Like the red hibiscus and pink flowering bushes that continually bloom in the courtyard below, along with the mangey dogs, soccer-playing boys, donkey carts filled with cactus fruit and our faithful parking lot guardian, my beggar women are sure to hunker down on the curb many a morning, especially Saturdays. Today is Saturday, so here we go.
Then, I wake from my small musings and think about how I only enter their world when I hand them a couple of dirhams. They put their hands to their hearts and thank me in Arabic. I put my hand to my heart; I long for greater connection with them. We blow kisses at each other if I give them five dirhams. I feel this tangible wall of separation from them as I enter my apartment.
I have been struggling to know where to start drawing or painting in this wild world, this cacophony of color, loud speaker sounds, minarets, hooded robes tiles and archways. A blank piece of paper or a blank canvas is a wall for me, too. Another wall of separation, but this wall is keeping me from a creative place of color, shapes and expression of beauty, of truth.
Put something down Marcia, anything. OK. What matters to me? Let me draw my beggar women; I care about them. So, today, my beggar women are helping me lay a few lines down on that frightful white paper and climb over that wall into a creative space. We can go there together.
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