And as the summer passes, so does the need to share stories… words slip beneath the surface of time, and memories ripen into golden glow.
A few visual highlights will suffice...
exploring carved sandstones of Petra
splunking, sleeping under stars, and caravaning in the desert of Wadi Rum,
discovering the seven hills of Amman
Mt Nebo (where Moses is buried)
the mosaic city of Madaba
Bethany (where Christ was baptised)
meandering among Roman ruins at Jerash
and relishing space for contemplation outside everyday life.
A dear friend shared this poem by Mahmoud Darwish shortly after our return. Instead of sharing more of my own words about the spirit of the land I want to share his... a tribute to 'the voice of Palestine' who has left many memories with us after his passing this summer.
One Traveler Said to Another:
We Won’t Return As…
I don’t know the desert
But I planted words at its edges…
The words said what they said, and I left
like a divorced woman, like her broken husband
I kept nothing but the rhythm
I hear it
and follow it
and lift it, doves
on the path to the sky
the sky of my song
I am a son of the Syrian plain
I live there, traveling or residing
among the people of the sea
But the mirage presses me eastward
to the ancient Bedouin
I lead the beautiful horses to water
I feel the pulse of the alphabet in the echo
I return a window looking out in two directions…
I forget who I am so that I can be
plural in the singular and in time
with the praises of the foreign sailors under my windows,
so that I can be the warring parties’ letter to their families:
We won’t return as we went
We won’t return… even secretly!
I don’t know the desert
however often it’s haunted me
In the desert absence said to me:
Write!
I said: There is another writing on the mirage
It said: Write and the mirage will become green
I said: I lace absence
I said: I still haven’t learned the words
It said to me: Write and you’ll know them
and know where you were, and where you are
and how you came, and who you will be tomorrow
Put your name in my hand and write
so you’ll know who I am and will go, a cloud
into the open…
So I wrote: Whoever writes his story will inherit
the land of words, and possess meaning, entirely!
I don’t know the desert
but I bid it farewell: Peace
to the tribes east of my song: Peace
to the descendants, in their plurality, upon the sword: Peace
to my mother’s son under his palm tree: Peace
to the ode that preserved our planets: Peace
to the passing peoples, a memory for my memory: Peace
to “peace be upon me,” between two poems:
one that has been written
and another whose poet died of passion!
Am I me?
Am I there… or here?
In each you, me
I am you, the second person. It is not exile
for me to be you. It is not exile
for my me to be you. And it is not exile
for the sea and the desert to be
the song of the traveler to the traveler:
I won’t return, as I went,
I won’t return… even secretly!
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