school, parents rush to work and maids and nannies rush to houses. People come and people go and then it is all silent again; silent and slow.

I have always been a morning person; always having the most energy right after I wake up. I crave the morning intensity, the stores that open early, the terrains that are safe to explore with the sun. In Portland we had our porch, both front and back, for these hours. In Arlington we had our neighborhood. Here, I have the kitchen/living room; and the kids. I like to get up and go in the morning, but here I get up and stay. I stay with my family, with my loved one, with myself.

Today I sit and type and look around me. There are boxes everywhere. Our belongings have finally arrived and we are reunited again. For the past six weeks I had been “recycling” clothes, wearing the same pants over and over again and stretching their cleanliness as much as I could. I had a couple of shirts and I rotated them around, hand washing them each morning for the next day. JR and Yousef had close to no toys and we got creative with what we had. Empty plastic boxes became bath toys, powder food coloring became paint, cotton buds became brushes. A blanket doubled up as a rug, and our laps served as a high chair, our arms as a standing support. We borrowed books from the school, toys from the neighbors and company from strangers. We filled up our time with walks, with trips to the market, with time in the sand. We lived with very little, and many times it was enough.

Now we have “real” toys, many books, actual entertainment. I have my toiletries, my spices, my calcium supplements. I open box after box and find the treasures I had buried there in a split second amidst the packing: oatmeal from the bulk section at Whole Foods, chia seeds from a bag we had bought there last Fall, herbal tea from my close friend in New Hampshire, the maple syrup she had shipped to us as a gift. I find gifts for the kids, treats that Teta and Jeddo had bought for JR, shoes purchased on sale from Nordstrom, a photo of JR and me that used to sit on Jeff’s desk in DC. I see outfits that JR used to wear as a baby brought over for Yousef to don. Toys she used to play with, now resurrected for both her and her brother’s pleasure. I reunite with the homeschooling books, the dry erase crayons, the calculator. Our picnic blanket, the cooler bag, the shoe organizer.  We are back to having the bumbo seat, the excersaucer, the portable potty. Things that would have served us much better weeks ago are now here in time for the kids and I to leave them again.

These boxes and their contents take me back; they take me to where we had been, where we came from. They remind me of a time now long gone. A time where things were in abundance, in relative order, in relative harmony. Everything had its place, although we did not have much space. Was it better there? It was different. It was familiar. It was home. Most of it is here now. I over-packed. Lots of clothes, more clothes than occasions to wear them. Too many coats, too many towels.  More socks than a need for them, more variety than necessary. We have even less space. I look around and wonder where I am going to put all of this “stuff”? Where I am going to use it? It makes me wish I had not packed it all, not bought so much.

It is too late now, though. What is here is here and what is left behind is left behind. I had imagined a life where I would wear this and that, where the kids would need this and that. It was a different vision than our reality. We had been promised more space, more rooms, more area. We had packed accordingly. We did not get what we were told. Now I see us living with our stuff again, looking around for places to store them. I repack many things; some clothes leave one box, only to find their fate in another. Many towels go back into the bottom of these boxes, some toys do not even make it out. The boxes get relabeled, put away again. Stashed in a corner, covered with a sheet, waiting to be rediscovered once again.

All this makes me wonder: The bags, boxes, packing paper. The clothes piled on the couch, those dangling from the chairs. The toys strewn all around, those that are being played with. It all takes me back and brings me here, past and present, like the waves on a beach. Quick, moving, fleeting. What’s the use in wondering? What’s the point in transcending? This is here now. We are here now. We make the most of it.

The sun is coming up. The sunrise is beautiful in Ifrane. The pink and orange and yellow against a pale blue and stark white. The birds are chirping. The kids are waking up. In the next room Yousef is rolling over, crying out for Mama. JR is calling for milk. Jeff is getting up. I am snatched from  my reverie, from my writing, from my time. Life is calling. Time to go.