the Moroccan at the beach

April 5, 2009 at 9:01 am (i've met)

My sister asked me when I plan on blogging about her. I shot her down immediately with a not-so-nice, “Never. I’ve already met you.”

But now I’m going to break a rule that I imposed when I started this blog…you know, 3 days ago. I’m going to write about someone I met almost four years ago, but who continues to surprise and amaze me. Even more so now that I’ve decided to be consciously thankful for the People I Meet.

It’s another beautiful weekend in San Francisco. Yesterday was W’s birthday, and she wanted to spend the evening over a bonfire, watching the sunset with her friends at Ocean Beach.

The evite for “Fire, Birthday and Friends” asked us to bring food, wood, and musical instruments. M, the resourceful Algerian, helpfully added in a comment to her RSVP that if we didn’t have have any instruments we could bring pots and pans. (Sure enough, she brought an aluminum bowl and a wooden mixing spoon, which she enthusiastically banged on while taking a break from playing her tabla).

French-Moroccan W has lived in SF for over 5 years and, more than anyone I know, has taken full advantage of living in the City where anything goes. She takes a crazy jumble of classes–meditation, ceramics, massage, tango, not to mention our weekly halaqa (study circle)–and embarks on the most interesting adventures–a weekend trip to a farm, a two week “green” bus ride down through Mexico and Guatemala, and an annual pilgrimage to Burning Man.  Her warm and enthusiastic spirit, not to mention her wonderful ability to see the beauty in everything and everyone (“oh, it’s so beautiful”–said in a French accent), is truly inspiring.

Even still, I was amazed by the assortment of people who had gathered at the beach to celebrate her birthday.  In just a couple of hours, I chatted with a Syrian, Mexican and Pakistani and danced and banged on a dhol with an Iraqi, Sudanese, and Egyptian–the Moroccans lit up a sheesha and the French and Palestinians hit a tambourine over the fire while singing old French songs. Our little drumming circle was briefly visited by a couple of SF hippies with dreads roaming the beach. They immediately went into a trance and danced, danced, danced, eyes closed in great concentration and appreciation for the music. S and I laughed so hard, we started crying.

I left shortly after the fireworks. W’s friend had picked up a reel of fireworks during their trip to Mexico and said he had been saving them for a special ocassion. W let out a huge whoop and hopped around a little at the news, “I love fireworks, I want them at my wedding!”

Oh, it’s so beautiful.

Thank you for the Moroccan at the beach.