If you open your heart it will break.

So leave your heart be in a thousand pieces.
Sprinkle them all over the planet.
Sprinkle them all over the places you go.
Sprinkle them to cover your footsteps.
Sprinkle the sharp shards and the soft drops.
The reds and the pinks and the orange and the greens and the blues of your heart.
Sprinkle them.

The pain that wants to burst out from your chest – it is not for you to have.
It is for you to channel through softness.
Through the touches.
This is what makes your touch confident.
This is what makes your touch reassuring on another person’s shoulder.

…

It hits me like a brick in the stupor of my peaceful rut, the realization: I can go back. The power, the might; the decision is mine. If I want to move, I move. I am free to choose.

I have been in Casablanca already over a month. The time to move on is creeping closer, still an un-set date but I can feel the day approaching in my flesh, in the way I am detaching my self from the idea of continuity, from commitment to this place; the way I am starting to ask questions about ticket prices and checking the roads on Google maps. Contemplating how much-ish time I want and need to travel all the kilometers down to the border; in which places I want to stop on the way, which roads might allow me to hitch.

The way I am once again closing in on the oh so familiar state of mind: the “I don’t know.”

There is only one thing that feels unfinished: I miss my friends in Tangier and I want to see them again. Just once more before time knows how long.

This is why I decide to return.

…

The pain that you have is not yours.
The pleasure that you have is not yours.
The thing that wants to burst out of your chest: you need to let it.
You need to let it burst and grow.
All the pieces of your heart, believe me. One day they will germinate.
There is not a single piece of your heart that will not find comfort in the solid ground.
That will not grow a root in the place where you leave it.
Not a single piece of your heart that will not leave something in the places it has touched.

And in the end nothing remains.
In the end you, too, will fall into the earth.
Black and dark as night.
Black and dark as your insides; you are already carrying the end within.
This is where you come from and this is where you belong.

…

In the morning I order a taxi and I buy the ticket at the train station. I haven’t checked the times and I don’t mind the wait. I have booked the cheapest hostel and I have told them I am coming. In my bag I have an almost-full bottle of gin and among the few other things I have hidden a little ball of, let’s say chocolate, soft and fresh, wrapped in plastic. A gift. I want to spend another night, maybe a last one, in that dim little room, this time getting tipsy with the stories and the music. One last time; I want to see them, hear them, be received by them just as I am. Received in a way I haven’t felt received for the past month. Braid my aching migrant-roots into theirs like fingers; soft palms cupped against each other, creating warmth in the empty space between.

And, well, another thing too.

I am carrying some words that are burning a hole on my tongue. A red glowing string attaching them to my heart, to some unruly feelings I rarely feel nowadays. I wish to ease my heart and share these words with the person for whom they are meant. Should I find the moment and should my heart be brave enough. I whisper my new companion-word: insha’allah.

…

But on that day it will only be a fragment of what matters.
What matters is also the other days before that.
Everything that is not now is a fantasy and now,
in every moment,
in every walking moment,
in every waking moment,
in every living moment,
I am germinating.

I am leaving so many footprints on this winding road of mine and I am filling them all with the pieces of my heart.

None of the steps I take are in vain.
None of the footprints I leave are empty; I make sure they are filled to the brim and overflowing, the shards glowing in different colors.
This is my dedication, as I promised that day on the rooftop terrace: I will do my best.
I will do my fucking best.
To be open, honest, soft and here.

…

Tangier feels just as I left it.

There is something special about re-turning. Knowing your way, being familiar. I don’t need to check the map or ask for directions when I get off the train; nothing delays me. I just start walking towards the Medina.

The weather is lovely. It is mid-day and I look down on the pavement where I set my feet, imagining the atoms in the rock underneath having traveled galaxies and back. Having shifted and moved yet looking and feeling just as I remember. The vibe is familiar and I realize that I love this city. It’s special to me, not just because it was the first to receive me when I arrived to this continent I had so longed for; not just because it was so obviously different despite being so close.

The air itself is different here. I can feel it. It vibrates on another frequency.

Somehow it is important to revisit the places which you remember, I think. Somehow it is important to have expectations, even if they’re not conscious but hidden deep in the body. The body remembers being received, remembers being held, remembers belonging. Yet, the day is a new one and has not happened yet, despite memories of the past caressing the present like ocean waves caressing the shore.

Thus the past slips into the now and time is truly sloshy.*

…

I easily find the hostel in the Medina and I check in. I have been here before already; I had breakfast on the rooftop once, not staying here myself but invited by an acquaintance. I go up to the rooftop now, too. From here I can see the rooftop of the house where I used to live; it is only some houses away. A woman is hanging laundry and I try to see if I know her, but no. Either we didn’t meet, or she is new.

My first stop will be cafe Sherifa. I haven’t told them I’m coming.

I walk the familiar streets. I pass the door to my former house and I touch it with love, wishing well on the women and children living inside.
On the way I greet the same people working the small shops, a happy recognition flashing in their eyes before the smiles reach their lips. The baker, the cornershop owner. It elevates me and my steps gain a spring and I use it to run, float up the stairs to the Kasbah.

They are, of course, happy to see me, Said and Otman. Their faces crack up as they see me, as does mine. We make small talk but mostly we enjoy the soft silence and each other’s company. It is as if I haven’t been gone. Hours pass and night falls and it is too little time, too little. With a sting of regret I decline Otman’s dinner invitation and explain that I’ve promised to meet some other friends for dinner. Next time, I say, and a wave of sadness covers our silence like a blanket. Slowly I say good-bye and tear myself away and it is not until after I’ve walked several streets that I realize that I’ve forgotten to pay for the tea.

…

It is dark out now. Inside the Kasbah walls I slow down again. In just a moment I know I will reach the small, broken door hidden on the side of the house, or maybe I will never reach it. I will find my friends inside, just as I know them, or maybe I will never find them. The more clearly I imagine my expectations, the more clearly I imagine them being shattered by unforseen circumstances. I slow down even more and let my stomach turn and my heart pound. In just a moment.

And the street ends and I turn the corner.

And I cross the square.

And I walk down the few steps and pass the huge guardian tree.

And I see the small door and I slow down, down, down.

And I stop outside.

I breathe.

I lift my hand, slowly, softly tense my knuckle.

(It will never be slow enough.)

I knock the code.

And wait.

Soft movement inside. I see light through the cracks** in the broken door.

And it opens and the first thing I see is Jonas’ smile and he opens his arms and we hug and his body feels so surprisingly small and skinny against mine. I smile too but I don’t remember what I say, if anything.

And Joël is inside already and as I duck through the door I greet him and I know that I have arrived home, that this is a home to me.

“They have fed you well there,” is the first thing that Joël says to me and I laugh and shout something about how dare he and how can he even tell and he replies that he is a man, of course he can tell things like that. It’s both amusing and upsetting me, but it doesn’t matter.

We pass the evening like always: between languages, slowly speaking, jamming. We share the gin and Jonas has cooked the same meal as the very first time I visited and we share that too, our hands dipping into the same plate. Some visitors come and go, but mostly it’s us three and hours and hours pass and I let them do so.

With pleasure.

…

The sun is for everybody.
The sky is for everybody.
The wind is for everybody.
Water is for everybody.

Joël says the same things as always, preaching, and I have heard it so many times before, seen his excited face as he pucks his lips and blows, emulating the wind blowing over the earth, eyes fixed on the everybody he is talking about, a vision only his to see, and I laugh and there are tears in my eyes over the familiarity. Jonas watches with a calm smile, used to his friend’s ecstatic storytelling and repetition. As every time before, I let the words sink in.

The sun is for everybody.
For every. Body.

Later I pick up the guitar too and we jam. Joël sings sincerely to my clumsy chords, channels words and they validate me. Even though I am not a musician they call me an artist, invite me to play and we fill in the gaps together. Creativity, too, is for everybody.

And feel my self recharging.
I feel my self recharging on positive energy, creativity, expression.
Recharging with love, recharging with these people who give me so much without asking for anything in return.
Who give me for free.
Who give me generously.
Even though they themselves have so little.

One day I will give it all back and it might not even be to them.
And I think we all know that.

…

I head back through the Kasbah alone. It is late now, empty. I toy with the idea of buying a sandwich or some fruit from the stands on the livelier main street but decide to be good and go straight to the hostel; there is a curfew and besides, I need the sleep. I am leaving again tomorrow morning. I am tipsy and happy and sad or no, more profound; with every step I take I feel as if my heart is spilling, shedding shards in my wake, love and pain spilling out indiscriminately and as I breathe in, more love and pain enter.

The heart spilling out of me is endless.

My head spins towards the night sky as I drag my feet and even though light and soft, there is also a thorn of regret in my heart: I didn’t say it.

I never got the opportunity; I never made an opportunity. It was all perfect as it was, but also…

But also.

I sigh. I am too saturated at the moment to understand anything. I arrive at the hostel, go straight up to the dorm and crawl into bed, breathe and accept. Whatever I will feel tomorrow, I will deal with it then.

The sleep is instant, constant, heavy.

…

The next morning I wake and pack; it only takes a few minutes. Breakfast is included and I enjoy the msimmen with sweet jam and sweet tea under the gray sky with seagulls all around.

The palette of Tangier to me is one of the two: either the bright specks of red, green and blue that appear when the sky is clear and blue, the colors spilling out between the shining white walls, or: soft and with the different shades of white reflecting the bellies of gulls when they are flying particularly low. The days when the sky is carrying clouds somehow add a sharpness, an edge of steel to the colors and they don’t come at you straight, rather from the corner of your eye.

I chew slowly and contemplate my options. I could go and knock on his door just to say what I have to say and get it off my chest. He might be sleeping though, and I don’t want to wake him up. I might call him later, at any time, but my French is still weak and anyway I find it hard to hear what people say on the phone. It makes me feel insecure. I might text him, this would give me time to compose my words and use a translator if needed. But I don’t fully feel like I can express what I want with the absence of body language and tone of voice.

I decide to not knock on his door. I decide to head out, as I’ve planned. I am feeling too shy to take his time, to make a big deal. My tongue ties itself into a knot in that familiar place in the back of my throat.

The sun is starting to come out as I once again make it through all the same streets. Through the Medina and out, down to the sunny boulevard waking up to the day. Smiling and thanking no to the taxi drivers trying to wave me in. My steps are light but my heart is heavy, head still not quite with me but thinking, thinking, thinking. Maybe I should just leave it be. Maybe it is not meant for me to let the words leave my mouth, maybe that would cause knots and tangles and pain for him which I am unaware of. Maybe it is for the best to leave it be.

With my back to the Media I decide that yes, I will try and let it go. It wasn’t meant.

Then I hear someone calling my name behind me. Vaguely; I’m not sure. I turn.

…

And life is giving me another chance; god is giving me another chance; fate is giving me another chance; the universe is giving me another chance; just as I sink into thoughts about my friend I hear someone calling my name.
I hear someone calling my name and I turn around and I see him.
And my mind is jumping between languages and my face opens in disbelief and joy, for what is he doing on this street at this time, what is he doing, why is he here?
The small body as I hug it close to me. Too brief, I want to stay longer but my energy is too entangled, too confused and all over the place.

And his smile when he sees me.
I know that he loves me.
I know that he loves me and that we have met already and that I have met him a thousand times over.
I have seen him in the eyes of others who have loved me;
“If you have a good heart you will meet others with a good heart.”

…

He is trying to catch a taxi to go to a meeting, that is why he is here on this street. I would have missed him had I gone to knock on his door. He invites me to join him.

…

And I admit that sometimes I forget to trust the universe.

In his eyes I see love, simple and not distorted by words. It is the same look that the sun gives me as it shines down from the sky; whether I am in human shape or a brittle seedling, stretching my only leaf towards it with all my might.

…

We meet with more friends and family and together we put flowers in the ocean for the ones not returning from it. Afterwards we stray a little from the group, or steps inching sideways together as in silent agreement.

And we talk as if we were friends. We talk as if everything was just as normal and it makes me believe that everything truly was just as normal.
As if the thing I had said did not upset him.
As if the thing I had said changed nothing between us.

I was received well, in a way I could not imagine in advance. All my knots of fear for nothing.

And this is exactly the way I wanted to leave my heart. The rest I believe he already knows, has seen the emotions I can not phrase anyway and it is why my heart feels so at ease next to his.

And I am again deeply amazed by another person’s ability, skill and willingness to carefully see me, to pick up on me. And I remember that I am allowed to be a person like this; to be seen beyond language and words, beyond opinions and origin stories. To be soft, silent and kind without having to prove anything.
It is freedom.

…

And maybe it is in this religious, spiritual context.
Maybe it is between the patches of different cultures, between lines of migration and stories of pain.
Between addictions and scars, shapes of trauma constantly moving in the periphery.

Maybe it is here that my now becomes a safe space.
Maybe it is here that I find myself more lucid, more at ease; where the ghosts of the past meet, their fangs just close enough to bite, their breath on our skins but with the horizons illuminated by the bright flows of becoming, showing how everything, everything is possible if only there is kindness.

And of course there are compromises that I make and aspects of me that I still hide.
Of course not everything is spelled out clearly, but in here there is something more profound in me that can flourish and live, something that matters beyond the labels by which I identify or the things I have done that happened before I reached this now.
Something profound in me that is seen and that is loved.

An I beyond name and form***, coming alive in the eyes of the Other.

—

*Referring to time as “sloshy” comes from the brilliant lectures by Bayo Akomolafe.

**”There’s a crack, a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in.” From “Anthem” by Leonard Cohen.

***Who you are beyond name and form, or something along these lines, is a Buddhist saying repeated by, among others, Alan Watts. It is a phrase I keep re-turning to.

…

(This story told in pictures.)