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. 

 

Dawn and dusk

I am one of those who, everyday, watches the sun rise and set.

It is for me a way to remain aware that we are part of nature, of a cycle of day and night, and of a movement vaster and faster than we can ever imagine.

Watching the sun rising and setting does not require a view upon the sea or even a large window, a small patch of sky suffices.

Days are filled with activities and noise, so I like the simplicity of seeing the slow lightning up of the sky announcing the start of a new day in total silence. And I like taking a few minutes from the hustle and bustle of a late afternoon to witness the sun setting, even if it is a simple reflection on a glass pane.

Every dawn and every dusk are distinct in sights, with different colors and sometimes birds flying across the sky; and in sounds, with silence or the echos of thunder. Each rising and setting of the sun has its own atmosphere, and I am grateful for being a witness to it all.

These are simple pleasures really, reminding us that beyond the fracas of the world, there is serenity and there is beauty.

Kenza.

Inspiration: changing skies. 

Little pieces of paper

Little pieces of paper are sprinkled throughout my days.

I tend to note instructions as I have the hardest time remembering them, let alone understanding them. So I write them down on little pieces of paper: a childlike drawn map of the way to an appointment, the exact address, the items I need to get at the market, the recipe for a dish, the instructions for the rice cooker, and so on…

Mind you, I have been making crêpes for decades and yet, every time I make the dough, I have to check my little recipe notebook and keep it open until I am done.

Maybe it is why I prefer to walk quietly in a forest with no particular purpose, rather than go to an appointment; or cook a dish that relies on an acute sense of smell and a love of colours, rather than measurements.

Everyday I use tricks to pretend I can follow instructions, little pieces of paper tucked inside my pocket.

But life… it comes without instructions and I have no pieces of paper to help me. There is no “mode d’emploi.”

So I also use tricks to pretend I am here, that I understand what others tell me, that I relate to them even if I am often baffled by the hollowness of it all. Accompany me one day to pick-up my son from school, and drop on a parents’ conversation, you may then understand. So I just smile, say a few insipid words and check the door to see if my son is coming out. The same applies to most situations.

Some may think it is sad to be so exiled from the world, to fail to be engaged in social niceties. I admit it has its downside.

And yet most of the time, I find that to be absent from the world is a blessing. Silence and solitude are most comforting when you consider the amount of absurdities that surrounds us on a daily basis. My absence takes away nothing from the world; and it enables me to see the details that often go unoticed and, at times, have some of the most enlightened exchanges with perfect strangers or a dandelion. You know what I mean if you have read my poetry.

So I will remain as I am, taking life one day at a time. I will be the one strolling along museum corridors aware of the discreet light emanating from a painting, or walking down the street aware of the sparrows watching me from a balcony, and also the one standing in line at the supermarket aware that the lady in front of me cried all night.

I will remain quiet and will take in the beautiful and the tragic. Being absent allows it to happen. And then I might write about it on little pieces of paper and come here to share them with you.

Kenza.

Precious moments

 

Often times at the dinner table, my son and I talk about our day and we like to share one thing that happened that marked us because of its beauty, preciousness or simply because it touched us in a nice way.

So here is what my son, nine years old, has been telling me over the past eight days. It is in no order of importance, and none is more precious than another, they were equally precious at the moment in which they happened.

I wanted to share them because they speak of simple beauty, something we often forget about as we move along our days.

The sunset and the gold colors of the clouds.

That I answered my friend’s email.

The hot chocolate with the cappuccino milk you made me.

The music of Chopin I heard. — Chopin’s Piano Concerto No.2, Rubinstein at the piano.

When I saw your face as I came out of school on the first day back at school.

The rainbow.

The scent of Jasmine at night that we placed in a glass in the kitchen.

The rain, especially during the afternoon downpour and the noise it made as it hit the windows’ panes with the wind.