I am learning to write my name in the sand.
It is not permanent.

At times, my head is spinning from overwhelm here in Morocco. There are too many colors, sounds, rhythms, people, foods, things to digest.
That, too, is not permanent.

I am grateful for every breakfast that is prepared for me, the glasses of colorful pomegrenade juice that leave sweet bitterness on my tongue, the life at the night markets.
I let my head spin and I enjoy the ride.
I let the waves wash away my name and I practice again.

إينكأ

…

(This story told in pictures.)