As it turns out, internet in the Atlas Mountain region of Morocco is an occasional thing, so the promise of a dispatch on Oct. 3rd wasn’t one I could keep. I’ll try and make it up with this—which I started on the last day but got waylaid.
My room window is open to get some cool night air circulating. Also circulating is the laughter and chatter of my new friends, several of whom are still making the most of our last night out on the lawn. There’s music playing, and a few dogs from a nearby village yard are howling and barking along with the playlist—they seem hell bent on joining in the nighttime party coming from the Kasbah on the hill.
Tomorrow morning I’ll wake up with roosters crowing and the local mosque’s first call to prayer. It’s droning and hypnotic, and even a heretic could acknowledge the holiness of the ritual, while also discerning that it pretty much sounds like a guy in a tower singing through a megaphone. I make a note to check out how different mosques amplify their prayer calls when I have internet, because that’s just how I am.
Before leaving I’ll likely hear, at least a few times, scattered donkeys braying their abject misery and desperate longing. I try not to dwell on it, but really, how could a beast of burden want anything more than a different life—even if it knows no other?
It’s a stunning location, the Kasbah Bab Ourika, built upon a jagged outcrop in the Ourika Valley, surrounded by the Atlas Mountains. The massive earthquake of Sept. 8th did affect the area—we are staying about 30 miles from the epicenter. Our group was assured that cancelling would be infinitely more harmful to the community than keeping the plans in place. Being there, being mindful of the recent trauma and loss, did change the viewing lens somewhat. I asked every Moroccan person I encountered how their families and homes had fared. Only one, the driver who took me to meet up with the Trust and Travel group, had lost everything. He’d been professional and kind in the two rides I’d hired him for, but this time offered to show me photos. I knew what they’d look like. His gratitude for the wad of money I placed in his hand was so pure, I wish I’d given him more as soon as I walked away.
The beauty in the views, the new sounds, the changing light and shadows moving across the mountains, the excellent food, the dry, dry heat and ceiling fan pushing hot air in circles over my bed—these were constants. The variables were the complete strangers I spent daily time with over the course of the writing retreat. Since I had no idea what to expect, it’s kind of hard to assert that expectations were exceeded, so I’ll lead with saying I’m thrilled I came and surprised at the outcomes.
Did I write anything or start anything that blew my mind? Nah. But I learned and re-learned some things about writing that often land in a new way when they come from a different person at a different time. A few exercises brought up parts of myself and my life I didn’t think I had room for anymore. But forgotten, discarded, avoided aspects of me are still me, even though I may not think of them as “my better self.”
One thing has always been clear: I know the way I want to write, the way I strive to write, and this retreat instilled the idea that I need all of me to do it. Go beyond being a writer who can string a sentence together with a little flair, or hit a homer now and then, or spill some blood on the memoir page. I’ll be a better writer if I don’t keep compartments, hide or discard any experiences, sorrows or imperfections. All those things I do to move on, to grow past, to evolve into a more contented/self-realized/well-functioning person as befits someone my age are good things. But the rest of it isn’t erased and should never be. There will always be a place in writing that may need it.
This is a big takeaway from the Moroccan getaway that Trust and Travel put together so perfectly.
Trust and Travel is the writing retreat organization created by two writers, Erin and Jade, who sought to create a movable feast of community, support and most of all, writing. One ephemeral, magical mood leads to the next, facilitated from the get-go by their guidance. It settled onto all of us who made our way from scattered places across multi-continents.
Guest author Leslie Jamison and Morocco itself led me to Trust and Travel—but I would follow Erin and Jade again to any retreat I could manage and absolutely recommend anyone desiring to connect with their writing impulse, desire or dream.
I was familiar with Leslie’s writing from her essay collection The Empathy Exams and first novel The Gin Closet. I was vaguely aware she’d sustained a respected, beloved and formidable body of work and was certain she’d have much to offer. Reading more of her essays, including a fantastic piece she wrote at the retreat and shared with us, and getting to know and hang out with her was so very special. Leslie was, above all, generous; making effort and time to connect with each participant. She listened and gave, and taught—for instance showing us in workshop how making an actual, drawn map of a place central to our lives and memories could reveal some awfully potent writing material. She was also a lot of fun and I think laughed and participated as much as any of the retreat-ers.
I’d worried about being the oldest person there, because, well—I was the oldest person there. I brought it up from time to time as though I wanted to assure everyone that I was aware and fine with it. I didn’t expect us all to have lifetimes of common experience to bond on, and instead focused on the many things we could talk about. I revealed myself from the POV of my present life: an empty nester mom looking to move into a new country, find new challenges, and of course write more. Eventually I tired of my own vagueness and tiptoeing around the career path and didn’t worry about being defined by that huge part of my life.
A few of the women had left prior lives and were long-term traveling to reclaim something they felt had slipped away in adulthood. I was in awe of their courage to go into the unknown again and again. Only three of the seventeen of us were mothers, I was grateful for that bridge. I was moved, inspired, and thrilled by some of the writing, especially from the most inexperienced of the group. It was incredible to see what someone could tap into when given the nurture, encouragement and permission.
There were women from Singapore to Brazil, California to Virginia, first time author to law student to nurse to waitress to experience designer (who of course got an entire evening’s worth of grilling from me) —and yes, that’s a thing and it’s fascinating. There was also one lone guy who was extraordinary in how he managed to integrate so seamlessly into a sea of estrogen and female power. Serge led meditations and yoga that would convert anyone, curated music, and delivered an amazing litany of slam poetry verse. If you’re in Ojai, here’s his studio —he’s a great person to know.
Being around a collective of youthful, effortless beauty could have been daunting, but I’m well used to accepting that it’s someone else’s turn to get to experience all that—I had mine, enjoyed it maybe not as much as I should have, and am grateful to still be here and yet not quite be as old as I hope to be. Does that make sense?
Anyway. I loved it.
Here’s some visuals, and behind the paywall I’ll share some a couple of things I wrote at the retreat.
this is the view of the mountains from our villa. This little Kasbah Kitten is the beloved Maputo who got very spoiled and cuddled and fed.
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