Prolific Immigrant

We were there for 48 hours and here’s a scrunched itinerary for those of you on a tight schedule.

First, don’t go in the winter unless you’re interested in experiencing the wild tsunami that glides off of the Atlantic and Larry, Moe + Curly slaps into your face. After my first walk along the pier by the world’s largest fiddle, I couldn’t move my mouth to speak proper. This is not an exaggeration.

Lucky that balancing out this exhausting cold is the warmth of the Cape Bretoners** who occupy the City. Everyone says hello, and everyone smiles at you. EVERY.ONE. It is so very lovely to be greeted with smiles at every turn, and like a true City girl, I wonder what the murder/suicide rate is.

On Friday morning, my boss/colleague/friend/I-don’t-know-what-to-call-him-exactly-just-yet and I jumped into a cab at 6.30am and made our way out to the closest lighthouse, which was an approximate half an hour out of Sydney, and to be found in the neighbouring town of “New Victoria.”

Sitting at the tip of Sydney Harbour, she seduces all manner of sailor to shore. I had never seen a lighthouse up close and personal, and so tried to open her door because who wouldn’t?, only it was locked. Sad and dejected I circled the base willing her to open to me. She did not. I froze my face. I returned to the car.

But not before I went down by the water and took this gorgeous photo which makes me wonder if this is some sort of a plank from which Cape Bretoners chuck the bad people.

Sidebar: Though we had hoped to watch the sun rise, Sydney was expecting a storm and so all we saw were rolling burbling clouds. That said, I strongly encourage that you make your way here to watch the day break over the Atlantic on a clear day.

On the way back into the City, we stopped at Fort Petrie where the ground is covered by these beautiful skeletons of a particular flower (anyone know what it is?), and something else which checked my gag reflex. Claws! Or legs! Of cockroaches of the ocean!

We then went on to see lobster traps, before having a lovely and full day at work. Must admit that I was a little panicked I would find lobster feet/claws/toes/fingernails/I-don’t-know-what-to-call-them-either, in the traps. Luckily, there were none, though I would later have nightmares that I had dinner while a lobster sat next to me, staring.

That same evening, I popped over to the world’s largest fiddle. For a while, I was convinced that I was at the wrong place, because I only saw a massive violin, with no fiddle in view. Lucky for me, my other colleague is v smart, and explained: it is the same instrument, but called a fiddle when used to play jerky music. (I am the one who calls it “jerky,” not her. Because I am not a fan of jigging.) I took photos but accidentally deleted them, because apart from my phobia of cockroaches of the ocean, I am a little brain addled.

After dinner that evening, I cozied down by the window to enjoy the storm, before heading out the next day. Here I am trying to say goodbye while on the Sydney Boardwalk, and failing because the wind was far too strong for my parka…

All in all. A super trip I would strongly recommend for a little bit of summer fun.

Additional must eats + sees:
- Anything and everything at the Allegro Grill.
- Pop by the Cape Breton Fudge Co., grab some fudge and a coffee before making your way down to the violin masquerading as a fiddle. The gent at the shop wouldn’t let me pay for my fudge, surely because I was verging on hysterical when I saw their selection.
- Buy something at the Cape Breton Curiosity Shop.
- Marvel at the number of evening gown dress shoppes along Charlotte Street (and try to get yourself invited to wherever it is that these Haligonians party).
- Have the grilled + chilled shrimp at the Governors [sic] Pub & Eatery.
- Take a walk through the neighbourhood situated across Esplanade from the fiddle.
- Have a latte at The Bean Bank Cafe, but only if you sit in either the Don Cherry room or the piano room (where you must play).

…then, make certain to come back and let me know how much fun you had.

More photos here.

P.S. Dear K + F, who took the time to paint the base of the lighthouse: I hope that you will live happily ever after.

———-
** Because Janey is from Halifax, and Halifax is the center of the Nova Scotian community for me, I was calling Cape Bretoner’s “Haligonians” until Ben put me straight.

Dear Cape Bretoners,
Please don’t issue a fatwa against me for this now corrected mistake.
Thank you. Love you.
M

Often times on this blog I’ve written about Mama. I’ve never quite taken a moment to write about Baba because up until recently that would have been relatively difficult for me still.

Baba and I had an extremely volatile relationship during my adolescence. When him and mum divorced, I was young enough to understand the surface ‘why’, but not psychologically mature enough to disassociate myself from the divorce itself. At such a young age, my identity was wrapped up with that of my mother’s. I didn’t understand where I ended and she began, and so when my father left my mother, my mind’s eye watched him walk away from me.

For a little while following, my father and I would see one another infrequently. Inevitably, we would always fight. I have his temperament and am much closer in character and personality to him than I am to my mother. When he and I clashed, it was always a full-on battle. His leaving had set something alight in me and I took every opportunity to lash out and cut as deeply as possible. Looking back at some of the things I said and did, I am shocked by my capacity to be cruel.

Among the many unfortunate memories that seem to have surfaced as I write are the two following. First was at the end of my high school years. I had taken three weeks to collect the down payment on my high school graduation ring. I walked into baba’s office and handed him the outstanding bill. He told me he wouldn’t pay the outstanding amount because I’d not taken his permission to purchase the ring and that I shouldn’t merely expect him to drop money at my whim. I explained that I would lose my down payment and he matter-of-factly said “that’s a lesson [I’d] have to learn the hard way”.

It may seem bizarre to those of you who don’t know the long and short of the history between he and I, but that served as the end for me and I decided that our relationship was finished. I titled that time in my life The Ice Age because I have no imagination and also because it really was an era that ran the course of too many years. I figured if every time I left him was in tears, it would just be easier for me to bury him, and so he was dead. I would see him at parties and weddings and walk past him without so much as looking at him.

Some time later we had one further interaction over email. There was an ‘incident’, and he took so much time and care to explain something to me, sending me pages of explanation. I responded with the horrendous: “Sorry you took so much time to respond, but you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares. I can’t be bothered to read this.”
He came back with: “You’re not my daughter.”
And I ended it with: “Thank you for finally articulating how I’ve felt for the duration of my life.”

Quite honestly, I thought I was okay then. I didn’t realize how much I needed my father because I’d never really had him in the first place. There was nothing to miss except a sort of misery. My mother and my family tried to push me to change, but I would have none of it and I made it clear that it was no one’s business but my own. Eventually, everyone stopped trying, but only because my response was so visceral.

Ultimately, it was my mother who sacrificed everything to raise me; she was the one who held me up and picked me up. She was the one who shaped me and helped me define my personality. She stayed up late nights waiting for me, and she was the one who read Quran to me when I couldn’t sleep. Mama will forever be my anchor because she is the only individual in this world that has the capacity to keep me grounded. We say it all the time, but I don’t think I can express it any better than this: Without her, I would be lost.(1)

I graduated high school, finished university and then received my M.A.; my father was at none of these ceremonies because I never invited him. I staunchly believed that because he was the adult, it was his role to seek me out. In my mind’s eye, he had to fight to be let back in. After all, he abandoned me when he divorced my mother. Didn’t he?

In hindsight, I understand that I wanted him to know he wasn’t the only one capable of inflicting great pain. I also understand that he never tried to hurt me, but had merely become disenchanted with his marriage. I understand that my anger was partially to mask the sadness which comes with a child living divorce. Most important, I finally understand that baba never fell out of love with me.

I finally understand that both of my parents are also individuals and that often, their hopes and dreams are not intimately related to the fact that they’re parents. The identity of parent is only one aspect of who they are and sometimes it conflicts with other desires they may have as people. The moment we have children, that map of identity changes and the fabric from which it’s made becomes the finest of silks. Unfortunatly, it happens that sometimes “parent” isn’t careful and children fall through to great pain.

The reconciliation
I’d set up rules where baba was concerned. There were certain “stipulations” which had to be met by him if he was ever going to be allowed entry into my life again. I had a script that no one knew about, not even him.

The Script was absolutely insane. It went against every aspect of who my father was and his behaviour to date. I now believe that I scripted it as such to ensure that he would never be allowed back in, because that was my way to self-preservation and protection. To my surprise, baba not only knew The Script, but he went above and beyond the call of duty I had imagined.

When seedo passed away, mama’s father (Allah yir7amu), my father called to give his condolences. Setting aside everything that had transpired between my mother and father and their respective families due to the divorce and its aftermath, my father loved seedo deeply. When my father called, he was crying. I’d not even heard my father cry when his own father passed away and so every second of that moment is deeply entrenched in my memory.

We went to dinner the following evening. Seated across from one another, there was no room for niceties or small talk because I didn’t really know or understand the man before me.

I’d previously imagined that moment, and I had imagined myself being merciless toward him, mocking him, not forgiving him but rather enjoying his need for forgiveness and me refusing him. In my imagination that was such a powerful sentiment – denying him – because he denied me the only thing I needed as I grew up: My baba. My imagination was so vindictive and so cold and I was prepared to lash out after so many years of him not coming after me. I thought I would have been able to laugh and say: I don’t forgive you. I don’t forgive you. I don’t forgive you. I will never forgive you.

But as soon as I sat down and looked across the table, I saw baba. And he was looking at me as though he’d never seen me before that moment, and I saw the recognition in his eyes. He understood how much we’d both lost, how much he’d lost in the way of knowing me and the young woman I’d become. He couldn’t speak for a few moments and I spent the duration of the dinner crying.

It was at that moment that I realized just how deeply I loved him and why I had been so angry. There’s a connection that exists between parent and child that seems – although relatively simple to bruise – impossible to break. The ease by which my own pain disappeared left me spinning, and unless you’ve experienced it, it’s very difficult to describe. I think the only time we can forgive more easily than a child toward a parent is a parent toward their child.

Hearing him tell me he had been the adult and he had failed me, repeatedly, blew the lid off of everything that had been pent up and painful and hurtful. It was so overwhelming and there were moments of anxiety, I think, where I couldn’t see or breathe during dinner.

I had been gifted the opportunity to tell him everything, everything, everything he’d done to hurt me, and he accepted it all. He didn’t deny anything and he didn’t offer a defense, but merely accepted that his actions had ripped my heart to pieces for years. To me, that evening will always be the measure of my father.

After hours of conversation, I accepted his apology. I was terrified and apprehensive because I feared that he’d walk away again…but he’s still here, ten years later, and I’m still getting to know him. I can’t possibly imagine my life without him and it shatters my heart to think of the many many years wasted.(2) Since I trust that Allah knows best, I have come to accept that this heartbreak had to happen for the best of reasons.

One week after that dinner, he gave me my high school graduation ring, still in it’s bag, still with the receipt, a portion of which I’d highlighted: ‘Outstanding Balance Owed’. This ring has since hung on a chain next to my heart, and has never been removed.

———-
(1) Ten years later, I can say that without my father, I would be equally lost.
(2) Originally written on the 3rd of November, 2006 at which point it had been four years. I have updated it to reflect today’s reality.

The most important lesson I took from 2011, and which I have taken from every single year past is that life really and truly is precious cargo.

I am not one to begrduge another person’s hangnail, but rather prefer to nudge them to look at all of the amazing and incredible things they have, least of which is: life. Every single moment within our lives, even the most brutal pain has to be accepted as precious.

Sidebar: Some people reading this have been sexually assaulted as children. I can’t touch that, nor would I ever say that those moments are “precious.” What I can say is that YOU are precious, I am so grateful for your presence in my life, and I love you with every bit of my being. And if I were there when this was happening to you, I would have taken a crowbar to the men who inflicted such pain on your precious selves.

The darkest moments of this past year have been emotional, and I have been able to lift myself out sometimes alone, often times with the aide of the incredible individuals I have in my life. I do not live in an abusive environment, nor an oppressive one, nor a monetarily challenged one, alhamdulliLah. So really and truly, I am blessed, and everything above and beyond what I have is icing on the most decadent cake I can imagine.

A lot of the time, people send emails asking me how I do it. Specifically, “you seem so happy. How do you do it?” In short, here’s how…with the most important caveat that: it’s not fkn easy…
1. Most of my time is spent laughing at myself.
2. I am fiercely devoted to those I love, and with that comes a reciprocity (if not from them, then the Universe brings it back my way in some other incarnation). None of us are sovereigns, except the assholes.
3. I am genuinely happy for the success of others.
4. I give myself no more than three days to deal with a trauma. I figure that if we are to mourn death only three days, there is nothing in this world which should extend beyond that.
5. I struggle to ensure that there is neither hate nor bitterness anywhere in my heart. (Not even to those who hate me and tell me that my Faith is anything short of its beautiful self. Where these people are concerned, I only feel sorry for them, because hate is an ugly disease of the heart whose toxicity imbibes all aspects of who we are and how we see the world.)
6. I learn. Not knowing about something is another way of saying “I have been presented with a choice” to either fear it, or to learn about it. I choose the later.
7. I am never made happy by the pain or hurt of others, because I’m just asking for trouble if I do this (but this shouldn’t be confused with being pleased that someone has gotten theirs, deservedly, because everyone reaps what they sow, in time.)
8. I never allow my happiness to hinge on the hurt or pain of someone else. I am always amazed at how sick people are, who do this.

And most importantly…
9. I believe that Allah has my back. Simple. Even in the darkest recesses of pain, and even when I am angry with Him, and shaking my fist at Him and demanding WHY? and only coming up with “Because Allah knows best,” at the end of the day, within the corner of my little heart, I know He’s got me in the palm of one hand, and covering me with the other until there is no more from which to be protected. (And I floss.)

If you would like to share your own pillars of happiness, please do, as I would love to learn from you.

With the above, there are always things to change, to learn, to hone, to learn, to learn, to learn and to learn. As you enter into 2012, I am going to leave you with a lecture from my most favoured teacher. He speaks about our responsibility to our lives as precious cargo, and also our shared responsibility to our fellow humans, and to animals. You will be riveted. Trust.

Happy 2012.
You all are loved.

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen in a very very long time. I just can not tell you how hard I love this, or the message within.

For me, the messages being:
1) You can not judge a book by its cover (which signals the very critical belief within Islam that only Allah is the Judge, as He is the only one who sees into the hearts of wo/man).
2) That all roads lead to Allah.
3) Islam as inclusion rather than exclusion. Which, I believe, is the message of each of the great faith traditions, until they are manipulated at the hands of humanity to meet political, class, gendered, and / or power ends.

A little girl, asked where her home was, replied, “where mother is.” ~Keith L. Brooks

Often, I have teased my mum about the weird seeds she saves in her fridge. Every once in a while, she’ll pull out a little baggie filled with stuff and share a story that usually begins with a fruit or vegetable in her family’s garden in Gaza.

On October 25th, 1999, her mum passed away. I don’t remember what happened, I can not tell you where I stood or how I learned of this news, because I was too terrified to let it register. I was too terrified by the pain inside of my mum, which I could not remove.

The blocking runs so deep and so extreme, it is as though an entire few weeks of my life have been omitted. In this, there is heartbreak for me. Because no matter the trauma we experience, and the hurt we carry, from everything there is a lesson to be learned, and I didn’t learn mine.

What I remember is what I see still.
Sometimes, even 12 years later, my mum cries over this loss, and tonight was one such night.

Oct 25, 1999.

The photo here is of dried mulukhiyah, ‘jute’ in English, leaves cooked quite often in a Middle Eastern home. Tonight, my mum was in search of this little baggie filled with dried mulukhiyah, and was sent into a panic when she couldn’t find it. I didn’t pay much attention to her fuss and casually directed her to a drawer, in which this baggie was safely tucked.

She pulled it out and held it to her own heart, catching her breath, calming herself.

The leaves were picked, cut, and dried before October 25th, 1999. The mulukhiyah was prepared by her mum for a meal she would never cook, but which her daughter would savour 12 years later.

Have you ever tasted anything better than your mum’s cooking?
Neither have I; nor has she.

Having gone to Gaza very shortly after her mum’s death, she found this small bag inside the fridge, and asked if she could bring it to Canada. It has survived the Rafah Border crossing at Egypt. It has been been transferred across from our old apartment, to two refrigerators in her new home.

I didn’t share in this dish tonight, rather thinking it was best to let mama have a private dinner with her mum.

Allah yir7amik, ya teeta.

It was the first morning that Dianna and I awoke in Scotland. Since we were to travel overnight, we’d not made any plans for that first day, instead getting to know Glasgow at our leisure. We were at Mrs. Morrison’s Craigielea Guesthouse (highly recommended: 35 Westercraig’s Street) in one of the second floor’s largest rooms.

The floor of the entire B&B was covered in soft furry plaid carpet and there were at least 100 different pieces of artwork lining the walls from ceiling to floor, because Mr. Morrison is an artist.

With a stand up shower, sink, fireplace, dining table, two queen-sized beds pushed together, several dressers, a massive Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling, two reading chairs, a television, 11 hung paintings, and different coloured walls, our room was confused as to its purpose.

And for this, we loved it.

Unless sleeping next to an open window, I become claustrophobic. During all times of the year, the window remains open. Mrs. Morrison’s window had no screen and was enormous, with a thin sheer white curtain beneath three heavier ones.

Having left the window open, we pulled aside all heavy curtains and left the sheer to roam. It was the sound of rain which woke me, but it was something else which kept me awake. Incredibly, our room had become filled in a mist so thick, I couldn’t see the wall across from me. I had never before, nor have I since seen anything like it.

I stayed in bed breathing very quietly, eyes wide open, and with very little movement as I didn’t wish to scare away the mist. Lush Scotland was giving us a warm hug hello with her most notorious character, and I have never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

==========

You may find Mrs. Morrison here; it appears that she has (sadly) redecorated.

The saying “Paradise is at the feet of mothers” is rooted in the following:

A man asked the Prophet Mohammed whether he should fight in a war. To this, the Prophet asked if the man’s mother was still alive. When the man answered that she was indeed still alive, the Prophet responded with “(Then) stay with her, for Paradise is at her feet.”

I have just come home from saying goodbye to my mother. She’ll be in the Gaza Strip for the next month, and I already miss her so much it’s almost unbearable.

There’s no person on this earth who could provide me the sort of calm, kindness, shelter and warmth that my mother can. I hate that I won’t be able to crawl into bed with her when I’m too tired to fall asleep alone…

She is the only one who knows my darkest secrets and thoughts, the only one I fear to disappoint, the only one I would kill to protect. She’s also the only one who has never ridiculed even the most ridiculous of my feelings…and she’s never once not forgiven me for the most unforgivable actions.

There have been fights, yelling matches, angry words, threats and all of the usual suspects that make up a relationship of 31 years. But. Everything I am is because of her and the mere thought of losing her, breaks me.

I don’t want this to be a sad blog entry, and so I will share a funny scenario which occurred as I was driving her to her destination earlier this day. She recently acquired a global mobile phone (for safety while she is crossing the Rafah border into Gaza) that she’s still learning how to use.

She sat in the car and explained how she was having trouble accessing her voicemail. I asked her to walk me through the steps she followed in order to retrieve her messages. When the “voicemail lady” asked her for her P.I.N. number, my mother started chattering into the phone. For a moment, I had no idea what she was doing, until I realised that she was under the misimpression that she had to say her P.I.N. number aloud, rather than actually key it into the mobile. I was laughing so hard I nearly crashed my car.

She’s an incredible woman. Not to mention an absolutely (& sickeningly so) stunning woman. This photo was taken when she was my age (her eyes are a very unique shade of pale green that I have yet to see on anyone else):

…they took this photo of me on the same day:

Read here if you’re interested in learning more about (specifically) mothers in Islam…

Thanks to my Fiery M for the inspiration.

(Originally published: 06/01/06)

Dear Reader,

Oh look. I’ve gone and changed the title again.

As starting point, I would like to introduce you to the lunatic + lovely coupling which brought forth yours truly. I stood a small and already confused person between them. Yes, Arabs and Muslims often come in different shades than brown / terrorist.

This photo was taken well before these two stopped procreating forever and ever eternal and divorced, ensuring that the weight of their worlds rested squarely upon my lone and no-longer blond head. Thanks mum and dad; you’re nice.

Look at how happy and somewhat menacing these two people are; as though they’ve never had their photo taken before.** Or they were the first to procreate a small person. Upon closer inspection of the photo, I am clearly scared rather than confused. They are gorgeous, aren’t they? (**Also, I am kidding — Arabs know what a camera is.)

As those who read me on the regular already know, I have for the past while been searching for a common denominator through my writing, a place where I would comfortably park myself for time to come, a place in which this now seven year-old internets home may flourish and behave as the histrionic comedienne it was meant to be.

As I am painfully dense, this endeavor left me struggling for weeks until earlier today, when it finally sank in to just write what I know already (which is what everyone and their mother had previously advised).

A few days back, I thought I had arrived at Humour, in fact, but knew by the itch it left that something was missing still: a specificity to my writing.

Not only does the Prolific Immigrant leave no room for vague, it feeeeels 100% right.

My family came to Canada when I was aged four and still v v malleable to my parents’ will. We are Muslim, Palestinian, and I was born in Libya. Essentially, my identity is where all Axis of Evil points converge.

“Canadian” is how I have always identified. (POUTINE!! CALL ME!!) Only recently — not as begrudgingly as one might think — I accepted with open arms that though this remains the predominant character to my identity, it is by no means the only.

In reality I am all things Palestinian, Canadian, Muslim, female, liberal, and often: v v dumb.

Henceforth, predominant (not all) pieces here shall be love letters to my identity; the beauty of it, the challenges it has wrought upon my life, and the strength of character and pride which it has forced upon me even when I didn’t want it (and while I may still sometimes attempt to punch it in its hair).

Though it doesn’t take much for me to reach it, I trust that you are as excited by this new direction as I am.

Love,
Maha

Of late, I have been quite heavily and v happily wrapped in citizenship issues and questions.

I understand this struggle of immigration on a personal level and also the depth of joy it brings to those who cherish their new world; naturally, with recognition that leaving behind family, cultural and community ties are a heartbreak.

Lucky for I, my baba came to Canada not out of necessity, but rather to ensure that his daughter (me, dear reader) have opportunities which extend beyond “marriage at 18 or 19?” Grateful am I, and single still. I still remember my dad studying for his exam, and my wanting to study alongside him until I became v v bored because there were no pictures in the book.

As such, I am a soppy loser often moved to tears at the site of Citizenship come to life, and equally enraged when I note that some individuals take for granted their Citizenship cards and status. That photo is my card which I cherish v v dearly (lucky for me that the resemblance between me today and me then is obvious enough, I am not forced to apply for a new one lest this be lost. Hurrah).

A few weeks ago, my mom and I went to vote for Canada’s 41st Government. While in line, she told me how excited her and my dad had been the first year they could vote as Canadian Citizens. After casting my ballot, I stood back watching with great pride as my (age removed under threat of pain from mom) year old mum ambled her way to vote once more, and again, I was nearly moved to tears.

Right until she popped her head around and yelled from behind the voting box: “I JUST CHOOSE ONE, RIGHT?”

In related news, my mother’s turretic inclinations increase with age.

Like just recently when mama and I ran into an old friend, and my mother, bewildered, suddenly became wrapped up in an all-consuming need to remind this woman of how she really was, once a fatso. Though I tried to balance out the conversation, I failed miserably:
“I hardly can tell you lost weight”
“Oh yeahhh….I can tell. You were SO BIG.”
“I really can’t see it…”
“Oh noooo….TOO BIG!!”
“I think you look great.”
“Oh, thanks God you lost ALL THAT MUCH WEIGHT.”
“I honestly don’t really know what she’s talking about.”
“SO HUGE!”

On that note: Immigrants and non-immigrants alike, give your mummies a kiss today, please.

So. I haven’t been home (here) in nearly a month. Beg your greatest pardons and thank you for all of the amazing email messages which you have sent asking after me. As for those of you who continue to yell about my absence…ehr…thank you for you well-intentioned ragey emails; you are v awkward.

I have been away because I am a lunatic who decided that I would spend approximately 15 – 20 hours per week — in the evenings and on the weekends — attempting a writing exercise to confirm whether:
1) I was a funny person
2) this funny person made their way through the written word.

The lovely folks upon whom I inflicted my brand of humour, I had never before met and I needed it to remain as such. This means that I initially scared them, made them wee in their pants, and then finally, (fingers crossed) won them over because I sent them money.

As of today, that comedic writing exercise is on hiatus until September.

I have been searching for a new theme and direction in which to take One Female Canuck, and it dawned on me yesterday: Humor. Humor is my strength, even when I am a sobbing snotting slobbering mess of a human being. (I aim to be v sexy.)

Apart from changing both the name and the design of this home, you may expect a few more things over the course of the summer months:
1) I will be reviewing all pieces, and republishing the ones worth rewriting with humour;
2) I will be indexing, tagging and categorizing all; and,
2) I will be adding new pages and slotting articles accordingly.

One Female Canuck has been a labour of love for the past 7 years. I am excited about what’s to come and hope that the changes will be to your liking else am not above offering you money.

Lots of love your way,
M
P.S. I am leaving for Turkey + Greece next week and will be on complete radio silence for a little over two weeks. (Please don’t yell at me.) All work will start rolling upon my return xx