Almost by chance, I find myself In Morocco.  A planned journey through Spain has led to an impromptu trip to this enchanting country.  Once here, I meet up with Christine, a friend of thirty-five years.  She has come from Germany, and we meet in Tangier. 
 
I call my travels “a working vacation.”  Having finished my book, it is now with Marty, my editor.  Ending my lease in Santa Fe allowed for the opening of new doors and new experiences.  What better place to call home but the open road, filled with fresh sights, sounds, experiences, and memories in the making.  While Marty edits, I travel.  It is in Morocco when the first email arrives; he’s finished the editing, and it’s time to make the final revisions together.  Our time difference offers the perfect scenario: I’ll travel and explore during the day, while Marty sleeps, and we’ll talk at night, which is day for him.  This works out especially well in Spain and Morocco, where late nights are the norm.  My internal clock has adjusted to this new rhythm.

From Fiona's former blog Gypsy Journeys
 

​The sizzling of a succulent sauté arrests my senses as I walk into the small apartment.  The synergy of fat, heat, spices, and an iron skillet come together in one popping, heady, aromatic burst.  I am not allowed to linger long enough to discern these dreamy scents, nor to sneak into the kitchen to catch a peek of what might be in that pan.  Pungent and earthy, the aroma wafts through the room and envelopes me.

“Come on in,” my host tells me with a broad smile as he gently takes off my worn parka and bright scarf.  “Have a seat.”  What had been a drafty, drab living room during my previous visits has morphed into a warm and cozy nest.  White linen has been draped over the thrift shop table, which is adorned with a bottle of Merlot and a clear, hour-glass shaped vase bursting with scarlet roses.  Latin and Reggae music play softly in the background.  I am seated by my host, who then pours us each a full glass of wine.  We toast to the occasion.  He winks at me and disappears into the kitchen, assuring me he’ll be right back.

​From Fiona's former blog Gypsy Journeys
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Tonight, I grilled for the first time.  At almost 50.  Grilling is something men do, not women.  At least, that’s what our culture has conditioned us to believe, and we play those roles quite well.  How many times have you breathed in that succulent, smoky aroma, looked around to see from which neighbor’s house the fragrant scent is coming from, and discovered the woman of the house tending the grill?  Not often, I would bet.  That’s what husbands are for.  They grill, we cook.  But in my case, both my husbands are out of the scene.  They had both done a stellar job in their roles as grill masters, and I was sorry to have that perk of marriage stolen from me.  Somehow, I can never get Natalie excited about the idea that I can also grill burgers, or chicken, or anything else for that matter.  “No Mom, let’s just sauté that in the frying pan,” is her rote response every time I suggest I give the grill a whirl.  

The old woman’s eyes meet mine as our distance nears and she comes into focus as I walk down the street, unknowingly approaching her vegetable “stand.”  Avocados three times bigger than any I have ever seen are spread around her, spilling onto the street and sidewalk.  A broad smile reveals gaps where teeth once were.  Interspersed with the gaps are shiny crowns of gold, which glint in the morning sun and make me blink.  Cataracts only slightly dim the sparkle in her eyes.  As she shifts her position, bare feet emerge from underneath her multi-colored, hand-woven skirt.  Cracked heels and calloused toes tell me she’s probably never owned a pair of shoes.

From Fiona's former blog Gypsy Journeys
​
​The Great Flood entered our basement last July.  Having spent the day in Longmont, I was completely unaware of how severe a rainstorm we had gotten in Boulder.  A beautiful day awaited my return, sunny and warm as you please.  As soon as I pulled into the driveway, that beautiful day came to an end.  My neighbor was outside, looking frantic as she sometimes does, so I didn’t think much about it.  She came immediately over and said, “Fiona, you might want to go look in your basement.”  “Oh!” I replied, wondering why.  “What happened?”  Only then did I learn about the torrential rain that had passed through earlier that afternoon.

As I descended the stairwell, my heart sank in tune with each step.  When I reached the bottom, the destruction came into focus.  After a really loud, “Oh, shit!” I started wading.  Standing water a foot high awaited me, and a weird smell to go with it.  Everything on the floor was saturated.  Once-rigid boxes had become soft and soggy, sometimes spilling their contents into the water.  What first came to sight was all the granola, energy bars, packaging material, marketing material, t-shirts, and sundry other business items that were quickly getting ruined.  “I gotta save this granola!” I thought.  Never mind the photos, the generations of family history, my daughter Natalie’s artwork, papers, school projects, slides, books, life mementos, Guatemalan textiles, letters, postcards, Spanish teaching materials, travel memoirs, and other items of significance.  All these things were also drowning.  But in my reactive mode, I did not act rationally.  Whatever I laid my eyes on next, I decided must be the most important thing to haul out of there. 

​For more than a decade, I lost sight of who I intended to be.  Ironically, this happened by trying to be the best mom I could be.  After my divorce, which happened when Natalie was three years old, I went back to work full time.  I don’t mind work; in fact, I’m basically a workaholic.  Work helped to prevent me from feeling sorry for myself, and it brought in a much-needed income.  I had a job I enjoyed; it was challenging and sociable, and it put my talents to good use.  However, there were drawbacks.  I normally couldn’t go on field trips, stay home if Natalie was sick, or pick her up from school when I felt like it, instead of when my work schedule permitted.  My goal was to be a star mom, to deliver my daughter to soccer practice and piano lessons and birthday parties, on time and not in a frenzy.  Plan fun things to do, cook creative dinners, schedule play dates, and explore our surroundings.  My work hours put a cramp on all these things.  Determined to change my situation, I began soul searching.  Each day during my lunch hour, I pounded the pavement, beckoning the spirits to help me find an alternative path.  A path that would allow me the flexibility to be the mom I wanted to be.