The key

At dawn, a pigeon delivered a most important letter. The King had appointed me head of the aviary.

After the midday heat abated, I went to the palace to take my new office. The King gave me a special robe of celestial bleu and the golden key to the aviary.

As dark clouds gathered in the late afternoon, I walked to the aviary. With the golden key, I opened the cages and all the birds flew out.

Tonight, I sit alone smiling inside a cage. The King was rather displeased you see, and the golden key does not work on the lock.

Kenza.

Nowruz

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Nowruz when Spring gently knocks at the door baring the gift of light, illuminating the house and encouraging me to clean it meticulously.

I listen to the swallows’ early morning songs and the quiet opening of the hyacinth.

I set up the haft seen, the seven items of the altar. This year it is lavender, eggs, garlic, an apple, a silver plate, a candle and the poetry of Omar Khayyam and Hafez, showering us with their blessings.

You are cordially invited to our house to sit under the blooming jacaranda and listen to the gentle conversation of the violet, the pansy and the tulip. Believe me, they always have a lot of interesting things to say if you listen carefully.

Please come and come early, so that together we may dance amidst particles of light and smile at Khayyam and Hafez’s witty and eternal poetry.

Spring morning

Several flocks of ducks flew over the house this morning, going north to their summer dwellings.

I thought of counting them. There must have been more than 200 birds in each flock.

And then I came to my senses.

Why this need to count? To appropriate something by putting it into a category or a number? Why compare or count?

Let the birds fly north! Enjoy them as they are!

And most importantly, take in the beauty of their ways in silence just as they leave no traces in the sky.

Kenza.

Inspirations: Spring, morning sky and birds. 

We are free

We are free.

We are free to do harm or not.
We are free to lie or tell the truth, to say hurtful words or remain silent.
We are free to steal or not, to kill or not, to respect or not.

This freedom has nothing to do with books or constitutions or laws, nor with place or culture or religion. It has nothing to do with individual rights either, nor anything established.

We were born free to chose our behavior.
Every day, every time we make a decision on what to do or say, we are free to chose harm or love.

We are free.
It is an immense privilege.

Kenza.

Published in Sister-hood, March 2019. 

L’homme habillé tout en vert

Aujourd´hui, j’ai vu un homme habillé tout en vert. Il avait l’air d’une grenouille, ou plutôt d’un crapaud. Il était joufflu donc, un crapaud me semble plus adéquat.

Il marchait en trainant une valise couleur lilas. Mais qui aurait une idée aussi saugrenue que d’avoir une valise couleur lilas ? Un crapaud peut-être. Je ne sais pas.

Elle ne paraissait pas lourde cette valise, et pourtant il la trainait. Elle sursautait sur chaque pavé cette valise, marquant le pas comme les colporteurs d’antan .

L’homme habillé tout en vert a monté la rue et s’est arrêté juste au coin, vous savez là où Madame Petit tient son établissement.

Il s’est assis sur sa valise couleur lilas et, de la poche intérieure de son veston, a sorti un petit papier tout blanc.

Son veston était aussi vert que son pantalon.

Il a déplié le papier qui a pris de la taille et qui s’est déployé en un énorme accordéon.

L’homme habillé tout en vert s’est alors mis à jouer. Et de son accordéon blanc est sortie une musique rose. Oui rose! Rose comme une ombrelle de printemps.

Là au coin de la rue, juste où Madame Petit tient son établissement.

De ma fenêtre, je l’ai écouté très attentivement.

Ne me dites pas que je suis la seule à l’avoir entendu, cet homme habillé tout en vert qui jouait la musique du printemps !

Kenza.

—-

Inspiration: C’est le printemps au Mexique et les Jacaranda commencent à fleurir avec leurs fleurs, oui vous avez devinez, couleur lilas. 

This morning

This morning, as I was making the bed and as my head remained filled with  queries —those very queries I had promised myself to leave aside— a bird chirped on the high branch of the tree outside the window.

He seems to be telling me:

”Stop thinking. Come back to earth. Life is here. Beauty is here. They are in the quotidian, in the joy of this Spring morning and of my song, in the gestures you make as you flatten the sheets. So come back to earth and you shall find tranquility.”

Inspiration: just as I heard the bird, and a beautiful Spring morning here in Mexico.