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In a beautiful house...
that was not her own...
resided a dashing friend and his equally dashing companion.
One night they orchestrated magical lighting and invited some guests.
They chopped, boiled and simmered.
And made several sacrifices.
They set out platters of salads.
And tossed swordfish pasta.
And before she knew it........candles were lit and wishes were wished.
And she was a year older. Oh my.
*
(Thank you George and Ewen. Love you both.)
Aw, I am featured in my city paper, La Tribune de Marrakech. I do so love being a hometown girl:)
And the very talented artist Stephanie Levy interviewed me on her blog right here. Take a little click to see my personal ramblings.
She had scavenged for this land with the trees.
She had begged for this land with the trees.
She had gone into debt for this land with the trees.
This Marrakech land of hopes and dreams.
This Marrakech land of olive trees.
In return, the olive trees gave back to her.
More than their shade. More than their beauty. More than their branches to climb.
They gave her...... their gold.... (for the very first time).
Credit: Flower arranging by 6-year old Skylar. Accepting commissions. Payment in chocolate cupcakes preferred.
PS When you weren't looking the blogging girl had slipped off to Washington DC on assignment.
All over Rwanda, you'll find them. The weaving women. The basket makers.
The quiet hands, the patient hands, the weaving hands.
In and out and in out. And in and out again.
And when those hands are finished, things of beauty in their place...
A week or two (or more) for a single basket.
A precious thing. A valued thing. A filled-with-memories thing.
Domed like a tent, like a teepee, like a hut.
Like a home.
A reminder that the mind is a many colored thing.
Gossamer thin but oh so strong...these women, ahem, these baskets...
She bought a bag. A big one.
And she filled it up with the baskets and their memories.
And so the baskets came back to live with her. In Marrakech.
As a remembrance of things past.
And her comparative luckiness.
