Out for the weak

I’ve now been in Essaouira for about 2.5 months and my journey so far has been beautiful. I’ve written countless blogs documenting everything along the way but I feel an up to date post is more relevant for this moment in time. Up until now, I’ve been teaching yoga daily, I’ve moved into an apartment with R and have created a lovely, eclectic family with the 3 other long-timers that have been similarly unwilling to leave our wild surroundings. But over the last week, things have taken a turn and I’ve finally been weakened by the Essaouira winds. It’s interesting how fast ones perception can change when feeling low, how different ones values become. I now, truly understand why health is valued so highly when people rank what’s most important to them. I’ve never taken the time to really think about it, but sometimes it takes being weak to really appreciate how able we are when we are strong.

One lesson I repeat in my yoga classes is embodiment, finding that internal unity between mind, body and spirit – the definition of yoga. The one silver lining of being sick is that as you tune into your bodies sensitivities and begin to listen to what it needs. I’m beginning to treat myself like the delicate flower that I am but so rarely allow myself to be. Instead of indulging in my usual hedonistic pleasures (that I’m intolerant to) like fresh bread or yummy pastries, I am learning the value of self-kindness by engaging in self-discipline. I'm shifting my internal reward system and choosing to indulge in healthier things like spices, herbs and natural remedies that line these streets with abundance. For once, I am being forced to listen to the lessons that I teach my students as my body speaks louder than my manic mind.

About a week ago, I caught the Essaouira flu; I was walking along with V, holding a tissue to my nose and listening to his explanation about how virus' move through our body. Over the coming days, I experienced this downwards movement as it transitioned from a fever to a cold to a cough and then finally hit my lungs. The nights of sitting around, smoking Moroccan hash suddenly lost their romantic appeal as I walked back into the emergency section of the local hospital, for the second time in two days. My asthma was back with vengeance, it reminded me of being a little girl in India again, the only expat in a room full of locals all looking upon me with curious eyes. I'd spent so many nights as a child in Delhi hospital with a mask on my face, breathing in that familiar tasting cortisone-filled air; and then experiencing that amazing sense of relief as the steroids kicked in and my lungs relaxed against their battle to breathe. 

Today, as I sat on a local bed with a smear of dried blood on the white plastic covering beside me, I breathed deeply into my mask and began to observe. I observed the the social kindness that is created when sickness hits, for despite its inherent negativity it's something we can all understand - 'humans' as V would say. I watched an old man with a brown cloak and pointy hood come through the door; I recognised him as one of the beggars who sat against the old walls of the medina. Underneath his cloak, he pulled out a loaf of bread and some pots of yoghurt and began handing them out to the poorly women who were lying on the surrounding beds. How kind, I thought. What a beautiful gesture from someone who seems to have so little, what heart. The woman opposite me at the far end of the room offered some of her bread to the lady in the black djellaba standing next to her, who politely declined. She dug into her yoghurt, licking the lid of her pot and eating happily as she mumbled little comments in-between to whoever was listening. When she’d finished, she wiped her mouth on her hijab – an act that somewhat repulsed me as she allowed it to sit, draped around her neck, still covered in yoghurt. But no one else seemed to notice and she lay back down, content and happy.

I smiled, touched by the small act I’d had the pleasure of witnessing; when the plumes of gas had stopped coming out of the holes in the mask I was wearing, it signalled that my time was up. I motioned to the nurse that I was finished - body gestures had become our way of communicating due to my limited ability to speak Arabic or French. She gave me a nod, signalling to the door. I slipped off the bed, carefully avoiding the dodgy bloodstain beside me as I went. I walked back through the hospital, trying in vain for the second time to retrace my steps but unsurprisingly getting lost and finding myself in a very flooded car park that I didn’t recognise at all. I tiptoed along the slim, dry bit of sidewalk, feeling grateful for the ease of breathing as I walked out compared to how I’d felt when I’d walked in. A kind man sensed my confusion and directed me in French towards the exit, I felt pleased; although I couldn’t speak it, I was starting to understand a few things in French such as directions, money transactions or simple greetings... it was about time. I thanked the man and followed his instructions to the exit, where the guard politely asked how my lungs felt and wished me luck.  

I walked back through Bab Chbnat, the entrance to the Medina that lead onto my street; returning to my apartment, I packed some of my things into a bag for a few days of respite and recovery in 'Casa del Mar' that my dad was kindly offering. I wound my way along the back streets and as I turned towards where the riad was located, I was greeted by some old, familiar faces who welcomed me warmly. It’s funny how you get so caught up in little microcosms of this medina and how easy it is to rush passed and forget those you were once a part of. I settled myself into my new, warm room and sat down, listening to the sound of the sea. 'Pratyahara' as we say in yoga - withdrawal of the senses. Now is the time to slow down and turn inwards, to heal the internal disharmony, it’s time to listen. 

Message of the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooq4tXH0U6Y