I wake up and open my bedroom window to reveal blue walls and blue sky and sparrows singing and men singing in the mosque. Hearing Arabic brings a smile to my lips and I remember my grandmother and my heritage. I hear her saying prayers in Arabic before we eat and her accent. Her sweetness, her innocent outlook, despite all the hardships life had presented.
The passion in the language of these people, the presence with which they talk, their kindness, the way they walk.
Their skin, their eyes, their hand gestures. Where do I come from, where am I going and where will I stay? These questions I ponder as the crucial time for deciding grows ever so near. Will I return to the mother land. Is this my destiny? Will I align with the cultures that are rich with passion, with sound, with design, with music, with a spirituality engrained in their veins.
The way the footsteps of running children echo down the narrow alleyways and the voices of traders as they argue with each other. It’s all in good spirit though. It’s part of the culture. Passion, authenticity, being heard. They explode with strong emotion then return to a mischievous smile and relax into the moment.
I giggle. I appreciate what I am hearing. There is an aliveness outside of my window, that spills over into my room and it fills me with gratitude, just for this simple moment of being here and hearing this life that is going on for me to witness, for me to hear, for me to be a part of if I wish.